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To her highness Lady Frog,
My name is Olaf Blackeyes. I have been trying to read through your titanic stroy for almost two months now. I am still only at page fifteen of this thread. You are en epic storymistress i must say. I am having a hard time following all of my suspicions of your characters. If you were to write this as a book to sell i believe you would become famous.But enough praise for now. i must get back to reading
:laugh4::laugh4::yes::beam:
On the way home from work today I got hit by the idea for a scene, and when I say hit I mean it thudded into me like a truck steamrolling a hedgehog on a motorway. I nearly started giggling on the bus! It was too good to let slip – it demanded to be written – and so I hit the keyboard on getting home. An hour and a bit later here we are, a short story featuring Jocelyn. I thought this one might go down well with the Jocelyn fans here, and it does give you something to read.
A baby which isn’t a boy is a … girl?
Jocelyn swept in through the gate like a conquering hero. He was: he was a glorious conquering hero who had achieved incredible things, leaving all men in his shade.
His sons came rushing over, all six of them. Strapping, handsome lads with fair colouring and sturdy grace – they clearly took after their father. They clamoured about his destrier, asking questions and pouring out worship for his prowess. Like the excellent father he was he humoured them, telling them this and that about his latest feats. About how he’d killed twenty men in a single battle. About how he’d won his own weight in gold at the king’s tournament. About how he’d awed his royal lord and been awarded another manor.
His wife waited for him to dismount before flinging herself on him in a display of emotion. Richildis weeping with joy, telling him how very proud she was of him. Jocelyn flashed his sons a bright smile to say “Watch your old man in action!” then devoted his attention to kissing his wife most thoroughly.
Richildis drew away, blushing most becomingly. In a throaty murmur she said, “I had the servants warm the bed sheets …”
“But I haven’t had a bath,” Jocelyn exclaimed.
“I don’t care.” Richildis took his arm, oh so very demure to those who were watching and couldn’t know that she was leading him off towards the keep. Yowzah! “I’ve been waiting for you to return for long enough.”
Being a right proper courtly man Jocelyn didn’t protest further, calling back over his shoulder instructions for his sons to take care of his horse.
At that point, right when things were getting to their most interesting, someone elbowed him in the ribs and Jocelyn woke up. “Bloody hell …”
Richildis thumped him again. “The baby!”
“What about him?” Jocelyn turned over and put his back to her. Thierry was sleeping peacefully in his crib – pity the same couldn’t be said of his poor tormented father.
The damned woman just elbowed him some more and cried, “The baby! It’s coming!”
Oh. That baby. The second one. Jocelyn sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Couldn’t you have picked a better time, damn it?” Remembering that there tended to be all kinds of hellish mess involved in birth, it seemed like a damned fine idea to get out of the danger area immediately.
Richildis snarled, “No, I could not!” God’s bones, what was her problem anyway?
The bedchamber was coming to life; Richildis’ maid stumbled away in search of the midwife while young Alain, Jocelyn’s page, handed his shivering lord his shirt.
Jocelyn tugged the linen over his head, aware that his cock was half up and bobbing with his movements like a drunken peasant on the way home from the pub. Virile? Nope, more like pathetic. How totally at odds with his awesome male machismo!
All the bother woke Thierry up. The poor lad instantly started to scream his wee little head off in protest. Jocelyn beamed like a proud daddy even as he winced at the volume. No one could doubt his son had a healthy pair of lungs.
For no reason at all Richildis screamed, “Ooooow!” Then the stupid cow hurled the bolster at him. “This is all your fault! I hate you!”
Ordering his page to bring the rest of his clothes Jocelyn exited his bedchamber before anything else could go wrong. Last thing he needed was to listen to Richildis whinging about pain or dying or whatever, and as for mess and all that … stuff, well frankly it was female business and best left to them. He’d done his part months ago and it was time to be off!
Once through the doorway he remembered Richildis no doubt needed his encouragement to keep her fragile spirits up during the lengthy ordeal. Besides, she was about his give him another son and well, he’d be a scummy churl if he didn’t do his best to support her. Jocelyn ducked back around the doorframe and called, “Good luck!” There. What more could a woman ask for? With that he retreated to dress.
By the time he reached the main hall most of those who’d been slumbering there had been woken up by the commotion going on above. Excellent- if he had to miss his bloody rest them then everyone else damned well could too.
One of Jocelyn’s knights saluted him with a wine cup. “Here’s to another crop from our lord’s ploughing!”
Others bellowed their approval.
Jocelyn brandished a fist in the air, grinning. “Another fine son to follow after me.”
“Might not be. Might be a girl.” The man who’d spoke this ridiculous thought met the scores of eyes which centred on him with a defiant shrug. “Just saying, that’s all. It might be. Babies do come in two sorts, after all.”
“It will be a son. Of course it will – why wouldn’t it? All my children are boys.” Jocelyn stood with his feet planted, thumbs thrust through his belt. His pride in his abilities didn’t quite run far enough to tastelessly thrust his crotch out, but damn it if the suggestion of incredible virility wasn’t there! “My seed runs to boys and nothing else! One legitimate, two bastards. How many others can say they’ve had so many boys in a run?” And he wasn’t yet in his twenty-second year, by God’s balls. Sometimes he amazed even himself! “Now will someone get me a bloody drink? Or do I have to wait like a novice monk finding out what his penance will be?”
Goblet filled, emptied, filled and drained once more Jocelyn swayed to his feet. Better go and put in a prayer or two for the safe delivery of his son. His wife too. Nagging, whinging blight that she was, at least she was pretty. Useful too; good administrator in his absence. Be tragic if she died and he had to marry some ugly thing that wasn’t any fun to bed, or a giggling empty-headed trollop who spent his money like water. Hmm, well, the trollop part of that wouldn’t be so bad. Um, if she confined her enthusiasm to him, anyway. Nothing worse than wondering if your son was your son, and if Tildis was as cold as ice well at least he didn’t need to worry about her scampering off after some ninny with nice legs and a tuneful singing voice!
Second children didn’t take as long to arrive. That’s what everyone had told him. Thierry had taken the best part of an entire day to show up. Second children usually showed up within a matter of hours, or so they insisted. He bloody well hoped so because the entire birth process thing was torture. Richildis probably wasn’t enjoying it much either. The time crawled by. Jocelyn drank. He prayed. He wandered about his chapel. He reconsidered names, returning as always to Jean. A good name, that. His grandfather’s name. A strong name. He wondered again if he should endow this son with a bit of land, direct him to life as a landless knight, or put him into the church. Best to see what the lad shaped up like, really. Be a crying shame to put a natural fighter into the church. With Jocelyn for a father the boy would be no milksop, that was for damned sure!
And still he waited. This was all because of Tildis’ agitated state at the start, no doubt. If the damned woman hadn’t gotten over-excited and starting hollering and throwing things then little Jean would be here already. Damn her! And may God and the Blessed Virgin watch over her and bring her safely through her labours.
Jocelyn headed back to the hall for another drink, and passed the time regaling the assembly with his plans for Jean.
At long last his wife’s maid appeared in the doorway which led up to the private chambers. A cheer went through the hall, a drunken kind of cheer which was all happy and good because everyone knew that he had a second son and the future was as secure as secure could be like gold in a box which was locked up and stored in a locked up room inside a castle with hundreds of guards who were as honest as honest could be. Yes.
The maid began, “Mother and baby are both hale and well.”
Jocelyn raised his goblet. Some of the wine slopped onto his wrist. “My son! Greet my son! Hail Jean!”
Voices called back, “May he prosper!” and other such blessings which were really very nice and just the sort of thing you want for your lovely new boy.
The maid said, “No, my lord. Your daughter.”
“What?” Jocelyn gaped at her. Must be the wine. Yes. Drank too much. Was drunk. Yes, imagining things and not hearing properly and oh my God this couldn’t be happening to him! A daughter!?
“You have a daughter, my lord.”
Nope. Wasn’t the drink. Wasn’t his hearing. She’d actually said it. Buggering hell! “What!?” he repeated.
“A daughter. A girl. One of those children which grow up to become women.”
Some folk tittered at that bit of disrespect. Jocelyn tottered towards the maid with the intention of clouting her. “But I don’t want a daughter!” he said, completely bewildered at how this had happened. It was Richildis’ fault. It had to be. She’d done it on purpose, just to spite him.
“None the less, that is what God has given you.”
Jocelyn finally reached the maid and thumped her upside the ear. “Show more respect to your lord, damn your hide!”
The maid clutched her injury and cowered a bit. That was better. “My lady wonders if my lord will come and see his daughter?”
When Thierry had been born he’d shot off up those stairs to greet his son before they’d even finished telling him. A daughter. A daughter! “No,” he snapped. “I won’t.”
The maid swallowed hard, and it wasn’t hard to see that she dreaded taking this news back to her mistress. Yeah, well, sod her. Shouldn’t have brought him such dreadful news, and anyway she was plain and Richildis had only chosen her because she thought that Jocelyn wouldn’t touch such a dull creature and maybe she was right but then maybe she wasn’t because Jocelyn would do what he damned well pleased and if he wanted a plain girl to play with then he’d bloody well have a plain girl to play with, thanks very much and if it was all the same! “What name does my lord wish to give the child?”
Jocelyn turned away, in dire need of another drink. “What do I care? It’s no interest to me what the thing is called. Damn it, it’s not even of use to me! Tell my wife she can name it whatever she pleases.”
“And when she asks when you will come to see the baby?”
Jocelyn turned back, bleary with wine and disappointment. “When I please, and not a bloody moment before.”
He had to see the baby. Duty, fatherhood and all that. Alright, more than that: he couldn’t go twelve years never coming into contact with the thing until the day he started to arrange its marriage. Not enough space in the castle for that, for one thing. Better bite down and get it over with. It wasn’t a complete disaster after all. Other men had daughters. Good thing, otherwise no one would ever have anyone to marry. Women were wonderful, marvellous creatures, and his life wouldn’t be the same without them. It was just that he’d never seen himself as producing them. Marrying them, seducing them, dallying with them, passing them in the street, seeing them in daily life and all that, yes, but making one of his own? No way!
Jocelyn delayed some hours, doing his best not to drink any more so he’d at least be mostly sober when he went to look at it. Mostly. Important detail there.
The baby was small. It was still squashed from passing out of Richildis’ body. It had gone a normal colour instead of the freakishness of the very newly born, that much at least could be said. It was … what? Holding the baby in his arms Jocelyn wondered what to do. Thing was, it was a girl. With boys it was easy. You held them, you admired them, you listened to their lusty bellowing and knew it meant they would be fine and healthy men in a couple of decades. You prodded your finger into their palms and foretold a strong grip on a sword. You looked at their balls and exclaimed how lucky their women would be. And so on. Girls … Honestly, what could you say? That it would be good at sewing? That its nether parts were nicely shaped? Christ almighty and a barrel of pickled figs, however comfortable Jocelyn was with that end of a woman it really was quite not the same thing at all and totally, completely icky to even contemplate looking at that bit if it was related to him, which this one was, and not only that it was a baby and less than five hours old!
Richildis prompted, “Her name is Mahaut.”
