The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

In case you were wondering who's still reading your book on this forum, I enjoying it immensly and always eagerly awaiting your next installment.

Just to let you know im still reading, just not very frequently or occasionally even. You can now proceed to blame school work, teachers, afterschool activites and oncoming exams. I'm waiting in suspense for the plot build up on the conversations which seem to suggest something big is brewing. I shouldn't be reading for quite a while. My exams are just around the corner and I need to study if not i'll die:sweatdrop: .

Anxiously counting the days till freedom :smg: :smg: :smg:

It had occurred to Hugh that Eleanor may have given him this space to come to terms with his discovery. It was either that or contempt. To his chagrin he was aware of swinging between the two with no semblance of logic. His thoughts had settled upon a path like unto the knotworks used for decoration by the Irish. No perceptible beginning, no hope of an end, so tangled that to attempt to follow it invited blurred vision. Relentlessly he ran along that tangle, over and over. A man of certainty, reduced to being assured of very little and hunting for something to grasp hold of – Hugh found himself contemptible, and so it was small wonder his half-sister viewed him likewise.

Hours after his page had returned from the failed summons the door opened. Eleanor entered without ceremony or announcement, and waited for some reaction from him.

“How long have you known?” Hugh asked after a while. He stood, his blood waking from the sluggishness which had inhabited it for the past afternoon. This time it was a demand. “How long have you been laughing at me?”

Eleanor answered the second question quickly enough. “I have never laughed-”

Should he go near her Hugh feared he would do her some violence, and – questions of inheritance aside - that would be unforgivable now she was another man’s wife. He positioned himself at the window, as far away from her as he could get. “You have manipulated me to perfection!”

“No!”

The cycle continued along its now familiar path; the anger set and in its place rose misery. “That only shows how unworthy I am.” He bowed his head, clenching his eyes tight shut against the tears welling up yet again. “To be led by the nose by my youngest sister.”

“Why do you think I manipulated you?”

“You came to me with your tales of treason on the part of Trempwick, and led me to clear the path for you.” He snorted. “Trempwick is settled. The most rabid of the nobility are dead – so very conveniently, if I may so remark.”

He heard footsteps; by his estimation she had closed the distance between them by half. “Hugh, I came to you before our father had his accident. Before he made this fool’s decision.”

“I have no father,” he said through clenched teeth.

“You are William’s son-”

Hugh pounded his clenched fists on the window sill and roared, “No!”

“Hugh-” Blessed Jesù, she was right beside him now. Had she no sense of self-preservation?

“Of the two men who might bear that name, one abandoned me, the other disowned me.”

Eleanor set her hand on his shoulder, the touch so light it was next to imperceptible. “He was dying, and, dare I say it, heartbroken at what had happened here. He did not deny you when you set your had upon his corpse.”

Hugh swept her hand away with a swipe of his arm. “He denied me when he should have given me his blessing, and that can never be retracted. I do not care. Truly I do not. I do not care why. I do not care when. All that matters is that he chose you.” He stabbed at her with a finger. “You. Not me.” He stabbed again, this time making contact – and by God’s mercy he didn’t care! “You! The youngest! A female!” And stabbed again, forcing her back a step. “The one with the least right!” He pressed her back another step. “The favourite! Always his favourite!”

Eleanor’s retreat ceased; she squared up to him and snarled, “He hated me!”

“You were the focus of his attention!” Hugh bellowed. “He never showed half the interest in me that he did in you!”

“Interest that left me covered in scars!” she spat back.

“So many times did I have to suffer through him wishing you were male, knowing that he would have supplanted me with you if you were!” When he realised he was measuring her neck up to gauge how effectively he could strangle her Hugh drew a deep breath, shoved her to one side, and put as much space between them as possible. “Keep away from me! If you had any idea-”

“How much you hate me?” Eleanor interrupted. “I know, Hugh.” Her lips thinned in an expression which was far from a smile. “I know.”

Hugh held her gaze for a long time. “I have discovered I was formerly mistaken about many things. All those years. I was not learning how to hold my throne and do well by it. I was learning how to take it.” He found himself snarling a smile, and dropped one hand to his dagger. “How easy it would be to take back what is mine.”

Eleanor held her empty hands out to her sides. “I am unarmed. I left my knives behind.”

“I have raised and led armies. I have crushed those who opposed me. I have made myself and my purpose known. I have won support. As I was taught to do. All I needs must do is remove the final obstacle.” Hugh found himself more tired than angry, and that made this unsustainable. His hand fell away from the leather-wrapped hilt. “I never knew how badly I desired the crown I had been pushed towards until I was threatened with its loss.” He sank back to lean against the wall for support. “I wanted it, I worked for it, and on the very day which should have been my triumph I learned I had nothing.”

In reaction to the fight going out of him, Eleanor sat herself down in the window seat. “Brother dear-”

Hugh flinched. “Do not call me that.”

Eleanor shrugged. “As you wish.”

After a long time Hugh decided himself to be delaying. With a fluid shrug of his shoulders he pushed off the wall and stood on his own two feet. “You already know what I will do, do you not?”

“Out of all of our family, you are, I think, the only one I know at all,” Eleanor said softly.

“Do you have the ring?”

She had been concealing it in her girdle. A little pocket must have been added so the ring could sit at the small of her back.

Hugh closed the gap, left hand extended. “I wish to examine it.”

As trusting as could be Eleanor dropped the ring of Saint Edward into his hand. Hugh closed his fingers about it, a thrill running through him. That which had been lost was once again found. The weight in his hand was comforting, Eleanor’s body had warmed the gold – he could have fooled himself into believing he held a living thing. Hugh uncurled his fingers. The sapphire winked blue at the centre of its halo of tiny rubies and emeralds. The Confessor has selected the sapphire as it stood for faithfulness and verity, and later legend had built up about the deep blue eyes common in the royal family. The bloodline had been marked by, and for, the ring.

Eleanor held out her own hand.

Instead of passing the ring back Hugh took her left hand in his and slid the ring into place above her marriage band. Dropping to one knee he kissed the ring. “I am your man.” It was not, in the end, as difficult as he had feared. The price his other options would exact of him he deemed too high. A day spent searching himself to see if he could do otherwise held some reward, then.

Eleanor took him by the elbow and stood, pulling him up with her. “You are the most honourable man I know. You would never have done otherwise.”

Honour. What good was that to Constance and his child? “I will go into exile.”

Eleanor transferred her grip to his right forearm, a clasp sometimes used amongst fighting men to indicate a brotherhood of sorts. “You will stay here, and you will help me right the mess I have been left.”

Hugh twisted his hand free and said bitterly, “A discredited former claimant to the throne will be of no use to you.”

“You will not be discredited.” Eleanor removed the outsized ring and returned it to its hiding place. “You will be crowned as Hugh, first of that name, King of England, Duke of Normandy, and all the rest of that mouthful.”

Hugh could not believe his ears; he shook his head. “What nonsense is this?”

“You were trained to rule, so rule you shall.” Eleanor sat back down, straight-backed and self-assured. It was not hard to imagine her upon a throne. “All will be as it should. Your son will inherit after you. None will know I have the ring, and on my death it will find its way back to the treasury.”

“I do not believe this …”

“Brother dear, I do not want the throne. I do not believe any good could come of it.” Eleanor folded her hands in her lap, a minor adjustment which robbed her of the regal overtones. “Nor do I believe it fair that I, who do not want it and have not worked for it, should take that which you desire deeply and have worked beyond exhaustion for.”

Hugh pursed his lips. “I am not a usurper.”

“You will not be. You have my blessing.”

Then he understood. “You would make me your puppet.”

“No. I would make you a king, in your own right and in truth.”

All this time she had been attempting to look him in the eye, a contact he’d denied her. Now shock drew his eyes to hers. “How can I be that? I am your man until the end of my days, nothing can change that. You cannot clean the knowledge from my mind.”

“I will not live at court. Therefore I could not control you, assuming I so wished - which I do not. I will leave you to your own devices, to make your own decisions and to act as you will.” Eleanor hesitated. “However should I feel something to be important I will speak, and I expect you to listen.”

Hugh’s head felt fit to explode, his world tipped upside down for a second time in the space of a day. He walked aimlessly from the need to be doing something, pressing at his cut forehead so the pain would cut through the tangle and enable him to think. Better a puppet than an exile. Better a puppet than a pauper with nothing to offer his wife and child. “I would have to have certain guarantees.”

“What do you require?” she asked immediately.

What indeed? The statement had been more a delaying tactic than a coherent desire. No – there was one thing clear to him. “You say my son will follow after me. What guarantee have I of this?”

“Our prior accord on that matter stills stands, and always shall.”

“That is not enough.” If he had previously doubted his ability to murder children, he further doubted his ability to murder a legitimate heir. Had he not proved himself incapable mere minutes ago? The threat was no longer believable. “It must be made … legal. Some form of proclamation – something to bar any of your descent from ever taking the throne.”

“As you will. It can be formed so it appears to be based on my choice of husband.”

In the hopes of returning a fraction of the agony her existence had caused him, Hugh said, “One supposes that one bulk of the matter remains unchanged. You are not built for breeding. You will die most unpleasantly, the brat along with you.”

She gave him a very thin smile. “Anything else?”

Having begun it was easier to continue; he was able to answer smoothly. “You will not come to court without my permission.”

“I will not come to court without seeking permission save in a situation I perceive as an emergency,” she countered.

“This is not agreeable.” Hugh folded his arms and attempted to appear inflexible. “You may class any situation as an emergency. I will not have the threat of your appearance hanging over my head at all times.”

“And I will not permit myself to be sealed off so I cannot act if there is need.” Eleanor gave it a moment’s consideration. “In such circumstances I will send a messenger ahead, and this messenger will arrive half a day in advance of myself.”

“I suppose this is agreeable.” What else? He must make himself and his as secure as feasible. “You will not raise an army in your own name, or in your husband’s. You will not retain more than fifty armed men between you.”

“Eighty.”

“You quibble as though buying cloth from a merchant,” Hugh said in disgust.

“I agree where it is reasonable, and seek to preserve my interests where it is not. You think I will give all away and let you dictate?” Eleanor shook her head. “Eighty, and I will publicly swear loyalty to you each year at Christmas. Should the Earl of Alnwick need to take to the field in your support it is best he bring a respectable contingent. I do not think to hold so many men during peaceful times – the cost would be ruinous.”

“Seventy, and you will swear whenever I view it as needful.”

“Seventy, and no more than twice a year. There is a difference between leaving no space for people to misunderstand our relationship, and abuse.”

He had not expected to win too much on this point, and the moral validity of his attempting to limit her was dubious. “Very well. Provided no more than fifteen of those men are knights.

“Agreed.” Eleanor had been toying with her wedding ring, turning it about on her finger. Now she revealed why. “We will pay no more of the fines imposed upon us for our marriage. To maintain appearances we will appear to do so.”

“I acknowledge that I had less right to impose those fines than I believed at the time.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. “Less right? No right. Fines are imposed on subordinates. I am subordinate to no one, saving my husband where it is fitting.”

Hugh struggled for a long time before managing to swallow that. “Yes.” No good – the morsel he had struggled so hard to choke down came right back up again. “If I am to be king then all are subordinate to me.”

“All except me,” she replied without delay.

“Then I am no king.”

“You will be as much a king as any other to wear a crown – far more than many who have reigned. I will not stand at your side and whisper into your ear.” Once more she clasped her hands in her lap, letting the commanding pose fade. “Is there anything else?”

It was all too much, too soon, and too unexpected. “I need more time for thought.”

“You shall have it.” Eleanor rose. “There is one final thing. Trempwick must be dealt with, and swiftly.”

Hugh nodded, pleased to find her thinking the same as he. “There must be a way to kill him without besmirching ourselves.”

“It is my intent to make him useful.”

“What?” Hugh growled.

Eleanor raised her chin. “He names me his queen. I will make him bend knee and serve.”

“You will loose that viper?” Hugh could scarcely believe his ears – after all the man had done! After all they had been through to bring him down! “The man who murdered my children-”

“And more besides,” she interrupted. “No. Never. I will find him a prison and he will never leave it. We cannot kill him, we cannot loose him, and keeping him mewed up is a great danger unless he can be brought to see reason to work for what we build.”

Hugh stated, “I will not work with him.”

This seemed to amuse Eleanor. “He will not work with you, rather say.” More seriously, “He would work to undermine you.”

“I do not care what words you put it in. You will not succeed.”

She gave him one of those impudent smiles which announced she had taken the words as a challenge. “We shall see.”








The next few scenes tie into that one quite strongly.

Furball, thanks.

Peasant Phill, nice to see you passing through again.

Death is Yonder, however will you concentrate on your exams knowing something big is in the offing in Eleanor-land? :p

“Sorry.” Embleton’s representative bowed deeply. “Sorry, my lord. We are so sorry.”

Jocelyn grunted and did his best to look imperious as he sat on his horse.

“Sorry. Sorry, so very sorry …” The man peeked up to see if his profuse apologies were doing any good.

“You must be,” Jocelyn growled.

The man flinched back down. “Sorry. We’re all really very, very sorry.”

Embleton had survived Trempwick’s raids on the lands surrounding Alnwick thanks to its solid wooden walls and the local hicks who marched up and down on them pretending to be soldiers at the least hint of approaching men. Jocelyn had seen first-hand their resolve to protect themselves – the damned bastards had shut the gates against him, filled the walls with every male capable of holding something which might do damage, and then told him to piss off! Oh, the gall of it! And then they’d accused him of being a survivor from Trempwick’s army! A rebel! Trying to flee via their port! He’d been stuck trying to get these idiots to see their damned obvious mistake for so long the rain which had been threatening all day had arrived and started to soak him. Him! The hero of the battle of Alnwick! The queen’s chosen favourite useful knight-count-hero!

Filled anew with righteous fury Jocelyn tapped his shoulder where he’d been shot. “I wounded in royal aid. Rebel? I kill you for insult!”

The representative crumbled to his knees, followed by everyone else from this nest of overly-proud peasants. “It was an honest mistake, my lord. Please, forgive us. We’re so, so sorry. We’ve been fending off Trempwick’s men for over a week now.”

The whining was losing its appeal. Jocelyn glared down his nose at the idiots. “I go home. Royal business,” he added, puffing his chest up. “I serve. I come for ship. You give. I leave tomorrow. You …” How did a chap tell peasants to get to work and sort it out in this mangled version of a language?! In the end he settled for a flap of a hand coupled with a firm, “Do!”

The idiots fled with much bowing and gabbling in their stupid language.

Alain blew a droplet of rainwater off his nose. “Lucky any of these lot speak Anglo-French, really, my lord.”

“Lucky?”

“Yes. Imagine if they only spoke English.”

Jocelyn scowled. “Ha! They should have recognised us as quality and royalists because we speak proper French.”

“Speaking of which …” the squire nodded at a figure hanging about in the shadows of the gate’s archway, still bowing.

Ah. Yes. The one peasant with a pinch of sense in this whole damned muddy dump. The only one capable of working out that the fact Jocelyn’s party flew Jocelyn’s banner meant that – gasp! – Jocelyn was amongst them, and that he was a known royalist. Jocelyn rode over. “You I thank. You sense.” He tossed the man a couple of coins, and rode off to the sound of profuse thanks.

“Why is it always raining in this damned country?” Jocelyn demanded of his squire. “Wonder the bloody place hasn’t washed away, if you ask me.”

The squire pulled a face, and blew another droplet off his nose. “My lord, you complain about it raining far more than it actually does. It’s not been any different to home in terms of how often we’ve been soaked.”

Jocelyn growled low in his throat. “Makes my damned wound ache, damn it.”

Alain made a tutting noise that could have belonged to any old crone wailing about reckless children. “Well, we did tell you that it’d be better to wait a few days before leaving. Heal up a bit.”

“I’m fine.” Stay a bit longer. Yeah, right. They’d have found him face down in a gutter in no time at all, and not in the happy ‘I’m drunk and can’t stand’ sense neither. Damn, damn, damn, damn! Royal favour? He was right properly and fully screwed in that regard for the time being. Jocelyn squinted skywards for a hint that God was there, waiting to reassure his loyal subject in this time of need. Maybe the two royals would forget about his little slip up? I mean, life was busy and it was amazing what a person could forget after a few weeks. Right?

“I think it’s kind of sweet that you’re in such a hurry to get back to your family.”

Jocelyn raised a fist. “Come closer, boy, and say that again so I can knock you off your bloody horse!”

Alain spread his hands. “But that’s what you told us, my lord.”

“Yes. But I didn’t say a damned word about bloody sweet! You chucked that in to piss me off, damn you.”

The squire grinned. “Worked, too.”

“Disrespectful brat.”

It was the end of the day and the shops lining the main street were closing up. One of the more tardy ones caught Jocelyn’s eye, and he reigned in. “Oi!” he said politely to catch the workers’ attention.

The two youths froze, and slowly turned to look with the kind of abject dread that made Jocelyn feel happy about being a mounted lord wearing noisy armour, followed by a troop of mounted men wearing noisy armour. Respect, see. “My lord?” mumbled the first one.

Jocelyn dismounted, landing with a squish. He looked down to find his boots sunk an inch into the mud that now formed the road. Damn it, this waterlogged dump of a land should have stone paving on all its exposed surfaces! He picked his way across the short distance between himself and the goldsmith’s stall, careful as can be so he didn’t slip and end up on his arse. Standing under the opened top shutter he was at long damned last out of the bloody rain, and that was nice. “You don’t speak a proper language, do you?”

The pair were young; they were likely journeymen. After a quick exchange one shot off into the shop calling for his master.

Jocelyn ignored them, and peered at the display they had been packing up. It was mainly made up of rings, simple things which posed no huge risk when displayed openly. He reached out for the one which had caught his eye. A plain gold band, made for a man’s hand.

A voice said in accented langue d’oil, “Ah, that one is a nice piece, isn’t it?”

Jocelyn looked up to find the goldsmith himself hurrying towards him from the living area of the building.

The man bowed. “I thank you for your interest in my humble work, my lord. Is there any way I can assist?”

“Mainly looking,” Jocelyn grunted.

