post 47:
Missed out a was there froggy ;)Quote:
but otherwise as a king he disappointing.
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post 47:
Missed out a was there froggy ;)Quote:
but otherwise as a king he disappointing.
Interesting recruiting scene.
:laugh4: Make sure you send me a copy as well. God knows I need it, sadly he´s the only one.Quote:
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.’
On the ramparts of the outer gatehouse a man raised his arms directly up as if stretching. The pose was held for the count of three, then he lowered his arms to his sides. The signal.
Trempwick drew his sword. “Forward.” And he was off with his chosen men, moving through the dark towards White Castle. Stealthily.
Why bother with all the fuss of a siege when an alternative could be found? A spymaster’s alternative. Few would call this dishonourable. Prudent, cunning, able to save his men’s lives and accomplish his aims with surety – a general should be these things. Pitched battle and castles attacked by storm may be glorified. The very pinnacle of knightly warfare. But they belonged in songs, and only but rarely in reality. Even blood-hungry fools acknowledged this.
White Castle. One of the so-called Three Castles which controlled a part of the lower Welsh March. A part which hadn’t sided with him. A strong castle. Outer walls and earthworks, inner walls and more earthworks, a keep. Hard to take by siege. Starvation would be the key.
Except he had a person here, a person there …
And so the outer gatehouse was open for him tonight. The inner gatehouse also. Guarded by his handful while the castle slept on oblivious. Now only a case of reinforcing those gatehouses, sending men along the walls to take the towers, and entering the keep in the confusion.
He and his thirty entered the first gatehouse. They climbed the stairs. No resistance. No people at all. On the ramparts above the gates waited his bought sentries. The thirty Trempwick split: ten to go to the left, ten to the right, and ten to stay. They would sweep the walls clean.
The second party was following a count of two hundred behind his. Trempwick went down to meet them. This party was larger, a hundred men at arms.
As he led them towards the second gatehouse the still of the night was broken. The fighting had begun. Expected – it would have begun at some point. But now the garrison would begin to look for the cause. Wake. Spring into action. Trempwick began to jog, breathing evenly behind the faceplate of his helm. Wake and spring into action, minds fugged by slumber. Hardly even dressed, let alone armoured. Confused.
On the towers of the inner wall a few archers started to shoot at the advancing force.
There was a lot of ground between inner and outer gatehouses. Enough that it took time to cross. Time which allowed a few fools to come down and try to close the inner gates. Fools his brought men fought.
They still fought when Trempwick came to the right distance. More people were appearing here and there, clutching weapons and shouting in alarm at what they saw. Too late.
Formalities. Let none say he had not observed them, where others might not. “A Trempwick!” he shouted. “A Trempwick for the Queen!”
His men echoed, “For the Queen!”
Then it was fighting. Slash. Stab. Parry. Block. Dodge. Kill. Blood. Noise. Same few things, repeated over in many variations. Until there was no one left.
Trempwick sent half his force storming on towards the keep. The rest he took up onto the inner gatehouse. Most he sent on, left and right as before. The rest formed his bodyguard.
He surveyed his battle.
More of his men were pouring into the outer parts of the castle. The towers and ramparts of the outer wall were cleared where archers might threaten his advance. The further stretches were still contested. On the inner wall his men had disappeared into the two towers flanking the gatehouse. Down below soldiers raced up the stairs to the door of the keep. It had been closed. The garrison had not managed to burn the wooden stairs leading to it. And so it was vulnerable. A stout wooden beam was being brought up to act as a battering ram.
Trempwick paced back and forth of the gatehouse. Obvious. A target. Arrows and bolts homed in on him, clattering on the stonework and occasionally hitting one of his bodyguards. A pitiful shower, the work of but a handful of men. A general must be obvious. He must not be seen to cower in safety.
Time passed and people died.
When the outer wall was all but entirely his, when the inner wall was mostly his, when the last of his designated forces had entered the castle, then the door to the keep gave way.
The sun rose on a castle that was entirely his. Bodies were being cleared for burial. The prisoners were clustered in a guarded herd. The money and valuables of the place were piled before him. The flags fluttering in the light breeze to be found at the top of the high places of the castle bore his fox married with Nell’s gooseberry and crown.
It was done. And in far less time than others had said it would take them to do for him.
Eleanor joined the polite applause when the minstrel finished his latest song. Alas, he began another after making his bows. Yet another. The tables had been cleared of the last course of food long ago, and still she must sit here and listen to a repertoire which had surely been chosen to please Anne. Love song after love song, with only a few about famous battles and suchlike to break it up and keep the men happy.
What a waste of time. If not for Anne’s grandmother sitting there and blatantly enjoying the singer’s efforts she could have politely left and gone and done something useful. Now it would be rude to leave.
Fixing her expression of engagement in place and leaving one ear cocked for anything she needed to respond to, Eleanor stopped her grumbling and turned to something more important. The future. With eight knights – lowly ones, excepting Fulk – and forty-four men at arms behind her she had a force larger than strictly required … assuming it was a time of peace. Larger than she could afford to pay, too. She had dipped into the money Hugh had provided for this mission to pay the initial bounties and buy the liveries for her new soldiers. Hugh might not like that, but surely even in his stuffiest of moods he would agree that it was preferable to her being carted off by the next one to try his hand at kidnapping her. If he didn’t, well tough.
Whereupon came her next main concern: her household. She needed one, a proper one. Assuming a trim household in the style of the lower nobility, she needed at least one more maid, a clerk, a steward, a chamberlain, a marshal, a cook, a few pages, at least one messenger, and a priest. She needed trusted bailiffs at each of her manors, men loyal to her who could be relied upon run them in her absence without cheating her. The other lower servants and runabouts could be supplied by wherever she was in residence, as was generally the custom.
With that she would be independent, except in finances.
Whereupon came the third. With an army and a household she could remain free of Hugh, with care. Then she could take control of her lands, and become Lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Ketton, and Barrowden in fact as well as name. Then she would have the money, and if she reduced her army she would be fully independent, so long as she stepped carefully in all aspects, and spent not a penny more than she had to.
It couldn’t be as easy as it sounded. That would be too good. Hugh had know he was letting her from her cage when he gave his grudging permission for her to come to Scotland. If he had any sense he’d have already thought of a way to put her back in his hand, with a grip every bit as tight as before. If not tighter.
The ear she’d left cocked alerted her to the end of the current batch of musical inanity. Eleanor clapped and made all the right noises, yet again.
This time instead of launching into his next song the minstrel stood. “Your Majesties,” he bowed to Anne and her grandmother, “your Highness,” he bowed to Eleanor, “and my most noble lords and ladies, I crave leave to depart from tradition for my next piece, to present one of my own making.”
Tradition; Eleanor nearly rolled her eyes. Where was the point in having a pet minstrel if he didn’t make new pieces to the glory of his patron?
Anne’s grandmother inclined her head. “You have our leave.”
The minstrel seated himself again, settling his harp on his knee. “I sing of battle, and of deeds of heroism. I sing of the battle of Sir Fulk FitzWilliam in defence of his most noble princess.”
If not for Trempwick’s training Eleanor’s jaw would have hit the ground so hard the bone would have cracked.
Anne leaned over and whispered, “Thought you might like it.”
“You commissioned this?” It was intended as a question but came out as an accusation, which perhaps was far more honest.
“Yes. The better known he is the harder it is for anyone to … step on him.”
Eleanor didn’t think the girl meant Hugh, Trempwick, or any of the others in the queue waiting to put boot to knight. She was most likely thinking of her brother.
The minstrel was quite skilled, Eleanor had to admit that much. He could sing, he could play, and his wording was good. His accuracy was dubious, yet the image of Fulk, sun reflecting off his bright armour and blinding his foe, bearing down on her attackers – on a fiery charger, no less – and making the earth quake with his battlecry of, “A FitzWilliam for the Gooseberry!” was … enduring. She was less fond of the part which had her trembling and crying piteously to God for help like a good damsel. Sir Miles won a few lines also, described as falling nobly in a pile of his enemies, failing only because he was lacking armour.
When he finished the usual applause was more enthusiastic than it had been for any other song.
Down on the lower tables Fulk had gone a nice crimson, surrounded by people congratulating him yet again. One girl has the audacity to kiss him on the cheek!
In the back of the massive hall a figure pushed off from slouching against the wall and advanced to the clear space in the centre, clapping sardonically. People scrambled from his path as soon as they saw him, bowing. Behind his back a few surreptitiously made the sign of the cross.
“Oh, very good,” said Malcolm.
Now when had he arrived, Eleanor wondered.
Anne’s grandmother gripped the edge of the table. “What do you do here, boy?”
Malcolm kept his peace until he reached the dais. He stood before the high table. “A pleasure to see you too, granny. My travel was tolerable, rushed and the weather inclement, but tolerable. My people are seeing about food and a bath, and my other comforts. Since you ask.”
“I do not know how you dare to show your face here, if what I have heard is true.”
“Of course it’s true – you heard it, so it must be. But tell me, which particular outrage are we talking about?”
“You threw the Bishop of Dunblane into his own carp pond!”
Malcolm laughed, face lighting up with glee. “Oh yes! What a fine sight it was.” Sobering, the boy proclaimed in a voice which carried about the hall, “If the Nefastus can suffer eat shit during Lent then so too can everyone else. I tossed his roast hog in after him, and his goose, and his bevy of chickens, and his saddle of venison. Bastard can choke down his salted herring and endless fish dishes with the rest of us.”
“You shame our name-”
“More than he did?” he shot back. Malcolm shifted his feet so his shoulder was to his grandmother and his front to Anne and Eleanor. “Good to see you got here safely. I don’t like having to rescue people twice.” A lazy grin spread across the boy’s face as he regarded Eleanor. “A question, your Highness, if I may?”
“Go on.”
“How’d you get that scar under your eye?”
Assuming he meant to shame her Eleanor answered baldly in a level tone, “I said something to displease my lord father. His ring cut me.”
“I’ve been hearing a story about it. Perhaps you’ll tell me if it’s true or not. I heard it was Saint Edward the Confessor’s sapphire that made the cut, leaving you marked by England’s coronation ring and - not only that - by the oldest and best part of it.”
Of course, now the arse in the crown was dead Trempwick could spread rumours about things known only to the three of them. “No,” Eleanor lied. “It was his signet ring. My lord father wore the coronation ring on his left, and he was right-handed, as are most.” Except when it suited him to backhand with his left, as it had on the day he’d handed her over to Trempwick’s care.
Vladimir: Spring? Yes, I suppose it is spring here too. It’s been snowing a bit, and raining sleet, and generally freezing cold. Huh, good thing frogs prefer cold weather over hot.
Tiberius: No, I mean Christ Jesus ~:) It’s a very old usage which is no longer used, rather like Jesù, Kristus/Christus, and some others. Thanks for the other, I shall edit it into place in my manuscript.
Ciaran: Nell says she shall get her clerk to make a few copies for general sale. At only four marks and five pence per copy (signed, and with decorative cover, high quality parchment, and an illustration of the author (i.e. her!) at the front) these volumes will be high-value collector's editions. Myself, I'm glad of the free copy - that is one expensive book!
That picture better be of her with nothing more than that infamous towel! I'd need to extort every Jew in the kingdom before I'd be able to afford that sum. It does sound like a quality book though so I guess I’ll consider it.Quote:
At only four marks and five pence per copy
Gah!
I'm not sure what to say. Trempwick does the text-book sneak attack on a well-built castle. You describe the castle and its defenders well.
Meanwhile, Fulk trains a few guys well and you show us these aren't the hundred-thousand man armies of Napoleanic times. They are closer and more personal.
THEN you bring it down and personal with Malcolm asking about the scar.
It's all I can do to keep from putting a hand on each of your rear cheeks and lifting you up and saying, "Yay!" Not for where the plot is going. You lost me several times. Not even for some of the character stuff. . . I LIKED Selova, or whatever her name was, and - to me - Hugh and Trempwick are way overstated.
But Froggy, you consistently change the mood and tell a story that is both "consistent" with historical fact (as we know it), and compelling as a narrative of people - in love, at odds, fighting for "royalty" and etc.
Hawise and the other hand-maidens are a GEM! Of course, Eleanor and Fulk and the King are boffo, Hugh and his wife are another gem. But Anne, her family and Jocelyn are GOLD. Trempwick must then be platinum.
Of course I'm looking forward to the story here. But you DO have a story that could be really published.
I'm amazed, obviously. Keep writing.
I like your thoughts on the characters. The one that feels the most "alive" to me is Fulk while the least realistic is Trempwick; he just seems too uber spymaster but I like how creepy he can get. Overall I do enjoy the wondrous variety of characters so keep it up Queen Froggy!
It was only chance which saw Eleanor entering her bedchamber after watching the first half of her little army’s early morning training session. She had in fact planned to defrost next to the solar fireplace while battering her way through more of William of Chieti’s wearisome treatise on church law.
So it was only chance that she came across the letter lying on her pillow so early in the day.
Eleanor snatched it up, heart racing. The beats picked up speed when she saw the seal: plain green wax with a simple fox’s face stamped into it.
How many times across the years had she received such a letter? She could count the occasions on the fingers of both hands, and had no need ever to pause and recall. Eight. Eight such letters in fourteen years, with no pattern to them saving that there had been none at all in those first few years. No pattern, if you looked only at timing. The rest was … traditional.
Letter still in hand Eleanor went to the doorway and called out to Fulk and Hawise, “I do not wish to be disturbed, for anything. If anyone asks I have a headache brought on by the cold while watching the training.” She closed the door on their questions, and slid the simple bolt home.
Parchment and writing equipment was easy to find, the whole of her three room suite being as littered with them as with books. It was the work of moments to stuff spare hair ribbons and comb back into the small box which stored them, and then to move box and mirror from her dressing table.
Eleanor paused to take a breath. The racing of her heart slowed. Methodical. She spread the parchment out ready for use, set the quill in the ink pot, and left clear space at the left hand side of the table where the letter would be easy to see while working. Only then did she draw one of her knives, and crouch next to the fire. Eleanor held the steel blade in the tip of the highest flame just long enough for it to heat.
It was possible to slice a wax seal free of a document without damaging anything, so long as the blade used was hot and the hand practiced. Hers was. If asked Eleanor could reattach the seal so no one could tell it had been tampered with. That would not be needful this time. The seal was only sliced from tradition, because that was a part of what these letters were.
When the seal came free Eleanor placed it fox down on the table so the melted wax could solidify without bonding to the woodwork. The knife she also set aside to cool.
She unfolded the letter. She could not read it; it was encoded. They always were.
Eleanor had learned this code years ago, so it did not take too long to transcribe the letter into the translation. Except this too was another code. She began to decipher from that one.
Trempwick’s favoured code was the final one, reached late that day. It resolved into plain language. Eleanor did not translate that one, as she could read the code with only a little more effort and care than the ordinary languages. And read it she did, clear through once, and again, and one more time. Then she set it aside and thought. Then picked it up and read again, committing the words to memory.
Long enough that it took a while to read, short enough that it was manageable, this letter would provide material for hard thought for a long time to come. They always did. It was much of their purpose. They were … all the things Trempwick could not say to her face. All the advice he could give her. All the things he wanted her to think about. Always honest, always, even where it did him no credit – she had hunted long and hard for the smallest trace of a lie since that first letter and never found one. They were the man himself speaking, not the spymaster or any of his other facades, and so they were never spoken of.
I find myself so proud of you, even as I curse my own stupidity and wonder how and when I became so blind.
Eleanor hugged the letter to her chest, abruptly so homesick her vision misted.
So many mistakes.
Someone tapped on her door. It would be Fulk. He had been doing that periodically all day. “Eleanor?”
