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Aye, I came in to the mead hall, and checked out your story, aye, I haven't read the whole lot(not yet) but from what Ihave read, I am deeply impressed. I feel lucky to the fact we get to see the book before it goes on the Book Store Shelves. Have you ever thought of Publishing this book? it would be a great to see this book published and all the other people in the world able to see this book.
Well I think that more people of the world can read this story if it stays right here. I still would love to buy a book and would probably send a dozen as gifts.
A book? You mean paper? A real book? With illustrations?
:jumping:
Can't wait for mine, signed by the author I must insist.
Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Good luck, Warluster! I am the same somewhere in the middle of the story. Even worse since I promised to read this story until the end of the summer :wall: . Hope not get stabbed because of this( place for a little joke: the guards of the boyar Stephen Asen are on high alert to prevent an attempt of assassination by angry goosberry). But this is a good story really.Quote:
Originally Posted by Warluster
Still waiting for the new PC; there was a delay in getting the RAM I wanted ~:(
Since I can’t write properly I laboriously put this little story together; my shoulders and fingers ache to prove my labours hard-going. With a lot of work I’ve managed to iron out the worst of the craptop induced typos and get it spaced out to be readable on the forums. It’s taken me … oh, four or five times as long as it usually does to write this much; most of a week. It’s quite rough quality too.
I’ve never been a short story frog; of the many I have read, very few I enjoyed. I’ve never been successful at writing them either, or had much interest in trying. There simply isn’t space to do most of the things I like, such as developing complex, evolving characters. Not having access to my Eleanor manuscript (copies are safe on my desktop’s two hard drives, so don’t panic!), and not wanting to try and tackle a series of more difficult scenes with this God-awful keyboard, but needing to write, a short story was my only choice. Choosing this particular snippet of the greater story seemed … right. It is quite timely.
This is Fulk, eight years old.
The Noble Page
His father’s new page. Fulk leaned out of the window for a better view at the figure on the ground part hidden by the horses. Henry de Rouen. The new page. Fulk pushed away from the window and headed for the stairs down, whistling at Will to get the other boy to fall into place at his heels.
The new page. A noble. And for all the world he stood there like a lost sheep, watching all about him with quick eyes like he was scared. Fulk deftly threaded his way through the flurry of men and horses.
“You’re Henry de Rouen,” he said, stopping before the newcomer and tucking his thumbs in his belt, chin raised and muscles arrogantly loose in a pose one of his father’s household knights had been fond of until an arrow had gone in his eye and through into his brains and killed him.
Grey eyes looked him up and down from a face which gave nothing away. “I am. And you are?”
“I’m Fulk. I’m the lord’s son.” He waited. Muscles tensed; he hated himself for that. He shouldn’t care what this new boy thought. And anyway, he hadn’t outright said what he was, and nor had he lied, so he’d nothing to be ashamed of and this Henry couldn’t pick at him either.
Across the bailey hailed a voice, “There you are!” Old Edwin. Not that boys ever called him that to his face, but there was no denying it – he was old. His hair was a shock of iron-grey, and he was made out of tanned leather and he’d got more scars and lines than any living man in the whole world. Nothing could kill him, it was whispered amongst Walton’s children. He’d come through fight after fight and here he was, master at arms for the lord. He’d once had his head cut off but he’d just picked it right back up and stuck it on his bleeding neck and healed like it was nothing. Will said he’d seen the scar running all about his neck once, but Fulk didn’t believe him. Will was a stupid liar.
And that was that, no further chance to talk. Old Edwin had the older boy firmly tucked under his wing and was leading him away, asking about baggage and stuff. All Fulk could do was trail after, Will lagging at his own heels, all but ignored. So he didn’t. He left; took Will and went to practice sword and shield work.
“He’s so stuck up.”
“He thinks he knows more than we do just because he’s a few months older.”
“But he doesn’t.”
Wat cuffed his nose. “Alright! Alright! I wish I hadn’t asked. So the new boy’s a pain, I get it.”
Fulk flopped back to lie on the grass, arms providing a pillow for his head. “I bet he can’t fight worth a damn. I bet he’s soft.”
“Yes,” agreed Will. “He’s too interested in dancing, if you get my meaning.”
Fulk nodded sagely, pretending he did. Wat nodded too; Fulk bet he didn’t get it really, and that Will didn’t know what he’d said. They didn’t hardly ever manage to understand any proper men’s talk; they were just boys. “He puts on all those airs and sticks his nose in the air and acts like he’s fully twice his age, but I bet he couldn’t get anything else up.” He knew what that one meant, having heard an arguing woman toss it at her husband with a eye-popping amount of explanation. They knew too – he’d explained it to them ages and ages ago, and they’d all laughed.
Will made a disgusted noise. “And they all make such a fuss over him.”
“Such well-formed letters.” Fulk’s mimicry of the priest who taught letters to the chosen few had his audience laughing. Not himself, no, not a glimmer of mirth there. He plucked a blade of grass and nibbled at the end of it. “I’m better – my hand’s neater. I saw his stuff and it wasn’t that special at all. They only make such a fuss because he’s a noble. Must be. I don’t see why they would otherwise.” He’d been shoved to one side, because he was just a bastard.
An unexpected forth voice answered from behind them all. “It’s called making a newcomer feel welcome, which in turn’s called manners. Something none of you have.”
Fulk scrambled to his feet and turned to face Henry, fists clenched and ready to fly in defence if need be. “You sneaking spy!”
The older boy held himself curiously erect, like some sort of statue. And he was doing it again, looking at Fulk like he was some sort of inferior. “You were loud enough for any to hear.”
Will and Wat closed up behind Fulk like a little shieldwall. He return Henry look for look, disdain for disdain, trying to imagine the other boy was a lump of turd on the ground and that he was a knight. “We were talking privately. You were eavesdropping, you sneak.”
Henry shifted his stance a little, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet to be better balanced. “Lord William’s so nice I bet this is your peasant blood speaking. I hear that always runs true.”
“That is not true!” shouted Fulk. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white. And he knew he’d done it again. He’d given away his weak point to yet another sneering noble git. “I am not a peasant.”
Flicking a careless hand at Fulk’s companions, the new page said, “Look at the company you keep. A farmer’s brat and some man at arms’ whelp training to be yet another common sword waver. I wondered right from the start, I’d never heard that Lord William had a son. So I asked about you.”
“I am my father’s son, and his only son-”
“And a pity it is. He’s got no heir.”
Fulk jabbed his thumb into his breastbone. “I’ll be his heir. I’m the only son he’ll ever need.” The words slipped away before he could think; he wasn’t supposed to know about that. He’d overheard his parents talking.
“You’ll be mucking out horses and running errands when he’s dead, bastard boy. You can’t be his heir. Only trueborns can inherit. It’s the law, bastard. You’ll be a servant, bastard.”
“Call me that one more time-”
“Bastard.”
Fulk hurled himself forward, right fist fainting high while his left came around and connected solidly with Henry’s stomach as the other boy tried to dodge. His fist smashed his foe’s lips as he began to recover, paired with another blow to the stomach. Henry went down. Fulk booted him in the ribs, once, twice. “Where’s your stupid words now?”
Rolling in an effort to get away, Henry spat blood. “Bastard.”
It was easy to wrap his hands around the other boy’s neck as he flailed vulnerable, easier to tighten his grip until those stupid grey eyes began to bulge and his stupid face went red. “I will be a knight, and I will be a better bloody knight than you and all your sort. I’ll be the best knight that ever was and that there ever will be!”
Hands dragged at his shoulders. “You’re killing him!” screamed Wat. “Will – help!”
Will began to prise at Fulk’s grip, and between them the two managed to haul Fulk away though he struggled and kicked.
Fulk stood panting for breath, his friends keeping their hold on his arms, loosening it after he stayed quiet for a time. Henry was clutching at his throat, also gasping. Fulk was mesmerised by his neck; the marks of his own fingers stood out in a necklace of blooming bruises. The invulnerability of rage ebbed, and what he’d done dawned on him. Shrugging his friend’s holds off, Fulk turned and fled, away from the clearing, away from the village, away from everyone.
Fulk returned home when the sky was beginning to redden, after wandering about aimlessly, sick to his heart. He’d nearly killed someone. He’d let his stupid feelings get the better of him again.
He could guess what to expect – Henry would have blabbed everything. Sure enough, his mother looked up and immediately told him, “Your father has been looking for you.”
Knights didn’t drag their heels or mope when the time came to die in glorious battle. “I’ll go up to the manor.”
“Not before I tend to your hand.”
Fulk looked down at the ragged clots on his knuckles. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It will if it becomes infected.”
Knowing better than to argue Fulk let her clean the splits in his skin, smooth a salve into his raw flesh, and wrap a bandage about his knuckles to keep all clean.
As she worked in silence Fulk wondered, could Henry have been right? He knew he had inherited his mother’s rich brown hair and eyes, and a certain part of her slender grace. Yet the rest of him promised to follow in his father’s mould. If looks split up like that then why couldn’t the rest of him too? Why couldn’t he have part of his father’s noble blood?
As she tied the bandage off neatly, his mother said in a low voice, “If you continue to fight one day you will lose. On that day I will have nothing left to me.”
Fulk bowed his head. Having come close to killing someone today his own death no longer seemed such an alien concept.
“Are you so ashamed to be my son?”
“No! That’s why I fight – because I hate them insulting us.”
“You will succeed only in driving the comments to where you can’t hear them. You won’t stop them. Not that way.”
In his heart of hearts Fulk knew she was right. As soon as he revealed his weakness people seized on it, bad people anyway. Many others didn’t care. Some few held a little awe for him, because of his father being the lord; Wat was one such, his younger cousin Cicely another. “Then how?”
“School yourself to outward indifference. Make it so such comments have no hold on you. Those who would hurt you seek a reaction; give them none and they’ll tire of it.” Standing, she gave him a little push towards the door. “Now, go. Before he comes back here stamping and muttering and exclaiming over what a wolf cub he’s sired.”
Fulk grinned; wolf cub was more than half complimentary, and they both knew it.
“Henry insisted he fell down some stairs.” Fulk’s father glared down at his son. “You, however, will tell me the truth.”
Fulk twiddled his thumbs behind his back. “He insulted me. A lot. About being a bastard.” So Henry hadn’t gone crying for vengeance. Fulk felt a bit bad about thinking he would.
“So you strangled him.”
“We fought. I won.”
“Ignobly.”
“I’m not noble,” Fulk said defiantly.
Fulk’s father raised his eyebrows. “Boy, there are two kinds of noble, for all that it’s meant to be one and the same and bred in blood and bone. Noble of birth, and noble of deed. While you aren’t the first you damned well can be the second.”
Fulk looked up to meet his father’s eyes in anguish. “He said I’d be nothing but a servant when you died. It’s true. I’ll have nothing, and nowhere to go.”
“Every man is a servant, even the king.”
“Not an honourable servant like a liegeman, a menial. A stable-sweeper or something.”
“No son of mine will sweep stables.” William laid a big hand on his son’s head. “Mind your lessons and learn well, and I’ll see you are made a knight. A place will be found for you; I’ll see to that. With the talent you’re hinting at many lords would be glad to give you hearth space.”
“And I’ll have to watch as Walton is handed on to another.”
One corner of William’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I do not intend to die for a great many years yet.”
Fulk couldn’t see it happening either. His father was tall and strong, and he did well in feats of arms, and he knew so much there must be no limits to his knowledge, and he was stern to his peasants and foes, and so kind when he was with his little family. He was the most marvellous man in the world. How could such a man die?