The goldsmith smiled ingratiatingly. “Of course. Anything for one who helped protect our lord’s lady.”

Anything including a fat discount? Jocelyn turned the ring about, checking it from this way and that. It all looked the same, no flaws or such. The weight was nice, proper and heavy like solid gold should be.

“It’s intended for a man’s wedding ring,” the smith explained, inching closer. “Not that many wear them now, but it’s going to be the fashion. The princess Eleanor’s husband, our lord of Alnwick, wears one.” The man seemed to recall that Jocelyn had met said princess and her husband, and added quickly, “Or so I hear. From a good source, though, normally reliable.”

“He does.”

The goldsmith looked quite relieved to hear his predicted fashion wasn’t stillborn. “I think it’s a nice idea, myself. Gives the wife a visible claim on her man. Doesn’t seem right if the couple belong to each other, but only one’s marked as owned, if you follow. I don’t know why more men don’t wear one.” Hypocrite – his own heartfinger was bare.

Jocelyn grunted again as if he didn’t care about the man’s words. See, there was the thing: would Tildis appreciate it at all? More importantly, would she get damned ideas?! Bloody woman, nothing but trouble. Should have been worrying about himself and his lands, and here he was, wondering about pissing away hard earned money to buy something she wouldn’t appreciate – something which would kind of sort of turn him into a wee bit of a girly-man. Giving his wife some visible claim on him?! Damn, how messed up was that?

Jocelyn put the ring back, and turned his attention to the pieces made for women. He’d bring her a present instead. “I’m looking for a gift for my wife.”

“Ah, well, there’s a lot to choose from, my lord.”

There was. Jocelyn looked at it all, and did his best to ignore the never-ending commentary. Time after time he found his eye returning to that damned ring.

Whatisname didn’t look all emasculated and he wore one. Christ’s knees, the man was practically a legend now – not that that would last, the upstart nobody! - and barely anyone at all commented badly on the fact he wore a ring. Damn it all, the idiot seemed proud to actually wear the thing! Imagine that! Yes, well, Jocelyn would be proud to be married to a princess if he were some kind of toad or whatever dug up out of nowhere.

Wear a ring? Give his wife some claim on him? Risk harming his machismo? No! Damned! Way! Ever!

And anyway, just because he wanted to sort everything out didn’t mean he wanted to change anything. Except for the things he wanted to change, naturally. But not the rest.

There was a cloak pin which was nice. It had pretty little seed pearls embedded on it. Richildis would like it, if she knew what was good for her. “I’ll take this one,” he told the smith.

When he left the shop a couple of minutes later he slipped both his purchases into his belt pouch.

Look, just because he had the sodding thing didn’t mean he had to wear it.








Ah, Jocelyn. :help:

Yay! :)

Countdown: Exams ending in 3days
Breaktime: Average of 5 minutes a day.

Finally I get to read the new installments...if only i could take paid leave if there
was such a thing over here in slave land. Hugh is becoming paranoid, he should know very well that Eleanor wants nothing to do with being the Queen. Now that she relinquishes the title Hugh is becoming Arrogant and demanding, so soon already imposing demands and constraints. Maybe Eleanor will rebel in future or he'll do something drastic. Seems like Eleanor WILL be meeting Trempwick pretty soon, stop dragging it out! The suspense is killing me:skull: .
Jocelyn seems even more pretty easily angered now. One can easily guess Richildis's reaction.

I do manage to concentrate on my exams. I focus on the consequences and hurriedly get back to studying for the mid years papers.:sweatdrop: :sweatdrop: .

By the time Eleanor returned Fulk lay on their bed, half dressed, his battered old copy of King Arthur in his hands. The familiar feel of the tome was comforting; leafing casually through the pages and reading the odd snippet here and there kept his mind sufficiently engaged that he didn’t sit and brood.

“You were asleep when I left,” she said, closing the door. “You had been for a long time. I did not want to wake you. You needed the rest.”

Fulk closed the book, not bothering to keep his place marked. “Is it too much to hope that you’ve brought food?”

She seemed surprised that he hadn’t asked where she had been. “I arranged for a private meal to be brought to us, instead of our having to join everybody in the hall.”

It was close to 3 o’clock; not much longer to wait. “My stomach is happy to hear this.” Fulk shuffled over on the bed. “Come, sit with me. You’re nicer to hold than a book.”

Eleanor gathered her skirts neatly and sat beside him. “I begin to see that the true expense in keeping knights is food – and not for the horses.”

“I haven’t eaten properly for days, and all the fighting-”

Eleanor threatened him playfully with a finger. “Idiot. Do not make me poke you. You know full well I was teasing.”

“Bah!” Fulk grabbed her about the waist and pulled her down next to him. Her efforts to twist and land without any weight on him fouled his own attempt not to get knocked; Eleanor came crunching down on his ribs.

“It was your own stupid fault,” she told him over his groans, removing her weight from his abused body and checking him over for further damage.

Once she’d curled up at his side Fulk felt better. “Why does the world seem so much more bearable when there’s a gooseberry to hold?” he mused out aloud.

“Because you are hopelessly in love with me?” Eleanor suggested.

Fulk pretended to consider. “I think it’s because you are warm, myself.”

After a bit she said, “I went to see Hugh.”

Fulk’s hand fell still on her back. “I thought we might have the rest of the day for ourselves. No more bothering about anything other than enjoying the fact we are together again.”

“The sooner all is settled then the sooner our miscellany of guests will be gone.”

“True enough. But it would be nice to spend a bit of time enjoying that which I fought for.”

Eleanor propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him. “Your fight may be over; mine is not.”

It was true; Fulk knew himself to be trapped and surrendered with as much grace as he could muster, which was to say not as much as he’d like. “Alright.”

“He accepted my offer.” Eleanor shifted to sit at his side, legs tucked to one side and skirts neatly arranged in a pose often used by artists painting young ladies seated upon grass. “We have agreed some terms. There will be others when he has had time for thought. When I have, also – our own interests must be protected.”

“Wouldn’t do to have him settle so comfortably he forgets who the crown truly belongs to,” Fulk said blandly.

She looked at him sharply. “Would not do to have him decide to remove me as an unnecessary danger. Or to try and shunt me out into the cold. Or-”

“Yes, I know, dearest.” Fulk snorted, half in irritation at himself, half in delight at how fired up she had become. “Forgive me. I seem to have become quite sour, these days.”

“Overall our agreements will suit you – we will not spend much time at court, for example.”

It was the wording which gave away the existence of one agreement she believed he would baulk at. Fulk braced himself and enquired, “But?”

“My descendants will be barred from the succession by law.”

Fulk pinched the bridge of his nose. “This matters how? Unless I have been highly unobservant nothing has changed – it’s unnecessary.”

“Yes. It is a formality.”

“One you think will give me pause.”

“The reason which will be given publicly will be your complete unsuitability as a match for me.”

Fulk pressed his lips together. “I’m tempted to add my own demand to all of this – if I’m to be paraded as a dirty peasant yet again then I want recognition of what I’ve done for your damned brother.” He attempted to smile to twist the words into a joke; he feared it came closer to a grimace.

Eleanor answered with a very slight smile of her own. “If Hugh does not offer you recognition of his own accord it will be to his lasting shame. On that most will agree, if a little grudgingly. A lord must reward his followers.”

“Why is he demanding this? It’s unnecessary. And I’m not convinced it would hold either – it could be overturned. It wouldn’t be … ” Fulk sifted through a selection of words. “Custom. There’s no precedent. It wouldn’t take much to declare it unlawful.”

“Peace of mind. Write me out of the line and he and two very distant sisters no one wants are all that is left.” Eleanor tapped her fingers on her thigh, and Fulk knew she was talking to him with one part of her attention and devoting the rest to considering something else. “It centres attention more firmly on him and his own line. Makes me less of a rival, and encourages people not to consider potential rivals to his sons.”

Fulk shrugged his shoulders. “Anything which makes him feel better makes him less dangerous to us.”

Eleanor’s tapping took up a more complex rhythm. “I need to see Trempwick. I must get him to stand at my side before I can do much else.”

“Tomorrow,” Fulk countered reflexively.

Eleanor’s hand fell still. “Today.” Again he had the feeling she was only half here. “Secure Trempwick today, work the majority of what is needful tomorrow, and the army departs for Wales the day after. At last we are left in peace, and the worst will be over.” She blinked slowly, and suddenly she was back with him. “Today, and then we will have our peace.”

Fulk sat up in a blaze of protesting muscles. “We will go when I say so. You agreed to that.”

She inclined her head. “I did.”

At this point what use was there in fighting to save a bit of face? He had already surrendered on the main point. Trempwick would continue to be a source of discord until they got rid of him; in that he could agree that sooner was better. There remained the matter of those rash - if heartfelt at the time – words. Fulk had been wondering what to do since he’d woken and found himself alone. He had a somewhat hesitant hope that he’d found a solution. “Very well. We’ll go this afternoon.” He left a meaningful pause. “There remains the matter of the price.”

In the space of a word Eleanor had become completely impenetrable. “Very well,” she said impersonally. In that moment Fulk knew she’d not expected him to make good his threat to beat her.

“It seems unfair to me.”

A touch of life returned to her. “You might say that,” she allowed.

Fulk smiled deliberately. “I’m left in the position of doing something I don’t want in recompense for doing something else I don’t want to.”

That took the wind out of her sails. She scowled at him. “You were the one with the hide flaying, not me.”

Actually, Fulk had the distinct feeling that entire line had been opened up by her so he had a graceful way to back down. “The best idea is to change the price to something I do want.”

She eyed him in much the same way she’d look at a rabid wolf lying on her best rug. “Go on.”

Fulk lay back down and clasped his hands over his stomach. Best to make this look casual. “I would like you to make an effort – how much of one is up to you – to stop hiding your back from me.” There. It was said. And several moments after finishing he was still alive. That was promising.

“Pardon.” It was not a question. It was a verbal rock dropped from a great height.

“An effort, as much as you feel able and willing to do.”

That glare could have pinned him to the wall. This might not have been such a good idea. “And you are giving me some choice in this?”

“Yes.” Fulk sat back up, abruptly realising she could interpret his efforts at a relaxed tone as a cocky, smugly insensitive demand. “I’m not asking you to do more than you’re comfortable with. That’s why I’m asking. I thought you’d slowly realise I don’t find it ugly. You’ve grown accustomed to me looking at you, provided I can’t see a hint of your back. But you’re still so worried about that.” This was coming out abysmally. “I wish you weren’t. I wish you didn’t worry about what I can see, and do your best to arrange yourself so I can’t see your scars. I-”

Eleanor slid off the bed and crossed to where his clothes lay. She picked up his belt, and tossed it over to him. “There is my answer.”

Fulk swept the belt away from him. “No.”

Her lip curled. “So the choice is hollow.”

“I’m not asking you to stand around naked so I can examine your back in detail,” Fulk cried. “I’m just asking that perhaps you’ll try not to shrink away if I kiss your shoulder when you’re naked because I might – might keep going and catch sight of a scar.” He moved to stand with her; not so close she would find it threatening, close enough to make it intimate. “I love you. I think you’re beautiful; surely you can’t doubt that any more.”

Part of the iciness defrosted. “Do you think it was no effort to let that roomful of drunken boors stare at me so we could be married?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you think after that it was easy to let you look at me at all?”

“No,” he said softly. “I know it wasn’t easy at all – at first. You have grown accustomed to it.” With a half smile he offered, “I think you begin to like it.”

She blushed quite stunningly.

“You do,” he confirmed, feeling as though he could fly with pure delight.

“It is the way you do it,” Eleanor mumbled. “So …”

Fulk put out a hand and stroked her cheek. “Love struck idiot gazing upon his delight?”

“One could say that.”

“How do you know you won’t see me looking at the rest of you like that if given chance?”

Eleanor’s answer was voiced very gravely. “Because I do not have eyes in the back of my head.”

Fulk laughed. “Alright. You won’t see.” It was incredible how quickly they could turn a mood, incredible and the most marvellous thing in the world. This morning’s mistakes were not being repeated. “’Loved, if you don’t let me see then you will never learn that I truly do not care. You’ll always worry. I’m not asking you for something you can’t do; I know you have the courage to rise to the challenge.”

Eleanor struck a regal pose of condescension, ever so slightly over the top to make it into a joke. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Fulk made a show of considering her for a bit, then kissed her gently on the lips. “Will you try?”

The reply was so long in coming Fulk began to wonder if she were hoping he’d forget he asked. “I suppose I shall have to.”





Prince Malcolm dipped into the shallowest of bows. “I thank you for your offer of knighthood.” The young prince surreptitiously wiped his palms on the moss-green wool of his tunic. “I can’t accept.”

Hugh’s jaw tightened. Rejected – unfit to knight the heir to a throne! How did the boy know?! Had Eleanor told people the truth despite her assurances she would not? Had Hugh himself somehow betrayed the secret?

Malcolm hooked a strand of hair behind his ear. “I … well …”

“It is not needful for you to explain yourself,” Hugh said, managing to sound almost normal.

“There is.” Malcolm, took a steady breath. “It’s hard.”

Hard to tell a man to his face he was no good? From the boy’s reputation Hugh found that impossible to believe.

“I’m not ready for it,” the prince blurted out, as though he feared his nerve would fail if he waited a moment longer. “And I want to be your squire. Please.”

Hugh realised he was gaping and closed his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked. “Squire?”

“If you’ll have me.”

It was not unknown for the heir to one throne to spend time at the court of a family he would have to work with once he came to power. The ties of friendship could do much to alleviate the risk of unpleasantness. The arrangement would reflect prestige upon both houses. Then too would it serve as a way to test the length of his chains. Could he contract an agreement as important as this without his sister’s interference? “I would treat you the same as any other squire,” Hugh warned. “There will be no allowances for your rank. Indeed, I will demand more of you because of it.”

Malcolm nodded stiffly. “Fine.”

“You will cease swearing, and speak in the manner which befits a noble. No more sloppiness.” As for the boy himself, how far could Hugh push? “If you cannot manage that of your own accord I will have you beaten until you do.”

This time there was no nod. “Sir.”

“You will cause no trouble, nor give offence to any. My squire’s actions reflect upon my own name, and I will not permit it to be sullied.”

“I understand.”

Hugh eyed the boy suspiciously. This princeling had a reputation. “I am in grave seriousness about all of this.”

Malcolm’s eyes rose from their deferential scrutiny of the floor. “As am I. My current tutors have bloo-” He caught himself just in time. “Have failed me. I don’t – do not know the things I should, the things I must know if I am to be an effective king.”

Was he certain about this? The advantages were plain, the single disadvantage being the boy himself. Yet was it not unfair to think badly of Malcolm based upon little evidence and many rumours? “Go and speak with Serle,” Hugh said after a bit. “Ask him for the items necessary to a squire.”

Malcolm bowed, this time more deeply. The boy’s red hair tumbled forward to curtain his face. “Thank you. You won’t regret it.”

“You will have your hair cut so it is a minimum of an inch away from your shoulders. No warrior worth the name has shoulder-length hair. It is a danger, and effeminate.”

“The Spartans-“ Malcolm clamped his mouth shut, bobbed another bow, and left.








It bounces in some places and clunks in most others. Oh well.

Death is Yonder, Hugh’s trying to protect himself and discover how his sister’s idea will work.

Eleanor didn’t stop moving, the progression from entering the room to belting Trempwick full across the face with the back of her hand was smooth as could be.

Trempwick slowly turned his head back, one hand pressed to his cheek. “I thought I had taught you better, dear Nell,” he said softly.

“You are correct. You did.” Eleanor put every ounce of strength she possessed behind the blow to his solar plexus. “You will agree that was a perfect reproduction of the only time you raised your hand to me, will you not?”

Folded up on the floor gasping for air Trempwick couldn’t reply.

“I confess I was uncertain I would catch the right spot, never having done it before. Your teaching was thorough, as always.” Forget Trempwick – Fulk had drilled her in that move while improving her defensive combat skills.

Fulk was watching this interplay with the most gratifyingly open amazement. Whatever he’d expected it was not this. She had told him to remain silent and out of the way unless called upon to do otherwise, and reluctantly he had agreed.

Eleanor stepped closer. The toe of one daintily shod foot peeked out from under the hem of her clothes, a mere finger’s breadth from the hand Trempwick had spread on the floor for support. “Nothing to say, dear Raoul?”

Trempwick managed no more than a strangled sound that was half struggle for air.

She set her foot over his hand, exerting the lightest of pressure. “I am sorry, I did not quite catch that.”

“Irony,” Trempwick managed. His chest worked hard as he refilled his lungs.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “Pray I do not venture from that to sarcasm.”

He wheezed a laugh and made to sit up; Eleanor pressed her foot down on his hand so he couldn’t. “Ironic,” he explained laboriously, “as I did the same to your half-brother not so long ago.”

Under the sole of her shoe Eleanor felt his hand attempt to move again; she slammed her weight down. It was vital that she dominate this, each and every last moment. Sharp and strong. “I am not here to chatter.”

Trempwick looked up at her with the merest hint of a wistful smile playing on his lips. “Ah, my dear Nell. One could hope …” His face become wholly serious. “But you are right.” His left hand still pinioned to the floor, Trempwick bowed so deeply his forehead touched the flagstones. Awkward as the manoeuvre was he managed to make it appear graceful. “My queen. I am your man.”

The tiniest squeamish fluttering in the pit of her stomach; Eleanor stamped on that as she crushed her master’s hand. If bones hadn’t broken it would be a wonder. Trempwick went rigid, his breath caught in a gasp. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t believed her capable of it, else he would have snatched his hand back as she lifted her foot.

Fulk made a movement, quickly arrested. His face had gone blank, an effort to keep her from reading that which he had not managed to keep from his eyes: dismay.

Eleanor shifted her weight to her other foot, still not letting Trempwick reclaim his damaged hand. “Every lie you speak to me from here on is going to cost you, Raoul.”

“You will get in trouble, Nell,” Trempwick said quietly. He raised his eyes to meet hers.

Eleanor flashed him a wicked grin, and switched her weight back to the foot resting upon his hand. “When have I ever cared for that?”

