The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

Frostbeastegg, I love you for writing this story. I'm only at the bottom of page three reading, but damn! You are one fabulous writer. Loving the plot, characters and everything.

woad&fangs, recommendations you shall have then.

The first, universal one I give to everyone is 'Shogun' by James Clavell. It's a brick of a book, and one of the finest works of fiction I have read. The characterisation and atmosphere is exquisite.

For others ... it would be easier if I knew a few other books you have read recently, and what you thought of them.



Ludens, thank you for the birthday wishes :bow: 25 now! I'm the same age as Fulk. When I first started thinking of these characters I was two years older than Nell, meaning 21. How time flies.


Roadkill, you may not need them yet but here's the traditional eyedrops. After you work your way through the remaining 23 pages you'll need them. :hands over eyedrops:

Birthday? Well then, may it be happy!

Agreed that Shogun is a fine work. It made me read Clavell's follow-ups, Tai-Pan, etc., but they didn't grab me nearly so much.

As a Jocelyn fan, I've bemoaned the fact that since he's come to work for Nell we've seen more of his (hitherto unexpected) bad side. I liked his role as gruff comic relief.

And Maclcolm! What a surprise!

Always a good day when there's a new installment of the Machiavellian Adventures.

Happy birthday.

Somehow I pictured you older than 25. Must be my ego that doesn't tolerate someone of my age being as good at something where I'm not.

Great installment, can't wait for the Trempy-Nell confrontation and whatever malcolms motivation was.

Happy Birthday Froggy.:happybirthday3: :cake: .So much has been written in just a week or two and I couldnt even check for updates thanks to school:thumbsdown: .These teachers are like :whip: :whip: ,giving so much homework on the first week:help: .Interesting development on the story,now I'm wondering what will happen when Eleanor hears that Trempy is not dead and what will happen the next time they meet.

Fulk stumbled on past Richard without a word. The boy was clearly horrified by his lord’s appearance; Fulk didn’t have the strength left to reassure him. All he wanted to do was sit down for a bit. No more.

The boy followed him into the tent and watched him collapse onto a stool. “My lord … you’re well?”

Fulk managed to nod. He was, after a fashion.

“Do you want some food?”

He shook his head.

“Water?”

Yes. As he moved he caught sight of himself, of the blood which caked him all over. He stilled, and shook his head again. He didn’t want to vomit again.

“They’re saying …”

Fulk dragged his head up and tried to smile to encourage the boy. All he managed with a minute twitch of his lip.

“They’re saying you’re the greatest knight on the field. In all England, even.”

“Who?”

“Everyone! Well, nearly everyone.” The boy inched a step closer, his features a bit more animated. “I’ve been hearing tales of your exploits all day. You captured Trempwick! You forced their flank – no one’s talking about Suffolk being there at all, only about you, my lord! They say you fought like a hero, that no one could touch you. That you felled scores of men yourself.”

“Yes.” It was glorious. In a few days he might be able to consider it so himself.

“You’re a hero!” Richard’s eyes glowed as he gazed at his master.

For the boy’s sake Fulk stirred himself, and summoned up a smile. “I’m the weariest knight, I won’t argue that.”

“Shall I help you disarm, my lord?”

“Please.”

Richard glanced over his shoulder to the tent’s entrance. “Is Luke coming to help?”

“Luke’s dead.” His blood was lost in all the rest which drenched Fulk’s surcoat; he knew it was there and abruptly he couldn’t bear it. He staggered to his feet and began to unbuckle his sword belt. “Help me disarm. Please.”

His surcoat went straight onto the brazier to burn, thrown on with an emotion verging on hysteria. Dried blood flaked from his armour as it was removed, and once he saw his page was getting painted by dabs of crimson Fulk waved him away to finish the job himself. His gambeson was soaked with blood, except the chest area where his coat of plates had made contamination difficult. His shirt, hose and braes were in an unspeakable state, and they too went onto the fire. Stripped naked he scrubbed at himself with a rag and lukewarm water – his hands and forearms were dyed rusted-red, as were his lower legs. Not his own blood, though he was covered in enough of that.

Richard had shrunk back, inching away fraction by fraction as Fulk peeled away his equipment. As his lord washed he began to come closer again. In a tremulous voice he said, “You’re wounded.”

Fulk looked down. His torso and arms were black and blue with bruising, only a few patches of white remaining. The half-healed wound on his shoulder had been bleeding again, as had his wounded shin. Dozens of tiny cuts and grazes marked where weapons had penetrated his armour. “Nothing serious.”

“But …” Richard clasped his hands, trembling. “What should I do?” he wailed.

Fulk wrung out his now filthy rag; he gave up and dropped it into the bowl. “You can get me some more water. Hot, cold, I don’t care so long as it will get me clean.” He should have had someone older, someone more experienced to help him. This poor lad had left home for the first time two weeks ago. “Then go find John. He’ll be able to show you what to do with my armour.” The man at arms needed a new lot in life now the loss of fingers had rendered him incapable of holding a weapon. He was reliable and a veteran, and may do well as a non-fighting squire. He’d send Richard to introduce himself to Eleanor, and tell her all was well with him.

He dabbed at the blood trickling from a slice on his forearm. The greatest knight. He thought he might be pleased with that … tomorrow.






“I am well and healthy, and have but the slightest of wounds such as any man will gather during combat, and thus I beg you not to distress yourself with concern for my welfare.” Hugh held his breath and palmed bathwater on his face. Once he felt cleansed he wiped the water away on a towel and resumed dictating to his clerk. “I pray you, my dearest lady wife, send me word of your own health at once, that I too may be at peace.”

Hugh rinsed away the last of the soap. He ought to rise from his bath and attend to the necessary business generated by his victory. The water was warm, gloriously warm, and so soothing to his aching body; to his great shame it made him desire to soak there until the water went cold. Why should he not? Trempwick was safely mewed in Alnwick’s chapel, a tiny chamber with no windows and only the one door. His men were being taken care of by the relevant parties, as were the prisoners. Eleanor, well what was a brother to do there? Their meeting had been difficult, stilted. Not a word she had uttered had been driven by anything other than formality. Congratulations on his victory, thanks for coming to her aid, concern for his health, the offer of hospitality for as long as he needed it, followed by her departing back to her bedchamber the very instant this bare minimum of conversation was completed. She had granted him the second best room and a spare bathtub rousted out from he knew not where, the best being reserved for her husband, the lord of this castle. By rights it should have been his, Hugh knew. So too the best chamber. Where a king visited those who owned the residence made way. He could not help but recall Trempwick’s words prior to the battle …

Hugh ducked his head under the water to wash away the unwholesome thoughts. Enough! This was what came from surrendering to petty comforts to the neglect of duty.

As his body squire helped him dry himself Hugh dictated the closing section of his message. “It is my intent to close business here in the north and return to the south, whereupon, I most fervently pray, beloved wife, that I may be reunited with you.”

He signed the letter with his own hand, and gave orders for it to be carried to Constance with all speed.






“I wish to speak to your lord.” The voice was familiar; Fulk couldn’t place a name to it.

John replied, “I’ll see if he’s available, your Highness.”

Highness? Fulk stopped examining his multicoloured torso and reached for his shirt. Of course – Malcolm Nefastus.

The crippled man at arms ducked into the tent. “The Prince of Scotland wishes to see you, my lord.” He picked at the bandages swathing his right hand, and said in a hushed voice, “I can have several of the men here in two squeaks, my lord. Or I can send him packing, tell him you’re too battered for visitors.”

“Thank you, but no.” Fulk had no idea why the prince would seek him out, and he had just enough strength left to be curious.

The prince was admitted – once Fulk had placed his dagger and the least blunt of his three swords within easy reach.

Malcolm was still in armour, head bare. Whatever was said of him for his part in today’s fighting none had called into question his personal bravery; it was easy to see why. His mail had rents in more than one spot. Wide, unfocused green eyes lived in a face much too white for comfort and said much of how the prince was coping with his first battle. Fulk wondered why he’d had been allowed to wander in such a state. Sheer negligence on the part of those older heads meant to be responsible for him, Fulk would say.

“I …” The prince rubbed at his right hand, cleaning it by friction.

“There’s water there.” Fulk nodded towards one of the leftover bowls.

When his hands were nearly clean the boy remembered to say, “Thank you.”

“What can I do for you, your Highness?”

Malcolm spent a deal of time on drying his trembling hands. When he could draw that out no longer he arranged the cloth very carefully on the makeshift table. “They – that is to say prince Hugh’s advisors and my own … they say I should be knighted. For today. For fighting well.”

“Congratulations, your Highness.”

“I know what else they say. When I’m not there. What everyone else says and will say.” His fists clenched, and at last his voice gathered some of the brashness Fulk remembered from before. “I bloody know alright, the bunch of shit-eating bastards. Always the bloody same, always.” Malcolm’s shoulders slumped, and without asking he sat down on the vacant stool, head low. “I know.” His voice was soft again.

“Highness?”

After a bit the boy looked up. “If I’m going to be knighted I want you to do it. Not them.”

“Why?” Fulk shifted his position to one with a touch more emphasis on comfort.

Malcolm chewed at his lower lip, a habit Fulk recognised as Anne’s. Which sibling had copied it from the other, he wondered? “Because it would mean something coming from you,” he replied at last.

Fulk snorted. “I’m nobody, a base-born bastard whom your father used to humiliate his English rivals.”

“Yes.”

“Then why?”

Again the answer was very slow in coming. “Do you know what they are calling you tonight? Not the lords and the great men, but the common soldiers? The greatest knight.”

“Yes, I’d heard.” Fulk wanted nothing so much as a cup of mead. “It’s …”

“Nonsense?” the prince supplied for him. He made a dismissive gesture ruined by the uncontrolled shaking of his hand. “You know why it’s got the fucking nobles hopping about like someone pissed all over them? Because you bloody well have, in a manner of speaking.”

Two cups of mead. Fulk sat up straight again, one hand slipping near his dagger. “If you’ve come here to insult me then you’d better leave. Now.”

“No!” The boy scowled and averted his face. “Damn it, I …” He came to his feet in one shaky movement, and kicked the stool across the tent. “It’s always the fucking same!”

There was something of despair in those words, and it made Fulk pause. “If you’ve something to say, why don’t you sit down and talk sense. You were before.”

The prince balled his fists at his side. “I was trying. Then you accused me of insulting you.”

“Because it sounded as though you were. There’s no need to swear.”

The boy stood there like a statue. Fulk waited. Eventually Malcolm righted the stool, and sat back down. “It’s what people expect of me.”

It was difficult to know how to treat that confession. Fulk sensed that it was offered by way of an apology, an opening that would not normally be offered. “Yet you can speak elegantly and well when you so choose. As you do now.”

“I am a prince.” The words, while every bit as well-spoken as one would expect from a scion of royal blood, were bleak. Malcolm breathed out heavily. “I am also the Nefastus. That has always taken precedence.” He lifted his chin. “I wish you to knight me. As I was attempting to say. You have pis- upset the lords. They have reason to fume at your being dubbed the greatest knight by the commons. Simple fact of it is that you deserve it and they don’t. Not just from today, but from before it too. You’ve won skirmishes, rescued your princess, fought in single combat and in tournament and always emerged victorious. No one can deny your skill at arms, and you’ve got the head of a leader to go with it. All you lack is the blood.”

“This greatest knight business will be forgotten within a week. There are others out there who are better than I.”

Malcolm hitched his shoulders. “Yes. But did they fight here? No. Did they capture the enemy leader? No. Did they help carve a path to this castle, even? No. So for now at least you are hailed as the greatest.”

“And that’s why you want me to knight you? Because I’m currently celebrated.”

The prince’s green eyes flashed with contempt. “The Nefastus would. I don’t.”

Fulk raised his eyebrows at that.

“I want you because …” His mouth twisted, and when he managed to get the words out they were in a still more subdued tone than the rest of the conversation. “You know what it means. I don’t think they do. Not so well as you do. Everything you’ve got in this life you won with your sword. They’re lords first and knights second.” Malcolm shifted on his stool, letting his hands hang limply between his knees. “And maybe they won’t have let Trempwick surrender. Not when they had so much reason to run him through.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. He’d had never made another knight, had not expected to until Richard reached manhood. It must have cost the boy a lot to come here and ask for this favour. “Being knighted by me will do you no favours.”

“Say you will think about it? Please.”

“Very well.”

The boy clambered to his feet. “You’ll want to go to your wife. I’ll leave. Now. I’ll go and … and …”

And wander about uncared for until the shock wore off and he broke down, still wearing his filthy armour.

Midway to the exit the prince paused, and said so softly Fulk only just heard, “I wanted to do what was right.”

Damn it, make that two very large cups of mead. “Your Highness?” Who could he rely upon? Fulk amended his question to a more accurate form: who did he have left? Many of his better men were worn out, wounded or dead. The lot fell by default on poor old John. “If your own squire’s not up to the task, let my man help you.”

“I …” The boy choked up, unable to speak.

Time to be out of here, or he’d be trapped by his own conscience for hours. Fulk grabbed his tunic and hauled it on, buckling his belt with difficulty as he crossed his tent with his cloak stuffed under an arm. “If you’re still of the same mind, come speak with me tomorrow.” He ducked outside without giving the prince chance to reply.

The wounded man at arms was waiting a tactful distance from the tent flap. “My lord?”

“Ah, John. Just the man. I’ve a job for you …”

“My lord?”

“Take care of the prince for me. His own lot have abandoned him like a stray dog. He’s in no state to be alone.”

“You’re telling me all the killing got to him?” John made a rude noise. “Not that one.”

“Show sense, man,” Fulk snarled. The conversation with Malcolm had prodded him a short way out of his own lassitude; the need for Eleanor had begun burning in him, a tiny little flame growing hotter all the time. “He’s fourteen. He’s killed once or twice, that’s all. Nothing like this. I doubt he’s ever sent others to their deaths or made choices which ended with them, either.”

John’s mouth pulled into a sour line. “I suppose.”

“Sit with him. Get some hot wine down him, get him out of that armour, and sit with him.”

“As you command, my lord,” the man at arms growled.

Fulk clapped him on the arm as he walked past. “Good man.”





He walked like an old, old man, and limped slightly with his right leg. Bestubbled, pale, eyes surrounded by dark circles – the toll extracted from Fulk since she’d last seen him made Eleanor’s instinctive desire to rush to him waver. He looked so fragile.

When he closed the bedchamber door Fulk sagged back to lean on it. Closing his eyes he tilted his head back until it too rested on the solid woodwork.

Eleanor said the first thing which came into her mind. “You look terrible.”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in weeks, oh gooseberry mine.” Fulk ran a hand through his hair. “Damned vultures, hopping about waiting for any meat they can tear at. They couldn’t wait to point out to me that you were up here, and not waiting for me in the bailey.”

She hadn’t thought of that, heartsick as she was and wanting to be alone until the only company she wanted was available. Hugh would never had understood that, so she had made a brief foray to receive him. Eleanor had believed otherwise of Fulk. “I am sorry. My lord.”

Fulk shook his head. “You misunderstand. Whatever we did would’ve been wrong in their eyes. If you’d been waiting then they’d have whispered about your unnatural attachment to me. Damn the lot of them to hell.” The curse was no more than a weary exhalation.

Moments later Eleanor was in his arms, face buried in his tunic. He stank of sweat and steel, and he held her tightly enough to crush her. Fulk took a deep, satisfied breath and rested his cheek on the top of her head.

A time later Eleanor raised her head and demanded, “How are you?”

Instead of replying he kissed her with the utmost gentleness, and smoothed her hair back into order where it had caught on his stubble and been pulled into disarray.

She prodded his breastbone. “That is not much of an answer.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “I am weary to the bone, battered, bruised and bloodied, half-starved, thirsty.” Fulk placed his hands on either side of her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. “You have a bath waiting for me. Oh my most beloved gooseberry, for that alone I could kiss you.”

