The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

Please stop writing this!

I have exams soon and now I've been up all night reading your marvelous stories. It's 6:20 AM now!

I'm not sure which line you thought was good, but, "The younger Malcolm was dabbling his fingers in multiple father-upsetting pies," jumped right out at me when I read it. I think of lines like those as Froggyisms, and they are part of the joy of reading your work.

To her Highness Frog:
Many thanks for the advice and its good to hear that you have so much other story written. Should make for an excelent new beggining. Also the dyslexia, that makes me sad but happy for you at teh same time. Sad cuz disabilities are hard of those whom have them. However i have found im my experience as a person that ppl with disabilities tend to fight MUCH harder against the woes and pains of life the those of us whom are "normal" (HaHaHa). The fact that you write with said disability only proves that you REALLY love what you do so i will ALWAYS read your work before anyone elses on teh .Org :bow::bow:~D So please keep it up.



@Moros I know what u mean buddy. Ive failed maths tests because i read books all night rather than study:laugh4::laugh4::laugh4:. Fanantascism FTW!!!!!!!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Moros

Please stop writing this!

I have exams soon and now I've been up all night reading your marvelous stories. It's 6:20 AM now!

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I know that feeling very well :shame: .

Froggy, please post Silent's tale once you've finished with Eleanor's :bow: .

Trempwick’s mother cast the castle’s key onto the ground before Hugh’s feet. “There. As my son commanded, we surrender. Scrabble in the dirt for it.”

Once, in what felt like a different life – what had been a different life, sheltered as he had been from the maelstrom which had caught him since – Hugh would have been confounded by that simple action. He would not have known what to do. There was no precedent for it, no suggestion as to how a righteous prince should act when an old lady made of her surrender an insult. And Hugh saw, from her triumphant, bitter leer, that this mother of his worst enemy knew it. She did not credit that he had been plunged into the flames and, by the very necessity of survival, had altered.

She looked down her nose at him, as though he were the meanest peasant. “I will retire to a convent. This world is nothing but sorrow and disappointment, and I cannot bear to live in anything such as you might call yourself lord of.” With that she took advantage of his bewildered paralysis to brush past him and march away.

Or so it would have gone were he still the man who had been secure in his insecurities. A single, sure step to the side and Hugh blocked her passage. “Yes, my lady. You will withdraw to a convent. I have one in mind. It is remote, on an island, and it obeys the strictest interpretation of the rule. There, in such conditions, you may gain some grace for your immortal soul to weigh against your sins.”

Trempwick’s mother stepped back to preserve her dignity, sweeping her skirts with her. “You cannot send me to such a place.”

Can and would. Thus isolated the old hag would be able to work no further mischief. There was a strong possibility – sinful to consider it? – that she may not survive the first winter she passed in the Spartan conditions. “My lady,” Hugh said softly, “I think you will find, should you ask many of the persons here present, that I am king. Thus it follows that I may place stipulations on your request, and, indeed, dispose of you as I will.”

“I am of noble blood, from an established line. I should be treated with honour!”

Hugh might have enjoyed suggesting that he would treat her with as much honour as she had shown him. “Placing you where you may best redeem your soul is an honour, lady. Especially when compared to the alternatives.”

Trempwick’s mother appealed to the many bystanders, “Will you stand for this? Think! What if it were your own mother? Once he has been able to do this he will do it again and again!”

There was a silence which made Hugh’s nerves jangle. The pestilential woman raised a pertinent point, and his lords were reluctant to allow him any measures which would make him overly strong.

York answered a drawl, “Lady, were you my mother I would insist on accompanying you on the crossing – and throw you overboard midway!”

With that the last bastion of Trempwick’s rebellion fell.





I woke up this morning with half of a short story. It’s really quite damned good. Problem: I have the beginning and the end, and can’t figure out how to join the two together yet. I have written the parts I do have and am pondering what I can do with the middle. Should I complete it then this tale will be postable, and of interest to a certain faction of readers.


Moros, I might be too late, but good luck with those exams!

Furball, that one is close to being good IMO. The “father-upsetting” is clumsy. Each time I look at it I know there must be a better phrasing or word. I liked the line about being flowery enough to be a herb garden.

Olaf, I’m honoured. :bow:

Ludens, I think I shall. I do like Silent’s tale.

:2thumbsup:

~:thumb:

On arrival at Carlisle Fulk commanded his army to take up siege positions around the walls. It had taken him no small amount of difficulty to arrange the battle-weary forces he had into a power that could tackle this fortress, and he was determined his labours would not go to waste. Besides, from the groundwork he had laid he knew it should not take much to make both garrison and nearby town both surrender.

Shading his eyes from the sun with a hand, Fulk inspected the ramparts. “Doesn’t seem to be many men.”

Waltheof said, “True. Looks like our scouts were right – half the garrison has fled.”

“We won’t take any chances.” Fulk dropped his arm back to his side. “People were seen leaving. None have been sighted returning, or hiding close by. There are fewer people on the walls than there should be. None of that makes us safe. Have the catapults begin the bombardment as soon as they are assembled.”

Fulk had completed half of his tour of the forming siege lines when the main gates opened a procession of unarmed men walked out in single file. “Wait until they are out of support from the walls, then surround them and bring them to the centre of the camp,” Fulk ordered. “Make certain every last one of them is unarmed.” Being stabbed by a concealed dagger didn’t recommend itself.

As he walked forward to rendezvous with the escorted garrison, Fulk did a rapid headcount. Eleven men. A third of the number reported to be in the castle by all of the sources they’d questioned.

The man at the front of the party stood with his shoulders hunched in, fairly quivering with pent up emotion. On seeing Fulk he clenched his jaw, nodded to himself, and went down on his knees as though the effort tore every muscle in his body. “My lord,” he grated, “We surrender.” The other men followed his lead in fits and starts, some dropping swiftly, others with obvious reluctance.

Fulk asked, “Where are the others?”

“We are all that remains.”

“That seems unlikely.” Fulk set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “If you are misleading me I won’t be happy.”

Another of the garrison, this one shaven-headed and built like an ox, offered in surprisingly well-spoken tones, “Prince Hugh has no more mercy left – it’s common knowledge that his patience is gone. Those surrendering now won’t be welcomed with open arms. Our lord took his family and fled to the coast two days ago. Most of the others went with him.”

The first man twitched his shoulders back, raised his head, and stated, “We’re the ones who decided to gamble that a prince wouldn’t want the heads of lowly men at arms. We’re not worth killing, surely.”

A third man interjected, “We didn’t choose. We’re paid. All of us hired long before the old king died, none of us able to walk away from our lord. A man’s got to eat. Some of us have families.”

“But our lord, he got to choose,” the bald one pointed out. “He chose poorly and lost, and he’s fled the country in fear of his life.”

That was Eleanor’s work. She’d had word spread that Hugh intended to use the harshest of measures against those in the north who had failed to take the opportunity to come to him after Alnwick.

Shaven-head cocked his head to one side with a faint smile. “You must know how it is. You were once a household knight yourself, so we all hear. We had a lord, we followed him where he led, kept our word to him for the sake of honour and our stomachs, and now are abandoned.”

This one was interesting – too educated to be the simple man at arms he appeared to be. “And you’re gambling on that more than anything, I suspect.”

Shaven-head bowed, still kneeling in the dirt. “Yes, my lord, we are.”

“What is your name?”

“Ranulf, my lord.”

“You are very courtly for a simple man at arms.”

“I was to be a priest, my lord.” Ranulf stroked the top of his head. “Alas, I had pride in my hair and couldn’t stand the tonsure.”

Fulk idly ran his thumb back and forth the cross guard of his sword, the feel of the engraving making his skin tingle. This man was nothing he had expected to find. “Indeed.”

“Or perhaps my sense of humour didn’t go down so well with the monks.” Ranulf shivered in the breeze which was rippling his tunic. “Or maybe I discovered I like killing.”

“Or perhaps you have been neither monk nor man at arms, and seek to hide?” Fulk suggested.

“I’m being too obvious to hide. If I’d wished for that I’d have kept my mouth shut and my head bowed, my lord, and you know it.”

“Often the best way to hide is in clear sight.”

“I did used to be a monk. Well, a novice one at least. I ran away and found a living as a soldier. My reasons for it are my own. If you like none of the ones I’ve offered dream up one which you do.”

The leader still held himself as tense as a drawn bowstring. “Are we going to die or not?” he demanded. “It’s ungodly to keep us waiting, unknowing!”

“If you give me the honest truth I shall take you all south to stand before prince Hugh. He will pass judgement on you. I expect he will let you go – if you cooperate fully between now and then. If any of you are other than you claim there will be people at court who recognise you. Play me false and I shall hang the lot of you.”

Fulk watched the leader sag with relief. “Anything we can do, name it.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I have five children. Without me … Thank you, my lord.”

It wouldn’t be too hard to win the loyalty of at least some of these men. Fulk decided to covertly assess them over the next few days and see which – if any – were worth employing. “And you are?”

“Bertold, my lord.”

“Then tell me, is the castle emptied of those who can bear arms?”

“Yes, my lord. We’re all here.”

“And no traps await me?”

“None.”

Fulk instructed Waltheof to take twenty men and search the castle from top to bottom, and to take possession of it if all was clear. As the men marched away Fulk warned his captives, “The slightest difficulty and you will all hang.”

The men told the truth. Fulk was thankful that he’d claimed the catapults used in the siege of Alnwick rather than paying for his own.











I shall have more time to write starting from Friday. My shop is being closed and we’re all being made redundant. Bastards. :(

I read Stephan King’s “On writing”. He’s not an author I read, and he writes in genres I don’t like. I don’t read books which claim to tell a person how to write since, at least for me, it is something that must be learned through experience. I got fed up of people recommending the book to me. Well. I can’t say I learned anything about how to write, or why, or anything like that. But. Ah yes, the all important but! It’s amazing – or creepy – how many similarities between his way of working and my own I spotted. Particularly with regards to characters, and to finding the story you are going to tell.

Guyon’s story is blooming like a bunch of daffodils in a mild spring. I have roughly 2/3 of the personal part of it, and a good glimpse at the background. It’s a straight up historical, much smaller than Eleanor in every way. I know I will be writing this one once it finishes growing. I am going to suggest a name change at Guyon while he’s still malleable … Ancel fits him better. Hehe, he’s the only character in the entire thing who has a name and I want it altered; typical frog. It’s one of the very few things I can change, and I need to do it while it’s all taking form. I shall keep nudging the name at him and see if it sticks. I think it shall; Guyon just does not suit …

Having ideas burning for one story appears to allow me to steal a bit of the flame to spend on something which isn’t. Sort of. For a short time. In a roundabout way. I’m still fumbling around with how it works. Looks like I can swim about in something which does burn brightly in my mind, then skip sideways and write some of the scenes I don’t care about. The effect doesn’t last long; after fifteen minutes or so I’m mired back on the ground and need to step away again in order to get the oomph back. Sort of. I don’t claim the above scene to be any great work however it does contain one or two lines with a faint glimmer of sparkle to them, and that saves it from being a dead ugly mass in my writer’s sight. Ranulf is the type of thing which provides itself or doesn’t appear at all, and he wasn’t around in the plan for this scene until I found him there as I put it on paper. His presence gives a bit of hope this might work.





:bow:

DAMN YOU WALL STREET!!!!!
That has to suck. Im sorry Queen Frog.:thumbsdown::furious3::furious3:
But it is great to hear that Guyon's....err Ancel's story is coming along swimmingly.
As for Ranulf's one You will get there. After all you have done a near Epic novella with Elanor already. I eagerly await the new story whichever one it might be.
Plz dont let life get you down. This world is messed up in ways indescribable. All that we cant do is get through it until we are allowed to pass on.

I'm sorry to hear about your shop. As someone who's been there (unemployed that is) I can only say that with credentials like yours and a bit of effort it shouldn't prove to hard to find another job.

On the up side you'll now have time for things you like to do instead of things you have to do.

“Her Highness’ party has been sighted, my lord.”

So soon! Fulk’s heart sped. Carlisle wasn’t ready – he wasn’t ready. “Finish scattering those herbs with all speed,” he ordered. “Clear away everything else. Make sure all the servants turn out presentably. Remember, the bed needs taking off her baggage train and setting up immediately, and try to do it without her notice.” Oh Jesù, how bad did that sound?! Fulk brazened his slip out, gesturing at the fireplace. “Put some sweet smelling logs on the fire, and more in the basket. And-”

The steward bowed slightly and suggested, “And otherwise do all else to make this place fit for a princess in the least time possible, my lord?”

Fulk caught himself, and smiled ruefully. He must look like a panicking bride groom. “Yes. That would be appreciated.”

“Very good, my lord.” The man bowed and, after delivering a flurry of orders, departed the chamber. His voice could be heard echoing down the stairwell, still demanding this and that. The town council had not been wrong when they recommended Godfrey to him as suitable for his needs.

Carlisle’s castle had been on a war footing for a month. That did not make for the most pleasant of environments. Until new people had been drafted in from the nearby town the castle had been severely understaffed, hampering Fulk’s efforts to make the place as presentable as possible. Eleanor would not mind if the place were still rough around the edges. She would not complain. She would bear it with the same stoic acceptance that she had borne his announcement that she would have to remain in Alnwick with all its ghosts while he claimed Carlisle. Knowing how much that unquestioning obedience had cost her, Fulk was adamant that all would be as good as he could make it now she could join him. More than that, Carlisle was his in a way Alnwick could never be. Alnwick had been a politically motivated handout, a gain for the King of Scots. Carlisle had been offered to him - in good part - in recognition of his abilities and loyalty. He wanted to be proud as he displayed it to her.

Any amount of preparation would do him no good if he were still standing here like a sheep when Eleanor arrived. “I will buy you some time to finish setting all up here once my lady arrives,” he promised the servants as he settled his new cloak about his shoulders and fastened the brooch.

By the time he reached the gatehouse the heavily guarded party was within hailing distance, and it was not long before he was helping Eleanor down from her palfrey.

“Greetings, my lord,” she said, regarding him from under lowered eyelashes. “I thank you for your help.”

Fulk placed one hand at his back and made a courtly bow. “Greetings, my lady. Your presence brightens my life.”

“You exaggerate most kindly, my lord.” She shot him another demure look – this one with a spark concealed in it. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to be back under your guiding hand. Now I can resume my proper place, following in your wake, thinking no thoughts but those you have given me, living only to make you happy and bear you copious amounts of sons.”

Fulk knitted his brows. “Have you taken a knock to the head?”

Eleanor affected an expression of pure horror. “Blessed Jesù, no! Worse – I have been the unhappy host of a extremely pious abbot trying to scrounge money for his foundation.” She caught hold of Fulk’s arm none too gently. “I swear, the hours of well-meaning preaching I had to endure would have sent a lesser soul quite mad!”

Fulk began to walk her towards the hall. “I hope you were polite to him.”

“Very,” Eleanor growled. “And after he had prattled on about how women should behave I demonstrated my attentiveness by informing him I could grant him nothing, not so much as a promise to bend your ear favourably on the matter.” She smirked. “It is not a wife’s place to influence her husband nor dispose of goods. It is for her to listen to his wisdom, and abide by his decisions.”

“I shall have to speak to this abbot, ‘loved, and have a word with him about placing dangerous ideas in your head.”

“Please do.” Eleanor leaned her head on Fulk’s shoulder as they walked. “I have identified another abbey nearby which he considers to be his rival. I began work on a new altar cloth for them.”

“My heart, have I told you that you’re devious and vengeful?”

“Not in the last week,” she answered. “But then I have not seen you these past eight days.”

Fulk stopped, cupped her cheek in one hand. “I love you, my dear little wife.” After a kiss he turned to the keep with a flourish. “Now, let me show you Carlisle.”

The tour he gave was a condensed one, avoiding areas he knew were still a mess and keeping far away from the private rooms. His new people had done worthily by him, and it was a pleasure to introduce them to Eleanor. She liked what she saw, he knew it, and in that knowledge was able to relax. As the tour progressed it became less about showing what he had won for her, and more about the future potential.

Reaching the end of what he had planned, Fulk halted at the door leading out onto the keep’s roof. “Close your eyes.”

Eleanor quirked an eyebrow. “You wish to make it easier to push me off the parapet?” She obeyed with the warning, “If I start to fall I am pulling you with me, and you may be sure we shall land with you on the bottom to cushion my landing.”

“Heartling, we only cleaned the bailey yesterday. No one wants to do so again today.” Fulk opened the door and guided her carefully out onto the parapets. He led her to the eastern side. “There. Open your eyes.”

This view was one he’d been entranced with since his arrival. The town was visible, sitting within its walls, smoke drifting lazily from hundreds of cooking fires. On past that was clear land, and the road. Here and there other fuzzy lines of smoke rose to the heavens, tiny settlements scattered about wherever people could make a living from the land. Acres of land, all attached to the castle and his new lordship. On many miles further, invisible to the eye, and after a large tract of land under the control of others, lay Alnwick and Fulk’s other holdings.

Fulk said softly, “The sum of our achievements. Peace. Wealth. A position of power and very great trust. Safety, of a sort.”

“Not bad for a crook-nosed knight and a gooseberry.” Eleanor returned her attention to the view, mantle pulled tight about her against the wind. “Not bad at all.”

Fulk stood behind her, wrapping his arms and cloak about her, resting his chin on the top of her head. “When I think of where – and what - I was but a year ago, I cannot believe my fortune. Even three months ago.”

Eleanor leaned back into him. “And all because you swore service to a woman you did not believe was a princess but knew to be an assassin, in the hopes of being well-paid.”

“It’s a wonder I wasn’t killed.” As he said it he wished he hadn’t. It still astounded him what she had done to save his life. A princess of most noble lineage, pleading for his life and paying for it with blood. Eleanor still flinched from letting him see her back despite her promise to try not to, but he’d seen the curved, buckle-shaped scar on her shoulder and knew without doubt that it was definitely from one of the wounds he’d tended that first time in Woburn.

“I think you saved my life more times than I yours.”

Fulk forced a jovial tone. “Who’s counting?”

Eleanor twisted to look up at him. “So, who did you steal that cloak from?” She fingered the edge near her shoulder. “Juniper green wool, and wolf skin lining. Very nice. Very warm.”

“I didn’t steal it, thank you very much!” As the chance was there Fulk kissed her on the forehead, and on the tip of her nose, and finally on the lips. “The previous lord left it behind in his hurry to flee the country.”

“Well, that is alright then. I should hate to think the north had corrupted you into becoming a robber baron.”

“It’s corrupted you into being polite to clergymen.”

“No, I was always like that.”

“I suppose you were,” Fulk agreed. “It was everyone else you were sour towards.”

“No,” corrected Eleanor, “it was you, you great rusted lump! No one else annoyed me quite so much.”

“Ah well.” Fulk judged that sufficient time had passed to finish turning the private rooms into the haven he wished to present. In any case, it was cold and the view would be here later. There remained one thing it would be well to settle before they returned inside. “There is a man amongst the prisoners I took. He’s … unusual. I want you to find out what he is. In fact, look the whole lot over. It’s possible he is drawing attention so someone else can hide in the group.”

“Who is he and what makes you suspicious?”

“His name is Ranulf. He is too well-spoken, too educated to be a simple man at arms. He claims he was a novice and left before taking vows; he reasons for why are varied and unbelievable, and he makes no secret of knowing them to be so. It’s probably nothing; I swore they would all die if one of them attempted to decide me. Someone would betray one who put them all at risk.”

After a bit Eleanor nodded, once. “I shall do what I can.”

Fulk stood back from Eleanor. “Come. Let’s go inside. There’s one last part of the tour.”

Eleanor dug him in the ribs as she caught hold of his arm. “You mean you think your servants have finished clearing the whores out of your bedchamber, correct?”

Fulk pulled a face. “It’s the scent of their perfume I’m worried about. That lingers.”

“Well, at least that shows you are using a more exclusive class of whore.”

“If I’d known you would be so forgiving I’d have kept a couple of them on permanently.”

“Oh, stop it! Before I begin to wonder if there is a grain of truth in it.”

Fulk opened the stair door and bowed as he held it for her. “My lady gooseberry.”

Eleanor went past in a swish of skirts.

“Where’s my thanks?” Fulk asked as he hurried after her.

“I believe I left them in my luggage.”

Fulk planted his fists on his hips. “I shall beat you later if you keep this up.”

“You are all talk.” Eleanor spared him a backwards glance – and stuck her tongue out at him.

“One of these days,” Fulk sighed.

“So long as it is not today,” came the rapid interruption. “Tomorrow never comes, after all.” Eleanor stopped by the door to the solar. “I expect you want to go first?”

“Yes.” Fulk cleared his throat with a self-important cough. “Right. My lady, my most dearly beloved wife and gooseberry, scion of most noble blood, light of my life, heart of my heart, source of my woes, fountain of my troubles, emptier of my treasury, and warmer of my spacious bed, it is my honour, nay privilege, to present to you our rooms.” Fulk opened the door, silently vowing to hang the servants from the battlements if they had failed to follow his instructions.

Eleanor stepped in. She looked around. She looked around once more. “I am afraid I do not see anything special,” she apologised. “It looks like any other solar.”

Fulk breathed a private sigh of relief. “That, ‘loved, is the point.”

“It is?”

“You did not see the place when I arrived,” he said darkly.

Eleanor turned away from the hanging she had been inspecting. “If you do not tell me I am going to be busy finding out for myself.”

“It looked like a thieves’ den which had then been ransacked by a professional gang of looters, caught fire, hosted a brawl which splashed blood up one wall, and finally become the lair of a pack of incontinent hounds.”

“How … homely.”

Now it looked like any other solar. Fresh rushes with scented herbs mixed in scattered over a clean floor, quality furniture, a couple of hangings on the freshly whitewashed walls. The sole flaw in the set-up was the shield that had been propped in one corner. Ostensibly it displayed Fulk’s coat of arms in a touch of warfare-for-all-the-family pride. In reality it hid the dark patch where blood had sunk into the flagstones and resisted all attempts to scrub it away.

Fulk opened the door into the other room and took a quick peek to be sure all was well. “The bedchamber is similarly commonplace. Except for the waiting meal, steaming bathtub with space for two people, and a certain very comfy bed bestowed upon us by a king.”







That’s it, I am now unemployed a full time writer. Reading. Writing. Gaming. As much of all three as I want, and I have several years worth to catch up on. Weee! The last month was so bad I don’t miss my shop or job; I’m simply pleased it is all over. It was like watching a loved one die of an incurable disease.

That worked quite decently. A few more weeks and I expect Eleanor will be complete. Updates should come more rapidly now I have more time to work.

Ancel has taken to the name so well I have to stop and think to remember what he used to be called. I have the names for most of the other important characters, know nearly all of the storyline, and am mainly doing research while waiting for the remaining loose ends to sort themselves out. I might be able to begin writing as early as next week. Should I write with the same oomph that I’ve currently got in its early phases I should have the whole first draft done in several months; this one’s going to end up the same size as a normal book, not War and Peace. I have decided this one is going to be written from the very start with the intention of sending it to agents once it is complete. It’s perfectly suited to getting a new writer a foot in the door. Unlike my other sprawling, hard to categorise works. Straight up historical fiction, one of those ‘real events and people as seen through the eyes of an invented character plus obligatory romance’ types. Whether it gets into print or not, I know this story is going to work! It burns brightly, has life, verve, takes everything I have learned and applies it, uses everything I like doing and takes them to the next level, is controllable, restrained, focused, and really, completely and totally is froggy writing™ on taken to the next level. Not to mention this will be my first major chance to play with editing, revisions, chapters and other such finish touch tools. It’s impossible to convey just how excited I am by ‘Ancel’. But … it’s probably unfair to talk about it much. I won’t be posting any of it on the internet.

Nice digs!:laugh4:
Man that is a pretty good set up for the middle ages, even a comfy bed.:2thumbsup:

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

unemployed a full time writer. Reading. Writing. Gaming. As much of all three as I want, and I have several years worth to catch up on. Weee! The last month was so bad I don’t miss my shop or job; I’m simply pleased it is all over. It was like watching a loved one die of an incurable disease.

That worked quite decently. A few more weeks and I expect Eleanor will be complete. Updates should come more rapidly now I have more time to work.

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Commiserations on losing your job. Congratulations on finding more time to write. I shall look forward to more frequent updates.

Reading your last update, I laughed out loud several times. Now that's something that doesn't happen often :thumbsup: .

"......................… it’s probably unfair to talk about it much. I won’t be posting any of it on the internet."

Nice setup for the bonk on the head at the end, Ms. Frog! :)

Still going strong Froggy?

Fulk watched the prisoners exercising in the yard with a keen eye. At least three of them looked worth taking on, Ranulf and Bertold amongst them. None of the men were allowed weapons, not even blunt training ones, so they alternated between wrestling and simple exercises. All of the men were drilled to the point where they could manage stretches, cartwheels, rolls and other such agility based exercises with ease.

As Ranulf caught his opponent in a bear hug and threw his weight forward in an attempt to send the man crashing to the ground Fulk called, “Ranulf, why did you leave your monastery?”