Voice tight with pain Trempwick replied, “Seldom enough, I confess.”

“Correct.” Eleanor stepped back.

Trempwick lifted his hand from the floor and gingerly attempted to form a fist. His smallest finger wouldn’t bend; heel marks ran lividly across the lower knuckles of that finger and the one next to it. “I would not have thought you weighed so much, dearest Nell.” He pushed himself up to his feet, cradling his left hand in close to his body. “I did not lie, sweet Nell.”

Eleanor made a scornful noise. “I am not fool enough to believe that!”

He shook his head. “Oh, Nell …”

“Do not play the wounded puppy with me. It will not work. Sympathy? I have none for you. I ordered your death, Raoul.”

“So your … husband told me.” Trempwick let his hands fall to his sides. “He also told me you would not come to visit me.”

She’d been expecting that one, and had come prepared. “Did you despair, Raoul?” Eleanor purred. “Each time the door opened and it was not me, did your heart sink?”

“I knew you would come, beloved Nell.”

“Faith? Hope? Or do you persist in the belief you understand me?”

He met her mockery without discomposure. “While it has become evident you have changed since we last spent real time together,” he touched his hand and grimaced, “you have not changed beyond recognition. You are still my dear little Nell.” There was a touch of warmth in the lines of his face as he surveyed her. He bowed very, very slightly. “Yes, I think I may say without reservations that you are no longer my pupil. You have grown past that. I am proud that you have reached this point.” In the space of a heartbeat all the warmth drained from him, and he became the stern teacher. “But you are not yet my equal. Nor my master. Do not over-estimate yourself, beloved Nell.” As swiftly as it had formed the ice melted; Trempwick dropped to his knees. “What you are, indisputably, is my queen.”

Eleanor kicked him, using the side of her foot so she wouldn’t hurt her toes in her stupidly flimsy shoes. “Lying again.”

Trempwick rubbed ruefully at the bruise forming on his hip. “I see you have taken up one of your lord father’s less fitting habits. I do rather wish you had not gone past the point where I am able to encourage you to more appropriate behaviour.”

“Dare utter that lie again and I will kick you again.”

He looked right up at her, leaving his guard wide open and said in very distinctly formed words, “You are my queen.”

Good as her word Eleanor kicked him again, this time in the groin. It was important to keep him off-balance, to make him feel less able to predict her.

“You are my queen,” Trempwick repeated.

Eleanor backhanded him across the face. Overall this was going as hoped: he insisted she was his queen, and she refused to believe. Eventually she would let him demonstrate his loyalty, and from there she would set about rendering him powerless except in a handful of directions she could maintain control of. “You sought to make me your pawn so you could rule!”

“You had to be steered towards power-”

“I had to pick it up to mend the mess you were making,” Eleanor spat. “And thereafter your every action ran counter to my desires – counter to my interests. From the first you went counter to my interests!” She held herself on the edge of giving in to her temper, let him watch the struggle, and slowly stepped back from the bring. Let him think she was so outraged at him she could barely control herself.

“That is not true, my dear Nell.”

“You claimed to be married to me-”

“To protect you. To prevent your half-brother handing you off to another.”

“That speaks of your whims, not mine. I never wished to marry you, and you knew that.”

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “Did I indeed?” He laughed. “Honestly, dearest, most beloved Nell, you never could quite make your mind up. When you put your bodyguard from your mind you were amiable enough.”

“You ruined my reputation!” Eleanor clenched her fists at her side, glaring at Trempwick for all she was worth. The fury was only partly an act. “Fickle, unreliable – that is the best of what people thought! ”

“Truthfully, darling Nell, any damage that was done came from your resistance. If you had bowed your head instead of repudiating me then none would have thought badly of you.”

“All you wanted was to rule through me. Why would I have agreed, seeing that? But you did not think I knew, did you?” Eleanor laughed, brief, harsh. This point needed grinding in. Trempwick would follow someone he felt to be worth his while. “You thought me so blind, so crushed that I would not work it out. You were wrong. I had an alliance with Hugh from the very first, an alliance with the sole aim of bringing you down.” Eleanor indicated the makeshift prison. “And here you are, so very down and with nowhere to go but lower still.”

Trempwick’s reaction was as cool as one might expect, yet there was something, perhaps that he was a fraction too calm, that suggested the barb had hit home. “Are you boasting, dear Nell? Threatening? Or gloating? Something of all, perhaps.”

Eleanor lifted her chin proudly and folded her arms. “I am telling.”

“Delightful. While you play storyteller I shall settle into a more comfortable position to listen.” Trempwick dragged the pew nearest her around so he could sit and look at her.

As his behind was about to contact the bench Eleanor said coldly, “I did not give you permission to sit.” This was going too far too fast, and he left her no choice. Permit him to behave so casually and she would never manage to assert her authority over him.

He hesitated for the merest fraction of a moment, then sat. “I am weary from yesterday, and somewhat mistreated. You will forgive me.”

With a wickedness that felt utterly delightful Eleanor said mildly, “Of course. I am sorry for my lack of consideration. Your age cannot make your trials any easier; bodies take stress so much less willingly once past their peak.” The tone she now paired to a thoughtful little smile. “I think, actually, it would do you considerable good if you were to kneel. If you sit you will only grow stiff and make your back hurt.”

He knew what she was doing, there was no question of that. How could he not, when he himself had taught her by example? The question was, would he acquiesce? Trempwick tilted his head to one side, smirking faintly. “Nell …”

In several quick strides she was at his side, leaning down to speak directly into his ear in a harsh, low voice, “And what would my father do if you came to him after raising this disaster in his name?”

Trempwick said very softly, “Ah,” as though he had discovered something of unexpected – and pleasing - value. He knelt.

Blessed relief swept through Eleanor, combining with tension to make her muscles tremble. “He would have had you killed,” Eleanor said, pacing about him as Trempwick had frequently done when she had been commanded to kneel. With concern that was made to sound very nearly real she suggested, “Why not raise your hand above your head? It will reduce the swelling. I am afraid it does look quite nasty, and should not be left to grow worse.”

Traces of amusement still apparent, Trempwick raised his hands and clasped them at the back of his neck. “Is there no love between us, dear Nell?”

What could she say to that? What should she say to that? Her pacing stopped at his back. “You betrayed me. You used me. You failed, and now you are done.”

Trempwick twisted about in an effort to look at her. “That does not answer me, darling Nell.”

“It tells you all you need.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Speaking of which …”

Eleanor turned her back and walked away, refusing to elaborate on her implication that she considered herself to be standing on the same ground William had once occupied.

“I am playing along, dearest Nell,” Trempwick called after her. “I could choose otherwise.”

Eleanor half turned, moulding her features into restrained scepticism. “You made one mistake, master, and months later you still do not realise how low you have tumbled.”

“Will you execute me for treason?” he enquired pleasantly. “I never gave my oath to your brother. I hold nothing from him. He is not crowned. Any accusation of treason can only be ridiculous.”

“Accusations of treason against Hugh are absurd,” Eleanor agreed. “However, you name me your queen. I ordered you to stand down, and you refused. Indeed, you continued to besiege me. There are sufficient witnesses.”

Trempwick dipped his head in a shallow nod. “Inventive, I shall acknowledge that. Hard to make it stick.”

“Whoever says I intend to?” Eleanor seated herself on one of the pews off to Trempwick’s side so she could see his face in profile and he could not look at her without twisting uncomfortably. “You credit me with passing the apprenticeship, so grant me the sense to not tell you of how your end will come.”

“My queen,” he gave a brief triumphant smile as it became plain she was too far away to reach him in a timely manner. “I spot a pattern amongst the odd words here and there. You do consider yourself to be William’s heir.”

Eleanor got up from her seat, booted him in the stomach, and sat back down as if nothing had happened. This was becoming tiresome – however had the arse in the crown kept his interest in casual violence? What was more her foot ached. Her right hand ached. Her knuckles stung in particular. She felt rotten, downright guilty.

“You do. My queen.”

Delay could no longer serve. Eleanor crossed back to his side, sized a handful of his hair, twisted his head about and hissed in his ear, “You made one mistake. You forgot what you made me. And because of that you nearly destroyed me!” With a jerk she released him, leaning down so they were eye to eye with a mere inch between the tips of their noses. “I am a thing of shadow. Shove me into the light and I melt away. One mistake. One. The biggest damned mistake anyone could have made!” Eleanor enunciated her next words clearly, knowing that they would offend him greatly. “A mistake worthy of the cattle, master.”

The day’s growth of stubble made it easier to see Trempwick’s jaw muscles harden at the insult.

Eleanor pressed on, knowing she had him on the back foot. “To rule in my own name is not what I am made for, and that you forgot it makes your intellect so suspect I would not trust your advice on what colour grass is!”

Trempwick said flatly, “I did not allow your father to insult me so.”

“No,” she snarled. “You allowed him to draw a sword on you.” Eleanor jabbed his neck where a thin, faint scar was visible; the legacy of a cut inflicted when he’d attempted to prevent William taking his anger out on her. “Insult? It is richly deserved, idiot.”

“Words. Blows. Games.” Trempwick brandished his left hand in her face. “This!” He dropped his hands to his sides but remained on his knees. “Dear Nell, you run close to the edges of my tolerance!”

Instinct drove Eleanor to her reply: very deliberately she flicked him on the nose. Absurd, completely absurd, answering his challenge with disdain.

From the corner where Fulk stood ignored came a muffled snort of mirth.

Her position meant Eleanor couldn’t miss the spark of rage which lit deep in Trempwick’s eyes. “If you were not my queen-”

“But I am.” So she flicked him again.

Trempwick said through clenched teeth, “You are, and I am sorely beginning to regret it.”

“Because I told you a truth you did not wish to hear?” Eleanor straightened up and wandered back to her seat. “You made a fool’s mistake. Face it.”

Trempwick turned his attention to his broken hand. He visibly braced himself, and pulled his broken finger straight. “I should like a bandage. If you please.”

Eleanor smiled benevolently down at him. “Maybe later.”

Trempwick improvised a splint by holding his smallest finger against its neighbour with his other hand. “I know what you are doing.”

“I did not expect otherwise.”

“You have chosen a dangerous course. You need my help.”

“The help of the very man who made it dangerous in the first place?” Eleanor arced an eyebrow. “I think not.”

“You need my network, and you need me to head it. How else will you maintain control?”

“Raoul, dear Raoul, you are struggling.” Eleanor leaned forward, leaning her arms on her knees. “Let me remind you of a basic principle. The ruler rules. Everyone else obeys.”

“Let me remind you,” he said, mimicking her tone, “that I have allowed you to play with me. Because of that.”

Eleanor leaned back against the hard wooden back of the pew, feeling the carved scene on it dig into her. “Let me remind you,” she said, mimicking him in her turn, right down to the hint of the sneer, “that you are here because you went against my wishes. Repeatedly.”

Trempwick shook his head sadly. “Ah, Nell. You doubt my loyalty.”

“Doubt is too gentle a word.” Eleanor changed direction; sharp and strong, she must keep to that. “I am not here to negotiate for your support. I am here to tell you that you will send word to your mother, commanding her to surrender to the forces besieging her.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Indeed, sweet Nell?”

Eleanor stated her demands at a measured pace, one after another. “Tomorrow you will be brought out to apologise to me in public, and to admit that your claims to marriage were lies. You will exchange the kiss of peace with Hugh. You will state that you no longer oppose him, or his rule. You will swear the most binding oaths possible that you will not raise forces against him again. You will accept being stripped of all your lands and titles without murmur, and you will request leave to retire from the world to a monastery. You may take the cowl or be incarcerated as a worldly guest; I leave you that choice. You will not name a location; I will chose, and you may be sure that it will be somewhere secure, surrounded by my people.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “Will I indeed, dear Nell?”

“You will give me the locations of certain people so I may have them killed.”

“Such as?”

Eleanor named all of Trempwick’s people from Woburn, and all the others she knew of from his network. Some of those names he had given her himself, others she had gleaned with Miles’ help. The list ended with her father’s personal physician, the man William named as his murderer.

When she had finished Trempwick remarked, “Darling Nell, that is quite a list.”

“If so much as one of them escapes I will hold you to have betrayed me. Do not think to fool me either; I will view the corpse of each and every one I know by sight so I may be sure the right person is dead. If you play me false at any point, or so much as look suspect, you will die, and I care not for the consequences.”

“And why will I do any of this?”

Eleanor produced the ring of Saint Edward the Confessor from its hiding place and held it up so Trempwick could see it. “Because your queen commands it.”

Trempwick touched his brow in a mocking salute. “Clever. A neat enough trap, dearest Nell. It could have been neater, could definitely have been better, but neat enough.”

“Once at the location I shall choose for you, you will not communicate with the outside world. Your only contact will be with me. You will turn all of your attention to a project I have for you.”

“Yes?”

“You will write for me a work which is … let us say instructional. All the things you have not taught me.” This way she could access the knowledge she desperately needed without having to spend much time close to the man who possessed it.

After a bit Trempwick said, “One might expect, then, that you will turn to me for advice when you feel the need for it.”

She’d waved the stick, now to bait the rod with the promise of future influence. “I would not ask a man I could not trust for advice.”

“As I said, a very neat little trap.” Trempwick massaged the back of his left hand; he was not willing to let her forget what she had done to him. Playing on her guilt in the hopes of a better deal? “Let us say, speculatively, that I acceded to these demands. Your half-brother would not play along. He wishes me dead.”

“You wish me to prove my control over Hugh?” Eleanor made a dismissive gesture. Self-assurance was vital, show doubts and he would twist all about until he was the one giving demands. “He will agree. He understands what is owing to his queen.”

“Even the loyalist man can be pushed into revolt if too much is demanded of him.”

“You are far from what I would call a loyal man.”

“And so the onus is on me to prove otherwise. As I said, neat.” Trempwick smiled, slowly. “The question is, my dear little Nell, is am I willing to go to such lengths to prove myself?”

That was indeed the question.

Trempwick stood up, flexing each leg a few times to work out the stiffness. “So I was right. William did leave you the ring.”

Eleanor bolted upright in her seat. “I did not give you permission to rise.”

“It makes my heart glad that he was able to bridge the gap at last.” Trempwick laid his hand over his heart. “It pained me to see you always at such odds.”

“Raoul! Kneel!” This was trouble – she must asset her tenuous authority over him. Simply knocking him flat would not work, not now he had begun to challenge her openly. Chances were high he would defend himself now. Wits; back to the familiar old cut and parry of words alone.

As Trempwick came closer to her Fulk left his corner, hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

Trempwick said, “I asked you for a bandage, my darling Nell. Asked humbly, for such a small trifle which will cost you nothing to grant. You denied me.”

Both men came to a standstill, Fulk at Eleanor’s back, Trempwick to her front. She felt trapped, diminutive, and the situation was threatening to slip out of her grasp. To counter this she rose. “You expect me to shred my clothes to make you one?”

Trempwick smiled faintly. Very softly he said, “Do you remember those evenings where you used to sit at my side, your head resting against my knees?”

She did, though that had been many years ago. Sometimes he had read, ignoring her presence. Others he had read to her, or talked with her.

He continued, “I brought you some honey cake once, after your father had beaten you. It ruined my scrip.”

“It was a silly place to carry it.”

“I brought you your first horse, a milk white mare and the gentlest creature ever bred.”

“This is irrelevant.”

Trempwick shook his head. “Sweet Nell, it is not.”

“It is.”

“Fourteen years. You went from child to adult under my hand. I taught you, nurtured you. I weathered the tempers and the tears, basked in the smiles, survived the multitude of irritations, watched you go from strength to strength. I grew … fond of you.” He smiled a faint, gentle smile. “On occasion I wished to wring your neck with my bare hands. I saved your life, more than once. And now here we are. And you denied me a bandage.”

Eleanor said nothing.

“Anyone who would wield power must know that harshness and mercy go hand in hand. A pinch of the latter can win a heart more comprehensively than a fistful of the former. Beloved Nell, offer the right man a bandage at the right time and he will do anything for you.”

He was attempting to throw her, to lead her off onto the wrong path, that must be it. “You will not be won with bandages.”

“No, sweetest Nell, I will not.” Trempwick reached out with his sound hand and brushed a strand of hair back away from her face. “Respect, my dear little Nell. I respected William so I followed him, and was honoured to call him friend. I cannot respect someone who refuses a simple bandage to someone she has such a history with.”

Defeat. As simple as that. She had second guessed him one time too many. “Very well.”

He let her get close to the door before he called, “Eleanor.”

Trempwick used her full name so rarely that she could not do other than turn back.

“As I said, it is a very neat trap. And as you said, you are mainly responsible for my being here.” He folded his arms, being careful with his broken hand. “That I can respect.”

He’d played with her in his turn, making his own point. The prison she found for him had best have high walls. “So you will do as I said?”

“You have a long way to go, and a lot to learn. You need me. Or one day you will refuse a bandage to the wrong person.”








Course, what this really needs is some Trempy POV. That shall have to wait.

Oops. Just realised that when Nell says “Let me remind you of a basic principle. The ruler rules. Everyone else obeys.” it sounds like she means she need not worry about disloyalty. What she actually means is yet another reminder to Trempy that he does his own thing, and that is not acceptable to her. "I'll help you run the realm, dear Nell ..." "Yeah right, you'll do your own thing and ignore my wishes!"

Too late to edit it now.

My email reader sent me what he calls a bit of doggerel. I found it hilarious, and he invited me to post it in the topic if I thought it worth sharing.

Quote:

---

There was a man whose name was Fulk
His brain was not of massive bulk
Of intellect he had no surfeit
His lady-friend once called him "turfwit".

He was a brave and gallant knight
And valiantly he did fight
His arm was strong, his heart was true
In fact his faults were very few.

His lady was E-le-an-or
In whom he found no fault nor flaw
He loved her with a fond devotion
Deeper than the deepest ocean

A gooseberry became her sign
The emblem of her spirit fine
(How odd this choice of prickly fruit
But Eleanor cared not a hoot).

Together they, with strength and reason,
To nothing brought foul Trempwick's treason
For he was made to fret and panic
When Fulk became the Earl of Alnwick.

