The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

"You know things are bad when you think a broken finger or similar would do wonders for your writing because you’d need to take some time off work sick and could spend days at a time writing endlessly, then realise you’d have to turn up anyway *because everyone else who can do what you do is not there.*"

Took me a few years, but I realised *I* do what I do; no one else does. That's why I was worth big bucks and then got fired. :) (There was someone younger and cheaper and maybe even better who did what I did.)

That's off-topic and oblique, but if you're truly hoping to get time off to write while others grunt at the store, then you're almost certainly a writer, not an anonymous assistant manager for some chain bookstore. Granted, in 97 cases out of 100, the money's better at the bookstore.

I'm sure you already know this. Keep writing anyway.

P.S. I like Edwin! Polite, but quite direct. And the possible motives for the offer are interesting. :)

A breathless soldier burst into the room, knuckling his forehead respectfully as he came to a halt. “Something’s happening! Highness, Trempwick’s before the gates.”

Eleanor dropped what she was doing and rushed from the solar, through the castle to the gatehouse. She arrived partway through her former master’s speech.

“- and for any who aids me I promise twenty marks in honest coin, to be paid immediately. For those who doubt I have the resources, allow me to give you a small taste of the bounty I command.” He rose in his stirrups and signalled towards his camp.

One of the catapults launched. Heartbeats later the missile landed, a cloth bag which splashed coins over the bailey as it impacted. Hundreds of coins glinting bright silver as they rolled and bounced over the cobbles.

“Money,” grunted Jocelyn. “Well, makes a change from severed heads, limbs, torsos and whathaveyou.”

Surprise wore off swiftly, and men threw themselves at the money, grubbing in the dirt to claim what they could.

A flash of bright white showed in Trempwick’s distant face, Eleanor knew he had grinned at her. He held up a hand in salute and rode away.

She spun away from the ramparts and crossed to the inside rampart of the gatehouse to look down on the growing chaos inside her fortress. The desperate hunt to scoop up the wealth was turning rough, predictably. As she watched one man drew his dagger and slashed at his nearest rival.

Eleanor commanded Sir Gervaise, “Get your most reliable men and get down there to stop that!”

Aware that time was of the essence Eleanor didn’t wait for the castellan to gather his forces. Filling her lungs she leaned as far over the inner wall as she dared. “Stop!” she shouted. “Cease at once!” When they ignored her Eleanor marched up to the sentry on the gatehouse. “You! Load that thing. Now.”

The man cranked back the arm of his crossbow, set a bolt in the grove and stood to attention. Eleanor snatched the weapon from his hands, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. In the bailey a man in a brown tunic clawed at the feathered shaft suddenly protruding from his back and crumpled to lie face down on the stones, still feebly trying to remove the bolt.

Having acquired some attention Eleanor tried again. “I said stop!” This time she was heeded by most. “Anyone who moves, dies. Drop whatever you have picked up. This money will be collected up and fairly shared out by Sir Gervaise.”

With excellent timing said knight arrived in the bailey with a knot of men at his back, grim faced and sword in hand. At a signal one of the band cracked the pommel of his sword onto the skull of a servant who had continued to collect up coins; the woman dropped like a sack of flour. Eleanor hoped she was only unconscious.

The moment balanced on a knife’s edge a heartbeat longer, then people began to grudgingly comply, standing off-guard and opening their hands so the money dropped back to the ground.

Eleanor breathed a covert sigh of relief. “You fools! You nearly played right into Trempwick’s hands. Chaos! Disorder! Greed! Precisely what he wants. He knows he cannot win this castle by force, so he seeks to have you surrender it to him. Fighting amongst yourselves to weaken our defences, or allowing greed to get the best of you so you believe his lies and open the gates. Let me tell you, you will receive no reward from him but a death every bit as hideous as that he inflicts on our captured! Why would he give you a fortune when he could simply kill you? Think on that.”

Enough, before she preached herself into being intolerable and they threw her to Trempwick out of pure spite. Sir Gervaise was more than capable of handling the rest.

Turning away from the inner rampart Eleanor noticed the men at arms were staring at her, near open-mouthed, an attitude they swiftly rectified when she glared at them.

Eleanor thrust the crossbow back into its owner’s arms. “I hate killing,” she commented through clenched teeth as she headed for the stairs.





A youth in Hugh’s livery bowed. “Sir Fulk, his Highness, prince Hugh, requests your company.”

Fulk reluctantly stood and left the corner where he’d been sitting alone and allowed the squire to lead him to his master.

Hugh was engaged in conversation with a pretty young girl, one whom, Fulk had noticed, he had favoured for most of the day.

Fulk made his bow and waited silently to be acknowledged.

“I desire you partner me in a game of chess.” The prince brushed his fingers across the back of the girl’s hand, and let it drop from his loose grip. “Such a contest will not entertain you, so I free you to seek out more befitting company.”

She dropped into a curtsey so low Fulk marvelled that she didn’t overbalance. “I thank you again for noticing me, sire.” Something in the way she spoke identified her as an educated commoner; a noble lady wouldn’t quite sound her words so.

Hugh inclined his head in a polite farewell, and led Fulk through the hall. The board was set up in an alcove at the high end of the hall. People had been gently discouraged from venturing to this area. A flagon of hippocras and two cups waited within convenient reach.

Sitting down before the white side the prince made his first move swiftly, a central pawn advanced two squares. “You think me a hypocrite to warn you to chaste behaviour and then allow men to push their daughters at me.”

“My lord, I …” Fulk met the prince’s hazel eyes and his diplomatic words halted.

“Am I to inform my subjects that their best is not good enough for me? Or shall I walk aloof, and seem unnatural?” Hugh’s nostrils flared. “And thanks be to Trempwick I am presently in need of as many children as I can sire, to put rest to the rumours about my capability to secure the succession.”

“Your position is one I don’t envy.”

“Kings take lovers. It is how it always has been, and so I expect it shall always continue. It is expected. It is remarkable when one does not, and not, I lament, in the positive way it should be.”

Fulk propped his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on them, surveying the board. “Yes.”

“Furthermore, as my wife is with child it is inadvisable for me to lie with her. It may harm the child. Hugh raised his chin. “In any case, does it not make me a man like any other man? I think you will find there are many who miss their wives, or whom find themselves lonely.”

Fulk smiled, wistful. “Myself among them, and worse than most, I expect since I’m but newly married and have had little time to spend with Eleanor.”

“You hold us in contempt, do you not?” Hugh shunted his chosen piece forward, building another link in a growing pawn chain. “You do not succumb to temptation while we do.”

“Not at all, my lord.”

Deep in the prince’s eyes hatred flared bright. “Liar.”

“No, my lord.” Fulk pressed his hands palm down on his thighs. “I’ve no reason to lie to you.”

Hugh’s lip curled and he said scornfully, “Tell me then, saint Fulk, how you resist the temptation to which other men fall.”

After a brief pause Fulk did, irked enough to not cull the crudity from his explanation. “When I first fell in love, years ago, I discovered that unless I had some feeling for the woman concerned I could save myself some bother and get much the same result with my own hand. So I do.”

“So, the truth behind the pristine façade. You are worse than any of us, throwing yourself away in a fruitless, solitary act that is the preserve of young boys and the most abjectly pathetic of those who have reached manhood.”

“By most lights, church’s and man’s, yes, I am worse. But at least no one’s harmed but myself. It’s better than letting my humours become unbalanced or risking a fatal congestion by abstaining completely.”

“You are most aggravating.”

Fulk’s feeling of tension flowed away. “So your sister tells me, frequently.”

“I find that whatever you do vexes me, and the knowledge of that fact irks me also. I will not have you betraying my sister, but learning you are a pervert who engages in that sordid act pleases me not at all. Yet I would be no happier if you were revealed as a passionless man.”

“Being who and what I am I’d be surprised if there was anything in that regard I could feel for your sister which would find your approval.”

Expressions warred with each other on the prince’s face. “I admit that is true,” he said eventually. “The thought of you touching her turns my stomach. The thought of you neglecting her, or judging her to be in some way unsatisfactory, makes me wish to kill you.”

“It is ever thus when a brother cares for his sister – or a father for his daughter. No one is good enough to meet full approval.”

Hugh’s brows contracted ever so very slightly. “Nell and I do not get on.”

“Yet you want her to be happy and safe.”

“I try to do my duty towards her. She has been … badly handled for much of her life. I would be despicable if I did not attempt to rectify this.”

The sentiment Fulk agreed with; the prince’s methods for the main part he did not. If he struggled to be objective Fulk could sympathise somewhat with Eleanor’s poor brother; the man had done in his best in the way he thought correct. When glimpses of the brother showed through the would-be king’s mask his care showed itself as surprisingly genuine.

“As you have been candid with me I shall return the … favour.” Hugh returned his attention to their game, blanking his body language so once more he was the tediously regal prince. “Were I left to my own devices, away from expectation and need, I would still commit the same sin. I recognise my weakness.” The prince’s eyes lost their focus as he gazed into some distant vista. “For a few precious minutes it makes me forget how I miss Constance, and all my fears.” Before Fulk could speak Hugh’s attention snapped back to the here and now. “This is not the reason I requested you join me for this game. I have a task for you.”

“My lord?”

“There is a thorn in my side, and I would have you blunt it.”

Fulk shifted uneasily, visions of being asked to do something underhand flashing through his head. “I’m only a knight-”

“You are my sister’s husband, and it is your obligation to safeguard her reputation.” Hugh deliberately made a move on the chess board. “I must demand you act as though we discuss matters of no import. While we are not overheard it is untrue that we are not observed.”

“My lord.”

“The man who leads the troops my sister sent misses no opportunity to slight Nell. He does this in defiance of my gentle requests he refrain from so doing. I cannot act more strongly; to my sorrow I need those men, and am unwilling to place myself on bad terms with Matilda and her husband.” Hugh sighed. “I fear there will be sufficient of that later.”

“Why does he do this?”

“As the eldest of my father’s daughters Matilda, by rights, would be his heir if there was no male to take precedence. The claim that has been put forth in Nell’s name tramples this right underfoot. Matilda is understandably … distressed.”

“And so her loyal people lose no opportunity to show their support by belittling Eleanor and the claim put forth by Trempwick.”

The prince inclined his head. “Just so.”

“I have already had difficulty with some being … let us say rude towards my wife, and towards myself.” Curtly Fulk finished, “I killed them.”

“I do not wish for that,” Hugh said. “Challenge him if he utters objectionable words in your hearing, or if you can honestly say news of his slights has reached your ears. I will allow a combat, but not to the death. Thus my duty towards both sisters is honourably discharged.”

The space between king and rook was clear; Fulk castled, and sat back to await his opponent’s move. “I shall do what I can.”

“There is one other thing I would ask of you with regards to this. Please, do not make it an objectionable scene, or disrupt the harmony of my court overly much.” The prince rubbed his brow. “Things are so delicate at present.”

Fulk met his prince’s eye and said gravely, “I will do nothing to bring infamy on me and mine.”

They played out their game, conversation tailing off as no new subject presented itself to replace the concluded business. It was a close game, one from which the prince emerged as the victor.

As they walked back into the main hubbub of the hall Hugh said, “You play well. Perhaps we may play again.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“If you had not married my sister I suspect I might have liked you.”

They parted ways, Hugh returning to his high company, Fulk to his corner in a bid to evade the tame-oddity curiosity he attracted.




Peasant Phill, lots of reasons ~:)

-When viewed in conjunction with the scenes close to it, it provides a nice island of calm amidst the screaming and politicking, and a good contrast between situations too. Nell’s under siege, her people being diced outside her gates and their remains flung in over the walls; Fulk’s having a nice victory banquet and thinking about the future.

-Assuming Fulk survives the ending he’s going to need the things which began to be established here, things an earl needs but he is denied because of his unusual status and circumstances. Assuming he doesn’t survive … well, he’s not to know that, and will continue to plan accordingly.

-It shows that not everyone is snubbing him. Indeed, to a certain set of people he is a special opportunity.

-It shows some insight into the Londoners’ views on what’s happened. Why did they defy Hugh? Why did they hesitate to open their gates after seeing the Greek fire? It also demonstrates how attitudes towards Hugh are changing: “Few expected him to be able to hold his own, and fewer believed he would be capable of acting as he has”

-A certain amount of character growth on Fulk’s part is also contained here. This is a conversation the man at arms and later knight would never have had, and a meal he’d not have taken part in except in a seat at the lowest end of the table or acting as Eleanor’s servant. The earl is steadily forming and finding his feet.

-A couple of others I won’t talk about until the story is done.



Furball, it gets worse. It’s now looking like I’m going to be the only member of management around for most of next week, with no one to cover my days off. Hurray for small children with chicken pox needing their mothers/people on holiday and out of the country bad timing combos. :crosses fingers and hopes someone can be borrowed from another branch so she can actually have days off:

:sniffle: I’m thinking it’s a pity that I had chicken pox when I was very young, else I might catch it from the manager when I see her, and then I’d have to have an entire two weeks off … Er, um and then I remember how ugly and itchy the whole chicken pox episode was, and change my mind.

I had to register here just so i could say this. Amazing story, please keep it up. I'll definately buy the book if it ever comes out(when it comes out, of course).

The Earl of Chester’s final stronghold had fallen, the last remnants of his army were gone, his person was in Welsh hands. Defeat, total defeat. With the utmost care Hugh disentangled himself from Cecilia and sat up at the edge of the bed, head in his hands. One large stride forward, one new hand clutching at his heel to drag him back! He had retaken London, and now must divert himself to the west instead of remaining in the east and heartlands to press the advantage he had gained.

Three days. His triumph had lasted three days. Three days since he had marched into London. He supposed he must be thankful to the Lord that he had been granted even this much respite, and knew he aught to embrace this latest trial with fortitude. If he were not tested how could he be found worthy?

Behind him Cecilia stirred in her sleep. Gently Hugh pressed the edge of the blankets away from her face, down so they lay on a level with her collar bone and would tickle her nose no more. A future must be found for this girl sooner than had been expected. He brushed a knuckle across her cheek. Yes. He would speak with her on the morrow and see what wishes she had, if she had given her future any consideration. He smiled, a mix of tender and grim. Yes, and at that time he would see what in truth she was. Whether her innocence was but an act, or whether she truly gave little thought to gaining by his attention. If it were but an act he knew he would find himself wounded; he found he had some tender feeling for this creature who had made him laugh, and forget, and feel protective in a way not fraught with the terror of failure and its high price. No rival for Constance, not close to it.