I looked, as of course I had to. I found nothing to ease my mind. Quite the contrary. A betrothed dishonoured and dropped, a trail of women dallied with and dropped, more than one angry husband. So I tried to guide you away. It didn’t fit my plans, it was wildly unsuitable, it was dangerous, and I had no wish to see you hurt. You have always been more stubborn than a mule. Trempwick had not mentioned anything Fulk had not already told her; she understood his fear even if she did not share it.
“Are you alright?”
“As I keep telling you, I am perfectly fine. I am trying to think.”
“I’ve brought you some food. Since you told me to drown my head when I asked if you’d come out for dinner.”
Eleanor flushed. She had told him just that, and now it seemed rather too much, even if she had grown sick of his pestering and had lost her train of thought on the interruption.
“If you don’t open the door this time I’m forcing the lock.”
“You will break your shoulder first,” she called, just to see what he would make of it.
“I have two, and there’s a bench I can use as a battering ram. If not for consideration for our hosts I’d fetch an axe.”
Standing, Eleanor said, “Dear, dear. You are persistent, aren’t you? I wonder if it is a bad habit I should cure you of, or one I should seek only to moderate so it appears at suitable times.” Now she was moving Eleanor found herself reminded of the fact she had only broken her work a few times, to light some candles when the light began to fail and other such short things. Her neck ached, her back ached, her legs were stiff, her shoulders ached, exactly like the character in the scribe’s lament.
Once the original letter and its seal were safely concealed under the mattress of her bed she drew back the bolt and opened the door, to find him standing there without the promised meal. He put on an exaggerated smile. “Ah! At last I set eyes on the fabled hermit princess.”
“Idiot. Liar too – where is my food?” Eleanor leaned forward and peered to either side of the doorway hopefully, searching for a hint of something edible. Until the accursed man had mentioned food she hadn’t realised she was hungry.
“In a place of safety. I didn’t want to overset the tray while knocking the door down.”
From the depths of the room where Fulk’s body blocked Eleanor’s view Hawise’s voice came, “I placed it next to the fire so it would keep warm, in case it took him a while to coax you out. He’d have left it on the table to grow cold.”
Fulk turned and took the tray from the maid, heaving a very large sigh as he did so. “I feel so put upon. Beset on all sides. Good thing I’ve the patience of a saint and a thick skin-”
Eleanor corrected, “Thick head.”
There wasn’t the slightest hesitation before his cheery reply, “Yes. Comes in handy when you start hitting me, oh gooseberry mine.” He rapped his fingernails on the underside of tray he was holding. “You’ve no idea the fuss we went through to get this, so if you don’t eat the lot I’m cramming it down your throat.”
Fuss indeed; one of the very many downsides to Lent was the limitation of just one meal per day, a restriction neatly dodged about by small handfuls of food here and there eaten at the usual times for the missing meals. What Fulk held was not a handful. They must have made a great deal of her being ‘ill’, as only the ill, the very young or old and the pregnant were granted any exemption, and she could hardly see them claiming her to be any of the others. Not if they wished to live.
He needn’t have worried; miserable as the palace kitchen’s strict observance – no cheese and other forbidden delights would surface within these expensive walls, sadly. There was entirely too many people to notice the lack of suitable devotion, and this King of Scots were very jealous of his reputation and all which touched upon it – was, the contents of the tray smelled divine.
Eleanor’s stomach let her down by growling. “Stop standing there like a human table and bring that in.” She cleared the doorway and returned to sitting at her little table, piling up her sheaf of decoded letters with the one she could read at the top; she’d keep reading while she ate.
Fulk set the tray down in the space she had made, and failed to depart. He shut the door and sat himself down on her bed.
Eleanor whipped the cloth covering the tray off, and took stock of what they had found for her. Overall it was fairly good: pottage, lamprey pie, a handful of assorted dried fruits, a chunk of fine white bread, a bit of marzipan with raisins in it, a mess of stewed vegetables, and a small flagon of wine which smelled as if it has been spiced. She started spooning up the pottage.
He asked, “So, what held your attention so firmly today?”
Eleanor didn’t let him interrupt her carving out a spoonful of the pie and consuming it, reckoning he’d done more than enough interrupting for one day. As she chewed she tapped the spoon on the pie crust, something she kept doing long after she’d swallowed. “What,” she answered in the end, “do you do when you find your cause is a lie?”
That got his attention; she heard the bed creak as he stopped lounging and bolted upright. “What do you mean?”
I betrayed my king – my friend, but years ago. Before you were born. My defence … I could see no other way, save to hurt my friend badly and cause so much trouble. I thought there was no reason. When I found I was wrong it was too late. What a disaster I made with that sentimental decision.
“It seems likely that Hugh is a bastard.”
The child, when finally the pregnancy was announced, could have belonged to either. I should have seen to it that there was a good gap between Enguerrand leaving and William’s return. I again failed my friend by saying nothing.
“He has no right to the throne.”
Neglected, but still he cared for her. He was so proud of what he had: a family, a dutiful wife, a hold on his crown which went from strength to strength. It all seemed so bright. I couldn’t tell him that was half a lie. For her also; I pitied her, admired her, and before she shattered my illusions my soft young heart held affection for her. I had no wish to see her fall, even when she proved less wise, less … great than I had thought.
“My mother was faithless. Like my sister.”
I hoped, so much did I hope. My first disappointment came when the child was a boy. My second, as the boy grew it became obvious he had nothing from William. There was still Stephan, the firstborn and of true blood, so it was not of critical import. Then what happened there happened, and I could not stop it.
“I am on the wrong side.”
I despaired. What could I do with this mess I had helped make? To tell William now was unthinkable. It would do no good. And John, true blood he may have been, but so unsuitable, even at that age. The elder sister with her next best claim, she was gone to her foreign marriage where she would quickly become too alien to rule here. The remaining sisters had their fates arranged similarly, all except one.
“I am not on the just side. I am not upholding tradition and law.”
Then, by pure chance, I met the youngest one of the family, whom I had heard so many interesting things about.
“I am ensuring that the last of our blood to rule is my father, ending an unbroken line which has lasted for hundreds of years.”
And I saw … potential.
“Those I took to be traitors are not.”
I doubted. I admit it. It would be far from easy, or sure. And you were so young, it was hard to be certain of what you were, whether you would survive long enough, or be old enough when the time came. Then why? To amend my error. To give England a ruler of some skill to follow your father. To safeguard my own place in the future also - this too I admit. To undertake a challenge the like of which is incredible. To see if I could. Because, after a time, it seemed right, and it still does.
“Instead of upholding my brother’s rights I am denying Matilda hers.”
But do not think I took you solely because of this. Even with none of it, you would have proved sufficiently interesting. My soul would have cried out against wasting you as William was intent on doing. You are not one of the nothings, to fit into their mundane world and live a pointless life.
“I have stepped into a mess some twenty-four years old, or more, knowing far less than I thought.”
So now you must see why I always said softness was for fools, dangerous, dangerous beyond belief.
Eleanor nibbled at a dried fig. When the world turned upside down you still needed to eat..
Fulk asked, “What makes you think this?”
“A letter, from Trempwick.”
“And you’re fool enough to believe it?” he exploded. “That lying, manipulative bastard wants nothing more than to put you on the throne and rule through you, and you believe it?”
“Given how unflattering it all is, yes. Given that he has never lied to me in such letters, yes. Given that he goes into great detail of how it all happened, yes. Given that he admits that, and much else, yes.”
It was a marriage of practicality, nothing unusual there. They got on well enough, but with no great affection, no matter how William may have liked to remember it in his last days. He neglected her, so badly. Out of a year he spent perhaps three months in her company. Year after year. He left too many things to her alone, giving her no aid or appearing intermittently to try his hand and disrupt what she had done. In his defence I can say he was never consciously cruel to her. That seems to have been reserved mostly for you, because you were his favourite and disappointed him, fool that he was in not seeing. You are so much like him; out of all his children you are the closest match. You were, in very many ways, what he wanted from his heir. Or perhaps he did see, and hated you for being a girl and the youngest, and for being like him enough to stand up to him. So very few dared that in his last years, and then this slip of a girl had the audacity to do it repeatedly. Ah, but I stray. Joanna endured years of this, years made worse by knowing that while she was alone he was not. Not, I must add, that he flaunted his mistresses. She gave no sign of doing anything but continuing to endure, and no hint that her endurance was other than simple contentment. Then a young knight called Enguerrand came to court …
Fulk snorted, plainly still unconvinced. He was content to leave it at that, and advance on to the more important question here, reminding her yet again of why she was so fond of making use of his brain. “So what will you do?”
“Really, what is there for me to do?” Eleanor broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it in the sauce seeping from the lamprey pie. “It is easier to watch another and guard against their mistakes than it is to do the same for oneself, as I think Trempwick found. I could not rule. Poor as he may sometimes be, Hugh is prepared for it, and supported well he will do well enough. My father named him heir. Me? Look at the mess I have managed thus far.” Casting down her spoon Eleanor turned to sit the other way around in her backless chair, facing towards Fulk and with her dinner behind her. “The bloodline on the throne ends, with my father or with me, yet with Hugh it lives on in name and illusion instead of visibly failing. Whichever of the two of us accedes, we do wrong by law; Matilda is heir under law without express command by the arse in the crown that it should be otherwise. Whoever, there is upheaval, excepting that in my case the damage is wider and more obvious – customs once shattered and bent are hard to repair. For the future, he provides the chance of a secure succession. He is the named heir,” she repeated. “He was chosen, named, and so he is the heir, whatever he may be.”
Fulk gazed into space, more than likely thinking on what she had just said. He shook himself. “Eat your dinner,” he scolded.
“And there is another reason – it is quite impossible to be a queen when you allow a baseborn nothing of a man at arms you made into a knight to order you about.” She winked at him, and returned to her food like a good obedient wife.
The contents of the tray vanished in short order under her onslaught.
As she sipped at her wine, Eleanor found herself wondering where that faint sympathy she had had for her mother had gone. It had been there so long, barely noticed, rarely thought of. Until now it was gone.
Dear Lord, what else had she inherited along with the colour of her hair and a penchant for deeply unsuitable knights!?
Fulk moved to her side, and extended a hand to pick up the uppermost translation of Trempwick’s letter, pausing so she had time to bat him away or snatch the letter to safety if she didn’t want him to touch it. He read it, or tried. “It’s all in gibberish.”
Eleanor corrected, “Code. The last of many, and one I can read without translation.”
“What does it say?”
Eleanor pulled the sheet of parchment from his hand. Then she picked up another from the pile, and another. Collection complete she waved the bundle at him. “It is rather too long to read aloud.” Assuming she were so inclined, which she was not. There was much there she did not wish to share, for various reasons.
Fulk took the sheaf from her unresisting hand. He looked at the top sheet, and the next, and the last. “Great chunks of text, gaps, and loads of little lines scattered on their lonesome.”
“Chunks of history or explanation, gaps to break up sections, and loads of little thoughts and things for me to think on. Standard enough presentation, if it is only in something you can read.”
“And all on the same subject. That man can certainly go on when he’s got a reason to, whatever a person might think from meeting him.”
“All on many subjects,” Eleanor corrected, taking her work back. “It is a … lesson, I suppose.”
Fulk leaned over her shoulder and tapped a bit of text at random. “What does this bit say? If you don’t mind.”
Eleanor read the line, and smiled faintly. “A scar is just a scar, no matter the source of the cut. But it can be made to be otherwise.”
Fulk’s eyebrows inched up, and his eyes slid over to look at her cheek. “Marked out for the throne,” he muttered.
Eleanor’s smile didn’t change. That was one meaning. As usual, there were others, and her puzzling them out was Trempwick’s intent. To get the best of his advice you must work, and prove yourself worthy of it.
Fulk’s finger came to rest on a brief line at the very end of the first sheet. “And this?”
“A puppet can have control over the master.” That was all he said, the rest was for her to discover. Presently her main thought was that it was a caution against setting herself up as controller of Hugh.
Looking as though he had a foul taste in his mouth, Fulk moved to the second page and chose a new section. “This?”
“It is a wonder I did not turn grey, so much did you worry me over our years.” There was more, and Fulk would not get it.
“This?”
“I would really rather not say.” The scattered, mortifying comparisons between herself and her beloved regal ancestor could stay known to herself and Trempwick alone.
“And this bit?”
“It’s about how I learned to swim.” She hadn’t wanted to, not after how Stephan died. Trempwick had given her no choice; sink or swim was more than a turn of phrase.
His next choice came right at the top of the second page, a medium-sized paragraph. “This?”
“It is a description of Hugh’s father. I will not say more.” Let this dead Enguerrand rot, forgotten, to make some recompense for the mess he had helped make.
“This one?”
And he accused her of being incurably curious! At this rate he would have her read the whole thing, only out of order. “Softness is ruin. Hardness is ruin.” An isolated thought, one she thought had to do with his lectures on being so hard one became brittle and inflexible, and on the dangers of being too soft in any of the possible ways.
Frowning, Fulk took a bit longer to choose his next section. “There?”
“Expend the lesser to serve the greater, in all things and all ways.”
Fulk’s interpretation of that made him wrinkle his nose. “What about this?” The section he had chosen was long, the part detailing her mother and Enguerrand.
“The details of my mother’s shame will not be shared.”
“Here?”
“I should have drowned your pet at the start, attachment or no. The dangers of being soft. And of dismissing the tiny and trivial.”
Fulk pointed at another line. “And this bit?”
“Pain is a lesson. Have you learned it?”
Fulk snatched his hand away as if the words might contaminate him. “Burn the filthy thing. Burn it, and forget it. Lies, more lies, twisting, and filth.”
Eleanor formed the sheets up into a neat gathering again and set them atop the pile, smoothing the top sheet with the palm of her hand. “No. And that is a hasty judgement, considering you have heard perhaps a thirtieth of the whole.”
He snorted, sounding uncannily like his horse. “Don’t let him twist you to playing his game.”
“I thought you were a knight, not a paranoid mother hen,” grumbled Eleanor.
“Oh, I try to be the best of both.”
And lo, the king did come. And how he did come! Fulk felt disloyal for thinking it, but he could not help it. Eleanor’s father had been a complete disappointment, nothing like a king should be. All Hugh’s attempts to be princely or kingly fell flat, correct in the form and lacking thanks to his stiffness. John had been an indulgent moron, and as princely as a squashed hedgehog. Eleanor - as deeply as he loved her and wished her to be other than what she was born to be - was little better, held back badly by family and funds, and disinterested.
Perth had turned out to give its king a ceremonial welcome. Minstrels played outside the gate, where the King of Scots sat in state to receive the mayor and other city notables. Those men did reverence on behalf of their city, and – Fulk had heard - presented a chalice of solid gold, studded with rubies and worked with the king’s own badge of a swan. Gossip couldn’t settle on how much it had cost, but there was one certainty – it was expensive, a gift befitting a rich trade city and the realm’s capital.
The walls were lined with soldiers, all in brightly polished armour and clean livery. Above every tower, every gate, the king’s banner flew, a red lion rearing up on a gold background. Along the route the king would take, people had crowded out to cheer him by. They were cheering already; the mixed voices drifted back to the palace balcony where Fulk stood, playing bodyguard at Eleanor’s side. More soldiers stood by to keep the common folk under control; from Fulk’s vantage point they formed a lining of yellow and red running along each side of the streets between the gate and the palace.
Money would be dispersed by liveried servants riding behind the king on his progress through the city. Food would be given to the poor. Tonight would be a feast – for this day only the Lenten fast was banished for all, for the arrival of a king was a thing to be celebrated with cheer. Eleanor had been more cynical; she’d only said that Anne’s father was demonstrating his power over the church by waiving the restrictions himself, as he wished, to suit himself. To help the common party along twenty barrels of ale were to be granted to the city from the king’s own stores. Eleanor had been equally sceptical on that, this time claiming that the ale would be poor quality and brought specially for this purpose.