The smile was smoothed away into what Fulk called the lord’s face, the stern look which it had borne when he first entered the room. “Well, my little wolf cub, now I’ve two pages it seems I’ve twice the trouble. One lies and tells me nothing, which is noble in its way but a habit he must break when I ask for information. And as for the other, as my son you’ve responsibilities to my guests, and to my followers. Including pages you take a dislike to. Responsibilities such as not trying to strangle them, and not bursting into jealous fits which provoke answering insults.”
Fulk winced. How did his father always know everything!?
When he saw Henry was soaking in the stream Fulk almost turned around and went to find another spot where he could lick his wounds in peace. Too late – the other boy spotted him, and to leave now would look like cowardice. Fulk stiffened his back and walked on.
Something had to be said. Fulk felt like a right fool as he stripped his clothes off in silence with the other boy watching. “You were brave. There were three of us.”
Henry tried to smile through his torn lips. “I didn’t think they’d do anything but watch. You, on the other hand, I didn’t reckon to be three in one.”
“I had a lot of practice.” Fulk dropped his shirt onto the pile of clothes and waded into the water. The icy chill had an immediate effect on the stinging welts on his back.
“I hate fighting. I want to travel. I want to see the whole of Christendom. But I’m the first son, so I’ve got to be a knight.”
Fulk offered his own dream by way of trade. “I want to be a great knight. I’ll have a wolf as my emblem and everyone will have heard of me.” On his walk out to the stream he’d been thinking over and over it all, thinking over everything. Decisively he added, “A noble knight.”
The mockery he expected didn’t come. “Before you can be a noble knight you’ve got to be a noble squire.”
“And a noble page, too,” Fulk acknowledged.
Henry sat down on the streambed so the cool water flowed over his own set of stripes. “You’re not born to it.”
Fulk’s right fist clenched, pulling at the scabs. He took a deep breath and willed his flush of anger away. It was so hard to do.
Henry seemed to watch his inner struggle; once it was won he said, “But many who are never manage it, not really. Not in more than name. So maybe you might become properly noble in deed, and then people won’t take so much notice of the rest.”
“And maybe you might manage it in more than blood also, if you didn’t bait others.”
“I might.” Henry threw Fulk a silly little salute. “So, you have a tongue that shows promise as well as teeth and claws.”
Fulk shrugged, affecting to be uncaring when the comment pleased him absurdly. “Oh, it’s nothing I try for. Must be natural talent.”
I’m not much cop at titles, but I rather like this one. At first the noble page appears to be Henry, but at the end it’s clear it’s Fulk. Or so I hope …
Going to go now. My shoulders ache something fierce; I can’t stand to type any more.
Thank you for the read. Best of luck with the new computer!
Yes more late nights reading.
:bow:
Nice job. I liked the opening better than the ending. The latter struck me as being somewhat rushed, although I can't really say why. It seemed to lack the froggy-touch ~:) .
Quick update: still waiting for the PC. Long story; to save copying information check this topic. Rest assured I am going forth to kick Aria in the nuts until they give me my PC! Never, ever buy anything from them. This may be down to their tech problems, but still it sucks completely and their response/customer service has left much to be desired.
Am working on another short story for the meantime. It's slow, painful; progress. This laptop is so bad for writing on. It hurts my eyes. It hurts my fingers. It hurts my shoulders. Ten minutes leaves me feeling like I've spent the night sleeping while twisted into some insane position. On the floor. In a draught. With someone perodically kicking me.
Don't worry lady frog, your loyal fanbase is willing to wait.
:yes:Quote:
Originally Posted by Peasant Phill
The first half of that other short story; I scraped the version I was working on on the laptop and started afresh, with much better results, I feel. This one is a young Nell, simply because I have missed writing Nell/Trempwick interaction. The other half will follow soon, tomorrow evening or Monday.
Two immovable objects
Part 1
I stared and I stared, my chin propped on my hands and my legs swinging, swinging but not enough I could be accused of fidgeting. Boring! I already knew the answer – I’d figured that out ages ago. If I said so then Trempwick would just shift the pieces about and set another. So I didn’t say a word. Where’s the point? More boredom, and maybe a puzzle I can’t solve. At least this way I got to think.
Yawn. I didn’t dare really yawn, but Trempwick couldn’t tell I was thinking it. Boring, boring, boring!
I must have given my lack of attention away somehow. Trempwick looked up from the book he was reading. “Have you found the answer, dearest Nell?”
“No, master,” I mumbled, like a good meek princess who absolutely isn’t lying at all.
He turned a page in his book and shifted his shoulders to remove the crick you get from sitting and reading for longer than is sensible. “A pity. I had expected you to see it much faster. No matter, there is no need for haste. Our meal will wait until you are done.”
The thing about this master of mine is that, unlike all my old tutors, he isn’t stupid. Nor does he assume I am. He’s got me by the neck! Either I sit here and starve – and I’m starving already, lunch was hours ago – or I spit out his answer and prove I lied. Either way he’ll say it’s beneficial for me. How did he grow up to be so cunning? Most people don’t. Most people don’t make everything into a way where they win no matter what.
I sat and pretended to think for some minutes longer, then I picked up the right-most pawn and dumped it back down one square further on. And with such moves mighty infantry regiments clashed with a battle of knights, and the nearby castle’s garrison felt threatened by siege. Or something. Chess is really so silly, and if you try to make sense of it like that it only gets dumber.
Trempwick gave me a rather acid smile. “Well done, sweet Nell. Not so hard, was it?”
“No, master.” How did he know that I knew the answer ages before this?
He went off to tell the servants to bring our meal – I hope! – and I didn’t move, I stayed sat at the chess board and tried not to look too bored in case he came back suddenly. Dogs and princesses needed to be trained to sit and wait without running amok and making a mess everywhere, he once told me. Where he got that comparison from I don’t know, it’s not like I try to eat his shoes or anything.
After a bit I picked up the book he’d left lying on his chair. Being ever so careful to keep his page with my finger, I glanced at the opening. It was in Latin, and a bit of a struggle to read, but I was making slow and steady progress when Trempwick came back.
“A life of your grandfather, my dear Nell. His deeds, his achievements, his family, the events of his reign.”
“Yes, master.” My grandfather had been a dreary man, it seemed. All peace and justice and donations to churches and stuff. Must have been a product of old age, because I heard loads of stories about how he fought the Duke of Brittany, and then the King of France, and the Scots, and the barbarous Welsh, and even sent some men over to Ireland to fight the wild men there. “Master?”
“Yes, Nell?”
“Why doesn’t the chronicler say anything about the wars?”
He scowled at me. “You speak like a peasant, Nell.”
That’s not true; I speak like a proper noble, in any of my languages. Trempwick says I have to speak like royalty before I can pretend to speak like anyone else, and that I have to be natural whether I’m speaking like myself or like someone else. I don’t see why. Surely as long as I sound right it doesn’t matter which I use when speaking with him? That’s not something to say to Trempwick though; he wouldn’t like it. “Sorry, master. Why does the chronicler not say anything of my grandsire’s wars?”
Trempwick began to pack away the chess board; I hurried to help him. That meant no more stupid puzzles today, hurray! As he set the white king back in his space in the carved rosewood box, Trempwick said, “How far did you read?”
“Not far, only the introduction, master.” It was a dull book about a dull man, and I was only looking at it because I had nothing else to do. Why would I read far?
“Then there is your answer, beloved Nell.”
“I do not understand, master.” I dropped a handful of pieces back into the box, biting the corner of my lip at the clatter they made and half expecting a rebuke for my clumsiness.
He looked at me sharply, staring, probing for I don’t know what. Then his face softened just a tiny bit, which is like saying the snow began to thaw because one tiny patch had gotten a bit soggy. “Sometimes I forget how young you are, dear Nell.” He plucked the new lot of pieces I’d picked up from my hand, none too gently. “Others it is entirely to evident. Exercise some care in future.”
I bowed my head and tried my best to appear contrite. “Sorry, master.”
He waved me away from the table, I guess to reinforce the fact I was no longer to be trusted. “Think, Nell. Why might the chronicler choose to emphasis such achievements, and what might it mean?”
“If I knew that I would not have asked, master.” Sometimes a little boldness got one far with Trempwick. Others it found you kneeling on a cold stone floor with your hands behind your head until your arms dropped off.
“I said think, not ask,” he snapped.
I tried not to cringe; that cold floor was beckoning. “Sorry, master.”
“You have a mind in that head of yours, and I am weary of seeing you let it go to waste, my dear Nell. Think. You have done more than sufficient idling for the day.” He shut the lid on his chess piece box with a slam; so much for taking care with it. “I cannot abide people who do not think. Worse than cattle.”
His tirade was interrupted by the servant bringing our food. I was glad; it is so rare for him to let his temper slip so. He kept his mouth shut until the man set down the tray and left. By the time he spoke again he’d regained control of himself. “It disappoints me to see you being less than you could be, dear Nell. You were wasted before I accepted you as my pupil, and I dislike the thought that I am failing to make you all you could be.”
I felt a bit sorry for him, to be honest. He was right, before he became my tutor I was stuck with fool after fool who insisted on trying to force me to fit their plan instead of adapting that plan to suit me. I spoke in Latin, to show his efforts hadn’t been entirely wasted. “I am still growing.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “I should hope so, beloved Nell. You aught gain a few more feet at least.” He held up a finger in that traditional pose used by every artist drawing lecturing people. “Now, think. Try to answer your own question.”
Think I did, and think some more. “Because,” I said slowly, uncertain if this was right or if it was plain foolish, “then last years of his rule were peaceful? So people forgot about the wars?”
To my relief Trempwick nodded. “That is a contribution. Furthermore, the author himself is predisposed to focus on peaceful achievements. Tell me why, and tell me in langue d’oil.”
I wasn’t very good with the courtly French used on the other side of the Narrow Sea; I’d only been learning it for a half-year. I fumbled to get the right words for the idea I had. “He was a … monk. Liked church building.”
“Yes, correct. So now you have your answer.”
I suppose I did: monks were tiresome and only wrote about the dull bits.
Trempwick seated himself at the table and began to serve out the food. Each trencher received several juicy slices of roasted pork and a splodge of stewed apples. Two bowls of herby pottage were already filled and ready to eat; he placed one beside each trencher, adding a fist-sized lump of crusty brown bread.
I stood waiting, my hands clasped at my back. To move in ahead of time might result in his remembering his displeasure with me and leaving me to starve. My empty stomach growled in anticipation.
Lastly he picked up a rectangular lump wrapped in cloth. I watched closely; if it was what I thought … It was: cheese, proper hard cheese, not the cheaper unset stuff we usually had. Divine!
Trempwick picked up a knife and began to cut the cheese; he bade me, “Sit down.”
Being wise in the ways of my master I sat and didn’t touch anything. In his vindictive moods he could pick out every least hint of my not doing exactly what he said and make my life a misery. Something about my needing to listen to what people say, not what I think they say. I don’t pretend it makes much sense.
He offered me a very large piece of cheese. That was my first indication something unpleasant was going to happen, something he regretted. “Your father is coming. He will be here tomorrow.”
The cheese dropped out of my hand, landing on the table with a soft thud. “Tomorrow!” The last time I had seen my illustrious parent he had been talking about how to get rid of me, cursing and raging. I’d only ended up with Trempwick because the spymaster had pleaded I could be put to use. If he hadn’t I’d probably be dead, such was my father’s love for me.
Trempwick rescued my cheese and placed it on my platter for me. “It has been nearly a year you have been with me. He wishes to see how you have progressed.”
“Why?” I burst out, unable to keep calm like Trempwick always wanted me to. “Why? He hates me! Why can’t he forget about me?” I’d have cried and I’d have curled up in Trempwick’s lap for comfort like some baby, if only I wasn’t six years old and long past being able to do that without shame.
“He will be proud. Only behave as I have taught you, and he will be very proud.”
“No he won’t.”