“I made the arrangements as soon as it became clear you would fight today. In the hope …”

He clasped her to his chest again; Eleanor felt a tremor pass through him. “This must be why men invented marriage.”

“To get a bath?”

Fulk’s body shook again, accompanied by a choked sob. “No.”

Eleanor stroked the back of his neck. “My poor luflych little knight. Everyone was at great pains to warn me about how you might be. I believe they thought I would be shocked. They do not know I have seen some of this before.”

He gasped out a laugh that contained another sob. “And now you’re stuck with something of all three possible moods.”

“I do not notice any signs of you drowning yourself in drink.”

“Only because there’s none in reach.”

“You are barely crying, and certainly not hysterical.”

“Battles don’t take me that way. Not since the first time.”

“Nor do I see you acting like a rutting idiot, as Aveis picturesquely termed it.”

Another quiver ran through him. “My usual remedy. As you know. Except this time it’d be honourable, not like the others. I don’t know why you put up with me using you that. It was disgusting. Sordid. Disrespectful-”

Eleanor set a finger over his lips. “I never said so.”

“I’m too tired! Now it can be something better I’m far too tired. What am I going to do?”

“Take a bath?”

This time the laugh had more of mirth and less of pain to it. “When did you become so sensible?”

“I do not know.”

Fulk pulled back so he could see her face. “As we advanced we heard stories. About men tortured to death outside the gates.”

“Yes.”

“I hear you killed someone.”

“It has been a long time since I used a crossbow. I thought I would miss.”

Fulk raised his eyebrows in silent query.

“I meant to hit him. Missing would not have had the necessary effect.”

“It can’t have been easy to hold all this together.”

Eleanor heard again the screams of those Trempwick had cut to pieces outside the walls, saw once more the moment where her mentor’s banner had fallen. “I do not ask about your battle. Do not ask me about mine.” Imploring, “Please. I want only to forget, so far as I can. I do not have the luxury of being able to drink myself into a stupor or any of the rest of that, and …” And she had done her crying, mourned what she’d lost and had turned her face to what she had left. It would be every bit as wrong to mourn Trempwick here and now, where her concern should be with her beloved, as it would have been to show any of her grief for him in public. Then too if the subject were not raised she would not have to hear what had happened in that brief time where Fulk’s banner had flown next to Trempwick’s.

Fulk’s only answer was to put his lips to hers.

Once Fulk was safely installed in his bath Eleanor made him drink some of the rich beef broth she’d been keeping warm by the fire. He put it aside half finished, and settled back against the padded rim of the tub. She believed him to be drowsing until he said, “It would have been politic to yield all this to your brother.”

“I see no reason to place you second to him.” Eleanor caught up the dish of soap and began to wash Fulk’s hair. “Has he fought for half the day? Is he half as battered as you? Is he lord of this castle? If he has complaints about the hospitality he has been granted he may direct them to me, and I shall see him off in short order.”

A wave of water swept the tub as Fulk turned around to face her. “Eleanor, it would have been tactful-”

“He is my brother first and above all, and if that is not sufficient then he owes us a very great deal. If he begrudges us one bath and one bed he is not worth caring over.”

The look he gave her boded trouble for the future, it was much too wary.

A flea struggled from Fulk’s sodden hair. Quick as a flash Eleanor crushed it with her thumb. “Sorry,” she mumbled as she cleaned pulped insect off Fulk’s shoulder.

“Thought I’d got rid of them all before I came here.”

“Did you think you had rid yourself of all this stubble also?” Eleanor ran a finger over the several days’ growth which covered his chin.

“Too tired for such delicate work.”

Eleanor tutted and made a comment about lazy knights being left to fend for themselves as a way to encourage them to betterment. Nonetheless she set to with a razor when she was done with his hair. It was slow, cautious work, the first time she’d turned her hand to it. Fulk made it seem so easy on those mornings when she’d watched him. Everywhere there lurked potential disaster – ears to nick, a chin to cut, the contours of the face to follow across hard bone and yielding flesh. That she only cut him once Eleanor credited to her familiarity with a knife.

Fulk was drowsing in earnest by the time she managed to get him out of the water so she could tend to his wounds. He leaned against one of the pillars of their bed, eyelids drooping and paying little heed to her steady progress with wine and salve.

Eleanor dressed the worst wounds first, biting her tongue as she tended the one on his shoulder. He’d taken that one before he left her; it should have healed by now, would have if he’d been given chance to let it.

“You’re not embarrassed,” Fulk commented. Fatigue slurred his words. “First time you have seen me naked and not been self-conscious.”

It was true, so much so that she had not considered it until mentioned. There wasn’t room for embarrassment. Fulk was hurt in body and spirit; he needed her. Equally she needed him.

Once Fulk’s cuts were dressed Eleanor changed to a different pot of salve, this one intended to ease his bruising. The jar was of a size with her clenched fist; it was nearly empty by the time she finished. To see the body she had come to take such delight in reduced to this sorry state grieved her deeply.

“Luke died.”

Eleanor didn’t think he desired a response of any kind from her.

“So did Nigel, and William, and Edward, and … too many others. Going to have to replace fully a third of our retained men. Of those you sent out, I don’t know. More losses. How many, how bad … I don’t know.” For a time he watched her smoothing ointment onto his bruises. “I would like some wine. Please.”

Having prepared for most eventualities Eleanor could do better than simple wine. When she brought the goblet to him it was filled with mead.

After consuming most of his drink in an improbably short space of time Fulk seemed to lose interest, and sat with the goblet lolling in his lap. “Tomorrow we’ll celebrate. Tomorrow we’ll recount our deeds and revel in the glory of it all. We’ll boast of how many we killed, and tell anyone who will listen how much we enjoyed ourselves.”

“Tomorrow the fighting will have happened yesterday.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Odd how a bit of time makes so much difference.” Fulk consumed the remnants of his mead; he held the cup out to her. “More.”

“You will have a splitting headache tomorrow,” Eleanor chided as she reached for the pitcher. The first amount she’d given him had been sufficient to make him mildly drunk.

“Right now I’m seeing Luke. He has a split head. Literally.” He uttered another of those laughing sobs. “Drink is a poor second best. Now there’s an understatement. It’s so slow, makes my mood worse until I finally pass out, and then leaves me feeling like death when I wake.”

“Then do not drink so much?”

He let her complete her work in peace, except to request a second refill.

As Eleanor tidied away the medicines Fulk lowered the goblet and watched through sleepy eyes. “That’s why I favour the other route. Though don’t be fooled by anyone who says its about creating something to make up for all the destruction, or anything like that. For a bit you can drown yourself in pure sensation, and if the first time doesn’t send you peacefully to sleep then the second should. Women never leave me with a headache either.”

“Charming.”

The corner of his mouth twitched up. “Don’t be insulted. That’s the ale brewed from horse’s piss end of things. You’re at the other end of the scale with ice wine and such.”

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “If you are trying to tell me you intend to keep me in a barrel with a lock on it from this day forth …”

“You’re really very special.”

“I shall never let you drink heavily again.”

Fulk’s lips stretched into the most ridiculous smile Eleanor had ever witnessed. “No. Really. Other half of my soul. Makes me so glad I married you, since that makes us one flesh too according to the monks. It’s good not to be split into bits.”

“You are starting to remind me of Count Jocelyn at our wedding!”

“That’s harsh. Right when I’m trying to tell you that I love you.”

Eleanor surveyed her wreck of a husband, hands on hips. “I love you too, my luflych little knight.”

“Good.”

“Else I doubt I would put up with this.” She kissed his forehead, and plucked the goblet from his hand while he was distracted. “Why not go to bed?”

Fulk pinched the bridge of his nose and concentrated very hard. “I’m making a prat of myself, aren’t I?”

“Yes, dearest,” she assured him, kissing him again to make it plain she forgave him.

Naked except for a few bits of bandaging Fulk had no need to undress. He crawled up the bed and flailed his way under the blankets. Half asleep already, he reached out to her and held the pose insistently. “I feel better just holding you. Makes the screaming go away.”

Blowing out the candles Eleanor stripped down to her shift and climbed into bed next to him. The arm dropped down to hold her, he was asleep before she’d settled comfortably.







Only Nell could greet her poor battered knight with “You look terrible.” after stressful weeks apart. :D

Anne would be thoroughly disgusted. What kind of a reunion was that!? Where was the romance? The declarations of undying love? And Fulk went to sleep!

Crib note: “My usual remedy. As you know. Except this time it’d be honourable, not like the others. I don’t know why you put up with me using you that. It was disgusting. Sordid. Disrespectful-” Fulk is referring to certain ahem, occasions from before they were married. I doubt anyone remembers them, which is most unfair because of the awkwardness of writing those wretched scenes! I prefer to cut away at a tasteful point, There I had to detail it all so no one could get the wrong impression.




Furball, I hope you will forgive me for being evil, but I just can’t resist. Jocelyn’s unexpected bad side? You mean he was good when he was making his wife’s life hell, swapping allegiances back and forth inside his mind at the drop of a hat, and raping an assortment of unfortunates?

Peasant Phill, my knees feel like they are at least fifty. Does that help? :Is disconcerted that her knees ache and creak, especially in the winter:

Death is Yonder, the Nell/Trempy reunion is one of those persistent scenes which have been bothering me for years. To finally be close to writing it is incredible.

Currently on page thirteen, right after Trempy's failed abduction attempt.
Still good and I like the increase in pace. I printed off the next post(16 pages in MS word:dizzy2: ) and I plan on reading it after exams tomorrow if I have any time.

The way Hugh thinks reminds me a lot of myself, which might explain why I have this overwhelming urge to strangle him.:laugh4:

Always a pleasant surprise to find yet another chapter has been added to this wonderful story.

I've been telling you this before but I really admire how you manage to make every character human and not just a stereotype. The Nefastus was one of the last 1 dimensional characters but you found a great solutions for that. No good and bad in this tale just people behaving according to there nature.

Excellent scenes! Understated, carrying the feel of after-battle exhaustion and importance-delayed. I'm very impressed with how you handled Malcolm. He shows the other side of himself by wanting to be knighted by Fulk and there's only that one mumbled mention of "wanted to do what was right."

As for Jocelyn, certainly he wasn't a saint before, more just a (possibly) stereotypical guy of his times with a bit of humor tossed in. But after coming to Eleanor, he seems to have lost the charming doubtfulness he had in dealing with or thinking about Tildis. Stands to reason, but now he seems more cunningly cynical. Granted, he has doubts and concerns about Eleanor as a leader, woman, etc. It's just he seems to have lost his drunken/boorish/rogueish charm. Maybe it's just me. :)

I'll be sad when this story's done!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by furball

As for Jocelyn, certainly he wasn't a saint before, more just a (possibly) stereotypical guy of his times with a bit of humor tossed in. But after coming to Eleanor, he seems to have lost the charming doubtfulness he had in dealing with or thinking about Tildis. Stands to reason, but now he seems more cunningly cynical. Granted, he has doubts and concerns about Eleanor as a leader, woman, etc. It's just he seems to have lost his drunken/boorish/rogueish charm. Maybe it's just me. :)

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No, I agree with you. I also think he is a bit predictable, but Jocelyn was never a favourite of mine, so perhaps I am biased.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by furball

I'll be sad when this story's done!

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My feelings exactly. The last update was very good indeed.

“You are staring at me.”

Fulk sipped some small ale in an attempt to ease the lip-puckering taste left in his mouth by two generous applications of salt tooth scrub. “Watching. It’s relaxing.”

“It is off-putting.” Eleanor deposited a spoonful of food onto a platter with a flick of her wrist.

“Nice technique.” The smell of the food crossed the room, tantalising, soothing away the nausea that had been bubbling in Fulk’s belly since he awoke. His trip to the source of the smell was slowed only by his stiff muscles.

Eleanor relinquished her serving spoon. “Here. If you do not like how I do it you may do it yourself.”

Fulk grinned around a mouthful of yesterday’s bread. “You do very well.”

“You say that only because you are too lazy to lift a finger yourself.”

Eating took priority over quarrelling; Eleanor watched him shovel food down with a bewilderment which would have made him abashed if he his stomach hadn’t been about to collapse from emptiness. Chunks of bacon panned in butter with cabbage and leeks accompanied the usual breakfast bread and small ale. A piece of hard cheese bore silent testament to Alnwick’s kitchen staff familiarity with their lady’s preferences. It was a small thing; it gave Fulk a keen awareness of how much of his earldom’s formative period he’d missed. The people here knew nothing of his own preferences. Fulk’s busy spoon slowed.

“What is wrong?” Eleanor asked.

“I’m bound to go on a pilgrimage. To Spain. A tour of the major holy sites.”

Eleanor’s lips thinned. “And however did you manage that?”

“Most men confess before a battle.”

“Yes. They end up giving donations to churches, or doing short pilgrimages inside their own homeland.” Eleanor sliced off a piece of cheese in such a way it made Fulk wince. “They do not end up gallivanting off to the other side of Christendom.”

“He wanted me to fight out there. That wasn’t laid on me, it was hinted at very strongly with all his talk of the Muslims preparing for war to crush the Christian kingdoms.”

“Who was this?”

“Hugh’s own confessor.”

“Hugh’s?” Eleanor pressed a hand to her brow and closed her eyes. In a very flat voice she said, “You told my brother’s pet priest all your misdeeds. Including those involving me.” Her hand slapped down onto the table. “Thank you very much!”

“I was very careful,” Fulk replied, a hand pressed to his own brow to stop his aching head from splitting into two from the noise. “No names, no implication it was you.

“Your place is here. This will be changed.”

That appeared to be her final word on the subject, and Fulk was happy to let it be so. Easing himself shortly before the bedding ceremony had been the right thing to do. He knew it to be so. How else could he have been so patient? The priest had insisted otherwise and demanded he repent, a demand Fulk had refused repeatedly. The majority, should they know of it, would side against him, saying that there would be plenty of time later to make up for his over-eagerness. Impossible as he found it to believe Eleanor would have preferred such poor treatment, Fulk couldn’t say with a certainty that she would not be upset by his way of avoiding it. The same could be said to too many things.

Fulk reached across the little table and caught her hand. “We’ve been married more than a month and it strikes me that in some ways I hardly know you. I know how you’ll react to this,” he kissed each of her knuckles and gave the last a playful nip with his teeth, “but not what you’d do if I said ‘Here’s some money, go and furnish our chambers.’”

“Well,” Eleanor said slowly, stroking the inside of his palm, “what do you expect when you spend so little time with me?”

“My dearest gooseberry, were I in any condition to, I’d take that as a challenge.” Fulk kissed her hand again to show that the spirit was willing even if the flesh were weak.

She cast her eyes down in a perfect display of modesty. “Eat your breakfast.” Eleanor’s eyes darted back up to meet his, with a hint of a purr she added, “It will help you regain your strength.”

Blood attempting to boil, Fulk obeyed. Repent? Never! Not if every last person in the world cried out that he’d been wrong. Impulsively he said, “Furnish our rooms. This place isn’t ours. Too much borrowed and gifted, nothing of us.”

Eleanor shunted some cabbage around with the tip of her eating knife. “I had hoped we might leave Alnwick. For a time at least. I know it is the heart of your power.”

“We can’t.” The disappointment she tried to hide made Fulk’s heart throb. “There’s too much in need of doing here.”

“Has Hugh said anything about granting us some lands?”

“I don’t expect to get anything.” Allowing Trempwick to live had put paid to any hopes he’d had.

Eleanor set her knife down. “You did so much to support him. If I must remind him of that-”

“No.” Fulk was surprised at how severe the word sounded. “I must make my own way.”

Eleanor took a steady breath. “Our lands are a pillaged ruin. We have no money. Everything we have is in the north, we need to be in the south.”