He resumed his contemplation of the matter which he had been worrying at for the entire day. Numerous councils with those closest to him had revealed little he had not already known, and having heard each man’s advice it was left to him to choose between the options he had already known himself confronted with heartbeats after receiving the news.

What to do about London?

The sound of a door slamming open had Hugh on his feet and moving for his sword. When his hand closed about the hilt he was already in the process of imposing his naked body between door and bed. If Trempwick’s assassins had finally come for him he may manage to hold them off long enough for his guard to come and rescue the girl.

The commotion grew to fever pitch; he braced himself as the door to his chamber burst open.

Fulk gasped, “Trempwick’s got Eleanor under siege.”






“We cannot merely abandon London.” It was the same refrain the Earl of Derby had been singing since news of Chester’s capture yesterday morning. Fulk wasn’t alone in stifling a sigh. This council had been circling about for hours, and growling stomachs reminded the room it was past time for breakfast. Time for action, too, by Fulk’s way of thinking.

The prince’s patience was nothing if not saintly. An observer fresh to this council would have said Hugh hadn’t heard the words before. “We do not have the resources to hold it. We need every last man under arms we can muster if we are to rescue my sister.”

“Do we need to?” Fulk’s eyes fixed on the chief of Hugh’s household knights with the promise that if he did not pick his next words carefully they would be crammed back down his throat; the man loosened his collar, perhaps remembering the defeat during a friendly training match that he’d suffered at Fulk’s hands when the latter had been but a knight in Eleanor’s service. “I mean, well, while he’s besieging Alnwick we know where Trempwick is. He’s taken many of his supporters with him. While they are away we can sweep through the areas he has left vulnerable and restore them to the fold.”

Hugh’s reply was soft. “I will not abandon my sister, Thomas.”

At the very same moment Fulk spoke. “I won’t abandon my wife.”

Thomas said, “Sire, I don’t speak of abandoning the lady Eleanor. I speak of capitalising on our enemy’s mistake. We could unite much of the country behind your banner, then turn to face Trempwick with a larger force. We’d be cutting him off, trapping him up north where he will have less resources to draw upon.”

Fulk met Hugh’s eyes in appeal. “By which time Eleanor will be in his hands.”

The rest of the council behaved as though he had not spoken, as they had done on each of the rare occasions he had attempted to contribute.

“Unite?” Serle ran his finger along his upper lip, back and forth, deep in thought. “There are … how many castles we’d have to subdue? How many petty armies? The entirety of the Welsh border, or as good as. How many garrisons would we have to provide?” Hugh’s marshal looked about the council meeting each man’s eye – except for Fulk’s. “It seems to me that it’s neither a quick or easy thing, and in no way does it guarantee us a stronger position to face Trempwick with. Then too it risks the princess’ safety.”

Thomas insisted, “Men are coming over to our lord because they see in him the victory in this conflict, and as long as that is so things becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. With each lord who bends knee our lord’s position grows stronger, and so more will bend knee.”

“You have London.” Someone groaned at Wymar of Derby’s words. The earl raised his voice a fraction and tried again, “You have London. Have yourself crowned, sire. Become a king in truth.”

Varin nodded. “It would strengthen your claim, yes. Strengthen yours and further weaken your sister’s false claim.”

Hugh laid both his hands palm down on the table and leaned back in his chair. “Hubris, sirs. I wonder if you are acquainted with the word? I shall not be guilty of it! Not another word on the matter, not a single one.” The room remained silent. Hugh folded his hands before him on the table. “It is in my mind that my coronation – should God will it happen – can function as a signal of a new beginning, and promote healing in this broken kingdom.”

“The matter in hand, sirs?” William – yes, another in the endless plague! – spoke mildly. “Need I remind you? We know of Trempwick’s location, and we have some word of the force accompanying him. He threatens our lord’s sister, the lady whom he wishes to place on the throne. What course should our lord take?” The sudden noise of the old man pounding his fist made some of the council jump. “That is what we are summoned to discuss, sirs! No more. Let us keep our focus and do what we can to aid our lord. Those who cannot should be excused from this gathering.”

Hugh inclined his head to the man. “Thank you, my lord of Suffolk.”

Silence held as the men reoriented their thoughts and waited for someone to begin discussion again.

If he would not be heard why had Hugh demanded he be present? He must have been intended to speak. On the basis of that Fulk seized the opportunity. “If Trempwick gets his hands on Eleanor his position is strengthened. Don’t underestimate him.” He could have saved his breath for all the notice that was taken.

Serle said, “Sire, if offered amiable terms Trempwick may be brought to submit to you-”

Hugh’s head came up. “I will not have that man as my subject, now or ever.”

“Exile-”

“No.”

“You are set on his destruction.”

Hugh let silence speak for him.

Suffolk cleared his throat. “He served your father long and well. If a reconciliation could be managed-”

“He has done the unforgivable.”

The old earl straightened his shoulders and met the prince’s eyes directly. “Sire, you know I have stood at your side since the beginning so I pray you’ll hear me now and forgive me. I feel my words must be said. Many men have called you a bastard, and many more will. Many have risen against you, and it will happen again in the future no matter how strong your throne. Men must have hope of reconciliation with you else you leave them no option but to battle on to the death, and that will make none happy.”

“I have reconciled with those who have come to me,” Hugh replied stiffly.

“Yes, and that is well.”

The Earl of Derby was nodding. “Well indeed, for I should hate to lose my head.” He made a show of rubbing his neck as though he could feel the threat of the executioner’s axe. It had taken him a long time to throw his lot in with the prince; his presence at this council was a nod to his experience and service to the old king, not his loyalty to Hugh. “Sire, I pray you will forgive me also, though I’m less deserving than Suffolk. I agree with him. If you cannot tolerate him in your realm, exile him. If you kill him then men will wonder if they may oppose you and live. That, sire, creates a festering wound, and when it bursts you shall face men who know they must win or die.”

Suffolk picked up where the other left off. “Raoul was your father’s friend and his best ally. It would sit ill to see him killed by your father’s son.”

In this moment Fulk recognised a truth which hadn’t occurred to him before. The notables in this land would not allow Trempwick to fall too far, for fear that one day the same would happen to them. They would seek to bind Hugh’s hands to strengthen their own power, and as the prince could not speak of the covert war waged against him over the course of years he had no reasonable way to challenging his lords. To do so would be to appear tyrannical, just as speaking of the strikes Trempwick had against him would make him seem a paranoid maniac. Precious few kings ruled absolute; Hugh started in a position weaker than most due to this war, and would need to claw his way into the saddle inch by painful inch. Only then could he address the task of taming the beast and asserting his dominance over it.

Fulk’s temper had been growing fouler by the minute. Eleanor was close to falling into Trempwick’s hands and if none other could recognise what that meant, he did. He’d gather his men and go alone if he knew it wouldn’t be futile suicide. When he tried to speak these lords ignored him. They failed to give their prince the council he needed because they did not know Trempwick! They were thinking of this war as identical to any other.

Thomas suggested, “A show of force. It may serve. If my lord was to march to Alnwick’s aid in full splendour it may be possible to open a dialogue with the rebels.”

Something in Fulk snapped. He burst to his feet and slammed his hands on the tabletop. “Enough!”

Every eye in the room settled on him, none friendly. Ralph, Earl of Oxford, wrinkled his nose. “You forget yourself!”

“I forget nothing.” Fulk slapped a hand on the table once again. “That man must not get his hands on my wife-”

William of Suffolk interrupted, hands raised in a soothing gesture. “It is good you are concerned about the princess-”

He was interrupted in his turn by Hugh. “Let the man speak.”

Fulk bowed. “Thank you, sire.” He took a moment to take control of his temper. “I served in that man’s household for near half a year. I know the man who lies behind the courtier’s veneer. I know what he’s capable of. If he gets his hands on Eleanor then he’ll have a good chance to recover his position, even to win. People have deserted him because he’s losing – if he gains control of Eleanor he won’t be losing any more.” Inwardly he grimaced at his blunt words. He was treading close to the edge of what was acceptable. “If he’s got her then he’s got something to offer people once again: stakes in the kingdom he’s going to build in her name. Prince Hugh will have lost face, and that will hurt his cause too. Once he takes control of Eleanor it will be near impossible to rescue her.” If indeed there was much left of her to rescue. Fulk stiffened his sinews and refused to further contemplate that. “Or if you will not believe that, then consider this. We know where he is, and we know he’ll be staying there for a time. This is the best chance we’ve had to put an end to him. From the reports my man brought me we can about match him in terms of numbers.”

“You speak of battle.” Wymar’s words were cautiously neutral, the intonation of a man not wanting to appear a coward. “I question the sense of this. Battle is an unpredictable thing, and if defeat would finish him then so to would it finish us. You say the numbers would be about even? Then we have no clear advantage. Our army would be tired after the march; Trempwick’s would be fresh.” He shook his head. “It is a very great risk, and one I warn against.”

The German was quick to follow this up. “But could not more forces be gathered on the march? Wouldn’t the castle’s garrison sally to aid us?”

Thomas said, “Yes. However Trempwick must be expecting us to march on him. The way will not be easy, even if the entire affair is not a trap.” He turned to Fulk. “How reliable is this messenger in any case?”

At least they no longer behaved as though he were a ghost. “I trusted Waltheof sufficiently to leave him in control of Ashington. He rode immediately on being told Alnwick was threatened, rode so hard he more than half killed himself.”

Serle added, “We’ve had other, matching reports. There is no doubt; he is there.”

Thomas pursed his lips. “It stinks like a trap. We should send scouts and do nothing before we have more detailed information.”

“There is no time.” Fulk clasped his right hand about his left, thumb and index finger coming to rest touching his wedding ring. Five weeks of marriage and he was perilously close to becoming a widower.

To the surprise of all Hugh rose. He stood as straight as a spear, head up and hands clasped behind his back. “We will march north with all speed – all speed, that we may hope to take Trempwick by surprise. We will fight as necessary, if necessary and when necessary. On our arrival within proximity of Alnwick we shall attack the siege camp if it is opportune. If not we shall pause to assess the situation. The path ahead will be heavily scouted throughout the march; we shall not walk blind into a trap, nor place ourselves in a position where we must do battle with slender chance at victory.” The prince aimed his next words primarily towards Wymar. “My army will be withdrawn from London in its entirety, not a man left behind. The crown jewels and all else of import I shall send under close guard to my wife at Waltham. I shall trust the city to hold its loyalty to me better than it has in the past. I shall need every last man; better to lose the city than my kingdom, and one might hope they recall my clemency this time and what I have promised to do should I need to take this city by force again.”

Hugh paused so they could absorb this. “This is a chance to bring an end to this accursed war, for once Trempwick falls the serpent will have no head. As for what shall be done with him, let us return to that when he is in our hands. Alnwick is correct: we cannot allow him to capture my sister.” He paused a second time. “As for the Welsh Marches, I find it quite apt to entrust that defence to the eastern-most of the midland lords.” He bared his teeth in an expression which would have been more at home on the snout of a wolf. “They refused to obey my command to muster into an army to aid Chester. Now it is their lands which shall be ravaged, unless they do as I commanded and defend them. I would think, sirs, we may trust them to do that, and perhaps next time they shall heed my words.”

Hugh made a very shallow bow to his council. “This is my will, sirs. Let it be done. I desire to be on the road by midday.” He departed without giving them chance to protest.

The Earl of Suffolk laughed aloud, incredulous. “Now who did that remind you of?”

“The old king,” answered Wymar. “When he had already settled his mind on a matter and wished to see if his council could change it, and found that we could not.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Suffolk’s enthusiasm manifested in a broad smile. “It warms my heart to see the prince take up this corner of his father’s mantle.”

Wymar matched William’s smile with a dry one of his own. “Let us pray he has also taken up his father’s knack for making the right decision at such times.”





Worn down by exhaustion little Ellen slipped into slumber, her hands gradually losing the death-grip they’d had on her mother’s dress since the screaming had first started yesterday morning. Aveis handed her daughter over to the child’s nurse, careful not to wake her. “Put her to bed, and be sure to remain with her in case she wakes.”

“At least someone sleeps,” Hawise commented as the nurse carried the child away.

Contrary to the expectations of most in Alnwick Trempwick had not ceased his assault on the garrison’s resolve when night fell. Twin bonfires had been lit either side of the stake and its occupant and the torture had continued throughout the night. When the prisoner had died – the second since this began – the third was brought out. As with the first prisoner to die this latest corpse had been beheaded and all four limbs severed. The head and both legs had been shot over the walls so far; the remainder would undoubtedly follow.

Eleanor drank half her cup of small ale, and bravely attempted a bit of plain bread. Breakfast. Not what her stomach desired, tender as it was from the grisly sights she could still see if she closed her eyes. Two small mouthfuls later she gave up, feeling as though the bread had lodged at the base of her throat. “Where are they?” she demanded, pushing away from the table and pacing around the room.

Neither companion answered; they had no better idea of Jocelyn’s and Gervaise’s whereabouts then she.

Opening the solar door Eleanor commanded the men who stood on guard there, “Find Sir Gervaise and Sir Jocelyn and tell them that I am awaiting them.”

It took a while but eventually the two men made an appearance.

Eleanor raised an eyebrow in silent rebuke at their tardiness in delivering the report she had requested be delivered to her first thing this morning. “Well?”

Sir Gervaise spoke for both men. “Still no sign of siege engines or such. Morcar’s torso was returned to us a short while ago; that’s why we were delayed, your Highness.”

Jocelyn pulled a face. “It hit person. They dead too.”

Since hysterical laughter wouldn’t help much Eleanor swore instead.

The castellan raised his own eyebrows at that unladylike slip.

Eleanor rubbed her forehead. “Oh Jesù, what rotten luck. They will soon be opening the gates and throwing me out.”

“Things aren’t so bad yet, your Highness.”

Eleanor repeated the most significant word in the Gervaise’s speech. “Yet.”

