The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

By the time Eleanor reached her room in the morning Fulk was already up and dressed, wearing his gambeson over his clothes and his spurs on his boots. He was seated on her bed with a hotchpotch of armour arranged about him. Eleanor paused in the doorway, struck by the feeling that this was his room and she was barging in uninvited. Nonsense; this was still her room. All her possessions were still in here, and she had not agreed to leave permanently. Even when she was married she did not have to share with Trempwick, unless he insisted.

As she wandered in she noticed his pallet lying on the floor in front of the hearth, still made up with blankets. Seeing the direction of her gaze Fulk said brusquely, “Well I wasn’t sure if you were coming back. I didn’t want to block the doorway.” It had not been safe to explain to him. If she told him everything someone may overhear, and then all hell would be let loose. If she told him a cut down version he wouldn’t understand, and then he would be hurt, perhaps badly, and she could not abide that. For now let him think it was Trempwick’s doing, let him think she had no choice. For now.

The idea of him sitting, waiting and worrying twisted her heartstrings in an alarming direction, a direction she was trying to avoid. “The sooner you are armed up the sooner we can leave.” His eyes sparked; he thought she was eager to get away to be alone with him. She was. She shouldn’t be. “Time is of the essence,” she added coolly, for the benefit of anyone listening, and perhaps for her own too. “We do not have much daylight to work with.”

“Don’t I get a look at my wife first? To make sure you look the part.” It was all said very normally, but the word ‘wife’ leapt out at her as if he’d emphasised it.

She stood for inspection, eyes fixed ahead and trying not to note where his eyes lingered. She knew what he was seeing; a glimpse of her plainest linen shift at her neck, a little of the sleeves, neck and hem of a faded crimson underdress, topped off by a plain, very warm russet dress in the usual outdated style with loose sleeves. The toes of a pair of very solid shoes peeked out from under the bottom of her clothes. A plain leather girdle with silvered ends was hung with her horn handled eating knife and a small pouch with their displayed money completed the mundane effect. She looked like any minor knight’s wife. She only needed to collect her winter cloak from the chest where it was stored; she had not brought it up to Trempwick’s room along with the other articles.

There was just one thing, and like a cat Fulk pounced on it. Her hair was still loose, as he’d not yet had opportunity to play hairdresser. “You can’t leave your hair like that, as much as I like it. Sit down and I’ll sort it out for you.”

As she sat impatiently on her bed while Fulk styled her hair Eleanor wondered why she had ever considered this to be a good thing. A few minutes alone with Fulk, a few minutes in which he combed her hair as if she had done a poor job of it herself, then tugged her protesting tresses into a pair of plaits which he then, with a bit of trial and error, pinned up in such a way that they did not either fall down or pull her hair out by the roots. They couldn’t talk about anything remotely important, and the closest they had got to anything … fun was him tweaking her earlobe once. Damnation – no more ‘fun’ with Fulk! She should not even be thinking on it. A few short days ago this trip would have seemed heaven sent; now she wondered if the sender might be in possession of a pair of horns, a tail, and cloven hooves.

Today Fulk lumped all her hair together into a single, tight braid and left it hanging down her back. “This style’s faster,” he explained, “since we’re in a hurry. It’s also more likely to survive without self destructing. You won’t be needing your hairpins, not unless things take a very unexpected turn.”

Eleanor slipped off the bed and crossed to the chest where she kept her knives. She had not quite dared take them to Trempwick’s room along with the clothes; she did not like to think how he might interpret such an action, and what he might do to her because of it. Kneeling on the floor she strapped the left knife in place first, resting the weight of the blade and scabbard on her raised knee. The right followed suit soon after, standing she brushed the clinging rushes off the thick wool of her dress and shook her arms to encourage the loose outer sleeves to hang normally. “How do I look?” she asked Fulk, thinking of the concealed weapons.

He answered with a lopsided smile. “Perfectly … Eleanorish.” The smile lasted just long enough to make it known that looking Eleanorish was a good thing, then it disappeared as if it had never been. “Now my delinquent squire has finally shown up I can get my armour on. I am only going to wear part of the set your brother gave me; I don’t want to look too rich.” He indicated the pool of mail resting on the foot of her bed. “The hauberk first, but make sure the hem of my tunic’s displayed nicely before you do anything.” She didn’t move. He extrapolated slightly impatiently, “I’m supposedly wearing all my wealth to impress people; I want the world to see I’ve got a wife who sews a nice border, and that I can buy her silk thread to work with.”

“Your wife hates sewing,” she grumbled as she hunched over and checked the embroidered hem of his tunic showed beneath the bottom of his gambeson all the way around.

“And why’s that?”

“It is profoundly boring.” She gave the rear of his tunic a good tug, bringing the hemline down equal with the rest.

“It’s supposed to be calming, and give you occasion to order your thoughts.” He watched as she began to struggle with the slippery weight of his mail hauberk.

“You should try it sometime, then.” Fulk leaned down and stuck his arms forward and began to struggle into the armour. Over the rattling of metal he nearly didn’t hear her add, “But you sadly lack the prerequisite mind and thoughts.”

With a bit more fighting his head emerged from the neck hole as Eleanor arranged the integral coif back out of his way. He began to jump up and down, shaking the mail into place over the padded gambeson. “I get no respect,” he whined exaggeratedly. The mail settled in place, hiding tunic and gambeson from view except at the middle at front and back where the hauberk was slit vertically from groin to edge to facilitate easy movement and make it possible to sit astride a horse. Typical male, Eleanor thought sniffily to herself. The mail would chafe at the embroidered hem and eventually damage it, and then Fulk would expect someone to mend it. That someone would emphatically not be her.

“Dear, dear, how dreadful,” said Eleanor briskly. Fulk held out his right hand and she began to tie the leather thong woven through the mail at the wrist, pulling it tight so the sleeve could not twist around or hang loose but not so tight it might hamper his blood flow. Right wrist done she did the same with the left. “Are you taking your coat of plates or is that too expensive for a minor knight like yourself?”

Fulk slipped his hands out the slits in the leather lined palms of the hauberk’s mail mittens, freeing his hands and leaving the mittens flopping emptily from the wrist. “I’m taking it; I always wanted one and for good reason – when you wear a surcoat over it much of the time no one can tell you are wearing one, so it’s added, unexpected protection.”

Eleanor lifted the coat of plates, one hand gripping each shoulder firmly, the riveted plates softly chiming against each other at the movement. Fulk ducked down, thrust his right arm through the armhole, his head through the head hole and stood up, lifting his left arm so she could fasten the side buckles to hold the garment together.

Once that was done Eleanor moved to pick up the surcoat. She ran the fine material through her fingers as she unfolded it. “Typical – you dress in silk while I make do with wool.” Minor knight and his wife, and the knight was the one wearing much of the money. Well darn. Shame they had not thought to get a plainer, cheaper surcoat to replace the one John had given Fulk.

“Your complaints are why this act works so well; how can anyone not believe we’re married?”

“Married,” repeated Eleanor numbly. Her hand went to the betrothal ring on its leather thong about her neck, leaving the surcoat hanging ungainly from just one hand, sweeping the floor and collecting creases. Instead of the ring her fingers encountered the teardrop of Fulk’s necklace.

Concerned, and seeing the gesture Fulk inquired, “Is something wrong?”

Everything. “No,” she replied, her voice sounding sad even to her own ears. She gathered the surcoat up and pressed it into his hands, diverting her attention as she went to collect his sword.

“My old blade,” he told her, his words muffled by the surcoat and rattle of armour as he dragged it over his head. When she turned back with sword and belt in her hands Fulk was tying the narrow girdle of twisted strands of dyed black and red leather about his waist, keeping the flowing material of the surcoat gathered in and preventing it from tangling his arms.

She stood, cradling the sword like a talisman, as if it could provide the answers she sought. He looked to see what was keeping her; their eyes met and held, a moment that lasted only seconds but felt far longer. With a wry smile and a light lift of a shoulder he told her it was her problem and returned to waiting.

The problem was simple, oh so dangerously simple. Should she hand Fulk his sword, or fasten it in place for him? In the past she had usually left the task to him. A squire or page would fasten their lord’s sword in place for him, or a wife her husband’s. It was a tender gesture, a caring one when it came from a woman, demonstrating a desire to see the wearer armed safely so he could protect himself. If armour failed the wearer might yet live with nary a scratch. If a sword was belted in place poorly it was near certain the wearer would not escape in good condition if he had occasion to use it.

She should hand him his sword, coldly stating without words she had no special attachments. She wanted to fasten it in place herself. She had an excuse to do so. It would go against her resolution.

Eleanor stepped forward, intending to hand the sword to him and let him belt it on himself. She found herself dipping gracefully to her knees in front of him and passing the belt about his hips, then working the supple, well worn leather through the large buckle and fiddling with the latch as she fastened it in place. Job done she rose and stepped back.

His smile made it all worthwhile, and for a time both pledge and Trempwick were entirely forgotten. A happy little illusion, and as it shattered, mere seconds later, Eleanor found her eyes brimming with tears. A happy little illusion; all it could ever be.

Smartly she began to rummage around in her clothing chest, retrieving her cloak and trying to master that ridiculous, shameful urge to cry. By the time she fastened the brooch in place at her throat and folded the heavy drapes of thick wool back over her shoulders out of her way she had banished that strange, unintelligible feeling of pure sorrow at glimpsing briefly something she might like but could never experience to find out. She turned back around to find Fulk had donned his cloak and was currently settling his shield on its guige strap over his left shoulder, letting it hang at rest but in easy reach should he need it. He picked up his kettle helm by its chin lacings and asked with a slight frown, “Ready?”

One last thing, a tiny detail but significant none the less. Eleanor swapped Fulk’s ring from her right hand to her left, letting it occupy once again the space on her heart finger. “Ready,” she confirmed.

Fulk grinned as he strode to join her near the door. “How do I look?”

“Perfectly … Fulkish.” And she loved it.






Trempwick awaited them with their saddled horses. As Fulk had expected the spymaster purloined Eleanor as soon as she appeared out the manor’s main door. “Dear, sweet Nell,” he said elaborately, looking her over as she stopped in front of him. Fulk had done the same thing himself earlier, but he couldn’t shake the absurd feeling Trempwick was eying Eleanor like a man buying a horse in a market. There was something very coldly possessive and assessing in the look, not the affection Fulk was sure he had exhibited. Maybe he was imagining it out of jealousy? “You will be careful?”

“Yes, master.”

“Remember, if you are not back in six days I shall send parties out to search.”

“Yes, master.”

“Do not take any unnecessary risks; I would rather you returned without the treasure than not at all.”

“Yes, master.” All this dutiful, bland agreement of hers reminded him of the many similar conversations he’d had with Aidney during his stint as bodyguard in Nantes. Polite, dutiful answers that meant little and allowed the controller of the conversation to do as he wished without upset. It was an act, calculated, Fulk was sure. If Trempwick had done something to crush Eleanor’s spirit so badly she actually meant all this docile garbage then surely Fulk would have picked up on something?

Very graciously, as if it were an enormous favour for which she would owe him a substantial return, Trempwick confided, “I shall miss you.”

“I shall miss you too, master.” Aye, so would Fulk – miss him like a cut that had healed and stopped hurting.

Fulk watched impassively as Trempwick gave Eleanor a long kiss goodbye, seeing but not seeing, his eyes turned on them but studiously ignoring any detail. It was the first time he had been subjected to the sight; until now Trempwick had kept this kind of thing behind closed doors, leaving Fulk to guess at what went on. Trempwick finally released her and walked her over to her horse. As he passed Fulk Trempwick looked him in the eye, just for a heartbeat. A shock ran through Fulk; there was something in that look, something that glittered briefly before being buried safely away again so quickly Fulk was not even certain he had seen it at all. Triumph.

Eleanor paused at her horse’s side and Trempwick caught her in yet another embrace. “Don’t I even get a hug?” he inquired with a puppy dog kind of sorrow that made Fulk itch to drive his fist through the spymaster’s teeth.

“I am wearing my knives,” she replied hesitantly.

“It will do no harm. Unless …” he caught her arm and brushed the sleeve up so he could study the knife in its sheath. “No, you have fastened the blade in place so it cannot slide out. It will also be slower for you to draw the blade and stab me, darling Nell. I think I am quite safe.” Oh hehe, Trempwick was the funny one, wasn’t he?

As he suffered through the abysmal sight of Eleanor in Trempwick’s arms in a tight, disgustingly mutual embrace Fulk could not contain an irritated sigh. Trempwick took the hint after the second loud sigh and removed his mouth from Eleanor’s. “I think your pet is getting bored,” he said, in such a way Fulk resolved sourly there should be a law against people like Trempwick.

One final lengthy kiss and Trempwick whispered something in Eleanor’s ear. Fulk could see his lips move, but not hear the words and he had never been able to lip-read. Eleanor blanched and nodded uncertainly. Enough was enough; Fulk busied himself climbing up into his saddle. Trempwick was done, at long last. He made a step out of his hands and gave Eleanor a boost up onto her horse.

Eleanor wasted little time, turning her mount’s head towards the open gate and giving it a light kick to get it moving. Fulk spurred his own horse, following behind her but intending to take his place at her side as soon as they were through the narrow gate. Trempwick walked along at Eleanor’s side, lingering like an unwelcome shadow. He stopped at the gate. “Goodbye, beloved Nell, and do be careful.”

“Yes, master,” she agreed submissively.

As the manor retreated behind them, and as Fulk rode up to Eleanor’s side, closing the gap between horses until they could reach over and touch each other, Fulk felt happier than he had in days. This was the life; him, a gooseberry, two horses, several days of peace, an act which required them to behave as they wanted to, and no spymaster or servants. Indeed, this was the life.





