The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

Thanks for the response, Ms. Frog. As soon as I saw how you carried the issue of Fulk's "trick" into the next episode with Eleanor talking the priest out of the pilgrimage, I realized it was not the trivial plot point I had suspected. I should have trusted you!

However, upon rereading it, it's placement is still a little jarring. If I was your editor, perhaps I'd ask that you make some sort of small reference to this at an earlier point in the story, so that it's not such a surprise and seeming non-sequitur. Or something. . . :)

A skein of riders emerged from the outer gate house and advanced down the road towards Eleanor and her party. Their lack of banners prevented identification until late. At first Eleanor believed count Jocelyn to be riding out to meet her with some terrible news. Then she noticed the saddle bags on every mount. Foreboding shivered its way across the back of her neck.

“Trouble,” she commented to Fulk. “He is leaving in haste, the very day after Hugh’s cause was secured. Why?”

“He misses his family, and he’s homesick. He asked me about getting permission this morning, wanted to know whether to ask you or Hugh.”

There was a note of accusation in that last part. Painfully aware of their escort trailing just out of earshot Eleanor kept her reply circumspect. “You know he has held strange … notions in that regard since the day of his arrival.”

Fulk’s hands tightened on the bridle. “You’ve told me I’ve no reason for concern. I choose to trust you.”

Eleanor leaned across the gap between their horses to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

Once within speaking distance Jocelyn’s party moved to one side of the road and drew rein. He bowed in the saddle. “Highness.”

“You are leaving, sir?” Eleanor enquired in his own language.

“Yes. With a bit of haste we’ll reach the coast tonight.” Jocelyn sketched a pious crucifix over his heart. “With luck and God’s aid I could be sailing home this time tomorrow.”

Such a rush; that foreboding grew. Something had torn the heart out of Hugh. Jocelyn was leaving in a hurry. “You will miss out on much.”

“Ah …” Jocelyn rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Not to mention your wound. It would be better to let it heal before attempting such a journey.”

“I am feeling very well, thank you, Highness. It’s really nothing to a seasoned fighter like myself.”

A crossbow bolt to the shoulder could not be anything but nasty, however manly it may be to claim differently. Eleanor knew of a single reason which might drive Jocelyn, wounded and weary, out onto the road, forsaking his part in claiming the rewards which came from setting up a new king, to head home with all possible speed. He could not have been so stupid, surely?!

Jocelyn attempted to edge his horse along past the small roadblock presented by their own two mounts. “If you will forgive me …”

Stupid was such a small word, utterly inadequate. “Do I have something to forgive you for?”

Jocelyn cringed, and Eleanor realised that he’d kept his gaze firmly on the mud all the time.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “You have not done something I would call unfortunate, have you?”

The count’s mouth took on a bitter twist. “Lady, most of my life you’d call unfortunate. And damn me, but I’m beginning to agree.” He dug his spurs in and angled his horse off the road so there was no way they could impede his progress.








I’ve been looking back at a lot of my work, from the start of this story to the present day. It’s borne out a suspicion I’ve held for some months: the sparkle is gone. The scenes I’m producing now are as dry and brittle as old sticks. The little touches are mostly missing. The light little sparks of humour are few and far between. It feels tired. Too many of the little touches which make my writing mine are gone or burning low.

There’s some great material back there. I’m proud of so much of it! I still smile in the same places, I still cry at certain points, I still feel the very same emotions as the first time through. That is pretty incredible.

In my opinion the best piece I have written is that 10 page long short story about how Trempwick first began to wonder about placing Nell on the throne. 10 pages and it’s like a rose bush in fullest bloom on a summer’s day to my writer’s senses. Young Nell, in first person POV no less, has such vitality! Her world brims with life, and colour, and warmth, and everything which I deem important. Such a contrast to what I have today.

The decline begins about the same time the shop relocation began. That confirms the other suspicion which has been steadily growing. The stupid working hours are smothering me. Is it any surprise? When I can write I’m tired, lacking sufficient time and often not quite in the right mood. When I’m in the mood and a scene is burning brightly I’m stuck working.

Got some time off at last. Let’s see if I can’t manage to revive enough to end this with the life it deserves.

:settles down to attempt a long writing session:



Death is Yonder, I get 24 days of holiday this year plus public holidays or a day in lieu for working them, and that’s an improvement on what I had last year due to changes in law and a bonus for working for the company for more than 2 years. Before that I was owed 23 days including public holidays.

It’s disheartening to know that we spend far more time at work than the average medieval peasant.

Furball, mentioning it earlier would be possible. I’ll look at it when I begin revising. ~:)

I'm sure you'll get out of the rut froggy and for what it's worth I still enjoy your work. :yes:

Breath half taken to say to Fulk, “Hugh knows,” the instant they were alone, Eleanor stumbled into motionlessness as she entered the solar. One of the chairs by the fireside was occupied. Malcolm Nefastus sprawled there, toasting his feet with a cup of wine dangling loosely from one hand.

“Ah.” The brat sat up so suddenly his drink sloshed onto the rushes. “Oh.” He was on his feet before Eleanor had fully collected her thoughts. “You said to speak to you today. I hope … I hope that’s alright?”

The princeling was not paying her presence the slightest attention, Eleanor realised. He spoke to Fulk, and nervously at that.

Hawise retreated to the fringe of the room, placing herself out of the consideration of her betters. Aveis followed her example, as did, more slowly, Richard and his pitcher of wine.

Fulk stepped past her and directed the boy back to his seat. “I remember.”

“I could come back. If you’re busy.” A flick of his eyes made it plain he referred to her.

Eleanor felt herself blush, however incorrect his insinuation was. “Why are you here?” Fulk had said nothing about a visit from Hugh’s dubious ally.

The prince snarled, “Men’s business is nothing to do with you.”

Fulk took the chair opposite the boy, crossing his ankles. “Is your memory of the rest of my words so much poorer?”

“But-”

“I will have nothing to do with you if you can’t be civil.”

Malcolm chewed his lower lip. “It really is nothing to do with her.”

“If you wish to speak with me privately there are far better ways to say so.”

To Eleanor’s complete amazement the prince didn’t hurl his goblet to the ground and stomp about screaming. “If you insist,” he ground out, very nearly coming close to a gracious tone. “I would speak with you privately.”

“As you wish, your highness.” Fulk rose. “Come. We can walk the ramparts.”

Knowing it unwise to question him too openly, Eleanor cleared her throat. With Fulk’s attention attracted she raised an eyebrow.

“I won’t be long.” Fulk gave her a quick kiss. “Wait here for me.”





“Well? Have you decided?”

Several steps later Fulk answered, “Not fully.”

Malcolm’s jaw set. “You don’t want to. Just say it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t want anything to do with me.”

“I haven’t said that either.”

“You don’t have to.” Malcolm hunched his shoulders up defensively. “No one fucking has to. I know.”

“If that were true I would have said no last night and sent you on your way. And kindly watch your language.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Malcolm demanded, stopping and squaring up with Fulk. “Pity? You can fuck right off with that!”

“Not pity.”

“Then what? Why? Go on, tell me.”

Fulk resumed walking, and answered the question with his own. “Why did you come to Hugh’s aid yesterday?”

Left no alternative Malcolm fell back in at his side. “Look, just give me a straight answer. Yes or no. Spare me all this shitting around.”

With a pang Fulk realised how similar this conversation was going to be to the ones he’d had on the subject with his own father. Eight years William had been in his grave, eight years since his son’s foolhardiness had gotten him killed. Eight years on, and now he could agree with every word. Eight years too late. “Being a knight is about more than status. It’s about more than fighting.”

“What are you saying?”

“Until yesterday I’ve have refused you on those grounds. Now, today, it’s a different proposition. It requires some thought. Do you think yourself ready?”

Malcolm’s step faltered, recovered quickly. A line formed between his brows and he gnawed away at his lip. “I haven’t broken,” he replied after a long while. “My father broke after his first battle. His courage is gone.” The boy traced the path his father’s scar took over his own face, his fingernail leaving behind a snake of white which faded where the elder Malcolm’s never would. “I wasn’t wounded … maybe it doesn’t count.”

“That is your answer?” The fact that the princeling considered it at all made him wiser than Fulk had been at his age.

“It is not easy being the son of a coward.”

Fulk strode along in silence. To agree would have been to speak ill of a man he owed allegiance to. The boy spoke the truth, and it was a truth made harder by his rank. A crown prince must be braver than those he would one day lead.

“His lack of balls infects everything he touches like a bloody plague. He shits himself at the mere thought of risk, and it’s fucking Scotland up something royal. Year after year it gets worse.” Malcolm hawked and spat onto the stone. “Look at what he’s done to your wife and her bloody mess of a family. First he makes a right mockery of them by marrying a princess to you – organising it himself as though he held her wardship or something! Then he gave you the shittiest elements of his army, the ones he doesn’t care about if they die. Third, he failed to send the help he promised. He never fucking intended to lift a finger; I told you both but you wouldn’t listen. He hasn’t the balls to lead an army, he hasn’t the balls to trust anyone else to, and he’s more bothered about petty victories won by spidering about in the dark than he is about the honour of our blood. No matter if everyone treats us like lepers because of it.”

“You came,” Fulk observed neutrally. He didn’t chide the boy for swearing, knowing it would close the conversation off.

“Someone had to. He doesn’t see what he’s doing, or if he does he doesn’t care one bloody bit. He’s poisoning the realm and he doesn’t care.”

“You care.”

Malcolm’s head came up, his green eyes flashing. “Do devil-spawned changelings care about anything?”

“You are not a changeling.”

Malcolm snorted. “I was born with six toes on my left foot, or so everyone says, so I guess you may be right. Changelings look normal. Whatever. Everyone says I’m the devil’s spawn so the fucking details of what type don’t matter one bloody bit. The Nefastus doesn’t care about anything.” He pursed his lips. “But a normal prince might. Damn it, a normal prince should or he wouldn’t be worth the fucking crown. It should tear his heart to pieces.” He bared his teeth in the most mirthless grin. “Good thing for me I don’t have a heart.”

“One might speculate such a prince would raise an army to keep the word his father so blithely gave. A fully honourable deed.”

“And, as such, something the Nefastus could never do. No, the Nefastus just wanted to piss in his father’s face and do some killing. Ask anyone. That’s what they’ll tell you.”

“People are saying that,” Fulk agreed.

Malcolm scrubbed a hand wearily across his brow. “Of course they are. Can we ditch this morality play and get back to the whole point of this conversation? Will you knight me or not?”

Fulk stopped and faced the boy. “Do you truly think you’re ready?”

For the longest moment they looked at one another.

Malcolm swiped his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, fighting the wind to keep it out of the way. “No.”

Fulk began to walk again. “I wanted to be a knight for so long. I wanted it so fiercely that sometimes it hurt, actually hurt. When I finally received my accolade the hunger for it had passed. I knew it couldn’t fix the things I originally believed it could.”

“You mean it couldn’t make you respectable?” The boy’s understanding strengthened Fulk’s belief that he saw something of his younger self in the prince.

“Yes. Man at arms, knight, or earl, I’m a baseborn bastard. Nothing can change that. Your father’s invented family history can’t change that. I know who my parents were, and I loved them. I was – am – proud of them.”

“But you allow the de la Bec fiction to stand.”

“Not for much longer, I think.” Seeing the boy’s shock Fulk smiled. “Oh, I don’t mean to decry it from the rooftops or anything. I’ll just let it all drop and go quietly away. Should I speak of my family or childhood to anyone it’ll be the truth I tell them.”

“I’m not ready.” Malcolm’s head sank lower. “My father does his best to hold me back, and the people who’re meant to be teaching me aren’t much use.” Helplessly he shrugged. “And you’re right. It won’t change anything. Not really.”

“No. It doesn’t change anything.” Jesù, to his own ears he sounded worn to a nub.

“Yesterday should have changed something. I don’t see how I can be the same person I was.”

“Maybe you’re not. Change takes time.”

“I don’t think I’m any different.”

“You’re not swearing,” Fulk pointed out dryly. “Or not so much.”

Malcolm moved to the outer face of the wall and leaned on it. One of the burial pits was visible from here. At the mouth of the pit two men had a body by the arms and legs. A couple of swings to build some momentum, and they released it to flop through the air into the pit. The dead man landed sprawled, one hacked shape among many, consigned to rot with no more than his underclothes and a hurried prayer from a holy man. A cart was trundling towards the pit, a stray dog following at a distance wary of the footsoldier slogging behind the cart. An arm dangled out of the backboards, its undulation testimony to the uneven progress of the vehicle.

Fulk waited at the boy’s side. A few days time and there’d be a naked hill on the grass, one of several. Come late summer and it would be covered in plants, inoffensive enough if you didn’t know what slept under it.

Malcolm said, “I won’t live to be crowned. Or if I do I won’t last long after. My own nobles will kill me.”

“Then give them reason not to.”

Malcolm traced an intricate design on the rampart top with his finger. “They called me the Nefastus before I understood what the word meant. Before I could say it myself. How am I meant to fight that? I can’t. The Nefastus can do no good, no right. He’s evil. I learned that long, long ago.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“What’s the point in being good if everyone decides you’re evil anyway?”

Fulk braced his elbows on the wall, ostensibly to lean there for his comfort, in reality to placed him closer to the boy’s height. He addressed his question to his clasped hands. “What’s the point in aiding your father’s ally if everyone says you did it for perversity?”

For a very long time the only sound was that of the wind, and the fainter noises coming from the burial detail in front and the bailey behind them.

Malcolm stood away from the rampart, shoulders set level. “Take me as your squire. Please.”

Fulk was so taken aback at first all he could do was gape. “Your Highness, I am no one-”

The boy shook his head. “You’re hailed as the greatest knight in all England! What better tutor could I ask for.”

“I am a baseborn bastard.”

“So? Princes sometimes have lowly men as their tutors. As long as those men are recognised as being highly skilled-”

Fulk interrupted, trying to keep his tone mild yet firm, “Those men live in their lord’s household and owe everything to him. They don’t hold land or titles. They don’t owe allegiance to two different kings. They’re not married to a princess. Highness, if I accepted you it would be taken as a political statement!”

Malcolm’s head went down. “You don’t want me either.”

“Highness, whatever I want has no place in it. A man in my position can’t train the heir to a throne. I can’t join your household, and you can’t join mine.” That aside, knowing how Eleanor felt about this prince meant he could not ask her to tolerate his close presence. Ah, and there was another reason against this. “Besides, as soon as Hugh is safely crowned Eleanor and I will be withdrawing from public life. We’ll be living in the quietest obscurity manageable.”

“But-”

“Hugh cannot have her at his court, and we cannot have our own separate from his. Anything which lets men judge Hugh against her cannot be permitted. Anything which would allow the notion of her as a queen to live on cannot be allowed.” Fulk spread his hands. “You must see it is impossible, your Highness.”

The boy gave a wretched nod. “Yes,” he sighed. “I guess I do.”

“For whatever it may be worth, I’d probably have accepted you if it were possible.” As he said the placatory words Fulk found that they held a small grain of truth.

Several moments passed. Malcolm said, “I just don’t feel like I can go home again. Not after …” He made a vague motion with his hand which managed to encompass burial pits, armies, and themselves. “After all this.”

“And a bit ago you were claiming you felt no different.”

Malcolm scowled. “Fuck it, I still don’t even know if I came to the right side’s help. Truly. It’s no clear matter as to which of them’s the better, or which has the right of it, or what. It’s a big fat bloody mess, and my father stuck his oar in and stirred the water up so cloudy I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Eleanor doesn’t want the throne.” A scatter of carrion birds took to the sky, disturbed from their feast by the body collectors.

“Wanting is the least of the qualifications. Take it from me.” Malcolm snorted with amusement. “If it came to wanting half the fucking population would be qualified!”

“True enough.”

“All I know is that Hugh’s our ally. He’s not filled all the terms of his half of the bargain, but then my father’s barely filled the minimum of his. He surrendered the land we asked for, and you’re married to his sister like my fucking father demanded. That means he’s kept more of his part than we have of ours. Or that’s the way it stood until I raised an army to come and help.”

Fulk glanced sidelong at the boy. “You went to Trempwick first.”

Malcolm’s face flamed. “I had to. I had to persuade him that I was on his side or I wouldn’t have been able to take him by surprise. I’ve not got that many men.”

Fulk didn’t think a boy could outwit the spymaster. Yet there was no denying Malcolm had charged into an unprepared enemy. There had to be more to it.

“I can’t go home.” Malcolm began to walk again, checking back over his shoulder to see if Fulk would follow. After a bit he did.

Malcolm said, “I won’t be shoved back into my corner. Fuck it, I don’t think I can be shoved back into my corner. Men know I’ve raised and led an army, and they know I’ve been on the winning side. Whatever they say about it doesn’t matter. They can’t consider me to be a child any more. They’re going to be looking at me and wondering from now on.” Malcolm halted, hands held out to his sides and his eyes agleam. “He can’t hold me back any more!”

“Your Highness-”

“Have you any idea what it’s like to be shoved in a corner and kept looking like a useless pisspot? To never be allowed chance to prove yourself! Damn it, to never be allowed chance to even learn properly?” He dropped his hands back to his sides, some of the exultation fading from his face. “He’s too scared to let me do anything which might be risky. More than that, he’s too scared to let me do anything which might make me look better. If I die he’s got a young child for an heir. If I’m triumphant I’m a rival.”

Fulk remembered the armoured figure of his father standing over him, braced to face the enemy to preserve his wounded bastard. He’d been unconscious by the time they’d cut his father down. “You can’t blame a father for wanting to his keep his son safe.”

Malcolm shook his head in rejection. “No! I can – he’s so completely fucking wrong I have to! Protect me?!” The boy’s voice wavered on the edge of breaking. “He’s never tried! Not how it counts.”

“And which way would that be?”

The prince stood, shoulders heaving with his rapid breathing. “He let his baby son be called an unholy demon. His baby! And he let it go on for so long that’s all the poor fucking sod could be! He encouraged it! You’ve seen that your yourself, when you were at our court.”

This was getting decidedly awkward. Fulk wasn’t sure he could agree with either the King of Scots encouraging the loathing of his son, or with a person being forced into becoming something by weight of popular opinion. “Your Highness-”

“So now I’m the Nefastus. Barely anyone will follow him. So I’m no threat to the bearded shit. Which is good for him because if I ever get the chance I’m going to gut him for what he’s done to me! And when he’s dead I’ll be left to claw my way out of the fucking pit he’s dug me!” The prince’s rage collapsed. He made a helpless gesture with his hand. “And I won’t manage to dig my way out.” As an afterthought he added, “There’s a mark on my left foot next to my smallest toe. Maybe that’s where it was cut away. Maybe I am a demon. I’ve got red hair.”

“So does Anne, and none would say she’s anything but sweetness and light.”

Malcolm gave Fulk the barest hint of a smile. “Anne got all of the good which is missing from me. And I don’t begrudge her it. Much. She … wears it better than I ever could.”

“Tell prince Hugh that you don’t feel ready to accept his offer of knighthood, and ask if you can become his squire.” Fulk could see the boy considering it, and further expanded on the idea. “It’d be an honourable placement, and a useful one. You’d gain knowledge of those you’ll have to work with when you inherit your own throne. You’d have space to grow, and Hugh’s a good man.” Hugh could be the best man on earth and he’d still curse Fulk for directing this difficult princeling his way. Hugh held traits which might balance Malcolm out if only they could be instilled. Hell, even better manners would be a big improvement.

After a bit Malcolm said, “I’ll think about it.” He gave a curt bow. “I’ll leave you be now. My thanks … and if you tell anyone about what I’ve told you I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll not have people laughing at me like I’m some pissing milksop!”











Vote Prince Malcolm Nefastus for the “Most Charming Character” award or *^%& off!

Well, that’s some improvement. It’s the burial pits and carrion crows which make the biggest difference here. There’s more to the scene than dialogue scattered with the obligatory line ownership. The dull procession of overly repetitive “he said/nodded/sighed/looked/blah blah” is reduced too. It wrote itself faster than any scene in a long time, and more easily. Dr. Froggy’s cure: more sleep than I’ve had in a long time, more reading than I’ve done in a long time, more writing and in longer stretches than I’ve done in a long time. Pity I don’t have several more months.



Welcome back, Monk! ~:wave:

Interesting! I'm not sure whether to pity Malcolm or slap him! And Thanks for the welcome back, looks like i'm on critic duty until Ludens returns!

It was much enjoyed froggy. You managed to steer clear of falling back into the droning on of dialogue for the most part but there were still one or two places where it fell a little flat. Still I believe it's nothing major as when you fall into it, you manage to pick yourself right back up a few lines later.

It's difficult for me to comment on your story as our styles are so (in my mind) vastly different. So if I take a few days to say something don't get too discouraged I'm likely just trying to think up a way to comment :2thumbsup:

Hi, I'm still reading the story. I just finished the scene at King William's grave between Hugh, Eleanor, and Jocelyn.

I liked it when Jocelyn was writing to Richildis and Fulk interrupted him. Those were 2 excellent scenes.

I'm glad that Hugh is finally getting a hold on his(well technically Eleanor's) kingdom. If the fanclub thing is still going on then add me to the Constance one. She's the one that keeps Hugh on the right path.

Whatever happened to Red Hand? Is that still going to be published?

After a lengthy pause Trempwick said, “Well, well.”

Hugh did not reply.

“I wondered when you would pluck up the courage to face me.”

“I do not need courage to face you,” Hugh said most softly. “There are a great many things more terrible than you.” He moved past the spymaster to stand before the altar. He made his reverence and knelt.

“You came to pray?” Trempwick stood over him, within view so he could not be taken for a threat.

“What else does one do in a chapel?”

“Since I have been housed here all who come, come for me.”

Hugh tilted his head to look up at the man. “Why should I come to pay you visit? I hold no care for you.”

Trempwick settled himself on the nearest bench, crossing his legs. “Why would you not?”

Hugh refocused his attention on the Almighty.

After a bit Trempwick prompted, “I have never thought you one for gloating.”

Was it self-destruction if one failed to raise one’s shield to ward off a fatal blow? Hugh feared so. Yet could it not be said martyrs did precisely this? They might live yet turned their face to the wall and let the blow land. Campaign in Wales would offer occasion to let his guard slip. Not martyrdom. No, it was so very distant from it.

“However I would have thought you would have something to say.”

To die to clear the way for the rightful heir. To prevent himself from sinning further, from becoming a usurper in truth.

“Promises of fair trial, perhaps. Assurances that I will be treated with honour.” Trempwick leaned his arms on his knees. Hugh paid him little mind.

Self destruction. Suicide. As surely as if he drove a knife through his own breast.

“Ignorance was not a flaw I would have attributed to you.”

Could he do it?

“I shall rest the blame on that head wound of yours.”

Hugh strove to hold himself stationary. To face the question and all it held in full, and to do so without emotion. Emotion would impair his judgement.

“I should not be surprised if it left you a scar.”

Emotion. That is all he found. Odd, most odd. Hugh felt numb, had since the blow had first landed. How could one be numb and yet brim over with passion in one and the same instant?

“Never mind. It will not be too bad of a scar. Remember also how ladies find scars appealing.” Trempwick laughed, a sound filled with heartache. “Look at your sister and her broken-nosed commoner.”

Half sister, Hugh corrected mentally. The heir. The chosen one. The one judged more able than he. The favourite. Hugh drew in a noisy breath and threw his gaze skywards. Control. He must have control.

“Ah, that seems to have caused some upset.” Trempwick spread his hands. “I apologise, I suppose. I had not realised another apart from myself found that sensitive.”

Control.

“From the day William offered her to me in marriage I never doubted she would be mine. Never doubted she would not see me as a worthy match.”

Hugh growled, “No one ever doubts her.” She possessed resemblance to both of their – her parents. Jesù, how it hurt.

Trempwick offered the slightest of smiles. “It hurt.” He touched his breastbone. “Not just the losing of her. The rejection. No man likes to think another may be preferred to he. That hurt too.”

And what if the superior one was a female, and a younger sister to boot?

“For the rejection to be so public as well …” The spymaster repeated his wretched little laugh. “Nell does nothing by half.”

Death. An end to feeling. An end to it all – pain and problems both.

Hugh came to his feet so slowly all the weight of the world might have been on his shoulders. “No.” More vehemently, “Christ, no!” He would throw away every reward in paradise to see his child! Abandon it?! Abandon Constance?! Never!

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “Somehow I do not feel you are agreeing with me.”

Hugh battled the surge of emotions. “I agree Eleanor little understands the meaning of moderation.”

The spymaster held his pose for long enough to show he didn’t believe Hugh’s cover up. “Well, what is moderation but the limitation placed upon the able by the less so?”

“I seem to recall you preaching moderation in drink, spymaster. Does this mean you are unable to hold your wine?”

Trempwick sketched a mocking salute. “Witty.”

On the maddest of whims Hugh asked, “Did you oppose my succession because I lack ability? In part, if not in whole?”

Trempwick came to his feet, studying Hugh’s face intently. “Something in you has changed, bastard.”

Hugh did not flinch. And realising it his heart soared – the word has lost all power over him. William had repudiated him at the end. For all of the accursed mess it had wrought in Hugh’s life there was one simple bit of blessed simplicity in it all. He was no man’s son. There was a freedom in that. As quickly as it had flown his heart broke anew. He was no man’s son. William had not wanted him, inadequate creature with suspect blood that he was. No longer could he meet Trempwick’s eye. “Show me a man who would not have changed after the trials I have faced, and I will show you a corpse.”

“If you had no ability you would have fallen at the outset. I admit I am surprised you have survived as well as you have – though in no small part I put that down to Nell’s support of you.” Trempwick’s eyes lost their focus, gazing into the middle distance. “Yes … I should dearly love to speak with my student and discover what is in her mind.” As quick as the snap of a whip the moment ended; with a blithe smile he stated, “Bastard, when it comes to ability you are average. No more, no less. Do not do yourself overmuch credit by assuming otherwise in either direction.”

Hugh’s throat was tight. Average. He had always been average. Had always laboured under that cloud. Maybe William would have wanted him if he’d been talented. Maybe he’d have looked better if he’d not had Stephan the beloved on one side and Eleanor the damned menace on the other!

Trempwick didn’t relent. “You have lived in mediocrity. You will die in it. I would say you were born in it but alas, for that to be true you would have to come from legitimate stock.”

“I am aware of this,” Hugh ground out. “I asked if you opposed me because of that. I did not request you grind my face in my own uselessness!”

Trempwick paced away, one hand massaging his brow. “Bastard, if you wish it plain I can put it no plainer than this. I feel nothing for you as a person; you are drab, average, tedious. I despise your very existence, and the reason for this is simple. You represent a lapse in judgement from a lady whom, until that point, I considered to be the very pinnacle of all that a lady should be. Furthermore, my friend’s failure as a husband led to this. In short, you are born from the mistakes of people I wanted to be beyond errors. You are come from the unhappiness of two people I dearly wished every joy to. As for your father,” Trempwick spat on the floor. “That for him!”

“I see.”

“To an extent, perhaps.”

“Eleanor once told me that you loved our mother.”

Trempwick’s expression was incredulous. “So you think I am upset because you might have been my own son if she had but chosen differently?”

A rage Hugh had been struggling with for so long finally boiled over. “You should have tried your hand – she was a whore.” The next he knew he was on the floor clutching his chest, gasping for breath.

Trempwick massaged his fist, his own breathing quick. “Damn! What is it about her brood that I must keep on doing this? Judgemental idiots, the lot of you!” He crouched at Hugh’s side and dragged his head up by the hair. “Listen well, bastard. Your mother was lonely and abandoned because my friend took her for granted. He thought he could leave her for much of a year and return home to find her waiting and eager like some flower which only opened up when he was present, utterly unchanged from the girl he had married, and thought he could do this year after year.” He leaned right in close. “He was wrong.”

Hugh dragged another lungful of air in. “She was his wife!”

“And he was her husband.” Trempwick released his grip on Hugh’s hair and stood up. “A man should not ask for what he is unprepared to give himself. Or so I have always believed. William was far from chaste.”

Hugh said nothing. What good to him was justification? Would it restore him to grace? No. William was dead; he could never withdraw his rejection.

Trempwick folded his arms. “I can say that she should have found the strength to remain alone, and each time I have done so I have found myself saying in the same breath she should never had needed to. I can say Enguerrand should have had the decency to leave before it came to that or the decency not to abandon her when William returned. I can say that without the least qualm. I hated him for it.” Trempwick clenched his fist. “How self-indulgent of the man, to run away to Spain to die on Crusade! Salve his soul and end his misery all in the one go. Not a thought for Joanna, left behind to bear all that she had before in addition to his leaving.”

Hugh braced a hand on the bench and levered himself into a semi upright position. “If she had done her duty by her husband there would never have been any speculation over my parentage.”

Trempwick bared his teeth. “If she had done that you would not be here to bother me, bastard.” He threw his hands up in the air. “And while we are at it, if William had done his duty by her then you still would not be here, and undoubtedly the world would be a happier place by far.”

“It is all her fault.” Hugh took a final breath and tried to stand; his legs held.

“I do not know why you came here, bastard. Nor do I care.” Trempwick’s lip curled; abruptly he moved away and sat back down in the same position he’d been when Hugh had entered. “If you came here in an attempt to win my support, know once and for all that you will never have it. I will not see a mistake dressed in robes and anointed to rule over us. If you came to learn something,” Trempwick snorted with disgust, “your closed mind has prevented any chance. I will waste no more time on you.”

Neatening his clothes restored a modicum of Hugh’s sense of dignity. “I have no idea why I came. I was mad to believe you would have the courtesy to leave me in peace to my prayers.” He called for the guards to let him out.

“I do not think you came to pray,” Trempwick called after him.








Sorry; late, tired, got to be up early tomorrow. Been sat about waiting for something else to load. Will come back to comments :zzz:

Well, I wasn't going to post a comment, 'til I read that you would come back for comments. :)

I'm always happy to see a new installment of the story. I usually go back and read the latest 2 or 3 installments first to remind myself of what's going on. In some cases - like this one - the scene change is such that I needn't have done that, but it's a joy to reread them anyway.

There's a couple of nice things you've done with Hugh here, Ms. Frog! I wouldn't have expected Hugh to consider "doing himself in," but once you presented it, it seemed perfectly in-character for him. But then having him emphatically reject the idea because he wouldn't deny himself to his child and wife? Masterful! After all, that's what Enguerrand had done and look what that had done to Hugh.

Trempwick is more rounded out here, as well. He can be exasperated and truthful and still not budge an inch. Of course, Trempwick has fooled better men than me and I could be wrong, but I think we're seeing some real emotion from the man: “Damn! What is it about her brood that I must keep on doing this? Judgemental idiots, the lot of you!”

The final argumentative bits, with Trempwick explaining his love for both the king and queen and seeing the humanity of both their shortcomings - juxtaposed with Hugh's unbending "judgementalism" - was very well done, imho.

When Fulk eventually returned he seemed surprised to find three heads industriously bent over embryonic garments. “A sewing gooseberry. I think I’ve seen everything now.”

Eleanor did not share Hawise’s and Aveis’ amusement; she fixed Fulk with her most vicious glare. “You left home with three changes of clothes and returned with but the one you stood up in. One more word and I shall leave you to go about replacing them!”

Hugh knew he had been disowned, Trempwick sat in custody, the battle’s dead were still being buried, Malcolm Nefastus wanted something of Fulk, and here she sat, sewing. Sewing! Concern for Fulk’s welfare had ganged up with society’s ideas about wifely duty and consigned her to this. The man needed clothes. She was supposed to see he had them. Farming the work out to others would lead to whispers of neglect, and that wouldn’t be fair to Fulk.

Fulk set his hand over his heart. “It gives me great comfort to know my best-beloved has personally stitched my underclothes.”

Underclothes. Eleanor schooled her face into serenity. It was true – her skills were as yet insufficient to work on more complex garments. Asked at any other time she would have taken a sort of pride in it, as she rightfully should considering how much effort she’d put in over the years to evade spending time with a needle. Right now, right this very moment, here and now, it was bloody well too much! Her kingdom needed her to steer it through this final patch of troubled waters, and here she was, working on a new pair of braes! Not even something dignified!

Moving to stand behind her, Fulk ran her braid through his fingers. “No need to look so stoical, my love. I’ll save you from your labours.” A finger tickled the back of her neck, and worked lower. “We’ve a debt to settle, and that takes precedence, if you ask me.”

He was ideally positioned for an elbow to the crotch; Eleanor somehow resisted the temptation. How very typically male – always a keen memory for the one thing you wished him to forget! “It does?”

“Of course.” His finger was near the scar shaped like the curve of the arse in the crown’s belt buckle, a positioning which had to be purposeful. “You might sound more cheerful.”

Eleanor said sceptically, “I might?” He’d taken a blow to the head and no one had told her. Surely. Compliant, yes, Fulk could reasonably expect that. Cheerful?!

Someone smothered a giggle – with both maids’ heads bent over their work Eleanor couldn’t identify the offender.

“Think of my poor masculine pride.”

The same masculine pride which had caused the disagreement about Trempwick in the first place? “We have more important things to be doing.”

“Paying debts is very important, I feel.” With both hands he massaged her shoulders, an action very close to wringing her neck however tenderly he dressed it up. “And this one’s growing by the minute.”

This time it was easy to identify the giggler – because both women did it.

With a sigh Eleanor dumped her sewing and stood up. “If you insist.”

“Your enthusiasm drives me to giddy heights of excitement,” Fulk drawled.

Deranged. Quite perfectly deranged. “I am most properly deferential.”

“Slip of the tongue there, dearest.” He looped an arm about her waist and started to walk her to their chamber. “I think you meant defiant.”

She gave him a black look. “I can be defiant if you prefer.”

“Maybe later. I doubt I’ve the energy to deal with defiant presently.”

The giggles turned into out and out laughter as the door shut.

“Well?” Eleanor demanded.

Fulk spread his hands. “If you’re really not interested-”

“Fulk FitzWilliam, if you expect me to be excited over ‘having my hide flayed’; as you so picturesquely put it-” Eleanor broke off; he was laughing.

“Oh, love!” He wiped at his eye and made some effort to bring himself under control. “If a hundred people had witnessed that exchange, and if I asked them what they thought I was talking about, every last one would say I referred to the marriage debt!”

“Oh,” Eleanor said. That may make more sense. A rush of heat informed her that she was blushing furiously. “It might have helped if you had not been prodding at my scars and such!”

“I hate to disappoint, but I barely have the strength for one debt. Settling both is currently beyond me.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. “I know which I’d prefer.”

Eleanor indulged for a moment before breaking their kiss and pressing him back a little. “Hugh knows. About the ring – Jocelyn must have told him.”

Fulk considered, then shrugged. “We’re guarded and this castle is filled with my men. He can’t harm you here, nor do I think him the type to. No, there’s more danger he’ll bend knee to you. He can’t do that if he can’t get to you.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “How fortunate that you’re presently unavailable for visitors.”

He’d said nothing which she had not already thought of. “I will have to speak to him.”

“Later. When he’s had some chance to come to terms with what he’s heard.”

“When it is not so raw he must see that a lifetime’s naming him as a son means more than a deathbed change of mind.” Fulk’s lack of concern made it easier for Eleanor to trust her own feelings on the matter, and relax. “What did Malcolm want?”

Fulk untied the ribbon from her hair and started unravelling her braid. “Didn’t I ask you to loose your hair? Didn’t you claim a bit ago to be properly deferent?”

When the kiss broke Eleanor said, “You asked me to loose my hair well over an hour before I made the latter claim.” She repeated, “What did Malcolm want?”

“To be my squire. I said it was impossible.” Fulk combed his fingers through the lengths of her hair. “Could we please forget about the world outside? We’ve been apart for weeks. I fought my way halfway across the country to get here. I nearly died. You weren’t much further from disaster. The realm’s not yet settled into peace either. We’ve had very little time together since we got married. So little time, in fact, that we’ve lain together less than a score of times. We’ve been arguing. It’s only since late this morning I’m beginning to feel capable of a proper reunion.” He raised his voice in exaggerated frustration, “There are better things to be doing than talking politics!”

“Well when you put it like that …” Eleanor leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly on the lips. “And it is eighteen times.”

Fulk broke into a grin. “You counted?”

Eleanor returned the look from under her eyelashes. “You did not?”





“I counted.” Fulk sounded closer to sleep than wakefulness.