“No.” A pulse of pain ran across the inside of Fulk’s head; the wound in his shoulder throbbed as he shifted on his stool. “I won’t be able to respect myself if everything I’ve got are hand-outs for marrying you. No one will respect me.”

“I am not talking about charity-”

“No.” Trempwick. Fulk’s hungover mind spat the name at him. He sounded like Trempwick. The realisation revived the nausea; Fulk set his own eating implements down and pushed the trencher away to distance the now sickening smell from himself. Softening his tone was easier now. “We have money, I took a fair few ransoms and there’s captured equipment to be sold too. I’m promised payment for my spare warhorse since I lost him due to the fighting on the way here. There’ll be coin left after we pay what we need to restore the earldom to its feet.”

The blank, guarded front she presented told him she too had noticed the brief resemblance to the spymaster. “You must have captured half the nobles in Trempwick’s army.”

Fulk grinned, trying to chase away his misstep. “Better than that – I captured Trempwick himself!”

Eleanor recoiled. “What did you say?” she demanded through clenched teeth.

Fulk blinked rapidly, trying to work out what lay behind this reaction. “I captured him. We met in combat, and he surrendered to me without a blow.”

Not a thing did she give away, not a thing. She’d walled herself up behind that blank façade, shutting him out. It was a knife to the heart.

Fulk tried to win his way through the barrier she’d put up. “Eleanor?”

Nothing. Then she was on her feet and headed for the bedchamber’s door. “I have to see him.”

“No!” Fulk hurled himself after her. “No,” he repeated as he caught her arm.

“I thought he was dead!” she cried as she spun around to face him.

“Let him be dead to you.”

Eleanor freed her arm from his grip with a sharp twist. “I cannot.” She turned to the door; Fulk sidestepped to block her path and caught her by the shoulders.

“You will not see him.” It was the wrong way to behave with her, Fulk knew it and was helpless to stop himself. All he could do was will her to understand why. “He is poison. He will twist you around and sink his hooks back into you.”

A hint of what Fulk believed was contempt flashed in the depths of her eyes. “You need not worry about that.”

“I need,” he said harshly. “That man-”

“I thought he was dead.”

Fulk’s breath vanished as effectively as if an invisible fist had punched him in the stomach. “That was why you didn’t wait for me below! You were mourning for him!”

“Better than mourning him while I was with you.”

“He’s dangerous, Eleanor!” Fulk gave her a little shake, trying to impress his point. “He spouted more of his lies before the battle – and he’s guessed half the truth! If you see him people will say there’s truth in his claims-”

“Not if it is handled correctly-”

“The only safety is in not seeing him at all.”

“I have to. No one else can-”

“Anyone else can!” Fulk shouted. “For God’s sake, for once stand back and let someone else take the hazards! Let your brother work for his damned throne!”

“It is not his,” Eleanor said very softly.

Fulk wavered on the brink of he knew not what for an instant. The anguish was overwhelming. Releasing her he placed distance between them, making sure he stayed between her and the exit. “You told me I hadn’t married a queen. You told me!”

“You did not.”

Fulk paced up and down, too full of conflict to stay still. “Trempwick might admire word games, I don’t. You know very well what I meant! Queen now or ever, not at the precise moment we exchanged vows.”

“Eleanor raised her chin. “I say again, you did not.”

The way she was standing, weight balanced to dodge or roll with blows she couldn’t evade, broke his heart. Fulk’s voice came out harsh with emotion, “I will not lose you.”

“Then let me see him.”

“No! You will not go anywhere near that man. He’s dangerous!”

“Not to me!”

“Especially to you!” Fulk chopped a hand through the air. “Think! I haven’t spent so long breaking his influence only to see you run back to him.”

The traces of Eleanor’s escaping royal temper frosted over into something altogether different. “You are a jealous idiot.”

Fulk had to leave, before he did anything more stupid than he already had. “You will not go near him. That is final.” He stormed out of the room so quickly he had pretend he didn’t hear her reply.

“Is it, indeed,” he heard her say quietly.





“Is it, indeed,” Eleanor said to the slamming door.

Several minutes later the door into the solar inched open and Hawise edged into the room. “Ah …?”

The cold shock of hearing how Fulk thought of her now they were married had worn off. “That man,” Eleanor growled, “is a jealous, blind, controlling self-centred idiot!”

Aveis shouldered her way past the younger maid. “He’s also worn out, hurt, and, if that nearly empty jug of mead is anything to go by, hungover.”

True. She’d made allowances for that. She had. Had he been in good health she’d have knocked some sense into him! “He thinks I should be content to stay in this mausoleum decorating it with tapestries.” Eleanor sat down heavily on the bed. The bolster was ideally placed for a good punch; she took advantage of that. Make Alnwick a pleasant place to live? Impossible! There was a slaughter field outside, and the place still rang with the shrieks of the tortured. Not that she’d told the senseless lump that, out of consideration for his lordly feelings.

“Oh dear,” murmured Hawise.

“He thinks I am a hawk he has lured from the wild and broken to sit on his fist.”

Aveis frowned. “That sounds a little strong …”

The anger smouldered out; the tinder was too damp to burn. “What am I going to do?” she moaned. “Everything is ruined.”

The widow gave Eleanor’s shoulder a squeeze. “Not a chance. The man is plain daft for you, and you for him.”

“The situation is impossible. I will not – cannot! - let him control me utterly. If I go against him …” Eleanor hung her head. Going to see Trempwick anyway would be the end of it all. There wasn’t much choice to it, as Fulk would have found if he’d given her chance to explain. No one else could bring Trempwick under control, if indeed that were possible.

Much to Eleanor’s annoyance Aveis chuckled. “The first clash of wills and it’s all over? How easily you give up, and how little faith you have.”

“Wait,” Hawise advised. “When you’re both calmer try again. Compromise.”

Eleanor studied the toes of her shoes. “I do not think there is a compromise here.”

Aveis laughed outright. “Rubbish. There’s always a way if you’re both willing to look. Now, in the meantime why don’t you start thinking about furnishings? They’re portable; you can take them with you when you leave Alnwick.”






It’s taken Nell this long to realise Fulk is rather jealous? :is a confused frog:


Woad&fangs, hope your exams went well.

You’re a Hugh? You have my sympathy :winkg: Nah, from the start he’s a good man, sadly let down by his complete lack of confidence. The poor man spent most of his very young life being compared unfavourably to his elder brother, and the rest of his life trying to be a replacement for said brother. That won’t do anyone any good. Trempy’s revolt forces him to grow out of his brother’s shadow.

It’s the Nells in the world I feel sorry for. It’s not easy being a gooseberry.


Peasant Phill, at last I can talk about the Nefastus. He was an experiment on my part. There’s a lot of discussion about showing and telling, and about unreliable narrators. What would happen if all of these things were combined, I wondered. The experiment came to its end when Malcolm went into battle against Trempy.

Every single narrator in this story is unreliable. They say what they think, not what’s true. I – and they – told you Malcolm was pure evil, from before he appeared in person. I showed you otherwise, if you looked deeper. The experiment was to see what views people would form about the character. I expected there to be questions about the lack of agreement between show and tell. That doesn’t seem to have happened.

Early on in his appearances Malcolm executes with his own hands the men who tried to capture Eleanor for Trempwick. Nell’s POV is horrified. The Eleanor world reports that he’s done this because he enjoys killing. Young master Nefastus says a few words about not handing his dirty work off to others, and about being responsible for his own justice. That’s just excuses though, right?


Furball, I understand now. I think you’ll be happier with Jocelyn’s following scenes. His arc has reached a point of change, as you’ll understand in a bit.

Since he left home he has been freer to decide things and not have the truth forced in his face. It’s the endless byplay between reality and ‘the world according to Jocelyn(TM)’ that create the instability and humour in his character. He’s been wobbling about all over the place about whatever to support Nell or not. That’s not been so much about warping the world to fit his view, it’s about politics and his own survival as a power. The end of that comes as he charges into battle thinking

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Jocelyn

Right. He’d have to trust her. She was a queen and knew what she was doing.

---

That’s resolved one of the big uncertainties in his character. He’s made a choice, and with it several other issues have been settled.


Ludens, you know, now you mention not liking Jocelyn I can’t remember which characters you do like. That makes me feel bad; I try to track these things. IIRC you aren’t fond of Fulk or Trempy, or William.

Thanks for the peeks into the background, Ms. Frog! I always hoped Jocelyn would live happily ever after with Richildis no matter what huge events swept over the Gooseberry and her lover.

Now, on a different subject: I understand the underlying tension and the growing realisation that is the theme of the chapter just produced. But, please read the following paragraph:

"That appeared to be her final word on the subject, and Fulk was happy to let it be so. Easing himself shortly before the bedding ceremony had been the right thing to do. He knew it to be so. How else could he have been so patient? The priest had insisted otherwise and demanded he repent, a demand Fulk had refused repeatedly. The majority, should they know of it, would side against him, saying that there would be plenty of time later to make up for his over-eagerness. Impossible as he found it to believe Eleanor would have preferred such poor treatment, Fulk couldn’t say with a certainty that she would not be upset by his way of avoiding it. The same could be said to too many things."

I "sorta maybe think" I know what you're referring to here, but does it really fit? And, even if it does, spending a paragraph on it RIGHT AT THIS POINT seems a little . . . flirty? disingenious? at worst, wordy.

Eleanor might think Fulk's jealous, or be seeing it for the first time, but from Fulk's point of view, Trempwick is the anti-Christ. He's responsible for torturing, manipulating and perverting a wonderful girl. . . even while all that made her into the woman Fulk loves. The paragraph I quoted, while well-written grammatically and thematically, just doesn't fit into the dramatic arc of the chapter. Granted, the personal feelings of Eleanor and Fulk allow us to downplay the grave historic consequences of kingly stuff, but to have Fulk consider *that* thing at such length - and with the author writing well, but obliquely - just seems a little too pedantically cute.

Every sentence of the paragraph fits nicely into what we might think of as the epitome of courtly love - or at least the fictionalization of it. But it just doesn't fit here. I mean, granted, Eleanor and Fulk have a sensuous underpinning to their affection, but after THAT battle, and all it portends? Well, maybe you're right. In the midst of historic affairs, the couple is agonising over what personal details Fulk told to Hugh's priest. :)

And if *that* seems harsh, consider:
----------------------------------
Eleanor shunted some cabbage around with the tip of her eating knife. “I had hoped we might leave Alnwick. For a time at least. I know it is the heart of your power.”
----------------------------------
I was gonna spend paragraphs meowing about how the last sentence should be, "Though I know it is the heart of your power."

Don't get me wrong. It's a joy to read!

EDIT: Gah! Nobody is commenting. In past times, I'd have deleted this post after sleeping on it. But Froggy has pointed out that she gets emails of every post as it's posted. Please don't take this as a censure of the writing. I just felt like commenting (rambling) at length. Please continue with the previous discussions about eye-wash and all. The story is great and it was not my intention to be too critical about one little paragraph!

Bah, stupid English papers about the "literary analysis" of novels. Bah I say. I chose Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms" to do the report on. I've finished reading it now so I can go back to reading this story. *sigh* I hated the character of Catherine Barkley. The entire book I kept saying to myself "Maybe there's a gooseberry on the next page" and then I turned the page and the only woman was that lousy PoS Barkley. Bah!!! Gooseberry FTW, for now and for ever.

Yes, I compared your story to Hemingway's the entire time and you kicked his *** in every category except for the descriptions of war and battle which I declared a draw.

What's the address of the other forum you're posting the story on? I'm going to recommend this story to my cousin but I like the .org to be my sanctuary away from everyone I know in real life so I'd like to give her the address of the other site.

Anyways, it continues to be a great story but I have one criticism. The secret code letter sent from Trempwick to Eleanor in Scotland seemed very Deu es Machina to me. How did he sneak a letter into her room when he's been having so much troublefinding her. Maybe I missed something but that part just seemed odd to me.

If I recall I'm up to the part where the King of Scotland had just entered the city of Perth and was giving gold and lousy ale to the peasants.

Edit: Nvm, I found the other site and emailed her the web adress of that version. I just finished the part where Fulk is negotiating is new earlship with the KoS. Malcom Nefastus is interesting me. I think he'll either end up fighting Fulk and dying or defending Fulk and dying in his arms while gasping out a great one-liner with his dying breathes. Of course I could be completely wrong and in that case I'll be perfectly happy with whatever conclusion you give to his part in this tale.

Wow, your writing still beats the stuffing out of mine. Nightmare Fuel is nothing compared to this (easily the best story on the .org).

“Alnwick! I want a word with you!”

Fulk lowered his practice blade, panting from his exertions. “What might I do for you, my lord?” It was child’s play to guess which burr was prickling under William of Suffolk’s tunic. A little polite deference may ease the confrontation; the earl was one of the more reasonable in Hugh’s council.

Spittle flew from the earl of Suffolk’s mouth as he snarled, “You can set the account to rights, that’s what!” He stabbed a finger at Fulk’s chest. “You didn’t win anything. Without our support you’d have been surrounded and cut to pieces!”

Fulk leaned on his sword. “I’m quite aware of that.”

“Then you will tell people.” Suffolk crossed his arms, the crimson fading from his face as his temper receded. “It’s demeaning. To all of us. There were many of noble blood who did their parts, and there’s barely a word of recognition for it.”

“Only in certain quarters, surely? Lord Hugh knows who did what.”

“When our retinues – who fought besides us and equally as hard – hear all this greatest knight rubbish from the militia and commons it causes tension.” The aging earl shrugged. “Fights, actually.”

“I don’t see what I can do. I haven’t encouraged it.”

“You had better not!” The earl coughed, and behaved as though he suddenly found the sky immensely fascinating. “For you own sake too, man,” he said gruffly. “Would you have it said you steal other men’s glory as well as their wives?”

Fulk settled his weight on the balls of his feet, lifting the tip of his blade out of the dirt. The dregs of his hangover pulsed behind his eyes. “And who says that?”

Suffolk looked him up and down, and turned on his heel. “Rabid mongrels get put down,” he said as he walked away. “You’ve made a name for skill at arms and an aversion to insult. Leave it at that.”

The yard was close to deserted. Those men privileged enough to be lodged inside the castle’s walls were resting their weary bones. Were it not for his quarrel with Eleanor Fulk would have been doing the same. His taste for battering a stake gone to ashes, Fulk returned his practice sword to its place in the store room.

He was hailed as he emerged from the gloomy interior. “Alnwick!”

Hugh’s priest, having located his quarry, deigned to go no further and waited in the middle of the yard.

Fulk ambled over. He’d be damned if he was going to hop at this man’s beck.

The priest folded his hands into the sleeves of his habit. “I am releasing you from the obligation to go on pilgrimage.”

Eleanor had lost no time in her meddling! At the edge of Fulk’s vision the stake waited, inviting him to come back.

The priest massaged his elbows inside his loose sleeves. “If the seal of confession were not unbreakable I would have told your wife why I imposed that penalty. In that instance I believe she would have badgered me still – to send you as far away as possible.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose, unable to look the man in the eye. The content of his confession hung between them like a rotting carcass. “I’m married now. Things will change.”

A curled lip replied to that. “How can you honour the marriage when you befouled it at its inception?”

“I honoured my wife by acting in consideration of her,” Fulk ground out.

“There is always an excuse, and that one doesn’t carry to your many other sins.” The priest held up a hand. “Enough. I have no intention of wrangling with you until the sun goes down. It has been pointed out – and I agree – that it is not in the best interests of the realm in the present climate that you leave for a prolonged journey. Lord Hugh has need of you, sad as that fact may be. It would be unchristian of me to leave you burdened with a penance you could not perform until long into the future. For the remainder of your days you will pay for two boys to be educated. Charity,” the priest pronounced, settling his hands back inside his sleeves. “Bettering the unfortunate so that your soul, and the world itself, may be bettered also.”