Anne, her grandmother and Malcolm reached the gateways, disappearing from Fulk’s view. He could have been with them on their ride out to meet the King of Scots, if only Eleanor had not refused to go. “Am I now his wife, to go running out to meet him?” she’d said in response to Anne’s query. “I shall be received as is fitting to my dignity, my rank, and my purpose in coming here. I shall not jump for him, or crawl.” So here she was, stood on a balcony with a view, dressed up in some of those fancy new clothes they’d arranged for her, crowned and dignified yet again.
Anne and her two relations emerged on the other side of the gate. They advanced along the carpet laid in a strip leading to the dais, Malcolm in the middle and leading by a few paces, flanked by his sister and grandmother. The sour princeling knelt at his father’s in a smooth motion, Anne and the grandmother dipping into curtseys so deep Fulk wondered they didn’t fall.
The King of Scots made a gesture. He must have said something, because another bout of cheering erupted. The three stood straight again. Malcolm advanced to kiss his father’s ring, then stood to his right. Anne did the same, moving to his left and positioning herself further back than her brother. When the grandmother went to kiss her son’s ring the King of Scots stopped her, rose, and clasped her to him in an embrace which could have belonged to any son reunited with a much-beloved mother. More cheering ensued.
Fulk whistled. “If I’d ever tried that my mother would have whacked me on the head for playing silly games so others think I’m better than I am.”
“Heaven knows what mine would have done.”
He looked sharply at Eleanor, hearing a trace of melancholy in her words. She ignored him.
The king and his family mounted up, the musicians forming into a block at the very front of the column, soldiers marching in a block after them, then some mounted knights, then the king, behind him Malcolm, then Anne and her grandmother, more knights, then the coin throwers, and finally another block of soldiers. The rest of the party the king had arrived with would make their own way to the palace, separate from this parade.
To the beat of the sounds of drums and flutes the King of Scots made his entrance into the city of Perth, from time to time raising a hand to acknowledge his subject’s cheers. As the liveried servants reached the area where the crowd began – a good minute behind the king, thanks to the length of his procession – the sparkle of coins being thrown through the air in handfuls lit the morning.
Eleanor muttered, “What a show off.”
Weee! A frog-sized episode, at long last. Albeit a small frog-sized episode.
Question: Why is a frog like a moulting parrot?
Answer: Both shed at an alarming rate, one losing feathers, the other losing days off.
Eleanor is not only promising me a copy of her book, but she is threatening her scribe in an effort to get him to transcribe my copy faster. So many days of planned writing, so many disappointments. :sigh:
Vladimir: Nope, it is a picture in the standard mould of medieval dedicational pictures: Eleanor in all her crowned glory being presented her book by the scribe who wrote it. Fulk says he will refrain from looking for his biggest sword only because you say he is your favourite. But he would like to make it clear that if anyone is going to have the privilege of gazing at the gooseberry in a towel it will be him.
If you think Trempy is good, go and read the Empire trilogy (daughter of the empire, servant of the empire, mistress of the empire.) by Raymond Feist and Janny Wurts. The character Arakasi makes Trempy look incompetent.
Furball: If I say I don’t actually notice I am doing these things until someone points them out, will I lose some of my frogsomeness? Because I honestly do not know it, not until it is pointed out. I just write this as it needs to be, as it feels right. Sometimes when it is pointed out I can see why a particular order of scenes or way of writing a thing works so well, so please do keep it up.
Trempwick and Hugh are way overstated how? :is in curious frog mode, well and truly now:
Edit: D'oh! I missed out the entire first scene when posting this! I'm a tired froggy ...
Tres interessant!
I chuckled at the Malcolm in the middle line. I haven't seen that show in years but it was kinda funny. I got a little excited as she was reading Trampwick’s letter thinking about the item Jocelyn is carrying. I imagine he’ll take the most direct route possible to get to her. That is, the most direct route from brothel to brothel “just in case she may have fallen on hard times”.
When I say Tremp and Hugh are overstated, I mean that there were more scenes showing one or another of their character traits than were necessary; i.e., it seemed some scenese seemed repetitive. Wish I'd made a not of them at the time. I'd need to go back and reread most everything to find those points in the exposition now.
The King of Scots finished his showing off outside, did a bit of showing off inside his palace, and the came to rest in his main hall, still showing off. He sat on his throne at the dais, his court gathered about him – that much was a familiar sight to Eleanor. It was the way the man did it that was so obnoxious. Take his crown, for example. He wore his full state crown instead of his lesser one: gold, more gold, gems, more gems, some more gold, some more gems – it had chinstraps like a helmet so it could be secured to his royal little head. England’s crown had never needed that, because it was tasteful, balanced, and did not contain enough gold and stones to fund three sizeable castles. According to Anne he had had it made specially, replacing the original crown, which, apparently, he had found too mundane for his grand majesty.
Eleanor wished she had not worn her own crown. The simple band of plain gold was cast into pall, and it seemed likely people would see it as cheap rather than discerning. It hadn’t been her choice or design anyway! She’d just been given the thing and told to say thank you. The crown she’d had as a child hadn’t been any different, just smaller and, in the end, when it had been let out too many times, melted down and added to the metal required to make this one.
Malcolm lounged at his father’s right, on a throne smaller and lower than his father’s. Dressed from head to toe in black with only the white of his shirt at his throat and the colour of the decorative bands at neck and hem to provide variety, crowned with a band of gold with a few gemstone and fleurons rising at front, back and sides, he presented a sight quite in contrast to his father.
The thump of a staff on the tiled floor told her it was time. Three ponderous thumps and the king’s herald announced, “Her royal Highness, Princess Eleanor of England, lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Ketton, and Barrowden.”
As announcements went it was not to Eleanor’s liking; better if they had left out her meagre possessions.
Alone she proceeded down the central space of the hall. She dropped her curtsey before the dais, not a fraction deeper than necessary. She did not wait for him to give her leave to straighten; she was not his underling, and only marginally his lesser … sort of.
Anne’s father was not precisely the sort of man you’d expect to find under a crown like that. Or perhaps then again he was. In appearance he was entirely unremarkable. The most remarkable thing about him was the beard, a long thing of straight hair, tortured into curls at the tips to match his equally tortured long hair, a style England had abandoned when William Rufus collected an unexpected arrow to the chest in the New Forest. The tip of a scar poked out onto his cheek above where the hair stopped growing, and likely provided the reason the beard had been grown. “Ah. Our cousin of England. We are most pleased to receive you.”
Forewarned, Eleanor managed to keep her face set into pleased graciousness without trouble. King Malcolm was one of those who believed he spoke for all, and so pluralized. Cousin was more interesting. Reigning monarchs were ‘cousins’, usually, a convenient term which had everything to do with being one of God’s anointed and very little to do with the tangled web of marriages; cousin by role and not by blood. Yet very occasionally the term was applied to all royalty, extending the ‘family’. “Thank you,” said Eleanor.
“We were most saddened to hear of your father’s demise. We mourn him for himself, as well as for our daughter’s sake. A great man, and one we found respect for, and liking, though we had cause to do otherwise.” With an ironic smile the king touched the scar on his cheek; he had collected it in the only major battle fought between the two realm in his rule, a battle which had been a sound defeat for the Scots. “We are told you wish to renew the alliance between our holdings.”
“I am here to do so on my brother’s behalf, yes.”
“Business is a thing for later. For now we do celebrate our return to our beloved capital, and this meeting with our guests.” One beringed hand rose to rest on the arm of the chair next to his. “Pray you, be seated.”
“Thank you.” Eleanor sat, not liking where she was positioned. She was in his wife’s place.
The other ranking members of her party were announced and came forward for their brief introductions. Without Sir Miles the party lacked in prestige, made up now of people who, while important and holding land, were primarily royal servants, such as the chief clerk.
When Fulk’s turn came king Malcolm’s eyes lit up. “Ah. We have heard much of you. We find you must be the son of a great man.”
Still on bent knee, Fulk looked up. “Sire, I would hope any son who has had a good father would say so.”
“Yes.” The word dragged out. The had which had been stroking the royal beard extended to Fulk in an invitation to kiss the royal ring. “We do name you our friend.”
Eleanor tried not to let the sight of Fulk doing what looked very like homage to the King of Scots annoy her. It was an empty action, and if the man thought he could gain advantage by making her party seem shabby and claiming her famous knight, well she would find a way to make use of it and prove him wrong. Somehow. If only Miles were here – he had been intended to lead, and she to follow and learn. Diplomacy and its sort were learned one quarter in theory and instruction and three quarters in witnessing and doing, and one quarter as natural talent, bringing it to a total of five which, Trempwick had always said, made about as much sense as most of the mandatory compliments.
When he’d finished kissing the ring Fulk was given leave to remain standing. King Malcolm said, “We have given thought to a tournament, and would greatly like this, and find it a diversion and entertainment fitting to honour our cousin of England. A tournament of peace, in the most gentle manner. We shall require the two teams be mixed, that it not be said our two nations are pitted against one another. It is our wish that you lead one team, as foremost of your lady’s knights.”
Fulk’s face turned incrementally, to look at Eleanor. She gave the slightest of nods. What other option was there, except to demand he refuse the honour, and with no grounds to do so?
As soon as the word ‘tournament’ had been mentioned, the younger Malcolm had stopped lolling and started to pay attention. Now, eagerly, he said, “With your permission, my lord, I shall lead the other.”
It seemed the older Malcolm heard Eleanor’s prayers, for he turned on his son. “No.”
“I would be quite safe, and acquit myself with honour. I am a belted squire.” One of the boy’s hands came to rest below the mouth of his sword scabbard, the other on his opposite hip where the slanting sword belt joined his waist belt.
Softly, the king promised, “Not nearly as belted as you can become.”
The boy blanched. His hands tightened their grip, knuckles going as white as his face. “Any other father,” he said in a low, controlled voice, “would be proud for his son to lead. He would not try to hold him back, and coddle him like a girl.”
“You may leave, Malcolm.”
Flinging himself from his chair a rosy flush spread over Malcolm’s pale features. “How’s it feel, to know that at not even half your age I’ve more guts and balls than you’ll ever manage to dream of, old man?” The resounding silence said a lot about a court which was forced to a split, fearing the future king and having a duty to the current one which could not yet be passed over.
“My son, I do find you most amusing.”
“’We’, father, not ‘I’. You forgot your bloody plural. You’re still poncing about before the court, not in private.” The boy caught his crown from his head and swept a bow, the arm with the crown arm extended in a flourish which nearly touched the ground, so low did he dip. He marched out; it impossible to see how any could think to call him ‘The Lame’ unless it were an paradoxical acknowledgement of his grace.
For Eleanor’s ears alone the king said, “Sometimes I find it a great pity it is beneath both of our dignities to have that boy scourged. But royal blood is precious, and none of decency should be marked like scum.”
Marked like the very worst scum and known to be so, Eleanor said nothing, suspecting a dual purpose to her companion’s words: truthful comment, and dig at his dead rival.
Malcolm the elder began to stroke his beard again, hand gliding down the hair and catching the end of the strands between his nails to give them a brief a brief tug. “Well, we shall see when his brother has a few more years. Then we shall see. But for now I shall have him thrashed, methinks.”
I recall that about a year ago I promised there would be a tournament, Finally it approaches. :gring:
Fleuron = one of those little flower shaped thingies that appear on the top edge of some crowns. As opposed to a trefoil, which is simply a three-pointed/leafed shaped thing which appears on the top edge of some crowns.
“I am a belted squire.” […] “Not nearly as belted as you can become.” Excuse me while I grin evilly, because I do like that, nasty as it is. Also loving Trempy’s comment on diplomacy.
Furball: I thought you meant that, but as there is a second possible meaning (that they are both larger than life) I thought I would check. Hugh and Trempy are in the most danger of being called exaggerated, IMO … except Jocelyn. I don’t want them to be.
Vladimir: Now you have inadvertently planted the thought of ‘Jocelyn de Ardentes guide to travelling: how to have a good time and not lose all your cash. For all travellers of discerning taste.’ in my mind. :Shivers:
Now THAT is a book I'd gladly pay a royal dowry for! I think I'll wait until Eleanor's book comes out in paperback.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Well....what can be said about this seminal piece that hasn't already been said? Its epic, exceptionally well written and utterly absorbing!
I've taken the liberty of converting the whole thing so far into Word, for ease of reading and at Verdana 10pt I've got...
978 pages! Nine HUNDRED and Seventy Eight pages of A4!! I'm sure with a little work I could estimate how many normal paperback books that would be.
Anyway, I'm glad in a way that I've come late to this I now have the pleasure of reading a transcript of great length without having to wait for further updates until much further down the line.
I'm personally only on page 192 of my Word conversion :book: and that's taken a good week...
I personally can't see how you'll ever actually "end" this story. Such a full, living world almost deserves to continue ad infinitum but obviously can't so it will be strange when it does actually draw to a close.
This is certainly of publishable quality so perhaps there is a future for our good friend Eleanor? :sweatdrop:
You forgot that the Black Death is coming. :skull:Quote:
Originally Posted by Braden
I really hope that it doesn't end like that!
“Perhaps you might inform us as to what is occurring in England,” the elder Malcolm asked Eleanor. “All we hear is … muddled.”
The audience had continued until it was time for dinner to be served. Then, and only then, had the King of Scots condescended to set aside his crown – Jesù! The thing rested on a shelf built into his throne, still hovering above his head – and relax the formality of the hall. Not that the meal had been without its disturbing aspects; Eleanor had found herself once again occupying the place of the king’s absent wife, seated as his dining partner. At least that had put the father between herself and Malcolm the younger; the prince had reappeared in good time to lounge into the second most honourable seat at the high table.
The meal had passed, a feast in truth, and yet another display of royal power and wealth. With not even a day’s warning the kitchen had assembled a lavish banquet, a good part of it from animals still alive that very morning. Eleanor decided the king must have decided to hold this feast on his way here and given some very secretive orders; it might amaze the naive but she was well acquainted with the many tricks used to impress.
The tables had been cleared, the hall broken up into the serious business of enjoying a good party. The two Malcolms and Eleanor remained alone on the dais, a lengthy gap between the foot of the platform and the start of the people. Between the gap and the noise their words were as private as if they were spoken in a closed room.
Now, finally, it appeared the king was ready to discuss business.
“You will explain first,” the king continued, “about your husband.”
Down in the hall Eleanor’s husband was being dragged into a game of Hoodman Blind by a group of laughing young bloods, a goodly portion of them female. Not that Fulk was putting up much resistance; a girl hanging off each arm he smiled and laughed and tried to finish his drink before it spilled, allowing himself to be guided over to the playing area. Eleanor reminded herself that she had ordered him to enjoy himself tonight. He deserved it; if she hadn’t ordered it he’d have been keeping a careful eye on her all night again, watching what he drank, being watchful of everything he did in case it took him away from her or hampered his guard. He’d been doing that for months. It was not as if he had sought the women out, and there wasn’t anything in it to criticise even in a married man. The sinking feeling came from knowing that Fulk was considered single, and would be treated as such; all she could do was watch. Or try not to.
“I have no husband,” Eleanor said. Sometimes it did feel that way. “Trempwick lies.”
“He has presented proof, and witnesses in good number.”
“Money will buy much, and village girls are free for those with the rank to take.”
The younger Malcolm chuckled, slouching down in his seat and sprawling his legs wider in what might have been a decent imitation of an obnoxiously virile man if only there were more to him than raw bones and skinniness. “Free for anyone, actually. They’re lacking in discretion and virtue both. Famous for it.” If his father had carried out his promise to have someone thrash the boy it didn’t show. Knowing how much a display of normality could cost in such circumstances, Eleanor hoped he was sitting very uncomfortably.
