The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

You're much too hard on yourself. I thought it was a wonderful scene and my eyes always perk up whenever I see the words Eleanor and bath used in the same sentence :eyebrows: . I still wouldn't mind seeing granny fall and break her hip. No, strike that, she'd be even more annoying. :2thumbsup:

So I take it avian flue has made it to the UK huh? j/k My best wishes on a speedy recovery. I think I've been pumped full of so many shots that I'm incapable of catching a disease. Either that or I just can't feel the symptoms any more :bounce: :fainting: .

I hope you will get well soon, Froggy. I wish there was a fruitbasket-smiley, but since there isn't... Just imagine I sent one ~;) .

Quote:

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

Ludens, Jocelyn is trying to improve on his own account too. It’s rare that it shows, and it never does for long.

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I picked that up. I just tried to explain where the feminism-bit came from.

Anyway, is it just me, or has Godit become a more dull character since her secret is out? I rather liked her initially, but once Trempwick revealed she was a spy she just... phaled. Perhaps this because she hardly gets any scenes, though.

Just finished reading the last post. Really like the exchange between Fulk and Eleanor, especially when Fulk found out that Eleanor still kept the ring Trempy gave her. Fulky boy just got very jealous. :laugh4:
Sorry to hear about your sickness Lady Frog, hope you get well soon and continue this saga.

I know I´ve been a bit slack in replying, but I haven´t yet had time to read the last couple of updates. Just wanted to give you my best wishes for a soon recovery.

His messenger returned.

Hugh waited for the man to hand away his flag of truce, dismount, be admitted to the command tent, and kneel before him. He did not prompt the man, nor betray any trace of the least reaction to his arrival. This moment hung as critical, and he would not have it whispered of in negative form. To be thought a coward, or eager, bloodthirsty, squeamish, impatient, restless, lacking self-belief, overconfident in his own predictions – so many, and he could be none of them, must be none of them.

“Sire,” the man said, “their answer’s unchanged.”

As he had known it must be. “So be it.”

Minutes later Hugh stood where the weapons had been set up. His army mustered to watch, those who stood free of any duties, mustered from the inquisitiveness which drove men to witness the start of all things which promised to be of import in their lives, or to offer a good tale to tell. Alice had chosen to attend also, her single maid dragged out with her to view the event. The master engineer stood ready.

Voice gratifyingly calm, Hugh ordered, “Open fire.”

The master repeated the order in a shout, and each of the crew masters echoed in their turn. The first catapult shot its missile into the air, a black speck which quickly became near-invisible to the eye.

The outer walls of the castle were hybrid, mostly stone and a section of wood. Funds had run out and not been found again when the decision had been made to build the place anew in more permanent material. The keep was stone, circular, a design less vulnerable than a tower. Small, unremarkable, several days march from his first target, and the next nail in the net he was hammering down.

The second catapult launched.

The castellan’s only response to his terms had been an offer to surrender if help did not arrive within thirty days. A respectable form of agreement, and one frequently made between attacker and defender. London could be on him within ten days. It was an insult, to think him such a fool he would not know. He would take this place within two days.

The third.

As the garrison had not asked for permission to send out the non-combatants there had been no provision for them. There would be none.

The trebuchet’s great arm swung in a lazy arc as the release was pulled and the counterweight fell, the sling whipping up and over to hurl its boulder with the exaggerated motion of a boy throwing a rock overarm.

And the first missile went high, smashing on the inside of the far wall’s single stone tower.

The second landed as it should, on the thatch of a building just visible from their position. The pot was filled with Greek fire, a hazardous weapon he misliked for its treacherous nature; an expensive weapon requiring skilled men for its manufacture, transport and handling. A most royal weapon, in that sense.

The third went low, breaking on the front wall to burn as uselessly as the first.

The trebuchet’s missile crashed into a section of stone rampart, clipping the crenulations and showering stone chips on those who had crowded up onto the walls to watch their lord shout his latest abuse at the royal messenger.

Greasy black smoke began to drift up from the thatch; people began to rush for the wall stairs and the cover of the keep.

And so now there would be no quarter.

Let them call him bastard now, for there would be some truth in it – the truth of those cursing their tormenter. They had not believed he had Greek fire.






“So you see why my husband wasn’t able to attend the king.” For the first time since he’d arrived at Saumur Selova raised her eyes to meet his, sending a jolt through him. A second later she deliberately lowered them again, masking the move in a flutter of long eyelashes.

Keeping his voice neutral Jocelyn replied, “Being dead does slow a man down a bit.”

A smile, he discovered, suited those lips well, even one so brief and slight as the one he’d just seen.

“However,” he continued in the same tone, “I don’t see why this prevented you from sending word.”

“I did.”

She lied. “None arrived.”

“The roads are dangerous.”

“No more than ever. Perhaps the opposite, since the King’s near.”

Now her lower lip distorted as she bit the inside. “Our son is only a child, not yet seven,” she confessed.

Jocelyn snorted. “Lady, kindly watch your wording, or I’ll think you’re trying to name me as father to the lad, and that’s damned impossible.” He’d never met the bloody woman until half an hour ago. Not that it was a revolting prospect. Far from it. The idea – and the rest of it, by a sainted something-or-other! The idea was being helped along by a language dear Tildis probably didn’t know existed - made it necessary for him to shift a bit to make himself more comfortable. She looked about an age to him, though he’d heard she was approaching thirty, maturing looking, but not old or fading. Not beautiful, pretty, or striking, just ordinary. An ordinary with some interesting possessions, best being a right good arse.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it so.” Again her eyes flicked up to meet his.

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Jocelyn dropped his right arm to rest across his thighs, his left still busy with the goblet of wine given him to wash away the dust from the road.

“I wanted to do all I could to set my son in place before others had chance to swoop in and take advantage.” Selova’s arm came to rest in a mirror image of his, done as part of an open-handed gesture. “We have men at arms, but they were away. I wished them returned before I announced my lord’s death.”

“The tenantship’s not hereditary. It’s for the King to choose a new man.”

“Or for the man he sends in his place.” Those eyes darted to him and away, fast as fish and clear as a river. “It’s rare for our lord not to allow a thing to pass to the heir; unless there’s clearly shown incompetence the heir has bestowed upon him what his predecessor had. I had no reason to think differently with my son. Should I?”

“No. Or not from me.” It was too much bloody fuss to pull down one woman and child here and stick someone else up to replace them, all trouble and scant damned gain for him.

She reached across and touched the back of his hand lightly. “You have my thanks, sir.”

Jocelyn turned his hand to catch hers and raised it to his lips in one of those fancy courtly kisses. In the last possible moment before the kiss landed she slipped her hand away.

“If I might beg a favour …?”

“You can always ask,” he told her. “It’s the being granted that’s always the chancy bit.”

“It’d be of great help and protection to us if you and your men rode about the lands for our neighbours to see before you leave. So they know the King is aware of us, and that he’s got more than clerks to send me here. You’re a very … noticeable man, and I bet you’re skilled with your sword.”

“It’s been said. Very well; I’ll do it.” He’d look a right tit, returning to court in triumph, declaring Pax Jocelynius - Jocelynian? Bah! Latin was for priests and clerks, and others with the time to faff about declaiming like ancient long-dead ponces in indecently short dresses – was in effect, only for a small war to break out.

Selova placed her hand on his again. “Thank you.”

Jocelyn picked her wrist up between thumb and forefinger and carefully dropped it back on her own lap. “When it comes to bribery I prefer money – it’s more bloody use. Same for rewards. That or land.”

He thought he’d made a bit of a mistake, as he sat up in his room that night, waiting. Only a small one, but a damned mistake which left him with nothing. “Huh,” he muttered. If Tildis could see him now the miserable bitch would be laughing so hard her sides split, assuming she could spare the time from her whinging at him. “Bloody women.” Yes, well, sod her! If she wanted to play by those stupid rules then he wasn’t interested. Women who knew what they wanted and went out and got it he could respect deeply. Ones who wanted him and also expected him to pay in some form for their getting what they wanted, well they could play on their own.

So in the end when she did show up he was damned relieved.

“You robbed me of all decent excuse,” Selova complained.

At which point his evening could finally be said to be attention-grabbing. Very attention-grabbing.

She was the first to speak, afterwards, and it took a long time before she did. Thank God – he’d never been able to stand chatterers. “You’re quite considerate.”

“I wouldn’t want to leave you in a difficult position.” Or so went the hope. He’d done the same many times, tarnished his soul and his pleasure and pulled out to spill his seed safely, only to find once later he needn’t have bothered. That once was now known as little Jocelyn, named after his proud and completely stunned father. All bloody well to know nothing was infallible, but for a sacrifice like that a chap really deserved a bit better than a proverbial kick to the balls.

Taking his deadened arm back from her shoulders, Jocelyn stretched so comprehensively his toes splayed out and he nearly broke his fist on the headboard. He settled back with a sigh of deep satisfaction.

“Your wife’s lucky.”

“Oh?”

Selova laughed, almost a purr. “I’d say very lucky, but you wander. That’s intolerable in any man you’re keeping.”

Jocelyn worked his numb arm a bit, bending and flexing it loosely to encourage circulation to return. “Or woman.”

“True,” she said graciously. Selova rolled onto one side and started to stroke his stomach. “You really are a fascinating man.”

“Doubt that.”

“Really. You … throw everything into what you’re doing, you don’t hold any part of yourself back.”

“Huh.”

“Ah,” she teased, tweaking his beard. “And now you’ve gone all closed up. Don’t like the reminder you’re not my first?”

Jocelyn smoothed the short hairs of his beard back down again with the palm of a hand. “If I was then I wouldn’t be, if you follow my meaning.”

“But men are supposed to love virgins,” she exclaimed, still teasing in part.

“Only some, and I’ve always supposed it’s because the poor girl can’t tell how badly they’re doing.” The old answer tripped off his tongue perfectly, so practiced you could never tell it was anything but natural. The truth was that, contrary to everyone’s assumptions, he’d only ever had one virgin. It had been the worst night of his life, and not solely because it had sealed him permanently to dear, warm, friendly, loving Richildis.

“Hmmm …” she said, hand tickling lower.

And why in the name of sweet lord Jesù was he thinking about his miserable wife anyway!? If he had to be thinking about anything why not the recent memory of Selova’s legs wound around him, her ankles locked together at the small of his back as she writhed and moaned. That was success, and that he’d seen, caused, created a hundred times and more with all sorts of women. He was a damned good lover.

Except this time she was the one on top of him. Tildis refused to even contemplate such unusual positions.

The next morning he’d gotten about half a mile out from the manor when his party spotted the messenger working down the road at a speedy pace. The very instant Jocelyn was close enough to see the man properly he swore: the messenger was wearing royal livery. As if the curse attracted him the rider adjusted course to head very definitely for Jocelyn’s party, no longer aiming to ride on by.

As the gasping man and animal stopped alongside them, the man pulled out a letter and held it to Jocelyn. “My lord. From the King. Most urgent, I was to say.”

“Oh …” Jocelyn didn’t finish that, it didn’t seem prudent to swear vehemently on receiving a message from his sovereign lord. Leastways, not in front of the messenger, who might report it back.

Jocelyn broke the seal and rolled the message out, lips moving silently as he laboured to read. The missive was short, a simple order, only a couple of the words actually necessary to understand what was wanted. Just as well – the damned clerk had filled it with a few long words he didn’t know. He was to return to court at once, with all possible speed.






Men boiled from the surrounding cover and hurled themselves on the vanguard, shrieking warcries like none Fulk had ever heard. Dressed in earthy colours and scraps of armour, the few bits of metal painted to keep them from casting reflections, they’d blended in well with the shrubs and long grass they’d been hiding in. The soldiers in the vanguard hardly had time to react, strung out into a marching column, all mounted for the trip. Perhaps sixteen of them could fight decently on horseback, sixteen if Sir Miles could be included. The other forty were men at arms, footsoldiers mounted now for speed.

Most men managed to tumble off their horses, thrusting the reins into the hands of the linkmen. Many managed to ready weapons and shields as they ran towards others to form up. Some of the archers were able to put an arrow into the oncoming mob. Orders were being shouted, by several voices. Sir Miles was down off his horse and running to the largest congregation of men, his cavalry splitting, half dismounting to follow him, the remainder galloping back towards the middle of the party where Fulk watched.

The charge hit. Chaos became pandemonium. Horses panicked, some bolted, others danced about getting in the way and spreading their nervousness as their handlers fought to keep them under control. The men who hadn’t managed to reach friends were cut down as they tried to reach safety. The knots of men formed up into ragged little circles became islands in an ocean, pressed hard on all sides and cut off from one another.

Fulk’s mind was working quickly from the first. Miles isolated: that left him as nominal commander for the remainder of this force. It wasn’t so simple. The soldiers were drawn from numerous sources: Eleanor’s force, Sir Mile’s own force, some men leant by Hugh, and the contingent of Scots Anne had brought with her to England. The first would obey, the rest had been told to and should, but the Scots were lead by one knight and several more served, all of whom were far superior to him and like to be touchy on their pride. Most of Sir Miles’ men were in the vanguard. The body of the column, formed around Eleanor and the other ladies, contained all of Eleanor’s men, part of Anne’s, some of Hugh’s, and the remainder of Sir Miles’, a stupid mixture that ensured no one party was slighted.

With a quick prayer to God for his beloved’s safety, Fulk shouted for messengers, his voice competing with the din carrying up from the front. He gave his orders, and sent them galloping off. Making his way to Eleanor’s side he pulled up his coif and laced the aventail, Luke at his side leaving Sueta, ready with shield, great helm and lance.

“Highness,” he said, before any of the ladies could speak and slow him, “stay put! I’ve detailed men to guard you – all of you.” He glared about the group, at Anne, at Hawise, Godit, Mariot, at Adele. “Stay put. If necessary you’ll be taken away to safety, but don’t move until told.”

“And you?” asked Eleanor. She was pale, but he loved her for how calm she was. May it help keep the others from running frantic.

Fulk swung up onto his destrier’s back. “I’m going to help Sir Miles.”

“God be with you. Fight well.”

Before his world was reduced to the little he could see through the two slits in his great helm, Fulk saw Sir James of Kilmartin galloping up with half his men, ready to form up about the ladies as Fulk had ordered. Except his orders couldn’t have reached the man before he gave his own commands and set out. The knight led his men close, ordering them to dismount and take up a close circle formation.

“Off you go.” The Scottish knight was wearing a helmet with a facemask, his voice was distorted by it so inflection was hard to grasp. Still, Fulk thought he sounded dismissive.