Eleanor could still feel the imprints of Trempwick’s fingertips on her upper arm where he had gripped her tightly during that last kiss. “Pull an Adele,” he had said, “and even I will not be able to save your skin. And do not think I would not know, my little Nell. Remember what I said; you are better than that.”





:laughs manically and keeps on adding addictive substances to each chapter:

I shall see what I can do, zelda. I'm not sure how long it will take but I'll try to do something.

Trempy is held back by the desire to sleep without worrying about Eleanor stabbing him. He has to win her over to the idea of sex or wait until he is married (because she is brought up to do her duty like a good medieval girl), otherwise he will never be certain of his safety again. Trempy would like to go to sleep for a bit afterwards, and then he'd like to wake up alive.

Nope, no man has ever seen Nell entirely nude. Trempy is the one who has seen the most, and that was in the leg scene. He's been teaching her lock picking, deception, a bit of combat etc, I don't see how he would have seen her naked doing that ...

an other great chapter froggy but lets see some more head bashing and hacking :charge:

Hm, I seem to recall that lack of funds was among the primary reasons Fulk decided against fleeing to Ireland. Now, however, it seems as if they could retrieve the treasure and make a break for it - provided, of course, they could elude Trempwick's shadowing agents, who are most likely following them...

is this the style your putting red hand in

“Your Trempwick got me a courser instead of a destrier,” said Fulk, opening up conversation when he judged they were a safe distance from the manor and not being followed. He was dying of curiosity, wanting to know what she had done to ease Trempwick’s mind over Gerbert’s report, but he wanted her to be the one who brought the subject up. He had his ideas about what she might, just might have done, ideas so ugly they would turn into aggrieved accusations if he voiced them, and that would be poor payback indeed if she had done what he suspected she might have to save him. “I’ve no quarrel with that; it’s still a good animal and trained for battle. It’s the fact the horse has been gelded that worries me.” There, a nice, very oblique intro that was not even slightly accusatory. He had been half expecting to be castrated himself because of Gerbert’s prying.

She glanced sidelong at him. “You think the animal will lack aggression?”

Too oblique, maybe. Oh well, forget it for now; their limited private time was best spent in an pleasurable manner. “No, I know it makes me look like a sissy. Warhorses are always stallions; it’s very macho.”

“The Saracens never use stallions as warhorses, claiming they are too unruly.”

“I’m English, oh supreme one.”

“Well, everyone will be distracted while they laugh at you, giving you an unfair advantage.”

“You mean like everyone dismissing you as too short to be dangerous?”

With great dignity and decorum she answered, “Twit.”

“You know I reckon those stories about true love lie,” said Fulk gravely. “They never mention the damsel insulting and abusing the poor knight. Although … the tale of Beaumains the kitchen knight does feature a damsel who’s a bit snippy.”

“Beaumains passed her over in favour of her demure sister, despite all the adventures they had shared on their journey.” Eleanor glared at the horizon as if it had done her some terrible insult, and said scornfully, “Of course they lie; some of those stories have happy endings.”

Fulk told her lightly, “I am not Beaumains.” He’d be very happy to take the snippy damsel home at the end of the quest; the demure one could find herself another knight to simper at. Actually she could find another knight to rescue her in the first place – trekking all that way to rescue some boring blonde would only waste time that could be spent in a far more appealing manner, such as squabbling with a certain Eleanor.

That earned him a glare to match the one she had been giving the world moments ago. “Beaumains was really prince Gareth of Orkney in disguise, so unless you have something to tell me about your family you are no Beaumains.”

Ah, now that was unexpected. “Alas, I am who I have always said.” He kept his tone airy and easy.

“Pity.” An understatement in every possible way.

Inside Fulk began jumping up and down with joy. She had never said, or really even given hint, that she might like to do spend the rest of her life trying to verbally tear him to shreds and send him insane, deftly sidestepping his delicate efforts to find out what she thought, or not even answering. Now she had given herself away; she had fallen for him that badly.

The brief spurt of conversation died away; Eleanor seemingly too busy trying to be distant, Fulk planning with fevered intensity.







As the cold winter sun began its slow decent from its zenith they stopped to rest the horses for a short while, standing in the melting snow and ice to stretch their legs as the horses grazed on what frosted grass they could find. “Ireland,” said Fulk suddenly.

“Ireland to you too,” she replied indulgently.

“The dukes of Ulster have civilised the north; in most regards it’s a match for England. The land around Dublin and Ulaid is rich enough. The running feud between duke Conall and Ruaidri, count of Mide calls for fighting men; duke Conall will take any English knight he can get, and gladly.”

“It all sounds very promising; I shall buy it if you throw in the Holy Grail for free.”

Fulk found the words some of the hardest he had ever said. “Come with me to Ireland.”

Eleanor gaped at him. “What?!”

“We have two horses, money, all our important belongings, and soon we shall have that treasury. We are expected to be travelling for days now, so we get a head start before the searching begins. We have what we need and we will never get a better chance than this.” She continued to stare at him as if he had grown wings and started speaking in tongues.

Fulk restlessly strode a few paces away from her, then turned back, hands held out beseeching her. “We could marry. I could find work with one of the duke; with my talents and resources I could expect to gain a small fief of my own – I have rank, a warhorse and good armour now, I would not be stuck bodyguarding again. It would not be the royal court and to begin with things would be harder, but we have money and I have prospects so it would not be so bad.” She had to see, to understand now. She had to.

“So you want to marry me and whisk me off to Ireland? Are you quite serious?” That certainly appeared to be what he was saying, but she wanted to be sure. She found it hard enough to believe that anyone could love her, let alone that someone could have fallen for her so hopelessly that he thought this a good plan.

“Yes.” There was enough passion in that word to melt stone.

Time dragged out, tense as a bowstring, before she finally answered. Her voice was pained, “They would still catch us; it would only take longer.” He was offering her something she believed she might like, given chance. She might do well as a minor landed knight’s wife, lacking all the pageantry and demands of higher nobility, away from all the intrigues and risks of an agent or powerful noble, and she had a relatively easy time believing Fulk would treat her well as a wife. But it would not last; her father would never let her go, and Trempwick would want his bride back, his agent too.

Fulk let his held breath out in a rush and said swiftly, “Then you name somewhere, anywhere we would be safe.”

“There is nowhere.” A whole world and none of it safe, not from a vengeful king and his spymaster. Time would be all they would gain, time spaced between their flight and their discovery, and in that time they would have no true peace, worrying about the hounds put on their trail.

“Eleanor, we will never have this chance again; we should grasp it with both hands-”

Before he even had time to finish Eleanor interjected flatly, “Grasp your death and my ruin with both hands?” The more she heard the harder it became to reject it. She repeated her reasons over and over in her mind, a mantra to keep her focused on the reality she was struggling to fully come to turns with. No more playing with fire. She did not want to die. No more gambling with his life. Be a dutiful wife. Make the best out of what she had. Face reality and do not turn away. Face what has to be with dignity.

“If we remain here you will marry your Trempwick and we will never have more than a few stolen moments, moments that will be all too brief and hard to come by.”

Eleanor scowled, increasing the volume and insistency of her mantra in her mind. “At least you would still be alive.” That was the key; focus on it – to run was to kill Fulk. To stay, however bitter it may be, was to keep him safe. No more playing with fire. No more gambling with his life. She was better than that. She could not lose him. She would not lose him, not for something so simple and petty, not because she could not control herself.

Fulk took a step closer. “I’ve been thinking on this carefully; I’d never have brought it up if I did not think it had a good chance of success.”

“The risk is too great.”

Fulk could not believe this was his Eleanor talking; afraid of risk, disinclined to forge her own destiny, not even willing to consider the idea for longer than a heartbeat. “It’d be no more dangerous than what we’re doing now – conducting a covert relationship beneath a spymaster’s roof. Either we go and make a life for ourselves or we stay here and nothing changes; either way we are hiding, worrying, watching, unsafe.”

“We cannot leave; they would never let me go - don’t you see that?” she asked desperately, insistently. “In the end we are safer here; if we leave they will undoubtedly search for us, find us, and kill you. If we remain you are safe unless we give ourselves away. I have to marry Trempwick; to deny it is self-defeating. There is no way out.”

“No – there is a way, if you will just-”

“There is no way out!” She was all but shouting now, desperate to make him see and put an end to this torture. “All we can do is make the best of it; I shall endeavour to be a dutiful wife to divert suspicion and try to make it bearable.”

“And what about me? I’m supposed to sit by and watch?” She dipped her head in assent. “Never,” swore Fulk grimly. He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, but dropped it back to his side with the gesture dead, killed by the increasingly hostile atmosphere.

Watching was miles better than living and enduring, Eleanor thought. “You will have to. If you had any idea of how close to disaster we came with Gerbert-”

He was growing angry now; it seemed as though she wanted to stay with her Trempwick, rejecting his plan – their best hope! – for only that reason. He could truly see no other; she was making overmuch out of the risk. “Yes, go on, tell me. Tell me what you did to buy your Trempwick off. No – don’t, I can guess.”

“I doubt you can.” Not unless he had been listening at the door latch.

“You vanish and stay with him overnight not once but twice, he’s all over you like a rash and you play along, and he has a certain smug air about him – it’s damned obvious! I am not stupid!” He moderated his tone, trying to fix his accusation, to make it less hurtful, and to say the most important thing. “You should have let me help; I would have killed him rather than let him touch you.”

Eleanor was staring at him in stunned horror. At last she found her voice, loudly. “I slept next to him, not with him! I do not need you to run about like a bear with a sore head killing people left, right and centre! I need Trempwick, and I need his protection. THINK for once in your life!” She shouted that last sentence so loud it echoed through the landscape, scaring birds from the nearby treetops and causing her horse, unbattle-trained as it was, to cease eating and sidle nervously. “You would only have made things worse. He blamed me; he thinks this is solely me, some one-sided spark, and he was kind to me. He says he loves me, I owe him my life many times over, and … and he was kind to me,” she finished hopelessly. Kind; it was a pathetic motivation, a pathetic hope for the future, but it was all she had.

“You know your problem? You are that starved of affection you run blindly off wherever it is offered. You’d be grateful to the devil himself if he said something pleasant to you. Throw our chance away, then. Marry your Trempwick because he was kind and your family want it; give up into abject defeat, and become another dutiful, spiritless noble lady, and live in … in kindness. Then when you are bored get back to me; I’ll still be here for you – that is love!”

She balled her hands up into fists and shouted, “It is a political match, you dullard! Kindness is the best I can hope for! You would prefer he was cruel?”

“Of course not!” he yelled back at equal volume. “Why do you think I’m trying to get you out of this?”

She turned away, body tight with repressed anger. Her voice became flat and stilted with the effort of controlling her temper, “I have no idea; seemingly because you wish to die.”

He flung his hands up into the air. “Oh for Christ’s sake! Because I want to see you safe! Because I find the prospect of spending the rest of my life with you appealing, though at times like this I doubt God Himself knows why! Because I love you!”

This fight was proving far more vicious than the one they had had back at the royal court; there was no need to keep their voices down, and they had all time the time in the world to hurt each other. There was no pressing need to hold back; a blessing and a curse. They could say what they meant leaving little space for misunderstandings. They could tear each other to shreds.

“And I suppose the lands, incomes, status, three thousand pound dowry, and royal blood have nothing to do with it? You would make your fortune if you married me – leapfrogging your way from bottom to near top!” She knew her worth; it had adjusted significantly these past few weeks, but it only made her more of a commodity.

He clenched his jaw and worked to master himself for a moment. “I’d be happy to take you with nothing more than the clothes you’re wearing,” he told her with quiet, angry intensity. “Although seemingly that doesn’t go both ways as I thought; I’m not good enough for you.” No, he was some poor knight’s bastard. A nothing, bumped up with a knighthood to make him Sir Nothing.

“Go win my hand and my family’s approval, and I will not care if you are a prince or a pauper. I only care about our survival, something you do not much value.”

“You know I can’t win their approval, and you refuse the only way open to me. That speaks most eloquently.” He spun on his heel and marched off to untie his courser’s reins from the tree branch he had hitched them to. “The sooner we go the sooner we get back,” he said loudly, addressing his saddle instead of her, “then you’ll be reunited with your Trempwick.”






Hugh shaded his eyes with his gloved hand as he watched his falcon swoop down on a smaller bird and make its kill. “A good, clean kill, father,” he commented, turning in his saddle to the dour figure at his side.

The older man grunted a vague reply and wheeled his horse about, beckoning for Hugh to ride at his side. They rode at a gentle walk away from the hunting party; William waved away those who would have joined them for security’s sake. “I had a message regarding your sister just before we left,” said the king eventually.

Not able to mind read Hugh enquired, “Which one?” A pang of anxiety shot through him; ever since John’s execution William had … broken somehow, lost a part of his vitality and sureness. Vague sentences such as that one were becoming increasingly common, and the dark bags under his eyes indicated the king slept little. He ate only when Anne chivvied him into it. Never a deeply religious man William was in the midst of organising the founding of a new monastery. Hugh was concerned; refusing food and rest was a fool’s game, and the vagueness might one day grasp hold of William’s soul and mind completely, leaving him another dribbling old fool, lost in dreams of bygone days.

No; Hugh checked himself. Now he was the one being foolish. William was in mourning for his son; he was not capable of detaching and mastering himself as Hugh was. William would recover, and Hugh informed himself that he would do well to learn modesty. Putting himself above his elders and betters, looking down on their foibles as he had just done was undutiful and thus against God. Honour thy father and thy mother.

William’s frown gave the name away before the words. “Eleanor.”

Eleanor; inwardly Hugh sighed. There was little surprise there; the only surprise might come from what she had done this time. Unfair; she had shown signs of improvement, and a king should never be so judgemental. He left a dutiful, attentive space for his father to supply the answer in his own time.