Anne’s father ignored his son; worrying away at his beard again. Close up it was possible to see that the russet of the hairs was peppered with tiny flecks of white where strands had split and broken, proving the habit a strong one. “Words; words alone against proof and witnesses. A contract, also. It seems most clear as to which way a court would decide, if the matter were taken to one.”
Fulk twisted away from the flailing hands of the blindfolded woman at the heart of the game, tugging at her hair and clothing and escaping her time after time. He was still laughing. Eleanor wished she could dodge as well in the game she played. “He lies, and I can prove it. I have consummated no marriage.”
The king grunted.
His son slid upwards in his chair to sit decently, insolent smirk melting from his features. “Fucking hell!”
“You claimed,” Malcolm the elder stated, blocking anything else his son might have said, “to be here on your brother’s part.”
“I am.”
“Whereupon it then follows the cause in your name …”
Eleanor finished the leading statement, “Is not mine, no.”
One of the men playing Hoodman Blind planted his hands in Fulk’s back and gave a shove, sending him crashing into the woman. She squealed, and lost no time in securing her grasp on his tunic, spare hand groping for his face. Once she found his crooked nose the woman must have known who he was, and that was likely why she extended her search for clues to cover as much of Fulk’s body as possible. He endured, laughing again now his voice wouldn’t give his identity away. The woman made her guess at who she had caught; the blindfold was pulled free and wrapped around Fulk’s eyes.
Spun around several times to disorient him, the knight was loosed and the game began again. Snatches of the song celebrating Fulk’s rescue of her made their way to Eleanor’s ears as some of the players shouted a line or two as they baited him, showing off with their risk-taking by increasing the likelihood Fulk would know them if his blind hands closed on a body. Not knowing many people here Fulk was at a tremendous disadvantage. Other hands, far from blind and very female, were closing on his body, some of them in locations far from seemly. Eleanor’s nails bit into her palms. This was a part of the game – it was much of the point. With the excuse of being blind, and of taunting the blind, one could do much that would normally lead to either a quick marriage or an irate spouse; it was a brief, harmless release from the demands of status. If she’d cared to play Eleanor could have joined in without the slightest reproach. Which helped nothing.
The king laid his hands on the arms of his throne; he leaned his head back to rest against the carved back. “We expect two teams of forty per side to be managed for our tournament. As it is to be a joyous event, not a serious one, it is in our mind to set the ransom for a captured knight at six marks, four for a man at arms. We will not have men lose horse and harness, and beggaring themselves when their swords may be of use.”
Six marks would beggar Eleanor’s new knights and her men at arms. Six marks would make Fulk struggle, assuming he received the rents of the lands he supposedly held, which was far from assured and one of the items on her list of things to apply her resources to on returning to England. Six marks was a trivial sum to any of better status than they.
He continued, “The teams shall be selected on the day, by lottery, all except the captains. The side not led by your knight will be led by Sir Fergus of Kilfinan, a man of honour and deeds.”
Whom Eleanor knew next to nothing about, other than that he was a experienced fighter who had stood long at his king’s side. Caring far less for this tournament than the purpose she had come here for, Eleanor ventured, “My brother is most eager to renew the alliance.”
“The time does not suit. Business is not for now.”
The prince’s lip curled, revealing a hint of incisor. “What you mean, old man, is that you haven’t decided which side to back yet.”
Being as the king was not yet thirty-seven and any visible signs of advancing age Eleanor found the boy’s liking for calling him old a sign of a stunted imagination.
The king’s gaze settled directly on Eleanor for the first time all evening, not looking past or to the side or above or anywhere else but truly at her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up; that gaze dismissed her as nothing, a curiosity, a thing. Majesty discarded, the man asked softly, “Are you Queen of England, do you make that claim?”
“I do not.”
Then she was freed, forgotten as the man spoke to his son. “You see?”
The boy’s reply was grave. “It does not matter. We are honour bound.” It seemed he could speak nicely when he chose; the words were as precisely formed as one might expect of a noble.
“You are young and rash, and delude yourself with notions honour instead of practicality, asking for what you want and calling it right as you hide the fact you want it.” One hand made a chopping motion, rings sparkling in the candlelight. “Enough. We will discuss this later.” The king inclined his head to Eleanor. “All of it. At the appropriate time.” He clapped his hands, and from the background two pages brought forth a small table and a gaming board. “I hear from my daughter you have taken up tafl, and are proving adept.”
Fulk captured another player, the second time he had done so; this time it was a man. Once again he failed to guess the player’s identity and was left to stumble on.
Board set up, Eleanor found herself given the attacker’s side. Anne’s father did not have himself set up as her opponent; he had Malcolm take that role. The boy sprawled at a better angle to study the board, yawning widely, eyes hooded and mouth drawn into a flat line.
Eleanor made her first move, a man at arms out to threaten one of Malcolm’s point men.
The boy reached out and shoved a piece over to stand next to hers, acting without deliberation.
Eleanor considered, countered, bringing out another piece so he could not capture hers and endeavouring to limit movement along two files of squares.
Again he moved as if by rote, slamming another carved soldier into position to harry her.
Fulk’s probing hands banged into a body; Eleanor smothered a scowl. What did it matter if her knight happened to paw a lady’s chest while completely unable to see what he was doing? Besides, since it was Godit it was likely her contrivance. She had joined the game but minutes ago, after Fulk had failed to win free the second time. The little slut couldn’t refrain from giggling as Fulk’s arms closed clumsily about her, which gave her away. Freed, Fulk reached up to untie the blindfold. Before he fastened it into place on Godit he bowed over her hand and kissed it.
Well, if he was going to be a fool then she would ignore him. It was all the broken-nosed, idiotic, lack-witted, rust-brained oaf deserved!
Several turns passed in their game of tafl. Malcolm never once paused to consider; Eleanor did so frequently, putting her patience to training.
The King of Scots said, “Our daughter is most insistent that she will return to England with you, that she may wait for her husband’s remains to be brought back. She will not hear otherwise. We shall allow it.”
“My father would have liked that. He was very fond of her.”
Malcolm demolished another of Eleanor’s pieces. Tossing the little carved figure from hand to hand he told his father, “Oh, shut the hell up, damn you. You’re ruining her concentration, and so the game.”
The unpleasantness Eleanor expected didn’t come. Malcolm the elder said evenly, “Then play.”
The remainder of the game was short, brutal. Malcolm stormed all over her, aggressive and daring in his tactics, sending his defending side at her in an onslaught which battered right through her formations and let the king piece escape to one of the marked corner squares.
“Not bad,” Malcolm declared. He picked up a cluster of her fallen warriors and started to juggle them, sending them flying about in a single loop. His voice swung up into a shrill midway through his words as he said, “If a man’s going to be a general then he needs to think strategy and the like. So I’ve made a study of it. All of it. Chess, this, and all the other games, even the shitty little children’s ones. And I’ve practiced on the field too. I’ve even led in a tournament, once.” Giving his father a pointed look, Malcolm missed his catch of one piece and it bounced across the table. “God’s bones!” he swore.
Eleanor caught the piece on its second bounce. With deliberate care she set the little man back down on a starting square on the board. With a flick of a hand she sent the piece airborne again, joined by two others. Unlike Malcolm she didn’t miss her catch; the three pieces were worked into a loop, one more grabbed and added as she juggled. The loop became two rows bouncing up and down from each hand. Smiling at her audience the pieces returned to a loop, two more snatched up and added. She increased the speed. This had been one of Trempwick’s early teachings; she could keep more complicated patterns going almost as well as a professional. It suddenly seemed important to make the point she was better at something than they, and something unexpected may make then consider her more carefully and worry what other talents she may be hiding.
A few more showy tricks and Eleanor ended the performance, catching all the pieces and dipping into a shallow, seated bow. Tempted as she was, Eleanor refrained from adding that her next trick would be to make a knight disappear, herself along with him.
A smattering of applause came from the hall, growing in strength when it was seen the king did not object.
Fulk, sat at a game of draughts, gave her a wink when she met his eye.
Hand busy on his beard the king muttered, “I could have married you, some years ago.”
As that would not have suited Trempwick’s plans, let alone her own, Eleanor very much doubted it. Painfully aware of whose place she was occupying, this reached a new high of disturbing.
The ends of several strands of hair splintered free in his fingers; Malcolm the elder brushed them on the floor and kept on worrying away. “Demark was judged more use. You will not have met my wife?”
Eleanor confirmed with a shake of the head.
“One wishes the same could be said of oneself. Ingleberd has the figure of a spear shaft, mated with the hips of a starved cow. Her face may be tolerable, but her voice is a high, nasal whine which cuts right through a man.” He shivered, the trembling of his flowing hair and beard making the motion seem far larger than it was. “With hindsight I fear I may have done better to go English.”
Malcolm the younger snorted. “Thing about hindsight, old man, is that it applies to the past. The done. The undoable. You chose her; you’re stuck with her. So enjoy. Or better yet, don’t – makes my position so much more secure.” Standing, he held out his hand to Eleanor. “I’m sick of this sitting about; I’m going to dance. Something decently modern too, not all this carole crap. Coming?”
Ye gods, what a bounty of wonders she had to choose from, between father and son! Since the son’s open antagonism was less disconcerting than the father’s … whatever it was, Eleanor chose him.
Hand clamped about hers Malcolm all but dragged her down to the floor of the hall, shouting, “Music! We wish a dance, and make sure it’s something decent.”
The court fairly tripped over itself in its hurry to oblige.
The dragging didn’t stop when the music started; Eleanor found herself tugged, flung, yanked and hauled through the opening steps of one of the new dances designed for couples. To observers they surely looked like a good pairing, going at it with youthful energy; it was either than or be sent spinning out of control to crash into one of the other couples.
The boy took advantage of one of the parts where he had to hold her close to say quietly, “Some advice from the devil, if you’ve the wit to heed it. There’s three sides here. Your half-brother’s. Yours. Trempwick’s.” Bounced away to arm’s length and spun through a slow circle Eleanor had to wait to hear the rest. “He’s a merchant’s heart, not a king’s. He’ll sell where there’s the best profit, and he’s a bloody craven.”
“You are telling me this because …?”
Malcolm’s grip tightened on her fingers, crunching them together into a painful bundle. “I’ve a damned sight better understanding of being a king and what it means than that old man, and of honour – real honour, not the bloody game usually called that. Let some bastard on your throne and it devalues my own. Let some grasping turd make off with royalty and it might happen to me and mine.” They separated for a few steps. He brought her back close with a savage yank. “I won’t have that.” As they launched into a series of rapid sidesteps the boy said, louder than the rest, loud enough for others to hear, “We’re family, cousin, by rank and through my sister. I look after my own. Always. A slight to you is one to me, and I don’t sit idly by when I’m slighted.”
When the dance called for it he dumped her on a new partner and took off with one of his own.
Three partners later the dance was over. It was either join the next one or return to the dais and the king; Eleanor caught her breath and grabbed the first nobleman to hand.
A couple more dances and Eleanor let the next one pass without her involvement, seeking a drink as a reason to avoid returning to the King of Scots. Thank heaven it appeared to be beneath his dignity to come down and mingle with ordinary mortals, unlike her beloved regal ancestor or Hugh.
Thinking it unsafe to linger at the sidelines, Eleanor rejoined the fray. She ended up passed on to Malcolm as the final partner of that dance, meaning she had to start the next one with him.
It was during the second dance that Eleanor found herself passed on to a most unexpected partner.
“You have no idea,” Fulk murmured, “how much planning this took, so it looks like coincidence.”
“Well done, crook-nose.”
They’d never partnered each other, thanks to the gulf in their status. It was enjoyable, in the way many things were if only you added a certain knight, even if it was short and unsafe to repeat.
The evening wore on. Eleanor grew sufficiently weary that she departed the floor in search of another means to avoid the king. She found it in a small group of nobles speaking with enthusiasm about the coming tournament. A few careful questions and a lot of listening won her a fair bit of information on what Fulk was likely to face.
Then one of the men pointed off to one of the alcoves. “Isn’t that your knight?”
It was, and he was in a fight. Over Godit. The bushy-faced hulk of a Scot Fulk faced drew his eating knife, shoving Anne’s maid away behind him and snarling something. Fulk drew his own knife, leaning away from the man’s first thrust. He parried the second, stepped away from the third, making no effort to counterattack.
Heart in her mouth, Eleanor locked her knees so she couldn’t run towards the group and locked her face so nothing would show.
A pair of royal guardsmen got there quickly, drawing swords and ordering the two men apart. Fulk obeyed immediately, replacing his knife in its sheath. The Scot was more reluctant; he was loud enough now the background noise had reduced she heard his indignant words, “That bastard’s meddling where he’s got no business! He’s impugned my honour.” A gentle prod from a sword tip persuaded him that whatever Fulk had done it didn’t actually necessitate killing him on the spot; the knife was put away.
“No business?” Fulk crossed his arms. “It’s any decent man’s business when another sets on a woman-”
“We’re practically betrothed,” roared the Scot.
“But not actually. So you’ve no right.”
Godit had crept around to shelter behind Fulk. “I won’t marry you, Angus! Never. I’ve told you that before. It’s none of your business what I do. And don’t get fool ideas – I’m under my mistress’ protection.”
Behind the fuzz of beard Angus went bright red. “And I wouldn’t have you! Not now. I want a wife I can trust.”
From the dais the king’s voice commanded, “Put him out. No one breaks my peace, and no one attacks one of my guests.”
Things returned to normal as the Scot was escorted from the hall.
It was late by the time Eleanor and her party returned to her rooms. In the solar, before they had had time to do much more than close the door, Hawise said to Fulk, “Waltheof knows a lot about the men likely to take part in the tournament. You should talk to him.”
Waltheof, one of the recently recruited young knights, and likely the same grave-faced man Eleanor had noticed Hawise in rapt conversation with several times during the evening.
Fulk nodded, a lot. “I will.”
Eleanor reached up and seized his ear between finger and thumb. She started to tow him towards her room. “If everyone else is finished playing with my knight, I should like a turn.” Playing with, trying to kill – whichever.
She didn’t get a chance to say a word – half a word! – due to the tiny little fact that as soon as they were alone she found herself crushed in his arms and being kissed with no small amount of enthusiasm. Which was nice, but not quite what she’d had in mind. Not just what she’d had in mind. He’d been drinking hippocras with a bit too much nutmeg for her liking; she could taste it. One of his hands crept up and removed her crown, sending it skimming onto the bed.
When there was opportunity for words he pinched it, starting to speak while she was still trying to recover. “I’ve been wanting to do that for hours. Loved your juggling, by the way.”
“Oh. Um …” Her musings on the best way to politely demand to know what the hell he had been doing with that Godit creature were trampled underfoot by more enthusiasm on his part.
Some time later he saw fit to pronounce, “I’ve missed you.”
“I would never have guessed.” Eleanor relented a little. “I missed you as well.”
He kissed her again, briefly. “It’d probably be chivalrous to warn you I’ve had a bit too much to drink and I’ve been sleeping alone for rather too long, and I’m still your smitten worshiper. So if you want to be rid of me any time soon, your best chance is five minutes ago.”
Eleanor sighed; some knights should probably not be allowed holidays, for the good of humanity. “How much did you have to drink?”
“Oh, not enough that you need worry. I can still use my sword.” For some reason he found this hilarious. He stopped laughing to smooth away her frown with a thumb. “Slightly too much. I just get very genial and friendly and a bit silly, but if I have a lot too much you can tell because I start falling over and singing. I did miss you.” Which served as an excuse for further enthusiasm.
With an expression that belonged on a puppy begging for scraps he said, “Can I stay? Please? Oh outstandingly majestic and highly kissable one?”