And if you didn't know that Alnwick was pronounced "annick", you do now !

---

I have a copy pinned up on my wall near my PC, underneath the little map of Alnwick and environs I drew. Brilliant.

Got stacks of reading I need to do in a very short time (7 books, 2 days!) so you’ll have to excuse me. I’m only here while I wait for something.

Hawise looked up from her sewing as Fulk and Eleanor entered the solar. “Your food is keeping warm by the fireplace.”

Eleanor disappeared into their chamber without a word. Fulk lingered to thank the pair for their care.

“Bad news?” Aveis asked.

“No, just …” He hitched one shoulder and completed his answer with a single word. “Trempwick.”

As he closed the bedchamber door he heard Aveis’ little daughter asking what a Trempwick was; Fulk couldn’t help but grin. Innocence: the most precious thing in the world.

Fulk investigated the tray of covered dishes by the hearth; his mouth watered at the delicious scent as he lifted the first lid. He found pottage, slices of roasted pork with strips of crackling, a mess of cooked vegetables, and a small chicken in addition to bread and a piece of cheese. It shouldn’t be possible to feel half-starved after the amount he’d eaten today; his stomach growled to the contrary. “Shall we eat?”

Eleanor helped him drag the table next to their bed and arrange the dishes. Once all was arranged she sat next to him, let him fill their shared platter, and confided, “I feel sick.”

Fulk took a bite of chicken so as to give himself time to consider his answer. “What was that about sitting with your head on his knees?”

“Precisely as it sounded.”

“So you sat on the floor at his side with your head resting against him?” It was no difficult thing to call up a mental imagine of Trempwick absent-mindedly playing with Eleanor’s hair as she sat like that. It but reinforced the connection.

She looked at him puzzled; she didn’t see it. “On a cushion, but yes.”

“Beloved, normal men do that with their favourite dog.”

“Dog?” she repeated.

“Dog.” Fulk cut a piece of the cheese and held it extended on the tip of his eating knife, silently insisting she take it. “Must I remind you of all that man’s done?” She still hadn’t taken the food so Fulk caught her hand and pressed the cheese into it. “He deserved a hell of a lot more than a broken finger, and is not worth your heartache.”

“Dog,” she repeated again, this time with anger.

“I thought you knew it. When you flicked him on the nose like a naughty puppy.”

“I have not had much contact with dogs.” The bit of cheese was beginning to turn greasy with the warmth of her hand; she noticed and – at last – ate it. “The more we talked the more likely it was he would turn the situation to his advantage. I had to overpower him, to set him off-balance.”

“You don’t need to justify yourself to me.” Fulk broke off a chunk of bread and scooped up some pottage with it.

Eleanor drew one of her knives and prodded half-heartedly at the pork. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Dear heart, the instant I saw you wallop him I knew you’d end up feeling guilty, and that’s the only reason I didn’t cheer.” Fulk exchanged bread for spoon for more efficient pottage-eating. “Your head knows it was for the best. Your heart rebels.”

“The arse in the crown would have killed him.” Eleanor frowned, and abandoned her knife to stand point-down in the meat. “I wonder if that would have sickened his stomach as this has mine.”

Fulk pulled her knife free of the pork, wiped the blade down and set it to one side. “Does it matter? You’re not him.”

Eleanor cupped her chin on her hands, leaning on the table. “I do not know,” she admitted after a bit.

“Oh sour one, mere words won’t stop you feeling guilty. Nor should they. That guilt’s important – it means you’re a good person. Equally important’s the reason why you did it; it wasn’t revenge, and it wasn’t for pleasure. Else you’d have worn something sturdier than those dainty little shoes.”

Eleanor pulled a face, half grimace and half wry. “Cheap philosophy from a ravenous knight.”

“Best kind there is. Affordable, to the point, rational, and accompanied by delicious edibles.” Fulk proffered a bit of chicken. “Best hurry, or I’ll eat it.”

She rolled her eyes as she plucked the meat from the knife’s point with thumb and forefinger. “You will get so fat your horse will be flattened.” Changing the subject, Eleanor said, “You said Hugh would speak to you about lands later today. You had best go soon, else he will believe you disinterested.”

It was a very politely phrased request for some time alone, and as such Fulk had no wish to argue with it. “I’ll go once I’ve eaten.”






Malcolm had had his hair cut, cropped back to hang a bit below jaw level. In a week or so once it’d had a bit of time to grow Fulk suspected there’d be a nice hint of a curl to the ends, making it look less severe. The cut was a definite improvement; his neck looked a lot sturdier when your view of it was unhindered, and his face too appeared less delicate. The prince was engaged in sewing Hugh’s badge onto his tunic, perched on a stool in the corridor outside Hugh’s door.

“You have been accepted as a squire, then?” Fulk asked.

“Yes. On trial, of a sorts.” Malcolm set his tunic to one side and rose. “You’re here to see my lord?”

“This morning he bade me visit him later in the day.”

“I shall announce you then.” Malcolm paused, his fist raised to knock on Hugh’s door. “One thing. Send back my father’s men. Keep them longer and he’ll bitch and mewl away like a damned fishwife, and that’ll start trouble. The purpose he gave them to you for is done, or so he’ll whine. He’ll claim abuse of his generosity.”

Fulk inclined his head. “My thanks for the warning.”

“Let them stay for the victory celebrations tomorrow, then get the hell rid of them.” The prince announced Fulk, and ushered him on through into Hugh’s chamber.

Fulk bowed. “You said I should come later today.”

Hugh looked at him from under lowered brows. “I presume you will now inform me what you desire from me.”

“It is not for me to make demands of my king,” Fulk said softly.

“Let us dispense with empty pleasantry. You know how things stand.”

“I know that this has been a difficult day for you.”

Hugh interrupted, “How polite.” He banged a fist on his knee. “I have no desire for your commiserations, sympathy, pity, or whatever else you would level at me. You will earn no favour by the attempt. I have lived at court for much of my life; I am aware of how it runs.”

“We are not friends, and I am not playing the courtier. Yet we are brothers of a sort.”

Eleanor’s brother grimaced. “Pray do not remind me.” He looked away. “Bastards-by-law, as they that consider themselves witty would doubtless dub us if they but knew.”

Fulk smiled very slightly at the prince’s play on words. “Wit is a predictable thing, isn’t it?”

“Tiresomely so. I subconsciously hear monks writing my vita as I go about my days.” Hugh’s chin came back up, and in a voice that was as close to silly as this man got he orated, “Thereby did Hugh, first of that name, hurry south after his victory at Alnwick, to attend to the rebellious Welsh and restore order to his father’s realm in order that he may be crowned.”

“You still intend to leave the day after tomorrow then?” Fulk asked, more to steer then conversation away from this unstable ground.

“I believed it the best option. My sister informs me that she does likewise. Therefore I shall go.”

“What of the north?”

Hugh rose, and stood close to Fulk, his hands clasped behind his back. Fulk had the feeling he was being scrutinised like a suspect morsel of food. “Trempwick’s holdings here must be reclaimed for the crown. Those who routed from Trempwick’s army should be sought out, lest they prey upon the land as outlaws.” Hugh let silence rein for a moment. “This task is one natural to a man of power in this region. It is a task lacking in glory, menial, almost. Few rewards will attend it; there will be little plunder, few ransoms, and much of what is taken must be rendered to the crown.”

Fulk could see where this was going; he felt giddied with the extent of it. “You’re going to leave this to me?”

Hugh half turned away, relieving his scrutiny. “I will not take you south. You cause dissention amongst my lords and I will not have that, not even should my sister command it of me. If she has an ounce of sense she will not.” Hugh bared his teeth. “No. Let you prove your worth. You can fight like a fiend, and lead a smaller group of men. But can you lead on a larger scale? Can you administer? Are you worth my trust? Are you worthy of that earl’s title? This task will let you be weighed by all those with an eye to watch.”

Fulk moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “Am I to undertake this alone?”

Hugh repeated that discomforting smile. “The nearest natural ally for you in this endeavour is my lord of York. I desire peace in the north and there is scant chance at that if he must shoulder the yoke with you. No, for him is the glory of attending upon his future king and taking the battle to the enemy. Yours is the tedium of cleaning up.”

“I do not have the resources!”

“I shall gift you two hundred of my men at arms. Add this to your own and the numbers should suffice. Trempwick’s followers are a broken rabble now; you should have little enough trouble. Send away your Scots. I will not have it said I used foreigners to oppress my subjects.” Hugh paced a few steps away and back again. “I require you deliver into my hands all of Trempwick’s possessions in the north. However I grant you Carlisle to hold as your own. That will give you a strong presence on the far east and west sides of the border, with Newcastle and other strong points remaining in royal hands between.”

Carlisle. Alnwick. That would leave him responsible for two of the main stumbling blocks for any Scottish invasion. “To safeguard the border would require more funds than those lands could provide alone.”

“Carlisle alone does not represent the full worth of the reward I have promised you in exchange for Trempwick. The remainder we shall draw in centred about Carlisle, to form a holding of similar size to your earldom.”

Pathetically small, then. “If all my lands are in the north then I’ll have to spend much of my time here. As will Eleanor.” Thus followed the unspoken conclusion, they’d be out of Hugh’s way. “She won’t like that.”

“You will have Woburn, and I shall add some lands here and there in Kent, again taken from Trempwick’s forfeited holdings.”

Fulk drew a breath and threw the dice. “Rochester.”

“No,” answered Hugh, before the words has finished leaving Fulk’s mouth. “To hold two key castles on the border and Rochester as well – never! I would be accused of favouritism towards my brother-by-law, a nothing who scavenges from the losses of better men!” Hugh thrust a finger at Fulk’s chest. “I knew it, you are making demands against the weakness of my position! Well hear this: I shall do nothing to risk my own ruination by the lords. It was agreed with my sister. You will be forgotten, semi-exiles, out of sight and out of people’s minds. I will not place myself in the hazardous position of seeming to favour you or her. It would cast doubt on my strength, and cause resentment. Nor will I be seen to be her puppet.” The prince drew a calming breath and pressed a hand to his wounded brow. “If this notion of Eleanor’s is to work then it must be played cautiously. You must know that. I wish to guard my own position and that of my family, as is most natural. She wishes to do likewise. We both desire the peaceful rule of our father’s lands. It is a matter as delicate as any alliance, with a great number of added difficulties.”

Fulk squared up to Hugh and refused to back down. “You’re going to parade me as an excuse for writing Eleanor out of the succession – I want compensation.” Compensation, and security for them when they were away from his castles in the north. Unfortified manors left them completely vulnerable to Hugh when they were closer to the court.

“You have my sister and have risen further than you could dream of if you had not. That is compensation enough.”

“I do not like being used this way.”

“Then you should not have married her. You knew you could never be offered open acceptance or expect too much of me when you placed your ring on her finger.”

“That is true, but-”

“Then the matter is at an end.” When Fulk would have argued Hugh overrode him, “Think what you have gained, man! Carlisle and attached lands, immunity from the fines owing to me for your marriage, a place on the outermost fringes of my accepted circle, and a chance to prove yourself more than a mere fighter. To demand more is greed, and contemptible as such. It undermines the concord between Eleanor and myself. And think also, if you were not married to her I should have given you some coin or a single manor for your service and you would have been content.”

Once more when Fulk would have spoken the prince drowned him out, “Before you bewail your situation think upon mine, and find yourself fortunate. I am the son of faithless slut and a disloyal noble, disowned by the man I believed my father and thrown over in favour of my youngest sister! I came this close,” he held up thumb and forefinger a mere inch apart, “to securing the throne by my own resources, proving myself able and vindicating my doubts, and at the last all is overthrown, making my struggles count for naught. I know not what I am, what my fate will be, or whether a son of mine shall rule after me. I have won the respect of many of my lords, and lost any I held for myself. Civil war has weakened my hand such that I cannot stand against my lords, and now look to years of painstakingly gathering back the power my father had so that next time I discover a man like Trempwick I may sever his head and be at peace. Meanwhile I am told that I am required to work with that cursed man, and so shall perpetually be glancing over my shoulder. All this work I face with the added impediment of Eleanor – any lord disagreeing with my rulership can attempt to depose me in her favour. So deeply am I in need of their aid that my lords can balk and refuse me and there is very little I can do about it if the majority of the others do not fall in behind me!” Hugh filled his lungs and continued his tirade, “Wales is a bloody mess, though one may take comfort in the fact capitulation is likely within a sort space of my arrival there. The family lands across the Narrow Sea must be brought to heel. France itself is riven by uncertainty, and that endangers those holdings. Matilda and her husband are going to nag, nag, nag away in my ear because it is their delusion I owe them my throne due to their paltry aid, and so I must stand against that also.” Hugh’s voice caught; he blinked rapidly and turned away. In more ragged tones he concluded, “And somehow I must tell my wife I am of tainted birth, not the prince she believed me to be. That will be hardest of all.”

The prince was in possession of a most impressive problem list, Fulk would freely admit. His lack of envy likewise. “From what I know of her, lady Constance will not care whose son you are.”

“I would feel better if I could tell her Trempwick had been brought to justice.”

“Eleanor said that the surest hurt anyone could inflict on Trempwick was humiliation. One may be sure he’s getting that. He’s not going to enjoy tomorrow.”

Hugh raised his eyebrows and enquired pointedly, “And at any point am I to be made privy to what is to occur?”

Fulk outlined Eleanor’s demands, leaving the one he expected to be most unacceptable to last. Sure enough Hugh was not pleased.

“I am to exchange the kiss of peace with the man who murdered my children? Does my sister know what she asks of me? Or she is deranged?”

“If you try to have him executed your lords will stand up and refuse. You can’t push them into it; as you yourself admitted your position is too weak to press them to act against their interests now. You can’t exile him, not if you want any peace of mind. Murdering him would cause all to lose faith in you and hate you. Therefore imprisonment is the only way. Doing it this way rips the centre out of the opposition.”

“I do not like this.”

“Think of how humiliated he will be, and how much that will hurt.”

After a bit Hugh nodded once, grimly. “For the good of the realm I will do it. And for that.”










Ugh. At this point in the story we have cool scene, boring scene, boring scene, good scene, and the two boring scenes are so very boring indeed, and the contrast highlights that. These two scenes are dull, and of a type which has been repeated way too many times throughout this story. Each time I sat down to work on them I got distracted easily because I’m so disinterested in them. The only decent part is Hugh’s big wad of text over his situation, and here it’s presented with barely more than placeholder marks so readers can ‘breathe’ as they wade through it. Both scenes are pretty much placeholder versions. I’m that bored with these two scenes I finally decided to get them out of the way and get on with life; they say what they need to.

Staring.

Everyone who was anyone at Alnwick was present. Staring. At him. Waiting. Wondering. Expectant.

A lesser man might have quailed. Trempwick did not. He walked with his armed escort to either side. Walked right down the centre of the hall, taking his time. Dignified. Now and then he nodded or smiled at a face in the crowd. Acknowledging those of greater worth in this market of power.

The bastard sat on the lord’s chair at the head of the hall. Nell standing behind him, in the shadows. A melancholy man might have made much of that. Might have wondered if he had somehow condemned her to those shadows. His teaching too good? Not good enough? Right? Wrong?

Enough. Too late.

The bodyguard hung close to his wife. Lord and lady of the castle, on the dais by right of that and by right of close relationship to the bastard.

Hugh’s most favoured clustered at the foot of the dais. Ready to advise.

Eventually Trempwick reached the point where he should stop. Kneel. All of that.

He didn’t kneel.

How would he play this? All night spent thinking. Planning. Searching.

A joke. Of his own making and turned upon him.

What could he do but what he had known he would when he had told Nell he would acquiesce?

And no one knew where to begin. His guards did not dare knock him to his knees before this gathering. The bastard struggled to find what he should do. As usual. Pitiful. Nell kept to her place, out of the way and silent.

Then Suffolk spoke. “I had not heard you were wounded, Raoul.”

Trempwick raised his bandaged hand, smiled a touch. “A broken finger and some bruises. Nothing of worth.”

“I had not heard.”

Temptation to answer the tactful question with an affirmative. An honourably taken captive mistreated by the bastard. Smiled again, humoured. A quirk of the eyebrows. “All my injuries were taken in battle. I swear it.” Truth from a certain direction. Honourable battle – with his former apprentice. A battle of minds. Exhilarating!

The bastard grated, “You are not here for polite discourse, but to answer for what you have done.”

Answer? If only that were so. Answering was but the least of it.

So let it be begun. Then let it be over. “One could say that.” Trempwick advanced a step, angling himself towards Nell. Bowed. “My lady. Before the battle I said certain things.”

She sneered so beautifully. Fairly dripping contempt. “You have said much of late. None of it of worth.”

Acted as though her rebuff stabbed through his heart and he needed to steel himself to continue. Bowed his head at the pain of the loss of face that was coming. Face? Utter damnation. Ruin. “There was some worth,” he said quietly. No difficult thing to appear heartbroken. She had chosen well. She knew where to drive the blade to cause maximum pain. Of course she did – he had taught her well!

“Not that I have seen.”

Now. The real beginning. Paused, stood on the brink. Looked again at his options. Could refuse to play by her rules. Could restate his claims. Could drive this gathering to sweet rubble.

Could? Could not. It took a special kind of wildness to destroy every drop of one’s life work.

Deep breath, and let it truly begin. “Eleanor, I renounce my claims on you. All of them, and without exception.”

Derided, “How generous of you. You have no claims on me.”

Bow head to hide the pain, face muscles locked in an effort at blankness. “We were betrothed. That claim was valid.” Breath. “I admit the others were not.”

That caused a stir. Why wouldn’t it? He had admitted to a momentous deception.

“You had better clarify that.” Such was the best of the varied responses the nobles offered. Many were less kind. Equally many disbelieving. There was the thing: an idea once planted was near impossible to fully uproot. This they both knew. The aim was to prove him untrustworthy. To make him unappealing as a man to follow. To put him outside of acceptable society. Isolated. Disarmed. His claws drawn, his fangs pulled, and other such dramatic analogies.