He’d not said anything for entirely too long. He’d better come up with something fast or Tildis would go into some kind of sulk about him not appreciating her efforts or something. Jocelyn went through the words carefully. He should say he was glad she was safe and well. That the child was well. That he was pleased. He started to speak. “Damn it, this is your fault! You didn’t eat enough beans or something, or you’d have had a boy! My seed always runs to boys! I told everyone it would be a boy! This is going to cost me a fortune later when I have to marry it on!”
The baby started to cry. Thierry started to cry. Richildis started to cry. Jocelyn had take all he could stomach; he handed the baby back to the wet nurse and stormed out. He’d be damned before he’d stay there and let them make him feel ungrateful and guilty.
Jocelyn spent the day hunting. Bastard stags and such probably did nothing but spawn endless parades of sons anyway, so they deserved to be killed.
He’d gotten rather muddy so he headed up to his bedchamber for a change of clothes. Yeah, well he could hardly hide forever, could he? This was his life now. Every time he went near his family the girl would be there, lurking, waiting to remind him again how little Jean had failed to appear. Tildis would be all glowering and miserable, blaming him for not being happy. Females! They made his life wretched and it was not fair!
Blessed peace reigned in the chamber. Thierry was asleep, so was Richildis, and the new one was being held by its nurse and staring blankly into space like babies tended to do.
Jocelyn stealthily crept across the floorboards, dodging the ones he knew creaked, praying to any kindly heavenly force which might still care for him that nothing would disturb the scene and make his life more awkward.
He stripped off his hose without second thought for the nurse. If she looked then she could admire, if not then who cared? Not like he could do anything with her anyway, what with her being a recent mother herself. Ah, and there was a new gloomy thought: he’d still got forty days left to run before Tildis was churched and he could begin work on young Jean. He’d be buggered if he was going to hang around that long; he’d have to pass near Jeannette’s soon. Last week’s visit already felt like a long time ago. Damn it, that wonder knew what to do with a man!
He straightened up from fastening the cloth strips which wound around his shins to keep his legs warm and hose clean, and found a fresh tunic. As he pulled his dirty one off he heard the baby made one of those strange snuffling, choking noises the very young frequently made. Damned thing wouldn’t let him forget about it, would it?
Oh, sod it. Let it not be said that he neglected the child. He hadn’t wanted it but still, he’d got it and had to make the best of it. It wasn’t right to leave a child to grow up ignored.
Tightening his belt Jocelyn stalked over to the nurse and thrust out his arms. “Hand it over then.” He kept his voice low. Better not wake anyone up or there’d be more crying and bother.
The nurse silently placed the girl in his arms and withdrew to a discreet distance.
“So. Mahaut.” Where had Tildis got that name? The baby stared up at him with the unfocused, myopic gaze of the very young. Big blue eyes, just like all his sons had had shortly after birth. What colour would this one’s eyes settle to? Light Jocelyn thought, and fair colouring. “I suppose you’ll be beautiful. With parents like us how could you not be?” Well she had already been contrary enough to be a girl instead of a boy, so he wouldn’t be that shocked if she was ugly too.
Christ’s cross, that nurse kept watching and it was off-putting, and trying to be quiet so he didn’t wake anyone up was just as bad. And it occurred to him that he hadn’t made his parentage of the child publicly known, which kind of sort of boded trouble maybe because then people might whisper that it wasn’t his after all, and that wouldn’t do. He’d fair burst with pride when he’d held Thierry up to display him to his people! Not so this time.
Jocelyn headed towards the door, still carrying the baby. The wet nurse protested, “You can’t-”
He snapped, “Is it mine or not? I can do as I please with it.” Did the damned woman think he intended to lob it off a tower or something!? He wasn’t a monster, for crying out loud!
Jocelyn took the stairs slowly, careful not to fall or lose his balance. Tildis would complain if he dropped the baby down three flights of stone steps and he couldn’t be bothered with that. As they neared the next floor the baby began to fuss and thrash its arms about. Jocelyn paused. “You’d better not be about to throw up on me or something. You’ve caused me enough trouble already, damn it.” He shivered a bit; it was cold on the unheated staircase. “Oh. I suppose you are cold. Don’t suppose I can expect you to tough it out like a boy.” He gathered up the trailing edge of his cloak and wrapped it around the blankets already covering Mahaut. “There. Better?”
Still the baby stared at him. Well, maybe not stared. At this age they just looked blankly in the direction of any noise. How very flattering.
He continued his descent. “You’re going to cost me a fortune. Dowries don’t come cheap, you know. Then there’s all that business about dresses and such, and I can’t just give you Thierry’s old toys. There’s no way I’m letting you loose with a wooden sword when you’re able to walk, bloody hell no! No daughter of mine is going to be a hellion. Take notice of that, baby.” He tapped her gently on the chin, marvelling at how massive she made his fingertip seem. Sternly he warned, “You’re going to be very well behaved.”
Not much of a reaction. Disappointing, really. Maybe she’d be more interesting when she was older. Able to smile, laugh and all that. Right now he might as well talk to a log. At least a log would be useful. You couldn’t use a baby to keep a fire going. Well, ok, you could if you were an evil son of a bitch, but Jocelyn wasn’t and would never so much as think about it.
“You had better be a credit to me. Gracious, pretty, and all that. I’ve been put through enough embarrassment because of you already.”
The fussing had stopped, and she was still gazing up at him. Kind of an adoring gaze, actually. She liked him? Of course she did – he was her father and an all-round stunning chap. “You’ve got good taste to work that out so quickly,” he told her. “Guess you inherited that from me because it can’t have come from your mother.” Wonder what else she’d pick up from him? Interesting thought, now he looked at it. With boys it was fairly easy to think of a miniature version of himself, but what would he be like as a girl? “I wonder …” Jocelyn paused again. “Beautiful, that goes without saying. Charming too. And smart. But that’s not a person, not really, is it? I mean, are you going to end up with a sturdier build – and I don’t mean fat or chunky because no blood of mine could ever be like that! – or will you be all slight and willowy? Going to have fine fingers like your mother, stronger ones like mine, or something midway between the two? My eyes or hers? My nose or hers?”
A myopic blink was his only answer.
“You like me, don’t you? That’s why you’re not wailing. Got to be. Yes. You like me talking to you, don’t you?” He tickled the baby under the chin and got something that passed for a laugh. “You’re a cunning little bundle, you know that. Yes, you are.” Jocelyn realised he was cooing and cleared his throat. In a more manly tone he continued, “You’re trying to charm me. You know that I’m no good at resisting charming women, don’t you? You know I can’t dislike any woman who adores me, don’t you? Cunning little thing.” And he found himself beaming. “You’re going to love me. Your mother won’t like that but so what, she’ll just have to live with it.”
When he reached the main hall Jocelyn stood in the middle of the dais with Mahaut in his arms and waited for quiet. Carefully he held the baby up so all could see her. “This is my daughter, Mahaut. She is perfect in every way and without blemish, and of my blood. Greet her.”
Everyone in the hall responded with a hail of some sort, recognising their lord’s latest addition to his brood.
The noise upset the baby and she began to bawl. Jocelyn rocked her in his arms and made shushing noises, waving away the half-hearted attempts to take her off his hands. “Quiet, quiet, it’s alright, I’m here. Daddy’s here. I’ll buy you a rattle, would you like that?” As he started back up the stairs the wailing slowed. He kept up his efforts, determined not to be proved lacking as a father. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you? Yes, you would. If you’re a good baby and stop crying by the time we get to the top I’ll buy you a nice toy to chew on too. Even though you’re much too young to have teeth, you’d like that. Yes, you would. I saw this lovely one in the shape of a bird, just right for tiny fingers to clutch, and it had seeds inside it so it rattled, which will make it almost as good as your rattle, won’t it? Then you’ll have both. Won’t that be nice?” The crying stopped, see what an excellent parent he was? Outstanding!
“I’ll get you a blanket. A nice one. Something in deep blue to match those eyes of yours, at least until we know what colour they are going to be when you grow up. How about that? Yes, that’s nice, isn’t it.” And damn it if somehow he hadn’t been caught. He couldn’t say why and he couldn’t say when it started, but he loved this little girl with all his heart. He recognised another fundamental truth. “Daddy’s going to go into debt over you, isn’t he?”
Mahaut cooed in agreement.
“I’ll get you a pony when you’re old enough to ride, and lots of nice clothes, and some little shoes made out of red leather because I always thought they looked cute but you can’t put cute clothes on a boy. And a ball, and a toy horse, and …”
Welcome Olaf. You will be in need of the famous Eleanor eyedrops by now, to help your eyes survive the marathon read :hands them over:
:takes eye drops: My thanks your highness. These will come in useful for this read and future reads as well. I finished your story up to the current installment about a week ago. Once i got started i read through it REALLY quick. I seriously think you should consider getting this published. I know id buy it:beam::beam::smash::beam:.
I can only wonder what gonna happennext now that Trempy is in chains or is this truly the End? I have to admit that for while there i was expecting the Germans to invade England or Eleanor to get exposed and executed or something like that. :2thumbsup:
GJ plz keep it up.
Wonderful tale, Froggy! Thank you! You write Jocelyn so very well. <insert more gushing praise here>
Two little things: I realize Jocelyn would think it without question, but I was surprised you used the "c" word - then again, I guess we've all grown older, eh? And I was startled to see Jocelyn's age referenced as 22. (I realize this story need not take place in the time frame of Eleanor's tale.)
Anyway, strong and compelling writing; thanks again.
I see many things have progressed. Trempwick i feel will still have a major role, despite his intended fate. I was rather sad to see Jocelyn go as he gives the story a certain depth IMO. Glad you gave him a final go, was a great idea indeed. Don't overwork yourself updating or grinding your teeth to nubs to give us a quick respite from the want of more gooseberry stories. I'd personally prefer if you gave yourself a respite from the hectic life you have before continuing to write, refreshed. I sense the end is near...still, keep up the good job:2thumbsup:.
Thanks to let us give a last good-bye to Jocelyn. He'll be missed.
But now, on with the story.
They cut his hands loose. What chance now of his escape? Slender to none. Mewed up inside these walls … Grant him time and mayhap. Mayhap. Repton was no fortress. Was but an abbey incrementally dwindling away at a site which had once been royal. Once. Long, long ago. Before the Conqueror.
Dwindling. Trempwick smiled oh so very slightly as he rubbed his wrists to ease away the imprint of rope. Dwindling – with high stone walls and a layout easily covered by a handful of guards. A nearby castle. Patrols. And, of course, royal connections.
“You smirk.” The abbot stood, folded his hands into his dangling sleeves. “You find something in our situation humorous?” The guards left.
Ah, forget it. Once caught a man might let go a little. Trempwick admitted himself caught in more ways than one. Still amazed by it. Delighted. Infuriated. Disgusted. He let the smile bloom. “I do. Indeed I do. My dear Nell has such qualities – one must appreciate them.”
The abbot sank back into his seat. Posed like the stern old twig he was. “I could not comment.”
Trempwick tutted. “Come, man. She has handed me, her former tutor, to your care. You, who applied for that very same honour, and failed to win her. It is quite … delightful. So delicate. Like the merest touch of a cat’s claw to warn against importune movement.” A form of purgatory for both men.