Trempwick pursed his lips. “Not if you speak like that.”
Now I was crying, whether I liked it or not. It wasn’t fair! He was coming and I was going to die and all Trempwick cared about was how I spoke.
Maybe he saw it too, because my master came and knelt at my side. He brushed my tears away with his thumb. “Nell, you must listen and try to obey. You must not let your fear rule you. No. You must remember all I have taught and keep to it no matter what. Then there will be nothing for him to dislike. He will be proud of you. He will not hurt you.”
He always did. Every time I saw him he ended up angry, and when he got angry I got hurt. “He hates me,” I said again.
“Oh Nell, he will not always. When he sees you as you are now, he must surely change his mind towards you. He was always angry because he thought he had done badly by you. He cannot think so now.” He smiled encouraging at me, and wiped my cheek again. “Your Latin is as good as prince John’s, and Adele has none. See? You are better than your siblings. He cannot feel he has done badly for you, not now.”
“Yes, master,” I muttered. I didn’t see how Latin would help at all.
“You can count to a thousand, and add, and subtract, and you begin to do multiplication and division. You read and write in Anglo-French, and begin to in English and Latin; you speak all three languages well, and make good advances with langue d’oil.”
And I could drop herbs into a bowl of food or a drink without it being noticed, and tie a knot for a noose which wouldn’t slip. I didn’t think he would want to hear about that.
“You are very well educated for your age.” He rocked back to sit on his heels. “Let it show. Keep your head, and that too will speak well of you to him. But if you let yourself slip, and start speaking poorly, or forget things, then he will become irritated, and from there it will be hard for you to recover.”
“I will try, master.” What else could I say? He was coming, and I had nowhere to run to. All I could do was wait, and I could wait snivelling or I could wait pretending I wasn’t scared. I’m not a coward. I reached out and took my hunk of bread, forcing a tiny mouthful of it down my dry throat. My appetite was complete gone. I took another little bite.
Trempwick shook his head. “Amazing. Beloved Nell, I think nothing could dent your appetite. You are always half-staved, whatever I feed you. I think you must be a bottomless pit!”
I swallowed before replying, “Sorry, master.” I reached for the cheese before he could change his mind and say it wasn’t necessary to offset the shock of his visit.
He sighed, and moved back to his own place at the table, muttering, “I am sure it will make you grow up big and strong …”
My Novatech desktop arrived on Tuesday, and I assembled it across three evenings. It’s now up and running, and a wee bit good. :D At long last I am back up and running! Wow is the best word to describe the performance increase. Just wow. And best of all it turns on if I hit the power button! :D
As it’s been more than five weeks since I last managed to do any real writing I’m badly out of practice. I intent to finish this short story, then perhaps do a couple more until I feel back up to scratch, at which point I shall resume the main story. I need to read through the more recent chapters to regain my feel for where I am and what is happening; without the focus of writing to pin me in one specific place I have been wandering all over the Eleanor timeline and world, as you can see from these two tales.
For anyone who is interested froggy’s beast happens to be:
A black Tunami Dream case
MSI 975X board
Intel 6600 dualcore processor running at 2.4ghz
2GB of matched pair Corsair DDR2 XMS2 RAM
BFG 8800 GTS 640MB
2 seagate 160GB hard drives (from my old machine)
Toshiba CD/DVD rewritable drive
No soundcard; the onboard sound is more than good enough for my desktop stereo speakers
It’s a machine built to last years before needing any work, and to handle the surprisingly demanding grunt work of flinging about my massive manuscripts with other programs in the background. The games I play tend to be quite demanding on processor and RAM, and then on video, e.g Medieval II: Total War.
What? A new computer and you are now doing Anime?
I won't even read this all the way through. Sorry.
What on earth do you intend that to mean? I find the way I'm understanding it to be quite insulting. You don't like the viewpoint shift so you call it a cartoon(?!) and label it as rubbish without reading it. Because apart from being in first person this is the same old same old I have been writing for years now. Same old same old gets boring; I want to flex my muscles a little as I get back in practice. I can't stray from this world until the main story is done, so altering it a little is the best I can manage.Quote:
Originally Posted by furball
There are a few thousand other ways to say that you don't like the short story, and why. Any of them would have been preferable. Such as "I really don't like stories in a first person viewpoint. I wish you hadn't used it."
I thought people might be interested in reading it, since it fleshes out a bit of background people have been asking me about since the older Nell made her first appearance in the proper story, is different, and is better than having nothing at all. Evidently not.
Whoops. My daughter came home in a huff last night and I thought I'd closed that page without it saving. I actually *liked* the story and the switch to 1st person. I was gonna expand the anime joke with reference to Nell being 6, but really, last night was such a horror story in itself that I've forgotten my train of thought.
Gonna edit that other post, as it's really nonsensical.
Edit: One of the things I was gonna mention last night is that it was neat to be reminded that Trempwick has known Nell since she was this young. It definitely adds a dimension to his attitude towards her.
Honestly, Miss Frog, I enjoyed the story and am very happy you are able to write (and post!) again.
(Final edit: My daughter phoned and the "crisis" is resolved . . . mostly.)
I’d been washed and scrubbed and washed and scrubbed again until I glowed that healthy pink which speaks of skin being chafed off. My best clothes had been fetched out, and Trempwick himself had wielded comb and a spot of water to tame my hair into a braid which wouldn’t fluff up like an angry cat’s tail. Maybe. If a kindly saint was watching.
Trempwick walked a slow circle about me to gauge the final effect. “You look positively angelic, my dear Nell.”
Angelic? I? “Yes, master.” It’s seldom possible to go wrong by agreeing with Trempwick; that I had learned in the first week.
“You do not believe me?” He picked up my mirror where it lay abandoned on my little dressing table, and held it out to me. “See for yourself.”
Left with no option but to obey, I took the mirror and looked. Through the layer of dust coating the highly polished silver I saw myself. I suppose I could have been said to be angelic at that particular moment, so neat and tidy was I, with my hair lustrous in the sunlight and my eyes made to seem bigger and bluer by my pale face. Angelic. That is, if angels had ugly pinkish scars on their faces. Trempwick said it would continue to fade with time, and that as I grew it would look smaller, until one day it would barely be noticeable. I handed the mirror back as quickly as I could. I don’t like to be reminded.
Trempwick held out his hand to me. “Ready?”
For what? He wasn’t here yet, praise be. Maybe he wasn’t really coming after all. I placed my hand in his, raised my chin. “Yes.” I’m a princess of the blood. It has … demands. Dignity, and all that. As if I’m ever allowed to forget – people have been whining and wailing about it to me all my life. The first thing anyone said to me on my arrival in this world was probably, “Stop crying, Eleanor. You’re a princess.” Seems like ample reason to scream myself hoarse, if you ask me.
Hand in hand we left my room and started down towards the stairs. Trempwick said, “All will be will, Nell. You will see.”
I have never known my master to lie to me. If he’s been wrong I don’t know of it. Over and over he’d told me all would be well. So I tried to have faith; I tried to believe it. And maybe, just maybe, I was beginning to.
He hadn’t forgotten. He did arrive, some time past midday. We’d been sitting in the main hall so we could go out and meet him at the first sound of his arrival.
He swept past me without a word. Barely a glance. Too busy exclaiming at how good it was to see Trempwick again to notice me. Well fine! I didn’t care about him either! I didn’t want to be noticed.
Not knowing what else to do, and not daring to skulk away, I tagged along at the men’s heels like some puppy, listening like a good spymaster’s apprentice.
My father was saying, “Having you mewed up here is a waste, Raoul.”
“To the contrary, I can work well from here. And where else might I train your daughter in peace?”
He grunted, displeased, probably because I’d been mentioned. “I say it again – it is a waste. You can do far more than school children.”
“Educating your daughter is a privilege, sire,” my master said lightly. My heart swelled. “I would not exchange it for another.”
“Many others could teach her her letters. None other could do your part for me.”
“A knight trains his own squire. A spymaster is no different.”
He grunted again.
My master continued undaunted, “Besides, it is my pleasure to teach her. She has a keen mind.”
“That is not what her other tutors told me.”
“With all due respect – which is none at all – to my predecessors in this role, they were incorrect.”
My father stopped so suddenly I nearly ran into the back of him; he turned and stared down at me. “Indeed? Then I look forward to witnessing this … transformation for myself.”
I felt myself shrinking into a tiny spec on the floor, and knew if I tried to speak my voice would come out as a mousy squeak. He made it sound like he was about to watch torture.
And as quickly as attention had shifted to me I was ignored again, and they were walking to the solar. My legs trembled as I followed; I hoped I didn’t fall flat on my face. That would put a nail in my coffin.
In the solar he took the best chair, Trempwick stood at his side. Me, I ended up stood in front of him like a petitioner at an audience. I put my hands by my sides and kept my back straight, for whatever good that may do. If nothing else I couldn’t be accused of slouching.
My father leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair and set his chin on his hand. “You have grown.”
Of course. I’m always growing. It’s what people my age do. “Yes, sir.” I was gratified to find my voice only squeaked a bit.
He made a show of astonishment, and said to Trempwick, “Ah! Manners! You have managed to instil manners in her.”
Shame no one had done the same for him.
Trempwick made no reply.
He stared at me. I fought the desire to shuffle my feet, or to look away. I gave him back look for look. My courage amazed me!
“But not so many manners.” Each word was pronounced like a rock dropped in a pond: sudden, deliberate, final. He snarled, “Do not stare at me, brat!”
I looked away. Like a coward or a sneak or a servant.
Trempwick frowned. “William, she is no pauper to spend her life gazing on the floor and not daring to look another in the eye.”
“She forgets due deference. That stare is challenging.”
And yet if I had looked away at the start he would surely have called me a craven. I hate him.
My master began to speak again, but hecut him off with a chop of his hand. “Show me what she has learned.”
And so I worked my way through my paces with my master’s guidance, showing off some of what I knew. Not flawlessly, not effortlessly, but well. Languages, and history, and geography, and poetry, and stories, and numbers, and my family’s history, and more. Throughout he said not a word, nor gave any hint of what he thought. That unnerved me more than anything. I’d seen my elder siblings displaying their learning in a similar manner back when I was still at Waltham; they’d received praise, and occasional corrections when they erred.
Eventually Trempwick stopped prompting me, and the solar fell into a hush. My father sat up properly, sucking in a deep lungful of air like a swimmer about to dive. “Leave us, Raoul. I will speak with her alone.”
My master bowed and left, granting me an encouraging smile as he went past me.
“Well,” he said. “Impressive enough.”
A wary smile stole onto my face. “Thank you, sir.” Maybe Trempwick was right, maybe he would like me now.
“You will return to court, and continue your education there. I have found a potential match for you; I will arrange for you to meet your prospective husband.”
“No!” It is amazing how the bravest things you say in your life are done without a moment’s thought. That likely makes them the stupidest things you say too.
His face turned deep red, and he shot to his feet. “What did you say?”
“No.” It came out as a wavering whisper. I’d have turned and fled if my legs hadn’t turned to jelly.
“You ungrateful brat!” I swear the rafters trembled at the force of his bellow. “You will do as I say!”
Mutely I shook my head. I couldn’t find it in me to manage more.
He closed on me until I could smell the sandalwood his clothes had been stored with. “You ungrateful little brat.”
I barely saw the slap coming.
Trempwick’s eyebrows rose as William came into the room. The way he was walking … “Is something wrong?”
“That brat!” William snatched up the goblet of wine which was waiting on the table and downed it in one go.
The spymaster’s eyebrows rose a trifle further. “What happened? Please, do not tell me you quarrelled-”
“Quarrelled?!” William slammed his empty vessel back down so hard Trempwick’s drink and the pitcher danced, wine slopping over their rims. “That little bitch kicked me in the balls! Metaphorically and literally!”