Trempwick turned to face those he counted closest to friends amongst the audience. Let pain be writ large upon his features. “I sought to protect her – her position was so dangerous when news of William’s accident came to us! Claiming her for my wife, it was not so strange a thing to do. It placed her under my protection, prevented her being handed off to another to buy support.” His words found understanding with some, not with others. Now, let his agony show. Be beaten. Let them see how the taste of ashes filled his mouth till he felt he would choke! “It got out of hand. Simply.” Spread his hands. Sorrowful. Repentant. Trying to explain himself. “I did not believe she denied me of her own free will – given the circumstances who would? I had to press the point to try and win her free.”

York said belligerently, “It can be said that you drove her into marrying that bastard nothing!”

Sadly true. Trempwick let tears brim at the corners of his eyes. A touch excessive? No, his part was to play the penitent. To destroy himself so he could live. As long as there was life hope remained. Live now, and the future remained malleable. Die, and all was fixed. What was lost could be regained. The heights he had tumbled from could not be reclaimed. That did not mean unremitting doom was his lot. Slowly he could regain some measure of influence where it mattered. Above all he could watch over Nell. Ensure she survived. Thrived. Grew to the potential he had long seen. His legacy. To stand away was to abandon her. Nell needed help. One day the bastard would consider removing her. One day a man might seek to rule through her. Much could go wrong. Much. And much yet for her to learn.

Trempwick said with true feeling, concealing nothing, “And I curse that with my every breath!”

The bastard slapped his hands on the arms of his appropriated chair. “You admit you slandered my sister! You admit you lied, and grew that lie into greater and greater proportions!” An attempt to be stern and commanding. It didn’t roar. It didn’t promise impending pain. It wasn’t … dominant. It was a man attempting to be. Those not looking closely would be fooled. But Trempwick had always looked closely. The promise of his rare moments aside, the bastard would never measure up to William.

It was, overall, a trifle too much to bear. Could not resist the dry retort, “It is not so terribly unusual. Have you seen how many pleas for justice come to the crown on such matters?” Managed to resist adding that his lie had worked. That the bastard had not been able to hand her off to a supporter. Correction: mostly worked. Ah, alas for that mostly.

“None of them relate to my sister! No other man would have the audacity to make such claims of our family!”

Quite the excitable chap today, was he not?

The bastard stood. Drew himself up in icy majesty. Poise. A better pose could not be found for a illustration of a king being kingly. “You slandered my sister, myself, and our mother. Your claims began a war. You sought to deny me my inheritance, and to size control of the throne for yourself. Hundreds have died – thousands, mayhap! My peace has been shattered, my justice mocked. My father’s body lies buried not in Westminster with his ancestors and lady wife, but in Waltham, again because of you. Wales has risen in rebellion, and lords who owed me their fealty followed you in your defiance.” On he went. Laying out the charges. On and on. A challenge: could he knock the bastard from his lordly stride with a simple yawn? Best not try. For Nell’s sake. Eventually it wound up with the predictable demand, “What have you to say for yourself?”

Oh, this sham was tedious! Still, what man ever enjoyed his humiliation? They had but begun. A feeling rose, one he labelled ‘Sod it!’. Examined it. Liked it. Nell would have what she desired, but he would be damned if he would play along meekly. He had better things to spend his time on. Watching a candle flame flicker in a draft in his prison, to give but one example. “Pray, if you will, allow me to do all here one service. Namely save a deal of time and worry.” Raised his voice so it rang through the hall. “Yes, I falsely claimed Nell as my wife. Yes, I defied you. Yes, I fought against you. Yes, I encouraged others to stand against you. Yes, I have done my utmost to see your sister set upon the throne, and yes, I have done so because I believe you to be a bastard and unfit to succeed William. Yes, I had men tortured unlawfully outside this castle’s gates, though they were of but common stock and of little consequence. Yes, the men under my command have laid waste to much of the area within a day’s ride of this place, killing and looting. That is warfare, and you cannot claim it to be exceptional. Indeed, out of all that you level at me I shall disagree with but one. I refute your accusation of rebellion. I have at no point held land from you or given you my pledge, and you are not yet anointed and crowned. Your status is no more special than mine.”

Trempwick addressed his peers, arms held out to the sides in appeal. “I shall add one accusation to the tally, and admit to it. That of failure. And ultimately, that is what I am most guilty of and shall be condemned for.” He let his arms fall, stood proud, and said in a strong tone, “And being condemned for that, well that is as it should be. What use have we for failures? We, the elite, the best men, those of noble blood and noble talent. Should failures advise kings? Should they lead other men? Should they impose their wills upon the world, be it on the largest scale or on the smallest village?” He shook his head, exaggerating the movement so those at the back of the hall still might make it out. “No. Failure is the greatest crime for men like us. All else beside it is nothing – save unfaithfulness, and of that I am not guilty.”

Trempwick looked about the gathering. Found that precious few would now meet his gaze. Observed everywhere discomfort. Disdain. Contempt. Burning scorn. Met Nell’s eyes last of all. She should have known he could not meekly play along. Alone of all those here she would know the full significance of his words. He, Raoul Trempwick, the spymaster, a man who prided himself on his mind, his cunning, his ability, he had failed. And admitted to it. Before everyone. Condemned himself for it. Eviscerated himself with it.

The spymaster admitted he had been outmanoeuvred.

The ultimate failure.

And here he was, telling everyone about it.

She hadn’t asked him to go this far. Not explicitly. She’d asked him to begin to win back her trust. So thus it had been required. Felt as though a blade had been plunged into his vitals. Better to wield the blade himself and be gutted by his own hand on his own terms than allow another to do it.

Ended his speech with a question, “The difficulty is, what now is the price of failure?”

That threw the bees’ nest amongst the crowd, so to speak. Pity he couldn’t have a seat and watch in comfort.

Eventually, after much arguing, Suffolk turned to Trempwick, not quite managing to look directly at him, and asked, “Raoul, why? You are one of the least warlike men I know. Damn it, it was hard enough to get you onto the training yard when you were at court! And always, always, you were faithful to William. Out of all of us at William’s side, I would have named you as the least likely to engage in a gambit like this. In Christ’s name man, why?!”

Calculation. All routes were counterproductive. No way to press this so Nell was forced to step into the open and take the crown. Could not push too far: room must be left for the bastard to grant his survival. The bastard himself must be credible enough for Nell to rule through him. In the end chose, “Reasons are irrelevant. Results are what have weight, as well you know, my friend.” Friend? No longer. The man’s good feeling was gone.

Serle butted in with, “We do not need to give him another chance to repeat his slander. We’ve all heard it often enough. Does anyone honestly expect him to change his story now?”

And off they went on another jolly old argument.

On and on.

Babbling and squabbling like a pack of birds at a carcass.

Some few suggested his execution. Shouted down, every time and in short order. There’d been enough bloodshed. He was not guilty of treason. And oh so many other pretty excuses. More truthfully no one wanted this new king to have such a stranglehold as William.

Exile? That was popular. Except there were those who feared he would stir up trouble. Return. Wash the realm in blood. And such. And did it not fail to avenge the insults done to their noble lord? And so on.

Imprisonment. That was nice. The risk of escape, less so.

Mutilation. Good old fashioned mutilation. Put out eyes, lop off hands, feet, castration. Oh so many options. Oh so very old fashioned. Hadn’t we all moved on from that? Was it not now the exclusive domain of the lowly? Losing body parts to justice was for common scum. Should a man of gentle birth be treated like a mere peasant? Intolerable!

Could he be given another chance? A hefty fine, loss of much of his lands and all of his titles, binding oaths, and all that usual guff. Had not the bastard shown clemency to all those who surrendered and swore their oaths to him? Had Trempwick not surrendered? He had. He had not. No one could agree on that, and so no one could agree whether they should discuss the rest. Facile little brains trapped in superficial little questions.

Could he be trusted? Sadly on this one they agreed near unanimously. No.

Periodically the bastard would assert himself. Trempwick would not be allowed to go free. He would not be sent away to cause trouble elsewhere. He would never, ever, hold lands again. He could not be forgiven.

And over it all began again.

Really, there was no end to it. All those increasingly red faces, increasingly hoarse voices, all the waved fists, the efforts at calm, the smug superiority and the open shows of temper – bah!

Indeed, a seat would be most appreciated. He should be dead of age before a conclusion was reached.

Nell herself? She kept clear of it, as did her pet. Not for them swimming in the unruly sea. Wise: stay beneath notice, be seen to influence nothing. The merest suggestion now and then, delicately phrased. A nudge. A smile. A frown. The bastard followed her lead with great care. Always waiting some minutes to circle cautiously back to the right spot. Amazing that his clumsy feet did not trample the flowers. Amazing that the conceited lot did not see that steadily, surely, slowly, the sprawling mass was shrunk down to a collection of neater concepts.

Several months from now Nell would reach her twentieth year. Inexperienced? Surely. Blinded by her youth? Very much so. Lacking confidence? That was so, albeit less so than two months ago. Still in need of teaching? That could not be denied. Prone to mistakes? It would take a miracle for her not to be. New to the tasks she set her hand to? Undoubtedly. Trempwick smiled in the safety of his own mind.

Not yet twenty. It was easy to forget what that meant. Easy to look back with older eyes. To believe that one had always been as one was now. To tint the picture with, perhaps, a trace of added vigour, to remember some few hopes, and then to declare that this slightly alerted now was truthfully then. To forget one’s own mistakes, fumblings, uncertainties. The awkward parts which had led to maturity.

Yes, a little more teaching, a little more time, a lot more experience … It was good that, amidst this bleeding wreck, he could find something that made his heart glad. She had known he would not abandon her. Had known he would work to regain what he had lost. That understanding had brought her to him with her offer. She had played him almost masterfully. And he had let her.

Finally someone took the hint and asked Trempwick the question he had been waiting for. “Will you swear an oath to Hugh as your king?”

At! Last! All eyes turned to him. Expectant. His answer would determine much. An end to this incessant talking was coming into sight.

Unfolded his arms, taking care with his broken hand. Stood back to attention. “As I have said, I have failed. What is more, our causes were laid at God’s feet when we took to battle. A judgement has been delivered.”

Another asked, “You do not blame your defeat on Prince Malcolm then?”

A lesser man might. One unable to admit his faults. Small show of discomfort, then admit clearly, “I was losing before the prince joined the battle. I had failed to break the line, my flank had been turned, and my smaller numbers were beginning to struggle. He speeded the inevitable.” Shrug of one shoulder. “Whatever my abilities, commanding an army is not chief amongst them.”

Hugh commanded, “Answer the original question.”

Disembowelled by his admission of failure he had nothing left to give in terms of pain. “The world has lost all pleasures for me. There is nothing left in it I wish for. My lord is dead, I have lost my betrothed, I shall not regain my lands and truthfully I no longer feel any zest for them. The cause I believed in …” He touched the crucifix he wore at his neck as though he cared, “God has judged against. There is nothing left for me in the world,” he repeated. Emphasis. Let it appear to be earnest. “I beg leave to retire from the world to somewhere quiet.”

Thomas exclaimed with contempt, “You would become a monk?”

Appeared to give it thought. “No,” Trempwick answered slowly. “I must make peace with myself before I can do that. Solitude. Quiet. Contemplation. No intrusions from the world – mayhap I will then find it.” Monk? Monk?! Hell would have snow before his hair was clipped into a tonsure!

The bastard demanded again, “Will you swear?”

“Whatever you wish.” Meaningless. Openly moving against the bastard had been a grave mistake. Should never have allowed himself to feel pushed into moving before ready. Failure had taught him many lessons. He would not repeat his mistakes.

There was more talking. It went on forever and was very boring.

Eventually it was agreed that he would be consigned to honourable imprisonment, sealed away somewhere small and out of the way for the remainder of his days or until he entered a religious order.

Trempwick bent knee and swore to accept the bastard as his king, to never go against his interests, to never encourage rebellion against him or engage in rebellion himself, and other boring things. The sole interest came when they exchanged the kiss of peace. As they embraced the bastard hissed in his ear, “Murderer!” Trempwick returned, “Bastard!”

There was general approval of this ‘happy’ conclusion.

As his guards led him back to his incarceration the disposal of his lands and goods began. The realisation struck at last. Struck keenly. He had nothing but the clothes he stood in. Had not expected pain from that. There was.

There was.











I’ve been writing out of order for a bit. Doing scenes which I wanted to rather than merely those which are next chronologically. I’ve got another 8 1/2 pages after this, but the bridging scene between this and those scenes isn’t finished and my poor old eyes have had enough of computer screens for the day. I’ve misc others which won’t be brought out for a time yet, including the very final scene.

Speaking of which, I managed 6 pages this afternoon afternoon. This entire scene. Well golly gosh! That is the best going I have had for a while. Rambling about the chronology appears to have done me some good.

It surprised me how much humour Trempy manages to find in his social death. I like his summing up of the arguments for imprisonment and mutilation, and the whispered threats during the kiss of peace.

Also had 2 weeks of unexpected demand for significant effort to be applied in another direction, of which good news will (fingers crossed and all other good luck charms primed) be forthcoming tomorrow.



Echo … echo …echo

echo…

echo …

echo

Great scene:2thumbsup:

Are you implying that you are depraved of reviews? Desperate for readers? In the latter case, you´ve got one one (at least) hooked worse than an addict - me. I may not comment on every installment, as a matter of fact, I haven´t even read all udates for quite some time, but I´m religiously following them, my current pagecount for your story 1270 pages in Word as of now - quite the book, I must say. I´m just longing for the day when I´ll have time to read all of it.

I carefully consider to clone myself. One Stephen is not sufficient to this world and the tasks I have to do. Sorry, froggy, your story is really good (though to tell you the truth, there is more mush than necessary (at least for me; personal opinion, not criterion in any way ) ) and the reason for my failure to read it is hidden in my lack of organisation. I hope sooner or later to reach the end. :)

Delay in posting comments, results werent up to expectations. Great new installments, might be long winded in some parts but they probably contribute to major plot outlines in the future installments. Not really able to come on much anymore except read and not comment. Just remember, I'll always enjoy your story. :beam:
PS: maybe i should do this more often, many segments of storyline at one time is somewhat preferrable to cliffhangers :2thumbsup:.

“Let me check my understanding,” Malcolm said respectfully to Hugh. “I’m here as a prince of Scotland, and as one who fought in the battle, yes?”

Did the boy intend to behave so disgracefully during this celebration? Hugh wondered anew what he had taken on in accepting this prince. “You are.”

“And nothing I do is going to reflect on you? Since I’m not here as your squire.”

“That is so.”

“Then with all respect, I’m not sitting here.” Malcolm stepped back, away from the seat of honour he’d been offered at Hugh’s right hand. “I can’t. It belongs to someone else.”

The question of who formed on Hugh’s lips, never to be uttered as comprehension dawned. The boy was looking off to the very end of the left-hand part of the high table where a plainly dressed figure had been settled. Softly, desiring to keep this between they two, Hugh said, “He cannot have it. You must understand.”

Malcolm chewed at his lip, the fingers of one hand worrying at the fabric of his tunic skirt. “It’s his hospitality we’re eating. This is his home. He captured Trempwick and fought like a lion for you.”

“I know.” Hugh imbued the words with a hint of a plea that the boy accept the necessary injustice, and not cause a scene.

Malcolm raised his head proudly. “If he can’t take his place then let no other. Let it stand empty. I’ll sit with him.”

“That will not be well accepted.”

“I don’t bloody care for your nobles’ scorn.”

“You have much to learn about diplomacy, boy.”

Malcolm grinned, all reckless youth. “Give me more men like him and I’d rule the whole fucking world!” He went to join Fulk in his spot at the least honoured part of the best table, a swagger in his step.

Under his breath Hugh retorted, “At this rate you will be dead before you rule your father’s kingdom.”






Trempwick dipped into a civil bow. “Is there something you wish of me? It is my hope you might permit me to stay.” He indicated his three guards and Eleanor’s own collection of companions. “With all these witnesses present I can do you no harm, and tongues cannot wag.”

Eleanor replied with a flat question. “You wish to stay?” She’d had him fetched up here to ensure nothing came of the opportunities presented by the feast. With the castle close to empty and most of the men headed towards becoming drunk it would not be hard for someone to set Trempwick free. By any token Trempwick should wish to be as far from her as he could get.

Trempwick folded his arms, careful of his splinted and bound finger. “Outside Hugh and his army are feasting, recounting over and over the details of my defeat. When they are not speaking of their glorious deeds they are speaking of this morning and my abject humiliation. Many of my former supporters sit amongst them, as do those I had counted friends. Of all those at Alnwick there are but few who do not attend. Even the lowliest servants are there. Myself, my three guards, yourself, your ladies - we all of us remain apart because we cannot go. That company is no place for a lady, and I …” He shrugged. “Well, that is obvious.”

“So?”

“How many times have we ended up in this very situation? Separate to all others?”

So far from his expected behaviour was this that Eleanor’s suspicions flared into full alert. “Attempt to manipulate me and you will find yourself back in confinement, and with added guards.”

“Outside of that chapel my every movement is followed, my every word overheard. Anything of significance I might do is reported. I cannot make use of the privy without these three gentlemen watching.” He attempted to keep his features composed; only those who knew him well would see the battle. “Nell, I wish only for a bit of company. Some intelligent conversation. Now is not a time for me to remain alone.” Trempwick’s fingers dug into his palm, a flash of emotion that was in all probability real. “Those people are celebrating my utter ruin. I recanted for you. Do not leave me alone to face the shadows.”

He sounded like a child asking for protection from his nightmares.

“Nell, no one is going to come to my aid. Not now. Not after this morning. Who can you see that would be willing to come free a man so discredited? Damn it – most of them will no longer so much as look directly at me! I am beneath their notice, that is what you have made of me.” Trempwick uncurled his fingers and pressed his hands flat against his sides so he could not further betray himself. “It is rather devastating to be so alone on a day like today. We will talk of whatever you wish. You name the subjects. You tell me when to be silent.”