It was pleasing to see that, although caught off-guard by the unanticipated question, Ranulf did now allow it to affect his performance. Still working to bear his training partner to the ground he panted, “Prior took a liking to my arse so I ran.”

“Really. Still doesn’t sound believable.” Fulk had left Eleanor at a window in the nearby tower so she could observe and listen without revealing her presence. “Are you sure that’s the story you want to stick to?”

“What’s not believable?” With a grunt Ranulf twisted, simultaneously pushing forward. His struggling partner went down on one knee, fighting with everything he’d got to keep from being pressed down flat on the dirt. “It was because I killed a thief.”

Fulk raised his eyebrows. “The prior lusted after you because you killed a thief?”

Startled, Ranulf looked up. His opponent seized the chance to regain his feet and push back. “Damn you!” Ranulf cursed, regaining his wits and struggling with his partner. “Don’t play dumb!”

“But you make it look like so much fun. I wanted to try it.” Fulk sauntered away to pay closer attention to one of the other sparring sets.






“I recognised none of them,” Eleanor said. “None fit the descriptions I have gained of those who are of note around these parts.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Could he be a bastard son?”

“Not a noble’s bastard. Or not one from around here – there is simply no talk of one which fits his build. A wide assortment of bastard daughters, yes. Skinny boys, yes. Older men, yes. Men with scars, yes. Shorter men, yes. Fatter men, yes. All sorts, in short, except for one built like a wall, shaven head or not.”

“So then what is he?”

Eleanor sighed, exasperated. “I rather suspect he is what he claims to be. Is it so unlikely? I shall send someone to the monastery he claims to have escaped to make enquiries.”

Fulk paced back and forth. “If he is a runaway novice then why not offer the simple truth about it?”

“Maybe he finds the reason embarrassing?” Eleanor suggested. “Maybe he has offered the truth and you have dismissed it?”

“None of it sounded honest,” Fulk grumbled. “Send someone to make enquires as you said. I want to know the truth before we have to head south for your brother’s coronation.”






The situation along the Welsh border had been a complete disaster on Hugh’s arrival. Now, after days of labour, it was merely a mess. The Earl of Chester, ever-faithful, had done his best in the task Hugh had allotted him. Alas that his best had been undercut by the other marcher lords, and finally ended by his capture by the Welsh princes. Some marcher lords had sided with Trempwick, and had actively aided the Welsh as they overran the west. Others had seen no compelling reason to side with Hugh until it was much too late for them to put together effective resistance; many lords were now clinging on to their own lands and praying the tide did not drown them.

The midlanders Hugh had commanded to support Chester had likewise failed. The support sent was piecemeal, ill-equipped, under-strength, or in all too many cases entirely absent. With raiders running across lands which were normally miles from the worst of any border fighting, most lords had opted to hunker down and defend what was theirs with little concern for their neighbour.

Worse, some amongst the marcher lords and midlanders had sighted the opportunity to expand their lands at the expense of their fellows, and had launched into private warfare for their own petty gain.

Hugh had thus far managed to drag together the scattered loyalist forces, and extract the men and resources he required from the midlanders he had met in person. New, sternly worded summons had gone forth to all those who were not in his expected path of travel. Any who failed him now would be considered in defiance and would be treated accordingly.

Groups of mounted men, varying between fifty and one hundred in size, had been formed and sent out to hunt down the raiding parties swarming about the land. Whether the men they encountered were English or Welsh, the men were authorised to kill and take no prisoners. Order would be restored, Hugh promised all he met, and men were grudgingly coming to understand that the emphasis meant that Hugh would do more than posture. After the first few skirmishes ended in victory for Hugh’s men the English raiders began to head towards Hugh’s banner, and the Welsh started to retreat to lands better suited to their style of fighting.

Which was how the present situation had, finally, been reached. Judging the time to be ripe to meet with the Welsh leaders Hugh had extended safe conduct for them to meet him at Weobley, on the church grounds.

Demonstrating a lesson learned while campaigning in the north, Hugh had chosen to meet the Welsh princes in full armour. Armour, furthermore, that had not been cleaned back to a pristine state. Armour that proved him to be a leader of men in the field, a successful general. As there were three princes ranged against him, Hugh had brought two of his lords with him to the parley grounds. Then, as this occasion presented an opportunity he would be a fool to miss, he had insisted each side bring a further ten men of account to witness the talks. This presented his best chance to augment his proven capability for mercy with implacable harshness towards those who angered him past reconciliation. A king must be seen to have both aspects if he hoped to rule successfully.

On his arrival Hugh swept into the church, stalked past the Welshmen without acknowledging them, and, with a swish of his cloak, seated himself in the chair he had demanded be placed for him. Thus enthroned he deigned to notice those he had come to meet. “You are in defiance of the oaths you gave to my father, and which are now owed to me by right of my inheritance.”

“So,” declared the prince who fitted the description of Idwal, “you do not bother with pleasantries. That sits well with us. We have nothing pleasant to say to such as you.”

Hugh took this impassively. “What I have to say is this: surrender, bend your knees and renew your oaths to me. Or I shall make you do so.”

The second prince, Owyn, snorted. “And I suppose you want us to swear by the same terms as we gave your father?”

“No.” Hugh raised his chin so he could look down at them. “You will return every last step of land you have taken, pay compensation for the damages done, and release my Earl of Chester and all those taken with him immediately.”

Once one man laughed the others decided it was the appropriate thing to do.

As a reaction it suited well enough. Hugh had long since decided to play the hard line when dealing with this border. A softer line would leave him with a weaker position here in the future. He rose swiftly. “If that is your answer, so be it. There is nothing now to talk about.”

Idwal held up his hands. “Haste serves nothing. There are things to speak of yet. I, myself, would not be averse to an end to the fighting.” He held up a finger. “What I am adverse to is the swearing of oaths or anything which puts me at a lesser position to you.”

Hugh did not sit back down. “I have more men in one fraction of my army than you do in your entire holding, and more riches in one palace than you have in all of your lands. You are not my equal.” He looked about the gathering. “None of you are. Even did one man of you hold the entirety of Wales, you would be less than I.”

“Can you bring those men to bear? Can you dedicate your riches to crushing us?” Idwal shook his head. “You cannot.”

Hugh answered softly, “I can bring enough.”

“Is it worth the bother?” Cadfan, the third prince, countered. “Come to my lands. I will kill you, I promise you.”

“I will not relinquish the least part of what is due to me.”

Owyn said, “You are not crowned king yet.”

Hugh, hand idly resting on the hilt of his sword, gave the man back look for look. “No man now disputes my right. I choose to be about the work of a king, rather than sitting safely in Westminster allowing them to crown me.”

“A poet’s answer,” mocked Cadfan.

Hugh replied, “Better than a lawyer’s.”

Owyn stepped forward. “The problem, here, is this. We’re honour bound to make you answer for blood spilled. You murdered our hostages. Kinsmen, given in good faith-”

Hugh overrode him, “To stand guarantee of the oaths you had given with their very lives. You broke your word; their lives were forfeit. You knew that when you chose to rebel.”

“We did not give them to you. We made no oaths to you!”

“At the time you rebelled my father was thought to be yet alive, therefore you broke your oaths and, as the designated regent of England at that point, it was my duty to my father to act as I did.”

Cadfan started forward, only to be grabbed by his fellows. He shouted, “You killed my sons, you murderous son of a bitch! At least admit it!”

Hugh shook his head. “You killed them with your faithlessness. Their blood is on your hands, not mine.”

“I will see you dead!”

Hugh folded his arms. “Let us make one thing very clear. You all made a gamble and it failed. You thought me weak. You thought I would not kill the hostages, though the agreement demanded it and all good sense called for it. You thought I would shy from killing a score of innocents, preferring to court the disaster that would come from being known to be squeamish. You were wrong.” Hugh drove the last three words home by stabbing at the gathering with his finger. “Let me tell you this: better that five times their number had died than one single lord think he can give me his word and safely not keep it!” Hugh marched past the stunned gathering, his own men scrambling to follow him. “This meeting is over. You have refused my mercy. On your own heads be it.”

When he reached the door Cadfan’s voice called after him, “Wait, oh lord king. There is one thing you forgot.”

Hugh halted. “And that is?”

“Your Earl of Chester.”

Hugh turned about. “Do you intend to threaten his life if I continue to fight? If so, that would not be wise, I assure you.”

“You should know how he is.”

Owyn caught his ally’s sleeve and hissed something urgent in Welsh. The Welshmen turned inward and held a brief, heated argument in their native tongue.

Finally Cadfan slapped his friend’s hand away and stated proudly, “What is the use of a thing done in defiance if we then hide it in the dark like children afraid of being called to reckoning? You may shake in your boots if you wish. I will not!”

There had been a rumour, persistent, that the Welsh princes had maimed their noble captive in part-payment for the deaths of their hostages. Hugh had prayed it was not true. If this were the news they were about to give him it was vital he carry this through well; a misplaced word or emotion would unravel much of the good he had done these past days. “Tell me swiftly or tell me not at all. I do not have further time to waste.”

Cadfan crowed, “We have left him in the crypt here for you. What’s left of him. The stubborn old beast took some killing. But then men do – unlike my boys!”

Hugh took a steadying breath and battled to keep his features like stone. “Then,” he said, his voice flat and harsh in his own ears, “I suggest you start running. Your safe conduct expires one hour after this meeting finishes, and I declared it over some minutes ago. Or stay, and we shall see how long it takes for men to die.” This time his men were ready, and had the door open by the time he reached it.






True to their word, the Welsh had left Chester lying in the crypt. His body had been boxed up into a respectable coffin, perhaps an effort to defuse anger caused by actions which went against the codes of war.

Hugh viewed the body privately, and spent a while in vigil at his faithful lord’s side. As he prayed he planned, and found he could now use circumstances to strengthen the course he had decided to take. Numbers counted for little in the forests and hills this campaign would now be based about. A part of the substantial force now under his control could be settled to besieging Shrewsbury and the other captured strong points. The remainder of the force was a liability; the men were neither trained nor equipped for warfare in Wales. If he took their supplies and sent them home then he would be able to keep a smaller force in the field for much longer before starvation, the other great hazard of fighting in this area, threatened. The local lords needed to prove themselves, and they were every bit as apt at border warfare as their Welsh counterparts. The attack force could be divided into three, and sent in to press the Welsh on their home turf. This would make it harder for the sieges to be broken, and put the enemy on the defensive. The plan was rough, still needing detail; he would consult with his lords for that.

Vigil completed, he summoned his marcher lords to him. Once the group had assembled in the crypt Hugh called for torches, and had the chamber flooded with light. Resting a hand on the coffin’s lid he said, “At the start of this I called upon each of you to fight according to the oaths you gave. I asked you to do your sworn duty, to protect the kingdom from traitors and rebels. I designated a man for you to follow, and commanded you to give him your every assistance. Some of you declared for Trempwick. Others did nothing. Not a man of you did as I commanded. Not a man of you aided Chester, and for that alone you stand condemned as dishonourable, for he was one of you, known to you all.”

Hugh glanced about the shamefaced gathering. “Now you have come to me. Now, when it is late in the day. Now, when I have defeated Trempwick. Now, when the situation here is a mess. Now, when better men have died. And I have granted you all mercy. I have allowed you to keep your lands, your titles. I have not diminished you, nor exiled you, nor levied heavy fines on you. I have demanded nothing of you save for a renewal of your oaths, and payment of a fine for your failure.”

He heaved the lid off the coffin and beckoned over two torch bearers so all could see clearly what had been done. For once he made no effort to hold back his tears; there were times when it was right and proper for a man to cry. “This man was loyal to me. This man stood at my side in my darkest hour. This man never stinted in his efforts for me. This man was exemplary.” Once, in the space between learning Trempwick was a traitor and Eleanor marrying Fulk, Hugh had considered marrying her to Chester. Her refusal to countenance it had been the only thing which had stopped it. “You will step up here one at a time and look at what those Welsh barbarians have done to him.”

Chester’s eyes had been burned out, his ears cut off, a thief’s mark branded into his forehead, his right hand severed, and all over his visible skin there were bruises, cuts and small burns, distinguishable even through the mottling of death. His lower right leg was mostly hacked off and remained attached only by a sliver of skin.

As the men gazed on what was left of their companion Hugh continued to talk. “This is what the Welsh have done to a nobleman, a knight, a man of great standing. He should have been ransomed, unharmed. He should have been treated with honour. This man, who I counted amongst my most faithful, has been treated worse than the meanest man at arms. Worse than a thief caught stealing in a marketplace. Had you supported him this would not have happened. Had you supported him my kingdom would not have been ravaged. Had you supported him I would not now be fighting a war instead of being crowned and attending to the business of my realm. Had you done the smallest part of the service you owe, this situation would not be.”

Hugh loosed a fraction of the anger he felt and shouted, “You have made of me a liar! I promised peace to the people of this realm and you did not support me in giving it! Some of you broke it yourselves! And you left this man, who came in my name, to fall into enemy hands and suffer this!”

Walter De Clare knelt on the ground. “Forgive us, my lord.” Others quickly followed suit, raising their hands to beseech Hugh’s forgiveness. They were still unsure of their standing’s security and that gave Hugh added power.

Hugh reined his temper in. “In Saxon there was a word for a man who was such an abject coward, a vile and dishonourable wretch, such a failure of as a man, that he was beneath all notice and considered not to exist. Nithing!” That made faces pale. As well it should. The word had fallen out of usage long ago, but was remembered well enough that it – and the lack of status it conferred – was still feared.

Hugh moved to stand between the coffin and his lords. “The Welsh princes have rebelled, and treated me with contempt. They have ravaged my lands, carried off my goods, and done harm to my people. They have sized towns and castles which belong to me. They have done all of this also to those who do homage to me. They have murdered and dishonoured one who was my friend, and to whom I owed my protection. You, each of you, will lend you fullest aid to addressing this, or you shall be called nithing wherever people gather.”

The lords bowed their heads and swore they would avenge their king or die in the attempt.









Olaf, I always wanted a medieval fancy curtained bed. They’re so neat!

Ludens, so far life is very literally all fun and games (and books and writing) A spot of redundancy could turn out be to what I needed. Made me realise how nasty the last year and 4 months have been in terms of little time for myself.

Furball, it’s hard to stop gushing about Ancel. I thought I’d better add that to the end to make it completely clear it won't be posted. I don’t want anyone to wait in vain for it to appear on the internet.

Still going, Demon. Still going. Not for much longer though; the end is nigh.

Honestly i am praying for the Welsh rebels.
Yes blasphemous i know, but i have a soft spot in my heart for the rebels and the little guys.
I know that they are ****** but i cant help but still cheer for them, pissed off drunk and out for revenge for a massacre of their blood, and even defending their homes due to their killing of Lord Chester.
This has the makings of an epic sub-story all on its own.
:2thumbsup:Keep it up.:2thumbsup::2thumbsup:

lol, I was told that this was a really good story worth reading (and I remembered that you played Thief and liked it, so you had to have good tastes), so I thought that I would check it out. I read your first post on this page, and I have to say, you do a very good job, but it is certainly written from a decidedly female perspective. :P "Liquor, sex, power! I happy!" That seemed to be the guy's train of thought through the whole thing. :P

We're winding down, Froggie, aren't we? On the one hand, you have to wrap up Eleanor and Fulk in a tidy and editorially correct manner. On another, you have to say "goodbye" to your online readers. On yet another, you have to say "goodbye' to the innocent and juvenile way you have written until now.

You know what I mean. Chapters can no longer be a one-night passion for the storyline or a desire to provide substance to your fans online.

Now you have to create a coherent, cohesive story that stands within the pages of a finished "book."

Ack.

You can do it. I've seen ALL the elements necessary for success in your writing. You have the characters, the point of view and, most importantly, the VOICE, to be able to tell a good story to your readers.

You need editting. Spelling, and minor stuff like that, of course, but in some instances tempo and story-arc. But don't let that stop you. WRITE!

WRITE!

Editting is easy (once you let your editor tell you anything.) It is your writing that drives the vision and creation and the ideal of what story-telling is about, and you already have that!

Please keep writing, froggie. I like your characters and your voice, and I want to hear more.

So I still haven't caught up with you, miss Frog! I wonder if I do that before you write the end of it all..

Three weeks, four days, and with some work Trempwick could tell the hours too. Since he had arrived in Repton.

Three weeks, four days, and some hours – probably eleven, as he’d arrived late in the afternoon and now it was early morning.

Three weeks, four days and eleven hours. He knew the layout of the buildings to perfection. He was acquainted with the name, face and routine of each individual. The daily schedule held no secrets from him on any day of the week. At any given time he had a reasonable idea of where to find any person. He could tell anyone who enquired that his room was precisely sixteen and one fifth flagstones long and eight and two thirds wide. He knew the cook liked to add three cloves of garlic for every hand-sized piece of beef, or two for a similar amount of mutton or chicken. A light conversational relationship had been struck up with certain of his guards; they would permit him simple liberties cheerfully enough yet thought nothing of rendering him near-unconscious with a single blow if they felt the merest shade of threat.

His broken fingers had healed. They still ached.

Naturally, he had completed studies on more relevant issues first. Trempwick knew which way to run, where to hide, for best chance of success. He knew where to find makeshift weapons, and how to access real ones. A patrol from the castle came to check all was well twice each day, at times which were supposedly random but may yet prove to hold a pattern. The time between William’s departure for Normandy and the present had been submitted to meticulous examination, to the degree that he felt himself enlightened. The true intellectual embraced the revelation of their own flaws as joyfully as all other sources of learning.

The bastard had headed to Wales. He had been able to gain no newer information. Had gained none about Nell.

Three weeks, four days, eleven hours, and by the blessed torments of Jesus he was bored! What was there left to do? Other than await the call back into service?

Time stretched out before him, filled with the same selection of events as the time which rolled out behind him. A lesser man might find contentment in it. A lesser man might go mad. Trempwick rejected both: a man of his capabilities would fall into odd little things to keep himself going. Things which staved off the madness. Things which distinguished the days. Odd little things? A man of his training did not pass his days whittling bits of wood. No. A man of Trempwick’s ability passed his time by … was it not sufficient to say that over the first meal of this day he had worked out numerous ways to poison the wine supply?

Three weeks, four days, eleven hours – he needed a purpose. A true purpose. A true hope. Something better than the one Nell had given him.

Trempwick stepped into the abbot’s room, giving thanks to the monk who had announced him. “I need to send a message,” he said bluntly once the door closed.

“That is not possible.”

“To Nel- to Eleanor.”

“And what would be the contents?”

“I must have something to do. She can give me a purpose, one which will discomfort no one.”

Roger laid down the roll of accounts he was perusing. “I see no need to bother her.”

Trempwick set his hands on the desk and leaned down to Roger’s level. “Then tell her that I made the request. Tell her I said I was bored, against my better efforts. She will understand. It is … important. More than you would understand.”

The abbot regarded him thoughtfully for a space. “You may assist in the garden. Turn your hand to nurturing life; you may find it makes a pleasant chance from ending it.”

“Gardening!” Control. Control. Don’t let this maggot of a man gain. Calm. Trempwick pushed away from the desk. “Why not. Perhaps I might examine the rudiments of cookery while I am at it. The two combine, do they not? Just-” Calm! “Send my message.”

“I might. There again, I might not. I do not work at the bidding of a traitor.” Roger pointedly turned back to his accounting.

Perhaps Nell would forgive him for killing this fool? Just a tiny hint of poison? A small accident? No one would miss him. It would alert her to the problem. Then she could do something. Yes, it would not be so bad.

NO! He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, ergo he would be killed.

Trempwick crushed the notion from his mind, applied every bit of control he had. “As I said, it is of the utmost importance, and a message she will want to receive.” Now, take the control so far it presses into the flesh like needles, brand it home to make it stick. “Thank you for your time, and for your suggestion about the garden. I shall begin tomorrow.” Sounded most courteous; perfect. A most minor fraying at the edges did not damage the fabric of the whole.

He bowed slightly. He left. He walked another seven circuits of the walls with two guards in tow.

Three weeks, four days, twelve hours.









I am engaged in a battle with Hugh. It’s one of those rare occasions where I am attempting to shift the story a little. He wants to say some dialogue. I refuse to let him say it in the form he wants to. Nothing inherently wrong with it, and it’s not revealing too much. The problem is each and every time I see the words in the form they are in it brings to mind absolutely, abjectly, hideously cringe-inducing mental comparisons with a story which I hated in so many ways it’d take me a gargantuan post to scratch the surface. I cannot have it in the story in the form he wants it because that connection is overpowering, and instantly kills any connection I have to what I am writing. It’s like having a powercut in the middle of the film. We’ve been fighting for days. So far neither side has budged. I will win in the end; he wants the rest told, as does Nell and co, and so eventually he will have to give in.

So in the meantime you get Trempy to entertain you. The next part will appear as soon as I get Hugh to alter or drop the offending dialogue. All it will take is a slightly different choice of words, you stubborn lump! :gnashes teeth at the frustration of being stuck for days because one man will not change a couple of words!:



Olaf, I doubt I could do justice to a lengthier story featuring the Welsh. I would need to do a lot more research. There were many differences between them and their Anglo-Norman neighbours, differences in law, society, custom, everything. I don’t understand them fully enough to produce something with much authenticity, so I can’t see it being very satisfying. The knowledge I have is just about sufficient to write them from the other side of the border, provided the view is from a person who does not live in the marches.

Vuk, hehe, read on and you will find it changes a heck of a lot. Fulk is hiding things behind his idiot veneer. There are plenty of point of view characters waiting further in; Nell is the only female one and the rest are rather more … ah, oomph than Fulk. Especially Jocelyn. Oh boy. He’d rip the :daisy: off anyone calling him feminist.

Furball, :bow: It’s all so exciting! So many things I will have to change, so much more I will have to learn – it’s going to be a great experience for me as a writer. I’m very comfortable with the world and characters now; there are some scenes which make me burst with writing energy each time I think about them.

I don’t think it will quite be goodbye yet. There’s Silent’s tale, and the Trempy one which needs a middle.

Wasp, about 10 scenes left. Not long at all. (Disclaimer: we could end up with fewer or more than 10 scenes depending on how things fall out. Some scenes might join together, others might split, and I could stumble across another Ranulf* hiding in the mists and end up with a bit more than expected. But yes, really close)

*I’m going to call all unexpected discoveries which appear as I am writing a Ranulf from now on. The name … fits.

Honestly there are always way to deal with sure idiotic men in this world. If Hugh will not budge just threaten him with an upset of his precious order. For instance, whos to say he may not meet with an "accident" in Wales. This "accident" being lethal, his newborn son is elevated to the throne with the "Great and Noble Sir Fulk as Crown Regent". This of course frees our Gooseberry up from any deals she made with Hugh, since he told no one and they are all under the table. Having massive influence over her husband and therefore the throne. Just as Trempy trained her to do.
I think the though of his son being a slave to his half-sister for the rest of his life is enough to persuade him.:eyebrows::scared:
(Insert supremely evil laugh here.)

"NO! He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, ergo he would be killed."

If we agree on the meaning of "ergo," should that last phrase be, "ergo he would not be killed." ?

I hate to nitpick such fine writing, but that edit makes quite a difference. :)

As long as ur not a ****** GR4MM4R N4Z1u can nitpick. Its cool.

So Frogbeast, are you gonna be writing anything to get published? You seem to certainly have to knack for creating entertaining and captivating bits of reading, but did you ever consider getting them published? I think that you probably could.

In the early dawn light the banners were muted, armour did not gleam. The army Hugh watched advance was a grey mass mottled by darker patches which in daylight would have proved to be a riot of colours.

The ramparts on the keep filled with men; Hugh strained his eyes but could not manage a count. It mattered little; it was too late for the defenders. On the outer wall the gates were wide open; of the towers only two remained in Welsh hands.

As a paltry scattering of arrows rained down at the advancing army the lead banner was thrust high in the air, and the soldiers around it started to sing. It was a crude piece, all about what the men would do once they had won, a verse dedicated to each activity. It served its purpose: it kept the men marching in time, kept their morale up, and intimidated the enemy.

“Don’t you wish you were down there?” asked Malcolm.

The first verse of the song reached its end, and the men roared and beat their weapons on their shields as they advanced. Hugh’s answer was curt. “Not particularly.”

Suffolk looked sidelong at the young prince. “What my lord is too good to say is that only disposable men should lead an assault, however foregone the conclusion.”

Malcolm looked thoroughly baffled. “But an earl is leading.” A light dawned. “You hope he dies?”

“No!” snapped Hugh. “God’s teeth, no!”

The boy choked back his first, instinctive answer, and gave thought to producing something other than a torrent of venom. “It would be good if your Earl of York died. He’s got a bee in his tunic about his slowness to join you, and a whole damned swarm of them about earl Fulk. There’s going to be nothing but trouble there.”

Somewhere in the mire of venom filling this youth there was a sound politician; Hugh had to acknowledge that even as he recoiled from the suicidal folly it suggested. “Suffolk. Explain to him.”