“I do not recall that I failed to win her,” bristled the other man. “I recall that you obstructed me at every turn.”
Polite motion with his right hand. “Naturally. Having found her worth the bother of teaching I could hardly hand her off again, could I?”
“You do not appear to have taught her well.”
At this Trempwick did laugh. “Roger, take it for the honest truth and not exaggeration when I say that if I had not taught her well I would not be here.”
“Forgive me when I say that if you had taught her well she would now be a credit to her family, not married to some …” The abbot’s lip curled, “thing dragged from the Lord knows where, and may he soon be returned to those dunghills from which he emerged. Touched by scandals. Implicated in the centre of a civil war! A princess of the blood, ruined.”
“Views you have made no secret of,” Trempwick shot back. “The comments you have made on her these past months … Well, let us say they are akin to jutting your head above the parapet and begging to be shot, my dear man.”
The words seemed to goad rather than cow Roger. “It is my moral duty as a man of God to comment on such obscenity!” Stabbed a finger at Trempwick. “Even you will admit this one has landed herself in a disreputable position.”
Cautiously, “I admit there are aspects of her present state which fall outside my hopes for her-”
The abbot interrupted boldly, “You mean she is not warming your bed and providing you a crown!”
Continued smoothly, “However I believe that if you had gained your way, then yes, she would have been ruined. You would made of her some pious nun, or a docile wife.”
“Precisely!” Roger jabbed at Trempwick with a forefinger. Again. Tiresome, overused gesture. “A credit to her blood.”
Shaking his head as he spoke, “And such a dreary waste of talent. The world has a thousand thousand docile wives and another hundred thousand boring nuns. It has precious few capable of proper thought.” Trempwick made himself chuckle, and seated himself on the edge of the abbot’s desk. Earned a glare by it. Good. “Does our situation not prove what I say? What docile wife would conceive this?”
The abbot massaged his greying temples. “This placement came as royal command. I was duty bound to accept it. I make no secret of the fact I do not want it – I would prefer you anywhere but here, Trempwick. I fear I shall not have a single restful moment as long as you remain within these walls.”
Bared teeth, show that the wolf is not yet vanquished. “Then open the gates and let me go.”
Roger lowered his arms to the table top. “I am commanded to do all in my ability to keep you here, and so I shall.”
“Indeed you shall, for you are far from favour and would do well to fear for your future should you fail.” Widen that feral smirk a touch. “Hugh. Nell. Neither will forgive you for letting me loose. Nor will those in affinity with them. Fail and you are finished. Is it not as beautiful as I said? She has achieved vengeance and security in one move.” Lose the smugness. “And I, fortunately for you, gave Eleanor my solemn vow that I would attempt no escape.” More’s the pity.
“And what value has this?” Roger snapped hid fingers. “That! None but a fool or a child would trust your word, traitor.”
“And so we shall all be on our toes, each minute of each day. On our toes and at each other’s throats, if I might be so bold as to make that prediction.” Stroked his lower lip. “Ah, has she not worked a thing worthy of respect?”
Roger slouched back in his chair. “Huh. And so you too are pushed from the wagon. It’s a wonder you lasted so long. That girl acquired early a reputation for running through tutors.”
“Oh, very much so,” Trempwick admitted easily. “If anything I think the general gossip understated. One man went to Ireland rather than remain with her. Got himself killed. Spear in the face during one of the many ambushes the locals were inflicting on our men.” That damned fool had tried to beat her. He should have known royal pride would not tolerate it.
Richard morosely crossed himself. “One wonders if it is a hatred for all tutors, or just those she came into contact with.”
Trempwick decided to laugh. It was almost a reasonable bit of humour. “Only those she has personally met, I think. That is to say, I do not know of her causing bother for any who did not attempt to touch her life.”
The abbot laughed too. Perhaps this captivity might be endurable after all.
Said, “I have given some thought as to how I might pass my days.”
“Bored?”
Thin smile to acknowledge the foray. “I am requested to work on an instructional piece.”
“Requested by whom?”
“By my lady Eleanor. Who else?”
Drew the immediate response, “You will do nothing until I have prince Hugh’s permission.”
Trempwick shrugged. Nell would ensure permission came. Her desire – need – to learn the remainder of what he had to teach was too great to allow the bastard to interfere.
Roger steepled his fingers. “Were I you, Trempwick, I should spend my time in prayer. For the good of my soul.”
A certain gentle tone conveyed more threat than any amount of posturing. He used it. “Try to cut a tonsure on my head and I will break both your arms.”
“For myself, I should be pleased enough to let you burn in hell for all eternity, traitor. My position as a churchman demands I make the effort to save you.”
“Spare me.” Touched the crucifix he wore about his neck. “Higher authorities than those on earth will judge me, and all that is in my heart will be known to them.”
The abbot’s eyes narrowed. “We shall debate matters of religion, it appears.”
“As you like.” Stood up, looked down at the other man. “I will read. Everything you have, and all that you can request from elsewhere. I shall play chess. I shall do stretches and other simple exercise to keep myself limber – I abhor the idea of growing soft and fat.” Like a cleric. “I shall keep abreast of news from the world, if only that you may be assured I have no links with outside other than those you grant me. I shall find sundry other ways to occupy my days, I am sure. The prospect of an idle life is not one I have previously faced. As a boy I had my training. As a man my work.” And he would wait. Above all that.
Tone one of overstated reasonableness which mocked, “Is there anything else you wish to make your stay more enjoyable, Raoul?”
Considered. “Yes. I noticed on the ride in that you have a good herd. I presume you have a dairy to match? I shall learn to make cheese.” A man of his age heading into semi-retirement might be permitted some whimsy.
That brings us to the end of what should have been one part, not many.
Another Christmas survived. Number 4. Each year has been worse than the last. I wonder if that is related to my being promoted to a higher position each year, or if it’s merely down to Christmas in this company getting nastier? Bit of both, I’d guess. Never had to worry about stock levels before. Never had to stay after the shop closes on Christmas eve to set up a sale before either.
I have a persistent, nagging vision of a short story. It has been dogging me for days. Weeks. It’s an event I have known about for years and not been bothered by until now. There’s a problem: it’s set years after my intended cut off point for this story. It would make a lovely epilogue scene, actually. Alright, there’s more than one problem. I absolutely do not intend to have an epilogue, and will not add one. It works well as a stand alone and fits my vision better as one. The final problem? It’s after this ends, so you can’t read it :p That means the wait for the next postable piece would be longer. I’ll see if I can keep it smothered until I am done with the main story, then there won’t be a delay. Not going to be easy - I close my eyes and I see the boy nicknamed Silent staring at me and I get shivers down my spine because I can’t ignore that there’s a form of beauty in the way it echoes.
There’s another vision after me, too. A far lengthier tale, though definitely short by my standards as it would ‘only’ run to ~50 pages. I have said previously that I could do the story of Fulk’s parents. Alas, there’s a scene in their story which they have weaved before my nose and it’s quite … striking. And as such, persistent. Fulk’s father is a man I find I like quite a bit. It doesn’t help that the song he starts to sing is one of the authentic medieval ones on my most common Eleanor writing soundtrack. The instant it appeared on tonight’s playlist I was no longer with Trempy in Repton, but with two others in an altogether different scene!
Threes are so often considered important. Perhaps it shouldn’t be surprising that there’s a third. This one doesn’t chase, doesn’t fight for attention. This one stands leaning against a stone wall, arms folded and this sardonic smirk on his face. All tall, lean and lanky, not good looking and a bit gaunt in the cheeks, a sword on his belt, wearing a white tunic with red and deep blue border decorations and possessing the name Guyon. I don’t know who he is or what he has to say. He might tell me. He might push off from that wall and saunter back off into the shadows with that almost whip-like manner of moving he’s got. He is getting more defined … I didn’t know he was called Guyon until this afternoon. I admit I am deeply curious about his story so I hope he doesn’t go away.
(You may stop reading now. What follows is a frog writing to straighten thoughts. It helps sometimes. :shrug: Might be of interest, probably not.)
Hehe, I’m overjoyed! After all these long months of weariness and exhaustion I began to fear I had written all I was intended to. The fire was gone. The spark, the zest, the ideas, the scenes and characters which plagued me day and night and demanded to be put down on page, and which flowed down effortlessly as fast I could type. The flame still burns: Jocelyn’s scene above wrote itself in a flash, and multiple scenes battle in my head for my full attention. It’s like learning you could fly, then finding you could barely skim the ground … then waking from a dream to find you are soaring.
Soaring gives you a different view. That frog’s eye view of the story has been sinking lower and lower to the ground. Now I’m back up here I can see why I’ve been struggling a bit, feeling that the flame was gone. It’s not simply exhaustion from work, though that has played a part. For me the story is over. I’ve told the bits which strike my passion. All that’s left – all I have been doing for a while now – is the necessary business of bringing it to a point where it can end respectably. For me the story ends where Trempwick is brought before Hugh’s court and admits he lied. Jocelyn’s final scene burned, but it’s not part of the story. It orbits it, but is not part. It’s nice to see Matilda’s messenger get slapped down, or Hugh reunited in victory with Constance, or Malcolm refusing the place of honour at the victory feast in order to sit with Fulk They are pinpricks of light in the sea of grey, things I can write but do not burn to.
For you it cannot end at that scene – that wouldn’t be a loose ending so much as a great big fat gaping hole the size of a third world nation. All of the Eleanor scenes which burn for me are in the past or in the future from here. This is the grey land of necessity. I know where it has to end for you. I’ll get there.
Each time I have seen writing discussed I have seen my own … style described as the rarest, the luckiest, and not infrequently as the one which produces the best work. The closest thing the literary world has to people born as natural musicians or artists. Scary, to find myself near any of those labels! That’s critics, writers with other styles, and writers who share my style, all talking about something I honestly give little thought to. What oh so very few of them ever mention is the caveat. Yes, my characters, worlds and stories form themselves with no effort from me. Yes, they flow onto the page with frightening speed and what seems like little effort. Yes, writer’s block is unknown, or other such hindrances. Yes, it’s all instinctive, natural, not something I have had to consciously labour at. I’ve needed to refine, experiment, learn, but never labour.
The caveat which goes hand in hand with this style? When there’s no burning light you fumble along in the dark. When everything provides itself it’s incredibly tough to manage alone when you need to. It’s … hard to describe. Think of those times when you have been very ill indeed. So ill that when you finally crawl out of bed you can barely stand, and have to work hard not to fall over. When everything you took for granted is suddenly a huge labour – and you know it shouldn’t be, and can’t help but remember that where you now stagger and grow tired quickly you used to sprint.
Time to get labouring. There will be a way to get better results than I am now. If I don’t have a flame then surely I can find myself a cheap battery powered torch?
Merely being able to close my eyes and mentally dive into the sea again is a boost. The flames are burning, not for what I’m writing here, but burn they do, and a little light is cast, and I’m reassured to know that they are there.