Eleanor smiled into his shoulder. “Of course.”

“Let’s stay here for the rest of the day.”

Eleanor ran her fingertips over the light fuzz of hairs growing on his stomach. “Is that an excuse to go back to sleep, or do you have something more in mind?” she teased.

“Perhaps by the evening, if you take good care of me.”

“Oh hush. It was not a literal question and you know it.” It had been obvious that he’d been struggling and that his wounds had pained him, slow and careful that they’d been.

He cracked open his eyes and grumbled, “I can be hopeful if I want to be.”

“As you wish, my luflych little knight.” If he wanted an honourable excuse for spending the rest of the day in bed then she wouldn’t deny it him.

Moments later Fulk’s head sagged against hers as he dosed off.





“You spoke to my sister?”

The page interlaced his fingers nervously. “No, my lord.” He hastened to add, “I couldn’t get to her. She was … busy. Her servants said so.”

Hugh’s unthinking attempt to knit his brow sent a flash of pain across his forehead. “Busy how?”

The youth blushed.

“I see.” Hugh dismissed the page with a wave of his hand, absurdly relieved that the youth hadn’t replied verbally. It was one thing to know his sister was married, and to understand that marriage by necessity entailed such activates. Yet the thought of his sister – the heir to the throne – in the embrace of that peasant sickened his gut.

Alone once more Hugh sat in continued contemplation.

Snubbed?











There’s some life in there despite the fact I’m zombified with fatigue. That’s nice.



Furball, I don’t think I can do better than to say that was a very helpful comment, and thanks for posting it. Elaborating just ends up with a wad of text saying nothing satisfactory, so I’ll leave it at that. ~:)

<beam> And thanks for a new episode. I hope you get plenty of rest. I have a feeling you'll need it for the coming chapters.

In case you were wondering who's still reading your book on this forum, I enjoying it immensly and always eagerly awaiting your next installment.

Just to let you know im still reading, just not very frequently or occasionally even. You can now proceed to blame school work, teachers, afterschool activites and oncoming exams. I'm waiting in suspense for the plot build up on the conversations which seem to suggest something big is brewing. I shouldn't be reading for quite a while. My exams are just around the corner and I need to study if not i'll die:sweatdrop: .

Anxiously counting the days till freedom :smg: :smg: :smg:

It had occurred to Hugh that Eleanor may have given him this space to come to terms with his discovery. It was either that or contempt. To his chagrin he was aware of swinging between the two with no semblance of logic. His thoughts had settled upon a path like unto the knotworks used for decoration by the Irish. No perceptible beginning, no hope of an end, so tangled that to attempt to follow it invited blurred vision. Relentlessly he ran along that tangle, over and over. A man of certainty, reduced to being assured of very little and hunting for something to grasp hold of – Hugh found himself contemptible, and so it was small wonder his half-sister viewed him likewise.

Hours after his page had returned from the failed summons the door opened. Eleanor entered without ceremony or announcement, and waited for some reaction from him.

“How long have you known?” Hugh asked after a while. He stood, his blood waking from the sluggishness which had inhabited it for the past afternoon. This time it was a demand. “How long have you been laughing at me?”

Eleanor answered the second question quickly enough. “I have never laughed-”

Should he go near her Hugh feared he would do her some violence, and – questions of inheritance aside - that would be unforgivable now she was another man’s wife. He positioned himself at the window, as far away from her as he could get. “You have manipulated me to perfection!”

“No!”

The cycle continued along its now familiar path; the anger set and in its place rose misery. “That only shows how unworthy I am.” He bowed his head, clenching his eyes tight shut against the tears welling up yet again. “To be led by the nose by my youngest sister.”

“Why do you think I manipulated you?”

“You came to me with your tales of treason on the part of Trempwick, and led me to clear the path for you.” He snorted. “Trempwick is settled. The most rabid of the nobility are dead – so very conveniently, if I may so remark.”

He heard footsteps; by his estimation she had closed the distance between them by half. “Hugh, I came to you before our father had his accident. Before he made this fool’s decision.”

“I have no father,” he said through clenched teeth.

“You are William’s son-”

Hugh pounded his clenched fists on the window sill and roared, “No!”

“Hugh-” Blessed Jesù, she was right beside him now. Had she no sense of self-preservation?

“Of the two men who might bear that name, one abandoned me, the other disowned me.”

Eleanor set her hand on his shoulder, the touch so light it was next to imperceptible. “He was dying, and, dare I say it, heartbroken at what had happened here. He did not deny you when you set your had upon his corpse.”

Hugh swept her hand away with a swipe of his arm. “He denied me when he should have given me his blessing, and that can never be retracted. I do not care. Truly I do not. I do not care why. I do not care when. All that matters is that he chose you.” He stabbed at her with a finger. “You. Not me.” He stabbed again, this time making contact – and by God’s mercy he didn’t care! “You! The youngest! A female!” And stabbed again, forcing her back a step. “The one with the least right!” He pressed her back another step. “The favourite! Always his favourite!”

Eleanor’s retreat ceased; she squared up to him and snarled, “He hated me!”

“You were the focus of his attention!” Hugh bellowed. “He never showed half the interest in me that he did in you!”

“Interest that left me covered in scars!” she spat back.

“So many times did I have to suffer through him wishing you were male, knowing that he would have supplanted me with you if you were!” When he realised he was measuring her neck up to gauge how effectively he could strangle her Hugh drew a deep breath, shoved her to one side, and put as much space between them as possible. “Keep away from me! If you had any idea-”

“How much you hate me?” Eleanor interrupted. “I know, Hugh.” Her lips thinned in an expression which was far from a smile. “I know.”

Hugh held her gaze for a long time. “I have discovered I was formerly mistaken about many things. All those years. I was not learning how to hold my throne and do well by it. I was learning how to take it.” He found himself snarling a smile, and dropped one hand to his dagger. “How easy it would be to take back what is mine.”

Eleanor held her empty hands out to her sides. “I am unarmed. I left my knives behind.”

“I have raised and led armies. I have crushed those who opposed me. I have made myself and my purpose known. I have won support. As I was taught to do. All I needs must do is remove the final obstacle.” Hugh found himself more tired than angry, and that made this unsustainable. His hand fell away from the leather-wrapped hilt. “I never knew how badly I desired the crown I had been pushed towards until I was threatened with its loss.” He sank back to lean against the wall for support. “I wanted it, I worked for it, and on the very day which should have been my triumph I learned I had nothing.”

In reaction to the fight going out of him, Eleanor sat herself down in the window seat. “Brother dear-”

Hugh flinched. “Do not call me that.”

Eleanor shrugged. “As you wish.”

After a long time Hugh decided himself to be delaying. With a fluid shrug of his shoulders he pushed off the wall and stood on his own two feet. “You already know what I will do, do you not?”

“Out of all of our family, you are, I think, the only one I know at all,” Eleanor said softly.

“Do you have the ring?”

She had been concealing it in her girdle. A little pocket must have been added so the ring could sit at the small of her back.

Hugh closed the gap, left hand extended. “I wish to examine it.”

As trusting as could be Eleanor dropped the ring of Saint Edward into his hand. Hugh closed his fingers about it, a thrill running through him. That which had been lost was once again found. The weight in his hand was comforting, Eleanor’s body had warmed the gold – he could have fooled himself into believing he held a living thing. Hugh uncurled his fingers. The sapphire winked blue at the centre of its halo of tiny rubies and emeralds. The Confessor has selected the sapphire as it stood for faithfulness and verity, and later legend had built up about the deep blue eyes common in the royal family. The bloodline had been marked by, and for, the ring.

Eleanor held out her own hand.

Instead of passing the ring back Hugh took her left hand in his and slid the ring into place above her marriage band. Dropping to one knee he kissed the ring. “I am your man.” It was not, in the end, as difficult as he had feared. The price his other options would exact of him he deemed too high. A day spent searching himself to see if he could do otherwise held some reward, then.

Eleanor took him by the elbow and stood, pulling him up with her. “You are the most honourable man I know. You would never have done otherwise.”

Honour. What good was that to Constance and his child? “I will go into exile.”

Eleanor transferred her grip to his right forearm, a clasp sometimes used amongst fighting men to indicate a brotherhood of sorts. “You will stay here, and you will help me right the mess I have been left.”

Hugh twisted his hand free and said bitterly, “A discredited former claimant to the throne will be of no use to you.”

“You will not be discredited.” Eleanor removed the outsized ring and returned it to its hiding place. “You will be crowned as Hugh, first of that name, King of England, Duke of Normandy, and all the rest of that mouthful.”

Hugh could not believe his ears; he shook his head. “What nonsense is this?”

“You were trained to rule, so rule you shall.” Eleanor sat back down, straight-backed and self-assured. It was not hard to imagine her upon a throne. “All will be as it should. Your son will inherit after you. None will know I have the ring, and on my death it will find its way back to the treasury.”

“I do not believe this …”

“Brother dear, I do not want the throne. I do not believe any good could come of it.” Eleanor folded her hands in her lap, a minor adjustment which robbed her of the regal overtones. “Nor do I believe it fair that I, who do not want it and have not worked for it, should take that which you desire deeply and have worked beyond exhaustion for.”

Hugh pursed his lips. “I am not a usurper.”

“You will not be. You have my blessing.”

Then he understood. “You would make me your puppet.”

“No. I would make you a king, in your own right and in truth.”

All this time she had been attempting to look him in the eye, a contact he’d denied her. Now shock drew his eyes to hers. “How can I be that? I am your man until the end of my days, nothing can change that. You cannot clean the knowledge from my mind.”

“I will not live at court. Therefore I could not control you, assuming I so wished - which I do not. I will leave you to your own devices, to make your own decisions and to act as you will.” Eleanor hesitated. “However should I feel something to be important I will speak, and I expect you to listen.”

Hugh’s head felt fit to explode, his world tipped upside down for a second time in the space of a day. He walked aimlessly from the need to be doing something, pressing at his cut forehead so the pain would cut through the tangle and enable him to think. Better a puppet than an exile. Better a puppet than a pauper with nothing to offer his wife and child. “I would have to have certain guarantees.”

“What do you require?” she asked immediately.

What indeed? The statement had been more a delaying tactic than a coherent desire. No – there was one thing clear to him. “You say my son will follow after me. What guarantee have I of this?”

“Our prior accord on that matter stills stands, and always shall.”

“That is not enough.” If he had previously doubted his ability to murder children, he further doubted his ability to murder a legitimate heir. Had he not proved himself incapable mere minutes ago? The threat was no longer believable. “It must be made … legal. Some form of proclamation – something to bar any of your descent from ever taking the throne.”

“As you will. It can be formed so it appears to be based on my choice of husband.”

In the hopes of returning a fraction of the agony her existence had caused him, Hugh said, “One supposes that one bulk of the matter remains unchanged. You are not built for breeding. You will die most unpleasantly, the brat along with you.”

She gave him a very thin smile. “Anything else?”

Having begun it was easier to continue; he was able to answer smoothly. “You will not come to court without my permission.”

“I will not come to court without seeking permission save in a situation I perceive as an emergency,” she countered.

“This is not agreeable.” Hugh folded his arms and attempted to appear inflexible. “You may class any situation as an emergency. I will not have the threat of your appearance hanging over my head at all times.”

“And I will not permit myself to be sealed off so I cannot act if there is need.” Eleanor gave it a moment’s consideration. “In such circumstances I will send a messenger ahead, and this messenger will arrive half a day in advance of myself.”

“I suppose this is agreeable.” What else? He must make himself and his as secure as feasible. “You will not raise an army in your own name, or in your husband’s. You will not retain more than fifty armed men between you.”

“Eighty.”

“You quibble as though buying cloth from a merchant,” Hugh said in disgust.

“I agree where it is reasonable, and seek to preserve my interests where it is not. You think I will give all away and let you dictate?” Eleanor shook her head. “Eighty, and I will publicly swear loyalty to you each year at Christmas. Should the Earl of Alnwick need to take to the field in your support it is best he bring a respectable contingent. I do not think to hold so many men during peaceful times – the cost would be ruinous.”

“Seventy, and you will swear whenever I view it as needful.”

“Seventy, and no more than twice a year. There is a difference between leaving no space for people to misunderstand our relationship, and abuse.”

He had not expected to win too much on this point, and the moral validity of his attempting to limit her was dubious. “Very well. Provided no more than fifteen of those men are knights.

“Agreed.” Eleanor had been toying with her wedding ring, turning it about on her finger. Now she revealed why. “We will pay no more of the fines imposed upon us for our marriage. To maintain appearances we will appear to do so.”

“I acknowledge that I had less right to impose those fines than I believed at the time.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. “Less right? No right. Fines are imposed on subordinates. I am subordinate to no one, saving my husband where it is fitting.”

Hugh struggled for a long time before managing to swallow that. “Yes.” No good – the morsel he had struggled so hard to choke down came right back up again. “If I am to be king then all are subordinate to me.”

“All except me,” she replied without delay.

“Then I am no king.”

“You will be as much a king as any other to wear a crown – far more than many who have reigned. I will not stand at your side and whisper into your ear.” Once more she clasped her hands in her lap, letting the commanding pose fade. “Is there anything else?”

It was all too much, too soon, and too unexpected. “I need more time for thought.”

“You shall have it.” Eleanor rose. “There is one final thing. Trempwick must be dealt with, and swiftly.”

Hugh nodded, pleased to find her thinking the same as he. “There must be a way to kill him without besmirching ourselves.”

“It is my intent to make him useful.”

“What?” Hugh growled.

Eleanor raised her chin. “He names me his queen. I will make him bend knee and serve.”

“You will loose that viper?” Hugh could scarcely believe his ears – after all the man had done! After all they had been through to bring him down! “The man who murdered my children-”

“And more besides,” she interrupted. “No. Never. I will find him a prison and he will never leave it. We cannot kill him, we cannot loose him, and keeping him mewed up is a great danger unless he can be brought to see reason to work for what we build.”

Hugh stated, “I will not work with him.”

This seemed to amuse Eleanor. “He will not work with you, rather say.” More seriously, “He would work to undermine you.”

“I do not care what words you put it in. You will not succeed.”

She gave him one of those impudent smiles which announced she had taken the words as a challenge. “We shall see.”








The next few scenes tie into that one quite strongly.

Furball, thanks.

Peasant Phill, nice to see you passing through again.

Death is Yonder, however will you concentrate on your exams knowing something big is in the offing in Eleanor-land? :p

“Sorry.” Embleton’s representative bowed deeply. “Sorry, my lord. We are so sorry.”

Jocelyn grunted and did his best to look imperious as he sat on his horse.

“Sorry. Sorry, so very sorry …” The man peeked up to see if his profuse apologies were doing any good.

“You must be,” Jocelyn growled.

The man flinched back down. “Sorry. We’re all really very, very sorry.”

Embleton had survived Trempwick’s raids on the lands surrounding Alnwick thanks to its solid wooden walls and the local hicks who marched up and down on them pretending to be soldiers at the least hint of approaching men. Jocelyn had seen first-hand their resolve to protect themselves – the damned bastards had shut the gates against him, filled the walls with every male capable of holding something which might do damage, and then told him to piss off! Oh, the gall of it! And then they’d accused him of being a survivor from Trempwick’s army! A rebel! Trying to flee via their port! He’d been stuck trying to get these idiots to see their damned obvious mistake for so long the rain which had been threatening all day had arrived and started to soak him. Him! The hero of the battle of Alnwick! The queen’s chosen favourite useful knight-count-hero!

Filled anew with righteous fury Jocelyn tapped his shoulder where he’d been shot. “I wounded in royal aid. Rebel? I kill you for insult!”

The representative crumbled to his knees, followed by everyone else from this nest of overly-proud peasants. “It was an honest mistake, my lord. Please, forgive us. We’re so, so sorry. We’ve been fending off Trempwick’s men for over a week now.”

The whining was losing its appeal. Jocelyn glared down his nose at the idiots. “I go home. Royal business,” he added, puffing his chest up. “I serve. I come for ship. You give. I leave tomorrow. You …” How did a chap tell peasants to get to work and sort it out in this mangled version of a language?! In the end he settled for a flap of a hand coupled with a firm, “Do!”

The idiots fled with much bowing and gabbling in their stupid language.

Alain blew a droplet of rainwater off his nose. “Lucky any of these lot speak Anglo-French, really, my lord.”

“Lucky?”

“Yes. Imagine if they only spoke English.”

Jocelyn scowled. “Ha! They should have recognised us as quality and royalists because we speak proper French.”

“Speaking of which …” the squire nodded at a figure hanging about in the shadows of the gate’s archway, still bowing.

Ah. Yes. The one peasant with a pinch of sense in this whole damned muddy dump. The only one capable of working out that the fact Jocelyn’s party flew Jocelyn’s banner meant that – gasp! – Jocelyn was amongst them, and that he was a known royalist. Jocelyn rode over. “You I thank. You sense.” He tossed the man a couple of coins, and rode off to the sound of profuse thanks.

“Why is it always raining in this damned country?” Jocelyn demanded of his squire. “Wonder the bloody place hasn’t washed away, if you ask me.”

The squire pulled a face, and blew another droplet off his nose. “My lord, you complain about it raining far more than it actually does. It’s not been any different to home in terms of how often we’ve been soaked.”

Jocelyn growled low in his throat. “Makes my damned wound ache, damn it.”

Alain made a tutting noise that could have belonged to any old crone wailing about reckless children. “Well, we did tell you that it’d be better to wait a few days before leaving. Heal up a bit.”

“I’m fine.” Stay a bit longer. Yeah, right. They’d have found him face down in a gutter in no time at all, and not in the happy ‘I’m drunk and can’t stand’ sense neither. Damn, damn, damn, damn! Royal favour? He was right properly and fully screwed in that regard for the time being. Jocelyn squinted skywards for a hint that God was there, waiting to reassure his loyal subject in this time of need. Maybe the two royals would forget about his little slip up? I mean, life was busy and it was amazing what a person could forget after a few weeks. Right?

“I think it’s kind of sweet that you’re in such a hurry to get back to your family.”

Jocelyn raised a fist. “Come closer, boy, and say that again so I can knock you off your bloody horse!”

Alain spread his hands. “But that’s what you told us, my lord.”

“Yes. But I didn’t say a damned word about bloody sweet! You chucked that in to piss me off, damn you.”

The squire grinned. “Worked, too.”

“Disrespectful brat.”

It was the end of the day and the shops lining the main street were closing up. One of the more tardy ones caught Jocelyn’s eye, and he reigned in. “Oi!” he said politely to catch the workers’ attention.

The two youths froze, and slowly turned to look with the kind of abject dread that made Jocelyn feel happy about being a mounted lord wearing noisy armour, followed by a troop of mounted men wearing noisy armour. Respect, see. “My lord?” mumbled the first one.

Jocelyn dismounted, landing with a squish. He looked down to find his boots sunk an inch into the mud that now formed the road. Damn it, this waterlogged dump of a land should have stone paving on all its exposed surfaces! He picked his way across the short distance between himself and the goldsmith’s stall, careful as can be so he didn’t slip and end up on his arse. Standing under the opened top shutter he was at long damned last out of the bloody rain, and that was nice. “You don’t speak a proper language, do you?”

The pair were young; they were likely journeymen. After a quick exchange one shot off into the shop calling for his master.

Jocelyn ignored them, and peered at the display they had been packing up. It was mainly made up of rings, simple things which posed no huge risk when displayed openly. He reached out for the one which had caught his eye. A plain gold band, made for a man’s hand.

A voice said in accented langue d’oil, “Ah, that one is a nice piece, isn’t it?”

Jocelyn looked up to find the goldsmith himself hurrying towards him from the living area of the building.

The man bowed. “I thank you for your interest in my humble work, my lord. Is there any way I can assist?”

“Mainly looking,” Jocelyn grunted.

The goldsmith smiled ingratiatingly. “Of course. Anything for one who helped protect our lord’s lady.”

Anything including a fat discount? Jocelyn turned the ring about, checking it from this way and that. It all looked the same, no flaws or such. The weight was nice, proper and heavy like solid gold should be.

“It’s intended for a man’s wedding ring,” the smith explained, inching closer. “Not that many wear them now, but it’s going to be the fashion. The princess Eleanor’s husband, our lord of Alnwick, wears one.” The man seemed to recall that Jocelyn had met said princess and her husband, and added quickly, “Or so I hear. From a good source, though, normally reliable.”

“He does.”

The goldsmith looked quite relieved to hear his predicted fashion wasn’t stillborn. “I think it’s a nice idea, myself. Gives the wife a visible claim on her man. Doesn’t seem right if the couple belong to each other, but only one’s marked as owned, if you follow. I don’t know why more men don’t wear one.” Hypocrite – his own heartfinger was bare.

Jocelyn grunted again as if he didn’t care about the man’s words. See, there was the thing: would Tildis appreciate it at all? More importantly, would she get damned ideas?! Bloody woman, nothing but trouble. Should have been worrying about himself and his lands, and here he was, wondering about pissing away hard earned money to buy something she wouldn’t appreciate – something which would kind of sort of turn him into a wee bit of a girly-man. Giving his wife some visible claim on him?! Damn, how messed up was that?

Jocelyn put the ring back, and turned his attention to the pieces made for women. He’d bring her a present instead. “I’m looking for a gift for my wife.”

“Ah, well, there’s a lot to choose from, my lord.”

There was. Jocelyn looked at it all, and did his best to ignore the never-ending commentary. Time after time he found his eye returning to that damned ring.

Whatisname didn’t look all emasculated and he wore one. Christ’s knees, the man was practically a legend now – not that that would last, the upstart nobody! - and barely anyone at all commented badly on the fact he wore a ring. Damn it all, the idiot seemed proud to actually wear the thing! Imagine that! Yes, well, Jocelyn would be proud to be married to a princess if he were some kind of toad or whatever dug up out of nowhere.

Wear a ring? Give his wife some claim on him? Risk harming his machismo? No! Damned! Way! Ever!

And anyway, just because he wanted to sort everything out didn’t mean he wanted to change anything. Except for the things he wanted to change, naturally. But not the rest.

There was a cloak pin which was nice. It had pretty little seed pearls embedded on it. Richildis would like it, if she knew what was good for her. “I’ll take this one,” he told the smith.

When he left the shop a couple of minutes later he slipped both his purchases into his belt pouch.

Look, just because he had the sodding thing didn’t mean he had to wear it.








Ah, Jocelyn. :help:

Yay! :)

Countdown: Exams ending in 3days
Breaktime: Average of 5 minutes a day.

Finally I get to read the new installments...if only i could take paid leave if there
was such a thing over here in slave land. Hugh is becoming paranoid, he should know very well that Eleanor wants nothing to do with being the Queen. Now that she relinquishes the title Hugh is becoming Arrogant and demanding, so soon already imposing demands and constraints. Maybe Eleanor will rebel in future or he'll do something drastic. Seems like Eleanor WILL be meeting Trempwick pretty soon, stop dragging it out! The suspense is killing me:skull: .
Jocelyn seems even more pretty easily angered now. One can easily guess Richildis's reaction.

I do manage to concentrate on my exams. I focus on the consequences and hurriedly get back to studying for the mid years papers.:sweatdrop: :sweatdrop: .

By the time Eleanor returned Fulk lay on their bed, half dressed, his battered old copy of King Arthur in his hands. The familiar feel of the tome was comforting; leafing casually through the pages and reading the odd snippet here and there kept his mind sufficiently engaged that he didn’t sit and brood.

“You were asleep when I left,” she said, closing the door. “You had been for a long time. I did not want to wake you. You needed the rest.”

Fulk closed the book, not bothering to keep his place marked. “Is it too much to hope that you’ve brought food?”

She seemed surprised that he hadn’t asked where she had been. “I arranged for a private meal to be brought to us, instead of our having to join everybody in the hall.”

It was close to 3 o’clock; not much longer to wait. “My stomach is happy to hear this.” Fulk shuffled over on the bed. “Come, sit with me. You’re nicer to hold than a book.”

Eleanor gathered her skirts neatly and sat beside him. “I begin to see that the true expense in keeping knights is food – and not for the horses.”

“I haven’t eaten properly for days, and all the fighting-”

Eleanor threatened him playfully with a finger. “Idiot. Do not make me poke you. You know full well I was teasing.”

“Bah!” Fulk grabbed her about the waist and pulled her down next to him. Her efforts to twist and land without any weight on him fouled his own attempt not to get knocked; Eleanor came crunching down on his ribs.

“It was your own stupid fault,” she told him over his groans, removing her weight from his abused body and checking him over for further damage.

Once she’d curled up at his side Fulk felt better. “Why does the world seem so much more bearable when there’s a gooseberry to hold?” he mused out aloud.

“Because you are hopelessly in love with me?” Eleanor suggested.

Fulk pretended to consider. “I think it’s because you are warm, myself.”

After a bit she said, “I went to see Hugh.”

Fulk’s hand fell still on her back. “I thought we might have the rest of the day for ourselves. No more bothering about anything other than enjoying the fact we are together again.”

“The sooner all is settled then the sooner our miscellany of guests will be gone.”

“True enough. But it would be nice to spend a bit of time enjoying that which I fought for.”

Eleanor propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. “Your fight may be over; mine is not.”

It was true; Fulk knew himself to be trapped and surrendered with as much grace as he could muster, which was to say not as much as he’d like. “Alright.”

“He accepted my offer.” Eleanor shifted to sit at his side, legs tucked to one side and skirts neatly arranged in a pose often used by artists painting young ladies seated upon grass. “We have agreed some terms. There will be others when he has had time for thought. When I have, also – our own interests must be protected.”

“Wouldn’t do to have him settle so comfortably he forgets who the crown truly belongs to,” Fulk said blandly.

She looked at him sharply. “Would not do to have him decide to remove me as an unnecessary danger. Or to try and shunt me out into the cold. Or-”

“Yes, I know, dearest.” Fulk snorted, half in irritation at himself, half in delight at how fired up she had become. “Forgive me. I seem to have become quite sour, these days.”

“Overall our agreements will suit you – we will not spend much time at court, for example.”

It was the wording which gave away the existence of one agreement she believed he would baulk at. Fulk braced himself and enquired, “But?”

“My descendants will be barred from the succession by law.”

Fulk pinched the bridge of his nose. “This matters how? Unless I have been highly unobservant nothing has changed – it’s unnecessary.”

“Yes. It is a formality.”

“One you think will give me pause.”

“The reason which will be given publicly will be your complete unsuitability as a match for me.”

Fulk pressed his lips together. “I’m tempted to add my own demand to all of this – if I’m to be paraded as a dirty peasant yet again then I want recognition of what I’ve done for your damned brother.” He attempted to smile to twist the words into a joke; he feared it came closer to a grimace.

Eleanor answered with a very slight smile of her own. “If Hugh does not offer you recognition of his own accord it will be to his lasting shame. On that most will agree, if a little grudgingly. A lord must reward his followers.”

“Why is he demanding this? It’s unnecessary. And I’m not convinced it would hold either – it could be overturned. It wouldn’t be … ” Fulk sifted through a selection of words. “Custom. There’s no precedent. It wouldn’t take much to declare it unlawful.”

“Peace of mind. Write me out of the line and he and two very distant sisters no one wants are all that is left.” Eleanor tapped her fingers on her thigh, and Fulk knew she was talking to him with one part of her attention and devoting the rest to considering something else. “It centres attention more firmly on him and his own line. Makes me less of a rival, and encourages people not to consider potential rivals to his sons.”

Fulk shrugged his shoulders. “Anything which makes him feel better makes him less dangerous to us.”

Eleanor’s tapping took up a more complex rhythm. “I need to see Trempwick. I must get him to stand at my side before I can do much else.”

“Tomorrow,” Fulk countered reflexively.

Eleanor’s hand fell still. “Today.” Again he had the feeling she was only half here. “Secure Trempwick today, work the majority of what is needful tomorrow, and the army departs for Wales the day after. At last we are left in peace, and the worst will be over.” She blinked slowly, and suddenly she was back with him. “Today, and then we will have our peace.”

Fulk sat up in a blaze of protesting muscles. “We will go when I say so. You agreed to that.”

She inclined her head. “I did.”

At this point what use was there in fighting to save a bit of face? He had already surrendered on the main point. Trempwick would continue to be a source of discord until they got rid of him; in that he could agree that sooner was better. There remained the matter of those rash - if heartfelt at the time – words. Fulk had been wondering what to do since he’d woken and found himself alone. He had a somewhat hesitant hope that he’d found a solution. “Very well. We’ll go this afternoon.” He left a meaningful pause. “There remains the matter of the price.”

In the space of a word Eleanor had become completely impenetrable. “Very well,” she said impersonally. In that moment Fulk knew she’d not expected him to make good his threat to beat her.

“It seems unfair to me.”

A touch of life returned to her. “You might say that,” she allowed.

Fulk smiled deliberately. “I’m left in the position of doing something I don’t want in recompense for doing something else I don’t want to.”

That took the wind out of her sails. She scowled at him. “You were the one with the hide flaying, not me.”

Actually, Fulk had the distinct feeling that entire line had been opened up by her so he had a graceful way to back down. “The best idea is to change the price to something I do want.”

She eyed him in much the same way she’d look at a rabid wolf lying on her best rug. “Go on.”

Fulk lay back down and clasped his hands over his stomach. Best to make this look casual. “I would like you to make an effort – how much of one is up to you – to stop hiding your back from me.” There. It was said. And several moments after finishing he was still alive. That was promising.

“Pardon.” It was not a question. It was a verbal rock dropped from a great height.

“An effort, as much as you feel able and willing to do.”

That glare could have pinned him to the wall. This might not have been such a good idea. “And you are giving me some choice in this?”

“Yes.” Fulk sat back up, abruptly realising she could interpret his efforts at a relaxed tone as a cocky, smugly insensitive demand. “I’m not asking you to do more than you’re comfortable with. That’s why I’m asking. I thought you’d slowly realise I don’t find it ugly. You’ve grown accustomed to me looking at you, provided I can’t see a hint of your back. But you’re still so worried about that.” This was coming out abysmally. “I wish you weren’t. I wish you didn’t worry about what I can see, and do your best to arrange yourself so I can’t see your scars. I-”

Eleanor slid off the bed and crossed to where his clothes lay. She picked up his belt, and tossed it over to him. “There is my answer.”

Fulk swept the belt away from him. “No.”

Her lip curled. “So the choice is hollow.”

“I’m not asking you to stand around naked so I can examine your back in detail,” Fulk cried. “I’m just asking that perhaps you’ll try not to shrink away if I kiss your shoulder when you’re naked because I might – might keep going and catch sight of a scar.” He moved to stand with her; not so close she would find it threatening, close enough to make it intimate. “I love you. I think you’re beautiful; surely you can’t doubt that any more.”

Part of the iciness defrosted. “Do you think it was no effort to let that roomful of drunken boors stare at me so we could be married?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you think after that it was easy to let you look at me at all?”

“No,” he said softly. “I know it wasn’t easy at all – at first. You have grown accustomed to it.” With a half smile he offered, “I think you begin to like it.”

She blushed quite stunningly.

“You do,” he confirmed, feeling as though he could fly with pure delight.

“It is the way you do it,” Eleanor mumbled. “So …”

Fulk put out a hand and stroked her cheek. “Love struck idiot gazing upon his delight?”

“One could say that.”

“How do you know you won’t see me looking at the rest of you like that if given chance?”

Eleanor’s answer was voiced very gravely. “Because I do not have eyes in the back of my head.”

Fulk laughed. “Alright. You won’t see.” It was incredible how quickly they could turn a mood, incredible and the most marvellous thing in the world. This morning’s mistakes were not being repeated. “’Loved, if you don’t let me see then you will never learn that I truly do not care. You’ll always worry. I’m not asking you for something you can’t do; I know you have the courage to rise to the challenge.”

Eleanor struck a regal pose of condescension, ever so slightly over the top to make it into a joke. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Fulk made a show of considering her for a bit, then kissed her gently on the lips. “Will you try?”

The reply was so long in coming Fulk began to wonder if she were hoping he’d forget he asked. “I suppose I shall have to.”





Prince Malcolm dipped into the shallowest of bows. “I thank you for your offer of knighthood.” The young prince surreptitiously wiped his palms on the moss-green wool of his tunic. “I can’t accept.”

Hugh’s jaw tightened. Rejected – unfit to knight the heir to a throne! How did the boy know?! Had Eleanor told people the truth despite her assurances she would not? Had Hugh himself somehow betrayed the secret?

Malcolm hooked a strand of hair behind his ear. “I … well …”

“It is not needful for you to explain yourself,” Hugh said, managing to sound almost normal.

“There is.” Malcolm, took a steady breath. “It’s hard.”

Hard to tell a man to his face he was no good? From the boy’s reputation Hugh found that impossible to believe.

“I’m not ready for it,” the prince blurted out, as though he feared his nerve would fail if he waited a moment longer. “And I want to be your squire. Please.”

Hugh realised he was gaping and closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked. “Squire?”

“If you’ll have me.”

It was not unknown for the heir to one throne to spend time at the court of a family he would have to work with once he came to power. The ties of friendship could do much to alleviate the risk of unpleasantness. The arrangement would reflect prestige upon both houses. Then too would it serve as a way to test the length of his chains. Could he contract an agreement as important as this without his sister’s interference? “I would treat you the same as any other squire,” Hugh warned. “There will be no allowances for your rank. Indeed, I will demand more of you because of it.”

Malcolm nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

“You will cease swearing, and speak in the manner which befits a noble. No more sloppiness.” As for the boy himself, how far could Hugh push? “If you cannot manage that of your own accord I will have you beaten until you do.”

This time there was no nod. “Sir.”

“You will cause no trouble, nor give offence to any. My squire’s actions reflect upon my own name, and I will not permit it to be sullied.”

“I understand.”

Hugh eyed the boy suspiciously. This princeling had a reputation. “I am in grave seriousness about all of this.”

Malcolm’s eyes rose from their deferential scrutiny of the floor. “As am I. My current tutors have bloo-” He caught himself just in time. “Have failed me. I don’t – do not know the things I should, the things I must know if I am to be an effective king.”

Was he certain about this? The advantages were plain, the single disadvantage being the boy himself. Yet was it not unfair to think badly of Malcolm based upon little evidence and many rumours? “Go and speak with Serle,” Hugh said after a bit. “Ask him for the items necessary to a squire.”

Malcolm bowed, this time more deeply. The boy’s red hair tumbled forward to curtain his face. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

“You will have your hair cut so it is a minimum of an inch away from your shoulders. No warrior worth the name has shoulder-length hair. It is a danger, and effeminate.”

“The Spartans-“ Malcolm clamped his mouth shut, bobbed another bow, and left.








It bounces in some places and clunks in most others. Oh well.

Death is Yonder, Hugh’s trying to protect himself and discover how his sister’s idea will work.

Eleanor didn’t stop moving, the progression from entering the room to belting Trempwick full across the face with the back of her hand was smooth as could be.

Trempwick slowly turned his head back, one hand pressed to his cheek. “I thought I had taught you better, dear Nell,” he said softly.

“You are correct. You did.” Eleanor put every ounce of strength she possessed behind the blow to his solar plexus. “You will agree that was a perfect reproduction of the only time you raised your hand to me, will you not?”

Folded up on the floor gasping for air Trempwick couldn’t reply.

“I confess I was uncertain I would catch the right spot, never having done it before. Your teaching was thorough, as always.” Forget Trempwick – Fulk had drilled her in that move while improving her defensive combat skills.

Fulk was watching this interplay with the most gratifyingly open amazement. Whatever he’d expected it was not this. She had told him to remain silent and out of the way unless called upon to do otherwise, and reluctantly he had agreed.

Eleanor stepped closer. The toe of one daintily shod foot peeked out from under the hem of her clothes, a mere finger’s breadth from the hand Trempwick had spread on the floor for support. “Nothing to say, dear Raoul?”

Trempwick managed no more than a strangled sound that was half struggle for air.

She set her foot over his hand, exerting the lightest of pressure. “I am sorry, I did not quite catch that.”

“Irony,” Trempwick managed. His chest worked hard as he refilled his lungs.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “Pray I do not venture from that to sarcasm.”

He wheezed a laugh and made to sit up; Eleanor pressed her foot down on his hand so he couldn’t. “Ironic,” he explained laboriously, “as I did the same to your half-brother not so long ago.”