Polite astonishment. “Good God. Why?”
“Because she is an ill-mannered, wild, uncontrollable, undisciplined, foul little brat!”
Not a rational answer. Sat and waited.
William blew out a breath and scrubbed his hands through his short hair. “I have a court full of powerful men who would gladly overthrow me and steal my place, and not a one of them dares to stand before me like she does.”
Nodded slowly.
Anger deflating, leaving him looking hollow, William sat opposite his friend. “None of them dares. But she does. A slip of a little girl. And she says me no, and kicks me in the balls. Hard.” A fist slammed down onto the chair’s arm. “My own daughter!”
Try light jesting. “One might suggest that this is how you can tell whom her father is.”
He hunched over in his chair; a baleful glare. “None of my other children are like this.”
No. They were … blander.
“They are obedient. They are respectful. They know their place, and their duty.”
And they lack spark. Best not said. “Nell is very intelligent. I do genuinely enjoy teaching her.”
“And I genuinely enjoy spending time with my other off-spring. This one, however,” He made a noise which spoke volumes.
“She fears you.”
“I do not see that.”
“She is her father’s daughter.” No one could doubt that, unlike a certain other … “Do you back down from what you fear, or do you confront it?”
“I am her father. It is not for her to confront; it is for her to obey.”
“Blind obedience is no virtue.”
“Damn it, man! I do not ask for blindness! Hugh – now there is a perfect example. He is obedient, but does not make it necessary for me to order him overly much. So he may go his own way a little, and in that he chooses sensibly, always. I can trust him.”
Pause. “Prince Hugh is not … a leader.” Or a prince. Alas for the heir to the crown. “He is a born follower.”
“Nonetheless, he is my heir. He will gain confidence with time, then he will lead.”
Doubted that immensely. Said nothing. So hard to tell a friend his son is shaping up to be a poor heir. So hard to say his son is not his son. So hard not to say.
“Hugh will rule after me.”
God save the realm. No way to avert it. John was worse. True of blood, but lazy. Tending towards being a pleasure seeking idler. “Yes, he will.” God save the realm.
“He will need faithful advisors, men like you. Help him. What he lacks himself can be found in other men and lent to his cause.”
No, it could not. It could not. Despair. Despair that is a well-known companion. “As you say, William. I will do my best for your legacy, you know I will.”
A trace of relief at being assured again of what he already knows. “Yes, I do know it.” Jaw clenched. “As for that daughter of mine, may she rot! I do not want her at court. I do not want her in any of my residences where I may encounter her. I do not want her seen. I would have taken her home today, but she will have none of it. Very well! She has made her choice, and she may rot in it until she begs to do otherwise.”
Nell would never beg. So stubborn. Stood up. “Excuse me, sire. I must go tend to my pupil.”
“Leave her. There is no need. Coddle her for a few bruises and you will spoil her further.”
“Nonetheless, she is my apprentice.” A curt bow, leave. Blind to what he does. Unable to face it, perhaps. Unable to admit how far he lets himself go. Unable to admit how completely this child undoes him. Said it himself: no one else dares. And she is but a little girl.
Father and daughter. Two immovable objects, meeting from opposite directions.
The final scene still needs some more work, so I'm holding on to it for a bit.
I managed to get this up on the paradox forum last night, but the org was taking ages to load so I had to give up.
:tells Trempwick to stand his assassins down: :winkg:
Good to hear the crisis is nearly over.
"'With all due respect - which is none at all - . . . '"
"Of course. I’m always growing. It’s what people my age do."
I've missed these! Amidst all the wonderful characters, plot lines and points of view, I've always *really* enjoyed these turns of phrase and playful use of language. They're like little instant gems of connection between writer and reader and they can make good chapters really sparkle.
(Quoted as they are above, they lose some lustre. But in context, and with the timing of the words in place on the page, they are boffo.)
As for the crisis, it involved (involves) young women and men, expectations, sense-of-self and hormones. And as much as has been written about *those* things, it still comes as a shock when they all meet and confront us personally, I guess.
However hard I try he always finds me, so I didn’t try that hard. When he stormed off I waited a minute to be sure he’d gotten out of the corridors, then left, as fast and as stealthily as my poor aching body would allow. I didn’t want to see anyone. They would know what had happened. They would see the tears streaming down my face. They would make comments.
Out of the manor, out past the fields, out away from the tiny village, and up a tree. Most people don’t look up, and if they did I’d be safely out of reach.
Trempwick did look up. He’d proven that the first time I met him. So when he appeared at the foot of my tree a while later I spoke first. “You were wrong, master.” I leaned my head against the rough bark of my tree; the light bite of the brittle wood into my cheek distracted a little from the pain raging across the rest of me.
“I am sorry, Nell. More than you might believe.” He seated himself cross-legged on the grass at the foot of my tree. “I made a fundamental error, my dearest Nell. Can you tell me what it was?”
I bit my tongue on an assortment of pithy comments, and instead said, “You misjudged his character.” One can only bite their tongue so far; bitterly I added, “He’s nothing but an arse in a crown! I hate him.”
“Nell! I will not have you using such language; do you think yourself some dung-cleaner’s whelp?”
“But it’s true. He is just some stupid ego-struck man. A complete arse.”
“Nell!”
I cringed, all my livid bravado banished by the whiplash of his voice.
“You will give your father due respect.” His tone softened. “He is a good king, and a good friend. Dare I say it, he is a good man also.”
But not to me. Nor, ultimately, to poor Stephan. He’d said good things about our father too, and look where he’d ended up: murdered, at that arse in a crown’s order and by Trempwick’s hand. I didn’t forgive either of them, however many times Trempwick explained that it was for the best. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. “Yes, master,” I mumbled.
“I know what he is like, and long have.” He leaned back against my tree and looked up at me; I felt the impact of his gaze like a crossbow bolt hitting me. “I let my emotions cast a shadow of influence on my thoughts. Everything I knew was correct. However I let a slender possibility become my expected outcome because that was what I wished to happen. It is not a mistake I make very often. Learn from my error, my beloved Nell.”
“I will, master.”
“He tells me you injured him in … a delicate location.”
I’d booted him in the balls, yes. I was damned proud of it! If only I’d been wearing my usual shoes, nice sturdy creations complete with hobnails in the soles. They’d have been far better than these stupid soft slipper-like things made for refined ladies. “Yes, master.”
He raised an eyebrow in an expression of polite interest. “Might I ask why?”
This one I’d been thinking about since I stopped crying, willing my mind to surface from the clouds of pain and function. The simple truth of terrified self-preserving instinct at work wouldn’t be good enough. I believed I’d found an excuse which might work. “Strategy, master.”
“Strategy, dear Nell? Pray enlighten me, and be sure you do it in properly formed words. Do not think your lapses escape my notice.”
“When you cannot win a battle and know it and your enemy knows it too, you have to make it so he will not attack you. The best way is to make it so it will cost him too much, so he will leave you alone because he knows he will get mauled too.”
I couldn’t see his face because he was looking directly ahead again, but I had the distinct impression Trempwick was agape – or as agape as a self-controlled spymaster ever got. “Do you know,” he said after a bit, his tone one of bemusement, “I once wasted an entire afternoon trying to wring that simple concept from your brothers? I coaxed and I hinted, and I found myself reduced to giving bigger and bigger hints. In the end I had to tell them. Such a vital part of a ruler’s repertoire and they were unable to see it for themselves. Yet you, years younger and not tutored to think in such terms, found it for yourself without prompting.”
I frowned. I didn’t quite understand what he was driving at, or if he was driving at anything at all. “You mean I would make a better king than they would?” I thought it might be what he wanted me to say, an opportunity for him to lecture me further, probably on humility and my place in life.
He stared at me in astonishment for a bit, then threw back his head and laughed, a sweet sound of real astounded joy. “Queen Eleanor. You would be a queen in that case, though you performed the functions of a king.” He seemed to gather himself. He stood up and sternly told me, “Remember your place in this world: to serve the crown. Do not let ambition form within you. Now come down from there and let me look at you.”
I made my painful way down, hanging from the thick branch I’d been sitting on and then dropping to the ground to land in a crouch. He seized my chin immediately, tilting my face up to examine it. The repeated slaps had split my mouth open at the corner; I knew it had swelled up and must look a clotty mess. I expect my face was all red and bruising, and blotchy from my crying. Having given my face a cursory examination, Trempwick twisted me around to get the light where it would help him and pulled out the neck of my clothes so he could peer down the neck hole at my back. “Hmm, bruising, some welts. Nothing dire. You will live, though uncomfortably.”
Letting me go he produced a cloth-wrapped square from his belt pouch and slapped it in my hand. “I hear this is a traditional solution for weeping children. Having gone through the effort of procuring it I shall not allow it to go to waste simply because you have ceased bawling.”
The object felt a bit squishy, and the cloth itself was sticky. Tentatively I unwrapped it, unsure of what a spymaster might consider to be a remedy for a child in a state I knew he found irritating. Honey cake, as it turned out to be. “Thank you, master,” I said, breaking off a mouthful and devouring it.
He watched with such an expression of tolerant exasperation I was tempted to laugh. “Please make sure you wash your hands properly before touching anything, dear Nell.”
I wondered when he would realise that the inside and contents of his belt pouch was now, in all likelihood, sticky. “Yes, master. I will.”
He began to walk in the direction of the manor, calling to me heel like any dog.
I followed along like a good princess, eating my cake slowly. Not a crumb was going to go to waste.
The arse in the crown was leaving as we arrived. Worse luck. If I’d dragged things out for a few more minutes we’d have missed him. He took in me, and my cake. “Raoul, you are overly lenient.”
My master took hold of the shoulder of my dress and tweaked me over to stand close at his side. He didn’t let go. Maybe he thought I’d run away. “Lenience is not a trait I can ever be accused of, sire.”
The explosion I’d expected from him didn’t come. He merely grunted. “Well, you have charge of the brat. Make her into something fit to be of my blood.”
My master smiled faintly. “Sire, I shall.”
He left.
Hands and face scrubbed under Trempwick’s eagle eye until any hint of stickiness was long gone, I was let into the solar. Settling himself in his customary chair he indicated a spot on the floor before him. “Do kneel, dear Nell. Your company brings warmth to my heart, but, alas, there is no convenient seat for you.”
There was my stool. There was another chair which I often dreamed would become mine when I impressed him enough to earn the honour. What I didn’t do was point this out. Meekly I knelt on the floor some six paces away from him. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t my fault that arse had taken it into his head to beat me until his arm ached, and if he was bothered about my kicking him where it most definitely hurt, well, I’d already suffered in plenty for it.
Leaning back in his chair he folded his arms. “I expect those bruises on your back will stiffen. It would be beneficial for you to raise your arms a little, stretch your muscles out. Then they will not cramp so badly.” I clasped my hands behind my neck, keeping my elbows pointed straight outwards and on a level with my shoulders to keep the burden on my neck minimal. “Yes, that is the idea, dear Nell.”
I don’t know how much time passed. It felt like forever, with my knees beginning to protest and that protest growing in strength, and my neck, back and shoulders aching more and more with every passing instant. Over and over I dragged myself back up to a straight position, occasionally prompted by some little gesture of Trempwick’s such as the lift of an eyebrow. My arms were trembling with fatigue, hanging lower and lower with more and more of their weight falling on my poor neck.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything. He only … stared. Thinking, I suppose. Deeply thinking.
“What is an atheling, sweet Nell?” His softly spoken words fairly made me jump out of my skin.
It wasn’t fair! I was about ready to fall flat on my face; expecting me to answer questions just wasn’t fair. “It is Saxon, master. It means prince.”