The older man gave the young prince a smile that was at once friendly and faintly patronising. “Only a blind man would fail to smell treachery should my lord do as you say. Betrayed by our lord, what should we do? Tell me that, Nefastus.”

Malcolm’s mouth tightened, the gleam died in his eyes. “You’d rebel.”

“Some might. Others would not go so far; they would take their followers and leave the army.”

“And that would put them in defiance!” Malcolm interrupted hotly. “They would be traitors and rebels!”

Hugh said, “And I would have them for open enemies, along with those I was fighting at the start. My army would be smaller. I would lose the trust of those who remained. My position would be far weaker.”

“Oh.”

The advancing army was pouring through the open gates, half the men setting up a cover with their shields as others rushed forward with sacks filled with earth. The keep was in the old style with the entrance on the second floor. The wooden staircase leading up to it had been burned by the defenders during the night’s fighting. The sacks would make an improvised hill leading to the door, and then battering rams could be brought to bear.

William of Suffolk prodded Malcolm’s shoulder. “You should have known better than to suggest it. York requested permission to lead the assault – you were pouring wine for us at the very meeting!”

The prince rubbed his shoulder and glared at the old man. “You think I listen to what’s got nothing to do with me?”

“I think you should! Might learn something.”

“Damn you!” Malcolm balled his fists up. “Since I put myself in service all I’ve heard is that I must be more mannered, and now you’d bloody well telling me that I shouldn’t be! Make up your fucking minds!”

Hugh held up a hand to forestall the earl’s response. “Peace.” To his squire he said, “I have warned you to mind your language and speak to others with respect.” He slapped the prince across the mouth, hard. “Nor am I pleased to see you acting the idiot. If you cannot tell me the difference between ill-manners and paying attention where you aught now, then you had best put your mind to it. I expect an answer before nightfall.”

For a heartbeat Hugh thought the boy might fly at him. Then the boy swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, cleaning away the dribble of blood from a split lip. Through clenched teeth he answered, “Very well. My lord.”

Amazing. The Nefastus was definitely – gradually - growing tame.

A many-throated cheer from the battle drew Hugh’s attention. The battering ram had been brought up and had delivered it’s first blow. Owing to the difficulty of bringing a ram to bear on the raised door, this one was smaller and wielded by hand by eight men. It would take time to do its work. As it thudded into the reinforced timber for the third time one of the crew went down clawing at an arrow protruding from his throat.

Hugh offered a salve to Malcolm’s wounded pride and continued his lesson at the same time. “You had some part of this right. York cannot abide my brother-by-law and there will be nothing but trouble between them. That is why he volunteered to lead here, and in such a way I could not refuse without implying doubt of his courage. He desires to build glory of his own to rival that gained by Fulk.”

“He can’t.” Malcolm gave his lip a final dab and lowered his hand. “Not here. There’s not going to be a battle. There’s not even going to be any skirmishes like the one where Fulk forced that crossing.”

“Victory here gives him something to hold up. Previously he had no other experience on campaign save the battle at Alnwick, and there many won more renown than he.”

Another man working the ram fell, hit by a rock dropped from a window. Immediately another took his place.

“Maybe.” Malcolm licked his clotting cut, and dabbed it again with his hand. “But wouldn’t he do better to join the Marcher lords? They’re the ones heading into enemy lands and doing most of the fighting.”

The Earl of Suffolk laughed. “That would mean placing himself under one of them, and dear George’s ego would explode at the thought. He will follow a king, none other.”

Hugh tuned out the conversation which continued from that. He had a decision to make, and soon.

By the time he spoke the door had splintered from its hinges and royal troops had poured into the keep. “I am thinking it must be Cadfan.”

“My lord?” Suffolk enquired.

Hugh smiled faintly. “Wait and see, my friend. Wait and see.” Best that none knew what he intended before it was too late. Chance was small that any would try to stop him; small chance was too great.





On the Welsh side there was but a single survivor of the siege. Every other person had been slaughtered without pause for age or sex. Hugh waited in the bailey for this last man, watching as men at arms dragged the bodies into rough piles. They would be counted, stripped and buried. It was a relief to see that logic had been correct: there were very few women here and no children. The heads of this garrison would be shot over the walls of Chester castle, which was already pinned down by siege lines. That fortress would prove much too costly to assault and Hugh knew he could not take the time to starve it into submission.

The last man crossed the bailey, eyes fixed rigidly on the sky so he would not see the corpses of his comrades. He stumbled; his guards let him go down into the gore which puddle on the dirt. After cursing him and delivering a few kicks they hauled him back up. When they reached Hugh they sent the prisoner to his knees with a shove.

Hugh stared down at the man kneeling before him. “One would suppose it is too much to hope that he speaks a civilised tongue?” Getting no answer he called forward the translator, and addressed the prisoner again. “You will be the sole survivor and thus you will serve my purpose. You will return to your people and we will not hinder you. I do not care which lord you scamper to. I care only that you tell all you meet about this. Any who stand against me will die. Only those who submit will be spared.”

Hugh paused to give the translator time to catch up. When the flow of Welsh ceased he continued, “You will tell this to your lord. The King of England will not be insulted. He will not be defied. He will have what is his. He does not care how many he must slay to get it. He will not pause, will not waver, and will show no mercy. I will have the submission of your lords if I have to turn your lands into a graveyard to do it.”

Lastly he delivered the pronouncement which had taken so much thought. “And above all I will have the one who harmed my man. There can and will be no peace while Cadfan lives.” Hugh was aware of his lords sucking in a breath and murmuring – he had just pronounced death for one who could be considered on equal standing to them. The question was, would they permit it?

The objection came from the least expected quarter – the prisoner. In clear French he stated, “You have not been anointed. You are no king.”

Hugh said, “Should I come again in my regalia having been anointed, and say the same again? Or does this,” he gestured at the corpses, the broken doors, “hold more power?” Not waiting for an answer, he commanded the guards, “Untie him and throw him out.”

The bailey was eerily quiet after the prisoner was removed. All eyes were on Hugh; the noble ones weighed most heavily. “It will cause division amongst them,” Hugh rasped. “The other princes will begin to see Cadfan as a liability and think about bringing him down to save themselves.” Cadfan was the strongest individual prince, and the one who had behaved most offensively at the meeting. By far and away he was the best target.

Earl Wymar of Derby said, “We see the wisdom in it, lord.”

“Chester must be avenged,” agreed York.

The space which followed was heavy with the unspoken qualification. A droplet of sweat trickled down Hugh’s back.

“Welsh are barely civilised.” Serle, earl of nothing and baron of a most unspectacular fief, idly rested his hand on his sword. “Amongst more honourable men this would never be possible.”

Immediately all others of rank voiced agreement, whether a simple affirmation or a lengthier speech. So there it was, couched in terms which made it sound like an assessment of the plan’s chance of success. They would allow him the death of a prince but refuted any possibility of his having the same right over them. It was enough; one did not reach Jerusalem in a single step.

“Of course,” Hugh agreed, adopting a humble attitude. “Any reasonable foe would held Chester in honourable captivity. They did not, and it is that I use against them and that I strive to avenge.”

The moment passed; movement resumed.

Hugh publicly granted the entirety of the plunder to the men who had stormed the castle, giving his own share to George, Earl of York in recognition of his service.








Furball, as I understand it ergo means therefore. “He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, therefore he would be killed.” What do you think?

Vuk, I have been considering taking a shot at publication for a few years. For an assortment of reasons I haven’t tried. I’ve now got the idea for a story which is perfect for attempting it – it’s on a smaller, more contained scale than my previous two works, more tightly focused. It contains many elements which I know sell, but all with my own twist on them so it’s not derivative. It’s currently code named ‘Ancel’, the name of the main character.

I have written a bit down, and have found that it has shifted and redefined itself a bit compared to the story I had before I wrote anything. The changes are good – they narrow the focus and sprawl even more, and build up the remaining material to a high degree.

The relevant sentences:

"Perhaps Nell would forgive him for killing this fool? Just a tiny hint of poison? A small accident? No one would miss him. It would alert her to the problem. Then she could do something. Yes, it would not be so bad.

NO! He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, ergo he would be killed."

The first paragraph argues in favor of killing him, ending with, "Yes it would not be so bad."

The second paragraph refutes the first, because he would lose Nell's trust, therefore he would *not* be killed.

If the first paragraph means, "yes, it would not be so bad to kill him," and the second paragraph means, "NO, therefore he would be killed," the argument makes no sense.

EDIT: Froggy, I assume, "He would lose the last shreds of Nell's trust," because he would have killed the guy Nell set up as his keeper. Is that assumption incorrect?

In outline form Trempy's chain of thought runs:

I'm bored and very tired of having my dignity bruised - I want to kill that guy!

Yes, surely I could get away with it. He's an idiot and won't take my warning seriously. It would alert Nell to my difficulty in keeping the agreement I made with her.

No, wait, get a grip on yourself man and stop daydreaming! If I kill anyone that will break the terms I agreed to and Nell will have me killed.

He's arguing with himself like a dieter debating an ice cream. He knows he shouldn't but he wants to. One gets the feeling it is an argument he has been through a few times already.

Yes, the abbot/Roger is the man Nell designated as his jailor.

By the terms of the agreement he made with Nell, Trempy is not supposed to be killing anyone, or otherwise doing anything which might draw on his skills. He is supposed to be sitting in Repton doing nothing. Anything else will be taken as an effort to escape and/or regain some of his lost power.

I hate to belabor the point, but given what Frog has described, does anyone else thing it should be, "ergo he would not be killed" ?? Or have I gone whacko and am missing the obvious?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by furball

I hate to belabor the point, but given what Frog has described, does anyone else thing it should be, "ergo he would not be killed" ?? Or have I gone whacko and am missing the obvious?

---

That fragment did jar me when I first read it, but the "he" is Trempwick referring to himself, not Roger.

Hello, esteemed readers, and our glorious writer, frogbeastegg.

I started reading this novel about 3 years ago or so, but i fell out of it a year later. Now i see the incredible amounts of text, so i wondered if there were some kind of index somewhere. If there isn't i guess i have to go through the whole damn thing, cos i want to see what happens!

“And I assure you he is not here under duress,” Hugh concluded. How many times had he stated that in varying forms this past hour? To think, he’d halted his day’s march to speak with this man.

The emissary bowed yet again. “Most assuredly my lord, the King of Scots, would never accuse his most esteemed ally, the King of England, of such a thing.”

His lord, the King of Scots, had by proxy accused his most esteemed ally, whom he finally granted the title of king after using every possible alternative, of precisely that repeatedly during this interview. Hugh tried not to let his irritation show. “Then I am afraid I still do not see what troubles my ally, the King of Scots.”

“My lord, the King of Scots, has but the concerns common to every father.”

Hugh smiled thinly. “I have taken his son and heir into a place of honour in my household. I train him myself, in all that befits a prince. Prince Malcolm’s position here strengthens our alliance, I believe. It fosters understanding and goodwill between our families.”

“Yes, yes, this is true,” the man hastened to agree. “However my lord, the King of Scots, has those concerns natural to a father.”

It was an effort not to cover his face with his hands and groan. The man would not speak plainly. Hugh could not answer plainly without appearing to consider the very things he denied. Polite answers failed to satisfy the man. They would be here until dark! Mustering his patience Hugh tried once more. “It was the prince’s own request.”

The emissary dipped into a shallow bow, hands clasped before his chest. “Yes, yes, truly we understand that, myself and my great lord, the King of Scots, and place no blame whatsoever upon you. The prince is, well, he is what he is, and let that be all that needs to be said.”

Which said precisely nothing. Hugh rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and propped his chin on his fist. “I still fail to see the cause of my noble ally’s concern.”

Prince Malcolm shifted restively at his place in the background, perhaps contemplating braining this plague in fancy clothes with the pitcher he held. Hugh stilled him with a single glance.

An exquisite fluttering of hands made up half of the man’s reply. “I am most distressed at my inability to make my lord, the King of Scot’s, thoughts clear to you. The failing is mine alone, and I take full responsibility.”

No, the failing was in the instruction not to accuse Hugh of anything while simultaneously accusing him of everything. Very nearly he permitted himself to sigh. “There is no need to apologise, please. Be at ease. Perhaps some more wine?” He waved to Malcolm, and the prince stepped forward to refill the man’s goblet.

Malcolm had made considerable progress in this simple art which, by rights, he should have mastered before the age of seven and had not been introduced to until last month. He managed to pour the wine in a graceful arc, and did not get so much as a droplet on the emissary, purposely or otherwise. That, too, was a kind of progress.

The emissary sipped at his drink. “If I might be so bold as to offer a suggestion of my own?”

Hugh indicated that he should.

“Perhaps all would be smoothed if the prince were returned home, and then the arrangements made in the traditional manner?”

Malcolm caught his breath, and he didn’t retreat back to his place near the wall, instead lingering of the edge of Hugh’s vision.

Traditionally meaning that Hugh would approach Malcolm the Elder and offer to train his son. A face-saving measure, allowing the King of Scots to give his blessing to something which had been arranged without him. “I can see some merit in this,” Hugh said carefully.

The emissary visibly relaxed. “I am pleased to have been able to be of this most very slight service to you, and to my lord, the King of Scots. Perhaps, then, the prince might accompany me as I return?”

“No!” Malcolm dumped his pitcher onto the cloth-covered floor of the tent and hastened forward. “No.”

The emissary regarded him from under hooded eyes. “I do not recall you being a named participant of this meeting, prince Nefastus.”

A muscle in Malcolm’s cheek spasmed. “I will speak where I will, by virtue of my rank. I know you, Duncan FitzDuncan. I know where your lands are, I know who your family is, and I know you’re a bloody sight more than a glorified messenger who can’t get his point home because he’s too busy spewing pretty words!”

Hugh bolted to his feet. “Malcolm!”

The boy dipped a curt bow. “With all respect, my lord, this is a matter more than this fucking flowery-boy would tell you. It’s a matter of home, of politics. It’s more between us than you and he.”

This much Hugh had known since the opening minutes of this most private meeting. Why else had he fetched the prince here to wait upon them? Still, appearances must be met, and now they had been. After a show of hesitation he resumed his seat. “Very well. I see this is so.”

Duncan blazed, “You will allow him to threaten me?”

Malcolm bared his teeth in answer. “That wasn’t a threat. A threat’s when I say I’ll fucking gut you and hang you with your own entrails, you lanky stream of piss!”

This time Hugh did allow himself to sigh. “Language. Please. Perhaps all business in Scotland is conducted in such terms, however here we are in my dominion and a more civilised mode is the norm.”

Malcolm strode up to Duncan, one hand resting carelessly on his dagger. “I’m not going back now, not with you and not with anyone else. I know I’ll never leave again if I do. I’m a smart lad, see.”

“Scotland is your home.”

“And it’s currently occupied by a bearded old coward who’s terrified I’ll take his place. So he’ll keep me stuffed away again, making sure I don’t learn what I need to. I’m not having it.” Malcolm raised his voice, “I’m not fucking well having it! I will not get fucking killed because that old shit lost his balls along with his beauty in his first fucking battle!” He leaned in closer and shouted in the other man’s face, “Do you understand?”

Duncan turned his face away deliberately. “Your breath is as foul as your words.”

Nefastus nodded slowly, one lip curved ever so slightly. Right next to the man’s ear he said with utmost gentleness, “Mint does not make a man’s breath foul.”

Now it was Hugh’s turn, and he played it to the best of his ability. “This is news to me,” he exclaimed. He fixed the prince with a glare. “You said nothing of this!”

Malcolm abandoned the emissary and dropped to his knees before Hugh, head bowed. “Forgive me my lord. I didn’t want to deceive you but I knew you’d never take me if you knew the truth.” He raised his head, wretched with hope. “I’m in fear of my life. I came to your aid for the honour of my blood and realised too late that it’d make my father see me as a threat.”

Not bad, not bad at all. He’d given the youth an guideline for what to say but hadn’t expected anything so convincing. “You deceived me – you could have caused bad feeling between your family and mine.” Hugh gripped the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles shone white. “You could have caused a war!”

Malcolm’s head went back down. “Forgive me.”

Hugh turned to the emissary. “I had no idea. Of course he must return home immediately.”

“They’ll kill me!” Malcolm threw himself forward and clutched at Hugh’s feet. “They will kill me.”

“That is a serious charge.” Hugh said, at the same time as Duncan exclaimed, “Nonsense!”

“They will kill me. I won notice at Alnwick and now he fears me even more – he’s bloody well said I raised an army without his permission, even though I went to your aid and for the honour of our family.” Still clutching at Hugh like the most desperate of supplicants, Malcolm said, “I’ll disappear into the background and one day fall from my horse or some other such shit. Doesn’t matter how – I’ll be dead, and they’ll have arranged it.”

Hugh addressed the emissary, “Is there any truth in this? I demand a fair answer – should I return the prince and find myself to have been deceived there also there shall be no limit to my fury.”

To his credit Duncan hesitated before answering. “Through his own nature the Nefastus is not popular.”

That said far more than it did not; Hugh’s estimation of the man increased mightily.

At Hugh’s feet the prince cried, “I claim sanctuary!”

Hugh laughed. “I am not a church!”

“A man might claim protection from his liege lord. You’re by rights my father’s lord, and so mine.” Nefastus raised his chin.

Duncan leapt in instantly, “With regards to that, the lordship, I mean-”

Hugh interrupted softly, “In the time of William the Bastard Scotland’s king did homage for his lands, and thus it has continued until our own day with but the most minor break here and there. The right of the King of England still stands.” He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the chair to appear nonchalant. “Do you deny my right?”

That gave the emissary pause. Here, scant miles from where men fought with merciless fury in pursuit of Hugh’s rights it would take a foolhardy man indeed to deny them. Duncan dipped his head. “No. Of course not. Neither I nor my lord, the King of Scots, denies your right.”

It was all Hugh could do not to sag in relief and let out his pent breath. He waited a time, as though giving the matter considerable thought. “I have a right, and with it a duty. I shall mediate between the prince and his lord father. It will be my greatest pleasure to restore harmony.”

Malcolm kissed Hugh’s shoe. “Thank you.”

The emissary said very carefully, “While your offer is most generous, my lord, the King of Scots, would be distressed to have you bothered by such a triviality. Especially at such a time, when you have a great many more pressing matters to attend to.”

Hugh held up a hand. “Not another word. My beloved ally, the King of Scots, is close to my heart, and I owe him a debt for the aid he has given me. It would be to my lasting shame if I did not lend my attention to this matter, and do my all to restore his relationship with his son.” He set his palm over his heart. “It will be my pleasure to return a small part of what I have been given.”

Seeing he would make no headway there, Duncan turned to the prince. “We have no liking between us, there is no point in pretending otherwise. But please, heed my words. If you insist on staying here - however right or wrong it is – your father will consider you to be in rebellion.”

Malcolm scrambled to his feet, flushing. “He has no bloody reason!”

“He has asked you to come home and you have refused, claiming he threatens your life.” Duncan spread his hands. “He may even express a desire that you no longer be considered his heir.”

“I will fight for my crown if I have to – I’m not a fucking coward like him.”

“Fight with what? My prince, you will have no lands, no money, no followers.” Duncan raised his eyebrows. “Unless you mean English aid? But I think the King of England too honourable to lend his support to an effort to overturn the rightful succession.”

“Rightful?” Malcolm pounded his chest with a fist. “I am the firstborn! I am the rightful heir! No other can be while I live!”

“Whatever my lord, the King of Scots, wills is rightful.”

Malcolm spat on the floor. “Stop repeating his fucking title like that – we all know who the fuck he is and that he’s important. We don’t need fucking reminding every fucking five words! Makes the conversation take for-fucking-ever.”

This was getting out of hand; Hugh rubbed at his scarred forehead. “Peace. Please. The more words spoken between you the greater the harm grows, or so I see it.” He lowered his hand and resumed his most regal posture. “Thus is my will. The prince will remain with me for the time being as I cannot with honour send him away if there is but the slightest chance his words have truth in them. If there is not, well then it gives both time to reflect and cool from their present temper. It will be my pleasure to mediate, as I have said, and thus I invite his father, my beloved ally, the King of Scots, to meet with him on ground neutral to them both, to discuss their complaints and settle in peace. I offer myself as guarantor of the harmony of this meeting, and suggest that the meeting be held on church land some days before my coronation, which of course my ally, the King of Scots, shall attend.”

The emissary said regretfully, “Ah, with that there is a problem. My lord, the King of Scots, cannot possibly leave his realm for any prolonged period. There is much there which demands his presence, and an absence would overtip all to the detriment of his people, to whom he has a sworn duty, as my lord, the King of England, will understand.”

In short: they recognised he had gathered enough power to make him dangerous, but did not fear him sufficiently to accord him the full dignity that had been granted to many of his ancestors. It would have been unrealistic to expect anything else. Hugh inclined his head graciously. “I understand, though I grieve that my beloved ally will not stand at my side on my great day. I had suggested this as it brought us together sooner. However, recognising that this is not possible, I suggest instead that the meeting be held on the border. I intend to tour the north once again in the second week after my coronation. Lord Fulk is known and trusted by both of us, and thus I propose we meet on his lands, and that there peace be restored between the prince and his father.”

Duncan bowed. “I expect this will be acceptable. I shall indeed mention it to my lord, the King of Scots, with all haste on my return.”

Good. “At this time also it would be my pleasure to receive the homage owed to me.”

“Yes,” he replied after a moment, bowing once again and with obvious reluctance. “Yes, I expect this shall also be so.”






After many more pleasantries the Scottish emissary departed, quoting a need to relay Hugh’s words to his lord with all speed.

“That didn’t go too badly, did it?” Malcolm asked, faintly smug.

Hugh agreed, “Not so badly.” Another step along the way completed, countless thousand steps left to go. “Who was this man? From your first words there was something more to him than one might assume.”

Malcolm sloshed some wine into an abandoned goblet and drank it down. “He’s in thick with my father’s spymaster. Apprentice, right hand, best friend, something like that – I can’t get the details.”

Hugh found that he needed a large dose of wine himself. And Nell had let the man walk on in, uncommented! He would have words with her about this at a later date.

Malcolm refilled Hugh’s goblet, and then his own. “I am grateful. For what you’ve done.” He swirled the liquid around in his cup, watching it flow and eddy intently. “I mean, I know it plays to your benefit too. But it’s not like you had to do any of this.”

“It is the things a man does not need to undertake but chooses to which indicate his quality.” Hugh took a mouthful of wine. “And also the way in which a man grasps the opportunities presented.”

Malcolm set down his drink, and stood before Hugh. “They say I’m demon’s spawn. They see what they want no matter what I do, so that’s what I’ve been and become. Maybe it’s what I really am. My father’s done his best to keep me ignorant. He fears me because he knows I will replace him unless I die first, and the damned fool makes so many mistakes-” Malcolm caught his breath, held it for the count of four, and let it out slowly. More calmly he continued, “I’ve the passion for it. The talent. I appeal to those who want a proper king, not a coward who stabs with words and hides behind ceremony.” He grimaced. “Or I’d appeal if I weren’t the Nefastus. And now I’ve proven my valour. Faced the same trial which broke my father, and I’ve passed. If the lords won’t accept me they’ll kill me, and right now they’d gut me happily. I’ve a much younger brother to fill my place, to the cheer of many.” Malcolm gave Hugh a bleak smile and perched on the edge of the small table. “Even my own sister thinks I’m evil. She heard the legend and never looked further. I’ve always tried to be nice to her. So I’m pretty much fucked, and not by a pretty girl, more’s the pity. My only hope is to stay away for a few years, learn everything I can, and gain a reputation for changing.” He snorted, half in amusement. “Saintly king Hugh making a decent man out of the Nefastus, eh? Should do wonders for your own reputation. Then I’ll head home and start gathering support.”

In the time he had known him, Malcolm had said very little about his position at home, his reputation, or any of this. Hugh took it as a sign he had gained some of the prince’s trust. “I will not help you overthrow your father,” he warned.

Malcolm Nefastus downed another few swallows of his wine. “I don’t ask it. The opposite, really. I’ll do it myself. If I don’t then I’m still royally fucked; I’ll just die later instead of sooner.”

“Stop swearing,” Hugh instructed. Then, because this felt poor reward for the boy’s extended trust, “I thank you for your help. This would have been more difficult without your aid.”

Malcolm drained the last of his wine. “I told you they’d be happy to blame me if given chance. So. Now there’s little chance of them accusing you of nasty things, and you don’t need to wage war to get them to recognise you, and I get to stay. Everyone’s happy.”

“Will your father do as his emissary agreed?”

“Oh, he’ll bitch and whine and try to wriggle out of much of it, but he’ll give in. At least on most points. He’s terrified of war, and you’ve made a pretty demonstration here of what will happen if he doesn’t.”

Hugh grunted something akin to an agreement. In the North he would not be able to inspire his lords with the excuse of vengeance. He would be hampered by Fulk’s position as a Scottish lord. Above all he would be facing a larger, richer and more unified enemy than the Welsh. “I need to get across the Narrow Sea. I do not have time to spend on the north.”