Under the sole of her shoe Eleanor felt his hand attempt to move again; she slammed her weight down. It was vital that she dominate this, each and every last moment. Sharp and strong. “I am not here to chatter.”

Trempwick looked up at her with the merest hint of a wistful smile playing on his lips. “Ah, my dear Nell. One could hope …” His face become wholly serious. “But you are right.” His left hand still pinioned to the floor, Trempwick bowed so deeply his forehead touched the flagstones. Awkward as the manoeuvre was he managed to make it appear graceful. “My queen. I am your man.”

The tiniest squeamish fluttering in the pit of her stomach; Eleanor stamped on that as she crushed her master’s hand. If bones hadn’t broken it would be a wonder. Trempwick went rigid, his breath caught in a gasp. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t believed her capable of it, else he would have snatched his hand back as she lifted her foot.

Fulk made a movement, quickly arrested. His face had gone blank, an effort to keep her from reading that which he had not managed to keep from his eyes: dismay.

Eleanor shifted her weight to her other foot, still not letting Trempwick reclaim his damaged hand. “Every lie you speak to me from here on is going to cost you, Raoul.”

“You will get in trouble, Nell,” Trempwick said quietly. He raised his eyes to meet hers.

Eleanor flashed him a wicked grin, and switched her weight back to the foot resting upon his hand. “When have I ever cared for that?”

Voice tight with pain Trempwick replied, “Seldom enough, I confess.”

“Correct.” Eleanor stepped back.

Trempwick lifted his hand from the floor and gingerly attempted to form a fist. His smallest finger wouldn’t bend; heel marks ran lividly across the lower knuckles of that finger and the one next to it. “I would not have thought you weighed so much, dearest Nell.” He pushed himself up to his feet, cradling his left hand in close to his body. “I did not lie, sweet Nell.”

Eleanor made a scornful noise. “I am not fool enough to believe that!”

He shook his head. “Oh, Nell …”

“Do not play the wounded puppy with me. It will not work. Sympathy? I have none for you. I ordered your death, Raoul.”

“So your … husband told me.” Trempwick let his hands fall to his sides. “He also told me you would not come to visit me.”

She’d been expecting that one, and had come prepared. “Did you despair, Raoul?” Eleanor purred. “Each time the door opened and it was not me, did your heart sink?”

“I knew you would come, beloved Nell.”

“Faith? Hope? Or do you persist in the belief you understand me?”

He met her mockery without discomposure. “While it has become evident you have changed since we last spent real time together,” he touched his hand and grimaced, “you have not changed beyond recognition. You are still my dear little Nell.” There was a touch of warmth in the lines of his face as he surveyed her. He bowed very, very slightly. “Yes, I think I may say without reservations that you are no longer my pupil. You have grown past that. I am proud that you have reached this point.” In the space of a heartbeat all the warmth drained from him, and he became the stern teacher. “But you are not yet my equal. Nor my master. Do not over-estimate yourself, beloved Nell.” As swiftly as it had formed the ice melted; Trempwick dropped to his knees. “What you are, indisputably, is my queen.”

Eleanor kicked him, using the side of her foot so she wouldn’t hurt her toes in her stupidly flimsy shoes. “Lying again.”

Trempwick rubbed ruefully at the bruise forming on his hip. “I see you have taken up one of your lord father’s less fitting habits. I do rather wish you had not gone past the point where I am able to encourage you to more appropriate behaviour.”

“Dare utter that lie again and I will kick you again.”

He looked right up at her, leaving his guard wide open and said in very distinctly formed words, “You are my queen.”

Good as her word Eleanor kicked him again, this time in the groin. It was important to keep him off-balance, to make him feel less able to predict her.

“You are my queen,” Trempwick repeated.

Eleanor backhanded him across the face. Overall this was going as hoped: he insisted she was his queen, and she refused to believe. Eventually she would let him demonstrate his loyalty, and from there she would set about rendering him powerless except in a handful of directions she could maintain control of. “You sought to make me your pawn so you could rule!”

“You had to be steered towards power-”

“I had to pick it up to mend the mess you were making,” Eleanor spat. “And thereafter your every action ran counter to my desires – counter to my interests. From the first you went counter to my interests!” She held herself on the edge of giving in to her temper, let him watch the struggle, and slowly stepped back from the bring. Let him think she was so outraged at him she could barely control herself.

“That is not true, my dear Nell.”

“You claimed to be married to me-”

“To protect you. To prevent your half-brother handing you off to another.”

“That speaks of your whims, not mine. I never wished to marry you, and you knew that.”

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “Did I indeed?” He laughed. “Honestly, dearest, most beloved Nell, you never could quite make your mind up. When you put your bodyguard from your mind you were amiable enough.”

“You ruined my reputation!” Eleanor clenched her fists at her side, glaring at Trempwick for all she was worth. The fury was only partly an act. “Fickle, unreliable – that is the best of what people thought! ”

“Truthfully, darling Nell, any damage that was done came from your resistance. If you had bowed your head instead of repudiating me then none would have thought badly of you.”

“All you wanted was to rule through me. Why would I have agreed, seeing that? But you did not think I knew, did you?” Eleanor laughed, brief, harsh. This point needed grinding in. Trempwick would follow someone he felt to be worth his while. “You thought me so blind, so crushed that I would not work it out. You were wrong. I had an alliance with Hugh from the very first, an alliance with the sole aim of bringing you down.” Eleanor indicated the makeshift prison. “And here you are, so very down and with nowhere to go but lower still.”

Trempwick’s reaction was as cool as one might expect, yet there was something, perhaps that he was a fraction too calm, that suggested the barb had hit home. “Are you boasting, dear Nell? Threatening? Or gloating? Something of all, perhaps.”

Eleanor lifted her chin proudly and folded her arms. “I am telling.”

“Delightful. While you play storyteller I shall settle into a more comfortable position to listen.” Trempwick dragged the pew nearest her around so he could sit and look at her.

As his behind was about to contact the bench Eleanor said coldly, “I did not give you permission to sit.” This was going too far too fast, and he left her no choice. Permit him to behave so casually and she would never manage to assert her authority over him.

He hesitated for the merest fraction of a moment, then sat. “I am weary from yesterday, and somewhat mistreated. You will forgive me.”

With a wickedness that felt utterly delightful Eleanor said mildly, “Of course. I am sorry for my lack of consideration. Your age cannot make your trials any easier; bodies take stress so much less willingly once past their peak.” The tone she now paired to a thoughtful little smile. “I think, actually, it would do you considerable good if you were to kneel. If you sit you will only grow stiff and make your back hurt.”

He knew what she was doing, there was no question of that. How could he not, when he himself had taught her by example? The question was, would he acquiesce? Trempwick tilted his head to one side, smirking faintly. “Nell …”

In several quick strides she was at his side, leaning down to speak directly into his ear in a harsh, low voice, “And what would my father do if you came to him after raising this disaster in his name?”

Trempwick said very softly, “Ah,” as though he had discovered something of unexpected – and pleasing - value. He knelt.

Blessed relief swept through Eleanor, combining with tension to make her muscles tremble. “He would have had you killed,” Eleanor said, pacing about him as Trempwick had frequently done when she had been commanded to kneel. With concern that was made to sound very nearly real she suggested, “Why not raise your hand above your head? It will reduce the swelling. I am afraid it does look quite nasty, and should not be left to grow worse.”

Traces of amusement still apparent, Trempwick raised his hands and clasped them at the back of his neck. “Is there no love between us, dear Nell?”

What could she say to that? What should she say to that? Her pacing stopped at his back. “You betrayed me. You used me. You failed, and now you are done.”

Trempwick twisted about in an effort to look at her. “That does not answer me, darling Nell.”

“It tells you all you need.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Speaking of which …”

Eleanor turned her back and walked away, refusing to elaborate on her implication that she considered herself to be standing on the same ground William had once occupied.

“I am playing along, dearest Nell,” Trempwick called after her. “I could choose otherwise.”

Eleanor half turned, moulding her features into restrained scepticism. “You made one mistake, master, and months later you still do not realise how low you have tumbled.”

“Will you execute me for treason?” he enquired pleasantly. “I never gave my oath to your brother. I hold nothing from him. He is not crowned. Any accusation of treason can only be ridiculous.”

“Accusations of treason against Hugh are absurd,” Eleanor agreed. “However, you name me your queen. I ordered you to stand down, and you refused. Indeed, you continued to besiege me. There are sufficient witnesses.”

Trempwick dipped his head in a shallow nod. “Inventive, I shall acknowledge that. Hard to make it stick.”

“Whoever says I intend to?” Eleanor seated herself on one of the pews off to Trempwick’s side so she could see his face in profile and he could not look at her without twisting uncomfortably. “You credit me with passing the apprenticeship, so grant me the sense to not tell you of how your end will come.”

“My queen,” he gave a brief triumphant smile as it became plain she was too far away to reach him in a timely manner. “I spot a pattern amongst the odd words here and there. You do consider yourself to be William’s heir.”

Eleanor got up from her seat, booted him in the stomach, and sat back down as if nothing had happened. This was becoming tiresome – however had the arse in the crown kept his interest in casual violence? What was more her foot ached. Her right hand ached. Her knuckles stung in particular. She felt rotten, downright guilty.

“You do. My queen.”

Delay could no longer serve. Eleanor crossed back to his side, sized a handful of his hair, twisted his head about and hissed in his ear, “You made one mistake. You forgot what you made me. And because of that you nearly destroyed me!” With a jerk she released him, leaning down so they were eye to eye with a mere inch between the tips of their noses. “I am a thing of shadow. Shove me into the light and I melt away. One mistake. One. The biggest damned mistake anyone could have made!” Eleanor enunciated her next words clearly, knowing that they would offend him greatly. “A mistake worthy of the cattle, master.”

The day’s growth of stubble made it easier to see Trempwick’s jaw muscles harden at the insult.

Eleanor pressed on, knowing she had him on the back foot. “To rule in my own name is not what I am made for, and that you forgot it makes your intellect so suspect I would not trust your advice on what colour grass is!”

Trempwick said flatly, “I did not allow your father to insult me so.”

“No,” she snarled. “You allowed him to draw a sword on you.” Eleanor jabbed his neck where a thin, faint scar was visible; the legacy of a cut inflicted when he’d attempted to prevent William taking his anger out on her. “Insult? It is richly deserved, idiot.”

“Words. Blows. Games.” Trempwick brandished his left hand in her face. “This!” He dropped his hands to his sides but remained on his knees. “Dear Nell, you run close to the edges of my tolerance!”

Instinct drove Eleanor to her reply: very deliberately she flicked him on the nose. Absurd, completely absurd, answering his challenge with disdain.

From the corner where Fulk stood ignored came a muffled snort of mirth.

Her position meant Eleanor couldn’t miss the spark of rage which lit deep in Trempwick’s eyes. “If you were not my queen-”

“But I am.” So she flicked him again.

Trempwick said through clenched teeth, “You are, and I am sorely beginning to regret it.”

“Because I told you a truth you did not wish to hear?” Eleanor straightened up and wandered back to her seat. “You made a fool’s mistake. Face it.”

Trempwick turned his attention to his broken hand. He visibly braced himself, and pulled his broken finger straight. “I should like a bandage. If you please.”

Eleanor smiled benevolently down at him. “Maybe later.”

Trempwick improvised a splint by holding his smallest finger against its neighbour with his other hand. “I know what you are doing.”

“I did not expect otherwise.”

“You have chosen a dangerous course. You need my help.”

“The help of the very man who made it dangerous in the first place?” Eleanor arced an eyebrow. “I think not.”

“You need my network, and you need me to head it. How else will you maintain control?”

“Raoul, dear Raoul, you are struggling.” Eleanor leaned forward, leaning her arms on her knees. “Let me remind you of a basic principle. The ruler rules. Everyone else obeys.”

“Let me remind you,” he said, mimicking her tone, “that I have allowed you to play with me. Because of that.”

Eleanor leaned back against the hard wooden back of the pew, feeling the carved scene on it dig into her. “Let me remind you,” she said, mimicking him in her turn, right down to the hint of the sneer, “that you are here because you went against my wishes. Repeatedly.”

Trempwick shook his head sadly. “Ah, Nell. You doubt my loyalty.”

“Doubt is too gentle a word.” Eleanor changed direction; sharp and strong, she must keep to that. “I am not here to negotiate for your support. I am here to tell you that you will send word to your mother, commanding her to surrender to the forces besieging her.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Indeed, sweet Nell?”

Eleanor stated her demands at a measured pace, one after another. “Tomorrow you will be brought out to apologise to me in public, and to admit that your claims to marriage were lies. You will exchange the kiss of peace with Hugh. You will state that you no longer oppose him, or his rule. You will swear the most binding oaths possible that you will not raise forces against him again. You will accept being stripped of all your lands and titles without murmur, and you will request leave to retire from the world to a monastery. You may take the cowl or be incarcerated as a worldly guest; I leave you that choice. You will not name a location; I will chose, and you may be sure that it will be somewhere secure, surrounded by my people.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “Will I indeed, dear Nell?”

“You will give me the locations of certain people so I may have them killed.”

“Such as?”

Eleanor named all of Trempwick’s people from Woburn, and all the others she knew of from his network. Some of those names he had given her himself, others she had gleaned with Miles’ help. The list ended with her father’s personal physician, the man William named as his murderer.

When she had finished Trempwick remarked, “Darling Nell, that is quite a list.”

“If so much as one of them escapes I will hold you to have betrayed me. Do not think to fool me either; I will view the corpse of each and every one I know by sight so I may be sure the right person is dead. If you play me false at any point, or so much as look suspect, you will die, and I care not for the consequences.”

“And why will I do any of this?”

Eleanor produced the ring of Saint Edward the Confessor from its hiding place and held it up so Trempwick could see it. “Because your queen commands it.”

Trempwick touched his brow in a mocking salute. “Clever. A neat enough trap, dearest Nell. It could have been neater, could definitely have been better, but neat enough.”

“Once at the location I shall choose for you, you will not communicate with the outside world. Your only contact will be with me. You will turn all of your attention to a project I have for you.”

“Yes?”

“You will write for me a work which is … let us say instructional. All the things you have not taught me.” This way she could access the knowledge she desperately needed without having to spend much time close to the man who possessed it.

After a bit Trempwick said, “One might expect, then, that you will turn to me for advice when you feel the need for it.”

She’d waved the stick, now to bait the rod with the promise of future influence. “I would not ask a man I could not trust for advice.”

“As I said, a very neat little trap.” Trempwick massaged the back of his left hand; he was not willing to let her forget what she had done to him. Playing on her guilt in the hopes of a better deal? “Let us say, speculatively, that I acceded to these demands. Your half-brother would not play along. He wishes me dead.”

“You wish me to prove my control over Hugh?” Eleanor made a dismissive gesture. Self-assurance was vital, show doubts and he would twist all about until he was the one giving demands. “He will agree. He understands what is owing to his queen.”

“Even the loyalist man can be pushed into revolt if too much is demanded of him.”

“You are far from what I would call a loyal man.”

“And so the onus is on me to prove otherwise. As I said, neat.” Trempwick smiled, slowly. “The question is, my dear little Nell, is am I willing to go to such lengths to prove myself?”

That was indeed the question.

Trempwick stood up, flexing each leg a few times to work out the stiffness. “So I was right. William did leave you the ring.”

Eleanor bolted upright in her seat. “I did not give you permission to rise.”

“It makes my heart glad that he was able to bridge the gap at last.” Trempwick laid his hand over his heart. “It pained me to see you always at such odds.”

“Raoul! Kneel!” This was trouble – she must asset her tenuous authority over him. Simply knocking him flat would not work, not now he had begun to challenge her openly. Chances were high he would defend himself now. Wits; back to the familiar old cut and parry of words alone.

As Trempwick came closer to her Fulk left his corner, hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

Trempwick said, “I asked you for a bandage, my darling Nell. Asked humbly, for such a small trifle which will cost you nothing to grant. You denied me.”

Both men came to a standstill, Fulk at Eleanor’s back, Trempwick to her front. She felt trapped, diminutive, and the situation was threatening to slip out of her grasp. To counter this she rose. “You expect me to shred my clothes to make you one?”

Trempwick smiled faintly. Very softly he said, “Do you remember those evenings where you used to sit at my side, your head resting against my knees?”

She did, though that had been many years ago. Sometimes he had read, ignoring her presence. Others he had read to her, or talked with her.

He continued, “I brought you some honey cake once, after your father had beaten you. It ruined my scrip.”

“It was a silly place to carry it.”

“I brought you your first horse, a milk white mare and the gentlest creature ever bred.”

“This is irrelevant.”

Trempwick shook his head. “Sweet Nell, it is not.”

“It is.”

“Fourteen years. You went from child to adult under my hand. I taught you, nurtured you. I weathered the tempers and the tears, basked in the smiles, survived the multitude of irritations, watched you go from strength to strength. I grew … fond of you.” He smiled a faint, gentle smile. “On occasion I wished to wring your neck with my bare hands. I saved your life, more than once. And now here we are. And you denied me a bandage.”

Eleanor said nothing.

“Anyone who would wield power must know that harshness and mercy go hand in hand. A pinch of the latter can win a heart more comprehensively than a fistful of the former. Beloved Nell, offer the right man a bandage at the right time and he will do anything for you.”

He was attempting to throw her, to lead her off onto the wrong path, that must be it. “You will not be won with bandages.”

“No, sweetest Nell, I will not.” Trempwick reached out with his sound hand and brushed a strand of hair back away from her face. “Respect, my dear little Nell. I respected William so I followed him, and was honoured to call him friend. I cannot respect someone who refuses a simple bandage to someone she has such a history with.”

Defeat. As simple as that. She had second guessed him one time too many. “Very well.”

He let her get close to the door before he called, “Eleanor.”

Trempwick used her full name so rarely that she could not do other than turn back.

“As I said, it is a very neat trap. And as you said, you are mainly responsible for my being here.” He folded his arms, being careful with his broken hand. “That I can respect.”

He’d played with her in his turn, making his own point. The prison she found for him had best have high walls. “So you will do as I said?”

“You have a long way to go, and a lot to learn. You need me. Or one day you will refuse a bandage to the wrong person.”








Course, what this really needs is some Trempy POV. That shall have to wait.

Oops. Just realised that when Nell says “Let me remind you of a basic principle. The ruler rules. Everyone else obeys.” it sounds like she means she need not worry about disloyalty. What she actually means is yet another reminder to Trempy that he does his own thing, and that is not acceptable to her. "I'll help you run the realm, dear Nell ..." "Yeah right, you'll do your own thing and ignore my wishes!"

Too late to edit it now.

My email reader sent me what he calls a bit of doggerel. I found it hilarious, and he invited me to post it in the topic if I thought it worth sharing.

Quote:

---

There was a man whose name was Fulk
His brain was not of massive bulk
Of intellect he had no surfeit
His lady-friend once called him "turfwit".

He was a brave and gallant knight
And valiantly he did fight
His arm was strong, his heart was true
In fact his faults were very few.

His lady was E-le-an-or
In whom he found no fault nor flaw
He loved her with a fond devotion
Deeper than the deepest ocean

A gooseberry became her sign
The emblem of her spirit fine
(How odd this choice of prickly fruit
But Eleanor cared not a hoot).

Together they, with strength and reason,
To nothing brought foul Trempwick's treason
For he was made to fret and panic
When Fulk became the Earl of Alnwick.

And if you didn't know that Alnwick was pronounced "annick", you do now !

---

I have a copy pinned up on my wall near my PC, underneath the little map of Alnwick and environs I drew. Brilliant.

Got stacks of reading I need to do in a very short time (7 books, 2 days!) so you’ll have to excuse me. I’m only here while I wait for something.

Hawise looked up from her sewing as Fulk and Eleanor entered the solar. “Your food is keeping warm by the fireplace.”

Eleanor disappeared into their chamber without a word. Fulk lingered to thank the pair for their care.

“Bad news?” Aveis asked.

“No, just …” He hitched one shoulder and completed his answer with a single word. “Trempwick.”

As he closed the bedchamber door he heard Aveis’ little daughter asking what a Trempwick was; Fulk couldn’t help but grin. Innocence: the most precious thing in the world.

Fulk investigated the tray of covered dishes by the hearth; his mouth watered at the delicious scent as he lifted the first lid. He found pottage, slices of roasted pork with strips of crackling, a mess of cooked vegetables, and a small chicken in addition to bread and a piece of cheese. It shouldn’t be possible to feel half-starved after the amount he’d eaten today; his stomach growled to the contrary. “Shall we eat?”

Eleanor helped him drag the table next to their bed and arrange the dishes. Once all was arranged she sat next to him, let him fill their shared platter, and confided, “I feel sick.”

Fulk took a bite of chicken so as to give himself time to consider his answer. “What was that about sitting with your head on his knees?”

“Precisely as it sounded.”

“So you sat on the floor at his side with your head resting against him?” It was no difficult thing to call up a mental imagine of Trempwick absent-mindedly playing with Eleanor’s hair as she sat like that. It but reinforced the connection.

She looked at him puzzled; she didn’t see it. “On a cushion, but yes.”

“Beloved, normal men do that with their favourite dog.”

“Dog?” she repeated.

“Dog.” Fulk cut a piece of the cheese and held it extended on the tip of his eating knife, silently insisting she take it. “Must I remind you of all that man’s done?” She still hadn’t taken the food so Fulk caught her hand and pressed the cheese into it. “He deserved a hell of a lot more than a broken finger, and is not worth your heartache.”

“Dog,” she repeated again, this time with anger.

“I thought you knew it. When you flicked him on the nose like a naughty puppy.”

“I have not had much contact with dogs.” The bit of cheese was beginning to turn greasy with the warmth of her hand; she noticed and – at last – ate it. “The more we talked the more likely it was he would turn the situation to his advantage. I had to overpower him, to set him off-balance.”

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me.” Fulk broke off a chunk of bread and scooped up some pottage with it.

Eleanor drew one of her knives and prodded half-heartedly at the pork. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Dear heart, the instant I saw you wallop him I knew you’d end up feeling guilty, and that’s the only reason I didn’t cheer.” Fulk exchanged bread for spoon for more efficient pottage-eating. “Your head knows it was for the best. Your heart rebels.”

“The arse in the crown would have killed him.” Eleanor frowned, and abandoned her knife to stand point-down in the meat. “I wonder if that would have sickened his stomach as this has mine.”

Fulk pulled her knife free of the pork, wiped the blade down and set it to one side. “Does it matter? You’re not him.”

Eleanor cupped her chin on her hands, leaning on the table. “I do not know,” she admitted after a bit.

“Oh sour one, mere words won’t stop you feeling guilty. Nor should they. That guilt’s important – it means you’re a good person. Equally important’s the reason why you did it; it wasn’t revenge, and it wasn’t for pleasure. Else you’d have worn something sturdier than those dainty little shoes.”

Eleanor pulled a face, half grimace and half wry. “Cheap philosophy from a ravenous knight.”

“Best kind there is. Affordable, to the point, rational, and accompanied by delicious edibles.” Fulk proffered a bit of chicken. “Best hurry, or I’ll eat it.”

She rolled her eyes as she plucked the meat from the knife’s point with thumb and forefinger. “You will get so fat your horse will be flattened.” Changing the subject, Eleanor said, “You said Hugh would speak to you about lands later today. You had best go soon, else he will believe you disinterested.”

It was a very politely phrased request for some time alone, and as such Fulk had no wish to argue with it. “I’ll go once I’ve eaten.”






Malcolm had had his hair cut, cropped back to hang a bit below jaw level. In a week or so once it’d had a bit of time to grow Fulk suspected there’d be a nice hint of a curl to the ends, making it look less severe. The cut was a definite improvement; his neck looked a lot sturdier when your view of it was unhindered, and his face too appeared less delicate. The prince was engaged in sewing Hugh’s badge onto his tunic, perched on a stool in the corridor outside Hugh’s door.

“You have been accepted as a squire, then?” Fulk asked.

“Yes. On trial, of a sorts.” Malcolm set his tunic to one side and rose. “You’re here to see my lord?”

“This morning he bade me visit him later in the day.”

“I shall announce you then.” Malcolm paused, his fist raised to knock on Hugh’s door. “One thing. Send back my father’s men. Keep them longer and he’ll bitch and mewl away like a damned fishwife, and that’ll start trouble. The purpose he gave them to you for is done, or so he’ll whine. He’ll claim abuse of his generosity.”

Fulk inclined his head. “My thanks for the warning.”

“Let them stay for the victory celebrations tomorrow, then get the hell rid of them.” The prince announced Fulk, and ushered him on through into Hugh’s chamber.

Fulk bowed. “You said I should come later today.”

Hugh looked at him from under lowered brows. “I presume you will now inform me what you desire from me.”

“It is not for me to make demands of my king,” Fulk said softly.

“Let us dispense with empty pleasantry. You know how things stand.”

“I know that this has been a difficult day for you.”

Hugh interrupted, “How polite.” He banged a fist on his knee. “I have no desire for your commiserations, sympathy, pity, or whatever else you would level at me. You will earn no favour by the attempt. I have lived at court for much of my life; I am aware of how it runs.”

“We are not friends, and I am not playing the courtier. Yet we are brothers of a sort.”

Eleanor’s brother grimaced. “Pray do not remind me.” He looked away. “Bastards-by-law, as they that consider themselves witty would doubtless dub us if they but knew.”

Fulk smiled very slightly at the prince’s play on words. “Wit is a predictable thing, isn’t it?”

“Tiresomely so. I subconsciously hear monks writing my vita as I go about my days.” Hugh’s chin came back up, and in a voice that was as close to silly as this man got he orated, “Thereby did Hugh, first of that name, hurry south after his victory at Alnwick, to attend to the rebellious Welsh and restore order to his father’s realm in order that he may be crowned.”

“You still intend to leave the day after tomorrow then?” Fulk asked, more to steer then conversation away from this unstable ground.

“I believed it the best option. My sister informs me that she does likewise. Therefore I shall go.”

“What of the north?”

Hugh rose, and stood close to Fulk, his hands clasped behind his back. Fulk had the feeling he was being scrutinised like a suspect morsel of food. “Trempwick’s holdings here must be reclaimed for the crown. Those who routed from Trempwick’s army should be sought out, lest they prey upon the land as outlaws.” Hugh let silence rein for a moment. “This task is one natural to a man of power in this region. It is a task lacking in glory, menial, almost. Few rewards will attend it; there will be little plunder, few ransoms, and much of what is taken must be rendered to the crown.”

Fulk could see where this was going; he felt giddied with the extent of it. “You’re going to leave this to me?”

Hugh half turned away, relieving his scrutiny. “I will not take you south. You cause dissention amongst my lords and I will not have that, not even should my sister command it of me. If she has an ounce of sense she will not.” Hugh bared his teeth. “No. Let you prove your worth. You can fight like a fiend, and lead a smaller group of men. But can you lead on a larger scale? Can you administer? Are you worth my trust? Are you worthy of that earl’s title? This task will let you be weighed by all those with an eye to watch.”

Fulk moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “Am I to undertake this alone?”

Hugh repeated that discomforting smile. “The nearest natural ally for you in this endeavour is my lord of York. I desire peace in the north and there is scant chance at that if he must shoulder the yoke with you. No, for him is the glory of attending upon his future king and taking the battle to the enemy. Yours is the tedium of cleaning up.”

“I do not have the resources!”

“I shall gift you two hundred of my men at arms. Add this to your own and the numbers should suffice. Trempwick’s followers are a broken rabble now; you should have little enough trouble. Send away your Scots. I will not have it said I used foreigners to oppress my subjects.” Hugh paced a few steps away and back again. “I require you deliver into my hands all of Trempwick’s possessions in the north. However I grant you Carlisle to hold as your own. That will give you a strong presence on the far east and west sides of the border, with Newcastle and other strong points remaining in royal hands between.”

Carlisle. Alnwick. That would leave him responsible for two of the main stumbling blocks for any Scottish invasion. “To safeguard the border would require more funds than those lands could provide alone.”

“Carlisle alone does not represent the full worth of the reward I have promised you in exchange for Trempwick. The remainder we shall draw in centred about Carlisle, to form a holding of similar size to your earldom.”

Pathetically small, then. “If all my lands are in the north then I’ll have to spend much of my time here. As will Eleanor.” Thus followed the unspoken conclusion, they’d be out of Hugh’s way. “She won’t like that.”

“You will have Woburn, and I shall add some lands here and there in Kent, again taken from Trempwick’s forfeited holdings.”

Fulk drew a breath and threw the dice. “Rochester.”

“No,” answered Hugh, before the words has finished leaving Fulk’s mouth. “To hold two key castles on the border and Rochester as well – never! I would be accused of favouritism towards my brother-by-law, a nothing who scavenges from the losses of better men!” Hugh thrust a finger at Fulk’s chest. “I knew it, you are making demands against the weakness of my position! Well hear this: I shall do nothing to risk my own ruination by the lords. It was agreed with my sister. You will be forgotten, semi-exiles, out of sight and out of people’s minds. I will not place myself in the hazardous position of seeming to favour you or her. It would cast doubt on my strength, and cause resentment. Nor will I be seen to be her puppet.” The prince drew a calming breath and pressed a hand to his wounded brow. “If this notion of Eleanor’s is to work then it must be played cautiously. You must know that. I wish to guard my own position and that of my family, as is most natural. She wishes to do likewise. We both desire the peaceful rule of our father’s lands. It is a matter as delicate as any alliance, with a great number of added difficulties.”

Fulk squared up to Hugh and refused to back down. “You’re going to parade me as an excuse for writing Eleanor out of the succession – I want compensation.” Compensation, and security for them when they were away from his castles in the north. Unfortified manors left them completely vulnerable to Hugh when they were closer to the court.

“You have my sister and have risen further than you could dream of if you had not. That is compensation enough.”

“I do not like being used this way.”

“Then you should not have married her. You knew you could never be offered open acceptance or expect too much of me when you placed your ring on her finger.”

“That is true, but-”

“Then the matter is at an end.” When Fulk would have argued Hugh overrode him, “Think what you have gained, man! Carlisle and attached lands, immunity from the fines owing to me for your marriage, a place on the outermost fringes of my accepted circle, and a chance to prove yourself more than a mere fighter. To demand more is greed, and contemptible as such. It undermines the concord between Eleanor and myself. And think also, if you were not married to her I should have given you some coin or a single manor for your service and you would have been content.”

Once more when Fulk would have spoken the prince drowned him out, “Before you bewail your situation think upon mine, and find yourself fortunate. I am the son of faithless slut and a disloyal noble, disowned by the man I believed my father and thrown over in favour of my youngest sister! I came this close,” he held up thumb and forefinger a mere inch apart, “to securing the throne by my own resources, proving myself able and vindicating my doubts, and at the last all is overthrown, making my struggles count for naught. I know not what I am, what my fate will be, or whether a son of mine shall rule after me. I have won the respect of many of my lords, and lost any I held for myself. Civil war has weakened my hand such that I cannot stand against my lords, and now look to years of painstakingly gathering back the power my father had so that next time I discover a man like Trempwick I may sever his head and be at peace. Meanwhile I am told that I am required to work with that cursed man, and so shall perpetually be glancing over my shoulder. All this work I face with the added impediment of Eleanor – any lord disagreeing with my rulership can attempt to depose me in her favour. So deeply am I in need of their aid that my lords can balk and refuse me and there is very little I can do about it if the majority of the others do not fall in behind me!” Hugh filled his lungs and continued his tirade, “Wales is a bloody mess, though one may take comfort in the fact capitulation is likely within a sort space of my arrival there. The family lands across the Narrow Sea must be brought to heel. France itself is riven by uncertainty, and that endangers those holdings. Matilda and her husband are going to nag, nag, nag away in my ear because it is their delusion I owe them my throne due to their paltry aid, and so I must stand against that also.” Hugh’s voice caught; he blinked rapidly and turned away. In more ragged tones he concluded, “And somehow I must tell my wife I am of tainted birth, not the prince she believed me to be. That will be hardest of all.”

The prince was in possession of a most impressive problem list, Fulk would freely admit. His lack of envy likewise. “From what I know of her, lady Constance will not care whose son you are.”

“I would feel better if I could tell her Trempwick had been brought to justice.”

“Eleanor said that the surest hurt anyone could inflict on Trempwick was humiliation. One may be sure he’s getting that. He’s not going to enjoy tomorrow.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows and enquired pointedly, “And at any point am I to be made privy to what is to occur?”

Fulk outlined Eleanor’s demands, leaving the one he expected to be most unacceptable to last. Sure enough Hugh was not pleased.

“I am to exchange the kiss of peace with the man who murdered my children? Does my sister know what she asks of me? Or she is deranged?”

“If you try to have him executed your lords will stand up and refuse. You can’t push them into it; as you yourself admitted your position is too weak to press them to act against their interests now. You can’t exile him, not if you want any peace of mind. Murdering him would cause all to lose faith in you and hate you. Therefore imprisonment is the only way. Doing it this way rips the centre out of the opposition.”

“I do not like this.”

“Think of how humiliated he will be, and how much that will hurt.”

After a bit Hugh nodded once, grimly. “For the good of the realm I will do it. And for that.”










Ugh. At this point in the story we have cool scene, boring scene, boring scene, good scene, and the two boring scenes are so very boring indeed, and the contrast highlights that. These two scenes are dull, and of a type which has been repeated way too many times throughout this story. Each time I sat down to work on them I got distracted easily because I’m so disinterested in them. The only decent part is Hugh’s big wad of text over his situation, and here it’s presented with barely more than placeholder marks so readers can ‘breathe’ as they wade through it. Both scenes are pretty much placeholder versions. I’m that bored with these two scenes I finally decided to get them out of the way and get on with life; they say what they need to.

Staring.

Everyone who was anyone at Alnwick was present. Staring. At him. Waiting. Wondering. Expectant.

A lesser man might have quailed. Trempwick did not. He walked with his armed escort to either side. Walked right down the centre of the hall, taking his time. Dignified. Now and then he nodded or smiled at a face in the crowd. Acknowledging those of greater worth in this market of power.

The bastard sat on the lord’s chair at the head of the hall. Nell standing behind him, in the shadows. A melancholy man might have made much of that. Might have wondered if he had somehow condemned her to those shadows. His teaching too good? Not good enough? Right? Wrong?

Enough. Too late.

The bodyguard hung close to his wife. Lord and lady of the castle, on the dais by right of that and by right of close relationship to the bastard.

Hugh’s most favoured clustered at the foot of the dais. Ready to advise.

Eventually Trempwick reached the point where he should stop. Kneel. All of that.

He didn’t kneel.

How would he play this? All night spent thinking. Planning. Searching.

A joke. Of his own making and turned upon him.

What could he do but what he had known he would when he had told Nell he would acquiesce?

And no one knew where to begin. His guards did not dare knock him to his knees before this gathering. The bastard struggled to find what he should do. As usual. Pitiful. Nell kept to her place, out of the way and silent.

Then Suffolk spoke. “I had not heard you were wounded, Raoul.”

Trempwick raised his bandaged hand, smiled a touch. “A broken finger and some bruises. Nothing of worth.”

“I had not heard.”

Temptation to answer the tactful question with an affirmative. An honourably taken captive mistreated by the bastard. Smiled again, humoured. A quirk of the eyebrows. “All my injuries were taken in battle. I swear it.” Truth from a certain direction. Honourable battle – with his former apprentice. A battle of minds. Exhilarating!

The bastard grated, “You are not here for polite discourse, but to answer for what you have done.”

Answer? If only that were so. Answering was but the least of it.

So let it be begun. Then let it be over. “One could say that.” Trempwick advanced a step, angling himself towards Nell. Bowed. “My lady. Before the battle I said certain things.”

She sneered so beautifully. Fairly dripping contempt. “You have said much of late. None of it of worth.”

Acted as though her rebuff stabbed through his heart and he needed to steel himself to continue. Bowed his head at the pain of the loss of face that was coming. Face? Utter damnation. Ruin. “There was some worth,” he said quietly. No difficult thing to appear heartbroken. She had chosen well. She knew where to drive the blade to cause maximum pain. Of course she did – he had taught her well!

“Not that I have seen.”

Now. The real beginning. Paused, stood on the brink. Looked again at his options. Could refuse to play by her rules. Could restate his claims. Could drive this gathering to sweet rubble.

Could? Could not. It took a special kind of wildness to destroy every drop of one’s life work.