He was rewarded moments later. “Trempwick’s message was brief, as is always the case with messages sent by bird. She has grown to accept the marriage.”

Hugh’s face lit up and he said happily, “Good; truly most excellent news.” Eleanor had discovered at long last that in duty there was much reward, and he need no longer concern himself over her. She would marry as required and be happy, and even do credit to their family. At long last, an end to the undignified strife.

“He wishes to marry her now. Your opinion?” The question innocuous, but Hugh knew it for a test of his suitability for the kingship. Once again he would prove himself. No, that was most conceited; he would do his best and be judged from there, and learn from this as he always strove to do, to better himself, to become a better man and a better king.

Hugh considered all the relevant information and detail; he would not rush. A king must always be cautious to choose the best path; if he chose to led his people towards disaster than all would suffer, not solely the one who made the poor decision. “I would say not,” he said finally. “I see no valid reason and very little gain for us and for the realm. I do see many pitfalls; you set a minimum date, no less than two months after the betrothal, and to go back upon this would be weak. You would be seen to be jumping at your vassal’s will, or hurrying unduly to perhaps provide a legitimate father for an accident. It also gives less time for the arrangement of the ceremonies, and for the decisions regarding guests and other vital, state affairs. The bans have not yet been posted; all must have opportunity to protest to this wedding if there is just cause.”

“So you would not approve of an earlier wedding?”

“I would not.”

William nodded very slowly, ponderously. “I will hear Trempwick out, of course, but your thoughts match mine.”

A warm glow of pride filled Hugh’s heart at his father’s words, only to be rigorously squashed and he castigated himself sharply for it. Pride was a deadly thing, a sin, doubly so in a king. He would not fall prey.








I've been too busy to sit and think, and I needed to do that for a while to get this part done. Things should pick up speed again from here.

Head hacking will be added wherever it suits the plot; I certainly can't say I do all this mush by choice. Plot demands and froggy obeys. Yes, caesar, this is what Red Hand looks like now. A lot more like a book, though it could use working over by an editor to get it to a better standard.

Nice anticipation, Kommodus.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

Hands up everyone who wants to see an Eleanor/Trempwick sex scene

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:Raises hand, notices no-one else has, colours, withdraws hand quickly: ~D

I've only skim read the story for last couple of weeks, but I like it, especially the Trempwick-Eleanor scenes were Trempwick is behaving kinder. However, I think there are too much "thought" bits in the story. Your trump card still is dialogue and all the explanatory thoughts slow it down. I think you should cut down on them; they are not always necessary anyway.

About the perspective: imagine a book were the perspective type changes from third person semi-omniscient (the one you are using most of the time) to third person omniscient every time the writer needs to reveal something. Sounds bad, eh? Just don't do it. Why someone would praise this kind of perspective-type switch is a mystery to me: it is a failure of the writer to work within the limits he or she set when he/she started to write. Now what is praiseworthy about that?

The only thing I disliked was the fight between Eleanor in Fulk in the castle. Apart from being a big cliché and containing many unnecessary thought-lines that slow the dialogue, I do not like the way Fulk is represented. He changes from lover to jealous lover in only a few scenes and back again in just one. But then, I am a big Fulk partisan ~:cool: . Off course, Eleanor is not blameless either: the carelessness both show towards each other's feelings struck me as distinctly un-lover-like. This in contrast with the last fight-scene. In my opinion the castle scene was unnecessary, clichéd and showing both characters as being uncaring while they should be very anxious about each other's feelings. In short: I did not like it ~D .

But apart from that scene, the rest is very well done and I check my e-mail anxiously every morning to see if a new episode has arrived. Keep it up!

P.s. You may have explained this somewhere earlier in the story, but I cannot remember it so I ask you: why is Eleanor feeling so protective about John?

Fulk tucked the hunk of bread under his arm and accepted two bowls of watery pottage that looked about as appetising as the innkeeper’s wife’s moustache, balancing one bowl in each hand. Carefully he made his way through the semi gloom of the inn’s main room and started to ascend the rickety staircase leading up to the two bedchambers above. At the mid point up the stairs the blackness was so complete he had to feel for each step, balancing on one foot while the other cautiously groped about for the start of the next step. A pox on cheap inns, dark winter nights and a lack of candles!

At long last he made it to the top. The corridor giving access to the pair of rooms, one for guests and one for the owners, was pitch black. He inched a few steps along, sliding his feet along the rough hewn planking for fear of tripping or walking smack into something. He couldn’t find the door to the room they’d rented; heck he couldn’t even find the wall the door was in. A big tough knight should never be afraid to ask for help. “Eleanor, can you open the door?” Anyway, he had his hands full so he couldn’t possibly be expected to manage to lift the latch.

The door opened a crack but otherwise she left it. With a scowl Fulk booted it open the rest of the way, rejoicing as the light from a trio of cheap candles sent the darkness into sullen retreat. Eleanor was sat on the simple bed, still in the same cold, distant mood she had been in since their earlier fight. He handed Eleanor a bowl, placed his own down at her side while he broke the coarse bread into two roughly equal shares, then took his own food off to the foot of the bed, as far from her as he could get without ending up on the floor.

Fulk began spooning up the cooling pottage, swallowing rapidly so as not to taste the disagreeable mess. Watery pottage with a few preserved, scraggly winter vegetables in it. Once he had lived off muck like this, cooked over a camp fire while out on patrol. He was going soft. He ripped off a bit of bread and ate it, chewing furiously. His tooth crunched down on a bit of millstone grit; pulling a face he spat it into his near empty bowl. No fancy bread made from sieved flour here. He glared at the rest of the bread, his will to eat it gone and his temper simmering. He slammed the chunk of bread into the bowl, slopping part of the dregs of the pottage onto his wrist and hand.

Eleanor flinched, still focusing on her untouched food, still afraid of his obvious bad humour. Fulk muttered a vicious oath; she probably didn’t even know it but Eleanor had a real knack for making him feel guilty on those few occasions he got angry. Oh he knew why, understood it too – Trempwick and her father, two men who lashed out if they got upset, two men in a world full of them. If he could get her away to somewhere she would be safe and treated kindly the expectation of unpleasantness every time someone got cross would wear off after a time. Probably. Not that he’d ever find out now.

“We’ll leave early tomorrow,” he told her gruffly. He made a show of yawning and stretching as if weary; the only exhausting thing here was this atmosphere. He stood and retrieved his cloak and sword from the corner where he’d placed them along with his removed armour. He folded the cloak in two and spread it on the floor in front of the door, then added one of the lumpy, straw stuffed pillows from the bed.

He lay down on his makeshift bed, still fully clothed, with the sword at his side in easy reach. At floor level the scent of the flea’s bane mixed in with the floor rushes was strong enough to make his nose itch and prickle. Lacking a mattress of any kind Fulk knew he’d be stiff and aching in the morning, frozen too as he lacked a cover.

Fulk stared up at the thatch of the roof while Eleanor wandered about the room pinching out the three candles. Fulk’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, and the weak bit of moonlight making its way through a series of cracks in the wooden window shutters provided just enough illumination for a vague view of the room. Fulk found his eyes wandering over to the bed of their own accord. An Eleanor shaped silhouette was busy removing her hair from the plait, not that there was much to do – as usual her hair had been diligently escaping of its own accord all day. Crossly he shut his eyes and resolved to go to sleep; he was not so desperate – and hopefully never would be – that he considered peeping to be a good thing.

He heard the rustle of clothes as she undressed followed by the creak of the bed as she climbed in.

Time passed in silence.

Fulk shifted on the floor, rolling onto his left side, trying to get comfortable.

More time passed.

Fulk flopped onto his back again, still uncomfortable.

Another indeterminable period of time passed.

Now his back was beginning to ache; Fulk sat up and rearranged the cloak a bit, then lay back down.

More time passed.

Now the damned pillow was too uncomfortable; Fulk sat up again and thumped it. He lay back down, sat back up almost immediately and whacked the pillow some more. He was just lying back down when Eleanor said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake! If it is that bad you can have the other half of this bed. Honestly, it is impossible to sleep if you keep making a racket.”

“Thank you, your gooseberryness.” Gratefully Fulk stood up, grabbed his sword and blundered his way over to the bed.

“Take your boots off,” ordered Eleanor, as she rolled onto her side and shuffled as far to the edge of the bed as she could get. Evidently he wasn’t forgiven for their fight, which was fine because he hadn’t forgiven her either.

The sword Fulk propped against the wall at the head of the bed. His boots he dumped under the bed frame. Having gained the benefit of blankets he could see little point in wearing his clothes; he’d only crease them up. Swiftly he stripped down to his braes and climbed in before his feet got cold. Fulk matched her pose, lying with his back to her as far away from her as he could get.







William planted a quick, soft kiss on the top of Anne’s head. There was something about the girl that sparked a tender, defensive feeling in him, and he was truthfully beginning to look forward to their evenings together with something approaching anticipation. Anne sat up slightly, keeping her balance on his lap by placing one hand on his shoulder. She had this certain considering look on her face; he was learning that meant she was trying to decide if she had the courage to do something. Evidently this time she did not, for she went back to her earlier pose, sat snuggled up on his lap.

“I may not be here tomorrow evening,” he told her with genuine regret. “I have to travel out to Woburn and I will probably be late back because of the weather.”

“Oh.” She sounded no happier about it than he was, bless her. She sat up again, twisting around to study his face. “Woburn … that is where Eleanor is?”

“Yes.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, just a simple meeting with my spymaster. It will be disguised as another hunting trip, but because I only take a small, trusted escort you may hear people saying it is for other reasons. I am not visiting a mistress. The secrecy is necessary.”

Anne glared at him, angry, hurt. “You promised!” she accused. “You liar!” She punched him in the shoulder and scrambled off his knee. “You liar!” she repeated, beginning to cry.

Anne…” implored William, standing up and spreading his hands.

“You said – you promised that no matter what no one would ever laugh at me because it was thought you had a mistress!”

It was true; he had made such a promise. At the time he had not thought of how his trips to visit his daughter were often viewed. “Anne, it is just the one trip, and officially I am going hunting.”

“One trip now, and then what about the next time, and the next? Official excuses matter little to gossip.”

“Come with me then.” Unplanned, unintended, and one of William’s better ideas. He found he wanted her to accompany him, wanted her company, wanted to keep this promise to her. She helped keep John’s vengeful ghost at bay.

“Really?” She smeared her tears away with the back of her hand.

“Yes, if you promise not to hit me again.” William rubbed his shoulder, exaggerating his pain greatly; he’d barely even felt her blow. It was a kind of joking he was unfamiliar with, sampling it on a outlandish impulse.

Anne’s hand flew to her mouth in pure horror. “Oh no – I didn’t meant it, oh what have I done!?”

William took her in his arms and began drying her tears himself. “Actually I found it rather funny.” It was not entirely uncommon for a wife to cosh her husband, but usually the end of any such match in the nobility was predetermined; a hardened warrior versus an untrained woman could only end in one way. One blow from his fist would lay Anne out unconscious or even dead; the idea sickened him. He felt protective of her as he had of no other, not even Joanna.

He began to laugh, quietly at first but soon growing into a roar. This timid little girl, decades younger, feet shorter, miles weaker had just punched the king of England. It was ridiculous, a farce … brilliant.







Fulk had led a life that some might call adventurous, though others still would call it tame. At twenty-five he’d been an appreciator of the finer charms of the female of the species for some eleven years. He was certainly no stranger to sleeping next to a cute personage, and almost every time that cute personage was quite well known to him. He had even done the whole ‘going to bed on a fight’ thing before. He might have been on his own for months now but his memory was still in perfect working order, his imagination too.

So why was he surprised to awake to find himself tangled together with Eleanor the next morning? Like the rising and setting of the sun, the turning of the tides, and the levying of taxes it was one of life’s certainties – if you go to sleep next to a cute personage you wake up to find yourself holding them. This was going to get interesting when she woke up …

Very carefully he gauged their position in the bed. Nearly dead centre. That meant the blame for this situation was about equal; he had not gone chasing off after her or vice versa. They had not done anything stupid; he felt sure he would have remembered it. Anyway, he still had his braies on.

There was something so very … right about lying here with a princess in his arms, her breath causing a draft across his bare chest and her weight cutting off circulation in his arm until the limb felt part dead. To wake up like this every morning, it was all he wanted from life. Ok, not all, but if he was waking up like this the rest would be there too.

What did not feel right, instead choosing to be downright terrifying, was the way her up-drawn knee was lightly resting near his groin. He could guess that rule number five of sleeping with a peevish princess would be “Never, ever allow her to get a crippling shot lined up so all she needs to do when she wakes up in a bad mood is twitch slightly.” Actually for that matter he had no idea how he stood on rule number one: “Do not let the gooseberry have sharp implements, especially not knives, in easy reach when you expect her to be shocked, stunned and a tad aggressive while disoriented and half asleep.”

As pleasant as this was Fulk decided that, in the interests of public safety, she had better not wake up to find them like this. Very, very carefully he began to inch his hips back with the aim of disarming the easy groin shot. Apparently rule number eleven was “She wakes if you so much as move a muscle, therefore while trying to be sneaky remain stationary!”

Her blue eyes took in everything, steadily cataloguing while she remained still, reminding Fulk of a cat deciding if it can be bothered to dig its claws into your thigh as punishment for your being selfish enough to want to move, or if it will generously go back to sleep and let you off provided you hold still.

Eventually Eleanor said, “Well, you do have one advantage; Trempwick pushes the covers back so my shoulders freeze.”

If that was supposed to be a peace offering, and from her unfathomable tone he could not be sure if it was intended to be, it was a backhanded one. He said shortly, “I’m considerate.”

“Trempwick would say practised.”

Fulk snorted. “Your Trempwick’s practised, don’t let him tell you otherwise. What he is is inconsiderate.” Well, there went the mood of potential fence mending. Trempwick, even in ghost form, could really stomp an atmosphere flat. Fulk reached for his shirt, pulled it on and began to tie the neck lacing.