Fulk had chosen to take the men from Eleanor’s force who could fight mounted, roughly half the small number; he’d practiced with them often. Also the remainder of Sir Miles’ men, and Hugh’s, giving him about sixty men mixed mounted and foot. Anne’s men could be trusted to guard her life, and thus Eleanor’s, because if one were taken the other would be lost. They were ready now, the infantry dismounted and formed up, the cavalry formed up and waiting for him to take his place amongst them.

Another collection of inhuman shrieks made Fulk turn, cursing his limited vision. He could just see more men launching a second attack on the rear. He’d expected as much. Now all was needed was the cavalry, waiting for most of the escort forces to be tied up in battle so they could ride in, do a bit of quick butchery, and make off with their prize. While arrows, slingstones and javelins might be used against the two ambushed parties they would never be risked on the group containing the ladies, for fear of hitting one with a stray shot. As long as a wall of formed up infantry remained between her and the attackers Eleanor was perfectly safe. The cavalry would wait forever, running away unblooded when they saw the disaster.

“Stay with the ladies,” bellowed Fulk, reinforcing his order. “No matter what. Stay with them.” He turned to Sir James, “No rescues, no matter how easy it may look.”

“I know my craft.”

“Good.” Resting the butt of his lance on his stirrup Fulk rode to the far right of his conroi, joining the line. Luke fell into his own place, with the couple of messengers forming a loose line behind him, ready to follow and keep out of the fighting unless he required them.

Fulk raised the lance once, dipping the steel head a fraction at the infantry. “Move out.” The signaller in the group blew his horn, a single long blast followed by a short one.

The men at arms began to march, jogging in formation. They moved at a slight angle, leaving the road and going onto the scrubby cleared land.

Fulk raised his land again, the point remaining upright. “Move out.” He touched his spurs to Sueta’s side. His cavalry began to advance at the walk, men moving in tighter, closer as they went, until their knees touched their neighbour’s knees on either side. Shields were angled forwards, lances held ready to couch. They took the direct course, walking right at the enemy.

As they began to charge, lances swinging down with the shaft tucked under the rider’s armpit and the point aimed at the level to strike infantry, Fulk heard one of the other signal horns, the one for the rearguard, calling for assistance. If he didn’t answer it, no one would, and so no one would until the front had been saved.

His lance punched through his target’s shield, sending the infantryman flying backwards to be trampled by the wall of hooves. Fulk dropped the point of the weapon low, pulling and turning as he rode past to free the weapon without snapping the shaft, grinning with elation in the privacy of his helm. Such a difficult manoeuvre, and he’d managed it! Many of hours of training he’d put into this in the last two months, and years worth as a boy, but that was nothing to a lifetime’s worth.

The charge carried on with its momentum, men slowing their horses for more precise work, some swapping to swords and maces where lances had been lost, others, like him, trying to get a little more use from the long weapon before it must be discarded as a liability. Standing in his stirrups Fulk stabbed downwards at the face of a man, lance point scoring a deep rut on the leather facing on the man’s shield as Sueta shifted to bite and kick at some unfortunate. His second thrust went home and Fulk let the weapon go, ripping his sword from its sheath.

Spurring Sueta on, he rode over a man to reach a few engaged with one of the clusters of survivors, downing one with a cut to the shoulder and stabbing another in the back before they realised the threat to their rears. Trapped between knight and footsoldiers, the ambushers died quickly.

A series of quick, close-paced horn blasts were heard, understood and absorbed without thought as he worked his way to another cluster of men, the ones he’d just rescued following behind him, tired but exultant, drunk on being alive. It was as good as over now – that horn was the charge being sounded for his infantry. He’d commanded them to work their way around to one side so his charge wouldn’t be blocked by friendly backs.

He fought, and killed, and kept on fighting and killing, mind cool and detached. He warmed to his task, his fighting improving as it did after he’d been on the training ground for a while; mounted combat was still part a forgotten reflex, part a newly learned and heavily practiced skill, not yet instinct and trained so deeply it was part of bone and muscle as with foot combat.

“Take the princess!” The shout resolved the doubt Fulk had felt over who was the target: Eleanor. Not that there had been much doubt. As a widow Anne made a prize worth taking, but her family was close, unlike Eleanor’s they could and undoubtably would take revenge for her, a revenge so deadly seizing Anne was also seizing one’s painful death and destruction of one’s kin.

They were after Eleanor. They didn’t call her ‘Queen’. That mean they were not here for Trempwick. Thinking on what this meant anger flowed through Fulk’s veins, banishing tiredness. His fighting redoubled, he showed quarter to none.

The enemy couldn’t stand. Those who could ran away, throwing down their weapons and tearing off what they could of their light hodgepodge of armour when they saw Fulk’s men still pursued them.

Fulk reined in next to the group he thought he’d seen Miles join. “Where’s Sir Miles?”

“Here, sir. Wounded.”

“Get him to the princess’ group. Take whatever of the wounded you can, but don’t be long about it and leave them if needful. Join your forces to those protecting the princess.”

Luke had retrieved Fulk’s lance, now he rode over to his master and offered it with a broad grin. “Nice work, sir. Right nice work.”

“Get my men formed back up, now. There’s still the rear to save.”

This time he didn’t bother with anything fancy; his men were tired, some of them hurt, numbers had shrunk thanks to dead and wounded. He drove his conroi into the enemy in a charge as before, this time letting his infantry follow a distance behind them and pour into the gap they had created, capitalising on the chaos and fear.

When it was over Fulk rode on a little ahead of the infantry, anxious to see with his eyes what he knew must surely be true. Eleanor was safe, but doused in blood, kneeling on the ground. The blood wasn’t hers. Sir Miles lay on the ground, blood pouring from his side from under a wad of cloth Eleanor held in place with both hands. He hadn’t been wearing his armour. There’d been no need to; a party with such a large armed escort, and plenty of other men to do the fighting in the place of this portly old man.

Fulk tumbled down from his sweating, blood covered mount and rushed to her side, some part of his mind pointing out that it was a good thing he hadn’t liked that pale green gown she’d been wearing today, because it was another casualty of Eleanor’s complete inability not to get covered in blood every time you blinked.

Miles waved Eleanor’s hands away. “No point,” he gasped. Blood stained his lips, and dribbled out as his head fell back again, slack, his lips slightly parted.

Many would have ignored the dying man, for what small good or bad it would have done. Eleanor hesitated, then removed the cloths. The wound was so small but very deep, a hole in his ribs leaking blood which bubbled with each breath he took.

“In the next life I’ll be slim again.” The words were hideous, gasped out with not quite enough air, filled with pain. No one laughed. “Probably supposed to say something meaningful.”

Eleanor clasped his hand, holding it tightly between both of hers. “Or memorable,” she told him, a slight twist to her voice. “Or at least instructional, so we all know how a knight and lord should die.”

“Ah …” Miles face brightened, if anything so pale could be said to brighten. “Yes. Died in battle. For a princess. And a Queen.”

“I am certain someone will make a song of it,” said Eleanor dryly. “You will be remembered as killing a hundred with your bare hands, only to fall stabbed in the back while taking a drink.”

Miles stopped laughing when he died.

Eleanor took a deep breath, then pushed herself up from the ground. “He fell right at the start, one of the first to go down.”

He’d been a long time dying then. Fulk wondered if Miles had had chance to pass on anything Eleanor might need. With Hugh’s spy network decapitated she would be the one to try and pick up the pieces, and with hardly any time at all as the man’s apprentice. He worried for her, knowing that in addition to the loss of a friend she would see this as more people dying for her. Which, in truth, it was. Her grief couldn’t be indulged; he was pleased to see she gave no signs of doing so, pleased even more because he knew how much she would hate breaking down in front of strangers and from that would gain new rage to lash herself with.

He said, “We must find a place to stay overnight. We’ve driven them off the once, but they could be back with the dark and more numbers. We cannot camp out as planned.”

“Yes.” Eleanor turned to Anne, who stood off to one side of the corpse, crying noiselessly. “Any suggestions? It is too late in the day to turn back.”

The girl collected herself with visible effort, wiping her cheeks dry with her hands. “Dunning is probably the closest.”

“Dunning?” asked Eleanor.

“It is a small fortified manor, a tower house. A single great fat tower made of stone, and a little courtyard walled in with outbuildings in it.”

Fulk tapped his fingers on the hilt of his cleaned, sheathed sword. “I’ve heard of these tower houses, a type of fortification we’ve not adopted saved in the borderlands. They can be held by a small number well, but for a larger party like ours?”

“Not really,” admitted Anne.

Godit said, “But you’ll find the same problem anywhere you go, save for the big castles and towns. You’d find the same in England. Most of the soldiers will have to camp outside.”

“There’s always Glenrothes,” suggested Mariot.

Anne rounded on her, “But Malcolm is there!”

“Whatever else your brother may be, he’d see us safe.”

Anne pointed at Eleanor, still speaking to her former nurse. “What do you think he would do with her? Just because he would not kill us does not mean he would not be nice to Eleanor. When he’s not going on about war with England so he can show everyone what a warrior and a man he is, he is going on about uniting the two crowns, and one way to do that is by marriage to her. He would not accept a refusal, and she would have no escape, and he could get away with it, and cares nothing about the church if it decides to condemn him for marrying someone whom no one is certain whether she is available or not. Even if he does not marry her he might be nasty just because of who she is, or to start that war.”

“Not Glenrothes,” said Eleanor firmly.

Godit shrugged, turning to Mariot. “We’re certain of a good welcome at Dunning, aren’t we. It’s your family who owns the place.”

“Only distantly,” Mariot answered. “Very distantly. Hardly what I would term family at all. But it is true one of my cousins married the lord of the place. Being as it is such a small lordship you may gather how distant the cousin is to me, to have such lowly status.”

Council completed Eleanor went to her men, wishing to thank them and find how they fared personally. Very softly, for Fulk’s ears only, she said, “They were trying to abduct me. But not for Trempwick. It seems someone is fool enough to wish to marry me, despite it all. I am afraid. I think I would be insane not to be.”

So aware of all the people around them, Fulk swore gently, “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Stay wary. I do not like this.”

“No. Me either.” The attack had sapped their numbers badly, which was about all that could have been expected of it, unless they had been stupid enough to leave Eleanor thinly protected. No badges or livery had been found on their attackers, no way to tell who had commanded it. Sir James had said they were locals, and their warcries had been in Gaelic. The men would usually be armed and fighting like any other men at arms, except bolder on the charge and speaking their native tongue. This whole thing stank of hasty planning and execution, as if those behind it had short noticed and feared the opportunity may be lost, never to be presented again. If Anne’s brother was so eager for an English bride and war then maybe …









Weee! A frog-sized episode again at long last! Alright, a small frogs-sized episodes, but still a frog-sized episode.

I think you all begin to understand why I was so eager to begin the trip to Scotland. Right from the day Nell leaves Waltham plenty of good stuff is happening in all POVs.

Thanks for all the health wishes. I’m feeling a lot better; still weak and worn out, still coughing a bit, still hardly eating (gah! I hate it when you are really ill for a while, only to find that when you recover your appetite is gone because your body is now used to doing without meals), but better.

Vladimir: There were some links with the older scenes involving Anne and mentions of her family I wanted to build on. In the early scenes I did a lot of setting up, including a few scenes which get their point now, such as the scene where Anne took Granny’s letter to Eleanor to ask for help. Oh well; draft 2 before I can really use most of that, I think.

Ludens: Forget the fruit basket, you made a frog smile and laugh a bit.

Littlelostboy: Alas, one of the problems with the format I’m working with is that readers (very understandably) forget small details. Fulk already knew about the ring; his POV is where we first see she is wearing it. He’s remarked on it a few times since then, but infrequently and in small asides.

Very good read, froggy! I thought you did just *fine* with Selova in bed there, given your earlier remark about a certain lack of experience in that area. :)

And
“In the next life I’ll be slim again.” The words were hideous, gasped out with not quite enough air, filled with pain. No one laughed. “Probably supposed to say something meaningful.”

given it's position in the narrative and change of tone, was another of those great froggy moments.

As mentioned before, I'm a big fan of your writing. I don't mention it too often to avoid sounding sycophantic. :)

Thanks!

A good section; another lillypad in the pond (it's an amphibian joke, she's a frog you see :frog:). I liked the battle but I had a little trouble visualizing it. I do like the detailed description of Fulk's charge however, no problems with that part. I see the bastard is learning how to lead men quite effectively, he might even make a good king some day (~:idea: ), which I hope is where he's going.

Interesting section with Hugh; I wonder if he's going to enjoy this war a little too much.

Are inebriated messages allowed here? (Those are the ones I usually delete.)

I notice that the latest chapter starts slowly with the calculating Hugh. Then we get right in bed with Jocelyn in mid-conversation - though it's a warm and comfortable conversation.

Finally, the enemy just "boils" suddenly at Fulk and Eleanor's party for the swift, bloody fight.

Nice pacing, froggy! I enjoy your characters and turns-of-phrase. And the plot. But I also am often impressed and delighted with how you carry on the narrative, paragraph-after-paragraph, scene-after-scene. Like the characters, the story itself needs its ups and downs in style and pacing. . . those little sly hidden things and the in-your-face THIS IS REAL stuff.

Froggy, you've made it clear you have your own vision of where you're going with this epic. I wouldn't change your direction or style for the world. When I said I'd like to edit, it was for spelling, grammar and, admittedly, sometimes for pace. But I say that cause I'd love to be part of your vision, not because I think I could better it.

I'm *very* impressed that you have not only all these plot lines in your head, but that you are bringing them out in a methodical, yet compelling, manner.

To me, Fulk and Eleanor might have the basically same conversation once too often, or Trempwick might have had the same internal conversation in more than one chapter, or Eleanor got smacked more than we needed to know. But you're writing your vision. It's very clear, it's well-written and it makes us want to read more.

What more could a writer ask?

Personally, I'm pleased and even feel privileged to see a writer working and blossoming this way. A great plot is one thing. Style is another. I'm *very* impressed, froggy.

Again, what do I know? Count me a fan.

“You’ll wear a rut in the floor.”

Eleanor fixed her knight with a vicious look without even breaking her stride.

When her circuit of the room took her on past him, Fulk spoke again, “Well, I suppose if you do we’re that bit closer to escape. Keep on pacing, oh gooseberry mine.”

Eleanor growled, “Shut up.” The red fringes of a complete loss of temper threatened – beckoned enough without his aid. “I will make them weep for this,” she vowed, needing to give vent to some of the fury before it overwhelmed her. She couldn’t see how she could keep that promise.

It had all been so damnably neat! She had walked into the noose like a willing sheep to the slaughter. Aside from Fulk and his squire only a handful of sound men were inside the walls, the limited space she had allocated to her wounded. They had waited until she entered this, her ‘guest room’, before declaring their loyalty and swearing allegiance to her and her cause.