Deep breath, and let it truly begin. “Eleanor, I renounce my claims on you. All of them, and without exception.”

Derided, “How generous of you. You have no claims on me.”

Bow head to hide the pain, face muscles locked in an effort at blankness. “We were betrothed. That claim was valid.” Breath. “I admit the others were not.”

That caused a stir. Why wouldn’t it? He had admitted to a momentous deception.

“You had better clarify that.” Such was the best of the varied responses the nobles offered. Many were less kind. Equally many disbelieving. There was the thing: an idea once planted was near impossible to fully uproot. This they both knew. The aim was to prove him untrustworthy. To make him unappealing as a man to follow. To put him outside of acceptable society. Isolated. Disarmed. His claws drawn, his fangs pulled, and other such dramatic analogies.

Trempwick turned to face those he counted closest to friends amongst the audience. Let pain be writ large upon his features. “I sought to protect her – her position was so dangerous when news of William’s accident came to us! Claiming her for my wife, it was not so strange a thing to do. It placed her under my protection, prevented her being handed off to another to buy support.” His words found understanding with some, not with others. Now, let his agony show. Be beaten. Let them see how the taste of ashes filled his mouth till he felt he would choke! “It got out of hand. Simply.” Spread his hands. Sorrowful. Repentant. Trying to explain himself. “I did not believe she denied me of her own free will – given the circumstances who would? I had to press the point to try and win her free.”

York said belligerently, “It can be said that you drove her into marrying that bastard nothing!”

Sadly true. Trempwick let tears brim at the corners of his eyes. A touch excessive? No, his part was to play the penitent. To destroy himself so he could live. As long as there was life hope remained. Live now, and the future remained malleable. Die, and all was fixed. What was lost could be regained. The heights he had tumbled from could not be reclaimed. That did not mean unremitting doom was his lot. Slowly he could regain some measure of influence where it mattered. Above all he could watch over Nell. Ensure she survived. Thrived. Grew to the potential he had long seen. His legacy. To stand away was to abandon her. Nell needed help. One day the bastard would consider removing her. One day a man might seek to rule through her. Much could go wrong. Much. And much yet for her to learn.

Trempwick said with true feeling, concealing nothing, “And I curse that with my every breath!”

The bastard slapped his hands on the arms of his appropriated chair. “You admit you slandered my sister! You admit you lied, and grew that lie into greater and greater proportions!” An attempt to be stern and commanding. It didn’t roar. It didn’t promise impending pain. It wasn’t … dominant. It was a man attempting to be. Those not looking closely would be fooled. But Trempwick had always looked closely. The promise of his rare moments aside, the bastard would never measure up to William.

It was, overall, a trifle too much to bear. Could not resist the dry retort, “It is not so terribly unusual. Have you seen how many pleas for justice come to the crown on such matters?” Managed to resist adding that his lie had worked. That the bastard had not been able to hand her off to a supporter. Correction: mostly worked. Ah, alas for that mostly.

“None of them relate to my sister! No other man would have the audacity to make such claims of our family!”

Quite the excitable chap today, was he not?

The bastard stood. Drew himself up in icy majesty. Poise. A better pose could not be found for a illustration of a king being kingly. “You slandered my sister, myself, and our mother. Your claims began a war. You sought to deny me my inheritance, and to size control of the throne for yourself. Hundreds have died – thousands, mayhap! My peace has been shattered, my justice mocked. My father’s body lies buried not in Westminster with his ancestors and lady wife, but in Waltham, again because of you. Wales has risen in rebellion, and lords who owed me their fealty followed you in your defiance.” On he went. Laying out the charges. On and on. A challenge: could he knock the bastard from his lordly stride with a simple yawn? Best not try. For Nell’s sake. Eventually it wound up with the predictable demand, “What have you to say for yourself?”

Oh, this sham was tedious! Still, what man ever enjoyed his humiliation? They had but begun. A feeling rose, one he labelled ‘Sod it!’. Examined it. Liked it. Nell would have what she desired, but he would be damned if he would play along meekly. He had better things to spend his time on. Watching a candle flame flicker in a draft in his prison, to give but one example. “Pray, if you will, allow me to do all here one service. Namely save a deal of time and worry.” Raised his voice so it rang through the hall. “Yes, I falsely claimed Nell as my wife. Yes, I defied you. Yes, I fought against you. Yes, I encouraged others to stand against you. Yes, I have done my utmost to see your sister set upon the throne, and yes, I have done so because I believe you to be a bastard and unfit to succeed William. Yes, I had men tortured unlawfully outside this castle’s gates, though they were of but common stock and of little consequence. Yes, the men under my command have laid waste to much of the area within a day’s ride of this place, killing and looting. That is warfare, and you cannot claim it to be exceptional. Indeed, out of all that you level at me I shall disagree with but one. I refute your accusation of rebellion. I have at no point held land from you or given you my pledge, and you are not yet anointed and crowned. Your status is no more special than mine.”

Trempwick addressed his peers, arms held out to the sides in appeal. “I shall add one accusation to the tally, and admit to it. That of failure. And ultimately, that is what I am most guilty of and shall be condemned for.” He let his arms fall, stood proud, and said in a strong tone, “And being condemned for that, well that is as it should be. What use have we for failures? We, the elite, the best men, those of noble blood and noble talent. Should failures advise kings? Should they lead other men? Should they impose their wills upon the world, be it on the largest scale or on the smallest village?” He shook his head, exaggerating the movement so those at the back of the hall still might make it out. “No. Failure is the greatest crime for men like us. All else beside it is nothing – save unfaithfulness, and of that I am not guilty.”

Trempwick looked about the gathering. Found that precious few would now meet his gaze. Observed everywhere discomfort. Disdain. Contempt. Burning scorn. Met Nell’s eyes last of all. She should have known he could not meekly play along. Alone of all those here she would know the full significance of his words. He, Raoul Trempwick, the spymaster, a man who prided himself on his mind, his cunning, his ability, he had failed. And admitted to it. Before everyone. Condemned himself for it. Eviscerated himself with it.

The spymaster admitted he had been outmanoeuvred.

The ultimate failure.

And here he was, telling everyone about it.

She hadn’t asked him to go this far. Not explicitly. She’d asked him to begin to win back her trust. So thus it had been required. Felt as though a blade had been plunged into his vitals. Better to wield the blade himself and be gutted by his own hand on his own terms than allow another to do it.

Ended his speech with a question, “The difficulty is, what now is the price of failure?”

That threw the bees’ nest amongst the crowd, so to speak. Pity he couldn’t have a seat and watch in comfort.

Eventually, after much arguing, Suffolk turned to Trempwick, not quite managing to look directly at him, and asked, “Raoul, why? You are one of the least warlike men I know. Damn it, it was hard enough to get you onto the training yard when you were at court! And always, always, you were faithful to William. Out of all of us at William’s side, I would have named you as the least likely to engage in a gambit like this. In Christ’s name man, why?!”

Calculation. All routes were counterproductive. No way to press this so Nell was forced to step into the open and take the crown. Could not push too far: room must be left for the bastard to grant his survival. The bastard himself must be credible enough for Nell to rule through him. In the end chose, “Reasons are irrelevant. Results are what have weight, as well you know, my friend.” Friend? No longer. The man’s good feeling was gone.

Serle butted in with, “We do not need to give him another chance to repeat his slander. We’ve all heard it often enough. Does anyone honestly expect him to change his story now?”

And off they went on another jolly old argument.

On and on.

Babbling and squabbling like a pack of birds at a carcass.

Some few suggested his execution. Shouted down, every time and in short order. There’d been enough bloodshed. He was not guilty of treason. And oh so many other pretty excuses. More truthfully no one wanted this new king to have such a stranglehold as William.

Exile? That was popular. Except there were those who feared he would stir up trouble. Return. Wash the realm in blood. And such. And did it not fail to avenge the insults done to their noble lord? And so on.

Imprisonment. That was nice. The risk of escape, less so.

Mutilation. Good old fashioned mutilation. Put out eyes, lop off hands, feet, castration. Oh so many options. Oh so very old fashioned. Hadn’t we all moved on from that? Was it not now the exclusive domain of the lowly? Losing body parts to justice was for common scum. Should a man of gentle birth be treated like a mere peasant? Intolerable!

Could he be given another chance? A hefty fine, loss of much of his lands and all of his titles, binding oaths, and all that usual guff. Had not the bastard shown clemency to all those who surrendered and swore their oaths to him? Had Trempwick not surrendered? He had. He had not. No one could agree on that, and so no one could agree whether they should discuss the rest. Facile little brains trapped in superficial little questions.

Could he be trusted? Sadly on this one they agreed near unanimously. No.

Periodically the bastard would assert himself. Trempwick would not be allowed to go free. He would not be sent away to cause trouble elsewhere. He would never, ever, hold lands again. He could not be forgiven.

And over it all began again.

Really, there was no end to it. All those increasingly red faces, increasingly hoarse voices, all the waved fists, the efforts at calm, the smug superiority and the open shows of temper – bah!

Indeed, a seat would be most appreciated. He should be dead of age before a conclusion was reached.

Nell herself? She kept clear of it, as did her pet. Not for them swimming in the unruly sea. Wise: stay beneath notice, be seen to influence nothing. The merest suggestion now and then, delicately phrased. A nudge. A smile. A frown. The bastard followed her lead with great care. Always waiting some minutes to circle cautiously back to the right spot. Amazing that his clumsy feet did not trample the flowers. Amazing that the conceited lot did not see that steadily, surely, slowly, the sprawling mass was shrunk down to a collection of neater concepts.

Several months from now Nell would reach her twentieth year. Inexperienced? Surely. Blinded by her youth? Very much so. Lacking confidence? That was so, albeit less so than two months ago. Still in need of teaching? That could not be denied. Prone to mistakes? It would take a miracle for her not to be. New to the tasks she set her hand to? Undoubtedly. Trempwick smiled in the safety of his own mind.

Not yet twenty. It was easy to forget what that meant. Easy to look back with older eyes. To believe that one had always been as one was now. To tint the picture with, perhaps, a trace of added vigour, to remember some few hopes, and then to declare that this slightly alerted now was truthfully then. To forget one’s own mistakes, fumblings, uncertainties. The awkward parts which had led to maturity.

Yes, a little more teaching, a little more time, a lot more experience … It was good that, amidst this bleeding wreck, he could find something that made his heart glad. She had known he would not abandon her. Had known he would work to regain what he had lost. That understanding had brought her to him with her offer. She had played him almost masterfully. And he had let her.

Finally someone took the hint and asked Trempwick the question he had been waiting for. “Will you swear an oath to Hugh as your king?”

At! Last! All eyes turned to him. Expectant. His answer would determine much. An end to this incessant talking was coming into sight.

Unfolded his arms, taking care with his broken hand. Stood back to attention. “As I have said, I have failed. What is more, our causes were laid at God’s feet when we took to battle. A judgement has been delivered.”

Another asked, “You do not blame your defeat on Prince Malcolm then?”

A lesser man might. One unable to admit his faults. Small show of discomfort, then admit clearly, “I was losing before the prince joined the battle. I had failed to break the line, my flank had been turned, and my smaller numbers were beginning to struggle. He speeded the inevitable.” Shrug of one shoulder. “Whatever my abilities, commanding an army is not chief amongst them.”

Hugh commanded, “Answer the original question.”

Disembowelled by his admission of failure he had nothing left to give in terms of pain. “The world has lost all pleasures for me. There is nothing left in it I wish for. My lord is dead, I have lost my betrothed, I shall not regain my lands and truthfully I no longer feel any zest for them. The cause I believed in …” He touched the crucifix he wore at his neck as though he cared, “God has judged against. There is nothing left for me in the world,” he repeated. Emphasis. Let it appear to be earnest. “I beg leave to retire from the world to somewhere quiet.”

Thomas exclaimed with contempt, “You would become a monk?”

Appeared to give it thought. “No,” Trempwick answered slowly. “I must make peace with myself before I can do that. Solitude. Quiet. Contemplation. No intrusions from the world – mayhap I will then find it.” Monk? Monk?! Hell would have snow before his hair was clipped into a tonsure!

The bastard demanded again, “Will you swear?”

“Whatever you wish.” Meaningless. Openly moving against the bastard had been a grave mistake. Should never have allowed himself to feel pushed into moving before ready. Failure had taught him many lessons. He would not repeat his mistakes.

There was more talking. It went on forever and was very boring.

Eventually it was agreed that he would be consigned to honourable imprisonment, sealed away somewhere small and out of the way for the remainder of his days or until he entered a religious order.

Trempwick bent knee and swore to accept the bastard as his king, to never go against his interests, to never encourage rebellion against him or engage in rebellion himself, and other boring things. The sole interest came when they exchanged the kiss of peace. As they embraced the bastard hissed in his ear, “Murderer!” Trempwick returned, “Bastard!”

There was general approval of this ‘happy’ conclusion.

As his guards led him back to his incarceration the disposal of his lands and goods began. The realisation struck at last. Struck keenly. He had nothing but the clothes he stood in. Had not expected pain from that. There was.

There was.











I’ve been writing out of order for a bit. Doing scenes which I wanted to rather than merely those which are next chronologically. I’ve got another 8 1/2 pages after this, but the bridging scene between this and those scenes isn’t finished and my poor old eyes have had enough of computer screens for the day. I’ve misc others which won’t be brought out for a time yet, including the very final scene.

Speaking of which, I managed 6 pages this afternoon afternoon. This entire scene. Well golly gosh! That is the best going I have had for a while. Rambling about the chronology appears to have done me some good.

It surprised me how much humour Trempy manages to find in his social death. I like his summing up of the arguments for imprisonment and mutilation, and the whispered threats during the kiss of peace.

Also had 2 weeks of unexpected demand for significant effort to be applied in another direction, of which good news will (fingers crossed and all other good luck charms primed) be forthcoming tomorrow.



Echo … echo …echo

echo…

echo …

echo

Great scene:2thumbsup:

Are you implying that you are depraved of reviews? Desperate for readers? In the latter case, you´ve got one one (at least) hooked worse than an addict - me. I may not comment on every installment, as a matter of fact, I haven´t even read all udates for quite some time, but I´m religiously following them, my current pagecount for your story 1270 pages in Word as of now - quite the book, I must say. I´m just longing for the day when I´ll have time to read all of it.

I carefully consider to clone myself. One Stephen is not sufficient to this world and the tasks I have to do. Sorry, froggy, your story is really good (though to tell you the truth, there is more mush than necessary (at least for me; personal opinion, not criterion in any way ) ) and the reason for my failure to read it is hidden in my lack of organisation. I hope sooner or later to reach the end. :)

Delay in posting comments, results werent up to expectations. Great new installments, might be long winded in some parts but they probably contribute to major plot outlines in the future installments. Not really able to come on much anymore except read and not comment. Just remember, I'll always enjoy your story. :beam:
PS: maybe i should do this more often, many segments of storyline at one time is somewhat preferrable to cliffhangers :2thumbsup:.

“Let me check my understanding,” Malcolm said respectfully to Hugh. “I’m here as a prince of Scotland, and as one who fought in the battle, yes?”

Did the boy intend to behave so disgracefully during this celebration? Hugh wondered anew what he had taken on in accepting this prince. “You are.”

“And nothing I do is going to reflect on you? Since I’m not here as your squire.”

“That is so.”

“Then with all respect, I’m not sitting here.” Malcolm stepped back, away from the seat of honour he’d been offered at Hugh’s right hand. “I can’t. It belongs to someone else.”

The question of who formed on Hugh’s lips, never to be uttered as comprehension dawned. The boy was looking off to the very end of the left-hand part of the high table where a plainly dressed figure had been settled. Softly, desiring to keep this between they two, Hugh said, “He cannot have it. You must understand.”

Malcolm chewed at his lip, the fingers of one hand worrying at the fabric of his tunic skirt. “It’s his hospitality we’re eating. This is his home. He captured Trempwick and fought like a lion for you.”

“I know.” Hugh imbued the words with a hint of a plea that the boy accept the necessary injustice, and not cause a scene.

Malcolm raised his head proudly. “If he can’t take his place then let no other. Let it stand empty. I’ll sit with him.”

“That will not be well accepted.”

“I don’t bloody care for your nobles’ scorn.”

“You have much to learn about diplomacy, boy.”

Malcolm grinned, all reckless youth. “Give me more men like him and I’d rule the whole fucking world!” He went to join Fulk in his spot at the least honoured part of the best table, a swagger in his step.

Under his breath Hugh retorted, “At this rate you will be dead before you rule your father’s kingdom.”






Trempwick dipped into a civil bow. “Is there something you wish of me? It is my hope you might permit me to stay.” He indicated his three guards and Eleanor’s own collection of companions. “With all these witnesses present I can do you no harm, and tongues cannot wag.”

Eleanor replied with a flat question. “You wish to stay?” She’d had him fetched up here to ensure nothing came of the opportunities presented by the feast. With the castle close to empty and most of the men headed towards becoming drunk it would not be hard for someone to set Trempwick free. By any token Trempwick should wish to be as far from her as he could get.

Trempwick folded his arms, careful of his splinted and bound finger. “Outside Hugh and his army are feasting, recounting over and over the details of my defeat. When they are not speaking of their glorious deeds they are speaking of this morning and my abject humiliation. Many of my former supporters sit amongst them, as do those I had counted friends. Of all those at Alnwick there are but few who do not attend. Even the lowliest servants are there. Myself, my three guards, yourself, your ladies - we all of us remain apart because we cannot go. That company is no place for a lady, and I …” He shrugged. “Well, that is obvious.”

“So?”

“How many times have we ended up in this very situation? Separate to all others?”

So far from his expected behaviour was this that Eleanor’s suspicions flared into full alert. “Attempt to manipulate me and you will find yourself back in confinement, and with added guards.”

“Outside of that chapel my every movement is followed, my every word overheard. Anything of significance I might do is reported. I cannot make use of the privy without these three gentlemen watching.” He attempted to keep his features composed; only those who knew him well would see the battle. “Nell, I wish only for a bit of company. Some intelligent conversation. Now is not a time for me to remain alone.” Trempwick’s fingers dug into his palm, a flash of emotion that was in all probability real. “Those people are celebrating my utter ruin. I recanted for you. Do not leave me alone to face the shadows.”

He sounded like a child asking for protection from his nightmares.

“Nell, no one is going to come to my aid. Not now. Not after this morning. Who can you see that would be willing to come free a man so discredited? Damn it – most of them will no longer so much as look directly at me! I am beneath their notice, that is what you have made of me.” Trempwick uncurled his fingers and pressed his hands flat against his sides so he could not further betray himself. “It is rather devastating to be so alone on a day like today. We will talk of whatever you wish. You name the subjects. You tell me when to be silent.”

To be the butt of everyone’s jokes, to have an entire day’s entertainment for hundreds of people designed around your humiliation, to know that today marked the beginning of mockery which would outlast your lifespan itself, for a proud person there was little worse. He asked for a reprieve, a small mercy. “You will sit in that corner,” Eleanor pointed to the one furthest from her, “and you will behave impeccably, or I shall send you back to the chapel.” Fulk’s company had been the sole reason she had made it through her own worst day; aware of how cruel it would be to cast Trempwick off into the abyss she could not quite bring herself to do it. Then too this was what she had planned, and only the fact he asked for the same thing aroused her suspicions.

“Thank you.” He could not keep the relief from showing. Obedient as could be the ex-spymaster sat in the designated corner, not seeking to request a stool or cushion. Perhaps he hoped she would offer him one, perhaps in his gratitude he didn’t care.

His three hand-picked guards she had sit on a bench between him and the others in the room, hemming him in so he couldn’t make any sudden moves.

For a time she ignored him, continuing to chat with Hawise and Aveis about Fulk’s new clothes, knowing how much that would exasperate the ex-spymaster. Several hours of daylight remained so the shutters were all open; through the windows came the sounds of the feast. The bubbling background sound that was many men talking all at once, punctuated with cheers and occasional snatches of song. At one point a loud chant was taken up, the word “Victory!” repeated over and over in semi-drunken disorder.

Trempwick’s shoulders twitched as though he wished to shudder but did not dare. “If I made a disparaging remark about drink and its affects would that be taken amiss?”

“Such celebration is necessary.” Eleanor looked up from her sewing to meet his eyes. “The reasons for which you well know.”

“Oh, indeed. Celebrating survival, bonding, reinforcing their status as honourable fighting men, and all that.” Trempwick closed his eyes. “At least I, abject in my defeat, shall not have a pounding head to add to my woes.” Some time later he asked, “Did you feel this way at your wedding?”

Eleanor did not reply.

“Malcolm the elder’s work was deft; it cannot have been easy for you to bear. He made so much of a princess of high birth marrying a man like-”

She headed off the bid to forge a common ground and draw her out to a position where he might be able to work on her, “We will not speak of that, or anything relating to it.”

Trempwick lapsed back into silence.

Better that he talk with little response from her, better that he be placed on a subject of her choosing and confined to it. Anything to lessen the places where his hooks might catch. There was one subject which would fit the need, one which Eleanor was not entirely ready to explore. A subject which none other could speak on it with quite the same authority. Ready or not, the time had come and Eleanor recognised it. “Tell me about my father.”

It took a bit before Trempwick began to speak. “One day he persuaded me to ride three passes at him with a lance, for friendship’s sake. I am not much of a warrior, nor ever have been. I am competent, not spectacular, and have no liking for such pursuits. It was rare I took to the practice field at court. The first run he knocked me out of my saddle. He rode back and helped me up, dusted the dirt off me, asked if I was well and then stuck me back on my damned horse. The second time we both caught each others’ shields, not well enough to break our lances and not well enough to dismount. The third time was the same. He gifted me a hawk, and told me that since I had shown I could stay on a horse I must come with him when he went hunting the next day. And so I did, sadly. All day spent in the saddle charging about in the rain, watching a bunch of birds flying at other birds. Can you guess what he did next?”

Something to continue the streak of dragging his friend through things he disliked, assuredly. “No.”

Trempwick smiled at the memory. “Every bird my hawk brought down he exchanged for a book. It was a good bird, I barely had need to do more than let it go. Cost him a small fortune. He liked to remind people of his lordship, and always rewarded those who followed him well.”

Eleanor stabbed at the cloth with her needle. “He sounds like an overbearing egotist, if you ask me.”

“A certain degree of overbearing and ego is required of any who leads on a grand scale. If you do not belief in yourself then who else can? For ultimately that is what ego is, and-”

“We will not speak of that,” Eleanor dictated.

Trempwick fell silent, his head nodding slowly as if to say he understood. Several minutes later he said, “William intoxicated the realm when he was a young king. I think we were all of us afflicted with a kind of madness, drunk on the possibilities. We had a young king married to his lovely young wife, making a handsome couple ripe with promise for children, and love, and concord, and all of those finer things we wish for in our rulers. Young …” Trempwick dwelled on the word, tasting it. “Yes, we had our young king and everything seemed possible. I was but a boy, yet even I felt it. William’s father had made for a dry king. By contrast William was youth, and laughter, and energy, and glorious, glorious possibility. Much was expected of him.”

“And did he deliver?” Eleanor was fascinated despite herself.

A slow smile spread across Trempwick’s face, at once both regretful and fond. “Oh yes. Very much so, and therein, I think, lies the heartbreak of William. If he had been a little less than hoped life might have been kinder to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Desired of William were these things: a secure succession, a strong hand, success in wars with our neighbours, peace at home.” Trempwick counted each point off on a finger. Once he’d finished he regarded her over the splayed fingers. “Can you tell me how each turned out, Nell?”

No, she would not be drawn into games. “I commanded you to tell me of my father, not to plague me with questions.”

The ex-spymaster bowed his head. “As you wish.” He folded his hands in his lap. “In that case I will address only one of those. Perhaps in time you will ask me about the others – when you are ready to hear the answers. We desired a strong king, and a strong king we got. Stronger than any who preceded him, one could say.” Trempwick paused a beat. “So strong that, eventually, he could execute lords who displeased him too greatly, and none could stand against him to prevent it. He held so much power in his own hands no one was safe, and everyone knew that.”

Eleanor feared he might be planning to use this angle to lead into a discussion of Hugh’s weakness as a king. “I desired to hear of the man, not the king.”

Again that expression which mixed sorrow with affection. “Dear Nell, that is what I am trying to tell you. In the end William’s successes as a king overshadowed the person behind them.”






“I am the almighty Trempwick! And I’m going to whoop your lowly arse!” The armoured figure levelled his sword at his foe, fumbled and nearly dropped it. He recovered and stabbed at the unresponsive man.

They called this comedy. They had to be right – Fulk was close to being the only man who wasn’t laughing so it must be funny.

“Death! That’s the penalty for stealing my wife!” ‘Trempwick’ lowered his sword and confided in a stage whisper to the audience, “She’s not actually mine at all, but what they don’t know won’t hurt. Clear away the opposition and I’ll swoop in and fill the gap.” The fool playing the spymaster’s part was short. Now he drew himself up to his full height, completing the joke – ‘Fulk’ was far larger, ‘Trempwick’ could never compare. Raising his weapon again ‘Trempwick’ posed heroically, trying to intimidate his foe.

In answer ‘Fulk’ twirled his sword through a series of showy, impressive arcs, settled into a competent ready position and bellowed, “Boo!”.

‘Trempwick’ squealed, dropped his sword and fled. ‘Fulk’ gave chase, belabouring him about the bottom with the flat of his wooden sword.

The nobles went wild, banging at the trestle tables and howling with laughter. The noble on Malcolm’s other side spilled his drink, so hard was he shaking with mirth. The prince himself laughed with all the rest, slapping a hand on the table to show his appreciation.

“I’ll win!” ‘Trempwick’ insisted as he hopped and scrambled. “I’ll get you! I’ll get all of you! You’ll see!”

Fulk slammed his cup up to his lips and pretended to drink to hide his distaste. Christ, why had he doubted Eleanor when she’d said making Trempwick bow would hurt him more than death? Should the old king’s soul be watching this spectacle he’d have to agree his daughter had carried out his request for vengeance.

The pitiful chase continued for a time, with ‘Trempwick’ slipping and tumbling about most impressively. Finally he became trapped before the high table. ‘Fulk’ proclaimed, “None can resist me! My sword’s bigger and got more steel in it!” He held his sword with the hilt near his groin, blade angled upwards to make sure everyone got the innuendo.

‘Trempwick’ huddled on the ground sobbing. “I yield! I yield! You’re the better man!”

Both players stood and took a bow before their cheering audience.

Hugh stood. “You have pleased us all.” Given that he’d laughed at the places where it would have been notable if he hadn’t, his praise was polite. “Your recreation of the duel between Alnwick and Trempwick will be remembered as long as the battle itself!”

Fulk hoped not.

Hugh gave orders that the jesters be given a purse of coin and sat back down, working at his food and making a show of polite expectation as the next entertainment for the high tables was set up.

The feast was several hours old and still in its early stages. An ambitious affair, it involved all those who had fought on Hugh’s side during the battle, from the prince himself down to the militia. Those of decent birth who’d changed sides were present also, adding another hundred or so to the numbers. The large numbers involved had required the party to be set up outside the castle’s walls, on the side furthest from the burial pits.

Due to the depredations on the surrounding land, and the inability of the castle’s stores to feast an entire army, the meal itself was a masterpiece of improvisation. Great pits had been dug for roasting whole animals; high tables and low alike ate small courses of meat carved directly from the carcasses. Once an animal was picked clean another was put into its place, and the celebrators made leisurely progress through small meatless dishes as they waited for the new meat to cook. Here at the high tables the flow of food was kept to a steady pace, uninterrupted by gaps created by the insufficient supplies. The common soldiers at their fire pits weren’t so fortunate. They had their own entertainment too, a raucous racket that provided a ceaseless background of cheers, song, and other sundry noise.

The leader of the minstrels led the others in a bow to Hugh once the group had settled into position in the space before the high table. “Sire, we offer a work on the battle itself, one with which we hope to immortalise the brave deeds performed, if it please your Highness.”
In his dreary little spot at the very end of the left hand side of the high table Fulk pretended to take another drink. His page came hurrying forward to refill his cup, only to find it still quite full. Richard poured out a little more of the sweet white wine Fulk was favouring, and retreated back to the fringes.

“You’ve barely touched a drop,” Malcolm observed.

Fulk ran a finger across the surface of his wine, creating a minute whirlpool. “Seems best to keep a clear head.” Drink made men freer with their views and with their fists, and there were many here who resented him.

“You’d rather be at the bonfires, right?”

Would he? Fulk breathed out. “No. That would swap one awkward for another.”

The boy’s brow creased. “But isn’t that where you’ve spent most of your life? Amongst them and their sort? So naturally you’d feel more at home.”

“I’m half noble and half common. Whichever I’m amongst my other half makes me out of place.” Fulk broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the juices that had run from their roast venison.

“Is there nowhere you feel right?”

The innocent question tickled Fulk; he swallowed the morsel and answered, “With Eleanor.”

That did confuse the princeling. “But she’s …?”

“The other half of my soul,” he supplied with a wry smile, knowing full well the youth wouldn’t understand until he’d discovered love’s wonders for himself.

A while later Malcolm nudged Fulk’s elbow. “There you are!”

The minstrels’ interminable song had worked its way around to mentioning him, last out of all notables present on Hugh’s side of the field. Where the deeds of the others had been covered in detail Fulk was granted much less space, mentioned merely as dispatching enemy men skilfully and in great number, fighting with courage and honour. Soon the epic moved on to detail the situation of the battle overall when the battle reached the midpoint.

“They barely did you credit,” Malcolm exclaimed. “You were the greatest knight on the field! You should be one of the main figures.”

Fulk shrugged. “Doubtless I’ll have more mention when Trempwick’s captured.”

“They’re doing you out of your just fame. Don’t you care?”

Deep down? Yes. He’d earned his accolades and the recognition of skill that went hand in hand with them. As a boy he’d longed to be famous, had thirsted to prove his ability so none could pass over him. The greatest knight … a dream come true. “Those whose opinion I value know the truth of it. That’s what matters.”

“You sound like the lesson line to a bloody homily,” Malcolm muttered.





“William was a good man.” These were the first words Trempwick had uttered in a long space. Having worked through a disjointed collection of depictions of William he’d seemed to give up at trying to capture the man in words. “In all truth. You asked me to tell you about your father, and that is what I find many of my words boil down to. He was a good man. That is what you should know of him, Nell. It is what he would have liked you to know.”

Eleanor bit back the retort that if the arse in the crown had wanted her to think him a good person then he might have behaved like one towards her. Instead she settled for an acid, “Really.”

Trempwick tilted his head to one side. “If he were not would he have won Anne’s affection?”

Eleanor swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. “No.”

“You should have known him – and he you. That did not happen, to my great sorrow. You only saw parts of each other.” Trempwick sighed. “I tried some few times in the past; you never wished to listen.”

“Nor did he.”

The ex-spymaster smiled faintly. “Oh, I think he must have listened, however resistant he was. Must have seen the same things. Why else make the choices he did?” Why else leave her the ring, he meant. “He wished you educated, wished to see your potential turned to worthy ends. That is why he placed you with me.”

Eleanor worked away at a seam, determined not to let him lure anything from her.

“Each time I met him after that day he enquired about you. How you were progressing.” Trempwick shifted his position, moving to sit cross-legged. “William was capable of caring very deeply for people, hence all his concern for his second wife. Think of how carefully he laboured to protect her position. Always he treated her with softness. That requires a good heart.” Trempwick sighed. “His problem was that he did not always have much empathy. It was easy for him to see Anne’s vulnerability because when she first arrived at court she was much like a lamb fearing slaughter. He did not recognise the strains he placed on Joanna because she was overall a more capable person. Simply, it never occurred to him that she might become lonely, or might dislike being so often apart from him. And she … she gave no sign of it. She kept her pains hidden close to her heart where only the perceptive could see them.”

“I thought he did not care.”

“Did you not wonder why it took him so long to marry again?”

Eleanor’s needle stilled. “He had enough children, and no pressing need for new allies.”

“He left her chamber untouched until he surrendered it to Anne. A new crown was made for her, instead of Joanna’s being altered to fit.” Trempwick gave that chance to sink in. “The same principle applied to the rest of his family. He cared, he did not see that he was needed, and he thought there would be time once he had dealt with this pressing matter or that. Always later. Time ran out, and eventually he realised that, to his heartbreak.” Trempwick waited, seemingly expecting her to ask a question. When she did not he continued, “He would have been an excellent father if only he had seen the need to put his family ahead of the realm sometimes. You should have seen him when Stephan was born. He practically walked on air radiating light! Never have I seen a man so thrilled with his firstborn.” The corners of Trempwick’s mouth lifted. “The first time I saw you he was carrying you in the crook of his arm, glowing with pride. You were this big, “ he measured out a space slightly smaller than his forearm, “and you were but a few days old. He actually sang to you a bit, believe it or not.” He chuckled. “William didn’t have the best of voices – it was a wonder you did not start screaming! He went on and on about how much milk you drank, how good your lungs were when you started wailing, how you were going to have this feature of his and that of your mother’s, how placid you were …”

Eleanor’s throat had gone tight and her eyes burned. She had heard all of this before, why did it affect her now?

Gently Trempwick said, “You begin to gain some sense of what you lost. That is what causes you sorrow.”

Eleanor looked up sharply.

“It is plain for all to see, dear Nell.”

Eleanor continued to stare at him, certain that she had fallen into some trap and now he dictated what he believed she felt so he could tighten the bonds.

Hawise offered a soft explanation, “You’re crying.” Everyone in the room was looking at her, most with concern.

Eleanor’s fingers rose to her face and encountered a single track of dampness running down her cheek. Jesù, she hadn’t noticed. A deep breath and a bit of effort ensured that escaped tear remained solitary. “Continue,” she ordered Trempwick.

“Sometimes he would play at sword fighting with the boys. He would let Stephan, Hugh and John all rush at him with their wooden swords and make a great show of warding off their blows before letting himself fall under their combined might, laughing and calling that he yielded. The girls, he would play for them, or dance with them and pretend they were grown up ladies, or tell them stories. I remember one year he entered a tournament bedecked with four favours: one belonging to his wife, the other three to his daughters.” Trempwick looked at her keenly, with rare compassion in his eyes. “It is not easy to hear all this, is it?”

“It is the very opposite of all I saw of him.” Of all she had wished to believe of him. Sometimes hating the man had been all that kept her on her feet, spitting defiance.

“Not entirely, dear Nell. You saw some of his good, but always distorted by the relationship between you. Just as he saw some of your good, similarly distorted.”

It was true she had seen him treat Anne with nothing but kindness, and that he had been heartbroken when he had been cornered into ordering John’s death. Abruptly one thought struck her, and she voiced it. “For all his glorious beginning, he seems to have had few friends left by the end.”

Trempwick did not reply for a long time. “That is a difficult one to answer. It is true, and it is far from true.”

“Then do not attempt to answer it.”

Trempwick searched for another subject to speak on. “William was passionate about justice. That was partly why he travelled so much; so he could judge as many of the cases people brought to him as possible. It was not uncommon for him to spend fully half the day listening to the pleas brought before him by people of all grades, noble down to common. He gave them all fair hearing. Some like to hear pleas for the power it gives them, but not William. He liked to puzzle through a problem. Liked to settle things, not for the satisfaction of imposing his will on others but for giving them resolution.”

Eleanor listened with half an ear as Trempwick narrated an impersonal account of the aspects of William’s personality and rule which could be had from any of those who had attended the court during the past three decades. It seemed that Trempwick had decided she was not ready to hear more of the personal. He was probably right.





This new act featured acrobats. Their costumes were tawdry, their performances no better than average. The audience was going wild – two of the performers were female and it was plain the entire act had been planned around the effects tight clothes and pert breasts would have on a collection of partying men.

One of the women leaped into a high jump and landed standing on the shoulders of her male partner, balancing there easily.

Malcolm swallowed with some difficulty. “Fuck, you can see all her thigh muscles in those hose!”

Said thigh muscles were in excellent shape, and well-displayed by the effort of keeping her balance. If there was a man present who wasn’t having intimate thoughts about those thighs it was a safe bet that he was a sodomite. “Now you know why the church is so passionate about women wearing men’s clothes.”

Malcolm giggled drunkenly. “Yes, I can see why priests would want them dressed like that!”

Fulk rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

The acrobat wrapped her legs about her man’s neck and hung down his back, waving her arms about in some pose which highlighted her shapely chest.