It’s 10:30 at night and I’m still recovering from the craziness of Christmas … yet I can see Silent staring at me in an unrelenting demand and I want to write and I do not care how late it is, because it is here and now and burning so brightly. As I’ve written this the image has grown sharper. It’s been a long time since I felt this way, defying all tiredness and time and sense. Silent is going to talk and if I try to walk away I will not sleep because he will be there. So I shall sit here and write until at last it is done, and I realise it's 1am, my back aches from this chair, I'm shattered, and my eyes are sore from overwearing my contact lenses.
Furball, the c word is a Jocelyn thing, part of what makes his voice his own. I could swap it for another word and each time I read it the dialogue would drop out of his voice. It's the same as Malcolm and his endless swearing. Personally I would much prefer he didn't.
When we first meet him he's noted as being 28. Thierry is 7, Mahaut approaching her 6th birthday. Therefore he's around 22 when she is born. You know what's truly amazing about this? I did not think about his age at all, not for a second. I just threw in "not yet 22". I was too tired, too deep in the grip of what I was writing to care. It's only when you mentioned it that I went back to see how old he is supposed to be. Character's ages aren't something I conciously think about once they are established, unless they somehow become relevant to the story again. I got the ages right here by pure gut guesswork :stunned:
Death is yonder, too late about the tooth grinding. I'm pretty sure I wore them all out when a customer decided to climb (yes, climb!) on the shelving in my shop because she couldn't reach a book. These shelves are free hanging and only a complete and utter fool of a lackwitted idiot would think they could support a human's weight. She ripped it right off the walll. Most of the wall came off too. The 9 foot long metal shelf bent like a banana. Books everywhere. She didn't apologise. She acted as though it was a common everyday occurance for her. I nearly smacked her over the head with the shelf when she cheerfully asked, "You'll be able to put it back on easily though, won't you?" Through extremely gritted teeth I informed her, "The shelf is ruined. The wall is ruined. There is nothing left to attach to anything!" That shelf made up 1/5 of the space in my most profitable non-bestseller section! Let's not forget the hours I spent filling in forms and wailing at people over the phone in order to get it fixed ASAP, time I urgently needed to be spending on other things.
That tale is mundane compared to some of the other things which happened at work in the past 6 weeks. :sweatdrop:
Peasant Phill, such is my hope. We'll get there.
Queen Frogg:
I must admit that uponhearing this excellent tale was soon to come to an end i felt really sad, how the story of Silent sounds like a good read and i will eagerly await it. The Gray area that you are going through right now is a common thing amongst writers, its no surprise that you have lost focus at the end. I can only hope that you recover and bring this epic saga to a favorable end.
As for the amounts of praise, dont let it get to you. This just means that you are doing your work WELL. Honestly i simply cant write anywhere NEAR as good as you, just read my AAR for proof of that (But i still chug along dammit and thats good enough for me:beam:).
Heres to another great tale (I hope) that will be of Silent or Guyon. :Che ers:
Holiday greetings, and best of luck to you, Ms. Frog.
The herald flourished a showy bow so deep the dangling sleeves of his outer tunic scraped the floor. “My lord, the King of Scots, conveys his sincere congratulations on your victory.”
Fulk replied, “The congratulations are due to my lord, the future King of England. It was his victory, his plan that carried the day, and his cause that God favoured.”
“Yes, this is true and my lord, the King of Scots, sends warm greetings to his noble cousin, the future King of England, by way of this humble messenger. The defeat of a would-be usurper is an occasion for celebration for all righteous folk.”
“Indeed.”
“It must be said, your modesty does you honour. My lord, the King of Scots, has heard a full account of the battle, and knows of your heroism. It is his firm desire to applaud you, and to recognise your deeds.”
Fulk bowed his head as a man should when his lord praises him. This conversation was so flowery it could form a herb garden. “I thank him. He does me a great honour.”
“It is the truth that you, yourself, captured the traitor Trempwick?”
“He surrendered to me, yes.”
“My lord, the King of Scots, has heard also that you were at the very forefront throughout.”
“I held the place assigned to me by my king.” If the Scottish thought to lean his loyalty in their direction with flattery it wouldn’t work, and best they know it – politely.
“Those who fought alongside you hail you as the greatest knight on the field, is this not so? The section of the line you led pressed far into the enemy, and caused much slaughter amongst the rebels. We have heard it said you were a lion on the field, invincible and fearless.”
A lion? Was this some snide swipe aimed at Hugh and his family’s coat of arms? “If any were a lion then it were my lord, the future King of England. He fought with matchless courage.”
The messenger smiled a courtier’s pleasantly empty smile. “This too is in my lord, the King of Scots, message to his noble cousin, the future King of England.”
Again noble cousin, not royal cousin as it should be. Fulk realised he was tapping his fingers on the arm of his great chair, and pressed his palm flat. This was not an exercise he had any skill in; he’d sent for Eleanor as soon as he realised he could not delay meeting the emissary. The sooner she arrived the better. “Prince Malcolm acquitted himself with valour. His lord father must be proud.”
The reply was a beat away from fully natural timing. “Yes, my lord, the King of Scots, is aware of his son’s participation in the battle.” The messenger beckoned forward one of his attendants. “With your permission, my lord?”
Fulk waved his fingers to grant it.
“My lord, the King of Scots, commands me to bestow upon you, his valorous Earl of Alnwick, greatest knight on the English field, and staunch support of all that is right and just, this token of his appreciation for your skills in battle.”
The aide came before Fulk with a wooden case laid flat across his arms. It was made of a rich, dark wood, about a hand span wide and eight spans long. The corners were reinforced with gold binding, and on the lid a snarling wolf’s head had been carved. The man knelt, proffering the case to Fulk.
Fulk stepped down from his dais and lifted the lid. Inside, pillowed on silk of cornflower blue, lay a sword. And what a sword! Holding his breath Fulk lifted it out, one hand on the hilt and two fingers of the other under the middle of the blade to give it balance. The grip was bound in braided black leather with strands of gold wire mixed in, tasteful in its ostentatiousness and unlikely to slip in a sweaty hand. Pommel and crossguard were gilded, the dot and line patterning on them picked out with black. The blade itself didn’t need close scrutiny to display its worth; it was of the very best steel.
The emissary smiled slightly. “My lord, the King of Scots, heard that you had broken your own best sword, and sent this to replace it. He hopes that it will be worthy of your ability.”
Fulk stepped back so he was clear of everyone and shifted his grip to wield the sword in a light middle guard. The balance was perfect, the blade lightweight, and the whole from grip to length was ideal for his build. He wove through a few simple exercises, seeing how it responded. By the time he lowered the weapon he was grinning and unable to help himself. “It is a very fine weapon. I thank its giver for his generosity.”
“It is very handsome.” Eleanor’s voice came from the stairs leading up to the solar. She walked to Fulk’s side with unhurried grace. “A princely gift indeed.”
Fulk grin shifted to a gentle smile of welcome. Reinforcements, and already she was proving better than he in this non-battle. Shouldn’t it have been a kingly gift?
The King of Scot’s man bowed to Eleanor. “Your Highness. My lord, the King of Scots, sends you his greetings and felicitations.”
Eleanor inclined her head. “I thank him, and return them with all the warmth of my heart.”
From the way she was hovering near the lower chair placed at the side of his Fulk inferred that he should sit back down. He did so, sword resting across his knees, and she settled into her own chair, slowly enough that it looked as though she were following his lead.
The emissary clapped his hands and the second of his attendants scurried forward, this one bearing a scabbard and belt made to match the sword. “There is also this to accompany the sword. My lord, the King of Scots, knows that even the greatest of knights will spend much of his time at peace with his sword idle at his side.”
Fulk accepted this offering, slid the blade home into the black and gold scabbard, and propped the weapon against the arm of his chair. “I pray for peace now that Trempwick is defeated, and see no reason why I shouldn’t find it.” No reason save any tit for tat posturing between the two kings, that was.
Eleanor said gracefully, “Peace is my brother’s highest priority. He attends to the final stages of its restoration even as we speak, and will ever afterwards devote himself to its preservation.”
“It is likewise dear to my lord, the King of Scot’s, heart.” The emissary touched his breastbone to imply that the belief lived within him also. “It has been heard that Carlisle will be yours if you can but take it. This gives me lord, the King of Scots, cause for great hope, for surely with two of the keys to the border in the hands of a man such as yourself, a man with ties to both courts also, there cannot but be peace.”
Fulk wasn’t certain how to answer that, so he repeated, “Peace is all I want.”
“My lord, the King of Scots, knows well how strong Carlisle is, and offers you his aid if you have need of it.”
“That will not be necessary.” That sounded too rude. Fulk set his hand on his new sword. “This beauty is worth a hundred men.”
The Scotsman laughed politely. “In the hands of the greatest of English knights how could that not be so?” He made a slight show of scrutinising Fulk and Eleanor together. His eyes lingered on the fact that Fulk’s left hand rested on top of Eleanor’s right. “My lord, the King of Scots, bade me to enquire as to how your own good selves fare. He wonders whether you are enjoying the wife he found for you?”
There wasn’t much option but to let go the implication the King of Scots had possessed the right to arrange Eleanor’s marriage “We are both very happy, thank you.”
“It is the wish of not only my lord, his Highness the King of Scots, but also of all those whose acquaintance you made while attending our court, to express regret that you have been torn from those pastimes right and proper for a newly married man by the strife and struggle of war. It is now all of our hopes that you may turn your attention to those matters right and proper.”
As far as Fulk could decipher he’d just been told to spend half his time in bed. To his great relief Eleanor fielded that one. With a hint of a blush she answered, “My lord husband has neglected nothing which should have his attention. Indeed, but three days ago he was in the field aiding our neighbour, the Earl of York’s, men in a search for some fleeing rebels. He has sat in court often, and granted justice to all who have asked for it.”
The men gave the merest hint of a nod, recognition of a good answer perhaps. “My lord, the King of Scots, and indeed all of us, pray that our dear lord of Alnwick is engaged in ploughing a fertile furrow.” The man leered – with exquisite politeness. “Indeed, I am instructed to enquire if my lord, the King of Scots, wedding gift to you, his beloved Earl of Alnwick and his most noble lady wife, has proven satisfactory?”
In other words, did they like their bed. Somehow this oh so very courteous teasing was harder to bear with composure than coarser stuff. “Yes.” There was a trace of a growl in that solitary word. Fulk knew it would be better to play along, to turn it all back with a look and a smirk and some choice words. Alas that he couldn’t think of any under the strain of all this nicety.
“My lord, the King of Scots, and all of your well-wishers, will be relieved to hear this, for they one and all await the news of an heir to Alnwick with baited breath.” Another oh so polite leer. “They remember the blessings they bestowed upon you at your wedding, to that end.”
Eleanor’s finger’s tightened their grip on Fulk’s. “We remember them also.”
“I think, my royal lady, that all Christendom will remember them for lifetimes to come.” Half hidden by the folds of his long over tunic the emissary rubbed one palm against the other like a merchant recalling a particularly good sale. “Such a unique occasion. It was my lord, the King of Scot’s, most sincere desire to do full credit to it.”
Fulk answered, “It is a debt we cannot hope to repay, but nonetheless shall try.” Let that be taken however the listener liked.
The Scotsman dipped into another flowery bow. “There is a matter on which I am instructed to speak with yourself and your good lady. In privacy. If I might prevail upon you …?”