Suddenly flinging herself at the door, pounding and screaming her outrage didn’t seem so inappropriate. The impulse was mastered before she did more than clench her fists; Trempwick would have been proud. Trempwick! The bastard!

“Beloved-”

“Be silent! You begin to make me regret all my effort in having you returned to me.” Fulk still had sword and dagger, which had been unexpected, but in hindsight there was no reason for her captors to deprive him of his weapons and break the illusion of her being an honoured guest. He’d stripped off his bloodied armour and given it to Luke to clean, unknowing. As if it mattered - he was outnumbered tens to his one.

Several circuits later Hawise dared to venture, “At least they won’t hurt us.”

“Hurt us?” Eleanor laughed, and didn’t like the sound of it. Her walking grew faster. “What a delightfully benign way to put rape, torture and murder. No, I do not suppose you need to concern yourself about such things. My influence will protect you.”

“You don’t either. Your rank protects you. If they hope to profit-”

“They will have to return me to my dear ‘husband’ in immaculate condition.” It was Trempwick she worried about. He would not be pleased with her, and that was a tidy understatement. The fact he needed her didn’t reassure. He’d always needed her, and above all he needed her to dance consistently to his tune. It would be all she could do to protect Fulk. Perhaps more than she could manage. Probably more than she could manage. He would never be allowed to remain close to her, and once away he could be killed without her ever finding out. Luck had helped her once, luck and the sheer unexpectedness of what she had done. Never again. With him alert, mistrustful, his creatures surrounding her to the exclusion of any who might be loyal to her alone, she would be caged, the crown only another shackle holding her in place.

As she paced her next loop of her prison Eleanor looked hard, searching for anything she might have missed. A circular room at the top of the tower house with a chip taken out for the staircase and door leading to it. Windows looking out in all four major directions, slits so narrow and in walls so thick it would be hard to stick her arm out any further than her elbow, presently closed over with wooden shutters. One bed, one trestle table, one backless chair. That was it. Not even tapestries to decorate the whitewashed walls. It was not a room fit for a queen. Her baggage had been placed in a pile near the bed.

Sir Miles rested in the tiny chapel. May his soul find the peace so lacking in this mundane world. Now she wished she had called him master a time or two, it would have given him some joy and he wouldn’t have known it felt like blasphemy. The dress stained with his blood had been sent to the washerwomen.

The gravity of their situation appeared to have unhinged Hawise’s sensibleness, because she encroached yet again on her mistress’ thoughts. “I wonder if Anne and the others are alright?”

“It would be madness to harm them,” Eleanor replied curtly. “They will be freed when we are safely gone, I expect.” Anne and her maids were in a room on the floor below, the guest quarters where Eleanor had the lord’s own room. Anne, her maids, and the wretch responsible for this trap. There was another debt to pay in blood. New direction applied to her thoughts, Eleanor’s mind hared off like an unruly dog, once again after the spy’s identity, a subject she had exhausted already this evening. Without more to work with her verdict was as final as it could be and an impasse reached: she could not act and would not delay to discover more.

Some time later someone rapped on the door. They did wait until she called for them to enter; Eleanor bid them do so in a passionless voice. The game must be played, as tempting as complete surrender felt. It would be like drowning: supposedly a peaceful way to die, but still death. She drew herself up opposite the door, erect, relaxed, regal. It was something to be grateful for, that she’d had the wits to play queen on finding herself trapped in a room with people bowing and calling her ‘Your Majesty’. Doing otherwise would only have harmed her position.

Two men entered, a pair of page boys trailing at their heels. Her captors, the Lord of Dunning and his landless brother. The gloom on the stairs combined with the narrow doorway to hide the soldiers she knew must be there.

Both men bent knee, the page boys bowed, one balancing his heavily laden tray through the motion with commendable skill, the other having more difficulty with the bowl, towel and ewer.

“Your Majesty,” said the Lord of Dunning. “Forgive our slowness in offering you food.”

Eleanor dismissed this with a wave of a hand. “I arrived late.”

As the page set his tray down on the table the Dunning continued, “I pray you’ll also forgive our plain fare. We hadn’t expected to have opportunity to do you such service.”

“It is forgiven.” Another gesture ordered the men back to their feet. “You may do me a small service.”

The brother bowed. “Anything, your Majesty. Only name it.”

Let me go! “I wish to know when we depart.”

“Your Majesty need not concern herself with such things,” said Dunning smoothly. “We’ll see to all arrangements. You’ll be safely with your husband in no time.”

“So we leave tomorrow morning, then.” In the space she left they gave neither confirmation or denial, not even the small signs which unconsciously betrayed a person’s feelings. “My men had best be given the necessary orders.”

“Already seen to, your Majesty.”

“I see.” Likely, then, that they would leave at the crack of dawn, this façade upheld, her captor’s troops mixed in amongst her own so they could cut the unwary men to pieces effortlessly if she tried to call of them. The border was only a couple of days’ hard riding away, once across, possibly even before then, more of Trempwick’s supporters would add themselves to her escort. No one even knew she might be in trouble.

Dunning stepped to the table. “If I may, with your Majesty’s permission? We have no taster, so my brother and I will do the duty.”

Eleanor assented with a nod.

The men washed their hands, holding them over the bowl as the page poured water from the elaborate ewer. The boy’s pouring and offering of the towel didn’t quite come up to the standard of elegance Eleanor expected. Rustic lordlings …

Dunning picked up a spoon and held it poised over the dish of herring.

Eleanor plucked up another spoon at random. Sometimes the substance was on the eating implements, not in the food. Sleeping potions were the worst she could expect, and they could destroy whatever chance she had of escape. Her dignity wouldn’t emerge in too healthy a state either. “You will use this spoon.”

“Majesty.”

When Dunning put the original spoon back Eleanor commanded, “Your brother will use that one.” In her first year with Trempwick Eleanor had learned all the simple tricks to fool a person into choosing of their own will the object you wanted them to. The third and final spoon she allocated to the page who had carried the tray. That raised eyebrows. Looking down her nose at the brothers Eleanor said, “Already attempts on me with poison have been made.”

The landless brother bowed his greying head. “We’re your Majesty’s loyal subjects.”

“Then eat. And drink. Be sure you all have some of everything, and use all the utensils.”

The contents of the tray proved harmless. Eleanor made the trio stand about for a good length of time, just to be sure.

When she washed her hands the idiot page poured too much, and soaked the cuffs of her dress. Eleanor pretended not to notice, all the while thinking that at court he would have been beaten and that might have been no bad thing.

As there was food for all three of them and only the one seat they had to use the bed as a table, and cluster about the tray. The used implements Hawise cleaned on Eleanor’s discarded veil.

Bread, pottage with dried beans in it, salted herring done in some wine based sauce, goopy cheese made even worse by having some chopped herbs mixed in it. By the time she had finished Eleanor’s mood was blacker than ever.






If Eleanor had been sleeping the din would have awakened her. Raised voices outside the tower, closely followed by a cry that had grown too familiar over these last months: a man in agony. The thud was subdued, so quiet she almost missed it. More shouting, now with a different, alarmed quality.

Fulk was at the window, unbolting the shutters, before she could do more than stand. “Nothing this way,” he declared after surveying what small view the slit offered.

Eleanor rushed to the window nearest her.

It was the third window, the one which overlooked the gatehouse, which revealed a poor sight of the source. It was the middle of the night, the moon only a narrow crescent party hidden behind the clouds which obscured the few stars which were out. There was a party outside, wanting to come in. A banner flew over the group, at the thickest cluster of men; it was too dark to make out the design on it. In the midst of that group a shortish figure held a bow, arrow notched, ready to draw.

“Let me repeat what I said. I want to come in.” The voice was boyish, high if not quite as pure as it would have been before it began to break, sloppy in its pronunciation.

One of her captures called back, “Our lord-”

“Fuck him! Your lord’s nothing to me.” The youth brought his bow up, pulling the arrow back to his chin in the same fluid motion. “Open up, or I’ll amuse myself with you.”

A couple of heartbeats the tableau remained frozen. Then the boy loosed. The arrow skimmed past one of the gatehouse guards.

Men ran about, rushing to open the gates.

The boy handed his bow off to an attendant and remounted.

The hairs at the back of Eleanor’s neck rose. She had a suspicion, and she didn’t like it one bit.

Torches were brought. Grooms and stablehands tumbled out from wherever they had been sleeping, groggy with sleep and despairing of where to keep these latest animals. The bannerbearer rode into the puddle of light, the device he bore becoming visible. Black background with a golden serpent.

Eleanor whispered, “Oh Jesù.”

“Prince Malcolm Nefastus,” Fulk said, his tone dead.

Boiling anger washed away the blankness that banner had brought. Eleanor pounded a fist on the stonework. “No! I have not come so far to end in the hands of a pimply little rat!” A second punch left the side of her hand stinging and throbbing. Fulk caught her wrist before she could do it a third time.

“Calm,” he implored. “Now if ever.”

“Calm?” she spat, fighting with all her might to free herself. “Calm? Are you deranged, expecting that?”

“Eleanor-”

“Or mayhap you think I am. Who in their right mind would be calm!?” She would not marry him willingly. If – when, very probably when - he tried to rape her she would fight. She still had her knives and he would not expect it. She would kill him. Then his father would destroy her. If she failed then she would not be a quiet victim, and if he turned it into a forced marriage she would go to her grave decrying it. Except that would make her shame public, and she would be ruined, and she could never bear that. Better to be dead. People would laugh. They would say someone finally tamed her. They would say she deserved it, asked for it. They would say she was a slut. They already said that. Her brother would disown her. She’d kill him. At the first sign of any aggression, she would kill him. Maybe she could flee afterwards. There was nowhere to go.

Fulk caught her chin in his spare hand and forced her to look him in the eye. “I’ll guard you. Boy, prince, or God Himself, it makes no difference, save that boys and princelings are easier to beat. Now, calm. You’ll need your wits.”

“Then you will die.” Maybe if she didn’t fight Fulk would live. She wouldn’t, for his sake. No – he’d die to defend her, no matter what she told him to do. Oh Jesù! Maybe she could get to her men somehow, and then to her army outside. Her followers far outnumbered his. The prince was between her and them.

Hawise said, “Maybe he isn’t so bad. You’re not much like people say.” The damned girl was exhibiting all the composure Eleanor was not. But she was the safest person in the room.

“Anne said he was.”

The maid shrugged and smiled, both tiny little gestures. “Hugh would say the same of you.”

Someone was on the stairs, nearing her room. They were running, the footfalls echoing in the enclosed stone shaft.

Fulk let her go, whirling to stand at her shoulder.

Calm came easily, along with pounding heart and readiness for battle. It was always so when the waiting ended.

The door burst open.

As it turned out prince Malcolm Nefastus did indeed have a slight pimple problem.

The boy skidded to a halt, palms resting on his thighs as he laughed and caught his breath. “They were right,” he exulted. “They were. By God’s shrivelled up and wasted balls!” He straightened, expression flowing into a suspicious frown. “You are who I think?”

“Princess Eleanor of England, yes.” The boy was nearly as tall as her; it was easy to look him squarely instead of lowering her eyes as she should.

“Well, well, bloody well.” Malcolm returned to the door, holding the handle as he issued orders to the guards Eleanor could clearly see. “Tidy up. I want the brothers, unharmed. Find my sister, and treat her nicely. Don’t harm my dear guest’s lot, but don’t let them make a nuisance. And I don’t want to be disturbed.” He slammed the door and moved back towards Eleanor, saying, “I killed a man for you, right above the gates. I shot him, in the dark and with a hunting bow, not a war bow. Got him on my first go, too.” Most boys strutted like cockerels when swelled with pride and boasting, but this one had it to a fine art.

“You must be a fine archer.”

Malcolm grinned. “He fell off the wall.” One fist pounded into his open hand. “Splat!”

Which explained the thud. “How did you know I was here?”

“One of my huntsmen saw that ambush while out tracking a stag for me. He recognised a wretch or two as Dunning’s. If he couldn’t recognise you and my sister from your banners then I’d have to get rid of him for being bloody useless. I only employ the best. So off I set. Didn’t know for sure you’d come here, but we tracked you and found you, and here we are.” The prince’s skinny chest puffed up with pride. “I took this place with just twenty-seven men! A hunting party, and a few soldiers. Even my knights are done up for hunting and not battle.”

“That is most impressive.”

Malcolm raked his fingers through his long hair, realising belatedly that his exertions had mussed up the fiery locks. “I’m not a knight yet, but in a couple of years I will be sixteen and a man, and then I’ll be made knight. I’m going to be the best that ever was. A warrior king. My foes will tremble before me. They do already, else I’d still be outside.” His attention turned to Fulk. “I’ve heard about you. You’re supposed to be really good. My man did nothing but sing your praises from what he’d seen. I want to see myself, some day.”

Fulk bowed. “Thank you, your Highness.”

“So.” Malcolm returned his attention to Eleanor, closing the gap between them by another step. He smoothed his tunic, another casualty of his haste. “Here we are. Me, heir to my kingdom, you with a damned good claim to yours. Two greats in a world of nothings and fools. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Eleanor’s smile felt stiff. “And I you.” This was leading to a proposal, she would wager her crown on it.

“I could beat your bastard brother. No more than he deserves, either. Bloody half breeds should know their place, like he does.” The prince jerked his head at Fulk.

“Hugh is not a bastard.”

“Fuck that,” said Malcolm. “You’d make a better king than him, and you’re female, so you can’t be a king. It’s in the blood, and he’s not got the blood.”

“I would not wish to be king, or rather queen.”

Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “No? You lie, and I don’t take kindly to people lying to me.” He exclaimed, “How could you not? God, after all I’ve heard about you! How could you not want it? Them that’s mocked you would never do so again, and them that’s hurt you would shit themselves in fear. You’d rule all, and be ruled by none. Make your own choices. You’d prove yourself once and for all to everyone. You’d never be a victim again; you could have revenge!” The boy’s green eyes blazed with the passion of his words.

“I do not want that.” Part of her did; Eleanor was not fool enough to deny that.

The princeling clearly didn’t believe her. He rested his left hand on the hilt of his long hunting knife and stood with his feet apart, a manly pose which only showed to better advantage how gangly he was, emerging from one growth spurt and needing to put on bulk and muscle to match his new height. “United, England and Scotland would be one of the greatest powers in Christendom.”

As proposals went it was very cautious, like he half expected to be scorned and abused. “It is not possible for me to marry.”