“Fuck!” squeaked Malcolm. He coughed a few times, and squirmed in his seat, surreptitiously adjusting his tunic on his lap. “Pity they’re just some grubby ditch whores, or I’d have to try a few things out.”

Fulk returned to his food. “Really.”

“It’s alright for you, your wife’s here. The rest of us have nothing. Fucking fuckity bloody fuck!” That last was exclaimed in response to the pair of not-remotely-ladies performing some highly athletic contortions while lying on the ground.

Fulk decided from then on to keep his eyes firmly on his food. The princeling was right: he was the only man here with a wife nearby, and showing much interest in this crude display would reflect badly upon her. “Whoever authorised this was mad – they’re going to cause so much trouble.”

“Huh?” Malcolm’s attention was centred on a waggling bottom.

“Think: there’s two of them and they’ve just wound up a couple of hundred drunk men.”

Completely enthralled Malcolm had forgotten to blink. “Huh.”

With a shake of his head Fulk left him to it. He remembered what it was like to be fourteen.

The act appeared to be coming to its close when a man’s groin intruded on Fulk’s vision. “Like what you see?”

Fulk pointedly looked his new view up and down. “Not overly. I thank heaven you’re clothed.”

“Funny.” The intruder braced his hands on the table and leaned down so his wine-fugged breath blasted into Fulk’s face. “I’m talking about those cheap tarts, as you know full well, bastard-boy.”

Fulk consumed the bite of food impaled on the tip of his eating knife, clearing the small blade for use. “They’re mediocre acrobats.”

“Not stopped you gaping at them,” he slurred.

The drunkard’s clothes were of a decent cut and material, decorated with strips of woven braiding. He wore a single ring on his signet finger, and his belt buckle showed traces of pewter where the gilt finish was rubbing off. Like all here he was unarmed; sword and dagger attachments had worn glossy patches on the leather of his belt. Evidently he was a knight, poor but taken care of. A member of someone’s retinue in all likelihood; the question was who’s. “They’re about to carve the mutton. Best go back to your place or you’ll miss out.” He held no hope that this would happen; this man had been sent to pick a fight and, riding high on drink and victory, he was eager for it. All Fulk could do was behave reasonably, make it obvious he’d been set upon, and hope someone took it upon themselves to intervene before matters grew too messy.

“I said you’ve been drooling after those cheap peasant tits.” The knight pounded a fist on the table, making the dishes dance. “It’s a disgrace!” Attention was beginning to transfer from the acrobats to Fulk and his unwanted companion. Aware of this the man raised his voice. “Showing your true damned colours, aren’t you, bastard? Stinking peasant in lust after another stinking peasant! Can’t get enough of it, can you?”

Fulk altered his grip on his eating knife, shifting his thumb over to make it easier to stab than to cut precisely. “You’re drunk. Leave now and I will take no offence.”

“Isn’t our lord’s sister good enough for you?” The knight slapped Fulk’s cup over, and wine slopped across the table. Only a little bit caught Fulk himself. “God’s knee, it’s a disgrace! Royalty isn’t good enough for you so you lust after that filthy common flesh like a mongrel after a butcher’s garbage!”

The moment that followed was a busy one, featuring a gaggle of voices as people began to call for cordiality, Malcolm launching indignant abuse at the fellow, and Fulk seizing the knight by his tunic and yanking him across the table.

One hand pressing the knight onto the wooden boards, the other clenched in the man’s hair, Fulk growled, “No one insults my wife.” He bounced the knight’s skull off the table.

The knight was thrashing and flailing, trying to win free but too drunk to outmatch Fulk. “You mongrel bloody bastard! Go back to the midden heap you came from!”

Fulk gave him another lump on the head, and punched him in the face. “The last man to overstretch my tolerance I killed!”

Dimly Fulk was aware that the acrobats had stopped, and that all eyes were now on this impromptu show.

Malcolm offered Fulk the knife he’d dropped as he went for the other man. “Put his bloody eyes out!”

Fulk planted his fist in the knight’s kidneys. “Who put you up to this?”

That more than anything caused a flurry of activity. Those who had begun to intervene now redoubled their efforts, and new voices added themselves to the efforts. The man was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying. He’d been punished enough. This was a celebration and fighting was forbidden. Enough men had died, and now it was time for peace.

Fulk repeated his demand, punch and all. The fuss grew louder as he’d expected. No one wanted to see another noble lose face for ordering one of his men to accost the upstart.

The knight bared his teeth. “Go to Satan, mongrel!”

Fulk went to punch him again; his wrist was seized as the blow began to descend. Fulk turned to confront the meddler and came face to face with Hugh. Surprised that his brother-by-law had involved himself personally Fulk let his arm go slack.

When he saw that the violent intent had left Fulk Hugh released him. “She is my sister,” he said by way of explanation. He addressed the rapidly sobering knight. “I know you. You are named Robert.”

“Sire,” the knight squirmed, his drink-fuelled courage draining as rapidly as a bottomless barrel. In all likelihood he hadn’t dreamed Hugh might become involved.

Hugh indicated Fulk should let the knight up, and reluctantly he did so. Robert collapsed onto his knees before Hugh and reached out to touch the tips of his boots. “Forgive me, sire!”

Hugh drew back out of reach. “You have broken the peace of my feast, slighted my sister, provoked another man unjustly, and upset my digestion.”

Robert raised his hands, imploring. “Sire.”

“Have I not commanded that my brother-by-law, such as he is, be left? Have I not said that such baiting is below what I expect of a man, and the behaviour of a spoiled child?”

The only sounds came from the fire pits where the common soldiers partied on, unaware of what was happening. Hugh knew whom the man served; would he name him as the source of this defiance of his command?

Hugh let the moment hang, and then turned to Fulk. “Kill him if you will, if not I shall exile him.”

Malcolm pointed out, “He’s got no weapon.” Only Hugh and his guards were armed tonight; the short blade of an eating knife would make messy work of any attempted kill.

Hugh drew his dagger and offered it hilt first to Fulk. “You may have the loan of this if you require it.”

The hush continued as Fulk accepted the weapon and made his grip on it comfortable. “A man should show proper respect for his lord.”

The knight tried to come to his feet but hands clamped about his shoulders and held him in place; he’d been sacrificed to prevent the episode growing into something altogether more dangerous. “No!”

Fulk drew the dagger across the knight’s neck, slicing through skin but leaving the vitals untouched. “It would be disrespectful to my lord to mar his celebration with your death.”

At Hugh’s order the knight was removed, hands clutched to his neck to stem the seep of blood. Slowly men settled back into their places, conversations resumed, and the scattered dishes were cleared away. Several of Hugh’s guard took advantage of the confusion to remove the acrobats; it appeared the prince hadn’t approved of their performance.

“I’d have killed the fucking prick,” Malcolm said as he sat back down. “Bet they didn’t expect Hugh to become involved.”

“There’s a fine line between having a reputation for being a man not to be messed with, and being a bloody-thirsty butcher.” The one behind this had expected him to rise to the bait faster, leaving the blame for the disruption on his shoulders. Fulk drained off half his wine in a few quick swallows; his enemy had misjudged him this time, and couldn’t be relied upon to make the same mistake again.





The solar door opened without any warning, and Fulk stepped through. Ignoring everyone else in the room he made straight for Eleanor and planted a wine-scented kiss on her cheek. “I decided I’d had enough and left early.” He plucked her sewing from her hands, dropped it off to one side and encouraged her to her feet, whereupon he pressed a lengthy, passionate kiss on her and half crushed her in a tight embrace.

Eleanor had a good idea what he was doing and, little as she liked it, she played along, returning his passion with her own. “You got bored?” she enquired oh so innocently.

“Decided there’s other things I’d rather be doing.” To illustrate his point he tightened his hold on her waist, pressing her against him so only a lack-witted fool standing seventy paces away couldn’t guess what kind of a state he was in.

At that point Eleanor decided he’d had his fun and it would be best to get him away from company before he did something she found too objectionable. It had been bad enough when Trempwick had flaunted his ability to touch her in front of Fulk without him returning the taunt in more antagonistic form.

Only after another lengthy kiss did he deign to acknowledge Trempwick’s presence. Not removing his gaze from Eleanor’s face Fulk ordered the guards, “Throw the rubbish back on the midden.”

Trempwick greeted this with a dry smile. The soldiers didn’t let him finish his bow before they took his arms and pulled him towards the exit.

Once they were alone Eleanor only got out half a protest before he kissed her again, cutting off her words. At the next opportunity she changed her words for the shorter accusation of, “You are drunk!”

“Mildly,” he beamed. “It would have been rude not to be. Quite a lot of toasts going on in the latter part. Then the wine ran out and we had to swap to cider.” He busied himself with letting her hair down. “I feel better too, less tired and less battered.”

“That is because you are drunk!” He was making a mess out of undoing the ribbon, so Eleanor helped him before he created such a tangle she’d lose hair.

“Not really, or I’d be all miserable and depressed. Which I’m not. So I’m not.”

His speech reminded her of Count Jocelyn, and that wasn’t a warming thought. “I would not advise you to swear an oath about your sobriety in a court of law,” she advised. “Other than the drinking, how was it?”

Freed of the need to tackle her hair ribbon, Fulk turned his attention to the lacing which pulled her dress into figure-hugging tightness. “Oh, not so bad. Songs, poetry, that sort of thing. Acrobats, too. They were very –” One of the laces gave way with the sound of tearing fabric. Fulk moved on to the next one with a sheepish grin, “Boring. Very boring.”

“What-” That was as far as she got before his mouth came down on hers. At that point she decided conversation could wait until later.






Eleanor judged there had been sufficient pleasant dozing for the time being. She gave her husband a gentle nudge. “I will not let you use me like that again.”

The statement had the desired effect: Fulk scrambled into a semi-upright position, his addled faculties thrashing towards wakeful sobriety. “I thought you were enjoying it – I swear! I know it was all rather rushed-”

“Not that,” Eleanor informed him, satisfied that she had gotten his full attention. To make up for the shock she gave him a shy little smile. “That was quite acceptable.”

Fulk flopped back onto the bed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t scare me like that, oh gooseberry mine.”

“I meant that show you put on in the solar.” Eleanor rolled onto her side so she could glare at him. “I will not have you flaunting your rights to me like that. I hated it when Trempwick did that, and I like it no better with you.” She scowled. “It makes me feel like you are a dog marking your territory.” Certain that he’d got the point she snuggled back in to his side. “So, how was the feast?”

Fulk lowered his hand from his face. “Oh, it was … pretty well typical for what you would expect of the occasion.”

“How very evasive,” she teased.

“Malcolm came to sit with me. He turned down the place of honour.” Fulk pulled the blankets up to cover their shoulders. “I confess I was very grateful to him. He was the only company I had.”

“There is ill-feeling over Carlisle?”

“Amongst some, yes, of course. Amongst others …” Fulk settled his free arm about her, hand stroking her back. “It’s like they are holding their breath.”

Eleanor suggested, “They do not know if you are capable of cleansing the north of stragglers from Trempwick’s army. They wait to see if you manage, or if you bring about disaster.”

“Yes, but also … Also they wait to see what I will do”

“You are a man of possibilities now. You are in the highly unusual position of having two liege lords, and you will soon have control over two of the main fortifications on the border. And,” she added with a wry smile, “you have me.”

After a bit Fulk said, “I need you to find something out for me. A knight named Robert was sent to pick a fight with me tonight. I need to know who he served.”

“A fight?!”

Quickly he reassured her, “It came to nothing. Your brother exiled him. But I need to know who he served.”

“I will find out.”







12 pages before spacing. Not bad. I’m aware the two final scenes are mainly pointless; they are the equivalent of a breathing space on the grander scale. Got stuff happening, breathing space, on to more stuff happening.



Yay! I was getting lonely with just myself posting for so long. :winkg:

RE long winded, mush etc, I feel much the same. Far too many pages with everyone effectively sat about in Alnwick. The next part has people outside of Alnwick :gasp:

I've finally caught up again with the story again. Although I am not much of a Trempwick fan, I really enjoyed his trail. (As for who I am a fan of, that depends very much on my mood :egypt: .) I am also glad to hear that the story is going to move away from Alnwick. Out of curiosity, how much longer do you think the story will get?

Congratulations on impressing your bosses! May profits get even better next week ~;) .

:help: I desperately need time to catch up. Why can´t the day have 48 hours? It would be so helpful...

I wonder the same thing as Ludens, do you even have an ending in mind? I´m also rather worried, because, quite frankly, the length of the story seems to tether on my Word´s limits (well, who would imagine someone writing close to 1,300 pages? Not Bill Gates, by the look of it). Not that I´m saying you should finish any time soon, indeed, it´ll be a sad day indeed when this story will be declared finished.

We're pretty close. I've already written the final scene, and the endings of three character arcs are prepared in near-final condition. It's a case of joining the dots between there and here, and covering the last big event.

As for how long in terms of time, that's much harder to say. My new shop is my priority at the moment.

I'm just wondering mylady frog,
Did you base you're characters (partly) of of real hisorical persons?
Just the other day I noticed the similarities between Fuld and William Marchal. Although Fulk isn't an exact copy there are many similarities and some interesting coincidences.

So are there other such similarities with other characters?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Peasant Phill

Did you base you're characters (partly) of of real hisorical persons?
Just the other day I noticed the similarities between Fuld and William Marchal. Although Fulk isn't an exact copy there are many similarities and some interesting coincidences.

---

Interesting. What similarities are there between Fulk and Marshal? I am only slightly familiar with the career of the latter.

William Marshal is my favourite historical figure, hands down and barring none. That man's career was incredible, so much so that when I was a tiny frog I believed he was a fictional character! Ludens, you can find a tolerable overview of his career here.

While no character is based on real personages, there are trace elements. The Fulk/Marshal traces are the most readily apparent, though many of them are unintentional or a necessity of story. That said, knowing that there is historical basis for these elements is reassuring to me, and has allowed me to feel comfortable about including things which I might otherwise have shied away from in the name of realism.

The largest influence he had on Fulk is the way both are dubbed "the greatest knight". Simply, I couldn't find an alternative that sounded half as good as Marshal's historical tag. The best knight? The hero of Alnwick and some other battles?

Both men are highly skilled fighters, right in the top percentile. That's unintentional: Fulk's place in the plot requires him to be supremely talented. It's his skill which gets him a place as Nell's bodyguard, which enables him to survive and protect her, which wins him attention, and which eventually grants him a fighting chance (pun intended) of making this Earl of Alnwick business work. All that besides, I wanted to write about a highly skilled knight and here was my big chance.

That's another similarity: both men got their breaks due to their fighting skills. Their skill at arms made it possible for them to move up in the world.

Humble origins is another similarity some might see. IMO that's not valid. William Marshal was noble, through and through. Legitimately born, the son of a powerful and influential man who had served in positions of import and trust in several royal courts. John Marshal was something of a legend in his own day. Fulk's a bastard with peasant blood, and the son of a minor knight of trivial import.

The matter of marriage contains a pair of similarities. Both men married above themselves: Fulk to Nell, William Marshal to the de Clare heiress. Both gained wealth and rank from their wives, though Fulk's gains are at once both bigger (Nell's a princess!) and far smaller (no huge tracts of lands and no titles which bear tremendous weight). The other trace is that, as far as we can tell from the evidence, Marshal absolutely adored his wife and she him. Both of these similarities arise out of the simple fact that when Fulk married Nell he had to gain materially otherwise they would have absolutely nothing at all.

Any others in particular you were thinking of?


The second strongest set of traces IMO is one which will may shock readers who know the historical person. Trempwick/Simon de Montefort.

Both are men from good but not outstanding family who rose meteorically due to friendship with and service to the king. Both were honoured by their king with trust, lands, titles, money. Both held considerable influence.

Simon married princess Eleanor, Henry III's sister. He was considered to be beneath her, but just barely tolerable. Trempy very nearly married Nell, and was considered to be beneath her and barely tolerable. Simon and Eleanor married for love, without her family's permission. If not for Fulk, and if Trempy had handled the situation better, Nell would have found that there was more love than anything else in that mess of feelings she has for her former master.

Simon and Trempy eventually reached critical breaking point with their royal friend. Simon rose in open rebellion after a long period of disagreements and unhappiness, Trempy ... you know. After that break Simon succeeded, for a time at least. He held Henry III and his heir prisoner and effectively ruled the country. Then the wheels came off the cart, leading to Simon's death in battle. Trempy comes close to establishing himself but never quite manages it. Both men's efforts end with personal disaster.

Both men used their royal wives as part of their justification to rebelling.


Nell herself has only the most general of influences. She's influenced by all those medieval women who were brave enough to choose a husband for love, and to defy their families to marry them. She's influenced by those women who guarded their husband's castles in times of war, who demanded what was theirs by rights, who insisted on having influence over their own destinies, who were players in the grand game and not pawns. She's influenced by all those women who were brushed over and forgotten by recorded history because of the Victorian belief that the truth would only encourage all this nonsense about women voting and being treated like equals. Nell is what she is because meek damsels in towers were the abnormality in this period, not the standard.


That's enough for now. I'd better get writing the next part or it will be another week until anyone sees it. I find that I only get chance to write at weekends with this new job. Watch this space ...

The captain of the guards took down a length of rope from his saddlebow. “Hold out your hands, my lord.” The honorific was spoken with sufficient twist to be insulting.

Trempwick asked, “Is this truly necessary?”

“Hold out your hands.”

Appealed to the bailey full of people. His peers. His former friends. People who could be counted upon to see a noble’s privilege protected. “Is this necessary? I have given my word to attempt no escape.”

There was an uneasy moment. The throng conferred. Shuffled. Murmured. None looked fully at him – still. Unhappy to see a noble threatened with bonds. None spoke out. None condemned this affront to his birth.

Eyes made contact with Trempwick’s. Suffolk! Hope surged. Good old Suffolk. Always reliable. Always principled.

The earl said, “Your word is worthless. You have no honour.”

Trempwick flinched back as though slapped.

Slowly, wordlessly, he extended his arms, wrists together and allowed them to bind his hands before him.

The soldiers had to help him onto his horse. The indignity of it! He did not even know where he was being taken. A more permanent prison. A religious foundation of some kind. But where? No one had seen fit to inform him. Had been unable to discover for himself. Blinded and deafened – or as good as.

The early morning breeze was chill. Trempwick could no longer repress his shivers. Cold. Always cold since the battle. Cold in the chapel, cold in the hall, cold out here. Fed up of being cold. Aware of the folly of heading into the unpredictable spring weather improperly dressed. “Might I have a cloak?” he requested in a humble tone.

The captain hawked and spat off to one side. “You think my men have nothing better to do than pick up after you? Where did you leave it?”

Insufferable. Trempwick drew himself up in the saddle. Dignity, bound hands or no. “The only belongings which were returned to me after the battle you see on me now. Ask Alnwick, for he has all my other possessions.”

“You mean to tell me that you, former Earl of Kent and the old king’s friend, the man who claimed to be the husband of my lord’s wife, the man who thought to set himself up as king in all but name, you don’t have so much as a cloak to your name?” The soldier laughed, as did his men.

Bile burned in the pit of his throat. Swallowed, again, once more in a futile effort to banish it. “No. I do not.”

Hugh’s army was almost ready to march out. By midday they would be nothing but a cloud of dust on the horizon. From the shelter of the keep’s doorway Eleanor watched the final preparations. Servants rushed back and forth with armfuls of goods, loading them onto wagons.

On the other side of the bailey Hugh and his companions waited for their attendants to saddle their horses and lead them over. A second party, already mounted, waited in an unobtrusive corner; Trempwick and fifteen guards hand picked for their loyalty. They would take Trempwick to Repton. There was a small, enclosed abbey there which received little favour from the wider world. It would serve as a safe enough prison, at least for the time being.

Eleanor turned to Fulk. “There is one last question I have for him. Will you escort me?”

He pressed his lips together in disapproval, but gave a curt nod and offered her his arm.

Trempwick’s hands had been bound before him; he could still hold the reins well enough to maintain control over his mount provided he kept a steady pace. He bowed in the saddle. “Your Highness.”

“I have one last question for you.”

“Oh?”

Fulk slipped his arm about her waist and arranged his cloak so it covered her shoulders as well, a tender gesture which told the watchers, “She’s mine and it’s with my permission that she’s here!”.

Eleanor asked, “When did your path break from my father’s?”

“Ah.” Trempwick tapped his fingers on the pommel of his saddle. “Difficult to answer, and yet easy also.”

“Then do so, that I may have peace of mind and rid myself of the sight of you.”

Trempwick tapped out half a verse of some song about the joys of spring before abruptly stilling his hands. “You remember what I told you of William when Stephan was a baby?” He did not give her chance to affirm that she did. “Think of how much he must have changed, and in what ways, by the time your brother died. There is your answer, Nell. There was the first crack.”

The arse in the crown’s ruthless practicality had been too much for the spymaster? It seem ridiculous, unbelievable. Yet … it had not been William who had been required to kill Stephan. That task had fallen to his friend. To Trempwick also had fallen the burden of a student who blamed him entirely for her beloved brother’s death. From this one deed how many others had grown? Her own death had been ordered as a result, and only Trempwick’s intervention had saved her. Perhaps not so ridiculous after all.

Trempwick struggled to draw his cloak forward so it better covered his body. “Does that grant you peace of mind?”

“It may.” Eleanor let Fulk lead her back to the keep.





Eleanor returned her half-brother’s embrace. “God be with you.”

“And with you.” Hugh stepped back. “I thank you for your hospitality these past few days.”

“It was the least I owe you.” Formal leave-takings. So many structures and steps to dance through that they were more for the audience than those taking part.

Hugh backed down a few paces, still facing her. “I shall send you word of how I fare in Wales.”

So he had better! “That would ease my heart greatly.”

Now Hugh turned to face the otherwise ignored Fulk. “Do not fail the trust I have placed in you.” With that he turned and walked away.

Before Hugh could reach his horse the neat form was broken by Varin stepping forward from the throng of important bystanders. He bowed in Hugh’s direction. “If I may, my lord? I was instructed by my lady, the Empress, to deliver a message on the occasion of my departure.” Without waiting for an answer he moved to stand before Eleanor. He did not bow, or otherwise show deference. “My lady, the Empress, commands me to say this: You are seventh, last, least. Do not forget it.”

How very Matilda. Eleanor smiled sweetly and chose her response to hit upon her sister’s biggest vulnerability. “Please pass this message on to my sister in return: an excess of bile is commonly believed to hinder the chances of conceiving a son.”

The German flushed red. “Perhaps a son is not in God’s design for the Emperor and his wife. Have you thought of that?”

“Indeed.” Eleanor smiled again, so honeyed that she could rot teeth at ten paces. “However if she does not try she will not get.”

Varin laid his hand on his sword hilt. “The Empress does not need the advice of a whore!”

Hugh spurred his horse over next to the German. Mildly he said, “I pray you, chose your words more carefully lest Alnwick feel compelled to defend his lady wife.”

“I am an emissary!”

“Then be diplomatic.”

Varin let his hand fall away from his sword. “You would let him attempt to harm me, a representative of your sister?”

Hugh inclined his head gravely. “Eleanor is also my sister. I deplore the lack of cordiality between my sisters.”

Varin retreated to the protection of his countrymen. “My message is delivered. We shall depart for the coast now, as arranged. It remains only for me to wish you success in your endeavours, and to express once again my regret at our inability to stay to witness your coronation. My orders were specific; we were to return once your position was secure.”

“I thank you again for your aid, and pray you to give my warm regards to my sister and her lord husband.”

“I shall, and know they will be pleased to receive them.”

Hugh commanded his men to stand to respectful attention as the party of German knights rode out. Eleanor considered it a shrewd move; the homage to their fighting ability would stroke Matilda’s ego and may suffice to keep her from puffing up over Hugh’s intervention in this, the final chapter in the studied insults designed to remind the world she was older than the sister who had so nearly been crowned.

Hugh dismounted and came back to Eleanor’s side. “I wonder if I create trouble for another day?” he mused.

“If she comes I shall teach our sister a thing or two about who holds what rights, and the lesson will send her screaming back across the sea.”

Hugh’s only reply was to raise his eyebrows.

Eleanor had been named as heir and held proof of that. Thus she came above Matilda in the order of inheritance. The order of birth had been superseded by their father’s specific wishes. She smiled, and commented for any who might be eavesdropping to their quiet conversation, “English custom and law divides holdings equally amongst all daughters where there is no male heir. My sister has become such a foreigner that she forgets this. It is fortunate that we have you, is it not?” Eleanor patted her brother on the shoulder. “The squabbling would be quite unpleasant.”

Hugh watched the departing men for a space. “I will not be browbeaten by them into becoming akin to their vassal. Yes, they gave me aid when I needed it, unasked for and unsought. That does not make me so beholden to them as to bend my knee.”

“There is little enough harm they can do us here. Any attack must come across the sea, an expensive and risky proposition and one we can defend against with relative ease. Our lords would not accept them, and they surely know it.”

“I worry more about their influence with others. They might stir up trouble for me abroad.”

“Brother dear, settle yourself well in the saddle and they will need to keep you sweet for the aid you can provide against France.”

Hugh shook himself from his thoughts and placed one foot in the stirrups ready to mount. “I take my leave of you now. That day passes and time is lost.” With a smooth motion he boosted himself up and swung his leg over the back of his horse. “Do endeavour to remain out of trouble.”

“I can guess what you are thinking.”

Fulk dragged his attention away from watching the rearguard of Hugh’s army passing through Alnwick’s outer gatehouse. “Oh?”

“Good riddance,” Eleanor said.

“No!” The objection came so quickly it made him sound guilty. Which he was. Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well … not like that.”

Eleanor’s elbow dug into his bruised ribs. “Behave, crooknose.”

“I behave? What about you, oh diminutive terror?” Fulk offered her his arm, and together they retreated inside the keep.

“My second guess would have been that you were still bristling over Trempwick’s parting comment.”

Knowing that a bit of humour would do much to convince her to forget it, Fulk stuck his nose in the air. “Parting insults from defeated snakes are beneath my notice.” His playful arrogance nearly cost him as they reached the foot of the spiral stairs leading up to their private rooms; his wounded leg refused to lift far enough to clear the first step and, as he wasn’t watching where he was going, the first he knew of it was when his toe exploded into pain and he started to fall. Eleanor kept him upright with some quick support. “Thanks.”

“Be careful, my luflych little knight.” She released him and began to climb ahead of him. Several steps up she glanced back over her shoulder and grinned impishly. “In case you fall again. No reason for both of us to break our necks!”

Fulk exaggerated a sigh. “You wouldn’t dare speak to me like this if there were people to overhear.” He started his own painful climb, cursing that Alnwick’s keep boasted an impressive four floors above the ground.

Eleanor laughed, and halted again to look down on him. “How long has it been since we were without hangers on? Except for when we are in our chamber, I mean?”

“Weeks?”

“Months. Not really since Woburn.” She waited until he was close enough to reach out for her and skipped up another half-turn’s worth of stairs. “We have our lives back,” she exulted.

“That’s what I was thinking, outside.”

“No maids, no squires, no pages, no guards, no servants, no brothers, no-”

“Bothers,” Fulk cut in.

“No Trempwick, I think you mean.”

Fulk hitched his shoulders. “He’s a bother. I did refer to bothers in plural.”

“It was not an insult.” Eleanor stopped again, barring his own progress.

“Huh.” As Trempwick had ridden out of the bailey he’d by necessity passed them. He’d stopped, and in a very loud voice said to Fulk, “Love her well, and use her gently.” His mocking bow had been interrupted by his guards seizing the bridle of his mount and dragging it along after them.

“Truly.”

“Keep climbing,” Fulk said brusquely. “It’s draughty here.”

She did, dawdling. “It is a common enough blessing given out to the groom at weddings.”

Fulk snorted. “As if I’d ever treat you differently anyway, and as if I’ve any need of his advice. And he’s not your family. That’s a father’s wish, or a brother’s or-”

She stopped and spun around again. “Or a mentor’s, who cares for his pupil and wishes her happiness. Or a rival suitor’s, admitting he has lost.” Crouching down placed her face on a level with his. “He is gone. All that remains of him is that which we ourselves keep with us. Let it go.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. “Well said. Keep climbing, ‘loved.”

They passed the door into the third floor, a set of balconies above the main hall. Eleanor enquired, “How long will you stay? Before you ride out to Carlisle?”

That, truly, was what Fulk had been thinking of as they watched the army leave. “Days. A week, perhaps a few days more. I need to give my wounds chance to heal.”

She angled a flirtatious look back over her shoulder. “Is that the only reason?”

“I thought it might be pleasant to spend a bit of time being thoroughly married, what with all the time we’ve been apart.” His wicked grin was a waste of time, aimed at her back as it was. “How else can I appreciate the freedom of being out in the field if I’ve not been nagged within an inch of my life?”

“Quite. And those are the only reasons?”

As they neared the door into their solar Fulk thought he had what she wished to hear from him. “I’m an earl. It’s not for me to go gallivanting about hunting down small groups of men and engaging in the petty day to day business of cleaning up after Trempwick. It’s for me to coordinate it all, to make it possible, and to apply my weight where it’s needed most.”

Eleanor held the door open for him with a radiant smile. “I always said you were smarter than your penchant for armour suggests.”




Hugh swept tendrils of hair from Alice’s face with his fingertip, his work undone as she jerked forward to heave once again into the bowl. His hands felt clammy; it was but one morning and one bout of sickness, yet his heart pounded at what it might mean. Alice had done astoundingly well to keep the army’s pace as he rushed north to confront Trempwick, and she had been visibly flagging by the time they reached York. Consideration for her well-being, combined with the increased danger as he closed with the rebels, had caused him to leave her behind in the city.

Once the spasm has passed Alice straightened. Wearily she closed her eyes and leaned against him. “I should like a drink.”

Obediently Hugh fetched the pitcher she indicated, the second of the two in the room. He poured, and learned it was sour wine, most excellent for cleansing bad tastes from the mouth.

Sour wine! Indeed- the very presence of the bowl! The way her robe had been easily to hand, enabling her to snatch it up and cover her nakedness as she bolted from the bed! It struck Hugh all in an instant. She had been expecting this. “You are with child,” he exclaimed softly. He sat before he fell, one hand pressed to his face.

Alice covered her lower stomach with her arms, a subconscious motion which was all the answer he needed. “I have been taken ill each morning for the last week. I think it probable.”

That which he had endeavoured to bring about had happened: he had a second child on the way, proof of his fertility and God’s blessing. A child whose life would be dedicated to the support of the legitimate heir. A child to fill the aching gaps in his essence left by Trempwick’s murdering.

A bastard. Like himself.

The world was an altered place to that in which he had made those prudent decisions and set upon this course. Hugh poured himself a measure of her wine and gulped it down. “Why did you not tell me?”

He’d forgotten how very green her eyes were. “You arrived late last night, Hugh. My concern was for your comfort, and to hear all of your news. This morning …” She shrugged, pulling her covering more tightly about herself. “The first thing I did on waking was be sick, and that woke you.”

Dawn was still straggling its way into the world; the chamber’s fire had burned low and the coldest part of the night had recently passed. Shock warded against chill only so far; covered in gooseflesh and shivering mightily Hugh dragged his tunic over his head and wrapped his cloak about his shoulders. Lacking his linen undergarments the wool itched against his bare flesh. “You will be well cared for, you and the child both.” Because it mattered with an intensity that came from his new world Hugh knelt at her side, clasped her hand in both of his and looked her in the eye as he vowed, “This child will know its father, and will not lack affection.”

She accepted this with a nod. “Where does this leave us? Shall I be put aside now you have your child?”

“Do you wish to be freed of me?” Hugh countered.

Alice ducked her chin. “I …”

“Yes?” Hugh encouraged. She was gathering the nerve to tell him she wished to be rid of him, he was positive of it. This liaison had been entered into with considerable consideration to practicality by the both of them, she wishing to be free of her rebel of a husband, he desiring a child and companionship and aware of the realm’s expectations of him. “I gave you my word, you will not be returned to your husband. One cannot doubt that he would treat you most cruelly for surrendering Tilbury to me.”

“He’s a traitor. I wish you’d found his body after the battle. I hope he is killed as he bolts for safety!”

Where a husband and wife held strongly to opposed allegiances only ill could result. “He did not treat you as you deserved.”

“And I thank you for showing me that. For that alone … I owe you a debt, Hugh.” Tentatively, visibly afraid he would rebuff her now he had gotten her with child, Alice tucked herself in at his side and waited for him to make some contact.

Hugh placed his arm about her waist. So, she had not turned from him; he found himself smiling slightly, content. He did not love her as he did Constance, did not love her at all, but there was affection there, and tenderness, and it would take a tougher man than he to have little care for a lady whom he had introduced to the gentler side of the act of love and procreation. “It was my very great pleasure … and yours too, I have always hoped.”

She cast her eyes demurely down. “To my surprise, yes.”

“You might return home. Act as keeper of Tilbury for me.”

“I should be honoured by your trust in me.”

“Your husband, and others like him, will face exile. They have had sufficient opportunity and sufficient again to come to me. No more. They have scorned my mercy and shall suffer accordingly.”

“I shall hold Tilbury for you with all loyalty.”

Hugh began to dress, unable to withstand the cold. Unable to put into words the harsh truth: that he did not desire her sufficiently to place the child at risk by lying with her. Unlike Constance, with whom he had been unable to prevent himself reprehensibly risking the safety of his legitimate child and heir on numerous occasions. “When the child is of age it will be found a fitting place for education, and it will be amply provided for.”

Alice too began to don her garments. “Visit us occasionally. I can send the child to you sometimes, so you can see more of it without needing to see me.”

Hugh’s fingers fell still on the lacing of his hose.

“I understand how it must be,” Alice assured him. “It would be a slight to your wife if it were otherwise. You love her, and would not hurt her for the world. So you will see little of me, because while passing entertainment is no slight to her anything longer lasting or deeper is.”

“I will not put you aside into disgrace.” He thanked the Lord that he had always found a preference for sensible women, not emotional creatures who wailed and sobbed while turning their faces from reality to look to a dream.

“You have already promised me so. The child will be acknowledged and cared for, and with Tilbury and very occasional visits none will say I was used and dropped. Your wife’s honour is safe, and mine comes out as well as it might. I ask only that you allow me to marry again, should my husband die and I so choose.”

Hugh could not but wonder if her husband’s death would be natural. “I have no objection, provided a period of time passes between death and remarriage. A minimum of a year and a half would be respectable.”








I completed an MS Word based list of my history books last week. More than 400 books. 400. Most of them on medieval England, and all but a tiny percentage being academic not casual. 400. I knew I had a lot of them, but 400?! What did I do once my froggy mind had stopped boggling? I ordered another boxful :blankg:

Four hundred books. Why, that´s a library all of its own. And I take it you´re read all of them, too. Where do you find the time?

:applause: :applause: :applause:

Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I only started to read this story a week ago and now I'm completely addicted to it. I'm currently trying to blitz the whole story and got to page 9/28. Its still gonna take a lot of time for me to get where most people are now.

Great story, keep up the good work Lady Frog. I would definitely buy that book when it come out. :beam:

Edit: coming to page 11, just out of curiosity, is Trimpwick a bad guy? I rather like the chap.

Welcome Quintus.JC

Here are the eyedrops that comes with your subscription to this story.

P.S. there aren't bad/good guys in this story like ther are in most Hollywood movies. However, there are characters with who you sympathise or don't sympathise. And even then ...

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Peasant Phill

Welcome Quintus.JC

Here are the eyedrops that comes with your subscription to this story.

P.S. there aren't bad/good guys in this story like ther are in most Hollywood movies. However, there are characters with who you sympathise or don't sympathise. And even then ...

---

Yeah I understand. I'm only currently about halfway, I could find sympathy with just about all the characters; even old king William, even though the way he treats Eleanor can't be forgiven, I also rather dislikes Prince Hugh, he's far too dogmatic for anyone's good. Trempwick seemed to have a geniue fondness for Eleanor if not love. Anyway have to keep reading, I wish the days were longer....

Edit: Just got to the part where Fulk and Nell are finally married, Gosh I'm so happy. I know there are still so many twists and turns, but finally, things are starting to look up for them. I hope this story has an happy ending.

Finally got to the end. Poor Trempwick... :embarassed: it's a great story Lady Frog. I'll be looking forward for the grand finale, hope it will be a happy one.:yes:

Happy ending for whom?