Eleanor too sat up but she did not begin dressing. “It does not matter what he is; I have no choice.”

“I gave you a choice yesterday; you chose him.” Fulk swung his legs out of the bed, turning his back on her, and pulled on his hose, tying the points to the cord belt holding his braise up.

“No, I chose to keep you as safe as I can.”

“I told you, we are about as safe now as we’d be in Ireland. I’ll put my armour on now; I doubt we want any more of this inn’s food, even if it’s just stale bread.” He stood up, reaching for his tunic. He stopped just as his hand was about to close on the material. She was still sat there, hair loose and falling about her, dressed only in her linen shift, looking faintly distressed. Overall he much preferred the I’m-going-to-kill-you! glare but distressed Eleanor still appealed in ways he’d rather she didn’t. No - Eleanor full stop appealed in ways he’d rather she didn’t. It was all minor variations on a single theme.

He ripped his eyes away and snatched up his tunic. She had chosen Trempwick over him; he would respect that and when it went wrong, as it surely would, he would still be here, waiting for her.






William and Anne rode alone into Woburn having left their small escort three miles or so back in the closest settlement. They were within the spymaster’s territory now, and safe to ride about alone. Anne’s reaction to the manor complex was unflattering; she wrinkled her nose and asked in a disgusted voice, “This is Eleanor’s home?”

“Trempwick’s, actually, under grant from the crown.”

“But it is so … so unfitting.”

“That is why it keeps her hidden safely away; only a minor noble would live in such a place as this.” He stopped his horse and swung down from the saddle, stiff as if he’d been in the saddle for days instead of mere hours. Blood of Christ but he was getting old. He gently lifted Anne down from her mare’s back.

By the time he’d set her down Trempwick had joined them. He inclined his head to William. “Sire.” To Anne, “Your majesty.” To both of them, “You will forgive me if my household seems disordered; I have recently lost a man.”

“How?” asked William sharply. He recalled how the spymaster had described his servants; a set of his best agents placed here to keep Eleanor safe. One loss was both expensive and alarming.

Trempwick smiled dryly. “Your daughter, sire. She has a certain, strong dislike for my people, and they for her. Between them Gerbert and herself managed to create a situation where I had to back one or other. I chose her, of course.”

William grunted; yet more trouble from the brat. Still and all this particular incident was handled and did not call for his involvement. Good. Arm linked with his queen William strolled inside, following Trempwick up to the solar. Anne proved to be fascinated, looking about her with keen interest at every slight detail the entire trip. William was growing to recognise this particular attitude of hers too; it was the one which accompanied the sound of money trickling out of his treasury to be spent on new furnishings.

Trempwick ushered them to seats and enquired, “Refreshments, your highnesses?”

William told him generously, “Stop the flattery, Raoul. Mulled wine, I think. Is that alright, Anne, or would you prefer something different?”

She gave her assent and Trempwick thrust the fireside poker into the blaze and disappeared out the solar door. He reappeared minutes later with a jug of wine and three cups. He knelt and placed the cups in a line at the hearth. He talked as he poured. “Hippocras, one of my better vintages at that.” Standing he took hold of the poker and thrust the heated end into the first goblet. The wine hissed as it came into contact with hot iron. He repeated the process on the second drink, then replaced the poker in the fire. The two heated drinks he gave to his guests.

William politely sipped his wine. “You will understand if we conclude our business swiftly, I am sure. Why do you wish the marriage accelerated?”

Trempwick’s words were measured, “I have won her over, and she is beginning to see the advantages as well as the downsides. If we getting the wedding rolling now we will not have to repeat the … stressful process that got her to agree to the betrothal.”

“If she is won over then she will surely remain so.”

“Perhaps, but do we wish to take this chance?”

“Raoul, I am confident in your ability to keep her under control.” This was not a conversation he wanted Anne to hear; she may not react well to hearing her step daughter discussed in such a way. Well, needs must, and he could explain in detail why it was necessary later.

“She does not view this betrothal as entirely binding, I think. If she finds a way out she will take it,” said Trempwick earnestly. “She will, however, view marriage itself as final and binding. I have her won over, but who knows when – or what - she will see as an opportunity to foil this?” Trempwick pulled the poker from the fire and plunged the tip into his own drink. Goblet held loosely in one hand Trempwick ambled over to the window and leaned his rear on the window ledge, remaining in William’s view but escaping from Anne’s.

“There is little over a month of my original stated time left. We have not yet arranged a date, aside from the minimum.”

“Yes, and so it is not difficult to alter things,” countered Trempwick strongly.

William bridled; he did not like his spymaster’s tone. “Difficult, no. Politic, no. I will not have it believed I dance to your tune, or that there is need for me to move the date forward. You know how that would be viewed.”

Trempwick pulled a face and sipped his drink. Firmly he set the goblet down on the window ledge, the louder than needful clink of metal against stone and energy of the movement giving William the distinct impression his spymaster was annoyed. “William, you leave me in a most awkward position.”

“As I have said a great many times before, I am confident in your ability.”

“And I am grateful for that, truly.” Trempwick sighed and ran a hand through his hair, digging his fingertips into his scalp.

“But?” It was plain there was a but.

“You said you did not much care what I did with her, and that I should do whatever I felt needful.”

William added promptly, “Within reason. This would not be within reason.”

“A secret marriage-”

“Would inevitably cause many potential problems.”

“William, I think not. I can guarantee there would be no scandal of any sort.”

“Once again I have confidence in your abilities, but I cannot take the chance.” William began to stare his spymaster down, locking gazes with him like an old bull locking horns with a newcomer, equally implacable, equally determined to win out and prove his superiority, equally stubborn as that animal. “The best I can do is offer to let you marry a few days after that two month limit expires. We can arrange a date and see about posting the bans, and all those other details, in the time between now and then.”

Trempwick held the deadlock. Finally his head bowed. “As you wish it, sire.”









Quickly, I'm kind of rushed currently ...

You're a Fulk partisan and you want to see Eleanor get together with Trempwick, Ludens? :questiong:

Fulk has been jealous since page 69; it's been quite a common theme whenever he sees Eleanor and Trempwick together ...

Thoughts and the necessity thereof: Tricky, from my POV all explanation is unnecessary as I know it all. It's very, very hard to judge what people do and don't get, even with very obvious, blatant things. If you (or anyone) could give a few examples of what is unnecessary I'd be able to better judge in the future.

Now, the castle fight scene. Cliché, heck yes - but then the whole Fulk/Eleanor love thing is cliché. Out of character? No. Unnecessary? No.

Fulk has been bothered by Nell's relationship with Trempy ever since he saw her walking and talking alone with Trempy (page 69), leaning in to hear what he was saying. He was burning up during those banquets because Trempy was being nice to Nell and she was liking it. Remember, he thought they were flirting, but then told himself he was being daft. Now he finds she is marrying him, and that jealously explodes. He is also smashed in the face by reality, and Fulk does not really handle reality well sometimes. He deludes himself, constantly and over many things, although this has worn off quite a lot now. The only real delusion he has left now is that somehow it is possible for him to get the girl.

Nell, well she just survived some of the worst days of her entire life, and all she was fit for was breaking down and crying, which of course her pride won’t let her do.

They aren't careful of each other's feelings like good lovers because they aren't good lovers. A few guarded kisses do not make a smooth, functional relationship. Yes, they do know each other quite well, but adding mush and this new status in alters things.

They also didn't have much time, and they did have an audience (Anne) even if she was on their side and discreet. That really makes any argument worse.

Purpose: Quite a lot, too much for me to detail just now. Take that fight scene away and see how much of a knock on effect it has. Loads; entire scenes gone, entire dialogues, gone, character growth, gone, plot points, gone. If you can't see it ask again and I'll detail when I have a minute or five.

Actually feedback on this section was mostly good.

Perspective changes: I've not chosen any limits or any one style. I do prefer to stick to one character at a time, either in great depth or in loose focus. The preference is simply economy; it allows me to keep some things hidden while revealing others. Swapping may not be the best thing, or the most professional, but in a way I’m cobbling this together as I go, making something in a style I have never encountered before (wait until it is entirely finished before you tell me others have done this; at this point in time it’s not entirely obvious). I focus on Eleanor because she sees most of the important events. I swap to any of the other characters only when they provide something Nell doesn't, be it plot, detail or characterisation. Fulk, William, Hugh - they only get a POV now and then because they provide access to something Nell can't.

Now, there are very rare occasions where I absolutely, positively need the gooseberry's POV, but also need to say something she is not aware of, misinterprets, doesn't see or whatever. Nell misses or misinterprets plenty, plenty. Much of the time that is allowable; I can explain later or leave it inferred. Sometimes it is actually very preferable to let her mistakes influence the reader. But, and it's a big but, there are a tiny, minute handful of occasions where that is going to absolutely ruin everything. On those occasions the gooseberry needs back-up.

Remember all that time ago, back when she was at John’s, she was watching Fulk's reaction to her losing her temper and she thought he hated her? Remember how seeing it through her eyes it did look like he hated her? I had plenty of people comment on that. They did not understand, just as she did not, why Fulk had suddenly gone so cold and uncaring. Of course when we hit a Fulk POV it is revealed he is actually too caring; he was at the edge of his control and doing all he could to stop himself from grabbing her and comforting her. This was intended; a part of my big plan, even down to the confusion it caused.

I tried over and over to write the scene in question from just Nell's POV, but Fulk always came out as out of character, odd, slightly ... scary, actually. I tried many times writing it from Fulk's POV, but then Nell was a lunatic, ranting for no reason, almost psychopathic seeming. To use someone else's POV was to never see the scene at all. Hence the merger; it had to be the two together. The characters could navigate the scene, but not the readers who know both Nell and Fulk so intimately. Fulk can accept that he touched a nerve with his joke and dismiss it as that. The reader, however, knows Nell better. They know there is something deeper, but they would probably not know what. It would have been the scene at John's all over again times ten, and their behaviour would never be explained in retrospect, unlike Fulk’s behaviour at John's. There was simply no space, no way to work a retrospective explanation. It would not work either; the understanding had to be paired intimately with the action.

It is not obvious by looking at the scene now, but that is a product of the merged viewpoint. Rip away everything the combined viewpoint gives, and add back in the aspects the single viewpoint gave, and you end up with two very different versions of the same scene.

John: He’s her brother, and thus she has an attachment. They spent a few years together and while her memories are not entirely happy she did not hate him. Nell kind of pities him; he used to pick fights with her and sit on her to prove he could beat someone in a fight. She finds that very sad, in a pitiable way. She also admits to liking the lovable rogue type front he presents; all style and fun, even though she knows he is a bit of an idiot. She doesn’t (didn’t) like him a huge amount, but that liking is (was) enough that she doesn’t want to see him dead. It’s not enough that she would continue to risk herself for him; as she said after her ribs were cracked she would have left him to rot if she had known she would have paid quite so highly.

Anyway, I really do have to run, or hop, or swim, or whatever it is exploding frogs do when in a hurry. I hope that helps; if not squeak up ~:)

I find that when you switch from different places times people etc, quickly like in the last scene with Fulk and Eleanor and Ann and William, tends to increase tension and suspense in a scene. You keep on expecting something very exciting to happen. Just thought I'd say.

I did like the effect it gave the two plotlines. Climaxing with the 'stalemate'.

What if Stephan didn't die and became the king?

Hmm. So now Trempwick seems to be the passionate one, and William the cold voice of reason. Will's looking at the big picture and Trempo isn't.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

You're a Fulk partisan and you want to see Eleanor get together with Trempwick, Ludens?

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I think he just wants anyone to get it together, he doesn't sound too discerning about it to me ~D

I'm not really commenting much, am I? It's like me...

... five minutes later and I still can't think of a metaphor but you know what I mean. But I'm still reading, froggy.



Ugh, this coursework short story is so naff. So horribly, terribly naff. Ever had the feeling on reading something when there's nothing specifically wrong with it, but it still doesn't feel right? Well, most of the marks are for spelling and grammar (so naturally, I had regional accents in mine :confused: )

Side by side Fulk and Eleanor rode through the morning mists, the chill of the air turning their breath to white plumes of steam. Movement at the tree line that ran alongside the road a quarter mile away caught Fulk’s attention. Sharply he turned his head, eyes narrowing to get a better view. “Look!”

Eleanor followed the direction of his pointing finger. “I see him,” she said grimly.

The horseman remained in view for only seconds more before crossing the rest of the sparsely foliaged gap and vanishing.

Fulk mused, “No obvious armour, but at this distance it’s hard to say. Local?”

“Alone?” asked Eleanor sceptically. “Why the stealth? Why ride beside the road at distance rather than upon it?”

Fulk unhooked his helmet from where it swung from his saddle near his right knee. He let his horse have its head while he laced the helm’s chinstrap, leaving his mail coif down so as to keep clear hearing and avoid the need to grovel about in the nearly empty saddlebags for his arming cap. “Could be trouble,” he commented starkly. He slipped his shield down from the rest position so it was firmly on his arm, ready for action.

Wary, they rode on.





They timed their journey carefully so they arrived at their destination about an hour after sunset, relying on darkness to act as a cover. For once winter’s gloom was a boon instead of a bane, giving them around twelve hours to find the treasury, retrieve it and put distance between them and potential pursuit. Travelling by night was never easy, but the moon was just waning from full and the stars were out in force.

The trickiest part would be finding the marked tree. Trempwick’s spy had given them a good, detailed set of directions but even a small torch would act as a beacon, visible for a long distance. They had no reason to assume there would not be guards placed somewhere on the land, even though this was a simple manor house like that at Woburn instead of a castle.