“We should find something to keep the men at arms busy. Doing something will raise morale, people won’t feel like they are sitting waiting for rescue or death.”

“Have you any suggestions?”

Sir Gervaise shook his head. “I’d suggest a sally or something else to harm our foe, but I don’t dare. If our men should be captured Trempwick will have them butchered before our gates.”

“We cannot allow ourselves to be paralysed by fear.” Would Trempwick be expecting her to launch a counter attack, or would he expect her to keep her men close from fear for their lives? Did he think her but a passive opponent, frozen by the thought of her master descending to do as he always had and defeat her? Or had he prepared for her to fling every last ounce of herself into the struggle?

“A thing you should know, your Highness. They wonder why the hel- er, why you not order crossbow man to shoot for you. They wonder when you learn to shoot.” Jocelyn scowled, oozing disapproval. “What you did was …” He struggled visibly for a second before managing a tame description. “Not natural for lady.”

Sir Gervaise said, “An old story has been brought back up. Something about you killing a would-be abductor with your own hand.”

She managed to control her irritation over being interrupted mid-thought. “That has never been a secret.”

“It was assumed to be an – an accident, almost. A frantic thing done in the heat of the moment.”

Battered and more than half-dazed, watching Fulk and his tiny band struggle to her rescue, thrown over the shoulder of a man struggling to open Waltham’s outer gate to carry her away to Trempwick, the struggle to draw her abductor’s dagger and drive it home … Eleanor remembered only too clearly. “It was,” she said quietly.

Sir Gervaise bowed. “Your Highness, forgive me my poor wording. Before it was assumed you’d struck lucky, no skill or planning involved. Now a few wonder otherwise.”

Eleanor moulded herself into incredibility. “Are you suggesting I am a trained killer, sir?”

The castellan’s face flamed, and he made yet another obeisance. “Forgive me, your Highness.”

Mercifully Jocelyn kept silent about the practice session he’d witnessed.

She let a touch of coldness into her voice. “I am a fair shot with a crossbow because I use one when I hunt. Many ladies can use a hunting bow. As I had but little occasion to hunt I could not keep up the skill required to hit with a bow. Hence the crossbow. It is less skilful.” To add substance to this cover she would now have to go hunting occasionally, worse luck. “A man at medium range is a large enough target, and I admit there was an element of good luck.”

“It shall be made known.”

“Subtly, if you please. Any other way will heighten the rumours to the contrary.”

“Of course, your Highness.”

Eleanor weighed her options once again, and went with gut instinct. “I desire you to look at the feasibility of launching some kind of strike against Trempwick tonight. It must be an action which brings our people back safely, and has a high chance of something we could term success.” Trempwick best knew her as someone who disliked risking other’s lives, whom could always shrank before him when he turned to face whatever pitiful challenge she had mustered. She rose, signalling that this audience was at an end. “I leave the matter in your capable hands. Bring your proposals to me in two hours time.”






Welcome, Molbo. You’re probably in need of these :hands over the famous ‘Eleanor’ eye drops:

Glad to see another chapter! This is beginning to look like "it." (That is, the denoument.)

<insert words of encouragement and gentle admonitions to not be rushed here>

Just a note to say I am still here, and I particularly enjoyed the last installment. I'll join furball in saying: please carry on, but take your time.

Yes, a lucky shot, right .......

I really loved Hugh's war council and the mixed feelings when prince Hugh turns out to be his father's son.

Like I already said, I can't wait to read the climax. But I agree with Furball and Ludens, no need to rush it.

Madness! Why hadn’t he stopped her? Why hadn’t he counselled against this? Why oh why in the name of sweet innocent cherubs had he been bloody stupid enough to damned well bloody volunteer?!

Jocelyn’s hands entered the unconscious pre-battle dance, checking sword, helmet lacing, shield straps, dagger. The familiar actions steadied his nerves. “Go. Moving.”

The ropes were tossed over the wall, coils unwinding until with a snap they reached their full extent. Black-clad men in light armour swung themselves over the wall and began to climb down. They’d chosen a spot in the shadow of a tower; their activity would be hard for enemy sentries to spot. Or such was the hope.

Like the brave leader he was Jocelyn stepped up as quickly as any of them and started his own decent, all the while cursing himself as a bloody fool! If he got captured then he’d deserve to be cut to bits! Please, Lord, that would not happen. Divine protection, the same gentle favour which had shone its soft light upon him all his life, yes, that’s what he needed right now. That and approximately three-thousand fully armed knights.

His feet touched the ground. Releasing the rope he swung his borrowed shield onto his arm and hurried forward in a half-crouch to join his raiding party.

Once the men were all formed up he indicated that the archers should ready their bows by means of cunning gestures – why the damned hell had he taken a group of idiots who couldn’t speak his language?! – and started the advance.

One might think that they’d go to put an end to their comrade’s suffering on that infernal stake. One would be wrong. Jocelyn hoped Trempwick was a one, like the princess said. Well, more like abjectly prayed he would be; hope was too light a damned word. He led his band onward, right hand tight on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Two sentries sat at the campfire he’d chosen as a target. When they’d got as close as he dared he held up his hand to signal a halt, pointed at the men who’d been named as the best shots in the group and then again at the sentries.

Kneeling the men nocked their arrows, drew and loosed. Both sentries sprouted feathered shafts and toppled over.

See? God did love him! Jocelyn drew his sword and aimed the tip of it at the enemy camp. The archers remained in position to offer support for the withdrawal. All the others followed Jocelyn’s splendid example.

Dispersing amongst the tents the men at arms plunged weapons into sleeping bodies. Not sullying his hands with murder Jocelyn stood by the fire hoping any inquisitive enemies would mistake him for a sentry.

Then there was shouting – the alarm was raised! Jocelyn swore with creativity that could only be called admirable under the circumstances. He was damned if he knew what had given the game away, but he didn’t plan on hanging about to become a carve-your-own-count for that sick bastard with a knife who’d been showing off his fearful skills outside the gates for all too bloody long!

Jocelyn snatched up a bit of burning wood from the fire and touched it to the walls of the nearest tent. The English idiots soon got the idea, and set a few blazes of their own. It was a right good idea, Jocelyn thought. Until the flames spread and made the location of trouble all too bloody obvious!

“Back! Running! Away! Thing!” Jocelyn waved his right arm vigorously in the direction of Alnwick castle. As he jogged along in the midst of his retreating party he realised a small oversight on his part. He didn’t know how to command an orderly retreat in this bloody language. One word writ itself large in his mind, decorated with fancy gold work and pictures of nymphs and stuff: shit! What good all his nice courtly language now!? Tildis never thought of that did she? Oh no, not a chance.

The first men were sprinting out after them now, weapons in hands. A few had snatched up shields, those being the ones with a bit more thought about them then the other rebel bastards. Wakened rudely from their sleep they weren’t in the best shape for a fight. Like sheep to the wolves, and the Englishmen were the wolves. Er, his Englishmen. The other lot were the sheep. Naturally.

Jocelyn barked one of the commands he had so painstakingly learned that afternoon. “Shield wall!” The men skidded to a halt and formed up shoulder to shoulder with Jocelyn in the centre, black-painted shields locking together rim to rim. The archers sprinted up and took up positions behind the body of infantry.

Jocelyn made his intent quite clear with a bit more sword waving. “Kill the bastards!” Alright, so he didn’t know any local version of that, but it seemed like they got the general idea. The formation started forward, a little ragged at first but recovering its shape after the first steps.

The pursuers slowed, looked about for support.

Jocelyn grinned. This was more like it! “A d’Ardantes! A d’Ardantes!”

His battle cry was echoed by the men at arms. “Alnwick and vengeance!” It wasn’t the most inspired of battle cries but Jocelyn guessed it might loosen the bowels a bit if one had a guilty conscience over dicing men up into itty bitty pieces and catapulting them at their friends.

One of the dithering rebels went down with an arrow in his shoulder. His friends began to head back at the attackers, forming up themselves. More men ran to their support, and in the distance yet more bloody rebels could be seen heading to the nice big “come here!” blaze some prize idiot had gone and started.

Jocelyn made one of those bold commander’s decisions. “Running!”

The shield wall dissolved around him as men turned their backs and started to run for all they were worth.

“Bugger!” Orderly retreat! That was what was needed, not some every man for himself sprint race! If the rebels mustered a bit of cavalry then they’d be cut down like so many fleeing cowards!

Not wanting to be left behind Jocelyn put on a good turn of speed, sword whistling as it sliced through the air over and over in his pumping fist. His natural fleetness of foot soon had him in the front of the pack.

With maybe five hundred paces left to the walls he heard what he hadn’t wanted to: bloody horses, and closing fast!

“Stopping!” he gasped. “Shield … thing! Shield wall!”

To their credit most of the men halted and formed up like the seasoned soldiers they were.

The incoming horsemen were pitiful. A handful of men who’d grabbed some clothes and their weapons and had leapt bareback onto their animals. One lucky chap got his horse shot out from under him; the others reined in at the last moment, turning and riding a short distance away, casting back insults and threats.

Instinctively the shield wall was inching backwards, for which Jocelyn was glad. He couldn’t remember how you commanded that one and he didn’t fancy standing about here until enough enemy idiots mustered to come and turn him into a martyr for his cause.

While they were still fifty paces out of range of supporting fire from the castle walls the counter attack Jocelyn had been dreading caught up with them: a body of men able to match them in numbers, hastily equipped and out for blood.

Warding off blows with his shield he countered where he could, sending one back with a wounded arm and giving another a torn out throat. Around him his borrowed soldiers laid into the rebels with vicious enthusiasm. All the time the formation kept on inching back, back, back towards the safety promised by the walls. His blood caught fire; at last the chance to do something other than sit about being bored! He was angry, he was fed up, he wanted to go home, and he was going to stick his sword right where a bunch of these goons didn’t want it!

A crossbow bolt flew harmlessly by, another, a third sent a rebel to his knees screaming in anguish. The enemy edged back, disengaged, broke and ran in their turn.

Jocelyn wiped the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his tunic. “Hoo-bloody-ray.”

The men on the walls continued to take pot-shots at anyone they thought to be in range until the last of the raiding party had climbed back up the ropes.

It was with an air of satisfaction that Jocelyn cleaned the blood off the blade of his sword. He’d led a right heroic venture, and no mistake! Successful, brave, and barely a single loss. He could be proud of himself.

The men at arms were fussing amongst themselves, elation dying in a way which made Jocelyn’s guts go all funny. He didn’t like it, not one bit. Something was wrong and it was going to undercut his heroics.

Sir Gervaise was the one to translate the babble into something Jocelyn could understand. “Harold didn’t return. No one saw him fall.” The castellan blew out a breath and shrank in on himself. “I shouldn’t have let him go. I should have known.”

“Traitor?”

“The first prisoner was his brother. I thought this would be vengeance enough. Looks like I was wrong.” The castellan crossed himself, forehead to naval, shoulder to shoulder. “I pray God we won’t see him on that stake tomorrow.”








Carve-you-own-count, hehe :D

True story. Yesterday afternoon I seated myself at my computer, replete with the warm glow which comes from finishing a 932 page brick of a book, and contemplated the amount of writing I could get done in my six day holiday. The PC booted up, I clicked start, navigated to the short cut to Eleanor – and nearly fell out of my chair because of some extremely loud drilling on the wall behind me. The neighbour is having his house done up. :cries: The timing would have been comical if it weren’t so cruel! I can’t write with that kind of racket going on! I’m no better off than I am when I’m working; I can only write in the evenings. :cries some more:

It keeps thundering too. You know how I feel about using my PC when I can hear thunder. My melted PC was plugged in to a surge protector; I don’t trust the things.



It’s a good thing the three of you are able to be patient. That curse on me seems to be alive and well. Random reader: “I love this story; I hope it never ends!” Evil Genie: “Bwa ha ha ha! Granted! She’ll have every problem imaginable, and then a few more!” :tongueg:

Loving the story, here, too! Yay, Jocelyn!

Poor Froggy! Noise like that drives me crazy. Go read in a coffee shop during the day and write in the evening? (I hope to heck they aren't making noise after tea-time.)

Yes, people have this tendency to do stuff like that at the most inconvenient times, either while you´re home because of holidays, or on weekends, when you actually hope for something like relaxing in quiet. But no, some DIY freak always decides that this is the best time for checking whether in the past week an oil well developed inside the wall (it´s amazing just how much holes people seem to be able to drill into a wall).

And yes, I´m still alive and following your story. Following as in saving up reading material for some time when I´ve got a lot of it on my hands, so I can sit down and have nice, huge chunks to read.

Trempwick bowed in his saddle. “Good morning, dear wife.”

“Rot in hell!”

Eleanor guessed at his amusement, unable to see it from this distance. “You always were irritable when deprived of sleep, beloved Nell. Forgive me for keeping you from your rest these past nights. Alas, it could not be helped. There is no way to make … noise carry to select ears.”

“Noise?” Eleanor clenched her fists and wished her master was in range for a punch. “You were cutting people up! My people!”

Down on his horse the spymaster shrugged, exaggerating the movement so it carried over the distance clearly. “A necessary evil to persuade your captors to set you free.”

“I am not a prisoner!”

Trempwick cocked his head to one side. “You mean to say you choose this?”

Sensing a trap Eleanor hesitated to reply.

“You choose to hide behind those walls while others die, merely so you may claim to be wed to a handsome toy and evade your inheritance, your duty to this realm and its people?”

Off to one side Jocelyn raised his eyebrows and muttered, “Got a point,” in his native tongue.

Eleanor filled her lungs and bellowed, “No! I choose not to surrender to your lies and help you usurp my brother’s throne! I will not be your puppet.”

Some muttered langue d’oil commented, “Got a point.”

“Puppet?” The little figure on the horse shook his head. “Beloved Nell, how could you think such a thing?”

She crossed her arms. “Easily.”

“Oh, Nell! Do not let the fears of those who would keep you tied down to a place less than that which is yours by right disturb you. The bastard and all those who support him will do their utmost to keep you under their control, and make you believe you act so of your own will.”

“Rubbish.”

Trempwick nudged his horse a few steps forward, perilously close to the outmost edges of crossbow range. “Can you honestly say Hugh has never tried to curtail you? To force you into becoming what he believes you should be? To place himself in the superior position, and reduce you to a meek creature which obeys his every whim?”