Fulk rose. “We shall move to the solar.”
Once the three had relocated the emissary wasted no time. “My lord demands to know what his devil’s spawn of a son and heir is up to!”
“In what way?” Fulk enquired dryly. The younger Malcolm was dabbling his fingers in multiple father-upsetting pies.
The other man grimaced, drew a deep breath, and blasted, “Where did he gather that army? When? How? What did he intend to do with it? Why did he get involved in that battle? Why did he refuse that place of honour at the victory feast – most out of character for the hellion. And, above all, what in the Lord’s blessed name is he doing with my lady’s brother?” He bowed to Eleanor, slightly, and otherwise showed no reduction in his tenacity. “Is he a hostage?”
Eleanor instantly replied, “No, he is not.”
“Then what is he and how did he end up there instead of returning home?”
“He is my brother’s squire, an honourable position. Malcolm himself requested it.”
The emissary snapped, “Why?”
Eleanor glanced sideways at Fulk, clearly wanting him to answer that one. An indulgent husband even when confronted with strained dignitaries, Fulk did so. “The boy thought he could learn from Hugh.”
“About what, pray?” The Scotsman scowled and added less harshly, “I mean no disrespect to prince Hugh. Rather, I wonder what the Nefastus could seek learn from any decent person.”
Fulk made his suggestion in the mildest of tones. “Decency?”
“Might as well suggest the wolf will learn to eat grass by living near sheep.”
“He came to prince Hugh’s aid to honour his father’s pledge of alliance. He is not fully dishonourable.”
“Came,” the emissary exclaimed incredulously, “in direct violation of his father’s order!” He shook his head violently. “Honour? No. The accursed boy likes killing and has been hounding for permission to enter what he terms a real fight. Bloodlust, as base and simple as that.”
“There’s more to the boy than that,” Fulk insisted.
“I must go south.” The Scotsman turned to Eleanor. “Your highness, I must meet with your brother and speak to him on this matter. And Malcolm. See if I can figure out what poison is in his mind this time. Will I require a letter of safe conduct?”
Eleanor arched her eyebrows. “Do you represent an enemy of ours? Are we a people of lawless brigands?”
He lowered his eyes. “No, your Highness.”
“Then you will not need one.”
Sizzling, but the fool had asked for it. Fulk readopted the role of courteous host. “Please, rest here overnight. Set out for the south tomorrow.”
Flowery enough to be a herb garden. One decent line in 4 pages. :sigh:
Olaf, I have written part of Silent’s short story. If the completed article turns out to my satisfaction I might post it once Eleanor is complete. Then those who want the glimpse into the future can have it.
Practice. Practice! Loads of it, and then some more. That’s the main tool in improving one’s writing. You should see my early work and contrast it to what I do now. In my case my difficulty was in shaping the words to get the result I could see in my mind. I’m dyslexic, and back then I couldn’t spell and knew only the rudiments of grammar. Imagine knowing the words you want and not being able to mangle together a spelling your word processor could use to offer the correct spelling, or not knowing how to punctuate dialogue.
Keep writing and then after 6 months or more look back at your older work. You will see improvement. At that point you realise you aren’t chugging.
Furball, you’ve been playing peek-a-boo with your posts again, hehe. The text which is now gone was an excellent read and I found it good food for thought. I was hoping to read it again now I’ve had several days.
Please stop writing this!
I have exams soon and now I've been up all night reading your marvelous stories. It's 6:20 AM now!
I'm not sure which line you thought was good, but, "The younger Malcolm was dabbling his fingers in multiple father-upsetting pies," jumped right out at me when I read it. I think of lines like those as Froggyisms, and they are part of the joy of reading your work.
To her Highness Frog:
Many thanks for the advice and its good to hear that you have so much other story written. Should make for an excelent new beggining. Also the dyslexia, that makes me sad but happy for you at teh same time. Sad cuz disabilities are hard of those whom have them. However i have found im my experience as a person that ppl with disabilities tend to fight MUCH harder against the woes and pains of life the those of us whom are "normal" (HaHaHa). The fact that you write with said disability only proves that you REALLY love what you do so i will ALWAYS read your work before anyone elses on teh .Org :bow::bow:~D So please keep it up.
@Moros I know what u mean buddy. Ive failed maths tests because i read books all night rather than study:laugh4::laugh4::laugh4:. Fanantascism FTW!!!!!!!
I know that feeling very well :shame: .Quote:
Originally Posted by Moros
Froggy, please post Silent's tale once you've finished with Eleanor's :bow: .
Trempwick’s mother cast the castle’s key onto the ground before Hugh’s feet. “There. As my son commanded, we surrender. Scrabble in the dirt for it.”
Once, in what felt like a different life – what had been a different life, sheltered as he had been from the maelstrom which had caught him since – Hugh would have been confounded by that simple action. He would not have known what to do. There was no precedent for it, no suggestion as to how a righteous prince should act when an old lady made of her surrender an insult. And Hugh saw, from her triumphant, bitter leer, that this mother of his worst enemy knew it. She did not credit that he had been plunged into the flames and, by the very necessity of survival, had altered.
She looked down her nose at him, as though he were the meanest peasant. “I will retire to a convent. This world is nothing but sorrow and disappointment, and I cannot bear to live in anything such as you might call yourself lord of.” With that she took advantage of his bewildered paralysis to brush past him and march away.
Or so it would have gone were he still the man who had been secure in his insecurities. A single, sure step to the side and Hugh blocked her passage. “Yes, my lady. You will withdraw to a convent. I have one in mind. It is remote, on an island, and it obeys the strictest interpretation of the rule. There, in such conditions, you may gain some grace for your immortal soul to weigh against your sins.”
Trempwick’s mother stepped back to preserve her dignity, sweeping her skirts with her. “You cannot send me to such a place.”
Can and would. Thus isolated the old hag would be able to work no further mischief. There was a strong possibility – sinful to consider it? – that she may not survive the first winter she passed in the Spartan conditions. “My lady,” Hugh said softly, “I think you will find, should you ask many of the persons here present, that I am king. Thus it follows that I may place stipulations on your request, and, indeed, dispose of you as I will.”
“I am of noble blood, from an established line. I should be treated with honour!”
Hugh might have enjoyed suggesting that he would treat her with as much honour as she had shown him. “Placing you where you may best redeem your soul is an honour, lady. Especially when compared to the alternatives.”
Trempwick’s mother appealed to the many bystanders, “Will you stand for this? Think! What if it were your own mother? Once he has been able to do this he will do it again and again!”
There was a silence which made Hugh’s nerves jangle. The pestilential woman raised a pertinent point, and his lords were reluctant to allow him any measures which would make him overly strong.
York answered a drawl, “Lady, were you my mother I would insist on accompanying you on the crossing – and throw you overboard midway!”
With that the last bastion of Trempwick’s rebellion fell.
I woke up this morning with half of a short story. It’s really quite damned good. Problem: I have the beginning and the end, and can’t figure out how to join the two together yet. I have written the parts I do have and am pondering what I can do with the middle. Should I complete it then this tale will be postable, and of interest to a certain faction of readers.
Moros, I might be too late, but good luck with those exams!
Furball, that one is close to being good IMO. The “father-upsetting” is clumsy. Each time I look at it I know there must be a better phrasing or word. I liked the line about being flowery enough to be a herb garden.
Olaf, I’m honoured. :bow:
Ludens, I think I shall. I do like Silent’s tale.
:2thumbsup:
~:thumb:
On arrival at Carlisle Fulk commanded his army to take up siege positions around the walls. It had taken him no small amount of difficulty to arrange the battle-weary forces he had into a power that could tackle this fortress, and he was determined his labours would not go to waste. Besides, from the groundwork he had laid he knew it should not take much to make both garrison and nearby town both surrender.
Shading his eyes from the sun with a hand, Fulk inspected the ramparts. “Doesn’t seem to be many men.”
Waltheof said, “True. Looks like our scouts were right – half the garrison has fled.”
“We won’t take any chances.” Fulk dropped his arm back to his side. “People were seen leaving. None have been sighted returning, or hiding close by. There are fewer people on the walls than there should be. None of that makes us safe. Have the catapults begin the bombardment as soon as they are assembled.”
Fulk had completed half of his tour of the forming siege lines when the main gates opened a procession of unarmed men walked out in single file. “Wait until they are out of support from the walls, then surround them and bring them to the centre of the camp,” Fulk ordered. “Make certain every last one of them is unarmed.” Being stabbed by a concealed dagger didn’t recommend itself.
As he walked forward to rendezvous with the escorted garrison, Fulk did a rapid headcount. Eleven men. A third of the number reported to be in the castle by all of the sources they’d questioned.
The man at the front of the party stood with his shoulders hunched in, fairly quivering with pent up emotion. On seeing Fulk he clenched his jaw, nodded to himself, and went down on his knees as though the effort tore every muscle in his body. “My lord,” he grated, “We surrender.” The other men followed his lead in fits and starts, some dropping swiftly, others with obvious reluctance.
Fulk asked, “Where are the others?”
“We are all that remains.”
“That seems unlikely.” Fulk set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “If you are misleading me I won’t be happy.”
Another of the garrison, this one shaven-headed and built like an ox, offered in surprisingly well-spoken tones, “Prince Hugh has no more mercy left – it’s common knowledge that his patience is gone. Those surrendering now won’t be welcomed with open arms. Our lord took his family and fled to the coast two days ago. Most of the others went with him.”
The first man twitched his shoulders back, raised his head, and stated, “We’re the ones who decided to gamble that a prince wouldn’t want the heads of lowly men at arms. We’re not worth killing, surely.”
A third man interjected, “We didn’t choose. We’re paid. All of us hired long before the old king died, none of us able to walk away from our lord. A man’s got to eat. Some of us have families.”
“But our lord, he got to choose,” the bald one pointed out. “He chose poorly and lost, and he’s fled the country in fear of his life.”
That was Eleanor’s work. She’d had word spread that Hugh intended to use the harshest of measures against those in the north who had failed to take the opportunity to come to him after Alnwick.
Shaven-head cocked his head to one side with a faint smile. “You must know how it is. You were once a household knight yourself, so we all hear. We had a lord, we followed him where he led, kept our word to him for the sake of honour and our stomachs, and now are abandoned.”
This one was interesting – too educated to be the simple man at arms he appeared to be. “And you’re gambling on that more than anything, I suspect.”
Shaven-head bowed, still kneeling in the dirt. “Yes, my lord, we are.”
“What is your name?”
“Ranulf, my lord.”
“You are very courtly for a simple man at arms.”
“I was to be a priest, my lord.” Ranulf stroked the top of his head. “Alas, I had pride in my hair and couldn’t stand the tonsure.”
Fulk idly ran his thumb back and forth the cross guard of his sword, the feel of the engraving making his skin tingle. This man was nothing he had expected to find. “Indeed.”
“Or perhaps my sense of humour didn’t go down so well with the monks.” Ranulf shivered in the breeze which was rippling his tunic. “Or maybe I discovered I like killing.”
“Or perhaps you have been neither monk nor man at arms, and seek to hide?” Fulk suggested.