“You won’t have to. My father will shit himself at the first sign of an attack.”

“Whatever may be, it will be some weeks from now. Close to victory is not yet victory, and then I must be crowned. The north is some way down in priority.” Hugh stood. “You will help pack this away; I will be outside Chester’s walls before dark.” Hugh strode from the tent, calling orders that his force of knights should prepare to resume the march.







You may or may not remember that the King of Scots has been behaving like Hugh’s superior and then his equal, and generally wringing as much as he could from Hugh’s uncomfortable situation.

Heh, I got a little absorbed in a few things and didn’t realise how long it had been since I’d last written some Eleanor. Then I got a nudge from Hugh.


Molbo, if you remember where you left off I’ll see if I can find it in my manuscript. That should give me a rough ideas of where in the topic it is.

i have been reading this story for quite a long time, now. I think it has been since early september. Let me tell you that it is just phenomenal. I am a writer myself, although I focus mainly on screenplays, seeing that my dream job is writing a comedy on television. Either way, i have found this story highly enjoyable, and whenever i am bored (i can't play total war games ALL DAY LONG!) I come here to read your story. It is well written, funny in certain places, and quite enjoyable. all of the characters are so deep, in my opinion, that I feel a very strong attachment to them, especially jocelyn, because of his peculiar position with his amiable wife. sometimes your grammar ruins a sentence or two, but then again, your excellent writing skills easily make up for this, and actually, if anything, it makes the story for me more fun, because it makes me think that i can write a story as good as this!!

I must admit that i am a bit dismayed not to see an ending yet--after four months or so of reading, i found myself getting closer and closer to page 31, and since i hadn't been keeping a close eye on the amount of pages this topic was, i had, for some reason, thought that the topic had been 31 pages for quite a while. because of this, i assumed the story was finished. However, since it is not, I would like to tell you to take your time with the ending--i'd rather have an epic ending to an epic tale than an ok ending to an epic tale. In other words, the ending better be good...or else :laugh4:

but seriously, i cannot tell you how many school days i've slept through because the night before i had stayed up past 4 AM reading this story. It has been so enjoyable, and I don't think I've ever been able to enjoy a book this much!! I hope to oneday see this book, or maybe another of your works, on a display case at the local Barnes and Noble. I honestly think that you, NOT JK Rowling, deserves to be the richest women in England. Thank you so much for writing this incredible story, and I eagerly await the next chapter, and soon, the ending.

I have no idea what I will do for the rest of my life without this book. Without this book, there will be a large, gaping hole in my life!!! :help:

“Some messengers have arrived,” said Hawise. “Fulk requests you join him. He’s in the armoury.”

“Some.” Eleanor reluctantly rolled over so she could see her maid. “Define ‘some’.”

“Three.”

“Three.” Eleanor pushed herself up; immediately the dull ache in her lower belly intensified. “It is a conspiracy.”

Hawise placed Eleanor’s shoes at the side of the bed ready for her to step straight into. “One is from your brother, one from Repton, and the other is here in response to the message you sent to Wosthorne abbey.”

Eleanor glowered. “Why could they not have arrived yesterday, when I felt fine? Or tomorrow when I might feel better?”

“Consider the bright side,” the maid advised as she sorted through Eleanor’s meagre collection of girdles for one which would go with the dress Eleanor was wearing.

“Bright side.” Eleanor slipped her feet into her shoes and stood. “I know I am not with child. Down side – I have rarely been one to suffer from aches and illness and it would have been a damned sight better if I had ended up feeling rotten in one of the months of my life where I do not have a lot to do.”

Hawise passed over a plain braided silk girdle. “That in and of itself is a blessing. I once knew a girl who spent the entire time she was bleeding queasy and retching with the most dreadful headaches.”

Eleanor wrapped the length of silk loosely around her waist twice and tied it. “That would cheer me up if only I did not currently feel as though I have been kicked by a mule.”

“Go take your wrath out on the messengers. I’ll make something to ease your stomach for when you return.”

“If it is as effective as the last lot you can save your bother.” Eleanor ran a hand over her hair making sure he braid was still neat. “How do I look?”

The maid considered for a bit. “Pale, faintly sick, crotchety.”

“Charming,” Eleanor snarled, and exited the room wishing heartily she could return to lying down in a huddled ball. It was the only thing which eased the ache.

The three messengers awaited in the armoury, where Fulk was inspecting the castle’s stocks and having them recorded by a clerk. Two monks and one man in Hugh’s livery.

Eleanor surveyed them swiftly. “Which of you is here from Repton?”

The shorter of the two monks bowed. “I am, your Highness.”

“Your message?”

The monk replied, “It is verbal. Shall I state it now?”

“Unless it contains something others should not know.”

“It does not, your Highness.” The monk’s eyes fell half closed as he called the words to mind. “These are the words spoken by my abbot. I thought it of import to inform you that Trempwick has made requests to send you a message. I have denied them, as instructed. This denial he countered with the plea I inform you of his request. I have given him no reason to believe I would do this, though having a respect for his intellect I know he will be aware that my failing to do so would be a failure in the duty you have left me. Trempwick claims to be bored, and this I do not doubt. He says this is of such import that you must be made aware; I fail to see the relevance. I have made suggestions for gainful employment to him, and thus far he has taken them.” Recital complete, the monk reopened his eyes. “That was all, your Highness.”

Fulk looked up from counting a sheaf of arrows. “And what would a bored spymaster do?” It was a rhetorical question; Fulk’s appreciation for Trempwick’s abilities was a damned sight keener than the abbot of Repton’s.

Eleanor had been expecting this since she condemned Trempwick to imprisonment and isolation. It was, simply, half of the point. Once bored he would be grateful for any chance to work, however slight or simple. At that point she had his attention, fully and wholly, and he knew what he could be plunged back into if he displeased her. “Tell your abbot that he has done well to bring this to my attention, and to deny Trempwick’s request. He is to watch still more closely, and alert me of anything out of the expected run, no matter how slight it might appear to him. It is my wish that Trempwick be put to work now. This will not be conveyed to him directly; he is to think it is the abbot’s own idea.” Her former master would not be fooled for a second. The implications of her working this way was what mattered, not a successful deception. “I wish him to write a history of my father, recording his deeds and his acts.” Again, Trempwick would see that this request fell into two halves. The first a formal history of the reign, the second an account of a man by his close friend.”

The monk bowed. “It shall be done.”

Eleanor dismissed him to food and rest, and turned to Hugh’s messenger. “Well?”

The man bowed. “Your Highness, this was sent in addition to the message for your husband.” He pulled a small letter out of his belt pouch.

Eleanor took it and inspected the seal; unbroken. As it was Hugh’s private seal the message couldn’t be that important; Eleanor dismissed the messenger.

Fulk set aside the coil of bow string he was checking for damage and dismissed his clerk. “And you are here to solve the mystery of Ranulf,” he said to the third and final messenger.

“I hope so, my lord.” The monk tucked his hands in his dangling sleeves. “I will look at the man to be sure he is whom we believe, if such is your wish.”

Fulk nodded at once. “Yes. It would be best if he did not see you, I think. The prisoners will be brought out for exercise this afternoon; you can observe him then.”

“As my lord wishes,” the monk agreed with a gentle bow. “Would you hear of the Ranulf we did know, or do you wish to be sure it is the same man first?”

“Please tell me.”

“The Ranulf we knew was with us from an early age. A bright child, his parents knew that he could do better than spend his life working the land as they had. They managed to raise the money to fund his acceptance, and the boy took to the life well. When he was some months short of taking his vows, a thief slipped into our church and tried to steal the candlesticks from the altar. Ranulf was one of a small; group who spotted him, and he blocked the thief’s path.” The monk sighed and bowed his head. “It was a good thought, and with tragic consequences. The thief fought, and Ranulf killed him. By accident, of course! During the scuffle he fell backwards and broke his head on the cornerstone of a pillar. God’s judgement on a sinner.” The monk crossed himself. “Some of our number did not share this view; they said Ranulf had blood on his hands, and that he had desecrated holy ground more than any thief could. It tore our peace apart. It tore Ranulf apart, for he was fundamentally a good man.” The monk paused. “Two weeks later, he left. It was a thing of some bitterness. He said he would not stay in a place where people cast doubt on him for acting righteously. He had not taken vows so he was free to go; we have no claim on him. Nor was he charged with murder.”

Fulk said, “I suppose I can see him not wanting to tell this story. It must be painful.”

“He was deeply hurt by the fact some of his brothers rejected him.”

Eleanor did not see any need to be present for more of this discussion, not when she could return to curling up to ease her stomach ache. “If you need me for anything else, send for me. Otherwise …” Otherwise don’t bother, and if Fulk needed her for something it had better be diverting the apocalypse and nothing else!

The message from Hugh she read as she walked back through the keep. It was brief, and instructed her to see to the relocation of her father’s body. Now the country was settling back into peace there was nothing to prevent the arse in the crown from lying in Westminster along with his father and grandfather. Eleanor rolled the bit of parchment up into a tube which she tapped on her thigh as she walked. Hugh was known as a dutiful son; a dutiful son would see to his father’s burial. Hugh had done what was required of him during the original funeral, which would make his passing the job on to her all the more notable. Understandable as his refusal to do more for a man who had disowned him was, it could not be allowed.





Fulk waited as the prisoners were let out into the bailey, waiting to see if the monk would recognise Ranulf without any clues.

“There!” The monk bit back his rapid identification. “At least … I think. He’s shaved his head.” In the bailey Ranulf turned to say something to a comrade and inadvertently gave a better view of his face. “Yes. That is him.” The monk smiled faintly. “He used to have dark hair, all loose curls and unruliness. He looks so different without it.”

“Well, then. Mystery solved.” Fulk decided he would hire Ranulf along with the others he had marked as good soldiers, provided Hugh permitted it.










Boring boringness which is not interested in writing nicely. It’s had as long as I’m willing to give it; I’m moving on because that’s where the better scenes are.



Welcome, shinderhizzle. You will need the famous Eleanor eyedrops :hands them over:

Hehe, you make me think I should do a reading list for recovering Eleanor addicts. Books which I have read, enjoyed and feel have something which would make them enjoyable to Eleanor readers. I could definitely post the historical books I have used for research at various times.

thanks for the eye drops. i've always wanted eyedrops as a birthday present from my parents, but now that you have given them to me, i have no idea what i will ask for come august...hmm....maybe a car, now that i'm going off to university....*begins plotting evil, greedy ways to bankrupt his parents while cackling maniacally*


thanks for the chapter. i had come back to check up on this story every day since i made my post, and when i saw that you still hadn't posted a reply, i began to worry that i said something stupid, or ignorant. but then again, my forum name is something that a 10 or 11 year old would make, so i shouldn't have been shocked if i DID say something stupid or ignorant. Shinderhizzle.....don't ask....i was 11.


either way, i've been home from school all day today, i'm sick....now that i've read this new installment, i already feel much better. *jumps out of bed, puts on jogging clothes and goes for a 5 and a half mile jog around town*

I wish there was a smiley face for THAT!! Anyways, i must say, it's probably me being stupid again, but something about ranulf doesn't sit right with me....i can't quite place it....maybe, before he died, the thief convinced him to join "the dark side" and become his apprentice....and he faked the thiefs death all along!!

Sorry...i just finished my fifteenth game of Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. i'm not too big on the series, but it's a great game.

now, this is going to come off kinda weird, but from my perspective, i think it would be kinda cool if eleanor actually had a child with fulk...and survived. it's your story, of course, but to me, it would just be another check on the list of things where people said that Eleanor CAN'T do it, and she ends up beating expectations yet again. Or it could go the other way, where she would die in childbirth, and everyone was right about her, and the story can end off really depressing and sorrowful. or...she may just not be pregnant. if she is pregnant, the story, at least to me, would have to continue on for another 9 months. and while i, personally, would love to see more of eleanor's adventures (or rather, lack thereof, once she starts getting REALLY pregnant), i'm not sure how you would feel about that, especially since you've previously stated that you don't like kids. eh, but just ignore me, i'm rambling. i'm just a poor poor 18 year old with a severely immature, yet still smart, mind.

:dizzy2:

As always 1337 chapter.
This is the best drug i have ever taken:2thumbsup:, i wish there was more:shame:.

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Originally Posted by shinderhizzle84

i had come back to check up on this story every day since i made my post, and when i saw that you still hadn't posted a reply, i began to worry that i said something stupid, or ignorant.

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Heh, the answer is much more mundane. I try not to post in the topic unless I have a new story update. I don't want people to see a post by me, come rushing in expecting a new chapter, and end up disappointed. Sometimes I make exceptions, usually if my reply can be posted within a very short space of the last story chapter ...

Quote:

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Sorry...i just finished my fifteenth game of Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. i'm not too big on the series, but it's a great game.

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... or when I can offer something readers might like, such as now. Jedi Therapy, a very old short story of mine. It's a comedy based on KOTOR. The writing is very rough; it shows how far I have come in the last 5 years.

Quote:

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now, this is going to come off kinda weird, but from my perspective, i think it would be kinda cool if eleanor actually had a child with fulk...and survived. it's your story, of course, but to me, it would just be another check on the list of things where people said that Eleanor CAN'T do it, and she ends up beating expectations yet again. Or it could go the other way, where she would die in childbirth, and everyone was right about her, and the story can end off really depressing and sorrowful. or...she may just not be pregnant. if she is pregnant, the story, at least to me, would have to continue on for another 9 months. and while i, personally, would love to see more of eleanor's adventures (or rather, lack thereof, once she starts getting REALLY pregnant), i'm not sure how you would feel about that, especially since you've previously stated that you don't like kids. eh, but just ignore me, i'm rambling. i'm just a poor poor 18 year old with a severely immature, yet still smart, mind.

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The answer to that one lies off in the realm of things which won't be seen in the story proper. There's an answer of a sort to be found in the short story I speculate about posting after the main story is complete, and it's one of the reasons why I consider not posting it. Without 'Silent' people will be able to make up their own minds.

I don't mind writing children, I just don't like being subjected to them in real life. Noisy, messy, illogical, boring - even when I was a child I didn't like them. The work I consider to be my best bit of short fiction is based around a child. It's the one I posted a while back, about Nell's first meeting with her father since Trempwick accepted her as his apprentice.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Olaf Blackeyes

As always 1337 chapter.
This is the best drug i have ever taken:2thumbsup:, i wish there was more:shame:.

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You could always head back to the beginning and start reading again. :hide:

Cadfan was not sneering this time. Much care had been lavished on his appearance; his hair was freshly washed and combed, his skin flawlessly clean, his features composed. Fashionable clothes and a body to wear them upon were his only lack.

Hugh waved the casket away after giving the severed head inside a showily prolonged inspection. “Where is his body?”

Two Welshmen had come under flag of truce to deliver the grisly prize, one to represent each of the surviving princes. Each waited for the other to answer, and when the silence drew out to an uncomfortable length each started to speak. A look between them settled the matter, and the older of the two was the one to continue. “Sire, it lies in our princes’ camp. It can be brought here within the day, should you require it.”

Now that the rebel alliance had broken and its remaining leaders were willing to submit Hugh saw no need to press Cadfan’s destruction further. He was not a vengeful man, at least he prayed so. “No. Let him be buried wherever it is traditional for his family.” Not vengeful, and not weak either; Hugh directed his marshal, “Boil the head in tar and mount it on a spike above the main gate of Chester so that all who come and go may see for themselves he price of harming one who swears allegiance to me.”

The younger emissary spoke, “Our lords hope you might find forgiveness for them in your heart now they have purged themselves of the ill-council which led them astray.”

Naturally Hugh would find forgiveness – it was part of the endless cycle of border politics. He was as incapable of conquering Wales as the locals were of fully throwing off English influence. That prevented neither party from trying their hand when opportunity was perceived; it was such a long-standing state of affairs as to be traditional. “If your lords will submit themselves before me tomorrow, give me fifty hostages to guarantee the peace, and attend my coronation to pay homage along with the rest of my lords then there shall be forgiveness.” Hugh raised a hand to still the murmur than ran through the chamber. “It is my decree that all that my lords have taken while fighting in defence of my rights shall remain in their hands. The Welsh must forfeit all claim to those lands and goods.”

The younger man nearly rose from his abject position on the floor. “That is unjust!”

Hugh slapped his palm on the arm of his great chair. “It is just! The word you seek is harsh. Which, given the numerous offences your lords have given me, is none so applicable as it might be. Am I to fund the struggle to regain what is rightfully mine? Or shall the cost fall to those who began the war, maintained it, and wrought the devastation?”

The man made the mistake of countering, “The very lords you now reward gave many of the same offences-” His remaining words were cut off in uproar; the marcher lords were most displeased at this reminder of their sins.

Finally Hugh came to his feet, stilling the shouted abuse with a roar of, “Silence!” He got it. Seated once more he said, “The difference is thus: when presented with my person my marcher lords knelt before me and asked my forgiveness. Your princes scorned me, and heaped further insult on me as they made a show of their defiance. My lords have proven themselves to me in this war, and have avenged the slights your princes visited upon me.”

The elder of the pair stilled his companion with a hand on his shoulder. “We will take your words to our lords. We cannot say what the reply will be.”

The reply would be acceptance. There would, inevitably, be some haggling over which lands were lost and, equally inevitably, some would be returned to sweeten the deal. Hugh had faith that an accommodation satisfactory to all would arise from this. He would have his rights restored and his strength proven; his lords would have forgiveness and a reward to encourage; the Welsh would have an end to a conflict they could no longer gain from.

Time to turn his mind to setting a date for his coronation.






Two works had been requested of him. An official life of William, a mere trifle to fill his days. Perhaps a scattering of people would read it. A means to get some use from a fallen man, to rehabilitate him to a small degree. Trempwick felt no zest for this one.

A private work on the man, for the eyes of his daughter and no others. A means for Nell to find familiarity – and possibly peace – with the man. A means also, he dared hope, to hold a variety of conversation with her former master. Were it not presently impossible, he could have spent long hours telling her of William and answering the inevitable questions. This one did spark something inside Trempwick’s heart, and he had faithfully occupied the last few days with its beginning.

The thought that the second, private work might be a form of conversation had done more than spark that something in his heart; it had sparked something in his mind. A third work, more private yet. This one had awakened in him a kind of burning, a need to put words down in ink and as soon and perfectly as he could manage. While his jailors believed him working on his assigned histories, much of his time would be devoted to this work. The subterfuge necessary to achieve this gave a kind of hope: he would not rot here until he went mad. He would think.

Trempwick selected a quill from the sheaf on his desk, dipped it in the inkpot and addressed the blank parchment before him. A hesitation. The beginning? Why not this.

Those who wish to win favour frequently gift that which they themselves value. Riches, horses, fine arms and armour. What of a man such as myself? I value that which you have commanded me to labour at, and so hope that my additional, unrequested work may be taken as a gift by you, my most magnificent Lady.

Yes, that felt a worthy beginning for the work which would be the sum of his career.

Trempwick dipped the quill again, and inscribed in the space he had left above his opening paragraph

Sir Raoul Trempwick to Her Highness, the Princess Eleanor, daughter to William, sixth of that name, by the grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Brittany, Count of Anjou, Lord of the Welsh.

Trempwick regarded what he had written. Title was dictated by the nature of the work, a personal address from himself to Nell with the pure intent to instruct her in everything he had not yet passed along, mainly rulership. It was … too wrong. Too grand. Too lengthy. It was, in short, entirely out of character for their relationship.

Some minutes later another title occurred to him, and he wrote it at the very top, squeezing it in where there was not quite space.

The Princess.











Raoul Trempwick, hail and farewell. That’s his last scene. I wrote that more than 3 years ago; today I finally brought it out from storage and gave it a brush and polish to bring it inline with my current style. See, told you I had planned the ending long in advance ;)

I like that scene a lot. Trempwick, secluded in Repton trying to find a meaning for his life and a way back from his fall. Trempwick, starting work as a historian and writer and finding something in the prospect which appeals to him. Trempwick, trying to bridge the gap between William and Nell when it is both much too late and the perfect time. Trempwick, meditating on his life and that of the friend he came to murder, and on the rule he helped to shape and on what the one he views as the successor to that reign needs to know.

I contemplated adding some more scenes to this part; ending with Trempy’s final scene felt better. It took a while to decide on that.

Trempy’s writing has two loose parallels with real historical works. One was been spotted in the previous part, and named on the other forum: the Alexiad by Anna Comnena. This part contains the second, easier parallel; can anyone spot it?

Seems I have some cathing up to do. It's middle of the night again anyway.

So sad to see him go.

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

Trempy’s writing has two loose parallels with real historical works. One was been spotted in the previous part, and named on the other forum: the Alexiad by Anna Comnena. This part contains the second, easier parallel; can anyone spot it?

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I missed the Alexiad, but this one I did spot.

Would it be by any chance 'the prince'?

I know, I know, ... It's so obvious that no one else found it necesarry yet to blatently name the work, but still.

All in all a worthy ending for a man like Trempwick.

So I was checking to see if FBG had updated her Kingdoms guides (I find your specific advice in them unhelpful to me but still find them worth reading for a good overview). As you can tell I'm not someone who posts here and prefers the company boards and TWCenter and ended up stumbling across this story and caught up with it today at last after about 2 weeks of heavy heavy reading.

It met the most important criteria for a story: it made me willing to keep reading to the end!

But I have to agree with Vuk, it strikes me as very obviously written from a female perspective. There's nothing wrong with that of course, authors I enjoy (like Melanie Rawn) do the same thing, but you can never quite get away from the hmm, genderness, of the work in male POV scenes. Other than that, there were parts I thought were well written, and parts that were definitely less well written and I think with a good editor the story could really go into sharp focus.

I'm sure you might be a little annoyed when I say (I think how I would be if some yahoo whose sole interaction with you thus far consisted of criticism suddenly popped up) that my fingers were twitching with a desire to re-arrange and hack stuff out in certain posts. Mostly towards the end of the early parts and the middle part but there are a few places later.

Finally, something I always struggle to avoid in any of my own original fiction, is anachronistic terms. Basically a reference in to something the characters cannot possibly relate to due to temporal differences, like describing a charging knight like a freight train (bear with me on the simile). This struck me whenever you used the term 'git' as at this time the character would almost surely use the full version 'beget.' So every single time I came across I thought "20th century term!" it and broke the spell of the writing. A similar thing happened with words like "prat" (though as an American I have no idea what that means) and on a few other occasions with other words.

Look temper some of this with the knowledge that this is not my particular genre, (romantic historical fiction is probably how I'd class it) so perhaps there are things that I am not getting or missing due to a non-positive beginning.

Well thanks for listening.

PS: Apologies for the spelling errors and other minors errors (i.e. FBE and characters using "get" not "beget). I was (and still am) quite tired when I wrote this and I cannot seem to find the edit post button.

Eleanor said, “You asked to speak with me?”

Edrik doffed his hat and bowed. “Ah … With your husband, in truth, your Highness.”

“He is not available. I take it you have come to make your recommendations with regard to the land clearance?”

“Yes, your Highness. It needs only his lordship’s decision and then work can begin.”

“Well then.” Eleanor settled herself in the nearby window seat and indicated the reeve should stand at her side. “Tell me your thoughts and a decision shall be made.”

Edrik’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Ah … his lordship …”

“My lord husband has gone hunting. This is the first day he has taken entirely to himself in more than a month – he will not be disturbed for anything less than full scale invasion. I am authorised to deal with things here in his absence.”

“No doubt, your Highness.” The man tortured his hat between his hands. “Only, I was not instructed … That is …”

Hawise stepped in before Eleanor could say something pithy. “You fear to get into trouble.”

Edrik’s shoulders eased, and he nodded. “I would not wish to upset my lord.”

It was not the reeve’s fault. He meant no slight. If she believed otherwise Eleanor would have unleashed a smidgeon of royal wrath on him, a touch sufficient to send him scuttling back from whence he came with his ears on fire. “If you prefer to wait until tomorrow to present your findings to my lord husband, that is acceptable. However, I say again that he has all matters here in my hands.”

“Ah …” The poor man’s hat had lost all dignity; its jaunty trio of feathers were now bent and the velvet was sadly creased. “Well …”

“Allow me to place it bluntly. You may delay and possibly incur my lord husband’s displeasure for that delay, for refusing to deal with me, and for increasing his workload. Or you may speak now, and possibly incur my lord husband’s displeasure for not waiting for him.” Eleanor caught Hawise’s slight frown and knew she had sounded sterner than intended. More gently she added, “Whichever you choose, be assured my lord husband is a most reasonable man. You will not suffer or find your decision held against you in the future.”

Edrik went down on one knee. “I am a humble man, your Highness. I’m reeve of my village and consider that an honour, though it’s nothing to any of good birth. I confess I am overwhelmed. I …” He scratched at his scrawny neck, as though in his mind he could already feel a noose fitted about it. “I am not sure which way to turn.”