“No, Nell. It means someone who has a legitimate claim on the throne. There is a difference. The nephew of a king today is not invariably a prince. He would have been an atheling.” He shifted forward, leaning his arms on his knees so his face was on a level with mine. “Why would there be a difference?”
“Because … I don’t know, master.”
“Do not know,” he chided. “Sometimes, dear Nell, I despair of you. If you cannot manage the basics while in mildly adverse conditions what hope can there be for you?”
Mildly adverse!? What more did I have to suffer before it began to count as reason for a rest?
“Dearest Nell, the answer is simple if you recall a little history. Kings were once elected in England. Before your several times great-grandsire conquered the realm. Athelings were the men with claims, the ones most likely to be considered candidates. Men without that status could be considered too, men like Harold the Usurper. They had to be in a position of considerable power and influence to be thought of. This means, dear Nell, that the man considered best able to rule became the king, not the one who was the eldest son. The youngest might become king, or a cousin. It did not have to be the eldest living son. This was tradition for a great many years. In some shadow of a way it still is; a prince must have the support of the greater portion of the realm’s lords to ascend to the throne, else he will lose it.”
The struggle was too much. I managed to twist my fall so I didn’t land flat on my face. I was done, no more. No matter what he threatened, what scorn he poured on me. Done.
“Huh.” That was the only comment Trempwick made. He picked me up and carried me up to my bare little room, where, to my surprise, the bathtub awaited, steaming and filling the air with the tantalising scent of herbs. Leaving me on my bed he told me, “Bathe. Soak your wounds. Then go to bed and rest. First thing tomorrow I expect you to tell me what you think is in that water, and why.”
I had to wait until feeling came back properly into my limbs before I could strip and gingerly sink into the water, closing my eyes against the sting as the injuries on my back became submerged one after another. Presently the pain began to ease, and I let myself relax. I begin to sift through the scents, naming them aloud in a whisper, “Lavender oil, to relax muscles. Comfrey, to speed the healing of the bruises …”
Finis.
And so concludes a piece which answers three batches of questions which people have been intermittently asking me for two years: Nell’s training; when Trempwick began to think about putting her on the throne; did William really intend to bring Nell home again.
I think the next update may be a continuation of the story proper. I advise people to refresh themselves as to what was happening before my enforced break.
Furball, it’s the neat little bits like that which I enjoy writing. Those and the tiny little self contained utterly pointless mini stories, like the honey cake in this part. I know a piece is well on its way to being good when I read it back and find bits like that; they’re responsible for a good part of the life and sparkle.
My compliments on the story so far, frogbeastegg! I'm only at page 10/11, but I'm catching up, and it has managed to capture me right from the start. Just wanted to post so you'd know you have another fan here.
Anne skipped to one side, narrowly evading a crack to the elbow from the corner of a chest a servant was carrying past. “You are not wasting any time, are you?”
Eleanor bared her teeth in an approximation of a smile. “I am returning to my newly acquired husband – the slightest moment’s gain is worth having. My only regret is that I shall have to dawdle along at the same pace as my escort, instead of taking a light guard and riding on with all speed.” She led Anne through into her bedchamber, an island of peace in the frenzy of preparations to leave. Tomorrow everything that was hers would be ripped from this room too, loaded up, and off she would jolly well go. “I shall be gone before Terce.”
“So early!”
Eleanor cast a glance back over her shoulder. “Not nearly early enough; even slugabeds are up and about by then.”
“Most people will still be eating their breakfast.”
“If any of my lot intend to be so lazy they can run to catch up. I do not intend to be delayed.” She was truly cursing her bout of shopping to feather their nest. A few new tapestries and whathaveyou had seemed an excellent idea at the time; now they were nothing but an extra burden to slow her. Happy as Fulk might be with having something to sit on which hadn’t been appropriated from a vassal, she was confident he’d be far happier simply to have her back. She knew she’d prefer to have a knight over a set of matching candle sticks, however dark the room.
Eleanor cleared a pile of books off the room’s window seat. “Here, sit down.”
“Are they yours?” Anne asked. “I did not think you liked books much.”
“Heavens, no!” Eleanor shifted more books so she could sit down next to Anne. “Do I look like I can afford to throw money away on books? I had to take a loan to buy some bare essentials, and let me tell you, it is hard to find someone willing to loan money to the probable-king’s out of favour sister.” She’d had to find someone daft enough to believe her the probable-queen, and stomach an outrageous interest rate.
“You should have said! I shall lend you some.” She folded her arms and looked stern when Eleanor began to protest. “Oh, stop it. Your situation is dire enough as it is without owing interest to lenders and stuff, and I bet you still did not buy everything you need.”
“No, I did not,” Eleanor replied softly. “A disgraced pair of noble paupers cannot live too comfortably, else they find the instalments on their fines grow.”
Anne’s mouth drew down. “But-”
“I managed enough for us to live akin to a comfortably-off minor noble. That will suffice.” Eleanor swallowed her pride and didn’t let the offer of a loan escape; every penny was precious. “As to your kind offer of money, let me have enough to repay my loan immediately, so no interest is owed upon it. We will repay you as soon as we can.”
To her credit Anne didn’t hesitate. “How much?”
Eleanor’s face burned as she named a sum which, to her, was high. “Fifty pounds.”
“Fifty?!” Anne’s chin jutted into the air. “Fifty I can give you and never miss. So I shall, and do not argue. You have a war to fight, and an earldom to build, and you only just got married, and neither of you had much in the first place so there is a lot you still need to get, and then all this fuss and bother about fines for marrying without Hugh’s permission and all. So you need money. I have plenty.”
“Thank you.”
Anne muttered a mild curse. “You did not argue – I should have offered more. You must be desperate, not to argue.”
“I will not accept more,” Eleanor told her firmly, “so do not try. If you press me I shall refuse to take anything at all.” Then, because Anne was so dejected, “Think of it so: fifty pounds is like to be half of our own income for the year, so you have increased our funds by half. That will make a very big difference. More we should not need, provided peace can be returned swiftly. Dismissing our army will leave us with money and to spare. Fulk and I, we are not used to high luxury, and nor do we really desire it. We will be well content.”
“If you need anything more …”
“We will ask. Now, tell me, was there a reason for your visit, or is it merely social?”
Anne clasped her hands in her lap; her gaze dropped to the floor. “I came to say I am staying here. I will not be going back north with you.”
Ah, Hugh must have spoken with her. Good. “You will be much safer with Constance. If you came with me I would worry endlessly.”
“I do not know if I will be able to stay with Constance. She may not want me following her, or Hugh might not.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. How had Hugh managed to get a simple thing so wrong?! “Surely Hugh did not say anything of the sort. It would be absurd.”
Anne looked up in surprise. “Oh, I have not said anything at all to him yet! I thought I would see what you thought first.”
Eleanor made a few quick adjustments to take this revelation into account; no point in revealing to Anne that they had planned to leave her with Constance whether she liked it or not. “I think it a good idea. You will be safer.”
“That was not what I was thinking. I – I thought that …” She chewed her lower lip and resumed staring at her feet. “You said that Fulk still says there is no sign of the help my father promised? And that Malcolm is still rumoured to be raising an army of his own?”
Eleanor nodded. “Yes.”
“I do not think he will come to help you like he said he would. And Malcolm …” She met Eleanor’s eyes, sincere. “You have met him, and you know the sorts of things he was saying when he left Perth. I think Alex is not enough. You need another hostage, a more valuable one. My father did not want me to come with you. I had to run away, practically. I think that is because he always intended to betray you, and he did not want me to be used against him.” Anne took a deep breath. “I do not approve of that. If I can stop him breaking his word and make him come to help you then I think I really have to.”
“You may find your family slow to forgive you.” As much as they needed the extra leverage on the King of Scots, it would have been a poor thing indeed to repay Anne’s courage by failing to warn her.
“I intend to stay in England anyway.” Anne touched the wedding ring she still wore on her heart finger. “I do not wish to marry again. At least, not for a very long time.”
Eleanor placed a hand on the girl’s slender shoulder. “You will be welcome to.”
“It was what William wished anyway.” After a bit Anne pushed herself off the window seat and stood. “I shall go and talk to Hugh now, since you think it a good idea.”
That’s the sum surviving total of my writing for the last week. I’ve deleted a good 13 pages more, if you add it all up. This is not a good place to be trying to get back into writing the story. There’s no hook. No scene I burn to write, no scene I have clear little flashes of vision of, nothing neat to scribble down. It’s all boring in-between stuff. A struggle to write, as it’s hard for it not to come out boring. It would have worked before, when I hadn’t been away for so long.
I’m thinking I may have to cut a few scenes entirely, and skip on ahead to when it begins to get interesting for me again. The story wouldn’t end up missing anything vital that way, only a lot of non-vital stuff of the sort which provides the depth, shading and background. Not something I want to do. However if it’s the only way I’m going to get moving again …
Urgh! I can’t stand producing such dry, dead, tedious, lifeless boring stuff as this! I want my bounce, sparkle, zing and silly little bits back! They were there in that short story … honey cakes, and silly lines, and wry little comments, and character, and it all flew down onto the page effortlessly and at speed. Unlike this dead mass. ~:mecry:
Welcome, Wasp. When you catch up you will have earned your free bottle of eyedrops. You’ll probably need them too; this tale is a wee bit long.
If she inched her toes further forward Eleanor would be standing on her royal father. She held her skirts back with one hand so she could look down and see the tips of her shoes, and the join between slab of stone and flagstone floor. Idly she wiggled her big toe, the movement barely visible beneath the solid leather.
“Princess,” echoed Jocelyn’s voice down the length of the church. He spoke in his badly accented Anglo-French. He left the massive door a little ajar and advanced cautiously down the aisle; the slash of sunlight streaming through the door rose up his body until it went over his head and left him as partially masked by shadows as she. “Your … we … um … horses. Stuff. Oh!” With a noise of complete disgust he gave up and swapped to his native tongue. “Your escort is ready to leave as soon as you command, your Highness.”
Eleanor nodded. “A moment.”
The count retreated to a respectful distance; he was learning, in more ways than one.
Eleanor knelt down at the side of her father’s tomb. One final visit. “I remember,” she vowed.
She walked away, the hobnails in her sturdy shoes ringing faintly on the flagstones.
The arse in the crown would have taken that to mean she remembered her grudgingly given promise to avenge him. That would have been his mistake. She remembered everything.
Eleanor rode the first few miles in complete silence, so lost in thought she didn’t chafe at the slow pace dictated by the baggage wagons.
When beckoned to her side Jocelyn responded immediately, kneeing his horse into a trot until he drew level, and bowing deeply in his saddle. “Your Highness?”
After a long pause she said, “Tell me about my father.”
“About the old king? Oh. Well. Ah.” Jocelyn scratched his beard and thought a bit. “He was a good king. He was just, and a good fighter and commander and all. All in all his rule was peaceful enough. No civil wars. Oh, er … oh.” The count flushed. “Well, none except this one, and this one probably only happened because everyone thought he was dead, so it’s no bad reflection on him. Or, indeed, on your brother,” he added hastily. “No, no, not at all. Far from it. I’m sure he’ll be as fine a king as any who ever lived once that Trempwick gets his head lopped.” Then he seemed to remember Trempwick had raised her. “Or not, as the case may be. Not lopped, that is, not the bit about making a good king. Who knows, the two might make peace, work together or something.” He held up a finger. “Now, indeed. There’s the whole damn – er, the whole thing. Life’s unpredictable. So are wars. Might be that everything turns out happily, with peace and love all around. Or maybe not. But I’m sure it will go for the best. Probably. Yes.”
Eleanor sighed; she felt quite dizzy just listening to so many changes of direction. “Actually, I wished to know about the man, not the king, and I wish to know an honest opinion. Bad or good.”