To be the butt of everyone’s jokes, to have an entire day’s entertainment for hundreds of people designed around your humiliation, to know that today marked the beginning of mockery which would outlast your lifespan itself, for a proud person there was little worse. He asked for a reprieve, a small mercy. “You will sit in that corner,” Eleanor pointed to the one furthest from her, “and you will behave impeccably, or I shall send you back to the chapel.” Fulk’s company had been the sole reason she had made it through her own worst day; aware of how cruel it would be to cast Trempwick off into the abyss she could not quite bring herself to do it. Then too this was what she had planned, and only the fact he asked for the same thing aroused her suspicions.

“Thank you.” He could not keep the relief from showing. Obedient as could be the ex-spymaster sat in the designated corner, not seeking to request a stool or cushion. Perhaps he hoped she would offer him one, perhaps in his gratitude he didn’t care.

His three hand-picked guards she had sit on a bench between him and the others in the room, hemming him in so he couldn’t make any sudden moves.

For a time she ignored him, continuing to chat with Hawise and Aveis about Fulk’s new clothes, knowing how much that would exasperate the ex-spymaster. Several hours of daylight remained so the shutters were all open; through the windows came the sounds of the feast. The bubbling background sound that was many men talking all at once, punctuated with cheers and occasional snatches of song. At one point a loud chant was taken up, the word “Victory!” repeated over and over in semi-drunken disorder.

Trempwick’s shoulders twitched as though he wished to shudder but did not dare. “If I made a disparaging remark about drink and its affects would that be taken amiss?”

“Such celebration is necessary.” Eleanor looked up from her sewing to meet his eyes. “The reasons for which you well know.”

“Oh, indeed. Celebrating survival, bonding, reinforcing their status as honourable fighting men, and all that.” Trempwick closed his eyes. “At least I, abject in my defeat, shall not have a pounding head to add to my woes.” Some time later he asked, “Did you feel this way at your wedding?”

Eleanor did not reply.

“Malcolm the elder’s work was deft; it cannot have been easy for you to bear. He made so much of a princess of high birth marrying a man like-”

She headed off the bid to forge a common ground and draw her out to a position where he might be able to work on her, “We will not speak of that, or anything relating to it.”

Trempwick lapsed back into silence.

Better that he talk with little response from her, better that he be placed on a subject of her choosing and confined to it. Anything to lessen the places where his hooks might catch. There was one subject which would fit the need, one which Eleanor was not entirely ready to explore. A subject which none other could speak on it with quite the same authority. Ready or not, the time had come and Eleanor recognised it. “Tell me about my father.”

It took a bit before Trempwick began to speak. “One day he persuaded me to ride three passes at him with a lance, for friendship’s sake. I am not much of a warrior, nor ever have been. I am competent, not spectacular, and have no liking for such pursuits. It was rare I took to the practice field at court. The first run he knocked me out of my saddle. He rode back and helped me up, dusted the dirt off me, asked if I was well and then stuck me back on my damned horse. The second time we both caught each others’ shields, not well enough to break our lances and not well enough to dismount. The third time was the same. He gifted me a hawk, and told me that since I had shown I could stay on a horse I must come with him when he went hunting the next day. And so I did, sadly. All day spent in the saddle charging about in the rain, watching a bunch of birds flying at other birds. Can you guess what he did next?”

Something to continue the streak of dragging his friend through things he disliked, assuredly. “No.”

Trempwick smiled at the memory. “Every bird my hawk brought down he exchanged for a book. It was a good bird, I barely had need to do more than let it go. Cost him a small fortune. He liked to remind people of his lordship, and always rewarded those who followed him well.”

Eleanor stabbed at the cloth with her needle. “He sounds like an overbearing egotist, if you ask me.”

“A certain degree of overbearing and ego is required of any who leads on a grand scale. If you do not belief in yourself then who else can? For ultimately that is what ego is, and-”

“We will not speak of that,” Eleanor dictated.

Trempwick fell silent, his head nodding slowly as if to say he understood. Several minutes later he said, “William intoxicated the realm when he was a young king. I think we were all of us afflicted with a kind of madness, drunk on the possibilities. We had a young king married to his lovely young wife, making a handsome couple ripe with promise for children, and love, and concord, and all of those finer things we wish for in our rulers. Young …” Trempwick dwelled on the word, tasting it. “Yes, we had our young king and everything seemed possible. I was but a boy, yet even I felt it. William’s father had made for a dry king. By contrast William was youth, and laughter, and energy, and glorious, glorious possibility. Much was expected of him.”

“And did he deliver?” Eleanor was fascinated despite herself.

A slow smile spread across Trempwick’s face, at once both regretful and fond. “Oh yes. Very much so, and therein, I think, lies the heartbreak of William. If he had been a little less than hoped life might have been kinder to him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Desired of William were these things: a secure succession, a strong hand, success in wars with our neighbours, peace at home.” Trempwick counted each point off on a finger. Once he’d finished he regarded her over the splayed fingers. “Can you tell me how each turned out, Nell?”

No, she would not be drawn into games. “I commanded you to tell me of my father, not to plague me with questions.”

The ex-spymaster bowed his head. “As you wish.” He folded his hands in his lap. “In that case I will address only one of those. Perhaps in time you will ask me about the others – when you are ready to hear the answers. We desired a strong king, and a strong king we got. Stronger than any who preceded him, one could say.” Trempwick paused a beat. “So strong that, eventually, he could execute lords who displeased him too greatly, and none could stand against him to prevent it. He held so much power in his own hands no one was safe, and everyone knew that.”

Eleanor feared he might be planning to use this angle to lead into a discussion of Hugh’s weakness as a king. “I desired to hear of the man, not the king.”

Again that expression which mixed sorrow with affection. “Dear Nell, that is what I am trying to tell you. In the end William’s successes as a king overshadowed the person behind them.”






“I am the almighty Trempwick! And I’m going to whoop your lowly arse!” The armoured figure levelled his sword at his foe, fumbled and nearly dropped it. He recovered and stabbed at the unresponsive man.

They called this comedy. They had to be right – Fulk was close to being the only man who wasn’t laughing so it must be funny.

“Death! That’s the penalty for stealing my wife!” ‘Trempwick’ lowered his sword and confided in a stage whisper to the audience, “She’s not actually mine at all, but what they don’t know won’t hurt. Clear away the opposition and I’ll swoop in and fill the gap.” The fool playing the spymaster’s part was short. Now he drew himself up to his full height, completing the joke – ‘Fulk’ was far larger, ‘Trempwick’ could never compare. Raising his weapon again ‘Trempwick’ posed heroically, trying to intimidate his foe.

In answer ‘Fulk’ twirled his sword through a series of showy, impressive arcs, settled into a competent ready position and bellowed, “Boo!”.

‘Trempwick’ squealed, dropped his sword and fled. ‘Fulk’ gave chase, belabouring him about the bottom with the flat of his wooden sword.

The nobles went wild, banging at the trestle tables and howling with laughter. The noble on Malcolm’s other side spilled his drink, so hard was he shaking with mirth. The prince himself laughed with all the rest, slapping a hand on the table to show his appreciation.

“I’ll win!” ‘Trempwick’ insisted as he hopped and scrambled. “I’ll get you! I’ll get all of you! You’ll see!”

Fulk slammed his cup up to his lips and pretended to drink to hide his distaste. Christ, why had he doubted Eleanor when she’d said making Trempwick bow would hurt him more than death? Should the old king’s soul be watching this spectacle he’d have to agree his daughter had carried out his request for vengeance.

The pitiful chase continued for a time, with ‘Trempwick’ slipping and tumbling about most impressively. Finally he became trapped before the high table. ‘Fulk’ proclaimed, “None can resist me! My sword’s bigger and got more steel in it!” He held his sword with the hilt near his groin, blade angled upwards to make sure everyone got the innuendo.

‘Trempwick’ huddled on the ground sobbing. “I yield! I yield! You’re the better man!”

Both players stood and took a bow before their cheering audience.

Hugh stood. “You have pleased us all.” Given that he’d laughed at the places where it would have been notable if he hadn’t, his praise was polite. “Your recreation of the duel between Alnwick and Trempwick will be remembered as long as the battle itself!”

Fulk hoped not.

Hugh gave orders that the jesters be given a purse of coin and sat back down, working at his food and making a show of polite expectation as the next entertainment for the high tables was set up.

The feast was several hours old and still in its early stages. An ambitious affair, it involved all those who had fought on Hugh’s side during the battle, from the prince himself down to the militia. Those of decent birth who’d changed sides were present also, adding another hundred or so to the numbers. The large numbers involved had required the party to be set up outside the castle’s walls, on the side furthest from the burial pits.

Due to the depredations on the surrounding land, and the inability of the castle’s stores to feast an entire army, the meal itself was a masterpiece of improvisation. Great pits had been dug for roasting whole animals; high tables and low alike ate small courses of meat carved directly from the carcasses. Once an animal was picked clean another was put into its place, and the celebrators made leisurely progress through small meatless dishes as they waited for the new meat to cook. Here at the high tables the flow of food was kept to a steady pace, uninterrupted by gaps created by the insufficient supplies. The common soldiers at their fire pits weren’t so fortunate. They had their own entertainment too, a raucous racket that provided a ceaseless background of cheers, song, and other sundry noise.

The leader of the minstrels led the others in a bow to Hugh once the group had settled into position in the space before the high table. “Sire, we offer a work on the battle itself, one with which we hope to immortalise the brave deeds performed, if it please your Highness.”
In his dreary little spot at the very end of the left hand side of the high table Fulk pretended to take another drink. His page came hurrying forward to refill his cup, only to find it still quite full. Richard poured out a little more of the sweet white wine Fulk was favouring, and retreated back to the fringes.

“You’ve barely touched a drop,” Malcolm observed.

Fulk ran a finger across the surface of his wine, creating a minute whirlpool. “Seems best to keep a clear head.” Drink made men freer with their views and with their fists, and there were many here who resented him.

“You’d rather be at the bonfires, right?”

Would he? Fulk breathed out. “No. That would swap one awkward for another.”

The boy’s brow creased. “But isn’t that where you’ve spent most of your life? Amongst them and their sort? So naturally you’d feel more at home.”

“I’m half noble and half common. Whichever I’m amongst my other half makes me out of place.” Fulk broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the juices that had run from their roast venison.

“Is there nowhere you feel right?”

The innocent question tickled Fulk; he swallowed the morsel and answered, “With Eleanor.”

That did confuse the princeling. “But she’s …?”

“The other half of my soul,” he supplied with a wry smile, knowing full well the youth wouldn’t understand until he’d discovered love’s wonders for himself.

A while later Malcolm nudged Fulk’s elbow. “There you are!”

The minstrels’ interminable song had worked its way around to mentioning him, last out of all notables present on Hugh’s side of the field. Where the deeds of the others had been covered in detail Fulk was granted much less space, mentioned merely as dispatching enemy men skilfully and in great number, fighting with courage and honour. Soon the epic moved on to detail the situation of the battle overall when the battle reached the midpoint.

“They barely did you credit,” Malcolm exclaimed. “You were the greatest knight on the field! You should be one of the main figures.”

Fulk shrugged. “Doubtless I’ll have more mention when Trempwick’s captured.”

“They’re doing you out of your just fame. Don’t you care?”

Deep down? Yes. He’d earned his accolades and the recognition of skill that went hand in hand with them. As a boy he’d longed to be famous, had thirsted to prove his ability so none could pass over him. The greatest knight … a dream come true. “Those whose opinion I value know the truth of it. That’s what matters.”

“You sound like the lesson line to a bloody homily,” Malcolm muttered.





“William was a good man.” These were the first words Trempwick had uttered in a long space. Having worked through a disjointed collection of depictions of William he’d seemed to give up at trying to capture the man in words. “In all truth. You asked me to tell you about your father, and that is what I find many of my words boil down to. He was a good man. That is what you should know of him, Nell. It is what he would have liked you to know.”

Eleanor bit back the retort that if the arse in the crown had wanted her to think him a good person then he might have behaved like one towards her. Instead she settled for an acid, “Really.”

Trempwick tilted his head to one side. “If he were not would he have won Anne’s affection?”

Eleanor swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. “No.”

“You should have known him – and he you. That did not happen, to my great sorrow. You only saw parts of each other.” Trempwick sighed. “I tried some few times in the past; you never wished to listen.”

“Nor did he.”

The ex-spymaster smiled faintly. “Oh, I think he must have listened, however resistant he was. Must have seen the same things. Why else make the choices he did?” Why else leave her the ring, he meant. “He wished you educated, wished to see your potential turned to worthy ends. That is why he placed you with me.”

Eleanor worked away at a seam, determined not to let him lure anything from her.

“Each time I met him after that day he enquired about you. How you were progressing.” Trempwick shifted his position, moving to sit cross-legged. “William was capable of caring very deeply for people, hence all his concern for his second wife. Think of how carefully he laboured to protect her position. Always he treated her with softness. That requires a good heart.” Trempwick sighed. “His problem was that he did not always have much empathy. It was easy for him to see Anne’s vulnerability because when she first arrived at court she was much like a lamb fearing slaughter. He did not recognise the strains he placed on Joanna because she was overall a more capable person. Simply, it never occurred to him that she might become lonely, or might dislike being so often apart from him. And she … she gave no sign of it. She kept her pains hidden close to her heart where only the perceptive could see them.”

“I thought he did not care.”

“Did you not wonder why it took him so long to marry again?”

Eleanor’s needle stilled. “He had enough children, and no pressing need for new allies.”

“He left her chamber untouched until he surrendered it to Anne. A new crown was made for her, instead of Joanna’s being altered to fit.” Trempwick gave that chance to sink in. “The same principle applied to the rest of his family. He cared, he did not see that he was needed, and he thought there would be time once he had dealt with this pressing matter or that. Always later. Time ran out, and eventually he realised that, to his heartbreak.” Trempwick waited, seemingly expecting her to ask a question. When she did not he continued, “He would have been an excellent father if only he had seen the need to put his family ahead of the realm sometimes. You should have seen him when Stephan was born. He practically walked on air radiating light! Never have I seen a man so thrilled with his firstborn.” The corners of Trempwick’s mouth lifted. “The first time I saw you he was carrying you in the crook of his arm, glowing with pride. You were this big, “ he measured out a space slightly smaller than his forearm, “and you were but a few days old. He actually sang to you a bit, believe it or not.” He chuckled. “William didn’t have the best of voices – it was a wonder you did not start screaming! He went on and on about how much milk you drank, how good your lungs were when you started wailing, how you were going to have this feature of his and that of your mother’s, how placid you were …”

Eleanor’s throat had gone tight and her eyes burned. She had heard all of this before, why did it affect her now?

Gently Trempwick said, “You begin to gain some sense of what you lost. That is what causes you sorrow.”

Eleanor looked up sharply.

“It is plain for all to see, dear Nell.”

Eleanor continued to stare at him, certain that she had fallen into some trap and now he dictated what he believed she felt so he could tighten the bonds.

Hawise offered a soft explanation, “You’re crying.” Everyone in the room was looking at her, most with concern.

Eleanor’s fingers rose to her face and encountered a single track of dampness running down her cheek. Jesù, she hadn’t noticed. A deep breath and a bit of effort ensured that escaped tear remained solitary. “Continue,” she ordered Trempwick.

“Sometimes he would play at sword fighting with the boys. He would let Stephan, Hugh and John all rush at him with their wooden swords and make a great show of warding off their blows before letting himself fall under their combined might, laughing and calling that he yielded. The girls, he would play for them, or dance with them and pretend they were grown up ladies, or tell them stories. I remember one year he entered a tournament bedecked with four favours: one belonging to his wife, the other three to his daughters.” Trempwick looked at her keenly, with rare compassion in his eyes. “It is not easy to hear all this, is it?”

“It is the very opposite of all I saw of him.” Of all she had wished to believe of him. Sometimes hating the man had been all that kept her on her feet, spitting defiance.

“Not entirely, dear Nell. You saw some of his good, but always distorted by the relationship between you. Just as he saw some of your good, similarly distorted.”

It was true she had seen him treat Anne with nothing but kindness, and that he had been heartbroken when he had been cornered into ordering John’s death. Abruptly one thought struck her, and she voiced it. “For all his glorious beginning, he seems to have had few friends left by the end.”

Trempwick did not reply for a long time. “That is a difficult one to answer. It is true, and it is far from true.”

“Then do not attempt to answer it.”

Trempwick searched for another subject to speak on. “William was passionate about justice. That was partly why he travelled so much; so he could judge as many of the cases people brought to him as possible. It was not uncommon for him to spend fully half the day listening to the pleas brought before him by people of all grades, noble down to common. He gave them all fair hearing. Some like to hear pleas for the power it gives them, but not William. He liked to puzzle through a problem. Liked to settle things, not for the satisfaction of imposing his will on others but for giving them resolution.”

Eleanor listened with half an ear as Trempwick narrated an impersonal account of the aspects of William’s personality and rule which could be had from any of those who had attended the court during the past three decades. It seemed that Trempwick had decided she was not ready to hear more of the personal. He was probably right.





This new act featured acrobats. Their costumes were tawdry, their performances no better than average. The audience was going wild – two of the performers were female and it was plain the entire act had been planned around the effects tight clothes and pert breasts would have on a collection of partying men.

One of the women leaped into a high jump and landed standing on the shoulders of her male partner, balancing there easily.

Malcolm swallowed with some difficulty. “Fuck, you can see all her thigh muscles in those hose!”

Said thigh muscles were in excellent shape, and well-displayed by the effort of keeping her balance. If there was a man present who wasn’t having intimate thoughts about those thighs it was a safe bet that he was a sodomite. “Now you know why the church is so passionate about women wearing men’s clothes.”

Malcolm giggled drunkenly. “Yes, I can see why priests would want them dressed like that!”

Fulk rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

The acrobat wrapped her legs about her man’s neck and hung down his back, waving her arms about in some pose which highlighted her shapely chest.

“Fuck!” squeaked Malcolm. He coughed a few times, and squirmed in his seat, surreptitiously adjusting his tunic on his lap. “Pity they’re just some grubby ditch whores, or I’d have to try a few things out.”

Fulk returned to his food. “Really.”

“It’s alright for you, your wife’s here. The rest of us have nothing. Fucking fuckity bloody fuck!” That last was exclaimed in response to the pair of not-remotely-ladies performing some highly athletic contortions while lying on the ground.