No, she could not say that. Her need to seek a passable reply slowed her, and again Trempwick got there first.

“You cannot. If you did I would call you a liar, dear Nell. How many times did the court see him beat you in an effort to make you behave as he wished? How many slights were there, public and private? How often were you pressed into his shadow? How often were you pulled into the light only so he could be seen to slap you back into the darkness?”

“And how many times did my father do the same?” Eleanor let a trace of her temper show; let him think he was flustering her. “The answer is writ upon my back, most famously. Or infamously, if you prefer.” She laughed scornfully. “And you claim he made me his heir?”

Jocelyn cleared his throat.

Even at this distance Eleanor knew Trempwick’s eyes met her own. This conversation was steadily becoming more private, less aimed at the ears of their many spectators. “Your father, may he rest in peace, was very different to your half-brother, beloved Nell. I think you know that, deep down. You fought. You argued. You disagreed. It was … nasty in the extreme. However, dearest Nell, it all came from who and what you both were. It was a clash of people. Not one of position. He never publicly shamed you. He never impinged upon your position. Not once did he suggest you were anything but his daughter and to be paid every last bit of deference due to you as such.”

“He kept me in a situation most unfitting for my rank.”

“Were you any less a princess because you did not eat gilded peacock?”

Eleanor made a complaint of something she had been glad of, “Kept from court I was close to forgotten-”

“And safe!” Trempwick pointed at her. “Safe, and able to learn that which you needed. Think of Hugh’s reaction when he discovered what you had learned, Nell! He was horrified.”

A point which would be easy to refute if only it wouldn’t be foolhardy in the extreme to admit she had been trained to kill. “Let us speak of you and your own deeds. You attempted to carry me off by force-”

“Rescue you.”

“Which is why I was knocked near-unconscious and dragged away when I expressed no desire to accompany your thugs?”

“A regrettable misunderstanding-”

“No!” she shouted. “By your design. You wanted your puppet back at any cost.”

“I wanted my wife back-”

Again she interrupted, knowing she needed momentum if she were to keep from being trodden underfoot by him. “I am NOT your wife!”

“Nell, dearest-”

“I am the wife of Sir Fulk FitzWilliam de la Bec, Earl of Alnwick. The ceremony was witnessed by hundreds, as was the proof your claims can only be false.”

To her dismay Trempwick only laughed, shaking his head in a kind of pity. “Nell, Nell, oh my poor Nell. Blood has so many sources, and so many ways of being drawn. A nosebleed, a cut or bite to an area covered by hair or difficult to view when the body is oriented in a standing position. Even, dare I be so crude, the female passage. A scratch there would be impossible to detect. Speaking of which, an enterprising soul could conceal a small vial of blood there, to be retrieved once alone.” He looked at her again and she could feel his exhilaration at striking what he thought would be the blow which made her back down, as she always had in the past. “Did they check your fingernails for traces of blood? Did they examine every last inch of you and the bastard-knight?”

“You filthy-minded git!” As easily as that he’d sewn the seeds of a doubt which would never die. “And what of your own claims? They are every bit as open to doubt, and a damned sight more so as I deny you. That blood probably came from a goat!”

“Beloved Nell, I do not blame you. You were to be disposed of, made into a thing which could not rival your half-brother. Your marriage to me was to be discredited.” He hung his head as though distressed by his next words. “Nell, maybe it is easier for you to deny what has been done to you, and I know it would be dangerous for you sing a song other than the one your captors dictate. But I want you to know I do not blame you, or feel anything for you but the care I felt before. I hate myself for not being able to save you in time.” His head came back up. “As for your rapist,” he set his hand to the hilt of his sword. “There will be a reckoning.”

“If anyone is going to bear that unhappy label it will be you, except I firmly intend to die before you can get your filthy, treacherous hands on me!” Through the mists of her rage Eleanor noticed that her companions were all edging discretely away from her, all except Hawise. The maid had witnessed a royal explosion before and thus presumably felt in no danger of life or limb. “There will be a reckoning. My husband and my king will be marching to destroy you – all I need do is keep you here. You cannot run away empty-handed for that would mean the final defeat of your cause. You will not win when they bring you to battle. And I promise you, I will not be taken alive. Storm these walls and you ensure your defeat – you cannot rule without me, Raoul Trempwick.” She let him digest her words, let the others digest them. “Do you doubt me?”

“No, Nell. I do not.” He held up a finger. “Except in one detail. Should it come to battle I will win.”

“You are not a general. My brother is.”

“God will aid the righteous.”

That pious nugget was for the benefit of the audience; Eleanor was tempted to retch. “Yes, he will.”

“When the pair of misbegotten accidents lie dead there will be none left to compel you to mouth these lies.”

“Only death will put an end to your lies. I look forward to it.”

“And so to business.” Somehow the man made it sound like he was sighing the words, not shouting them across a large distance. “Hear this! I run low on patience.”

“And time,” Eleanor muttered, drawing a stern look from Sir Gervaise.

“The rest of my army has arrived. You will have seen a certain change in the local countryside.” He indicated the clouds of smoke hanging in the sky; burned villages, devastated fields. “I hold you to have declined terms. You know what that means.”

An army gone to rampage. Killing, raping, looting, torturing. No quarter given, no mercy. No exemptions; male or female, adult or child, noble or common, soldier or civilian, inside the castle or merely unlucky enough to be caught near it all would share whatever fate Trempwick’s soldiers cared to send them to. Standard practice; it was the reason so many besieged places came to terms when they felt the end was close.

Sir Gervaise sounded calm as he replied, “Relief will come.”

“You imagine I have not dispatched men to harass any army attempting to come this way?” Trempwick shook his head. “Let me tell you, sir, I have taken every measure available to me. If aid does come it will be in poor condition to face my army, and too late to save you.”

“Am I to take your word for this? You must think me born yesterday.”

“I level the same accusation at you. I would be the worst kind of fool to come here and leave myself exposed.” Trempwick’s mount sidled; the spymaster soon had it under control again. The lapse was enough to convince Eleanor of his tenseness – and to make her wonder if he wanted her to believe him more desperate than he was. The spymaster raised his voice. “You have also seen my generosity. You have seen I keep my word.”

Gervaise spat at the ground. “We’ve seen you consort with traitors!”

Having raised objection at the label of traitor and received a pitiless two-fronted condemnation of her softness from both of her advisors Eleanor kept her opinion to herself. Well enough to say neither knight would be ill-mannered enough to show anything but deference to her here, they would have more than sufficient time to make her eardrums ring for it later, and again for showing disunity within those at the centre of this siege, and again for displaying her weakness in a way which would steal heart from the soldiers. When captured and faced with Trempwick’s stake anyone would gabble what information they could, take the reward, and ride for freedom like all hell was on their tail.

Eleanor called, “How far did you let him get before he was killed and all that you gave him taken back?”

“One does not encourage men to one’s side by slaughtering those who change allegiance.”

“Do you deny your last prisoner was killed by Harold before you captured him?”

“I do not deny it, nor do I deny the man split from your little attack force in a misguided attempt to avenge his brother.” A pause, then he purred, “I do not deny he chose to tell me all he knew and renounce his former allegiances the moment I stepped into his presence.” Trempwick pulled on the reins making his horse step through a half-turn. “Life is the sweetest thing known to man, and sweeter still when imperilled. The younger one is the more this is true. Body and soul will labour to remain together; when at the brink anything is preferable to that final nothing. It is easy to speak of facing death in cold blood. You will find most flinch from it the instant realisation dawns.” Suddenly his focus was no longer on her, his words not solely for her. “Harold faced the choice. He chose life. I did not have to do a thing. Each of you will face that choice, face it now.”

“Yes,” drawled Sir Gervaise. “We can surrender to you and be killed like dogs, or we can hold out and be rescued by our lord.”

“As you will. We shall see how your resolve lasts.” Trempwick’s attention locked on Eleanor again. “When a ruler neglects their duty it is the people who suffer. They depend on the crown to keep the peace. Would that England had such a ruler.” He rode away, signalling to his camp as he went.

Men at arms began to erect new stakes at intervals around Alnwick while others dragged out prisoners taken from the raids on the surrounding settlements.








And so, at last, I get to write the first proper Nell/Trempy scene in over a year! I’ve had bits of dialogue from this stored safely at the end of my manuscript since the very beginning.

“Were you any less a princess because you did not eat gilded peacock?” That line is pure Trempwick. One of my favourites by him.

Humph. As soon as I got a bit of peace and quiet I managed this in an hour. That only makes the week spend trying and failing worse. A pox on people drilling and hammering! The noise stopped on Saturday afternoon. I was back at work on the Sunday.

Furball, in the end I walled myself up in my bedroom and read endlessly. My Playstation 2 got a bit of a workout too. Not quite what I’d planned to be doing, but enjoyable.

Ciaran, I admit to wondering if Trempwick had got you :tongueg:

:laugh4: Not quite. Only too little time to read and review. I think I left off when Jocely tried his hand at letter-writing. The advantage of long intervalls of reading that I´ll have a lot to read in one piece. And I really like reading huge chunks in one go.

“The scouts report a group of rebels is working to destroy the bridge near Repton,” Hugh told his council. “Around seventy men at a rough count.”

The Earl of Derby pounded his fist on the cantle of his saddle. “They dare intrude upon my lands! By God, I’ll see them dead!”

Serle brushed his hair back from his face, only for the wind to blow it right back into his eyes. “Sooner rather than later, I’d hope, Wymar. If we have to divert our path we’ll lose time.”

“If we’re going to lose time I’d rather we did it by halting to hold this council,” suggested Thomas wryly.

Hugh stated, “We will not lose time. Whatever must be done to make all speed we will do, be it marching in the dark or discussing strategy in our saddles.”

“I was jesting.”

The prince frowned at the leader of his household knights. “I would rather you turned your mind to a solution.”

“If any man amongst us needs to think on what to do he needs casting out as unfit to advise you, my lord.” Thomas ran his hand over his hair again and angled his head so that this time the wind didn’t undo his efforts. “With respect, of course.”

“True.” The prince produced a smile worn thin by close to three full days marching at an unrelenting pace. “However, let it never be said I do not seek council and behave as a tyrant.”

The Earl of Derby spurred his horse forward, and twisted in his saddle to look back at his fellows. “Sire, let me lead the counter attack. We’re entering my lands; I know the terrain, and their presence threatens what is mine.”

Hugh watched the ground pass beneath his horse’s hooves, thinking. “Thomas?”

“My lord?”

“Gather a hundred men, all able to fight mounted. Form them up near the front of the army.”

“My lord.” The knight dragged his horse about and dug in his spurs.

Wymar enquired again, “Might I lead them, my lord?”

Hugh did not feel it would be wise to allow such a recent convert to his cause to lead this action. If the way were not cleared the army would have to divert to use another crossing point and that would add a half day to the march, more if the rebels acted sensibly and set about making the alternate crossings impassable. In addition he was uneasy with loosing the earl to avenge the violation of his lands; weariness clouded all of their minds as it was, and needed no aid from anger.

It came to him that he had a man to lead this small engagement. A man whom he required to distinguish himself, whom he needed to test to take the measure of. “Alnwick?”

His brother-by-law ceased to stare at the horizon. “Yes, my lord?”

“Take the men Thomas gathers for you and lead them west with speed. The scouts report there is another crossing point about five miles along, too minor to be of use to our army. Cross there and come along to hit the rebels from the rear. Try not to let any escape; they would but cause us trouble later.”

Fulk touched a hand to his brow in a salute. “As you order.”

Wymar’s reaction to being passed over did not go unnoticed; the man became stiff in his saddle, face set.

As the man rode away the Earl of Suffolk commented, “Put him in harm’s way and mayhap harm will find him. A problem solved with the minimum of embarrassment.”

Hugh rounded on the old man. “Such words are a disgrace and ill befit you. That you think me possible of acting in such a way …” The spark burned out, and Hugh broke eye contact. He changed his instinctive reply for the truth; he spoke it and counted the pain as a fragment of his penance. “Is not so surprising as I would wish, considering some of my recent deeds. What is best if seldom what is pleasant.”





Fulk rode at a canter back to the section of the column where his men marched. He drew into place between his squire and page. “Luke, I want you and ten men to form my bodyguard. Ready for battle, though leave your helms off. We’ve a bit of a ride first.”

Young Richard dragged himself up straight in his saddle, blinking sleep from his eyes. “And me, my lord?”

“Give me my shield then bring Sueta up.”

The boy struggled to unsling the shield from his back without falling from his pony; biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from smiling Fulk aided his page. The shield was a scant foot shorter than the ten-year-old, unwieldy and very heavy for such a young body. Richard had insisted on bearing it to give Luke a rest.

Already in his body armour Fulk only needed a few finishing touches to ready himself to depart; he raised his coif, laced his aventail, slung his great helm from the front of his saddle so he could reach it more easily, and settled his shield on his back. By the time his warhorse was brought up he was itching with impatience. He swung up into Sueta’s saddle without letting the animal stop, tossing the reins of his palfrey to his page.

Fulk spurred away in the midst of his bodyguard. He’d heard Suffolk’s comment as he departed the council and he’d be damned if he died to save them some bother.







From this point on I have very definite ideas of which scenes I want in each posted section, so from now on I will be posting only when the group of scenes I require to make up an update are done to my satisfaction. No more thinking “It works decently as a section and it’s been a long enough wait.” In addition a good number of those scenes are ones which I anticipate will take me a while before I manage something I consider tolerable. I’m sorry to say this collectively means you are probably going to be waiting a few days longer between updates ~:(



Ciaran, I guess that would be Jocelyn’s first letter? That’s ages ago! Lots to read indeed …

<bows low> As you wish, m'lady Frog.

Yes. Brilliant, isn´t it? As I have mentioned before, I love long books :book:

As always, take you time.
:bow:

Fulk slashed at Sueta’s flanks with his spurs, bending forward in the saddle to lunge at the infantryman. The tip of his sword entered the man’s back as the soldier’s spear sank into the belly of Luke’s horse. Man and beast screamed their death agonies, droplets of sound lost in a sea of noise.