Again winter aided; the bare trees let the weak night’s light flood into the small coppice. All the same it took nearly an hour of blundering about before they found the oak with a single horizontal line cut in the bark, exposing white wood to shine with the moon’s reflected light. At the foot of the tree, on the east side, there was a small mound under the snow. This was the spot.

Trempwick had thought of everything; he had provided them with a single shovel, the handle sawn off a foot above the blade so it could be concealed in their saddlebags. Fulk fished the shovel out, grabbed one of Eleanor’s hands and plonked the shovel in it. “Here you go,” he whispered.

“You are the menial labourer, not me,” she whispered back.

“I’m a knight so I’m above digging.”

“I am royalty.”

“I’m wearing armour; it’ll be noisy if I dig.”

“I employ you, so I cannot do all the hard work.”

Fulk sighed, shook his head and said regretfully. “We should have brought a serf.”

“I shall remember to pack one next time,” she replied wryly. “We can take turns. I will go first.” Yes, because then she would get the easy task of clearing away snow instead of half frozen earth.

Eleanor crouched down and scraped the snow away with ease. Breaking the ground proved difficult and slow; the short handle of the spade helped very little, and the need for stealth even the slightest sound feel loud enough to bring a horde of angry people down on them. Hands aching, and only slight progress made, she handed things over to Fulk. “Here you go,” she whispered with annoying cheerfulness. “Never say royalty is lazy.”

Fulk grumbled indecipherable and started work.

They traded the spade back and forth, comments growing more and more outlandish with each swap over, and their on-going quarrel over Ireland seemingly forgotten.

By the time they reached the leather bundles with the treasury the moon had moved quite some distance across the sky. Fulk pulled the bundles out of the hole and opened one to peek inside. “Money,” he said quietly. He refastened it and placed it in the saddlebag Eleanor was holding open. The process was repeated with each bag; most contained gold and silver coins but there was also many small items of jewellery, a pair of gold goblets, and a set of silver candle sticks. Between them their rough estimate came in at just over two thousand pounds; a small fortune. Heavy wealth, and it did not all fit in the saddlebags as Trempwick had blithely assured them.

Bags loaded and placed on Eleanor’s horse, with the excess tied to the saddle, they quickly kicked the dirt back into the hole, trod it down and tried to restore some semblance of harmony to the snow. The scene restored as best as possible they began to retrace their steps, Eleanor leading both horses while Fulk tried to cover their tracks.

They kept this up until they were about a mile from the coppice. They could not hide their tracks completely, and dogs would still find their scent easily enough, but they had done enough to delay any pursuit for a good while.

Fulk had slung his shield by its guige strap from his war saddle’s high back. Now, mindful of the horseman they had seen earlier as well as the risk of angry pursuit, he reclaimed it and kept it at the ready position instead of at rest. He swung up into his saddle, shield hand on the reins and ready for combat. He frowned down at Eleanor. “Your horse is overburdened to carry you too, but in the event of a fight I’d rather not have you clinging on behind me.”

She did not look pleased. “Fine. I can take a hint; I shall walk.”

“No, I meant you should get off if anyone tries to kill us.” He extended his free hand to help her up. “Ride up front,” he instructed her, “it’ll be safer when we’re moving fast.”

Eleanor rested a foot on Fulk’s and boosted herself up onto the horse’s withers, settling just in front of the saddle with her back against Fulk’s left arm and her legs dangling down the right side of the courser. She wound the arm nearest Fulk about his waist and gripped his surcoat with her other hand, holding on for dear life. It was not the most comfortable of seats. Fulk kept hold of the other horse’s reins in his right hand; he could release them as he deposited Eleanor on the ground if things got rough.

Fulk spurred his horse into a trot, balancing speed and long distance endurance. “You evil bastard,” swore Eleanor as she bounced along, jarring every bone in her body. It was impossible to rise to the trot when riding pillion.

“If you get horse sick please vomit over the side, not over me.” Not entirely a joke.






Fulk kept things moving at a rapid trot until the horses began to tire. He slowed to a walk, and asked Eleanor, “How are we feeling?”

“I think it is a very good thing I did not eat anything last night.”

“We needed the speed, oh nauseous one. I’m sure you’d complain more if people caught up with us and began poking us full of holes. By the way,” he said mischievously, “I thought you might like to know you’ve gone a nice gooseberry green.” Well, she wasn’t quite that bad but she did look quite sick, poor thing. Cruelty to Eleanors was not something Fulk approved of, but they absolutely needed the speed. They would keep this alternation between walk and trot going all the way back to Woburn.

Ah, Woburn. Fulk decided it was worth another go; he would not give up so easily. “So, back to Woburn or to the nearest western port?”

There was a very long silence before she said quietly, “You know what Trempwick said to me as we left? He threatened me; he said he would know if I ‘pulled an Adele’, and even he would not be able to save me if I did. He threatened me before as well, very, very carefully, but he was clear none the less. Even a hint more suspicion and you die. We should … I resolved to … ” She smiled sadly. “It is too hard to say, and to do. I do not wish this to end; it would be sensible but somehow I … it does not work. I try. I fail. Both at saying it, and at acting upon it. I can’t give you up, or lose you.” A pause, then she admitted simply, “I need you.”

I need you. Fulk found himself beaming like an idiot. “So you’re trying to dump me and not getting very far? I could have told you it wouldn’t work, based on long experience. I’m a sucker for distressed gooseberries, they punch right through my nice, safe resolve to keep my distance from people who are out of my reach. Must be the heroic knight in shiny armour in me.”

“And for some reason I am immune to common sense; it must be the princess in me.”

“No, you’re just vulnerable to knights with broken noses, and that’s the inner gooseberry.”

“How did we get into this mess?”

“I think it started when you killed Aidney.”

“You mean when you refused to die neatly,” she shot back. She sniffed and told him loftily, “Do not blame me for your deficiencies.”

Fulk was all mock indignation. “Oh nice!”

“You see?” Eleanor said more seriously. “How can I lose my only source of a good argument?”

“So, back to Woburn and your Trempwick. Then what?” Not the obvious, the what would she do about Trempwick, but the less obvious, the what about them.

“I have to marry him,” she said dully. “I cannot risk his enmity either. You know a man can treat his wife as he will; he will make my life hell if given excuse. I will not place you at risk; I will somehow have to become a dutiful wife.”

“A discreet relationship, then?” Better than nothing. It seemed a lifetime ago he had sat in the king’s great hall, thinking this over. Back then he had possessed two answers, the heart saying yes the head saying no. The battle had resolved itself; total victory for the heart. She didn’t answer. “Let me guess; logic says no and the inner gooseberry is loudly arguing in that noisy, persistent way only a gooseberry can?”

“Plenty of other wives manage, although none of them are stuck with Trempwick and their circumstances are very different. But … for all the spymasters and creepy servants I do not have constant chaperones, and we do have these missions. It would be playing with fire.” She said the last a little louder than the rest, emphasising it.

“You have to think about what you want, and decide if it is worth pursuing.” Sage advice, from Juliana that lifetime ago.

She said nothing but he knew she was thinking it over carefully. He left her to it.





Throughout the night and much of the following day they kept travelling, stopping for the occasional, brief rest but otherwise perpetually moving between walk and trot. After that initial burst of conversation they remained quiet for the most part, keeping to business or neutral topics.

The trailing horseman was spotted once again, at a such distance he was barely larger than a child’s toy.





From the position of the sun it was about three o’clock when they were forced to another halt; the horse had gone lame. “Probably a stone,” Eleanor said as she dropped down from her uncomfortable perch. She took the packhorse’s reins from Fulk and led the animal off out of the way.

“More than likely,” agreed Fulk. He slung his shield back out of his way and dismounted. He picked up the courser’s front left leg. “Holy Jesú!” A caltrop, a small set of iron spikes designed to always land with a point upper most, was embedded in the poor animal’s hoof. An ambush.

Everything happened at once. Men in a motley of armours and brandishing weapons began pouring out of their hiding places. Fulk was struggling to draw his sword and get his shield back into use while shouting a warning to Eleanor. The princess herself was drawing both of her wrist knives and running back over to Fulk, abandoning the packhorse.

Fulk and Eleanor stood back to back as the bandits completed their loose ring about them. Fulk took a quick head count. Five men, all lean and tough with an iron hard appearance to them. Hardened bandits, not desperate newcomers. Hauberk, as Fulk tagged the leader, with his short sleeved mail hauberk, spangenhelm and sword. Then another, Sword One, with a padded aketon in addition to his crude iron sword. Sword Two lacked the aketon but possessed a simple kettle helm like Fulk’s. Axe was the runt of the litter, with just plain clothes and a long knife to back his woodcutter’s axe. Billhook’s weapon was intended for peaceful farming but now put to a grimmer harvest; Fulk knew they were efficient weapons in the hands of skilled.

Hauberk grinned and slashed lazily at the air with his sword. “Put up your weapons, dear friends. It’d be a right pity to splash blood about on such a fine day. Deal’s here; she’s,” the tip of his sword aimed at Eleanor, “valuable. We’ve a customer who’d pay a small fortune for her alive and unharmed. He’s not minding if you’re,” the point flicked at Fulk, “dead. I’m a great believer in taking the easy way; hand over the girl and we’ll let you live. I’ll even let you keep the fancy armour.” From the way he spoke Hauberk must have been a noble at some point, a broken down knight or a lesser son of a poor lord.

Fulk asked Eleanor, “What do you think, dear heart? Do you want to go with the nice men?”

“I do appreciate their offer but he,” Eleanor shrugged her shoulders lightly and aimed a dagger at Axe, deliberately mimicking Hauberk, “has a beard, and I do so hate beards.”

Hauberk threw his head back and laughed with the confidence of one who was sure of victory, even if he was equally sure it’d be a costly one. “Cute. Kill him, but remember the girl’s our pay.”

The bandits exploded into action. Billhook reached out a hand towards Eleanor, saying patronisingly, “Put the knives dow-” His words were lost in a scream of pain as Eleanor sliced his hand open, cutting through to bone and severing tendons in a gush of blood. Sword Two swore and brought his blade up to guard position as Billhook staggered back, dropping his weapon and clutching his wrist tightly to get the bleeding under control.

Axe aimed a cleaving blow at Fulk’s shoulder. Fulk blocked with his shield, his arm going numb with the force of the impact. The axe bit deep into the top of the shield, then pulled free. Still recovering, but knowing he could waste no time if he wanted to live, Fulk lunged at Axe, slightly off-balance. The sword tip sank into guts; Fulk twisted the blade and pulled it free, flinging his shield wide to deflect Sword One’s own thrust.

Eleanor took a risk and threw her left knife at Sword Two; he dodged and jumped in. Reflexively Eleanor stabbed with her other dagger, catching him in the ribs; the force of Sword Two’s movement sending him crashing further onto the blade. The dagger twisted from Eleanor’s hand as Sword Two collapsed, her grip made slick by blood and sweat. She was disarmed.

Fulk was fending off both Hauberk and Sword One, sheltering behind his shield and parrying with a calm, controlled fluidity. He needed to keep them both in front of him; they were doing their best to flank him. Position was everything.

Billhook had seized hold of Eleanor with his good hand and was using his crippled hand to try and bash her into submission. Eleanor had lapsed into a kind of panicked frenzy, kicking, scratching, hitting and using every trick she knew to escape.

Fulk dodged right, turning as he moved to keep both his foes in front of him. Hauberk lunged, aiming at his unprotected lower legs. Fulk brought his sword in and parried, but too late. He felt hauberk’s sword burn a line across his knee, followed by the warm flow of blood. Hauberk grinned, sensing victory and enjoying himself. Sword One hung back, letting his chief have the kill. Fulk and Hauberk circled warily, launching the occasional faint and attack but neither managed to get an advantage. The few, glancing attacks that made it through were harmlessly deflected on mail.

Eleanor gave up and allowed Billhook to reel her in; he kept hold of her right arm and crushed her to him, subduing her. She gave up the pretence; her left handed uppercut to his jaw was blocked with condescending ease. Her knee to the groin was not quite. She began to struggle again, now in range for a new set of attacks.

Hauberk was good, too damned good for Fulk’s liking. They exchanged a few more blows, again doing no harm with only a few cuts even touching body armour lightly. Changing tactics Fulk waited until he blocked the next attack, then stepped in with lightning speed. Hauberk was forced to back-pedal to maintain the gap, but he lost balance doing so. Fulk kept pressing in, now raining blows down, keeping Hauberk off balance and unable to recover. Hauberk stumbled on the uneven ground. It was all Fulk needed; the edge of his sword smashed into Hauberk’s unprotected face, shattering the cheekbone, then slicing away the rest of his cheek as Fulk pulled his cut and drew the blade back before it could lodge in bone.

Sword One braced himself, came at Fulk, then lost courage and ran, casting away his weapon. Safe, Fulk turned and found Eleanor still grappling with Billhook. Billhook saw he was alone and cursed. He shoved Eleanor away from him and began to run too, heading in the opposite direction to his other surviving comrade.

Peace fell as suddenly as it had been shattered. Fulk dropped his bloodied sword and caught Eleanor in a tight embrace. Wordlessly they clung together.







Yes, I do realise this leaves quite a bit unsaid. There should actually be a few more scenes, one at the very least, paired with this but I don’t have time to write them now and this was getting a bit long. Now’s as good a stopping place as any. Think of it as a kind of two parter, just like those TV series where they cut off just when things start to get interesting and then spend five minutes recapping what happened last week.

Suddenly I’m reminded I haven’t written a proper fight in months, and I was never too practised at it anyway.

Thanks for that, zelda. Effect noted for further reference ...

Well ... if you see a man limping about on a twisted leg start to wonder. :gring:

Discerning, hehe, I have (scattered across my various audiences) people who want Fulk and Nell to get together, people who want Nell and Trempwick to get together, people who would love to see Trempwick get hurt, people who would love to see Fulk get hurt, people who want more mush, people who would love more fighting, and probably more besides! I can never say my readership is boring and predictable :)


Yes, I have had that feeling, Axeknight. Most pesky.