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Peasant Phill

Happy ending for whom?

---

Everyone really, it seems to be heading that way. The only person I really dislike is Prince Hugh, but he can keep his crown, I suppose.

Ever wondered what Princess Eleanor would look like in animation, what about this picture.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

http://z.about.com/d/movies/1/0/G/J/...ethirdpubr.jpg
I find that that picture fits the description almost perfectly, except the blue eyes. ~:)

I fear that animation is a bit to much Disney/pixar/...
Princess Eleanor isn't exactly the pinacle of beauty. And a bowtie in her hair?

Lady Frog once posted a painting of how she imagined Her gooseberryness would look like. It's somewhere in these pages.

Oh, and with those close fitting sleeves, where do you imagine she puts her knifes?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Peasant Phill

I fear that animation is a bit to much Disney/pixar/...
Princess Eleanor isn't exactly the pinacle of beauty. And a bowtie in her hair?

Lady Frog once posted a painting of how she imagined Her gooseberryness would look like. It's somewhere in these pages.

Oh, and with those close fitting sleeves, where do you imagine she puts her knifes?

---

To be honest I think that picture was hardly the pinacle of beauty. There's nothing I can do about the bowtie and the tight-sleve, lets just imagine this is one of the occasions where she has to look formal and princessish and all. She is described in numerous accound as being 'almost pretty' when required to look the part. The thing is that when I watched Shrek 3 she instantly reminded me of her, at least some of descriptions fits anyway.

There's a painting? I want to see it! :beam:

Here's the picture I found while searching for something else on the internet, about halfway into this story. It's shockingly similar to how I see Nell. The picture's face is somewhat too fat, and those silly little curls at her temples need to go. Nell tends to wear a single braid instead of a pair. Otherwise that's very close to her when she's wearing everyday clothes and trying to look studious. The colours for the clothes should be altered though; these colours are expensive to make, and if Nell were wearing them she'd be in full on princess mode complete with inches thick embroidery on her hems, jewelled girdle, the works.

https://img.photobucket.com/albums/v...llookalike.jpg

I found an portrait which reminds me strongly of Fulk while browsing through a book of Titian's paintings at work last year. I haven't found any good versions of it on the net; here's the best:

https://img.photobucket.com/albums/v...tegg/PoaYM.jpg
He needs clothes from the correct period, hair a darker shade of brown and the famous crooked nose, otherwise it's him, haircut and all. I nearly dropped the book when I first opened it to that page! You can't see it so well in this small version, but in the A4 sized image in the book (which I brought solely for that page!) the man is very arresting, yet in a very different way to the (IMO) boring 'handsome' stars of today.

Now there´s only Trempwick missing from the three main characters.

In death, as in life, Edward sneered at Eleanor. In death, as never in life, he provoked an emotion other than abhorrence from her. She’d lived near this man for much of her life, watched him serve Trempwick with devotion bordering upon slavish. Devotion that had seen him at the head of Woburn’s efforts to keep her floating without attachments or comfort other than Trempwick.

Slavish devotion, and look at where he had ended up: sacrificed by Trempwick as part of the effort to win back her trust. Would Edward have approved, have gone willingly to this death to aid his master? Or would it have been the request which asked too much?

Swallowing her gorge Eleanor indicated the agent should return the grizzly trophy to the wicker basket he’d delivered it in.

“He was not where the spymaster said he would be, your Highness.”

Eleanor looked up sharply. “Trempwick lied?” Her gut twisted; would she soon be viewing Trempwick’s corpse to reassure herself she was safe?

The agent bowed. “No, leastways it didn’t look like it to us. More like this one had taken it into his head to do some work of his own to rescue his master.”

Eleanor let the man sweat under her regard as she considered his words. This man, Mark, has been one of Miles’ best, one whom the old knight had been certain Trempwick had not corrupted. Trempwick himself had objected to his name being on the list of his agents, said he shouldn’t be killed because he was innocent. How far did one trust? “Show me the others,” she commanded.

The other heads she viewed a touch more dispassionately; she hadn’t lived with any of these people. Truthfully she had met only one of them in life. Henry, who had served as Trempwick’s lieutenant in the North. The other two were known by name and function only, a fact best hidden lest the real men escape the cull.

“Take them away and bury them,” Eleanor said once the display was complete. It was with considerably more difficulty that she said, “The hunt must continue. Send word when there is more for me to see and I shall make arrangements to view them.”

Mark bowed deeply. “As your Highness commands.”

Eleanor battled her queasiness valiantly, a battle lost midway back to Alnwick when she kept her escort waiting while she vomited into a bush. The men at arms averted their eyes and said not a word. They had been with her through far worse and seen her keep her stomach; that shamed her more than the revealed weakness.

When she was done Alfred offered her his costrel of water. “It’s a different thing, to be ordering deaths and seeing the results. Different to killing yourself, different to seeing a battle.”

Eleanor spat out a mouthful of water “I expect I shall become accustomed,” she said wretchedly.







Fulk resisted the urge to fidget as he waited for the man kneeling before the dais to finish his meandering plea. Hours had already been filled with similar pleas, or cases begging him for justice. Midday approached and the crowd of petitioners waiting at the back of Alnwick’s great hall had barely thinned. It wasn’t unexpected; this was the first time he’d held court as earl, and his lands has suffered badly.

“And so, we humbly beg your lordship, for the sake of Christian charity, to look kindly on us, your poor subjects.”

Fulk waited a moment to be sure the man was done. There’d been an embarrassing muddle at the start of the morning when he’d thought a plaintiff finished and the man had started talking again at the same moment as he. “I will say to you the same as I have to those others come here to represent their village in similar pleas. I will send a trustworthy man to your village and he will inspect the damage done, see what stores you have, and take inventory. Then I will make a decision as to whether to permit you to give a lower amount to me this year.” Fulk touched his fingers to the hilt of his sword, same as he had each time he’d made this speech. “If you attempt to hide goods or animals from my investigator your village will forfeit everything you hid and be fined ten marks. Be warned.”

The representative bowed, bowed again, and bowed yet again. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you, and may God bless you.”

Fulk clamped his jaw on a yawn and carefully shifted his posture so his back wasn’t in contact with the carved wood of the throne-like chair. What on earth had possessed the previous lord to have a mounted saint brandishing a sword carved slap across the high back? The chair would have to be changed or he’d end up with a damaged spine.

The next petitioner knelt before the dais and launched into his speech. It was remarkably similar to the previous one. Fulk knew he could interrupt at any time; it seemed ill-bred, and a poor return for the trouble taken to reach Alnwick and gain audience.

Once upon a time Fulk had watched in awe as his father performed his duty as lord and dreamed of the day when he too would sit in the high chair and nod gravely as people brought him their woes for judgement.

The plea wound to a close, and Fulk repeated yet again the bit about an inspector being sent to see what state the village was in. This time he added something to the close, “And let this stand for all others who have come to make such a plea. Let them go to my clerk and register their village’s request with him, and the necessary arrangements to send someone be made.” That thinned the crowd considerably.

The next petitioner reported brigands had taken up residence near his home and were extorting resources from the villagers. That one was simply solved; a party of twenty men at arms were to leave at once to hunt them down.

After that came a long-winded plea from a merchant for restitution for goods seized by Trempwick’s army. As the man worked through flowery phrases, claiming utter ruin suffered out of loyal service to Hugh, Eleanor slipped into the hall. She and Hawise worked their way along the outermost edge of the room, doing their best not to attract attention. Fulk lent most of his attention to admiring her progress; he already knew he would deny this plea. He’d have liked to have her at his side, taking her place as Lady of Alnwick and acknowledged as someone whose judgement he trusted. Eleanor had been less enthusiastic, arguing that, at least in the beginning, he should not been seen playing lord with her close by else people would consider him her puppet.

The merchant was still going some minutes after Eleanor disappeared up the stairs. Enough was enough. “Your request is denied,” Fulk interrupted. “You chose to take your train out of the city when the rebel army was know to be in the area. You cannot blame lord Hugh for that; the decision – and the blame – rests solely with you.”

The merchant straightened up indignantly. “It is the king’s duty to keep the peace and suppress rebels!”

“And suppress the rebels he did.” Fulk rested a clenched fist on the arm of his seat and advised the man, “Check the mounds outside my castle as you leave if you doubt.”






Jocelyn removed his tunic with care, lifting it over his head and then dragging the left sleeve off his arm. Damned crossbows and damn that idiot crossbowman who’d bloody well shot him!

“Does my lord need some help?”

Jocelyn squinted at the maid, considering. She was quite pretty, in a peasant sort of way, and it had been a damned long time since he last got to play … He started to say yes, changed his mind. She looked acceptable and it had been a damned long time – how bloody humbling was that?! Throwing himself at the first offer of contact with the first half decent woman to come near him?! And she wasn’t even offering help of that sort, damn it, though admittedly she certainly would if he smiled and turned his charm in her direction. Irresistible, wounded or not. But yes, saying he couldn’t manage just so she’d come close and maybe possibly brush against him once or twice while he enjoyed being at eye level with her breasts was too damned desperate. “I’ll manage.”

The stupid maid didn’t listen – see? Irresistible – and came to help him. The view was about as good as he’d expected. He’d got the shirt half-way off when the room’s door opened. A woman stood there, neatly framed. Stood staring. Frozen. The expression on her face …

Then she was gone, whirling around and slamming the door behind her. Footsteps could be heard running down the inn’s wooden staircase.

Christ’s sweet wounds! Jocelyn fought to disentangle himself from shirt and maid, stumbling to his feet. It couldn’t have been. He was hallucinating. It was an evil vision conjured up by his injuries. Bugger that – it was some kind of divine judgement on him for allowing himself to get excited by this woman! Her expression!

He staggered out of the room, still battling to get his right arm back into its sleeve and pull the garment over his head so he wasn’t running about bare-chested like some barbarian. “Richildis!”

It couldn’t have been.

He ran.

“Richildis!” He skidded out into the inn’s courtyard in time to see his wife hurl herself onto her horse and apply her boot to its ribs in such a wise it left no doubts as to her current state of mind. Damned cow was upset, but why?! “Richildis! Damn it, stop!”

She didn’t. The four men at arms accompanying her goggled at him, and one by one reined about to ride after her. Bloody traitors! Still, what else could he expect from the sods? They wore her colours, were her own hand-picked escort raised from her own lands. Bloody traitors! He was her husband; she belonged to him and so did they!

“Tildis!” Jocelyn roared.

Jocelyn became aware of the fact he stood in the yard of a common inn in his shirt and hose, having been abandoned by his wife. Everyone was staring. A lot. Everyone being peasants. Norman peasants. He was being gawped at by yokels. Making a scene. He, a count, humiliated in front of riffraff. It was all her fault!

Alain emerged from the main inn building at a run. “My lord? What’s going on?”

It was still possible to see the escaping riders. Jocelyn felt calm wash over him. Perfect calm. Like a tide of ice. So angry he’d come out the other side of rage. Humiliated. By his wife. Unreasonably. Unfairly. Unforgivably. He was going to kill her.

Jocelyn brushed a hand over his shirt, smoothing a crease from the linen. “Fetch my sword and my horse.” The squire didn’t move. “NOW!” Alain sped off, white as a sheet.

He’d done so much. How could she do this to him? He’d written those God-damned idiotic pointless effeminate letters like some bloody celibate clerk. He’d refused the maid’s offer of help even though he was really, really bloody tempted and actually rather in need of some help, thank you very much. He’d made a damned fool out of himself asking that widow the princess/queen/whatever sheltered for advice on how best to approach his wife. He’d learned some of the local lingo while in England. He’d brought that God-cursed bloody damned ring!

Jocelyn started to march. Across the courtyard. Out through the gate. Along the road. Each step swift and sure. Fatigue was gone. Pain was gone. The light-headedness that head plagued him since he took this wound was gone. Justice. That powered him now. He was going to give that evil bitch some justice. Following them before they got out of sight. Before they escaped. Justice.

Alain caught up with him, running at full pelt with the palfrey trotting gracefully at his side. He hadn’t brought the sword.

Jocelyn snatched the reins from his squire’s hand. “Where is my sword?” He demanded.

“My lord …” The youth shook his head.

Jocelyn backhanded him across the face. “I am your lord. Your place is to obey.”

Alain raised his head, cheek already reddening. “My lord, you are not yourself-”

“Then who the fuck else am I?”

“I beg you-”

Jocelyn grabbed his squire and snarled into his face, “Get back to the inn and bloody wait! If you try to follow me I will knock your damned head off, I swear it!” He cast Alain away from him and mounted up. He didn’t need a sword. Bare hands would suffice.

The squire ran after him as he galloped away. Soon left behind. The dust cloud in the distance drew closer. Resolved into a small dot. Into a larger dot. Into five visible riders. Sweat droplets spattered in the horse’s wake, keeping Jocelyn’s tears company.

Women rode side-saddle. It slowed them. Inferior creatures and their inferior means – no match for a man like him! Once within haling distance Jocelyn bellowed, “Stop! I command it!” Did they begin to slow? “I am your lord! I command it!”

Spurring his horse ruthlessly Jocelyn managed to catch up with the tail of the party. The men at arms didn’t dare block him; they shifted their own mounts from his path as he steadily gained on Richildis. When close enough he leaned and grabbed the reins.

She fought him. The damned ungrateful cow had the audacity to batter at him with one hand while dragging at the reins with the other. They struggled for a short space. The edge of her hand bashed into his temple. That was it! Jocelyn bared his teeth in a grin of he knew not what variety. “Damned bitch!”

He was a knight. A master horseman trained to ride using his knees to guide his mount while his hands were engaged in other tasks, to keep his seat when under stressful circumstances. So he grabbed Richildis by the waist and dragged her off her horse, slinging her over his saddlebow. His shoulder tore, blood began to run.

The gasping palfrey shambled to a stop; Jocelyn threw his struggling wife to the ground. A handful of moments saw her back on her feet; Jocelyn dismounted then. She stood facing him, breathing heavily, for all the world like an animal brought to bay. Wasn’t that what she was?

Only when the men at arms closed in a semi-circle loose enough to be non-threatening did Jocelyn take his eyes off her. “Return to the inn,” he ordered.

They shuffled their feet and looked uneasy, and damned well didn’t leave.

“I am your lord. If you harm me you will all die. If you get in my way I will kill you. Leave.”

The leader said hesitantly, “She is our lady …”

“She is my wife. Will you interfere?”

The man bowed his head. “We cannot,” he acknowledged in a whisper.

“Then go.”

They did.

When he turned back Richildis seemed to have calmed herself. It was she who spoke first. “I’m returning to my dower lands. I never want to see you again.”

Jocelyn inhaled long and deep; the air might steady his spinning head. He’d have some answers before he wrung her wretched bloody neck. “You cannot leave me.”

Richildis raised her chin. “I can and will.”

“See how easily I have fetched you back?” They stared at one another for a time. Yes, he’d show her how easily, since the stupid cow didn’t already see it. He seized her ear and yanked her towards him, took a step back along the way he had come, and another, and another, pulling her with him. “How are you leaving?” One last brutal twist and he released her. “You’re not,” he sneered.

She spun on her heel and walked away.

Jocelyn wasted a heartbeat gaping before diving after her and grabbing her shoulder. “You’re my wife! You cannot leave me! It is not possible!” Leave him?! Christ on a sway-backed donkey with diarrhoea! How could she possibly even think about it!? why?! It was not right – not fair! “We are one flesh, joined in the eyes of man and God. We cannot be parted; there is no grounds.”

“I will not stay with you. I cannot stand the sight of you. There is that ground.” Entirely too bloody calm; unnatural!

“Even if you did get to your dower lands everyone would say you must return to me. You wouldn’t be permitted to stay away, whatever I damned well said about it.” A prime weapon dropped into his hands; Jocelyn said triumphantly, “And you’d never see the children again. Leave me, Richildis, and you’ll never see them again, or hear from them. They’ll be as good as dead to you.”

She flinched, looked away. “It shouldn’t surprise me that you would be so cruel. To them as well as me.”

“I would never be cruel to them!” Anger, oh yes now he was right bloody angry! “I would never harm them, you evil-minded bitch!”

“You said you would not let them see me again. That is cruel. They need their mother.”

“You’re the one who wants to abandon them – they don’t need a mother like that.”

Richildis touched a hand to her sore ear. “Jean speaks a few new words since you left. Damn. Bloody. Bitch. And others. Where might he have learned them?”

Like the blow to the stomach that left Jocelyn gasping.

“Thierry asked why we fight so much. Mahaut asks as well. Asks if her marriage will be the same.”

“But …” But …. But …!

“Better that they remain with me. Away from you.”

“NO!” The cry was wrung right from Jocelyn’s heart. “No! They need me – I love them!”

Richildis said wearily, “You’ve taught our baby to swear.”

But! And how had she managed to turn this about on him in any bloody case! This was about her, turning up from nowhere and running away, humiliating him so badly he would never, ever in a hundred years be free of the shame. “I love them. I brought them back gifts. I brought you gifts.” Why in the name of a miraculous plum had he added that last bit?! “I love them. I cherish them. I do everything I can for them.” In an anguished cry, “I went to bloody war for them, suffered things you’ll never damned well understand, placed myself in danger, got hurt, nearly damned well died, was homesick, got travelsick, felt like a right bloody twat, and a whole lot damned well bloody more, and all to see that they have something to set them up in life! Something to inherit! Something to dower them! Something to bloody well feed them, clothe them, shelter them while they grow, damn it!” He filled his lungs again. “And, God damn it, I did it for you as well!”

“So I believed.” Richildis’ lip trembled; she put her back to him and started walking again.

Swift strides saw Jocelyn ahead of her; he planted himself in her path. “What the damned hell do you mean? What the bloody hell is all this about? What are you doing here, in the name of the Pope’s blessed underwear!?”

Richildis started laughing, choked, and burst into tears, still laughing like a madwoman.

“I don’t!” Bloody women! Entirely incomprehensible, and that was when they were making sense!

So long passed that Jocelyn began to shiver; it wasn’t a warm day. The blood-soaked patch of his shirt caught the breeze and amplified it, chilling him to the very bone. A man could drop dead waiting for an answer to perfectly reasonable questions.

Richildis’ mouth twisted into a shape he didn’t like, all derisive. “You asked me to come and meet you on your way home.”

“What!?” he exploded. “I did no such thing!” And why the hell would he!?

“You sent me a letter.”

“I did not!”

She reached into the purse she wore on her girdle. “I have it here.”

“I didn’t write to you, damn it!”

“This letter is from you. It asks me to come and meet you. It tells me your planned route.” The sneer grew, and he wondered if there wasn’t a trace of self-derision in it. A teardrop dripped off her chin. “It says you miss me.”

“I didn’t bloody well write it!” Jocelyn snatched the letter from her hand and squinted at it, muttering under his breath about the delusions of women. The handwriting was quite distinctive: it looked as though a drunken spider with three badly broken legs had crossed the page while having a fit of some sort. “Alright, perhaps I did write it,” he admitted. “I must have been drunk.”

“Of course,” she spat. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And what did I find when I arrived? You about to bed your latest whore.”

Christ! “You’re wrong. She was there to treat my wound.” He gestured at his bleeding shoulder.

“Ha!”

Hold on a minute here – he was missing something. Something important. Jocelyn wracked his brains, realised what it was. “There’s still something in your purse. Empty it out.” Was it? Could it be? Or was he being a prat? Had his eyes deceived him?

“No.”

“Empty it out, or I’ll do it for you.” Christ, pleased, please, please, please!

“Burn in hell!”

Jocelyn shrugged. “So be it.” Once he moved towards her Richildis pulled out that which she’d kept hidden and hurled it at him. Jocelyn retrieved the letters from the dirt. Not a prat after all. By God, it was a miracle, and truly his heart flooded with light. With a gentle hand he brushed dust from the folded bits of parchment. “You kept my letters. Love of God, you kept them close to you.” He cradled the letters in a cup made from the palms of his hands, and offered them back to her with reverence. Unbelievable. Voice filled with wonder he said, “That’s the real reason you came. Because I asked, and you wanted to. Because of these.” Blood was soaking his shirt, the waist of his braes and she didn’t care at all.

Richildis started to reach for the letters, stopped and then dashed them back into the dirt. “I will be a fool no longer.”

A fiery angel descended from on High and informed him that he’d been given this one last absolutely final chance to sort things and that if he screwed up now he’d lose everything. Or at least one would have if God didn’t know Jocelyn was smart enough to catch on without wasting Gabriel’s precious time. Buggering hell, what should he do? Jocelyn sent up a prayer, and collected up his letters again. “I wrote that letter while so drunk I don’t remember it.” Damn, she was turning away again! Couldn’t she give him chance!? “Why don’t you ask yourself what that means?” he called after her. “Think about it.” The stakes were so high his voice cracked like an adolescent’s, and damn it she wasn’t stopping!

“Tildis!” She was getting so far away that he’d have to bellow to be heard. Christ, why couldn’t someone send her a fiery angel too? Jocelyn started to jog after her. “Tildis! Ask why, damn it! Please, think about it! Please!”

“I no longer care.”

Jocelyn got ahead of her and turned so he was walking backwards, not attempting to block her and praying for all he was worth he wouldn’t fall down a pothole. “I was so drunk all my guards were down, and I was asking for you, damn it!” Bugger it – there was a pothole and down he went, landing hard on his arse. “I wanted nothing but you!”

Richildis gathered her skirts and stepped around him as though he were a pile of filth.

Jocelyn scrambled after her on his hands and knees, struggling to get back up without losing time. “I wrote to you all those times because I thought you’d like it. Tildis, please! I learned a lot of Anglo-French! I learned some poetry, almost! I wrote myself, with my own hands and no help!” Was she slowing down? No, not a chance, just wishful thinking. “I asked for advice, even! I brought you presents everywhere I stopped! I learned some courtly manners!”

If his words had any effect on her Jocelyn couldn’t see it.

“Tildis, it’s dangerous out here. You can’t just walk off alone! Tildis!” Damn, the world was so wobbly, black specks nibbling away at the edges of his vision. Stupid crossbow wound. That fiery angel must be leaning on his giant two-handed sword shaking his head in disgust. Jocelyn stumbled to a halt and fell to his knees. He’d said everything he could think of.

Except one thing. One final burst of effort brought him back to her side, he gasped the bitter words, “Come back to the inn with me to collect your escort and then I’ll let you go.”

That stopped her, so suddenly he collided with her. “You’re lying.”

Jocelyn shook his head and wished he hadn’t as the world spun crazily. “I can’t stop you going, not without locking you away under guard. You can have a week with the children every second month.” The dark patches were increasing and his ears rang so loudly that he could barely hear; damn, how bloody humiliating. He didn’t even hear himself say, “I brought a wedding ring for myself …”, just felt the shape of the words in his mouth as he collapsed.








Jocelyn would be mortified if he knew most of his scene was written to the sounds of Ever ever after from the film Disney’s Enchanted. It’s hideously appropriate on metaphorical, literal (“your head feels it’s spinning” :p) and ironic levels. He wants ever after, he’s been pretending he has it for years even though he blatantly doesn’t, and now …? Good film BTW, about the only Disney one I’ve liked since I was 11. It’s very Disney meets Princess Bride.

Fiery angels. Lol.





Funny you should mention a pic of Trempy. I started to watch the DVD of series 1 of The Tudors (yes, yes, I know: I’m the last person in England to watch it) a couple of days ago and, while browsing an episode guide to get an idea of who was supposed to be who I saw a good resemblance. I saved the pic to my HD. Make his hair brown and cut it in the correct style, give him a more obviously hooked nose, and age him to his forties and ladies and gentlemen, this is Raoul Trempwick, king’s spymaster and trainer of gooseberries.

https://img.photobucket.com/albums/v...egg/trempy.jpg

That's a pic of him posing and looking handsome. The resemblence would be keener if he were behaving naturally. You could put him in any crowd and he wouldn't stand out; he's nicely average and non-descript in all the ways which matter.

That's 3 characters in as many years; always shocking when I find myself face to face with someone.



Forogt to mention: Edward was one of the servants at Woburn, the steward. Highlights of his time on screen include him introducing Fulk to the Woburn tradition of betting how how long Nell would manage to survive each time William came for a visit.

Froggy, my computer has been getting "fixed" since late April. I just got it back and have caught up with the story. Splendid, as usual! And what a wonderful scene with Jocelyn and 'Tildis! (Yes, Trempy and Hugh and Malcolm have good scenes, but I guess I empathize with Jocelyn the most.)

Your story has been the best part of my computer's homecoming and I eagerly look forward to more chapters.

Congrats and be well.

The road into Waltham was a blaze of bright colours. Banners – his coat of arms, his feather of truth badge repeated over and over – flew on each side of the road for the last quarter of a mile. Well-wishers thronged, held back from the road by soldiers in immaculate liveries. People cheered, called his name, shouted blessings. Pretty young damsels had been stationed on hastily built towers; they threw flower petals over him as he passed.

It dazzled. Hugh rode home blinking his eyes, half believing the spectacle would vanish if he did so a sufficient number of times.

He went through the motions with the grace that came from years of hard practice. Over and over he raised his right hand, saluting his people. He smiled beatifically. He inclined his head at this person and that selected at random from the multitudes. On hearing God’s blessing offered to him Hugh never failed to cross himself.

His personal companions did likewise, many unable to hold back broad grins of pleasure at the welcome waiting for their lord. Pleasure too, Hugh did not doubt, at their own triumph. They had chosen a side, supported it, survived and won. Further back in the marching column, and ahead in the advance party, his soldiers let their discipline crack to wave, to smile, to snatch up the trifling little gifts offered them, to kiss a girl or ruffle the hair of a child.

Malcolm Nefastus seemed more overawed than any of them. Not for him the easy acceptance of the peoples’ adoration. Not for him the small gestures which acknowledged their love and returned it. Each time Hugh glanced at the youth he saw him looking this way and that, face shining with incredulous wonder. Once Hugh saw the boy’s lips move, and thought they formed the words, “One day …”

Before Waltham’s gates a huge party awaited. Constance, Hugh identified her instantly, his heart knowing her before his eyes. The Archbishop of Canterbury and his retinue of clergy. The lords he had left behind to guard his wife and others who had not come to his side by the time he had marched away to the North. The men who formed his administration. Others, many others. A choir of boys sang hymns in the sweetest voices.

All these people, swarming in their hundreds, hailed a great man. A victorious general who had destroyed the rebels and restored peace to the realm. A king about to be made. Hugh wondered what would happen if they knew the truth. They would not cheer for him then.

He dismounted before the reception party. At once they all began to bow and curtsey. Hugh caught Constance’s hands before she got more than halfway down, and raised her back up. “I am heartened to see you well,” he said, pulling her into an embrace. Perhaps this was not the most princely of acts here, now, on such an awesome occasion, yet his caring for that had been burned away on the field of Alnwick. Had he not earned the right to bend protocol a little and hold his wife? Was it not, another part of his mind suggested, the behaviour expected of those of poor birth?

This lapse appeared to be to the approval of the soldiers, as a cry was taken up, “God save lord Hugh!”

Constance stood back a little once he let her go, examining him as he did the same to her. Praise the Lord she brimmed with health – seldom had he seen her look so well. As for their child, he had felt it kick while he held her. Praise God.

Hugh went through the lengthy official welcome with but half his mind on the matter. The remainder focused solely on Constance, on the matter which he had brooded upon for the entire trip south. However was he going to tell her? What would her reaction then be? It was to end that overhanging misery that he had headed to Waltham before Wales, though there were sound strategic reasons too. He could firm his grasp on England, go to collect the surrender of Trempwick’s mother and the castle she held and then march on the Welsh with a peaceful country at his back.

As he led the notables into Waltham for the waiting feast Hugh reviewed the collection of explanations he had carefully worked on during his trip and endeavoured to select the best way to tell his wife that he was nothing more than a bastard, disowned by the man he believed to be his father and occupying a throne at the sufferance of his sister.











I have been struggling a bit with the end of Jocelyn’s scene. It won’t quite come out in a form I like. Then my Granddad died and I haven’t felt much like writing. I tried today and that scene isn’t working at all, I’m not in the right frame of mind. So instead we have Hugh and Hugh alone.

Granddad, this story is now dedicated to you. I thought you were invincible.




Welcome back furball. I wondered if you had picked the wrong spot to watch the battle at Alnwick and had been trampled :winkg:

I'm sorry to hear about your loss, Ms. Frog.

Meanwhile, I thoroughly understand not wanting to write the end to the Jocelyn scene until it comes out "just right."

Froggy, I'm sorry to hear about your grandfather. You have my condolences.

This story has been a truly remarkable effort, and I sense it coming to a brilliant end.

I am truly sorry to hear of your loss, you have my deepest sympathies.

When Jocelyn opened his eyes it was to discover he was in a room, and it was dark enough to be late at night. The day’s events came flooding back; he covered his face with his hand. Expelling the air from his lungs he said, simply, “Bugger.”

Tentatively Jocelyn sat up, giving his head time to settle so he didn’t fall over. Something was binding his shoulder up tightly; careful exploration proved it to be some highly competent bandaging. Who’d done it? More to the point who’d fetched his carcass and dragged him back here – wherever here was? Well, there was only one way to answer that, and damn it if he’d lie tamely back down and wait for his captor/benefactor to show up.

Jocelyn stood up - and nearly dropped from shock when a voice remarked, “If you fall down I’m not picking you up.”

One hand pressed to his thumping heart, sagged back against the edge of his bed Jocelyn swore, “Bloody hell!” Then, a half-second later, “Bloody hell!” He looked about the room until he spotted her, a silhouette sitting in the corner near the empty fireplace. “You’re still here.” Quite probably the most inane statement ever made in the history of the world, ever. At least it matched his equally idiotic grin.

“Your men won’t let me depart without your say so.” That tone was usually found hand in hand with that expression which said - faintly and with perfect noble breeding – that someone as crude as Jocelyn shouldn’t be allowed to foil her but, thanks to the world being a bloody unfair place, he had. Good thing it was too dark to see her properly.

“Oh.” Jocelyn gave up on his attempt to stand. Now he’d gathered his wits a bit he recognised the room; he was back at the inn.

“They won’t believe you said you would let me go.”

Nor did she, from that ever so acid tone. Ah, God! Jocelyn fingered the bandages over his wound; this was her work. “Bring my captain up here and I’ll tell him. Then you can go whenever you want. Just … wait until daylight. Please. It’s dangerous out there.” Jesù, could he sound any more like a whipped cur?! Actually, sod that! A spike of energy burned through Jocelyn’s weary veins. “And what the damned hell were you thinking just running off out there anyway!? Anything could have happened!” Jocelyn stabbed a finger towards the shuttered window. “There’s a war out there!”

“There was a whore in here!”

And now his shoulder was aching like some cruel bastard has stuffed a red hot poker into it, damn her! “If there was,” Jocelyn spat, “I wasn’t making use of her, but it will rain frogs before you believe me, so shut up and fetch my captain. If that’s still what you want.”

Didn’t take her more than a moment to go, no hesitation or anything. And there it was again, that tugging pain inside his heart, rather like someone had fastened a hook to his vitals and was tenaciously trying to pull them out. Maybe all that wailing and warbling about broken hearts wasn’t all so much pretty-fancy wordage. Maybe they did exist. Damn the woman!

The captain entered the room bowing. “Good to see you recovering, my lord.”

Why prolong the agony? “My wife and her escort are free to leave whenever they like.” Jocelyn dismissed the man with a pained wave before he could ask questions. Answering them was more than he could face. He, the handsome and dashing absolutely courageous and heroic rich and powerful Count of Tourraine, recently from the royal court and known to be a staunch support for the old king’s children, the great lover and awesome father, he, Jocelyn de Ardentes, had been left by his wife. And he’d let her go. Like a wimp. A thousand heroic deaths couldn’t win him enough acclaim to blot out the hideous infamy of it.

She was still here. Lurking. Wanting to revel in her triumph, no doubt. Bitch.

“I hope you’re happy now,” he growled.

Richildis bumped the door shut and didn’t take the polite suggestion to sod off and leave him to his misery. Gloating cow! Taking the single candle she lit a couple of others, bathing the room near his bed in soft light. Still holding that first candle she looked so damned beautiful; her eyes sparkled, her skin the colour of fresh cream, her golden hair shone in the light like – like gold! And if he’d had the pretty words to make those thoughts sound decent then maybe he’d have told her years ago, and maybe they wouldn’t have ended up here.

She set the candle down on the room’s tiny table. “I can’t believe you. Coming chasing after me like that, half-dressed and wounded. How incredibly stupid – and look what you did to yourself.”

Jocelyn lay back down, hand over his eyes. How long was he going to have to listen to this?

“All to stop me leaving. And then – after all of that - you let me go.” A pause.

The hand dropped away; Jocelyn craned his neck to look at her. Something about the way she was talking was making his innards flutter like he’d eaten a moth.

“It’s by far the most romantic thing you have ever done.” She sounded … surprised, more than anything.

Romantic? But wasn’t that all; about flowers, singing, stupid words and dying in agony because the blasted female wouldn’t give you so much as a kiss? “Um ..” What to say? In response to a comment like that? It was kind of like a compliment, sort of, in a backhanded way, if you squinted. Jocelyn didn’t think it would be smart to admit he’d intended to kill her.

If there was a thing where you could look at words as pictures then Richildis right now would make the perfect template for that fancy word ‘inscrutable’. “Why?”

The fiery angel was still lingering, and he gave Jocelyn a nudge. Or he would have if God had actually sent him, but he hadn’t because He knew Jocelyn was smart enough to get by without all the flash fanciness which probably cost heaven quite a bit, if you thought about it. But the problem was Jocelyn’s wound ached, his brain felt like curdled cheese, and last time this damned angel had interfered he’d fallen down a pothole.

Richildis repeated, “Why are you letting me go?” Pah! As if she thought Jocelyn didn’t understand the question or something.

Uh, right. Yeah. There was something about this … something … “Well …” Yes, that was a good start. Now what next? Should he say that if he got rid of her then he could pick a nice amicable young beauty who didn’t hate him, and install her in his castle to keep him company? Yeah, that would show her! “I can-” Uh, actually no, forget that!

“Is it so difficult a question to answer?”

Bloody yes it bloody well bloody was! Jocelyn scowled so hard it made his face ache. Intuition hit him like a punch to the face – maybe his aid Up There had gotten impatient – and this silly idea started jiggling away in his mind. Maybe, just maybe, it was possibly one of those things where you saw a dirty old man lying in the middle of a road and then you either kept on travelling and got killed by divine vengeance or stopped to help him and then discovered that actually he was the only one in the entire world capable of saving your favourite dog from choking to death during that night’s feast? A test. Yeah, one of them things.

Let’s assume it was and proceed accordingly. Well, it wasn’t like he’d got anything left to lose, not after turning himself into Jocelyn-who-couldn’t-even-keep-his-wife. “Well … It’s … That is …” Smooth and eloquent – not! Jocelyn mentally heaved himself up and chucked himself over the parapets, and said in the tiniest, most ashamed voice he’d ever heard coming from his own mouth, “I want you to be happy.”

And watched bewildered as the daft creature burst into tears. This was just embarrassing. Completely, purely, excruciatingly embarrassing. No other word for it. If he could crawl to the window and manage to wedge himself through the narrow gap he’d probably dive out of it just to get away from the humiliation, second storey drop or no. Slapping a hand over his face Jocelyn admitted that people were right – it did take a big strong manly man to admit to stuff like feelings. Christ, a lesser man would have melted into a puddle by now!

Right. Yes, right. Right. Take the blow, roll with it, and come back for another strike. Just like sword fighting, this. Take the pain, push on into it, and make sure you bloody well won so no one could laugh at you for the indignity of getting there! But he left his hand covering his face so he didn’t have to look, because really that would just crumple up his amazingly masculine courage, and that couldn’t be allowed. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Sort of. Kind of. In a way. I mean, that is to say … Bugger!”