Fulk decided from then on to keep his eyes firmly on his food. The princeling was right: he was the only man here with a wife nearby, and showing much interest in this crude display would reflect badly upon her. “Whoever authorised this was mad – they’re going to cause so much trouble.”

“Huh?” Malcolm’s attention was centred on a waggling bottom.

“Think: there’s two of them and they’ve just wound up a couple of hundred drunk men.”

Completely enthralled Malcolm had forgotten to blink. “Huh.”

With a shake of his head Fulk left him to it. He remembered what it was like to be fourteen.

The act appeared to be coming to its close when a man’s groin intruded on Fulk’s vision. “Like what you see?”

Fulk pointedly looked his new view up and down. “Not overly. I thank heaven you’re clothed.”

“Funny.” The intruder braced his hands on the table and leaned down so his wine-fugged breath blasted into Fulk’s face. “I’m talking about those cheap tarts, as you know full well, bastard-boy.”

Fulk consumed the bite of food impaled on the tip of his eating knife, clearing the small blade for use. “They’re mediocre acrobats.”

“Not stopped you gaping at them,” he slurred.

The drunkard’s clothes were of a decent cut and material, decorated with strips of woven braiding. He wore a single ring on his signet finger, and his belt buckle showed traces of pewter where the gilt finish was rubbing off. Like all here he was unarmed; sword and dagger attachments had worn glossy patches on the leather of his belt. Evidently he was a knight, poor but taken care of. A member of someone’s retinue in all likelihood; the question was who’s. “They’re about to carve the mutton. Best go back to your place or you’ll miss out.” He held no hope that this would happen; this man had been sent to pick a fight and, riding high on drink and victory, he was eager for it. All Fulk could do was behave reasonably, make it obvious he’d been set upon, and hope someone took it upon themselves to intervene before matters grew too messy.

“I said you’ve been drooling after those cheap peasant tits.” The knight pounded a fist on the table, making the dishes dance. “It’s a disgrace!” Attention was beginning to transfer from the acrobats to Fulk and his unwanted companion. Aware of this the man raised his voice. “Showing your true damned colours, aren’t you, bastard? Stinking peasant in lust after another stinking peasant! Can’t get enough of it, can you?”

Fulk altered his grip on his eating knife, shifting his thumb over to make it easier to stab than to cut precisely. “You’re drunk. Leave now and I will take no offence.”

“Isn’t our lord’s sister good enough for you?” The knight slapped Fulk’s cup over, and wine slopped across the table. Only a little bit caught Fulk himself. “God’s knee, it’s a disgrace! Royalty isn’t good enough for you so you lust after that filthy common flesh like a mongrel after a butcher’s garbage!”

The moment that followed was a busy one, featuring a gaggle of voices as people began to call for cordiality, Malcolm launching indignant abuse at the fellow, and Fulk seizing the knight by his tunic and yanking him across the table.

One hand pressing the knight onto the wooden boards, the other clenched in the man’s hair, Fulk growled, “No one insults my wife.” He bounced the knight’s skull off the table.

The knight was thrashing and flailing, trying to win free but too drunk to outmatch Fulk. “You mongrel bloody bastard! Go back to the midden heap you came from!”

Fulk gave him another lump on the head, and punched him in the face. “The last man to overstretch my tolerance I killed!”

Dimly Fulk was aware that the acrobats had stopped, and that all eyes were now on this impromptu show.

Malcolm offered Fulk the knife he’d dropped as he went for the other man. “Put his bloody eyes out!”

Fulk planted his fist in the knight’s kidneys. “Who put you up to this?”

That more than anything caused a flurry of activity. Those who had begun to intervene now redoubled their efforts, and new voices added themselves to the efforts. The man was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying. He’d been punished enough. This was a celebration and fighting was forbidden. Enough men had died, and now it was time for peace.

Fulk repeated his demand, punch and all. The fuss grew louder as he’d expected. No one wanted to see another noble lose face for ordering one of his men to accost the upstart.

The knight bared his teeth. “Go to Satan, mongrel!”

Fulk went to punch him again; his wrist was seized as the blow began to descend. Fulk turned to confront the meddler and came face to face with Hugh. Surprised that his brother-by-law had involved himself personally Fulk let his arm go slack.

When he saw that the violent intent had left Fulk Hugh released him. “She is my sister,” he said by way of explanation. He addressed the rapidly sobering knight. “I know you. You are named Robert.”

“Sire,” the knight squirmed, his drink-fuelled courage draining as rapidly as a bottomless barrel. In all likelihood he hadn’t dreamed Hugh might become involved.

Hugh indicated Fulk should let the knight up, and reluctantly he did so. Robert collapsed onto his knees before Hugh and reached out to touch the tips of his boots. “Forgive me, sire!”

Hugh drew back out of reach. “You have broken the peace of my feast, slighted my sister, provoked another man unjustly, and upset my digestion.”

Robert raised his hands, imploring. “Sire.”

“Have I not commanded that my brother-by-law, such as he is, be left? Have I not said that such baiting is below what I expect of a man, and the behaviour of a spoiled child?”

The only sounds came from the fire pits where the common soldiers partied on, unaware of what was happening. Hugh knew whom the man served; would he name him as the source of this defiance of his command?

Hugh let the moment hang, and then turned to Fulk. “Kill him if you will, if not I shall exile him.”

Malcolm pointed out, “He’s got no weapon.” Only Hugh and his guards were armed tonight; the short blade of an eating knife would make messy work of any attempted kill.

Hugh drew his dagger and offered it hilt first to Fulk. “You may have the loan of this if you require it.”

The hush continued as Fulk accepted the weapon and made his grip on it comfortable. “A man should show proper respect for his lord.”

The knight tried to come to his feet but hands clamped about his shoulders and held him in place; he’d been sacrificed to prevent the episode growing into something altogether more dangerous. “No!”

Fulk drew the dagger across the knight’s neck, slicing through skin but leaving the vitals untouched. “It would be disrespectful to my lord to mar his celebration with your death.”

At Hugh’s order the knight was removed, hands clutched to his neck to stem the seep of blood. Slowly men settled back into their places, conversations resumed, and the scattered dishes were cleared away. Several of Hugh’s guard took advantage of the confusion to remove the acrobats; it appeared the prince hadn’t approved of their performance.

“I’d have killed the fucking prick,” Malcolm said as he sat back down. “Bet they didn’t expect Hugh to become involved.”

“There’s a fine line between having a reputation for being a man not to be messed with, and being a bloody-thirsty butcher.” The one behind this had expected him to rise to the bait faster, leaving the blame for the disruption on his shoulders. Fulk drained off half his wine in a few quick swallows; his enemy had misjudged him this time, and couldn’t be relied upon to make the same mistake again.





The solar door opened without any warning, and Fulk stepped through. Ignoring everyone else in the room he made straight for Eleanor and planted a wine-scented kiss on her cheek. “I decided I’d had enough and left early.” He plucked her sewing from her hands, dropped it off to one side and encouraged her to her feet, whereupon he pressed a lengthy, passionate kiss on her and half crushed her in a tight embrace.

Eleanor had a good idea what he was doing and, little as she liked it, she played along, returning his passion with her own. “You got bored?” she enquired oh so innocently.

“Decided there’s other things I’d rather be doing.” To illustrate his point he tightened his hold on her waist, pressing her against him so only a lack-witted fool standing seventy paces away couldn’t guess what kind of a state he was in.

At that point Eleanor decided he’d had his fun and it would be best to get him away from company before he did something she found too objectionable. It had been bad enough when Trempwick had flaunted his ability to touch her in front of Fulk without him returning the taunt in more antagonistic form.

Only after another lengthy kiss did he deign to acknowledge Trempwick’s presence. Not removing his gaze from Eleanor’s face Fulk ordered the guards, “Throw the rubbish back on the midden.”

Trempwick greeted this with a dry smile. The soldiers didn’t let him finish his bow before they took his arms and pulled him towards the exit.

Once they were alone Eleanor only got out half a protest before he kissed her again, cutting off her words. At the next opportunity she changed her words for the shorter accusation of, “You are drunk!”

“Mildly,” he beamed. “It would have been rude not to be. Quite a lot of toasts going on in the latter part. Then the wine ran out and we had to swap to cider.” He busied himself with letting her hair down. “I feel better too, less tired and less battered.”

“That is because you are drunk!” He was making a mess out of undoing the ribbon, so Eleanor helped him before he created such a tangle she’d lose hair.

“Not really, or I’d be all miserable and depressed. Which I’m not. So I’m not.”

His speech reminded her of Count Jocelyn, and that wasn’t a warming thought. “I would not advise you to swear an oath about your sobriety in a court of law,” she advised. “Other than the drinking, how was it?”

Freed of the need to tackle her hair ribbon, Fulk turned his attention to the lacing which pulled her dress into figure-hugging tightness. “Oh, not so bad. Songs, poetry, that sort of thing. Acrobats, too. They were very –” One of the laces gave way with the sound of tearing fabric. Fulk moved on to the next one with a sheepish grin, “Boring. Very boring.”

“What-” That was as far as she got before his mouth came down on hers. At that point she decided conversation could wait until later.






Eleanor judged there had been sufficient pleasant dozing for the time being. She gave her husband a gentle nudge. “I will not let you use me like that again.”

The statement had the desired effect: Fulk scrambled into a semi-upright position, his addled faculties thrashing towards wakeful sobriety. “I thought you were enjoying it – I swear! I know it was all rather rushed-”

“Not that,” Eleanor informed him, satisfied that she had gotten his full attention. To make up for the shock she gave him a shy little smile. “That was quite acceptable.”

Fulk flopped back onto the bed, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t scare me like that, oh gooseberry mine.”

“I meant that show you put on in the solar.” Eleanor rolled onto her side so she could glare at him. “I will not have you flaunting your rights to me like that. I hated it when Trempwick did that, and I like it no better with you.” She scowled. “It makes me feel like you are a dog marking your territory.” Certain that he’d got the point she snuggled back in to his side. “So, how was the feast?”

Fulk lowered his hand from his face. “Oh, it was … pretty well typical for what you would expect of the occasion.”

“How very evasive,” she teased.

“Malcolm came to sit with me. He turned down the place of honour.” Fulk pulled the blankets up to cover their shoulders. “I confess I was very grateful to him. He was the only company I had.”

“There is ill-feeling over Carlisle?”

“Amongst some, yes, of course. Amongst others …” Fulk settled his free arm about her, hand stroking her back. “It’s like they are holding their breath.”

Eleanor suggested, “They do not know if you are capable of cleansing the north of stragglers from Trempwick’s army. They wait to see if you manage, or if you bring about disaster.”

“Yes, but also … Also they wait to see what I will do”

“You are a man of possibilities now. You are in the highly unusual position of having two liege lords, and you will soon have control over two of the main fortifications on the border. And,” she added with a wry smile, “you have me.”

After a bit Fulk said, “I need you to find something out for me. A knight named Robert was sent to pick a fight with me tonight. I need to know who he served.”

“A fight?!”

Quickly he reassured her, “It came to nothing. Your brother exiled him. But I need to know who he served.”

“I will find out.”







12 pages before spacing. Not bad. I’m aware the two final scenes are mainly pointless; they are the equivalent of a breathing space on the grander scale. Got stuff happening, breathing space, on to more stuff happening.



Yay! I was getting lonely with just myself posting for so long. :winkg:

RE long winded, mush etc, I feel much the same. Far too many pages with everyone effectively sat about in Alnwick. The next part has people outside of Alnwick :gasp:

I've finally caught up again with the story again. Although I am not much of a Trempwick fan, I really enjoyed his trail. (As for who I am a fan of, that depends very much on my mood :egypt: .) I am also glad to hear that the story is going to move away from Alnwick. Out of curiosity, how much longer do you think the story will get?

Congratulations on impressing your bosses! May profits get even better next week ~;) .

:help: I desperately need time to catch up. Why can´t the day have 48 hours? It would be so helpful...

I wonder the same thing as Ludens, do you even have an ending in mind? I´m also rather worried, because, quite frankly, the length of the story seems to tether on my Word´s limits (well, who would imagine someone writing close to 1,300 pages? Not Bill Gates, by the look of it). Not that I´m saying you should finish any time soon, indeed, it´ll be a sad day indeed when this story will be declared finished.

We're pretty close. I've already written the final scene, and the endings of three character arcs are prepared in near-final condition. It's a case of joining the dots between there and here, and covering the last big event.

As for how long in terms of time, that's much harder to say. My new shop is my priority at the moment.

I'm just wondering mylady frog,
Did you base you're characters (partly) of of real hisorical persons?
Just the other day I noticed the similarities between Fuld and William Marchal. Although Fulk isn't an exact copy there are many similarities and some interesting coincidences.

So are there other such similarities with other characters?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Peasant Phill

Did you base you're characters (partly) of of real hisorical persons?
Just the other day I noticed the similarities between Fuld and William Marchal. Although Fulk isn't an exact copy there are many similarities and some interesting coincidences.

---

Interesting. What similarities are there between Fulk and Marshal? I am only slightly familiar with the career of the latter.

William Marshal is my favourite historical figure, hands down and barring none. That man's career was incredible, so much so that when I was a tiny frog I believed he was a fictional character! Ludens, you can find a tolerable overview of his career here.

While no character is based on real personages, there are trace elements. The Fulk/Marshal traces are the most readily apparent, though many of them are unintentional or a necessity of story. That said, knowing that there is historical basis for these elements is reassuring to me, and has allowed me to feel comfortable about including things which I might otherwise have shied away from in the name of realism.

The largest influence he had on Fulk is the way both are dubbed "the greatest knight". Simply, I couldn't find an alternative that sounded half as good as Marshal's historical tag. The best knight? The hero of Alnwick and some other battles?

Both men are highly skilled fighters, right in the top percentile. That's unintentional: Fulk's place in the plot requires him to be supremely talented. It's his skill which gets him a place as Nell's bodyguard, which enables him to survive and protect her, which wins him attention, and which eventually grants him a fighting chance (pun intended) of making this Earl of Alnwick business work. All that besides, I wanted to write about a highly skilled knight and here was my big chance.

That's another similarity: both men got their breaks due to their fighting skills. Their skill at arms made it possible for them to move up in the world.

Humble origins is another similarity some might see. IMO that's not valid. William Marshal was noble, through and through. Legitimately born, the son of a powerful and influential man who had served in positions of import and trust in several royal courts. John Marshal was something of a legend in his own day. Fulk's a bastard with peasant blood, and the son of a minor knight of trivial import.

The matter of marriage contains a pair of similarities. Both men married above themselves: Fulk to Nell, William Marshal to the de Clare heiress. Both gained wealth and rank from their wives, though Fulk's gains are at once both bigger (Nell's a princess!) and far smaller (no huge tracts of lands and no titles which bear tremendous weight). The other trace is that, as far as we can tell from the evidence, Marshal absolutely adored his wife and she him. Both of these similarities arise out of the simple fact that when Fulk married Nell he had to gain materially otherwise they would have absolutely nothing at all.

Any others in particular you were thinking of?


The second strongest set of traces IMO is one which will may shock readers who know the historical person. Trempwick/Simon de Montefort.

Both are men from good but not outstanding family who rose meteorically due to friendship with and service to the king. Both were honoured by their king with trust, lands, titles, money. Both held considerable influence.

Simon married princess Eleanor, Henry III's sister. He was considered to be beneath her, but just barely tolerable. Trempy very nearly married Nell, and was considered to be beneath her and barely tolerable. Simon and Eleanor married for love, without her family's permission. If not for Fulk, and if Trempy had handled the situation better, Nell would have found that there was more love than anything else in that mess of feelings she has for her former master.

Simon and Trempy eventually reached critical breaking point with their royal friend. Simon rose in open rebellion after a long period of disagreements and unhappiness, Trempy ... you know. After that break Simon succeeded, for a time at least. He held Henry III and his heir prisoner and effectively ruled the country. Then the wheels came off the cart, leading to Simon's death in battle. Trempy comes close to establishing himself but never quite manages it. Both men's efforts end with personal disaster.

Both men used their royal wives as part of their justification to rebelling.


Nell herself has only the most general of influences. She's influenced by all those medieval women who were brave enough to choose a husband for love, and to defy their families to marry them. She's influenced by those women who guarded their husband's castles in times of war, who demanded what was theirs by rights, who insisted on having influence over their own destinies, who were players in the grand game and not pawns. She's influenced by all those women who were brushed over and forgotten by recorded history because of the Victorian belief that the truth would only encourage all this nonsense about women voting and being treated like equals. Nell is what she is because meek damsels in towers were the abnormality in this period, not the standard.


That's enough for now. I'd better get writing the next part or it will be another week until anyone sees it. I find that I only get chance to write at weekends with this new job. Watch this space ...

The captain of the guards took down a length of rope from his saddlebow. “Hold out your hands, my lord.” The honorific was spoken with sufficient twist to be insulting.

Trempwick asked, “Is this truly necessary?”

“Hold out your hands.”

Appealed to the bailey full of people. His peers. His former friends. People who could be counted upon to see a noble’s privilege protected. “Is this necessary? I have given my word to attempt no escape.”

There was an uneasy moment. The throng conferred. Shuffled. Murmured. None looked fully at him – still. Unhappy to see a noble threatened with bonds. None spoke out. None condemned this affront to his birth.

Eyes made contact with Trempwick’s. Suffolk! Hope surged. Good old Suffolk. Always reliable. Always principled.

The earl said, “Your word is worthless. You have no honour.”

Trempwick flinched back as though slapped.

Slowly, wordlessly, he extended his arms, wrists together and allowed them to bind his hands before him.

The soldiers had to help him onto his horse. The indignity of it! He did not even know where he was being taken. A more permanent prison. A religious foundation of some kind. But where? No one had seen fit to inform him. Had been unable to discover for himself. Blinded and deafened – or as good as.

The early morning breeze was chill. Trempwick could no longer repress his shivers. Cold. Always cold since the battle. Cold in the chapel, cold in the hall, cold out here. Fed up of being cold. Aware of the folly of heading into the unpredictable spring weather improperly dressed. “Might I have a cloak?” he requested in a humble tone.