Oh, i'll start to wonder alright. I suspect Stephan will make a reappearance, after all, he might have planned for his father to try and off him, so he made his own arrangements.

well thats a great part frog :bow:

Eleanor raised her face from Fulk’s shoulder and said ruefully, “I think I now have a mail imprint pattern on my front.”

“Really? I can check if you like.”

“Hooligan.”

“We’d better get out of here. You collect the horses; I’ll take care of the rest.” She nodded her agreement and set off after the horses. The courser, battle trained as it was, had not gone far. The other animal’s herd instincts had kept it from bolting, and it stood at its companion’s side, shivering and showing the whites of its eyes.

Fulk made his way to Sword Two’s corpse and kicked it over so it sprawled on its back with mouth and eyes slackly open. Planting one foot on the ribcage he tugged Eleanor’s knife out. He didn’t stop to see if the man had possessed anything worth taking; with one lame horse and one fully burdened animal they already had more than they could carry, and the promise of further trouble was not far from the forefront of Fulk’s mind.

Hauberk was still alive, his chest rising and falling feebly. He was unconscious, perhaps mercifully so. No such blessing for Axe; he was awake and slowly becoming more aware of what had happened to him as each second passed. His stunned silence had given way to groaning blended with curses and pleas for help. There was only one kind of help for a man badly wounded in the gut and Fulk gave it, stabbing Eleanor’s knife in under Axe’s armpit so it found his heart. To Hauberk he dealt the same mercy, better than a slow, agonising death alone in the snow.

A bit of searching turned up Eleanor’s second knife and Fulk’s dropped sword. He cleaned the weapons on Axe’s tunic, scrubbing off the clotting, freezing blood so it could not foul the weapons’ sheathes. He returned his sword to his side and, all that needed doing done, headed to meet Eleanor.

Eleanor has gone ashen, stood in the middle of the carnage and staring at what was left of Hauberk’s face. Fulk took the horses’ reins from her unresisting hand and stood to block her view. “Here, your knives.”

Unable to see the mangled visage she seemed to recover a bit; she took the knives and replaced them in their sheathes. “Your leg is wounded.” She crouched at his side and gently peeled the blood-sodden woollen material of his hose back from the wound. A shallow gash about a handspan long travelled up the side of his leg from just below the knee to well above it. It was bleeding steadily but not deep. “It is not bad,” Eleanor managed to say, her already loudly protesting stomach performing new twists as her eyes found themselves unable to look away from the cut. The blood seemed so bright, and the wound itself leapt out at her from the surrounding skin like the foreground of a picture standing out from the background.

With difficulty she looked away and rose again. “We can …” Her eyes lit on the body of Sword Two. “Oh Jesú,” she groaned, and dropped to the ground, one hand gathering her hair at the back of her neck and the other on the ground for balance as she brought up what little there was in her stomach.

Fulk knelt at her side, wincing as his knee protested. Gently he took hold of her hair in one hand, brushing stray wisps back from her face. Eleanor let him take over and dropped her other hand to the ground as she retched dryly. Working from his store of Eleanor lore Fulk offered the comfort he thought best. “There’s no shame in it. It takes battlefield experience before you gain some immunity to carnage such as this; seeing criminals executed or animals slaughtered is not the same.”

Between retches she managed to say, “For God’s sake do not tell Trempwick that! He would be deeply disgruntled if he knew his attempts to provide me with a cast iron stomach had failed, and I would not be the least bit surprised if he arranged a battlefield tour or two for me, even if it meant organising the battlefields himself.”

Fulk would not put it past the spymaster to arrange something like that either. Almost selfishly Fulk slammed a mental foot down on the Trempwick’s presence; these were his few days with his love, and the spymaster could damned well stop intruding. He turned to business in a smoothing murmur, “We’ll have to walk; my horse won’t carry any weight and the other is still loaded. We passed a small settlement a few miles from here on our way out; we should be able to get a night’s shelter there.”

Eleanor’s stomach finally seemed to register that it had long been empty, and she managed to stop heaving. She used a handful of clean snow to wipe her lips and stood up. Fulk fished out a costrel of small ale from their supplies and gave it to her so she could rinse her mouth out. He grinned. “Forgive me, your gooseberryness, if I refuse to kiss you for a bit.”

“Yes, it would be a pity if I got sick again,” she retorted.

Fulk rolled his eyes and said mournfully to himself, “As usual she blames me for everything. I don’t know why I bother.”

They began to walk, leading one horse each. “Because,” she said with a glint, “you are hopelessly in love with me.”

"Well, there is that. I also feel this sense of obligation to gooseberries who are hopelessly in love with me.”






As soon as they were away from the stench of blood and death they paused to clean off the blood from their skin with handfuls of snow. They did what they could with their clothes, but nothing short of several good washes would remove the blood from the wool. At least they looked a little better.






A little further down the road the effects of the battle were both wearing off and coming keen. Once the fire of battle left your blood the effects were well known and predictable. If it hurt already then it began to hurt tenfold, if it did not already hurt then it began to, until you slowly became aware that your body was covered in many small cuts and bruises you did not even notice getting and those hurts you were aware of slowly became more insistent.

Aware of Eleanor’s constant covert glances Fulk tried to disguise his increasing limp as a swagger. The joint was stiffening as the long cut scabbed over. Nothing serious, but he didn’t want her worrying.





During the last third of their journey to the village the horseman was spotted again, still following discreetly. This time he was a little closer, and they could just make out a very few details. The man’s heavy cloak hid any armour he might have, but a sword of some kind could just be made out. The horse looked like a grey, but with the sun beginning to go down and at this distance that was more an impression than a certain fact.

As ever the glimpse was brief; horse and rider melted away into cover once more.







Together Fulk and Eleanor headed to the tiny stone church to the northern side of the settlement. In the absence of an inn their best bet was to beg for shelter from the priest. Anticipating this issue Fulk had given Eleanor a brief tutorial on village priests and how to handle them, seeing how she had never encountered this low rung of the clergy before.

Generally speaking the average village priest was more worldly and less strict than his more sheltered and highly placed brethren. Living amongst the people and sharing their cares and joys gave then an insight lacking amongst the cloisters and towns. That was not to say all village priests were jolly old beans who loved nothing more than joining in with the local celebrations. No, there was a good sprinkling of men working to the strictest schools and interpretations of God’s word.

This priest, most fortunately, turned out to be one of the more worldly types and he was glad enough to offer them his humble bed for the night once he found they had removed several of the thugs who had been plaguing the area. “A night in prayer’s going to do me no harm,” he told them cheerfully. “We’ve been asking our lord to send a troop to rouse out those bandits for a good while now, and he’s not answered. I’ve little enough food for myself, but once words spreads about I’m sure others will donate a little of what they can spare in gratitude.”

Fulk handled much of the conversation and organising, while Eleanor hovered respectfully at his elbow, looking demure and suffering bravely as Fulk had instructed. This priest was unlikely to break out into sermons on a woman’s place if she took a little initiative herself, but capturing sympathy never hurt. She did insist very politely that she needed no help in tending to Fulk’s wound, and that seemed to go down well.

The priest’s dwelling was a single large room inside a wattle and daub walled thatched building, much like any other in the village but smaller. The interior was plain, though whether that was because he took his vow of poverty seriously or because he really was very poor was anyone’s guess. There was a simple table paired with a bench, and a small array of earthenware vessels sat in parade on the tabletop. The bed was made up of a few wooden planks placed so they formed a hollow box in one corner of the room. The outlined area was be filled with straw and a linen sheet placed over it to form a crude mattress. Several thick blankets were heaped on the bed, along with a meagre looking pillow. The rushes on the beaten earth floor had seen better days, but there was a good dose of dried flea’s bane mixed in with them.

They piled their bags in the corner nearest the small bed. Fulk sat on the low bed with his leg stiffly stuck out in front of him. He took his helmet off and handed it to Eleanor, then began examining his shield by the flickering light coming from the small cooking fire. “I’ll have to get a new one,” he told her glumly. “The board’s damaged, the facing’s worse. To patch it is to leave it weak.”

“Leave the shield; I will help you off with your armour and see to your knee.”

Fulk was just about to untie the lacing holding his right hose up when the priest returned with a plain jug and a small iron caldron of pottage. He was followed by one of the village woman bearing another small caldron with heated water, a pot of salve and a few bits of very cheap linen. “Barley spirit,” explained the priest as he handed the bottle to Eleanor. “To clean your wounds.” He placed the pottage next to the hot water on the stones surrounding the fire. “Goodnight, and God bless.”

When they were alone again Eleanor asked Fulk, “Clean your wound first, or food first?”

Fulk’s reply was speedy and resolute. “Food.” Get your priorities right; leave the painful stuff until later and eat your dinner while it’s hot. They carted the pottage over to the table and sat side by side. Not wanting to waste time with unnecessary faffing about they ate from the iron pot itself with the spoons every sensible traveller carried. Plain pottage with a handful of dried peas stirred in to add flavour and variety, bland but the first decent food they had had in over a day. The pot was soon scraped clean.

“Right then,” said Eleanor, standing up, “your leg.”

Fulk reluctantly pushed himself up and limped over to the bed. “You do know what you’re doing, right?”

“Of course. I patched up my own cuts all the time until I met you.”

“Oh.” Somehow he did not find that reassuring. He untied the lace holding the right leg of his hose to the cord belt holding up his braies and let Eleanor remove it along with his boot. He ventured, “Um, if you don’t want to do this I can take care of it myself.”

“Nonsense.” She shooed him over until he was arranged with his cut facing the flickering light so she could see to work.

“It really wouldn’t be any trouble …”

"Stop wriggling,” she said sternly. She took a piece of linen, soaked it in the water and began sponging away the dried blood on his skin, before talking the clotted blood on the cut itself. There were some strands of wool stuck in the cut; she removed those carefully. She was proving quite competent and gentle; Fulk would have relaxed and lay back on the bed instead of sitting up and watching her every move hawkishly but he wanted warning when she went for that barley spirit.

Cleaning done Eleanor placed the used bit of linen to one side and picked up the jug. “Ready?” she asked. “And do note I am polite enough to give you fair warning, unlike some people.” She glared at him then.

Fulk smiled weakly. “Please tell me you’re not carrying a grudge.”

“Not at all.” She began to pour. Fulk’s muscles clenched but he didn’t make a sound. When she’d finished Eleanor patted his head and told him, “Good knight.”

“I feel like a damned dog!”

Eleanor didn’t reply. She blobbed some of the ointment on and used the leftover linen to bandage the cut. “Done.”

While she tidied away Fulk got up and limped over to the door. A bit of investigating revealed a good, strong wooden bar that slipped into a pair of holding loops. He slotted it in place, keeping the world out, then retuned to the bed. He pulled off his other boot but remained sat up in the middle with both legs stretched out in front of him. He patted the space at his side. “Let me fix that bird’s nest you are calling your hair.”

“Typical,” grumbled Eleanor good naturedly as she dug out her comb, “we have the rest of our journey to worry about and he wants to play with my hair.”

“The worrying is easy, oh agitated one. We will have to continue to walk, and pray no one else attacks us. It will be a week at least before my poor horse can bear heavy weight again.”

Eleanor removed her own shoes and sat where he indicated with her back to him and her legs gathered up to one side. He untied the ribbon and began to undo what was left of her single braid, gently teasing apart tangles with his fingers. His fingers brushed hers as he took the comb from her, and when he began to brush it was quite different from his usual efficient work, more languorous. He kept working long after the last of the knots had disappeared, moving from crown of head to ends of her hair in one fluid stroke after another, his free hand gliding after the comb in a light caress.

After a while Eleanor glanced back over a shoulder and inquired, “Having fun?”

His reply was honest, accompanied by a slight smile. “Yes.” He ceased his brushing and very delicately kissed her on the lips. “Time, space – they change so much.” He began to play with a lock of hair near her ear, running his fingers down through it until they reached the curve of her breast then returning to her ear again. “No lake of oil caught by a spark effect this time, and we’re not nearly so likely to get charred. Much more enjoyable too, slow.”

“Erm …”

“Yes, I know – no repeat of Maude, but after the day I’ve had I’m in no fit state.” A lie. “Besides, this is a priest’s house.” So what? “And finally,” he leaned forward to confide this one in a very soft voice, “I have tied my braises belt in so many knots it takes a clear head, steady hands and a lot of time to get them off!” Very, very true, and a real nuisance when he went to the privy.

Eleanor blinked, then began to laugh. “Interesting thinking, helmet head.”

“I pride myself on my ability to think my way around a problem.” He kissed her again, long, slow and tender, forestalling any more chatter.

Eleanor said, “I have heard much about arguing and then making things up afterwards.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. We have been fighting quite a bit …”

“And you want to make up?”

“Well … I suppose I can show mercy and settle for a white peace instead of pressing for total victory.” She shifted position so she was facing him.

“Mmm,” agreed Fulk shortly before they kissed again. “Generous of you.” Another long kiss. “But sadly we miss half the fun.” Yet another kiss. “Nothing to stop us putting in a good showing on the other half though. But first …” He took her right arm in a gentle grip slid the outer sleeve up. With a crooked grin he told her lightly, “Better safe than stabbed to death.” He rapidly began to unfasten the straps holding the knife in place.

“I would not stab you,” Eleanor told him solemnly. “Trempwick, now then I might think about it, but not you.” That was because Trempwick always had an element of fear and panic attached to him, fear of stepping off into the unknown, an unknown she had repeatedly been told she was not suited to. That fear was still here with Fulk, but only a trace, distant unless she thought about it. She realised too late what she had done in mentioning the spymaster. “Sorry.” She watched as Fulk removed the second knife. “I think the only way this will ever work is to compartmentalise; forget him when I am with you, and forget you when I am with him.” She knew immediately whom would prove easiest to forget; Trempwick.