“Rest of my days,” Fulk repeated. This was going to be expensive.

“Indeed.” A hint of fang showed as he spoke the word. This priest would soon be confessing to the sin of revenge.

Fulk managed a curt bow and went his way. Bending the church to fit with royal wishes was no small feat, Fulk tried to focus on that. Eleanor had exerted herself to free him of a load he hadn’t wanted. She’d done it without consulting him; her pronouncement it would be changed had been more final than he’d thought. It stuck in his throat and threatened to choke him.

As he stormed his way through the great hall towards the solar stairs he was hailed again, this time in slurred langue d’oil. “Hey, you! Alnwick!”

Fulk snapped a reply in the same language, “What?” He didn’t alter his course.

“I want to ask you something. It’s important, like.” Jocelyn slapped the bench at his side. “Come and sit down and share a bit of wine.”

Another full-blooded noble, and thus another man he couldn’t antagonise. Though he didn’t take the offered seat Fulk made the courtesy of closing to normal speaking distance. “I have pressing matters to deal with, so if you’ll forgive me-”

“This is pressing.” The count belched, covered his mouth with a hand. “Oops. Sorry.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not really so very much, damn it. Sound like my damned wife, ‘cept I can’t slap you and tell you to shut the hell up.” The count patted the bench again. “You can fight with your own wife later. She’ll keep. I need your advice, man to man.”

“Fight with my wife?” Fulk kept his words bland.

Jocelyn chuckled. “It’s bloody obvious. Why else would you be out here strutting about like someone rammed a spear up your arse pointy end first?”

Fulk sat down, face leaned into one hand. “Wonderful.”

“Well, maybe I’m the only one perceptive enough to work it out.” The count gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder – his wounded shoulder. Fulk’s pained intake of breath went completely unnoticed. “Everyone else will say it’s because you’re worn out, battered and all that. Effects of yesterday’s battle.” Wine sloshed into a spare cup, and the count pushed it into Fulk’s hands. “Drink that and it’ll all start to look better. Trust me.”

The throbbing agony of his wounded shoulder made Fulk more eager to comply than he might normally be. The wine was good, a sweet Rhenish that in all likelihood had come from his own wine cellar.

Jocelyn sighed, blasting Fulk with wine fumes. “Thing about wives is that they’re a bloody nuisance. Give them an inch and they’ll take a bloody mile and whine that they want carrying along it! Want my advice?”

“No.”

The count just smiled blearily. “Put your foot down, man. Stamp it right on down and if it lands on her toes, well, too damned bad. She shouldn’t have stood there in the first place.”

“Jesù,” Fulk muttered into his drink.

“Works for me. Picture of bliss, is my home. Yes. Very much so. Got to take women in hand right from the start, common knowledge that.”

Common knowledge it may be, it was little use to someone living in such an uneven match as Fulk’s even were he inclined to stomp. Inclined? His handling of their disagreement that morning played out in full, fast detail in his mind’s eye. Fulk downed the other half of his drink. His disgust bobbed to the surface and swam about most ably. “What was it you needed to speak to me about?”

“I want to go home,” Jocelyn said bluntly. “I’d never have thought it possible but I guess I’m getting old. Truth be told I didn’t much enjoy yesterday, and that was before some common bastard shot me.” He made a disgusted noise. “Old! Never thought it’d happen but there we are. It’s only old men who’d rather sit by their home hearth than do a bit of fighting.”

Fulk smiled wryly. “Then I’m old too.”

“You?” The count’s brow wrinkled. “Bloody nonsense! I’ve got my reasons, you can’t have any!”

“I’ve missed so much. My earldom began to take shape while I was away.” Fulk gazed into the empty depths of his cup. “I’ve spent most of my married life away from my wife.”

“Best way to spend it.” Jocelyn slopped more wine into their cups. “If you’re not within earshot you can’t hear the damned bitch nag and whinge, and if she can’t see what you’re doing then she won’t get all upset.”

“Says the man who wishes to return home.”

“Bloody right! I’ve got children to go back to, children I’m missing see grow up. And, of course, Tildis likes me. Loves me.” The count’s cheery expression looked as fake as a piece of the true cross. “She’s probably crying right now because she misses me so much.”

“If you say so.”

Jocelyn set his cup down. “Now, look. You probably won’t understand any of this, being how you don’t have children and a beloved wife like I do, but anyway, you can try. Every day I’m here is a day lost to them. Children that young grow so quickly! Blink and you miss something. I’ve been missing a lot and it preys on my mind. And, you know, after I got shot all I’ve been able to think of is them. What if I’d died? Where would they be then? Killed, and this isn’t really my fight. I’ve done as I was asked by my old king, and I’ve done my bit for his heirs. That’s enough, surely? Proved my loyalty, served more than the forty days they can reasonably ask of me, shed blood and all that.” He sighed gustily. “I want to see my own lands, wake in my own bed, sleep with my own wife, and spend time with my own children. I want to settle my own affairs, finish all those things which I left hanging when I bolted off over here in the name of duty. Is that so strange?”

Fulk shook his head. “No. I find it perfectly sane.”

“Well then.” Jocelyn sat up and adjusted his belt to a more comfortable angle. “What I want to know from you is who do I talk to about it? You’ve got fingers in both pies. Brother or sister?”

Fulk’s eyes narrowed. This man has been close to Eleanor for the past few weeks. What had she done to cause him to question Hugh’s status? “Is there truly any question?”

The count shrugged expansively. “Look, I’m a simple man and my brains are a bit sloshed in wine, not to mention I’ve been shot, and the last weeks have been bloody stressful, let me tell you. I don’t want to have to think. I just want to ask the right one and go home. That’s all. Nothing more. I don’t want to have to pick my way through her schemes. She’s what she is, and good for her. Me, I can’t keep up with it and I’ve ceased trying.”

“What do you mean?” Fulk asked deliberately. The wine had turned sour in his belly.

“I mean precisely what I say, damn it!”

Fulk grasped the other man’s arm. “What do you mean?”

“She orders us to go and support her brother – and then in the next breath tells us to kill a man he’d want alive.”

“Trempwick,” Fulk breathed. “She ordered him killed?”

“Oh yes.” The count belched again, getting his hand over his mouth in time to save Fulk another blast of rancid breath.

“What else?” When the count didn’t reply immediately Fulk shook his arm. “Tell me, man!”

Jocelyn twisted his wrist free. “Damn it, you’re in a piss poor position and I feel right sorry for you. Don’t know what your own wife is up to, and your options are damned limited. Let her have free rein and you’re nothing but a token. Try and take control and it could all fall in your face, and then you’d have nothing at all.” Jocelyn consumed more wine. “This is why big mismatches in rank aren’t smart. You’re at her mercy more than you should be. Got no leverage.”

Fulk grimaced. The count didn’t know the half of it. Eleanor would step over any line he chose to draw if it suited her, and what could he do then? She’d go and see Trempwick. He knew it, had known it before he’d forbidden it. What then? The desire to confront Eleanor flipped about; if he didn’t see her then he wouldn’t have to find an answer to her flouting his pitiful authority. Delay was a poor ally; the longer he left it the more he’d have to deal with.

“See prince Hugh,” Fulk said. “The throne is nothing to do with Eleanor.”

Jocelyn sniggered. “We both know that’s not true, but I won’t say anything if you won’t.”

“You’re drunk.” Fulk pushed away from the table. “Go and soak your head in a barrel of cold water.”

“If I were that drunk I’d have fallen over and been sick.”

Fulk made it halfway to the cellar where the bodies of his dead lay before he was hailed yet again. Grinding his teeth he dipped into a bow. “My lord?”

Hugh said, “I have not yet had occasion to give you my thanks for your part in yesterday’s fighting.”

Much of Hugh’s council stood at his shoulders, a human wall of fine breeding and finer clothes. The faces they presented to him were as varied as the colours of their tunics, ranging from York’s naked hatred to Wymar’s speculative focus.

Fulk dipped into another, lower bow. “I am only pleased to have been of service,” he replied humbly.

The prince touched a hand to his wounded brow when a thoughtless attempt to knit his brows upset the cut slicing across his forehead. “No man can say you did not fight ably and with the utmost courage.”

Serle’s smirk and light tone cloaked his words in the guise of a jest. “What else could be expected of England’s greatest knight?”

“What indeed?” growled York. He laid one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Reckless, purely reckless! Glory-seeking which could have placed all in jeopardy!”

“Enough, George.” Hugh’s words were whisper quiet; they silenced the earl as effectively as a knife. “I tasked Alnwick and Suffolk to cut their way through and turn Trempwick’s flank and this they did. One must step forwards in order to advance.”

“Oh, how very apt.” York clasped Fulk’s arm and tried to pull him forward; Fulk stiffened his knees and resisted easily. “Alnwick’s stepped forward, and he has advanced.”

“Yes, he has.” Hugh set his hand on Fulk’s shoulder, leaving the Earl of York little option but to step back out of his lord’s way. “He was amongst the first to step forward to my side, for which I am ever grateful – to he and to all those who stood with me at that most difficult time.”

York dipped his head under the reminder of his last minute defection to Hugh’s cause. “As you say, my lord.” The look he shot Fulk as he retreated to the rear of the throng was filled with the promise of murder.

Hugh dropped his hand back to his side. “Trempwick is your prisoner.”

Had the old king not worn his emotions plain for all to see Fulk would have said the ability to be inscrutable ran in this family’s blood. It was impossible to get the vaguest idea of what Hugh thought of Trempwick’s survival. “My lord, I shall be pleased to surrender him to you.”

“You will be compensated.”

Fulk bowed. “You are too generous my lord,” he murmured.

“I offer you a choice. The sum of one thousand marks deducted from the fine you owe me. Five hundred marks in coin. Lands worth a hundred marks, taken from those forfeited by Trempwick.”

The choice all but made itself. Bowing again Fulk replied, “I shall take the land, if that pleases you, my lord.”

One of Hugh’s followers made a disgusted sound.

Eleanor’s brother half-turned. “Someone disapproves of my decision?” No one made a sound. “It would be a poor thing if honourable behaviour were scorned. I do not take merely because I might. Think on that, sirs.” Once his point had sunk in Hugh returned his attention to Fulk. “We will discuss the wherebys and such at a later time. For the present I have much to do, and I am certain the same might be said of you. Call upon me this evening.”

Once again Fulk bowed. “Sire.” Possibilities danced in his head. The new land would increase his resources to the point where he’d have a hope of hanging on to his earldom in the event of trouble between England and Scotland.

“I expect your payments to me to increase proportionally.” With that cheerful gem Hugh resumed his walk to the main hall.

“My lord?” Fulk sprang to follow.

The merest hint of a frown betrayed Hugh. “Yes?”

“Might I ask that Woburn is included in those lands? Eleanor is very fond of the manor.”

Hugh’s chin raised. “Woburn has belonged to the crown since the first William’s day. I grant you consideration based upon your deeds in my support and from the onerous obligation to see my sister is not reduced to complete beggary. Do not press too far else you will find yourself with nothing.”

Swallowing his disappointment Fulk bowed. “As you say.” When he straightened his back he stood alone in the corridor.





The Count of Ardantes’ bow was a trifle unsteady. “I have something to ask of you, sire.”

The man’s presumption in speaking his own language irked Hugh, as did the man’s questionable sobriety. The loosened behaviour of the prior evening had been a necessary reaction to the day’s trials. Today men should be recovered from the worst. “Speak,” Hugh invited in his flawless langue d’oil.

“I beg your permission to return to my lands, sire.”

“You are concerned for their safety?”

“Of course!” Jocelyn winced. “Uh, that is to say, yes, sire.”

“I must admit I do not blame you. Between the lack of a strong hand in my own domains and the turmoil caused by my cousin of France’s efforts to break free of his regents much evil can be done.” Hugh made an open-handed gesture. “Very well. I give you leave. Go, and be a bulwark against chaos there. I charge you to bring truthful account of all that has occurred here in England to the other vassals of the crown across the Narrow Sea.”

Jocelyn got unsteadily to his feet. “Thank you, sire. I’m completely grateful.”

Watching the count’s retreating back Hugh loosed a breath of relief. With the man gone from plain sight Trempwick’s words regarding him would die sooner. “Wait.”

Jocelyn tried to turn and bow at the same time, a poor idea on a bellyful of wine. “Sire? If I may be of service to you don’t hesitate to ask!”

Hugh’s gut clenched, he felt his pulse racing at the twin pulse points below his jaw. Allowing the man to depart would be the coward’s way, and it would condemn him to a lifetime of speculating. He waved Jocelyn back to his side, placed a hand on his arm and walked him well away from the others in the hall. “There is something I would know from you. I beg of you, be honest. Do not fear reprisal, whatever your answer. I swear there will be none.”

The count’s handsome face screwed up in puzzlement. “Sire?”

Hugh’s will teetered. Doubt may well be better than certainty. Certainty could destroy him. So too might doubt – the crimes he could commit unknowing. No, not unknowing, for he doubted and could not claim true innocence. “You brought my sister my father’s ring and blessing.” Phrased thus there was no room for dissembling.

Jocelyn’s eyes went wide. “She told you?”

A knife thrust into Hugh’s heart; all his being drowned under a wave of the most incredible pain. Doubt had been better.

“Sire?”

It was well he had arranged them with their backs to all others present, for Hugh knew any fool could have read his heart from a glance at his face.

“Sire?” Jocelyn was peering into his face. “Oh, Satan’s withered balls! She didn’t, did she?”

“I thank you for your honesty,” Hugh managed to say. His tongue was made of wood.

“She refused it, I swear!”

“It does not matter.” It did not. Eleanor could have seized the ring with greedy triumph or cast it into a sewer, it did not matter. She’d been chosen. Unmanly tears made the world swim. “Would that you had been honest when first I asked.”

“Oh, sainted sardines,” the count moaned. He was wringing his hands fit to disjoint his fingers. “I would have brought it back to you but I didn’t get chance! I was doubtful about taking it to her in the first place, I only did it because those who ignore a dying man’s wish get cursed! All that matters is that you’re his son-”

The words were purest wine tipped upon his wounds. “Silence,” he choked. Hugh’s battle for control won him sufficient victory that a final few blinks cleared his vision somewhat. “Speak no more of this, now or ever, to me or any other.”

The count blanched. “I swear on my very soul I will not.”

“Go home. Go home and praise God you are free of this web.”

Jocelyn bowed and backed away. “I shall, sire.”

Hugh cringed at the honorific; more salt to his raw flesh.

Some minutes later he heard someone approach him. Drawing on every ounce of mastery he possessed Hugh turned to face Serle.

“Are you well, my lord?” the marshal enquired.

“I …” Hugh touched a hand to the stitched cut on his face. “My wound pains me. A touch of dizziness. Nothing of note.”





The door closed behind Fulk, trapping him in the chapel with a most unholy monster.

Trempwick stood, brushing at the skirt of his tunic. “I had placed you as second most likely to be the first to pay me a visit. Nell continues to surprise.”

“She won’t be coming,” Fulk snapped. The comment made him immediately suspicious; had Eleanor already paid her visit? Did Trempwick cover for her?

The spymaster cocked his head. “She will not?”

“She wants nothing to do with you.”

“She will come.”

Nettled by the man’s assurance Fulk lashed back, “She ordered her sally force to kill you.”

“Fortunate for me, then, that I encountered you first.”

“I’ve sold you to Hugh. That’s why I’m here – to tell you.”

Trempwick covered a yawn with his hand. “Sold? For thirty pieces of silver?” he asked as he sat back down.

Hate flowed through Fulk’s veins. “I wish I had killed you!”

Trempwick laughed, and even to Fulk’s suspicious ears it sounded thoroughly genuine. “Oh, how alike we are!”

“We are nothing alike,” Fulk snarled. “The day I realise I have much in common with you I’ll go for a swim in full armour!”

“How very dramatic. I had not believed you so adverse to success.”

Fulk indicated the chapel, stripped bare of all but altar, a straw pallet and a chair. “You call this success?”

“You cannot expect me to share all of my secrets. Especially not with one so plodding, bodyguard.” Trempwick twined his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “No. I meant we are alike in our mutual regret for not disposing of the other.”

Fulk bared his teeth at the spymaster. “You didn’t fail for wont of trying.”

“Bodyguard, do not be mistaken. Should I truly have set my mind to it you would have died.”

“You tried. You failed. You lost Eleanor because of it.”

Trempwick scratched his eyebrow and sighed. “I had forgotten how badly you make me desire to wring your neck with my bare hands. You annoy me, bodyguard. You buzz about my head like a fly.” In one swift movement he was on his feet and half an arm’s length from Fulk. “Well, bodyguard, I am low on tolerance. I have had a deal of time to think, and much to consider and, bodyguard, I find myself in a position to pass on the fruits of one particular tree of thought.”

“Poisonous, no doubt.”

Trempwick snatched at Fulk’s wrist, an effort the knight evaded. “What is that on your hand, bodyguard? A wedding ring. She chose you. I shall respect that and drop my own suit; you make a good partner for her when you draw upon your virtues. I shall tell you this, bodyguard, if you do not honour that marriage to utter perfection I will kill you. I will have you tied to a stake and have you cut to pieces over a day and a night just as I did with those outside this castle’s gates.”

Fulk curled his lip. “I care nothing for your threats.” Why did everyone and their brother feel the need to intimidate him into being a good husband?!

“You should. I know what you are, bodyguard. My people found the trail you left behind you, and I swear my Nell will not be cast aside like a picked bone.”

“I care nothing for your threats,” Fulk repeated.

“Do not think me toothless because I am mewed up here, and do not think I will stay my hand from tenderness to Nell’s feelings. If you hurt her, if you disappoint her, you will die.”

The morning’s argument and his predicament flooded back to the fore of Fulk’s mind. “I love her,” he protested, mainly for his own benefit. He loved her therefore all would be well.

“Yes, you do. I find it most poetic – you fell into your own snare.”

Fulk shook his head. “I don’t know what you think me capable of.”

“Anything. The last one you professed to love you seduced and dropped, left her to try and make something of the life you had kicked apart.” Trempwick stabbed out with a forefinger; Fulk warded him off with his forearm. “You seduced your old lord’s wife then later absconded with his murderer!”

“And I have been perfectly faithful to her since that day.”

Trempwick gave him back look for look. “So you did not visit a brothel and call your whore by her name?”

Fulk felt the blood flee from his face. Throttling the spymaster would cause him too much grief in the future; Fulk hammered on the door to be let out. “I was right. Nothing but poison.”

“As I said, bodyguard, I know what you are.” Trempwick seated himself, arranging his tunic so it fell in pleasing folds about his knees, for all the world like a king on a throne. “And I know what you will be: flawless or very dead.”





Hugh’s left eyebrow had been shaved away so the cut running through it could be stitched cleanly; it left him looking oddly unbalanced and Eleanor had difficulty in drawing her eyes away from it.

Noting the direction of her gaze Hugh said, “It heals.”

“I cannot decide if it is the greatest of luck or the worst that your sole wound was caused by removing your helm.”

Hugh set his fingers to the clotted seam. “No.”

“Next time, brother dearest, do not let them beat the front of your helmet in.”

“As you say.” His failure to rise to the teasing worried Eleanor. Handfuls of words were all he had to give her, quiet and subdued. His gaze fixed on the floor – save for those moments where she caught him staring at her with the oddest mix of emotions peeking out from behind the emptiness. Now he watched her watching him, and it gave Eleanor a feeling of vertigo. “You wish something?”

“To see how you do. I heard your wound was bothering you.”

Again Hugh touched the cut. “Yes.”

“You have let your physician examine you?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” Eleanor demanded, her patience fraying.

“I shall not die yet awhile.”

“Head wounds can be nasty.”

“My wound does not trouble me.”

Battle – it made men completely unbearable! For once Eleanor was glad of her experience with killing and fighting for her life, it made forbearance merely difficult instead of nigh on impossible. “Will you begin to make arrangements for your coronation?”

Hugh sat down on his bed, hands planted to either side on him. “No.”

“No? Then you intend to subdue Wales first?”

“I might.”

Eleanor scowled at his indistinct answer. “It would be wise!”

He ceased studying his shoes. Again there was that mix of … something not quite hidden in his eyes. “You think that would be the best course?”

“Hugh, the border is in flames. The army you sent there was ambushed. The loyal Welsh have been routed. Yes, restoring order before England itself is put to the torch would be a good idea!”

“Then I will go and do what I may.”

“Will you need Fulk?”

“His success causes friction with my other lords.”

“You will leave him with me then.”

“Unless you have pressing reason for him to follow me.”

As she couldn’t answer that Fulk could jolly well clear off to Wales if he didn’t start acting like a sensible man, Eleanor merely nodded. “I shall leave you to rest. I think you need it more than you admit.”

“Eleanor?”

She turned back from the door. “Yes?”

“Do you truly want Woburn?”

Startled, she searched her mind for anything which might have prompted this. The effort finished with her empty-handed. “Why do you ask?”

“Your … husband,” he grimaced at the word, “asked for it on your behalf.”

Fulk? He’d known her heart better than she herself, trying to fill her desire before she’d known it was present. “Yes,” she answered resolutely. “I would.”

“It is yours.” Some of the strength returned to Hugh’s voice. “Yours. Not his. Yours.”

Unexpected re-entry into the heady heights of land owning made Eleanor’s voice come out husky with gratitude. “Thank you.” Reliance on Fulk for everything had rankled fit to leave welts in tender places. Another thing she had not realised until it was pressed in her face.

Hugh didn’t acknowledge her words at all.

“You wish me to do homage for them?”

To her complete astonishment Hugh said, “No.”

“But surely you wish people to see me renew myself as your sworn follower?!”

“There is no need,” he murmured.

“I suppose you are right. Those who are not already convinced will not change their minds if I repeat myself again.”

“If you do not mind I should like to rest. You are right. I am in more pain than I admit.”









Seems like you’re both determined to make me blush!

Woad&fangs, I’ve not read ‘Farewell to Arms’. Your comments on it don’t encourage me.

Nell’s trip to Scotland was common knowledge, hence the need for decoys and a secretive trip. Trempy didn’t know where she was while she was travelling; once she’d arrived locating her again was simplicity itself.


Welcome back, Demon. ~:wave:

Here’s furball’s reply. It took a bit longer due to froggy thought processes, and the need to wash my hair so it’s semi-dry before I go to bed. When your hair reaches midway down your back it tends to soak everything within reach if you’re not careful.

I like your rambling posts. Always have. They make me look harder at what I’m writing and why. Your tendency to delete them is why I keep the email copies where possible :gring:

In a way I’d have preferred to write that quoted bit Jocelyn style. Fulk doesn’t think in the same ways as Jocelyn. He’s more refined, a product of an upbringing aimed at making him a courtly knight. What Jocelyn would term his cock Fulk calls a manhood. That difference dictates the tone.

It explains at last how a young man in peak physical condition who’d lived a very chaste life for months managed to be so in control of himself when finally allowed to make love to the woman he’d been wanting for months. Realistically speaking, if all had been as it originally appeared either he’d have been too impatient or too quick. But meh, that’s not important. If it were that alone I’d have left it out without a more than a sigh of gratitude.

There’s a second unimportant element to that part. It demonstrates once more how Fulk will dump conventional wisdom when it comes to Nell. That’s why she loves him. That’s been shown often enough that we can do without seeing it again. And yet … it’s the details like this which made Nell love Fulk, and that love prised her away from Trempwick and opened her eyes, and that set her running, and that …

Fulk’s home at last and revelling in it. He realises how much he’s missed out on due to absence, and how much more he will miss because he has been ordered on this pilgrimage. He doesn’t want to go. Eleanor wonders what is wrong; he must explain. Sooner or later he would have had to tell her anyway. This penance is unusually harsh, as Nell observes. Why? Because we’re in Fulk’s POV we get to find out the main part of why - he’s done something completely abhorrent to the church (repeatedly ;p) and done it at his own wedding. Marriage was a sacrament; he’s defiled a religious ceremony. He refused to repent. We see why he doesn’t want to tell Nell the truth. In love though they may be, and familiar with one another, in many ways Fulk and Nell haven’t had opportunity to get to know one another. Happily ever after? Climatic battle or not, their life together is still at the beginning.

Pride comes before a fall. “I’m such a wonderful husband.” Ten minutes later he’s handling everything in the worst way possible, knowing it and unable to stop. In all probability that isn’t terribly important either.

He did all this without a word to try and make her happy … and she wants to go running to another man. That’s crushing. Unnecessary too. We know he loves her, and that’s reason enough to be crushed.

The issue of Fulk’s confession carries onwards. Nell’s browbeaten the priest into changing the penance. Fulk’s not happy. There will be words. They’ll settle something, or be distanced by it. It’s part of the necessary process of settling into an open relationship.

Nell’s unhappy about Hugh’s priest hearing the grubby details of Fulk’s love life because she’s met the man and will likely meet him again. It’s a general human trait to be squeamish about having people you know, however distantly, be aware of the facets of your life you wish to keep quiet. Nell and Fulk’s moments are tame by modern terms. By period terms they range from lightly scandalous to outright shocking. A princess of royal blood allowing a baseborn bastard to use her in such sinful, disrespectful ways!? Horrific! If she could permit that then it’s very easy to believe she married Trempy and then dumped him because a prettier face came along.

Any good?

I'm torn about it myself. Cut it out and their present difficulties are entirely due to Trempwick being alive and that enigmatic statement of Nell's about the throne not being Hugh's. Leave it in and there's a lot of unnecessary wordage. Depth or conciseness?

AHH.... Its good to be back after long weeks of torturous studying for exams!!
:dizzy2: . Day after day staring at the book memorizing...:book: . Thank goodness its over :2thumbsup: next term it begins again... I see much new updates=) all fantastically written by froggy.:yes: . Now the next item on the "what will happen next i wonder" list of things is the Jocelyn and Richildis reunion and what will transpire between their meeting. I've already partially found out what will happen between nell and trempy. Wonder what will come out of that "murderous glare" directed at Fulk by the other noble.

awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
The gift of cheese was adorable. Same with the dialogue directly after it.
I'm now up to the morning after the wedding. Great stuff as usual.

The ground flew by in a blur, and Eleanor laughed with the sheer joy of it. The wind snatched the sound and carried it away – or her mare’s restless speed outpaced it. She touched her mount’s flanks with her heels, urging haste.

“Eleanor!”

Eleanor turned in her saddle and stuck her tongue out at Fulk. Her horse read her intent and gathered still more speed. The animal’s white mane blew into Eleanor’s face as she crouched low in her saddle, all but lying down on the palfrey’s back; her braid whipped out behind her, as close as she could respectably get to the delicious feel of her own mane flying on the wind.

Weeks had passed since she’d entered Alnwick’s gates and unwittingly entered a prison. Weeks since her horse had been exercised properly, weeks since she’d been free of walls, weeks since she’d left the world standing in her wake.

The thunder of hooves to her right grew incrementally closer. Eleanor dug her heels in again, knowing her mount had no more speed to give but willing it to hold the lead to the very last moment. Alnwick’s castle had receded to a dot in the distance; the walls, the death, the troubles, all left behind.

The nose of Fulk’s horse inched into the range she could see without moving her head. “You’re mad,” he shouted.

“I am free!” The chase over, Eleanor slowed to a cantor. “I would keep going forever if I could.”

“Have mercy on my poor aching bones.”

“Ha!” Eleanor allowed her palfrey to amble to a walk. “You enjoyed yourself.”

He rode with one hand leaned on his hip, swaying easily with his horse’s movement. Colour filled his face; he looked alive once more. “You’re a hoyden!”

“You only recently noticed?”

“Let your hair down.”

Eleanor dipped her eyelashes, conscious of the warmth in him. “And shock our poor escort?” Waltheof and five knights rode a good distance behind them, proof against trouble from those who’d fled yesterday’s killing field.

“Yes,” he said fiercely. He reached across to cup her cheek in his calloused hand. “You’re beautiful.”

Eleanor gently pulled his hand away so they could ride along hand in hand. “I did not think you would agree to this.” Half a day’s breathing space was sufficient to cure the hangover. As for the other causes of distemper, well that Eleanor would see soon enough.

“I’d sat in vigil with my dead for long enough. I was waiting for a reason to rejoin the living.”

Honesty; risky as it was nothing would be mended without it. “We cannot quarrel if we are watched.”

“We can.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “We’re less likely to.”

A mangy group of trees lay off to the left. With an unspoken agreement they made their way over and dismounted. Fulk hobbled the horses while Eleanor leaned her back against a tree. It was too damp to sit on the ground, too cold to shed a cloak to use as a groundsheet.

Eleanor ventured, “Hugh has granted me Woburn.”

“He refused it me.”

“How was he when you saw him?”

Fulk plucked a leaf from his mount’s mane and cast it aside. “Stiff, hard to read, formal. Same as usual.”

“I wonder what happened?” Eleanor chewed at her thumbnail. “He was as limp as four day old lettuce by the time I caught up with him. I believed it was the battle.”

“Unlikely.”

“He cannot fall to pieces now! Not so close.”

A twig snapped under Fulk’s boot as he left the horses. “Never mind him. You owe me an explanation. ‘It is not his throne’ – what do you mean by it?”

“I mean the very obvious.”

The last traces of the desire burned from his features with his harsh intake of breath. “You liar.” He shouldered past her and headed further into the budding thicket. “How many times did you say you would not be a queen?”

“I begin to think you purposely blind – you see what you think should be there.”

“You claim the throne is not Hugh’s. Whose then is it?”

“Mine.”

“Which makes you a queen.”

“No! It makes me someone with a responsibility. I do not have to sit upon it myself to discharge that obligation.”

Fulk stood, muscled clenched with opposition to what he was hearing but willing – for now – to listen.

“It is the same as if I had been left someone’s child to ward. I would not need to become its mother myself – no one would expect that. I would find it a good placement in another household so it could grow and learn the skills necessary to make its way in life. I would make the major decisions only, not concern myself with how many tunics it had.” It may have been wishful thinking, but Eleanor thought Fulk’s wariness relaxed a touch. “I cannot walk away and leave it all to go to whatever end it comes to, no more than I will allow someone to set that crown on my own head.”

“You have no obligation-”

“I do.” Eleanor knit her fingers together before her. “I do. Something has been placed in my care. Would you have me neglect it?”

“Truth be told I don’t care.” Fulk set his hands on her shoulders as he’d done that morning, except this time gently. “I don’t want to lose you. That’s all I care about.”

“You will not.”

“I’m struggling to keep up with you now. If you rise any higher I won’t manage. I’ll be left behind.”

Those raised by royalty were entirely dependant upon them: this lesson had featured often in Trempwick’s teaching. Established blood looked with extreme disfavour on any newcomers encroaching on its territory. Lacking noble family and noble blood, two potent shields, royal favour was all that remained to guard the upstarts. Should that favour be withdrawn the wolves closed in. Consequentially such men were often more loyal than their nobly born counterparts, and easier to destroy. “My luflych little knight, I would never expose you to that. Hugh will be a capable regent, or king as he will be known to all but us. All of the visible aspects of kingship, that is the work he was trained for. He will perform ably enough. Once he is crowned I shall be able to sink from sight; people will slowly forget us. A nudge now and then where it matters will be all I need to do.”

Fulk digested this slowly. “Do you intend to tell him?”

“If avoidable, no.” Eleanor bit her lip. “What end would it serve? It would rip the heart from him. He is too honourable. He would stand aside; if he knows he is a usurper he will drop the crown he has fought for like it is molten.”

Fulk dropped his hands back to his sides and shook his head. “I mislike the idea of you using the man.”

“The alternate is to abandon my realm, or attempt to rule it openly. Neither will do. Besides, is it truly so bad? This way he has what would have been his if not for Trempwick’s stirring the pot.”

Fulk plucked a twig from a nearby bush and began stripping the budding leaves from it. “Not truly, Eleanor. You miss the difference between true authority and that granted to you. Believe me, I know the difference. The space between the two is knife’s edge thin, and cuts as keenly.”
Eleanor shook her head; he’d fallen into that pit again. “My crook-nosed little fool, one day I shall doubtless curse myself for making you aware of this, but your limitations are self inflicted. There is little enough I can do save that which any woman can do.”

“Nonsense. Your family-”

“Would applaud you if you beat me,” Eleanor said tartly. “There is nothing you can do which they have not already done. Resources? Save for my newly acquired Woburn, you control them all. I am the one who must fear being cut off, not you. Any wife may sulk, or rail, or throw a stool at her infuriating husband’s head. And do not tell me you fear me sulking!”

As she’d hoped he smiled. “You’re a gooseberry. Of course I do.”

“Good!”

“I wonder sometimes if you think I’m soft. That you will ignore me where you choose because you think I will do nothing.”

Eleanor laughed in her turn, mirth quickly stifled when she realised that not only was he serious but that it hadn’t been easy for him to say. “Crooknose, you solved that one yourself some time ago and took great delight in explaining it all to me while I tried to slip your grasp.”

It took him a second to recall the occasion to which she referred. “That was playful foolishness.”

“It did not stop you smacking me,” Eleanor muttered darkly. “Nor did it stop your reasoning being right. You will not break my bones or leave me with more scars, therefore I have nothing to fear.” She plucked the denuded twig from his grasp and cast it aside, then took hold of his wrists and dragged his hands up between them. “I am used to nothing but gentleness from these. It would be a great pity to spoil that. That makes me think far harder than all the misery my beloved regal ancestor inflicted on me. I will only go against you when it is something very important to me. Fear is not the point. Redressing a balance is. We disagree. I tread on your toes. You tread on mine. All is once again equal.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“I know I cannot walk all over you. You are too proud to allow it.”

“I too proud?!” Fulk exclaimed.

“Who began this conversation?”

A touch of colour along his cheekbones silently conceded the point.

“I know it as well as I know you will not attempt to trample me underfoot.”

Fulk’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You are not seeing Trempwick, if that’s what you are angling towards.”

Eleanor took a slow breath. “No, I was not angling. I was crediting you with more sense than to attempt to lock me away in the bower to do embroidery. Trempwick is an impasse. You say I must not see him. I say I must. It is important.”

“I will not allow it. He’s as dangerous as ever – more, maybe. I saw him this morning. He braided my past into a whip and used it liberally. He got the better of me by far and I’m not ashamed to admit it if it will make you see sense. I will not have you exposed to that; you’re more vulnerable than I. He’ll batter away at you until he finds a hook which catches hold, and he’ll drag you back bit by bit. If he claims you back all of this has been for nothing.”

“All will be for nothing if he is not settled. Do you think him harmless now?”

“I know he is not – that is why you must keep away!”

“You are shouting,” Eleanor pointed out.

Their distant audience served its purpose; Fulk averted his face, jaw clenched and mercifully quiet. “I will not lose you to him.”

“I made my choice long ago. I chose you over him.” Eleanor pressed a finger over his lips and raised her voice when he would have spoken. “I chose the baseborn bastard knight with nothing to his name, not the landed earl high in my father’s favour. Why would I change my mind now? Why?! Why exchange the man I love for the failed traitor who slandered my name and started a war? You have gained much; he has lost everything.”

“That is not what I mean-”

“It is.” Eleanor silenced him again. “You view him as a rival. You long have. Once you did have reason. No longer. Not since I sent you to Waltham for safety and promised to join you. Knowing what I do, feeling as I do, how could I go back?”

Fulk captured her hand and removed it from the vicinity of his mouth. “I know how good that man is at controlling you. You don’t need to go near him, and so you mustn’t. It’s a pointless risk.”

“Trempwick was one of the greatest resources my father possessed. If anyone can bring him back to useful service it is I.”

“Impossible!”

“Mayhap.” Eleanor twisted her hand in his grip so they were once more holding hands. “I must at least try.”

“You will fail,” Fulk said flatly.

“He hails me as his queen. If that is not empty then there is good chance-”

Fulk rolled his eyes. “It’s meaningless mouthing to further his aims.”

“You are very certain. Even knowing what you do!” Eleanor snatched her hand back, freeing herself of him entirely. “I am his rightful liege. I did defeat him. I fooled him, I slipped his noose, I led him a merry dance, and now he is a prisoner. That will stand for much where Trempwick is concerned.”

“You will not bring him to heel.”

“I must try.”

“You ordered his death. You made your peace with that. Now stand back and let him die.”

“He will not die if I stand back.”

“Hugh will have him executed.”

“Hugh cannot manage that – his lords will not permit it and he is not strong enough to force them to accept. Trempwick is respected amongst the lords. What’s more, he is one of them. For that alone they would refuse to sanction his execution lest one day it is their neck under threat.”

Fulk snorted. “So you will murder him?”

Eleanor took a bit to consider her answer, though it was something she had gone over many times that morning. “If he will not bow he must die. One way or another Trempwick must be settled. As you said, he is still dangerous. If left he will chip away at Hugh’s foundations. You know this. You do not want to admit it.”

“I do not want you anywhere near that man,” Fulk repeated with all the patience of a stone wall.

This had gone on for long enough – far too long. Neither of them would budge. “I am going to see him. You may accompany me or not as you choose. I would prefer you come.”

“You will make me a laughing stock,” Fulk said harshly. “If you don’t care about the rest you might care about that! It will be said you got bored of me and ran off to your other husband!”

“Not if you accompany me.”

He growled like a goaded wolf.

“I am going.”

“I have already forbidden it.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow as if to say “So what?”

For a long space they stood glaring at each other.

Fulk looked away first. “Very well,” he ground out. “You’re going. I can’t prevent that. I’ll go with you, offer what protection I can. But you’re going against my wishes.”

With the utmost of care Eleanor kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Fulk stalked off to the horses and set about freeing them. “Not unless you can thank me after I’ve flayed your hide for forcing me to this!”

As she collected the reins for her palfrey Eleanor enquired, “Do you wish to flay my hide before or after we visit Trempwick?” Left sufficient time he’d cool off and not bother, sparing them the embarrassment.

Fulk growled again. “You’re mocking me, my lady.”

“Not at all,” Eleanor assured him meekly. My lady. That was a bad sign. Tantamount to a declaration of war.

He drew himself up in the saddle looking most forbidding. “I shall flay your hide at a time of my choosing, and we shall visit that damned man when I say so, not before. I have been pushed far enough!”

“As you say.” Eleanor slanted him a look through her eyelashes as she mounted up.

“And don’t look at me like that.”

“Yes, my lord.”







Should I be laughing at that exchange at the end? I’ve no idea, but I am. The question is, will Fulk or won’t he? Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.

The detail of how Eleanor/throne/Trempwick/Hugh/stuff can be better explained in a future scene, and since it is required to appear in both I chose to leave the bulk of it over there.

Death is Yonder, a few more years and you’ll be off that treadmill and stood where I am – jealous of the seemingly endless holidays those still in education get. :grumble: Doesn’t matter if it is school, collage or university, they’re always on holiday and I’m always working.

Woad&fangs, the instant I saw you say the cheese was adorable I knew you’d reached that scene. Hehe, adorable cheese – that’s got to be a literary first!

Sarcasm has arrived in its physical avatar--- Eleanor. Some trouble could be caused from this argument. Interesting development to the likely trempwick scene incoming. I suspect that the meeting with trempwick is going to be rather... explosive:2thumbsup: . Throne... hmm... lots more development to this particular topic. I look forward to reading it. Technically Eleanor is the queen as her father wanted her to be. Yet Hugh is older. Theres probably going to be more argument about this in the story about who should succeed to the throne by the people, each having their own supporters. I think trempwick will still play a major role in the rest of the story.
My bet: I think fulk wont be laughing,but he wont be that angry. His personality is good natured.
By the way froggy, my holidays dont include the enormously long summer holidays. Just, 1 week march holiday, 4 weeks june holidays, 1 week september holidays and 5-6 weeks of december holidays.And public holidays of course.
Still, work is more strenous than school. I PREFER school to work but i suppose that would depend entirely on whether i get a job i love. If i get a job i love its like... having fun and getting paid for it. So maybe you should do something you love. Like write this book and publish it and earn big $$. All the same these teachers are very demanding, scold people at the slightest reason or hint of disrespect.:sweatdrop: . The next wave of exams should start pretty soon... nuuuuuuuuuuuu must read Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor. I must confess i'm addicted to the story. More updates please!!:book:

Thanks for the response, Ms. Frog. As soon as I saw how you carried the issue of Fulk's "trick" into the next episode with Eleanor talking the priest out of the pilgrimage, I realized it was not the trivial plot point I had suspected. I should have trusted you!

However, upon rereading it, it's placement is still a little jarring. If I was your editor, perhaps I'd ask that you make some sort of small reference to this at an earlier point in the story, so that it's not such a surprise and seeming non-sequitur. Or something. . . :)

A skein of riders emerged from the outer gate house and advanced down the road towards Eleanor and her party. Their lack of banners prevented identification until late. At first Eleanor believed count Jocelyn to be riding out to meet her with some terrible news. Then she noticed the saddle bags on every mount. Foreboding shivered its way across the back of her neck.

“Trouble,” she commented to Fulk. “He is leaving in haste, the very day after Hugh’s cause was secured. Why?”

“He misses his family, and he’s homesick. He asked me about getting permission this morning, wanted to know whether to ask you or Hugh.”

There was a note of accusation in that last part. Painfully aware of their escort trailing just out of earshot Eleanor kept her reply circumspect. “You know he has held strange … notions in that regard since the day of his arrival.”

Fulk’s hands tightened on the bridle. “You’ve told me I’ve no reason for concern. I choose to trust you.”

Eleanor leaned across the gap between their horses to kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

Once within speaking distance Jocelyn’s party moved to one side of the road and drew rein. He bowed in the saddle. “Highness.”

“You are leaving, sir?” Eleanor enquired in his own language.

“Yes. With a bit of haste we’ll reach the coast tonight.” Jocelyn sketched a pious crucifix over his heart. “With luck and God’s aid I could be sailing home this time tomorrow.”

Such a rush; that foreboding grew. Something had torn the heart out of Hugh. Jocelyn was leaving in a hurry. “You will miss out on much.”

“Ah …” Jocelyn rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Not to mention your wound. It would be better to let it heal before attempting such a journey.”

“I am feeling very well, thank you, Highness. It’s really nothing to a seasoned fighter like myself.”

A crossbow bolt to the shoulder could not be anything but nasty, however manly it may be to claim differently. Eleanor knew of a single reason which might drive Jocelyn, wounded and weary, out onto the road, forsaking his part in claiming the rewards which came from setting up a new king, to head home with all possible speed. He could not have been so stupid, surely?!

Jocelyn attempted to edge his horse along past the small roadblock presented by their own two mounts. “If you will forgive me …”

Stupid was such a small word, utterly inadequate. “Do I have something to forgive you for?”

Jocelyn cringed, and Eleanor realised that he’d kept his gaze firmly on the mud all the time.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “You have not done something I would call unfortunate, have you?”

The count’s mouth took on a bitter twist. “Lady, most of my life you’d call unfortunate. And damn me, but I’m beginning to agree.” He dug his spurs in and angled his horse off the road so there was no way they could impede his progress.








I’ve been looking back at a lot of my work, from the start of this story to the present day. It’s borne out a suspicion I’ve held for some months: the sparkle is gone. The scenes I’m producing now are as dry and brittle as old sticks. The little touches are mostly missing. The light little sparks of humour are few and far between. It feels tired. Too many of the little touches which make my writing mine are gone or burning low.

There’s some great material back there. I’m proud of so much of it! I still smile in the same places, I still cry at certain points, I still feel the very same emotions as the first time through. That is pretty incredible.

In my opinion the best piece I have written is that 10 page long short story about how Trempwick first began to wonder about placing Nell on the throne. 10 pages and it’s like a rose bush in fullest bloom on a summer’s day to my writer’s senses. Young Nell, in first person POV no less, has such vitality! Her world brims with life, and colour, and warmth, and everything which I deem important. Such a contrast to what I have today.

The decline begins about the same time the shop relocation began. That confirms the other suspicion which has been steadily growing. The stupid working hours are smothering me. Is it any surprise? When I can write I’m tired, lacking sufficient time and often not quite in the right mood. When I’m in the mood and a scene is burning brightly I’m stuck working.

Got some time off at last. Let’s see if I can’t manage to revive enough to end this with the life it deserves.

:settles down to attempt a long writing session:



Death is Yonder, I get 24 days of holiday this year plus public holidays or a day in lieu for working them, and that’s an improvement on what I had last year due to changes in law and a bonus for working for the company for more than 2 years. Before that I was owed 23 days including public holidays.

It’s disheartening to know that we spend far more time at work than the average medieval peasant.

Furball, mentioning it earlier would be possible. I’ll look at it when I begin revising. ~:)

I'm sure you'll get out of the rut froggy and for what it's worth I still enjoy your work. :yes:

Breath half taken to say to Fulk, “Hugh knows,” the instant they were alone, Eleanor stumbled into motionlessness as she entered the solar. One of the chairs by the fireside was occupied. Malcolm Nefastus sprawled there, toasting his feet with a cup of wine dangling loosely from one hand.

“Ah.” The brat sat up so suddenly his drink sloshed onto the rushes. “Oh.” He was on his feet before Eleanor had fully collected her thoughts. “You said to speak to you today. I hope … I hope that’s alright?”

The princeling was not paying her presence the slightest attention, Eleanor realised. He spoke to Fulk, and nervously at that.

Hawise retreated to the fringe of the room, placing herself out of the consideration of her betters. Aveis followed her example, as did, more slowly, Richard and his pitcher of wine.

Fulk stepped past her and directed the boy back to his seat. “I remember.”

“I could come back. If you’re busy.” A flick of his eyes made it plain he referred to her.

Eleanor felt herself blush, however incorrect his insinuation was. “Why are you here?” Fulk had said nothing about a visit from Hugh’s dubious ally.

The prince snarled, “Men’s business is nothing to do with you.”

Fulk took the chair opposite the boy, crossing his ankles. “Is your memory of the rest of my words so much poorer?”

“But-”

“I will have nothing to do with you if you can’t be civil.”

Malcolm chewed his lower lip. “It really is nothing to do with her.”

“If you wish to speak with me privately there are far better ways to say so.”

To Eleanor’s complete amazement the prince didn’t hurl his goblet to the ground and stomp about screaming. “If you insist,” he ground out, very nearly coming close to a gracious tone. “I would speak with you privately.”

“As you wish, your highness.” Fulk rose. “Come. We can walk the ramparts.”

Knowing it unwise to question him too openly, Eleanor cleared her throat. With Fulk’s attention attracted she raised an eyebrow.

“I won’t be long.” Fulk gave her a quick kiss. “Wait here for me.”





“Well? Have you decided?”

Several steps later Fulk answered, “Not fully.”

Malcolm’s jaw set. “You don’t want to. Just say it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t want anything to do with me.”

“I haven’t said that either.”

“You don’t have to.” Malcolm hunched his shoulders up defensively. “No one fucking has to. I know.”

“If that were true I would have said no last night and sent you on your way. And kindly watch your language.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Malcolm demanded, stopping and squaring up with Fulk. “Pity? You can fuck right off with that!”

“Not pity.”

“Then what? Why? Go on, tell me.”

Fulk resumed walking, and answered the question with his own. “Why did you come to Hugh’s aid yesterday?”

Left no alternative Malcolm fell back in at his side. “Look, just give me a straight answer. Yes or no. Spare me all this shitting around.”

With a pang Fulk realised how similar this conversation was going to be to the ones he’d had on the subject with his own father. Eight years William had been in his grave, eight years since his son’s foolhardiness had gotten him killed. Eight years on, and now he could agree with every word. Eight years too late. “Being a knight is about more than status. It’s about more than fighting.”

“What are you saying?”

“Until yesterday I’ve have refused you on those grounds. Now, today, it’s a different proposition. It requires some thought. Do you think yourself ready?”

Malcolm’s step faltered, recovered quickly. A line formed between his brows and he gnawed away at his lip. “I haven’t broken,” he replied after a long while. “My father broke after his first battle. His courage is gone.” The boy traced the path his father’s scar took over his own face, his fingernail leaving behind a snake of white which faded where the elder Malcolm’s never would. “I wasn’t wounded … maybe it doesn’t count.”

“That is your answer?” The fact that the princeling considered it at all made him wiser than Fulk had been at his age.

“It is not easy being the son of a coward.”

Fulk strode along in silence. To agree would have been to speak ill of a man he owed allegiance to. The boy spoke the truth, and it was a truth made harder by his rank. A crown prince must be braver than those he would one day lead.

“His lack of balls infects everything he touches like a bloody plague. He shits himself at the mere thought of risk, and it’s fucking Scotland up something royal. Year after year it gets worse.” Malcolm hawked and spat onto the stone. “Look at what he’s done to your wife and her bloody mess of a family. First he makes a right mockery of them by marrying a princess to you – organising it himself as though he held her wardship or something! Then he gave you the shittiest elements of his army, the ones he doesn’t care about if they die. Third, he failed to send the help he promised. He never fucking intended to lift a finger; I told you both but you wouldn’t listen. He hasn’t the balls to lead an army, he hasn’t the balls to trust anyone else to, and he’s more bothered about petty victories won by spidering about in the dark than he is about the honour of our blood. No matter if everyone treats us like lepers because of it.”

“You came,” Fulk observed neutrally. He didn’t chide the boy for swearing, knowing it would close the conversation off.

“Someone had to. He doesn’t see what he’s doing, or if he does he doesn’t care one bloody bit. He’s poisoning the realm and he doesn’t care.”

“You care.”

Malcolm’s head came up, his green eyes flashing. “Do devil-spawned changelings care about anything?”

“You are not a changeling.”

Malcolm snorted. “I was born with six toes on my left foot, or so everyone says, so I guess you may be right. Changelings look normal. Whatever. Everyone says I’m the devil’s spawn so the fucking details of what type don’t matter one bloody bit. The Nefastus doesn’t care about anything.” He pursed his lips. “But a normal prince might. Damn it, a normal prince should or he wouldn’t be worth the fucking crown. It should tear his heart to pieces.” He bared his teeth in the most mirthless grin. “Good thing for me I don’t have a heart.”

“One might speculate such a prince would raise an army to keep the word his father so blithely gave. A fully honourable deed.”

“And, as such, something the Nefastus could never do. No, the Nefastus just wanted to piss in his father’s face and do some killing. Ask anyone. That’s what they’ll tell you.”

“People are saying that,” Fulk agreed.

Malcolm scrubbed a hand wearily across his brow. “Of course they are. Can we ditch this morality play and get back to the whole point of this conversation? Will you knight me or not?”

Fulk stopped and faced the boy. “Do you truly think you’re ready?”

For the longest moment they looked at one another.

Malcolm swiped his hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, fighting the wind to keep it out of the way. “No.”

Fulk began to walk again. “I wanted to be a knight for so long. I wanted it so fiercely that sometimes it hurt, actually hurt. When I finally received my accolade the hunger for it had passed. I knew it couldn’t fix the things I originally believed it could.”

“You mean it couldn’t make you respectable?” The boy’s understanding strengthened Fulk’s belief that he saw something of his younger self in the prince.

“Yes. Man at arms, knight, or earl, I’m a baseborn bastard. Nothing can change that. Your father’s invented family history can’t change that. I know who my parents were, and I loved them. I was – am – proud of them.”

“But you allow the de la Bec fiction to stand.”

“Not for much longer, I think.” Seeing the boy’s shock Fulk smiled. “Oh, I don’t mean to decry it from the rooftops or anything. I’ll just let it all drop and go quietly away. Should I speak of my family or childhood to anyone it’ll be the truth I tell them.”

“I’m not ready.” Malcolm’s head sank lower. “My father does his best to hold me back, and the people who’re meant to be teaching me aren’t much use.” Helplessly he shrugged. “And you’re right. It won’t change anything. Not really.”

“No. It doesn’t change anything.” Jesù, to his own ears he sounded worn to a nub.

“Yesterday should have changed something. I don’t see how I can be the same person I was.”

“Maybe you’re not. Change takes time.”

“I don’t think I’m any different.”

“You’re not swearing,” Fulk pointed out dryly. “Or not so much.”

Malcolm moved to the outer face of the wall and leaned on it. One of the burial pits was visible from here. At the mouth of the pit two men had a body by the arms and legs. A couple of swings to build some momentum, and they released it to flop through the air into the pit. The dead man landed sprawled, one hacked shape among many, consigned to rot with no more than his underclothes and a hurried prayer from a holy man. A cart was trundling towards the pit, a stray dog following at a distance wary of the footsoldier slogging behind the cart. An arm dangled out of the backboards, its undulation testimony to the uneven progress of the vehicle.

Fulk waited at the boy’s side. A few days time and there’d be a naked hill on the grass, one of several. Come late summer and it would be covered in plants, inoffensive enough if you didn’t know what slept under it.

Malcolm said, “I won’t live to be crowned. Or if I do I won’t last long after. My own nobles will kill me.”

“Then give them reason not to.”

Malcolm traced an intricate design on the rampart top with his finger. “They called me the Nefastus before I understood what the word meant. Before I could say it myself. How am I meant to fight that? I can’t. The Nefastus can do no good, no right. He’s evil. I learned that long, long ago.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“What’s the point in being good if everyone decides you’re evil anyway?”

Fulk braced his elbows on the wall, ostensibly to lean there for his comfort, in reality to placed him closer to the boy’s height. He addressed his question to his clasped hands. “What’s the point in aiding your father’s ally if everyone says you did it for perversity?”

For a very long time the only sound was that of the wind, and the fainter noises coming from the burial detail in front and the bailey behind them.

Malcolm stood away from the rampart, shoulders set level. “Take me as your squire. Please.”

Fulk was so taken aback at first all he could do was gape. “Your Highness, I am no one-”

The boy shook his head. “You’re hailed as the greatest knight in all England! What better tutor could I ask for.”

“I am a baseborn bastard.”

“So? Princes sometimes have lowly men as their tutors. As long as those men are recognised as being highly skilled-”

Fulk interrupted, trying to keep his tone mild yet firm, “Those men live in their lord’s household and owe everything to him. They don’t hold land or titles. They don’t owe allegiance to two different kings. They’re not married to a princess. Highness, if I accepted you it would be taken as a political statement!”

Malcolm’s head went down. “You don’t want me either.”

“Highness, whatever I want has no place in it. A man in my position can’t train the heir to a throne. I can’t join your household, and you can’t join mine.” That aside, knowing how Eleanor felt about this prince meant he could not ask her to tolerate his close presence. Ah, and there was another reason against this. “Besides, as soon as Hugh is safely crowned Eleanor and I will be withdrawing from public life. We’ll be living in the quietest obscurity manageable.”

“But-”

“Hugh cannot have her at his court, and we cannot have our own separate from his. Anything which lets men judge Hugh against her cannot be permitted. Anything which would allow the notion of her as a queen to live on cannot be allowed.” Fulk spread his hands. “You must see it is impossible, your Highness.”

The boy gave a wretched nod. “Yes,” he sighed. “I guess I do.”

“For whatever it may be worth, I’d probably have accepted you if it were possible.” As he said the placatory words Fulk found that they held a small grain of truth.

Several moments passed. Malcolm said, “I just don’t feel like I can go home again. Not after …” He made a vague motion with his hand which managed to encompass burial pits, armies, and themselves. “After all this.”

“And a bit ago you were claiming you felt no different.”

Malcolm scowled. “Fuck it, I still don’t even know if I came to the right side’s help. Truly. It’s no clear matter as to which of them’s the better, or which has the right of it, or what. It’s a big fat bloody mess, and my father stuck his oar in and stirred the water up so cloudy I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Eleanor doesn’t want the throne.” A scatter of carrion birds took to the sky, disturbed from their feast by the body collectors.

“Wanting is the least of the qualifications. Take it from me.” Malcolm snorted with amusement. “If it came to wanting half the fucking population would be qualified!”

“True enough.”

“All I know is that Hugh’s our ally. He’s not filled all the terms of his half of the bargain, but then my father’s barely filled the minimum of his. He surrendered the land we asked for, and you’re married to his sister like my fucking father demanded. That means he’s kept more of his part than we have of ours. Or that’s the way it stood until I raised an army to come and help.”

Fulk glanced sidelong at the boy. “You went to Trempwick first.”

Malcolm’s face flamed. “I had to. I had to persuade him that I was on his side or I wouldn’t have been able to take him by surprise. I’ve not got that many men.”

Fulk didn’t think a boy could outwit the spymaster. Yet there was no denying Malcolm had charged into an unprepared enemy. There had to be more to it.

“I can’t go home.” Malcolm began to walk again, checking back over his shoulder to see if Fulk would follow. After a bit he did.

Malcolm said, “I won’t be shoved back into my corner. Fuck it, I don’t think I can be shoved back into my corner. Men know I’ve raised and led an army, and they know I’ve been on the winning side. Whatever they say about it doesn’t matter. They can’t consider me to be a child any more. They’re going to be looking at me and wondering from now on.” Malcolm halted, hands held out to his sides and his eyes agleam. “He can’t hold me back any more!”

“Your Highness-”

“Have you any idea what it’s like to be shoved in a corner and kept looking like a useless pisspot? To never be allowed chance to prove yourself! Damn it, to never be allowed chance to even learn properly?” He dropped his hands back to his sides, some of the exultation fading from his face. “He’s too scared to let me do anything which might be risky. More than that, he’s too scared to let me do anything which might make me look better. If I die he’s got a young child for an heir. If I’m triumphant I’m a rival.”

Fulk remembered the armoured figure of his father standing over him, braced to face the enemy to preserve his wounded bastard. He’d been unconscious by the time they’d cut his father down. “You can’t blame a father for wanting to his keep his son safe.”

Malcolm shook his head in rejection. “No! I can – he’s so completely fucking wrong I have to! Protect me?!” The boy’s voice wavered on the edge of breaking. “He’s never tried! Not how it counts.”

“And which way would that be?”

The prince stood, shoulders heaving with his rapid breathing. “He let his baby son be called an unholy demon. His baby! And he let it go on for so long that’s all the poor fucking sod could be! He encouraged it! You’ve seen that your yourself, when you were at our court.”

This was getting decidedly awkward. Fulk wasn’t sure he could agree with either the King of Scots encouraging the loathing of his son, or with a person being forced into becoming something by weight of popular opinion. “Your Highness-”

“So now I’m the Nefastus. Barely anyone will follow him. So I’m no threat to the bearded shit. Which is good for him because if I ever get the chance I’m going to gut him for what he’s done to me! And when he’s dead I’ll be left to claw my way out of the fucking pit he’s dug me!” The prince’s rage collapsed. He made a helpless gesture with his hand. “And I won’t manage to dig my way out.” As an afterthought he added, “There’s a mark on my left foot next to my smallest toe. Maybe that’s where it was cut away. Maybe I am a demon. I’ve got red hair.”

“So does Anne, and none would say she’s anything but sweetness and light.”

Malcolm gave Fulk the barest hint of a smile. “Anne got all of the good which is missing from me. And I don’t begrudge her it. Much. She … wears it better than I ever could.”

“Tell prince Hugh that you don’t feel ready to accept his offer of knighthood, and ask if you can become his squire.” Fulk could see the boy considering it, and further expanded on the idea. “It’d be an honourable placement, and a useful one. You’d gain knowledge of those you’ll have to work with when you inherit your own throne. You’d have space to grow, and Hugh’s a good man.” Hugh could be the best man on earth and he’d still curse Fulk for directing this difficult princeling his way. Hugh held traits which might balance Malcolm out if only they could be instilled. Hell, even better manners would be a big improvement.

After a bit Malcolm said, “I’ll think about it.” He gave a curt bow. “I’ll leave you be now. My thanks … and if you tell anyone about what I’ve told you I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll not have people laughing at me like I’m some pissing milksop!”











Vote Prince Malcolm Nefastus for the “Most Charming Character” award or *^%& off!

Well, that’s some improvement. It’s the burial pits and carrion crows which make the biggest difference here. There’s more to the scene than dialogue scattered with the obligatory line ownership. The dull procession of overly repetitive “he said/nodded/sighed/looked/blah blah” is reduced too. It wrote itself faster than any scene in a long time, and more easily. Dr. Froggy’s cure: more sleep than I’ve had in a long time, more reading than I’ve done in a long time, more writing and in longer stretches than I’ve done in a long time. Pity I don’t have several more months.



Welcome back, Monk! ~:wave:

Interesting! I'm not sure whether to pity Malcolm or slap him! And Thanks for the welcome back, looks like i'm on critic duty until Ludens returns!

It was much enjoyed froggy. You managed to steer clear of falling back into the droning on of dialogue for the most part but there were still one or two places where it fell a little flat. Still I believe it's nothing major as when you fall into it, you manage to pick yourself right back up a few lines later.

It's difficult for me to comment on your story as our styles are so (in my mind) vastly different. So if I take a few days to say something don't get too discouraged I'm likely just trying to think up a way to comment :2thumbsup:

Hi, I'm still reading the story. I just finished the scene at King William's grave between Hugh, Eleanor, and Jocelyn.

I liked it when Jocelyn was writing to Richildis and Fulk interrupted him. Those were 2 excellent scenes.

I'm glad that Hugh is finally getting a hold on his(well technically Eleanor's) kingdom. If the fanclub thing is still going on then add me to the Constance one. She's the one that keeps Hugh on the right path.

Whatever happened to Red Hand? Is that still going to be published?

After a lengthy pause Trempwick said, “Well, well.”

Hugh did not reply.

“I wondered when you would pluck up the courage to face me.”

“I do not need courage to face you,” Hugh said most softly. “There are a great many things more terrible than you.” He moved past the spymaster to stand before the altar. He made his reverence and knelt.

“You came to pray?” Trempwick stood over him, within view so he could not be taken for a threat.

“What else does one do in a chapel?”

“Since I have been housed here all who come, come for me.”

Hugh tilted his head to look up at the man. “Why should I come to pay you visit? I hold no care for you.”

Trempwick settled himself on the nearest bench, crossing his legs. “Why would you not?”

Hugh refocused his attention on the Almighty.

After a bit Trempwick prompted, “I have never thought you one for gloating.”

Was it self-destruction if one failed to raise one’s shield to ward off a fatal blow? Hugh feared so. Yet could it not be said martyrs did precisely this? They might live yet turned their face to the wall and let the blow land. Campaign in Wales would offer occasion to let his guard slip. Not martyrdom. No, it was so very distant from it.

“However I would have thought you would have something to say.”

To die to clear the way for the rightful heir. To prevent himself from sinning further, from becoming a usurper in truth.

“Promises of fair trial, perhaps. Assurances that I will be treated with honour.” Trempwick leaned his arms on his knees. Hugh paid him little mind.

Self destruction. Suicide. As surely as if he drove a knife through his own breast.

“Ignorance was not a flaw I would have attributed to you.”

Could he do it?

“I shall rest the blame on that head wound of yours.”

Hugh strove to hold himself stationary. To face the question and all it held in full, and to do so without emotion. Emotion would impair his judgement.

“I should not be surprised if it left you a scar.”

Emotion. That is all he found. Odd, most odd. Hugh felt numb, had since the blow had first landed. How could one be numb and yet brim over with passion in one and the same instant?

“Never mind. It will not be too bad of a scar. Remember also how ladies find scars appealing.” Trempwick laughed, a sound filled with heartache. “Look at your sister and her broken-nosed commoner.”

Half sister, Hugh corrected mentally. The heir. The chosen one. The one judged more able than he. The favourite. Hugh drew in a noisy breath and threw his gaze skywards. Control. He must have control.

“Ah, that seems to have caused some upset.” Trempwick spread his hands. “I apologise, I suppose. I had not realised another apart from myself found that sensitive.”

Control.

“From the day William offered her to me in marriage I never doubted she would be mine. Never doubted she would not see me as a worthy match.”

Hugh growled, “No one ever doubts her.” She possessed resemblance to both of their – her parents. Jesù, how it hurt.

Trempwick offered the slightest of smiles. “It hurt.” He touched his breastbone. “Not just the losing of her. The rejection. No man likes to think another may be preferred to he. That hurt too.”

And what if the superior one was a female, and a younger sister to boot?

“For the rejection to be so public as well …” The spymaster repeated his wretched little laugh. “Nell does nothing by half.”

Death. An end to feeling. An end to it all – pain and problems both.

Hugh came to his feet so slowly all the weight of the world might have been on his shoulders. “No.” More vehemently, “Christ, no!” He would throw away every reward in paradise to see his child! Abandon it?! Abandon Constance?! Never!

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “Somehow I do not feel you are agreeing with me.”

Hugh battled the surge of emotions. “I agree Eleanor little understands the meaning of moderation.”

The spymaster held his pose for long enough to show he didn’t believe Hugh’s cover up. “Well, what is moderation but the limitation placed upon the able by the less so?”

“I seem to recall you preaching moderation in drink, spymaster. Does this mean you are unable to hold your wine?”

Trempwick sketched a mocking salute. “Witty.”

On the maddest of whims Hugh asked, “Did you oppose my succession because I lack ability? In part, if not in whole?”

Trempwick came to his feet, studying Hugh’s face intently. “Something in you has changed, bastard.”

Hugh did not flinch. And realising it his heart soared – the word has lost all power over him. William had repudiated him at the end. For all of the accursed mess it had wrought in Hugh’s life there was one simple bit of blessed simplicity in it all. He was no man’s son. There was a freedom in that. As quickly as it had flown his heart broke anew. He was no man’s son. William had not wanted him, inadequate creature with suspect blood that he was. No longer could he meet Trempwick’s eye. “Show me a man who would not have changed after the trials I have faced, and I will show you a corpse.”

“If you had no ability you would have fallen at the outset. I admit I am surprised you have survived as well as you have – though in no small part I put that down to Nell’s support of you.” Trempwick’s eyes lost their focus, gazing into the middle distance. “Yes … I should dearly love to speak with my student and discover what is in her mind.” As quick as the snap of a whip the moment ended; with a blithe smile he stated, “Bastard, when it comes to ability you are average. No more, no less. Do not do yourself overmuch credit by assuming otherwise in either direction.”

Hugh’s throat was tight. Average. He had always been average. Had always laboured under that cloud. Maybe William would have wanted him if he’d been talented. Maybe he’d have looked better if he’d not had Stephan the beloved on one side and Eleanor the damned menace on the other!

Trempwick didn’t relent. “You have lived in mediocrity. You will die in it. I would say you were born in it but alas, for that to be true you would have to come from legitimate stock.”

“I am aware of this,” Hugh ground out. “I asked if you opposed me because of that. I did not request you grind my face in my own uselessness!”

Trempwick paced away, one hand massaging his brow. “Bastard, if you wish it plain I can put it no plainer than this. I feel nothing for you as a person; you are drab, average, tedious. I despise your very existence, and the reason for this is simple. You represent a lapse in judgement from a lady whom, until that point, I considered to be the very pinnacle of all that a lady should be. Furthermore, my friend’s failure as a husband led to this. In short, you are born from the mistakes of people I wanted to be beyond errors. You are come from the unhappiness of two people I dearly wished every joy to. As for your father,” Trempwick spat on the floor. “That for him!”

“I see.”

“To an extent, perhaps.”

“Eleanor once told me that you loved our mother.”

Trempwick’s expression was incredulous. “So you think I am upset because you might have been my own son if she had but chosen differently?”

A rage Hugh had been struggling with for so long finally boiled over. “You should have tried your hand – she was a whore.” The next he knew he was on the floor clutching his chest, gasping for breath.

Trempwick massaged his fist, his own breathing quick. “Damn! What is it about her brood that I must keep on doing this? Judgemental idiots, the lot of you!” He crouched at Hugh’s side and dragged his head up by the hair. “Listen well, bastard. Your mother was lonely and abandoned because my friend took her for granted. He thought he could leave her for much of a year and return home to find her waiting and eager like some flower which only opened up when he was present, utterly unchanged from the girl he had married, and thought he could do this year after year.” He leaned right in close. “He was wrong.”

Hugh dragged another lungful of air in. “She was his wife!”

“And he was her husband.” Trempwick released his grip on Hugh’s hair and stood up. “A man should not ask for what he is unprepared to give himself. Or so I have always believed. William was far from chaste.”

Hugh said nothing. What good to him was justification? Would it restore him to grace? No. William was dead; he could never withdraw his rejection.

Trempwick folded his arms. “I can say that she should have found the strength to remain alone, and each time I have done so I have found myself saying in the same breath she should never had needed to. I can say Enguerrand should have had the decency to leave before it came to that or the decency not to abandon her when William returned. I can say that without the least qualm. I hated him for it.” Trempwick clenched his fist. “How self-indulgent of the man, to run away to Spain to die on Crusade! Salve his soul and end his misery all in the one go. Not a thought for Joanna, left behind to bear all that she had before in addition to his leaving.”

Hugh braced a hand on the bench and levered himself into a semi upright position. “If she had done her duty by her husband there would never have been any speculation over my parentage.”

Trempwick bared his teeth. “If she had done that you would not be here to bother me, bastard.” He threw his hands up in the air. “And while we are at it, if William had done his duty by her then you still would not be here, and undoubtedly the world would be a happier place by far.”

“It is all her fault.” Hugh took a final breath and tried to stand; his legs held.

“I do not know why you came here, bastard. Nor do I care.” Trempwick’s lip curled; abruptly he moved away and sat back down in the same position he’d been when Hugh had entered. “If you came here in an attempt to win my support, know once and for all that you will never have it. I will not see a mistake dressed in robes and anointed to rule over us. If you came to learn something,” Trempwick snorted with disgust, “your closed mind has prevented any chance. I will waste no more time on you.”

Neatening his clothes restored a modicum of Hugh’s sense of dignity. “I have no idea why I came. I was mad to believe you would have the courtesy to leave me in peace to my prayers.” He called for the guards to let him out.

“I do not think you came to pray,” Trempwick called after him.








Sorry; late, tired, got to be up early tomorrow. Been sat about waiting for something else to load. Will come back to comments :zzz:

Well, I wasn't going to post a comment, 'til I read that you would come back for comments. :)

I'm always happy to see a new installment of the story. I usually go back and read the latest 2 or 3 installments first to remind myself of what's going on. In some cases - like this one - the scene change is such that I needn't have done that, but it's a joy to reread them anyway.

There's a couple of nice things you've done with Hugh here, Ms. Frog! I wouldn't have expected Hugh to consider "doing himself in," but once you presented it, it seemed perfectly in-character for him. But then having him emphatically reject the idea because he wouldn't deny himself to his child and wife? Masterful! After all, that's what Enguerrand had done and look what that had done to Hugh.

Trempwick is more rounded out here, as well. He can be exasperated and truthful and still not budge an inch. Of course, Trempwick has fooled better men than me and I could be wrong, but I think we're seeing some real emotion from the man: “Damn! What is it about her brood that I must keep on doing this? Judgemental idiots, the lot of you!”

The final argumentative bits, with Trempwick explaining his love for both the king and queen and seeing the humanity of both their shortcomings - juxtaposed with Hugh's unbending "judgementalism" - was very well done, imho.

When Fulk eventually returned he seemed surprised to find three heads industriously bent over embryonic garments. “A sewing gooseberry. I think I’ve seen everything now.”

Eleanor did not share Hawise’s and Aveis’ amusement; she fixed Fulk with her most vicious glare. “You left home with three changes of clothes and returned with but the one you stood up in. One more word and I shall leave you to go about replacing them!”

Hugh knew he had been disowned, Trempwick sat in custody, the battle’s dead were still being buried, Malcolm Nefastus wanted something of Fulk, and here she sat, sewing. Sewing! Concern for Fulk’s welfare had ganged up with society’s ideas about wifely duty and consigned her to this. The man needed clothes. She was supposed to see he had them. Farming the work out to others would lead to whispers of neglect, and that wouldn’t be fair to Fulk.

Fulk set his hand over his heart. “It gives me great comfort to know my best-beloved has personally stitched my underclothes.”

Underclothes. Eleanor schooled her face into serenity. It was true – her skills were as yet insufficient to work on more complex garments. Asked at any other time she would have taken a sort of pride in it, as she rightfully should considering how much effort she’d put in over the years to evade spending time with a needle. Right now, right this very moment, here and now, it was bloody well too much! Her kingdom needed her to steer it through this final patch of troubled waters, and here she was, working on a new pair of braes! Not even something dignified!

Moving to stand behind her, Fulk ran her braid through his fingers. “No need to look so stoical, my love. I’ll save you from your labours.” A finger tickled the back of her neck, and worked lower. “We’ve a debt to settle, and that takes precedence, if you ask me.”

He was ideally positioned for an elbow to the crotch; Eleanor somehow resisted the temptation. How very typically male – always a keen memory for the one thing you wished him to forget! “It does?”

“Of course.” His finger was near the scar shaped like the curve of the arse in the crown’s belt buckle, a positioning which had to be purposeful. “You might sound more cheerful.”

Eleanor said sceptically, “I might?” He’d taken a blow to the head and no one had told her. Surely. Compliant, yes, Fulk could reasonably expect that. Cheerful?!

Someone smothered a giggle – with both maids’ heads bent over their work Eleanor couldn’t identify the offender.

“Think of my poor masculine pride.”

The same masculine pride which had caused the disagreement about Trempwick in the first place? “We have more important things to be doing.”

“Paying debts is very important, I feel.” With both hands he massaged her shoulders, an action very close to wringing her neck however tenderly he dressed it up. “And this one’s growing by the minute.”

This time it was easy to identify the giggler – because both women did it.

With a sigh Eleanor dumped her sewing and stood up. “If you insist.”

“Your enthusiasm drives me to giddy heights of excitement,” Fulk drawled.

Deranged. Quite perfectly deranged. “I am most properly deferential.”

“Slip of the tongue there, dearest.” He looped an arm about her waist and started to walk her to their chamber. “I think you meant defiant.”

She gave him a black look. “I can be defiant if you prefer.”

“Maybe later. I doubt I’ve the energy to deal with defiant presently.”

The giggles turned into out and out laughter as the door shut.

“Well?” Eleanor demanded.

Fulk spread his hands. “If you’re really not interested-”

“Fulk FitzWilliam, if you expect me to be excited over ‘having my hide flayed’; as you so picturesquely put it-” Eleanor broke off; he was laughing.

“Oh, love!” He wiped at his eye and made some effort to bring himself under control. “If a hundred people had witnessed that exchange, and if I asked them what they thought I was talking about, every last one would say I referred to the marriage debt!”

“Oh,” Eleanor said. That may make more sense. A rush of heat informed her that she was blushing furiously. “It might have helped if you had not been prodding at my scars and such!”

“I hate to disappoint, but I barely have the strength for one debt. Settling both is currently beyond me.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. “I know which I’d prefer.”

Eleanor indulged for a moment before breaking their kiss and pressing him back a little. “Hugh knows. About the ring – Jocelyn must have told him.”

Fulk considered, then shrugged. “We’re guarded and this castle is filled with my men. He can’t harm you here, nor do I think him the type to. No, there’s more danger he’ll bend knee to you. He can’t do that if he can’t get to you.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “How fortunate that you’re presently unavailable for visitors.”

He’d said nothing which she had not already thought of. “I will have to speak to him.”

“Later. When he’s had some chance to come to terms with what he’s heard.”

“When it is not so raw he must see that a lifetime’s naming him as a son means more than a deathbed change of mind.” Fulk’s lack of concern made it easier for Eleanor to trust her own feelings on the matter, and relax. “What did Malcolm want?”

Fulk untied the ribbon from her hair and started unravelling her braid. “Didn’t I ask you to loose your hair? Didn’t you claim a bit ago to be properly deferent?”

When the kiss broke Eleanor said, “You asked me to loose my hair well over an hour before I made the latter claim.” She repeated, “What did Malcolm want?”

“To be my squire. I said it was impossible.” Fulk combed his fingers through the lengths of her hair. “Could we please forget about the world outside? We’ve been apart for weeks. I fought my way halfway across the country to get here. I nearly died. You weren’t much further from disaster. The realm’s not yet settled into peace either. We’ve had very little time together since we got married. So little time, in fact, that we’ve lain together less than a score of times. We’ve been arguing. It’s only since late this morning I’m beginning to feel capable of a proper reunion.” He raised his voice in exaggerated frustration, “There are better things to be doing than talking politics!”

“Well when you put it like that …” Eleanor leaned forward and kissed him lingeringly on the lips. “And it is eighteen times.”

Fulk broke into a grin. “You counted?”

Eleanor returned the look from under her eyelashes. “You did not?”





“I counted.” Fulk sounded closer to sleep than wakefulness.

Eleanor smiled into his shoulder. “Of course.”

“Let’s stay here for the rest of the day.”

Eleanor ran her fingertips over the light fuzz of hairs growing on his stomach. “Is that an excuse to go back to sleep, or do you have something more in mind?” she teased.

“Perhaps by the evening, if you take good care of me.”

“Oh hush. It was not a literal question and you know it.” It had been obvious that he’d been struggling and that his wounds had pained him, slow and careful that they’d been.

He cracked open his eyes and grumbled, “I can be hopeful if I want to be.”

“As you wish, my luflych little knight.” If he wanted an honourable excuse for spending the rest of the day in bed then she wouldn’t deny it him.

Moments later Fulk’s head sagged against hers as he dosed off.





“You spoke to my sister?”

The page interlaced his fingers nervously. “No, my lord.” He hastened to add, “I couldn’t get to her. She was … busy. Her servants said so.”

Hugh’s unthinking attempt to knit his brow sent a flash of pain across his forehead. “Busy how?”

The youth blushed.

“I see.” Hugh dismissed the page with a wave of his hand, absurdly relieved that the youth hadn’t replied verbally. It was one thing to know his sister was married, and to understand that marriage by necessity entailed such activates. Yet the thought of his sister – the heir to the throne – in the embrace of that peasant sickened his gut.

Alone once more Hugh sat in continued contemplation.

Snubbed?











There’s some life in there despite the fact I’m zombified with fatigue. That’s nice.



Furball, I don’t think I can do better than to say that was a very helpful comment, and thanks for posting it. Elaborating just ends up with a wad of text saying nothing satisfactory, so I’ll leave it at that. ~:)

<beam> And thanks for a new episode. I hope you get plenty of rest. I have a feeling you'll need it for the coming chapters.