Luke scrambled free of his dying mount, landing heavily on his feet. Off-balance he warded a blow with his shield and stumbled back, tripping on the thrashing carcass of his warhorse. The three remaining men who’d helped dismount him surged forward sensing the kill.

Sueta bulled forward, blood streaming from his flanks as Fulk dug his spurs in again and again. The warhorse snapped at an arm carelessly waved close to his snout, teeth closing on empty air as the enemy realised his peril and dove forward. Fulk busied his sword in his squire’s defence, the remainder of his bodyguard working their way up to join him.

Two men attacked Fulk from his right, working in concert to keep him under continuous threat. Devoting all his effort to guarding himself against them there was little he could do when a man on his left lunged at his leg; pain burned through him as the fine point of the weapon caught in a link of mail, dug in and tore through, his own momentum dragging the blade onward. The wound was not overly serious, he could tell that immediately – he still had the limb and bone hadn’t broken.

On foot Luke cut down one of the pair harassing Fulk on the right, on the left one of his other bodyguards trampled his mount in close to Fulk and set himself up as a shield of flesh and iron. Fulk himself dispatched the second attacker on his right, near hewing his shoulder from his body with a downwards chop while the man turned to face Luke.

The temporary lull in the fighting enabled Fulk to spare a glance for his left leg. Blood flowed from a tear in his mail chausses, down his calf to drip from his boot. He’d live – he’d better, he reflected grimly. Any rescue of Eleanor from Alnwick would be for naught if she were left a vulnerable widow.

He brandished his sword and bellowed, “A FitzWilliam! A FitzWilliam for the gooseberry!” His mounted guard in close formation about him, Fulk drove back into the forefront of the battle.





Fulk clenched his teeth so hard they ached and battled the scream trying to escape his lips. Abruptly the pain dulled to a steady burn.

“There.” Luke dropped a broken link of mail onto the cloak Fulk sprawled on. “The wound’s clean now.”

“Good,” Fulk croaked. Why did the treatment of a wound always hurt more than the getting of it?

The squire set aside his tweezers in favour of a flask.

Batting aside Waltheof’s restraining hands Fulk raised himself on his elbow and thrust out a hand. “Give me that.” He took a very hefty swig of the alcohol before letting his squire pour the rest over his wound, groaning at the agony of it.

“Nearly done now, my lord.”

Fulk dropped back to lie on the ground, head spinning and sight going grainy. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, both to stave off the faintness and to keep his mind away from the stitching of the cut. The wound was long and shallow, running from shortly beneath his knee down to a hand’s breath above his ankle. It would make walking and riding a trial. He could not allow it to impede him. A few more days was all he asked of it, a few more days and then he’d give it all the rest it needed … one way or another. He grimaced, knowing it was bad luck to think about dying when fighting lay ahead.

The salve they applied to his leg soothed the burning sufficiently for his mind to clear. “How bad’s my armour?”

Luke said, “I’ll sew up the rent in the padding tonight. The mail will have to go to an armourer; should be possible to do a crude fix for tomorrow morning.”

Fulk took a steadying breath and sat up. His attack force had deployed itself at the mouth of the bridge, on the far side to the approaching army. Sentries patrolled the outskirts of their makeshift camp. Other men stripped the bodies and dumped them into a shallow trench. They were the ones who had been but lightly involved in the fighting; most of the force sat or sprawled on the ground resting or undergoing treatment for their own injuries.

The corners of Waltheof’s mouth lifted fractionally. “Best rest we’ve had since leaving London. We should fight more often.”

Fulk gave a weary smile of his own in appreciation of the effort, if not the shabby humour. By day they marched at the best speed the army could manage. As darkness began to fall they marched. When the first trace of morning light appeared they marched. When they stopped at night men rolled up in their cloaks and slept like the dead until roused for their turn at sentry duty. During the day they had four breaks, a half hour each. Each time he heard someone complaining about the pace Fulk pointed at Waltheof; the man had ridden from the North at breakneck speed to bring news of the siege, and now rode back without so much as a day’s rest in between. He had refused to remain behind, insisting his place was at his lord’s side. It was with extreme reluctance that Waltheof had agreed to remain with the small party Fulk had left a short distance behind the bridge battle, ready to assist wounded men who managed to make their way back to them. Grey with fatigue the Scottish knight was in no condition to fight.

“Go and rest yourself,” Fulk ordered him.

The knight nodded, stiffly getting to his feet and walking away with the gait of an old, arthritic man.

Luke began to bandage Fulk’s leg. Head bent to this task he began to talk in a very low, very flat voice. “Have you thought what will happen to her if you die now? Victor’s spoils. That’s what she will be. Whoever wins. If you die. Think about what that means.”

If his leg hadn’t hurt so much Fulk might have taken advantage of their positions to kick out at his squire. He was in no mood to coddle the man’s worshipful feelings for Eleanor. “I don’t plan to,” he snarled. “And I know what it means so well it’s a wonder I manage to sleep!”

“Yet you risked yourself for me. That’s how you got this wound. You shouldn’t have. It’s my place to die to keep you safe, for her sake. Not the other way around. I thank you for my life, my lord, but from here on concern yourself with your survival and your victory, nothing else, I beg you.”

Shame left Fulk speechless.





She’d changed. Become … harder. Able to close herself to the suffering of trivial people in order to focus on her own goals. This was good. An indispensable ability in a queen, a leader. The timing? Trempwick slumped in his chair and massaged his face with his hands. The timing was appalling. The Nell he had known for so many years would have been unable to stand the pressure he had applied. She would have come out of that castle on the first day. Unable to see that she was more important than any number of others. Unwilling to see that she could make a difference only by focusing on getting the large decisions right, not chasing after the small detail.

Now he applied his pressure to the garrison. To her guard. To induce them to betray her. It felt unsavoury. To undermine the first clear proofs that he was right, that she could win loyalty and rule. To take away from her what she had won and leave her with ashes. Most of her soldiers were local. They sat safe inside their walls while the people who made up their lives suffered, died, fled, bled. Sat safe while their homes burned, their crops were ruined, their goods taken. Keep applying the pressure and they’d crack. Steady pressure – too much and they would run frenzied in their grief. Too much and they might turn too fully on the ‘cause’ of their loss. Nell must not be harmed! Must not. Couldn’t take any chances. Couldn’t storm the walls, too risky. Might be killed in the fighting, or be mistaken for fair game. Catapult stones were so indiscriminate, flying debris so dangerous. Couldn’t take any chances …

He came awake again sometime later, hand going for his dagger and springing to his feet before his eyes opened fully. Before he realised he’d even dozed off.

Mauger stood by the tent’s entrance, empty hands held out at his sides so his master could see he was harmless. “There’s a messenger to see you.”

Relaxed, sheathed his weapon. Willed his racing heart to slow. Not an assassin. “At this time of night?”

“He’s an interesting one. You’ll want to see him, Raoul.”

Nodded. Mauger’s judgement could be trusted. “Send him in.”

Presently a travel-worn man entered the tent and bent his knee. “Sir, I bring a message from my lord. He asks that you hear it and send your reply with all speed.”

Beckoned to the man. “Step forward and tell me your message.”

The brazier’s light picked out details on the man’s livery as he stepped forward; yellow and red, a rearing red lion with a label of cadancy above it nestled in the parting of the man’s cloak.








Had an entire week where I couldn’t write thanks to work. No days off and nasty hours. Yay.

Hmm, who is going to betray his king?
Another cliffhanger, you sure make us crave the next shot of 'The Goosberry'.

You better make sure you become a famous writer then, if you don't want work to interfere with your writing.

Hello, dear author. Forgive me a brief tale - i came to (what seems to be known as) the Org looking for Medieval 2 strategies. I don't recall exactly when or where, but it was a few weeks ago that i happened upon one of your posts. There at the bottom was the now famous Eleanorian quote, and it warmed some of my own memories of gooseberries and princesses. Or one such ... berry. At any rate, a little too much work of late had robbed me of a bit of humanity - and your wonderful story brought it back!

I'm just another fan, writing to you from Japan, sending my thanks - and hoping you get more time to write.

Thank you! (and please don't let her get hurt anymore... but i know you're not really in control of these things afterall)

“Your Highness? May I speak with you?” The fact Jocelyn’s request came in langue d’oil made Eleanor suspect it was something he didn’t want others to understand, and that in turn led her to suspect he was about to begin the conversation she had been dreading since Trempwick turned up at the gates. Feet planted, hands clasping his belt in a pose which thrust his elbows out to the side and made him appear more imposing, the count was going to talk whether she wanted him to or not.

Eleanor gave the mangy rag of parchment containing the inventory of Alnwick’s medical supplies to Aveis. “Gather as many people as you need and set to making bandages and such like.”

Aveis’ hand dropped to rest protectively on her daughter’s head. “You think there will be a battle, then?”

“I think it best to be prepared for that increasing eventuality.”

Her other companion, Hawise, Eleanor forbore to send away. In the first it would not be seemly, in the second it would be asking for trouble. Already long mired in speculation about her virtue she could afford no more doubt; need for a good reputation aside, soldiers had little interest in protecting someone they considered a harlot. She would have to trust Hawise’s discretion and her limited langue d’oil; as faithful as the maid had been Eleanor still felt it a foolhardy risk.

Jocelyn seemed to realise how threatening his body language was; he removed one hand from his belt and ducked a curt bow. “Thank you, your Highness. I’m not much good at speaking prettily, so with your permission I’ll speak freely instead.”

Eleanor perched on the edge of the backless chair near the fireplace. “I would prefer you spoke wisely.”

If the hint registered the count gave no sign. “Highness, I’m a loyal man, truly. I say what I say because of that.”

Eleanor declined to make the expected agreeing noises.

“I know you’ve got a plan. I don’t know what it is. I do know you need to do something, and fast. The men are about ready to mutiny, and I don’t bloody blame them – that’s their families out there.”

“You suggest I surrender, then?”

“Your husband’s willing to take you back, and that’s a bloody miracle after all you’ve done-”

Eleanor kept her tone level. “My husband is with my brother.” Fascinating how he now named Trempwick as her husband when previously he’d been content that Fulk held that dubious honour.

“By the time that one gets here you’re going to be out of options.” Jocelyn spread his hands. “If Trempwick wins he’ll take you back and you’ll have no bargaining power. If the prince wins then your throne is lost.”

“That throne is not mine.”

The count flung out an arm, matching his words with a gesture which felt like a crossbow being levelled at her forehead. “You are the heir! That’s why I am here!” The arm sagged, and dropped; Jocelyn moderated his voice. “I mean, it’s why I was sent here. It’s not the reason I choose to be here. Well, it is, but that’s duty, not ambition or something. I’m a loyal man, that’s why your father chose me-”

Eleanor covertly dug her fingernails into the palm of her other hand. If she gave him a nudge back towards the right path please God he would take it. “You are here out of loyalty to my brother, lending your forces to mine for my protection.”

“No.” Jocelyn advanced, halted again as though holding himself back. “I am here because your father sent me. He made me swear loyalty to his heir-”

“And so you serve my brother.” A droplet of sweat trickled down Eleanor’s back; she recognised the expression on Hawise’s face, calm and neutral – and deep in damned thought. The maid was understanding entirely too much of this.

“No. And so I serve you, your Highness.”

Nudge? The man wouldn’t get a hint if it was pounded into his skull with a mallet! “I am not the heir.”

“I heard him name you! I saw him take the ring off his own bloody hand to send to you!” Jocelyn took another step forward, face twisted with emotion. “He knew he was dying and he named you, and I was there!” Softly he repeated. “I was there. You are the heir.”

Hawise had gone sheet white, and Eleanor was none so sure she didn’t share the maid’s lack of colour.

Jocelyn took another step; he was close now. He held out his hand. “You have the ring,” he appealed.

Eleanor leaned back fractionally, away from him. “The ring was lost when my father’s belongings were looted.”

“He gave it to me. I gave it to you. You have it.”

“This is a very dangerous nonsense. My brother is the heir. The ring is lost.” Eleanor shifted her right hand so it lay close to the hilt of the knife on her left arm.

The count knelt in front of her, placing his face on a level with hers. “You’re in great danger.”

“Because of men who claim I am something I am not, sir.”

“Maybe you aim to have the prince defeat Trempwick, then your husband and your force here will turn on him and destroy what’s left of Hugh’s army?” The count stroked a hand over his beard. “Yes, yes, that might work. Bloody risky, but it might.”

Now Fulk was her husband again!? “I have no such plan!” Eleanor cried, pushing her chair back away from him and standing. “I am not the heir. I do not want the throne. I am not Trempwick’s wife. Cease this nonsense!”

Jocelyn rose to his feet, body straightening unhurriedly. “If there’s a battle the prince can’t hope to win it. Trempwick’s damned well picked this ground, he’s prepared it, he’s rested and supplied, and he’s got a bit of damned sense he’ll have been making the enemy’s advance difficult so they arrive worn out and bloodied. His men are a pack of desperate men with nothing left to lose and bloody all to gain – they can’t give up and go home because they’ve gone too bloody far to hope for forgiveness. They’ll tear anything your brother can muster to shreds. You’ve got to see that.” The count stepped around the chair. “Except it won’t come to battle, not for us. We’ll be tossed out those gates. The thirst’s beginning to bite those prisoners, and that’s got their family in here with their bloody balls in the hot coals. They’ve got to act or they’ll lose them, and no right thinking man’s going to sit idly by.” Another step. “It’s a wonder they’d kept faith so long. They should have been sallying forth when the first smoke cloud appeared, saving their families and their lands. But no, they kept faith with you.” Another step. “They kept faith while their homes burned, their friends killed and their womenfolk were raped. So you bloody owe it to us to do something!”

Eleanor stiffened her knees and refused to back away. A dispassionate corner of her mind observed that it was strangely easy to stand unquailing before this angry warrior; after her father Jocelyn was nothing. “Do you think I do not know this? Do you think it does not make my heart bleed?”

“They’ll throw us out those gates, and that army out there is bloody pissed off! They’ll kill me!” Jocelyn brandished a finger in Eleanor’s face. “Lady, I didn’t come to this miserable bloody island to die! I’ve got a family, lands, stuff I want to go back to!” He changed tack abruptly, having utterly betrayed his true motivation. “They’ll do worse to you. If my wife did a tenth of what you’ve done to your husband I’d bloody beat her to death the moment I set eyes on the mad bloody bitch, queen or beggar or whatever the fucking God she happened to be! So consider yourself bloody fortunate that he’s willing to take you back, and don’t make matters worse!”