“I’m being too obvious to hide. If I’d wished for that I’d have kept my mouth shut and my head bowed, my lord, and you know it.”
“Often the best way to hide is in clear sight.”
“I did used to be a monk. Well, a novice one at least. I ran away and found a living as a soldier. My reasons for it are my own. If you like none of the ones I’ve offered dream up one which you do.”
The leader still held himself as tense as a drawn bowstring. “Are we going to die or not?” he demanded. “It’s ungodly to keep us waiting, unknowing!”
“If you give me the honest truth I shall take you all south to stand before prince Hugh. He will pass judgement on you. I expect he will let you go – if you cooperate fully between now and then. If any of you are other than you claim there will be people at court who recognise you. Play me false and I shall hang the lot of you.”
Fulk watched the leader sag with relief. “Anything we can do, name it.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “I have five children. Without me … Thank you, my lord.”
It wouldn’t be too hard to win the loyalty of at least some of these men. Fulk decided to covertly assess them over the next few days and see which – if any – were worth employing. “And you are?”
“Bertold, my lord.”
“Then tell me, is the castle emptied of those who can bear arms?”
“Yes, my lord. We’re all here.”
“And no traps await me?”
“None.”
Fulk instructed Waltheof to take twenty men and search the castle from top to bottom, and to take possession of it if all was clear. As the men marched away Fulk warned his captives, “The slightest difficulty and you will all hang.”
The men told the truth. Fulk was thankful that he’d claimed the catapults used in the siege of Alnwick rather than paying for his own.
I shall have more time to write starting from Friday. My shop is being closed and we’re all being made redundant. Bastards. :(
I read Stephan King’s “On writing”. He’s not an author I read, and he writes in genres I don’t like. I don’t read books which claim to tell a person how to write since, at least for me, it is something that must be learned through experience. I got fed up of people recommending the book to me. Well. I can’t say I learned anything about how to write, or why, or anything like that. But. Ah yes, the all important but! It’s amazing – or creepy – how many similarities between his way of working and my own I spotted. Particularly with regards to characters, and to finding the story you are going to tell.
Guyon’s story is blooming like a bunch of daffodils in a mild spring. I have roughly 2/3 of the personal part of it, and a good glimpse at the background. It’s a straight up historical, much smaller than Eleanor in every way. I know I will be writing this one once it finishes growing. I am going to suggest a name change at Guyon while he’s still malleable … Ancel fits him better. Hehe, he’s the only character in the entire thing who has a name and I want it altered; typical frog. It’s one of the very few things I can change, and I need to do it while it’s all taking form. I shall keep nudging the name at him and see if it sticks. I think it shall; Guyon just does not suit …
Having ideas burning for one story appears to allow me to steal a bit of the flame to spend on something which isn’t. Sort of. For a short time. In a roundabout way. I’m still fumbling around with how it works. Looks like I can swim about in something which does burn brightly in my mind, then skip sideways and write some of the scenes I don’t care about. The effect doesn’t last long; after fifteen minutes or so I’m mired back on the ground and need to step away again in order to get the oomph back. Sort of. I don’t claim the above scene to be any great work however it does contain one or two lines with a faint glimmer of sparkle to them, and that saves it from being a dead ugly mass in my writer’s sight. Ranulf is the type of thing which provides itself or doesn’t appear at all, and he wasn’t around in the plan for this scene until I found him there as I put it on paper. His presence gives a bit of hope this might work.
:bow:
DAMN YOU WALL STREET!!!!!
That has to suck. Im sorry Queen Frog.:thumbsdown::furious3::furious3:
But it is great to hear that Guyon's....err Ancel's story is coming along swimmingly.
As for Ranulf's one You will get there. After all you have done a near Epic novella with Elanor already. I eagerly await the new story whichever one it might be.
Plz dont let life get you down. This world is messed up in ways indescribable. All that we cant do is get through it until we are allowed to pass on.
I'm sorry to hear about your shop. As someone who's been there (unemployed that is) I can only say that with credentials like yours and a bit of effort it shouldn't prove to hard to find another job.
On the up side you'll now have time for things you like to do instead of things you have to do.
“Her Highness’ party has been sighted, my lord.”
So soon! Fulk’s heart sped. Carlisle wasn’t ready – he wasn’t ready. “Finish scattering those herbs with all speed,” he ordered. “Clear away everything else. Make sure all the servants turn out presentably. Remember, the bed needs taking off her baggage train and setting up immediately, and try to do it without her notice.” Oh Jesù, how bad did that sound?! Fulk brazened his slip out, gesturing at the fireplace. “Put some sweet smelling logs on the fire, and more in the basket. And-”
The steward bowed slightly and suggested, “And otherwise do all else to make this place fit for a princess in the least time possible, my lord?”
Fulk caught himself, and smiled ruefully. He must look like a panicking bride groom. “Yes. That would be appreciated.”
“Very good, my lord.” The man bowed and, after delivering a flurry of orders, departed the chamber. His voice could be heard echoing down the stairwell, still demanding this and that. The town council had not been wrong when they recommended Godfrey to him as suitable for his needs.
Carlisle’s castle had been on a war footing for a month. That did not make for the most pleasant of environments. Until new people had been drafted in from the nearby town the castle had been severely understaffed, hampering Fulk’s efforts to make the place as presentable as possible. Eleanor would not mind if the place were still rough around the edges. She would not complain. She would bear it with the same stoic acceptance that she had borne his announcement that she would have to remain in Alnwick with all its ghosts while he claimed Carlisle. Knowing how much that unquestioning obedience had cost her, Fulk was adamant that all would be as good as he could make it now she could join him. More than that, Carlisle was his in a way Alnwick could never be. Alnwick had been a politically motivated handout, a gain for the King of Scots. Carlisle had been offered to him - in good part - in recognition of his abilities and loyalty. He wanted to be proud as he displayed it to her.
Any amount of preparation would do him no good if he were still standing here like a sheep when Eleanor arrived. “I will buy you some time to finish setting all up here once my lady arrives,” he promised the servants as he settled his new cloak about his shoulders and fastened the brooch.
By the time he reached the gatehouse the heavily guarded party was within hailing distance, and it was not long before he was helping Eleanor down from her palfrey.
“Greetings, my lord,” she said, regarding him from under lowered eyelashes. “I thank you for your help.”
Fulk placed one hand at his back and made a courtly bow. “Greetings, my lady. Your presence brightens my life.”
“You exaggerate most kindly, my lord.” She shot him another demure look – this one with a spark concealed in it. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to be back under your guiding hand. Now I can resume my proper place, following in your wake, thinking no thoughts but those you have given me, living only to make you happy and bear you copious amounts of sons.”
Fulk knitted his brows. “Have you taken a knock to the head?”
Eleanor affected an expression of pure horror. “Blessed Jesù, no! Worse – I have been the unhappy host of a extremely pious abbot trying to scrounge money for his foundation.” She caught hold of Fulk’s arm none too gently. “I swear, the hours of well-meaning preaching I had to endure would have sent a lesser soul quite mad!”
Fulk began to walk her towards the hall. “I hope you were polite to him.”
“Very,” Eleanor growled. “And after he had prattled on about how women should behave I demonstrated my attentiveness by informing him I could grant him nothing, not so much as a promise to bend your ear favourably on the matter.” She smirked. “It is not a wife’s place to influence her husband nor dispose of goods. It is for her to listen to his wisdom, and abide by his decisions.”
“I shall have to speak to this abbot, ‘loved, and have a word with him about placing dangerous ideas in your head.”
“Please do.” Eleanor leaned her head on Fulk’s shoulder as they walked. “I have identified another abbey nearby which he considers to be his rival. I began work on a new altar cloth for them.”
“My heart, have I told you that you’re devious and vengeful?”
“Not in the last week,” she answered. “But then I have not seen you these past eight days.”
Fulk stopped, cupped her cheek in one hand. “I love you, my dear little wife.” After a kiss he turned to the keep with a flourish. “Now, let me show you Carlisle.”
The tour he gave was a condensed one, avoiding areas he knew were still a mess and keeping far away from the private rooms. His new people had done worthily by him, and it was a pleasure to introduce them to Eleanor. She liked what she saw, he knew it, and in that knowledge was able to relax. As the tour progressed it became less about showing what he had won for her, and more about the future potential.
Reaching the end of what he had planned, Fulk halted at the door leading out onto the keep’s roof. “Close your eyes.”
Eleanor quirked an eyebrow. “You wish to make it easier to push me off the parapet?” She obeyed with the warning, “If I start to fall I am pulling you with me, and you may be sure we shall land with you on the bottom to cushion my landing.”
“Heartling, we only cleaned the bailey yesterday. No one wants to do so again today.” Fulk opened the door and guided her carefully out onto the parapets. He led her to the eastern side. “There. Open your eyes.”
This view was one he’d been entranced with since his arrival. The town was visible, sitting within its walls, smoke drifting lazily from hundreds of cooking fires. On past that was clear land, and the road. Here and there other fuzzy lines of smoke rose to the heavens, tiny settlements scattered about wherever people could make a living from the land. Acres of land, all attached to the castle and his new lordship. On many miles further, invisible to the eye, and after a large tract of land under the control of others, lay Alnwick and Fulk’s other holdings.
Fulk said softly, “The sum of our achievements. Peace. Wealth. A position of power and very great trust. Safety, of a sort.”
“Not bad for a crook-nosed knight and a gooseberry.” Eleanor returned her attention to the view, mantle pulled tight about her against the wind. “Not bad at all.”
Fulk stood behind her, wrapping his arms and cloak about her, resting his chin on the top of her head. “When I think of where – and what - I was but a year ago, I cannot believe my fortune. Even three months ago.”
Eleanor leaned back into him. “And all because you swore service to a woman you did not believe was a princess but knew to be an assassin, in the hopes of being well-paid.”
“It’s a wonder I wasn’t killed.” As he said it he wished he hadn’t. It still astounded him what she had done to save his life. A princess of most noble lineage, pleading for his life and paying for it with blood. Eleanor still flinched from letting him see her back despite her promise to try not to, but he’d seen the curved, buckle-shaped scar on her shoulder and knew without doubt that it was definitely from one of the wounds he’d tended that first time in Woburn.
“I think you saved my life more times than I yours.”
Fulk forced a jovial tone. “Who’s counting?”
Eleanor twisted to look up at him. “So, who did you steal that cloak from?” She fingered the edge near her shoulder. “Juniper green wool, and wolf skin lining. Very nice. Very warm.”
“I didn’t steal it, thank you very much!” As the chance was there Fulk kissed her on the forehead, and on the tip of her nose, and finally on the lips. “The previous lord left it behind in his hurry to flee the country.”
“Well, that is alright then. I should hate to think the north had corrupted you into becoming a robber baron.”
“It’s corrupted you into being polite to clergymen.”
“No, I was always like that.”
“I suppose you were,” Fulk agreed. “It was everyone else you were sour towards.”
“No,” corrected Eleanor, “it was you, you great rusted lump! No one else annoyed me quite so much.”