Jocelyn levered himself back up into a sitting position. Some things just couldn’t be done lying down. “Look, Tildis, all I’ve ever really wanted is a wife who likes me, maybe even loves me. I just want to go home to someone who’s missed me and is glad to see me. Someone who I’ve missed and am glad to see. Someone who wants to make me happy, and who I want to make happy. Someone who appreciates my efforts. Someone who-” and God, he was blushing like a virgin on her wedding night! “wants to go to bed with me. Because, you know, actually, really that’s all I’ve ever wanted from life, pretty much. Except for children. And a nice castle, and title and lands and such. And wealth. And importance.” Um, but maybe he was straying from the point here? “It was damned obvious I wouldn’t get that with you, right from the start and that’s why I didn’t want to marry you. You didn’t like me, and you made me feel like a crude barbarian, and I bloody hate that! And I hate feeling off-balance, and ignorant, and damn it if you don’t also make me feel like I’ve been castrated and turned into some helpless sod who isn’t a man at all and I damned bloody well hate that too! And I hate the stress of having to prove I am a proper man after all!” And something somewhere here had gone a tad wrong … Too much shouting and accusation, maybe, and not enough of the nice and fluffy stuff?

Jocelyn gathered himself with some effort and stabbed home the final blow on this flurry of … whatever it was. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve tried my damned hardest since I’ve known what’s what, and I thought that it was working, but no, obviously not. Now you want to leave me, and all because of something which isn’t true. It’s not fair!” And hadn’t he heard his eldest son whine like that when told he couldn’t have a proper sword yet? Jesù! “But no, that’s that and it’s over. You’d rather believe ill of me and end it all then so bloody well be it – go. Because there’s nothing else I can do but lock you up, and I don’t want that. I never have, damn it, whatever you think of me. So go! Leave me alone, and believe the worst of me, but know this – I was trying and it was working otherwise you wouldn’t bloody well be here in the first damned place, and now you’re leaving me because you got the wrong impression!” He gasped for breath, panting slightly. Felt like he’d run a couple of laps of Saint Maur’s training yard.

After a while Richildis said, “I’m not sure if you’re trying to tell me you love me or hate me.”

Jocelyn blinked, thrown entirely. He thought about it. “Both, I think.” A bit more thought and he added, “But I’d rather not hate.”

Well, she’d stopped it with the crying, which was something. What wasn’t something was the fact he couldn’t bloody well even guess what was going through that mind of hers. But then when had he been able to? “Jocelyn …” She shook her head and said no more.

Slowly it occurred to Jocelyn that for the very first time ever he’d managed to knock her off-balance with words, stun her and leave her utterly at a loss. He mentally pumped a fist in the air and yelled, “Yes!” She just sat there like someone had knocked all the wind out of her, like she couldn’t begin to think of where to start. Made a change for someone other than him to have that problem. Struggling to grasp it all.

And you know there was maybe one last thing to add. Like he’d thought earlier, before he’d chucked his pride in the chamber pot. “Tildis?” he said honestly, “I think you’re beautiful. Always have.”

“Then why,” she said, voice gone all screwy because of crying and shock and stuff, “didn’t you say so?”

Because he just did say so? Once he’d have snapped that back as an answer and delighted in maddening her. Now he kept it to himself. “Because you want fancy words and that’s plain. Boring. The sort of thing any idiot could say. You’d have laughed.”

For the first time in ages she looked directly at him instead of past him or around him. “If you had said it like that I would not have laughed.”

Calling her a liar would be rude, so Jocelyn just shrugged with his one sound shoulder. “Tildis, the thing is all those things I’ve done recently which you liked, well I did do them. They were real. I did them. You liked them. So I don’t see what the problem is.”

“You and that maid-”

Jocelyn placed his hand on his heart. “I swear on the lives and souls of our children that I didn’t touch that damned girl, didn’t intend to, and wouldn’t have even if you hadn’t turned up!”

Slowly Richildis said, “You wouldn’t lie … Not with such stakes.”

“Doesn’t that mean you owe me an apology?” Jocelyn asked smugly. Ah – something altogether more important occurred to him. “And doesn’t that mean you’re not leaving me now?” Finally, a question which had plagued his bemused brain for years, “And anyway, why do you care? You don’t like me coming after you, damn it, so you should be glad I turn elsewhere half the time.”

Oddly he had the impression she was about to go pop like a bubble, only without any of that nice jolliness. A bubble of anger, or hate, or something like that, exploding into a wave of anger or whatever it was made out of.

No answer was offered so Jocelyn poked a bit more. “I mean, it’s true. You won’t come to me willingly, you try to make excuses most of the time, you complain and make me feel guilty when I force you, and then you go all sulky every time I so much as look at anyone else!” He threw up his hands. “Damn it, Tildis, what am I meant to do?! I’m not made out of bloody stone!”

She still didn’t answer, and Jocelyn had a feeling that somehow he’d gotten onto the high ground in this battle. He was running about naked, so to speak, with all his bits on show and flapping about while she was still refusing to take her shoes off. Who’d have thought he’d manage to do so well with just words, only words, and nothing but words, and mostly honest ones at that? Not her, that’s for sure. He should do his duty as a husband and set an example and make sure she damned well followed it. “Come on, Tildis. Whatever you’ve got to say can’t be any more God damned embarrassing than any one part of what I’ve managed to get out.” He tried to sound encouraging, and did his best to smile nicely.

Tildis jerked her chin up and spat, “Because I hate being reminded I’m the only woman in Christendom who doesn’t enjoy being mauled by you!”

Ok, some answer was better than none, and while that wasn’t the one he’d been looking for it was better than silence. Mostly. And anyway, it wasn’t entirely unexpected, if he were honest. She’d mentioned something similar once or twice in the past. Ok, dozens of times. And it was kind of sort of slightly his fault, in a way.

It turned out she wasn’t finished with the angry-word-spitting. “Or that I’m defective because I don’t like it!”

God, Christ, and all the saints, the dratted creature thought she was broken. He could have wept. Jocelyn nervously wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Tildis … I never knew.”

She made a harsh sound that accused him of lying. He noticed she was still crying, and thought it might be nice if she’d do so on his shoulder. His good shoulder, not the wounded one. If only.

“I mean, I didn’t know you thought that.” Damn, but it was bloody obvious when you thought about it. What else was she going to think, being a sheltered type who’d had nothing but lousy treatment from the same man others swooned over? Jocelyn buried his face in his hands. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Well, mostly.” He dragged his head back up and attempted to meet her eyes – suddenly it was very important that she understand and believe. “No one bothered to tell me! They just got me drunk, and let despair that you hated me and told me it didn’t matter because you were mine, and told me that it would be the best night of my life because you’re so beautiful and a proper noble girl instead of the lowly sorts I’d had. They didn’t warn me you wouldn’t know what you were doing, or that I’d have to do everything, or that you would be hurt, or-” He choked on the lump in his throat. “And I didn’t know how to win you over after that. You hated me. And I hated you for making me feel like I wasn’t any good.”

Richildis had gone as white as a fresh linen shirt. “What are you saying?”

“I thought you knew I’d made a botch of things and didn’t want me because you thought I was rubbish in bed. And because you hated me,” he added, because he was an upstanding honest type. “Damn!” The more he thought about it the more bloody stupid he felt for not thinking of it himself. Jocelyn d’Ardentes: a man who couldn’t even keep his wife and who was as thick as frozen mud. What a complete tosser! “But then how were you supposed to know it can be different?”

She pressed her lips together and said through clenched teeth, “You make me sound foolish as well as defective.”

Foolish? Her? “Tildis? For once in your life trust me, damn it. There’s nothing wrong with you. Or at least …nothing which started that way.” Jocelyn scratched at his earlobe, foundering. “Look, woman, I got something beautiful and I broke it and I didn’t even know I was doing it, and maybe – maybe I can prove that some day. Given chance.” Uh, yeah, could even a lover as amazing as he was undo the damage he’d done to her? Um, and did he even know how? Right, whatever and so what. Time to hammer at the iron while it was hot and hope he didn’t burn his fingers or whack the hammer into his eye-watering spot. “Look, you’re leaving me over something which didn’t happen. We’ve got that bargain we made before I left for England, and it was damned well-” She hated cursing! “ Er, that is it was jolly well working. You liked my letters and stuff, and I’m glad you cared enough to come out here, even if I don’t remember asking it. We’ve … I guess we understand each other a bit more now, too.”

Jocelyn groaned his way to his feet, tried not to fall down as he crossed the ground between them, and dropped gratefully onto his knees at her feet. He took her left hand tenderly in both of his. “I don’t want you to leave me, Tildis. Please stay. And note that I’m being all nice and stuff, and I’m kneeling so it’s probably romantic.” Bugger, if only he’d thought to get that stupid ring out of his bags. That would have shoved the romance stakes through the bloody roof! “Look, maybe it won’t work. Maybe we’re so dam- er very messed up that there’s no fixing it, or maybe we’re just destined to hate each other, but I swear if it doesn’t work I’ll let you go if that’s what you want. But we should try. Please?”

Richildis gazed down at him, traces of tears still damp on her cheeks. For the longest time she didn’t say anything. Then her head dipped into the shallowest of nods.












It’s time to bid Jocelyn goodbye – and good luck. That’s his final scene. Turns out that the big solution was cutting off all the stuff which followed Richildis nodding. Even a single line more was too much; the thread departs the tapestry here, and here it must depart.

Now you will begin to understand what I have said about loose endings which will probably make people want to hurt me. What’s going to happen from here? He could fail, he could win her over, they could manage to rub along in many varying shades of tolerant (un)happiness. … The seeds for all of these possibilities are scattered throughout the story. I know what happens; you will have to decide for yourselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of you decide they manage to struggle through and end up in Happily Ever After :winkg:

Remember how occasionally I have said that the story writes itself and that I have very little influence? Also that occasionally a small chance here will have huge consequences there? Originally Jocelyn died. He was supposed to die. He was created purely to be a view on the other side of the channel, to view William’s accident and death, and to carry the news to England. His secondary mandate was to provide an alternative to all the happier couples and the courtly men. We should have seen him for the final time lying on the littered field at Alnwick with a lance snapped off in his guts, lying propped up against his dead warhorse, slowly dying in agony and alternately cursing his fate and mourning his lost chances.

That fate changed long, long ago, as he attended the wounded, then recovering, then dying William. All those things he began to realise about himself, his family, and the very problematic royal family of England subtly changed his path to one where he walked and lived. The cumulative effect of the many microscopic changes added up to him not being a hot-headed idiot and leading a mounted charge out of Alnwick’s gates in search of glory. He went on foot with the shaky faith that following Nell’s instructions was the right thing to do.

Jocelyn d’Ardentes, hail and farewell!



Thank you.

So that's it. The end. I will beg for some time to relax and to order the rambling thoughts in my mind. Excellent story!!!!

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The end I read in one breath. I'll await the "end" of the other character's story :bow:

THANK YOU!

(Truly, I was beaming as as I read that. Anything else I say would be superfluous.)

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

Jocelyn d’Ardentes, hail and farewell!

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Hail and farewell, indeed.

I don't agree this is a loose end, though. Not unless someone expects a happily-ever-after ending for everyone apart from Trempwick.

Did you intend for Jocelin and Tildis' arc to have a moral?

Stephen, you made it at last! You've been patiently chipping away at this mass of words for what feels like most of its lifetime. :gring: My PM box is as open as always; I look forward to the next to add to my collection.

Furball, I thought you would like it. ~:)

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Originally Posted by Ludens

I don't agree this is a loose end, though. Not unless someone expects a happily-ever-after ending for everyone apart from Trempwick.

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It depends on your tolerance, at least somewhat. Some people class a story which doesn't have every last "what happens for the rest of the characters' lives" pinned down in detail as having a loose ending. Others do so when the entire ending is so open that it's as if the book got cut into two and one part left out.

I've heard of people throwing books at walls for endings less open than Jocelyn's. Scary.

Quote:

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Did you intend for Jocelin and Tildis' arc to have a moral?

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I don't intend for anything to have a moral. Writers who set out to include morals and educate their audiences should go write pamphlets instead IMO. I have never read a work of fiction which sets out to contain morals which worked to my full satisfaction. The common mistake is making the story, characters and world secondary to the message. Hence the tendency to end up with less than lifelike characters, convenient happenings, a preachy tone, and other things a frog terms to be disastrous.

IMO if an author does their job well then people will naturally take bits away and think about them. How many and which parts are up to the reader and will be very personal. You can increase the likelihood that a certain bit is taken away for thought by writing it well; make people care about what's happening and why. People wanted Jocelyn to make peace with his wife because they like him, not because I'm telling a story about how men should try to stop swearing and write love poetry. Because they like him then at least some will have been thinking about the various things he has done, how, why. If you're thinking about something then ... well, you're thinking. Next time you're riding through a battle you might recall Jocelyn and his tendency to get shot, and head in the opposite direction when you see a man with a crossbow.

Writing with a moral in mind also suggests to me a certain sense of fear and uncertainty on the author’s part. A distrust of the readers. Certainly a sense of superiority and condescension.

There are some groups which would condemn me for condoning domestic violence and rape via Jocelyn. He's a popular, likeable character. The wife he has treated so poorly agrees to stay with him of her own will. Worse, the overall tone is that she’s equally responsible for the difficulties they have. There's no punishment of him for engaging in such behaviour. He's not viewed as a scumbag by his peers. The scenes where he commits these acts are frequently written in a humorous way. So on and so forth.

I have long found that fiction which sets out to be nothing more than the best fiction it can be is better than fiction which sets out to be anything else, and tends to have a better rate of success at being more than ‘just’ a story. Want to explore the causes behind the fall of the Roman Empire? Go write a history book; I’ll read it and be happy. Want to tell me about the holiday taken by this fascinating clerk who happens to live during the last years of the empire? Let’s go.

(Your mileage may vary. I’m a heavily character oriented writer, and that influences a lot. An event or theme oriented writer would be spitting up blood at the above.)

And so the curtain falls over one of my favourite characters.
Jocelyn, I bid you a fair adieu.

And thank you Lady frog for not including a happy ending.
To many stories are squandered because the writer felt the need end everything nicely and to explain everything.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

It depends on your tolerance, at least somewhat. Some people class a story which doesn't have every last "what happens for the rest of the characters' lives" pinned down in detail as having a loose ending. Others do so when the entire ending is so open that it's as if the book got cut into two and one part left out.

I've heard of people throwing books at walls for endings less open than Jocelyn's. Scary.

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I'd say that anybody who has gotten this far will realize your narrative is too complex for clear-cut endings.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

IMO if an author does their job well then people will naturally take bits away and think about them. How many and which parts are up to the reader and will be very personal. You can increase the likelihood that a certain bit is taken away for thought by writing it well; make people care about what's happening and why. People wanted Jocelyn to make peace with his wife because they like him, not because I'm telling a story about how men should try to stop swearing and write love poetry. If you're thinking about something then ... well, you're thinking.

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I didn't mean moral as in moralizing. That obviously does not apply to your story. I rather meant that you could draw certain observation about, say, male-female relations from your story. I was wondering how much of that was intentional. Thank you for the explanation.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Ludens

I didn't mean moral as in moralizing. That obviously does not apply to your story. I rather meant that you could draw certain observation about, say, male-female relations from your story. I was wondering how much of that was intentional. Thank you for the explanation.

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IMO moralising is stronger version of making observations. From my own writer's perspective the process of purposely engaging in either is very similar. The difference is that the moralising tends to be crass, less subtle, more heavyhanded.

I write about the people, who they are and what they do during a period I identify as particularly interesting. I write about Jocelyn's relationship because it's an important part of his character and his journey through this story. Doing that sets up a lot of food for thought without me having to pay it any mind, and with what I feel to be far, far better results. Letting the characters be their natural selves is what makes them rich and realistic, whereas if I tried to encourage the reader to make certain observations via Jocelyn it would impede his flow onto the page. He wouldn't be quite himself. The focus would have subtly altered; you would be looking through a differently shaped lense.

Fare thee well, Jocelyn:bow:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

IMO moralising is stronger version of making observations. From my own writer's perspective the process of purposely engaging in either is very similar. The difference is that the moralising tends to be crass, less subtle, more heavyhanded.

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Then I guess moral was simply a bad translation on my part.

<deleted, redundant>

I still have to catch up! :embarassed:

Constance eased the small of her back with her hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You do not need to tell me about the other child.”

“I am sorry,” Hugh murmured. Jesù! Logic, duty, the demands of his position – they had all seemed adequate motivations at the time. Here, now, they paled. His faithlessness was such poor payback for his wonderful, pregnant wife. “I am so sorry.”

Constance waved a hand dismissively. “If I am going to be jealous of her I might as well be jealous of your chamber pot. You had a need, you used her to fill it – as people expect you to do. She will not take my place in your heart, or your life.”

“No one could.” Hugh fidgeted with the hem of his tunic; if it mattered little to her then why had she brought it up the very instant they were alone together?

“Regarding it logically, it was a wise enough course for you to take.” The twitch of Constance’s shoulders as she inhaled suggested she might not be as sanguine as she endeavoured to appear. “People would find it odd if you did not have another woman while away from me so long, especially now.” She laid a hand on her swollen stomach. “That murdering bastard planted doubts enough about your ability to father children – they must be laid to rest once and for all. Two children will achieve that, where one might not. The timing was good also; it can be seen as God’s blessing on your reign.”

Hugh pressed his hands flat against his legs and attempted to match her rational manner. “This child can be trained as a support for our own heir. Should it be a boy, naturally. A girl would be of less use. He will be taught from birth that his purpose, his duty, is to aid his legitimately born brother. Having a faithful, stalwart aid of close blood can be invaluable for a man of power.”

“The idea has considerable merit,” Constance agreed. “Great care must be taken. The two boys should be run together from an early age. The bastard must not be allowed to develop a sense of ambition, or to consider a future where he does not stand at our son’s side.” She spread her hands and made an effort to smile. “There. You have seen I am not angry with you. Perhaps now you will relax? You have been on edge all day.”

So she thought he struggled to find a way to confess his adultery to her, and sought to spare him the struggle. Such things as this ensured that no other could ever take her place in his heart. Hugh ran a hand through his hair. The moment was here. Cowardly delay must not be entertained. “Alas, my heart is greatly pained that I have other, worse, news to impart.” Then, all in one great rush, “I am not the heir. The old king disowned me on his deathbed, and named me bastard. I have no right to the throne, none! I am nothing, son of nobody, not a prince, merely the bastard of a harlot and her traitor of a lover. I am not worthy of you – there is not a drop of royal blood in my veins!”

Constance took all of this very calmly. “Then who is the heir?”

It took Hugh a painful amount of time to relay all that had happened. Constance pressed him on multiple points, questioned him, made him repeat parts, and all the while Hugh burned anew with the humiliation – the injustice! – of his rejection.

When the account was rendered to her satisfaction Constance held out her hand to him. Hugh took it, and allowed her to pull him down to sit next to her. “Hugh,” she said, gently grasping his chin and making him look at her, “I am going to say two things, two things I believe with all my heart. Firstly, a lifetime’s belief counts for far more than a last minute doubt. William owned you as his son for a quarter of a decade. Secondly, you will be – are – England’s king because you deserve it. You have laboured for it, bled for it, given up much for it, and done your all to be worthy of it. That is more than most would consider, let alone do.” When he would have spoken she laid a finger on his lips. “The whole country knows the battle cry you used at Alnwick. ‘God aid us.’ Do you not think your appeal heard favourably?”

Hugh’s answer was as velvet-soft as her own words, “Victory could have been granted me in order that I might rescue my half-sister, the true heir.”

“If such were so, then you might have died in the final stages of the battle, once Trempwick had been captured. That would fill your function and clear the way for her. You did not die; you lived.”

“It does not do to second guess God,” he chided.

The corner of her mouth twitched. “No, it does not. So cease attempting to.”

“I do not attempt to!” The tug of the scab on his eyebrow reminded him not to scowl. “And, whatever you might believe, my course is set. I will take the throne, with the blessing of the rightful heir. I am not the rightful heir, and will not suffer you to name me as such. Not here, not in private. I can stomach the fiction where I must; I will not have it inflicted upon me where it may be avoided.” Once more he looked her in the eye, with, he suspected, a trace of desperation, willing her to understand. “It hurts. It hurts, Constance. You might as well brand me with irons each time, for surely it would pain me less than being reminded again and yet again of what I am.”

At last she relented, bowed her head. “You must not allow Eleanor to control you. Hugh, you must not! For our own safety. For the good of your mind – knowing you are little more than her slave would destroy you.”

“We have our agreement,” Hugh stated stiffly. Aware of the unfairness of leaving her in the dark on a matter which touched her almost as deeply as it did him, Hugh detailed the settlement he had made with his half-sister. All of it, down to the downright unflattering part where he had promised to kill her children so they could be no threat to his.

Constance let out a breath. “All very well and good, but will she keep to it?” She tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowing. “Will you keep to it? All of it?”

Hugh felt his face go hard. “My half-sister and I will do as we must.”







Got loads more after this. Every scene but 2 requires a tweak, an addition, a revision, something, before I feel them passable. Didn’t like this one until I got rid of the pair of dialogue recaps and replaced them with a simple ‘so Hugh explained’ deal instead.

You’ll have to excuse me; I should have headed to bed 20 minutes ago. I stayed to finish and post this. Delay much longer and I will be like a zombie tomorrow.

Thanks for those 20 extra minutes of dedication then.

Add one more to the list of people who became a member just to comment on your story. I have been following this for months, and do hope there will be more. You have a very entertaining style and an immagination that I truely envy. Your occassional POV style only serves to move the story along, and certainly intruduces a change in cadence. Thank you for hours of pure entertainment. When you publish, I will be standing in the line at the bookstore.

Ahem, an intrigue between Constance and Eleanor has been forming for a very long time. Yet it is now when it becomes a focus of the story... Inquisitive how this will develop in the very end of the story...

P.S. I have not forgotten about my letter. It is half typed but I've had busy weeks recently. :bow:

The armoured man clipped bow in his saddle. “We’re in pursuit of rebels. My lord.” The last was added with a certain emphasis. “Pray clear our path and leave us to it.”

Fulk let these slights slide, intent on the meat of the matter. “You entered my lands with neither warning nor permission.”

“Are we not on the same side, my lord?”

“Nonetheless.”

York’s knight put his spurs to his horse; the animal sidled forward, hooves churning up the earth. “We’re pursuing rebels. My lord commanded me to hunt them down wherever we found them, out of obedience to our king. Do you obstruct us?”

Sueta stood his ground before the display, as unperturbed as Fulk himself tried to appear. “It is impolite to enter a man’s lands without first notifying him and asking leave.”

“What has politeness to do with hunting rebels?” scoffed the knight. “Now let us pass.”

“It might be taken as a declaration of hostility.” Fulk let his voice drift closer to hardness. “Or a failed attempt at a sneak attack.” Fulk surreptitiously attempted to ease his left shoulder; the weight of his shield was beginning to tell on his healing flesh.

The man slapped his hand to his sword’s hilt. “What do you accuse me of?” he demanded. “Any accusation you point at me carries to my lord, and he will answer it in full!”

With close to thirty men at his back – his entire contingent of mounted men – Fulk didn’t feel threatened. He outnumbered this provocative band by five. “I accuse you of being overzealous in following your lord’s commands, and of bringing disrepute to his name – something your attitude now is compounding.”

“And I, sir, accuse you of obstructing our hunt for the king’s enemies! Are you a traitor, sir?”

Behind his helmet’s face plate Fulk almost smiled, wearily amused at the thought this man believed he could be goaded into foolhardiness by failure to accord him his title. “I have scouts all over the land for miles. They have not reported any trouble in this area.”

“Then they missed something. I tell you, we came in pursuit.” The man’s horse snorted and danced forward a few more steps.

Too close; Sueta’s ears went up and he displayed his teeth in warning. Fulk ran a hand over the destrier’s neck, playing his show of dispassion to the full. There were no rebels, of that he was certain. York’s party had been spotted and report of their intrusion had been running to Alnwick before they reached Fulk’s lands proper. If they had been chasing stragglers from Trempwick’s army then the alarm would have been sparked by the fleeing party. No, this was deliberate, no doubt at York’s own order. Should trouble flare as a result the earl could claim innocence as he rode at Hugh’s side at the opposite end of the realm.

Fulk offered the man a chance to climb down with honour intact. “Then let us search together. Twice as many men will make it a faster job.”

He could see the knight thinking, quickly weighing his options. He could continue to press in the hopes of causing an incident; he’d come off worse in any fight so it didn’t recommend. He could turn and ride back and report Fulk for obstructing him; the accusation of protecting the king’s enemies wouldn’t stick if the offer of a dual search were refused. He could back down and leave; that would as good as admit they’d been attempting to cause him trouble. He could accept, waste a few hours in a pointless search and leave with appearances mostly intact.

“Very well,” the knight said. “But they’ve probably got away thanks to your interference.”

Fulk gave his men a pre-arranged signal and they fell in around York’s party, ostensibly to escort them. “You should have sent a messenger on ahead. Then we could have scrambled to meet them and caught them between our two parties.”

“You wouldn’t have arrived in time,” was the sulky reply.

This time Fulk did smile in the privacy of his helmet. “Oh, I don’t know. We managed to meet you before you’d gotten seven miles past my border.”








I had a persistent scene which takes place between the previous one and this one. I had to write it in order to get some peace and quiet from it. Being as it was entirely superfluous, I then deleted it. We don’t need a scene as long as this one simply because it has one neat line from Malcolm and a notification about something Hugh is doing which can easily fit into any of his next scenes. Without that scene barging its way into my mind as I try to work on material more useful I can progress. Too late to be much good; the scene which should have gone with this one and the prior one to make a single update is still a work in progress.


Peasant Phill, the 20 minutes gained me safety. Nell would have been glaring at me if I'd let the story sit around any longer :tongueg:

Welcome, Numerius. Here's the traditional eyedrops to help you recover.

Stephan, I'm busy too, so it's no problem. Christmas. :shudders: Worst period to work in retail.

To her highness Lady Frog,
My name is Olaf Blackeyes. I have been trying to read through your titanic stroy for almost two months now. I am still only at page fifteen of this thread. You are en epic storymistress i must say. I am having a hard time following all of my suspicions of your characters. If you were to write this as a book to sell i believe you would become famous.But enough praise for now. i must get back to reading
:laugh4::laugh4::yes::beam:

On the way home from work today I got hit by the idea for a scene, and when I say hit I mean it thudded into me like a truck steamrolling a hedgehog on a motorway. I nearly started giggling on the bus! It was too good to let slip – it demanded to be written – and so I hit the keyboard on getting home. An hour and a bit later here we are, a short story featuring Jocelyn. I thought this one might go down well with the Jocelyn fans here, and it does give you something to read.

A baby which isn’t a boy is a … girl?

Jocelyn swept in through the gate like a conquering hero. He was: he was a glorious conquering hero who had achieved incredible things, leaving all men in his shade.

His sons came rushing over, all six of them. Strapping, handsome lads with fair colouring and sturdy grace – they clearly took after their father. They clamoured about his destrier, asking questions and pouring out worship for his prowess. Like the excellent father he was he humoured them, telling them this and that about his latest feats. About how he’d killed twenty men in a single battle. About how he’d won his own weight in gold at the king’s tournament. About how he’d awed his royal lord and been awarded another manor.

His wife waited for him to dismount before flinging herself on him in a display of emotion. Richildis weeping with joy, telling him how very proud she was of him. Jocelyn flashed his sons a bright smile to say “Watch your old man in action!” then devoted his attention to kissing his wife most thoroughly.

Richildis drew away, blushing most becomingly. In a throaty murmur she said, “I had the servants warm the bed sheets …”

“But I haven’t had a bath,” Jocelyn exclaimed.

“I don’t care.” Richildis took his arm, oh so very demure to those who were watching and couldn’t know that she was leading him off towards the keep. Yowzah! “I’ve been waiting for you to return for long enough.”

Being a right proper courtly man Jocelyn didn’t protest further, calling back over his shoulder instructions for his sons to take care of his horse.

At that point, right when things were getting to their most interesting, someone elbowed him in the ribs and Jocelyn woke up. “Bloody hell …”

Richildis thumped him again. “The baby!”

“What about him?” Jocelyn turned over and put his back to her. Thierry was sleeping peacefully in his crib – pity the same couldn’t be said of his poor tormented father.

The damned woman just elbowed him some more and cried, “The baby! It’s coming!”

Oh. That baby. The second one. Jocelyn sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Couldn’t you have picked a better time, damn it?” Remembering that there tended to be all kinds of hellish mess involved in birth, it seemed like a damned fine idea to get out of the danger area immediately.

Richildis snarled, “No, I could not!” God’s bones, what was her problem anyway?

The bedchamber was coming to life; Richildis’ maid stumbled away in search of the midwife while young Alain, Jocelyn’s page, handed his shivering lord his shirt.

Jocelyn tugged the linen over his head, aware that his cock was half up and bobbing with his movements like a drunken peasant on the way home from the pub. Virile? Nope, more like pathetic. How totally at odds with his awesome male machismo!

All the bother woke Thierry up. The poor lad instantly started to scream his wee little head off in protest. Jocelyn beamed like a proud daddy even as he winced at the volume. No one could doubt his son had a healthy pair of lungs.

For no reason at all Richildis screamed, “Ooooow!” Then the stupid cow hurled the bolster at him. “This is all your fault! I hate you!”

Ordering his page to bring the rest of his clothes Jocelyn exited his bedchamber before anything else could go wrong. Last thing he needed was to listen to Richildis whinging about pain or dying or whatever, and as for mess and all that … stuff, well frankly it was female business and best left to them. He’d done his part months ago and it was time to be off!

Once through the doorway he remembered Richildis no doubt needed his encouragement to keep her fragile spirits up during the lengthy ordeal. Besides, she was about his give him another son and well, he’d be a scummy churl if he didn’t do his best to support her. Jocelyn ducked back around the doorframe and called, “Good luck!” There. What more could a woman ask for? With that he retreated to dress.






By the time he reached the main hall most of those who’d been slumbering there had been woken up by the commotion going on above. Excellent- if he had to miss his bloody rest them then everyone else damned well could too.

One of Jocelyn’s knights saluted him with a wine cup. “Here’s to another crop from our lord’s ploughing!”

Others bellowed their approval.

Jocelyn brandished a fist in the air, grinning. “Another fine son to follow after me.”

“Might not be. Might be a girl.” The man who’d spoke this ridiculous thought met the scores of eyes which centred on him with a defiant shrug. “Just saying, that’s all. It might be. Babies do come in two sorts, after all.”

“It will be a son. Of course it will – why wouldn’t it? All my children are boys.” Jocelyn stood with his feet planted, thumbs thrust through his belt. His pride in his abilities didn’t quite run far enough to tastelessly thrust his crotch out, but damn it if the suggestion of incredible virility wasn’t there! “My seed runs to boys and nothing else! One legitimate, two bastards. How many others can say they’ve had so many boys in a run?” And he wasn’t yet in his twenty-second year, by God’s balls. Sometimes he amazed even himself! “Now will someone get me a bloody drink? Or do I have to wait like a novice monk finding out what his penance will be?”

Goblet filled, emptied, filled and drained once more Jocelyn swayed to his feet. Better go and put in a prayer or two for the safe delivery of his son. His wife too. Nagging, whinging blight that she was, at least she was pretty. Useful too; good administrator in his absence. Be tragic if she died and he had to marry some ugly thing that wasn’t any fun to bed, or a giggling empty-headed trollop who spent his money like water. Hmm, well, the trollop part of that wouldn’t be so bad. Um, if she confined her enthusiasm to him, anyway. Nothing worse than wondering if your son was your son, and if Tildis was as cold as ice well at least he didn’t need to worry about her scampering off after some ninny with nice legs and a tuneful singing voice!







Second children didn’t take as long to arrive. That’s what everyone had told him. Thierry had taken the best part of an entire day to show up. Second children usually showed up within a matter of hours, or so they insisted. He bloody well hoped so because the entire birth process thing was torture. Richildis probably wasn’t enjoying it much either. The time crawled by. Jocelyn drank. He prayed. He wandered about his chapel. He reconsidered names, returning as always to Jean. A good name, that. His grandfather’s name. A strong name. He wondered again if he should endow this son with a bit of land, direct him to life as a landless knight, or put him into the church. Best to see what the lad shaped up like, really. Be a crying shame to put a natural fighter into the church. With Jocelyn for a father the boy would be no milksop, that was for damned sure!

And still he waited. This was all because of Tildis’ agitated state at the start, no doubt. If the damned woman hadn’t gotten over-excited and starting hollering and throwing things then little Jean would be here already. Damn her! And may God and the Blessed Virgin watch over her and bring her safely through her labours.

Jocelyn headed back to the hall for another drink, and passed the time regaling the assembly with his plans for Jean.






At long last his wife’s maid appeared in the doorway which led up to the private chambers. A cheer went through the hall, a drunken kind of cheer which was all happy and good because everyone knew that he had a second son and the future was as secure as secure could be like gold in a box which was locked up and stored in a locked up room inside a castle with hundreds of guards who were as honest as honest could be. Yes.

The maid began, “Mother and baby are both hale and well.”

Jocelyn raised his goblet. Some of the wine slopped onto his wrist. “My son! Greet my son! Hail Jean!”

Voices called back, “May he prosper!” and other such blessings which were really very nice and just the sort of thing you want for your lovely new boy.

The maid said, “No, my lord. Your daughter.”

“What?” Jocelyn gaped at her. Must be the wine. Yes. Drank too much. Was drunk. Yes, imagining things and not hearing properly and oh my God this couldn’t be happening to him! A daughter!?

“You have a daughter, my lord.”

Nope. Wasn’t the drink. Wasn’t his hearing. She’d actually said it. Buggering hell! “What!?” he repeated.

“A daughter. A girl. One of those children which grow up to become women.”

Some folk tittered at that bit of disrespect. Jocelyn tottered towards the maid with the intention of clouting her. “But I don’t want a daughter!” he said, completely bewildered at how this had happened. It was Richildis’ fault. It had to be. She’d done it on purpose, just to spite him.

“None the less, that is what God has given you.”

Jocelyn finally reached the maid and thumped her upside the ear. “Show more respect to your lord, damn your hide!”

The maid clutched her injury and cowered a bit. That was better. “My lady wonders if my lord will come and see his daughter?”

When Thierry had been born he’d shot off up those stairs to greet his son before they’d even finished telling him. A daughter. A daughter! “No,” he snapped. “I won’t.”

The maid swallowed hard, and it wasn’t hard to see that she dreaded taking this news back to her mistress. Yeah, well, sod her. Shouldn’t have brought him such dreadful news, and anyway she was plain and Richildis had only chosen her because she thought that Jocelyn wouldn’t touch such a dull creature and maybe she was right but then maybe she wasn’t because Jocelyn would do what he damned well pleased and if he wanted a plain girl to play with then he’d bloody well have a plain girl to play with, thanks very much and if it was all the same! “What name does my lord wish to give the child?”

Jocelyn turned away, in dire need of another drink. “What do I care? It’s no interest to me what the thing is called. Damn it, it’s not even of use to me! Tell my wife she can name it whatever she pleases.”

“And when she asks when you will come to see the baby?”

Jocelyn turned back, bleary with wine and disappointment. “When I please, and not a bloody moment before.”






He had to see the baby. Duty, fatherhood and all that. Alright, more than that: he couldn’t go twelve years never coming into contact with the thing until the day he started to arrange its marriage. Not enough space in the castle for that, for one thing. Better bite down and get it over with. It wasn’t a complete disaster after all. Other men had daughters. Good thing, otherwise no one would ever have anyone to marry. Women were wonderful, marvellous creatures, and his life wouldn’t be the same without them. It was just that he’d never seen himself as producing them. Marrying them, seducing them, dallying with them, passing them in the street, seeing them in daily life and all that, yes, but making one of his own? No way!

Jocelyn delayed some hours, doing his best not to drink any more so he’d at least be mostly sober when he went to look at it. Mostly. Important detail there.

The baby was small. It was still squashed from passing out of Richildis’ body. It had gone a normal colour instead of the freakishness of the very newly born, that much at least could be said. It was … what? Holding the baby in his arms Jocelyn wondered what to do. Thing was, it was a girl. With boys it was easy. You held them, you admired them, you listened to their lusty bellowing and knew it meant they would be fine and healthy men in a couple of decades. You prodded your finger into their palms and foretold a strong grip on a sword. You looked at their balls and exclaimed how lucky their women would be. And so on. Girls … Honestly, what could you say? That it would be good at sewing? That its nether parts were nicely shaped? Christ almighty and a barrel of pickled figs, however comfortable Jocelyn was with that end of a woman it really was quite not the same thing at all and totally, completely icky to even contemplate looking at that bit if it was related to him, which this one was, and not only that it was a baby and less than five hours old!