With one smooth motion Eleanor drew a knife and levelled the point at the count’s belly. He was close enough the wool of his tunic brushed the point with each breath he took. A few steps off to Jocelyn’s side and rear Hawise drew her own knife and assumed a ready stance.

“Enough,” Eleanor said quietly.

Jocelyn’s lip curled as he eyed her weapon. “Sixteen sainted sardines, you’re not bloody natural!”

“A lady in my position must be able to defend herself.”

“Bloody Christ!” From the corner of his eye the count spotted Hawise and her own weapon. “Shit!” He held up his hands, empty and palm outwards, changed his tone to one more placating. “Look, I’m sorry. I got carried away, but with good reason. Please, you have to listen. They will throw us out. The prince can’t win. You need to do something. Before it’s too late. Highness. Please. Go back to your husband on your own terms.”

“Trempwick is not my husband. He is an ambitious man who would use me to rule.” Eleanor took several steps back and lowered her knife, still prepared to defend at an instant’s warning. “You do not like what is happening outside these walls? That will be all England if he shoves me onto the throne. Lords warring amongst themselves and the crown too weak to stop them. I cannot lead an army, so another would have to do it for me and they would serve their own ends, not mine. I cannot command respect in the traditional ways; I would always be challenged by one or another. There could be no peace.”

“The prince can’t win.”

Eleanor smiled faintly. “My brother is a seasoned general. Trempwick is not. I would not discount him so swiftly were I you.”

“That’s no damned use if we’re thrown out before he arrives.”

“As for that, I have plans of my own. You are right; I do owe my defenders a tremendous debt for their loyalty, and I intend to honour it.”

Jocelyn chewed this over. “I suggest you get on with whatever it is, and quickly. If it doesn’t work you’ll want returning to your husband and right quick. I’ll escort you. I’m your bodyguard, after all, and I pledged to your father I’d serve his heir.”

Eleanor pointed her knife at him and snapped, “What you mean to say, sir, is that if I fail you will throw me to the wolves to save yourself, and try to gain while doing so.” She sheathed her weapon. “If my brother is victorious you will abandon my father’s wishes in order to curry favour with Hugh, and that is well.” When the count would have protested she snarled, “Make no mistake, sir, I know your type. Did I not I might be deluded into thinking I might rule successfully.”





A very long time after the count departed Hawise broke the hush that had fallen upon the room. “So, it’s true. You are the named heir.”

It would be a poor thing to attempt to deceive her maid now, futile too. “Yes. For what that is worth. Not very much, I should think.” She smiled tightly, eyes hot with the absurd threat of tears. “He chose me at the last minute, thinking me his best hope for vengeance.”

“Yet you support Hugh.”

“Yet I support Hugh.” Eleanor sank into her chair and scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “Brother or half brother he was raised to rule from the day Stephan died, and I to support him. Support him I shall. He has been accused of being inept. That is not true. He is finding his feet, discovering his confidence, and were he as inept as he is accused of being Trempwick would long since have run him out of power. Instead he is the one pressing Trempwick. I admit I am surprised at how well he has done; I did not think he had this much steel in him. Especially talented, no, Hugh is not that. Nor gifted, nor a born leader. He will not be an outstanding king, merely a good one.” That he had needed considerable help to stand on his own feet, and a mighty good push to set him staggering off in an attempt to walk, well that did not need to be mentioned.

Eleanor twisted her girdle about and freed the her father’s ring from its hiding place. The great sapphire set in the centre of the ring gleamed joyously in welcome of the daylight.

“The coronation ring of Saint Edward the Confessor,” Hawise breathed.

“Yes. From my beloved regal ancestor’s hand to mine.” Eleanor threaded it onto her right heart finger, where it hung next to her wedding ring like a great gold cartwheel. “See how well it fits? One cannot claim I would grow into it. It would have to be cut down, a fitting analogy, I find, for the whole damned thing.” She extended her beringed hand to her maid. “I am swearing you to secrecy. You will never speak of any of this again so long as you live, to anyone. Not a word.”

Hawise knelt, placed her hands in Eleanor’s and swore, “I shall not repeat a word of what I have learned here so long as I live, this I do swear upon my immortal soul and this sacred ring.” She set her lips to the centrepiece of gemstones to seal the oath.

Eleanor returned the ring to its hiding place with some reluctance. As one of the realm’s holiest relics and the symbol of the marriage between king and country it deserved better than being tucked in the belt of a renegade heir.





Varin drew his horse in level with Fulk’s. “It was a decent piece of work you made of the bridge.”

“Thank you.” Fulk viewed this sudden desire to speak with him with no small amount of suspicion; the German had thus far kept aloof, and he remembered what Hugh had said of the man.

“A pity about the leg.”

“It’s none so bad, and healing.” The wound burned like fire, constantly.

“You are an interesting man.”

Fulk used his mouthful of food as an excuse to delay his reply. He swallowed with difficulty, and took a drink of watered wine from the skin hanging from his saddle. “Twice baked bread: as dry as dust and hard as biscuit, mostly tasteless and completely disgusting. I look forward to a proper meal.”

“And a few other home comforts too, no doubt.”

Fulk ran a hand over the short beard he’d grown. “Yes – a razor!”

Varin laughed. “I also.” He dropped his reins, stood in his stirrups and stretched his arms above his head until the joints cracked. “Your wife also you will be glad to see again?”

“More than anything.”

In the distance horns brayed; another of the outriding parties had sighted potentially hostile forces. Both men fell silent as they waited. The horns rang out again, this time signalling the outrider’s advance to contact.

Varin resumed their conversation. “So then, you look forward to settling into domestic bliss.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Varin hitched his shoulders, made awkward by the shield hanging across his back. “Not all men are cut from the same cloth. Some do not stomach peace well.”

“I look forward to it. I’ve had little enough time to spend with Eleanor, and my lands need work.”

“Good then. I wish you the joy of it.”

“Thank you.”

“A word of advice, if I may?” He didn’t wait for consent. “My lady, the Empress, will have no quarrel with her sister if she accepts her place in this world and remains there. If she will not behave as she should the quarrel between sisters will grow, and then I would not like to say how things will be.”

“You may keep your threats,” Fulk answered curtly. “They’re pointless. She doesn’t want the throne, the claim was made in her name by those who would use her for their own ends.”

“Could the claim have been made if she had not made it possible? No. Her wilfulness placed her in a position where the unscrupulous could make use of her.”

“Beware. You come dangerously close to saying something I take exception to.”

Varin made a disgusted noise. “I am trying to help you. The Empress feels herself slighted, and I would not pretend that she takes overmuch to heart. She was passed over, people thought to deny her her due. Where the Empress is slighted the Emperor is doubly so. Wrong has been done them; I am here as a part of their effort to right that – and to prevent further … mishap. Provided from this point on your wife limits herself to the place which has been made for her there shall be no quarrel.”

“And what place would that be?” Fulk asked stiffly.

“The wife of a minor, newly made earl of dubious lineage, living in semi-exile in the graceless north.”

“That I could very easily take as an insult.”

“A man in your position might easily imagine the whole of God’s creation insults him.” Varin pulled at the reins and touched his mount’s flank with his spurs. Over his shoulder he said, “I would suggest a man in your position cannot afford to.”

Fulk let out the breath he had been holding. Bone weary, aching, wounded; the last thing he felt like doing was fighting for a reason which would bring him no closer to Eleanor, king’s request or no.

“You should have pounded him!” Richard’s face glowed with indignation, the first time the lad had looked fully awake in a long time. “He shouldn’t say such things.”

“There’s fighting enough to be done without seeking more within our own ranks.”

“But he insulted you!”

“He is far from the first, and shall be far from the last.”

The enthusiasm dimmed from the boy’s face. “But you’re a knight, a great lord.”

“Yes, and as such I should behave with civility. It is not right for a man to disrupt his lord’s household with brawling.” Noticing how his page was sagging under the weight of the shield Fulk leaned over and re-arranged it so part of the lower rim rested on the pony’s back. “Better?”

The child dragged his back straight and, face set, remained fully upright in his saddle. “Thank you, my lord.” Under the veneer of grime Richard’s face turned rosy.

Fulk bit the inside of his cheeks to keep his face straight; he remembered well how the tender pride of youth saw anything which did not treat them as a full adult as patronising, even where the reverse was true. If his page knew he thought well of him for his stolid endurance the poor boy would be horrified.

“Don’t be taken in by the stories. A knight need not answer every last ill-spoken word with his sword. That would make him nothing more than a thug. A true knight – a true man, for that matter – knows when to turn the other cheek.”

“But you were going to fight him.” Richard’s brow creased. “Weren’t you?”

“I was growling to warn him off. If he backed down then I’d won without needing to fight. And, you’ll notice, he did.”

“He insulted you some more as he left.”

“He would have lost face if he had not. I knew it, he knew it, anybody watching would have know it. To pursue him because of that would have made me less of a man. Always be gracious in victory, Richard, and always leave a way for people to back down. Else you find yourself with troubles you could have avoided.”

The boy was quiet for a moment. “I think I see, my lord.”

Fulk continued to eat his miserable lunch while listening to the distant sounds of fighting. He’d nearly finished the fist-sized loaf of bread when he spotted a messenger galloping back down the marching column.

The man dragged back on the reins, the animal turning about and slowing and pretty as you could please. “Sir Fulk, you are commanded to take your men and go to the aid of the fifth-right party of outriders. They have engaged the enemy party which has been harassing our flanks and are holding them. You are to encircle them and help finish them off. Quickly – before they escape.”

Fulk dumped the remnants of his bread into his page’s hands. “FitzWilliam’s men! Form up!”







Jocelyn: I’m possibly in some danger and I’m freaking out! Cooperate, damn you!
Nell: I’ve been waiting 1071 pages to pull a knife on a yelling idiot-man. Go ahead, make my day.
Jocelyn: Eeeek!
:gring:


When I become supreme ruler of the universe I am going to ban noise! (This shouted over the sound of skirting boards being cut down to size and fixed to the walls in the house next door)

Peasant Phill, I’m working on it.:stupido:

Welcome, k0maru. :gives the traditional ‘Eleanor’ eyedrops: I’m very pleased you enjoyed my work. I find that a good read will help to balance out the stresses and strains of life; I’m flattered – and amazed- that anyone finds my scribblings do that. I blame it solidly on the characters ~:)


:Celebrating having passed the “100 books read this year!” mark: 102 books to be precise.

Ah, a new episode is the bright point of a lousy week.

1071 pages? You must be using a tiny font, I´m at 1151 as of the latest update. 1151 A4 pages, that´s some material for a holiday, just there´s none in sight for the time being. Oh well, it´ll increase the chance that there´ll be even more by then. :2thumbsup:

Trempwick’s messenger was allowed in through the gate once he had dismounted. The man knelt before Eleanor and offered up a scroll. “My queen.”

Taking the roll of parchment Eleanor indicated a pair of soldiers who had not been close to the messenger before. “Let him sit in the gatehouse guard room again. Remain with him.” Though the same messenger had been running back and forth between castle and camp since the flag of truce had first been raised Eleanor still refused to give him more than the bare minimum of courtesy. He would be given no chance to compromise the castle’s security.

Once again the message was in code. Having deciphered two messages and written three in the space of a day Eleanor’s skills with Trempwick’s favoured cipher were in full flow; it was the work of minutes to read it. He offered her eight days. Would that be enough?

She took up her quill and held it poised. Eight days. She had asked for fifteen, he had countered with five, she with thirteen, he with six, and her previous reply had insisted upon ten. Eight days – if no help came by then she could honestly call herself abandoned, and what had begun as a play for time may well be the only course left to her.

Eleanor wrote: I say again, you ask me to leave my sanctuary and place all in trust to you: my life, my future. You have given me no cause for such confidence. Hugh has given you more trouble than you anticipated, and your position has been reduced to one more precarious than you admit. I will not be persuaded to act hastily or to place overmuch faith in you who have made so many mistakes. Thus I say ten days, and on this I shall not be moved. If Hugh has not come by then he will not, and I need not fear leaving these walls only to find myself in the camp of the defeated.

A little sand scattered on the words dried the ink. After three previous letters the role started to feel natural enough; it was easier now to play the part of queen-in-waiting.

A bit of thought, then she addressed the next point. I see your soldiers have begun to cut my people free of the stakes, and commend your obedience to my wishes. This part was difficult. The point of testing Trempwick’s willingness to obey could only be carried so far before her true motive became so obvious he would no longer deign to play along. If she asked for too much he would refuse and dress it up as being in her best interests. No matter how hard she tried she could not see a way to get Trempwick to release the prisoners; he knew they were one of his best holds over those inside the castle. Regretfully she let the point die there.

I have no objection to your constructing a small fortified position outside the range of Alnwick’s walls if you are so afraid of my garrison sallying forth to aid Hugh. This fear, however, does reinforce my own opinion that the confidence you claim in your victory is less solid than you would have me believe, and thus reinforces my decision to remain inside these walls until Hugh is defeated or plainly not coming. Eleanor tapped her fingers on the tabletop. With a little inventiveness the fortification could be bypassed and aid still sent to Hugh, and in the worst case her forces could mount an attack on it in an effort to overrun it once the main battle lines had joined.

Eleanor left her quill sitting in the ink well and made a quick review of the situation. No, there was nothing else for her to add. On all other matters I will remain silent until we may speak face to face, and request, once more, that you cease to pester me with them. The completed letter she took back down to the messenger.





Acceptable. Trempwick set the letter aside and reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. Let her have her minor victories. Ten days, not eight. Made precious little difference. If it made her feel more in control, good. Convinced her of his willingness to work with her, excellent.

It was clear now she didn’t envisage a partnership. Thought he would take all and use her. Made her actions make far more sense. Trempwick tapped his fingertips on his tabletop. Should have considered that. Yet. Another. Mistake. Enough to make him grind his teeth. When had he become so careless? Answer: since he’d been pushed into acting prematurely. Meaning since the very instant word reached him of William’s accident. Meaning many weeks ago. Given the circumstances mistakes were to be expected. Understandable. Predictable. Unacceptable! All so much proof that one mind was not sufficient where two could be had.