Malcolm’s face flushed as red as his hair, the ends of his mouth dragged down as he took a furious breath. “Marry?” he spat. “I don’t take another man’s leavings. If I wanted a leftover I’d go to a brothel, doubtless I’d find many less used than you, and truer, and more faithful. Probably less diseased too. If I must marry a whore I’ll take a pretty one over a thing like you! You’re bloody ugly as it is, and if rumour’s true you’re so scarred you’d make a hardened man vomit.”

Fulk’s left hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword, an echo of the prince’s own stance. The contrast between them was sharp, man and boy. On Fulk the pose looked natural, easy, and the slightest bit menacing. Where the boy was scrawny Fulk was lean, the boy skinny Fulk toned, the older man broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist and the boy simply bony.

The prince’s right hand flew to the hilt of his weapon. “You dare? You’re nothing!” He spat on the floor at Eleanor’s feet, and contemptuously told the knight, “You’re less than that – it’s royal, and you’re a bastard nothing, born of some slut peasant and some pointless nothing noble.”

Didn’t the boy take rejection well? Eleanor’s father might be dead, but it seemed the tradition of shouting, threats and unpleasantness on her rejecting a suitor had survived him, passed like a torch from parent to potential groom.

Malcolm took half a step towards Eleanor, sneering, “Oh look, your lover’s angry. Doesn’t like to hear the truth, does he? If you bed with the likes of him then you’ll take anything, even some peasant who stinks of shit. I need true born heirs. I’d have to lock you up to ensure that, even assuming I’d stoop so very, very far as to go where such creatures had been before me. Which I wouldn’t. Most whores are more discerning than you.”

“I have noticed,” Eleanor said, “a certain trend in rejected men. They always impugn my honour and accuse me of base things. Which makes no sense, for if it were true I would not have refused them.” Her voice not quite steady, and not from upset alone. With no outlet for her earlier rage she had buried it, and now it burned brightly once again, fed by new fuel. Her tongue running further away with her was the last thing this volatile situation needed.

The boy was fast; his slap landed before Fulk could do more than begin to move his right hand. Rapidly, even before she had her head back up again, Eleanor ordered Fulk, “No!” He obeyed, if he’d planned to do otherwise than stand there at her side.

“Oh look,” crowed Malcolm. “She orders and the dog obeys.” He poked Fulk in the chest once, hard. When he got no reaction the boy did it again harder still, grinning. “Stupid dog. I’m a prince. Heir to a kingdom. Touch me and you’ll be torn apart while still living. Kill me and you’ll die a traitor’s death. If I so much as say you harmed me then you’ll die. You’ve no family to speak for you, protect you.” With both hands the boy shoved Fulk, making him rock back on his feet. “You’ll get out of my way, keep out of my way, and if you don’t I’ll kill you like the dog you are.”

Abandoning Fulk the princeling turned back to Eleanor, standing with his fists on his hips, feet planted and chest puffed up in yet another attempt to look imposing. “Marry you,” he scoffed. “You’re old! And you’ll make an appalling breeder. I won’t have a wife I have to break either; I want a decently trained one from the start, and you’re known for being bloody wild. Your blood’s tainted anyhow, not so bad as your bastard brother, but still you’re half your mother’s child, and she was an unfaithful slut, as ‘prince’ Hugh proves. Blood runs true. It’s showing in you, and in that sister of yours, the one in Spain. I won’t have my children contaminated. What I want, I take, and I’ll take your bastard brother’s crown, or yours, or whoever else ends up wearing it.” He tapped his breastbone with a finger. “I’ll take it. Not my weak father. As soon as I get my crown, look to yours.” Leering, the boy looked her up and down, chuckling. “You’re not even worth raping. I’d rather have your maid – your plain, miserable, serious looking piece of shit of a maid. She’s better looking and likely more fun. But I can do far better, and so I shall.”

Malcolm spun on his heel and stalked towards the door, hand still on his hunting knife. In the sudden quiet it became possible to hear a commotion outside, a girl’s voice and some men, muffled by the thick stonework and door. It sounded like Anne.

Flinging the door open Malcolm bellowed, “What the fuck is going on?” In a very different voice he said, “Anne? I heard you were back. Good. Back where you belong.” At his guards he snapped, “You’d better not have been bothering her. She’s my sister; an insult to her is an insult to me.”

“They would not let me in,” Anne said in a small voice.

The guard protested, “You ordered it, your Highness. No interruptions, you said.”

“True.” Malcolm caught his sister’s hand; she shied away. Malcolm’s jaw clenched, and he tightened his grip, pulling her into the room. “Well, now we’ll have a nice reunion. And I don’t want that disturbed either. Someone go see if the brothers have been caught; I want a decent report on what’s going on.” Addressing Anne’s trio of maids he nodded at the room. “You lot get inside as well. Can’t leave you wandering about pointlessly, can I now. Not when you’re all clustered together for protection.”

Malcolm booted the door shut. The maids joined Eleanor’s little group standing in the middle of the room, Mariot lingering on the fringes of the group closest to Anne.

He said to Anne, “So you’re back, and free from that foul old man. Best news I’ve heard in ages. You should have had better, far better.”

“He was not!”

“Bedded you as fast as he could, didn’t he? Rushed the match along, from proposal to church as fast as he could.” Malcolm spat on the floor. “Perverted old git. Supposed to wait until you were fourteen, I was told, no matter that you’re already a year past beddable age by law.”

“I loved him.”

Malcolm’s back stiffened, he flung his sister’s hand down. “I loved him,” he parroted, his voice cracking to swing low as he tried to force it to the higher ranges. “Doesn’t take much to win your love, does it? Man beds you once and you’re in love. Did you like it? Did you?”

Anne shrank back, away from him and towards the others. “No. It hurt and was all messy and I hated it. But he was a good man-”

“Except it wasn’t once, was it?” shouted Malcolm. “He was always after you. I heard all about how he couldn’t keep his hands off you. And all dear father could do was fuss about how soon you’d start breeding, Grandmother too. I’ll find you your next husband, and this one will be worthy, a proper good man.”

“William might not be dead.”

“He is, and even if he isn’t I’m not having you going back to him. That’s an end to it; don’t waste my time arguing. You lot are all going back to Perth first thing in the morning, and I’m going back to my hunting, at long bloody last.”

Anne finally reached Eleanor’s side. In a whisper she asked, “You are alright?”

She hadn’t been quiet enough. Malcolm exploded into laughter. “I killed her, can’t you tell? I won’t tell you all the other things I did first, they’d make you sick, dearest sister. Besides, you’ve heard it all before from others, so repeating would bore you. Now, I’d best be off. I’ve a church to burn, and some suckling babes to spit on spears ready to roast for my dinner. They take so long to cook. I’d best throw some innocents on a pyre too; it’s been a whole week since my offering to the Dark Lord.” He swaggered from the room.

Anne said, “I hate him.”






Standing where the boy had driven him, near the open window overlooking the courtyard, Fulk moved to look out when he heard the latest lot of shouting. Malcolm was standing in the pool of torchlight, surrounded by his men. Two others were on their knees before him, hands bound and armed men at their backs. The prince’s voice carried up; the room gradually fell silent as Anne and her women heard it.

“You attacked my father’s guests and my sister,” the boy was saying. “You broke his peace. You dabbled where you should not. You treated with our enemies. You refused to open your gates to me at my first order, and I’ve had no hospitality from you. You dishonoured our house, and our word!” That last he shouted; it rang about the walled complex.

One of the men reached out with his bound hands. The boy kicked them away, making the man cry out.

“I sentence you. I sentence you,” Malcolm repeated, louder. “Death. Nothing else begins to repay.” He held a hand out to the soldier at his right. The man drew his sword and offered it to the prince hilt first.

Malcolm took it in a two-handed grip. He stepped behind the first of the men, raising the blade above his head as the two guards seized the prisoner and forced him to hold still, bent over with his neck thrust out. The blade came down, blood spurted, and the head rolled free; it was all very skilfully done, he’d give the boy that, and credit for doing his own dirty work. The motive likely wasn’t pure, execution giving chance to hurt and kill without condemnation.

The second man took two strokes.

Handing the dripping weapon back to its owner, Malcolm declared, “Put the heads on spikes above the gate. Drive off all their men at arms; I want them scattered. I’ll not have a small army of brigands roaming. This land’s reverted to the crown. The servants are to stay and maintain it, until such time as my father makes some decision as to what’s happening with it. And if they don’t do a good job I’ll kill them too.”

Within minutes the prince’s group had all mounted and ridden away, back out into the night.





The tail end of the night saw Eleanor again in her room with just Fulk and Hawise for company. The tower house was filled with her own people now, its walls patrolled heavily. Anne and her maids had returned to their room, to get what sleep they could before dawn.

After all that had happened Eleanor wanted only to curl up in Fulk’s arms and let the poison of the last day and night slowly bleed away, a comfort denied her. She still had one task left to do.

Hawise dropped to the floor, sitting leaning against the wall. “Never in my life have I been so terrified. Not even when they tried to abduct you at Waltham.”

“You did not look it,” Eleanor told her.

“Everyone always says that.”

Fulk teased, “It probably comes from being too sensible.”

There was some wine left over in the pitcher from dinner. Eleanor poured them all a cup, handing Hawise hers first. It was the work of a turned back, a trained gesture, and a fraction of a second to dose Fulk’s wine with a substance she’d retrieved form her baggage while ostensibly checking to see if any of her jewellery had been stolen.

Handing the cup to Fulk with a smile, Eleanor raised her own and said, “To your gallant deeds today.” Drinking a good few mouthfuls she watched as he did the same.

Fulk stared into the contents of his cup. “It’s a bit sweet.”

“Yes. But we should not expect good wine in a place such as this.”

He drank the wine, all but the dregs.

Hawise lay down to sleep. Fulk drew the curtains on the bed, and they sat together, his arm about her shoulders and hers around his waist, their free hands linked on their laps. They said nothing; he was waiting for her to speak first, and she knew now was not the time. Healing was lacking, comfort was not, and poignancy from knowing what she had done to him.

His head began to droop against hers, his muscles relax until he was leaning on her. “I’m tired.”

She brushed his temple with her lips. “I am not surprised. A day’s travel, a battle, and then all this fuss tonight – it is enough to make anyone weary.”

“But not you.”

There was a pause before her reply. “But not me. I am not accustomed to seeing others die for me. I expect I shall grow used to it, as I did with killing.” The prospect gave her no cheer; how many would she have to lose before her heart hardened, and to what degree?

“Beloved, your caring is what you owe those men. They give their lives; you see them buried decently if possible, remember them and have masses said for them, and ensure their sacrifice is worthwhile. It’s one of the oldest bargains. Break it and you’re not worth serving.”

Gradually Fulk drowsed, and sank into a deeper sleep. She laid him out, folding his hands on his chest and turning his head to one side in case he choked. Eleanor stroked his cheek with the tip of a finger. “Sleep well, my luflych little knight. Some things you are not made to be part of.”

She rose, to begin her work.






This is what is known as a frog working a 46 hour week with just 1 day off, that being today, the last day of the week in question. The part is a bit rough (I sat down and wrote all this in one morning and part of an afternoon), and I’d like to refine it, polish it, hone it, and get the tension which should be there in place. But it simply isn’t possible. I’m tired, and I’m not entirely certain what hours I’m working next week, so if I delay it could be another week. Gah! to other branches stealing parts of our workforce. Oh well, it does mean I’ve made up for the pay I missed while sick.

:squints up at this parts, and the events therein: This bit bothers me because it feels so damned convenient. Shock, horror! Nell is captured! Oh no, she is freed! By the evil brother! Who doesn’t harm her! And now she is back in control again! :rolls eyes: Blergh.



Furball: Thanks. The lack of experience with characters like Selova continues, only slightly reduced, though my experience with such scenes is a fraction better than it once.

Actually, to be honest I am amazed I mange to keep it all straight in my head too. I have more plotlines and far more information stuffed in my head than you see in the story. Background, the future, things which aren’t important enough to feature. The story itself is 810 pages long now. Heh, I can manage all this, and yet historical dates, and frequently names, go right out of my head.

Editing for spelling and grammar would be nice. Save me the bother of leaving the work to sit for several months so I can actually read it instead of recalling form memory what I had written, thus blinding myself to any mistakes.

Vladimir: Hugh is probably too boring to do something like enjoy a war. He probably enjoys things like collecting unusually shaped bits of dust. Oh, the thrills!

Battle scenes are the type aside from so called love scene which I need to practice; I’ve hardly done any. Maybe four scenes in addition to those in this story.

No! Froggy! Granted SO much plot and Malcolm, etc. But take one moment. Read the post before this one, and then the beginning of this last post. It is TOO obscure.

The tone and how you're exposing what is going on is. . . again, too obscure. Granted, you have a grand vision, but if you leave the readers behind, what good does that do?

Once Malcolm shows up, well, ok. Although, if he's THAT harsh and confident, why didn't he just kill Ful right there? What does he have to lose?

As the chapters draw to a close, we see the usual themes settle in, Hawise, Fulk, etc. But, the START of your entire last post doesn't fit. ALTHOUGH, if you read it BY ITSELF from top to bottom, it sort of does. To write all that at once, I can't fault you for plot and advancement at all. But the segue from last post to this does not work.

Darn. Sounds like I'm complaining. Your paragraphs of love and interpersonal stuff amongst all the characters work. But the narrative got a rude bump here and I don't think it was necessary. I HATE to criticize.

Just keep writing. You're on a roll and a better editor than me (yes, me is the right part of speech) will hopefully help.

Plot-wise, though, one wonders why Malcolm just didn't take Fulk's head.

Why not? The oldest of reasons - because he can't. Look at Nell's comparison of the two, and the way he's described. Malcolm can threaten, he can browbeat, but Fulk would defeat him easily if it came to a fight. He also knows he's facing a man who will rip him to bits if he tries to seriously harm Nell; he knows that because of Fulk's reaction to the insults aimed at Nell, and their joint reaction to that slap.

Another thing Malcolm can't do is accept a setback quietly. He must salvage his pride and come out looking strong.

Did I terribly misunderstand something? I thought the only reason Fulk let Malcolm carry on as he did was because Nell and Fulk are Malcolm's prisoners. So I imagine Malcolm has at leasty dozens, if not hundreds, of armed guys right outside the door. If that's the case, Malcolm certainly seems like the sort to say, "You big guys! Come here and kill this big guy for me!" (Or words to that effect.)

finally caught up

I agree with furball the transition is a little rough, but like usual it was a good read

Simple again. Remember in the last post, during the attack, Fulk gave some rough numbers for Eleanor's soldiers? Tot them up and it comes to over 100 men. Granted there are losses, dead and wounded. They are all properly equipped for battle. Malcolm admits to having 27, equipped for hunting and lesiure, not war. He's not even got a sword, just that hunting knife he keeps on playing with; he is mentioned as dropping his left hand to rest on it, his right over to draw it, and for threatening he'd use a sword if he had it. No one knows Malcolm is here; he can't expect support or rescue.