“Ah well.” Fulk judged that sufficient time had passed to finish turning the private rooms into the haven he wished to present. In any case, it was cold and the view would be here later. There remained one thing it would be well to settle before they returned inside. “There is a man amongst the prisoners I took. He’s … unusual. I want you to find out what he is. In fact, look the whole lot over. It’s possible he is drawing attention so someone else can hide in the group.”
“Who is he and what makes you suspicious?”
“His name is Ranulf. He is too well-spoken, too educated to be a simple man at arms. He claims he was a novice and left before taking vows; he reasons for why are varied and unbelievable, and he makes no secret of knowing them to be so. It’s probably nothing; I swore they would all die if one of them attempted to decide me. Someone would betray one who put them all at risk.”
After a bit Eleanor nodded, once. “I shall do what I can.”
Fulk stood back from Eleanor. “Come. Let’s go inside. There’s one last part of the tour.”
Eleanor dug him in the ribs as she caught hold of his arm. “You mean you think your servants have finished clearing the whores out of your bedchamber, correct?”
Fulk pulled a face. “It’s the scent of their perfume I’m worried about. That lingers.”
“Well, at least that shows you are using a more exclusive class of whore.”
“If I’d known you would be so forgiving I’d have kept a couple of them on permanently.”
“Oh, stop it! Before I begin to wonder if there is a grain of truth in it.”
Fulk opened the stair door and bowed as he held it for her. “My lady gooseberry.”
Eleanor went past in a swish of skirts.
“Where’s my thanks?” Fulk asked as he hurried after her.
“I believe I left them in my luggage.”
Fulk planted his fists on his hips. “I shall beat you later if you keep this up.”
“You are all talk.” Eleanor spared him a backwards glance – and stuck her tongue out at him.
“One of these days,” Fulk sighed.
“So long as it is not today,” came the rapid interruption. “Tomorrow never comes, after all.” Eleanor stopped by the door to the solar. “I expect you want to go first?”
“Yes.” Fulk cleared his throat with a self-important cough. “Right. My lady, my most dearly beloved wife and gooseberry, scion of most noble blood, light of my life, heart of my heart, source of my woes, fountain of my troubles, emptier of my treasury, and warmer of my spacious bed, it is my honour, nay privilege, to present to you our rooms.” Fulk opened the door, silently vowing to hang the servants from the battlements if they had failed to follow his instructions.
Eleanor stepped in. She looked around. She looked around once more. “I am afraid I do not see anything special,” she apologised. “It looks like any other solar.”
Fulk breathed a private sigh of relief. “That, ‘loved, is the point.”
“It is?”
“You did not see the place when I arrived,” he said darkly.
Eleanor turned away from the hanging she had been inspecting. “If you do not tell me I am going to be busy finding out for myself.”
“It looked like a thieves’ den which had then been ransacked by a professional gang of looters, caught fire, hosted a brawl which splashed blood up one wall, and finally become the lair of a pack of incontinent hounds.”
“How … homely.”
Now it looked like any other solar. Fresh rushes with scented herbs mixed in scattered over a clean floor, quality furniture, a couple of hangings on the freshly whitewashed walls. The sole flaw in the set-up was the shield that had been propped in one corner. Ostensibly it displayed Fulk’s coat of arms in a touch of warfare-for-all-the-family pride. In reality it hid the dark patch where blood had sunk into the flagstones and resisted all attempts to scrub it away.
Fulk opened the door into the other room and took a quick peek to be sure all was well. “The bedchamber is similarly commonplace. Except for the waiting meal, steaming bathtub with space for two people, and a certain very comfy bed bestowed upon us by a king.”
That’s it, I am nowunemployeda full time writer. Reading. Writing. Gaming. As much of all three as I want, and I have several years worth to catch up on. Weee! The last month was so bad I don’t miss my shop or job; I’m simply pleased it is all over. It was like watching a loved one die of an incurable disease.
That worked quite decently. A few more weeks and I expect Eleanor will be complete. Updates should come more rapidly now I have more time to work.
Ancel has taken to the name so well I have to stop and think to remember what he used to be called. I have the names for most of the other important characters, know nearly all of the storyline, and am mainly doing research while waiting for the remaining loose ends to sort themselves out. I might be able to begin writing as early as next week. Should I write with the same oomph that I’ve currently got in its early phases I should have the whole first draft done in several months; this one’s going to end up the same size as a normal book, not War and Peace. I have decided this one is going to be written from the very start with the intention of sending it to agents once it is complete. It’s perfectly suited to getting a new writer a foot in the door. Unlike my other sprawling, hard to categorise works. Straight up historical fiction, one of those ‘real events and people as seen through the eyes of an invented character plus obligatory romance’ types. Whether it gets into print or not, I know this story is going to work! It burns brightly, has life, verve, takes everything I have learned and applies it, uses everything I like doing and takes them to the next level, is controllable, restrained, focused, and really, completely and totally is froggy writing™ on taken to the next level. Not to mention this will be my first major chance to play with editing, revisions, chapters and other such finish touch tools. It’s impossible to convey just how excited I am by ‘Ancel’. But … it’s probably unfair to talk about it much. I won’t be posting any of it on the internet.
Nice digs!:laugh4:
Man that is a pretty good set up for the middle ages, even a comfy bed.:2thumbsup:
Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Commiserations on losing your job.Congratulations on finding more time to write. I shall look forward to more frequent updates.
Reading your last update, I laughed out loud several times. Now that's something that doesn't happen often :thumbsup: .
"......................… it’s probably unfair to talk about it much. I won’t be posting any of it on the internet."
Nice setup for the bonk on the head at the end, Ms. Frog! :)
Still going strong Froggy?
Fulk watched the prisoners exercising in the yard with a keen eye. At least three of them looked worth taking on, Ranulf and Bertold amongst them. None of the men were allowed weapons, not even blunt training ones, so they alternated between wrestling and simple exercises. All of the men were drilled to the point where they could manage stretches, cartwheels, rolls and other such agility based exercises with ease.
As Ranulf caught his opponent in a bear hug and threw his weight forward in an attempt to send the man crashing to the ground Fulk called, “Ranulf, why did you leave your monastery?”
It was pleasing to see that, although caught off-guard by the unanticipated question, Ranulf did now allow it to affect his performance. Still working to bear his training partner to the ground he panted, “Prior took a liking to my arse so I ran.”
“Really. Still doesn’t sound believable.” Fulk had left Eleanor at a window in the nearby tower so she could observe and listen without revealing her presence. “Are you sure that’s the story you want to stick to?”
“What’s not believable?” With a grunt Ranulf twisted, simultaneously pushing forward. His struggling partner went down on one knee, fighting with everything he’d got to keep from being pressed down flat on the dirt. “It was because I killed a thief.”
Fulk raised his eyebrows. “The prior lusted after you because you killed a thief?”
Startled, Ranulf looked up. His opponent seized the chance to regain his feet and push back. “Damn you!” Ranulf cursed, regaining his wits and struggling with his partner. “Don’t play dumb!”
“But you make it look like so much fun. I wanted to try it.” Fulk sauntered away to pay closer attention to one of the other sparring sets.
“I recognised none of them,” Eleanor said. “None fit the descriptions I have gained of those who are of note around these parts.”
Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Could he be a bastard son?”
“Not a noble’s bastard. Or not one from around here – there is simply no talk of one which fits his build. A wide assortment of bastard daughters, yes. Skinny boys, yes. Older men, yes. Men with scars, yes. Shorter men, yes. Fatter men, yes. All sorts, in short, except for one built like a wall, shaven head or not.”
“So then what is he?”
Eleanor sighed, exasperated. “I rather suspect he is what he claims to be. Is it so unlikely? I shall send someone to the monastery he claims to have escaped to make enquiries.”
Fulk paced back and forth. “If he is a runaway novice then why not offer the simple truth about it?”
“Maybe he finds the reason embarrassing?” Eleanor suggested. “Maybe he has offered the truth and you have dismissed it?”
“None of it sounded honest,” Fulk grumbled. “Send someone to make enquires as you said. I want to know the truth before we have to head south for your brother’s coronation.”
The situation along the Welsh border had been a complete disaster on Hugh’s arrival. Now, after days of labour, it was merely a mess. The Earl of Chester, ever-faithful, had done his best in the task Hugh had allotted him. Alas that his best had been undercut by the other marcher lords, and finally ended by his capture by the Welsh princes. Some marcher lords had sided with Trempwick, and had actively aided the Welsh as they overran the west. Others had seen no compelling reason to side with Hugh until it was much too late for them to put together effective resistance; many lords were now clinging on to their own lands and praying the tide did not drown them.
The midlanders Hugh had commanded to support Chester had likewise failed. The support sent was piecemeal, ill-equipped, under-strength, or in all too many cases entirely absent. With raiders running across lands which were normally miles from the worst of any border fighting, most lords had opted to hunker down and defend what was theirs with little concern for their neighbour.
Worse, some amongst the marcher lords and midlanders had sighted the opportunity to expand their lands at the expense of their fellows, and had launched into private warfare for their own petty gain.
Hugh had thus far managed to drag together the scattered loyalist forces, and extract the men and resources he required from the midlanders he had met in person. New, sternly worded summons had gone forth to all those who were not in his expected path of travel. Any who failed him now would be considered in defiance and would be treated accordingly.
Groups of mounted men, varying between fifty and one hundred in size, had been formed and sent out to hunt down the raiding parties swarming about the land. Whether the men they encountered were English or Welsh, the men were authorised to kill and take no prisoners. Order would be restored, Hugh promised all he met, and men were grudgingly coming to understand that the emphasis meant that Hugh would do more than posture. After the first few skirmishes ended in victory for Hugh’s men the English raiders began to head towards Hugh’s banner, and the Welsh started to retreat to lands better suited to their style of fighting.
Which was how the present situation had, finally, been reached. Judging the time to be ripe to meet with the Welsh leaders Hugh had extended safe conduct for them to meet him at Weobley, on the church grounds.
Demonstrating a lesson learned while campaigning in the north, Hugh had chosen to meet the Welsh princes in full armour. Armour, furthermore, that had not been cleaned back to a pristine state. Armour that proved him to be a leader of men in the field, a successful general. As there were three princes ranged against him, Hugh had brought two of his lords with him to the parley grounds. Then, as this occasion presented an opportunity he would be a fool to miss, he had insisted each side bring a further ten men of account to witness the talks. This presented his best chance to augment his proven capability for mercy with implacable harshness towards those who angered him past reconciliation. A king must be seen to have both aspects if he hoped to rule successfully.
On his arrival Hugh swept into the church, stalked past the Welshmen without acknowledging them, and, with a swish of his cloak, seated himself in the chair he had demanded be placed for him. Thus enthroned he deigned to notice those he had come to meet. “You are in defiance of the oaths you gave to my father, and which are now owed to me by right of my inheritance.”
“So,” declared the prince who fitted the description of Idwal, “you do not bother with pleasantries. That sits well with us. We have nothing pleasant to say to such as you.”
Hugh took this impassively. “What I have to say is this: surrender, bend your knees and renew your oaths to me. Or I shall make you do so.”
The second prince, Owyn, snorted. “And I suppose you want us to swear by the same terms as we gave your father?”
“No.” Hugh raised his chin so he could look down at them. “You will return every last step of land you have taken, pay compensation for the damages done, and release my Earl of Chester and all those taken with him immediately.”