Hurt that she thought him capable of it. Should have known he respected her abilities. But … He sighed and gently laid his fingers the letter. But would she be good if she had not considered and considered and thought and searched, looked back, evaluated and re-evaluated, found possibilities and assumed nothing?

No.

The very suspicion. The willingness to upturn all she had known as a lie. The caution. He’d cultivated it devotedly across the years. Could not complain now it had come to fruition and bitten him.

Hurt.

Pointless. Focus on the important. What was done was done. Mistakes – learn from and move on.

Eight days or ten. No real import. Scout reports gave a picture of the bastard’s army. He would be here inside of eight. An exhausted army harried and demoralised arriving at a prepared ground. Numbers not quite equal but close enough. Until one added the unexpected factor.

Could the prince be trusted? No. Might not turn up. Might arrive only when all was won. Might seek glory only, be reckless. Might hang back and try to keep safe. So many things that boy could do.

Was he truly necessary? No. Enough factors in his favour to make seeking an engagement safe.

So ten or eight, no matter.

The stakes had done their job: brought the castle to negotiation. Would have been best if they had worked sooner and placed Nell back at his side. But they’d worked. The garrison had no heart left. Nell had proven herself admirably tough. But in the end had admitted her responsibility. Dual victory. No need for them now.

Fortification blocking the gate accepted: good. Main use psychological. Placing a barrier. Men don’t run at walls, as a rule. Note: expect and be ready for attempts to bypass it and aid the bastard.

Suspicion: works both ways. Wouldn’t accept anything she said at face value any more than she would.

No! More! Mistakes!

Speak face to face. Fine. Necessary. Could only make her see, understand, everything that way. Had expected this answer. Increased his belief she played for time. Lied.

Once she was back at his side they would talk. From there things would mend. He would correct her misunderstandings. Complete the interrupted teaching. Then they could forge forward side by side. Achieve.

Admission: If he did lose better that she was in Alnwick. Better she not be close to the vanquished. Better she have some chance at life, such as it would be.

He would not lose.

Battle was always chancy. A gamble.

All was prepared. The ground chosen. His men knew victory was their only chance to evade death or exile with loss of all property and station. Their chance to gain great rewards: the lands of the defeated, material junk, position, whatever. The bastard was worn down, tired, his men less desperate: this made much difference.

Better if it had not come to this.

Irritated Trempwick crumpled the clean parchment. Too little sleep and too much worry. It upset his balance. Too much care or not enough. Either could lead to mistakes. Had done all he could given the circumstances. Now it remained to see it through to conclusion. Needed air, exercise. Nell – to talk, to see. To get away from this business of writing letters. Refresh himself, take her measure. See if there were any tiny moves he could make to tilt things yet further his way.

Trempwick called for his horse. He would convey his acceptance of her terms personally.




“Then we have a deal.” Eleanor turned away from the ramparts. There was nothing else in need of saying and she did not wish to talk with Trempwick. Every word exposed her to risk, increased the likelihood he would see through her play - if he had not already.

“Leaving so quickly, beloved Nell?” Trempwick called.

“There is nothing left to say.”

“There is.”

Eleanor returned to the front of the wall. “Such as?”

“How about goodbye? You might wish me luck, and offer to pray for me.” The spymaster softened his voice so it was hard to hear. “You might give me chance to say I love you.”

Whether that lie was for the benefit of their audience or for her Eleanor could not say and did not care. As she left the gatehouse roof she heard him shout, “It’s true.”





“We have missed you at court.” Hugh let the gentle rebuke sink in before he added, “I am glad that you have come to aid us now.”

George, Earl of York ducked his head. “Nothing would have pleased me greater than to have sped to your side the very day I heard the sad news of your father’s death.”

“It would have given me great pleasure also to know such a close friend of my father would be there to help receive his mortal remains and conduct them to his place of rest.” The former king and his Earl of York had cared no great amount for one another; theirs had been a relationship of necessity. Politics, Hugh now believed, was the source of all lies. Therefore politics were the invention of the devil, being as he was the source of all ill in God’s earth. A pity one could not call upon a clergyman to exorcise this evil from his kingdom.

“Sire, there have been … troubles which kept me here. Unrest. Bother from the north.”

Hugh indicated with a wave of his hand that the earl should rise. “I understand very well.” The earl had been hiding until he knew which side was safest to back. One must assume the man had been following word of Hugh’s advance for days, agonising over the decision to jump or hold aloof. Here he was, half a day’s ride from York itself, decision made. Hugh stepped in to clasp the man’s hand. “I thank you for your tireless work against the rebels. You have my gratitude.” A tiny pause rested before the final word, and he placed a touch of emphasis on that word.

The dig was not lost; York returned to his knees, hand still in Hugh’s. “Let me swear fealty to you, sire.”

As the earl made his oath Hugh felt acutely conscious of the figure he must present; he must look a shabby old soldier in contrast to York. If his hands had not been locked around George’s he would have needed to control the urge to bat at his surcoat in a ineffectual attempt to clear the dust from the scarlet velvet.

“Sire, the city stands ready to receive you, if that is your will. If you would continue to march we are ready for that too.” York addressed the soldiers he had brought with him. “Is that not so?”

“Aye,” the men roared.

“Is that not so?” York asked again, louder.

“Aye!”

“Will you fight for your king?”

“AYE!”

York’s militia stood well-fed and well-rested in their nice clean livery in the midst of an army befouled with five day’s hard marching and fighting. They looked like nothing so much as a collection of soft youths playing at being soldiers as they put on their pretty show. Hugh became aware that this was not an attitude he was alone in; the scorn of his veterans was palpable.

Hugh swung into the saddle and trotted his horse out in front of the hundred-odd new men. “I thank you for your enthusiasm, and will repay it with the chance to take the battle to the enemy. You will be able to tell your children and your children’s children of how you did your king a mighty service by rescuing his sister and returning peace to the realm.” He could find no more words for these clean faces. They cheered for him anyway, thrusting spears and empty fists skyward.

“What is it to be, sire?” Serle enquired as Hugh rejoined his lords. “Onwards, or York?”

There remained half a day’s march before the sun began to fall. “York,” he said, before he could change his mind.

Derby nodded. “A wise choice, sire. Chance to rest securely and fill their bellies will bring the fire back to the men.”

The orders to form back up into marching order went out. Men dragged themselves back onto their horses.

Hugh said, “It is my desire to enter York in such a manner a strong impression is left upon their minds.”

Serle chuckled and made an exaggerated job of inspecting their state. “I think we’ll do that.”

Their part of the column had begun to move. Hugh tapped his palfrey with his spurs. The animal was so weary he had to spur it again, more harshly, to get it to move. “A king of rusted mail and dirt.”

“No, sire.” For all that Fulk had been part of Hugh’s council since before they left London he still spoke rarely. “A king who’s been busy doing his own hard work.”

Wymar of Derby took over the theme, all but snatching it from Fulk’s hands. “Yes, and with a deal of success. Be the victorious general.”

“I am not yet victorious,” Hugh reminded them softly.

“Do not be a pedant, sire. It ill befits you.” Derby peeled away from the group and rode off to his place in the line.





Fulk paused in the antechamber before the stairs leading up to the prince’s chambers, intrigued by the conversation Hugh’s guards were having.

“It’s like that Troy war story.”

“It is?”

A third voice, a little more refined in accent than the others, drawled, “The Iliad, you mean.”

“Yeah, that,” replied the first voice. “See, there’s this princess and she’s married to a boring old sod, so she runs off with this handsome sod. Then there’s this big war. Now isn’t that exactly like this?”

“Is it?” The forth voice sounded confused.

“Yes!” insisted the first voice. “One princess, two husbands, and a right hell of a war all because of some stupid tart.”

The more refined voice said, “I don’t agree. Helen of Troy was a famous beauty. Prince Paris was of most noble birth, and quite useless. There’s no rebel trying to usurp the throne-”

The first voice interrupted, “Yeah, but you’re going too far. Look, all I’m saying is that there’s this handsome guy, a normal guy, and a princess who wants a bit of fun, and it all causes this big war-”

“It doesn’t work,” the interrupted man insisted. “Our princess was never married to Trempwick.”

“Depends who you ask,” the second voice muttered.

The forth voice: “I don’t think so. See, I was on duty on the day she got betrothed. I saw it all.”

“Saw?” The first voice jeered. “Hiding in her blanket chest, was you?”

With a wounded dignity the voice explained, “I was in the tower nearest the building she was in. I heard all the screaming.”

“But you saw nothing, you daft prick.”

“When she left that building she was all faint, like.”

“You said you saw it all, but you bloody didn’t, so stop your lying already.”

“I tell you, I heard-”

“Yeah, then why didn’t you say heard, arse face? You said saw, and you didn’t.”

The posher voice sighed, “God give me strength.”

“Oi!” barked the forth voice. “A bit of respect! Just cause you’re a knight and we’re not.”

“Silence, peasant, or I’ll flay you alive and feed you to my hounds.”

The guards laughed.

“Yeah, but it is just like that,” the first voice insisted, unwilling to give up.

“No, it isn’t.” The knight’s voice was full of a schoolmaster’s patience. “Paris was a useless little fart stuffed full of the best blood in his land. Fulk isn’t, either of them. Helen was beautiful. The princess isn’t. Menelaus was a wronged husband. Trempwick’s a bloody traitor and a liar.”

Eavesdropping was increasingly uncomfortable, and the prince’s summons had a degree of urgency to them. Fulk made his passage across the room as loud as he could. The voices shut up abruptly; by the time he entered the room the four occupants were engaged in harmless little tasks while they chattered about how nice it would be to sleep in the warm that night.

“The prince has summoned me,” Fulk said.

“Yes, my lord. You’re to go up immediately.” The owner of the more educated voice opened the stair door for Fulk and bowed him on through.

The prince had taken advantage of the time to bathe, and the remains of a hearty meal rested on the room’s table. “In two days we should arrive in proximity to Alnwick.”

“Yes, sire.”

“How well do you know the surrounds?”

“Not well enough to be of much use, sire. There are a few men with me who’re local. They’ll know far more.”

The prince fiddled with the ring on his right hand. “Do you think we will be in time? Nell will not have surrendered, will she?”

“Never,” Fulk stated.

“I do not mean out of treacherous desires. I am positive Trempwick will not have sat meekly outside Alnwick’s walls.” Hugh linked his hands in his lap, his thumb beating a steady tattoo against his wrist. “That man must surely be desperate, and he has great need of her if he is to have a hope of turning all back in his favour.”

“Never,” Fulk repeated. “She knows what is at stake.”

“He has had the training of her …”

“She managed to fool him once, and she’s stubborn enough to resist his tricky if she’s a mind to. Which she has.”

“In general I must profess to having faith in my sister’s ability to behave like a mule. It is Trempwick whom concerns me. That man is …”

“Yes.”

Hugh got to his feet. “Well, I shall attempt to share your faith.”

“Eleanor would only surrender if she knew us to be dead.” That was his own fault. He’d never thought to release Eleanor from the promise that she would go to Trempwick in the event of his death. When circumstance gave them chance to marry it hadn’t seemed important in the multitude of other things, and then it had been forgotten. It had been in her better interests at the time, sufficiently so for him to go through the bother of ensuring she would obey. It still might be. Everything had changed since their journey to Scotland. He’d made her swear on his soul; she would not damn him to an eternity of torment by breaking her word. The mere thought made his wounded leg burn and the multitude of other small hurts flare to remind him of their presence.

Something of his thoughts must have shown, as Hugh told him, not unkindly, “Go back to whatever lodgings they found for you in this city. Go and rest. I need you hale and ready to fight for me once more.”

Fulk bowed. “Sire. The prince was wrong. In that battle he’d be fighting for Eleanor – and himself.







Blegh. Nasty writing which stubbornly refuses to turn into something less icky; definitely a section earmarked for a heavily revised edit at some point in the future. I can’t lose the nagging feeling I’m missing something. I’ve been trying to work out what for days. If I have missed something it’s buried under the nasty feel of this episode. Then again, maybe it’s the nastiness itself which makes me feel there should be more.

Can’t stop; got company and my shiny knight equivalent has been ignored for long enough so I could prepare this for posting. Today without comments is better than tomorrow with, I hope.

Help for Trempwick in the form of prince Malcolm, I should have known. hmm, I wouldn't be surprised if Malcolm would seek out Fulk in the upcoming battle.
And what role will the York militia have in the upcoming clash? Trempwick must have expected them or I would be dissapointed.

We, as far as I can speak for the rest of your fan base, would hate it if we would estrange you from your own Fulk.

Hugh’s council had deployed in a tight orbit around their lord, making it impossible for Fulk to do anything but tag along on the fringe. He was used to that.

Only the prince acknowledged his arrival. “You are the last of us, Alnwick.”

“In so many ways.” York addressed his words to the grey skies.

The prince spared a glare for his earl. “As I was attempting to say before I was interrupted in such a discourteous manner, we are now met and must be about our work. The scouts sent on to the vicinity of Alnwick have returned and the news is grave, sirs.”

Fulk’s breath froze in his lungs. A choked noise emerged from his lips in place of the query he wished for.

Hugh twisted in his saddle, excluding the rest of the council from his attention. “She is safe. As far as we may ascertain, she is safe.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“The castle still stands in its entirety, undamaged. It would appear not a single attempt has been made to storm it. Nor did the scouts see siege equipment.”

Serle said, “How bizarre.”

“As Trempwick’s cause depends upon his possession of my sister he can do naught which might harm her.”

“Yes, but surely he’s done more to persuade the garrison to surrender than sit outside the walls?”

“The nearby settlements did not come to separate terms with Trempwick, thus when they were overrun they were treated in the manner usual to places taken by storm. Some were fastened to stakes outside the castle walls and left to die. Consequently the castle itself has come to an agreement of some sort. Those fortunate few whom, by God’s providence, had escaped both slaughter and capture could not inform my scouts of the particulars.”

The news of Alnwick’s devastation touched no one but Fulk; it was his land and only he had lost by it. How many of his people had he lost? “If Eleanor had any say in the agreement she will have been playing for time.”