She was obviously going to get no sense out of him while he was like this. If she refused him he might go looking for someone else; heaven knew there was no shortage of interested parties, and he’d just spend the entire evening amidst that interest. Besides, he was her husband and he was not asking for anything she had a good reason to refuse.
A feeling of resignation settling in the pit of her stomach Eleanor pulled her braid over her shoulder and started to untie the ribbon.
He’d dozed for a bit; it couldn’t have been long, as the night candle was still more than half intact. The fug of wine was clearing from his head, along with the feeling half his wits had been stolen. The frustration, however, remained, so Fulk didn’t get back to sleep. He knew Eleanor was awake and equally unhappy; he doubted she’d gone to sleep at all.
She had been … dutiful. After dragging him in by his ear and making that comment about playing with him, and responding to his embrace and kisses, she’d gone dutiful. He clenched his teeth remembering it; so much for slowly winning her around. She had refused to part with her shift, as usual, so it got in the way, as usual. The things she normally liked had no effect, simply because she seemed set on having a miserable time. New tricks either met with stoical endurance or protests that they were annoying or not to her liking in some vague way, then finally the terse statement that she had liked what he did before well enough – the same damned things which were having no effect - and he could stick to that for now. Much as he’d yearned for a repeat of their mutually satisfactory encounter from that night he’d accidentally seen her back, he’d have given up entirely except for the strong suspicion she would have taken it as a sign he didn’t truly find her desirable. Afterwards he’d had the feeling she wanted him gone, but when he’d made to sit up she’d turned clingy, so he’d settled back down with his arm around her. This, at least, had turned out to be acceptable.
Fulk had no idea how long they lay there in the near-dark, motionless and wordless.
He’d a message to pass on to her. Except now wasn’t a good time; mention of Godit would be as much an intrusion as mention of Trempwick. In the morning, when they were up and about, he’d pass along her warning about the King of Scots being the dangerous one here, for all he didn’t look it. Fulk didn’t see it himself; it might mean more to Eleanor, and if it raised her guard then it could do no harm even if it were false aid.
Thinking about the message set Fulk thinking about the events which had led to it, cursing. He knew he’d been in demand all evening because of his fleeting fame, his treatment as an almost-equal and hero dependant on that fame and lasting only so long as it did. It had punched right through to the part of his heart which longed to be more than a baseborn bastard nothing, made more alluring precisely because it was temporary. There was a hangover from the boy he’d been that he hadn’t managed to purge. So he’d found himself playing a game, trying to identify people he didn’t know well enough, trapped an at the mercy of a gaggle of over-exited females and jealous men, until Godit threw the game and saved him. Hence the lordling her family had marked out for her having a jealous fit and attacking her when he’d no right to. Hence his rescuing her, that and an inability to do nothing when he knew that here and now he could act, that he did not have to turn his eyes away and let it pass. Eleanor would understand, she had to; she knew what it was to wish for someone to protect her. And so Godit had given him the message, as a brand of thanks which acknowledged the tie to Eleanor she deplored but knew he valued. That gave it considerable worth.
Yay! A frog-sized episode!
I have but one thing to say on the matter of stock takes: GAH!!
Vladimir: No Black Death, for which I am very glad. The date is taken from the fact this started out (in version 1; this is number 2) based on MTW’s high campaign. This story is set in/around 1200AD, in truth, going by fashions, customs, technology, and just about everything except the calendars. The Black Death is over a century away. :cough: I admit that if it were not I would bend, batter and break this world so it did not happen – it does not suit, not at all, and I will not allow it :does a heroically resolute froggy pose!:
Jocelyn being Jocelyn, that book won’t appear for years, if it ever does at all. He needs to research it all. Thoroughly. Then double-check the information. Then comes the actual writing bit, and we know how much he loves doing that, even with a clerk to do dictate to. Not forgetting his wife; Richildis would not be pleased if his guide contained anything other than ‘nice’ places.
Hehe! Paperback books before paper is invented! Methinks you will have to take the medieval edition or none. :winkg:
Braden: 192, now roughly where is that … :checks: Ah. You are around the point where things warm up. There’s a slow, seemingly pointless spell coming up (editing, badly in need of editing!) but bear with it and the reward is, I hope, more than worth it.
By my very rough workings, based on word counts for Eleanor and for a few other books I own and have seen word counts for, it’s about two 600 page books. I use Times New Roman 12 point, which makes it 847 pages total, including today’s bit. Funny thing is, I swapped this post into the same settings you use to see what causes such a difference, and there isn’t really any reason I can see. The mysteries of computers …
Not according to the very first post of this topic, where it saysQuote:
This story is set in/around 1200AD,
However, that´s when Eleanor is about ten, so the major part of the story is more about the early/mid 1330s. There´s also the thing with the war in France, and though I´m by no means a historian my general education tells me the Hundred Years War started in 1337.Quote:
England 1325: The royal palace at Waltham, Essex
Huh? I use Verdana 10, and the whole text is as of today at 905 A4 pages. Plus the fact that I deleted anything beyond three empty lines between paragraphs.Quote:
I use Times New Roman 12 point, which makes it 847 pages total, including today’s bit.
No matter what date I stick at the front or mention in the progress of the tale, the world itself is very much at the start of the 13th century, even with the changes the fact it is an alternate world bring. I realised this after maybe 100 pages, but had to stick with the 'given' date for consistency. When I come to edit you can be sure all the dates will be rolled back to match. This is why I say the date is wrong. Else you end up with all kinds of crazy things, such as Nell's old fashioned clothes being 150 years(!!) out of date, not just a decade or so.
I don't have any spaces at all in my manuscript, except a single line betwen each scene. It's set out like a book, with indents of three spaces at the start of each of the bits I seperate out into paragraphs here.
I know there is a lot going on in that episode, Froggy. But from,
"A feeling of resignation settling in the pit of her stomach Eleanor pulled her braid over her shoulder and started to untie the ribbon."
to the end of the episode you make an editorial faux-pas.
Up til then you have talked a LOT. Much exposition and talking about Fulk, etc., dancing in 3rd person, and kingly stuff.
From the moment she tosses her braid back and unties it, you need to let the story get more intimate. I'm not saying you have to get graphic, but the narrative fails at that point to pull the relationship or the story forward.
It's all just talking and fine words crafted into paragraphs. You've done that ALREADY for several paragraphs. The pacing and story NEEDS a change from the moment she releases her hair. Either she is still plotting, or she releases herself to Fulk. Either way, the long expository paragraphs need a break here.
It's YOUR story and you decide what to do. But from the moment Fulk admits he's tipsy, and E releases her hair (releasing her control?) you need a different style. Maybe you move to passion which (forgive me) you've said you don't know much about, or maybe you get terse and coy. Either way, the end of the chapter from her releasing her hair NEEDS to be different. Intimate, coy, silly, or just plain bare, the last few paragraphs need to be different in tone.
(My apology - you're writing is superb - but that's my thought.)
Papyrusback then? What year did Marco Polo get back from China? Maybe a few pages of paper could find their way to merry old England.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
I kind of agree with furball that the last section seemed a bit out of place. I know that you don't do anything by accident and am just curious as to why you wrote the last part as you did.
Good work though, keep it up!
Well, I've read that episode 3 times on 3 different days. Froggy, I understand the plot points you're covering after Eleanor unbraids her hair. And there's nothing wrong with the writing. I guess it's just that the tempo seems wrong - at least to me. Those 4 paragraphs beginning with, "He'd dozed for a bit." are very dense, figuratively and literally.
There's a lot of description and plot stuff packed into a small space. . . there's nothing wrong with that. I guess it just felt odd at that point in the narrative. Maybe at the start of a new day's post, or something, it wouldn't feel as heavy as it does. I mean heavy in a wordy, narrative sense, not in the sense of portending doom or some such.
Then again, who knows what lurks in the mind of frogs? :)
Sorry, been (still am?) a sick frog. Someone has poisoned me, via a sandwich. :sigh: Usually I make my own; not this time. Violent food poisoning. Ah well, the next time I need to write anyone being sick I will not need to rely on memories several years old to provide the detail.
Yes, that last part of the last part did not feel right to me either. By choice I would have slipped in a scene in another POV between Nell's and Fulk's; that would have broken things up, changed the tone and setting, then left it so Fulk's bit felt a bit more contemplative. The nature of the other POV's tales at this point would have ensured it: two fighting a war, and one on a journey and being Jocelyn. The lack of such a scene is conspicuous - no one is doing anything worth reporting. Except one ... sort of, in a minor and not too good way. Adding that would have damaged the next section, and even if it did not I severely doubt I would have added it; it is not sufficiently interesting.
Which left me with few choices. I could do as I did. I could say less. I could go into more detail, of varying depths. Tried the second; it left too many gaps and the wrong impressions, and missed out things which needed to be there. Tried the third; it was unpleasant at best, and not only because I have no idea how to write such things. The tone of the whole thing is no help either; tenderness, releasing herself to Fulk - can't do. She's doing something she doesn't particularly want to at that time. Which, in the end, shows. Between them they managed to work themselves into a fine trap, because they are both too busy worrying about what the other will think and do if they don't continue. If they were in a better mood I could have managed far better. Probably. :sigh: Now if I were doing one of those boringly typical stories they would never encounter such boringly common problems; their love life would be nauseatingly, implausibly perfect. But no, Nell frets about Godit and it has effects.
So all in all it’s a right fine pain. I don’t know what to do with it.
The hair thing is quite simple, no symbolism to it at all. In a time when most women kept their hair bound up during the day, and the only men likely to see it were husbands or lovers, loose hair was one of those sights. I seem to recall a bit of advice about drawing a husband's attention without seeming forward: let your hair down, and from there he would even think it his own idea. Seems to be a lot of truth left in this today; my hair is a good foot shorter than Nell’s, and I leave it loose much of the time I am not at work, and yet a certain man never seems to tire of singing its praises. Then too there are other reasons, which I hope I don’t need to go into.
Vladmimir: Papyrus? Now you're going into more expensive editions! You can choose between various grades of parchment and vellum, always bound in a hard cover. At the lowest end of the scale you would likely end up with poor quality materials, spelling mistakes, copy errors, and dodgy handwriting, no illustrations or fanciness. Nell would not be at all pleased to see her work end up like that, I can assure you, even less so as she is publishing on a limited scale aiming at a market of refined nobles who need advice from a sensible gooseberry (all of them, she says, but only a few might have the sense to recognise this need.).I suppose you might assemble the wax tablets used to assemble the original working draft, if your taste runs to meltable reading on individual pages with no numbers and gathered up in no particular order at all. However, I suspect that after each chapter was finished Nell smoothed the tablets over and reused them for the next one, following the usual practice.
Back to bed and a book, methinks.
Get better, Froggy! :) Best wishes.
My lady Frog, why don't you make this a book and publish it? You could have a big hit in your book. ~:)
Are you sure it was sandwich that did you in (Damn that Earl!)? It might have something to do with spring pollen and the dampness associated with living in a pond (or at least across it).
We all hope you're feeling better soon and I hope that you're not becoming alergic to dust mites or even worse, books :smart: . :sweatdrop:
A sleepy-eyed Fulk picked at his morning bread, balling up little lumps of the soft inside and dropping them onto the table.
Setting a good example with her own breakfast, Eleanor advised him, “I would not worry.”
With exquisite care he balanced his latest ball on top of several others. The squat tower collapsed as soon as he withdrew his hand, foundation balls rolling away and leaving the raised one to tumble down. “Wouldn’t worry?” he repeated sceptically.
“Certainly not.” Eleanor received her drink from Hawise, and sipped at it. “This King of Scots is playing at being great, as he has been doing since the beginning. Midnight announcements of a hunt for a white stag the next day are quite normal, for those obsessed with showing off and lording it and with an important guest to entertain.” It had been a scramble, but everyone had been in their proper place in reasonable time for the messenger to deliver the invitation to the hunt into her hands. The slight delay would easily pass as the time taken for her to make herself decent. Thank the saints for the antechamber, and the pair of trusted guardsmen always on duty there; without that Hawise would have been left to answer the door, or to fetch Fulk out, either as damning as the other.
“And by coincidence-”
“Yes. By coincidence. Which means nothing.” Nonetheless, he would now be staying firmly outside her door. A bread missile shaped by Eleanor’s own fair hand bounced off the front of Fulk’s tunic. It was childish, maybe, but so damned tempting. He was sober, he was awake, and she had waited more than long enough. “Anyway, after the way you all but announced an interest in Godit last night no one could be fool enough to think you might care for – or be cared for – anyone else who was present.” Her second attempt was hasty, the bread so misshapen it didn’t fly true. It did cling to his hair with a nice comical effect.
“Eleanor-” His words cut off as a piece of bread bounced off the end of his nose. Knocking the spent missile away, he said with strained humour, “I feel like a castle under siege.”
An illusion Eleanor was happy to aid. Her next lump was far larger.
He’d just got rid of that bit when another hit. That one disappeared inside his fist, crushed. “Do that again and you’ll regret it.”
Eleanor arced an eyebrow; he was grumpy this morning. She hefted her crust, and lobbed it. “I do think not.”
The previous bit of bread fell onto the table, imprinted into a cast of the space inside his fist. He started to get up, mouth opening, only to catch sight of Hawise fervently trying to be invisible and not notice a thing. He sat back down again.
Eleanor smiled at him, very nicely. And chucked the other half of her crust at him.
She knew he was fast, but that fast in application to herself combined with a flat start and no warning was not something Eleanor had considered. It was, she concluded, as he shot around to her side of the table and picked her up, a slight tactical error on her part, as was overestimating the protection Hawise’s presence offered. One knightly hand snared in the collar of her clothes and a knightly arm fastened firmly about her waist, Eleanor found herself hauled up off her seat and travelling towards her bedchamber before she could do much more than kick at thin air and order him to put her down.
“I wouldn’t make too much noise,” he told her with unmissable smugness. “Else you’ll have the other guards in, and then think of the trouble trying to explain.”
Tactical error number three. Eleanor constrained herself to a loud whisper, “Put me down, you complete and utter bastard!” Lashing out backwards with her heels she managed to catch him a few glancing blows but nothing useful. As she was ported to the door and twisted about so Fulk could depress the latch handle with his elbow, Eleanor caught sight of Hawise, heroically attempting her mistress’ rescue by … doing nothing. “Some help you are!”
Hawise said, “Looks like a private quarrel to me. I’ll try and keep you from being disturbed.”
Still sputtering at that, Eleanor was carted into the room and dropped back to her feet.
Fulk leaned his back on the closed door and folded his arms. “There’s definite advantages to a knight’s training, and being able to carry a princess with ease is one.”
“Carry off, more like!”
“That too.”
“You …!” Eleanor aimed a punch at a delicate part of his anatomy. Fast as she was, he’d been expecting it, so she got nowhere near. The hefty stomp on his foot, now that he hadn’t expected; as his toes flattened, Fulk winced.
“Used to be I thought God had made you so delicate-looking on a whim. Now I know it was to stop me harming you!” His voice was hard.
“I am not delicate!” Eleanor shouted as loud as she dared, which was not very. She leaned as much of her weight as possible on the foot trapping his, relying on his hold on her arm to keep her balance.
Fulk wriggled his trapped boot about, trying to free it. “Now, what’s that proverb? The one about sheep, hanging, and stealing?”
“What!?”
“Never mind; it’ll come.” When his quieter efforts to free his crushed foot didn’t work, he took hold of her and lifted her up enough that she could no longer apply much force. Rescue completed, he let her weight fall back and let her go.
A favour she returned by trying to slap him. She counted it a minor victory her fingertips managed to brush his cheek when he blocked; he’d had too much warning. “What in hell do you think you are doing?” she demanded.
“The other proverb I do remember. The one about so many stones breaking a man’s back.”
“Lady’s back,” she corrected in a growl. “Most definitely lady’s.”
He growled back, “You act like a spoiled child.”
“Because I do not turn a blind eye to your hounding after that slut? Again?”
“No! And I wasn’t hounding her.”
Eleanor whipped her arm downwards, twisting it in his grip. It came free easily enough. “You all but announced you have an interest in her, before everybody.”
“I saved her from a lout who picked a quarrel because she had the decency to help me. No more.”
“That is not what people will think.”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” she cried.
“As it matters to me what people think of you. You know how opinion goes at present.”
“So you are trying to balance the score a little-”
“Don’t be foolish,” he snapped. He’d been glaring at her for a long time, watching her every move. Now the glare softened into a stare. “What a mess secrecy does make of us. Without it there’d be none of this. And you’re not cringing.” This last he observed with a miniscule raising of the corner of his mouth.
Thrown out of her stride, all Eleanor could do was gawk, “What?”
“You’re not cringing. You’re fighting.”
“Your brain is addled,” she informed him tartly. “And mine shall become so, if I try and make any sense of you.”
His smile was creeping wider. “Ah, yes; I remember that proverb now. ‘If you’re going to hang for a sheep, you may as well take the whole flock.’ I’ve stolen my sheep.”
“I am not a sheep, damn you!”
“Oh no. You’ve got fangs, to be sure.” Grinning, now, he was - grinning. “I believe I said some rather rash but heartfelt words about not throwing that bread at me.”
His mind was gone. That had to be it. The strain of rational thought had unhinged him. Eleanor began to creep away, one tiny part-step at a time, a certain feeling of foreboding building.
“Stone that breaks the man’s back. Funny how it’d be bread of all things, after potentially life-endangering disobedience and sleeping drugs.”
“You are beginning to worry me.”
Fulk crooked a finger. “Come here, oh gooseberry mine.” He started to advance, at the same slow pace. He made it seem ominous.
In what she hoped was a soothing voice Eleanor said, “Now, take a nice deep breath and try to stop thinking complex thoughts …”
“If you’ll fight me and forgive me after my bit of sheep-stealing – sorry, princess-stealing – then I imagine you’ll forgive a bit of justice. So long as it’s that.”
“Obviously all these years of helmet-wearing have taken their toll-”
“You never dared fight back against them, did you? Because you couldn’t trust them to be reasonable.”
“Er …” A wall, there was always a wall to back into eventually, and Eleanor’s back informed her she’d just found it.
“Whereas me, you argue, you struggle, you fight. Because you know you can. You know it’s safe.”
“Er …” Believed might be a more apt word, given the doubts she was having.
“Which it is. Because, unlike some, I’ve a very vested interest in your well-being, a kindly soul, a placid nature.” He halted, an arm’s length away. Smirking. “Also a certain duty-”
“Oh, bugger!” Eleanor made a dive for it.
Fulk stepped sideways and caught her, wrapping his arms around her in a friendly hug. A secure friendly hug. “And rather than hating or fearing me, it appears the worst that will happen is that I end up a mite bashed myself, which I can tolerate.”
“No,” Eleanor insisted loudly, trying to wriggle and not even managing that. “I shall hate you. A lot. For a very long time.” Even she didn’t believe it, but given the short notice and circumstances finding better reasons was not easy. There wasn’t much defence against ignoring his warning in the certainty he wouldn’t actually do anything. For good measure she added, “You will have to buy me some very expensive presents before I even speak to you!”
“No, or you’d have done so the moment I picked you up. Too late, oh disinclined one.”
Hawise tapped on the door. “If you have finished trying to murder each other, the hunt is beginning to form up.”
Saved!
Eleanor’s premature sigh of relief turned into a squeak when Fulk’s hand introduced itself to her rear with less gentleness than was customary.
“No more bread throwing, dearest, if you please.” He let her go.
Grumbling and rubbing her affronted backside, more for possible effect on his conscience and hope of sympathy than any actual hurt, Eleanor scowled at him. “Next time I shall hurl the soup.”
He laughed. “There wasn’t any, ‘loved.”
“Oh, so now I am not worth the effort of ‘beloved’, and must make do with an abbreviation.”
“I happen to like my creativity, ‘loved.” He advanced a tentative step. “Am I forgiven?”
“I suppose so,” she allowed grudgingly, grudging more the admission than the lack of ill-feeling. As expected he took this as a hint that a kiss might be acceptable. Eleanor looped an arm around his neck to pull him close, waited a few moments, then struck. Holding some important objects in one hand she had his full attention, reinforced by a light squeeze. He froze. He slowly drew his head back. He didn’t move any other muscles, not even a twitch.
Sweetly, Eleanor said, “But no more Godit incidents, if you please, my luflych little knight.”
Trempwick spurred his horse along the line, armour shining in the weak light of the early spring morning. As he passed men raised their weapons, or clashed them on their shields, or shouted, “A Trempwick!” or “The Queen!”. Now and then he raised his hand in acknowledgement.
He drew rein at what he felt was the middle of his centre.
It began.
Trempwick raised his arms. The noise died away. “This morning,” he shouted, his words slow and clear so they would carry as far as possible, “I rose from my empty bed. I dressed in my empty tent. I ate my breakfast alone. I said my prayers, alone. I had no farewell. No one prays for me. No one waits for me.”
He paused. Heard the babble of his own words being repeated. Many voices, throughout the army. The petty command, handing his speech on. Simple words. Simple ideas. Simple concepts. Simple, for simple people. Human … hounds. Not cattle, these. They had teeth. Simple to inspire. Inspired, they would stand. Standing, they would win. Victorious, they were useful. The nobles did not need inspiring. That had been done last night with much made of the Queen and the future she offered. Separate tastes, separate needs, seen to accordingly.
Filled his lungs with the frosty air. “I will return to that empty tent. Eat alone. Sleep alone. No one will be glad to see me. No one will celebrate my return. My squire will tend my wounds. Why?” He bellowed the question with all he had. Paused. Waited for the inevitable.
It came. An anonymous voice. So predictable. “Because you need a good whore!”
A grin would not carry. So he laughed. Because it was what they wanted. Soldiers. Scum. Simple minds. Simple pleasures. As if he would stoop to a whore. As if that would be a sound idea given his position.
His horse sidled, fidgeted. A destrier, one of his several waiting to be used this day. High-strung, eager, knowing what came in its animal way. Like these men. Shouted, “Why am I here, when I could be warm at home, seeing to my affairs and thinking of what celebrations to hold for Easter?” Pause. “Because my home is an empty.” Pause. “I am a husband without a wife.” Lower, more ragged tone, “And you know why.” So much truth in it. The space Nell had left, had occupied for so long … And he missed Elgiva, the total relaxation he had with her.
Men began to shout again, a muddled, disorganised din. Aimed against the Bastard. He let it go on for a time.
Trempwick held up his hands again. Noise faded. “I would storm the gates of heaven itself to get her back. Her, not her crown nor anything else. Just her.” Romantics always fell well. Simple minds, simple lusts, and a simple longing to believe their betters had more. “I press her rights, yes – what good husband wouldn’t? But let me tell you this, it would take a colder man than me to think of crowns when with his love.” This won the expected laughter.
Time given for the carrying back of his words to finish. “Today we do not storm heaven. Today we are the wall. Today we break them.” A touch to his stallion moved him a quarter-turn to the left. Trempwick flung out an arm to indicate the opposing force. A snake of sun reflections on metal. Of coloured liveries and clothes, mixed into a chaos. Of fluttering standards, banners, pennants. His scouts’ tally ran to three thousand; midlanders, some of the bastard’s close cronies, mercenaries, Marcher lords. More than the force he held here, a mere two thousand and not quite three hundred. “There is half the army the Bastard raised to deal with the west. They want to join up with the other half, some hundred-and-ten miles from here. We are in their way. I have put us in their way. They must go through us. Because the other part of our force is behind them, blocking their retreat. So they must come at us swift and carve their way through, or die. Or die minced between two forces, trapped. So all we must do is stand. Stand, and we win. Our reinforcements will be here before noon. Stand and hold them so long, and we win and they will be nothing but fragments scattered on the wind. Stand, and we strike a telling blow for our queen. Stand, and there will be an army’s worth of loot and ransoms; you will be rich men.”
Which always proved popular. Trempwick rode back to his chosen place to the sound of cheers.
A few hours in the saddle, ambling along at a relaxed pace near the front of the cavalcade which formed the hunt for the white stag, and Eleanor had to admit she was enjoying herself.
The day was clear, the sun out, the air blessed with a gentle chill, a few birds tentatively chirped in the bare trees – spring was here. If the sun hung too low and got in everyone’s eyes unless they kept their backs to it, and if the threat of intermittent and violent rain squalls overhung the day, well, it seemed a fair enough trade.
The whole court had turned out, almost, dressed in colourful finery sufficiently hardly to survive the day, mounted on a herd of fine horseflesh the cost of which could have financed a small war. No one had brought serious weaponry; there was no point in killing if the meat could not be eaten. The hunt was more an excuse to ramble about the countryside, following a trail laid down by the king’s huntsmen. Judging from the way the dogs shot about, and from the few times they had turned and doubled back, the trail was a complex one.
Eleanor ran a cautious knuckle over the soft feathers covering the belly of her falcon. The bird was still hooded; given their mutual unfamiliarity and her lack of handling practice, it had seemed prudent to limit the chance of them embarrassing each other. Armida was loaned from Hugh – along with the four hounds who padded along ahead of her, on leash and held a pair each by two handlers, the falconer himself, and much else – or perhaps more accurately from Constance, since the bird was a merlin, as was correct for a lady of rank, to cover for her own lack on occasions such as this. Eleanor was less happy about the name bestowed on the bird; Armida, Latin for ‘Little armed one’. True, yes, but ugly, and she didn’t like the reminder of that wicked beak and its threat to her fingers.
Riding along at Eleanor’s side with her own hawk resting on her gloved fist, Anne giggled. “She won’t bite, you know. Not while the hood is on.”
Eleanor tilted her head very slightly towards the king and his son, where they rode some twenty or more paces in front. “I wonder if the same could be said …?” Anne’s father had swapped his crown for a caped hood, to protect his long hair and beard. It was prevented from blowing back by a jewelled circlet.
“Ah. Probably no.” Anne fished a bit of meat out of the special pouch she wore and fed it to her bird; it was unhooded, watching the passing world through bright eyes. Smoothing the feathers ruffled by the bird’s stretching for the treat, Anne said quietly, “It is not easy, you know. Being of two families. If William were still here it would be easier; my first loyalty would have to be to him and his, and I would not be here anyway. But he is not.”
“I thought you wished to return to England.”
“I do.”
“And so there lies your answer, it seems to me.”
“I like you. I like Constance, and I like Hugh, and I liked England, and Waltham, and everything. I want to see Constance’s baby, and Hugh’s coronation, and Constance’s coronation, and peace, and summer, and the lands William left me, and your lands, and all the rest of England, and Normandy, and Brittany, and the other French lands, and Westminster again, and I want to see you settled and happy, and to see William again in whatever way I must even if it is just his funeral.” The girl’s rush ended, most like because she had insufficient wind for more. Eying her saddlebow, Anne admitted, “And I want justice for Trempwick. For Mariot, and William, and you, and everything else.”
“So no small list, then,” Eleanor said dryly.
Laughing, Anne asked, “Well, is yours any smaller?”
“That … is a good question.” Armida shuffled along Eleanor’s wrist, moving blindly towards her closed fist; she tried not to wince at the thought of those razor sharp talons and the single layer of thick leather which kept them off her skin. Hoping it would quiet the bird before it shuffled sufficiently far to drop off – surely the feathered bag had more sense than that? - Eleanor set about stroking it again.
“This tournament. You need not worry about Malcolm; he would not farm out his revenge, because then he would not enjoy it as much. Like when he executed the Dunning brothers.” Anne nudged her placid palfrey in closer to Eleanor’s. “I heard quite a lot about last night, from Malcolm. They did not let me go, you know, even though I wanted to and should have - they made me eat with grandmother in her rooms. He said that you had said …” From the way the girl turned pink Eleanor could guess precisely which bit of polite conversation she referred to. “Well, you know how he puts these things, and makes it all sound so horrible, and is so crude and nasty about it, and he was going on about it quite a lot really. He is so horrible! Grandmother tried to shut him up but he just started shouting and getting cruder.” Anne seemed to realise she was veering off on a tangent; she took a breath and the blush began to fade. “Well, anyway, they will make you prove it, now you have said it like that. They will, even though it is dishonourable and insulting, and the last thing they should ask of you. Not publicly, or anything,” Anne added quickly. “Just for them.”
This was beginning to sound faintly obscene, thanks to Anne’s poor choice of words. “They kept quoting Trempwick’s ‘proof’ at me. I had to counter. Little as I like it. I had hoped decency would keep them from asking for more. After all, they have not seen Trempwick’s either.”
Anne frowned, chewing her lip. “They are my family, and this is my country. Was my country. I hardly know any more which, likely both. But … well, I was Queen of England, and I was supposed to help bring peace between the two kingdoms – that was the whole point of the marriage, after all. And I do not like this. Malcolm is evil and my father is letting a lifetime of bitterness go to his head – he is normally a good man, I swear it.”
Acquainted with others in Anne’s company of good men, Eleanor felt a certain doubt as to whether this improved her opinion of the King of Scots any. It may in fact lower it.
“They will wring everything they can from you,” Anne said. “They will humiliate you, as much as they can. For years - for ever maybe - England has been bigger, richer, stronger, more powerful, more prestigious, with more and better lands, more men, more resources than we can ever hope for. We have always had to be careful, even when we have won battles and wars we have not had enough of an upper hand to feel safe. Except now …”
Eleanor summarised, “Now we have Hugh being Hugh, and Trempwick has firmly stuck his oar in the water.”
“Yes. Now they have the chance, they will make you and Hugh pay for everything, years and years of it, going back generations.”
“Then they may find themselves somewhat disappointed. Better to continue alone than to sell overmuch, and temporary disadvantages are only that.”
The centre held. The right flank slowly advanced. Too much! It may isolate itself. Trempwick held up a hand and one of his gallopers came to his side. “Tell Sir Geoffrey to hold his position. He advances too far.”
The rider already had his horse turning and moving away as he confirmed, “Lordship.”
The left held.
The land found for this battle was not of good value. The hill was small, more a gentle slope. No waters or land formations protected his force or provided anchoring points. But no trees interfered, no bogs, no quagmires, nothing to hamper his cavalry. Or the enemy cavalry. The small slope was sufficient to give his men the ease of the fighting. To allow his archers to see as they loosed over the heads of the infantry wall. To allow him to see over all, from his position with the reserve. Waiting. Commanding. Waiting.
Some held it that a general should lead from the front. Others, that he should hang back. Both could work, depending on skills, situations, lieutenants. But there was this, and Trempwick had always minded it well: when the general fell the battle was lost. So, sometimes, were entire wars lost.
The kneeling man spoke … and it made no sense. To call it gibberish Hugh knew to be unfair, though to his ears German may as well be precisely that. What he held no reservations about was the deliberateness of it, and thus the rudeness. The presumption that here, in this meeting, that tongue belonged to the superior and should be spoken by all of sufficient education!
Leashing his displeasure, Hugh answered in Anglo-French. “I am anxious to hear why my sister thought to send over a thousand men in arms to my kingdom.” He must tread with care despite provocation; an army of vengeful Germans ravaging Dover was the least of his present needs.
“Sire,” the man bowed again, “Her most magnificent Highness, The Empress, sends her regards to her brother of England-”
Hugh held up his hand. “I care only to hear why you are here, with these men under arms on my lands, unasked for, with no warning. I wish to know why I needed to lift the siege I was conducting and rush my army here, to guard my port from men who reason says should be friendly but appearances say clearly otherwise.”
“Sire.” The German bobbed again, and offered a sealed letter.
The letter proved to be from Matilda herself, dictated to a clerk with lavish handwriting and signed with her own hand. On reading it, it was all Hugh could do to prevent himself crumpling it in his fist and hurling it onto the brazier. Damn her arrogance! To be spoken to – dictated to! – in such terms! By his sister! A sister who had no place, no part in his realm and had held none for a decade and a half! A sister, he added blackly, who could not even manage a son, where he himself, whatever his other lacks, had managed. To be treated a beggar grovelling for scraps from the mighty, to claw back the hold he had bungled on his inheritance!
Through clenched teeth he said, “I asked her for nothing.”
“Sire, the Empress heard of your need, and sought to fill it. These men are paid from her own treasury, and many sworn to her service.”
“Is she so sure of our father’s death? Still word here is confused, with no proof either way.”
“Sire, before she began to raise troops the Empress declared her lord father must be dead. Else she would not have sent them you, but instead gifted them to him.”
“Does she have proof?” How could Matilda have proof when none here did? She could not, most assuredly.
“Sire, the Empress said it.”
The implication, therefore, that it was true, on that sole basis and with no judgement. By the cross, what conceit! And she dared bid him to take Eleanor firmly in hand and restore her to the righteous path, cull her pride and break her wilfulness! Hugh found himself most solidly in the belief that someone needed to do much the same with his sister the Empress, and with far sterner hand.
He needed the men. The most tragic, the most abjectly shaming aspect of this entire affair was that. He could not reject them. He had prayed morning, noon and night for aid in his plight, and here it had come. In its coming it humbled him, and demanded further abasing of his pride. Pride, which was a sin, and so to be hunted down and cleansed.
Except there was a thought which tickled at his mind, over and over and harder with the passing days. To be a king, how could a king be humble? Another of the unending parade of paradoxes, as if he did not have his fill of them already, a torment, a plague, a pestilence of them.
“I accept my sister’s kind offer of help.” He did not accept, however, the yoke she attempted to place on his shoulders. England’s links with the Empire would remain as they were, as they would find when his hold was steadied and they sought to utilise him to some end. Fight they would, on his terms. Foreigners, brought here to fight under his banner against his native people; to oppress and cast them down, to grow rich on their stolen chattels and ruin the honour of the women, it would be said.
No. Foreigners, brought here to fight under his banner, and die so his native men did not. They could have the danger, along with the mercenaries he had contracted. Then, at the end, his army would remain as strong as could be, and it would be others who were depleted. Others he would have to pay, or who may be used against him.
God forgive him.
Killing. Wounding. Maiming. Blood. Noise. The press of bodies. The grunts of men struggling for their very lives. The crush of horses. The smell of offal and sweat and blood and excrement.
Trempwick smashed a helmet with his mace; blood sprayed from the eyeslots and vents, began to seep from under the rim. The man fell from his horse, a ransom lost to death. Trempwick was already sending his destrier on at the next.
The right had stalled, as asked. Then it had begun to struggle. Pressed back. The enemy gaining heart at what they saw as his men tiring. With new heart they surged back to the attack. And began to win.
Battle. A gamble. The ultimate gamble. Good generals avoided it whenever possible. There was no dishonour in avoiding battle, none. Only a few young hotheads with eyes full of gain from ransom, loot, ‘glory’ thought otherwise. They were few enough. Sieges and pillaging and the control of castles and land – this was the good general’s war. But sometimes there was no other choice. And sometimes battle was good. This time it was – he had shaped it to be so.
But so unpredictable! This was the danger.
Unpredicted: his right advancing. Ordered: the stall. Mostly expected: the pressing back. And so he countered, to take advantage.
His cavalry reserve had the enemy left flank from the side, his right flank had them from the front. His presence gave heart. The cavalry gave heart.
And the enemy were dying.
Fulk felt like singing; he confined himself to whistling softly instead, so others wouldn’t think him cracked in the head. They’d think him that if they knew why, too. It was a beautiful day, he was pleased to be on a hunt for the first time since France, and in a very good mood after his fight with Eleanor. It had cleared the air a deal and - better yet - been damnably enjoyable. It was impossible to put into words the sense of comfort that gave him, that they could argue seriously and come to blows and still end well. So many couldn’t, and fell apart because of it.
Blows; try as he might, Fulk couldn’t restrain a bright grin. Poor Eleanor, if she knew he found her attempts to harm him amusing she’d really try to do him an injury. It was like wrestling with a puppy, if a puppy had a very nice body and could posses that ‘I’m going to kill you!’ look he adored. Whatever she might insist, she didn’t really want to hurt him, else he’d find himself brained with a chamberpot or stabbed; Eleanor knew very well she didn’t have the strength to better any trained man in a fair … mostly fair fight. He might be trying to cure her of the bad habits her family had taught her, but this tendency he’d leave well alone.
Godit asked, “And what on earth’s the matter with you?”
Fulk landed back on earth with a thump, to find his companions on the spread of cloth that served as a picnic blanket were all staring at him. That meant five pairs of eyes: Eleanor, Anne, Hawise, Adele, Godit. “It’s spring,” he replied affably. “I’m happy.”
“Spring,” remarked Eleanor. “It goes to the heads of all male creatures, and makes them quite demented.”
Godit covered her mouth with a hand, giggling and trying to swallow her food at the same time. “Oh, I don’t know if head is quite the right word.”
A chorus of very feminine amusement followed.
Then the natural order re-established itself and rivalry between princess and queen’s maid resumed. Godit said, “Still, if he were not kept so closely stabled …”
“He is not closely stabled at all. He is free to roam at will, so long as it does my name no harm.” Eleanor turned to him, so open and innocent butter would have frozen in her mouth, not just forborne to melt. “Is that not right?”
The memory of her hand threatening to crush his manhood was fresh, if not totally unpleasant. “Yes. Perfectly,” Fulk lied.
Godit bit into a piece of dried fruit. “He probably already loves someone. Someone who can’t see his worth and doesn’t care. He should forget her and find someone better.”
“Really?” Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. She leaned across Hawise and patted Fulk’s hand. “Poor Fulk. You should tell me who, and I shall do what I can to see she takes a bit of notice.”
“Oh, I think I’ll wait a bit. Bide my time. Make myself more obvious. Win honours in the field. Wear brighter clothes. Get a catapult and demolish her house. The usual.”
Hawise said gravely, “You’re very patient.”
Fulk shrugged. “Well, I suppose I could pick up my damsel, carry her off, argue with her and beat her into submission, then ravish her.” He very carefully did not look in Eleanor’s direction at all. Pity there hadn’t been a bit more time this morning. He reached for an eel chewette, tossed it from the claiming right hand to his left and back again, to say with a flourish, “But have you any idea how embarrassing it is when you get started on that ravishing, only for her to say thanks but no thanks, as she prefers the squinty-eyed clerk who does the household accounts?”
This won him a nice round of laughter.
Godit indicated Hawise, herself and Adele with a gesture. “Well, here’s three you can kidnap at any time.”
“Not me,” protested Hawise at once. “He’s too silly. I couldn’t put up with it.”
“Nor me,” said Adele. “I’m betrothed and I like him, even if he does obediently trot off on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land with his father instead of staying here and marrying me. He had best bring me back some very good gifts.”
The bite Eleanor had raised to her lips lowered again. “Pilgrimage?”
And so the conversation turned safely away from him. Fulk ate his fill, and lay down on his back, one arm flung across his forehead to shade his eyes from the sun, listening with one ear to the chatter and watching through slitted eyes a certain lady in blue. She wasn’t wearing her crown today, which he liked.
His heart felt full to bursting. Such a simple thing, her not being afraid earlier, and yet it made the whole day seem much brighter. Always she’d cowered before, no matter how careful he’d been. Typical Eleanor that she’d finally overcome ingrained habit when he’d been more angry then before, all previous grudges and unhealed wounds boiling together with a hangover, a bad night and a very bad scare. And to the great ease of his mind, she was taking his playful smack very well.
The rest of the hunt was scattered about the grass on similar blankets, grouped by friendship rather than rank. The servants, having done their part in setting up the individual dining parties, had withdrawn to eat their own meal. The beast handlers had gone to a separate edge, like to like, with dog handlers in one place, falconers in another, grooms again slightly separate.
When Eleanor finished eating she moved to the perch where her borrowed merlin rested, picking up the falconer’s gauntlet and drawing it on. Taking the jesses in her gloved fingers she encouraged the bird to transfer onto her fist and came to sit by Fulk’s head. “This,” she said companionably, at a normal pitch so others could overhear, “is Armida.” Armida sat there as if she didn’t care two dead mice for introductions to minor barons, no matter how beloved.
Fulk moved his arm back a bit and opened his eyes properly. “Very nice. Suitably snooty for a royal bird.” Nice? The bird was as lovely as its perch!
“I have an impression you know something about hawks.”
“A bit.” Fulk sat up, combing his hair back into order with his fingers. “I had a hawk when I was a boy, like any legitimate son would have, and while I was with Aidney I’d the loan of a bird if he hawked or a set of spears if he hunted.”
“Good.” Eleanor dropped the bait pouch into his lap. “Because she should probably be fed at some point.” With a delicately exaggerated shiver she said, “I have visions of her falling off my fist in a faint.”
Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose, smiling. “Simple enough; take her hood off, then offer a bit of meat. Easy.”
“I value my fingers.”
“Hold the food at the end, then let go as she takes the last bite.” He waited, and so did she. “Well, go on then,” he encouraged.
Pulling a face, Eleanor gingerly unlaced the hood and pulled it off. Armida blinked a few times and tossed her head, fluffed her feathers, and settled back down.
Chin minutely tucked in, eyes intent and on the bird, lips slightly apart Eleanor looked as if she expected it to explode into a shower of feathers.
Fulk unfastened the pouch and offered it to her. She took one of the little bits of dried meat with her bare hand, holding the very tip of the strip between the lowermost parts of her thumb and forefinger. Slowly she brought the bit around so it dangled above the merlin’s head and began to lower it.
Fulk found himself laughing; when the bird took its first bite the strip pulled free of Eleanor’s pathetic hold and hit it on the head, both falcon and princess squawking in surprise. Charitably he explained the obvious, “You have to hold it better.”
Her eyes flashed, bringing back pleasant memories of this morning. Picking the meat back up Eleanor looked set to cram it down the bird’s beak and damn the hazards. “Thank you, I think I may perhaps have noticed that.”
This time it all went smoothly, and by the third bit of meat she was as relaxed about it as the falcon. Running a finger over Armida’s feathers with a tenderness which made Fulk feel quite jealous, she said, “When I was, oh, ten, I begged Trempwick every day for more than a week for a hawk, I wanted one so badly. In the end he sat me down, told me that the creature would eat his messenger birds, and … encouraged me never to so much as consider asking again.” He heard the slight emphasis on ‘encouraged’ and tilted his head in askance. She explained, “I had been pestering him very badly, I suppose, looking back, and I definitely should have known better than to press after the first day’s first refusal.”
Fulk elected not to comment on her excusing Trempwick refusing her something she should have had by simple fact of birth. He choose to share his happy remembrances of his own bird, and tried not to feel that in this, as in so many other areas, his childhood had been far richer than hers. “I called mine Hector; he was only a goshawk, fitting to my place as a squire. Had him for years. My father taught me to fly him, instead of leaving it to the falconer. When I’d the knack of it we went out to hawk together at least once a week.”
A piercing shriek rang about the area, followed by another.
Fulk was on his feet, hand on his sword and searching for threats. “Stay down,” he commanded when Eleanor started to rise. She obeyed decently enough and transferred her hawk back to its perch unhooded, fastening its jesses to the woodwork so it could not escape. Now he felt justified in wearing his sword instead of a borrowed hunting knife.
Other men across the sprawling picnic had done as Fulk had, not as many as he’d expect or think warranted. Something was off here.
The source of the screams came into view, a young woman in bright green supported on either side by squires in the king’s livery. “The Black Knight has kidnapped my sister!” she wailed.
Fulk made a noise of complete disgust and sat back down. “A game.”
Anne said, “He likes to imitate the deeds of King Arthur and his court. Like this hunt for the White Stag. The Christmas before last I got to be kidnapped by a giant, which was fun.”
Fumbling her falcon’s hood back on, Eleanor commented, “Someone should tell him King Arthur was English.”
The call to the rescue had gone out, and the hunt was scrambling to its feet, men and ladies alike. Grooms rushed horses over to their owners, servants came in to tidy up and load the remains of the picnic onto the sumpter horses, and the maiden in green sobbed and shook in a convincing manner. There was no question of any lingering back; the chaos resolved into a hunt formed up as it had been before it stopped to eat.
The Black Knight’s camp was a convenient distance west, ten minutes ride at a walk. It had a nice black tent, a jolly campfire with a pot hanging over it, and a black warhorse hobbled and cropping at the scanty grass. A plain black shield hung from the branch of a tree, ready for challengers to strike it.
The hunt arranged itself in a crescent so everyone could see, the king and his foul son - and their pet screaming girl - at the centre and slightly forward.
Reining his horse about, the King of Scots addressed his court. “Who will challenge the Black Knight to rescue the fair and gentle lady Muriel?”
Fulk sighed, echoing Eleanor.
A clamour of names and volunteering shouts replied, so many and so muddled none could be understood.
Right on cue the Black Knight emerged from his tent, ‘dragging’ a fair young thing in white along behind him. He let her go a few paces out from the tent’s mouth, helmet bobbing as he snarled at her to stay put.
In an undertone Eleanor said, “If I were her I would run. Not tied or hampered in any way, and he would never catch up in full armour.”
Anne and Hawise giggled. Adele was scandalised. “But you are supposed to be rescued!”
The Black Knight was speaking again, voice raised and rumbling in an earnest effort to sound villainous. “One shall challenge me. One! I care not to waste all day on children. Defeat me and you may have her back, and my horse and arms as ransom. If I win then lady Muriel becomes my wife, and I shall take her away to my fortress.”
“Huh,” muttered Eleanor. “Sounds like a cheap wedding to me. Her family should be pleased; a landholder, rich, and not costing them a penny.”
“Then,” the King of Scots said loudly, “we must send the best of our company.”
Fulk rolled his eyes and sank down unobtrusively in his saddle. He had a bad feeling about this.
Prince Malcolm spurred his horse forward to cut before his father’s. “I will go.”
“No!”
“I can win! I know I will-”
“You are not a knight.”
The prince’s face screwed up; his grip on the reins vicious enough that his horse had to rear its head back to reduce the pressure on its mouth. “Then you go, old man, if you think you can do better. Go on – see if you can remember how to draw your bloody sword. Then see if you can’t manage not to bungle it.”
The only movement about the older Malcolm was his tunic, rippling in the light breeze. “The king does not fight.”
“Not this one, no.”
“Clear the way, Malcolm. Or we shall order you from our presence, to languish far from us until you recall your manners and come to plead for forgiveness.”
The boy leaned in close to his father. “I have my own household, my own lands, my own court, and believe me I wouldn’t be bloody languishing,” he growled. “But I’m not about to leave you to piss up my inheritance.” With that he wrenched his horse out of the way.
Fulk heard Anne comment softly to Eleanor, “He is never sent away. He always pushes just a tiny bit too little.”
One of the lords near the king spoke up, “Perhaps we should let our guest have the honour?”
As heads turned towards Fulk he tried to wish himself invisible.
The King was delighted. “Yes. A knight of whom we have heard very much, who has proven himself an honourable man and a great rescuer of beleaguered ladies.” A polite titter ran about the gathering. “Well? How does this suit?”