Once one man laughed the others decided it was the appropriate thing to do.
As a reaction it suited well enough. Hugh had long since decided to play the hard line when dealing with this border. A softer line would leave him with a weaker position here in the future. He rose swiftly. “If that is your answer, so be it. There is nothing now to talk about.”
Idwal held up his hands. “Haste serves nothing. There are things to speak of yet. I, myself, would not be averse to an end to the fighting.” He held up a finger. “What I am adverse to is the swearing of oaths or anything which puts me at a lesser position to you.”
Hugh did not sit back down. “I have more men in one fraction of my army than you do in your entire holding, and more riches in one palace than you have in all of your lands. You are not my equal.” He looked about the gathering. “None of you are. Even did one man of you hold the entirety of Wales, you would be less than I.”
“Can you bring those men to bear? Can you dedicate your riches to crushing us?” Idwal shook his head. “You cannot.”
Hugh answered softly, “I can bring enough.”
“Is it worth the bother?” Cadfan, the third prince, countered. “Come to my lands. I will kill you, I promise you.”
“I will not relinquish the least part of what is due to me.”
Owyn said, “You are not crowned king yet.”
Hugh, hand idly resting on the hilt of his sword, gave the man back look for look. “No man now disputes my right. I choose to be about the work of a king, rather than sitting safely in Westminster allowing them to crown me.”
“A poet’s answer,” mocked Cadfan.
Hugh replied, “Better than a lawyer’s.”
Owyn stepped forward. “The problem, here, is this. We’re honour bound to make you answer for blood spilled. You murdered our hostages. Kinsmen, given in good faith-”
Hugh overrode him, “To stand guarantee of the oaths you had given with their very lives. You broke your word; their lives were forfeit. You knew that when you chose to rebel.”
“We did not give them to you. We made no oaths to you!”
“At the time you rebelled my father was thought to be yet alive, therefore you broke your oaths and, as the designated regent of England at that point, it was my duty to my father to act as I did.”
Cadfan started forward, only to be grabbed by his fellows. He shouted, “You killed my sons, you murderous son of a bitch! At least admit it!”
Hugh shook his head. “You killed them with your faithlessness. Their blood is on your hands, not mine.”
“I will see you dead!”
Hugh folded his arms. “Let us make one thing very clear. You all made a gamble and it failed. You thought me weak. You thought I would not kill the hostages, though the agreement demanded it and all good sense called for it. You thought I would shy from killing a score of innocents, preferring to court the disaster that would come from being known to be squeamish. You were wrong.” Hugh drove the last three words home by stabbing at the gathering with his finger. “Let me tell you this: better that five times their number had died than one single lord think he can give me his word and safely not keep it!” Hugh marched past the stunned gathering, his own men scrambling to follow him. “This meeting is over. You have refused my mercy. On your own heads be it.”
When he reached the door Cadfan’s voice called after him, “Wait, oh lord king. There is one thing you forgot.”
Hugh halted. “And that is?”
“Your Earl of Chester.”
Hugh turned about. “Do you intend to threaten his life if I continue to fight? If so, that would not be wise, I assure you.”
“You should know how he is.”
Owyn caught his ally’s sleeve and hissed something urgent in Welsh. The Welshmen turned inward and held a brief, heated argument in their native tongue.
Finally Cadfan slapped his friend’s hand away and stated proudly, “What is the use of a thing done in defiance if we then hide it in the dark like children afraid of being called to reckoning? You may shake in your boots if you wish. I will not!”
There had been a rumour, persistent, that the Welsh princes had maimed their noble captive in part-payment for the deaths of their hostages. Hugh had prayed it was not true. If this were the news they were about to give him it was vital he carry this through well; a misplaced word or emotion would unravel much of the good he had done these past days. “Tell me swiftly or tell me not at all. I do not have further time to waste.”
Cadfan crowed, “We have left him in the crypt here for you. What’s left of him. The stubborn old beast took some killing. But then men do – unlike my boys!”
Hugh took a steadying breath and battled to keep his features like stone. “Then,” he said, his voice flat and harsh in his own ears, “I suggest you start running. Your safe conduct expires one hour after this meeting finishes, and I declared it over some minutes ago. Or stay, and we shall see how long it takes for men to die.” This time his men were ready, and had the door open by the time he reached it.
True to their word, the Welsh had left Chester lying in the crypt. His body had been boxed up into a respectable coffin, perhaps an effort to defuse anger caused by actions which went against the codes of war.
Hugh viewed the body privately, and spent a while in vigil at his faithful lord’s side. As he prayed he planned, and found he could now use circumstances to strengthen the course he had decided to take. Numbers counted for little in the forests and hills this campaign would now be based about. A part of the substantial force now under his control could be settled to besieging Shrewsbury and the other captured strong points. The remainder of the force was a liability; the men were neither trained nor equipped for warfare in Wales. If he took their supplies and sent them home then he would be able to keep a smaller force in the field for much longer before starvation, the other great hazard of fighting in this area, threatened. The local lords needed to prove themselves, and they were every bit as apt at border warfare as their Welsh counterparts. The attack force could be divided into three, and sent in to press the Welsh on their home turf. This would make it harder for the sieges to be broken, and put the enemy on the defensive. The plan was rough, still needing detail; he would consult with his lords for that.
Vigil completed, he summoned his marcher lords to him. Once the group had assembled in the crypt Hugh called for torches, and had the chamber flooded with light. Resting a hand on the coffin’s lid he said, “At the start of this I called upon each of you to fight according to the oaths you gave. I asked you to do your sworn duty, to protect the kingdom from traitors and rebels. I designated a man for you to follow, and commanded you to give him your every assistance. Some of you declared for Trempwick. Others did nothing. Not a man of you did as I commanded. Not a man of you aided Chester, and for that alone you stand condemned as dishonourable, for he was one of you, known to you all.”
Hugh glanced about the shamefaced gathering. “Now you have come to me. Now, when it is late in the day. Now, when I have defeated Trempwick. Now, when the situation here is a mess. Now, when better men have died. And I have granted you all mercy. I have allowed you to keep your lands, your titles. I have not diminished you, nor exiled you, nor levied heavy fines on you. I have demanded nothing of you save for a renewal of your oaths, and payment of a fine for your failure.”
He heaved the lid off the coffin and beckoned over two torch bearers so all could see clearly what had been done. For once he made no effort to hold back his tears; there were times when it was right and proper for a man to cry. “This man was loyal to me. This man stood at my side in my darkest hour. This man never stinted in his efforts for me. This man was exemplary.” Once, in the space between learning Trempwick was a traitor and Eleanor marrying Fulk, Hugh had considered marrying her to Chester. Her refusal to countenance it had been the only thing which had stopped it. “You will step up here one at a time and look at what those Welsh barbarians have done to him.”
Chester’s eyes had been burned out, his ears cut off, a thief’s mark branded into his forehead, his right hand severed, and all over his visible skin there were bruises, cuts and small burns, distinguishable even through the mottling of death. His lower right leg was mostly hacked off and remained attached only by a sliver of skin.
As the men gazed on what was left of their companion Hugh continued to talk. “This is what the Welsh have done to a nobleman, a knight, a man of great standing. He should have been ransomed, unharmed. He should have been treated with honour. This man, who I counted amongst my most faithful, has been treated worse than the meanest man at arms. Worse than a thief caught stealing in a marketplace. Had you supported him this would not have happened. Had you supported him my kingdom would not have been ravaged. Had you supported him I would not now be fighting a war instead of being crowned and attending to the business of my realm. Had you done the smallest part of the service you owe, this situation would not be.”
Hugh loosed a fraction of the anger he felt and shouted, “You have made of me a liar! I promised peace to the people of this realm and you did not support me in giving it! Some of you broke it yourselves! And you left this man, who came in my name, to fall into enemy hands and suffer this!”
Walter De Clare knelt on the ground. “Forgive us, my lord.” Others quickly followed suit, raising their hands to beseech Hugh’s forgiveness. They were still unsure of their standing’s security and that gave Hugh added power.
Hugh reined his temper in. “In Saxon there was a word for a man who was such an abject coward, a vile and dishonourable wretch, such a failure of as a man, that he was beneath all notice and considered not to exist. Nithing!” That made faces pale. As well it should. The word had fallen out of usage long ago, but was remembered well enough that it – and the lack of status it conferred – was still feared.
Hugh moved to stand between the coffin and his lords. “The Welsh princes have rebelled, and treated me with contempt. They have ravaged my lands, carried off my goods, and done harm to my people. They have sized towns and castles which belong to me. They have done all of this also to those who do homage to me. They have murdered and dishonoured one who was my friend, and to whom I owed my protection. You, each of you, will lend you fullest aid to addressing this, or you shall be called nithing wherever people gather.”
The lords bowed their heads and swore they would avenge their king or die in the attempt.
Olaf, I always wanted a medieval fancy curtained bed. They’re so neat!
Ludens, so far life is very literally all fun and games (and books and writing) A spot of redundancy could turn out be to what I needed. Made me realise how nasty the last year and 4 months have been in terms of little time for myself.
Furball, it’s hard to stop gushing about Ancel. I thought I’d better add that to the end to make it completely clear it won't be posted. I don’t want anyone to wait in vain for it to appear on the internet.
Still going, Demon. Still going. Not for much longer though; the end is nigh.
Honestly i am praying for the Welsh rebels.
Yes blasphemous i know, but i have a soft spot in my heart for the rebels and the little guys.
I know that they are ****** but i cant help but still cheer for them, pissed off drunk and out for revenge for a massacre of their blood, and even defending their homes due to their killing of Lord Chester.
This has the makings of an epic sub-story all on its own.
:2thumbsup:Keep it up.:2thumbsup::2thumbsup:
lol, I was told that this was a really good story worth reading (and I remembered that you played Thief and liked it, so you had to have good tastes), so I thought that I would check it out. I read your first post on this page, and I have to say, you do a very good job, but it is certainly written from a decidedly female perspective. :P "Liquor, sex, power! I happy!" That seemed to be the guy's train of thought through the whole thing. :P
We're winding down, Froggie, aren't we? On the one hand, you have to wrap up Eleanor and Fulk in a tidy and editorially correct manner. On another, you have to say "goodbye" to your online readers. On yet another, you have to say "goodbye' to the innocent and juvenile way you have written until now.
You know what I mean. Chapters can no longer be a one-night passion for the storyline or a desire to provide substance to your fans online.
Now you have to create a coherent, cohesive story that stands within the pages of a finished "book."
Ack.
You can do it. I've seen ALL the elements necessary for success in your writing. You have the characters, the point of view and, most importantly, the VOICE, to be able to tell a good story to your readers.
You need editting. Spelling, and minor stuff like that, of course, but in some instances tempo and story-arc. But don't let that stop you. WRITE!
WRITE!
Editting is easy (once you let your editor tell you anything.) It is your writing that drives the vision and creation and the ideal of what story-telling is about, and you already have that!
Please keep writing, froggie. I like your characters and your voice, and I want to hear more.
So I still haven't caught up with you, miss Frog! I wonder if I do that before you write the end of it all..