Hugh nodded. “So I had surmised.”

“Then speed is of the essence.” Wymar pulled a wry face as he amended, “Of greater essence.”

The prince said softly, “Sirs, Trempwick has gathered some three thousand men to his cause, and waits to give battle.”

York waved a careless hand. “We outnumber him, thanks to the men I brought to you.”

Serle voiced what was in Fulk’s mind. “Numbers will not avail if we’re exhausted.”

“No.” Hugh’s lips formed a colourless line, so hard were they pressed together. “We must slow our pace. Three thousand is but an estimate, and the rebels are prepared for us. We must slow to a normal fast march.”

That would add two days on to their travelling time.

Horns blew out on the distant right; one of the outriding groups protecting the column’s flanks had sighted some enemy.

Fulk stood in his stirrups, shaded his eyes with his hand. He couldn’t sight the threat; it must be further along the line, forward or back.

The prince muttered, “Christ’s sweet bones, is a moment’s peace too much to pray for?” Louder, “Sirs, return to your places. This one belongs to whomever it is closest to.”







This was supposed to be part of a larger update. I decided to split it out so you have something to read after your long wait.

Never work in a shop that’s in closing down mode. No, that didn’t come out right. NEVER work in a shop that’s in closing down mode! That’s better. The bookshop I work in is relocating. The original shop went into closing down 2 weeks ago tomorrow. It’s insane! Hordes of blank eyed idiots shuffling along trying to buy everything they can lay their sticky hands on, trashing the place, whinging and yelling when something costs a whole 10 pence more than their non-existent maths skills think it should, threatening to contact Trading Standards because apparently the fact the current shop is closing down for good does not mean the current shop is closing down, and - how could I possibly forget? – asking if we’re really closing down or if we’re moving into the big new shopping centre. I answer that question an estimated 600 times a day, no exaggeration. Even the nice, polite and considerate customers begin to make me scream inside.

Last week I had 1 day off and did 11 hours overtime. On the bright side I do get a promotion: floor manager froggy.

Closing down mode. It’s put me in touch with my inner Trempwick. I want to set up some stakes outside, with notices pinned on the corpses “Put things back where you picked them up or this will be you!”

And in the midst of this I’m trying to do a bit of unofficially semi-official writing for something. Don’t worry; I’m stealing the time required for that from everything but Eleanor and my pet boyfriend. It’s not affecting my work on the story.

Congrats on the promotion. Happy to see a new chapter.

Well, furball caught the essentials, I can´t do it any snappier. I like the idea with the stakes. Even though after a few days you´ll have to put up with the smell...

That's when they raise the stakes, Ciaran. ;)

Good writing, frogbeastegg! I wish I had time to read and comment more; I will try and do so at some point in the vague future...

And don't be too harsh on your customers; take comfort in the fact that they are most likely the more literate and cultured part of society :book:

Malcolm slouched sideways in his chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, the other sprawled on the floor. The pose said … much. Trempwick grinned inwardly at how much the boy revealed without knowing. Nonchalance. Uncaring. A most unprincely pose. All deliberate. Meant to put others off-guard. Prompt contempt. Bravado, too. The posturing of a youth inwardly unsure of his place in the world.

Trempwick said, “You will forgive me if I ask the obvious question, and enquire why you have offered to support me.”

The boy angled his head a touch. A hint of a sneer. “Will I?”

“You will.”

Shrugged his shoulders. “Go on then, get the hell on with it.” The words as carelessly formed as the movement. Deliberately so? Likely.

“Your father was instrumental to giving my wife to that mongrel as a plaything, and he created him as Earl of Alnwick. This gives him a section of the border which is, shall we say … brimming with potential. It humiliates his rival house. It prolongs our little war, whereas his supporting me would have brought it to an end. Let me add that your father became unreceptive to my overtures around the time my wife was placed into his hands by her bastard brother. Previously he had been friendly enough. One might say this indicates he wishes to see me fail.”

Again the careless shrug. “So?”

“I have it on good authority that aid was promised to my wife’s half-brother. This aid has not materialised, save for a small force placed under the command of the creature who has my wife.”

A heavy sigh. The boy returned both feet to the floor. “So fucking what? I’m not my father. I don’t give a shit what he wants.”

Swearing. A hint of it before. Now much more when the boy was pressed. Not princely behaviour. A tactic? Let’s play along a little … Inject distaste into tone, hint of it in body language. “Then tell me, my prince,” light emphasis on that title to reinforce his disapproval of this behaviour, “why you are here.”

“Because we’ve got to make a plan.” The boy rolled his eyes. Returned to slumping in his seat. “Fucking Christ, it’s not for the company, I’ll tell you that. I don’t ride God knows how many fucking miles in bloody secrecy to sit around in a tent talking to pedantic old men.”

Annoying. Most annoying. Wonder no one had strangled the brat! “If you are as stupid as you appear I decline your help.”

A sardonic little smirk. “If you’re as stupid as you appear I decline to help.” All pronounced in a nice mimicry of Trempwick’s own intonation. “Aren’t you meant to be some oh-so-smart crony of the dead king’s?”

Oh for the time to pick this brat to pieces, understand, and put him back together as something useful! Glimmers of talent. No doubt most were thrown by the attitude. Internal smile. Not this ‘pedantic old man’. “Very well. You are here in defiance of your father, presumably because you do not agree with him in this matter. As you insist on your offer of aid being strictly secret until the trap is sprung I doubt he knows what you are doing.” Needle. “Thus you fear he would stop you.”
The boy snorted. “That old coward? Stop me? Fuck, no! He doesn’t have the balls. If he raises his armies against me I’ll raise mine against him, and being as he’s a fucking coward I’ll win.”

Such overconfidence. Did the child honestly believe it?

“See,” the boy continued, “thing is I’ll inherit that throne whatever, so for now it’s in my best interests to wait for the old goat to drop dead. Maybe later I’ll get tired of waiting and help him out of this bloody world, but for now I’ve got other stuff to be doing.” Malcolm clasped his hands on his belly and reclined in his awkward position on the chair. “What he’ll do is piss around and whine, and right now I can’t be bothered with that. He’ll get in the bloody way. What I want is a quick bit of work and I can’t do that with the silly old fuck dancing about wailing and waving his hands.”

“Which does not resolve the question of why you are offering me aid.” Raised a finger. “The true motivation, the reason why you disagree with your father’s decisions.”

The boy made a face. “Fucking God, you’re a tiresome old shit.”

“Nonetheless.”

“Oh, all right, damn you!” Made a show of sitting up properly, repositioning his chair at the table opposite Trempwick. Braced his elbows on the tabletop and propped his head on his hands. “Better? Happy now? Right, good, you can stop your damned moaning now.”

Poured the goblet of wine he would have offered at the start if the brat had behaved. Filled one for himself. Took a sip to prove it safe. Continued his discreet analysis.

Malcolm drank the wine in one go, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Stick a bastard on England’s throne and it devalues it. Therefore all thrones get devalued, including mine. I won’t stand for that fucking nonsense. I’d rather have some girl playing ruler, provided she’s got the right blood, of course. Only a blind man could doubt that your Eleanor is the dead king’s get.”

Flash of insight. “If you are concerned with the value of royalty you cannot approve of a princess being handed off to a baseborn bastard, or of said bastard being given false links to a noble house.”

“Too fucking right.” The boy slammed a fist on the table “I will not fucking sit by and do nothing at bloody all while that idiotic old cretin pisses all over what should be and fucks up the value of my inheritance while he does so!” He offered his hand. “You and me, we’ll bring an end to this fucking travesty. Right?”

A certain nagging feeling. Seeing the ripples and missing the current …? Was he hoping to hide the stone in the obnoxiously stated splash? It would be a mistake to take this princeling at presented value. Didn’t take the hand. “That seems a small enough reason for the risks involved. Secretly allying yourself with your father’s enemy? Risking your life in battle?”

Interrupted, “What is it with old men and mewling about the risks of battle?”

“Old men have heads cool enough to see what may be lost.” Don’t let the attempt at distraction work. “Now you will add those details you omitted from your first account. Why?”

“Maybe I just want to piss my father off?” The boy spread his hands. “You think of that?”

From reputation Trempwick guessed that many would believe that of the brat. “I will not fall for that.”

“Why not?” The boy’s grin was very convincing. His words exaggerated bragging. “I’m the Nefastus, red-haired, six-toed and the devil’s own spawn. I rape nuns, murder children, torture animals, and whatever else I’ve got the time for. Pissing the old git off is nothing.”

An … idea. Lines coming together to form an outline. “Where does expectation end and reality begin?”

A pitying look. “They’re both the same.”

“Your description of yourself is that of a villain in a child’s story.”

“Where else do you think I got the ideas? Sermons are good too, filled with shit to try out. All those ‘thou shalt not’s. Like a gold mine.”

“I doubt that is true.”

Laughed. “I’m invoked to scare children, for fucks sake!” In a silly voice, “Eat your pottage or the Nefastus will get you.”

“People believe it because it is the truth, or because they wish to believe it and you play to it? People believe what they are told to if there is anything to give that conception a hint of support.”

The boy went utterly still. Quickly raised his eyebrows and scoffed, “Splitting hairs. Either way it’s true, so stop wasting my fucking time you tedious old git. Do you want my help or not? Because I’m getting fed up, and I don’t hang around being bored – I leave.”

Ah ha. Attempt a change of tactic? Sternest teacher mode! “The reason, boy. Tell me or leave in silence. I will not ally myself with an uncertain party.”

Stared at each other. Silence. Battle of wills. Who would look away first? Laughed inwardly. As if he had not had years of practice at cowing a troublesome child!

The brat gave. “Fine. Let’s say that – for the sake of argument, and only that – a person might see what the right thing is and want to do it, but no one would ever believe it of him. So he has to lie.”

Play along, remain the tutor. “Very well. Let us pretend this is true. Explain.”

In a very low voice with all the sloppily formed sounds absent, “If a person’s a weak-hearted mewling twat they might think the way your princess has been treated is disgusting. Cheated out of her inheritance. Taken from her husband and shunted off onto some mongrel bastard. Handed around from gaoler to gaoler, destined to spend the rest of her life a prisoner.” Swallowed. “If that person were related to the man who did much of this he might feel some responsibility to … correct matters. As much as can be. Some of what she’s suffered can never be made up for.” And all at once his head came up, the arrogance returned. “But that person would be a mewling, weak hearted twat, and a right fucking idiot. Risking so much for shit-brained ideas like justice and chivalry!” He spat on the floor. “I’m the Nefastus. I kill people like that.”

“Quite.”

“And you know what? You were right – what I told you before wasn’t all. There’s another reason why I’m doing this. Two, actually. That mongrel bastard shit turned down the chance to become my trainer-at-arms, and he dared to humiliate me before a lot of people. I want him dead for that. Your fucking princess spurned me. Yeah, that’s right. She acted like I was some grubby peasant.” Leered. “Which is a bit rich considering she was busy fucking that grubby peasant of hers, and God knows who else.”

Watched with studied interest. A flow of bile, like pus from a wound.

“If I get her returned to you then she’s lost her precious lover, and that’s going to hurt her. I want that bitch to suffer. You’ll make her suffer. I know you will, whatever you damn well claim. You’re going to crush that bitch back under your boot where she belongs.”

An act maintained for long enough took on a life of its own.

“The bitch will lose it all and she’ll know it and live the misery for the rest of her fucking life, and she’ll know I brought her to it. She’ll soon wish she’d done differently, oh yes. She’ll rue the bloody day she rejected me. There’s just one other thing I want from this. One hour. One hour alone with that damned bitch. We’ll soon see if she’s still too proud to suck my cock-”

Knife drawn pricking at the brat’s ribs, one hand locked about his neck choking off words and breath. So fast, like lightening! So fast … before he’d known he would move. Surprised. Let the instinct command him. Tightened his grip, said with intensity, “You dare suggest my wife would do something only the lowest of whores will contemplate?”

Couldn’t answer. Both hands clawed at the fist locked about his neck.

“I should kill you for the insult.”

His face was going crimson.

“The church classes it as sodomy. The deepest of sins. You think a lady would allow herself to be so demeaned?” Drew blood with the tip of his dagger. “You think I would allow that?”

The brat tried to shake his head.

“I doubt you understand the depth of the insult. I doubt you have the experience to, boy. You named the filthiest act you know of in the midst of a rant aimed to hurt me for seeing through you. You have no idea what it entails, or why it is considered to be so disgusting.” Relaxed his grip sufficiently to allow the brat to breathe. “Is this not so?”

Squeaked, “Yes!”

“And now you begin to understand you are deeply, deeply sorry.”

“Yes! Yes!”

Put his face very close to Malcolm’s. “If you continue this way one day you will find yourself dead. Beware, my prince. Playing to the world’s expectations is one thing, letting it go too far is another. People expect you to die badly. Is that your wish also?”

Wrenched once more at the restraining hand. “Fuck off!”

Let him go. “A pity.” Returned his dagger to his belt. “I could teach you a lot.”

The boy rubbed at his neck. “Such as?”

Smiled.





Pedantic old man. Lol!

That would be the second of the three scenes which was supposed to make up one segment. :sigh: Two weeks and my writing time should be back to normal. I hope. Barring any further landmines thrown in my froggy path.

Furball :bow:

Ciaran, that wouldn’t be a problem. The problem would be choosing which of the many to put on the limited stakes! There would be no time for decay to set in sufficiently.

Dol Guldur, the moment you stick up a closing down sign you get every cheap :furious3: in the city headed your way. Cultured? Half this lot can’t even read. Why else do they feel the need to look at a shop wallpapered in “closing down!” signs and ask the nearest member of staff “You closin’ down or summat?” while chewing gum and clutching their mobile phone like a talisman against all evil. :blankg: The non-book lines are selling far faster than the books.

Wonderful scene! We got some nice Trempiness, some Malcolm exposition, and a *very* interesting alliance (assuming they ally.)

Dilemma! On the one hand, I gobble each new scene as it's presented. On the other, it was nice back when more scenes were presented together so we could see Froggy's talent at scene changing and juxtapositioning. Ah well, when all is said and done, I'm sure I'll be rereading all this. Even now I often go back and reread several scenes when a new one is written, just to savor the writing and the story and the characters.