Richildis prompted, “Her name is Mahaut.”

He’d not said anything for entirely too long. He’d better come up with something fast or Tildis would go into some kind of sulk about him not appreciating her efforts or something. Jocelyn went through the words carefully. He should say he was glad she was safe and well. That the child was well. That he was pleased. He started to speak. “Damn it, this is your fault! You didn’t eat enough beans or something, or you’d have had a boy! My seed always runs to boys! I told everyone it would be a boy! This is going to cost me a fortune later when I have to marry it on!”

The baby started to cry. Thierry started to cry. Richildis started to cry. Jocelyn had take all he could stomach; he handed the baby back to the wet nurse and stormed out. He’d be damned before he’d stay there and let them make him feel ungrateful and guilty.






Jocelyn spent the day hunting. Bastard stags and such probably did nothing but spawn endless parades of sons anyway, so they deserved to be killed.

He’d gotten rather muddy so he headed up to his bedchamber for a change of clothes. Yeah, well he could hardly hide forever, could he? This was his life now. Every time he went near his family the girl would be there, lurking, waiting to remind him again how little Jean had failed to appear. Tildis would be all glowering and miserable, blaming him for not being happy. Females! They made his life wretched and it was not fair!

Blessed peace reigned in the chamber. Thierry was asleep, so was Richildis, and the new one was being held by its nurse and staring blankly into space like babies tended to do.

Jocelyn stealthily crept across the floorboards, dodging the ones he knew creaked, praying to any kindly heavenly force which might still care for him that nothing would disturb the scene and make his life more awkward.

He stripped off his hose without second thought for the nurse. If she looked then she could admire, if not then who cared? Not like he could do anything with her anyway, what with her being a recent mother herself. Ah, and there was a new gloomy thought: he’d still got forty days left to run before Tildis was churched and he could begin work on young Jean. He’d be buggered if he was going to hang around that long; he’d have to pass near Jeannette’s soon. Last week’s visit already felt like a long time ago. Damn it, that wonder knew what to do with a man!

He straightened up from fastening the cloth strips which wound around his shins to keep his legs warm and hose clean, and found a fresh tunic. As he pulled his dirty one off he heard the baby made one of those strange snuffling, choking noises the very young frequently made. Damned thing wouldn’t let him forget about it, would it?

Oh, sod it. Let it not be said that he neglected the child. He hadn’t wanted it but still, he’d got it and had to make the best of it. It wasn’t right to leave a child to grow up ignored.

Tightening his belt Jocelyn stalked over to the nurse and thrust out his arms. “Hand it over then.” He kept his voice low. Better not wake anyone up or there’d be more crying and bother.

The nurse silently placed the girl in his arms and withdrew to a discreet distance.

“So. Mahaut.” Where had Tildis got that name? The baby stared up at him with the unfocused, myopic gaze of the very young. Big blue eyes, just like all his sons had had shortly after birth. What colour would this one’s eyes settle to? Light Jocelyn thought, and fair colouring. “I suppose you’ll be beautiful. With parents like us how could you not be?” Well she had already been contrary enough to be a girl instead of a boy, so he wouldn’t be that shocked if she was ugly too.

Christ’s cross, that nurse kept watching and it was off-putting, and trying to be quiet so he didn’t wake anyone up was just as bad. And it occurred to him that he hadn’t made his parentage of the child publicly known, which kind of sort of boded trouble maybe because then people might whisper that it wasn’t his after all, and that wouldn’t do. He’d fair burst with pride when he’d held Thierry up to display him to his people! Not so this time.

Jocelyn headed towards the door, still carrying the baby. The wet nurse protested, “You can’t-”

He snapped, “Is it mine or not? I can do as I please with it.” Did the damned woman think he intended to lob it off a tower or something!? He wasn’t a monster, for crying out loud!

Jocelyn took the stairs slowly, careful not to fall or lose his balance. Tildis would complain if he dropped the baby down three flights of stone steps and he couldn’t be bothered with that. As they neared the next floor the baby began to fuss and thrash its arms about. Jocelyn paused. “You’d better not be about to throw up on me or something. You’ve caused me enough trouble already, damn it.” He shivered a bit; it was cold on the unheated staircase. “Oh. I suppose you are cold. Don’t suppose I can expect you to tough it out like a boy.” He gathered up the trailing edge of his cloak and wrapped it around the blankets already covering Mahaut. “There. Better?”

Still the baby stared at him. Well, maybe not stared. At this age they just looked blankly in the direction of any noise. How very flattering.

He continued his descent. “You’re going to cost me a fortune. Dowries don’t come cheap, you know. Then there’s all that business about dresses and such, and I can’t just give you Thierry’s old toys. There’s no way I’m letting you loose with a wooden sword when you’re able to walk, bloody hell no! No daughter of mine is going to be a hellion. Take notice of that, baby.” He tapped her gently on the chin, marvelling at how massive she made his fingertip seem. Sternly he warned, “You’re going to be very well behaved.”

Not much of a reaction. Disappointing, really. Maybe she’d be more interesting when she was older. Able to smile, laugh and all that. Right now he might as well talk to a log. At least a log would be useful. You couldn’t use a baby to keep a fire going. Well, ok, you could if you were an evil son of a bitch, but Jocelyn wasn’t and would never so much as think about it.

“You had better be a credit to me. Gracious, pretty, and all that. I’ve been put through enough embarrassment because of you already.”

The fussing had stopped, and she was still gazing up at him. Kind of an adoring gaze, actually. She liked him? Of course she did – he was her father and an all-round stunning chap. “You’ve got good taste to work that out so quickly,” he told her. “Guess you inherited that from me because it can’t have come from your mother.” Wonder what else she’d pick up from him? Interesting thought, now he looked at it. With boys it was fairly easy to think of a miniature version of himself, but what would he be like as a girl? “I wonder …” Jocelyn paused again. “Beautiful, that goes without saying. Charming too. And smart. But that’s not a person, not really, is it? I mean, are you going to end up with a sturdier build – and I don’t mean fat or chunky because no blood of mine could ever be like that! – or will you be all slight and willowy? Going to have fine fingers like your mother, stronger ones like mine, or something midway between the two? My eyes or hers? My nose or hers?”

A myopic blink was his only answer.

“You like me, don’t you? That’s why you’re not wailing. Got to be. Yes. You like me talking to you, don’t you?” He tickled the baby under the chin and got something that passed for a laugh. “You’re a cunning little bundle, you know that. Yes, you are.” Jocelyn realised he was cooing and cleared his throat. In a more manly tone he continued, “You’re trying to charm me. You know that I’m no good at resisting charming women, don’t you? You know I can’t dislike any woman who adores me, don’t you? Cunning little thing.” And he found himself beaming. “You’re going to love me. Your mother won’t like that but so what, she’ll just have to live with it.”

When he reached the main hall Jocelyn stood in the middle of the dais with Mahaut in his arms and waited for quiet. Carefully he held the baby up so all could see her. “This is my daughter, Mahaut. She is perfect in every way and without blemish, and of my blood. Greet her.”

Everyone in the hall responded with a hail of some sort, recognising their lord’s latest addition to his brood.

The noise upset the baby and she began to bawl. Jocelyn rocked her in his arms and made shushing noises, waving away the half-hearted attempts to take her off his hands. “Quiet, quiet, it’s alright, I’m here. Daddy’s here. I’ll buy you a rattle, would you like that?” As he started back up the stairs the wailing slowed. He kept up his efforts, determined not to be proved lacking as a father. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? Yes, you would. If you’re a good baby and stop crying by the time we get to the top I’ll buy you a nice toy to chew on too. Even though you’re much too young to have teeth, you’d like that. Yes, you would. I saw this lovely one in the shape of a bird, just right for tiny fingers to clutch, and it had seeds inside it so it rattled, which will make it almost as good as your rattle, won’t it? Then you’ll have both. Won’t that be nice?” The crying stopped, see what an excellent parent he was? Outstanding!

“I’ll get you a blanket. A nice one. Something in deep blue to match those eyes of yours, at least until we know what colour they are going to be when you grow up. How about that? Yes, that’s nice, isn’t it.” And damn it if somehow he hadn’t been caught. He couldn’t say why and he couldn’t say when it started, but he loved this little girl with all his heart. He recognised another fundamental truth. “Daddy’s going to go into debt over you, isn’t he?”

Mahaut cooed in agreement.

“I’ll get you a pony when you’re old enough to ride, and lots of nice clothes, and some little shoes made out of red leather because I always thought they looked cute but you can’t put cute clothes on a boy. And a ball, and a toy horse, and …”





Welcome Olaf. You will be in need of the famous Eleanor eyedrops by now, to help your eyes survive the marathon read :hands them over:

:takes eye drops: My thanks your highness. These will come in useful for this read and future reads as well. I finished your story up to the current installment about a week ago. Once i got started i read through it REALLY quick. I seriously think you should consider getting this published. I know id buy it:beam::beam::smash::beam:.
I can only wonder what gonna happennext now that Trempy is in chains or is this truly the End? I have to admit that for while there i was expecting the Germans to invade England or Eleanor to get exposed and executed or something like that. :2thumbsup:
GJ plz keep it up.

Wonderful tale, Froggy! Thank you! You write Jocelyn so very well. <insert more gushing praise here>

Two little things: I realize Jocelyn would think it without question, but I was surprised you used the "c" word - then again, I guess we've all grown older, eh? And I was startled to see Jocelyn's age referenced as 22. (I realize this story need not take place in the time frame of Eleanor's tale.)

Anyway, strong and compelling writing; thanks again.

I see many things have progressed. Trempwick i feel will still have a major role, despite his intended fate. I was rather sad to see Jocelyn go as he gives the story a certain depth IMO. Glad you gave him a final go, was a great idea indeed. Don't overwork yourself updating or grinding your teeth to nubs to give us a quick respite from the want of more gooseberry stories. I'd personally prefer if you gave yourself a respite from the hectic life you have before continuing to write, refreshed. I sense the end is near...still, keep up the good job:2thumbsup:.

Thanks to let us give a last good-bye to Jocelyn. He'll be missed.

But now, on with the story.

They cut his hands loose. What chance now of his escape? Slender to none. Mewed up inside these walls … Grant him time and mayhap. Mayhap. Repton was no fortress. Was but an abbey incrementally dwindling away at a site which had once been royal. Once. Long, long ago. Before the Conqueror.

Dwindling. Trempwick smiled oh so very slightly as he rubbed his wrists to ease away the imprint of rope. Dwindling – with high stone walls and a layout easily covered by a handful of guards. A nearby castle. Patrols. And, of course, royal connections.

“You smirk.” The abbot stood, folded his hands into his dangling sleeves. “You find something in our situation humorous?” The guards left.

Ah, forget it. Once caught a man might let go a little. Trempwick admitted himself caught in more ways than one. Still amazed by it. Delighted. Infuriated. Disgusted. He let the smile bloom. “I do. Indeed I do. My dear Nell has such qualities – one must appreciate them.”

The abbot sank back into his seat. Posed like the stern old twig he was. “I could not comment.”

Trempwick tutted. “Come, man. She has handed me, her former tutor, to your care. You, who applied for that very same honour, and failed to win her. It is quite … delightful. So delicate. Like the merest touch of a cat’s claw to warn against importune movement.” A form of purgatory for both men.

“I do not recall that I failed to win her,” bristled the other man. “I recall that you obstructed me at every turn.”

Polite motion with his right hand. “Naturally. Having found her worth the bother of teaching I could hardly hand her off again, could I?”

“You do not appear to have taught her well.”

At this Trempwick did laugh. “Roger, take it for the honest truth and not exaggeration when I say that if I had not taught her well I would not be here.”

“Forgive me when I say that if you had taught her well she would now be a credit to her family, not married to some …” The abbot’s lip curled, “thing dragged from the Lord knows where, and may he soon be returned to those dunghills from which he emerged. Touched by scandals. Implicated in the centre of a civil war! A princess of the blood, ruined.”

“Views you have made no secret of,” Trempwick shot back. “The comments you have made on her these past months … Well, let us say they are akin to jutting your head above the parapet and begging to be shot, my dear man.”

The words seemed to goad rather than cow Roger. “It is my moral duty as a man of God to comment on such obscenity!” Stabbed a finger at Trempwick. “Even you will admit this one has landed herself in a disreputable position.”

Cautiously, “I admit there are aspects of her present state which fall outside my hopes for her-”

The abbot interrupted boldly, “You mean she is not warming your bed and providing you a crown!”

Continued smoothly, “However I believe that if you had gained your way, then yes, she would have been ruined. You would made of her some pious nun, or a docile wife.”

“Precisely!” Roger jabbed at Trempwick with a forefinger. Again. Tiresome, overused gesture. “A credit to her blood.”

Shaking his head as he spoke, “And such a dreary waste of talent. The world has a thousand thousand docile wives and another hundred thousand boring nuns. It has precious few capable of proper thought.” Trempwick made himself chuckle, and seated himself on the edge of the abbot’s desk. Earned a glare by it. Good. “Does our situation not prove what I say? What docile wife would conceive this?”

The abbot massaged his greying temples. “This placement came as royal command. I was duty bound to accept it. I make no secret of the fact I do not want it – I would prefer you anywhere but here, Trempwick. I fear I shall not have a single restful moment as long as you remain within these walls.”

Bared teeth, show that the wolf is not yet vanquished. “Then open the gates and let me go.”

Roger lowered his arms to the table top. “I am commanded to do all in my ability to keep you here, and so I shall.”

“Indeed you shall, for you are far from favour and would do well to fear for your future should you fail.” Widen that feral smirk a touch. “Hugh. Nell. Neither will forgive you for letting me loose. Nor will those in affinity with them. Fail and you are finished. Is it not as beautiful as I said? She has achieved vengeance and security in one move.” Lose the smugness. “And I, fortunately for you, gave Eleanor my solemn vow that I would attempt no escape.” More’s the pity.

“And what value has this?” Roger snapped hid fingers. “That! None but a fool or a child would trust your word, traitor.”

“And so we shall all be on our toes, each minute of each day. On our toes and at each other’s throats, if I might be so bold as to make that prediction.” Stroked his lower lip. “Ah, has she not worked a thing worthy of respect?”

Roger slouched back in his chair. “Huh. And so you too are pushed from the wagon. It’s a wonder you lasted so long. That girl acquired early a reputation for running through tutors.”

“Oh, very much so,” Trempwick admitted easily. “If anything I think the general gossip understated. One man went to Ireland rather than remain with her. Got himself killed. Spear in the face during one of the many ambushes the locals were inflicting on our men.” That damned fool had tried to beat her. He should have known royal pride would not tolerate it.

Richard morosely crossed himself. “One wonders if it is a hatred for all tutors, or just those she came into contact with.”

Trempwick decided to laugh. It was almost a reasonable bit of humour. “Only those she has personally met, I think. That is to say, I do not know of her causing bother for any who did not attempt to touch her life.”

The abbot laughed too. Perhaps this captivity might be endurable after all.

Said, “I have given some thought as to how I might pass my days.”

“Bored?”

Thin smile to acknowledge the foray. “I am requested to work on an instructional piece.”

“Requested by whom?”

“By my lady Eleanor. Who else?”

Drew the immediate response, “You will do nothing until I have prince Hugh’s permission.”

Trempwick shrugged. Nell would ensure permission came. Her desire – need – to learn the remainder of what he had to teach was too great to allow the bastard to interfere.

Roger steepled his fingers. “Were I you, Trempwick, I should spend my time in prayer. For the good of my soul.”

A certain gentle tone conveyed more threat than any amount of posturing. He used it. “Try to cut a tonsure on my head and I will break both your arms.”

“For myself, I should be pleased enough to let you burn in hell for all eternity, traitor. My position as a churchman demands I make the effort to save you.”

“Spare me.” Touched the crucifix he wore about his neck. “Higher authorities than those on earth will judge me, and all that is in my heart will be known to them.”

The abbot’s eyes narrowed. “We shall debate matters of religion, it appears.”

“As you like.” Stood up, looked down at the other man. “I will read. Everything you have, and all that you can request from elsewhere. I shall play chess. I shall do stretches and other simple exercise to keep myself limber – I abhor the idea of growing soft and fat.” Like a cleric. “I shall keep abreast of news from the world, if only that you may be assured I have no links with outside other than those you grant me. I shall find sundry other ways to occupy my days, I am sure. The prospect of an idle life is not one I have previously faced. As a boy I had my training. As a man my work.” And he would wait. Above all that.

Tone one of overstated reasonableness which mocked, “Is there anything else you wish to make your stay more enjoyable, Raoul?”

Considered. “Yes. I noticed on the ride in that you have a good herd. I presume you have a dairy to match? I shall learn to make cheese.” A man of his age heading into semi-retirement might be permitted some whimsy.










That brings us to the end of what should have been one part, not many.

Another Christmas survived. Number 4. Each year has been worse than the last. I wonder if that is related to my being promoted to a higher position each year, or if it’s merely down to Christmas in this company getting nastier? Bit of both, I’d guess. Never had to worry about stock levels before. Never had to stay after the shop closes on Christmas eve to set up a sale before either.

I have a persistent, nagging vision of a short story. It has been dogging me for days. Weeks. It’s an event I have known about for years and not been bothered by until now. There’s a problem: it’s set years after my intended cut off point for this story. It would make a lovely epilogue scene, actually. Alright, there’s more than one problem. I absolutely do not intend to have an epilogue, and will not add one. It works well as a stand alone and fits my vision better as one. The final problem? It’s after this ends, so you can’t read it :p That means the wait for the next postable piece would be longer. I’ll see if I can keep it smothered until I am done with the main story, then there won’t be a delay. Not going to be easy - I close my eyes and I see the boy nicknamed Silent staring at me and I get shivers down my spine because I can’t ignore that there’s a form of beauty in the way it echoes.

There’s another vision after me, too. A far lengthier tale, though definitely short by my standards as it would ‘only’ run to ~50 pages. I have said previously that I could do the story of Fulk’s parents. Alas, there’s a scene in their story which they have weaved before my nose and it’s quite … striking. And as such, persistent. Fulk’s father is a man I find I like quite a bit. It doesn’t help that the song he starts to sing is one of the authentic medieval ones on my most common Eleanor writing soundtrack. The instant it appeared on tonight’s playlist I was no longer with Trempy in Repton, but with two others in an altogether different scene!

Threes are so often considered important. Perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that there’s a third. This one doesn’t chase, doesn’t fight for attention. This one stands leaning against a stone wall, arms folded and this sardonic smirk on his face. All tall, lean and lanky, not good looking and a bit gaunt in the cheeks, a sword on his belt, wearing a white tunic with red and deep blue border decorations and possessing the name Guyon. I don’t know who he is or what he has to say. He might tell me. He might push off from that wall and saunter back off into the shadows with that almost whip-like manner of moving he’s got. He is getting more defined … I didn’t know he was called Guyon until this afternoon. I admit I am deeply curious about his story so I hope he doesn’t go away.



(You may stop reading now. What follows is a frog writing to straighten thoughts. It helps sometimes. :shrug: Might be of interest, probably not.)

Hehe, I’m overjoyed! After all these long months of weariness and exhaustion I began to fear I had written all I was intended to. The fire was gone. The spark, the zest, the ideas, the scenes and characters which plagued me day and night and demanded to be put down on page, and which flowed down effortlessly as fast I could type. The flame still burns: Jocelyn’s scene above wrote itself in a flash, and multiple scenes battle in my head for my full attention. It’s like learning you could fly, then finding you could barely skim the ground … then waking from a dream to find you are soaring.

Soaring gives you a different view. That frog’s eye view of the story has been sinking lower and lower to the ground. Now I’m back up here I can see why I’ve been struggling a bit, feeling that the flame was gone. It’s not simply exhaustion from work, though that has played a part. For me the story is over. I’ve told the bits which strike my passion. All that’s left – all I have been doing for a while now – is the necessary business of bringing it to a point where it can end respectably. For me the story ends where Trempwick is brought before Hugh’s court and admits he lied. Jocelyn’s final scene burned, but it’s not part of the story. It orbits it, but is not part. It’s nice to see Matilda’s messenger get slapped down, or Hugh reunited in victory with Constance, or Malcolm refusing the place of honour at the victory feast in order to sit with Fulk They are pinpricks of light in the sea of grey, things I can write but do not burn to.

For you it cannot end at that scene – that wouldn’t be a loose ending so much as a great big fat gaping hole the size of a third world nation. All of the Eleanor scenes which burn for me are in the past or in the future from here. This is the grey land of necessity. I know where it has to end for you. I’ll get there.

Each time I have seen writing discussed I have seen my own … style described as the rarest, the luckiest, and not infrequently as the one which produces the best work. The closest thing the literary world has to people born as natural musicians or artists. Scary, to find myself near any of those labels! That’s critics, writers with other styles, and writers who share my style, all talking about something I honestly give little thought to. What oh so very few of them ever mention is the caveat. Yes, my characters, worlds and stories form themselves with no effort from me. Yes, they flow onto the page with frightening speed and what seems like little effort. Yes, writer’s block is unknown, or other such hindrances. Yes, it’s all instinctive, natural, not something I have had to consciously labour at. I’ve needed to refine, experiment, learn, but never labour.

The caveat which goes hand in hand with this style? When there’s no burning light you fumble along in the dark. When everything provides itself it’s incredibly tough to manage alone when you need to. It’s … hard to describe. Think of those times when you have been very ill indeed. So ill that when you finally crawl out of bed you can barely stand, and have to work hard not to fall over. When everything you took for granted is suddenly a huge labour – and you know it shouldn’t be, and can’t help but remember that where you now stagger and grow tired quickly you used to sprint.

Time to get labouring. There will be a way to get better results than I am now. If I don’t have a flame then surely I can find myself a cheap battery powered torch?

Merely being able to close my eyes and mentally dive into the sea again is a boost. The flames are burning, not for what I’m writing here, but burn they do, and a little light is cast, and I’m reassured to know that they are there.

It’s 10:30 at night and I’m still recovering from the craziness of Christmas … yet I can see Silent staring at me in an unrelenting demand and I want to write and I do not care how late it is, because it is here and now and burning so brightly. As I’ve written this the image has grown sharper. It’s been a long time since I felt this way, defying all tiredness and time and sense. Silent is going to talk and if I try to walk away I will not sleep because he will be there. So I shall sit here and write until at last it is done, and I realise it's 1am, my back aches from this chair, I'm shattered, and my eyes are sore from overwearing my contact lenses.





Furball, the c word is a Jocelyn thing, part of what makes his voice his own. I could swap it for another word and each time I read it the dialogue would drop out of his voice. It's the same as Malcolm and his endless swearing. Personally I would much prefer he didn't.

When we first meet him he's noted as being 28. Thierry is 7, Mahaut approaching her 6th birthday. Therefore he's around 22 when she is born. You know what's truly amazing about this? I did not think about his age at all, not for a second. I just threw in "not yet 22". I was too tired, too deep in the grip of what I was writing to care. It's only when you mentioned it that I went back to see how old he is supposed to be. Character's ages aren't something I conciously think about once they are established, unless they somehow become relevant to the story again. I got the ages right here by pure gut guesswork :stunned:

Death is yonder, too late about the tooth grinding. I'm pretty sure I wore them all out when a customer decided to climb (yes, climb!) on the shelving in my shop because she couldn't reach a book. These shelves are free hanging and only a complete and utter fool of a lackwitted idiot would think they could support a human's weight. She ripped it right off the walll. Most of the wall came off too. The 9 foot long metal shelf bent like a banana. Books everywhere. She didn't apologise. She acted as though it was a common everyday occurance for her. I nearly smacked her over the head with the shelf when she cheerfully asked, "You'll be able to put it back on easily though, won't you?" Through extremely gritted teeth I informed her, "The shelf is ruined. The wall is ruined. There is nothing left to attach to anything!" That shelf made up 1/5 of the space in my most profitable non-bestseller section! Let's not forget the hours I spent filling in forms and wailing at people over the phone in order to get it fixed ASAP, time I urgently needed to be spending on other things.

That tale is mundane compared to some of the other things which happened at work in the past 6 weeks. :sweatdrop:

Peasant Phill, such is my hope. We'll get there.

Queen Frogg:
I must admit that uponhearing this excellent tale was soon to come to an end i felt really sad, how the story of Silent sounds like a good read and i will eagerly await it. The Gray area that you are going through right now is a common thing amongst writers, its no surprise that you have lost focus at the end. I can only hope that you recover and bring this epic saga to a favorable end.
As for the amounts of praise, dont let it get to you. This just means that you are doing your work WELL. Honestly i simply cant write anywhere NEAR as good as you, just read my AAR for proof of that (But i still chug along dammit and thats good enough for me:beam:).

Heres to another great tale (I hope) that will be of Silent or Guyon. :Che ers:

Holiday greetings, and best of luck to you, Ms. Frog.

The herald flourished a showy bow so deep the dangling sleeves of his outer tunic scraped the floor. “My lord, the King of Scots, conveys his sincere congratulations on your victory.”

Fulk replied, “The congratulations are due to my lord, the future King of England. It was his victory, his plan that carried the day, and his cause that God favoured.”

“Yes, this is true and my lord, the King of Scots, sends warm greetings to his noble cousin, the future King of England, by way of this humble messenger. The defeat of a would-be usurper is an occasion for celebration for all righteous folk.”

“Indeed.”

“It must be said, your modesty does you honour. My lord, the King of Scots, has heard a full account of the battle, and knows of your heroism. It is his firm desire to applaud you, and to recognise your deeds.”

Fulk bowed his head as a man should when his lord praises him. This conversation was so flowery it could form a herb garden. “I thank him. He does me a great honour.”

“It is the truth that you, yourself, captured the traitor Trempwick?”

“He surrendered to me, yes.”

“My lord, the King of Scots, has heard also that you were at the very forefront throughout.”

“I held the place assigned to me by my king.” If the Scottish thought to lean his loyalty in their direction with flattery it wouldn’t work, and best they know it – politely.

“Those who fought alongside you hail you as the greatest knight on the field, is this not so? The section of the line you led pressed far into the enemy, and caused much slaughter amongst the rebels. We have heard it said you were a lion on the field, invincible and fearless.”

A lion? Was this some snide swipe aimed at Hugh and his family’s coat of arms? “If any were a lion then it were my lord, the future King of England. He fought with matchless courage.”

The messenger smiled a courtier’s pleasantly empty smile. “This too is in my lord, the King of Scots, message to his noble cousin, the future King of England.”

Again noble cousin, not royal cousin as it should be. Fulk realised he was tapping his fingers on the arm of his great chair, and pressed his palm flat. This was not an exercise he had any skill in; he’d sent for Eleanor as soon as he realised he could not delay meeting the emissary. The sooner she arrived the better. “Prince Malcolm acquitted himself with valour. His lord father must be proud.”

The reply was a beat away from fully natural timing. “Yes, my lord, the King of Scots, is aware of his son’s participation in the battle.” The messenger beckoned forward one of his attendants. “With your permission, my lord?”

Fulk waved his fingers to grant it.

“My lord, the King of Scots, commands me to bestow upon you, his valorous Earl of Alnwick, greatest knight on the English field, and staunch support of all that is right and just, this token of his appreciation for your skills in battle.”

The aide came before Fulk with a wooden case laid flat across his arms. It was made of a rich, dark wood, about a hand span wide and eight spans long. The corners were reinforced with gold binding, and on the lid a snarling wolf’s head had been carved. The man knelt, proffering the case to Fulk.

Fulk stepped down from his dais and lifted the lid. Inside, pillowed on silk of cornflower blue, lay a sword. And what a sword! Holding his breath Fulk lifted it out, one hand on the hilt and two fingers of the other under the middle of the blade to give it balance. The grip was bound in braided black leather with strands of gold wire mixed in, tasteful in its ostentatiousness and unlikely to slip in a sweaty hand. Pommel and crossguard were gilded, the dot and line patterning on them picked out with black. The blade itself didn’t need close scrutiny to display its worth; it was of the very best steel.

The emissary smiled slightly. “My lord, the King of Scots, heard that you had broken your own best sword, and sent this to replace it. He hopes that it will be worthy of your ability.”

Fulk stepped back so he was clear of everyone and shifted his grip to wield the sword in a light middle guard. The balance was perfect, the blade lightweight, and the whole from grip to length was ideal for his build. He wove through a few simple exercises, seeing how it responded. By the time he lowered the weapon he was grinning and unable to help himself. “It is a very fine weapon. I thank its giver for his generosity.”

“It is very handsome.” Eleanor’s voice came from the stairs leading up to the solar. She walked to Fulk’s side with unhurried grace. “A princely gift indeed.”

Fulk grin shifted to a gentle smile of welcome. Reinforcements, and already she was proving better than he in this non-battle. Shouldn’t it have been a kingly gift?

The King of Scot’s man bowed to Eleanor. “Your Highness. My lord, the King of Scots, sends you his greetings and felicitations.”

Eleanor inclined her head. “I thank him, and return them with all the warmth of my heart.”

From the way she was hovering near the lower chair placed at the side of his Fulk inferred that he should sit back down. He did so, sword resting across his knees, and she settled into her own chair, slowly enough that it looked as though she were following his lead.

The emissary clapped his hands and the second of his attendants scurried forward, this one bearing a scabbard and belt made to match the sword. “There is also this to accompany the sword. My lord, the King of Scots, knows that even the greatest of knights will spend much of his time at peace with his sword idle at his side.”

Fulk accepted this offering, slid the blade home into the black and gold scabbard, and propped the weapon against the arm of his chair. “I pray for peace now that Trempwick is defeated, and see no reason why I shouldn’t find it.” No reason save any tit for tat posturing between the two kings, that was.

Eleanor said gracefully, “Peace is my brother’s highest priority. He attends to the final stages of its restoration even as we speak, and will ever afterwards devote himself to its preservation.”

“It is likewise dear to my lord, the King of Scot’s, heart.” The emissary touched his breastbone to imply that the belief lived within him also. “It has been heard that Carlisle will be yours if you can but take it. This gives me lord, the King of Scots, cause for great hope, for surely with two of the keys to the border in the hands of a man such as yourself, a man with ties to both courts also, there cannot but be peace.”

Fulk wasn’t certain how to answer that, so he repeated, “Peace is all I want.”

“My lord, the King of Scots, knows well how strong Carlisle is, and offers you his aid if you have need of it.”

“That will not be necessary.” That sounded too rude. Fulk set his hand on his new sword. “This beauty is worth a hundred men.”

The Scotsman laughed politely. “In the hands of the greatest of English knights how could that not be so?” He made a slight show of scrutinising Fulk and Eleanor together. His eyes lingered on the fact that Fulk’s left hand rested on top of Eleanor’s right. “My lord, the King of Scots, bade me to enquire as to how your own good selves fare. He wonders whether you are enjoying the wife he found for you?”

There wasn’t much option but to let go the implication the King of Scots had possessed the right to arrange Eleanor’s marriage “We are both very happy, thank you.”

“It is the wish of not only my lord, his Highness the King of Scots, but also of all those whose acquaintance you made while attending our court, to express regret that you have been torn from those pastimes right and proper for a newly married man by the strife and struggle of war. It is now all of our hopes that you may turn your attention to those matters right and proper.”

As far as Fulk could decipher he’d just been told to spend half his time in bed. To his great relief Eleanor fielded that one. With a hint of a blush she answered, “My lord husband has neglected nothing which should have his attention. Indeed, but three days ago he was in the field aiding our neighbour, the Earl of York’s, men in a search for some fleeing rebels. He has sat in court often, and granted justice to all who have asked for it.”

The men gave the merest hint of a nod, recognition of a good answer perhaps. “My lord, the King of Scots, and indeed all of us, pray that our dear lord of Alnwick is engaged in ploughing a fertile furrow.” The man leered – with exquisite politeness. “Indeed, I am instructed to enquire if my lord, the King of Scots, wedding gift to you, his beloved Earl of Alnwick and his most noble lady wife, has proven satisfactory?”

In other words, did they like their bed. Somehow this oh so very courteous teasing was harder to bear with composure than coarser stuff. “Yes.” There was a trace of a growl in that solitary word. Fulk knew it would be better to play along, to turn it all back with a look and a smirk and some choice words. Alas that he couldn’t think of any under the strain of all this nicety.

“My lord, the King of Scots, and all of your well-wishers, will be relieved to hear this, for they one and all await the news of an heir to Alnwick with baited breath.” Another oh so polite leer. “They remember the blessings they bestowed upon you at your wedding, to that end.”

Eleanor’s finger’s tightened their grip on Fulk’s. “We remember them also.”

“I think, my royal lady, that all Christendom will remember them for lifetimes to come.” Half hidden by the folds of his long over tunic the emissary rubbed one palm against the other like a merchant recalling a particularly good sale. “Such a unique occasion. It was my lord, the King of Scot’s, most sincere desire to do full credit to it.”

Fulk answered, “It is a debt we cannot hope to repay, but nonetheless shall try.” Let that be taken however the listener liked.

The Scotsman dipped into another flowery bow. “There is a matter on which I am instructed to speak with yourself and your good lady. In privacy. If I might prevail upon you …?”

Fulk rose. “We shall move to the solar.”

Once the three had relocated the emissary wasted no time. “My lord demands to know what his devil’s spawn of a son and heir is up to!”

“In what way?” Fulk enquired dryly. The younger Malcolm was dabbling his fingers in multiple father-upsetting pies.

The other man grimaced, drew a deep breath, and blasted, “Where did he gather that army? When? How? What did he intend to do with it? Why did he get involved in that battle? Why did he refuse that place of honour at the victory feast – most out of character for the hellion. And, above all, what in the Lord’s blessed name is he doing with my lady’s brother?” He bowed to Eleanor, slightly, and otherwise showed no reduction in his tenacity. “Is he a hostage?”

Eleanor instantly replied, “No, he is not.”

“Then what is he and how did he end up there instead of returning home?”

“He is my brother’s squire, an honourable position. Malcolm himself requested it.”

The emissary snapped, “Why?”

Eleanor glanced sideways at Fulk, clearly wanting him to answer that one. An indulgent husband even when confronted with strained dignitaries, Fulk did so. “The boy thought he could learn from Hugh.”

“About what, pray?” The Scotsman scowled and added less harshly, “I mean no disrespect to prince Hugh. Rather, I wonder what the Nefastus could seek learn from any decent person.”

Fulk made his suggestion in the mildest of tones. “Decency?”

“Might as well suggest the wolf will learn to eat grass by living near sheep.”

“He came to prince Hugh’s aid to honour his father’s pledge of alliance. He is not fully dishonourable.”

“Came,” the emissary exclaimed incredulously, “in direct violation of his father’s order!” He shook his head violently. “Honour? No. The accursed boy likes killing and has been hounding for permission to enter what he terms a real fight. Bloodlust, as base and simple as that.”

“There’s more to the boy than that,” Fulk insisted.

“I must go south.” The Scotsman turned to Eleanor. “Your highness, I must meet with your brother and speak to him on this matter. And Malcolm. See if I can figure out what poison is in his mind this time. Will I require a letter of safe conduct?”

Eleanor arched her eyebrows. “Do you represent an enemy of ours? Are we a people of lawless brigands?”

He lowered his eyes. “No, your Highness.”

“Then you will not need one.”

Sizzling, but the fool had asked for it. Fulk readopted the role of courteous host. “Please, rest here overnight. Set out for the south tomorrow.”







Flowery enough to be a herb garden. One decent line in 4 pages. :sigh:

Olaf, I have written part of Silent’s short story. If the completed article turns out to my satisfaction I might post it once Eleanor is complete. Then those who want the glimpse into the future can have it.

Practice. Practice! Loads of it, and then some more. That’s the main tool in improving one’s writing. You should see my early work and contrast it to what I do now. In my case my difficulty was in shaping the words to get the result I could see in my mind. I’m dyslexic, and back then I couldn’t spell and knew only the rudiments of grammar. Imagine knowing the words you want and not being able to mangle together a spelling your word processor could use to offer the correct spelling, or not knowing how to punctuate dialogue.

Keep writing and then after 6 months or more look back at your older work. You will see improvement. At that point you realise you aren’t chugging.

Furball, you’ve been playing peek-a-boo with your posts again, hehe. The text which is now gone was an excellent read and I found it good food for thought. I was hoping to read it again now I’ve had several days.