Eleanor twisted her wedding ring about on her finger as she thought rapidly. The problem was a common one. A princess on the one hand, a newly raised lord of dubious origins on the other, and the age old question of who controlled whom and which dignity would be trodden on by what. “Come back tomorrow,” she advised in the end. This way she was seen to defer to Fulk, which protected his dignity, and in turn Fulk could assure the man he was not having his power stolen by his wife.

Edrik bowed, and stood. “Thank you, your Highness. I’m sorry. It’s just … Well, normally it’d be clear.”

“Your conscientiousness does you credit.” Eleanor waved him out of the solar before she said something altogether ruder. When he’d gone she slumped back against the wall and massaged her temples. “You know what is most infuriating about this?”

Hawise suggested, “The fact you and Fulk together run into this several times each day?”

“No. Well, nearly.” Eleanor leaned to look out of the slitted window at the bustle down in the bailey. A wagon was making its way through the main gates, piled with sacks and with two youths walking at its flanks. “Were I somewhat lower in rank, or Fulk somewhat higher, there would be no problem. Narrow the chasm but a little – and it would still be wide indeed – and people would not baulk.”

“Your marriage works the same as any other; people are slowly coming to see that. Each person you convince is one less.”

Eleanor scowled. “Easy for you to say. People are not afraid to speak to you in case you are using your husband like a puppet!”

“That,” Hawise said with an infuriating amount of seriousness, “is because I do not have a husband.”

A cushion was at hand and really it was too tempting; as the maid ducked Eleanor sweetly informed her, “I shall find you one!”

Hawise bent to retrieve the cushion and hugged it to her chest. “Thank you, but I should prefer to find my own.”

“That sounds suspiciously as though you have someone in mind.” Eleanor suddenly remembered Hawise asking after Waltheof after Alnwick, and a hundred other such tiny signs which had gone unremarked during the stresses of the past months. Serious maid and serious knight; what a perfect match. “Well, I am sure you will tell me should you find someone,” she said, mindful of her friend’s feelings. What if Waltheof showed no matching interest? This demanded further investigation …

At that moment Aveis burst in, shutting the door behind herself and leaning on it to catch her breath. “I believe this is what you were waiting for.” She hurried across the room, still breathing heavily, and held out a section of cloth with a sample pattern embroidered on it.

Eleanor inspected the pattern, deciphered it, and couldn’t hold back her beam of triumph. “The Welsh are suing for peace. Dated five days ago. Not bad, not bad – but it can be better. It must be better.” She was on her feet, pacing from one end of the room to the other, unable to keep still in her excitement. This was the first proper result from the network she was working so hard to forge out of the remnants of Miles’ and Trempwick’s old systems. “Now, we must see how long it takes for official word to reach us, and we must check the veracity of this.”

Aveis took over the seat Eleanor had left vacant and fanned herself with one hand. “It came with a chapman. At first I thought he was bothering me to buy his rubbish.”

“We hardly want him to stroll up to the gates and announce he has a secret message for me,” Eleanor said absently. Word from Wales to Carlisle in five days! And carried across a network patched together out of two shattered halves. It was a start. A good start. Three days had been the usual time for such a run under Trempwick, two if the people passing word pushed themselves remorselessly. Eleanor ran the cloth through her hands. “You will go back to him and say I am interested in buying sufficient of this border to edge the hem, collar and cuffs of a dress.” As Aveis opened the door Eleanor called, “And Aveis? Be more circumspect, please. I am not so interested in a sample from a mere trader that you need to come running.”

The older woman blushed. “I shall take my purse down with me and buy some things myself. Let people think that’s why I became over-excited.”

“Success.” Eleanor stopped, staring sightlessly at a wall hanging. “The main difference is in birds. We have not as many …”

Hawise looked at her blankly. “Pardon?”

“Messenger birds. Trempwick had many of them. In most instances word flew from one part of the realm to another, literally.” Eleanor broke away from the hanging and from her thoughts to smile at her friend. “At the moment there are large gaps in that coverage; this message here was carried more by horse than wing. It will take money to breed and train more, but it must be done. Hugh will have to fund it; heaven knows I could not afford it myself. And, perhaps, if he will fund certain other things I shall be able to spare enough to give you a dowry so you may pursue your mystery man.”






Eleanor covertly inspected Fulk for damage as he dismounted. He was very muddy and a large splash of blood soaked his left leg, but he was not obvious damaged. He did stink to high heaven, so she kept a tactful distance. “Welcome home, my lord. Was your hunting a success?”

“I took a deer myself. A single spear blow.” He thrust an imaginary spear down at a target, doubtless a faithful recreation of his feat. “And between us we took several more, and a wolf.” He waved at one of the huntsmen. “Hoi! Show my lady the wolf.” Fulk ran a hand over his chaotic hair as if he now realised he looked as though he had been through a hedge backwards. “You may have the skin of that one for whatever you will.”

Eleanor made appreciative noises over the carcass trussed up on a spear shaft, and added a few more in praise of his heroic deeds. Once that was out of the way she was able to ask, “The blood is not yours then?” without appearing to smother him.

“The deer’s,” he replied. He stretched his arms and worked his left shoulder, which Eleanor knew was still prone to stiffness after its wound. “I should do this more often – it’s been an age since I last had chance to hunt. When money permits I shall get a hawk.” He gave his horse a final pat and started towards the keep. “Perhaps you’d like one too, my best beloved?”

“I have been hawking but once in my life-”

“I remember,” he answered, with a sidelong glance. “You were afraid the bird would eat your fingers. It’s part of what you should have had and weren’t allowed by Trempwick. It’s yours if you want it now. Well,” he amended, “ in some months when we can afford it.”

“If it will be in some months then I hardly need make a decision now.” Eleanor softened her words with a smile. “I thank you. I will give it some thought, I promise you. But I have not had chance to give you my own news.”

That got his attention. “Oh?”

Eleanor raised her voice so she could be heard by many of those in the bailey. “We are cordially invited to my brother’s coronation. Those who threatened the peace of the realm have been vanquished and God’s favour for Hugh is now clear for all to see. He shall be crowned two weeks from this Wednesday.” Hugh’s messenger had brought the good news half a day behind her network.

“Two weeks?” Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We had best sort ourselves to leave the day after tomorrow, or we’ll be hard pressed to make it in good time.”

Eleanor laughed. “See? I told you that if you did not take your chance to relax today you would not get another soon!”

“Victory.” Fulk turned to face the people gathering in the courtyard as the news spread. “Victory!” he roared, raising his fist in the air. “God save the king! God save lord Hugh!” The response was of satisfactory enthusiasm and volume. When it died away Fulk declared, “A feast tonight to celebrate! Food and drink for all who come, right down to the humblest dog boy!” That gathered a louder cheer. Resuming his walk to the keep Fulk asked quietly, “We do have enough for that, don’t we?”

Eleanor gave him an exasperated look. “If we feed the bog boy the wolf and let him drink the worst ale, yes.” Relenting she kissed him on the cheek. “It was well done. A fine gesture which will win hearts for yourself and for Hugh.”










Gah! I had a bunch of unexpected calls on my time, including a lengthy and crappy exam resulting from that job application. Still waiting to find out if I passed …

On the positive side, I think I may have found a way to get the time between the awesome beginning and the equally awesome ending of that Trempwick short story to work. Shall have to see once Eleanor is complete and I try to write it.

The next part will be very long and will be the final part. After 4 years the prospect is quite similar to peering over a cliff edge and knowing you must jump.



Peasant Phill, it is indeed ‘The Prince’.

SSJPabs, let’s tackle the easier bits first.

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Originally Posted by SSJPabs

So I was checking to see if FBG had updated her Kingdoms guides

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Ah. Those. :hide:

Basically, my boss got addicted to dumping the crappy shifts on me at work so I barely had any time to use for the project. Then I got promoted to manager of my own store, and by the time travel was included I was doing 12+ hour days. Now I finally have time it’s much too late.

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This struck me whenever you used the term 'git' as at this time the character would almost surely use the full version 'beget.'

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Get is northern English. Git is midland and southern English, i.e. the more prevalent. This kind of variance isn’t uncommon in British English.

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A similar thing happened with words like "prat" (though as an American I have no idea what that means)

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Brace yourself. :winkg: Prat is a venerable old word, it’s in written documents over 500 years old and would have been in use long before that. It referred, originally, to the buttocks. Nowadays it’s more often taken to mean idiot. It’s like a medieval version of calling someone an arse.

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Finally, something I always struggle to avoid in any of my own original fiction, is anachronistic terms.

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I take the view that, as long as there are no freight trains, it doesn’t matter. It’s in modern English therefore it’s anachronistic whatever I write. To be fully correct it needs to be in Anglo-French, middle English, Latin, Langue d’oc, and Langue d’oil. Anything else is a compromise. If I start hurling around words like waltrot no one will know what I mean; context only does so much. As the above shows, accuracy can be present and still considered out of place.

I use the correct words as far as there’s a decent chance of people understanding the meaning. We’ve got braes instead of underpants, a guige strap instead of a shield’s shoulder strap, and so on.

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my fingers were twitching with a desire to re-arrange and hack stuff out in certain posts. Mostly towards the end of the early parts and the middle part but there are a few places later.

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Your fingers can’t twitch more than mine do. It’s a 4 year long collection of quickly produced, minimally edited scenes designed to tell a novel’s story in an episodic form. The constant need to remind people of things alone accounts for a couple of hundred pages which could be cut right out if the work was to be read in a shorter time. I shall indulge myself after those final scenes go up. :rubs hands gleefully:

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romantic historical fiction is probably how I'd class it

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Lucky you added the disclaimer about not being familiar with these kinds of stories or I’d have had some kind of breakdown there. A historical romance is a bodice ripper repackaged so the name doesn’t sound so tawdry. Cardboard characters, ultra-basic plot which serves no purpose other than shunting romance and sex scenes about, predictable, usually badly written, often filled with nonsense like people eating potatoes, and just downright bad.

Historical fiction is the term you’re looking for.

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But I have to agree with Vuk, it strikes me as very obviously written from a female perspective. There's nothing wrong with that of course, authors I enjoy (like Melanie Rawn) do the same thing, but you can never quite get away from the hmm, genderness, of the work in male POV scenes.

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Here’s the tricky one. When Vuk made the same comment he was reading work from an eon ago and the part of the story which is mainly told via Nell’s perspective, so I attributed it to that. You say you have finished the whole thing. Bang goes that idea.

I’m going to have to say I don’t understand what you mean. I can think of a few possible meanings; I don’t want to pick one at random. Especially since one happens to be my second most hated literacy ‘concept’ (and I use that term very loosely) after the idea that fiction has absolutely no value.

So I shall ask you to explain. Give examples if possible.

Will reply more later, but in terms of romance, I was thinking more along the lines of this crossed with this in contemporary language. That said, it actually can't be historical fiction, but it can be alternate historical fiction.

Welcome SSJPabs. This is a nice alternate fiction indeed. ~:)

Wow, I have to catch up again. :sweatdrop: :bow:

Should she climb over the wall? Eleanor’s course strayed several steps from the path leading to the garden’s only gate. In those several steps the yearning was mastered; such behaviour was beneath her now, and seemed infantile. There were better ways to gain surprise, to throw off the shackles of expectation.

And so Eleanor presented herself at the front gate of Waltham’s walled garden. “My brother wished me to attend him,” she told the liveried men standing guard.

The wooden gate creaked as Hugh’s men pulled it open, its iron hinges in need of attention. The men at arms did not bow to her, or show deference greater than the holding open of the door. Eleanor raised an eyebrow at this. “You forget your manners.”

“Highness,” murmured one of the guards, dipping his head fractionally.

Hugh would hear of this, at whatever length it was necessary. Leaving her own bodyguards outside, Eleanor stepped through. The door was closed behind her, the world shut out from a space where it had no place. The scent of late spring enfolded her; she took a moment to breathe deeply the promise of summer.

She followed the narrow gravel path which led to the garden’s heart. It was as though she had stepped into the past. An unescorted, uncared for princess seeking refuge from a court she did not belong in, going to meet a man. That thought raised a smile, wistful. It seemed a lifetime ago that she voiced her suspicions about Trempwick to Anne and Fulk here, and another lifetime since she had exchanged that second - and third and more - kiss with Fulk here, thrilling in the discovery that he cared for her. Today’s purpose was not pleasant dalliance.

Hugh sat on the stone bench under a clump of trees sporting tender new leaves. At her approach he rose.

Eleanor made certain she got the first word in. “You will remind your men that discourtesy to me is discourtesy to all of our blood.”

Hugh stepped to one side and indicated the empty bench with a graceful sweep of his arm. “I am mindful of such things, I assure you. What has caused this distress?”

“I had to rebuke your men outside to wring so much as a nod from them.”

“That was not at my order. It will not happen again.”

“Good.” Eleanor settled herself in the middle of the bench, meaning there was no space left for Hugh to sit without him being uncomfortably close. Let him stand. “You summoned me, brother dear?” Summoned, acceptable. Summoned within hours of her arrival after riding from one end of England to the other, less acceptable. “I barely had time to change to fresh clothes.”

He accepted her denying him a seat by clasping his hands at the small of his back and shifting into a balanced stance, as though it were his preference to remain on his feet. It did enable him to look down on her, and heaven knew well his love of that! “For some of us it is a way of life. Some of us must even go so far as to consider business while travelling.”

Eleanor snorted. “Brother dear, kindly do not be asinine. My meaning was that this had better be important. It was not an invitation for you to bewail your lot.”

“I see you are in a sweet temper today, Nell.”

She bared her teeth at his usage of the pet version of her name, the version which she was increasingly coming to believe no longer fit. “Not half as sweet as you.”

“I have cause!”

Eleanor deliberately rolled her eyes. “And sometime perhaps you might enlighten me, since I presume that is the point of this. Or do you intend to dither on until I expire of age?”

Hugh’s nostrils flared. “You let an important Scottish agent past the borders. Worse, you sent him straight to me to skulk about! He could have been an assassin!”

Well, that was indeed news, and it was important that he not know it lest he think to use the weakness to his advantage. Eleanor quickly added one and one together, and come to the conclusion he must refer to the Scottish messenger she had referred on to speak to him about Nefastus. “Brother dear, one does not – one cannot – turn away a messenger sent to see if his king’s son and heir is being held hostage.”

Hugh ticked off points on his fingers. “You could have warned me. You could have sent him with an escort to limit his scope for mischief. You could have-”

Eleanor slapped a hand on the stone beside her. “Could is all well and good! But could with what? I have the tatters of Trempwick’s network and of Sir Miles’, both of which have been heavily purged, neither of which is designed to work in harmony with the other, and both of which are riddled with gaps which will take me months, if not years, to completely fill.” She slapped the bench again. “Who should I send as escort, Hugh? The boy who empties the chamber pots?”

He snapped his hand back to his side, tightly formed into a fist. “You should have warned me. That at the very least!”

“How?” Eleanor folded her hands in her lap, trying to ease the tingling pain in her palm without being too obvious about it. “Hugh, your messenger was only a few hours slower in bringing me word of your victory than my people were. That is how bad the situation is. What was possible under Trempwick is no longer so.” She stressed, “For now.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is so. As you must slowly build your position to stand where your forerunner did, so too must I build to stand equal with mine.”

Hugh breathed out heavily, and his anger left him. “I expect you will now request more money.”

Eleanor had to smile at that; was she so transparent? “Trempwick had an income of hundreds from his estates, and hundreds more from our father. I have … Well, I do not have the first hundred, let alone any of the others. I must have resources if I am to be of use. And then next time I should be able to send warning to you, at the least.”

“You are always asking me for money.”

“And you know I do not do so without reason.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I know that once you were barely able to get the words out through choking on your pride. A difficulty you no longer seem to feel.”

Eleanor gave him a level look. “I am not begging for charity now. I am requesting a portion of what is mine, out of the whole I allow you to husband for me. I do so for our mutual benefit. Why, Hugh, should I be ashamed?”

“You should not,” he allowed eventually. “I will get you what can be managed without causing remark. Even have you changed your mind about being thought of no great import, I have not. Your being known as Trempwick’s successor would cause all manner of harm.”

“I have not changed my mind, never fear.”

“I must balance your needs against many others,” he warned. “The rebellion has proven costly; repairing the damage will be moreso.”

“Give me five hundred, and soon. That will make a good start.”

“Five hundred marks?”

Eleanor corrected her half-brother’s wishful thinking, “Five hundred pounds.”

Hugh’s mouth thinned into a line. “I shall be leaving for Normandy at the end of next week. This will go to Constance. I am certain she will do what she can in my absence.”

“Speaking of absence …” Eleanor plucked a flower from the grass at her feet. The petals were recently opened, the bloom delicate with the freshness of late spring. She twirled it about in her fingers as she considered the best way to broach this. “I have made the requested arrangements for our father’s reinterment. All that remains is for you to take your place at the head of them and see it done.”

Hugh flinched as though she had slapped him. “No.”

“Hugh, you must. It will be remarked upon if you do not.”

“I have no right to be there, nor any wish.”

Eleanor laid her flower down on the grass, tenderly. Then she stood and set her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I understand. Others would too, which is why you must be there.” When he did not reply she took it for acquiescence. “It can be done several days after the coronation. One of the first acts of your reign, laying your father to the dignified rest which was denied him by the rebels. It would be taken well, I think.”

“How many times,” Hugh said slowly, “did we hear the story of this garden? Near to a legend in our family and those close to us, a gentle story of the harmony between William, sixth of his name, and his queen. An example of the lengths a man should go to in order to please his wife. That our mother asked for it to be planted and walled, that she even detailed the section of wall where it is easy to climb over. So she could meet our father in peace and pretend at romance in a marriage where she was more often than not alone.” Battling to keep his face blank, Hugh stepped back and away from her. “There it was, in front of us all the time. You had but to alter a single word. Not our father, but my father. She merely misled one man in order to meet the other.” He held is arms out to the sides and slowly turned a circle. “This place might very well be my beginning.”

Eleanor pulled a face. “Now you are trying to be unpleasant.”

“Am I? You do not spawn bastards in a bed, after all.”

“You would have far better knowledge of that than I,” Eleanor snapped, revolted. It was hard to believe that her stuffy brother had just made such a suggestion. “Christ’s wounds, our mother was civilised!”

Hugh snapped around. “She was a whore and capable of any wickedness! And think, she would have needed secrecy or I would never have been made.”

Eleanor checked her first reaction, and then after a moment’s thought surrendered to it anyway. Her palm cracked across Hugh’s cheek and he made no effort to block or dodge. “You insufferable ingrate! I am sick of this! Sickened by it! You owe her respect for your life, and damn you for judging her based on – on nothing but rumours and your filthy imaginings!” Unable to stand the sight of his unrepentant face she turned away.

“Since I more than any other save your father am touched by her failings, I have more right – more reason – to be judgemental. You?” Hugh laughed harshly. “You are blessedly untouched by all of this. You have not lost everything you believed you were. You will not spend the remainder of your days living a lie. You …” He tripped into silence, and Eleanor heard him walking on the gravel behind her. “You come here and see nothing more than a garden. I do not. I see … possibilities which torment me, and from which I shall have no peace.” More softly still, the admission, “I used to like this place.”

Eleanor turned around to find him standing by the bed of fragrant herbs on the far side of the path. “Damning her will not bring you any peace. Nor will damning my father. Or rejecting them. Hate only seems to simplify matters.”

“And you would know?” He made no effort to hide his scepticism.

Eleanor picked her flower back up and gently teased its petals apart so it was fully opened. “Do you think it was easy to be reviled, only to suddenly be accepted as an heir for the very traits which saw you rejected as a daughter? And Trempwick murdered my father and beloved brother, and tried to use me. He saved my life and taught me much of what I know. How should I unravel that?” She looked to see if her words were sinking in at all; Hugh looked a touch less angry. “It is a simpler task to make peace with a lonely woman who was unable to resist temptation than it is to go through life labelling her a whore.”

“If the name fits,” Hugh recited.

Eleanor flung the flower in his face. “I hardly think she would have charged people! The name does not fit – all you do is throw out insulting words to avoid thinking about anything!”

“You inflicted this conversation on me, and you do little but lecture me on that which you do not like. I say again, Nell, you are blessedly untouched by this muck.”

Helplessly Eleanor shook her head. “She was my mother too.”

Hugh said nothing for a long time. A fat bee clumsy after long hibernation took a liking to him and flew drunkenly about his head, returning each time it was brushed away. Eventually Hugh resorted to moving away from the herbs, swatting at the bee as he went. It took the hint and went to bother the rosemary instead. “I will attend the ceremony,” Hugh announced, settling himself at one end of the bench. “Because I must, not out of any desire to do so.”

Eleanor sat next to him, and voiced a thought that had been tickling at the back of her mind for a while now. “Does it not seem sad to you? That he should end up so unloved?”

Hugh raised his head. “He rejected me, not I him.” His eyes slipped away from hers, and his head went down again. “I was the truest son I could be.”

Eleanor thought that was more of a yes than a no.










(Note from the present, all else contained in this post being a couple of days old. I came to post this section only to find the forum broken. It was fine when I visited an hour before hand. That old feeling that someone somewhere said “I hope this story never ends!” and invoked a genie with a bad sense of humour has returned.)

As you might be able to tell, that’s not the end. I split it up – it’s been ages since the last post, I still want to tweak most of the following scenes, I am not quite happy with something in another scene, and the world will not leave me alone to work in peace and quiet! Gah!

Every time I sit down to write it’s the same thing. Interruption after interruption after interruption. There appears to be a stupid belief that I need to be talked at about pointless things I don’t care about every 6 minutes. Hurray, a car 7 streets away has had one tire stolen, thanks for running up here to tell me that. My life is far richer now and I’ve totally lost sight of what I was trying to write, but never mind, now I know some more pointless, useless, tedious information about something I never wanted to hear about in the first place, and that’s far better than wasting my time actually achieving anything or working on something I enjoy. I absolutely cannot write if I know other people are nearby, no exceptions. The interruptions thing is now so bad I get jarred out of my train out thought each and every time I hear the downstairs door open, regardless of whatever I get bothered or not. Considering it takes me a good half hour or more to sink into what I’m writing deeply enough to get a good flow going you might now be able to work out that this whole interruption thing makes it a non-starter. Then there are the useless phone calls. The minute the house is empty of other people the phone starts ringing, and I can’t ignore it in case it’s someone offering me a job interview. Clue: no, this is not a hospital nor a car repair centre, try reading the numbers in the phone book and then pressing the matching ones on your own phone! Then there is the idiot with the broken car alarm. And the idiot neighbour and his hammering at brickwork. And …

It’s taken me 20 minutes to prepare this for posting. I’ve been bothered three times, and the phone has rung once. ARGH!!! :has nervous breakdown:

On the positive news front, the people I did that exam for remembered I exist. It only took them 5 weeks. I had an interview yesterday. I do not hold my breath; the first thing they asked me was to confirm I had received the pack of information to help me prepare for their questions. My reply was, “No, I haven’t received anything at all and this is the first I have heard about it.” So yay, my chances of passing that interview are crippled from the start. I shall hear if I was successful “In around four weeks …”

Hmm, there’s an interesting thought. Once the final part goes up there should be a roll call to see just how many – and who – made it to the end. Possibly with each stating roughly how long they have been reading for.



And now let’s wind time back to some point last week, when I posted the below on the other forum in response to a gentle enquiry as to how the final part was coming along. Just so you know as well.

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The difficulty is that this is the end. It's proving far harder than I imagined to let go. Once that final part is posted years of work is done, characters I love will slip into the background, and my writing habits will have to change dramatically. As much as I want to edit, and to write Ancel, I recognise that my writing is going to become a lonely thing. I shall have no readers, no comments, and no one to share with. It will just be me, writing and reading alone. That loneliness is not something I look forward to.

Eleanor is the first 'big' story I wrote - as I've previously mentioned there was a version before this one. Before that I did nothing but individual brief stories. Ending Eleanor is ending an era. It's ... scary. Exciting too, but definitely scary. There's the two short stories left, Silent's and Raoul's. That's not much, and it's not Eleanor.

Plus this final part is very long.

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SSJPabs, I always say, half joking and half not, that if Conn Iggulden’s Caesar books are classed as historical fiction then Eleanor has no problems. With its made up cast and altered world history Eleanor actually manages to be more accurate than Iggulden’s monstrosity.

The second of those two links is a variety of literature I devoured as a child, and still love today. I feel unworthy of being compared to those works; they are true classics.

The first of those two links is the argh-awful bodice ripper romance. I admit that there’s resemblance between their canned description of the genre and this story; this is why I didn’t want any romance between Nell and Fulk. It clouds over the thematic links I did want to be seen. I fought them; I lost in very short order. This is the disadvantage to characters who write themselves.

The difference between a trashy romance and Eleanor is that the trashy romance sets up cardboard characters on a generic faux medieval stage and, with a minimal plot, shoves them together for the sole purpose of showing them fall in love and several sex scenes. It doesn’t aim to do anything else. The whole point of them is to present variations on a limited collection of themes which the audience find sexy; it’s pretty much a female equivalent to porn. Each period setting plays to a set collection of desires, for example regency is all dancing, balls and stilted dialogue which wants to be Jane Austen but is a fifth rate imitation. It’s formal, based on the rich and fabulously dressed, and features a male lead who is suave and cultured, and often so 'passionate' (their definion, definitely not mine) that in real life he'd be sat in prison for sexual assault.