Next you'll ask why Malcolm fears the army and the Dunning brothers didn't. :winkg: Yet again, simple. The Dunnings were prepared for the situation - they had more men than Malcolm, equipped and ready to fight if need be, and were on familiar ground with help promised.

:shrug: Maybe I should have 'spoonfed' a bit more in this case. This is why having more time to write is a Good Thing.

No, froggy, in my haste, I just missed those details. My apologies. Of course, this makes Malcolm even more of a jerk in my eyes. :)

On a different note. I just finished and recommend The Rivers of War by Eric Flint. It is described as an alternate history of the American frontier; deals with the War of 1812. I know you're busy and don't suggest you run out and buy it, but keep an eye out for it. It took me awhile to get "into" it, but I finished the last 4/5 of it non-stop. In pace and characterization it reminded me of your work and I enjoyed it.

Eleanor selected Alfred to stand at her shoulder in this. When she explained her need he didn’t baulk, he didn’t question. Of her handful of proven men he had the most cause to welcome her work this night; stating her intent was enough for him. Evidence, explanations, details – not a one of them mattered to him, not in this. He had lost his brother in the abduction attempt at Waltham.

Gaining entrance to Anne’s room was easy; none of the occupants had gone to sleep. When Godit opened the door her eyes widened at the sight of Alfred. “Where’s Fulk?”

The cheek of the girl! Demanding answers about a man she kept trying to poach from the very princess she tried to steal from. “Sleeping. As he deserves to.”

Anne was sat on her bed; she had been listening to Mariot reciting a story from memory. From the bit Eleanor heard before the telling ceased it sounded like a romance, some knight being struck by the perfection of his lord’s betrothed on their first meeting. From that it could be one of a score of stories, each as boring as the rest. Adele was fussing over her mistress’ riding clothes, seeing how well the mud had sponged off and what good the fire’s warmth was doing them. It was a task she didn’t let the visitors interrupt. Whatever Godit had been doing was a mystery, and Eleanor was content to leave it so.

Anne said, “You had better tell him to be really careful. Malcolm holds grudges, and poor Fulk got in his way really quite badly. You had better be just as careful too. You had an army this time, but next time maybe you will not, or maybe he will have one too, so he will not fear.”

As he’d been instructed beforehand, Alfred closed the door and stood in front of it, thumbs looped in either side of his belt, a touch of his own which allowed him to keep his hands near sword and dagger hilts. Threatening, and Eleanor had not asked for that.

The former queen watched the man at arms, biting her underlip. “Why are you here?” she asked Eleanor, not taking her attention off the soldier. “Not that I am unhappy to see you, or anything.”

Eleanor swallowed her reservations – threatening was good, threatening was all to the better. “I am here to claim a debt.”

Anne’s brow wrinkled. “What debt?”

But Eleanor ignored the girl. “Seize her,” she commanded Alfred. His target had been named beforehand, so as to keep the spy from gaining even a moment’s slight warning.

The man at arms bulled his way across the room, barging past Adele to catch hold of his designated target, wrenching her arms around behind her back and locking them in a large fist, his other hand pulling a length of rope from his scrip. Only when he began to bind her hands did his prisoner begin to struggle, futilely.

“I am owed,” Eleanor said as he struck, as calm as if she did this every day, “a life.”

The commotion was tiresome. Eleanor raised her voice to cut across the four’s noise, “I am owed a life, and I claim it, and I will have it. She is Trempwick’s creature.”

“But you are wrong,” wailed Anne. She stood close to the prisoner, looking back and forth between Eleanor and her man at arms and his prisoner, eyes bright with building tears. “You are wrong!”

“No.” There might have been some gentleness in that word if Eleanor had not hacked it out. It could not be afforded. It would be counterproductive.

“It’s not her!” Tears were flowing now, well and truly. “It can’t be. You are wrong.” Anne reached out, hand trembling, and nearly touched Mariot’s shoulder. A glare from Alfred discouraged her. Almost begging, Anne sobbed, “She’s like my mother.”

As Trempwick was almost Eleanor’s father. Eleanor hardened her heart. She must be seen to be merciless. “I will see her hang. I would have her die the traitor’s death she deserves, but there is no one with the required skills here, and I will not suffer her to live even an hour longer than I can help.”

“She’s been with me all my life.”

Godit wrapped her arms around Anne and pulled her away from Mariot and Alfred, spitting Eleanor on a glare which was far from pleasant. “Yes. She’s the most loyal of us all.”

Now her hands were securely bound Alfred let Mariot go, backing away a step or so and drawing his sword. At the rasp of steel on scabbard Mariot turned to face the man at arms; mouth dropping open at what she saw she stumbled back a few steps. Her three friends all rushed to get in the way. Adele was the first, not entangled with another person as Anne and Godit were.

Standing between captive and soldier Adele spread her arms out to make it harder for the man to dodge past her. Which he wouldn’t, Eleanor had been specific on a few points. “This is nonsense,” the English maid said. “Her connection to the Dunnings was weak, and even close family can be found on opposite sides of anything.”

Anne and Godit joined the human barrier, one to each side of Adele. Alfred dropped his sword point to the floor and clasped both hands on the weapon’s pommel.

“True,” Eleanor allowed. “That has no place in my reckoning.”

For the first time Mariot spoke, addressing her words to Anne’s back. “I’ve been in Scotland all my life, until you brought me to England. The few times I’ve seen Trempwick you’ve all been with me. I would never betray you.”

Eleanor folded her arms. “I did not say you betrayed Anne, though men sworn to her died yesterday because of your work. No, you sold me to my enemy.”

Godit turned from Alfred to Eleanor, creating a vulnerability in the line which the man at arms could have used if he had been so tasked. “If you’ve some proof you’d better present it, or apologise and leave.”

“I have proof,” Eleanor said evenly. “It is all subtle work, but in the end there is too much of it to doubt. I set a trap.” Cultivating an air of self-assurance Eleanor seated herself on the stool Mariot had formerly occupied. Being of lesser stature than the other was a disadvantage, Trempwick had taught her, before teaching her ways to use it and turn it to an advantage. Back straight, head held as though she wore her crown, hands folded in her lap, and all cool poise. “You should have let Trempwick’s men attack and discover me missing, rather than warning them I was not there. You were the only one of three who had opportunity. One of three where a spy was certain, to the point where Trempwick himself admitted it to me and shared a few snippets of the information you fed him.”

“I was ill. It was seen.” She was sure, too sure. She believed – not unreasonably – that Eleanor would never dare breach the codes of behaviour and harm her without Anne’s permission, and the girl would not give it.

“If I dosed myself with an emetic and purgative I would be as sick as you were, and so would any other. Easy to obtain, and no one would ask questions about such common medicine.”

“Why didn’t you seize her before now?”

“Stupidity,” said Eleanor succinctly. “I doubted. It was not quite enough to be certain; I had expected to catch another. So I asked Sir Miles for advice. If he were still alive I think he would agree that he was rather spectacularly wrong.” Eleanor did not think the old man would be proud to know his last, most enduring lesson to her was to never again take anyone’s advice above her own if there was a serious conflict between the two. Age and experience had failed. They had left her staring defeat in the face, locked away with no hope. In future, if nothing else, the mistake would be her own instead of another’s. By the time she had been left once again to stand alone there had been nothing left to do but follow on and try to limit the damage while choosing between likely trap and likely trap again. “Wrong about Mariot, wrong when he said a force sufficient to do so much harm to my own could not be raised so quickly and without betraying itself, and wrong when he said we could travel the major roads safely. But from this I did gain more evidence. Why did I leave Perth? Because waiting sounded intolerable. Who started telling me about the ‘delights’ I could expect to endure, sparking the larger conversation? Who had the long reminisces of past court events? Mariot. When we proved slow to settle on coming here to Dunning, who mentioned Glenrothes as an alternative? Mariot. It would have been obvious you would not go there, Anne, and so the rest of us could not. She did it on other occasions also; subtle influence.”

A signal to Alfred, and he caught up his sword, pressing through the distracted line to regain hold of Mariot.

Eleanor told Mariot, “You have but two choices. Remain silent and hang, or tell me something useful and I shall have you imprisoned for life. Let us start with why.”

Mariot said nothing.

She gave the next prearranged signal having left a pause of only a few heartbeats, not allowing herself to think on what it ordered.

Alfred twisted Mariot’s little finger, juggling the sword hilt he still grasped. The bone broke. The maid groaned and bit through her lip. Sweat sprang out on her skin and began to mingle with the trickle of blood running down her chin. All in all it was by far the preferable reaction – Anne and her remaining maids set up a shrieking, Alfred looked entirely too satisfied, and Eleanor began to feel sick.

Christ, Anne was looking at her like a lamb which had been hand raised and treated as the most worthy pet, only to one day find the hand which fed it holding a large clever which was about to mate with its skull.

Godit made to attempt to wrench Alfred’s large hand off her friend, only to be discouraged by a sword point raised at precisely the right level for her to slice her own heart in two if she took another step.

Adele was praying, to what end and result Eleanor could not say..

She had to reach for the dignity now, work to maintain it, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat. “I believe the saying is, once deep enough there is no turning back, and that applies to us both now.” She repeated the signal, and Alfred broke another finger.

Mariot went very pale, sobbing.

“You have three fingers left before I give up and have you hanged.”

As Alfred gripped her next finger and began to twist Mariot’s resolve broke. “Because of Anne.”

Eleanor used the last of her preset signals, giving the finger a temporary reprieve.

Across the room the kafuffle stopped. The maid had condemned herself from her own mouth; she was no longer worth protecting.

“She’s all I have left. He promised to protect her from her husband, and he did. When the old king died Trempwick offered me help in getting Anne safely back to Scotland, though the bastard princeling didn’t want to let her go. All I had to do was help him get his wife back. And he kept his word there too, for look where we are.”






Dawn. Eleanor knelt in vigil next to Miles’ body in the tiny chapel. He had been washed and dressed in clean clothes, and lay before the altar on a pallet covered in white linen. He had been treated with respect, whatever else could be said of her erstwhile captors they had treated the dead lord with respect.

She had not learned much from Mariot. She had not expected to. Mariot had been proven guilty, and that had been her intent. Now the woman was bound more securely, guarded at all times by two of Eleanor’s trusted men. Her broken fingers had been splinted, the remainder of her life would be spent in the most desolate convent Eleanor could find, a prisoner and not a nun. To Eleanor’s way of thinking a sword to the neck would have been closer to mercy than this, an opinion which she was alone in.

What use had she for compassion anyway? Compassion had found her trapped in a castle with wounded men while the sound bodies she needed camped outside. Eleanor sighed, her breath making the flame of the candle she had lit for his soul bow backwards. As if she would have been allowed to bring enough able-bodied fighters within these walls to make a difference. As if she had wanted to risk more of her men being butchered, for posing too much of a threat. Compassion had served well enough.

This way may be more merciful for Anne. She would not have to see her mother in all but blood die, or live knowing she had died so horribly. The girl was in shock, but accepted that there had been no other option. Her blame had been directed mostly at Trempwick.

Sir Miles’ hands were folded on his chest, his right hand worked about the hilt of the sword he’d worn as ornament, his left clasping it to make firm the lifeless grip. Eleanor rested her own hand above his two, her right hand, as custom required. “Never again.” The oath was doubly binding, sworn to a dead man and on the crucifix formed by the hilt of the sword. Two little words, one simple vow, and what a lot it did mean. So many things.

Eleanor mediated on that vow, it seemed a fitting way to mourn Miles’ passing.

The candles burned low by the time footsteps sounded on the flagstones leading into the chapel. Her visitor would be no cause for concern; she had a guard posted on the other side of the open doorway.

Hawise made her reverence to the altar, and came to kneel at her lady’s side. “He’s awake,” she said, voice hardly more than a whisper.

Eleanor glanced sideways, neck stiff from holding the same position for so long. The maid’s expression said the wakeful Fulk was every bit as happy as Eleanor had expected, if not more so. “I did not ask you to come and tell me when he woke.”

“No. He told me to find you and give you a message. He said that you should show your face immediately, if not sooner, else he’ll come and drag you up by the scruff of your neck to answer a few gentle questions.”

Yes, Eleanor could well imagine a certain knight saying that. “I wonder if I should discover a pressing need to do something several miles away from him.”

Hawise’s face lit up in one of her rare smiles. “He’d be off after you like hound after hare, shouting and cursing the whole way.”

“True enough. Oh well, best see what a coil he has worked himself into.”

As she opened the door to her room Fulk bolted up into sitting position, only just waiting for the room to be enclosed again before accusing in an irate undertone, “You poisoned me!”

“I did no such thing,” protested Eleanor. “I drugged you, which is different.”

Fulk pushed up from the bed and took a step towards her, fist clenched. “My treacherous little gooseberry, it makes very little difference.”

Eleanor stood her ground, glad Hawise was outside. She wouldn’t blame Fulk if he hit her, and would even go so far as to admit she probably deserved it, but she did not want it seen.

Scowl deepening, Fulk hid his fist behind his back. “Since the least sign of ill temper makes you start cringing, I’ll leave, as I usually do, so you don’t have to cower and I don’t start wishing I could settle a debt with those who’ve mishandled you so badly. But first you will tell me why.”

“I disposed of Trempwick’s spy amongst Anne’s maids, Mariot. It was not pretty. You are not the kind to torture, especially not with a weeping audience and a victim you know. You would go, you would do it, and it would rot in your soul.” A sleepless night and her long time in the chapel had done a lot to dampen down Eleanor’s temper, now the torch was shoved back into the logs. Eleanor took a furious breath. “And I do not cower!”

“You do. It’s no fault of yours, I know, but you do.” Fulk scrubbed his face with his hands. “Oh beloved mine, you have this the wrong way about. I am the one who is supposed to be angry. You are the one doing the apologising. You cower; that is the truth, and after what you have survived there is no shame in it.”

As a gesture of goodwill Eleanor refrained from bestowing upon him a choice selection of highly unregal words.

It wasn’t enough. After a bit Fulk hitched his shoulders. “Well, I’m leaving.”

The way he looked at her turned her temper to ashes, and his hurt scattered those ashes on the wind. She took a quick step towards him. “No. Mea culpa. I am not … I am overly tetchy. I apologise, for that and for drugging you. I could see no other way.”