Trying to fix her error Eleanor ran a finger down his nose, lingering at the crooked break. “Springy tree branch,” she said in a soft murmur with a shake of her head and a hint of a smile.

While they kissed again Fulk began to work at the knot tying her girdle in a leisurely manner, testing out her reaction. The lack of sudden pain was encouraging and he soon had the knot free. He unwrapped the two loops of the belt and cast it to one side to join the knives on the floor.

Eleanor shifted over once again, this time sitting on Fulk’s lap with one arm about his shoulders. “Fair’s fair,” she told him as she tweaked his belt off and threw it on the ground.

“I’ve already got one bare leg,” he replied amiably as he brushed a hand up her leg, moving her skirts out the way until the garter for her stocking come into view. He untied the garter and rolled the stocking off. “Now we’re even.”

“No, you know what you are doing whereas I am clueless.”

He chuckled. “You, oh dearest sour fruit thing, are a very fast study.”

They sat closer, forehead to forehead, their noses touching. Fulk’s hands began a slow exploration of her assorted curves. Eleanor idly picked up a lock of his hair; it had now grown from its previous style so it hung just past his jaw and was in need of barbering into the correct shape for the new style. “Fast study,” she repeated thoughtfully. She tried running her fingers through his hair in an echo of his earlier thing. While Fulk’s fingers worked daintily on the side lacings of her dress Eleanor told him, “It is quite soothing. Stress relief, pet a knight.”

“Do I get a promotion with that? Royal stress reliever, maybe?”

Eleanor thought, and Fulk began to unlace the other side of her dress. “Nope, some might say the job is its own reward.”

“Well …” Fulk swept her hair to one side away from her neck and began kissing the hollow under her jaw. “I suppose it’s not so bad.”

Tired of nibbling earlobes Fulk sat back and surveyed her. He tried to raise one eyebrow but as usual he couldn’t manage it; after a brief struggle he just raised both instead. “Dear, dear – now you’ve turned into a shapeless blob! We can’t have that.” With the side lacings of her dress undone the top half of her clothes was no longer even slightly form fitting. A bit of joint effort and the dress joined the growing pile on the floor.

“A chivalrous man never leaves his lady to freeze while he is nice and warm,” said Eleanor insistently as she began to tug at his tunic.

“Told you you’re a fast study.” Fulk batted her hands away, leaned back so he wouldn’t knock her with an elbow, and pulled his tunic off himself in one swift movement. He caught her up in another close embrace and kissed her again unhurriedly, taking the opportunity to explore those curves again.

A good while later he ventured, “That underdress of yours is really quite terrible, all faded and patched in several places. Doesn’t suit you at all.” A bit more work and it too joined the heap of clothing on the floor, followed by Fulk’s shirt, the other leg of his hose and Eleanor’s other stocking.

Fulk could tell Eleanor was not going to part with her shift, and all he had left was his braes, so the game ended there. Shivering they dived under the mound of blankets on the bed, huddling together for warmth and comfort.






Anne was not eating, and nor was William. Lacking any appetite of his own since John’s execution he ate when Anne did, splitting everything in two with her to keep her from fretting about him starving himself to death. The others at the feast appeared not to have noticed the royal couple’s melancholy.

William asked her, “You are not sickening for something, are you?”

“No, my lord.”

“William,” he reminded her. People could overhear, they were using the falsely private volume of speech as it mattered not if people overheard his concern for her health and she was following his lead. That said her usage of the wrong term of address was a genuine mistake this time, not for the benefit of the audience. William was concerned. He dropped his voice lower, “You have been downhearted ever since our trip to Woburn yesterday, are you sure nothing is wrong?”

Anne frowned and appeared content to keep her peace. She blurted out, “She can’t have given up. I will not believe it.”

“Who given up what?”

"Eleanor; I cannot believe she has been won over by your spymaster. Not when she lo-,” there she swapped words, one for another, neatly done but not artful enough to escape William’s notice. “disliked the idea so much at first.”

‘Lo-’, now what could be made out of that? Loathe? Perhaps, dropped for a more diplomatic word. “She is seeing sense, thinking instead of being mulish.”

“Head over heart?” she asked forlornly.

“Yes, just so.” Although quite what hearts had to do with the brat’s obstinate insistence on going her own way William could not say.

“Not a happy ending,” she sighed.

William frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean? It is a very happy ending; she is finally learning her place and she will be happier in the end for it, as will we all.”

Anne didn’t answer, nor did she lift from her depression.






That last Fulk/Nell scene was a miniturised, frog specific hell to write.

He might have, Demon. Keep your eyes peeled.

Thanks, caesar. It's much easier to write a fight then mush, even if I am badly out of practise at fights. There's probabyl a moral there somewhere ...

Hmm.... finally, Fulk and Eleanor get closer...
Damnit, someone needs to kick william's and trempwick's asses.

*day dreams about Fulk doing commando style action hero trip on Tremps and Williams butts.*

Edit:
Ignore me I'm suffering from writers block. Last piece was good Milady. Good ending with Annes hinting, I have a feeling Williams gonna croak (no pun intended) before the wedding and Anne'll...

Jocelyn was aware by the sudden, meaningful gap in his wife’s prattling that he was finally expected to say something. He hadn’t been paying attention for … oh, minutes now. He seldom did; Richildis could bore the hind leg off a warhorse with all her gossip and talk of the household. The gap drew out. He grunted something noncommittal and hoped that would suffice.

“You’ve not been listening to a word I have been saying!” she accused stridently.

“I have, and you know it.”

“Go on then – give me the benefit of your advice.”

“You know I always let you handle your own problems.”

“Pah! I knew it, not listening at all. I was saying something needs to be done about Mahaut; she was chasing one of your pages about today using her spindle like a sword, insisting she was a Valkyrie from legend.”

“She’s your daughter.”

“Yours too.” Almost defensively she added, “She has your stubborn chin and fair colouring; anyone can see she’s yours.”

“Yes, yes, I don’t doubt that,” replied Jocelyn crossly. If he did the girl would have found herself in a convent, closely followed by her mother. “You know our arrangement; you deal with her and I handle our sons.”

“You sent Thierry away and Jean is still in his crib; you have nothing to do. You might as well take an interest in your daughter, as I take an interest in my sons.”

Jocelyn stiffed a groan; so she was still in high dudgeon over Thierry? Amazing; the woman could do nothing if not hold a grudge. It had been over two weeks now. “The boy is seven, it is high time he began his training in earnest. It might be unusual to foster the heir out, but a place with our liege – the count of Tourraine no less - is nothing to be sneezed at, woman.”

“If you say so. I am after all only his mother, and as such don’t need to be consulted before the boy leaves, or even warned until the evening before he goes.”

“Exactly.” He left time for his barb to be recognised and sink in and then continued, “I leave Mahaut in your capable hands. And now, unless there’s something else we can be doing,” he rested a hand suggestively on her thigh, “I shall go to sleep.”

Richildis said frostily, “I have a headache.”

Jocelyn smiled into his beard and said with saccharine false concern, “You should see a physician, dear. All these headaches, night after night. You must be ill.” Miserable cow. He could press his rights but it really wasn’t worth the pouting, glowering, fuming and general resentment he’d have to put up with for days afterwards. He rolled over with his back to her. Pity Ardentes was only a small castle; if there’d been space Jocelyn would have dumped Richildis in her own bedroom. They’d been married for eight years, since she was fifteen and he twenty, and the best they’d ever managed was a kind of tolerant dislike.

This evening’s battle was not yet done. “Yves has summoned me to Saint Maur. I depart tomorrow.” The expected complaining never came; she must be privately celebrating that she would have a few days without him. Perhaps if he brought her back enough material for a new dress she would finally stop sulking about Thierry? Anything to buy a bit of peace!






The weather at last began to change; the new day dawned clear and bright with no new snow or frost. The air was a touch warmer. Fulk and Eleanor set out early, declining the priest’s offer of another night’s shelter, knowing he made it out of politeness only. They walked much as they had done on their way into the village; each leading a horse, Fulk in full armour and trying to hide his limp, and Eleanor looking generic and harmless.

They would make it back into the spymaster’s territory tonight, by Eleanor’s calculations. Back to safety, plentiful food, decent lodgings, warmth, clean clothes, and, if she had any say in the matter, a hot bath. The food would be terrible, the bath would take such effort to organise that the prospect wearied her, and safety would be from marauding bandits but not spymasters and servants.

God alone knew what precisely Trempwick would say when he saw them, but Eleanor could guess and that guess was bad enough. His diatribe would run along the lines of, “Bah! Nearly dead! Blah, blah, blah, no more risks like this. Blah, blah, too important to let die, blah. You could have been killed! Shock horror, whinge, blah, blah.” Cue unpleasant method of teaching her to be more cautious in future, even though this had not been her fault. His concern should probably be flattering … or something.

One last day, just one more day minus the evening and night, to be alone with Fulk, and not another chance until she was sent off to do something else. A day of fear, waiting and watching for another attack, either from bandits or from the treasury’s keepers. A day of hurried travel, racing against those who must surely be hunting them. A day of hiding in fake personalities that had such potential but little opportunity to utilise the most appealing aspects. A day of wading through mud, snow, ice and slush. A day filled with the protests and aches of the many minor injuries they had both picked up in yesterday’s fight.

A month and nine days until her father’s two month limit ran out.










A tiny bit; I had hoped to introduce Jocelyn with two scenes instead of one but the second scene still needs a little tweak here and there. I'm horrifically busy so I haven't had much time to write. I don't see that being any better tomorrow, but past then it might pick up ... as long as I can mostly ignore Chirstmas.

I haven't forgotten the reader's request I promised to do as a side scene; I hope to post something as a Christmas special type thing, although some readers will hate it because they prefer Trempwick over Fulk, and a few others like William.

Jocelyn watched as his son and heir poured wine. The boy did well, the ruby liquid falling in a graceful arc from a good height above the cup, but his nerves betrayed him and a few tiny droplets spilled onto his father’s hand and wrist. Thierry stepped back to his place behind his lord and his father, standing to attention with the jug still in hand.

“Your family is well?” inquired Yves de Tourraine.

“Yes, my liege.” Jocelyn took a swallow of his drink so as not to snub his lord’s hospitality. “My wife is in good health, although missing our eldest boy. Mahaut is energetic and … assured for her four years, and the baby begins to talk and walk in some decent manner.” The son his wife missed so much stood behind them, and to Jocelyn’s enormous pride did not make his presence known even during a conversation staged mostly for his benefit, to give him news of home without taking him away from his studies. Still as a statue, blending in to the background, forgettable, like a good page should be. Thierry was doing his old man proud.

The count waved a hand. “Boy.” Thierry stepped forward, attent and straight-backed. “You will go and join the others in the armoury now. Polish my shield boss; I expect to see my face in it. Leave the care of the facing to the older boys.”

Thierry bowed, still holding his wine jug before his chest, and silently filed out. When the door closed Yves remarked, “A fine lad.”

“I am glad you think it, my lord. He is fast with his hands, and a good horseman already. He shows great promise, although I say it myself.” Just a pity that the great boost from being in a count’s household was tempered by the personality of the count himself. Most fortuitous, and Jocelyn thanked God for it each day, that Yves would have little to do with the boy’s training, instead delegating it to others more able.

De Tourraine held up his hands to stem the flow or parental pride and said jokingly, “Enough; you have already sold him to me, he has his place in my house.” More seriously, “It is his father I have need of.”

“My sword is yours, as always.”

“Good; I have need of it.” Yves paused, checking about his small solar as if expecting someone to have snuck in to listen in on the two men. In a hushed voice he said, “The King of England is a crazed, blood hungry fool bent on destruction. I bowed to him because it suited me; now it suits me to break away.”

“My lord, the King of England is merciless - he executed his own son for treason.”

“That is, in part, why I feel I must risk much and break away.” Yves suddenly laughed. “He forbids all to speak French, instead using English for everything. But look at us, Jocelyn, we are speaking langue d’oil, French as he so calls it. What is he to do about it? Nothing!” A contemptuous flap of a hand dismissed William’s power. Yves always spoke with his hands, sometimes making more sense with their flapping than with the words flowing from his mouth. “He is old, weakening, growing ever more unpopular. His heir is a bastard, and he would foist that on us as king and have us pay homage to it on bended knee. I think not. There is no other son. Out here this William is but a distant spectre. Can the same be said of Henri, King of France? Our lands border on those owing allegiance to him. He is young; there is plenty of hope for the future there. I have been given assurances by a certain party that I will be well supported in my attempt; I shall have powerful allies, powerful.”

Jocelyn could not believe his ears. What folly, sheer, unredeemable, complete folly. He did not care to hear more; he could see little to improve this from base foolishness. It was humiliating, being beholden to such a man. Yves had never shown ability for intrigue, never. Jocelyn had once joked that his lord could not out-scheme a rock, and, as God was his witness, it was true. Bowing to the English king upon inheriting his father’s position was the best move Yves had ever made on the political front. The English king could crush Yves like a flea.

Ah, and yet did not Jocelyn pray nightly for someone worthy to serve? For someone worthy to take the title of count? If he followed his lord to war he would be doing so only for the sake of his oath, proving to all he was a loyal and trustworthy vassal. That much he must do; to hold back when his liege called was to shame himself before all, and to ensure that none would ever trust him again until the day of his death.

A loyal vassal, one who showed he was torn between loyalty to his lord and to his king, would be worth treating with when the foolish count was inevitably removed. With careful manoeuvring he could emerge from this enriched, more powerful, more important, more prestigious. Yes … a loyal man would be needed to take up the title of count of Tourraine when Yves lost it, either dead or stripped of his title.