“Ah …”
She met the count’s eyes. “Nothing you say of him could possibly be worse than what I can say.” Of all the people she could have gone to now she had decided to ask, Jocelyn was the safest. He could not tell her much which touched upon her, unlike Anne, for example. The things he might tell her would be … less harmful.
Now it was the count’s turn to take his time in speaking. “The very first time I saw him up close he was sat on my chair in my hall, my daughter on his lap. I’d have snatched her away, if he hadn’t been my king and all. The rumours I’d heard … And there had been much talk of your betrothal to that Trempwick fellow, and how it came about.” The count’s brows drew down into a fearsome expression. “Hell, damn it! The mere sight of him near her made my blood go damned cold!” Jocelyn rubbed the scowl from his face with his fingertips and sighed. “He listened to her childish chatter like it was the council of his wisest friend - played along, even. He was tolerant. He took it all in his stride, the silly talk about dresses and castles and whathaveyou. I began to think maybe the rumours were exaggerated.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. How many other unknown children had seen that side of her father when she, his own flesh and blood, never had? “And?” she prompted, for this had the feel of an unfinished tale.
“And then later I saw him lose his temper.” Jocelyn leaned forward and rubbed his horse between the ears. “Thought he was going to bloo – er, kill himself with an apoplexy. This was after the hunting accident, you see, and he’d not long been up and about and all.”
“Why did he lose his temper?” Eleanor asked quietly. She believed she knew.
“When he heard what’d been happening back here.” Jocelyn’s mouth flattened into a line. “It was a scary sight, believe me, and I’m no mincing pansy. Er, begging your pardon, your Highness. After that I could see how he could do all the things I’d heard about.” Pause. “But … you know? It was more like pain than real anger. Deeply wounded and lashing out.”
“He trusted Trempwick. He had done so for years.”
Jocelyn fixed his eyes on the horizon. “I pitied him.”
They rode in complete silence for a time.
Jocelyn said, “He was a man used to being in command. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Things went his way, because he made them do so. He’d been doing it so long he’d got good at it, and got so used to it that it - it became like breathing to him, I think.”
So others had said. So she could believe. No one could rule for so many years without becoming altered by it.
“When he looked at you it was like he was seeing all the dirty thoughts and doubts in your mind and everything wicked you’d ever done.” Jocelyn drew himself up straighter in the saddle. “Not, you understand, that I’ve anything to be ashamed of. Not at all. Ever.”
Unable to help herself, Eleanor teased, “So you are perfect then?” And enough of that! Lest someone think her flirting with the man. Sometimes being chaperoned and surrounded worked to ruin reputations, not safeguard them.
Jocelyn looked at her with a sideways smile. “Oh, I suppose I could admit to one or two minor sins.”
A tiny flutter awoke under her heart. Eleanor ruthlessly stamped on it. It was nothing but the effect of being so long away from Fulk, combined with the shock of having a handsome knight flirting at her. When she was reunited with him she’d have to tell Fulk she understood better a few of the things he’d told her, not least about knowing what you were missing making the missing far harder to live with. “Then find a priest,” she told him coolly.
Something burned in Jocelyn’s eyes for a heartbeat, come and gone before Eleanor could fully identify it. Fury? If he thought he had some right to toy with her and sulk when she stepped away then he had best learnt to think otherwise, and quickly. She scowled to let him know it hadn’t gone unseen.
Stiffly Jocelyn said, “You reminded me of my wife.”
Ah, the mysterious wife! Eleanor would rather like to meet the lady.
He returned to their prior topic without ceremony. “He was a fair man. I expected to pay dearly for following Yves into his crack-brained rebellion – though I’d no choice, you understand. I was his vassal, sworn to him. Instead he made me count in Yves place. His justice could be hard though; I had reason to fear when he turned up at my gates. He was even-handed in his hardness, I’ll say that. He did treat his son no differently when …” He broke off and mumbled an apology.
“When my brother rebelled,” Eleanor finished for him. As she’d told her father, she remembered. “That was Trempwick’s doing, in the main. Clearing a son out of the way.” She swallowed painfully. “He knew what my father would feel he must do, and took advantage.” She remembered … the arse in the crown descending on Woburn like a wounded boar, drawing his sword on Trempwick when he tried to protect her, blaming her for all and battering her senseless with his rage. John’s reappearance in chains in Waltham’s hall; the look on her father’s face: absolute dismay. The arguing over what was to be done. The execution. And a grieving father again blaming her. “It hurt him very badly.”
For the first time Hawise joined the conversation. “Yet he still upheld his laws, though he could have made an exception. That says some good of him.”
The world was blurring before Eleanor’s eyes. She looked down to hide the forming tears. “A terrible kind of good.” The nails of her right hand bit into her palm and she focused on keeping her breathing even to restore her control.
“Yes. Sometimes that is what is needed.”
Jocelyn ran a hand over his mount’s neck, brushing off a fly. “The maid has the right of it. Who could dispute the judgement of a man who’d executed his own son to keep the law? And who’d be fool enough to rebel against him? Well, who except that blo- er, idiot Yves.”
Eleanor gave a broken little laugh. “Oh, my father was very good at not sparing his sons. He always put the realm first.” This was why he had none left. This, too, she remembered. “It is quite fascinating. When I spoke of my father’s methods of ruling with Sir Miles he believed he was a weaker king, for the same reason you call him a strong one. A strong king, he said, did not need to execute rebels. He could afford to pardon them.”
Jocelyn shrugged. “That’s one way of looking at things. But surely the mark of a strong king is that few rebel.”
“Sir Miles said that the rebellions would be minor, all but harmless and easily quashed. By keeping an iron fist about the kingdom’s throat there would be fewer rebellions, but they would be much more explosive, and harder to put down as men would know they had little chance of clemency.” Eleanor looked down at the backs of her hands. “I agree with him, for the main. There must be a reason for rebels to surrender easily, so fighting does not drag on and a minor revolt does not become a battle to the death. However, too much mercy and lords will take advantage. If they do not get what they wish they will raise their banners and cause trouble in the hopes of being granted it for laying down their arms.”
“He was very proud of you.”
Eleanor fixed the count with an icy stare, silently ordering him to return to a safer subject.
The less than subtle hint was lost on Jocelyn. “I guess it’s because of all he was. Not many stood up to him, but you did. You remind me a bit of him-”
“Enough!” Eleanor spurred her horse into a trot and left her place in the column.
He’d hated her, handed her over to Trempwick and semi-exile, cursed her and blamed her, beaten her over and over, ignored her, left her a pauper in his life and after his death, and had the gall to tell people he was proud of her for the very reasons he tormented her. She remembered it all.
It had been Trempwick who had given her sparing praise, encouraged her, taught her, on occasion played with her, picked her up when she fell, worried when she was ill, fed her and clothed her, given her rare gifts, and done many of the things a father should. She remembered.
It had been Trempwick who, finally, made it so the arse in the crown could never hurt her again. It had been him who had murdered her father. He whom she should thank from the bottom of her heart. He who she had sworn vengeance on. This she also recalled.
And at the last her father had chosen her. That she could not forget.
Nearly all of that is … out of tune, for wont of a better way to describe it. Still, it doesn’t feel dead, which is some improvement.
I intend this as a constructive critique, but I find this installment rather repetitive. Everything has already been said or suggested. Unless, of course, you're going somewhere with this.
I'm happy your computer problems are over and that you're writing again on the story. Although you may feel like it's hard to finish or that what you've written doesn't feel right, it's still of very enjoyable.
I've noticed, I'm only at page 11 at the moment (my reading time gets eaten up by philosophers, you see. And having midterms isn't helping either ~;) ), but I'm sure I'll catch up one day, and give more 'recent' comments and praises.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
I'm still in the 'poor Fulk'.. phase :beam:
I second Peasant Phill's comments. It's good, but it covers familiar ground. Still, I am glad you are making headway :book: .
Fulk walked alongside Eleanor’s horse as she rode into the bailey. “For a time I feared you would continue on by, and not stop here. I wasn’t sure my messengers would reach you in time; I was only warned of your approach this morning.” He had her enfolded in his arms before her toes touched the ground.
“Twit,” she replied, affectionately running a fingertip along his jawbone. She kissed him lingeringly on the lips. “I had intended to pass the night at Morpeth, and then continue on to Alnwick tomorrow.”
Fulk settled her hand on his arm and began to walk her to the keep. “And then you received a message from a bothersome man requesting you come to Ashington instead, meaning you had to alter all your plans at the last instant.”
“However did you guess?”
“Oh soul of my soul, you are supposed to say the message was welcome and not the least bit annoying.”
Eleanor looked up at him in a perplexed manner, only a tiny glint in her eyes to show she teased. “Why?”
Tutting Fulk rapped her knuckles – gently. “Remind me to beat you later for being such an unsatisfactory wife.”
“If you are in danger of forgetting then the problem can hardly be dire.”
A bark of laughter escaped him before he regained control, drawing the eyes of everyone in the bailey. Not that people hadn’t been watching and straining their ears beforehand, more that now they gave up the pretence of not doing so. “’loved, people are going to think us peculiar.”
They already did, and had since their betrothal was made. “Have you been here for long?”
He shook his head. “Since yesterday. I thought I had best tour my southern lands after a recent bit of trouble and now seemed timely – it brings us back together a day sooner.”
Eleanor’s eyebrow formed a delicate arc. “Trouble?”
“Later, oh light of my eyes.”
On their way through the keep Fulk kept up a constant flow of talk about this and that, about their lands and people and what he’d seen in his lordly tour. None of it real information, more a pleasant outline of the best aspects filled with a scattering of humorous observations and anecdotes.
At the bottom of the staircase he ducked into the shadows to the side of the doorway, pulling her with him. Pressing her up against the wall he kissed her forehead, her eyes, her nose, her lips while his hands did a bit of gentle exploring. “Jesù, how I missed you!”
“Me too.” Eleanor held his face between her hands and gazed into his eyes, smiling broadly. “I had no one to annoy.”
“My poor gooseberry.” He brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist. “Such a trial for you.”
“I shall have to make up for lost time.” This particular kiss left her feeling quite tipsy; Fulk steadied her as she nearly lost her balance.
“Why are we standing about in a stairwell when we have a perfectly good bedchamber?” Fulk didn’t wait for an answer; taking her hand he began to ascend the stairs.
“I thought it was because you were reliving the days when we had to hide everything.” She paused a moment for effect before adding casually, “You know, reliving your lost youth.”
“Lost youth!?” He halted, bending down awkwardly to kiss her across the great difference in heights caused by being on different steps. “I’ll take that as a challenge, oh insulting one. We’ll see who tires first.”
Eleanor felt herself blush. “You are going to knock me down the stairs if you are not careful.”
“I’m sure you’d manage to pull me down after you, and arrange things so I broke your fall.” He started to climb again.
Idly playing with the light fuzz of hair on Fulk’s stomach Eleanor mused, “It is strange how such a small thing can give one so much pleasure …”
Fulk turned his head on the pillow to look at her with an aggrieved expression. “Small!? I’ll have you know it is nothing of the sort, thank you very much!”
She laughed, blushing slightly. “I was thinking of how pleasant it was to be lying here like this.”
“Mmm.” His fingers continued to wander up and down her spine.
“As to the other …” she gave the part in question a playful tweak. “I am sure it is very prodigious.”
“Your bath will have gone cold.” True enough, the wisps of steam coming from the bathtub in the centre of the room had all but disappeared. Fulk covered his face with a hand. “You will think I’ve forgotten all my manners since marrying you. Dragging you off to bed without so much as giving you chance to scrape the mud off your boots.”
“You did not even say hello,” she chided gently.
Fulk nibbled her earlobe. “Hello, my dear gooseberry.”
“Hello, my luflych little knight.”