The captain hawked and spat off to one side. “You think my men have nothing better to do than pick up after you? Where did you leave it?”

Insufferable. Trempwick drew himself up in the saddle. Dignity, bound hands or no. “The only belongings which were returned to me after the battle you see on me now. Ask Alnwick, for he has all my other possessions.”

“You mean to tell me that you, former Earl of Kent and the old king’s friend, the man who claimed to be the husband of my lord’s wife, the man who thought to set himself up as king in all but name, you don’t have so much as a cloak to your name?” The soldier laughed, as did his men.

Bile burned in the pit of his throat. Swallowed, again, once more in a futile effort to banish it. “No. I do not.”

Hugh’s army was almost ready to march out. By midday they would be nothing but a cloud of dust on the horizon. From the shelter of the keep’s doorway Eleanor watched the final preparations. Servants rushed back and forth with armfuls of goods, loading them onto wagons.

On the other side of the bailey Hugh and his companions waited for their attendants to saddle their horses and lead them over. A second party, already mounted, waited in an unobtrusive corner; Trempwick and fifteen guards hand picked for their loyalty. They would take Trempwick to Repton. There was a small, enclosed abbey there which received little favour from the wider world. It would serve as a safe enough prison, at least for the time being.

Eleanor turned to Fulk. “There is one last question I have for him. Will you escort me?”

He pressed his lips together in disapproval, but gave a curt nod and offered her his arm.

Trempwick’s hands had been bound before him; he could still hold the reins well enough to maintain control over his mount provided he kept a steady pace. He bowed in the saddle. “Your Highness.”

“I have one last question for you.”

“Oh?”

Fulk slipped his arm about her waist and arranged his cloak so it covered her shoulders as well, a tender gesture which told the watchers, “She’s mine and it’s with my permission that she’s here!”.

Eleanor asked, “When did your path break from my father’s?”

“Ah.” Trempwick tapped his fingers on the pommel of his saddle. “Difficult to answer, and yet easy also.”

“Then do so, that I may have peace of mind and rid myself of the sight of you.”

Trempwick tapped out half a verse of some song about the joys of spring before abruptly stilling his hands. “You remember what I told you of William when Stephan was a baby?” He did not give her chance to affirm that she did. “Think of how much he must have changed, and in what ways, by the time your brother died. There is your answer, Nell. There was the first crack.”

The arse in the crown’s ruthless practicality had been too much for the spymaster? It seem ridiculous, unbelievable. Yet … it had not been William who had been required to kill Stephan. That task had fallen to his friend. To Trempwick also had fallen the burden of a student who blamed him entirely for her beloved brother’s death. From this one deed how many others had grown? Her own death had been ordered as a result, and only Trempwick’s intervention had saved her. Perhaps not so ridiculous after all.

Trempwick struggled to draw his cloak forward so it better covered his body. “Does that grant you peace of mind?”

“It may.” Eleanor let Fulk lead her back to the keep.





Eleanor returned her half-brother’s embrace. “God be with you.”

“And with you.” Hugh stepped back. “I thank you for your hospitality these past few days.”

“It was the least I owe you.” Formal leave-takings. So many structures and steps to dance through that they were more for the audience than those taking part.

Hugh backed down a few paces, still facing her. “I shall send you word of how I fare in Wales.”

So he had better! “That would ease my heart greatly.”

Now Hugh turned to face the otherwise ignored Fulk. “Do not fail the trust I have placed in you.” With that he turned and walked away.

Before Hugh could reach his horse the neat form was broken by Varin stepping forward from the throng of important bystanders. He bowed in Hugh’s direction. “If I may, my lord? I was instructed by my lady, the Empress, to deliver a message on the occasion of my departure.” Without waiting for an answer he moved to stand before Eleanor. He did not bow, or otherwise show deference. “My lady, the Empress, commands me to say this: You are seventh, last, least. Do not forget it.”

How very Matilda. Eleanor smiled sweetly and chose her response to hit upon her sister’s biggest vulnerability. “Please pass this message on to my sister in return: an excess of bile is commonly believed to hinder the chances of conceiving a son.”

The German flushed red. “Perhaps a son is not in God’s design for the Emperor and his wife. Have you thought of that?”

“Indeed.” Eleanor smiled again, so honeyed that she could rot teeth at ten paces. “However if she does not try she will not get.”

Varin laid his hand on his sword hilt. “The Empress does not need the advice of a whore!”

Hugh spurred his horse over next to the German. Mildly he said, “I pray you, chose your words more carefully lest Alnwick feel compelled to defend his lady wife.”

“I am an emissary!”

“Then be diplomatic.”

Varin let his hand fall away from his sword. “You would let him attempt to harm me, a representative of your sister?”

Hugh inclined his head gravely. “Eleanor is also my sister. I deplore the lack of cordiality between my sisters.”

Varin retreated to the protection of his countrymen. “My message is delivered. We shall depart for the coast now, as arranged. It remains only for me to wish you success in your endeavours, and to express once again my regret at our inability to stay to witness your coronation. My orders were specific; we were to return once your position was secure.”

“I thank you again for your aid, and pray you to give my warm regards to my sister and her lord husband.”

“I shall, and know they will be pleased to receive them.”

Hugh commanded his men to stand to respectful attention as the party of German knights rode out. Eleanor considered it a shrewd move; the homage to their fighting ability would stroke Matilda’s ego and may suffice to keep her from puffing up over Hugh’s intervention in this, the final chapter in the studied insults designed to remind the world she was older than the sister who had so nearly been crowned.

Hugh dismounted and came back to Eleanor’s side. “I wonder if I create trouble for another day?” he mused.

“If she comes I shall teach our sister a thing or two about who holds what rights, and the lesson will send her screaming back across the sea.”

Hugh’s only reply was to raise his eyebrows.

Eleanor had been named as heir and held proof of that. Thus she came above Matilda in the order of inheritance. The order of birth had been superseded by their father’s specific wishes. She smiled, and commented for any who might be eavesdropping to their quiet conversation, “English custom and law divides holdings equally amongst all daughters where there is no male heir. My sister has become such a foreigner that she forgets this. It is fortunate that we have you, is it not?” Eleanor patted her brother on the shoulder. “The squabbling would be quite unpleasant.”

Hugh watched the departing men for a space. “I will not be browbeaten by them into becoming akin to their vassal. Yes, they gave me aid when I needed it, unasked for and unsought. That does not make me so beholden to them as to bend my knee.”

“There is little enough harm they can do us here. Any attack must come across the sea, an expensive and risky proposition and one we can defend against with relative ease. Our lords would not accept them, and they surely know it.”

“I worry more about their influence with others. They might stir up trouble for me abroad.”

“Brother dear, settle yourself well in the saddle and they will need to keep you sweet for the aid you can provide against France.”

Hugh shook himself from his thoughts and placed one foot in the stirrups ready to mount. “I take my leave of you now. That day passes and time is lost.” With a smooth motion he boosted himself up and swung his leg over the back of his horse. “Do endeavour to remain out of trouble.”

“I can guess what you are thinking.”

Fulk dragged his attention away from watching the rearguard of Hugh’s army passing through Alnwick’s outer gatehouse. “Oh?”

“Good riddance,” Eleanor said.

“No!” The objection came so quickly it made him sound guilty. Which he was. Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well … not like that.”

Eleanor’s elbow dug into his bruised ribs. “Behave, crooknose.”

“I behave? What about you, oh diminutive terror?” Fulk offered her his arm, and together they retreated inside the keep.

“My second guess would have been that you were still bristling over Trempwick’s parting comment.”

Knowing that a bit of humour would do much to convince her to forget it, Fulk stuck his nose in the air. “Parting insults from defeated snakes are beneath my notice.” His playful arrogance nearly cost him as they reached the foot of the spiral stairs leading up to their private rooms; his wounded leg refused to lift far enough to clear the first step and, as he wasn’t watching where he was going, the first he knew of it was when his toe exploded into pain and he started to fall. Eleanor kept him upright with some quick support. “Thanks.”

“Be careful, my luflych little knight.” She released him and began to climb ahead of him. Several steps up she glanced back over her shoulder and grinned impishly. “In case you fall again. No reason for both of us to break our necks!”

Fulk exaggerated a sigh. “You wouldn’t dare speak to me like this if there were people to overhear.” He started his own painful climb, cursing that Alnwick’s keep boasted an impressive four floors above the ground.

Eleanor laughed, and halted again to look down on him. “How long has it been since we were without hangers on? Except for when we are in our chamber, I mean?”

“Weeks?”

“Months. Not really since Woburn.” She waited until he was close enough to reach out for her and skipped up another half-turn’s worth of stairs. “We have our lives back,” she exulted.

“That’s what I was thinking, outside.”

“No maids, no squires, no pages, no guards, no servants, no brothers, no-”

“Bothers,” Fulk cut in.

“No Trempwick, I think you mean.”

Fulk hitched his shoulders. “He’s a bother. I did refer to bothers in plural.”

“It was not an insult.” Eleanor stopped again, barring his own progress.

“Huh.” As Trempwick had ridden out of the bailey he’d by necessity passed them. He’d stopped, and in a very loud voice said to Fulk, “Love her well, and use her gently.” His mocking bow had been interrupted by his guards seizing the bridle of his mount and dragging it along after them.

“Truly.”

“Keep climbing,” Fulk said brusquely. “It’s draughty here.”

She did, dawdling. “It is a common enough blessing given out to the groom at weddings.”

Fulk snorted. “As if I’d ever treat you differently anyway, and as if I’ve any need of his advice. And he’s not your family. That’s a father’s wish, or a brother’s or-”

She stopped and spun around again. “Or a mentor’s, who cares for his pupil and wishes her happiness. Or a rival suitor’s, admitting he has lost.” Crouching down placed her face on a level with his. “He is gone. All that remains of him is that which we ourselves keep with us. Let it go.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. “Well said. Keep climbing, ‘loved.”

They passed the door into the third floor, a set of balconies above the main hall. Eleanor enquired, “How long will you stay? Before you ride out to Carlisle?”

That, truly, was what Fulk had been thinking of as they watched the army leave. “Days. A week, perhaps a few days more. I need to give my wounds chance to heal.”

She angled a flirtatious look back over her shoulder. “Is that the only reason?”

“I thought it might be pleasant to spend a bit of time being thoroughly married, what with all the time we’ve been apart.” His wicked grin was a waste of time, aimed at her back as it was. “How else can I appreciate the freedom of being out in the field if I’ve not been nagged within an inch of my life?”

“Quite. And those are the only reasons?”

As they neared the door into their solar Fulk thought he had what she wished to hear from him. “I’m an earl. It’s not for me to go gallivanting about hunting down small groups of men and engaging in the petty day to day business of cleaning up after Trempwick. It’s for me to coordinate it all, to make it possible, and to apply my weight where it’s needed most.”

Eleanor held the door open for him with a radiant smile. “I always said you were smarter than your penchant for armour suggests.”




Hugh swept tendrils of hair from Alice’s face with his fingertip, his work undone as she jerked forward to heave once again into the bowl. His hands felt clammy; it was but one morning and one bout of sickness, yet his heart pounded at what it might mean. Alice had done astoundingly well to keep the army’s pace as he rushed north to confront Trempwick, and she had been visibly flagging by the time they reached York. Consideration for her well-being, combined with the increased danger as he closed with the rebels, had caused him to leave her behind in the city.

Once the spasm has passed Alice straightened. Wearily she closed her eyes and leaned against him. “I should like a drink.”

Obediently Hugh fetched the pitcher she indicated, the second of the two in the room. He poured, and learned it was sour wine, most excellent for cleansing bad tastes from the mouth.

Sour wine! Indeed- the very presence of the bowl! The way her robe had been easily to hand, enabling her to snatch it up and cover her nakedness as she bolted from the bed! It struck Hugh all in an instant. She had been expecting this. “You are with child,” he exclaimed softly. He sat before he fell, one hand pressed to his face.

Alice covered her lower stomach with her arms, a subconscious motion which was all the answer he needed. “I have been taken ill each morning for the last week. I think it probable.”

That which he had endeavoured to bring about had happened: he had a second child on the way, proof of his fertility and God’s blessing. A child whose life would be dedicated to the support of the legitimate heir. A child to fill the aching gaps in his essence left by Trempwick’s murdering.

A bastard. Like himself.

The world was an altered place to that in which he had made those prudent decisions and set upon this course. Hugh poured himself a measure of her wine and gulped it down. “Why did you not tell me?”

He’d forgotten how very green her eyes were. “You arrived late last night, Hugh. My concern was for your comfort, and to hear all of your news. This morning …” She shrugged, pulling her covering more tightly about herself. “The first thing I did on waking was be sick, and that woke you.”

Dawn was still straggling its way into the world; the chamber’s fire had burned low and the coldest part of the night had recently passed. Shock warded against chill only so far; covered in gooseflesh and shivering mightily Hugh dragged his tunic over his head and wrapped his cloak about his shoulders. Lacking his linen undergarments the wool itched against his bare flesh. “You will be well cared for, you and the child both.” Because it mattered with an intensity that came from his new world Hugh knelt at her side, clasped her hand in both of his and looked her in the eye as he vowed, “This child will know its father, and will not lack affection.”

She accepted this with a nod. “Where does this leave us? Shall I be put aside now you have your child?”

“Do you wish to be freed of me?” Hugh countered.

Alice ducked her chin. “I …”

“Yes?” Hugh encouraged. She was gathering the nerve to tell him she wished to be rid of him, he was positive of it. This liaison had been entered into with considerable consideration to practicality by the both of them, she wishing to be free of her rebel of a husband, he desiring a child and companionship and aware of the realm’s expectations of him. “I gave you my word, you will not be returned to your husband. One cannot doubt that he would treat you most cruelly for surrendering Tilbury to me.”

“He’s a traitor. I wish you’d found his body after the battle. I hope he is killed as he bolts for safety!”

Where a husband and wife held strongly to opposed allegiances only ill could result. “He did not treat you as you deserved.”

“And I thank you for showing me that. For that alone … I owe you a debt, Hugh.” Tentatively, visibly afraid he would rebuff her now he had gotten her with child, Alice tucked herself in at his side and waited for him to make some contact.

Hugh placed his arm about her waist. So, she had not turned from him; he found himself smiling slightly, content. He did not love her as he did Constance, did not love her at all, but there was affection there, and tenderness, and it would take a tougher man than he to have little care for a lady whom he had introduced to the gentler side of the act of love and procreation. “It was my very great pleasure … and yours too, I have always hoped.”

She cast her eyes demurely down. “To my surprise, yes.”

“You might return home. Act as keeper of Tilbury for me.”

“I should be honoured by your trust in me.”

“Your husband, and others like him, will face exile. They have had sufficient opportunity and sufficient again to come to me. No more. They have scorned my mercy and shall suffer accordingly.”

“I shall hold Tilbury for you with all loyalty.”

Hugh began to dress, unable to withstand the cold. Unable to put into words the harsh truth: that he did not desire her sufficiently to place the child at risk by lying with her. Unlike Constance, with whom he had been unable to prevent himself reprehensibly risking the safety of his legitimate child and heir on numerous occasions. “When the child is of age it will be found a fitting place for education, and it will be amply provided for.”

Alice too began to don her garments. “Visit us occasionally. I can send the child to you sometimes, so you can see more of it without needing to see me.”

Hugh’s fingers fell still on the lacing of his hose.

“I understand how it must be,” Alice assured him. “It would be a slight to your wife if it were otherwise. You love her, and would not hurt her for the world. So you will see little of me, because while passing entertainment is no slight to her anything longer lasting or deeper is.”

“I will not put you aside into disgrace.” He thanked the Lord that he had always found a preference for sensible women, not emotional creatures who wailed and sobbed while turning their faces from reality to look to a dream.

“You have already promised me so. The child will be acknowledged and cared for, and with Tilbury and very occasional visits none will say I was used and dropped. Your wife’s honour is safe, and mine comes out as well as it might. I ask only that you allow me to marry again, should my husband die and I so choose.”

Hugh could not but wonder if her husband’s death would be natural. “I have no objection, provided a period of time passes between death and remarriage. A minimum of a year and a half would be respectable.”








I completed an MS Word based list of my history books last week. More than 400 books. 400. Most of them on medieval England, and all but a tiny percentage being academic not casual. 400. I knew I had a lot of them, but 400?! What did I do once my froggy mind had stopped boggling? I ordered another boxful :blankg:

Four hundred books. Why, that´s a library all of its own. And I take it you´re read all of them, too. Where do you find the time?

:applause: :applause: :applause:

Brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I only started to read this story a week ago and now I'm completely addicted to it. I'm currently trying to blitz the whole story and got to page 9/28. Its still gonna take a lot of time for me to get where most people are now.

Great story, keep up the good work Lady Frog. I would definitely buy that book when it come out. :beam:

Edit: coming to page 11, just out of curiosity, is Trimpwick a bad guy? I rather like the chap.

Welcome Quintus.JC

Here are the eyedrops that comes with your subscription to this story.

P.S. there aren't bad/good guys in this story like ther are in most Hollywood movies. However, there are characters with who you sympathise or don't sympathise. And even then ...

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Peasant Phill

Welcome Quintus.JC

Here are the eyedrops that comes with your subscription to this story.

P.S. there aren't bad/good guys in this story like ther are in most Hollywood movies. However, there are characters with who you sympathise or don't sympathise. And even then ...

---

Yeah I understand. I'm only currently about halfway, I could find sympathy with just about all the characters; even old king William, even though the way he treats Eleanor can't be forgiven, I also rather dislikes Prince Hugh, he's far too dogmatic for anyone's good. Trempwick seemed to have a geniue fondness for Eleanor if not love. Anyway have to keep reading, I wish the days were longer....

Edit: Just got to the part where Fulk and Nell are finally married, Gosh I'm so happy. I know there are still so many twists and turns, but finally, things are starting to look up for them. I hope this story has an happy ending.

Finally got to the end. Poor Trempwick... :embarassed: it's a great story Lady Frog. I'll be looking forward for the grand finale, hope it will be a happy one.:yes: