Erm... I'll take a wild swing at something to do with the term 'death knell'.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
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Erm... I'll take a wild swing at something to do with the term 'death knell'.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Demon, :bow:
Axeknight, nice theory but way off. It's one of those subtle, book like things I talked about earlier. I really need to know if people have spotted it...
Clue:
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
I'll have a guess then froggy - Am I right in saying that he is trying to exert control thro repeatedly reminding her of the time he first used it when she was bludgeoning her brother's sword? "dear sweet nell" as a form of irony and sarcasm of her publicly displayed personae?
Yes, you got two facets - irony and control, but there are two more out there.
Clue:
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
You could say this needs resolving before I post the next part; Trempy gets a tiny bit more blatent about one facet there, and once again there is something subtle but vital 'hidden'. I need to know how to work it, how obvious I have to make it. It *has* to be subtle to work.
Hmmm, for that matter is anyone wondering about Eleanor's newly revealed phobia of being crushed, the implications and how it might have been acquired? I wonder if anyone will make the connection between the fear and the cause when it is revealed subtly...
The whole story is full of this stuff, and now moments where you read something, look back and go "ahhh, so that's what...!" are approaching. Also there is going to be a lot of things said but not in an obvious way, a lot of important things. :sigh: I suspect many people are going to miss them; there's just too long between installments and this format is not best suited to rereading and pondering meanings. But I cannot point them out in a note after each chapter; that would defeat the whole point.
ah I think I know now perhaps Ill pm instead of posting here as it may spoil it for others
Eleanor gave the manor’s servants a cheerful pep talk first thing in the morning before setting out with Fulk to an area of empty grass where they could try to kill each other without an audience. Since it would be easy from Trempwick to find out about the sword fighting they practised hand to hand instead.
“Dig your thumb in just there,” said Fulk, indicating an area on the inside of his wrist, about an inch down from the joint and in the middle of his arm, “It hurts like hell, often disables the hand and is easy to do from almost any angle.”
“Like this?” asked Eleanor as she applied gentle pressure.
“Yes, I’d offer to wrestle with you so you can check you’re able to find the right spot in more strenuous circumstances but you’re still healing, even if you are a lot better.”
“Oh not that again,” groaned Eleanor flinging his hand back down, “I think I shall demote you to royal training dummy!”
“Well, well, now this is an interesting conversation,” commented a voice off to one side. Neither of them had noticed Trempwick’s appearance, a worrying fact in itself. He kept his right hand hidden behind his back; he was holding something, but what?
Eleanor turned, grinding her teeth and forcing a smile, “Master.”
“I presume there is a reason for your sudden interest in running a household, dear Nell? Perhaps you plan on retiring?”
“What would I retire to?”
Trempwick came closer to them, including himself in their group instead of remaining aloof further away, “Dearest Nell, I am afraid I shall have to steal you away and talk to you about why my poor cook is in tears; apparently you sacked him.”
“He cannot cook,” explained Eleanor. At least Trempwick did not seem upset, either overtly or in one of his many assorted acts.
Trempwick offered her his arm; she had no real choice but to accept it. With the princess on his arm Trempwick pulled his right hand out from behind his back; it held a small stick, “I have not forgotten about you, bodyguard. This will keep you entertained while Nell’s absent.” He threw the stick in the opposite direction to the one he intended to walk in, “Fetch.” He started walking, only to stop one step later when he noticed Eleanor wasn’t following him, “Come,” he barked.
Once again he’d forced her to choose, yet again she had no time to consider all the options and outcomes properly. With an apologetic glance towards Fulk she joined Trempwick, placing her hand back on his offered arm and walking at his side.
Fulk watched them leave, saw her looking up at Trempwick as she walked, saw her walking close to him, saw her leaning to hear what the spymaster was saying. His fists clenched, nails digging into the palms of his hands. He paused, recognising consciously what he was doing. He forced his hands open and mustered a laugh, weak and hollow sounding. Jealous of something far beyond his reach, something he didn’t even want.
“You like him,” accused Trempwick the instant they were out of earshot. Eleanor looked up at him. “No, more than that, dear Nell, more than that.”
“You are wrong.”
“No I’m not,” he said it so quietly she had to lean in to hear, so quietly it was more a sigh than real words. “To any who knows you, really knows you, it is clearly evident.”
Eleanor could have kicked herself; in a flash she understood the pet jibes, the choices he’d forced, the squabbles he’d created. All a way of seeing how she’d react, a way of testing her as much as of testing Fulk. A neat trap and she’d walked blindly into it, once again out-manoeuvred by Trempwick. “There is a small spark,” she admitted, “and it will be stamped out.”
Trempwick stopped, looked up at the sky, at the grey winter clouds. He seemed older somehow, his face more lined, more haggard. Finally his gaze returned to earth; the sparkle, the keen life in his eyes that was always present no matter the disguise was gone. “I think I am becoming an old man, dear Nell. It is a rather disturbing thought. Even a year ago I would never have…” his shoulder rose and fell, “Ah, forget it. It is no matter.”
Eleanor stood, knowing she wasn’t dismissed and that leaving of her own accord was generally only a good idea if she felt like a few interesting days of being subjected to Trempwick’s creative and uncomfortable ideas. The last time she had done that Trempwick had kept summoning her at all hours, day and night, day after day for no purpose at all except to keep her standing around on increasingly sore feet until he got bored and sent her away.
“Let me send him away.”
“No,” she replied instantly.
The fact she didn’t even consider the request was not lost on Trempwick; his head bowed, “You do not know what you are getting into,” he looked at her with a kind of desperation, “Yes, that spark might die away, but if it does not? You will be spending your life right next to someone who does not share your feelings, you will be left looking at what you cannot have,” his voice cracked just perceptibly, “It’s hard, you have no idea how hard.”
“It will die out,” her hope, her fervent belief. She focused on it, not paying too much attention to her mentor.
“And it only gets worse, when you see them fall for another. You do not stop caring then; it only hurts all the more.”
“It will die out,” she repeated again, her belief rock solid. It had to be. “I am not my sister.”
“Oh I do hope not; even I would not be able to save you from our beloved sovereign if you were that imprudent.”
“No, I doubt you could.” Since for once they were being honest instead of dancing around the real topic, hiding everything behind an illusion, playing what Trempwick called ‘agent chess’ she decided to finally bring out the ghost who had been stood unmentioned between them for all these years. “I would not be such an easy kill as Stephan; I would fight.”
“I had no choice!” bellowed Trempwick. He took a steadying breath, and continued in a more normal voice, “No choice. He had to die; there was nothing to be done, believe me I had tried. I sent the best after him – I did it myself. He did not even know what happened. It was all I could do for him.”
“And doubtless that is great comfort to you, master.”
“About as much comfort as the knowledge Aidney was a traitor is to you; none at all. For what it is worth, Eleanor, I am sorry, sorry about everything. No, not everything; only the things that matter and you can supply those as well as I, so I shall not waste my breath and your patience listing them. I do not regret our little venture, not in the least. I was not so terrible, was I?”
This was a side of Trempwick she had never seen, never suspected existed. He appeared very sincere, almost needy, and she found herself saying, “No, not so bad.” Recovering slightly she added dryly, “Although there were times I contemplated killing you.”
“You hate me,” he said sadly.
“Yes,” she agreed with quiet passion. There was a pause, then she added with equal conviction, “No.” Another pause, “I am not sure. You killed my brother; you saved my life more times than I care to count. You cared for me like a … father; you made me a murderer.” A hot tear ran down her face, closely followed by several more. She turned and walked hurriedly away, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand.
“Nell…” Trempwick called after her. She started to run. He stared after her, worried. “What to do? Two evils, but which is the lesser?”
Ok, it appears no one can get all of what Trempwick's doing; one person out of two forums and one emailer managed two of the four facets. This does not bode well for most of the other subtle stuff ~:(
Question: Trempwick did two things in that second paragraph, two important things that were not clearly stated, only inferred. What were they? Come on, this one's pretty obvious and together they add a whole new dimension to this tale...
I'm not on for three days, due to my birthday and other events, and Milady Frog posts three sections of the story.
Brilliant as ever. Nice use of subtle prompting and an underlying sense of a deeper story.
As to your question I'll PM you my thoughts on the answer.
Zelda has found another one of the subtle aspects. Hope you had a nice birthday, zelda :happyg:
I think the general result thus far (based on this site, another and an email) is that people are picking up one or two things, often different things for different people, but no one person has got it all, perhaps not even half, and that is just the bits I asked about. Some people aren't getting any of it.
I think I will have to tone the subtle down quite a lot; it works in books because you can read the whole thing in several days with easy access to earlier segments when you want to check things. But then a lot of this subtle stuff is things the duo don't notice; I really can't go inside Trempwick's mind to show off exactly what he is thinking, and if Eleanor doesn't see it (which she doesn't always) then there is no way to boldly state it. You have to infer it and let the readers find it for themselves.
Also I really can't stop and do an info burst every time they mention something that links to something else, such as her fear of being crushed. That is actually one of the reasons for avoiding marriage she classes as "too embarrassing to reveal", of course again the crushed->sex/marriage->sex links is left to be gathered by the reader. At the time pointing it out wouldn't work and was unnecessary, now it has appeared going in to detail at this point is terrible. But if you think about it the two should link for themselves. When it crops up again (which will be the source of the fear revealed) I can tag it as source very obviously, but again I can't state the link to the marriage etc bit clearly. Hmm, the first chance I get to link everything together boldly is going to be... oh, 40ish pages on from now. And that is just one of many minor subtle thingies, an easy example too.
The story reads nicely enough without any of this subtle stuff, but if you spot it then it adds a whole new dimension.
Gah! Problematic! Subtle is really necessary for a lot; subtle doesn't work too well. gah!
EDIT: :comes back next day, looks ... sees many typos and bits that don't make sense: And that's why I should never try to write at 11:30PM when I am nearly asleep. Fixed.
The subtle story lines are many things to many people. A different person will pick up different things as he/she reads. Many writers will leave very subtle hints that as the story progresses to the stage where they are needed grow stronger. Not so much, as to give away the story but to unsettle the reader. To have them guessing as to what these things mean and what they will lead to. I find that books are always better if they have the underlying story written as a mystery. Giving the reader chunks of information, then allowing them to piece them together can enhance the pleasure they gain from reading. You Frog are using this, I think? Mahaps unintentionaly but it is there in a small way.
Thanks, my Birthday was fun even if the food poisoning was not. ~:dizzy:
Yes, that is what I am trying to do. I have never done anything like this before; Red Hand had subtle but nothing on this scale and it never came into play anyway, the story ended before I could use it. It's hard to know if/how it's working, and this seems a very good point to assess what is and isn't working. I think I have a better grasp on how to work the subtle now, so there will still be plenty of 'hidden' things but perhaps less ... obtuse than some of the existing ones.
Food poisoning? And I thought my 5th birthday was bad - it was also my first day at school.
16th and the day before the second week at school. I'm not fully over it but wen't to school and now feel worse. Can't win em all.
16!!!! oh crap now I feel ancient - I'm more than twice your age.~:eek: Damn one of my birthdays I ended up with alcoholic gastroenteritis for two weeks - thats poteen for you; marvelous stuff - rocket fuel~:pat:Quote:
Originally Posted by zelda12
:irritating chime and crackling noise: This is a cross forum announcement :more crackling, a few popping noises:
A huge thanks to everyone who replied with their ideas; this has been literally invaluable.
I know that this web and installment based format is very far from ideal for spotting subtlties but, as someone on the other forums said, even published authors don't get to find out what their readers do and do not spot. In this the web does have an advantage over the printed book.
I know know what people spotted, what they didn't, what the most commonly spotted items were, what no one ever mentioned, how people think about the clues I have laid ... yes, now I have a much better idea of how to do subtle if I want it seen, and how to lay clues that will only become significant when the truth is revealed.
Now, I shall get on with the next part. Subtle should be a lot easier to write, and more successful from this point on.
:chime blasts peoples’ ears again, crackling and popping finally stops:
Don’t you just love PA systems? :tongueg:
For lack of anything better to do Fulk decided to wait where they’d left him; if he went back to the manor he would only end up polishing his helmet yet again while being studiously and maliciously ignored by the servants. “We seldom get what we want, instead we get what we need.”, how many times had he heard his mother say that? It had been her reason for everything, “We don’t want a bad harvest, but God has decided we need one.” Well, by that token some saint, angel, demon, or perhaps even God Himself had decided that Fulk really needed an eccentric, peevish princess in his life. He didn’t know whether to sit down and cry or to start hunting for the entity responsible so he could give them a piece of his mind along with several sharp kicks up the backside. He would point out between kicks that princesses and men at arms just did not happen, at least not without a hideous and gruesome end for the poor old man at arms, and frankly no one was worth that even if they did do a very nice line in adorable yet menacing glares.
“I had no choice!” Trempwick’s voice, just audible on the wind. Fulk’s head snapped up. He watched the tiny, distant figures as Eleanor and the spymaster talked for a short while longer, then the princess left; it looked as if she was running. The spymaster stood, then began to walk back to the manor house. After a few steps he stopped, paused for long minutes, then changed direction, heading back towards Fulk. Suspecting something was amiss Fulk went out to meet him.
“I will not ask if you saw,” Trempwick greeted him brusquely, “You are the lesser of two evils, the greater being leaving her alone. Find her.” When Fulk would have moved the spymaster grabbed him by the shoulder with a surprisingly strong grip, “So much as a single hair and they will be burying you in pieces, and by that point you will be glad to die.”
Fulk jerked his shoulder free, “Man of honour, remember? Or perhaps you’ve no idea what honour is, spymaster?”
“I serve the crown; I will not be judged by you or any.”
“Versatile excuse, now if you don’t mind…?” He began to walk swiftly away, heading back to the manor to get a horse to speed his search. The cynical voice in the back of his mind had been quiet for days; now it piped up with a simple question – if that’s his excuse what’s yours?
After going back to fetch a horse Fulk was almost disappointed to find her waiting where she’d left him in the field, making his effort a wasted one. There was some sense in that old tip about starting a search in the last place you’d seen the missing person, a pity he hadn’t thought of that before he got the horse – he could have just sat down on the ground and waited. Er, then again perhaps sitting in cold mud wasn’t the nicest idea.
Eleanor was currently engaged in being unconventional again; she was sat in the lower branches of a tree, her legs swinging in the breeze. As Fulk rode up she gave him a cheerful wave and dropped nimbly down to earth. “Took you long enough,” she scolded him, “Where is the point in my disposing of Trempwick for much of the day if you dawdle in getting back?”
“So your running off was staged?”
“Yes,” she lied trimly.
“That makes you a swift thinker, an astute planner, a superior tactician, outstanding actor, and perhaps even a mind reader,” said Fulk extravagantly.
“I cannot help my own brilliance,” returned Eleanor in a deadpan with just enough exaggeration to make it clear it was a joke.
“Modest too,” observed Fulk in a matching deadpan. Yet more lies; she always kept her mouth shut about the most interesting things. “So, plans for today now you have dumped your Trempwick?”
Eleanor growled in exasperation, “He is not my Trempwick. I know you have a thick skull and highly limited capacity for both thought and memory, but do try to keep that in mind.”
“As you command, princess gooseberry.”
“Gooseberry!?”
“Small, green berry, extremely sour and not many people like them. You’re hardly sweet at the best of times; to me you’re anything but sweet.”
“Gooseberry,” repeated Eleanor sceptically. It did have a ring to it, but all the same [I]gooseberry[/]I?
“The small part suits you too,” said Fulk helpfully, “though not the green.”
“Gooseberry?” The more you said it the better it sounded, and if nothing else it was unusual.
Fulk patted his horse’s neck as the animal sidled restlessly, “So, as we were saying before your cruel, unprovoked attack on me, what now? It’s too damned cold to sit about on a horse discussing fruit.”
“We can remain here and continue our practise in peace. I honestly doubt we will get much of that until we leave here again; Trempwick will be … will be himself, and that is at best stifling and at worst extremely hazardous.”
They rode back to the manor aiming to arrive just as dinner was being served. As there was only the one horse Eleanor rode pillion, perched behind Fulk with her hands twisted through his belt. Alerted by the noise of their arrival Trempwick stood at the window in his study, watching them in stony silence with an inscrutable expression on his face. Unseen by either Fulk or Eleanor his hands gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles went white. As Fulk helped Eleanor down from the horse, as she dropped into his waiting arms, Trempwick’s finely manicured nails attempted to gouge marks into the solid timber.
He leaned his head out of the window, “Have a nice little day trip, did we, oh sweet Nell?”
Eleanor had been planning carefully for hours now, ever since she had departed the spymaster’s company. Defiance that quickly crumbled into resignation with a touch of crushed spirit would suit the situation best. It was precisely what he’d expect. “Yes, thank you, master.”
“I was concerned, my precious little Nell.”
“About me? You do surprise me.”
“If you had only said you wanted a walk, dear Nell, I would have been happy to take you on one. Perhaps tomorrow we can go for a nice stroll while your pet is with the tailor?”
Here we go, this was where he would begin to bite, “That is very kind of you, master.”
“Yes, I think thirty miles should stretch your legs, sweetest Nell. You will forgive me if I ride, won’t you? I am not as young and … vital as you, after all.”
Bow head, slump shoulders, bite lip slightly, now a touch of weariness to the voice and, “Yes, master. Thank you for your … consideration.” Now, is he fooled?
“Not at all, my dear, sweet Nell, I do enjoy your company. Perhaps we can go for another walk the day after tomorrow as well?”
Damn, he wasn’t fooled a bit. “As you wish, master.” Now that sounded better, but probably because there was less acting involved. She doubted they would end up travelling anywhere near thirty miles in two days, not in the winter mud and cold, but all the same she was going to be dragged along from dawn till dusk. At least Fulk was keeping out of the way as ordered; miracles will never cease.
“And Nell? My beautiful Nell? My cook is not sacked, nor is any of my staff. They remain, understood?”
“Yes, master.”
“I do appreciate your taking an interest in running a household, but not mine. I have mine set up just as I like it, darling Nell, whether the cook can actually cook or no.” He gave Fulk a cheery wave, then pulled the shutters to.
Fulk leaned down and said quietly in her ear, “Happy little fellow, isn’t he?”
“Are you volunteering to go on that nice walk with me?”
“No, no, I wouldn’t dream of butting in between old friends,” said Fulk innocently.
“Bastard,” she said with quiet, but friendly, feeling.
Fulk just grinned and patted her on the shoulder. Together they went to investigate the ‘delights’ the cook had managed to create.
For the best part of three weeks Trempwick kept them apart, keeping Eleanor busy with anything that kept her away from Fulk and on under his supervision. Fulk was kept occupied for a few days by the tailor, measuring fitting and refitting his new clothes and a suit of royal livery.
Then in the beginning of the second week of December he suddenly stopped, all but disappearing into his study and never emerging into daylight. Eleanor and Fulk restarted their hand-to-hand combat training, working in the solar as the weather was terrible.
Finally, after vanishing for just over four days, Trempwick reappeared in the middle of one of their training sessions. The usually dapper spymaster looked dreadful, his eyes sunken with dark smudges beneath them as if he hadn’t slept in days, his clothing rumpled and unkempt, and his manner preoccupied. He watched them silently for around half an hour, before finally speaking, “How do you feel about treason, Nell?”
“I am a loyal servant of the crown,” she replied instantly, with the confidence born of long practise at making that particular line sound heartfelt.
“How do you feel about treason, Nell?” asked Trempwick again.
“I am a loyal servant of the crown,” she returned again exactly the same.
Trempwick scratched his chin, nails rasping over several days’ stubble, “I taught you that line well. The truth; how do you feel about treason, Nell?”
“I am a loyal servant of the crown,” she insisted again. Until she had some idea of why he was asking she would stick to her safe lie. This could be another of his games, or it could be something more sinister, a test of her loyalty by her much beloved regal parent.
“Pity.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” called Eleanor, “What do you mean, ‘pity’?”
Trempwick halted but didn’t turn back, “To know is to become guilty by association; I do not like even mentioning this to you, it places you in a difficult position, and in danger.” He looked back over his shoulder and met her eyes, “I think you will want to know. It concerns your brothers.”
“Tell me,” she said simply. She hadn’t seen either of her brothers in two years, but if it came to family solidarity she knew who she’d rather side with when faced with a choice between them and her father.
“Not here,” he replied with a significant glance at Fulk, “Keep your pet well out of it until you know what you will be dragging him into. Guilt by association is enough to hang a man. My study.” He offered her his arm, with a quick instruction for Fulk to wait in her room Eleanor took it and left with the spymaster.
I feel that part needed more work; it has some very good bits but I don't think I've done it justice. I can't help it, not only am I busy but this particular part is the slack between one interesting bit and the next.
You realise that, in a way, the entity Fulk wants to kick is me?
MORE ~:cheers: ~;p dont know which is better now this or red hand
What let you down on that bit was that it goes to quickly, it needs serious padding and polishing, more description, emotion and expretion, rather than plain speach.
Saying that, I think it;s a great story, and I know you know all this already. I'll keep eagerly awaiting more of it ~D
As I sit here on my deathbed, or so it seems to me, or to be precise death computer chair. I can't help but marvel at how good milady frogs writing is compared to mine. Then again a blind chimpanzee wit a stick and a keyboard could write better than I. ~:joker:
“John has decided,” said Trempwick as he sat down heavily on the only seat in his study, “that he would make a much better successor than Hugh, and a much better king than our much loved sovereign, king William, alias your kind, gentle, entirely sane father. He has seduced a few high ranking nobles to his cause, and enough miscellaneous others to cause trouble when he makes his move. He does not have enough to win quickly, or even to guarantee victory. I must report this; if I do not then my own head will roll, and England will be engulfed in civil war.”
Her reaction was instant and reflexive, “You are wrong! John is … he hates fighting, he finds administration tedious-”
Trempwick broke in, “And yet loves wealth, display, power and playing the diplomatic game. No, he is not an obviously ambitious man, but if he thought being king would amuse him he would chase it. Someone has been pouring poison in his ear; sadly my spies reported it too late for me to avert his folly.”
“What of Hugh? He is the crown prince.” ”And what of me?” added Eleanor silently. The answers were probably simple. Hugh would be imprisoned, murdered or exiled, and she would be neatly tied up as a reward to John’s most important, single supporter with no more say in her future than Hugh. And so that was that, the uncanny peace that had barely held the remnants of the family in England together had just shattered. Or had it? Perhaps Trempwick lied? She could not see why he would, what he stood to gain and he had never lied about anything important before. Eleanor vowed she would find the truth for herself, as long as there was even a tiny chance this was wrong then she wouldn’t have to watch her male relatives tear themselves to bits, waiting all but helplessly for the victor to decide her fate.
Trempwick spoke with uncharacteristic kindness, “Dear Nell, I am greatly heartened by your faith in my skills, but do you not think that information like that is hard to get for a simple spy? It would take someone close in his confidence, a highly placed person who was working for me-”
So that was it, he thought she was so much his creature she would go off and do his dirty work, dispatching a brother to please a father whose favour Trempwick needed as much as he needed air to breathe. “No! I will not help you betray-”
He pounded a fist into his open palm, “Be silent, damn you! Look at me,” he ordered, “Look me in the eye and say that again if you dare. Do not insult me, Nell, do not even consider insulting me. If nothing else credit me with enough intelligence to see that you would choose John over me, if only because extravagant Johnny never drowned Stephan. You’d do well to remember what John is, and what I am, remember who sat at your bedside when you were sick, and who used to sit on you.”
She was damned if she was going to apologise, even a fake apology.
Trempwick held the silence long enough to grind his point home then continued more compassionately, “I could do nothing about Stephan, but perhaps this brother I can return to you. Go, warn him to flee the country and take refuge abroad. This will make you a traitor as well, so know what you are risking, Eleanor. If you choose to travel this path I shall insist to my dying breath that you were there spying for me. I will insist you were betraying him, not saving him. That does leave you as an incompetent agent, and our monarch is already going to be in an unbelievable temper because of the magnitude of this; you know what that means.”
“I know,” confirmed Eleanor. It would mean another delightful parental meeting involving spilt blood, hers, of course, never his. “He will be furious anyway, and that means just the same.” A king cannot batter his vassals, his wife was dead, his two sons strong enough to defend themselves, and his other daughters safely abroad or deceased. That left Eleanor as the only legitimate, safe target for his wrath. Stripping castles and lands, and imposing hefty fines just didn’t have the same primal appeal as hitting someone, at least according to the wit and wisdom of his royal majesty, king William VI of England. In her more morbid moments Eleanor decided that her life was quite safe as long as her father had no other target to vent his rages on. On very rare occasions it made her almost glad the mother she had barely known was dead, but that was soon replaced by pity for what she must have suffered.
“And John must not know what you are; you cannot tell him that. You must find a way to warn without revealing yourself, or me.”
“I will go and make myself look very receptive to his plot; I can then point out a few flaws and persuade him he has been duped.” She said it with a confidence she did not feel.
“Yes,” Trempwick scratched at his stubble again, “that could work. Yes, indeed, let us plan, my valiant Nell, let us plan.”
Fulk on the edge of Eleanor’s bed, waiting and brooding, turning over possibilities and facts in his mind. What was the spymaster up to now? He’d kept his word and had a tailor make several changes of good clothes and a single suit of royal livery. Now that in itself was a puzzle. The livery was identical to any worn by a man in royal service, a red tunic with fashionably tight sleeves and tapered waist with white embroidery at the neck and hem to go with white hose and a white hood with shoulder cape trimmed in red, but there was no badge anywhere, no indication of which particular royal he served. He was supposed to wear it when Eleanor was in princess mode, but without the badge he’d look incomplete and artificial. The most straightforward answer to the lack of a badge was the most improbable; Eleanor had to have a symbol of some sort. If she didn’t have one then how was she supposed to mark out her servants and soldiers? She was noble; of course she had a personal badge. Perhaps it was Trempwick’s way of belittling him; he was in royal service but still not accepted as her man. He had decided to say nothing to any except Eleanor; he didn’t want to antagonise the spymaster too much.
Now that begged the question, why had he ever started antagonising the man in the first place? Again there were too many answers but no certain one. No, now he was lying to himself – there was only one answer and a simple one at that. He was doing it because he couldn’t stand seeing Trempwick trample all over Eleanor. It was part of his promise to protect her, a matter of honour, then. That lie held firm.
Held.
Failed. Fulk’s head dropped into his hands. His growing hair flopped forward to caress his hands, another gentle reminder of the truth. He had started growing his hair because of her and her comments, her disapproval prodding his own mild but apathetic dislike for his old cut. He was nearly committing suicide because he lov-liked her. He couldn’t bear seeing her trampled because he liked her. That entity had done a really good job on him, no matter how he fought it he lost. And she was the same, that was made it so much the worse. It is easier to keep control over yourself than over another, and now he worried what he would do if she ever broke their silence. How do you turn down a princess, tell her you want to live? Especially when that princess was so … lethally skilled. Accept, decline, whichever way he went he’d end up with sharp implements stuck in places that would make his eyes water; the only difference would be in who placed them there, Eleanor or Trempwick. No, that was a disservice to her; she wouldn’t do anything creative to him, but he would have to leave, and then …
It was a subdued Eleanor who returned to her room a couple of hours later. “He was right,” she told Fulk softly as she closed the door, “you are best off out of this.”
So that was the way of things, was it? Left out, left behind, and eventually thrown away. Not if he could help it, thanks. “If you’re going so am I. I swore ‘to follow and protect you for the rest of my life, through hellfire if need be’, or words to that effect.” Yes, he’d a promise to keep and that had nothing to do with certain fears of being killed, cast out homeless and jobless, or losing her. Certainly not the last, no, certainly not the last. Honour, that’s what it was.
“I cannot ask you to walk through hellfire for me.”
Coming from Eleanor with her precarious, dangerous life that meant a lot. Hellfire; something dangerous even by her standards. Whatever it was it was best avoided; maybe he could talk her out of it? “You promised me you’d not walk into hellfire,” he said, concern showing.
She smiled apologetically, “Then it appears I lied, for that is what I am to do. I will not change my mind.”
“Are you worth dying for?” asked the insidious voice of his conscience. No, he was not. It was the same answer as always, the same wrong answer. If he left her to face this hellfire, whatever it was, alone then he was even further from being worthy than he already was. And if he left her alone he might los-no, honour, pure honour. He would follow her to hell because he was a man of his word. “You might not ask, but you don’t need to,” insisted Fulk, “I’m going with you.”
“Walls have ears, we should move.” She snatched up her thick winter cloak from the chest where it was stored, “The tower top, no one can eavesdrop there.”
“If you come with me you will be involved in treason, and then in aiding a traitor’s escape.”
“I’ve already robbed an abbey, let my old lord’s murderer escape, aided and abetted said murderer, and upset the king’s spymaster. Any of those alone will get me swinging from a noose.” Actually he’d been trying not to think about that. “I’m going with you. My place is at your side.”
Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat; he would follow her even into treason. “If you insist on coming I suppose I can tolerate your existence.”
“And I suppose I can just about put up with you too, since it’s obligatory.”
Reality hit her like a punch; no, it wasn’t about her, most likely he was simply ensuring his job remained safe. No one would ever do anything so dangerous just for her, no one. She didn’t know why Trempwick so often gambled with his life on her behalf, but she was sure it had nothing to do with her, only some unknown benefit she could bring. He couldn’t have chosen his words better, the simple undiplomatic truth to knock her off that cloud she’d deluded herself onto. People only ever put up with her, nothing more.
Enough self-pity! She started to explain the necessary background as concisely as possible, “I have two surviving brothers, Hugh and John. Hugh is the heir; a typical second son boosted up to first place without the necessary foundation to carry the burden. Unlike Stephan he was not brought up to take the crown; he was already eleven when he became crown prince. He is competent at everything but excels at little, always struggling to fill our elder brother’s shoes and never quite managing. John is the third son, raised to have no ambitions aside from a minor dukedom somewhere. He is … petty, feckless, reckless, proud, so proud …”
One of the things she remembered best about John as a child was his stunningly bad performance in the martial arts; as a page he had been last in everything, beaten on the practise field by every other boy, even those years younger than him. The blow to his pride had been crushing, and he had set out to mend his ego in the only way he could think of, by defeating the only person he often saw who was weaker than himself – a certain girl four years younger than him with no martial training at all. Her. She could still vividly remember him and his ‘wrestling’ matches, how he’d lain in wait for her, then pitched her to the ground with no warning and pinned her down, his weight crushing her ribs so she could barely breathe, his face scant inches from her own as he crowed his victory. A page taking on a girl four years younger than him and counting the victory as glorious. It was the only way John ever saw triumph on the field.
Well, since her brother was notorious for being as martially skilled as the average carrot she would be the victor if he ever tried it again, thanks to the tricks she’d learned. She’d picked up a fear of being crushed because of him; maybe giving him a fear of short sisters would be equal exchange?
“And yet for all that his is intensely likeable; it will be good to see him, even under these circumstances. He loves to play the diplomat, the great host, and he is great company unless he decides to make you the target for one of his barbed jokes. Sadly he is rather naïve; he believes he wants to be king, he is making a bid for the crown. I think perhaps someone must have persuaded him to it. I am going to lie to him, let him bring me in on his plot, then warn him something is wrong and to flee before he is captured. If he stays he will be captured and imprisoned for the rest of his life; I cannot see Hugh forgiving the brother who tried to supplant him. We leave tomorrow. Trempwick has promised us seven days before he goes to the king, seven days to get to Bardney castle near Lincoln, and get him away to the nearest port.”
She turned away, resting her hands on the cold stone ramparts of the tower. “This is going to tear what is left of the family apart, and they will all hate me for my part. Hate for different reasons, but hate all the same.”
Fulk ached to put his arms around her, pull her close and comfort her, but that was impossible. He wished he could think of something to say, something he could offer to reassure but all he could find were lies, lies that everything would be all right when they plainly would not. He placed his hand on hers, curling his fingers around hers in a wordless gesture that said simply ‘I am here, you are not alone’. Not much, but all he could offer.
Eleanor looked at their clasped hands, then up at Fulk. Their eyes met and held, a quieter repeat of that earlier spark. Somehow it calmed her, made the knowledge that the family harmony had ended forever less overwhelming. She resolved not to question his gesture or what she saw in his eyes; she would not give it any significance or blight it with reality. It was best to leave it as something that simply was.
The gaze ended, not violently like last time, but peacefully, like something that had run its course and moved on. They both turned to looking out over the landscape, hands still joined.
Fulk remained up on the tower alone long after Eleanor got cold and went back inside; he claimed to find the cold snap in the air refreshing and he suspected she was accepted this pathetic excuse because she too had a yearning for solitude.
He noticed a single long, black hair clinging to his tunic sleeve. He picked it up and almost tenderly coiled it in a loop about his fingertip. It was long enough to wrap around seventeen times, forming a narrow, dark band. He ran his thumb over the hair, giving it the caress he had almost given to its owner. “So much as a single hair…” He smiled wistfully, unwrapped the hair and let it blow away on the breeze.
A semi-experimental piece. Not sure how it turned out; well I think ... mostly. Need to reflect and think on the finished article for a bit.
I'm not sure which is better either, caesar. Of course in my eyes it's EleanorII versus Red Hand II. I honestly couldn't choose a favourite, as I love them both for different aspects.
Sociopsychoactive, yup, spot on with what was lacking. I just didn't have the time or interest to try and bludgeon some feeling into that bit, not when I could work on this bit.
zelda, deathbed? The food poisoning got worse? Anyway you're wrong about the chimp with the stick and the keyboard - he'd need a computer too :tongueg:
Very well, froggy. I especially like this:Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Great part. As to what Caesar said, I prefer this to Red Hand (at least Red Hand version1). Even though I haven't posted in this thread much (compared to Red Hand, anyway ~D ), I'm still really enjoying this rewrite.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
I would post some more things I liked or found interesting, but I'm only half way through Fitzjohn part 8, and it's a real toughie to write (lots of dialogue, and bits that I really need to get absolutely right, and bits that need the atmosphere to be spot on for the reader to give a flying one about what is actually a really important bit) and my wrists hurt from typing. ~:(
Yes, and he does have a computer but living in the rainforest doesn't have any electricity. Which proves my piont.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Froggy, I am stunned. That love scene is very well done :stunned: .
I didn't participate in the subtlety debate because most of the subtlety is lost on me. I guess it is the language barrier: all kinds of nuances which you don't get to know unless you've talked English all your life. I can just give some general advice: in my experience people usually don’t notice the hidden elements of a character unless the writer emphasises them very strongly. Perhaps that is because in real life you don’t discover these things in one go; you notice them because they create a repeating pattern of behaviour. This is more difficult for a writer, who cannot follow his personages all the time and instead has to go for the highlights. There are a number of ways around this: emphasising it strongly, at the risk of overdoing it; or having one of your personages point it out (a favourite trick of mine). But the best way still is creating such a repeating pattern to show whatever your character is hiding.
For example: I could not see Eleanor's fear of being chrused. Yes, she reacted very strongly when Fulk landed on top of her, but she was already rather angry and I doubt any woman would be particulary comfortable in that situation. It is just one incident, it proves nothing.
As for the rest, I found the transition of Trempwick a surprise: he has been treating Eleanor as an unwilling puppet all along, and suddenly he appears to care for her. I certainly expected a bit more reaction to that than, ‘This was a side of Trempwick she didn’t know.’
I liked the ‘gooseberry scene’.
And the love scene: very, very good. The only thing that is lacking is the confusion love brings with it, the “What is happening to me?”-effect. It is a bit surprising that they both are so clear on their feelings, unless Fulk and Eleanor already have some experience in this department. But otherwise, very well done. The thought reading was well placed this time.
Lastly: don’t bother too much with the comments of this Arrogant Ashigaru. You are getting far too good for me ~;) .
Zelda, you don't write that bad. I have seen a lot worse, both here and on other forums. I think you would make a fine writer if you would just make your themes more mature (a bit like what you did in 'Evil Deeds'). You should be a bit more confident about yourself. Don't keep asking for approval for nobody is going to get ovations, not here or on any other site on the internet. And remember that the writer who thinks he cannot get better is a very bad writer indeed.Quote:
Originally Posted by zelda12
Axeknight, I've actually had that bit written and on ice ever since Trempwick first said his "so much as a single hair" thing. Got to admit the writer in me rather likes it, even if the rest of the frog wants to clobber Fulk and tell him to stop being such a soppy twit.
zelda, my point was that the chimp would need a functional PC before he was better than you. Better hope he doesn't go to a zoo... :winkg: Practise, that is the best advice I can give. It brought me a long way and will take me further still.
Ludens, Eleanor's fear of being crushed was pointed out boldly right when it first appeared, "The day had been trying enough without having to find excuses to avoid explaining why she had panicked. A fear of being crushed by some idiot climbing all over her was not the kind of thing she wanted to talk about, now or ever." The subtle is more ... how, why and wherefore, the effects and background, rather than the spotting. As you say the reaction was perfectly aceptable for any woman in the same situation, and that is ... kind of important.
Trempwick's transition is very carefully planned down to the last detail, as is her reaction.
Have they done this before? Ah, that would be telling. Fulk at least is hinting that maybe, just maybe he has. Ooh, mystery :tongueg:
Confusion? Well ... I'll say they have been in each other's constant company for nearly 3 months now. I don't think they are all that certain, except at specific moments like on that tower top. They know they have a spark, a base attraction if you will, but beyond that? Ah, I shall leave it to the story, it works better that way.
froggy conlusion on that bit: I like the love scene because it's very ... quiet and unassuming, and that only makes it seem more speical. Not so sure about Fulk's first lonesome scene, it kind of feels wrong somehow.
Bah, mature!Quote:
Originally Posted by Ludens
Vive La Immaturity.
Evil Deeds Like most of my other stories has been put on the back burner although I like the premise and will go back to it eventually. Death in the shadows went to far but may eventualy find it's way back although I got to the point where there was no where to go. Which brings me to my major problem.
Planning is to me as peace is to George W bush Jr and senior.
My second is my grammar, or lack there of. And of course my complete ignorance to spelling.
Edit: Damn re-read ludens post and actually noticed Ludens insight to my attention seeking. Ah well. It's a learning curve.
As to my self doubt it is slightly inbuilt in my phyche. I know I can improve but my phyche does not which means I just have to try. Which I do try to.
So Ludens :bow: Thankyou for the insight.
Milady Frog, I do think that your style lends itself well to the underlying flow of a story.
They made ready to leave at dawn the next morning, travelling light and wearing old, indistinguishable clothes to match their workaday horses. It was best not to attract attention, and they were going to be on the road almost without break until they arrived in Bardney. Travel during winter was slow, very slow, and so they would have to push both themselves and their mounts to reach John in time. Assuming he hadn’t moved elsewhere, of course. Eleanor prayed he hadn’t, but she had little confidence; so many of her prayers went unanswered, why should this one be any different?
Just as before Trempwick had turned out to see her off. The spymaster was once again restored to his dapper self; a bath, shave and clean clothes had taken care of that. The dark rings about his eyes remained, and he viewed the world through half closed eyes he was that weary. Eleanor stood before him, waiting for him to speak, to raise the final matter that must be taken care of before she could leave. He didn’t; for once the spymaster kept his own council, almost as if he were reluctant to bring the subject up.
“Master?” she prompted, “There is but one thing remaining.”
Trempwick blinked sleepily at her, sombre and yet comical at the same time. “Are you sure about this, dear Nell?”
She was sure this last aspect of her disguise was one she didn’t want. She was sure she was going to curse this aspect for days. She was sure it would cause trouble with Fulk. She was sure it was going to hurt. She was certain, without reservation, that it was necessary. “Yes,” she said, relieved to find her voice steady and clear.
Trempwick sighed, “Nell … so be it.” He backhanded her across the face so hard her head snapped around and she staggered backwards even though she was braced for the blow.
Her hand flew to her face; slowly she straightened up. She would go to John claiming to have escaped and fled in fear of her life. She would turn up dressed in old, plain clothes patched and not quite fitting, travel stained and with a livid bruise where reason suggested there should be none; it was common knowledge the king was currently in Wales and no one else had the right to raise a hand to her. He would ask what had happened to her, she would spill a sob story and so make herself the ideal candidate to bring to his conspiracy.
Trempwick carefully but insistently pulled her hand away so he could inspect the damage. He brushed a cool finger over the crimson mark, inspecting the damage he had caused. His gesture was almost caring. Eleanor longed to slap his hand away, longed to pull her other hand free of his light grip. She had learned two unexpected things this morning. Firstly, that for all his protestations that he preferred subtle methods to violence, and his scorn for those who used brute strength to force a way, the spymaster could hit harder than the king. Secondly, that somehow having him holding her hand, just as Fulk had done, was an entirely different and distasteful experience.
Trempwick must have sensed her discomfort because he dropped his hands back to his sides and said simply, “If you do not come back I shall be quite broken-hearted, dear Nell.”
He sounded sincere enough, and that in itself was quite rare, combined with this particular sentiment, anyway. Eleanor dismissed it with barely a thought, a spymaster worried he might lose one of his more useful tools. She was eager to be on her way, and for once Trempwick allowed her to have her own way. Just minutes later she and Fulk were riding out the gate.
Several miles out from the manor and Eleanor’s face was throbbing slightly out of time with the beat of her horse’s hooves. Delightful, it hurt once in time with her heartbeat, then again as she was jolted by the animal. Fulk was proving to be a magnificent diversion, she thought cuttingly, sat there on his horse silent as a graveyard and apparently doing his best to ignore her. What a sparkling conversationalist he could be, truly stunning, and so good at distracting her from her cares too. Well, she allowed generously, he had been hired as a bodyguard rather than companion, so perhaps he did have some excuse to sit there brooding away.
Two could play at that game; Eleanor dived deep into her own thoughts, away from the ache of her cheek, leaving her horse to find its own way along the road and Fulk to keep watch for bandits. First topic for analysis: Trempwick’s latest. Not his declaration that he’d miss her if she didn’t return, that was simple and already explained. No, the force of that slap. A bruise, that was all that was required, one that was recent and visible, nothing more. So why hit so hard? Was he proving his strength? But why would he do that? To prove there was more to him than his mind, that he was able to fight and had the strength that came from training? That suggested, then, that he had been training with weapons for years, and yet she had never seen him doing so. Maybe that was the message? That he did many things she had no inkling of.
Or maybe it was the release of over a decade’s frustration? But again, why? He could have hit her any time he liked, right from the moment she left the palace with him, and he had always shown nothing but disgust for violence.
Her brows locked together and she absently chewed her lip. There was another possibility: Fulk. A way to get at him. A way to prove how helpless the man at arms was to keep his oath, the oath he had made much of, when Trempwick decided otherwise. It would be days, weeks probably before the mark faded entirely, and for all the time it was there every time Fulk looked at her he’d see how helpless he was. More than that, it proved to her how useless Fulk was. It was underhanded, sneaky, petty, vengeful, in short it was Trempwick to a t.
The next thought hit her like a thunderbolt; Fulk, yes, but perhaps not for that reason. The Spymaster knew that if she got hurt Fulk tended it; he had to know Fulk would insist on doing something with this latest injury. So that meant …. Trempwick was pushing them together? Tending injuries created a bond just as surely as fighting side-by-side, or relying on each other for survival. She wished she had known that months ago when she agreed to let him look at her back; if she had known then what she knew now she would have refused his help, just as she was going to refuse his help now.
For a second she held the idea, in awe. Then she discarded it; Trempwick would never push his precious tool at a man he considered useless and pointless. Not only that but Fulk was so far beneath her rank she could barely see him if she looked down. While it was just ever so slightly possible that Trempwick had her happiness in mind somehow she doubted happiness had anything much to do with a broken nose. Even if it was sort of fetching. Besides, she had declared, repeatedly and whole-heartedly, that she was going to stamp out that spark, so why would he try to fan it into a blaze? Especially when he had done his best to break them apart to ensure this spark had no chance to grow … at least that is what she remembered. She hadn’t been paying too much attention to Trempwick during that conversation; she had been far too preoccupied with her own troubles to pay him much heed. She nearly laughed aloud at her own folly in entertaining the idea, even for a split second.
Her train of thought took a different turn, an unconscious one. Why the difference between Fulk touching her hand and Trempwick? And Aidney too, for that matter. One had made her scour her hands until her flesh was raw, one made her distinctly uncomfortable, the other made her feel so … peaceful. The moment he had touched her hand the muddle of worries, concerns, suspicions, doubts, and fears that constantly fought for supremacy in her mind had receded, their clamour stilling. When she had met his eye they had cleared away like clouds before the sun, leaving nothing behind but a calming peace, something so rare she couldn’t even remember experiencing it before. She had to admit there were certain disadvantages to being cut off from the usual chain of gossip you encountered if you had female companionship of some sort. If she could swallow the humiliation and brave the embarrassment she could have asked, she could have asked thousands of questions. Why the difference? Why did she find the damned nose fetching when she still hadn’t the slightest interest in looks? Why did this accursed spark grow even as she tried to stamp it out? Why did the small potential they had inadvertently found both horrify her and make her giddy with delight? Why-
Something tickled at the edge of her awareness; Fulk had spoken to her. She roused herself and asked, “Pardon?”
“I said, why does my livery have no badge? I’ve been thinking on it all morning.”
“It has no badge because I have no badge,” she replied, her manner brisk, “A badge would imply that someone cared sufficiently about me to give me one, and that I had some hope of ever having a use for one.”
“You do have a use,” he said quietly, “me.”
“One man at arms does not a rich noble make, nor a badge deserve. To have a use I would need several people at the very least, and I shall never have that.” They lapsed back into silence, this time a somewhat colder and less friendly one.
That second scene was not planned, it just wrote itself inside of 30 seconds when I read Luden's comment "The only thing that is lacking is the confusion love brings with it". It leads in very nicely to all the stuff I had already planned, and begins the process of growing the foundations I have already laid. I didn't have time it write it down until now, so here it is.
Ooooh, subtle.
Very good. Nice use of similes and metaphors to show her love. Although I did think it went on a bit towards the end of her meditations on how he made her feel. Still Very good.
After two and a half days of near constant riding they finally arrived at the great stone gates of Bardney. The gate guard took one look at them and warily offered shelter for the night in a corner of the great hall.
“We are here to see lord John,” said Eleanor, her upper class accent in startling contrast to her dirty, forgettable appearance.
“He won’t see you,” insisted the soldier bluntly.
“Oh yes he will – tell him his sister has arrived and is seeking refuge.”
“Sister? Which one?”
“The only one currently in England you stupid oaf - Eleanor!” She added so quietly even Fulk had to strain to hear, “The one everyone always forgets.”
She could hear the guard’s mind working; should he turn them away or not? If he did and she was a princess then he’d be in trouble, but if she were lying he would be in trouble if he let them in. Pass the problem, yes, let someone else take responsibility. He scuttled off to consult the captain of the watch.
With a lot more finagling and a chain of buck passing that eventually reached John, they were admitted to the castle and lead up to the spacious, generously furnished solar where John waited. They took Fulk’s sword before they were allowed through the door, doubtless they would have disarmed Eleanor too if they had known about her knives. By the decoratively carved fireplace a shortish, lanky man sat with one leg hooked over the arm of his chair, his posture relaxed to the point where he appeared nearly boneless. He was idly swinging the hanging leg. He was dressed in exquisite finery, as befitted a prince and second in line to the throne of the English empire, everything perfectly tailored to show his body off to best advantage. He hair was an odd cross between brown and gold and he had a short beard trimmed to hug his jaw line.
“My little sister,” exclaimed John, a broad smile splitting his face the instant Eleanor stepped through the door. He bounded to his feet, rushed over and grabbed her in an enthusiastic hug, “When the guard said a mud splattered woman with a furious bruise on her face and dishevelled hair had turned up claiming to be you I did not doubt it for a second.” He held her back at arms length and inspected her closely, “What in God’s name happened to you?”
Eleanor eased free of his embrace and began fiddling with the ring Fulk had brought her, the wedding ring she always wore on her right hand instead of the left, making it no more than another ordinary ring unless she chose to swap it to the other hand. She took a deep breath, her nervousness only partially faked. “I escaped,” she said simply.
A servant unobtrusively delivered a tray of wine with a single goblet; John must have ordered it before they arrived. He commanded the servant to fetch two more goblets and a larger jug, then poured wine and gave it to Eleanor. She made her hand tremble slightly as she took it, then sipped anxiously before taking a huge gulp that drained half the contents. John steered her towards a fireside chair, then after a moments thought weaved Fulk to another chair.
“Escaped?” repeated John, refilling her goblet to the brim, “I did not quite believe father when he said that you had turned into a pious thing.”
Eleanor snorted, “I suppose he would not be very forthcoming with the truth; I have been a virtual prisoner in a pokey little manor in Woburn. I have no money, no lands, no prospects and I have to suffer our regal parent’s company rather too frequently for my tastes. I am his favourite outlet for his tempers.”
“Who hit you? Not father; he has been gone for several weeks now.”
“The ‘caretaker’ assigned to keep me in place, a minor nothing by the name of Trempwick. I tried to sack the cook; taking anything into my own hands is not appreciated.”
“Trempwick?” John began to toy with the fancy dagger at his belt, “Do you know his first name?”
“Raoul, of all things. Sir Raoul Trempwick, dunghill cock with delusions of being a dragon.”
“Yes, I know the man. I think I shall have a word with him about manners.” The offer was quite sweet really, but if Eleanor ever wanted a brother to beat someone up John would be her last choice. The brother was not supposed to be the one who ended up in a crumbled heap.
She was surprised John knew Trempwick; she had always thought him one of those grey figures that barely anyone knew, heard of occasionally, yes, but never saw. He did spend almost all his time with her in Woburn, and had done so for over a decade. “How do you know him? He is seldom away, leaving would force him to miss precious opportunities to belittle me.”
“I saw him at court once, during your last visit.”
“That was years ago,” said Eleanor, plainly surprised he had remembered.
John laughed self-indulgently, “I do try to keep abreast of matters, and my memory for faces has always been good. Besides, you were that and that makes the occasion all the more memorable. Your presence makes any occasion worth engraving into memory and holding precious until the end of my days.”
She eyed him with amusement, “Still the courtier, I see.”
“You wound me, dear sister! I am entirely sincere,” he protested just as the servant returned with the extra goblets. John clicked his fingers and the servant hurried to his side after laying down his burden. “Prepare the guest chamber for my sister and organise a bath for her and her …” he looked to Fulk, “Just what are you anyway?”
“He is my bodyguard, he will sleep outside my door,” Eleanor supplied.
John nodded, “Prepare a bath for both of them and a pallet for the bodyguard outside my sister’s door. Food too, and clothes. For the man we should have a livery that will fit well enough, for my sister you will have to alter clothes. Tell the seamstresses to work from Judith’s clothes; the green ensemble, I think. Send them up to the guest chamber; they can measure my sister when we have finished talking. Tell them I want the work finished as soon as possible; they can improve now and finalise the work while she sleeps.”
“Sir,” the servant bowed, “The lady Judith might-”
“Tell her I will explain later.” The rings on his fingers flashed as he waved the servant away. He gave Eleanor a sheepish smile, “I would introduce you to Judith but she is not yet much for noble company.” The smile gathered a rakish quality, “well, except for my company. The merchant’s accent only shows when she speaks.”
“So your wife is not in residence then?” she asked, hating how clueless she sounded. Of course she wasn’t, only an addled fool would expected to find wife and mistress under the same roof, but she had to know where this wife was stashed.
John filled his own goblet and tossed the wine down in one go, “No, she’s off in my Welsh lands with our daughter. I could use a son, but at the same time I have never been one for hard work. Wales is nice this time of year; I believe she’s quite happy there.”
Nice? It was a snowbound hell. Her absence made Eleanor’s task more difficult; John’s family would be arrested on his downfall, they needed to flee the country with him. She knew nothing about John’s wife; what had the poor thing done to end up in Wales? “I do not think they even told me her name.”
“Sophie; bland, boring little Sophie. So eager to please she makes me sick, and so very unable to please where it counts. You know I do believe she would leap from a cliff if I asked her to, she is that eager. How dreadfully tedious. I tried encouraging her to be livelier, but she is so firmly settled into boring it would take more energy than I can be bothered to expend to drag her out. I would far rather she stopped hanging off my every word. She is about as challenging as an omelette.”
Unable to think of any suitable response Eleanor kept quiet. Another reminder of why marriage was so unappealing; she did not want to be shunted to one side and humiliated by an unfaithful husband. She already knew much of the long litany of complaints she would inevitably cause; she had been hearing them for most of her life. She had never been able to decide which was the worse; having to suffer the attentions of someone you didn’t want, someone you know felt exactly the same about you, or being dumped by that exact same disinterested party.
John stood up, stretching like a cat. “My manners are dreadful, I do apologise, keeping you here listening to my woes when I should be ushering you off to a hot bath, clean clothes and good food. We will talk more later over dinner; I shall have it served here in the solar so we may talk in private.”
Short part because I'm trying to decide whether to include a scene in the next part or to cut it completely. If it goes in then the lead in dialogue is needed, if not then the lead in will just confuse.
Yes, I agree with you about the end of that last bit, zelda. It goes on too much. Next time I think I know enough to get it right...
wonderful additions, milady. please continue.
the dialogue isn't bad at all. nice way to work in a lot of details. The parts about John's ineptitude as a page adds character and familiarity.
this is far better than the original.
Washed and dressed in royal livery, with John’s badge of a standing deer removed, that was a tolerable fit Fulk rejoined John in the solar. He was surprised when he was not asked to surrender his sword at the door this time. John had evidently expected this because he explained as he handed Fulk a goblet of wine and ushered him to a seat, “I will not indulge my ego and assume that you have any reason to do away with me, anyhow you look more than capable of dispatching me without a sword.”
Fulk understood what Eleanor had meant when she said her brother was likeable; here he was being waited on by a prince, flattered and joked with, and trusted immediately.
John dropped into his own chair and sipped his wine, “I doubt we shall have to wait too long; if Eleanor is the same as she always was she will refuse much of the pampering that the ladies will try to inflict on her. The clothes will take longer, but there is nothing like having my sister stood by tapping her foot impatiently and glaring at you to lend speed.”
Fulk only made a perfunctory reply and drank his wine; while the prince was spot on with his description gossiping about Eleanor was hardly chivalrous. That made him smile into his wine as he drank; the chivalrous had added itself with no whinging little voice. A rare and pleasant happening; perhaps this forging of lead into gold could work after all.
Ever so subtly John turned the conversation, continuing along the same line but changing direction to end Fulk’s discomfort, “You know she was always my favourite sister? The others were always entirely too proper, though it appears Adele changed her habits once she left these shores. Nasty foreign influence leading her astray, or so our father would claim. So, you are Eleanor’s bodyguard? Given the life she just described I would be interested in hearing how you met.”
Fortunately they had discussed this one beforehand. Fulk deployed his ready-made explanation, careful to make it sound natural rather than rehearsed, “It wasn’t long ago, not even half a year. I was hired by Trempwick but I swore my oath to her; I’m a man of my word. They might have called me her bodyguard but I think they really wanted someone to gain her trust then report what she said. We planned a bit, I lulled them into a false sense of security, then off we went at the first available opportunity.”
“Career before then?” asked John
“Squire to my father till his death, man at arms in the French war, I was in a few skirmishes but nothing too much, a spot of body guarding out in France, then finally back here.”
“Mind if I ask for a demonstration against one of my people tomorrow?” John laughed dryly, “I am curious and a little bored. My dear sister once told me a dead mule could outfight me, and as ever she was right, but I do appreciate a good display of skill.”
Fulk shrugged, “If you like.” This conversation was beginning to sound like the lead-in to a subtle recruitment offer. John refilled Fulk’s goblet; the prince seemed to take his responsibilities as a host very seriously when it came to wine. Fulk gazed into the deep red depths; more unwatered, strong wine, and the goblets were quite large. John might be serious but he had very little clue on what was suitable; at this rate he’d end up drunk before Eleanor even arrived.
“It’s good stuff, no?” asked John, knocking back his own refill and reaching for a third. The wine had blunted the edge on his clear-cut accent, “I import from all over at great expense, this particular one’s from southern France.”
So, while Eleanor was penniless, working as an agent in exchange for her survival this prince was living in the lap of luxury. This prince had everything Fulk had expected Eleanor to possess when he first encountered her in Nantes. He was irate on her behalf; if he had ever doubted that her father didn’t care the slightest bit about her the proof was being paraded before his face in the form of wine, jewels, fancy furnishings – the solar even had carpets on the walls! This was the life he had been expecting to come to! Internally Fulk flinched, scrambling away from those thoughts. He hadn’t wanted riches, not at all; he hadn’t followed her because of a life of pampered comfort. Honour, his mind wailed desperately, honour. He gulped at his wine, trying to drown the tru-the lie, the mocking voice of his conscience and its insidious suggestion that honour had nothing to do with it.
He noticed John was peering at him. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
Fulk shook his head and replied weakly, “I was thinking of the contrast, what you’ve got to what she had.”
“Yes,” agreed John darkly, “this is the life she should have had. She will have her due when I …” he laughed and made a dismissive gesture with his hand, “But don’t pay attention to my ramblings, and let’s not sink into gloom. Today is a good day; I got my little sister back and that’ll only help me.” More wine vanished down his gullet, immediately he was refilling his goblet and topping up Fulk’s.
This prince was an incompetent plotter, Fulk decided with mild disgust. Twice in but one brief conversation with a near total stranger he’d nearly given his aims away. What kind of a king would this indulgent man make? John had started talking genially about how sumptuous their meal was going to be; Fulk listened with only one ear. Unless he was hiding his light under a bushel John didn’t possess even a tenth of Eleanor’s intelligence or flare for intrigue, he would be useless on the battlefield, and Fulk had serious doubts as to this man’s ability to keep powerful vassals in line.
Finally, Eleanor appeared; she breezed into the room and sat down without comment. John placed his goblet on the ground, rose and pulled her to her feet, “Come on then, let’s see what my people managed to do.” He carefully arranged her, pushing her to stand where the light was best, then placing her arms at her sides, and tutting at her if she tried to move to break the pose. After a brief scuffle she gave up and stood awkwardly for their examination. John’s face split into a big smile, “Much better, now give us a twirl.”
She complied, obviously unhappy with the fuss. She was dressed in the height of fashion, wearing a green sleeveless surcoat over a dress in pale green with buttons on the lower arm to bring the sleeves tight. A pale blue linen shift was just visible peeking out at the neckline. Her hair had been sorted into a fairly simple style by some maid. It was already trying to escape, with some good success too. Fulk supposed she had allowed them to play with her hair so she would have somewhere to stash hairpins, since the clothes didn’t permit her usual knives. The seamstresses had known their work well; it suited her. A pity, then, that she didn’t quite look herself. The animation, the life was missing, the gooseberry replaced by a subdued stranger whose body language spoke of … he wasn’t sure, but the fight was missing from her, the defiance too. What had happened since he last saw her?
“Gooseberry green,” commented Fulk apparently innocently, “nice.” That won him a small frown; now that was more like it.
“Eleanor, you do look quite beautiful,” said John with a courtier’s practised gallantry, only partly ruined by his wine induced slur.
That won John a far bigger frown than Fulk had got, one without the affable feeling of a shared joke that was going to get someone kicked later. “You do!” he insisted. He turned to Fulk, “Perhaps a second opinion?”
“He’s right,” lied Fulk. They wouldn’t have liked the honest answer; that the word was ‘pretty’ and the pinned up hair and her lack of animation ruined it.
She looked no happier, if anything his compliment only made her shrink further into herself. She didn’t protest his opinion; carefully keeping her face neutral as she returned to the seat she had been prised from. As she walked past Fulk caught a waft of perfume, rose with something elusive. Quite subtle, most nobles would turn their noses up at it; the fashion ran to something that smelt both expensive and noticeable. He found it pleasant; it was much better than being stunned at fifty paces by some eye watering concoction. If he’d ever said that to Maud she’d have tried to brain him with a skillet then lectured him on the importance of trying to improve oneself; Eleanor, on the other hand, would probably laugh and agree with him.
John finished his current drink – his fourth – and wandered off to find a servant to tell the kitchens to begin sending the food up. Fulk took advantage of his absence to lean across and quietly ask Eleanor, “What’s wrong?”
“Why would anything be wrong?” she replied evasively, her tone as spiritless as the rest of her. He had no opportunity to chase the matter; John was on his way back.
What was wrong? Was the man dense or just particularly heedless? Ah yes, she told herself acrimoniously, she was supposed to swallow their lies and laugh along at their joke because otherwise she spoiled their fun and cast a cloud over the occasion. She should be a good victim and rejoice that they were having fun at her expense. She had endured the maid’s giggling as they dished out their pretty little compliments, she had pretended to be deaf to their snide comments when they thought her out of earshot, and now she had the privilege of John and Fulk sniping away. Her brother and her bodyguard; she had suffered to keep one alive and was going to suffer for the other, and this was their gratitude. Where was the bloody point?
“Eleanor?” inquired John’s voice. She looked up, “Don’t look so sad, little sister, it spoils your looks.”
Beneath the table she clenched her fists as she battled the wave of icy fury. How could she spoil what did not exist? She forced a smile that was part snarl.
“Is something wrong?” asked John, his voice heavy with concern.
Wrong? Jesú, but John was a moron! Of course, she was supposed to laugh and produce a pretty smile – well sod that! She could feel her temper fraying away, getting dangerously close to breaking point. She forced herself to take a deep breath; she would not demonstrate her most dubious family trait. The rage receded, settling into ice. She needed to get in on John’s stupid little plot so she could dispatch him off to his safe haven, leaving her behind to take the brunt of the fall out. In that cold moment of clarity she saw how. She lost her temper.
“Wrong?” she snarled, “Wrong? You sit here like a bloated arse in your luxurious castle, one of your many castles you fat bastard, and you ask me what’s wrong?! You clueless, idiotic, self-indulgent, blind fool! You have been sat here in the lap of luxury while I rot in a backwater nothing, tormented and forgotten with no life, no future, no nothing! I have had nothing!” She leapt up from her chair and kicked it viciously. Dimly she was aware of hurting her foot but she didn’t care. When it didn’t fall over she booted it again and again in a frenzy until it toppled. The tiny sane part of her mind still left observed “Like father, like daughter.” She didn’t appreciate that much; it was far too accurate. She was even beginning to swear like him.
Her eyes lit on a bowl of fruit, oranges imported from abroad at enormous expense. She stormed over, grabbed one and brandished it at her astonished audience, “Look at this – oranges! You have bloody oranges!? This one damned fruit is worth more than me!” She hurled it at John with all her strength; it exploded across his chest, spattering his fancy clothes with its sticky juice. “You have money to waste on bloody oranges while I’ve had to beg for every little scrap from a jumped up nothing who has made my life a living hell!”
“It’s not my fault!” protested John, “Father-”
“Don’t mention that prick to me – given the chance I would gladly kill him for what he’s done to me!” Would she? Probably not, but by God it felt good to say it. She hurled another orange at her brother, hitting him again. “The only thing he’s ever given me are scars – I’ve more scars than I’ll ever be able to count, I’m covered in the damned things! He farted away everything I owned on his God damned war and he couldn’t even hold the lands he took with my money – my future!”
“You know half the castle can hear this?” observed the sane part of her mind. She paused; embarrassed that she had lost control so badly.
John took advantage of his unexpected lull to plead, “Calm down, Eleanor, please? I’ve got a plan; I think you are well suited to be part of it but you must calm down. I can’t have it shouted across half the country.”
Mission accomplished; she could stop now. But why? This was so … fun, speaking her mind for once, being the cause of the storm instead of on the receiving end. Now she understood what her father saw in … the words went cold through her, dimming the fire. He wouldn’t stop now, no, he would keep going until he had drained every last drop of bile. Did she want to end up like him? Never; she was mortified she had gone this far. Her fury fled, leaving her feeling weak and empty. Suddenly she was aware that her foot felt broken and her arm and shoulder muscles were pulled because she had thrown those oranges with so much ill-considered force. Her throat was sore too, from all that shouting.
Fulk was staring at her, tight jawed, his expression unfathomable. The instant their eyes met he looked away. She felt herself blush and sank deeper into her shame; now he must think her some kind of lunatic. One little joke and she exploded, railing away about a life that was still better than the average peasant’s. No, it wasn’t one little joke. Yes it was. No, from anyone else it would have been little, but from him? No, not little, it should be but for some reason it wasn’t. She realised she was still stood near the fruit bowl with an orange in her hand, ready to throw. She put it down gently then returned to her chair, righted it and sank down into it.
John seemed to think it best to act as if nothing had happened. He said genteelly, “I have sent a few chaps to seek out this Raoul Trempwick and have a short word with him about decency.”
Eleanor mumbled some bland thanks. So, he had got someone else to do his dirty work; nothing new there. Trempwick was going to be so happy when a bunch of goons turned up on his doorstep with cudgels to batter him at John’s behest on her behalf. She didn’t think for a second the hired men would even get within spitting distance of the manor before they were intercepted and dispatched, but she was not looking forward to explaining this when she got back.
“I do not believe in fighting myself,” John was saying as it were all some great lark, “Why risk a bloody nose when I can let another much better able to handle it take my part? Fighting is so passé.”
“If you were ever to become king then you would have to lead your armies,” said Eleanor neutrally, probing for information and letting him know she could see him as a king. She couldn’t really; sticking John on the throne would be a disaster.
John made a dismissive noise, “I will let some other lead; battle is wearisome and boring, also a waste of money better spent on the finer aspects of life.”
I will? The daft fool! Lured into stating his attentions so easily without even noticing! The more time she spent with her brother the more apparent his inabilities became; this man would only make a king if he had a strong puppet master at his shoulder. Someone had out him up to this, but whom? Perhaps there was a way to find out, if she could find whom he had bartered her off to then she would have the name of his most influential supporter.
A parade of servants appeared, bearing trays with their food on it. Eleanor took a cursory glance, catalogued the display as ‘expensive and rich’ then turned her attention away. She would let John babble away, carrying much of the conversation; she was too drained, too humiliated to put much effort in.
John scooped up the last of his spiced jugged hare and started regaling the party with memories of Eleanor as a little girl. He was the only one showing any enthusiasm for either food or chatter, but that didn’t limit him. “I recall when she could barely say her own name; you always got confused by Nell and Eleanor, didn’t you, Nelleanor.”
Eleanor gazed sightlessly at her barely touched portion of hare, studying Fulk from beneath her lashes as she put all her remaining energy into her answer. “I also remember that I called you bother instead of brother; how right I was.” More right than John would ever know. Fulk didn’t look up, didn’t laugh, didn’t attempt to put in a shot of his own. He just poked at a bit of monkfish with his knife. It was the liveliest thing he had done all evening.
John paused, looking from her to Fulk and back again. He seemed to come to a decision; he took a sip of wine and asked Fulk, “So, care to give us a tale from your time in France?”
Fulk looked up, once again ignoring her as if he and John were alone in the room. “I’ve not got any good ones.”
“That does surprise me,” said Eleanor with some of her old bite, “you have a story for everything else, including puce knights and dragons beset by damsels.” He ignored her. Stung Eleanor looked down at her trencher. She didn’t understand it; first he joined her brother in ridiculing her, now she might as well not exist. Until today he’d been friendly. It hurt, a fact that infuriated her. She should have known better; he was following her for money and now perhaps he saw a way to better his lot by switching allegiance to her brother. Even in exile John would be more than she ever would. She knew her small, muddled attraction wasn’t returned; she had resolutely put it from her mind and expected nothing at all. She didn’t even want the damned attraction, so why did she feel so wretched now he confirmed what she had always known? She should have listened to Trempwick; he was always right.
John stepped into the gap, “Tell us of one of your battles.”
“Only one where anything much happened,” hedged Fulk gruffly, “and I’ve not the best of memories of it; I was wounded early on.”
“Tell it anyway,” insisted John congenially, reaching for a potion of fish.
“As your highness wishes,” said Fulk dully, “It was in France some years ago; I was squire to my father, Sir William Destier. I was with the cavalry on the right wing; it was more a skirmish than any other. We charged early, too early, before our infantry had time to engage the enemy centre. You see … a young hothead with dreams of glory decided waiting was going to lose him the chance to win his spurs; he set off alone and without orders. The other knights weren’t going to be left out or have their honour and courage called to doubt, so they set off after him, a ragged, unplanned charge at the wrong time. A short distance from the enemy lines the young fool was shot down, his horse dead under him and a crossbow bolt buried in his leg. My father knew him; he stopped and fought to keep the French off the lad, giving the other squires time to bear him away to the surgeons. His bravery saved the boy’s life but at the cost of his own; he was cut down as I watched, helpless. I saw no more of the battle; I was out of it wounded by then.” His next words seemed to come from far away, as if more for himself than his audience, “I am not sure the boy was worth saving.”
After that not even John could save the meal, and soon the gathering broke up with very little said. John promised to tell her of his plan tomorrow in the afternoon.
Together with Fulk Eleanor found her way back to the guestroom in silence. The man at arms was still avoiding her eye, still refusing to speak to her. As she put her hand on the latch to her door she resolved to take a gamble. “Wait here a moment; I have something for you.” She disappeared into her room then re-emerged with a small vial, the contents of which she upended over Fulk before he could do anything. The pungent smell of some rather foppish perfume blasted through the corridor. She smiled sweetly and took a step back towards cleaner air, “Consider that a part payment on what I owe you for that escapade in the church, oh dear husband thing.”
Fulk choked and frantically waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear the air, “Oh Jesú! That reeks!”
He spoke! Alleluia! Despite herself Eleanor beamed with delight, “It will fade with a change of clothes and a few baths.”
“I suppose it’d be too much to ask for you to go prod the servants into bringing the bathtub back to your room?”
Her eyes went wide with exaggerated innocence, “But I am going to bed now, so I am afraid you will have to go bathe elsewhere. Like the guard room.”
“You vengeful little bitch!” exclaimed Fulk half in admiration for her scheme, half in dismay at the prospect looming. She began to shut the door to her room, acting with speed born of panic Fulk wedged his foot in the door, “Oh come on Eleanor, you can’t make me go off down to the guardroom stinking like this! Please? A bit of mercy, oh brilliantness? They’ll think I have Greek tastes!”
She smirked, “I know, fun isn’t it? Soft, fuzzy thing indeed – I told you I would have my revenge, and this is only part payment. Have a nice bath, stenchflower.”
She threw her weight on the door, forcing him to wiggle his foot free or risk getting it crushed. He immediately began to hammer on the closed door, “Alright, you’re not soft and fuzzy, though right now I wish you were, so a little mercy, please? Eleanor? Your diabolicalness? Please? I’m begging…”
“Take it like a man,” she advised him from behind the door, “and if you do not go soon you will be too late to get a bath before morning.”
He stopped his hammering and kicked the door in frustration, “You know this means war?” Silence. Ok, time to plot damage limitation before he got accused of being a pansy and/or attracted to men. Then time to plot revenge, careful revenge. He didn’t know what he’d done to help stoke that earlier explosion but he knew he’d done something. He didn’t like to think he’d hurt her, but somehow apparently he had, and that wasn’t gallant; a princess’s bodyguard should always be gallant. Silence. The voice didn’t protest; it had been screaming at him during his war story, but that statement didn’t upset it.
See? It all came back to honour in the end; lead into gold, becoming worthy, and being a man of his word, as he knew he was. Nothing to do with an inappropriate attraction.
I think that could have used one more pass to polish it up, but I've got things to do. it's not so bad as it is, just a few details and words thatcould use tidying.
Thanks, katank.
I always have difficulty commenting on your work milady. Theres only so many ways you can describe brilliance.
The closest I can get to it is,
Frogs writing.
Someone throw me an orange.
Oh kay here you go...
OK, sorry for that I can get you a cloth if you like...
:charge:
No need to get on your high horse I 'll get you a cloth...
Ahhh! put the gun away...
:surrender:
Clicked post reply instead of preview post. Sorry.
That was exactly what I meant. Well done, Froggy! I have just two comments:Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Firstly, I think that the emotional transitions of the characters are a bit to quick. Fulk and Eleanor go almost instantly from any given mood over to squabbling. Perhaps you could build these transitions up a little bit more.
Secondly, the story has been very focussed over the past few days: nothing happens without meaning. At itself that is not a bad thing, but I think it would do the story good if you add some unimportant elements as a sort of - decoration. Why don't you add a Frog again ~D ?
Very well done, Froggy. Looking forward to reading more about poor John.
-----------------------------------
Phew. Hopefully Froggy hasn't activated instant e-mail notification or she can read the original, unfinished message with all its embarrasing translation and grammar mistakes.
:help:
zelda, you made the poor frog blush.
:throws Demon a satsuma: enjoy
Ludens, of course I have email subscription on this thread :grins evilly: Actually your original wasn't too bad.
The duo can squabble in any mood, although it does pick up different layers and overtones sometimes if their moods are particularly powerful. I've kept that under-key and now, like many other themes and aspects, I am building it up and making it more obvious. So many things can only be pointed out when the duo notice; usually Eleanor since much of this is from her POV. The huge number of important things they blindly ignore, I really have to fight not to point and shout. But it’s the only way this will work, even Fulk’s POV has to be used sparingly and only at carefully planned moments. Much of his shared POV moments are only skimming across the surface of a very deep lake, keeping most of his thoughts back. I’m going to try for a proper dual POV scene soon … maybe.
These last few bits have been very focused because there is so much going on; when I have so many balls up in the air it becomes hard to bring frogs in on the juggling act as well. The last part, and especially this next one, are so hard to get right, so much happening on so many levels. Most of it you probably won't even see until the big denouement. The next part is a fine balance between giving too much away, not laying the foundations properly, being too wordy, too short, too emotional, too bland, too passive, too active, too reliant on thought reading, and too skimpy on the character's emotions. Once this very cluttered bit is over the detail should return again.
But hey, in their world Christmas is only a couple of weeks away and that's the traditional time for frogs :winkg:
:puts the main theme from her new Princess Bride soundtrack on endless loop and returns to trying to write the soul of a rust bucket:
Ignoring the witless chatter of the ladies assigned to keep her company Eleanor stared out of the window of her guest room, watching the happenings down in the practise yard. Fulk was giving a fine account of himself, winning bouts with both sword and polearm before proving himself as skilled with a longbow as any Englishman. Now he was turning effortless cartwheels and handstands in full armour. He hadn’t brought his own mail with him; John had loaned him a hauberk of a more modern design than Fulk’s own, along with a few other basic bits and pieces for this demonstration.
It was all very impressive; there was no doubting his skill or competency. There was no doubt he was showing off for his prospective new employer. There was no doubt John would hire him.
Fulk was enjoying himself; combat was simple, he had always been good at it and he took pleasure from the exercise. It had been ages since he’d had occasion to use a polearm, and this armour was better than anything he’d worn previously. It was just him and his opponent, two weapons and may the best man win. No spymasters, no skulduggery, no gooseberries, and no niggling conscience. He’d kept up his daily practise in the time he’d been with Eleanor but lacking a real opponent and a proper training yard it wasn’t the same.
Now he stood upside down on his hands, the skirt of his borrowed hauberk flopping down with gravity so the ends just grazed his chin, and all he needed to worry about was keeping his balance. He flipped back to his feet, then did a quick cart wheel, the armour jingling and slapping gently against him.
John started clapping enthusiastically, “Enough, you have more than proven yourself.” Fulk had forgotten he was there, this prince with ambition but little wisdom. Reluctantly he stopped his exercises. John beckoned him, “Come, let us adjourn to the armoury. A display such as yours should be rewarded.”
Rewarded? John’s tentative recruitment had begun last night and only strengthened this morning, and now it seemed a small bribe with yet more flattery would precede the offer. It appeared Eleanor’s brother had absolutely no qualms about stealing from her. The question was what did Fulk want to do? He’d spent a sleepless night turning the question over in his mind; what to do if the prince offered him employment? His heart cried for one course, his head another, his conscience still another, and although heart and conscience were travelling in the same direction their reasons could not be more different. There was no reconciling the three, they continued to tug him in different directions and somehow he would have to choose one above the others.
Fulk followed at John’s side, towards the armoury in the foot of one of the inner curtain wall’s towers. The armoury was a large, square room, with plastered and whitewashed stone walls to reflect the maximum amount of light. Though they were at ground level the floor was covered in wooden planks rather than the more usual flagstones, cobbles or beaten earth. A scattering of rushes mixed with some dried lavender vied with the scents of iron, oil, leather and assorted cleaning products, trying to lend a more refined air to the very military room. It was a strange touch; no doubt John was responsible. Despite the room’s size it was packed so full there was barely space to walk. Everywhere there were chests and racks of weapons and armour, far more than the garrison of this castle could ever use. It was enough for a small private army.
On their arrival John commanded two young squires to drop their cleaning and find the best armour in the castle to fit Fulk. As they began rooting through chests and racks, pulling out bits and pieces John said quietly to Fulk, “I could use someone with your skills; I see a future need for a dependable bodyguard. The armour they find for you is yours regardless, but think on it well. I am generous to those who perform a service for me, such as rescuing my sister. I am more generous still to my own people. You have until they finish arming you up to make a decision.”
Equipment chosen the squires began to add it to the armour Fulk was already wearing with practised speed. He was wearing a brand new padded gambeson with a mail shirt that guarded him from throat to just above the knee, the sleeves ended in mail mittens. John said to the squires, “Forget the mail hose.” He smiled at Fulk, “You may have them, but I see little to no point in stripping you of hauberk and gambeson to put them on.” That cut precious minutes off his thinking time, and the squires were already working faster than he’d like.
One boy removed his sword from about his waist, then the other brought forth a coat of plates. Numbly Fulk ducked his head so they could pass the garment over his head, then they set to work buckling it closed at the back. Until today he’d never even seen a coat of plates close up before; he only seen them from afar on rich warriors, and on those occasions they had been all but hidden by the man’s surcoat. It was a simple poncho like garment with curved metal plates riveted on the inside to guard the entire torso from the waist up. The plates were placed and carefully fixed so as to be flexible, and when the garment fastened up it took a good deal of the hauberk’s weight off his shoulders, distributing it more evenly.
On top of the coat of plates they added a red silk surcoat, then began to fasten a new sword about his waist. “No,” he said, not quite meaning to speak until he already had. The new sword was ornate and finely crafted, worth far more than his old blade and it would probably be stronger and hold an edge better. John had said whatever they put on him was his to keep, to turn down that sword would be plain daft and no one had said he couldn’t keep his old one.
The squires were waiting patiently, one holding the sword, the other an arming cap to go below the mail coif lying on a table nearby. John cocked an eyebrow, a gesture that reminded Fulk of his sister. Fulk felt torn, he looked from the new blade to the old one. With difficulty he spoke, “I want to keep my old sword, it was a gift from … a friend.” When he said keep he wasn’t sure which half of him had won; the half which wanted to take the new blade in addition to the old one simply because it was better, or the half which wanted to turn it down to keep the old blade which meant so much.
John laughed congenially, “Is that all? No one said you had to be rid of it, keep it by all means!”
The squire began to buckle the new sword about his waist. Fulk kept staring at his old, plain, trustworthy sword, remembering fair hands struggling with the stiff leather and a girl’s voice saying, “Use it to earn your spurs, then come back to me,” as she’d fastened it in place the day she had gifted it to him. He’d sworn to keep it at his side always, just as he’d sworn to return a knight. He felt panic welling up inside him, he began to call a halt but it was too late, the squire was stepping back and the new sword in place. Now he had broken both promises to her, this one solely for greed.
He barely paid attention as they placed the cap on his head, then the coif and finally a kettle helm, a helmet formed by a metal skullcap with a broad brim just like a hat; perfect for fighting on foot as it left vision and hearing clear. A pair of plate knee guards joined the mail leggings in a pile, along with a standard knight’s shield and a full, bucket like helm suited to mounted combat.
“I am giving you a warhorse as well, along with saddle, tack and so on,” confided John.
Fulk listened in a daze. The squires stood back, their task complete. Fulk wore a fortune, another fortune was piled next to him, and a final fortune was waiting in a stable. With this he was equipped as well as many rich knights; he lacked the lands and title, but if he followed John into exile mayhap one day, when he returned to England …
“Your decision?” inquired John. His tone indicated he expected only one answer.
Fulk flexed his right hand inside the mail mitten, desperately flailing for purchase on his spinning thoughts. A fortune. Everything he ever wanted. A chance he would never have again. A chance to become something. A chance to fulfil his dream. A chance to get that knighthood he had once craved more than anything. He would be mad to decline. He would also be away from Eleanor; if he left now he would eventually get over her and she him. Leaving would be the best thing to do. He would never have to stand around uselessly again, fighting his feelings and instincts on those rare occasions when she crumpled.
No, she would just crumple alone. Playing for time Fulk slipped his left hand out of the slit in the leather palm of the integral mail mitten and began fiddling with the leather thong woven through the mail at his right wrist as if adjusting it. Did it really matter if she would be alone again anyway? He would never know what she was doing, for all he knew she might be perfectly happy without him. Anyway why did it make a difference if he was there or not? It wasn’t as if he could do anything to help, so for all the use he was there might as well be nobody there. He didn’t even belong in her world; base born men at arms did not get involved in royal politics or intrigue.
So why would he belong in John’s world? An exiled prince, scheming to get back to his place and seize the throne. Simple; all he’d have to do is follow orders, and let someone else make the decisions. He would not have to choose what to do, and it was the choosing that was so hard. “Just say yes,” advised his common sense. He tried; his voice wouldn’t work.
His conscience was pleased, immediately butting in with, “See? Man of honour, it’s about damned time you really acted it! Say no, go on – it’s easy.” He couldn’t.
He looked at his old sword, without conscious thought he moved over and picked it up. He examined it as if he had never seen it before in his life. A plain iron disk shaped pommel, a sweat stained red leather bound grip, a straight iron cross guard; it was hardly ornate but it had a simple workman’s beauty to it. He drew an inch of steel; the blade itself was pattern welded and shone with a unique pattern, silvers, greys, a touch of yellow all blended together in a rainbow like oil spilled on water. It had belonged to Maude’s grandfather, and she had given it to him. “Use it to earn your spurs, then come back to me,” she had said. But he never won his spurs and he had been too ashamed to return and tell her … and tell her he had destroyed his life and their future along with it.
Last time he had followed his ambition he had lost everything, and sworn to himself he would become something better than the fool he had been. The best any man could be in this world was a man of honour, the kind who gave their oath and kept it regardless, protected the innocent and fought evil, brave and courageous to the last. Such men were rare in this world, but they did exist and their names spread through Christendom and became legend. Reginald de Nevers would have scorned this prince’s offer without hesitation, so would Arnauld de Eu, and Roger FitzRalph, and Aimery FitzAlan, and Ulfstan of York, and … and all those many others he had spend time memorising the legends of. They made it seem so easy, so easy. He wasn’t a man of honour; he just wished he was. He pretended he was, sometimes the illusion worked better than others, sometimes he was able to crush away the voice of his conscience telling the honest truth. Sometimes, many times, he could not.
But he had to make a start somewhere, why not here? Because … because he would never have this opportunity again. Because he would be stuck next to someone he was beginning to love against all his effort and better judgement, never able to even tell her that, and endlessly worrying about what would happen if she said anything or if the spymaster noticed. Because he might keep his word now, but what about later? He had sworn to follow and protect; he could follow but protect? No, not against those she truly needed help with. So where was the point? In her world he was a rank beginner, powerless and valueless, dependent on her help to get by. But … if you placed her in the real world she was equally reliant on him, and there he could help.
And if he wasn’t there to patch up her injuries who would? And to make her laugh? Or listen to her grumbling? Or to teach her to fight, cook and all those other things she was endlessly curious about? Who would be her friend? Who would see the gooseberry instead of the tool or the problem?
“I am all she has.” The words tore themselves free of their own accord.
John glared at him impatiently, “I will soon set her up with a new household; she will not need you.” His glare was but a pale shadow of his sister’s impressive version.
Perhaps he could manage somehow? If he kept his word now then that was a start, beyond then he could do the best he could, even if that meant tending wounds instead of preventing them. Even if it meant falling further, and being forever near what he could not have. Wasn’t every good knight supposed to have an unobtainable lady to worship? So he wasn’t a knight, but he could dream, right?
And if he left he would miss the insults, genial arguing, contests of wits, surprises, and all those other delightful little quirks they had. He would miss the glare, and the stare, and the pride … he would miss her. Either way he would have only dreams, but if he stayed he would see her when he woke up. He grinned internally at that; what a soppy bastard he was.
He let his old sword slide back into its sheath, and finally found his voice properly, “I gave her my word; I will not break it.”
I cut the bit I had planned into two parts; it was getting very long.
Um, not too sure about this. It's kind of ... wordy, dry, maybe dull if you don't like seeing inside Fulk's skull for once. His mind was harder to get than gooseberry's; I can see through her eyes now almost effortlessly. Fulk took a lot more work, but eventually it clicked and this flowed onto the page. Lol, before they told me what to write, now I have a small corner of my mind labelled 'gooseberry' and another, less established one, labeled 'rusty'. Now, in a very strange way, I can be them. I prefer these new versions. :gets coshed by the original Eleanor:
At the same time it's nice to finally begin to reveal all those things he has been hinting at in his rare POV moments, such as his 'man of honour' thing. For nearly 80 pages now that little voice has been talking away, once identified in a throw-away line as his conscience, only now is it revealed more fully what and why. Course if you've been collecting the more advanced hints you will know there is more to this, much more.
Soppy bastard and a lot more; as the original Eleanor said in last year's Christmas special “Armoured on the outside, soft and squishy on the inside. What am I talking about – your heart or a cockroach?” Bah, froggy hate soppy!
*Wipes satsuma of my face*
Grabs a Satsuma.
*Frog starts laughing*
*I get angry and walk of in a huff*
*Frog waits impatiently for a little while. Then falls asleep.*
*When she awakes I'm standing grinning by an automatic tennis ball thrower. And a large box of Satsumas.*
*I walk past frog who is now lying uncouncious on the floor under a mass of messed up satsumas.*
~D
Still Blushing.
(This is meant to be percieved as humour)
Ya know zelda, the part with the 'this is meant to be percieved as humour' is actually funnier than the joke itself (I was practically ROTFLMFAO)
This has honestly gotta be sticky, to speak the truth.
Mods, please :help: by stickying this.
You know nearly a year ago, back when the unit guide was brand new, I was awarded a unit of royal bodyguards. 20 knights in shining armour, with all the upgrades and high valour, loyal only to me. It's been a while since I had occasion to use them. :grins wickedly as zelda runs for several miles at top speed to get away:
....
:allows the 21st, unofficial knight in shining armour to rescue her and carry her off into the sunset for a nice long break from writing and oranges of any variety:
Ah, new blood! What has to be a sticky, Silver Rusher, the joke or the thread? :tongueg: :winkg:
Everyone head to the first page of this thread and admire the nice new title.
Thanks, Duke John :bow:
Nice title!
One question - Why, on your map, does my beloved island look like a chewed dog treat?
Ask Paradox; the map's a screenshot from Crusader Kings. I included it so I could post this on their forums where I have a following. The story is hardly game related, is it?
:returns to dual POV scene, happy in the knowledge that the next part returns to the more enjoyable stuff instead of all this mind examining boring stuff:
Bah. Whichever way you throw me, I stand, and that includes complicated game developers. ~D
Apparently, you have not noted the opening line. Which is a good thing.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
The problem is: I can't spot these overtones. To me it sounds just like they make a mental switch from whatever mood they were in to 'squabbling'. It might just be me though, perhaps you should ask others what they think.Quote:
The duo can squabble in any mood, although it does pick up different layers and overtones sometimes if their moods are particularly powerful.
About the recent scene, I liked it and I like the moments inside Fulk's mind better than those inside Eleanor's mind. Perhaps that is because I like Fulk more than Eleanor ~D . Anyway, I hope to see more of John and his motivations soon.
Just out of interest: what is the internet adress of the Paradox forum?
Er, well I have been having a lot mof PC troubles recently and it's hard to read emails when ther PC is crashing. Actually that's why I'm here; to note that the next update is going to take a while becasue my PC is so beggared up I can't do a thing with it. Can't fix it, not even after a load of traumatic stuff like reinstalling windows. It's gone to thr shop. I've borrowed my dad's laptop (horrible keyboard, excuse typos please ... too damned hard to fix them) but I've no manuscripts on this and the keyboard stinks.
Overtones working for anyone else? :waits impatientlky for answers: It shoukld become more apparant as time goes on, so more visible now than at the beginning and more visible still in the future.Honestly I don't see how they can't be working.
I don't like Fulk's mind is a less comfortable one to look into than Eleanor's, and that's only partly becasue I am more familiar with her. His mind can get pretty ... urgh. Like being stuck in a hall of mirrors.
crusader kings part of the paradox forum is here you can get to the rest from there.
Funny really that at Paradox you get five or six replies whilst here you get one or two guaranteed and another couple if people have popped in.
Over tones are kinda visable, not that I paid attention much this week, dual history, french, maths and geography coursework.
I do think that the lost and confused sheep thing that both Eleanor and Fulk are going through is getting a little annoying. I would think it better if instead of doing the long winded, leave her leave her not, kill him, get him in bed, cuddle him oh I'm so confused. It would be better if you just dropped a few more lines on the smae subject each post. So you gradualy work up to the final, Oh I've always loved you but was so confused etc. scene.
But what do I know your the maestro.
meh
Ah, my beloved desktop is back. Finally I can return the POS laptop.
Right, squabbling. It isn't arguing really, more banter. You know I can't actually explain it; it's simply there and if you can't see it I don't know how to point it out. I don't understand how you can't see it. From a frog's POV it is like pointing out the sun. Perpetual one-up-manship, a desire to make the other one speechless, an enjoyment in witty comebacks and stupid remarks, a contest to find the most ridiculous yet relevant thing to say - it's not the kind of thing you can academically explain.
It's just plain obvious when they insist they hate each other that they don't, and when they say they hate each other in the middle of a mushy scene in a tone labelled as soft or some other mushyish type that they mean something more mushy. Damn it, later they say "I hate you" and it had better be plainly obvious what they mean is "I love you". This is the simplest example to work through, but it works for all the other things they say - context, mood, tone; all outlined in the scene to lend the appropriate overtone to the words.
:sighs: Ok, that's a mess and probably makes little sense. Yeah, I simply can't explain it; it is there and it explains itself, in my eyes.
The lost sheep thing bugged me right from the start, zelda. I still maintain that mush isn't really my thing; I enjoy the banter and so on between the duo, not the actual mush. Fortunately it will be clearing up very soon :froggy cheers:
Your outline for an alternative is a good one, but sadly not at all suitable. I think I picked the only way for this new version of the duo. It's ... not a case of confusion in the end, more opportunity.
And now back to work ...
Erm.. Little I can say, really. I like this new part (IIRC, this wasn't in the original), and Fulk's 'Do I stay or do I go?' is a clever new addition. I'm assuming the 'window scene' happens earlier now?
Oh, and Froggy, thanks for recommending Simon Scarrow to me. Just started The Eagle's Conquest - great series. The description of Bestia's funeral was classic ~D
*looks at post* And the award for worst critique ever in the history of critiquery goes to, drumroll please... ~D
Fulk made his way back to the guest room feeling absurdly weary. He pushed the door open, forgetting to knock, then headed single-mindedly towards the window seat. He collapsed into it in a clatter of armour and swept the coif back from his head so it rested on his shoulders leaving his head and neck clear.
It had taken several minutes to convince John he was serious, turning down offer after offer until he felt his heart would break. When he had finally convinced him the prince had cursed and railed at him, proving he too had the family temper. Unlike Eleanor’s explosion, and what he knew of the king’s explosions, it was more pathetic than impressive. Poor John didn’t have the flare to pelt bystanders with oranges or send his audience away badly injured. No, instead he had stamped his feet and torn at his hair and clothes, spittle flying as he raved, not even making sense. The prince had eventually collapsed into a breathless lump and he had allowed the two squires to lead him away.
There had been no one around to help Fulk out of his armour so he had done the only thing he could; bundled the extra items into a strong bag and carted them up here for safe storage. He unlaced the arming cap and pulled it from his head, then ran his fingers through his hair, separating it out from its flattened, sweat soaked state so it would dry quicker. Someone coughed off to his left; Eleanor.
“So you finally deigned to notice me?” she asked acerbically. She watched dispassionately as she scrambled to his feet and mumbled an apology. He got a new employer and he thought he could barge in like he owned the place. Typical. She scrutinized the new armour; combined with the broken nose and the tousled hair it looked very fetching. She realised what she had just thought and felt her face go warm as she blushed. Wonderful, now her mind had gone. At the ripe old age of nineteen she was in danger of turning into a giggling idiot who braided flowers in her hair and skipped instead of walked. The prospect was nothing if not terrifying.
Fulk watched with private amusement as she went slightly pink, and wondered if she knew she was staring at him. What was it about women and him in armour? One of these days he’d have to ask, but not this particular admirer. “I was looking for someone to play squire,” he explained lightly.
He came barging in here and expected her to play squire with armour he’d gotten by defecting to her brother? “John did not provide you with one? How careless. I suggest you go raise the matter with him.”
“Why would be give me a squire?” asked Fulk shortly. She didn’t know about his recruitment offer and if he had his way she would never know; she had enough troubles without finding out what a weasel her brother was.
“He gave you the armour.”
“For rescuing you.”
“I see.”
She had gone tight lipped and pale again. “Is something wrong?” he asked, genuinely concerned. Surely she couldn’t know? Well, she was an agent and she did have eyes, ears and a keen mind … but she would have flayed him alive hours ago if she suspected he was going to join John. She couldn’t know.
She isolated the pain she felt and seared into her memory. He looked so fetching and sounded so concerned while he lied through his teeth and stabbed her in the back; this was what came from attachments, Trempwick had been right. She would not make the same mistake again. Ever. “I am fine,” she ground out.
“Are you sure?”
“Perfectly.”
Fulk crossed his arms, each hand enclosed tightly about the bicep of the opposing arm, fighting the impulse to hold her. Once again she was upset, once again he wanted to comfort her, once again he could do nothing, not even offer some trite words. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
She watched as his posture went defensive and stiff, and waited for him to say something. Nothing. This was just like the night before; he had gone distant. He must think her liable to go off into a temper at the slightest provocation, even though he had only seen her lose control once in four months. “Oh, just go away,” she said wearily. He gave a stiff nod, turned on his heel and marched off without a word.
Small and experimental; dual POVs, not that likely to be used again except on a handful of very specific scenes.
Chronologicially speaking in the original Eleanor the window scene happened a few weeks ago. In this new version there are several upcoming scenes that could act as minor replacements ... sort of.
Forgot to answer your other question, Axeknight. No, this wasn't in the original, to be honest things left the original ages ago, the final threads of resemblence were severed when they robbed the abbey. This is so different it is probably best to stop thinking of the original (I know I don't). It has departed and will never return to those lines. A couple of brief Eleanor/Fulk exchanges I particualrly liked from the original will make it in, but that is all.
Fulk sat in the main hall at one of the trestle tables, still in his new armour because he had been unable to find anyone to help him remove it. He was the only one at this particular end of the long table; the handful of others in the hall had chosen spots closer to the fire. He didn’t really mind the solitude; mourning a lost fortune or three was a private task.
A woman in expensive blue plonked herself down on the bench opposite him, winked and asked, “What’s a chap with a nose like yours doing on his own?” Her hand flew to her mouth and she swore, “Oh bugger!” She arranged herself into a more ladylike pose, and then spoke in a careful voice, consciously trying to sound cultured, “May I enquire as to what you are doing, handsome sir?”
Fulk folded his arms loosely and rested them on the tabletop, “And you are … ?”
“Judith.”
Ah, the ex-merchant mistress. Minor merchant too, by the sounds of it; very minor. “Well, Judith, you can drop the accent.”
She wrinkled her nose gracefully and looked loveably uncertain, “I don’t know; John always says … oh stuff it; John’s not the one who has to sit about trying to impersonate a statue!” Her shoulders dropped, she crossed her legs and leaned forward in a pose matching his, “So, what’re you doing?”
“Talking to you, or so it seems,” he returned flippantly. It really was not hard to see how she had snagged John; the whole castle was probably full of broken hearted, jealous men, men who would now envy him this conversation. Oh joy, let there be happiness, feasting and celebratory dancing; people would be forming a queue to whack him, and a certain princess would probably be busy selling tickets and souvenirs.
She laughed prettily, “Oh, how very droll.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing?”
“I’m flirting with the chap with the neat nose and fetching armour I saw brooding handsomely. I’ve snared a prince but I like to keep in practise.”
An idea was forming in Fulk’s head; the perfect revenge for that stinking perfume had just presented itself with a cheeky grin, as well as a way to be rid of this walking death-trap without offending her and getting himself smacked about by a horde of chivalrous hopefuls wanting to gain her favour. “Then I’ll endeavour to play along without catching the eye of a prince who’ll only be jealous, him and every other man within fifty miles.”
“Now that sounds as good as you look, dearie.”
Dearie? Evidently she had decided to rescue the word from being used solely with old crones with warts and black cats. Yup, no doubt about it – this Judith was going to make the perfect revenge. “I’m the princess’s bodyguard; you learn a few fancy words following a royal about.”
“Really?” Her eyes sparkled and she smiled coquettishly, “Do tell.”
“Well, the poor thing’s been kept locked up in desolation much of her life.”
“No!” gasped Judith, playing the attentive audience to perfection.
“Yes, she’s no idea about court protocol, or all those little necessities like how to accept a song proclaiming her beauty or how to behave at a banquet in her honour. I don’t think she even knows how to dance!”
“The poor dear,” said Judith, frowning delicately. It might have been an extraordinarily pretty frown but in Fulk’s eyes it was a distant second to a frowning gooseberry. “John’s going to send her off to court, you know. She’ll never manage.”
“I know, I know. And of course they’ll be finding a husband for her too, and she’s,” Fulk leaned forward and whispered, “well, she could make a nun look wanton. I’m going to be beating suitors off with a stick and all because she smiled at the wrong time.”
“The poor, poor darling!” She was really getting into this now, and what a charming picture of concern she did make. “Someone should have a quiet word with her.”
Yes! Got her; take that Eleanor! Fulk allowed the smile to escape but made it over into a picture of relieved gratitude, “If it’s no trouble…”
“Oh no, not at all. In fact I’ll go now; I know John doesn’t want to see her until mid afternoon, so we’ll have plenty of time.”
“Thanks. She’s very shy; so don’t let her get away until you’ve told her everything. Just one favour? Don’t tell her I sent you.”
She gave her solemn promise that she wouldn’t, then departed on her mission of mercy. Fulk would have given anything to be a fly on the wall, watching Eleanor’s reaction to being waylaid by her brother’s mistress and chatted to for several hours on a collection of subjects she would find highly embarrassing. She was going to have such fun with Judith. He resolved to casually drop by and see how things were going in an hour or two.
An hour proved too long for a curious man at arms to wait. He bribed a page to help him remove his armour and load it up into a couple of sacks which they then hefted up to Eleanor’s guestroom. He had stripped down to his shirt and hose, the only normal clothes he was wearing under all the armour. He could have kept his gambeson on but he wanted an excuse to linger and watch the proceedings for a bit and a lack of clothing was the best he could come up with.
The page left his sack outside the door at Fulk’s insistence that he could manage the rest of the way. With a quiet knock Fulk cracked the door open and tentatively suck his head around.
“… wiggle your hips a bit,” instructed Judith, as she demonstrated how to walk in an eye catching manner. The expression of mortified horror on Eleanor’s face was priceless. Neither of them noticed him, the knock must have gone unheard, and so he got to watch for a few seconds until Judith turned around by chance and spotted him. “What are you doing here?” she asked sternly, “Go away!”
“I’m collecting my tunic and dumping my armour,” he explained as he dragged the sacks in. He stood up, rubbing the small of his back as if he’d cricked it. Over Judith’s shoulder Eleanor mouthed, “Help me!” He pretended he hadn’t understood. He smiled disarmingly at Judith, “Surely you can’t expect me to wander about in shirt and hose in the middle of winter?”
Apparently she could; she bundled him out of the room again in short order. “Bog off, sweetie,” advised Judith merrily as she slammed the door.
Outside Fulk remembered the way Eleanor had been blushing so furiously she looked more like a strawberry than gooseberry. He licked his forefinger and drew an invisible line in the air, “Man at arms: two. Princess: one.” He shivered in the chill of the stone corridor, then set out in search of a nice fire to sit by until he could get his clothes back.
Welcome rescue from Judith came several hours later in the form of a summons from John. Eleanor escaped with all possible haste; she might have asked Edith how to flirt months ago back in Nantes, but being descended on by Judith and her hair raising ability to tell you far more than you ever wanted to know about anything and everything was entirely too much. Much of what Judith’s advice had sailed clean over Eleanor’s head, and now she was devoting energy to forgetting the bits she had understood before she ended up with nightmares. Trempwick would have had a treble heart seizure if he had known what his precious pupil was being told.
On her arrival in the solar Eleanor immediately noticed the bowl of oranges was missing. John sat with his back to her in a fireside chair, the ubiquitous goblet of wine in his hand once again. “That man at arms of yours is quite an interesting fellow,” he said as she seated herself slightly further away from the fire’s fierce then he was.
Here it came, the end. “He is all I have,” she said despondently, not sure whether she meant it as an answer or just an admission of what he’d stolen from her.
He twiddled the goblet about in his hands, rotating it clockwise as he spoke, “Funny, that’s exactly what he said.”
How delightful of Fulk to admit it; did it get him a nice boost to his pay offer? She stopped regretting dowsing him in that perfume and began wishing she had thought of something nastier.
“I offered him a place in my household; he refused, can you actually believe that? I gave him a fortune, I offered him another, but he refused.” John ended his fascination for playing with his goblet, drained his wine and frowned petulantly at his empty vessel. “It’s not fair,” he muttered sulkily. He sloshed more wine into his cup, pouring carelessly so his clothes got splashed. His tolerance for alcohol was astounding; he had done little more than drink since she arrived and not once had he been more than mildly tipsy.
“Refused?” said Eleanor sharply. This had to be another of his jokes.
“He spewed some twaddle about giving you his word, and said he could not leave you because you had not released him.”
“He did?” Why couldn’t he just admit he’d stolen her bodyguard and be done with it? Or did he want her to tell Fulk he could leave if he wanted to, making this easier for them? She was not going to help them save face, thank you very much.
“I gave him a destrier and better armour than most knights have, I promised him far more and he refused! He just spouted on about honour.” John sniffed woefully and gulped at his drink. He apparently expected her sympathy.
“You probably did not offer him enough,” she said acidly. If she couldn’t get John to be honest she would wring the truth out of Fulk later. She had never had serious occasion to try those nice interrogation and torture methods Trempwick had taught her but now seemed as good a time as any.
“On the contrary, little sister, I think I offered him the wrong thing … in a way.” John set his goblet down on the nearby table precisely, arranging it with care and devoting his whole attention to that one task as he spoke, “I should have offered him you, I think. But he is not nearly worth such a bribe; armour is easy to come by, and I only have one free sister. Besides you are already promised to Northumberland.”
“What did you say?” Her? Did John seriously think a common bastard had even thought about a royal connection? Or would want one? It might boost him to the highlife but he would never be accepted, and she was dirt poor so he would gain nothing except her company and the scorn on the nobility. People formed queues and fought over both of those privileges on a daily basis.
John ignored the warning tone of her voice and beamed, then answered the wrong question, “I know, wonderful, isn’t it? Northumberland’s my staunchest supporter, and I shall grant you lands and so on. You will finally have what you were born to.”
Northumberland, married and wonderful were not words Eleanor thought belonged in close vicinity of each other, categorically not when her name was also added to the mix. If nothing else Northumberland the place was cold, rainy and always skirmishing with Scotland. Northumberland the man was just as unappealing; with this scheme he had proven himself ambitious, ruthless and dangerous. Not that John cared about her opinion; he had made this deal and she would be expected to keep it.
So, Northumberland was the puppet master; since he was the most powerful duke in England this was hardly surprising. Give him a royal bride and very soon poor John would find his rear slipping off his throne, until Northumberland claimed the crown by virtue of his wife. Her daft brother had not only been lured to treason but he had also set up his controller with a means to replace him as king. John would stand no chance when his manipulator discarded him.
Seven days Trempwick had said, she had used three and a half. Time was running out if she wanted to get John away before Trempwick set his men to watch the ports, just three and a bit safe days left. It would take most of those three days to reach the nearest port and find a ship willing to sail in the middle of December.
She listened with half an ear as John babbled, outlining his plot to become king. It relied heavily on him getting to see his father alone, then poisoning him so people would think he died of natural causes. When he was dead the whole country was supposedly going to rise up behind him to support him against Hugh, who, John related with horror evident on his features, had murdered his eldest brother so he could become king in his place. Yes, John actually believed, and expected others to believe, that an eleven year old boy had plotted and committed murder to gain a throne.
That was the breaking point; Eleanor could stand no more, and he had finally presented a flaw for her to use to encourage him to leave. “No, that is not true. Our father killed Stephan.” John gaped at her. “Have you ever seen him in one of his rages?” He mutely shook his head. “You are fortunate; I envy you. Between the initial spark and the final, most dangerous cold and cruel fury he has this streak where he talks incessantly, threats mostly. I heard him admit it on the day I got this scar,” she tapped the small scar running along her left cheekbone under her eye, “and he admitted it again a few years later. ‘If I can kill my heir for being flawed I can easy dispatch you for the same reason.’ The words were etched into my mind as surely as the scars on my body.”
“But, but, but …” stuttered John, “if Northumberland lied about that …”
“What else did he lie about?” finished Eleanor.
John wet his lips with his tongue, then scrubbed a hand over his face, “I think he’s set me up.” He suddenly sat bolt upright, his face a picture of horror, “Jesú! There’ll be no army!”
“It certainly looks that way.” No, there would be an army, an army to crush Hugh and plonk John on the throne long enough for him to marry Northumberland and Eleanor off, then remove him and hand the realm over.
He jumped up, dropping his partially empty goblet on the floor in a flood of red wine, and hurried to the door. He began shouting along the corridor for his servants to strip the castle of everything portable and valuable, and then get ready to move out with every single male out under arms with all possible speed. Even lowly kitchen boys were to be given weapons from the stores and pressed into his escort to swell the numbers. Finished, he turned back to Eleanor, “I must flee, now, before it is too late.”
“What about your family? You must warn them.”
“I cannot; I do not have time.”
She rolled her eyes, “Send a messenger.”
“I will need every man I have to reach port and get away safely.”
“You are going to abandon them!” she accused, horrified, “You can spare a couple of men and horses, easily.”
John began to pace restlessly, dismissing his family with barely a thought, “They will be alright; they are nobles-”
“And so are you. If being imprisoned is no hardship why are you leaving?”
He stopped and looked at her as if she were talking nonsense. “Then you go and warn them,” he said in a tone usually reserved for dealing with disobliging, dim-witted children.
She jumped to her feet, feeling her temper growing, and said brusquely, “Oh yes, I shall conjure up an escort and supplies, and go off on a little jaunt to Wales two weeks before Christmas when the roads are unspeakably foul - I cannot even get to the Welsh border! A courier could get through; you must send one.” Without Fulk she couldn’t even get home; travelling alone would be suicide. She would have to wait here in an all but empty castle until Trempwick sent someone to bring her home, hoping her rescue got here before the king’s army.
“There is no one to spare; I need every man I have to get safely to port. You cannot come either; we need to travel fast and-”
He crushed a hope that she did not even know she had; that he would take her away with him and keep her safe from the agents Trempwick would send to hunt her down. “And I would only slow you down because I have to ride side-saddle or pillion.”
“You are a noble, family, you will be safe. He will not know you were involved.”
Since when did being caught up in whatever caused the paroxysm matter? If she was safe it was because of Trempwick, and then only to the extent that she would still be alive. “You go on, run away and leave everyone else behind to clean up your mess. As long as you are safe that is all that really matters.”
Her sarcasm went unnoticed, “Yes, exactly. As long as I am safe I can come back and set things to rights.”
“I am fully confident you will be able to reattach severed heads, heal the scars, and wipe away the memories of the pain you are going to cause, John.”
He thumped himself on the chest with one fist, “I am a prince! I am worth far more than some duke, count or nobody!”
“Heir and a spare, John, and you are the spare - dispensable.” She stormed off to find someone whose arm she could twist into taking a message into Wales.
As she left she heard him bellow, “We’ll see how you feel when I return as king!”
Weeee! Finally I can stop examining the insides of their skulls in fine detail! Hurrah for only skimming the surface!
Has the nasty Judith thing gone away? :hide:
Please disregard my previous comment. I have gone blind.
:blank:
Her search for a messenger proved fruitless; word of John’s treachery had spread and everyone was concerned with saving their own skins. Even simple servants would be gleefully seized by a vengeful king, and they knew it; they were in the employ of a traitor, which made them traitors too. It was a measure of how successful king William had been in securing his grip on his expanding realm; a good king needed a reputation, and ability, to exact retribution from disloyal subjects swiftly and without mercy. William was nothing if not a good king. Eleanor suspected that many were taking whatever they could grab, then taking flight on their own instead of collecting things for John and following him to the port and he wanted. She didn’t blame them; John would only abandon most of them to their fates at the port.
She returned to her guest room, thinking to wait out the chaos there, only to find the last person she wanted to see. Fulk. He was sat cross legged on her bed, dressed in his gambeson and warmest pair of hose, his old sword across his lap and a pile of bags containing his new armour and spare clothing on the floor at his side. A quick glance around revealed the room had been ransacked; even the chairs and bedclothes were gone. The only portable items that remained were those Fulk had gathered to him. She hoped he had seen fit to save her own paltry, mostly borrowed, wardrobe, especially the nice, warm cloak she had arrived in.
“If you do not hurry you will be left behind,” she told him cuttingly. There wasn’t even a reason for him to be here now.
“So long as I follow you I can’t be left behind, can I?”
“Now what are you gabbling about?”
“I could ask you the same question, oh sands of the ages.”
“You are going with John.”
Fulk winced; so she did know. That explained quite a lot. “No, I’m sticking with his retiring, placid sister.”
Eleanor couldn’t hide her astonishment, “What? Why?”
Fulk considered his reply carefully; the truth delved into areas that were best described as thorny, as well as informing her about Maud, but he did not want to lie. Maud and the events surrounding her were least uncomfortable when confined to the unspoken past, and dragging them up would do no one any good. “Because I like being able to say, ‘That’s my princess; I just tag along in her wake, cleaning up the mess and dodging the low flying severed heads. I also do a nice line in suffering bravely when she turns her attention to me. It’s a quiet life,’ when someone asks me who the short, dark haired human tempest is.” Yes, that was honest enough while remaining light.
Her brows knitted together sceptically, “Really?”
“Yes, now we’d best get moving – we’ll need two saddle horses, and I’m owed a destrier. If we leave it too long the stables will be empty. Help me on with my hauberk and coat of plates; it’ll be easier to carry them on my body, good protection too.” When she didn’t move immediately he said dryly, “I’d say don’t argue but I’ve more faith in you being able to fly; instead I’ll say argue once we’ve left.”
She did as he said, helping him into first the hauberk, then the coat of plates, adding the surcoat and sword belt without him asking. He left the coif down and refused his arming cap, instead instructing her to put his cloak on over the whole thing, covering the armour and hiding its quality. He slipped his shield’s strap over his head, allowing it to rest comfortably on his left side in easy reach if he needed it. Finally he picked up the kettle helmet and laced it securely under his chin.
He looked over himself, tweaking the folds of his cloak by tucking them through the shield’s guige strap until it naturally hid most of the armour but didn’t hamper his arms too badly. “Man at arms and wife, travelling from one job to another because our old lord died and his son’s an ungrateful oaf who turned us out close to Christmas. That should do us for a cover.” He retrieved her knives and cloak from the bag he’d stored them in, “Here.”
Eleanor pinned her cloak in place, “I have nowhere to put the knives; these sleeves are too tight and we do not have time for me to change.”
“Fish your belt out of that bag and then put the knives on it,” suggested Fulk, collecting as many of the remaining bags as he could carry, “It’ll be a fashion disaster but your cloak will hide them well enough.”
After a brief search she found the slender tooled leather girdle she had worn on her way here. She examined it sceptically, assessing whether it would be strong enough to take the weapon’s weight, then swiftly bound it in place, making the first loop about her waist slightly looser than usual but leaving the second, low slung loop the same as normal in the hopes it would aid the deception. She thrust one knife through each side of the waist loop, and then pulled her cloak about her. “And that is that; let’s go.” She picked up the last couple of bags and headed towards the door, Fulk following close at her heels and trying to take the lead so he could lead their assault. As she opened the door she said, “If anyone gives us trouble you focus on getting our horses; I will handle the rest.”
Painfully slowly they fought their way through the milling crowds in the castle, down to the stables. Only a bare handful of horses were left, including a downtrodden packhorse and a few half decent palfreys. All the good horses were long gone, including Fulk’s promised warhorse. Fulk started forcing his way towards the best of the remaining saddle horses, Eleanor following in his wake.
“Get the packhorse too,” she told him, having to shout to be heard about the racket. The man fastening the packhorse’s bridle had different ideas and he tried to rebuff Fulk. Eleanor struck her most regal pose and announced loudly, “I am princess Eleanor of England, daughter of William, fourth of that name since the conquest of William the Bastard, king of England by grace of God, rightful king of France, lord of the Welsh, and beloved of his people.”
She paused for breath; she had learned to recite her lineage while still in the cradle and the endless barrage of glorious relatives usually stunned audiences as they struggled to keep track of everything. She was pleased to note Fulk loading up the packhorse swiftly and without resistance. Father down, time for brothers, “Sister to lord Hugh, duke of Normandy, count of Arques, and Bedford, heir to the aforementioned king William, and to lord John, Duke of York, and count of Anjou.”
Fulk was diplomatically persuading another man at arms he didn’t really want the best palfrey by prising his fingers of the animal’s reins and bending them backwards until they nearly broke. Time for sisters, “And to Matilda, Holy Roman Empress by the grace of God, and to Adele, queen of Spain by the grace of God.” So far, so good. She decided to wrap it up there; once you got into grandparents, cousins, nieces and the like it got very long winded indeed; she would save them for an emergency. “I command you to render aid.” Her audience gaped at her; excellent, Fulk had got the palfrey and the packhorse and was leading them out without too much opposition. “I require a man to go to Wales and deliver a verbal message. Any volunteers to serve the crown?”
Predictably everyone looked away and tried to seem less obvious than everybody else. Fulk stuck his head around the stable door and gave her a wave. Time to go. “It is good to see my brother is served by men of courage equal to his own; cowards. I shall look elsewhere.” She strode regally away, out into the courtyard where Fulk waited.
He was already mounted on the palfrey with the packhorse’s reins in the same hand that held the reins for his own mount. He extended a hand to her, “There’re no side-saddles; you’ll have to ride pillion, either that or learn to ride like a man.”
“I doubt I would ever hear the end of it if I did that,” she said dryly as she took his hand, put one foot on top of his, then scrambled up behind him. Once in place she wrapped her hands in the folds of his cloak to secure her seat somewhat.
Fulk kicked the horse into motion, and they clattered towards the first of the two gatehouses, struggling to get through the press of people. “You’d better hold on tight,” he said as he drew his sword, “really tight.” She wrapped her arms around his waist; just managing to lock her fingers together as he started bellowing, “Make way! Make way for the princess!” When that didn’t have the desired effect he started laying about him with the flat of his sword, still bellowing. The crowd began to part.
They picked up speed, and Fulk ceased clubbing people, needing only to shout and brandish his sword to part the human sea. Even so it still took almost quarter of an hour to force their way out of the castle and away from the press on the road outside. They began to retrace the journey they had made just a day ago, heading back to Woburn. No others took their road as it lead towards the king’s army and danger.
As they rode along Fulk noted with a wry grin that Eleanor was still riding along with her arms around his waist and, presumably based on his experience, much of her upper body and one side of her face leaning against his back. How to get a hug from a princess that no one could ever criticise; get her to ride pillion and then drag her into a near riot so she had to cling on or fall off. It was just a pity that he couldn’t really feel anything because of all the padding and armour.
Ok, so this is kind of rough and I was going to include another scene, the Fulk/Eleanor confrontation, but I picked up this obscure game on Friday, Rome: Total War.
Comment disregarded, Ludens. ~:)
Hope you enjoy Rome. ~:)
Eleanor sat on a pile of straw with her skirts carefully arranged around herself. “Trempwick is not going to like this,” she declared.
Fulk made a show of looking about the stable, not that he could see much by the weak moonlight, “I don’t like it much either, too damned dark.” In the stall next to them one of their horses whickered an agreement.
They had only managed a few hours of riding before the sun started to set. They had been able to find an inn they had not used on the trip up before it got too dark to travel, but they only had enough money to convince the innkeeper to let them stay in the stable along with their horses. They hadn’t managed to stretch the budget to even a space in the common room, and food was out of the question. They had been refused a lantern, ostensibly because of the fire hazard but more likely because they couldn’t pay for it.
“I think the dark is the aspect which will bother him the least,” she said lightly, “If he complains I shall point out it is hardly our fault we did not have sufficient funds; it is his. I shall also point out we are the ones starving with no food.”
“That’s the idea – you princess him about a bit,” replied Fulk with enthusiasm. He lay back on a pile of straw on the opposite side of the stall to Eleanor, pillowing his head on his arms. “I’ve got to admit that you’re getting better at the wife act, no wifelette act – you’re too short to warrant the full title when I can botch together a diminutive form to suit. Telling any who would listen how useless I am was a good touch; it really won over the innkeeper, protective instincts towards beleaguered gooseberries, I guess. ”
“I just tried to be honest,” she replied modestly, playing with the ring she had now swapped to her left hand. The metal chaffed slightly and pressed on the neighbouring fingers unless she splayed her fingers out. Conversely her right hand noted the lack of the ring and felt equally wrong.
She chewed her lip thoughtfully, trying to decide the best strategy to broach a tricky subject and to … well, she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to do. She wanted to know why he was still here, a deceptively simple sounding thing. Fulk had proven resistant to light questioning before and anything obvious would result in answers that could not be trusted, as well as a sulking bodyguard. That was assuming he did more than flat out refuse to answer, leaving her looking stupid and him in a huff. She didn’t want to reveal her lack of insight into his motives, nor did she want to give him ideas for possible uses for her that he may not already have spotted himself. Something needed saying; he was still here, whatever his motive.
Hesitant she took the plunge, “Thank you … for staying.” It seemed very lacking. She grabbed her courage with both hands and started to talk before she let it slip through her fingers, “Um, don’t know why I am saying this, I mean it will go straight to your head and all, and you will probably get completely the wrong idea, but …” she looked up from studying her feet, towards his outline, “You are all I have,” she said gently.
There was a long pause, so long she feared she had made a terrible mistake. Finally Fulk spoke, his tone grave, “I gave you my word and I think it is worth the keeping.” He sat up, one arm braced across his knees. “If I have been piecing my clues together correctly you’re going to be in poor favour when you get home and in need of your royal cut tender. I can’t vanish off to France leaving you to bleed all over the floor, can I?”
“You could very easily.”
There was another long pause, followed by a sigh. “If I left I would miss you. I’ve rather enjoyed these last few months of excitement, danger, daring, intrigue, spymasters and gooseberries.”
Such nonsense, and yet it sounded quite sincere. With a little more thought she decided she was willing to entertain the idea he might enjoy his job; he didn’t have to like her to do that. Even so his motive for staying was not clear; once again she ran thorough the usual options. A connection to the royal family: no, not unless he was an idiot, and she had never thought him that. Money: no, she was penniless and likely to remain so. Status: no, she had no lands to grant away. Her: not a chance in hell, she was no Guinevere. Security: possibly, he did get fed and would remain looked after in a neglected kind of way, and that put him on an even footing with her. His life: possibly, but with John he might have stood some chance of escaping. That one was worth testing, “You have missed what might have been your only chance to leave safely; John could have protected you from Trempwick. You would have been less important; you would still know too much but people would think you mad if you ever said anything. John is the kind of person to collect loonies with strange tales about his sisters.”
“I’d have got seasick on the channel crossing again,” said Fulk with false levity. This was beginning to get dangerous; she evidently wasn’t convinced by the half answers he had offered. Time to change the subject, “Anyway if I left I’d never have got to see your face when I told you I set Judith on you.”
Eleanor growled, “You are the reason I had to listen to that baggage for hours?”
“Revenge for the perfume, my fair blossom.”
“You started it back at that abbey; I was merely exacting retribution, with fair warning too I might add.”
“I always win my battles, dear gooseberry, and this one will be no different.”
“We shall see about that, turfwit.”
“Yes, we will,” said Fulk with a smile, “So, learn anything interesting from her?” He heard the furious intake of breath and wished he could see the look on her face.
“I shut my ears in the first few minutes; there are some things in life I do not want to know, and a great many of those things are contained in her extraordinary mind.” That was quite honest; she had stopped listening right when Judith had started on about the pleasures of kissing someone, something which warred with Eleanor’s rather limited experience. It was better not to know what you’re missing and never likely to experience, and if all you are missing is unpleasantness then so much the better.
A jolt of panic hit her when she realised how open that answer left her. If he asked why she didn’t want to benefit from the years of experience of a highly successful mistress what could she say? He knew her too well to fall for any religious argument, and the truth was humiliating to say the least. Being the one to bring up the fact you know you are so ugly no one could ever be interested in you might remove the sting very slightly, but from there things got no better. An honest agreement still hurt; a polite lie was even worse. All these years and she still wasn’t able to shrug it off completely.
Just as Fulk began to talk she rushed in her second observation about Judith, drowning him out, “I think she was one of Trempwick’s agents. She was very well placed to keep an eye on him, if you think about it. She also said a few things which could indicate she was a spy.” Things such as how men tend to talk when they are in bed. Now there was another odd thing; based on what she did know if you were busy talking somewhere along the line you have taken a wrong turn. It’s not as if he’d hang around to chat afterwards.
“A spy?” repeated Fulk thoughtfully, “Yes, could well be. Tell you what, you ask your Trempwick when we get back.”
“He is not my Trempwick,” she snapped. “And that is assuming we ever get back; we have no money left at all and we are still at least two days away from home. If we try to sleep outside we will freeze, and we have no food.”
“Don’t worry, oh spirit of joy; I’ll think of something. You can scrub pots or something at the next inn while I chop firewood.”
That was so galling she didn’t even bother to dignify it with a response. She lay back and pretended to go to sleep, mulling over the many motives Fulk might have for remaining.
Trivia: the story is now 103 pages long.
This is rather short at just barely 3 pages, but it proves the itch to write is even stronger than the itch to conquer the world. The game has actually been taking a back seat to this all the time; I was just playing with a few potential scenarios and I decided this one was the best. The urge to write has conclusively conquered all; there is nothing I would rather do.
You may notice Eleanor's view of herself doesn't exactly agree with what has been said about her so far; that was carefully planned before I get hate mail for ruining the story with my stupid errors. :gring: And before you all start sending hate mail because I'm using that old cliche of a heroine who needs a hero to tell her how beautiful she is etc, no I'm not! This is far more ... :looks mysterious:
Thanks, zelda. RTW is a fine game; compared to many people here I haven't played much, but by my standards I have been playing quite a lot.
It took them nearly four days to get back to Woburn, delayed by the worsening weather and overburdened, elderly horse. Fulk’s prediction of pot washing princesses, or more accurately as it turned out, sewing princesses, and men at arms taking on vicious hordes of firewood armed only with an axe turned out to be remarkably accurate. Trempwick’s reaction to that would be nothing if not interesting. They arrived about half an hour before sunset in the midst of a load of sleet. As could only be expected everywhere looked deserted.
As they rode through the gate into the manor’s courtyard Trempwick was already waiting in the shelter of the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back and a face like thunder. When their palfrey halted Trempwick stepped forward to help Eleanor down. He caught her as she slid down and immediately put her to one side with a falsely cheerful smile, “Dear Nell, I presume I have you to thank for my early Christmas present of four men with vicious weapons trying to kill me?” He was speaking English; something which surprised Eleanor as the spymaster usually preferred French.
She replied in the same language, secretly proud to note that she had a far better accent then he did, “Sorry, master.”
“Yes, probably,” replied Trempwick darkly, implying she most certainly would be. He shifted to his irksome chirpy personality. “I see you are amused by the fact you speak English flawlessly, whereas I have an excellent vocabulary coupled with an atrocious accent, dear Nell. We shall see if you are still amused when I spend more time with you in an effort to improve. And now, sweetest Nell, I do fear I shall have to utilise that pet of yours.”
“Really?” asked Fulk neutrally, in the suddenly favoured English, as he dismounted and looked about for the stable boy; he was no where to be seen. Yet more evidence of how lack lustre the servants were.
Trempwick smiled patronisingly at Fulk and carefully enunciated his words as he spoke, as if to someone whose grasp of the tongue was rudimentary at best, “Yes, really, bodyguard. My stable boy has broken his arm so you can play groom today, understood?” When Fulk didn’t reply immediately Trempwick nodded emphatically at him and pulled a huge, fake smile, “Understoody? Yes, yes? Speaky you English?”
Fulk regarded the gurning spymaster coolly and answered in his best court French, “Yes, I speak English, but your accent is so poor you are obviously not at home with the language. We should stick to French.”
Trempwick’s chirpy personality died. He bared his fangs in a wolfish smile, “We can speak French if you like, bodyguard, and then we will be fined for breaking the king’s new law. We cannot afford to pay the fine, and so we shall hang. Well, you shall hang; Nell and I will be beheaded since we are of gentle birth, unlike your grubby self. Sound like fun, bodyguard?”
“New law?” inquired Eleanor.
“Yes, his royal highness, king William, sixth of that name, king of England, blah blah, you know the rest, has decreed that his lands will no longer use English and French equally. English is now the official language of the realm and any found speaking French will be assumed to be sympathetic to the, how did our sovereign put it? Ah yes, ‘that beardless whelp of a boy king who can’t even drag himself away from his mother’s skirts to do battle!’”
Eleanor pulled a face, “So, his latest peace treaty was refused?”
“However did you guess, Nell?” said Trempwick brightly, “He is on his way back from Wales to muster new forces to prove to the French that they do want him as their king. I have seldom seen such a flurry of messengers, both bird and human, travelling the realm. According to my eyes and ears he is making twenty-five miles a day, even in this sleet.” Trempwick glanced sidelong at Fulk, “But this is hardly talk for the ears of anybody, dear Nell. Let us adjourn to the solar, and leave your pet to sort out the horses.” The spymaster sneezed and shivered, “At least let us get out of this damnable sleet!”
In the solar Trempwick ushered Eleanor next to the fire, taking her damp cloak himself, since there were no servants present, and hanging it up to dry. He picked up the room’s only stool and placed it to one side of the fireplace with a gap of only a few feet. “Do sit down, dear Nell,” he said with overbearing concern, “I would not want you to catch cold. You sit nice and close to the fire and warm up.”
They had been back all of ten minutes, if that, and already he was making her life uncomfortable. He must be really upset about those goons John had sent, and that made it too dangerous to try and play his game, matching him move for move. When Trempwick was upset you always lost, and when you finally did the stakes were far higher. Reluctantly she sat down on the edge of the stool, trying to nudge it over surreptitiously. Even a few inches would reduce the blazing heat.
Trempwick seated himself in his favourite chair a comfortable distance from the flames. He stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles, linking his hands idly in his lap. “Now, dear Nell, do tell me about your delightful visit with your brother.” His face and voice hardened, “I am especially interested in the parts which explain why you left with two good horses and came home with one nag and a packhorse, and why you have been dawdling your way back.”
The heat of the fire was making Eleanor’s skin feel tight and her eyes dry. She squinted slightly, trying to reduce the burning feeling. She could smell her clothes scorching. “Our horses were taken in the rush of rats fleeing the sinking ship. We have been dawdling, as you put it, because we ran out of money days ago and had to work in exchange for shelter.”
“Work?” Trempwick’s mouth twisted sourly, “That man at arms has a new set of armour, or so I hear. He dares make my princess mend clothes so he can avoid selling his helmet?”
“It is good quality equipment, far too valuable to part with. I might hate sewing but it is preferable to killing people.”
Trempwick laughed, “I cannot believe my own Nell just said that! Soon you shall be happily married with nine children, as ordinary and boring as your frightful sister Matilda. Sewing!” he repeated, as if she had just said something hilarious. Perhaps she had; sewing was entirely respectable and therefore not usually found in her vicinity.
“I think not,” she said firmly. Mere minutes ago she had been so cold her ears were numb and her feet blocks of ice. Now she could feel sweat running down her back. She leaned away from the fire, vainly trying to reduce the feeling of being a spit roast.
“No, the only person who would stand a chance of survival would be …” Trempwick looked thoughtful, then said more quietly, “would be me.” He took in the horrified expression on her face and laughed almost sadly, “You need not look so revolted, dearest Nell. I prefer blondes; preferably tame, obedient ones who only use knives for cutting food.” The spymaster sniffed the air, frowned slightly, then looked at Eleanor in a surprised manner, “I know it is a cold day, Nell, but you had best sit further back from the fire. I do believe you are beginning to singe and you have gone a rather unhealthy red.”
Feeling almost pathetically grateful Eleanor shot away from the fire before he changed his mind. Even the warm air filling the room seemed chilly by comparison; she shivered as she settled in her usual chair opposite Trempwick.
“Your brother is safely away,” Trempwick informed her gravely, “My birds brought me word this very morning.”
“What of his family?”
“I sent word of John’s treason to our king two days ago; I expect word of their arrest to arrive soon. They will be kept in some draughty castle somewhere under close guard, probably until the king dies. They may be released if our new monarch decides to show mercy. They may remain prisoners for the rest of their lives.”
Eleanor worded her next question carefully, “So they are unlikely to catch a winter fever on the trip?”
Trempwick’s eyes sparkled with amusement, “Dear, dear, how neatly phrased, sweet Nell. No, I have not been asked to kill them.”
“Do you think it likely?”
“Why the sudden interest in some sister in law you have never met? Let me guess; there but for the grace of God, and your own stubbornness if you had married someone with ambition?” She confirmed his suspicion with a tiny nod. Trempwick sighed and stroked his chin, “And they thought to pass you on to Northumberland,” he gave a short bark of laughter; almost completely at odds with his very brief burst of melancholy “You would have dispatched him in the blink of an eye, unravelling their entire plot.” He became more serious, “I would not be so concerned about Sophie, dearest Nell. If I were you I would be more concerned with myself. I shall have no choice but to paint you as an incompetent agent whose failed spying tipped the ringleader off, enabling him to escape.”
“I know.”
“I would claim you had never left, but John … we cannot be assured of his silence.”
“We both know that would make little difference.”
After a weighty silence Trempwick seemed to grow tired of her, and dismissed her with a vague wave, “I am sure you want a bath and something to eat. You should probably take care of the pet of yours too.”
In a remarkable feat, one which Eleanor was not inclined to celebrate, the king arrived in Woburn just three days later. Trempwick’s agent in the outlaying village the king passed through sent his usual warning by carrier bird, giving them just enough warning for Eleanor to hide safely in her room while Trempwick waited to meet the king. Fulk barred the door then joined her at the window, watching the scene through a narrow slit in the shutters.
The king rode in alone, his escort left far behind. They were probably in the nearest village, as was his usual custom. William did not like having an audience for his less noble moments and he considered Eleanor an embarrassment, a double motive for travelling the last mile alone. He didn’t wait for his horse to stop moving before hurling himself from the saddle and advancing on the spymaster. “Where is she?” he demanded loudly, “Where is the treacherous bitch?”
“Sire, treacherous may not be-”
The king’s sword sang from its sheath and flew to Trempwick’s throat. Even at this distance Eleanor could see blood beginning to flow, soaking into the decorative neck braid of spymaster’s neat green tunic. “Where?” repeated the king.
“If you will come inside, sire …?” offered Trempwick. The king held his pose for a second, then slowly removed the sword and put it away. He returned and pulled something from his horse’s saddle, then stalked into the manor, Trempwick trailing behind him, one hand on his neck to staunch the bleeding.
“He’s going to kill me,” whispered Eleanor numbly, “He has never attacked Trempwick before.”
“Then run away,” said Fulk, more pleading than suggesting, “even for a few hours-”
Eleanor was already shaking her head, “They find me and bring me back; there is nowhere to hide. Hours is all I would gain, and he would still be here.”
“You can’t mean to just tamely wait here …”
“What else can I do?” asked Eleanor, finally closing the shutters and coming away from the window. “Tell me what else I can do,” she begged, her composure cracking. Fulk closed his eyes and looked away, hooking his thumbs through his belt and clenching his fists around the leather. Eleanor laughed, almost hysterically, “You know he has a standing edict that I am never to appear in his presence armed? He will complain my hair is loose, but hairpins are potential weapons – I cannot win.”
“Command me,” said Fulk hoarsely. He would leave this in her hands, hardly fair but this time he could not – would not – simply hide with the other servants and wait.
With visible effort she pulled herself together and replied shakily, “I will not die; Trempwick would not allow it. I will not die,” she repeated again, not sure if it was for her benefit or Fulk’s. “I will not die.” She started chewing her thumbnail.
With a muttered oath Fulk’s resolve cracked and he crossed the room in several swift strides, pulled her into his arms and crushed her against him. After a brief pause due to shock Eleanor wrapped both her hands in his tunic, clinging on as if her life depended on it. Several tears escaped, and she buried her face in his chest. Fulk eased his grip slightly and smoothed her hair with one hand. He discovered that she was just tall enough for his chin to rest naturally, and comfortably, on the top of her head. There was nothing to say; she would survive thanks to the spymaster, if he thought for a minute she was going to her death he would have picked her up and run for it, but they both knew the mess the king had made of her last time was going to pale in comparison to the mess he was going to cause now. Somehow focusing on what would not happen made what would seem less awful.
A long while later someone knocked quietly on the door. “Nell?” called Trempwick, “I have managed to calm him down but we do not want to give him time to dwell; I have never seen a temper as bad as this, never.”
Reluctantly they eased apart. “I will be requiring the services of my royal cut tender,” Eleanor said, her voice steady, “you can do nothing more. If you die I will have no one to salve my wounds; I cannot do that myself.” Fulk smiled sadly, remembering how long she had spent insisting she did not need his help. She took a deep, steady breath and started towards the door. “I am not afraid,” she said resolutely. She had always been a good liar.
“Course not,” replied Fulk softly, seeing right through her act.
Eleanor unbarred the door and silently fell into step with Trempwick, clinging to one small, newly discovered fact that made her step surprisingly light.
Fulk cared.
All together now, Aaaaaahhhh :tongueg:
There you go, Axeknight, one of several mini window scenish bits.
Eleanor studied the woodwork of the table closely; it was nice oak, well sanded and polished. The planks of wood making up the surface had been fitted together so well you struggled to see the joins. Pity about the blood slowly staining it. Maybe the servants would be able to clean it before it soaked in and became permanent? It smelled of beeswax polish; that was nice. She decided lying here, half across the table, half standing, without someone holding her in place was difficult, uncomfortable too. It might be a good idea to move. Her knees gave way and she slid to the floor, landing in a crumpled heap and drawing a cacophony of complaints from her many injuries.
With nothing better to do she took a good look at the rushes on the floor, trying to force her eyes to focus so she could see the one tickling her nose. Yes, there it was, waggling slightly each time she exhaled. She began to drag her hand up to brush it away but gave up immediately; her hand felt oddly heavy and it hurt too much to move.
Dimly she knew lying here was not a good idea; she had to get up and walk out, back to her room. That was important because … ah yes, because it was important. She frowned slightly; that didn’t make sense. She gave up chasing that thought; it was such hard work. She drifted into blackness.
As Fulk passed the solar on his way back to Eleanor’s room with an armful of linen scraps, and a bowl and ewer of warm water he nearly ran into a man exiting the room. He took in the expensive but travel worn clothes, now splattered with blood, the deep blue eyes that looked familiar, the imperious air, and knew at once who this was. The king. Somehow he forced himself to bow respectfully. As he dipped down he noticed a riding crop grasped loosely in the king’s left hand.
William’s eyes flicked over the medical supplies, “Ah, good, You will bring those to the main bedchamber at once. I doubt you are qualified but you will have to do.”
“Sire?”
The king held his right hand out for inspection. The knuckles were split and bloody, and the little finger hung at an odd angle, obviously broken. “I am hardly proud,” he said, his manner an incongruous mixture between discomfiture and humour, “This is the second time I have broken fingers. It appears being a slow learner runs in the family. You will tend this; setting fingers is none too hard.” He turned back to the solar and threw the whip into the room, then set off for Trempwick’s room, expecting Fulk to follow.
Fulk hesitated, then did the only thing he could. He followed after the king, telling himself that with her touchy pride it was probably a good idea to leave Eleanor to find him, rather than the other way around, so even peeking into the solar probably wasn’t a good idea. The sooner he fixed the king up, as painfully as possible, the sooner he could get back to waiting for her.
The king had appropriated Trempwick’s room and was apparently planning to stay overnight, pressing towards London in the morning. It was the first time Fulk had seen inside Trempwick’s room, and he was rather surprised to find it looked like any other noble’s bedroom. Somehow he had expected either Spartan plainness or rich extravagance, not this cosy little sanctuary. As with all rooms in the manor the floor was covered with a scattering of rushes mixed with fragrant herbs. A single wolf skin lay on the floor on the side of the bed nearest the door. The walls had been plastered and whitewashed; the monotony broke only by a pair of small tapestries, both rather unusual. One showed a king enthroned, orb in one hand and sceptre in the other with his sword across his knees. The other was rather more intriguing; it depicted a girl with dark hair riding a horse, a unicorn by the long horn protruding from the creature’s forehead. The girl was not very detailed, the image was too small for that, but somehow she reminded Fulk of Eleanor. He couldn’t put his finger on why exactly, but she did.
The single, high backed chair before the fireplace was well worn, as if the spymaster spend considerable time sat there, thinking and watching the flames. The bed, well, Fulk was envious. The wooden frame was neatly carved with a loop and knot pattern and hung about with nice, thick curtains in a slightly faded Burgundy. It was piled high with blankets and topped by a fur lined bedspread with a coat of arms embroidered on it. Presumably the arms belonged to Trempwick. While he froze in a draughty corridor sleeping on a lumpy pallet the spymaster was be snug and warm in what must be a family heirloom. A couple of chests near the window must contain all his clothing and personal effects. A sword hung by its belt from a peg on the wall above the chests; it was a fine, workmanlike weapon intended for use rather than show. Fulk was surprised to note the absence of a table; he had thought Trempwick the kind to sit in his room working, but apparently work was something which never reached this room.
The king moved to the chair, and picked up the book which lay open on it. He inspected the cover, grunted, then put it on the bed, still open at the correct place. He seated himself and held his right hand out for Fulk to work on. Fulk did so, first sponging the blood from the lacerated knuckles as roughly and clumsily as he dared.
“You are not one of Trempwick’s usual people,” said the king as he watched Fulk work.
“No, sire,” replied Fulk neutrally. He was painfully aware he was next to a human volcano, one which could erupt in Eleanor’s direction if he said the wrong thing.
“Then what in God’s name are you?” snapped the king impatiently.
“I am your daughter’s bodyguard, sire.”
“Are you indeed?” said William thoughtfully, looking sharply at Fulk. His brows knitted together. “You are the one she brought back from Nantes?”
“Sire,” confirmed Fulk. He felt he was on thin ice and edging out onto thinner still.
“Trempwick says you have proven yourself both useful and able.” His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace, “Loyal too, more loyal than my own children. Never have children, …?”
“Fulk,” he supplied. Trempwick had been praising him? Now there was news. Fulk supposed that the spymaster had been aiming to take the heat off Eleanor last time by making it sound like she had done something he approved of. Whether it had worked or not was anyone’s guess.
“Never have children, Fulk. They tear you to shreds while you yet live, no matter how much you love them.” For a split second Fulk saw an aging man, one deeply wounded by the betrayal of his son. Then the regal facade came back up and Fulk remembered who he was dealing with. The king watched balefully as Fulk finished cleaning the cuts on the right hand and moved to the left. He heaved a weary sigh, “Misguided loyalty; it is a dangerous thing.”
“Sire?”
“Oh, I know all about her warning John and helping him escape; it was easy to guess. Trempwick was wrong to send her there; he should have known she would aid John. Misguided loyalty to her brother.” He clenched his left hand into a tight fist, a few of the cuts split open and began to ooze blood. His mouth set into a hard line, “She will not dare go against me again; if I cannot have her loyalty I will have her fear. I will allow no one to threaten my kingdom.”
Fulk grasped the broken finger and yanked it as hard as he dared. The king grunted, and Fulk pulled it again, as if perfecting the alignment. He probed the swollen, delicate flesh above the break with ungentle fingers, seeing if the bones were correct. Deciding they weren’t he tweaked the finger again. Sweat broke out on the king’s forehead, but otherwise he gave no sign of the pain Fulk knew he was causing. To do more under the guise of setting the bone would be dangerous, although Fulk did feel that those bones could use a lot more work before they were correct. He picked up a strip of linen bandage, folded it in two to make it narrower and began to fasten the finger to the one next to it, pulling hard on the material each time he completed a circuit about the fingers to tighten it and hold the finger in place. Each time he jerked the bandage the tendons in the king’s hand tensed minutely.
Job done he stood back. The king gave his hand a cursory inspection, then stood and unfastened the dagger and sheath from his belt. He held it out to Fulk, “Here, largesse from your king in return for your loyal service.” Fulk took the dagger but William held onto it, “Daggers work two ways, Fulk. It can be a reward, or it can not. Remember that.” He let go of the weapon and returned to his seat. “You may go. Carry a message to my daughter; tell her I expect to see her at dinner. I will not have her sulking.”
When Fulk had left and the door was closed William remained still, watching the flames in the fireplace and brooding.
She regained consciousness several minutes later. Something was tickling her nose, ah yes, the rush. She battled to grasp the wits which had apparently been scattered somehow. She had to get up and leave; that was a fact she knew and she held onto it, working to find the thoughts which linked to it. She had to leave because … otherwise he had won? Who? Won what? She nearly gave up again but somehow this was important. He was … he was … her father? That realisation set off a chain reaction, bringing to the fore thoughts that she had ingrained deep into her mind over the years. She had to get up and walk out, had to prove this was nothing. She had to prove she could not be crushed into submission so easily, she had to, somehow a lot depended on that. Everyone would be waiting ... everyone would be waiting to laugh at her for being weak if she didn’t. She couldn’t let them, him, win.
She started to bring her right hand down so she could push herself up, dragging it slowly and painfully across the floor. She braced herself, then tried to raise herself. She collapsed back immediately, barely having moved. Alright, walking might be tricky; she would crawl. She laboriously dragged herself towards the door, moving less than a finger’s breadth each time. Something was tickling her nose. The same damned floor rush as before! Eleanor let her head sag the inch onto the floor again with a painful thud. She had barely moved at all.
Something was niggling away at the edge of her attention, what? Something somehow related to all this … She swallowed painfully, noting her throat hurt. The niggling got stronger. She frowned, focusing, trying to remember. It was there, just out of reach … it was …she had … screamed. For the first time she had screamed. He had won; he knew how much he had hurt her. It was over.
The floor rushes made good company, and the floorboards were reassuringly solid. She would stay here. Walking out, even crawling out, made no difference now. She had lost.
Fulk was surprised not to find Eleanor waiting impatiently for him when he arrived back at her room. He bit down the disquiet as soon as it began to rise; she must have decided to do something before getting back here, or perhaps she was talking to Trempwick. It did not mean that she was incapable of getting back here. Eleanor being Eleanor she was probably striding about being obvious, proving to all and sundry that she was perfectly alright, working off and for that stubborn pride of hers.
After several minutes of increasingly anxious pacing Fulk decided enough was enough; he would go and find her. His first port of call was the most obvious, and the closest; the solar. As soon as he opened the door past the crack the king had left it open at he saw her lying on the floor near the table. He swore and rushed to her side, taking quick stock of the damage. Someone had ripped the back of her dress away and from shoulder to waist she was one mass of bleeding lines, crossing over each other and so numerous it was hard to tell where one line started and another ended. Under the blood, which was still flowing lazily, it was possible to see flesh beginning to discolour with bruises. There had to be more he couldn’t see or she would have returned on her own.
Her head lifted slightly as she noticed his presence, “My Christmas present,” she mumbled in a weak attempt at humour.
“If you lean on me can you walk?”
“No idea.” Probably not; the ground was sending out an irresistible attraction.
“I could carry you, but it’ll aggravate your back.”
“Doubt I will notice, can’t get worse, surely.”
From experience Fulk could have told her it could definitely get worse; he had thought having a crossbow bolt stuck in his thigh was as bad as it got, until they removed it. Deciding he had no other choice, and that it was better not to warn her it would get worse beforehand, Fulk lifted her into his arms, trying to ignore the sharp intake of breath as he jolted her. He stood up and settled her back against his chest in an effort to take the pressure of her back. The instant her side touched his chest she groaned. “Think my ribs are broken,” she explained feebly.
Fulk held her slightly away from his body; if she had broken ribs he didn’t want to drive one into her lung. That would probably kill her. “He broke his finger,” Fulk told her as he carried her back to her room, hoping to both distract her and get her focusing on something with a bit more of her usual self.
“Good,” she said with quietly vicious satisfaction.
“I set it for him. Pity I’m not good at setting bones, I think I hurt him quite a bit.”
“Better still.”
Fulk put his back against the door to her room and pushed it open, then went in and carefully placed her face down on the bed. “Broken ribs, one hell of a mess on your back, what else?”
The pain of being moved had jolted her memory into action. Eleanor remembered being hit until she collapsed, then kicked and dragged to her feet, only to be knocked down again, over and over until he grew tired of it and slung her over the table. That explained why it was so much effort to move. She didn’t want to talk about it. “Think maybe my toes are not bruised, makes them the exception to the rule. Fix my back, the rest I will do later.”
Fulk couldn’t see how she was going to manage that, and if her ribs were broken they needed a more expert opinion than he could provide. Well, at least he could try and do something with her back while he thought of a way to conjure a surgeon from thin air. “You know he expects to see you at dinner?” he said, as he poured some water into a bowl and began soaking bits of cloth in it.
“Damn,” she groaned, then, “Got to go.”
“Pigs will fly first,” he told her sternly as he looked at the ruin of her back and wondered where to start. He brushed the bloodstained lengths of her hair out of the way, then started at the top, cleaning the still bleeding wounds as best he could.
It was astonishing how you could drown in pain until it filled your whole world and think it could get no worse, only to find that it could. This was the second time she had been proved wrong. Nausea hit her along with the fresh waves of agony, and she battled both to keep her stomach contents down, and to keep from shying away from Fulk’s delicate touch and screaming the manor down. “There’ll be pork in the treetops by morning,” returned Eleanor, concentrating on forming a proper sentence in an effort to sound stronger and muster her wits. It lacked polish but it would do for now. She had lost the main battle; there was still a fighting retreat and rearguard action available to her and she would fight those with everything she could throw at them.
Fulk stopped dabbing and frowned disapprovingly at her, “Oh rising sun, unless you are carried down and tied to your chair to stop you falling off it I can’t see you managing dinner.”
“I have to … I have to,” she said wearily. Blackness was nibbling way at the edges of her vision again and her ears were ringing; she was in danger of fainting again. How humiliating. She focused on the words she needed to say, forcing them out, “Give him an inch and he’ll take several miles and then all these years of fighting are wasted.”
Fulk surveyed his progress; there was none. As fast as he cleaned blood away from the few areas of untouched skin more replaced it. He would have to leave it until the bleeding ceased. In the interim he could try and talk her out of trying to kill herself, “Eleanor-”
The hand nearest Fulk flailed weakly towards him and grasped the hem of his tunic, “He will see he has won, he will see he can bend me to his will. I must prove I can bear this, that I am not going to give up. I can’t let him know … I would let John rot rather than do this again. He’s won. He can’t know that.”
Fulk said nothing; he didn’t think it worth the effort to argue when he knew she was going nowhere. Freed of the need to focus, and somehow uncaring of how pathetic fainting had always seemed to her, Eleanor collapsed gratefully back into the darkness.
“Nell?” said Trempwick’s voice insistently, “Nell?” Something tapped her cheek, “Nell, come on Nell.” She dragged one eye open and saw the spymaster looking down at her, worried. “Nell,” he said, relieved. This conversation wasn’t very interesting; Eleanor let her eye drift closed again.
Trempwick straightened up, “She is a mite groggy, no?” he said to Fulk. Fulk opened his mouth for an angry retort but Trempwick got in first, “Oh do lighten up, bodyguard. It simply seems preferable to saying she is all but half dead.”
“Yes, now what are we going to do about it?” demanded Fulk tersely.
“Us? Nothing. Nothing we can do, and we cannot even look at half her injuries,” the spymaster pulled a wry face, “well, not unless we want to get ourselves killed. We do have to stick to royal protocol, you know. There’s a midwife in the village, I will send someone to fetch her. They are always unofficial doctors with more varied knowledge than the name would imply.”
“And in the meantime?”
“Someone needs to entertain the king, and someone should keep an eye on her. Since someone,” he shot a malevolent glare at Fulk, “was stupid enough to tell her she was expected at dinner it is likely she will try to do something foolish. As much as I would like to remain here sending you to look after the king would likely prove a disaster.” With one final look at Eleanor Trempwick left.
"There'll be pork in the treetops by morning" is a quote from another Eleanor, Eleanor of Aquitaine in the film The Lion in Winter. I love that line, and it seemed very suitable for my Eleanor at this particular moment.
Ah, the Fulk/king scene, so deep. I wonder if you spotted him say that ... and Trempwick's furnishings are very ... and there are several tiny details which are ... Oh, damn! That scene is a semi masterpeice and I can't even say why! ~:mecry:
Very good! It may not be the heigh of originality, but this is miles ahead of the window scene.
One comment: the story is getting rather poor on description. There is hardly any, except for the last part you posted. This is most obvious when Fulk and Eleanor are fleeing from John's castle. Everyone is trying to flee, yet you only mention the crowd because they are impeding our heroes' progress. Dito for the noise they must create. Let there be fights, let there be screaming women, let there be someone ineffectually bellowing orders! That goes a tremendous way to creating the right atmosphere, and without it, I think the scene only so-so. In the other scenes the dialogue makes up for it, but if you could combine it...
On the other hand, in the last part you did the description well: the bit about the straw at Eleanor's nose is very inventive and very good.
A reader's request: could we get to know more about King William IV? I am really interested in the motivation of the bad guy.
William waited with increasing impatience; he knew his spymaster would come to report, but he was certainly taking his sweet time about it. The throb of his broken finger did little to aid his disposition. Restlessly he abandoned his fireside chair and prowled about the room, not touching anything but glaring at everything as if somehow the furnishings had personally offended him. Having completed one circuit of the room he returned to the two hangings and scowled at them. The girl on the unicorn continued on her sedate way, carefree and unconcerned by his enmity. The embroidered king stared back defiantly, his eyes following William’s every move with cold disdain.
It was while he was stood there that Trempwick finally put in his appearance. “You took your merry time,” grumbled William. He was not used to being kept waiting.
“Forgive me, but I was delayed cleaning up a small mess in the solar,” said Trempwick as he closed the door. He did not bother to bow or keep any of the other formalities due to his king and liege lord; they had known each other too long for that.
“You have servants,” William pointed out, “let them bother about sweeping up rubbish. You bother about your king.” It sounded far harsher than he had intended.
“Indeed, but the day I allow a servant to sweep my pet princess out with the old floor rushes is the day I take to claiming I am a duck and walking on my hands.” Trempwick’s answer was light hearted and said with a hint of a smile, but somehow the king still felt it censorious, though he could not say why.
The king rounded on Trempwick, his temper building, “That has never bothered you before, Raoul.”
“I have never needed to bother before,” replied the spymaster calmly.
“You exaggerate, and the fault was hers.” William held Trempwick’s gaze for a moment, but he found his eyes were attracted to the long cut snaking parallel to Trempwick’s jaw line, and the shame of drawing his sword on his most loyal servant doused his stirring temper. He changed the subject, gesturing at the hangings, “Interesting choices, particularly the girl.”
“Yes, perhaps more than you think. I feel they represent what drives me rather aptly. Care to take a guess, William?”
“This one,” he pointed at the king, “to remind you of whom you serve, and this one,” he gestured at the girl on the unicorn, “to remind you of what I have entrusted you with?”
One corner of Trempwick’s mouth rose into a lopsided half smile, “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out thoughtfully, “Yes, that is one way of putting it.” The thoughtfulness dropped from his tone and he assumed a pose and intonation more suited to telling war stories, “You remember my last field mission some thirteen years ago, the one to the duke of Anjou’s court to assassinate the old duke? The picture of the girl is my trophy, if you will. I took it from the dead man’s solar. When he took me on a tour he showed me that picture and began talking at great length about the various themes and symbologies, there are many but one or two are stronger than the rest. The resemblance to your daughter is uncanny; I thought it a good reminder of why I was giving up field work. Because of a very young girl with a proclivity for deception and a grand plan many years away from fruition. Some of the symbology only makes it all the more appealing to my sense of humour.”
The spymaster crossed to the fire and held out his hands to the blaze, turning them back and forth between palm and back ever few seconds to warm them evenly. “So, what will you do with Northumberland?”
“The man will lose his head as a warning to others. The earls and other lesser members of his plot will lose titles and lands; my exchequer will swell with the fines and confiscated wealth, much to my joy. One can never have too much money, Raoul, and armies do drain the treasury frightfully.” William joined his spymaster at the fire and spoke quietly, “I have though on a little and I see now what you did. Thank you, for my son’s life. Forgive me for thinking you a blunderer.”
Trempwick took a moment before replying, “You and your accursed sense of justice are easy to predict. You must behead Northumberland, and if you remove one ringleader your conscience will decree you must deal the same to the other. Eleanor is also easy to predict, and I think you will agree the end result is satisfactory to all involved.”
William let the silence hang for a moment, then seated himself in the chair and his head dropped into his hands and he asked, “Christ God, why? He is my son, I gave him lands, titles and honour. Why did he do this?” He looked up from his hands at Trempwick, his body still hunched over, “Why?”
“His head had been filled with nonsense. I blame myself; I found out too late to put an end to it before the damage was done.”
“But why was he so easy to poison?” Trempwick had no answer and William buried his head in his hands again. He spoke, his voice muffled and low, “I pray each morning I never see him again, just as I pray for Stephan’s soul and forgiveness. I tell myself better a clean end, for him and England both, than a life dragged out and marred by disability. He would have had no life; he could not even ride a horse. And now I tell myself that I hope never to see John again, knowing if I set eyes on him again I will have no choice but to … How did it ever come to this, Raoul? One son dead by my own order, one turned against me, one loyal for now, one daughter who writes dutifully twice a year but otherwise ignores me, one who is dead, one imprisoned and cut off from the world so I cannot help her, and one …”
“You need not worry about her, I have her well in hand. You have seen how I can use her to your advantage, and she is well guarded. Very few even know she is here, so you need not fear on that account.”
“Well guarded? You have but five servants.”
“Five servants, four of whom are some of my best agents. The fifth is but a boy; he shows plenty of promise and is an able scout. This is in addition to my network. Ten miles, coming or going; if I do not want you within ten miles of Woburn you do not get within ten miles of Woburn, or vice versa. I could expand my household but then I would become more noticeable, countering any gains I might make.”
“I want her kept under house arrest.”
“William, she already is. She has been ever since you handed her over to me; did you not listen just now? Ten miles; she has only managed eight and did well to get so far.” Trempwick recited a maxim he had memorised decades ago, in his boyhood, “Love, fear, control of something or someone they care about; those are the three main ways to gain control over a person. Pick a person apart to see how they work, then apply that proverb and they are yours.”
William was sure he did not need fancy sayings to handle Eleanor, only time. Time was the one thing he never had. He always got off to a reasonable start and then had to leave; when he finally saw her again they were back to the beginning. It had always been like that; months of neglect then a half hour’s attention, then months more neglect in the care of people plainly not suited to the task. “Then I will, as ever, leave the matter in your hands.” What other choice did he have, even if Trempwick had proven himself incapable of quashing many of her defects? He did far better than the multitude of tutors, and that would have to be enough. Tired of discussing the perennial problem of Eleanor he moved to the most important matter he wanted to discuss before he left, “I am making you my new duke of Northumberland.”
The sudden grant of the title did not seem to surprise Trempwick, but then so little did. He considered for a while, then spoke slowly, “I would have to assign much of it to underlings, and rule in name only for the most part. My other responsibilities keep me busy.”
“You have had no issues ruling Kent in this manner for decades.”
“True, it depends on finding worthy men to govern in my stead.”
“I do not doubt you will find them; bringing people to your side and making them yours is a talent of yours, Raoul.”
Trempwick seemed very amused by this; he laughed quietly, “Yes, that is so.”
“I believe that is our business concluded for now, Raoul. I will leave tomorrow; I have trials to attend.” William rubbed his eyes and yawned, “It is almost Christmas and I am arranging treason trials. I just spent several weeks in Wales in the depths of winter to receive their duke’s homage and make them officially vassals of England, and as soon as the weather is good enough I leave to fight yet another war in France. I am fifty-one, Raoul. I have been travelling from place to place fighting, treating, judging, and ruling since I was fifteen. Where does it end?”
“When you are dead, my friend, just as my work ends when I am dead.”
“When I am dead,” repeated William wearily, “What will happen then? Have I built a realm, and a family, which will endure and thrive? There is so much left to do before it is ready for Hugh. I worry about my children; Abel, Cain, a brat and a prisoner, only Matilda survives with a solid future.”
Trempwick smiled knowingly, “I am thirty-four; I have no family and I too fear I shall run out of time with much left undone.” He clapped the king on the shoulder, “We sound like a pair of old men, which we are decidedly not. Let me acquaint you with the work of my cook; he is an excellent spy and few can match his infiltration abilities. Sadly the same cannot be said of his cuisine.”
Finally the secret of those dire servants revealed! I've been waiting to state that clearly for some 80 pages!!
I had that scene planned anyway; it tells you quite a lot, both overtly and covertly.
The lack of description was hopefully a temporary hiccough which is now fixed. Er, well maybe not in this part .... hard to decide. I would not call William a bad guy, but then I don't think any of the characters in Eleanor are. They are more grey, but only some characters get to display this. :sigh: Poor William has so little screen time; scenes without one of the duo in are rare by necessity - the reader cannot know too much that they do not. The number of times that gooseberry overlooks things makes me want to scream. Fulk is just as bad. Ok, I'll allow myself to highlight one example of this. From the last part, William says, “She will not dare go against me again; if I cannot have her loyalty I will have her fear. I will allow no one to threaten my kingdom.” What did Fulk overlook? The king just implied he thinks Eleanor is dangerous. It's there for the reader to spot, or not as the case might be.
Willima is going to get more time shortly. I will do my best to heap the detail and insight in, and he should get at least one more scene from his POV, just like this one.
It says alot indeed (even to a philistine like myself). I think my suspicion about Trempwick has been confirmed; but I shall have to wait.
I especially like how William isn't 'the bad guy' anymore. Its nice to have him fleshed out a bit more.
I just posted a mini essay about Eleanor and the king in response to a comment over at Paradox. I thought I might as well put a copy here.
The king does have control, pretty good control, but his temper is as bad as rumour suggested. Just look at what he did to Trempwick when he arrived, and how he felt about it later. That was not planned, just pure rage so out of control he did something terrible. Usually he will control it, just as he controlled his pain, but with Eleanor it is safe to go into a rage. Not only is it impossible for her to defend herself but it will not harm his vassal's loyalty, nor is it considered anything other than his right as her father. It is prudent to make sure no one else is around to witness his less regal moments, as was commented in the story when he arrived, simply because others might worry that one day he will loose his temper on them. If he were to do the same thing to a vassal or servant it would be excessive, insulting and the victim would be almost required by the rules of society to do something to avenge their honour.
Also Eleanor has a worse effect on his temper than anyone else; she absolutely refuses to bend even slightly. Remember waaaay back around page 20 when the servants were eager to overhear what she would come up with this time, before he battered her into silence? What he wants is a victim who will scream and cry and beg for mercy; what he gets is Eleanor. That just makes him all the more furious.
Against that already potent backdrop there are other factors in play. They are both stubborn; Eleanor refuses to back down and do as he wants in anything, because she knows he is stubborn and he will take that as a cue to force her into the life she has been fighting to avoid. Neither of them will give up. The king thinks he can bend her to his will; she refuses to give ground.
He considers her to be a mistake, mostly so unconventional because of his neglect and failures as a parent, because he did not provide proper education and so on for her when she was still young enough to be shaped. He only really took an interest when she was six, that day in the throne room, and by then it was far too late. He does believe that he can sort her out if he just has enough time, time to correct her every ‘mistake’ instantly and consistently. Give him a month and he would insist she would be a model daughter at the end of it. Aside from the scars and burning but hidden hatred she probably would be.
For all his talk about killing her he does worry about her future, and he knows that, because of him, she does not really have one. Of course he sees her future as marriage or a nunnery with no other options. If she cannot have that then perhaps she is better off dead, at peace at last and no longer bringing shame on herself and her family? Even with a tolerant family Eleanor is a bit too unconventional, and that is assuming you remove the agent skills. He firmly and honestly believes it is in her best interests to reform her into a typical, obedient princess. Don’t misunderstand; if he gets mad enough or thinks there is no other option she will die, just as Stephan did, just as John will if he sees him again.
More than all this she is a waste – she should have made a marriage to her family’s advantage, bringing in more allies and power. She is am embarrassment on the political stage; the king of England has a daughter so bad that no one will have her. What a failure as a parent and weak man he must be.
He is, as he hinted in the story, slightly frightened of her. I won’t say why, but there are very many reasons and only one has some relation to the obvious fact that she is so atypical. She is, though she would never admit it, terrified of him. The closest she has ever got to acknowledging that, even to herself, is what she said to Fulk in that bit about the king winning.
That's a very quick overview of the aspects of this which have been mentioned in some form thus far; there are others I shall leave for the story. They have a very complex relationship, considering they barely see each other. It is premeditated to the point where he goes to visit her, knowing he is furious and knowing he will end up beating her again, but thinking perhaps this time she will start to bend.
Hehe, that’s a page-and-a-third essay on one aspect in simple and partial detail. This story has so many more aspects deserving long, in-depth essays, and so much I cannot even hint at for now. This really does have plenty of depth bubbling away under the surface.
Ah, so someone might have done a little research on the legend of the unicorn :grins: Course that produces an idea which could have several interpretations ...
Actually, no - but I'm going to now...
Google, do your thing!
EDIT - Well, not exactly a thorough search, but I found this:
Quote:
The Lady of the Unicorn was a predominant part of the European Myth. It was said that only the purest of maidens could tame this beast. When a Unicorn saw a maid sitting in the wood, he would came forward and docilely lay his head in her lap, as innocent as a child. This was the Unicorn's one weakness. Some tales tell of a Lady residing in a cave with the Unicorn. These tales portray the Virgin which loved the Unicorn. However there are more....
I'm gone for a week on Work experience and I find froggy has been sitting at her P.C and Deliberately typing away to give me a huge reading assignment when I get back.
I'm sure I'll love it but... why just why. ~;)
Brilliant as usual. Ludens mentioned a lack of description. I would like to say I believe this is because, in my humble opinion, Miladies work is mainly character and speech driven in this story. Hence it is not the backround that illuminates a story but the characters that inhabit the stage.
I also get the feeling that Trempwick is the kind of man who holds a grudge and is not a little insane in his own special way.
The midwife came. A vaguely pretty woman in her mid thirties she was, in a bizarre advert for her trade, just beginning to swell with a pregnancy of her own. She very carefully asked no questions, looked at no faces, and nothing was said about names or how Eleanor had ended up in such a mess. Fulk thought the poor woman looked as if she thought she had been dragged into something deeply shady and dangerous and expected to be murdered to ensure her silence. Her poor baby was likely to find itself named for whatever saint the midwife favoured in gratitude for her life when she made it home, if the baby survived long enough to be named, of course.
He waited outside Eleanor’s room while the midwife worked, leaning against the cold stone wall with his arms crossed. Eventually she re-emerged, brushing strands of dark blonde hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “She’s sleeping,” the midwife announced to Fulk. He took that to mean Eleanor had fainted again, expressed in as uncritical manner as possible. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear, but at least while she was unconscious she couldn’t do anything stupid.
“How is she?”
The midwife pursed her lips and looked unhappy. “About as you might expect,” she said carefully. She really was good at this discretion business; too good for Fulk’s liking.
He gave her his most appealing smile and said engagingly, “A little more detail, if you don’t mind. I’ve never been one for mind reading.” Charm; it rarely failed him.
His efforts glanced right off her, like a spent arrow hitting a solid stone wall. “Two of her ribs are cracked, the rest is obvious,” she replied very grudgingly.
Fulk gave up with a sigh; obviously she was not going to tell him anything helpful in case it was taken as disapproval. He uttered some generic thanks and let her go, then entered Eleanor’s room, closing the door properly behind himself. He reconsidered and opened the door again, leaving it slightly ajar. Only a fool might think there was some impropriety going on but better safe than cruelly executed.
Fulk went to the corner where he kept his belongings and dug around in the chest Trempwick had grudgingly provided for him to store his stuff in. After a bit of digging around he pulled out his battered copy of King Arthur. He dithered for a moment, then tucked the book under his arm and went to the bed where Eleanor lay. The midwife had removed Eleanor’s ruined clothes, and dumped them in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed, and tucked her in lying on her right side. So, the cracked ribs must be on her left then; good. That meant it was the same injury that had caused difficulty when he picked her up, rather than a new one. He could smell comfrey, but no other herbs, indicating the midwife had done nothing much more than smear a bit of salve on Eleanor’s back. Fulk didn’t know whether to be reassured by that or not; it could be there was nothing much for her to do, or it could be she had been negligent. He would have to wait until Eleanor was awake and then try to drag details of exactly what had happened out of her. Even the smallest of injuries could kill if infection took hold.
A strand of hair had fallen across her face. He tiled his head to one side, debating if he dared do anything about it. Well, she was asleep, or unconscious or whatever, and he had been daft enough earlier, not that that was an excuse to be daft now. Ah, what the hell, why not? He reached out and tucked the strand behind her ear instead. “Sleeping gooseberry; how adorable,” he murmured softly, “Boring too.”
And that was quite enough of that, thank you. He sat himself down on his coffer, since the room lacked a chair or stool. Now he had seen Trempwick’s room Eleanor’s seemed even poorer. Plain floorboards with the ever present rushes on them, whitewashed walls with nothing to add colour or personality, no furniture aside from her bed, and even that was lacking. While Trempwick had that cosy looking family heirloom Eleanor had a simple, rather narrow bed minus curtains and fancy carvings. It did have a comfy feather mattress, making it Fulk’s preferred seat. The only other things in the room were a couple of chests for clothing and personal items, and a small coffer Fulk knew held agent related tools like lock picks.
For all Trempwick’s protestations about poverty Fulk was not convinced; he was the king’s spymaster and a landed noble. The king would need to ensure his spymaster’s loyalty, and you did not do that by leaving the man open to bribes. That meant he kept his household shabby by design; why? What did he gain by keeping so few, so slovenly servants? Why no maidservant for Eleanor? It appeared the king’s two visits while Fulk had been in Eleanor’s service were good representations of the previous ones and, given their earlier difficulties, that only made the absence of a female servant more baffling. Where was the point in keeping Eleanor in a room that might fit the lowest ranking nobles but never a princess? Where was the point in any of it? He had a few ideas, and he resolved to discuss them with Eleanor as soon as he got an opportunity when it would be hard for anyone to overhear. One thing was certain; the servants spied and reported to Trempwick.
He opened his book to a random page and started reading. After the first few words of Arthur’s coronation he stopped, his eyes starting sightlessly at a crudely illustrated Arthur enthroned inked on the page in gaudy, fading colours. Sympathy. Would he ever learn? Once for a crying girl with a dead pet kitten, once for a … gooseberry. The first had ended badly, the second was nudging closer to something which was impossible.
“I know you are awake, brat,” said an insistent voice. Was she awake? Eleanor supposed so; she wouldn’t be hearing him speak otherwise. “You might fool Trempwick but you do not fool me,” continued the voice. She recognised the voice but hoped against hope it was not who she thought.
She cracked an eye open slightly, not wanting the movement to be seen. Her father stood at her bedside. So much for hope. What to do; wake up and fight back, wake up and do nothing much, or just pretend to be asleep? She had to pick up the fight now before it was too late but, to her disgust, cold, paralysing fear settled in the pit of her stomach at the mere thought. Why couldn’t he go away until she had had time to gather her courage once more, time to blot as much of this from her mind as possible?
William began to pick at the bandage on his finger, fraying the edge, “You are not that badly hurt; only your pride is damaged. You are only using this as an excuse to hide. Sulking ill befits you and I will not have it.”
She wasn’t badly hurt? That was good to know, good indeed. Very kind of him to tell her; she’d been under the illusion that she was. Silly her. Right, that sounded very suitable, now to say it. Eleanor tried to form the words but her voice was frozen.
“No snappy retort?” William sounded very pleased. “Excellent; after all this time you have learned the first lesson. Now, to move onto something a little more advanced – answer when spoken to, brat!” he snapped that last as if he were on a battlefield.
Something dropped with a thump. There was a pause then the king muttered an oath. Eleanor opened her eyes properly to see what was happening. Fulk sat on a chest along the wall where the door was, previously hidden from the king’s view. He looked as if he were asleep, propped up on the wall with his head hanging down on his chest and one hand trailing to the floor. The noise had been the book dropping from his limp hand. If she had been in any fit condition, and if it would not have gotten them both killed, Eleanor would have leapt up and hugged him.
The daft fool had found himself caught in the king’s path and stayed put, pretending to be asleep, and now he was distracting William’s attention from her. As absurd as it sounded he was actually far safer than she was, as long as he did not cross the very fine line between ‘innocent’ aid and intentional aid that could be classed as treason.
The king marched over to Fulk and kicked the chest hard with the sturdy sole of his riding boot, leaving a trace of mud on the woodwork. “You! Out!” he bellowed. The entire manor would have heard that; no one could ever accuse William of having a feeble voice.
Fulk nearly fell off his chest and did a very convincing impression of a startled, confused sleeper awoken prematurely. He looked up at the king and his eyes widened, “Sire,” he said, trying to bow, regain his balance and wake up all at the same time.
“Out,” repeated the king more calmly, “I am speaking to my daughter.”
Fulk stood and said wretchedly, “Sire she was given a sleeping draught before I could relay your message-”
“Why?”
“Cracked ribs, sire.”
“Impossible,” said the king adamantly, “Impossible.”
“The healer said-”
“Then they were wrong!” he insisted, his tone indicating he would not be convinced otherwise.
“Sire?” inquired a third voice, Trempwick’s. The noise had attracted him, just as Fulk must have planned. The spymaster stepped into the room, Eleanor noticed he was slightly dishevelled and out of breath as if he had dropped whatever he was doing and come running the moment the uproar started. “Is something wrong, sire?”
“This man is telling me the brat has cracked ribs; that is quite impossible. Cracked ribs are excessive; I am never excessive.”
Trempwick shrugged his shoulders carelessly, “What does it matter? She is alive and there is no permanent damage; I really do not see how any could accuse you of exceeding the bounds of good taste. Now, there are a few matters I wished to discuss with you, if you have a moment?”
William looked towards Eleanor; she managed to shut her eyes just in time, she could tell he hadn’t noticed she was awake by the lack of commotion. The king looked to Trempwick, then back at Eleanor and sighed, “Time, as ever bloody time. So be it, lead on Raoul.”
They left together, leaving Fulk and Eleanor alone in the sudden silence. Fulk’s eyebrows rose and fell, “Well, well, wasn’t that fun?” he said dryly after what he judged to be a safe amount of time had passed.
“I do believe you are quite insane,” Eleanor told him wonderingly.
“Like princess, like bodyguard, oh eternally fragrant blossom. You were going to say something rude; I know it.”
Eleanor thought for a moment, then spoke on a whim, “Do me a favour and kneel just there,” she indicated a spot on the floor right next to her with a twitch of a finger.
Fulk did as she asked, slowly and warily. He did not know what she had in mind but his reflecting on past mistakes had made him all the more determined not to repeat them.
Eleanor looked at him and pulled a slight face, “Um, I have no idea quite what I am supposed to do; I know I can do this but no one ever bothered to explain precisely how … um, oh well, I shall have to muddle along.” She reached out stiffly with her left arm, which was now patterned with freshly appearing contusions, and thumped Fulk on his right shoulder so lightly he barely felt it, “Be thou a knight.”
She watched as a collection of conflicting emotions flitted across Fulk’s face, many of them too fast for her to identify in the poor light. She saw his eyes shining with unshed tears, and blurted out, “I have done something wrong, haven’t I?”
“No,” he replied quickly, “I just … I finally have what I always wanted, eight years after I gave up hope.” He met her speculative gaze and after a moment said, “It’s a long story, one best left for another day. I wish my parents could see this, their boy knighted by a princess, but my father is dead and my mother would never want to see me again.”
Eight years too late, and those years had changed a lot. A man eight years in his tomb. A boy eight years dead too. A dream eight years in ashes. A future eight years deceased. Eight years of learning and growing. Eight years of living with his guilt. It was eight years too late to go back to Maude; she could be dead now, or a mother, or a widow. She would unquestionably be a different person to the girl he had known and loved, a complete stranger with perhaps no more than a slightly familiar face.
He was almost surprised to find that he didn’t wish this had happened eight years ago. If he were going to wish the past changed then he would do better to wish he had possessed a good deal less pride back then, rather than a knighthood which would only have boosted it. As much as he might desire to banish the consequences of his youthful arrogance he could no longer image the different present those changes would make. Those eight years had made him what he was today; all those years ago he would have dumped Eleanor for John in a heartbeat, without thinking twice about it.
Eight years … he would have saved the man’s life but the boy deserved to die. And the rest? The rest was what it was. He might bitterly regret what he had done to Maude, but if he were brutally honest the only reason he had been thinking about her so much recently was the fact he was using his experience there to avoid making the same mistake again. Eight years is plenty of time to forget, to let wounds heal until they are little more than a scar you only notice from time to time.
Eleanor drew breath to speak but Fulk forestalled her, “Another time,” he said softly but firmly. She said nothing but he could tell she still thought she had done something terrible. “I’m just trying not to disgrace myself and cry little a little girl,” he joked. Actually that was not solely a joke; big boys don’t cry and he was a big tough knight now. More seriously, and very honestly, he said, “I wanted to be a knight ever since I was a little boy; I gave up hope when my dream died, but … it seems this part never really died after all. It seems I still craved a knighthood to go with my bastard’s name.”
He stayed kneeling there in silence for some time. Finally he frowned and asked her, “Why do you always manage to say or do something that leaves me looking like an idiot while I frantically scramble for something to say or do in return?”
Eleanor smiled, “Because I would not want to make your life too easy, armour boy. I shall show mercy this once; I am tired, so do shut up so I can get some sleep.”
Fulk stood, brushed bits of rush off the knees of his hose and swept an elaborate bow. “I hear and obey, oh light of my life,” he said dramatically.
I have been putting a bit more thought into this description business, and I think both Ludens and Zelda are correct. In scenes such as the escape from John's castle more description is needed, especially if I am working to publishable standards. I think you've all heard me say several thousand times I am trying to do that. Description is also needed in large doses each time something new is introduced, such as the first time we are in Trempwick's room.
However in scenes like today's two, the more character introspecitive and dialogue heavy types it is not needed in such great quantities unless it serves the plot. The description of Eleanor's room is ok because it is needed to introduce points, otherwise it does not really belong in this segment. Adding loads of detail on how wonderful everywhere looks and so on would only slow down and disjoint the dialogue. The midwife description works nicely and adds flavour, but even a single more line on her was too much and it killed the flow.
Yep exactly what I meant.
Nice scene, one slight query. I thought that the touching on the shoulder thing with a sword was a victorian romantasism. I though the official act that made a man a knight was a slap round the face. To signify the last blow a knight would not return. Sorry just I heard that somewhere.
There is quite a lot of controversy over the actual knighting ceremony. By the time this story takes place it is generally accepted that there are two versions of the ceremony. One is the full, fancy version complete with the being dubbed with a sword. The Victorians spiced this up, but when someone important, such as a prince, was knighted off the battlefield there was often a huge fuss made with a lot of fancy rigmarole and pageantry. A poor chap like Fulk would simply be touched with a sword by some other knight, and that would be it. No fancy bit involving belting his sword on, no spurs being attached with pomp and ceremony, no parading about in armour, no reminder of how his sword resembles a cross and should serve the codes of chivalry.
The other is the quick and dirty 'battlefield' version, which simply involves punching the knight and telling him "be thou a knight." Heh, it's not that simple - the wording varies and I just settled on the most common version. Generally I hear about a punch to the shoulder, but I have heard some mention of a slap to the face. The principle is the same, anyway; the last blow the man can take without needing to return it for the sake of his honour.
Nell can't do ceremony so she just uses the quick and dirty version. She can't even muster enough gusto to bash him properly. Any errors are excusable by the fact she says she has no idea what she is doing :winkg:
Understand, just though of a funny alternate scene. Ells better and she and Fulk have finished one of their squabbles. Fulk has won again and in desperation Ell knees him in the unmentionables and says, 'Thou art a knight' as Fulk writhes in agony.
Sorry I have a weird mind. Plus I just finished the latest Terry Pratchet, Going Postal, great read lots of laughs I read it in one sitting.
Lol, with a few alterations I can see that scene working quite well. Got to find somewhere to put it in the story ...
Dear, dear. I forgot to comment on Axeknight's unicorn research, silly froggy. You got it; only the purest of maidens can tame a unicorn, though I can easily imagine Eleanor clubbing the beast over the head with a big stick until it plays nicely. I can think of ... oh, at least 6 different possible ways of how that could apply to the picture.
I am running out of original phrases to describe your story. I think I shall just use an image:
~:thumb:
There, that should do ~D .
Zelda, I am aware that Froggy's story is dialogue-driven. What I meant was that the addition of description would make the story better, especially in the scenes where there isn't much dialogue, like the one where they are escaping from John's castle.
Froggy, The description in the last part is very good, however in the dialogue between Trempwick and William it is somewhat lacking. Not that it was very obvious, but I think that it would be possible to combine description and dialogue when introducing a character (and I don't feel properly introduced to William). You can say a lot about a character between the lines. A common error of amateur writers is to try and give a complete description of a character in one 'introductory paragraph' (which you don't do, by the way). It is often better to slim down the introductory paragraph and spread the information over the dialogue. It doesn't interrupt the flow as long as you don't use it too often, and it allows you to tell more about your characters then when using the 'introductory paragraph'.
The next morning dawned grey and miserable with a wicked chill in the air. The sky promised that the freezing rain currently falling would last all day, probably growing worse. William stood in the doorway of the manor, pulling his fur lined cloak tightly about himself and looking glumly at the weather. He turned back to Trempwick and said, “You would think a king would be warm indoors on a day like this, and the peasants would be the only ones forced out. Instead we find the opposite; the king is abroad while the peasants huddle by their fires.”
“You could stay a while longer; freezing to death will do none any good, William.”
The king shook his head immediately, “No, I have business to attend to.” He began to walk but halted almost instantaneously. He stood there for a moment, then spoke without moving in the slightest, “I am considering letting Northumberland off; I shall strip him of everything and throw him in the tower to die of old age.”
In several brisk strides Trempwick was at his king’s side, demanding, “Why?”
“Because I have decided I cannot kill my son,” he replied quietly.
Trempwick made an impatient gesture, “He is gone, he will not be back. You are quite safe-”
William interrupted him, his tone still quiet but filled with steel, “There is always a small chance he will come home.” He sounded as if he hoped John would.
“There is a far greater chance you will be seen as soft! Northumberland must die. John is perfectly safe; you will never set eyes on him again. A rebellion now, while you have so many other fronts to fight on, would tear England apart!” When he could see he was getting through Trempwick reiterated slowly and insistently, “John is never coming home. Never.”
William didn’t move, didn’t give any sign he had even heard. Unexpectedly his head bowed, “You are right; he is lost to me. Now, I must go. I have a trial to organise, and a wedding to arrange.” He strode through the door, bracing himself and squinting as the wind blew freezing rain into his face.
Trempwick hurried after him, head down against the weather, “Wedding? Sire, you did not say-”
The king laughed and paused in the middle of the puddle strewn courtyard, “So, I have surprised you at last, Raoul. Yes, a wedding. I got the Scots king’s reply but yesterday after some weeks of talks. If you did not hear then it appears our measures to ensure secrecy worked admirably; France will not know until it is too late to interfere. I need a solid alliance with Scotland to keep my back safe while I turn my attention to France. This is the only way.”
The rain was beginning to soak through the layers of Trempwick’s clothing, sticking them to his skin and making the cruel wind even harsher. He paid it no heed, his mind occupied with this new revelation. “But who … ?”
Edward, Trempwick’s steward, led the king’s horse out, fully saddled and ready to ride. The king let his spymaster hang in suspense for a while, then told him, “Me.” William began to mount his horse; the animal danced restlessly, unhappy to have left its warm stable. He kept talking, “The king has a daughter, just barely thirteen now, she was inconveniently betrothed to some local duke. That arrangement was easily broken; who would favour a duke above a king? I like it not, but I need a solid alliance and so I need the girl.”
Trempwick put on hand on the horse’s neck, “William, sire, think of the effects this might have-” he said urgently.
“It will allow me to focus my resources and attention on France, and alliance by marriage is far harder to break. If the Scots king plays me false he has squandered his daughter to no advantage, losing her to the care of a man who will have a sudden passion for blotting his petty kingdom from the face of God’s green earth.”
“Your succession, think of what this will do to it,” implored Trempwick, “If you should have another child-”
“You worry about your spymastering; leave me to worry about my succession,” said William curtly as he touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks.
Trempwick stepped back out of the horse’s path. He stood for a while, watching the retreating horseman until he was blocked from sight by some trees. “Thirteen,” he said to himself, deep in thought, “Just barely thirteen …just barely …” He began to walk back to the shelter of the manor building, slowly and without heed for the puddles he was sloshing through.
The rest of the day was dull and uneventful. Trempwick shut himself away in his bedchamber, only emerging twice, both times to visit Eleanor.
Eleanor was asleep during his visits, as she was for much of the day. She did not have much else to do; she was too stiff to even think about getting up, and her single attempt led to the room swimming about her until she thought she would be sick.
Fulk set a new record, reading his King Arthur from start to finish three times in a row, boring himself in the process. He also ‘borrowed’ a chair from the solar without asking; sitting on a chest for extended periods was uncomfortable.
The day after that Eleanor was determined to get up, and after a bit of careful planning she managed to dispatch Fulk to get a tray of food in the middle of the morning. That took a lot of doing because Fulk knew she couldn’t so much as stick a foot out of bed while he was in the room because she was naked, so he had been an almost permanent presence.
With him safely removed she dragged herself out of bed and barred the door so she could get dressed. It took an inordinate amount of time to force her stiff, aching body to cooperate but eventually she managed to get all of her clothes on, though not without cracking open scabs and straining protesting muscles. Most of her dressing was accompanied by a nice commentary by Fulk from outside her door on how he was going to make her regret this later.
She opened the door just as Fulk was saying, “And next time I’ll tie you to the damned bed!”
“You are all talk,” she informed him tartly. She looked at the tray he was still holding between them; it contained a mug of small beer, a chunk of yesterday’s bread, several smallish bits of hard cheese and lump of cold bacon, accompanied by an eating knife. Evidently it was still too early for warm, freshly cooked food. She pinched a bit of cheese and bit it in two with a trace of a grin.
Fulk glared at her, “All talk? We’ll see about that soon enough, oh devious minded one.”
“If you say so.” She stood to one side to let him enter, but not before she grabbed another bit of cheese.
He placed the tray down on her bed, then went to the fireplace and poked the small fire vigorously, adding a few more logs. When he turned back he was just in time to watch the last of the cheese vanish with a contented sigh. Eleanor picked up the knife and moved to cut the bread; she paused thoughtfully and tapped the tip of the knife against the stale crust a few times. She aimed a nice smile at Fulk, “I suppose sending you to get more cheese is out of the question? I cannot go myself; more’s the pity. I doubt I would make it halfway to the kitchen.”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight, so you can stop looking at me like that.”
“I promise I will behave, please?”
“No, oh silver tongued lady of deception.”
Eleanor stabbed her knife right through the chunk of bread, “Typical; we actually have some real, actual, proper hard cheese in the manor and the broken nosed lump refuses to get me any. Have you any idea how rare it is to have cheddar in this place?” she demanded, “It is exceptionally rare; Trempwick normally avoids it because it is so much more expensive than the goopy spreadable stuff.”
“So? It’ll be there when you’re better.”
“But people will have eaten some of it by then!” exclaimed Eleanor.
“So? It’s a big piece.”
Her eyes lit up, “Big? How big?” Fulk held up his hands, measuring out a space roughly the size of a cannon ball. Eleanor fairly wailed with frustration, “All that cheese, out of my reach and vulnerable to other people’s intentions!”
Fulk laughed, “You’re really bothered about that cheese, aren’t you?”
“I love cheddar,” she told him, a dreamy expression on her face, “I hate the goopy cheese, but hard cheese …”
“Oh, all right, I’ll go get some more,” he held up a warning finger, “but if I find this is a trick, ruse or excuse of some kind-”
“Yes, yes,” said Eleanor impatiently, “Now, the cheese? Bring back the whole piece, all of it. If I find you missed part of it, so much as a crumb, you will not be a happy knight. And do hurry up.”
About twenty minutes later Trempwick paid her a visit. He took in the depleted chunk of cheese on the tray, the small pile of bite sized pieced of cheese within reach of the princess, the cheese sandwich she was currently eating with gusto, and the trio of slices of bread with thin strips of cheese on them melting in front of the fire. “I see you found my cheese then,” he said dryly.
She swallowed hastily and said without a shred of contrition, “Sorry, master.”
“It has been a costly few days, first one set of brand new clothes ruined, then a midwife to pay, bloodstains to remove, and now my cheese is devoured in a heartbeat. I suppose I have you to thank for this, bodyguard?”
Fulk turned the bits of toasting bread and cheese around so the ends furthest away from the heat got chance to melt, “I didn’t know she was a cheese fiend when I brought the first bit up.”
Trempwick seated himself on the bed, on the other wise of the tray to Eleanor. He popped a bit of cheese in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I had been looking forward to this cheese for a long time; it does not disappoint, except perhaps in quantity. You have managed to eat an astonishing amount of it, darling Nell.”
“Sorry, master. I have not eaten in nearly two days.”
“You have always been the same – it is why I refuse to buy hard cheese.” Trempwick finished off another bit of cheese, “Still, I suppose I shall have to humour you this time, sweet Nell. I need you to rest and recover, and if I have to sacrifice my cheese to get that, then so be it.” He looked to Fulk, “Scat, bodyguard. Go take a break; I can sit with her for a while.”
Fulk delivered the bits of cheese on toast to Eleanor and exited the room. Ordinarily he would have argued but he had been swapping shifts with the spymaster yesterday without anything dire happening. Trempwick sat and watched in a kind of morbid fascination as the slices of toast vanished before the cheese had time to congeal.
Eleanor licked a trace of melted cheese off her thumb and took a deep breath, “I need your help,” she announced with quite a large dollop of apprehension. She had known she would have to ask Trempwick for aid when she decided on a whim to knight Fulk; she had also known the spymaster was not likely to be pleased.
Trempwick’s eyebrows shot up, “Really, dear Nell? Ask away,” he looked ruefully at the chunk of cheese which was now half of its original size, “as long as it does not involve cheese.”
“I made Fulk a knight.” She waited for his reaction, wincing slightly.
“You knighted your pet?” repeated Trempwick slowly, “You knighted your pet? May I enquire as to why?”
She had prepared her excuse and felt confident he would accept it fairly well. “A princess should not be attended solely by a common man at arms, and he has proven useful. A reward will keep his loyalty, and encourage him to work harder in the hopes of gaining more.” That sounded much better than ‘I felt I owed him something and this is all I can ever give him.’
Trempwick sighed and ate some more of his cheese, “Nell, beloved Nell, if you wanted a pet knight you should have told me; I would have brought one home for you. I do hope, most sincerely hope, that this has nothing to do with that inappropriate, one sided spark of yours?”
“Of course not.” Why did Trempwick persist in assuming she was some misty eyed drip with a death wish? And anyway Fulk might care but that made her no better than some annoying little sister. One sided spark indeed.
“I do hope so; no matter what you do with the man he will remain completely unsuitable, and I would hate to watch you break your heart. So, what do you want me to do?”
“I can give him the accolade and tell him he is a knight, but … coming from just me it is worthless; I do not have the clout to make it stick and work.”
“Very well, I shall take care of it, just for you, sweetest Nell, out of the very goodness of my heart.” He picked up a cube of cheese and popped it in his mouth, “Now, dear Nell, would you like a game of chess to pass the time?”
No, actually she would not. Eleanor hated chess; she had never been much good at it. Trempwick always insisted she was too impatient and needed to think more than a couple of moves ahead, but she was not really interested in spending hours at a time on a single game. But, when the spymaster asked if she would like a game of chess what he invariably meant was that he wanted to play and so she would have to. “Yes, master. That is very thoughtful of you.”
“Good, I shall fetch the board.”
Ah, today you get to see a glimpse of the author in Eleanor. Cheese, mmmmm, must have cheese. :sigh: It has been over two weeks since I ran out of cheddar and there is still nearly a week to go until I can get more. I need cheddar!!
Ludens, it's all in finding the balance, I think. The John's castle scenes need much more description; the dialogue scenes have demonstrated their best balance, IMO, in the part which is in post 136. Today's scene with the king in the rain is also noteworthy in my eyes, but that is because it captures the same feel as post 136.
Why no cheese, just pop the supermarket and pick up some cathedral city extra mature. I do have to say I am a bit of a cheese freak.
Hehe, froggy is a cheese snob, which is one level above cheese freak. Cathedral city and any other mass produced cheese is at worst garbage and at best what I call munition cheese. If you know what munition armour is then you will know immediately what my opinion is. For those of you who don't read books on armour on a regular basis munition quality is something mass produced with no real skill or finesse to be used by the vast majority of troops because it is cheap and reasonably effective. It usually tries to copy the better equipment, but never makes it to the same level. Munition cheese is acceptable for cooking, but eating it raw is a grave sin to froggy taste buds.
No, I like real cheese. I get this cheddar from my local monthly farmer's market. Made with unpasteurised milk, matured for something like 12 months and so strong it very literally makes your gums itch. This is seriously strong cheese, unlikely the watery muck you get at Sainsbury's. At the last market I got 6 big pieces; they were all gone within a week.
The only supermarket cheese I like for eating uncooked is Sainsbury's taste the difference French Roque... er, I can't remember how you spell it. A blue cheese made from unpasteurised ewe's milk, extra mature and quite strong.
Hello:
I'm still finding my way around this maze of forums (having only recent arrived) and I came across your story. Actually, I came across the expired Writing Contest (too bad, I had a clever idea for one of the pictures) and then I came across your story. I spent the last two and half hours reading the entire thread (comments and all).
Remarkable story, you know. You do your characters very well and some are simply unforgetable (like William - I kind of liked that guy). You certainly know enough about the time and setting to create believable detail. The plot keeps me reading (which doesn't always happen in todays literature -- most of what I read is, oh, a hundred years old or so).
May I offer one criticism: In your prolouge (and at times in the rest of the story) the children are not quite acting and speaking like, well, children. Even in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, did children know about things like treaties? I mean, I can wholehearted believe a king would try to protect his empire by sending his eleven year old daughter off to marry another potentates child just to create an alliance, and certainly she would be scared and reluctant to leave, but would anyone take the time to explain why she was getting married? Would she be waxing on about treaties and such? Sometimes the children speak like adults.
Otherwise, I enjoyed it. Or I wouldn't have spent an afternoon reading it when I have something really cool to read . . . you know, like Great Expectations. ~;)
The Shadow One
:duel:
Love bites -- bite it back.
You know what?
On second throught, ignore my criticism. He who shows up late for the wedding shouldn't complain about the food.
Poor manners on my part. Apologies.
The Shadow One
More new blood, hurrah! :gring:
Late guests are very welcome to complain about the food, in fact you could say that is prefered. Children are a menace of mine; I hate them in real life so I am quite clueless about they behave. They often seem to be too old because I try not to make them seem too young for their age. Heh, froggy was always an 'old' child and that doesn't help much. At least children grew up faster in medieval times; that does help a little. We shall see if my next attempt, the Scottish princess, is any better.
In the case you mentioned I assumed Matilda would have been told something like "This marriage is important to me; an alliance depends on it so DON'T MESS UP!!!"
I know what you mean on the cheese front Froggy. Only problem is there aren't any decent farmers markets nearby so I have to put up with the extra mature cheddar they sell at tescos.
Although take me to france and I'll come back with a lot of good French cheese. My special favourite is Mimolete. It's as hard as rock and if you let it melt on your tongue it feels like your in heaven and can literally faint in the perverse flavours.... sorry just need to finish of the last piece.
*Comes back in a minute nibbling on some cheese.*
Where was I Oh yes, wotcha shadow.
Milady Frog when you said you don't like children I had the image of a woman with the Geisha hat on in full plate armour with a big sword riding after lots of little children laughing manicaly.
Sorry sometimes my imagination gets away from me and with coursework exam practice and homework and the hagio thread I have no time to write anything.
Next morning Trempwick was nowhere to be seen. Fulk reported this to Eleanor when he dropped in to stash his pallet out of the corridor as usual. By now he had given up on trying to keep her in bed and out of mischief, deciding that keeping her in her room and out of mischief was a more suitable goal now.
Eleanor was not very surprised. “He sometimes vanishes for a day at a time; there is no pattern but he is often gone for several days a month. He always dresses as if he is travelling for a reasonable distance and takes a good horse; I suspect he goes to London. I would love to know what exactly he does,” she admitted, proving once again that she had boundless inquisitiveness. “He always says it is a spymaster’s holiday and a welcome break from having his nerves shredded by me.”
“Probably visiting a brothel,” said Fulk authoritively. Actually he was not at all that certain, but somehow the idea of the spymaster in a brothel amused him and it did seem likely enough. Since he was the king’s spymaster it would probably be a very high class establishment so he would have very little chance of catching the pox or being eaten alive by fleas. Pity.
“I never thought him the type for that kind of thing,” confessed Eleanor. She grinned suddenly and very mischievously, “Murdering people I can imagine, but women?” Fulk didn’t think the spymaster would be too gratified by the way Eleanor had dismissed his chances of having a love life.
The more he considered it the better his theory sounded; a spymaster would love gathering information and guilty secrets, and a brothel was a very traditional place to uncover such information. Trempwick probably recruited a lot of his low level, disposable agents from such places. A working holiday, paid for from the royal treasury, with none of the risk of entanglements or the need for a double life a longer term arrangement would require. “You’ll have to get close enough to see if you can smell perfume clinging to him when he gets back,” he suggested. Probably not; Trempwick was entirely too smart for that.
“Are you sure about this?” asked Eleanor doubtfully. She really did have a hard time picturing Trempwick having a … hobby.
“Unless he’s one of those natural monk types it’s a safe bet at least some of his trips end up with company.”
Eleanor spotted another thing that had never occurred to her; if Trempwick went off … on a holiday from time to time then Fulk probably would too. Now that was a bothersome thought, one which made her jealous when she had no right to be. She now acknowledged that one lesson she had received ages ago on being a proper noble lady actually did have some value after all. It was far better to ignore these things, unless you had the misfortune to be married to a man who had picked up a mistress or five, or had a manservant who was dragging your household’s name through the mire.
Her tutor had informed her that it was beneath her to concern herself with a common harlot who, he emphasised dramatically, could never pose her a threat. Yes, well who cared about that? The honest truth was the idea made her faintly nauseous; Trempwick had a whole new side she had never even suspected, and that did not bode well. What else had she missed? Underestimating Trempwick was always dangerous, even if this particular slippage had not proved so yet.
Fulk, well that was the odd thing. She had decided long ago that she absolutely no interest in that kind of thing, thank you. So why was she so jealous that someone else would get his attentions?
Enacting that society principle, and dodging away from a disquieting chain of thoughts, she changed the subject briskly. “Well, whatever he is doing he is gone, and while the spymaster’s away the princess will play,” said Eleanor with slightly forced levity. She sat up a bit straighter; her back twinged and she winced, “Or she would if she were able to. If only he would take his accursed servants and their spying eyes with him, and restore me to peak physical condition – we could continue our sword fighting lessons.”
Fulk said consolingly, “Never mind, we can play chess instead.”
“You like chess?” Fulk nodded. Eleanor’s shoulders drooped, “Oh drat.” She bit her lip, thinking. “Are you any good at it?”
“None so bad; every good squire learns to play and I improved my game a lot in France.”
“I see,” said Eleanor slowly. Indeed she did; if he was not very good she might be able to beat him. She had learned everything she knew about the game from Trempwick and he was reputedly one of the best players at court. It would be pleasant to win for once.
Fulk picked up his rook and moved it three squares forward, setting it down with a decisive click. “Check.” He leaned back in his chair with, Eleanor thought, a self-satisfied, smug smirk pasted all over his stupid face.
Eleanor glared at the board on the small table between them; he had done it again! Three games in a row, and all of them lost within twenty moves. “I thought you said you were not very good?” she said tetchily. She crossed her arms, ignoring the ever-present complaint for her battered body, and tried not to sulk. So much for her high hopes of winning her first chess game ever.
“You need to plan ahead more, act instead of react,” Fulk told her as he began to reset the pieces; ivory on one side of the rosewood board, ebony on the other, and all meticulously drawn up in neat ranks with the people facing their enemy.
Eleanor picked up her king and glowered at the intricately carved ivory man sat on his throne, “I think the problem with this game is that the fundamental principle disagrees with me; kings do not require saving and if they do they can damn well save themselves with no aid from me.”
Fulk grinned to himself, and tweaked the alignment of one of his pawns so he was looking straight ahead instead of slightly off to one side. “Perhaps you are just annoyed that there’s no princess piece?” he teased.
Eleanor set the king back down none too gently and announced to the world in general, “I hate chess.”
“Really?”
“Yes, otherwise I would not have said so, you cabbage witted sluggard!”
Fulk surveyed the sulking figure sat on her bed opposite him and tried not to laugh. “Alright, since you hate chess that much, and since I am a graceful victor, I shall let you off and tell you a story instead.”
Eleanor groaned, “Oh no!”
Fulk looked perplexed and asked with mock indignation, “What do you mean ‘oh no’? You love my stories.”
“I do?” she inquired dubiously. She looked across at him from underneath lowered eyelashes, presenting a perfect picture of endearing uncertainty, an act just as much as his ire.
“Yes,” Fulk informed her mock sternly. “Now, which one shall I tell you? How about Lionel the soft hearted dragon?”
“No!” Eleanor asked a question she had been wondering about for months, one which may touch on that elusive long story he had said he would tell her another time and prompt him into telling it, “You never did say how you broke your nose.”
He scratched the back of his neck and averted his eyes, “No, I doubt I did.”
“It almost sounds as if you are embarrassed,” she observed mildly. With keen interest she leaned forward slightly, one hand planted on the bed either side of her for balance, and began to put forth suggestions, “What did you do? Walk into a door? Pick a fight with someone and lose? Do rather badly in a training exercise and get your helmet nasal whacked into your nose? Do tell.”
Fulk looked at her half amused, half wounded, “None of those. What do you think I am? Some kind of clumsy oaf?”
“Yes!” she agreed cheerfully, “So, how did you do it?”
“You’ll laugh, I know you will.” He wasn’t really bothered about that, but anticipation did build suspense.
“I promise I will not laugh; princess’s honour.” Eleanor tried, and somehow failed, to look angelic, “Fair is fair, you have seen me at less than regal moments, such as this week.”
Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose and noisily blew out a puff of air, surrendering with fained poor grace. “Oh, all right, I can see I will get no peace until I humiliate myself. In my eleventh summer I skipped my lessons and went fishing with my friend, Waleran, or Wat as everyone called him for some strange reason. It was a nice day, sunny and all, and it seemed a waste to spend it tilting at the quintain and writing Latin.”
Eleanor found her interest diminishing rapidly, “Oh, you got caught, got in trouble and got a broken nose. Fifth rate jesters have stories more likely to raise a smile than that.”
“No, I didn’t get caught…well not exactly. We passed a pleasant few hours and snagged a couple of trout, and then my master of arms appeared with a face like a smacked bottom. As you might expect we took off-”
“But he managed to catch up with you, therefore the broken nose?” interrupted Eleanor. She pulled a face, “If that is supposed to be funny significant portions of my life have been a finely tuned comedy with plenty of sophisticated jokes.”
Fulk bared his teeth in a smile; he knew it was unlikely she would guess the real ending but it was pleasurable to watch her try. “Wrong, my blazing star. He was hot on our heels and almost able to grab us when Wat dropped his fish; the master of arms must have slipped on it-”
“So you escaped for a little while, but he would have found you eventually. You got your nose broken by a fish covered lug with a wooden sword, probably when you returned home,” decided Eleanor. Right or wrong interrupting his storytelling was half the fun and, by now, habitual. She sniffed, “Still not the least bit funny.”
“My nose was reshaped before I got home, so you’re still wrong. Also the master of arms filched the fish for himself, so he wasn’t quite that upset. I might have got a little bruised around the edges, but nothing too bad.” He thought it said a lot about her life that she believed someone would casually break a boy’s nose for something as minor as this.
“Diplomatic bribery? I should have tried that … but I have difficulty seeing Trempwick being open to offers of fish.” She frowned thoughtfully and began to wind a lock of her long hair around her right index finger, “I wonder what you bribe a spymaster with, or a king for that matter.”
“So there we were, running as fast as we could and faster still. I was still carrying my fish; I suppose I was too focused on flight to think about dropping it to speed my progress. We went tearing past the fields back to the village; a wonderful plan since it brought us back towards more people who were likely to be both searching and upset. I blame Wat for that idiotic stratagem; I was following him. By some bad luck we ran into the reeve blocking the narrow gap between the tavern and a nearby house we were aiming for. He saw my fish, which was no great feat since I was holding it by the tail and it was flapping about as I ran-”
“So the reeve got you for poaching?” guessed Eleanor. “Definitely not funny.”
“No, he tried to block our path but Wat was a skinny little runt and he slipped through the reeve’s legs. I was considerably taller, so I had to knock the reeve out of my path – it was too late to change direction and there were buildings all around.” He had to struggle to keep a straight face as he said, “I hit him with the only thing on hand-”
She was fast enough to twig before he spelt it out. “You smacked your father’s reeve with a fish?” said Eleanor with unabashed delight. She recognised a kindred spirit to a young princess in the young Fulk.
Fulk matched her impish smile with one of his own, “Hardly elegant but it worked. The slap of wet fish on face was somehow very rewarding, as were his disgusted wails about being covered in fish goo. By this time there was a bit of a fuss in the village with people crowding out to see, my mother included. Somehow Wat and I dodged the crowd and ignored the furious mother’s demands to ‘come here at once!’, and we headed to the forest-”
“And then you ran into a tree while checking over your shoulder for pursuit?” she suggested, not believing for an instant that he had. Running into a tree while looking backwards would not snap a nose.
“You really do think I am totally incapable, don’t you?” demanded Fulk. He stuck his nose in the air haughtily; “Actually Wat pushed a branch out of his way and then let it go when he was past; it shot back and hit me in the face, breaking my nose.” Eleanor began to laugh, but quickly stopped with a groan, clutching her ribs. Fulk practically glowed with mock fury, “You promised you wouldn’t laugh!”
“All that mystery and daring do ending up in a broken nose from a springy branch!”
“I bet you never did anything like that, since you’re so royal and dignified and all that,” said Fulk snootily. He knew she must have been just as bad, if not worse, and he was rather curious.
Eleanor smirked, “More than you might think.”
“Poor Wat, he was always dreadfully envious of my nose and it galled him no end that he’d been the one to create it.” He didn’t realise what he had just said until it was too late. The mirth faded from his eyes as Eleanor asked the obvious, predictable question.
“Why would he be envious?”
There was a very long pause; so long Eleanor assumed he was not going to answer. Finally, cursing himself roundly for mentioning Wat’s envy in the first place, Fulk answered brusquely, “Cicely.” He shattered the ensuing silence by asking defensively, and rather challengingly, “Not going to ask who Cicely is?”
“Not when I get the impression you will bite my head off if I do, no.”
There was another long pause, then Fulk said, “The thing about Cicely was her phenomenally bad taste, though I didn’t think so at the time.” He sounded quite angry.
“She chose Wat over you,” said Eleanor knowingly, rather intimidated by Fulk’s bad humour. Until now he had seemed as placid as a duck pond.
“No, she chose me,” he admitted, his voice tight with anger. He saw Eleanor was watching him nervously, almost as if she expected him to kick the table with the chess board over and start shouting. He admitted freely enough that based on most of her experience with people, especially men, that’s what she should expect, but it still rankled that she even considered he might be that boorish.
Fulk sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair and related his story curtly but fairly calmly, “I suppose she liked the handsome, skilled young warrior with a noble’s manners and skills, a father who was a lord, a knighthood burning brightly in his future and a potential arrangement to receive his father’s holdings after his death via being granted them as a new vassalship rather than an inheritance. It might not seem much to you but to us a minor lordship was truly something. Yes, well, I didn’t like her much but she was pretty and most of the other boys my age wanted her. Note I said boy, for all my loud protests otherwise that’s all I was. I took her interest as my due; it appealed to my ego to have what everyone else wanted.”
He winced ruefully, “Yes, I was an insufferable, arrogant git. I wish someone had been able to knock it out of me, or given me that knighthood I craved with the edge of the blade instead of the flat. It would have saved a lot of pain. So, that’s who Cicely was; my entertainment. Wat had fallen for her; I knew but didn’t really care. My mother didn’t approve, but again I cared not – I was using what she’d taught me in good faith to good effect.”
Eleanor had a hazy suspicion this was one of those Judith things. “Er …?”
“It wasn’t in my mother’s best interests to have children, me included, and it definitely wasn’t in my best interests to end up with any either. Poor Cicely, that’s about the best care I showed her. Well, she did have some good fortune in the end – I went off to France with my father when I was a few months shy of seventeen.” Fulk stared unseeingly ahead for a while, then he shook himself and he said firmly, “Now, chess.” He moved his king pawn two squares forward and set it down with a click that announced his story was finished and defied her to continue the conversation.
Her mind teeming with new information Eleanor blindly moved one of her centre pawns without thought. An supercilious git certainly, but not so now. What had happened?
Heh, this episode reminds me of an alternate, joky name I thought of for this story: sex and the single goosebery. A rather catchy name with a certain I don't know what, but totally misleading.
I'm not quite that bad with children, zelda. I just think children should be banned under the exotic pet/dangerous weapon laws. They certainly should not be allowed to exist within a 20 mile radius of me, regardless of where I am. I'm tolerant like that :winkg:
Lady Frog:
Another nice installment. Some of your dialog is quite funny (eh, hope it was intentional).
Your comments about children could spark an hour long conversation, so I'll limit myself to just a thought about cheese . . . and children. First, I don't every see myself putting anything in my mouth so strong that it would make my gums itch. (Although, I do recall ingesting some things which removed all feeling in my tongue and several other important parts of my body). But, since you do seem to enjoy such gastronomical delicacies, and if the cheese smells as strong as my mind imagines (or, for that matter, if its scent is even remotely as strong as its taste), I think we can safetly strike the idea of children from your immediate future.
Look forward to returning next week and reading more.
Sianara (or however it's spelled).
The Shadow One
:duel:
~:joker: Actually the cheese doesn't smell much at all. Poacher's cheese, as this one is called, has no more odour than a lump of bog standard supermarket cheese. Bah, I need cheese! Gah! I just played a whole half hour of RTW for the first time in a week, destroyed a massive, high tech Macadonian army with my smaller, inferior Roman force and captured another city and I can't celebrate with a bit of cheese!
Yes, some of the dialogue, and non-dialgoue too, is intended to be funny. It comes naturally to me; I couldn't keep it entirely serious if I tried. Well, ok some scenes do manage to remain entirely serious but not many.
“Check,” said Fulk for the fifteenth time that day. Fifteen games, and Eleanor had lost each and every one of them. Fulk didn’t even wait for her to concede her defeat before he started resetting the pieces. Though he kept his head ducked down as if intent on his task Eleanor could see the way the corners of his mouth lifted fractionally; he was enjoying this. She wasn’t. Time to try a different angle, one which promised not just a chance at victory, but also some fun.
They played through the opening; as usual Fulk had the centre guarded and his ranking pieces developed to a far greater degree than she did. When he finally brought his queen out Eleanor began to search the board attentively. After a few minutes she sat back and asked, “Can you get me a drink, please?”
“Small beer or something stronger to drown your sorrows?”
“I am not sorrowing because I lost fifteen games of chess to you; I do not care in the least,” she insisted serenely. She wasn’t; if she was sorrowful for any reason it was being cooped up inside and forced to do nothing much in the name of healing.
Guessing what she was thinking Fulk gave her an easy opening to a prolonged argument. He had got fed up hours ago of countering her many requests to do something more active. “It’s a good thing we’re not playing for forfeits; I hate to think what I could have wrung out of you by now.”
Much to his surprise Eleanor didn’t reply. She pretended to be completely absorbed in studying the board, hoping to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Mildly puzzled, and ever so slightly suspicious, that she didn’t take his bait Fulk ambled off to fetch a couple of drinks. As soon as he was safely gone Eleanor picked up her left most knight and moved it one square to the right. She then sat and waited for Fulk’s return.
He came back several minutes later, handed her a mug and sat down. “Moved yet?”
“Not yet,” she said, frowning at the board. She waited about half a minute before taking Fulk’s queen with her relocated knight. She waited several tense seconds but Fulk made no comment. The game continued apace.
Less than ten minutes later Fulk said idly, “Check.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightened, “I hatechess!” she declared with strong sentiment.
Fulk laughed and began reset the pieces once more. “You might do better if you didn’t cheat, oh sly one. Learn to play properly, and learn to plan ahead.”
Eleanor growled, “It is the only way to make this tedious game even fractionally appealing.”
“I’m sure you can do some embroidery if you prefer,” suggested Fulk mildly, still working on the pieces.
Eleanor heaved a sorrowful sigh and propped her chin on the palm of one hand. “Abusing hurt, vulnerable princesses is despicable, you do know that?”
“I know it is,” said Fulk with exaggerated gravity, clasping his hands in his lap and looking right at her. “But I can’t see any vulnerable princesses to abuse.”
Eleanor stared at him, trying to decide how he meant that. She thought it unlikely that he was digging at her assassin’s skills, but that was based on the rather tentative assumption he was too decent for such a cheap shot. In the end she fell back on an all purpose insult, “Did anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?”
“Loads of times, but it was you each and every one of them.”
“I am nothing if not consistent.”
“Let’s see if you remain consistent to your losing streak,” he gesticulated at the board, “Your move, oh irritated one.”
Since throwing her king pawn at Fulk would count as an illegal move Eleanor moved it two squares forward instead.
Sorry for the large delay and tiny, rough chapter. I have been flinging most of my effort into my beginner's guide for RTW with the aim of getting as much information gathered into one location as soon as possible. I won't bore you further with guide talk.