“So you did it to protect me?” He was inscrutable, there was no hint as to which answer he wanted, only the promise that if she chose the wrong one she would be in a cauldron of hot water over a generous fire.

“Yes. And for myself. You are my haven, but only so long as you are not part of the things I am escaping.”

He chewed that overt for a time, and all the while there was not the least indication of what was going through his mind. “I shall bestow upon you the kiss of peace, then.” He did, except he got the concept wrong and it was far from the chaste and publicly acceptable brush of lips it was meant to be. “I’ve no choice but to forgive you as I would do some fairly unscrupulous things myself to keep you safe.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“If I told you then you would be wary of them, heartling.” He tapped the tip of her nose with a finger, not hard but sufficient to make it smart. “However I find it meet and fitting to say that you will never do anything of the sort to me again. Else I won’t be a happy knight, and then you will be far from a happy princess.”

Ordinarily she would have dismissed that as an empty threat. Now she found she had visions of an apocalyptic knight striding through the devastation he had caused, bellowing her name with a certain meaningful gleam in his eye which promised she would shortly be feeling quite unwell. “I promise.”

“Good. Now I don’t need to turn my squire into my taster. I know you used to keep threatening to dose my food, but I thought you had grown out of it.” Fulk frowned thoughtfully. “Your toast … Knocked out by my own gallant deeds. I wonder if there is any omen in that?”

Eleanor hit him in the stomach lightly with the back of one hand. “Idiot.”









A quick survey, for the purposes of amphibian education. How many people got Mariot as the spy, and, if not, who did you suspect?

:sigh: It’s a sad, sad thing to finally reach the big denouement of your mystery subplot only to realise a rather soul destroying fact. Namely that by now it’s been half a year since the first clues began to appear, and even several weeks since the last big fat almost-in-flashing-neon-lights giveaway clues. So hardly anyone will remember them. Which is probably why I found a scene I had been anticipating for months ended up being the closest thing to a struggle to write that I have had. Huh, writing it in 1/3 page fragments across too many interrupted evenings does not help either :sigh: I need to be able to edit the story together to make this subplot good, but more still do I need to be away from this format. :(


Fan club listings, updated for the other forum:
Trempy: 3 members (inspecting his fingernails for rough patches, and waiting for his next appearance)
Anne: 2 members (Not happy. Brothers, foster mothers, Eleanors – it’s all too much for a young queen to cope with)
Fulk: 6 members (Smouldering, secretly (ssshh! Don’t tell anyone!))
Nell: 6 members (looking at the taglines above and below and beginning to worry …)
Godit: 5 members (hating Nell. Intensely.)
Constance: 2 members
Hugh: 2 members
Jocelyn: 5 members
Richildis: 1 member
Miles: 2 members (currently engaged in being dead)
Hawise: 2 members
Mahaut: 1 member
Malcolm Nefastus: 2 member (already better than the dead fat guy!)
Anti-Trempy: 3 members
Anti-Aveline: 1 member
Anti-Hugh: 1 member

I shall add it to my list of books to investigate and/or buy, furball.


edit: Oh yes - now you see why I was grinning earlier, Ludens. Got to say that comment about Godit being the spy made my day a fair bit brighter. :)

Another great chapter I thought the spy was godit, in fact i thought Mariot was the least likely of the 3 maids to work for Trempwick. I eagerly await your next chapter,
DoH

<raises hand suspecting Mariot> Godit was just too obvious and there *were* clues to Mariot, though - except for being suspicious of the poisoning and maybe a glance or something when she offered advice - it's been too long to re member them.

Well Mariot was the one I least trusted, but I was far from convicting her. Again, I'm just here for the ride :2thumbsup: . I'm not a big fan of the Malcolm post but this one was classic froggy style bumped up a notch (yet again). My God, I think reading Fulk's lines might make a gentleman out of me yet!

“Are you loyal?”

There was only one sort of reasonable answer for that sort of question, Jocelyn knew, and that was to run away very quickly indeed to hide until it all blew over. Except king’s generally had long reaches, and he was entirely too smart and too handsome to end up like Yves. “Yes, Sire.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, Sire.” What a bloody stupid question! As if he were likely to change his mind and say, “Actually, on second thoughts, no. Sorry.”

“Then it follows that if I command you to go and beat your wife for making my life insufferable you will do so.”

If he could have got away with it Jocelyn would have sighed. Bloody kings! Always asking, tricking, and trapping, and now he’d gone and stuck his foot squarely in a deep pile of dung. If commanded he would, with the minor modification of thumping Richildis for sticking him in this bloody awful situation in the first place, causing him to toss away his authority and honour to let another man interfere in his marriage. Except no damned king had a right to expect that, no matter how powerful. So it had to be a test of some sort. Bloody kings! Jocelyn’s hand closed about the crucifix he wore about his neck as he thought, then, praying he had it right, he answered. “No, Sire, I wouldn’t. Because you wouldn’t ask it, being an honourable man.”

“Ah. About as I expected.” The man in the bed raised a hand to point at a pile of weapons in the corner of the room. “Pass me my dagger.”

Jocelyn hesitated. How God damned embarrassing would it be to pass this sick old man a weapon, only for him to bestow it back as a gift by ramming it through his vitals?

“Do it,” the king ordered, more steel in his voice than in the dagger itself.

So Jocelyn did. He needed to come closer to hand the scabbard weapon to his lord than he’d been before, and up close it was obvious there was even more truth in the rumours he’d been hearing on his rush back. The man was sick, badly so.

As Jocelyn made to step back again the king crooked a finger, calling him close again. Softly the king said, “I have a task for you.”

“Sire?” Not murder, oh please for the sake of a Saint and a dancing nun let it not be murder.

“You will be well rewarded.”

Oh sod it, it was murder. There’s why the king had been so damned eager to be rid of his physician, so he could speak to Jocelyn alone.

“They are killing me.”

“Sire?”

“Yes. One of them, some of them, all of them – I know not. It … matters not.” The king let out a great sigh, his breath was stale. Jocelyn manfully didn’t wrinkle his nose and turn his head. “He has ordered my death.”

None of this was making any damned sense. “Sire, I don’t understand.”

The king caught his wrist, pulling Jocelyn so he had to lean down. “Listen well. Remember what I told you before. Regardless of which is the truth, Trempwick wants me dead. They are poisoning me – my own household.”

“Then get a new taster, have new people bring your food, get a new physician-”

“No.” The king’s voice dipped back down to hushed levels. “No. It would be worthless. Do you not see? He could have brought any of them, or all of them; I can trust none, excepting perhaps you. You he has not had chance to buy, I hope. To be safe I would have to set you to buy my food, cook it, bring it to me, feed me, and still then there would be chance for something extra to be slipped in, or for the food to be tainted before you got to it, or for the poison to be put in something else. Or for a less subtle method to be used. It is over.” That last was pronounced with finality. Yet for a man staring death in the face, betrayed by his friend, family and household, the king burned still. Now he aimed the dagger at Jocelyn, hilt first. “You will be my vengeance.”

That didn’t sound good. “You wish me to kill the poisoner, Sire?”

“No,” the man snapped. “Do not play the fool, for I know you are none. I want the cause, the hand behind all this. I want Trempwick sent to meet me in the hereafter.”

Oh … shit. “Sire-”

“No!” The king’s grip tightened, his fingernails digging in. “Listen. Hear me out. I will make a deed for you, granting you lands and honours in England, and my heir will honour that. They will have to. As a grant from me it will predate anything of theirs, and be valid in any court of law. If they deny it you know what will happen.”

The new king would look a right dishonourable thief, out to grab whatever he could and dismiss the laws and charters of his realm. Meaning disaster, resentment, mistrust, and a right old stewing mess of potential future rebellion. Just the sort of thing Jocelyn liked to play with for a bit of quiet relaxation of an evening.

“Regardless of what has happened, while he lives my heir will not be free. He will rule. This known traitor will rule, and he will tip all to his own advantage.”

Uneasy, Jocelyn said, “Sire-”

“Please. If not that, then at least the lesser task.” The king released him, to drop the dagger and tug at the uppermost ring he wore on the third finger of his left hand. Wedding ring removed he set to work on ring worn under it. Worn since his coronation the great ring would not come free easily, even with his hands made artificially slender by illness. He worked at it, twisting and turning it, working it over his knuckle fraction by fraction. “This must go to my heir. They must have it; it is as much a part of the authority as the crown and sceptres. I dare not leave it here. I have heard too many stories of dead kings not to think it would not be stolen, along with all else. Take it, deliver it, and they will be grateful. Then judge for yourself whether you will do the other. Please, I beg you.”

Toying with his crucifix Jocelyn again – a bit of a hint would be nice! - thought on it. This sounded a deal better. A simple, short trip, matched with a deed which would surely put him in the new king’s favours. Or queen’s, for that matter. He’d be able to assess things and pick the side looking most likely to win. If this wasn’t a sign of divine favour then nothing in his life had been. For this he would look into giving some land over to the building of an abbey on his lands. “Sire, this much I shall do. I shall deliver your ring to prince Hugh.”

One final yank had the thick gold band free. The king did not hand it over, examining it as if the sight was a novelty. Jocelyn supposed it likely was, being as he’d worn the thing for so long he’d probably forgotten how it looked off. A sapphire was set at the centre of the ring, St Edward the Confessor had willed it so when the ring had been made for his own coronation. Truth, sincerity, faithfulness, and divine favour - that was the meaning of a sapphire. Later monarchs had added their own touches, and now the blue stone was surrounded by a halo of alternating tiny little rubies, for wise decisions, and emeralds, for prosperity. The gold itself stood for gold, and therefore for being a bit rich. Quite a vocal ring.

The king murmured, “I thought I understood what they meant when they spoke of the tragedy of kings. I did not, not completely. Until now. They do not even seek to see if I am alive, or to search out my body.”

Jocelyn didn’t think the words were aimed at him, so he didn’t bother replying. Truth be told it rather seemed the king had forgotten he was here. Many people went a bit … odd at the end, even when they still had a few days to go.

“I wed three times. My first wife I loved, and she died. My second I cared for, and leave a widow in difficult circumstances. My third is a faithless whore, already off after a fresh young body, having sucked all she can from me and made me do things I would never have dreamed …” The hand holding the ring dropped down onto the blanket covered chest, fingers curling possessively about the metal and jewels. Those deep blue eyes closed. “Oh, my belly aches. Like a great knot tied in my guts. Nothing helps, nothing helps.” The eyes opened again, slowly, filled with pain. They focused on Jocelyn. “I will not be remembered kindly.”

“Sire, I doubt that’s so. They’ll say you were a hard king, but an effective one.”

“You mean the chronicles. I speak of others.” The king clenched his fist about the ring, took a deep breath … and let it go. Another, and other still. Then. “Hard, perhaps too damned hard to do.” The ribs rose again, and again. “Ask her to forgive me,” the king blurted. “Eleanor. Ask her. Beg her. For the good of my soul, both our souls. Please. And then give her this.” The clenched hand fell open, offering the ring to Jocelyn.

Bloody! Hell! “Sire, you don’t mean-”

“Yes. I name her my heir. I will be followed by one undoubtably of my own blood.”

“Christ’s wounds!” Jocelyn swore.

Unexpectedly the king bared his teeth in a ferocious grin. “Either she will keep her seat and wear the kingdom down until she rides it like a man born to it, or they will buck her off and trample her in the dirt. Either way I am avenged, I think, for those who go down with her put me here, and if she rides then she will shed them like so much dust. You will help her there, by disposing of Trempwick.” Jocelyn jerked back at the first bark of laughter like a startled sheep. “If I know my Eleanor she will win, and thrive, which is more than Hugh could do. That much he has proven already. What kind of man allows a known incompetent to follow him, when there is an alternative, no matter how drastic?”

Jocelyn didn’t take the ring, too stunned, mostly expecting this man to change his mind and reveal it all as a joke. A queen!?

The king held his pose patiently, as if he expected Jocelyn to take a time to come to terms with what he had been asked to do. “Faithless … Not much of a recommendation for a husband, is it? But I have a feeling she will like this one far better than any other I have suggested to her.”

He was serious. Oh bloody hell and a pope made of sugar! The man was actually serious!

And yet … a queen would need men to stand at her side far more than any king. There would be more honours and posts available than under a king. She was subject to the usual lot of feminine foibles and weaknesses then most could be countered, but a strong male hand could sort that decently enough – if it couldn’t the world would be full of wives running amok, making it entirely unfit to be lived in, damn it. As the man who dropped off her ring and news of her official status as heir ….

Jocelyn’s plucked the ring from the king’s palm. “Sire, it shall be done.”







There was no tree within good distance. The ropes which began around the necks of the condemned men ended on the tattered stone parapets of the gatehouse, each looped about a merlon. There were three in all. Three.

Hugh bit down, clenching his teeth and willing himself to impassiveness. Three who thought him weak, who thought to defy him, to make mock of his word, his power. Of him.

The herald read each man’s crimes and sentence, shouting so as many as possible of the assembled army could hear. Where his voice began to fail men passed the word in a murmur to those behind, and in this way all were told.

The man in the centre to the group was staring at him. Judging him. Daring to judge his lord and king! Hugh did not break his eyes free, he returned look for look. To do otherwise would be to admit weakness, or perhaps a form of guilt; it would be subservient.

Having finished with the man on the right, the man who had closed the gates of this castle against him in Eleanor’s name, the herald reached Hugh’s adversary. Internally Hugh stated each word of the herald’s monologue, in perfect timing, each word a heavy condemnation of the knight. Sir Drogo the Tall, knight in the King of England’s service, charged and found guilty of rape, contrary to his lord’s orders, and therein harming a lady of gentle birth to the degree she committed the mortal sin of self destruction rather than live with her dishonour. Condemned to death by hanging, his goods and all to be confiscated by the crown.

He was not afraid; the knight was to die as a common criminal and he did not fear. Only scathing contempt did Hugh find from him. It required will not to become the craven and turn away. Each moment cost more, each moment saw a greater weight pressing on his shoulders. He had failed; he knew it and in knowing it was undone. Thus the rigour eluded him, and he must struggle to regain righteousness in the face of his failure, as the cost of his inability displayed itself most vividly before his very eyes.

As a general he had failed to adequately control his men.

As a king he had failed to guard his subjects.

As a Christian knight he had failed to guard the innocent.

He had navigated the contrary necessities of a castle taken by storm, sifting examples and rules of conduct until he had felt sure the correct line had been found. The balance had worked favourably for him in the past, and there had been no reason to anticipate differently this time. There would be no quarter for the combatants, and the castellan would die. The goods of the castle were open to plunder. This had been inexorable, from the very moment he gave the command for the catapults to begin their work. He had presented opportunity for the castle’s surrender, honest terms, and had been rejected. A harsh penalty was obligatory, to encourage other places to surrender easily.

The only stipulations had been bowing to his greater duty as knight, king, and Christian. No ladies of noble rank were to be harmed or threatened. Those who did not bear arms were not to be killed.

A bead of sweat ran down Hugh’s temple, tracking the curve of his cheek.

Well to say that such things always happened. Well to cite the many examples of this, and far worse. Well again to say he was but human, and thus as flawed as any of God’s creatures. Well if one dealt in excuses, and did not seek to follow the great and the good, rather than the shabby and the mundane. Well if one was not a king, and needing to be worthy of that. When he had been but a prince his orders in this regard had been obeyed. Was he to garner less obedience, now he deserved more?

The herald was done, asking the condemned men if they had any last words.

The castellan spoke bravely of his allegiance to his queen, voice filled with tremors now the moment approached.

The murderer said nothing, struck as dumb as the cook’s apprentice he had killed.

The knight called out, “Yes - she wasn’t worth it.” It was a traditional claim, for those in his place and with the courage left over to find a voice. Still he gazed at his king.

Hugh blinked, eyes holding shut a fraction longer than needful. Reopening them he found still nothing had altered.

He was not a craven, or weak. He was here, watching this grisly spectacle of justice. He would witness it all, to every last detail. Hugh straightened his shoulders with a jerk, chiding himself for allowing them to round. He allowed the cause for this lapse may be exhaustion from the fighting to take the castle this morning. Still it was inexcusable.

In the end it was the jerk of the rope as the support under his feet was kicked out that broke Drogo’s unrelenting stare.

King. By what right did he call himself thus? He had not been crowned or anointed. Some rumour even had it that his father was yet alive. Alas, he could find no confirmation of those rumours. His messengers to the continent had not returned, no official word had come through, nothing but gossip. Gossip which told of many unbelievable things, including one tale in which his father faced down a demon in the shape of a stag with red glowing eyes, slaying it with only his bare hands and a prayer, only to be fatally poisoned by the black blood pouring from the carcass.

King. He called himself thusly because in truth he was. He must be.

Counting in his head as he had been taught as a boy, Hugh allowed some ten minutes to pass. Then he gave permission for men to drag at the heels of the criminals, to speed their passing.






William, sixth of that name, by the Grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Brittany, and Count of Anjou died in the night of the second day after Jocelyn’s return.

It was bad. Worse than bad - the least pleasant situation Jocelyn had ever had the misfortune to be in. As soon as the announcement was made a human tide began flowing away from the dead man. Running away, off to find a new master and escape to a safer place. This tide Jocelyn joined, gathering up his family and retainers, bundling all their belongings and setting out straight for their horses. The ring, and the letters he had been given along with it, were stowed safely in his belt pouch, where they’d lain since before he left the king’s side after being given them. A few other bits the king hadn’t wanted stolen, including his wedding ring, were stuffed in with Jocelyn’s clothes.

Things had gone so far that his men had to lay out with shield and sword flats to batter a way through the seething mass. Richildis carried Mahaut, and the child’s sobbing joined with Jean’s wailing. The racket they made hardly dented the row made by the drunken fools who had decided to empty the cellars and stores in an orgy of gluttony.

They passed dead, dying, hurt, insensible. Not only the king was robbed, but any who fell foul of those with dreams of gain and the means to take.

When he saw a drunken fool he recognised as the king’s falconer capering about in the king’s lesser crown something in Jocelyn broke. He stuffed his sword right through the man’s middle. As he wrenched the blade free he snarled, “You’re supposed to mourn him or something, damn it!” He added the crown to the load his people carried.

Not until they had ridden a few miles from the royal manor did Jocelyn allow them to stop, even when they’d passed through the large camp outside the manor to pick up the soldiers he’d got there they had kept on moving. He’d had them head in the direction of home, Tourraine.

“What now?” Richildis asked him steadily. She had a good idea; he’d told her what was in his mind when he’d come back from that audience with the king.

“You and the children are going home. I’m giving you half the men as escort. Ride hard, and don’t stop till you’re safely behind Saint Maur’s walls. I know you’ll take care of things.”

“So you’re off to England.”

“I won’t be gone long, a month at most.”

She nudged her horse closer to his, so her feet touched his leg. “Be careful. And remember your promise.”

“I will.” Like he’d bloody forget. Only Tildis would think he was off to England to seduce the new queen in an effort to get power. Bloody woman was mad! But if this Eleanor happened to look his way, well, what could a polite knight do if not do his best to please? Chivalry practically demanded it, and Tildis was always going on about how he should be more chivalrous.

Richildis leaned in to hiss, “No more bastards, no mistresses, no more passing encounters, and if I hear you’ve taken up with this Eleanor I will geld you. No one but me.”

Except she wasn’t going to be there, and wasn’t interested when she was. Women!

When she kissed him Jocelyn was so shocked he nearly fell of his damned horse. Feeling encouraged – and reckoning that if it went awry he’d be hundreds of miles away from her for at least a few weeks – he gave it a go himself. The result, while not stunning, was half decent at least, and she didn’t do her usual imitation of a bit of wood.

So only she could hear he muttered, “Now why’d you have to get friendly at a time when it’s damned hard to do anything much about it?”

Richildis gave him a dazzling smile. “Tactics. Now you’ve some reason to remember I exist, and some reward for your efforts and improvement.” The smile picked up a dangerous quality. “It also serves you right for that Selova slut. Don’t think I didn’t know.” Riding away from him she called back over her shoulder loud enough for everyone to hear clearly, “Besides, it’s easier to relax and feel friendly, as you put it, when I know you can’t touch me.”

Suddenly it felt like every damned pair of eyes in the entire area was on him, bloody owners laughing away. Damn her! And he couldn’t do a damned thing about it, damn it, not unless he cared to chase off after her, drag her off that damned horse and tell her what for with everyone, including the children, watching. Women! And that woman in particular!

Jocelyn put his spurs to the horse and headed for Normandy.





And so dies the first POV character. The king is dead! Long live the …?

Bit of a sad end for William, but if there is one thing history shows it is that kings tend to have rather sad, lonely deaths, usually involving watching the crumbling of their work and/or the next generation stepping in to take their birthright early. Amazing how many of them ended up robbed and abandoned with only a handful of loyal servants left to bury them.

It would have been nice for him to come back and reclaim his kingdom, and to greet his dear friend Trempwick, and to meet Eleanor again and act on those regrets and second thoughts he has been having, perhaps even regaining a hint of the love he once had for her and her gaining some understanding of him. But frogs don’t do nice. That would be lame, contrived even. It would rob William of half his significance. He’s a lonely, sad character, despite it all, and that is what he is meant to be. I find it easier to forgive him what he does to Nell than I do Hugh, even though what he does is worse. Because it is born of passion rather than a cold decision, and done in a passion rather than in a cold calm.


:takes stock of the general response to Mariot: Ah, at least a decent success rate then. Where she was caught it was because of the clues, rather than because she looks obviously suspicious. Wee! Not bad for a first go.

"...if it couldn’t the world would be full of wives running amok, making it entirely unfit to be lived in, damn it."

You're a joy to read, froggy!

Nooooo! :shocked2: Jocelyn as the Knight Protector of England? Please say it isn't so. All those poor English women :sad:. Jocelyn as the rising...star(?) of the...queendom? There's only one response to that:

Quote:

---

Oh bloody hell and a pope made of sugar!

---

:laugh4:

The click of ivory on wood hastened Fulk’s reading; it was now his turn and he wanted to get to a decent place to halt. Tactitus’ ‘The Annals’ he had not read before, and the book was one of many such he now had access to. Eleanor had gone on one of her little sprees; ever since their return to Perth – no, since before. She had pestered him with questions about soldiers and soldiering all the way back - she had been attempting to learn everything about anything remotely relevant to being a princess, noble, general, or learned person. She had even asked him to play chess, to improve her patience, planning, and strategy, she said. Admittedly much of this was building on what Trempwick had taught, clarifying things she had not cared to listen to decently in the past and further considering concepts she had not previously taken so far. It has lasted for days with no sign of a loss of interest, sun up to sun down and long after. Now she had time to forge a reputation here in the Scottish court, and an unexpected one it was: princess Eleanor, the scholar. The scholar – his gooseberry, the scholar!

Not entirely though. When he’d commented on her new-found passion for reading she had soon disillusioned him, retorting that as she lacked access to authorities on the relevant subjects she would have to make do with books, which, lacking any other good merits, gave her ideas for new questions to ask when she did find someone. As good as her word, each time she cornered someone who might venture a view worth hearing she engaged them and drained them as dry as she could. Not taking a passive role she questioned, countered and debated. On occasion she played tafl too; unlike chess she would take on others apart from Fulk, and in places less private than her solar, able to claim it as a relatively new discovery as opposed to a game she should have been mastering since early childhood. Her victories and her losses came about equally, with more victories coming of late as she learned.

By merit of this, and her rank, Eleanor had gained access to several private libraries, and where she went, as ever, so did he, and he’d no intention of wasting the opportunity.

“Check,” said Eleanor calmly.

Fulk looked up so quickly he nearly snapped his own neck. A quick examination of the state of play revealed she wasn’t joking. He stuck a finger in the book to mark his place as he closed it, shifted to face the table properly, and settled down to find a way out. Eleanor picked up her own reading.

The book he laid aside when his finger began to feel crushed and half dislocated.

His back began to grumble; he moved to sit with his elbows propped on his knees to get a better view and ease the ache.

He scratched his nose.

Restless a time later, he shifted again, crossing his legs.

He drummed his fingers on the polished oak.

She was watching him over the tops of the pages …

Uppermost leg feeling tingly with reduced blood supply he swapped over so the other was on top.

Fulk rubbed at his chin, slowly sitting back. “Well, well, and well again.”

Eleanor toppled Fulk’s king, flicking the top of his crown with a fingertip. “Checkmate.” She reached for her cup, sipping daintily and hiding her smile.

Already indulgent from pride in her, the restraint made Fulk prompt, “Go on, gloat. I don’t mind.”

She lit up in a way he hadn’t seen in … months, it seemed, not since their days back in Woburn. “I won! My first ever victory.” She ducked her head, almost shy as she said, “And you are a very good player, too.”

He longed to kiss her, to take her by the hand and run away from all this, to go and do something wonderfully stupid like frolic outside, and to keep on kissing her, to keep a hold on the … girl, and the gooseberry, losing the princess, the scholar, the schemer, the pawn. “So now you’re ready to terrorise the entire court, or will be if you can repeat that a few times.” Fulk stood, reached for the pitcher and refilled his cup, which he raised to her. “To your glorious deeds.” He’d have added something more personal if Hawise hadn’t been present.

The ripple which spread across the surface of Eleanor’s drink was the only visible trace of her reaction, yet somehow the girl died. “Yes. To my glorious deeds.” She drank, a mouthful larger than she usually took when drinking this sweet white wine. Belatedly he saw the resemblance between the wording of his toast and the one she’d used to drug him.

Not for the first time he thought he’d done her no kindness in forgiving her so easily; if he’d put a more decisive end to it she wouldn’t be fearing digs and slights. Now, as it had then, it seemed chronically unfair to be harsh with her to cover his own cowardice, his breathless relief at not needing to follow her into something so repugnant. He could not have remained behind, if he’d known she was to go. He would have followed, and helped, and hated himself and seen a side of her he didn’t want to. Seeing always made things … real. The hardest side of her he wanted to see no more than he thought she wanted to see the side of him which exulted in battle as the ultimate test of his skill at arms and rejoiced each time he drew blood, with each kill, as proof of his ability. It was there, and from the outside she’d seen it, as he’d seen her own worst from the outside. From the outside it was safe, manageable.

He should have been stern and exacted some sort of reckoning, even she would likely admit it deserved, though perhaps it would take a bit of a tussle before honest won. In good conscience he simply couldn’t manage it, and if he couldn’t tweak a hair on her head in very good conscience then he wouldn’t do it. Else he’d start squinting at the mirror and wondering if he was growing a crown. And she had been cringing already, without him raising a hand or every having done so.

Eleanor moved from the backless chair at the chess board to one of the window seats, plumping the cushions until she was comfortable. “You may explain to me why you think it a good idea to pay soldiers a few days late, never too late, very seldom on time, and almost never even a half day early.”








I felt like an evening of writing, and managed a whole hour. Wow! By preference I’d pair it with another scene, but I don’t have the time now, and to be honest I’m unsure as to which POV to use. Both Nell and Fulk are available for it, and both show interesting things …

Furball: thanks. :gring:

Vladimir: As to whether it is so or not, you’ll have to wait and see.

And I look forward to seeing. I'm just concerned about your fictional ancestors. Oh the horror!

:jawdrop: I´m speechless.
I know, it´s been a time since I last reviewed, and truth be told it wasn´t until yesterday evening that I read up from, I think about the time Fulk and Nell were escaping from the inn battle. Oh, no it was Hugh theorizing why it ould be proper to have a mistress while in the field :dizzy2:
That got it´s bright side, though, it made for a heck of a lot to read, which is good.
And it´s been quite the development, let´s see: we meet Granny (why have one angel where there´s room for plenty), Miles gets killed (in a very nice battle scene, by the way), Prince "No time, I´ve got a church to burn" Malcolm makes his appearance and is generally refreshening different from Prince Proper Hugh, a traitor´s exposed (and no, I didn´t suspect Mariot. Stupid me), the king dies and a lot scenes with Jocelyn ("Pax Jocelynius", I liked that one), who´s about to play King-maker (theoretically he could give the ring to Hugh, or even the French king, for that matter. After all, no one knows what ol´Willie told him...). I´m really looking forward to when Jocely and Eleanor meet, that´s bound to be... interesting, to say the least.

"It has lasted for days with no sign of a loss of interest, sun up to sun down and long after. Now she had time to forge a reputation here in the Scottish court, and an unexpected one it was: princess Eleanor, the scholar. The scholar – his gooseberry, the scholar!"

As an editor, I'd gripe about the change of tense. As a reader, Magnificent!

The whole thing might be a tad too long, but I get it, as a reader of 2 things a week.

Froggy, go with your flow. You're saying it well and an editor MIGHT cut it back some, but he (she) can't write what you do. GO! That change of tone from the death of the King to what Ellie and Fulk are doing is GREAT! Very inspired.

(And Pax Joceylynius? WOW! I hope Jocelyn stays simple and blatent, but that's just me. YOU have set up a wonderful expectation, and I bow once again to you.)

Froggy, you have an "ear" for tempo and story. WOW!

Wow!

The assassination of Trempwick ordered? Eleanor named heir to the throne? The death of William at his spymaster's hands? Eleanor beating Fulk at chess? This can only mean one thing... the end is near!

The end of the story, that is. I just wonder how Hugh will take the news... if he lives, that is. I always knew Eleanor would be queen in the end.

Ms. Frog, are you a chess player yourself?

The willow hoop dancing in the day’s strong winds at the end of a rope was a difficult target; there was no shame in even a highly skilled man missing a pass or two. Fulk had stipulated that only one pass out of the permitted five could fail. Only the best, that was what Eleanor had asked of him and he’d have found it her if she’d spoken not a word. Enough new men to make good the loses they had taken, and more to bolster numbers if that could be managed, but not enough to make people cry out that she brought foreigners to terrorise and oppress her people, as she’d put it. This was the final test for the cavalry, ability to work in formation, skill with sword and auxiliary weapons, and horsemanship being the first things he’d looked at. His thoughts on what he’d seen there he’d kept to himself.

The knight’s lance clipped the outer edge of the ring, adding a wild spin to the dancing. With an oath the man flung down his weapon, dragging his horse’s head about to the sidelines. His last run and his second miss. Fulk would not have taken the man even if that had been his first and only miss, even if he’d proven a rare talent with blade and horse; his temperament was unsuitable.

The next applicant’s name was shouted, and he started his first run. It was a near thing: the hoop stuck on the lance point and the rope broke. An attendant ran out to replace the target as soon as it was safe.

So far three had passed: a knight with grey in his hair whose lord had died and had lost his place in the household because the heir wanted younger men; a youngster who had the sole distinction of being a third son trained, dubbed, gifted a set of decent equipment and then thrown out by his family to make his own life, as was the way of the world; and a slightly older man of much the same circumstances, whose armour surely once belonged to his grandsire. Thus far the few of good birth and standing who had applied had failed the test, for which Fulk was grateful, much as he’d like to see Eleanor gain from the prestige and self-support landed and important knights brought with them. Landless knights were below him; ones with good blood and a scrap or two of land were not, and experience told that for every one who content to be his equal or less there was another who was not.

Eleanor watched, seated on a portable chair placed atop of a large square of material so her trailing skirts would not be fouled by dirt. She wore her crown too; he’d seen more of that wretched circle of gold in these last days than he’d seen in the half-year previous. Hawise and one of the three pages Hugh had lend her stood by to meet any needs she might have. A few men stood about her, important people all, giving advice and answering her questions. Or so he assumed; he could only actually hear when the wind blew right. If not for them he could have been at her shoulder, discussing the recruiting with her.

Luck or skill, one or the other failed and the latest applicant missed the hoop, his first error and his third run. He recovered well, and the end of his fifth run saw him joining the other successful candidates. He’d do well enough, not a knight but another like Fulk had once been, trained and equipped to fight like one and lacking only the dubbing.

The next two failed. The third passed. No others did. Training ground cleared Fulk had the infantry split into two groups and set against each other in mock battle.

Long minutes later Fulk’s eyes wandered from the melee to the stands, wanting a break from the teeming confusion and dust. A quick headcount – wimple count? – revealed that he’d gained another six female watchers since yesterday. It hadn’t taken days for a following to build as it always had in the past; word of the attempt on Eleanor had reached Perth before they had. His face spoke for itself. By the time people began gossiping about his other doings in England he had already been the handsome, brave knight who’d rescued the princess, destroyed his foe, and been so in the thick of the fighting it had been sworn there were three of him. His older exploits had only polished the shine. A steady collection of trinkets was building in the hand-sided bag he’d had to set aside for the purpose: rings, brooches, semi-precious stones, and suchlike, given to his squire or the pages to bring to him with a name and sometimes a message. He’d keep the lot – it was a far easier way to carry his wealth than in coin, and when future need struck he wouldn’t care a bit if he sold or pawned the bits and bobs. It was nice while it lasted; such fame was usually dead within a month, unless new deeds bolstered it. It was nice, too, not to have people muttering that he preferred boys or men, or joining his name with countless others in a search for his unobtainable lady.

His reputation and the fuss over the battle had done some good in a wider sense also: more than he’d expected to had turned up to try and win a place in Eleanor’s little army. Double-edged sword too – in addition to the usual few landed knights who wanted the honour of serving a princess there were some who thought to take his place and bask in the reflected glory of having such a knight under their command.

The same wind which had toyed with the willow ring now amused itself by pushing his hair into his eyes, tugging at his tunic and cloak, and cutting right through the layers of thick wool and linen to chill his bones. He wished he’d worn a second under-tunic, even at the risk of four layers of ordinary clothing making him look stouter than was flattering. Drawing the heavy folds of his cloak back into position to warm his windward side, Fulk crossed to where Eleanor sat. He’d make his report and let her have a say, mob of lords or no.

He bowed to her like a good courtly knight. “Your Highness. I thought to take only four of the five who managed the passes at the ring. Does this agree with you? The fifth being Stephan of the Lakes, him with the gold and blue. He’s too vicious with his horse; he’ll ruin whatever beast he’s given, and all the rest after. Too costly.”

“It will do.” Tightly snuggled up inside her blue mantle Eleanor looked frozen. The terse words and clamped jaw came from an effort to prevent her teeth from chattering, he assumed.

With another bow Fulk went and stood a few paces away, attention once again on the melee.

The conversation picked up again. One of the Scots picked up from where he’d left off at Fulk’s appearance. “Yes, a proper commander. Someone of good blood. That is what you need - require, even, by virtue of your rank. I understand this has been … difficult until late? As has been raising your force in the first place? This is no longer the case. I am sure your husband will help you choose someone suitable.”

Perhaps the clenched jaw wasn’t due to the weather.

Eleanor stated, “I have no husband.”

The lie made Fulk’s guts twist. Never before had she denied him; she had always skirted her way around doing so.

Another voice Fulk didn’t know the owner of broke in. “You were betrothed to this Trempwick publicly; it is known.

“I did so in fear of my safety.”

“Yet you name it as a betrothal, and name him as your betrothed, and so you agree to the arrangement.”

This voice had to belong to a clerk, or a lawyer. Or both. Such unholy combinations did exist.

“Now,” the Scot continued, “he has claimed you, as is his right. You are his, however deplorable his manner in making that claim may have been.”

“I am not,” stated Eleanor. “I am not his, and he is nothing of mine. Except a headache.”

“Live apart if you must, but stop this folly. He has presented his proof-”

“Proof?” Eleanor snorted. “Look to some poor dead chicken, or some unimportant girl whose dishonour means nothing to anyone save perhaps a bit of money for her in compensation. I will not be blamed for the misdeeds of others.”

“Your highness, when King Cnut the Great stood against the tide and ordered it to halt he got his feet wet.”

“I am not Cnut.”

“No, you are not.”

The lawyer/clerk seemed content to leave it at that. Sadly they couldn’t mark him down as a Trempwick supporter, not when every second person was saying the same, in England, in Scotland and in wherever else the news had reached.

Fulk allowed the mock battle to run until one side emerged victorious. His chosen men came roughly equally from the two sides, victor and vanquished, nineteen in total, skilled and equipped decently at the very least.

The men formed a single-file line, the knights at the front and the men at arms at the rear, ready to pledge loyalty. Now for the unusual part.

Two attendants brought forward a box which had sat idly behind Eleanor under a canvas cover. They set it on a table a third rushed into place at the edge of the cloth carpet, reverently removed the cover and stepped back. The reliquary was a small box, oblong in shape and with a lid shaped like a house’s roof. Gold leaf and gems gleamed on all much of the exposed surface, and plates of etched gold bore scenes of the Virgin and Child; the relic was a scrap of cloth which had wrapped the baby Christ after his birth. It had been borrowed from the palace’s private chapel.

Eleanor said, “Make your oaths, on your soul, hope of salvation, and on the relic. Or leave.”

Muttering ensued. It was the most binding oath possible, rare even for vassals swearing to their liege. Lesser oaths might be casually tossed aside. This one seldom was.

The first knight stepped forward hesitantly, kneeling at her feet. He laid one hand on the reliquary. “I pledge you my loyalty, to be your true man always, on my soul and by my hope of salvation.”

Standing a little off to the side Fulk watched it all, soldiers and princess. The way she sat all but enthroned in a cold-weather version of her glory, the crown, the kneeling men pledging their fealty, the mere fact she had compelled them to do her will in a way different to tradition …. A goose flew over his grave with convenient timing, or perhaps he looked at the future and recognised it; an involuntary shudder ran through him.

When the last of the new men had sworn all of her existing soldiers were required to repeat the oath, replacing their original one. Only Fulk was exempt; his own oath and the manner in which he’d given it was still a subject of idle conversation.

Eleanor’s army was to be divided, though the men should never know it. First came those who had been there to save her from Trempwick’s attempted abduction, precious few, their loyalty proven in that one night … or their lack of loyalty to Trempwick. Next came all those who had fought for her since, including at the battle four days ago. This was a lesser trust; they had not overtly gone against Trempwick’s needs, and may indeed have been helping them. Then came the untried. The hope was that men would move up from one class to the next, with the trusted faces having the minor officers’ positions.

Eleanor was shivering by the time it was all done. The suggestion to retire inside was accepted with barely seemly haste.









Since most will have forgotten it, a reminder of Fulk’s (second) oath to Eleanor:

Fulk appeared before ten minutes had passed. Unlike the boy he didn’t run, but he didn’t amble as de Clare had done. As he walked briskly down the hall he looked neither left nor right, and demonstrated none of the nervousness that might be expected from a minor baron summoned by the heir to the throne. Well groomed, dressed simply in fawn brown, light blue and white with his plain old sword belted at his waist he visibly claimed no ambition or rivalry with his superiors, but at the same time looked fit for a baron in the king’s personal service. The sizeable audience in the hall watched the latest player in this unanticipated drama mostly with ambivalence. Before the dais Fulk dropped smoothly to one knee and waited with bowed head.

“You are required to resume your service as bodyguard to my sister. Her life is your life, what happens to her happens to you tenfold if you do not prevent it; if she is even scratched and you yet live I will wish to know why, and you will pay dearly for your ineptitude. Your wage will now be four shillings per day; otherwise your existing contract still stands. Take your oath now, upon your soul.”

Fulk drew his sword slowly, so none could take it as a threat, and offered it hilt first to Eleanor. She held the weapon out before her with the flat of the blade resting on her palms. Fulk knelt at her feet and put his right hand on the sword in the middle of the space defined by Eleanor’s hands; he looked into her eyes with a solemnity which made Eleanor’s heart ache and at the same time made her want to laugh. “Your life is my life, your path is my path, my sword to guard you, my shield to shelter you, now and always, come what may, this I do swear upon my soul, so help me God.” It was a very powerful oath, also a very old one, perhaps even pagan in origin and adapted to Christian usage.

A wave of chatter flowed around the hall; Eleanor could catch not a word of it, but the tone was generally a favourable one. Amongst all but the highest nobility a bit of drama and some pretty words well spoken often met a good reception, in many parts of the higher nobility too. This was the embellishment which turned some remarkable events into a good story in the eyes of the general public. A knight swearing poetical allegiance and protection to a princess who had narrowly escaped death thanks to two of her faithful companions was splendidly close to a troubadour’s tale; the dream of life instead of the reality. Tales to this day’s work would spread throughout the kingdom, becoming more and more embellished with each telling. Eleanor could not have hoped for much better. From this day on people would expect to see Fulk following her at all times, and Trempwick would have numerous matching accounts of how she had been ‘forced’ by her brother’s concern for her life to take back her bodyguard.

Fulk stood up and took his sword back. He slid the weapon into its sheath at his hip, then bowed and kissed the ring he had given her months ago, a customary pledge of fealty with their own private meaning. Ceremony complete he joined Hawise in standing behind Eleanor. Eleanor glanced sidelong at her brother; his face was inscrutable.




I was supposed to have 3 days off last week. I was talked out of two of them. Far from the first time this has happened. Nell promises me a copy of her forthcoming book ‘How to say “NO!” and live: an instructive manual for dealing with all types, up to and including raging kings.’ It turns out it is entirely possible for a bookshop to have too many books. So many that I have given up trying to keep pace with all the important and popular ones. I’m still slogging on at a killer pace. As in a 640 page book and a 740 page book plus a few hundred pages of another on my last day off type of killer pace. Plus side is that I am reading more of my own choice of books these days …

Vladimir: Jocelyn says you are in league with his damned wife, and he’s going to ignore you. :tongueg:

Ciaran: Yes, we are way past the quieter sections and into a more action prone part again. It’s a very busy time for the story, where all the setting up pays off … hopefully.

Funny how so many on the two forums like the Pax Jocelynius joke. I nearly left that out, and only allowed it in because it was so whimsically Jocelyn.

Furball: The editor would be right – it’s a typo. Oops. Should have been ‘had’, not ‘has’.

I shall indeed “Go!” Inspired :blushes:

Kommodus: Yes, the end begins to approach … in a distant sort of way.

I did play chess quite a bit for a few years around the age of 11 – 13/14. Then I had no one to play against, and the chess programme I used to use stopped working thanks to the disappearance of MS DOS. I wasn’t great, but I wasn’t terrible either. I just didn’t have any good human opponents, or even any human opponents, to be honest. So for 10 years I didn’t play. Now I’ve got chessmaster 10, and I’m trying to settle back into my game. Problem is I find it frustrating, being crap at a game I used to be good at, and if I’m sat at my PC then I find myself gravitating to writing, whether that was my intent or not. So it’s not going terribly well.

I play tafl as well. Not great, because I only have one person to play against, my boyfriend, whom I taught to play myself. I did have a computer version of that too, but it also expired with Windows 95 and I’ve never found another. Playing against myself is something I’ve never been able to do.

Used to be reasonable at draughts too, but I’ve had no one to play against and … you get the picture. Ditto Chinese checkers, and a few other strategy type board games.

A competition of arms, how appropriate! This recent spring like weather here has made me think of outdoor fun, like the Renaissance Fair/Festival and a variety of outdoor activities. I just kinda ignored your references to the cold and thought of here. I did remember a bit of Fulk’s vow. Even though he speaks French I picture him as almost a pre-Norman man-at-arms based on the armor we first find him in and the vow. In a way he’s more of a throw back than the future “Most Humble” Knight Protector of the Realm. :knight:

Quote:

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“Christ Jesus!” groaned Aidney, wrapping both arms about his abdomen as if he could squeeze the growing pain away. Realisation hit him suddenly and he staggered to his feet, “You poisoned me!”

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You mean Jesus Christ?

Tiberius