While some of the wiki page’s labels fit, the execution and intent behind it is a world apart. Females are in a subordinate position in Eleanor because that’s the historical reality. Trashy romance does it because it plays to themes of wanting to be dominated, or of wanting to battle society and stand out. Because the romance is intended to be light reading and cheering the whole issue is usually watered down, even when it’s supposed to be nasty and shocking it reads like a children’s edition. Marriage has given Nell a lot of good, and it’s given her new limitations – Fulk will not accept being a cipher. Trashy romance marriage sets the woman up in a position to do whatever she wants because her husband is there to agree with her and make her life fluffy. Trashy romance knights save the heroine from everything for ever and ever, (except when the heroine is decided to be spunky and saves herself for giggles) and the whole motivation is to use the protective male concept a lot of women find attractive. Fulk protects Nell because that was his job, and now he’s actually made her life more dangerous than it was at the start by the simple combination of being loathed by the nobility and removing Trempwick’s own protective influence. And so on.

Yes, this means I have read some trashy medieval romance. I’m embarrassed to admit I have slogged my way through something like 20 of the wretched things under the theory that a writer should read absolutely everything, especially the things she would not read by choice, in order to learn more. I learned plenty – about what not to do.




Every POV character here, and most of the story itself, is a twist on the standard that readers are taught by the bulk of books. That’s only going to be noticeable by someone who reads a lot of historical or fantasy type fiction, and only if they decide to think about the story as an overall once it’s completed. It’s in no way a big part of my reason for writing this, more like a neat bonus feature for those who, like me, read so much that they see the same things over and over and over again.

Nell the unexpected heir marked by destiny (scar on her face from the royal ring) who doesn’t become ruler. By convention she should be queen, ruling over a society that’s headed rapidly towards modern equality and acceptance. As the main character the effect is further strengthened; she is practically bound by fictional law to become queen. She’s the wilful heroine who doesn’t manage to turn the world upside down, and who ends up more trapped than before. She should be free to do as she wills, not having to ask more people than before for more things than before. She's much more bound by concepts like duty than before, and the role she has fallen into is one which allows her less freedom in terms of things like choosing what to do with her life and time. There are others which apply to her, lots of minor ones like she’s the assassin spy type who isn’t. She should be a female version of James Bond by now, killing left right and centre in improbably cool ways, usually while dressed in black. I won’t go into them all unless people want me to.

Fulk is the lowly man who rose high and didn’t change the world. Convention would have him accepted, and society would be reconsidering its ideas about the superiority of noble blood. Yet more modern equality being railroaded in where it doesn’t fit.

The romance between them muddies that because it drags in that comparison to trashy romance. Still, it works in some ways. Fulk is the tolerant pushover husband who isn’t really.

Jocelyn is the character who gets the trashy romance convention twist. He’s the rapist and bigoted type who isn’t the villain. The knight of noble birth who isn’t courtly. The devoted father who is a bad husband. And quite a few more. In short, he’s a trait of the hero matched each time with a trait of the villain; he’s a genre paradox.

All of the characters are a lot more than their respective twisted cliches. It's always right near the bottom on their list.

But as I said, that’s all a side theme. The core of the story, as far as it has one single thing that can be called that, is the very historical theme of small, seemingly insignificant things making the most impact in the long run. For all the grand events, such as the death of a king, it's the smaller ones, like a man being seasick, which have the most impact.

Your stories and commentaries are always a joy to read, ma'am. I shall miss them terribly.

High Goddess Frogg:
You should be commended for this epic. It is a masterwork and an eyeopening experience for all that read it and can understand what the **** is actually going on. I love how you have made almost every Archetype into a true bastardization of all fantasy novella characters and at the same by, by the same virtues, a FAR truer and more accurate representation of how those characters would be in a Real and Fleshed-out world, rather than the pages of a comic book and child's story.
I also love how i didnt take you a lot of fancy words, writing, plot twists and character corruptions to make this happen. All that you really did was take our modern conventions and turn them against us.
For You:bow:
:balloon2::balloon2::balloon2::balloon2::balloon2::balloon2::balloon2:

As always, this bit of liturature made the waiting for it all worth it.

I'm going to have to find something else to look forward to once this book of yours is finished.

glad to see you made another update.

i was beginning to fear that the last update before this one was really the end, and that i missed something incredibly important.

also, while everyone seems to be offering their final compliments, i must offer one, as well:

i love how everyone seems to be more realistic. The depth of each character is astounding, and I can feel Hugh's pain when he was in the garden in this last post. I also like how each character has different moods, and isn't always either really happy, or really dark, or whatever their archetype claims they are. Eleanor, although she is the protagonist, is often very angry, and I especially like that, because in most novels today, the protagonist is usually some "Golden boy/girl" who is nice to everyone, and is always the epitome of goodness. This has more balance, and it is refreshing to see it done so well.

i, too, will be missing this when it comes to an end. Hopefully one day I'll be able to buy it in the nearest Barnes & Noble, though!

Say one thing for having bodyguards, say they made getting through crowds easier. Edric took the lead, shouting for people to make way for the princess Eleanor. Hubert and Edward flanked Eleanor, encouraging people to keep their distance with a combination of glares and hands on sword hilts.

Say one thing for a coronation, say it brought half the country together into Waltham. Even with her honour guard it took Eleanor a ridiculously long time to make the trip from garden to inner bailey. The palace had never been so busy in her lifetime. Every notable in the realm was here, including quite a few from across the Narrow Sea. Roughly half those men had brought family with them; an eldest son, favoured younger sons, more than a few wives, sisters and daughters. The making of a new king was the single most important occasion which could occur in any person’s life. Men needed to witness it done, to see with their own eyes that all had been done correctly and that thus there was no grounds to question. They needed to give their homage. Heirs should be introduced, both to mark them clearly in that status and to ensure that they, too, understood that the man they would one day serve was God’s own chosen. As for the female relations, well what better chance for them to deploy their social skills on behalf of their men?

With the exception of a few honoured cases – Eleanor being one - Hugh had declined to relax the arse in the crown’s ruling that each man might bring only three retainers to Waltham. Even so Waltham palace and the nearby town fairly teemed with servants. Three multiplied by several hundred came to a literal army, and that army filled the streets and buildings, rushing to and fro in a bid to settle their masters in to whatever cramped quarters they had managed to arrange.

Well over a thousand people. Four times that number of horses. Hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of finery. Weeks of preparation. A timetable of festivities more rigorously planned than the campaign which brought down Trempwick. Eleanor bit back a grin – all of this for her brother, a man most found difficult to imagine as the source of any good party.

Eleanor and Fulk had been assigned the same quarters she had occupied during her previous visit to Waltham, and whether that was Hugh’s own idea or a simple continuance of her father’s she had to approve. The building best known as the royal nursery: what better way to honour someone and mock them in the same breath? In practicality she had more space than any but the royal couple, and the rooms had proven themselves defensible.

When she finally made it back Eleanor was relieved to see that servants no longer hurried in and out of the doorway, and dared to hope that all had been set up in her short absence. Organising which objects went where was all part of a wife’s duty and could not be neglected were she present, whatever more important things she had to consider.

That hope was dashed the instant she set foot across the threshold. A liveried man tugged his forelock. “Your Highness, we were wondering where we should put-”

Eleanor held up her hand, listening to something other than him. “Is that my sister-by-law I hear?”

“Yes, your Highness. Her ladyship – that is, her Majesty, arrived some short time ago. She’s speaking to lord Fulk at present.”

Saved! “Then I had best go through. Continue to ask Hawise about where things should go; she knows my preferences.”

Eleanor turned into the first ground floor room which had, once again, been set up to act as an improvised man hall. Constance’s voice grew louder, sufficient to pick out a word here and there above the clamour of unpacking. As she crossed to the far end of the room she heard Fulk’s voice saying, “I am sensible to the honour, please don’t misunderstand. It’s only that … it’s not my place.”

“Your place is where your lord and king wishes you to be.”

“With all respect, I am not my lord’s squire.”

The conversation cut off as Constance noticed Eleanor in the solar’s doorway. “Ah. Eleanor, at last. I had expected you sooner.”

Eleanor stood by Fulk. “It is very busy out there. One can scarce move faster than a cripple’s shuffle even with guards.”

Constance stood, easing her back with one hand. “I wish to speak with you. Without all of this.” She indicated her maids, Fulk and the servants with a wave of a hand.

“As you wish.”

The rooms other occupants silently filed out with the exception of Fulk. He started to leave, changed his mind and turned back.

Constance’s eyes narrowed. “You have been requested to serve your lord in a capacity and so you shall, unless your loyalty is lacking.”

“He knows it is not.”

“Then I see no need for you to linger here. Report to the master of ceremonies before the end of the day and have him educate you as to what is required.” She turned her face away from him, signalling a definite end to the matter.

Yet still Fulk didn’t withdraw. Eleanor looked at him in askance; he ignored her. With the utmost care he said to Constance, “I am not a boy.”

Constance’s head snapped back around and she marched right up to Fulk. A inch or two shorter than he, she was able to stand toe to toe with him and make him appear faintly preposterous - somehow uncertain of how he should stand or react. With razor-edged enunciation Constance said, “I am sensible of the loyalty you have shown my husband, and of how hard you have fought for him. That gives you a modicum of license. Do not let that make you overbold or encourage you to forget what you are and on what sufferance you are permitted to be here! Must I remind you that Hugh would have been entirely within his rights to make of you an exile within your own homeland, in reality if not in name? Or to cut his sister off without a word or coin to her name?”

Through gritted teeth Fulk ground out, “I am aware of that my every waking moment.”

“Then be grateful that you are to be more than a spectator, whatever the capacity. It is an honour you would not get close to sniffing if Hugh did not think it unjust to leave you out where all others who came to his side are recognised. Now get out and if you say but a single word more I shall have the honour withdrawn and your invitation to attend here at Waltham revoked.”

Fulk bowed very stiffly and marched out.

Constance said to Eleanor, “Now for the love of God, shut that door!” Once Eleanor had done so the elder woman relaxed with an expelled breath. “Next, for Christ’s sweet love, teach that husband of yours some sense. He should never have questioned me where others could hear. Had he not I would not have needed to crush him in front of those same itchy ears.”

Eleanor’s feet ached from the slow walk out to the garden and back; she sat down in one of the window seats and eased her new shoes off. Flexing her toes and enjoying the freedom from leather that, while soft, still managed to rub at her heels, she asked, “What was that about?”

Constance slumped down into cushions. “He is to be included in the procession to and from the coronation. Hugh desires the lords who fought for him to occupy the traditional roles in that procession, as a mark of his gratitude to them.”

“And what is Fulk to carry?”

Constance had the grace to look embarrassed as she answered, “Hugh’s banner.”

“Ah.” That task traditionally fell to the soon-to-be king’s squire. To assign it to a grown man … “I have to admit to a degree of respect for the mind behind that.”

“It is no more than expediency on our part. To grant him a more prestigious role would have provoked an outcry. To leave him out entirely would encourage the wolves to circle closer in the hopes he will become prey.” Constance smoothed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. “There is a need for someone to take the place; Malcolm will be attending as a prince not a squire.”

“It is not the easiest thing for Fulk, this balance between rejected and accepted.”

“Then he should not have married you,” Constance replied simply.

That delicate point blunted, Eleanor tried a stronger approach. “You shamed him before his own servants. Before your nobly born companions. Word will spread throughout Waltham within the hour, and within the day there will not be a soul within five miles who has not heard. A man hated by the queen is halfway to finished.”

“He should have displayed more sense. I am under the impression he usually does; it is a part of why Hugh chose not destroy him after your marriage.”

“You know how much pride and honour matter to men of rank. To accept a boy’s place without objection would have made him seem weak-”

“Yes, yes,” Constance interrupted. “I have a great many other things to do today, and I do not wish to waste further time on this. You have some small point, though it pales when stood next to my larger one. I shall say something pleasant to the man as I leave. My current state has made me famously ill-tempered.” She caressed her swollen stomach, all signs of temper gone and her face glowing with love. “I confess that I use the poor little darling as an excuse. It is astonishing how much more one can do with a few hard words and a show of irritation.”

Despite herself Eleanor laughed. “One may only hope that the child does not absorb the trick for itself. I am not sure another bad-tempered William is needed.”

Constance’s hand fell still. “Not William. No more of mine shall be William.”

Eleanor felt her face burn; she should have remembered that the son murdered within minutes of his birth had been christened William.

Constance smiled sadly. “So few remember him. There are those who think I have never carried a child longer than a few months.”

“It is not uncommon to use a name again if the child bearing it died.”

“No, it is not. When a family wishes its names to live on.” She placed slight stress on the ‘when’.

Eleanor blinked slowly. “William is the family name; the eldest son is always William. With the exception of my own eldest brother.” The arse in the crown had wanted to break from tradition and establish his own: Stephan after his favoured saint.

“William is a declaration of continuity. That would leave Hugh as a hiccough in the otherwise smooth procession. Something other than William is an announcement of a break with that past, with all the varied interpretations people will place on that. We could have another Hugh.” Constance pursed her lips. “I do not want another William. Nor does Hugh feel it right. We had that time – child, idea, vision of the future - and it was murdered.”

“It could be a girl,” Eleanor suggested, coming at the matter from a different angle.

“A girl would be Constance, after myself and my own mother. Hugh will not countenance Joanna.”

“He could come to change his mind. Perhaps for a second daughter?”

Constance had been tapping her fingers on her leg; now she pressed her hands flat to still them. “Let us save the pleasantries for another day, when we can appreciate them.”

Eleanor shrugged. “As you like.”

“I came here to speak with you about Trempwick.” That relaxed, motherly glow died a swift death; Constance leaned awkwardly forward and said in a low, matter of fact voice, “I understand the reason why he is still alive. I understand the prison you have made for him, and can almost reconcile myself to his living because it must be a special kind of hell for him. If that man sets a single toe outside of that prison I will have him torn to shreds, and those shreds will be burned, and the ashes scattered into the sea. The only thing keeping me from doing that is the fact that it would place Hugh and myself in the most perilous of positions. All I need is for him to give me an excuse and I will avenge the murder of my children.” She paused a moment for that to sink in. “So make sure he stays in Repton or get out of my way when the time comes.”

Eleanor considered a moment. Trempwick’s standing was as low as it could get, he had no lands, no status, no friends. Hugh’s position was growing slowly stronger. Should he be fool enough to attempt treason a second time it might be possible to hustle him onto the scaffold for a traitor’s death without causing uproar. “If he breaks faith I shall sit beside you as they burn his entrails.”

“Then we have an understanding.” Constance struggled back to her feet.

“A moment?”

“If you are quick. As I have told you, I have much to do.”

Eleanor said bluntly, “Hugh is falling to pieces.”

“Is that surprising?” Constance pressed both her hands to her stomach, one stationary and one working to soothe the child within. “Hugh has long worked to follow the pattern laid out for him; to be dutiful, righteous and follow the best of examples. He built his life on foundations based on an understanding of who and what he was, and built towards those ideals. Now his foundations are gone and his ideals in conflict, and he is hurt, deeply and badly hurt and betrayed.”

“I know-”

“A dutiful son honours his mother. A righteous man abhors an adulteress. Go on, resolve the conflict between the two in such a way that you remain both dutiful and righteous.” Eleanor barely had chance to take a breath before Constance snapped, “That is right – you cannot. It is an impossibility. Instead choose which is more important out of the two virtues.”

Again Eleanor had no chance to speak.

“Impossible. Now think how many such conflicts he is suffering under. What he knows points in one direction, what he wishes to be in another, no way to find a settlement and no way to chose one direction. You might say it is a simple matter of turning away form the ideal and dealing with the reality. That would be a disaster for Hugh – the ideal is what makes him move forwards. He knows it is seldom possible and yet as long as he thinks there is a chance, no matter how slender, he will keep working towards it. To admit that there is no chance is to give up.”

That confirmed Eleanor’s worst fears; Hugh would never pick his way free of his demons. “The conflict will destroy him.”

“No. The conflict is one he has lived with for all the years I have known him. It will settle itself eventually. Where others failed he will not, and where he has failed he will do better. And so on.” Constance rubbed her brow and sighed. “No. The difficulty comes from the heart. How hard and for how long did Hugh strive to be a good son? A son his father could be proud of? Out of all William’s children, Hugh was the only one who cared something for him. The rest of you were – at very best – indifferent to him. Hugh loved him.” After a moment Constance qualified, “In a way. Not the foul-tempered bully, the kinder parts. To be rejected … Do I need to tell you that it tore out his heart?”

“He hates our mother for placing him in this position, and he hates my father for setting him up for this disappointment.”

Constance corrected softly, “‘Our’ father. Whatever he claimed at the end, William was Hugh’s father. There is more to the matter than blood. And if I am honest, I believe the blood is William’s. Why else did he spend twenty-six years calling Hugh his son and raise him as heir? The tune only changed when he was on his death bed and it looked as though Trempwick would succeed in setting you on the throne. I believe William was motivated by the belief Hugh was a complete failure; we both know he had no tolerance for that.”

“I tried telling Hugh that, more than once. He would not listen.”

“One minute he is filled with anger, the next he is close to weeping. It is not something which will resolve quickly. Or easily, though heaven knows if I could make it easier for him I would. “ Constance sighed again. “He does not really know who or what he is any more. Many of the ways he used to define himself he will not use now. Even the most basic: Hugh, son of William.”

“Hugh, husband of Constance, father of as yet unnamed, king of England?” Eleanor suggested.

“With time, I think so. It will be a little easier once he is anointed; it is harder to doubt one’s worthiness when one is a member of God’s own chosen elite. And easier again once he is a father. A healthy child will do much to repair the holes torn in him by Trempwick.” Constance squared her shoulders and let her hands drop to her sides. “But you are wrong in one thing: he is not falling to pieces. No. He is letting his true feelings show on those limited occasions where it is safe for him to do so. No one can maintain a façade so opposed to what he in truth feels every moment of every day. Should he attempt it, then he would crumble under the weight of it. No, no person alive could keep such turmoil contained every moment of every day for weeks at an end.”

That was well and good – and not entirely what Eleanor meant. “He refused to attend my father’s-” At a glare from her sister-by-law Eleanor amended, “Our father’s reinterment.”

Constance tilted her head to one side. “Did you honestly doubt he would refuse to go once the arrangements were made? Whatever protests he made, it was always obvious Hugh would be there to play his role.”

“I all but had to twist his arm to get him to agree.”

“But his agreement was inevitable.”

“Which makes the whole matter a waste of my time – and a risky one at that. If a whisper of it had escaped-”

Constance raised her eyebrows. “You think a few minutes of Hugh uttering some heartfelt curses so he does not go insane is a waste of your time?”

“That is a cruel way to twist my words,” Eleanor said quietly.

“Hugh will do his part. He will find a way to recover his harmony, with time. He will maintain whatever act is necessary – do whatever is necessary – to safeguard his family. You and I will do whatever we can to aid him in that, whether it means ‘wasting’ time as he expels some anger or shouldering a part of the load so he has less to carry. And that is all there is to be said.”

Eleanor gave up the battle; she would have to trust Constance to prevent Hugh from making any more potentially dangerous moves. “He is my brother. And I do worry. And so much depends upon him that it cannot but make matters worse.”

Constance touched the crucifix she wore at her neck. “May I be forgive for thinking it so often, but you could have prevented this had you only killed that messenger. Then no one but yourself would have known of a dying man’s cracked wits.”

“And would that not make me that much closer to becoming a second Trempwick, ready to kill any who get in my way?” Eleanor spread her hands. “How small is the step from removing inconvenient adults to removing inopportune children?”

Constance blanched, and snapped, “Quite a large one.”

“I would prefer not to find out.”

“What is done is done. The situation before us is the one we must live with. And now, I must go.” In the doorway Constance halted, and said over her shoulder. “We currently favour the name Arthur.”







Fulk returned from his trip to the master of ceremonies, pensive, his fingers absently stroking the braided leather grip of his sword.

“What is it?” Eleanor enquired. This was not the state of mind she’d expected him to be in after hearing the fine details of his humiliating honour. Fit to murder people, yes. Thoughtful, no.

He wandered across the solar to the fireplace and bent to throw another log onto the flames. “There is to be a small tourney the day after the coronation.”

Eleanor’s breath caught. “You are thinking of entering?”

“I rather think I must.”

“Everyone will be out to crack your head-”

He turned to give her a faint smirk. “It’s team based. Only half of them will be after me.”

As if that helped! “They could kill you and claim it to be an accident!”

“I don’t think so.” Fulk against the wall next to her window seat, one foot raised to rest on the stonework. “Your brother has made it clear he won’t look kindly on any such mishaps, in tourney or out. It’s all going to be quite peaceful. Whalebone swords, blunted lances, full armour – even ransoms are to be friendly. Half a mark, no more. No one will be indebted because of capture.”

Eleanor knew that if she made this a matter of courage or ability she would have the reverse of the effect she wanted, and encourage him into it. “If you are fighting, who will I have for company? I am less popular than I was at my father’s wedding, if you can believe such a low exists.”

“You have Hawise and Aveis, and Constance won’t shun you. If she lets you into her circle then others must accept you.” Fulk flashed a grin and raised his sword arm in a pose to show off his biceps. Not that you could see them through his loose tunic sleeve. “And you’ll be the lady of the dashing knight sweeping the field with his prowess, which’ll make you the envy of every woman there.”

His silly pose had left his ribs exposed so Eleanor poked them. “Clod-brain, you have too high an opinion of yourself.”

“Dearest gooseberry, I know you’re fond of me, but to the point where you can’t survive an afternoon without me?”

“I need someone to rest my feet on; we neglected to bring a foot stool.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I shall have paraded before all in a place that belongs to a boy. I will have been derided and mocked a thousand times behind my back, and a hundred times politely to my face. Folk will be busy hashing over that greatest knight business, assuring themselves that I don’t deserve it. People will suggest its cowardice that keeps me from entering, or a lack of skill.” He set his hand on her shoulder and said without looking down, “I cannot have that. My reputation for skill at arms is most of what I have to defend us with. I need to be too dangerous to risk challenging in combat – we can’t rely on your kinship to the king alone. People will bite at us if they think Hugh will not notice, but not if they know I shall challenge them to combat and likely win.”

Eleanor bowed her head. “And you want to enter.”

“And I want to enter,” he confirmed. “I am a fighting man, for better or worse. I enjoy it.”





“Eleanor!”

She had, of course, been warned that Anne would be waiting in London. Given the distance the girl had to travel, and the timescale, there had been no point in her coming on to Waltham only to turn around and plod back to Westminster with the coronation party. The simple message had failed to do justice to the gale of words and energy that was the dowager queen. Eleanor extended her arms to receive the girl’s embrace. “You shall have to tell me how you escaped Scotland.”

“It was easy. Well, mostly easy. Well, not that hard, anyway. I just reminded my father that he needed a representative here and that Malcolm cannot count now they have fallen out, and that as the last king’s wife I’m perfectly suited to the job. I already know most of the people, and the places, and everything, and I hinted that I might be able to spy a bit and get him some information and maybe wring some concessions out of Hugh, since he is my son in the eyes of the law and such a nice, good man as well. And since William is being moved to join his first wife at the cathedral I should be here to witness that, since he was my husband too. I do miss him, even though it has been a quarter of a year since I last saw him. Oh, it is impossible to believe it has been so long! ”

“Breathe!” Eleanor implored.

Anne laughed. “You always say that.”

Eleanor unfastened the brooch pinning her cloak, and folded the garment a few times so it could hang comfortably over her arm. “You always talk too much and too quickly. I swear I do not know how your lungs cope.” She stepped to one side in order to permit two men bearing her clothing chest to rush by. Giving Anne a wry look she said, “This is the second time in four days I have arrived somewhere, so one would hope that this time they have practice enough to set our chambers up without putting Fulk’s armour by the bed and his clothes in the solar.”

Anne laughed again. “Did they really do that?”

“Sadly, yes. They got the chests mixed up.” Eleanor felt a pang of guilt; if she’d been doing her duty instead of talking then the mistake would not have happened. “My second best shoes were lost as well.”

“Oh dear.” Anne hooked her arm through Eleanor’s and started to walk her down the colonnaded passage. “Well, my rooms are all nicely set up and calm, so you must join me there until yours have been settled, unless you want to oversee the servants, but then we would not have chance to talk and that would be such a dreadful shame. You can recover from your journey, and tell me all the news and everything, and I can tell you more about how I got away from home.” She craned her neck to look about the teeming mass of humanity that had descended on the palace. “Where is Fulk?”

“Seeing that the horses are given proper stabling.”

“But shouldn’t his grooms be able to do that?”

Eleanor grimaced. “How many people do you think there are, fighting for the best? Fulk can use his rank to gain what is our due. Alone, our grooms would be pressed out of the way by those belonging to better known lords.”

“It is not really what an earl should be doing.”

“No,” Eleanor agreed curtly, “he should not have to do it.” Having been negligent once Eleanor was not about to allow Anne to tempt her into repeating the mistake. “I will oversee my servants. Come with me,” she urged. “We can talk at the same time.”

Anne stared. “Gosh, how very normal and proper of you! It is something of a shock to think of you doing something so mundane and unimportant, and I know you did not used to like to bother with such boring things. I suppose it is true what they say: marriage does change people and make them grow up.” Anne clamped a hand to her mouth. “I did not mean it like that!”

Eleanor rolled her eyes and said with exaggerated seriousness, “It is hardly unimportant; I only have so many shoes.”

“Well, you will have to tell me all about everything, and about Alnwick, and I hear you have Carlisle as well now. Do you have them nicely furnished or are you still finding the right items? What are the people there like? I want to hear about the battle; was it as dreadful as it all sounds? And about Trempwick’s capture, and about when he was brought before Hugh and confessed his crimes, and all of that. How I wish I had been there to see it!”

“Truly, you do not.”

“And you absolutely have to tell me about your marriage. How is it? Are you both still happy? Have you managed to settle together or are you still a bit awkward about being seen together and settling disagreements and stuff? Do you disagree, for that matter? I do hope not! Is Fulk still all kind and charming and gentle and everything? What does he do with his days? Is he managing to find his way with his new title and powers and stuff? Is he treating you considerately? And is that actually fun? Because I remember the day after your wedding …”

Eleanor kept walking and let the chatter flow over her like water over a stone. It was good to see Anne again.









That’s 8 pages. There’s around 12 pages left, still in need of work here and there.

I admit that the banner bearer bit is entirely my own invention. Much searching of historical accounts of English medieval coronations didn’t turn up a position which offered the required potential for (dis)honour; it’s not too much of a stretch to believe there would have been someone carrying the king’s personal banner somewhere in the procession. That’s the known anachronism in the event.

That first scene is possibly the single most revised in this entire story. I wrote and rewrote, tweaked, adjusted, fiddled, honed and played with it, and hated it each time. Then I deleted close to 5 pages of content and rewrote it so the conversation about Hugh took its present form. Much better! Far less of the “wah wah sob!” air that the other attempts had. I played delete with Anne too. Paragraph by paragraph that scene got hacked back to 1/3 of its original length, and I told her that if she did not cooperate then I would bin the entire thing. It’s nice to have in there; it’s not vital. 4 pages of Anne chattering on about everything she has been doing and interrogating Eleanor is not tolerable at this point in the day. Or perhaps any point in any day.

Conversely, the scene after this needs a bit more wordage. It’s too light, and it is important. So that one you shall have to wait for. A few of the others need some polish too; can’t have a coronation sequence which sits badly on my writer’s sense. Hopefully that one won’t take as long. :glares out of window at morons having a noisy barbeque less than 12 feet away under her open window: I hate summer. It’s too hot to keep the window closed, and too noisy to think it with open.



Furball, I shall miss posting them. No reason to write commentaries without an audience ~:(

Olaf, thank you :bow:

I recently read a trilogy which took the fantasy clichés and turned them upside down quite nicely. Joe Abercrombie’s ‘The First Law’, comprising of ‘The blade itself’, ‘Before they are hanged’ and ‘Last argument of kings’. It starts out amusing, lightweight and typical of the genre. Book 2 is mostly harmless but shows clear flashes of upturned clichés. Book 3 is something of a bomb. Pretty good, if not amazing.

Peasant Phill, if we’re talking about waiting for reading material then there are two famous examples you could join in order to preserve that “When will I have something to read? When? And will this part be good, or will it be another lump of text which does little to advance the story?!” feeling.

There’s the last book of The Wheel of Time. What’s supposed to be 1 book has now become 3, what was supposed to end this year will now end in 2011 at the soonest, but will probably take a couple of years longer than that. Added fun comes from the death of the author, and the fact that the guy chosen to take the notes and complete the series is working himself to death and is a popular author in his own right and thus has contracted material of his own he needs to write and submit while working on this series.

Or the next book in the ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ series. Book 4 got split into 2 after a long wait, then there was a long wait for the first half to be published, and now there’s a long wait for the second half to be completed and published. Then there are several more volumes to wait for, any of which could be split further.

I’m waiting for both :blankg:

[/light froggy humour]

Shinderhizzle, :bow:

I hate Goldenboys/girls. They are no fun to read about because they are not human. Worse are the ones who are clearly meant to be golden but behave like selfish idiots or scum. Nothing wrong with selfish idiots or scum, provided you don’t claim and/or have the world behave as though they are otherwise.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

No reason to write commentaries without an audience

An audience you still have milady frog, albeit a silent and respectful one, who stays in the shadows peeping out of the bushes to witness the bards telling of the amazing tale.

It is sad that there are no more Trempwick scenes, I really loved his character, at first a spymaster who is the epitome of deception, then a man who is akin to the loving father the Eleanor never had, following that, a man who believed in what he fought for, not easily swayed, yet honorable in the end, with how mundane his life had become portrayed very nicely.

With your story soon drawing to a close, I wish it wouldn't end. I have loved the plot outlines and all the plot development in this story, along with how the characters have progressed, from being a figment of an imagination with some historical backing blossoming into real personalities of their own.

After several re-reads, this chapter isn't as "hurried" as my initial reading led me to believe. Maybe it seems rushed because the writing's tighter than I'm used to? I can't put my finger on it.

I neglected to say that it's still a pleasure to read.

I started reading this some years ago.

RL and a grueling schedule got in the way; haven't laid eyes on it since at least 06 I would think.

Now I'm back up to pg. 9 and loving it. I like how you pay attn. to details of class, economics and to some extent culture. The way your characters weave out their skeins amid the conflicting demands of the above, and their own personal frailties has me hooked all over again.

I bow to thee WonderFrog and thank you for this gift.

To Her Majesty Frog:

As ever awesome work. You will always be a far better writer than i am. While it is sad to see this masterpiece of a story go, i am happy at the same time that you shall have more to work on. :beam:
I would also like to thank you for the mention of the WoT series, for truly Robert Jordan was a master author and he was taken from us far too soon.:shame:

I can only hope to see more of your work in the future.

Your servant,
Olaf

Hugh crossed himself and genuflected to the altar, and knelt on the cushion placed in readiness for his vigil. Hands clasped before his breast he closed his eyes, cleared his mind and began to pray.

Once he had completed the prescribed prayers Hugh opened his eyes and let his thoughts empty, waiting to see what would emerge of its own accord. Thus as a youth he had kept his vigil on the eve of knighthood and so thus would he pass his vigil on the eve of his coronation. Attempting to guide his contemplation to specific subjects had felt wrong back then, and would feel wrong now.

A thought formed, more of a concept and a recognition than words, something grander and deeper than could be captured with a label for communication. It was … posterity, legacy, history, what he would seek to shape with the divine rights granted to him. As if someone not in this room, not in this mundane world, asked him what he had it in him to be. What end would he use his authority for.

It was on his lips to utter the ambition he had clung to for much of his life, and say righteous. The prayer did not form, and Hugh realised that his soul did not resound with it. Not this time. Not for a while now.

What else might he seek to attain above all else if granted the honour of kingship? Strength. Wisdom. Intelligence. Cunning. Success. Conquest. Wealth. Piety. These words and more passed through his mind, and he knew all came from his own speculation of what kings before him had mediated on being. They were not him.

He waited.

After a time he saw that there was something else, something as large and solid as a vein of granite within the earth. Strong like the stone, and like the stone a bedrock which gave foundation for all built above.

“Blessed Lord,” he prayed, lips moving silently, “Help me to be just. Guide me to bring justice to all under my hand. Aid me to destroy injustice in all its forms within my lands, and to stand against wrongdoers everywhere. Lend me your strength that I might be tireless in the pursuit of justice, and the wisdom that I might judge well and fairly in all matters for all people whenever I am called on. Clear my eyes so I might see inequity and corruption, and stand with me as I strive to purge them from my rule and reform for the good of all. Grant me the courage to stand by what is right always, in the darkest hour and in the most difficult case.”

Hugh bowed to the altar, so deeply his forehead touched the flagstones. “That is the virtue I would guide my rule by, Lord. It is what I understand to be the cardinal obligation of a king. From justice comes peace, and from peace prosperity. Justice brings forth the best in we sinful men: compassion, wisdom, fairness, discipline. It drives back our weaknesses and checks our excesses.”

He straightened to sit on his heels. There was no feeling of answer, only of complete peace. Tears pricked at the corners of Hugh’s eyes and he bowed his head in gratitude; peace was blessing enough for a man who had felt none in weeks.






The doorway of Westminster loomed before Hugh like a mouth eager to swallow him. As he advanced to the abbey door he lowered his eyes to the red cloth which formed a lengthy pathway from his chambers to the stage where the throne awaited.

Crossing the threshold a sensation of sheer panic struck Hugh, and it was all he could do to continue his stately pace as though his mind was filled with the serenity of God’s own chosen. The entrance lay several paces behind now, and one more with each heartbeat. Close, and as unreachable as the sun. Hugh knew the man he was would never leave this place; each measured step took him closer to the end.

A choir sang, beautiful enough to break the heart. They sang for God and for him – a mere mortal placed close to the Almighty! Hugh’s heart pounded fit to shatter his ribs; he continued to advance with majesty to the fate which awaited him.

To the sides of the vast abbey hundreds – many hundreds – of people filed into place. Lords, ladies, notables, near-nobodies, shoulder to shoulder and in their finest and with their eyes fixed upon him. Upon his every move. Expectant. Hungry, almost.

Abruptly Hugh remembered a section from one of the histories he had read as a youth. Certain pagan tribes had ritually sacrificed their kings. Crowned them, robed them, cherished them, and slaughtered them. Was that so different to what was to be done to him? A hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of his throat; Hugh sank his teeth into the soft inside of his lip and let the jolt of pain wash the madness away.

All too soon the procession reached the foot of the stage. Those ahead of Hugh split to the left and right to clear his path, and stood holding their glittering burdens in readiness for the ceremony.

Then the stairs were behind him, and Hugh stood before the throne. With a sweep of his arm he swung his mantle to the side and seated himself in a manoeuvre he had practiced rigorously, careful that the fabric fell across his knees in such a way that it formed pleasing folds with his robe.

The Archbishop of Canterbury moved to stand at Hugh’s right side. He voice rang out clearly, addressing the gathering to the right. “Is it your will that this man, Hugh, son of William, who was our former lord, be consecrated as our king? Do you give this man your consent?”

Hugh stood and faced the people the Archbishop had spoken to, letting them scrutinize him and see that he was sound of body and indeed the man they knew and not a substitute.

Hundreds of voices called, “So be it!” and “God bless King Hugh!”

As one Hugh and the Archbishop turned to the left and repeated the process, and again Hugh was acclaimed. Hugh moved to stand behind the throne, facing the half of the crowd that had been forced to stand behind the stage due to the lack of space. Once more the Archbishop’s ritual query rang through the building; Hugh realised that the fear was gone. In its place was acceptance. Part of him would die here, today. The sacrifice was necessary. He would not flinch from his obligation.

The firmetur manus tua filled the building, soaring to heaven on the pure voices of the choir. As the hymn concluded the bishops of Durham and Bath took Hugh’s arms and guided him down from the stage, through the abbey to the high altar for his blessing and a sermon.






Hugh knelt before the altar, one hand on the bible and the other on a relic of Saint Edward the Confessor. He took a deep breath and prayed his voice would come without catch or tremble. “I, Hugh, swear by these relics and by my immortal soul that I will keep peace, honour and duty towards God and the holy church and all her customs, all the days of my life. I swear by those same powers to exercise fair justice and equality amongst all the people of the realm, all the days of my life. I swear by those same powers to abolish any evil laws and customs that have been introduced to this realm, and to make good laws, and to keep those laws without fraud or evil intent, all the days of my life.”

Now it was time. He regained his feet and allowed himself to be stripped to his shirt and breeches. The fear had returned. His noble attendants seized the collar of his shirt, one on either side, and tore the linen so it fell from his body in rags. Hugh paid little attention. Just a man, just an ordinary man, nothing more and nothing less, now and never again, not in this life and not in the next. Minutes left. Only minutes, slipping by like sand rushing through the gaps in his fingers. Would the world be the same afterwards? Would he be the same? His life would not – could not be. Shoes covered in gold work decoration were placed on his feet and time ran out.

Hugh swallowed hard, took a slow breath and knelt beneath the canopy set up close to the altar. Waiting was agony; like the condemned prisoner wishing the axe would never fall and wishing it would so the wait was over. Oh God, was he worthy?! How could he possibly be worthy!? Hugh’s stomach clenched, and the prayers still murmured on.

Then he felt warmth on his scalp and perfume filled the air about him. The chrism trickled down his forehead; Hugh clenched his eyes shut to keep from being blinded. It was done. He was no longer simply human: he was more, and ever would be. One of God’s chosen on earth, selected to rule over men and lands, elevated by God through mortal hands, closer to the Lord than any save the highest of the church.

Hugh risked opening his eyes; the oil had spread sufficiently that it no longer threatened to drip from his brow. The Archbishop drew a cross with the chrism on Hugh’s breast, and on each of his biceps. The linen cap which Suffolk had borne in the procession was placed on Hugh’s head lest anything remove the holy oil before seven days had passed.

As he pushed himself up from the cushion where he’d knelt Hugh thought a brief prayer for the part of his being which did not rise with him; the ordinary man he had been lay, in his imagination, sprawled like a corpse at his feet. But … he was anointed. Anointed! He had not been struck dead by God for daring to take what was not his. He was King of England and it was heaven’s will. King, and no earthly power could undo it.











Only one scene left to write now. The noise and interruptions continue unabated, and have in fact grown worse. Hurray for idiots doing noisy DIY, road works, thunder storms, and sundry other loud nuisances. And here I am, trying to write a nice touching funeral bit and touch up a few other scenes. Is it evil to hope that certain offenders drill through a live power cable?

You may recall me mentioning sitting an exam as part of a job interview. I was successful and got the job. Now I have to wait goodness knows how long for them to complete background checks so I can start. Froggy: civil servant for the Department of Work and Pensions. From bookshop manager to this – talk about going down in prestige ;) Ok, it’s far better pay, hours and benefits, and realistically is far better in every way except for the sad lack of books and the fact that bookshop manager is a far sight cooler

I’ve been fascinated by the human implications of the medieval theory of sacred kingship since I discovered it last century (sounds neater than saying “when I was very young” :D). A drop of perfumed oil which took a normal person and turned them into a +1 human, to steal an RPG convention for the purposes of short illustration. Different personalities would react to that upgrade in different ways. The average personality would produce a fairly dull reaction, the pious one a little more interesting, the megalomaniac a far better one, and the one with self worth issues has the most potential of all. The same principle can be seen at work in some sci-fi. That cybernetic eyeball is one man’s cool upgrade and another’s loss of some tiny fragment of humanity.

For those wondering why we get to see the anointing but not the crowning, the oil made the king, not the crown and not the rest of the fancy ornaments. The anointing elevated you, the rest reminded the world you had been elevated.

Hugh entered this story proclaiming he wished to be a righteous king. Now the day has come he finds he would rather be a just king. That’s a good change; righteousness is at its heart of hearts a very selfish thing.


I’m going to use quotes; it’s been so long and the board has had so many problems recently that it seems awkward to reply the usual way.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Death is yonder

An audience you still have milady frog, albeit a silent and respectful one, who stays in the shadows peeping out of the bushes to witness the bards telling of the amazing tale.

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Never fear, I know you're all here ~:) I was referring to when the story is completed; if I'm not posting anything for readers then I have no audience to prompt and read commentaries and so won't write them. I shall miss that.

Quote:

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I have loved the plot outlines and all the plot development in this story, along with how the characters have progressed, from being a figment of an imagination with some historical backing blossoming into real personalities of their own.

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:bow:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by furball

After several re-reads, this chapter isn't as "hurried" as my initial reading led me to believe. Maybe it seems rushed because the writing's tighter than I'm used to? I can't put my finger on it.

I neglected to say that it's still a pleasure to read.

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I kept the email copy of the original as it's a good set of thoughts to keep in the back of my mind, regardless of what I'm writing. So thanks.

I think the reason the last post (and this one, if I'm honest) feel different is because everything is clearly winding down. There's less to happen, less to say, less which leads forwards, more tidying up. We know our characters and know what they will do, and know the course events will take from here on; there's no space left for surprises, or nice observations, or those other little prompts which have kept the story flowing. While the story is winding down, I suspect we're not. We want another little twist, another nice observation, another good joke. Hence my tendency to write a lot and then delete a lot, and your feeling that there should have been more.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by HopAlongBunny

Now I'm back up to pg. 9 and loving it. I like how you pay attn. to details of class, economics and to some extent culture. The way your characters weave out their skeins amid the conflicting demands of the above, and their own personal frailties has me hooked all over again.

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Thanks. I do try :bow:

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Olaf Blackeyes

I would also like to thank you for the mention of the WoT series, for truly Robert Jordan was a master author and he was taken from us far too soon.:shame:

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If you're interested, I wrote a series of brief comments on the Wheel of Time back when I read it. One of the readers on the other forum had read the series. According to my diary I finished reading the series on 19/03/06(!) so it shouldn't be hard for me to find. Let me see ...

Found it. post 978 contains books 10 and 11. Work backwards from there to find the others; they are always at the bottom of my posts. The first books are several pages back; it looks like I took a short break midway thriough the series. I suspect my opinion would be different now; a greater appreciation for the things he does well, such as battles as viewed from the grand scale, and a greater hatred of the childish characters and bloat.

Wow, looking that up brought back memories. I used to post a lot more about the books I read while writing. It's a trifle odd to see my comments about my job, knowing where that went in the next 3 years.

The unbelievable has happened. My computer's primary hard drive failed on Tuesday evening. I've lost everything. Everything. Unless somehow I can access the data on a drive which the computer doesn't recognise any more, it's all gone. All of my writing, everything. The backups I had on my memory stick have vanished. I'd hoped to post the final part yesterday.

I can still finish the story - I'll have to reconstruct the last scenes in a new word document. But ... it's all gone. The two work in progress short stories, the notes, my manuscript, all of my other writing, everything. Years of work, gone. Backups, gone. Everything, from my hand-made background to my music.

I've installed a new hard drive and am searching for a way to dredge files from my old drive. I don't know if there's any hope or not; it's beyond my tech know-how.

Damn it! It was a Western Digital server grade hard disc with well over half of its stupidly long expected lifespan left! It should not have failed! I'd done drive maintenance on it mere hours beforehand! And my backups shouldn't have vanished either!

I don't know when I'll be writing again. Right now I still want to cry. The priority is trying to get that data salvaged.

I just can't believe it. ~:mecry:

Wish you luck in salvaging the situation, had a similar situation a few years back, now I've learned to keep actual hard copies whether printed or handwritten as well as soft copies for really important/ treasured data.

External hard disks as back ups help too :bow:

Try consulting the tech savvy experts at IT shops or the mechanical equivalent. With some luck and money, it is possible :bow:

Best wishes in recovering all your hard work (not just novels) from all these years.

Try consulting with the people in the hardware and software forum, hopefully they have a solution.

~:grouphug:~:grouphug:

Take all the time you want to recuperate and relax. A boggled and stressed mind does little to help in the creativity department.

That is truly terrible news, Lady Frog :stwshame:

I hope you find some way to recover your lost work.

Ack!

Very sorry to hear that :no:

I know there are companies that specialize in data recovery; generally focused on a business clientele. I have no idea how pricey their services are, but I'm willing to bet they aren't cheap.

I wish you a speedy and complete recovery (data and emotional):2thumbsup:

Some good news. I hooked up my old C: drive this afternoon and, while there's damaged data and missing files, my writing has survived. I've transferred it over to the new drive, and am in the process of opening each document up to check everything's as it should be. Most of my other important stuff looks intact too.

It will take me a while to transfer everything to safety, check it all over, and get it put in the correct locations on my new setup. Plus I start my new job tomorrow. I'm hoping to get the final part of Eleanor posted at the end of this week.

THANK GOODNESS! And good luck!

Yippeee!

Data transfer, error-checking, new job, ...:juggle2:

Your readers will be patient ~:)

Hurrah! Huzzah!

Lets hope it never happens again :sweatdrop:

Good luck in your job :smash:

Take as long as you want, we can wait :wink:

Great news. Still no ideas about how it happened?

Good morning your Frogginess!

This story has been great! :2thumbsup: I really hate that it is coming to an end. :end:

I am estatic to see that I have actually caught up with the postings for the story. :surprised: I had only just started reading this story a month ago and frankly when I saw the date of the first posting I figured that by the time I finished reading the story the thread would have been long ended.

It is interesting how since I was able to read the thread straight through it seems that I have actually been following two stories in the thread, the primary one of the Gooseberry and then the other showing the Lady Frogs crafting of the story and her valiant struggles with the real world interferring with the creative process. I am so thankful that you allowed us to be a part of your process. It was very enlightening to me as an artist to see a fellow artist having very similar struggles in the production of their craft and how they coped with their personal tribulations.

I am very sorry to hear about your most recent computer woes. Have you been able to salvage all of your data? If you are still having issues with the old drive, I have a computer application that I have used several times at work to extract data off of damaged HDs, it may be helpful to you as well.

Thanks again and good luck. :daisy:

PS. Congrats on the new job!

I'm not dead.

Long story cut short, I've taken the drastic step of buying a macbook pro with the intent of making it my sole platform for writing. My desktop will remain in service as a gaming, internet and everything else platform. The macbook gets a dedicated writing program - current favourite looks to be scrivener - and nothing else. A totally closed system. That way there is reduced scope for problems, and I'm using a more suitable programme than Word. The desktop is back to normal, and has been behaving itself nicely (fingers crossed). A macbook will be less vulnerable to two of the problems which hampered my desktop in the time after that windows reinstall - heat and thunder. The temperature here was so hot that nothing could keep my desktop cool enough, despite it having a good cooling setup. Then it started thundering a lot and I will not use my PC during a thunder storm - I had one melted by a power surge during a storm in the early years of Eleanor. I had it plugged in to a surge protector and all -_-

MS Word and I have fallen out. Years and years we have worked together, and I've tolerated its increasing short comings cheerfully enough. Until now. I have been fighting since before that last post to get the programme to set itself back up how I want it, and to get on with writing without it whinging at me. I'm still trying. It usually takes a long time to get everything just so, and this time I'm out of patience. When I do finally get it all right I shall still have problems navigating my massive manuscript, and the shortcomings of the toolset are really digging in. Did I mention it ate Silent's short story? Total loss, right down to the last character. Don't ask me how or why, I have no idea what Word did.

By contrast scrivener and most of the other mac specific writing programs offer a whole host of features I could make good use of. Imagine being able to reference research and notes in the same window as your manuscript! Currently I have to swap between an entire folder full of separate documents and doing that too often makes Word throw a tantrum. Then imagine having a full overview of the work, scene by scene, easy editing, automatic backups of save files, the ability to resurrect old versions of scenes, a clipboard where I can stash bits I like but don't want to use yet, and so many other things!

Anyway. The macbook arrived today, I'm learning my way around it now and doing scrivener's tutorial. Once I have found my feet I will import my writing, set it up, and pick up where I left off. I hope to have a good old writing binge over this weekend.

Heh. I was actually pondering doing this in the weeks before I was told my shop would close and I would lose my job. Now I'm back in work it has become possible again, and due to circumstances it's far more appealing than it was half a year ago.

Well I have managed to type all of this without any problems, so I guess I am adapting to the new keyboard. That's a good sign.

:2thumbsup:

Best of luck in your new computer froggy.

Good Quality Work takes a Good Quantity of Time.

We can wait :dizzy2:

:book:

Yes, best of luck. Hope the new machine helps lots!

“They look so - so regal!” enthused Anne.

“Yes,” Eleanor replied slowly without looking away from her brother and his wife enthroned in state on the dais, “I suppose they do.”

“Suppose?! But they do!”

Both crowned, both dressed in their coronation finery, both seated on gilded wood thrones, both endeavouring to be prime specimens of noble deportment, both in the prime of their lives - those responsible for organising the homage ceremony hadn’t needed to work hard to create the aura of God-given regal authority that hung about the couple. There was something about being young, healthy and garbed in the wealth of a nation which could make anyone seem special. That Hugh naturally looked regal was a happy bonus. Eleanor conceded, “Very well. They do. That is, after all, the entire point.”

Anne scowled. “If you are going to be so tiresome then I will leave to find more cheerful company and then you will be all alone for the rest of the homage taking, and it’s going to last for hours so you cannot want that. At least try to enter the spirit of the occasion! After all, how many times do you expect to see your own brother crowned?”

It was too tempting to pass up. “Only once. Should he require more than that he can do it without me.”

“You are entirely impossible!”

“So people say.”

“I meant it - I will leave.”

Eleanor smiled at her companion. “No, you will not. You would not leave me to the humiliation of being entirely shut out. You are much too kind.”

Anne’s scowl reappeared, deeper this time. “Now that is purely manipulative!”

“And true.” Eleanor grinned impishly, something she hadn’t noticed herself do in much too long. “Now if I were aiming for manipulative I would point out that it is partly your fault that I am shunned. After all, it was thanks to you that I was able to marry Fulk.”

“I agree,” Anne muttered, “That is devious.”

Eleanor patted her on the shoulder. “Never fear, I shall not say it. I shall rely on your good nature instead.”

Anne gave her a look promised to grow into something mildly scary in another five years and pointedly shifted conversation back to her preferred subject. “They are a handsome couple, are they not? I never realised before how well they look together - properly matched in height and everything, and so glorious! And there is the baby too, you can see it will not be all that much longer and then there will be a prince - or a princess, I guess - and there will be no more of this talk about Hugh being cursed or whatever because he does not have a living child.”

“So we pray.” In truth the topic suited Eleanor as well as Anne; simple and in need of little aside from occasional murmurs of agreement during the lulls, it left her attention free to monitor the crush of notables. Much was revealed during gatherings such as this: alliances, enmities, and all of the shades in-between. Watching who people chose to talk to, even who they stood near, could be educational.

Her own status was clearly apparent; no one was willing to talk to her unless approached first, many regarded her with concealed curiosity when they thought she would not notice and quickly looked away if she happened to meet their gaze. They talked behind their hands or with their heads close together betraying hushed voices.

Over in the queue of nobles soon to perform homage, Fulk was receiving similar treatment. Those close to him positioned themselves a pace further away than was strictly normal, as though he carried a disease, and all formed up into knots which shut him out with shoulders and turned backs.

Further afield, now that was where matters became interesting. Hands waved in gestures, laughter was frequent, heads nodded or shook in emphasis. There was an energy, a freeness, to the hundreds of individual gatherings filling the cavernous hall.

“Hope.”

Eleanor said, “Pardon?”

“Hope.” Anne indicated the hall with a wave of her hand. “I know you are doing your spymaster thing of hiding in a corner and watching everyone else while they forget you are there, so I thought I would ask and see if you agree with me. I think you can almost feel the hope in the air.”

No, hope was not the word Eleanor would have chosen. Confidence would have been closer. These people had been freed of the threat of drawn out civil war and from a king with the power to trim their heads. New power was in their hands and they scented the possibilities. In and of itself this was no bad thing; Hugh would steadily build his power and, for the time being at least, it was unlikely that anyone would get drunk on their boldness and do something … regrettable.

Anne didn’t wait for an answer. “You have a handsome young king and his lovely wife, and they obviously love each other, and there is the baby too, and the war is over, and Hugh is a decent sort and turning out better than anyone expected - of course it must be hope. It is all so glorious!”

Something about the words made the hair on the back of Eleanor’s neck stand up, she could not say what.

Anne tapped her on the arm to gain her attention. “Look - it is Fulk’s turn.”

The last with an earl’s rank to swear, Fulk was stepping up onto the dais to kneel at Hugh’s feet. He placed his hand’s between his king’s and recited his oath in a clear voice which, like all the others Eleanor had paid no heed to, carried above the hum of soft conversation. Ceremony completed Fulk rose, bowed, and stepped off the dais without turning his back to the royal couple as the others had done before him. Unlike the preceding four earls, Fulk stopped there, five steps from the foot of the dais, and waited. Those who had fought for Hugh were being granted their rewards as part of the homage ceremony, to reinforce the links between fealty and reward in the minds of a nobility which had been found lacking when it came to the trial.

A page came forward bearing a charter on a red velvet cushion. Hugh said, “In recognition of your services to me and mine during the recent difficulties, I grant you the castle and environs of Carlisle, to hold from me in my name, and the revenues from said lands, on the condition that you service me henceforth with the same loyalty that you displayed during the campaign against the rebels.”

Fulk bowed deeply and picked up the charter. “My gratitude, sire.”

As Fulk made to leave Hugh spoke again, “In all else matters shall be as I previously decreed. Your means have increased; I expect to see a matching rise in the payments against your fines.”

Anne hissed, “Tactless!”

“Necessary,” Eleanor corrected.

The first of the barons without an earl’s title was moving forward ready to perform his own homage when Hugh called, “My sister next.”

When a couple of thousand people turned in one scattered motion to stare at you, it was quite something. As was the death of general conversation. Eleanor wound her way through the throng, away from the wall where she had been lurking and out into the full glare of attention. By rights she should not have featured in this ceremony, her lands had been stripped from her after her marriage and she did not feature on the list of persons to be rewarded. Expecting the summons, and the stir it caused, did little to help with the feeling that all the eyes were burning holes in her skin with the intensity of their curiosity.

She reached the dais and started to kneel; Hugh was supposed to catch her before the motion was completed and raise her back to her feet. The damned double-crossing bastard didn’t! As her knees touched wooden planking Eleanor glared daggers at her half brother.

“My dear sister,” he pontificated according to the script, “your loyalty to me has been, I think, the greatest out of any on this green earth. Many would have succumbed to the temptation to usurp this throne should the crown be offered to them, yet you stood faithfully at my side from the very first.” At long last he seemed to remember she should not be kneeling to him, and he raised her up with his own hands in one of those displays of magnanimity he was getting so good at. “I will not permit you to give your oath to me as you did following our lord father’s sad demise. Your faithfulness is implicit, and,” he swapped to the tone which informed everyone a royal joke was following and polite laughter was expected, “in any case you have no holdings for which you owe service.”

A polite titter ran around the hall on queue.

Hugh pressed Eleanor’s hand between his own. “Recognition is owed. Rewards are more than due.”

“Nonsense,” Eleanor protested as per the script, while thinking quite differently. “We are family.”

“I confess I have some difficulty in deciding what to bestow upon you. That which you truly desired you obtained for yourself.” He gave a pointed look to Fulk. “It is clear you judge all else to be secondary in value or you should not have made that decision, and thus it seems mean to bestow upon you lands and material wealth knowing that you do not prize them.” This time the public amusement owed less to politeness, excepting those who preferred to be disapproving of the mere mention of the scandalous match.

Eleanor’s smile was becoming so false it could be lifted from her face like a mask. Whatever the occasion, whoever the person behind it, regardless of the intent, the jabs and pokes over her choice of husband burned like bile in the back of her throat.

Hugh gave his audience time to settle before resuming his little speech. “This being said, much is due. I am aware you have a fondness for the manor where you grew up, and so shall grant it to you in its entirety, and in your own right.” He was enjoying this more than he had a right to, that much was plain. “Indeed, I shall stipulate in the charter that all pertaining to, and stemming from, the manor is to be yours, and that your husband cannot touch or influence any of it.” He did a good impression of a benevolent monarch, all smiles and open expressions and welcoming body language. “Is that not unheard of in this realm? No other lady might say the same of whatever such lands as she holds, and many would envy the freedom.” He said to Constance, “Is that not right, my dear?”

Constance lowered her eyes demurely. “There is some truth in that, however content we are to be guide by our husbands.”

Eleanor managed to thank her half brother, and bent to kiss the ring made to replace the one concealed in her girdle. As she beat a retreat she was aware of carrying a bubble of silence about her, the whispering cut off as she approached and resumed as she passed by.

“That was not nice either,” Anne declared as Eleanor rejoined her. “He does it over and over to both you and Fulk - reward paired with insult.”

“Yes. He is becoming quite skilled at it. ” Eleanor resumed crowd watching. “It is a necessary price, one we agreed to pay. Had Hugh less talent for it, we would be paying in larger, cruder forms. Subtle mockery is less arduous than many of the alternatives.”

“Maybe it will not be necessary for all that much longer?” Anne suggested hopefully. “It is already better than it was right after you married, so perhaps in a year or two-”

“No,” Eleanor interrupted softly. “Some prices are paid for life. This is one such.”

“It is not fair! If only people knew what the two of you have done-”

“We would stand condemned still.” Eleanor diverted her attention from the gathering to her companion. “The important thing - the only thing which matters - is whether the price buys something of equal worth.” She looked at Fulk, handsome and dignified in his best clothes, talking - a dredge of acceptance at last! - to the third bastard son of the Earl of Derby. “It does.”









No, not the end. Not yet - I wanted to test my ability to transfer text out of scrivener and onto the internet. It's all quite different to my old Word/firefox setup. Heh, I feel like cvi4 , tempting with "Just one more turn ..." only with "Just one more post ..."

It took me a week to get Eleanor set up in scrivener. Dividing it up into chapters too a very long time, and gave me chance to re-read the entire thing start to finish. That combined with the new tools and overviews scrivener provides, and I felt I could do a better version of the ending than the one I had written. It was all dry and dusty, like the scene above. All of the best parts of this story thrum with gentle humour and life, and I want it to end in the same way. I'm doing a complete re-write, everything excepting this one scene. I didn't want to redo pages of work and then find myself with no way to post it.

I shall leave it there. I'm not entirely sure my plan to copy/paste text from scrivener to TextEdit, space it out for posting, and then copy/paste it onto the forum will work. There's scope for formatting problems and characters turning into garbage during one of the transitions.

:tries to post, crosses fingers:

Gah! Took several efforts before it would allow me to paste into the forum. I don't know why. This may cause trouble :(

Glad to have another post to read. Perhaps you should consider writing another story for us so you can get more practice with your new tools? :)

Completely awesome as ever. :laugh4::yes::beam::beam::beam::beam::beam::beam:

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Originally Posted by furball

Perhaps you should consider writing another story for us so you can get more practice with your new tools? :)

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Such as? Genuine curiosity; from time to time I do wonder if there's anything people would like to see me write about.



Olaf :bow:

Froggy, one simple question - do you plan on publishing your book?

Quote:

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

Such as? Genuine curiosity; from time to time I do wonder if there's anything people would like to see me write about.

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Can you do high fantasy? Or sci-fi?:laugh4:

Froggy, as an admirer of your style and ability to put words into interesting sentences, I'd be happy to read just about anything. If I had to make a suggestion, it would be to write about something that truly interests you - or maybe something you'd like to learn more about so you get the added pleasure of doing the research.

You excel at conversation and points of view. Perhaps a novella-length quest or travel piece. To break the mold a bit, two women on the journey instead of a male and female. Perhaps one is the novice and the other a teacher or elder helping to channel knowledge on the trek. They meet "others" on the way, of course. We could get contrasting POVs of the novice meeting them for the first time while the elder may have interacted with the "others" in several different ways in the past. Though a common goal or story line would interconnect them, each chapter could be a different meeting, allowing you to focus on the interplay of the characters without having to spend a lot of time on exposition. This would also allow you to explore novel ways for how the meetings occur or are conducted; that is, the narrative style could change for some of the meetings, etc.

Ideally, once you had come up with the general theme, arc and goal of the story, you could then concentrate on each chapter as a separate entity. This would allow you freedom to concentrate on each in turn and, if RL needs dictate, you could allow yourself as much time as you need between chapters without the need to worry quite so much with a binding narrative thread. Each chapter thus becomes its own mini-story - some happy, some romantic, tragic or what have you. You could write it at your own leisure and explore different styles as you let ideas percolate between chapters.

Depending on your own personal ambitions, the "trek" would not have to be culturally or even chronologically linear. Some of the meetings could be medieval, some epic, some ancient, etc. This would also allow you an excuse to research any milieu you desire.

Of course, feel free to ignore this completely if there's some other idea that you'd rather write to us about. I just want to have more Froggy stories to look forward to! :)

Most of all, best of luck to you in whatever endeavors you choose,
Furball

:thinking: I personally would love to see you write about the adventures that Eleanor and Fulk have later down the road. I have come to love these characters so much that I hate to see them go.

Your writing style works very well with intrigue, :idea2: maybe a fast paced medieval spy novel.

But I guess as long as you are writing it, it doesn't really matter what the specifics of story is, I'll still be reading it. :book:

Wymar - named for his lord father - ushered Fulk to one side, away from the main gathering of lords, saying, “You shall forgive me and accompany me, I am sure. You shall find it to your gain.”

“Really,” murmured Fulk. He followed the other man easily enough, alert all the while for the barb which might strike.

“I shall be brief.” Wymar chose a spot near the wall and made himself comfortable by slouching against the stonework. “Let’s be honest - I do not wish to be seen taking overmuch of an interest in you. Nor do any of those I represent. That is the advantage of bastard sons, you know.” He snapped his fingers in Fulk’s face. “We are so much less weighty than true bloods. We are almost expected to associate with the wrong types and such like. Thus I can speak to you without beginning rumour that my lord father seeks friendship with you.”

“And does he?” Fulk enquired.

The reply was as blunt as could be, flippant enough to make Fulk flush with anger. “No. Why the devil would he?”

“Then one wonders why you are wasting my time.” Fulk stepped away.

“I said brief. Evidently you want briefer.”

“Quite.” Fulk nodded towards the hundreds of nobles. “I have a whole host of people I can be belittled by, near all of them of better standing than you.”

The young man snorted a laugh. “Well enough. The point, then. You are going to be the target of half the field in our gracious king’s tournament. Everyone not on your team will be after you, wanting to beat you into the mud for the insult of your existence. And,” he said, a wry tilt to his brows indicating the words to be a compliment, “for your reputation, oh greatest knight. You have no friends - no one to stand shoulder to shoulder with. You shall be felled in the opening minutes however good you are.”

It was a problem which Fulk had identified within a day of entering his name for the event. In hindsight it had been a mistake to put his name on the entry list; losing would crush the budding reputation he had laboured to build, and as his companion said none would stand by him from choice. Had he not entered he’d have been called a coward, a true case of being damned whatever he did.

“However,” Wymar the younger continued, “while none want to associate with you, some would like to see those most like to target you take a fall, shall we say? Call it an alliance of mutual interest. You need allies. Those I represent want to see certain folk take a thump on the helm. Those folk will be coming straight after you - it’s all but certain.”

Fulk crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall himself. It was important not to seem too eager. “Names, or leave me be.”

“As for those who would fight with you, well recall my earlier words. We bastard sons are so suited to dirty tasks, and there are already some of us enlisted on your team. As for the remainder, there’s a fourth son and a disfavoured second son. In short, men of an age and status where we are expected to be tasteless, to the vast distress and embarrassment of our families, who can, nonetheless, decry our deeds and claim complete innocence. For noble relatives, let us say names like my lord father, my lord of Suffolk, and many of their affinity.”

Fulk acknowledged the point with a slow nod. “And for the other?”

Derby’s son leaned forward conspiratorially. “Our dear earl of York is a bird which flies too high and makes overmuch noise in the mistake of its own import. And, let us merely say, certain others of his close alliance.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose and wondered what to do with this latest mess. “I do not seek to get involved in existing feuds between families.”

“Have you not heard the expression ‘the enemy of your enemy is your friend’? York wants you ruined; he has set himself against you and you must decide if you wish to stand or if you’re happy to be slowly ground down.”

“That is true,” Fulk said carefully. “But it does not mean I must place myself in the centre of anything.”

“We don’t want you in the centre,” Wymar interrupted scornfully. “Blessed Christ! Do not get over an high opinion of yourself! We seek to make a simple arrangement that lasts all of an afternoon. York and his will come after you. I and mine will stand at your side. Together we will beat them into the mud. You gain by not getting your head staved in. We gain by their minor humiliation. Neither of us have to listen to them crowing about defeating the greatest knight and hero of Alnwick. They lose. Or,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “we can wait until after they have you on the ground, and then we can attack them while they are distracted by your unconscious carcass!”

Fulk decided upon the lesser of the two evils. “I do not appear to have much choice. Very well.”

Derby’s bastard son gave a curt nod. “Good. Now I am also instructed to say this: mutually beneficial agreements do not need to be all show and intermarriage and so on. Quieter arrangements might be forthcoming. The enemy of my enemy, after all.”

“You may tell them that I will listen to any honourable proposal. But I shall be no man’s dog or front to hide behind.”

Wymar raised his brows. “I wonder how long you shall last. You do not have the delicate touch for weaving through court life.”

“I do not intend to be much at court. That would suit everyone, I believe.”

“Yes, it would.” Wymar touched two fingers to his forehead in a casual salute and sauntered off.

Fulk breathed out, long and low, and decided it was time to reunite with his wife.






When Eleanor spotted Fulk making his way across Westminster’s great hall she couldn’t hold back her smile. “My luflych little knight,” she greeted him, holding out her hand. “Come to keep an outcast company?”

Fulk clasped her hand tightly and bowed over it in best courtly manner, brushing a kiss onto her knuckles. “Oh sour one, I came in search of someone who’s obliged to speak to me and not be condescending.”

Eleanor made a show of looking around. “Oh? Who would that be?”

Fulk turned a winsome smile on Anne and bowed deeply. “My lady.”

Anne giggled. “However do you two manage?”

Eleanor and Fulk’s eyes met; he smirked. “Quite well, I think. I just threaten to beat her and that keeps everything under control.”

“One of these days I shall strangle you, crook-nose.”

“Only if you can reach high enough, oh diminutive little wifelette of mine.”

“Yes, well,” hedged Anne, edging surreptitiously away, “Now you both have company you like I shall leave you to it and go and find some fun.” She clamped a hand to her mouth and turned bright red. “Er not that I am saying I did not have fun talking with you, Eleanor, or anything like that!”

Eleanor assisted in the effort to get the girl’s foot out of her mouth. “Go on. Go and enjoy yourself. You have been more than kind keeping me company, though it meant you shared my exclusion.”

That Anne didn’t remain long enough to make more than a token protest spoke volumes; Eleanor felt slightly wounded. Abandoned so easily by a girl who had once been near-impossible to be rid of.

Fulk said, “You look grim.”

“There are times when I begin to feel old,” Eleanor answered vaguely.

“You’re not yet twenty.”

“Not so far off. A few months, that is all. And that was not what I meant.” Watching the gathering from the background. Considering motivations, noting the comings and goings and the least gestures of the realm’s notables. Marking the activities of the handful of servants who worked for her so that she might be all the better prepared when they made their reports. Eating little, drinking less, socialising not at all - though she might have headed out to impose her presence on people who would have no recourse to be rid of her. All of it, at once familiar and strange. A situation passed through several times before, only this time she had no companion in her watchfulness and she stood in the master’s place. “When did I become Trempwick?”

Fulk’s face fell; he tried to joke the sudden heaviness in the atmosphere away. “Heartling, I hadn’t noticed any such thing. For one you’re a sight more feminine than him. He’d have looked dreadful wearing that dress, whereas you look quite gooseberryish.”

It was true Eleanor’s outer dress was of a rich green. “Thank you for that,” she said dryly. “Now I shall never be able to look at this dress in quite the same way. A pity - I had liked it.”

There was a lengthy silence. Fulk broke it with a question asked in the same tone as her earlier one. “When did I become a man who, if not seeking fights, is not able to walk away as often as he should? When did petty insults begin to reach me again? I thought I had grown out of it all.”

Eleanor settled herself inside his arm and leaned against his body. “I suppose the answer to both is: when we had to.”

“Had to.” Fulk’s arm tightened about her shoulders. “We’d do a damned sight better without other people.”

At which point Eleanor decided that the grander game played over the coronation and following days could be damned. “Tell me, my luflych little knight, do you still rescue damsels in distress?”

“I retired from it. Caused too much trouble with my wife - she didn’t like me bringing all those beautiful young maidens home.”

Eleanor looked up at him, able to see no more of his face than the underside of his chin and lower planes of his jaw. “I think you are a liar, sir.”

“And you, my lady.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re no damsel. Distressing, yes, perhaps more than ever, but damsel, no. Damsels don’t have husbands.”

“If I repudiate him will you rescue me then?”

“Mayhap. Mayhap not. But if you offered a good enough reward I would consider it, husband or no.”

Eleanor affected outrage. “Mercenary!”

He grinned. “I have to pay for repairs to my armour somehow.”

She became more serious. “The request is simple. The reward … well, you may name your price. If it is reasonable I shall pay. Take me away from here, and then tomorrow take me home. I do not think I can stomach any more.”

“The first I can do, if you don’t mind starting a fresh round of gossip.” His fingers tickled the small of her back in a most agreeable manner. “The second … I cannot. I will not have it said that I fled because I knew most in the tournament would be seeking my capture.”

Eleanor wound her arm around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. “I can handle that. You shall have excuse to leave that none can throw scorn on. Indeed, you shall be commanded to go.”

She felt his body tense. “What mischief are you plotting, oh cunning one?”

“No one will begrudge you being sent back north to deal with a pocket of rebels escaped from the battle and now located, and causing damage to your lands.” She anticipated his protest and headed it off. “Do not worry about being proved misled. There is a small band of outlaws I have been saving for such an occasion.”

He did not say anything. When he did speak the words came ponderously, each like dropping a pebble into a pond. “That is very … Trempwick.”

“I know.”

“Always have an escape route, eh?” Forced nonchalance made the words fragile.

“I shall not be trapped again. Or not easily, at any rate.”

“I confess I want to be gone from here badly enough that I’d walk the distance from here to Carlisle. What must I do?”

Eleanor looked up at him, aiming for coy. “Nothing. Only be ready for a restless night.”

Hi eyebrows shot up and he pretended to be horrified. “Wicked creature! Such propositions!”

“I meant you should expect a messenger to arrive around the middle of the night.”

“Ah. Doubtless I shall find some way to pass the time.” He was playing with the end of her braid now, his hand occasionally brushing against her back.

“Now who has sinful ideas?” she teased.






They paused on the road around a quarter of a mile out from London and looked back on the waking city nestled within its walls. The tournament ground was visible, a collection of stands set in the clear land outside the city. Already people were gathering, claiming the spots with the best view of the melee ground; the tournament was not to begin until the late morning.

“Well?” Fulk asked, impatient at her holding their party up now he was past the point where he could turn back.

Hugh planned to make a minor statement as he opened the tournament; Eleanor was one of the few who knew it. Most would find it a surprise, one akin to being stung by a wasp one had mistaken for a harmless fly. An informal pronouncement which would nevertheless hold weight, nothing important and yet nothing that could honestly be called trivial - a claiming of a traditional crown right some had hoped Hugh would neglect to reinforce. Only the king could lawfully hold a tournament within England. Thus only the king could create a well-loved entertainment rich with occasion to promote one’s prowess at arms and gain wealth; only the king could permit large numbers of armed men to gather for the purpose of combat; only the king could add the entry fees to his coffers. The king’s right and privilege, and Hugh did not intend to let any slip from his grasp which he could safely hold.

She supposed he would do well enough.

Eleanor touched her heels to the flank of her palfrey. “Let us go home.”

Finis.

The end. I feel ... lost. So many years work, completed.

I changed the ending. It took me more than 2 weeks to get it to change, and I wrote all of this in under 3 hours. I had to suggest it to the characters and let them stew on it, see if they would accept it or not. It's not a major change and nothing it altered further on down the timeline. It's just that doing things this way felt more in keeping with the overall tone , and, somehow, it brought back some of that bounce which filled the earlier parts of the work while keeping a faintly melancholy tone. I'm amazed they did accept it; changing anything is incredibly difficult to manage without it crumbling apart because it feels false and won't support weight.

As you can tell from my earlier comments, originally the tournament was shown and Fulk did take part. He fought with the disreputable sons who approached him in the first scene. Predictably enough York came after him, got disarmed and refused to surrender to Fulk. So Fulk smacked him in the balls with his wooden sword and had him carried from the field! Awesome little bit and I do regret its loss. York marched off in a hunched, crab-like manner to complain to Hugh as soon as he could and there was a rather boring bunch of back and forth which ended up with York being told he had asked for it, and Fulk being told that - although acting in correct form for the provocation and insults he had received - he had disturbed the peace and should leave for the north. We then ended up at a mildly different version of that final scene - no bit about Hugh asserting his kingly rights over tournaments because we'd witnessed that for ourselves. Eleanor herself hardly featured which was wrong IMO; it's her story.

No matter how much I worked on the original ending it just would not spark to life. It sat there like a dead, dull thing in my writer's sense and I did not want the story to end on such a low.

So. There you are. The end. Lots left unsaid, lots left open, lots hinted at, lots of things which could go multiple ways - in many ways it is more of a beginning than an ending.

I have 'found' two more Eleanor related short stories I could write. I'm not sure what to do, or if anyone wants to read any of them. I have:

1. Silent's story. Something of a loose epilogue. I'd have to start from scratch as it got destroyed during my recent computer woes. It's about 10 years on from this.

2. Raoul's story. Just a shortish piece that gives some insight into how he became the man he did. It sets up a nice echo of symmetry with the start of this story and with Silent's story.

3. A shortish piece about Eleanor going to retrieve her disgraced sister Adele from Spain. It's several years on from this.

4. Fulk's parents. This one would turn out quite long - though not nearly as long as Eleanor did! - and would be more of a romance type thing. I have certain scenes very vividly and I'm not sure what I'd do about the rest. Discover it as I write, I guess.


I shall return to answer comments tomorrow. It's growing late and I need to be up early for work tomorrow.

I can't believe how lost I feel.