Fulk bowed in his saddle, knowing that he had been selected when this stupid game was set up. But why – that worried him. “Sire, you do me far to much honour. I’m not worthy. There are many here better than I.” With sudden inspiration he tried to turn the focus away from himself. “Let your son prove his valour.”
Briefly – oh so very briefly – Malcolm looked surprised. Then his face twisted into a sneer and he laughed his crudely raucous laugh … which might have had an edge of bitterness. “What damsel wants to be rescued by me?”
Fulk found himself being cheered for by most of the court, demanding he act as champion. They were following the King’s clearly expressed will. There was no way out. Slowly he dismounted, handing Tace’s reins to Hawise, trying all the while to see what the trap was. That depended on the King’s aim. He was completely unarmoured; his opponent was covered from head to toe in mail and wearing a full helm, not a single bit of skin showing. But if he were killed or wounded in this game it would discredit his hosts considerably. Then what? The damsel? They might try to marry him off to tie him to this court. He dearly hoped that was it; it’d be simpler and safer to slip from that snare.
A pair of swords and shields were brought out by the Black Knight’s page, real shields and wooden swords painted to look like metal. As the challenger Fulk was offered first choice; he examined the selection very closely, looking for signs they were otherwise than they should have been. Nothing; as far as he could tell they were all sound. He picked at random and moved to the clear patch of grass set aside for the duel.
Making practice cuts to warm up it occurred to Fulk that this might be nothing more than a chance for the Scots to see how he fought in earnest, outside of the training ground. What they learned they might use against him. Unlikely. All the same he resolved to mislead if he could.
The girl he was supposed to be rescuing came to give him her favour, a veil she wrapped several times about his bicep and tied on his shield arm.
The Black Knight took up a ready stance. “First contact wins. To battle!” he roared, snapping his shield up and speeding towards Fulk.
Shield held loosely out on front, Fulk paced quickly to meet him, sidestepping at the last to get into the large blind area made by the bucket-like helm. His backhand slice was already gathering as he began the dodge; it slapped the Black Knight on the back.
The court were so delayed in recognising that the brief fight was over that they only began cheering as the Black Knight cast down his sword and cursed vehemently.
Fulk prised the grateful prisoner off himself, returned her veil, and went to bow to the man who’d organised this. “Sire.”
“Excellent!” The king clapped his gloved hands in the same shower of sparkling reflections he managed the previous day in his regalia; the gloves were sewn with gold thread and set here and there with stones in imitation of rings. “Truly excellent. We have never seen the like. A man born of a most excellent father indeed.”
It had been a lousy match – the Black Knight had fought like a fool and been constrained by the game to arm to a disadvantage in foot combat. Anyone with a fraction of understanding could see it. “You are too kind, Sire.”
“We do grant you your prize with good heart, and do add to it this.” He raised a finger, and a page came forward with a bulging purse.
Fulk accepted the money and bowed again. “Thank you for your generosity, Sire.” A bribe? It was a heavy purse and added to the rest it made him considerably richer.
Dismissed Fulk thought it best to show a token interest in his other prizes. He grabbed a squire and made arrangements for the destrier and armour to be collected up and returned to the palace, the horse to be stabled with his and the armour to be given to Luke for inspection.
He rejoined Eleanor’s group, mounted up, and shortly after the hunt moved out, once more searching for the White Stag they would not find.
Eleanor dropped back to ride at his side instead of Anne’s. “Whatever we are hunting, it is not a stag, white or otherwise. I think he just won something.”
“Yes. But what?” Fulk asked, his words as soft as hers had been.
His work on the right flank had not taken long. As soon as it was stabilised he had pulled back. The reserve was a reserve. And he was the general. His infantry would do their job now; killing while holding a weakened foe.
His centre worried more. The line was thinning, growing weary. It had been bearing the brunt for too long. Half the infantry reserve had been sent in, some half hour(?) ago. They had shored it up, but they were too few to ensure its survival.
If the centre went, all went. The two flanks would be isolated and shredded.
Temptation: Take his cavalry and smash an enemy flank, so extra men could be committed to the centre. Too dangerous. If the reserve should be needed in the centre … If the left flank should press too far forward … If his men should break and pursue the routers …
He did not have the men. The smaller force must hold together. The line must hold. The formation must hold.
He could dismount and fight on foot with his bodyguard in the centre. Boost morale, add fresh bodies with the best training and equipment …
So he did. His banner flying over his head, his sword red in his hand, Mauger at his left shielding the lord he’d trained.
“Oh, God’s bones!” Jocelyn crawled back into his bunk on the ship, the stench of the pot and the vomit sloshing about in it still filling his nostrils. Filling the whole damned poky cabin, actually – bloody thing slid about scattering its foul perfume like an incense pot waved in a procession. The deck heaved, and so did his stomach. “Squall?” he raved, voice harsh from a raw throat and green belly. “Bloody storm, more like. Holy Jesù!”
From the corner where he huddled, Alain raised his pale face to look at his lord. “At least. At least. God save us all!”
Serious travel, Jocelyn decided and not for the first time in his twenty-eight years, was terrible. You rode hard for miles, day after day, each night pitching up in whatever lodgings you could find, mud splattered and weary. You paid too much for bad food. If you couldn’t find a noble household or abbey to claim hospitality at you made do with a good inn, and if you couldn’t find something decent you ended in a damned flea infested rat-house. Then you finally reached the coast, paid too much to board a tiny little flimsy wooden thing, and got stuck in a big storm, which the God damned crew cheerfully told you was just a little squall and nothing to worry about. Burn them in hell, bastards! He’d been across the Narrow sea a few times before, and it’d never been like this. Damn it, he’d hardly even gotten queasy back then.
“Oh, Jesù!” groaned Alain, diving for the pot.
The sound of him throwing up made Jocelyn feel like another go himself. He clenched his teeth on the urge and repeated inside this head a little mantra dear Tildis had imparted before he left, with the assurance it would help with seasickness. “I’m not going to be sick. I’m not going to be sick. I’m not going to be sick.”
Next thing he knew was he was shoving his squire out of the way in his haste to get to the pot. Yes, well, not even an hour later the bitch had gone and announced so his everyone could hear that he was a crap lover; of course her damned advice was poison, damn her! By now she would be all warm and cosy back in Saint Maur with the children. Lucky cow.
“Do you think we’ll sink?” asked Alain, when they had both wiped their mouths and settled back into their misery.
“No,” replied Jocelyn shortly. To make sure of it he rattled through a few good prayers and promised to pay for a pilgrim to go the Holy Land in his name if he survived. Not that he thought you could bribe the Almighty, of course. No, perish the thought! Just to be on the safe side he said a few Hail Marys in penance for even accidentally thinking that word. And a few more for the whore last night. Then a few for the woman the night before. And some for all the others on the trip. The noisy one he said more than a few for, just to be really very safe about things; four times in one night had nearly killed him then and it’d be a shame if it killed him now.
The ship rolled, kept on rolling, kept on dipping Jocelyn backwards, backwards, still backwards. He whimpered and drew a cross over his breast; they were going to capsize!
Or not; the ship righted itself a good deal faster than it had leaned over.
Taking the hint Jocelyn dropped to his knees and clasped his hands before him, closing his eyes. In a rapid mutter he managed a rather confused and repetitive mishmash, “Oh Lord, forgive me, a sinner. Mary, Gentle Lady, full of grace, forgive me and help me. Blessed Jesù, look on me kindly. Forgive my weakness. Forgive my mistakes. Forgive me for my language, and help me to mend. Forgive me for my blasphemy, and help me to mend. Forgive me for straying, and help me to mend. Forgive me for my unkind thoughts, and help me to mend. Forgive me that I kill, and help me to mend. Forgive me for not being a better husband, and help me to mend. Forgive me for my drunkenness, especially last Tuesday, and help me to mend. Forgive me my pride, and help me to mend. I shall confess and do penance as soon I hit land. I repent all, with all my heart. I’ll do pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint Edward the Confessor while in England. I commend my soul to you, oh Lord.” Crossing himself he levered himself back into his bunk. On the floor Alain was praying likewise, lips moving and words lost to Jocelyn’s ears.
It was all Richildis’ fault anyway, damn her! If she hadn’t said what she did he wouldn’t have needed to go to such lengths to prove her wrong, thereby imperilling his soul to stop those knowing little sidelong looks he suspected his men kept giving him when they thought he wasn’t watching. And it was her fault he’d nearly crippled himself with that damned noisy bitch and all. Four bloody times, and all that din had given him a headache, as well as a worn out cock and a painful lack of sleep which made the next day on the road hell, and his men had all been tired and glaring at him for being the cause of the disturbance. Huh, so had the other damned inn patrons, for that matter. Well, if they hadn’t probably kept looking at him like that in the first place then he wouldn’t have needed to, so it was their own fault. Not that he was trying to prove anything anyway, damn it! The stupid woman’s lies didn’t deserve even that little recognition!
Actually … Jocelyn’s eyes went heavenwards. They came back to earth, slowly. The ship pitched again, as it had been doing all too damned much since they left port.
He was back on his knees so fast they bruised, crossing himself and muttering away again.
Problem with God was that He knew everything, including - especially – the bits you didn’t want Him to. Wasn’t even safe to complain about your own damned wife, bless her soul!
One of the men he’d left to watch carried the message to him. Trempwick shouted the news aloud, battlefield bellow hushed by bone-deep weariness. Heard it carried on in breathless voices.
His bodyguard closed about him, Trempwick continued to fight. Fight an enemy with no heart, also hearing the news.
His reinforcements were here.
The enemy army was ground to weeping red pieces, trapped between his two forces.
The hunt was out all day, returning a little before dusk to a light supper, a meal so small couldn’t be called a meal at all, and so it didn’t break the fast.
Seated again in the queen’s place Eleanor picked at her food and wracked her brains. What had the hairy fusspot next to her gained with his game? What could he possibly have won from it? Something, that much she felt certain of.
Abruptly, Anne’s father spoke. “We have given much thought, and we find this fair and reasonable. We shall be most pleased to be your brother’s close friend and ally, as we were to your father before him.”
Hope that Anne had been wrong shot through Eleanor, made greater by the pause. The pause was so slight she could not have gotten a word into it if she had tried, which she did not, not trusting and expecting even in hope that she was not about to hear reasonable terms.
“The bond of blood shall be renewed; you shall marry Malcolm. The Archbishop of Glasgow himself shall annul the impediment and bless the union. You will bring with you as dower Alnwick and Carlisle, and all the lands between them, and all the lands south for sixty miles, and fifty thousand marks. Our army shall keep all it captures, be it of no value or great. However, we do allow that you may buy back certain items if they be of great import. In friendship we do ask that you supply another ten thousand marks to pay our troops, for it is well known England is by far the richer of our two realms and, however willing our spirit, our army does march as any other and have the same needs.” A hand – rings restored – rose to stroke that beard.
Eleanor waited to be sure he was done. Then she answered, gravely and with due thought and as much diplomacy as she could muster. She laughed. “A good joke; it rounds out the day’s entertainments well indeed.” So he wanted a tame extraordinary claim to the English throne he and future generations could produce at will, half the north, obscene amounts of money which amounted to several years of revenues for the crown, a bride for his disgusting son, and a chance to go to war to extend his ill-gotten lands still further while being paid so much that he would have money left over when the war was done. “I would suggest that you forgot to ask for the one true cross, restored to one piece from its fragments. However, I do find myself distressed you would make a joke of such a serious matter while showing reluctance to speak of it properly.” Time to try and put an end to his avoidance by being honest. “I shall not remain here forever; if I judge my mission here to be a failure I will go and put my resources to something which may be of good.”
The hand stroking the beard began making longer strokes, from chin to ends of the hairs. The edges of his mouth rose fractionally, Eleanor thought, though the flowing moustache made it hard to be sure. “We shall speak in due time.”
Alone in his empty tent, Trempwick sat on his folding chair and sipped a goblet of ice wine. His squire had cleaned the few gashes, put balm on his many bruises. Then left. His meal was for one. His drink was for one.
Outside the camp was noisy. Celebrating. Men at arms and poor knights gathered around fires, laughing, drinking, eating, reliving their victory blow by blow. The better sort splintered off into friendship groups doing the same, in better style. The inevitable whores would be in fine profit tonight. The same could not be said of the women captured from the other army.
In a while Trempwick threw off his outer layers and climbed into his empty bed. He slept with cold sheets and his hurts for company.
Phew! 17 pages!! 17 pages before spacing! 23 after! That is a frog-sized episode and a half! What a gamut it does run. Hmmm :squints at it all dubiously: It didn’t come out as planned. It was supposed to run about the thread of Trempy’s battle, with the others flashing in as brief but important scenes to contrast. Except Nell and Fulk on are fine form, relaxed, teasing and happy as they haven’t been in a long time (er, barring that wee tiff at the start), and … at least now it feels like that is needed. It feels right that there is some of their ‘fun’ stuff here; it balances things out, here and on an overall scale. I think. :scratches head:
Not perfect though. The humour is the thing which feels perfect here, and the Fulk/Nell bits. Trempy’s bits are mostly just right. The rest … varies.
If anyone cares to know what Fulk looks like to me, find a good version of Titian’s ‘portrait of a young man’. I had never seen the picture before in my life, yet the similarity is uncanny. All he needs is the crooked nose, hair which is more chestnut brown, and the correct clothing. Here’s a rubbishly tiny version (scroll down a bit; he’s the portrait, not the big scene ;p Alas, there is no good-sized image on the web; this is the best I could find) It just doesn’t look right unless it’s very large; the one I saw was A4 sized, in a new book we are stocking. Imagine my shock as I flicked through to see what was in the book, only to come face to face with Fulk. There’s a whole load of detail in the portrait, you see, and it is what gives the bone structure, the tiny laugh and frown lines on his face, the mellowness of those brown eyes, and the fineness of the overall features. On the small image versions he doesn't look quite right. I brought the book, in the end, because I couldn’t find another good copy.
Thanks for the assorted well wishes. I’m feeling a lot better now. ~:)
Edyzmedieval: When it’s done and edited, I shall likely try. ~:)
Vladimir: Yes, it was definitely the sandwich – I found some of the lettuce was frozen when I was around the middle of it. God knows how that happened – it was a freshly made baguette from a reputable small bakery chain, and stored at room temperature. Which means the ham could have turned as well … :begins to feel ill just thinking about it:
Book allergy? :horrible screams of pure, abject horror are heard to echo around the org for a good few minutes:
Tell me, when are you going to finish it? All the chapters will surely fill about 1000 pages.... :juggle2:Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
I'm just...wow. What a huge section, I thought you weren't feeling well. And shame on you for posting it when I don't have time to read it. Grrrrrr. ~;)
Edit: Read it (hah! I should be a poet). So that's what you think Fulk looks like? I always thought he looked more like me...huh. Really good section, although I don't get why Jocelyn is talking about abusing poultry. Do you think he's talking about a capon?
I did have a problem with Trempy's "War Speech". It sounded a lot like:
:bigcry:
So the Germans are back in England huh? Why am I getting flashbacks to Macbeth?
Wow, now that was one episode. Let´s see, a Fulk-Eleanor scene, a battle (complete with the obligatory speech), Jocelyn at sea, a falcon hunt, another hunt, the Black Knight, the Scottish King proposing marriage, Hugh and the German, well, "auxilliaries" is the best word I can come up with... Anything I missed? I don´t recall ever having so much happening i one update. And all that written by a poisoned Frog...
Hm, maybe we should get you poisoned more often, if it makes for such big updates... on second thoughts, rather not, lest someone bungles it and then there´d be no updates at all anymore.
Back to serious, I hope you´ll get better.