“Best go and salvage what is left of your bath, ‘loved.”
Eleanor stretched, slipped away from Fulk and pulled the covers back over her shoulder. “After you.”
“Royal bath tester?” Fulk sat up.
“You are my husband. It is your sworn responsibility to protect me from all hazards.”
“Including cold bath water?” He made his way to the tub with a load of good natured grumbling. “Fortunately I am the bravest of knights, and I intend to be a most uxorious husband.” He dabbled his fingers in the water. “It’s still quite warm.”
“Oh?” Eleanor sat up, clutching the bottom sheet to her breast. “Hurry up then, or it will be cold by the time I get in.”
With more grumbling about having bathed only the night before last, Fulk sank into the tub. “Tell me about what is to happen, then. I doubt your letters included it all.”
“Actually, they did, for the main.” It was a bit of a stretch, and she nearly fell out of the bed, but Eleanor managed to reach the nearest article of clothing and pull it to her. Donning it she hopped out of bed. Fulk’s shirt was large on him; on her it hung to her knees, the sleeves dangling past her fingertips. As she told him all that had happened during her time at court she laid out Fulk’s clothes on the bed ready for him to dress; her own she dumped to one side for washing, searching out fresh garments from the small wardrobe she’d left behind with Fulk.
By the time she had finished reporting Fulk was out of the bath, dried, and nearly fully dressed.
“If I hurry I can march the day after tomorrow,” he said. “My men are in a state of readiness in case of trouble.”
Eleanor bowed her head. She had expected it to take several days at least. “So soon.”
“Arranging the defence of our lands will be the time consuming part. Provisions and the like are already stored in readiness.” He buckled on his belt and began to collect up the wet towels.
“I thought we might have a few days.”
“You said Hugh commanded me to join him with all possible speed.” He arranged the towels to dry before the fire.
“He did. He would not know if you waited a day.” She looked at him beseechingly. “He could spare us a day.”
Fulk placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Heart of my heart, he is my king. I must obey. And in war a day may make all the difference.” He tilted her chin up with his fingers so she looked at him. “Never think I want to leave.” He stepped away. “Now have that bath, before it does go cold. We’ll be dining in the main hall soon enough; I ordered a minor feast to celebrate your return and our pardon by your brother.” He made a wry face. “It is politic to be seen to be grateful, however much I’d prefer to celebrate in private.”
Eleanor approached the bath in what was rapidly becoming her usual way now she had an audience; she stripped off and dived in as quickly as possible, keeping her front to Fulk. “Tell me about this trouble of yours.”
“Well, she’s about five foot two inches, has blue eyes and black hair-” He ducked to evade the washcloth she flung at him. “I had to kill one of my vassals. He was insulting me before others. I had no choice.” Fulk dropped the washcloth back into the tub, very obviously admiring the view as he did so. “I let the son live, sent him into exile. I don’t like killing so pointlessly; it feels much too close to murder for my comfort. The son’s disappeared. I suspect he is stirring up trouble, gathering like-minded men, or searching out prince Malcolm, possibly even seeking to join Trempwick.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Jesù, I feel like a fool for letting him live, and damn me if I don’t feel like a murderer for killing the father.”
“What insults?”
“He had a dog, the most wretched creature you’d ever set eyes on. He’d named it Alnwick. He had it performing tricks. He said … things.” Fulk began to pace restlessly about the room. “He did it before the hall, when only I and a handful of others were absent. I killed the dog as well – I could not do otherwise.”
Eleanor sank down until the back of the tub came up to her neck; she watched Fulk’s progress about the room. “You did right. You must establish yourself as a man who demands respect, else you will be kicked to the gutter and overrun.”
“Right though it may be, I dislike it.”
Eleanor said nothing. She disliked it also. Fulk was that rare thing: a man who was able to walk away, who did not quarrel and threaten violence to preserve his honour at the merest hint of a slight. She loved him for it.
Fulk’s pacing dawdled to a halt. “Well, I can’t claim I didn’t know I’d have to do this when I agreed to marry you.”
“There is a difference between knowing you will hate something, and finding you do indeed hate it.”
Fulk’s lips moved into the faintest of smiles. “Yes.”
Eleanor took a deep breath. “Speaking of which, where is my ring?”
Fulk produced it from his belt pouch. “It never left my side.”
Giving herself a final rinse to be sure all the soap was gone, Eleanor darted out of the bath and shrouded herself in a towel. She dressed herself before she took the ring from Fulk, giving it a cursory examination to make sure it was undamaged. It was the work of minutes to reinstate it to its original hiding place, tied to the inside of her girdle so it pressed into her waist, a constant reminder of its presence now she was no longer accustomed to it being there.
Fulk held out his hand. “Come, let me show you our castle. It would be well for us to be seen together, and for you to meet people.”
Hammering at the door woke Eleanor from a deep, contented sleep. As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes Fulk sat up and demanded, “What is it?”
“My lord – Morpeth’s under attack!”
“What!?” Fulk scrambled out of bed and ran to the western window; he flung open the shutters and stuck his head out. “Hell and damnation!”
With no one talking and the shutter open Eleanor could hear the faint peals of a church bell being rung in alarm.
“I want a mounted party ready to go in an hour,” Fulk snapped. “A hundred men – and make sure they’re sober!”
“Yes, my lord.” Booted feet clomped rapidly away.
The bell gave one wobbling peal and fell silent. It was too easy to imagine the one ringing it falling under the attackers’ blades, clinging to the rope as they went down.
Shivering at the shock of night air on his bare flesh Fulk slammed the shutters to and used the night candle to light others. “Help me arm.”
Her heart had leapt up to lodge at the base of her throat; Eleanor swallowed a few times in an effort to put it back into place. Reluctantly she got out of bed, flung on her dress, and knelt by the chest which contained Fulk’s’ armour. She dragged the equipment out into the light item by item, part of her attention given to checking each was in good condition, much of it given to watching Fulk. Everything about him. She drank each detail in, fixing it in memory. Next time she saw him he could be hurt, maimed, dead. There might not be a next time.
As he laced his hose to his braes belt Fulk said, “They must have gambled on our being too drunk after the feast to ride out quickly.”
“Yes,” Eleanor agreed.
“Bad luck for them I only provided enough ale for the men at arms to feel grateful.”
“Or they did not know I had returned. Without the men from my escort you would be marching out in much less force. Vulnerable.” Eleanor helped Fulk on with his mail chausses; to her pride her fingers did not tremble and cause her to fumble.
Fulk hauled his gambeson on the instant she’d finished fastening the ties.
Not being strong enough to lift the mail hauberk, Eleanor dragged it across the floor by the shoulders. Fulk made a face at the abuse, and stepped forward to lift the armour up onto the bed. Kneeling on the floor at the bedside he thrust his arms and head into the mail; Eleanor dragged the skirts down over his back, and he stood up, letting gravity do the rest. The mail slid into place with the running-water hiss of thousands of tiny links rushing over the thick padded linen of the gambeson. Fulk jumped on the spot a few times to settle it into place. She had his coat of plates ready in perfect time; as soon as his hauberk was settled Fulk thrust out his left arm and ducked his head so she could place it on him without either of them needing to stand waiting for the other to catch up.
He grinned at her as she fastened the buckles down his left side. “Considering you’ve armed me but a handful of times, you’re not doing so badly. I begin to wonder if you’ve been practicing with another knight.”
“When apprenticed to Trempwick you learn new things quickly; the habit looks fit to remain with me for life.”
Fulk took hold of her by the arms. “You will stay in the castle. You will not leave. You will not send men out to look for me, or for any other reason. Do not put yourself at risk. This may be intended to lure me away so another group can come for you.”
“Then why not stay with me?” She could not prevent herself from asking. “Send someone else to Morpeth.”
“I am the earl.”
She’d known he couldn’t give what she asked for before she’d spoken; still it hurt that he chose to leave. “Yes, my lord.”
“You will be careful, and you will do as I asked. You have more than enough men to hold this place.”
So many soldiers, in fact, that they would not all fit within the walls. So many they would eat through provisions at a terrifying speed. It was a nightmare in the event of sudden attack. “Too many.”
“Not if handled well. Those outside … there are a multitude of uses for them, including driving off a small army before it could set up siege. You have veteran knights here and loyal to you; use them.”
“Yes, my lord.” Eleanor belted his sword on over his surcoat and stood back, her work done.
Not quite an hour later she stood in the bailey, shared one final embrace with her husband, and watched him ride off to war.
I had a completely lousy week. So bad I didn’t feel like writing. Some of it has been mended, the rest I have grown resigned to. I feel better now.
Oh gosh! A man who picks up after himself, and who hangs towels up properly so they dry! :swoons:
Peasant Phill, Ludens, you’re both probably right. If (and I almost definitely would) I altered the balance of that type of scene throughout the story, I’d weight it so this recent one carried about the same weight while most of the others slimmed down. This one is more important: Nell is asking about her father. An important step forward for her. Pondering the differences between William and Trempwick also matters, and no I won’t say why … though you should be able to figure it out by now. It’s not a vital to the story scene; it does have importance in things making sense and the transitions being believable.
Wasp, I’m still in the “poor Fulk” phase. I nearly always am. Poor man, being in love with a gooseberry :gring:
Yay! Froggy and Fulk and Elly and all are back!
The first bit seems a bit contrived - MASSIVE APOLOGIES, but when you get to editting this, the first bit might get editted when the massive layover due to computer woes is discounted. As a story posted in fits and starts, it works fine.
“A hundred men – and make sure they’re sober!”
Yay!
And the feeling of suspense and "hurry" even as we deal with the minutiae of putting on Fulk's armor - excellent!
In fact, the whole episode makes my head spin. It's hard to tell how what's happening fits into the narrative WITHOUT also being aware that "froggy" has been off-line for so long. But you certainly got our attention! :)
The writing is excellent. The tempo will be corrected for a book on the rewrite. Please don't take anything I say as too negative.
At this point, you have our minds in your typy little fingers, Ms. Frog. Goodonya!
Actually, I've switched to the 'poor Wasp' phase. So much to read, not nearly enough time! ~DQuote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
ACK,, I have read this form the first post and now there is no more?? Froggy, Love the story has had me messmerised for the last month and a half since I found it, please continue fror some reason I can not get enough of this story.
If you have more simular stories I would love to read those also. Thanks again for a great read and please continue as your time permits.
Hello Lord_Basher, welcome to the Org ~:wave: . Froggy has posted several stories in the Mead Hall, although this one is probably her best. You can find more stories by her in the Mead Hall Library (link in my signature). I recommend reading Blood Red Hand and Dragon's Tears.Quote:
Originally Posted by Lord_Basher
The outdated wooden castle of Morpeth was an inferno, bearing sole responsibility for much of the smoke rising over the settlement. It was past saving. The keep was collapsing in fits and spurts, sparks flying and the flames leaping higher as the devoured the added fuel. The bailey fared little better, separated out somewhat from the keep though it was. There were sufficient timber framed buildings to keep the conflagration going when they shied away from the outer wall, giving home to the destruction until the flames were able to take another nibble from the ramparts. It would take a rainstorm to put this out.
Even at this distance the heat made Fulk’s exposed flesh feel tight. He wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand, the mail mitten dangling from his wrist batting at his chin. Whoever had done this had known what they were about. They would have set multiple fires in places where the flames could build in heat in shelter, feeding and growing until they raged invincible.
He spurred Sueta back towards the village, putting his back to one vision of destruction in favour of another. People ran about with buckets, fighting the flames. Others stared, broken by what had happened and useless. There were bodies lying here and there in clotting blood, limbs a sprawl. No one had had chance to lay them out in more dignified poses.
The attackers were gone, long gone.
Fulk drew rein at a distance; battle trained though he was Sueta was far from happy with this hell on earth. Dismounting he gave a rapid stream of orders, “Half the men to set up patrols; I won’t have any sneak up on us. Get the best scouts busy finding out which way the attackers went. As for the rest, get them busy saving what can be. Forget the castle; it’s beyond hope.”
The nearest villager not engaged in the fight was an old man. He watched his house as it burned. Only the thatch had caught, and a part of one wall; it could easily be saved.
“What happened?” Fulk assumed his question has been lost in the din of flames and shouting. He repeated a question in a shout.
The man stared at him mutely. His throat worked a few times, and eventually he asked, “You’re the new lord?”
“I am.”
“What happened is you.” He resumed watching his home burn.
“What do you mean?”
No reply.
Luke stepped forward and hit the man on the shoulder. “Answer my lord when he speaks to you, scum!”
“Luke!”
The squire’s eyes blazed as he turned to face his lord. “He owes you respect!”
“He does not, not if I allow my men to act so. You sully my name with your behaviour. If you wish to be helpful go and find a bucket and do something about that.” He indicated the blazing settlement with a sweep of his arm. With poor grace the squire complied. Addressing the villager again Fulk repeated, “What do you mean?”
“This morning I had two sons. Now I have nothing.” The old man blinked his eyes slowly, tears welling up. “One lies in the street in his own blood. The other I disown for joining those who did this. You should have killed the old lord’s son when you killed him, God knows you had excuse. Then he wouldn’t have come back. Then I’d still have two sons.”
When further efforts to speak to the man were met by stony silence Fulk claimed a bucket and went to fight the fires.
Built entirely from stone and set slightly apart the church was the only building unharmed by the flames. This was the only way in which it had been spared. Anything of value was gone, the interior ransacked. Someone had taken an axe to the rood screen and wooden pews. The altar had been overturned. They found the village priest in the belfry.
“Blessed Jesù.” Luke crossed himself.
The priest lay still and contorted, hands clutched to his stomach. Crimson smears spread out from the pool of blood where he’d thrashed about in his agony. Entrails spilled between his blood-blackened hands. Swinging in the breeze let in by the open door, the bell rope swayed above the corpse; it too was soaked in blood.
Waltheof knelt at the priest’s side and tried to close the eyes. Stubbornly the lids kept springing back up, and the knight abandoned the attempt. “They will burn in hell for this.”
“One may hope.” Fulk had seen enough; he made for the exit. “We should concern ourselves with making best use of the early warning he gave us.”
Morpeth looked no better in the light of dawn. The village was reduced to a hotchpotch of blackened skeletons still smoking amidst other, sounder buildings. On its man-made hill the castle had settled down to a low, steady glow as the flames consumed the last traces of fuel. The bodies were being collected now by some of Fulk’s men. The village green was host to several rows of corpses, some burned, some hacked up, some incomplete. Men, some women, a few children.
A second collection of bodies rested in a heedless pile on a second corner of the green; this collection was much smaller, exclusively male. One woman lingered at a short distance; Fulk supposed one of her menfolk lay amongst those who had attacked the village, and she was deciding if she dared claim him for burial. All the others were avoiding her as if she emanated a disease.
“My lord.” The man at arms saluted.
“You have found out what happened?” Fulk asked.
“Yes, my lord. Leastways, it seems like it.”
Fulk turned his eyes away from his ruined castle and thoughts of how much its loss would cost him. “Then report.”
“Lord. The attack came from the castle. That’s why they didn’t retreat there for shelter. The castellan’s son had gathered up some allies from I don’t know where, and somehow roused sympathy with a few of the men here. Ones who were his friend, I guess, or who didn’t like what you’d done.” The soldier tugged his forelock again. “Begging your pardon for saying so, my lord.”
Fulk waved at him to continue.
“They took what they could from the castle and started it burning, and swept down onto the village. Burning and looting, mostly, but killing those who got in the way.”
“Which way did they go?”
The man at arms didn’t quite meet Fulk’s eye. “North. My lord.”
North. Towards Scotland. “You will ride back to Ashington and tell all this to my lady wife. You will also tell her I am in pursuit.”
The plumes of smoke still came from Morpeth, however Eleanor’s eyes couldn’t make out any signs of flames. The westerly wind carried the scent of burning where the previous day’s had blown east and born the salt smell of the sea.
“There’ll be smoke for a day at least,” Jocelyn informed her. “Maybe more. Depends what was burned and how badly, and on the weather. If it rains it’ll stop smouldering that much sooner.”
“I am aware of this.”
“Oh. Well. Good.” The count took up a pose with both hands resting on the breastwork.
When she had stood at the top of Ashington’s keep with Fulk yesterday Eleanor had looked out at the view and thought the area to be much the same as the other parts of the north she had seen, which was to say beautiful in a bleak manner. This morning she saw a strategic strongpoint turned into a disaster. The small castle could house perhaps a hundred and twenty at a push; typically the garrison and the locals with their animals would number less than this.
Absently she commented, “I find myself glad my lord husband left the bulk of his loaned army dispersed about the earldom.”
Jocelyn snorted. “If I were him I’d find some polite excuse to get shot of the lot of them. Hire myself some men of my own in my colours, loyal to me. Borrowed is asking for trouble.”
Hawise protested, “The King of Scots is our ally. Surely we must make a show of trust?”
“You are both correct.” Eleanor shaded her eyes with her hand and continued to focus on the village, identifying features in the terrain and making rough calculations. “Aveis, how many are there in the village?”
The castellan’s wife answered without delay. “Seventy-one.”
Jocelyn looked sidelong at the young woman. “You know the count well.”
“As I should. These are my lands, sir. My husband holds them through me.”
The count held up his hands to ward off her ire. “I only meant that it seemed a surprising thing for a beautiful lady to bother about.”
Above Aveis’ grey eyes her brows drew down. “Some of us, sir, have both brains and beauty. I do not flatter myself that I am beautiful, and nor should you.”
Jocelyn spluttered, recovered his composure, and purposely put his shoulder to the girl.
Eleanor decided in a heartbeat that she liked the young woman. “What about timber suitable for building?”
“It depends what one wishes to build.”
“A stockade around the village.”
Aveis joined Eleanor in gazing down at the settlement. “It should be possible, if you kept the length and wood usage to the minimum. Anything else would take a chunk out of my forests which would take years to recover from.”
Eleanor beckoned Jocelyn to her side. “I am thinking of an earthen rampart topped with a wooden wall, running close to the outermost buildings. A simple defence to shelter the villagers and those of our forces who cannot fit within the castle itself. I want it done by nightfall tomorrow.”
Jocelyn blew out air through pursed lips. “Highness, it’s going to be a fair bit of work to organise.”
Eleanor gifted the man with a bright, bright smile. “That is why I am entrusting the task to you.”
Though all of Fulk’s army rode in silence to make their passage less obvious, Luke’s irked him. The squire could claim to be obeying the order but Fulk knew that wasn’t the reason for his keeping his mouth tight shut. The man was sulking, plain and simple.
Eventually Fulk was sick to the stomach of it. He nudged his horse close to his squires and leaned over in his saddle so the man would hear his quiet rebuke. “You sulk like a little girl told she cannot have a puppy. You should have known better than to take a heavy hand with a grief-stricken old man.”
The squire’s mouth tightened. “And you, my lord, should be learning better than to be so soft. You must be a worthy husband for the princess.”
“Brutality and callousness would make me far from worthy.”
“Hah!” Luke spat to the side away from Fulk. “When people mock you they mock her. When they disrespect you they disrespect her. And you’re meant to protect her. I begin to think you lack the balls to do it.”
Fulk’s hands clenched about the reins. “I killed one man-”
“And let another escape.”
“I cannot kill everyone – and I will not try.”
“Then you shouldn’t have married her.”
“Christ, man!” Fulk slammed his teeth shut on further loud exclamations. In a low voice filled with repressed anger he said, “I married her, which keeps her out of the hands of those who would use her, and scuppers Trempwick’s attempt to stuff her on the throne willing or no. No one will hurt her again while I am alive, and if anyone dares lay a finger on her against her will I shall mince them into dog food. She will not be sold off to someone she doesn’t like to shore up her brother’s crown, or be crammed in a nunnery to rot. I treat her as my equal, and cherish her above all else. I love her more than my soul. I am the most faithful of husbands, and always will be. Those who directly insult her I make pay.” Fulk took a breath. “If I were to try and fight everyone I would die. Then she’d be alone and more vulnerable than before. Did you ever think of that? Besides, she doesn’t want a blood-soaked thug.” The corner of his mouth lifted as he imagined what Eleanor would say about that observation.
The squire snorted. “So says the great knight.”
“Yes – so says the man who charged a band of kidnappers alone and wounded for her sake.”
Luke fixed his eyes straight ahead, his face set. “Very well. You are no coward. But you have brought ignominy to her-”
“And you think that will be bettered by maltreating old men and brawling with those who make bad jests?” Fulk demanded. His squire was guilty of both, and more.
Luke tilted his head, grinning a little. “Or by breaking a man’s nose because he suggested you could take a mistress?”
Guilty as charged Fulk cleared his throat. “Yes. Well.”
“I can’t stand it. That night, when we rescued her, she knew all our names. She asked how we were – she was anxious for us.” Luke’s face glowed as he recalled. “We were her first concern.”
It was time to broach something which had become increasingly clear to Fulk, something he considered himself a blind dolt for not noticing long before. “I know you worship her-”
Luke’s head snapped around. Immediately he protested, “Not in any impure way. She is – is like a - a saint to me!”
At the notion of Saint Eleanor the Irritable, complete with a crooked halo and garbed in robes which hid a pair of knives, Fulk bit back a grin.
The squire didn’t notice Fulk’s difficulty. “Or perhaps a legend. What else could she be?” Softly he said again, “She knew our names. How many nobles know their men at arms’ names? Especially newly hired ones. And she fought her abductors, brave as any man, and more than once she’s been caught in danger and we’ve never seen a hint of fear from her.”
The gushing praise made Fulk feel decidedly uncomfortable; he interrupted to put a stop to it “Yes, I know. I love her for it, and for many other reasons. But you won’t help her by brawling, and I won’t help her by dying, so pull yourself together and start thinking clearly.”
“She is a lady worth our devotion. I would die for her.”
Fulk sighed. Luke was a couple of years younger, and heaven knew Fulk had gone through his own idealistic – or idiotic – phase in the heady days when he’d been in love with Maude and before his world had died, but still his fingers positively itched to shake his squire until his teeth rattled. Curtly he told him, “She’d by far prefer it if you lived. It’s less messy, and she’s not left trying to find a trustworthy replacement. And in the name of heaven, keep silent about her fighting. That would ruin her name more surely than marrying me ever did.”
Luke cast about, checking belatedly no one could overheard their hushed conversation. “Sorry, my lord. I would not betray her.”
“Then see you conduct yourself in a manner which brings no stain to her name or mine, else you will find yourself cast out.” Fulk spurred Sueta on ahead.
Saint Eleanor the Irritable figurines will be on sale in the Eleanor™ store as soon as I find some people skilled enough to carve and paint them. No cheap and tacky plastic knock-offs here, no siree!
Furball, contrived, probably. ~:) The entire scene would most likely vanish during an edit, with a couple of lines and references transferred over to the following scene. It was a good scene for getting back into writing the story though, and after so long apart I thought Nell and Fulk deserved a bit of time together before they were separated again.
Wasp, once you run out of the pre-written material you’ll be waiting days between episodes. I doubt that will be any better. ~:(
Lord basher, as Ludens says I have a few older works here. None are nearly as good as this one, or as long. They’re very much the work of a frog who was only beginning to learn how to write. Be warned not to expect another ‘Eleanor’ if you go searching for them. ~:)