Had he not prayed daily for a worthy man to take the title of Count of Tourraine? Yes! Had he also spent many hours pleading with the Almighty for a sign of favour? Yes! This was his sign! Tourraine would soon have a new count, and Jocelyn could profit handsomely from it, maybe even rising to count himself. He knew the land, the people, the requirements, he was able, skilled, pious and loyal.

Jocelyn had to work to hold back a smile. Thierry’s position would prove more useful than he had previously thought. His claim that his son and heir had been held hostage in the guise of serving as a page would prove most … heartrending.

“My lord,” he said solemnly, “my sword is yours.” Yves would not take long to lose, and Jocelyn would ensure he got to the English king the instant that happened. He could even be responsible for ending the rebellion; if he ordered men to put down their weapons many would listen.

By boat it had only taken him a few hours to get here from his own holdings; he had time aplenty to stop in Chateauroux on his return trip this afternoon to offer a generous donation at the cathedral. God favoured him and in His wisdom had seen fit to answer Jocelyn’s prayers.







The second Jocelyn scene, explaining a bit more about who he is and why he is here.

This is not at all part of the story; it takes place in an alternate universe … or something. It’s just a bit of silliness to fill several reader’s requests, and to provide a bit of stupid fun for Christmas. It also makes handy relief for a frog who is beginning to get strained juggling so many plot related balls at once.

NB: Please don’t kill me for the fanmail. I’m not basing them on anyone’s comments, just typical fanmail stuff.







Fulk and Eleanor walked in through the gate of Woburn manor, leading their two horses. They were footsore and weary, more than a little muddy and the gore produced by their fight against the bandits yesterday had now dried to a deep brownish black. Fulk’s armour was beginning to rust.

Their arrival was greeted in an unexpected manner; William came hurtling out the main door with Anne hanging on to the back of his belt with both hands, dragging along and digging her heels in as she tried to hold him back. “Stop!” she pleaded, nearly losing her grip and balance as William banked into a turn and headed right for Eleanor.

“Brat!” bellowed William, his face turning purple. “Have a nice trip?”

“Not bad,” replied Eleanor mildly.

William stopped just short of his daughter and looked over his shoulder at Anne. “I say, do you mind letting go? It is a bit hard to go into a proper apocalyptic rage with you clinging on back there.”

“That is the idea.” Anne tightened her grip and prepared to be all brave and martyrish.

“Look, sweetheart-”

“Don’t sweetheart me, you great lump. You know I am chairwoman of the Society for the Protection of Eleanor, or SPE as I like to call it.”

“Darling, please let go? Please? I promise I will not break any bones or kill her, please?"

“No!”

Eleanor and Fulk exchanged a meaningful glance, one which said “What in the name of boiled eggs is going on here!?”

The meaningful looks and assorted husband/wife pleading was interrupted by Trempwick, arriving in high dudgeon and asking in a dramatically wounded voice, “Nell, how could you?”

“How could I what, master?”

“You know what I mean, and frankly, dear Nell, I am more than a little annoyed.”

“About what?”

“You know, Nell. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“No, I really do not know.” Eleanor frowned slightly. “Are you going senile, master?”

Trempwick choked. “I am only thirty-four!”

“I always thought you were older …”

“Insult to injury, darling Nell, insult to injury. I shall have to work hard to think of something appropriately sadistic to put you through for this.”

Eleanor snapped her fingers and pulled a wry face. “Oh darn!”

Fulk had had enough. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “SPE? Raging kings? Upset spymasters? Honestly it’s like the world has gone mad overnight!”

William levelled an accusing finger at Eleanor. “You slut! Pain! Much pain! More pain! Yes, pain will follow for this!” His maniacal evil villain style speech was cut off by Anne elbowing him in the back and scowling furiously at him.

Trempwick, Eleanor and Fulk watched the start of a new king/queen bout of squabbling, then looked away feeling totally embarrassed. Trempwick clearly felt the onerous duty of outlining the weak plot of this story had fallen upon his shoulders. He cleared his throat and said balefully, “Your night of ‘fun’ with your pet, dear Nell. We know all about it. In detail.”

Eleanor turned on her ‘so innocent butterflies come out of my nose when I sneeze’ act. “What night of ‘fun’, master?”

“You, him, a priest’s hut, and there is no point in explaining further because the readers only read that bit a few days ago so they should remember it all very well.”

“It is all an evil lie,” insisted Eleanor virtuously.

Fulk nodded vigorously. “Whatever it was we didn’t do it.”

Trempwick brandished a bundle of letters. “Ah ha! But there is no denying it, dear Nell - I have proof! The Fulk hating readers wrote in en masse to tell me about your antics.”

He selected one letter and began to read. “Dear Raoul (can I call you that? I’m your biggest fan! You’re so great, and so not like that annoying Fulk idiot.) I enclose here a copy of the scene where your little Nell (you deserve better, but maybe she will one day see how special you are and fall totally and deeply in love with you. I do hope so!!) starts doing unspeakable things with her stupid pet (kill him! Kill him please! You’re so much cooler than him and he takes up space in the story you could occupy instead!). I couldn’t bear watching them make a fool out of you. Please do something, for the sake of your fans (I’m your biggest fan ever!).”

Eleanor smartly shot back, “It’s a lie, slander. Yes - lies.”

Trempwick selected another letter. “Dear Trempwick. I feel it is in your best interests to inform you that Eleanor is carrying on with Fulk. I don’t really like Fulk much so please kill him. Thanks, signed a reader who hates Fulk.”

“Erm … more lies?” tried Eleanor.

“‘A chivalrous man never leaves his lady to freeze while he is nice and warm,” said Eleanor insistently as she began to tug at his tunic.’” Trempwick lowered this bit of paper and looked at her reprovingly. “Oh Nell, how could you?” He read another section, “‘“Springy tree branch,” she said in a soft murmur with a shake of her head and a hint of a smile.’” This time his expression was hurt. “Sweet Nell, you never talk to me like that, and you never run your finger down my nose and make mushy jokes based on back story that readers will have probably forgotten.”

Eleanor had the grace to blush. “Yes, well, it is all to do with attraction, master. We don’t have any. At all.” As an afterthought, “Oh yes – that scene is fake, also lies and slander to discredit me!”

William had finally won free of Anne. “Enough of this! I say we batter the brat, kill the knight, and live happily ever after.”

He threw himself at Eleanor, only to find Anne had grabbed him about the waist in a bear hug. “And I say we don’t batter Eleanor and kill Fulk!”

Trempwick glowered. “I am quite happy to settle for killing the pet in a hideous and painful manner and then marrying Nell right away. I would actually prefer it if you did not make a mess out of her for once, William.”

William lurched a few steps closer to Eleanor. She was currently watching him with mild fascination. William balled a hand up into a fist, began to swing, then missed as she stepped back a pace out of range. “Damn it! Hold still when I am trying to thump you,” he complained. “It is hard to hit a moving target at my age.”

Anne began to loudly tell him that the SPE did not approve of this. Trempwick had to shout to be heard over the queen’s diatribe, “Can we just skip to the bit where we hurt Fulk a lot now, please? The readers want it.”

Fulk had something to say about that, “Oh no they don’t! I have letters of my own, spymaster. I also have the gooseberry’s approval, which is more than you’ll ever get.” Fulk produced his own bundle of fanmail, selected one at random and began to read. “Dear Fulk, you are my number 1 hero and I think you are really great. You and Nell are a cute couple. I think you should kick the king and spymaster about a lot, please? I live in hope of this happening, and I know you’re more than capable.”

He gave the assemblage a proud smirk, then moved to another letter. “Dear Fulk, someone needs to kill William and Trempwick; I hope it’s you. I love all your scenes. Can I have your autograph?”

He began to read a third letter, this one on pink scented note paper. “Dear Fulk. You look really cute in that armour. It makes me want to-” Fulk pulled a face and stopped reading very quickly. “Yes, well there’s no need to finish that one.”

Eleanor was incensed. “You get love letters?”

Fulk scratched the back of his neck and suddenly found the ground very interesting and eye-catching. “Well, one or two. I put them on the fire; you’re the only gooseberry in my life.”

Eleanor sniffled. “I don’t even get fanmail.”

Fulk gathered her into a hug and kissed her on the forehead. “Never mind, oh dejected one. I’m sure you have plenty of fans out there.”

William and Trempwick both pointed fingers and yelled in unison, “Ah ha! Proof!” while Anne went all misty-eyed and cooed, “Aaaahhhh, how sweeeeet.”

Trempwick was quick to take back command of the situation. “Right, I have a plan that will hopefully make everybody happy. If you will all calm down and hear me out?” Hush fell. William and Anne’s struggling ceased but they kept on holding on to each other. Fulk and Eleanor, now the game was up, chose to take up that delightful looking pose so often used by doomed loves in films, the one where the woman clings fearfully to the man while he stands there with an arm about her waist looking all brave and determined.

Trempwick began to explain, “I shall play benevolent spymaster and overlook Nell’s little indiscretion. I shall marry her now because I have been waiting years and frankly I am tired of being lonely. The travelling to find someone suitably accommodating is really getting me down, and Nell substitutes are not the same anyway. That makes me happy, and after a while I am sure she will be happy too. She will, yes, happy, it just takes a bit of time, yes – yes.” He sounded almost hysterical in his need to believe that.

Eleanor had but one comment. “Disgusting!”

“Thank you, sweet Nell,” said Trempwick dryly. “Now, the king and queen will then stop arguing because Nell is safely sorted out. That makes the two of you happy. Finally, we have the pet.”

“And I fail to see how I’ll be happy with this plan of yours – the princess is mine,” said Fulk firmly.

Eleanor glared up at him. “I am not property, you know.”

William helpfully said, “Actually, you are. In many respects, anyway.”

Fulk patted Eleanor on the head and said soothingly, “Never mind. I actually meant ‘mine’ as in ‘her heart is mine’. It’s a common thing for the hopelessly besotted to say.”

Eleanor was slightly mollified. “Oh. Well, that is alright, then.” The exceptionally long and passionate kiss from Fulk aided the mollification effort considerably.

Trempwick coughed loudly and importantly, but failed to break up the kiss. “Ahem,” he tried. That too failed. His shout of, “Oi! Put her down!” bounced right off the protective glow of mushiness enveloping the duo. “I’m waiting.” Still nothing. “Why does she never do that with me?” wondered Trempwick plaintively. “Time, yes, a bit more time and she will.”

Several minutes later his patience died. “I will continue without you,” he threatened. Finally they broke the kiss; the secretive, soppy smiles they exchanged immediately afterwards only salted Trempwick’s wounds. “Finally, the pet. He dies. This makes the largest part of the readership happy, makes me happy, makes William happy, Nell will grow to be happy about it, and Anne will get over it too.”

Fulk muttered, “I won’t be happy about it.”

“You will be dead; you will not matter.”

Eleanor was quick on her mental feet, and determined to rescue her broken-nosed follower. “But it appears more of the readership likes Fulk than hates him, so you will upset them. I also swear I will never forgive you if you kill him, ever, no matter what you do.”

Anne eagerly joined in. “Me too! As chairwoman of the SPE I refuse to countenance anything which might upset Eleanor. I also love soppy love stories.”

William sighed. “If only we knew how the readership was split, then the argument would become much easier.”

A small, cute frog no one had noticed until now spoke up, “Actually the split between Trempwick and Fulk is about even.”

“Oh, thanks.” William did a comedy double take and stared at the frog. “Did you just talk?”

“Ribbit,” replied the frog glumly. “Ribbit, also generic frog noises.”

William smiled with relief. “Good, good, talking frogs are the work of the devil. Ok, everybody. We have heard the spymaster’s cunning plan, and it won’t work. Anyone else got an idea?”

Eleanor shot in the gap. “I have, and this one is pure brilliance, if I do say so myself. Here we go: I marry Fulk, making myself, Fulk, Anne and half the readership very happy indeed-”

“No!” interrupted William and Trempwick simultaneously. Eleanor pouted. William alone added, “Has anyone got a good idea?”

The frog shrugged its froggy little shoulders. “I do, but I’m not telling. Oh, er, ribbit, ribbit, I am a froggy frog making frog noises. Nothing to burn at the stake here, ribbit. Barbequed frog tastes nasty anyway, ribbit.”

William took up a decisive, masculine pose with his hands on his belt. “Then it is up to me to solve all this, and as king my word is law. Ha!”

Anne tugged on the nearest tunic sleeve. “Don’t do anything I won’t like or I shall cry.”

William’s pose deflated, then bounced back to its former glory. “If you will just let go of me, dear, so I can think properly …” Anne warily let go. “Thank you,” beamed William, ruffling her hair with one hand. Suddenly he flew at Eleanor, fists flying. He found his path blocked by Fulk. The knight smiled, them punched William in the stomach. William groaned and staggered back. “I’m getting too old for this.”

Anne said seriously, “Bad king. You deserved that.” and kicked his ankle.

William appealed to Trempwick. “And you still want to get married? Even after seeing what I have to live with?”

Trempwick shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what can I say? All those years of quietly stewing while living near the woman I cautiously admit to having a mild fondness for has addled my brains a bit. Can we drop this subject? I really don’t feel comfortable talking about love, sex or my feelings.”

“Sorry, Raoul. I never knew that.”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I understand, old thing.” William patted his spymaster on the shoulder in a companionable, macho male bonding, not even slightly gay way.

Meanwhile Eleanor and Fulk were busy with the whole kissing thing again.

When the gathering regained some semblance of order again Anne suggested, “We could always do what they do in the stories. We could let Fulk and Trempwick fight in a duel, and the winner gets Eleanor’s hand in marriage.”

“Great!” said Fulk.

“Bad!” said Trempwick, at exactly the same time. He scuffled the toe of his boot on the cobblestones of the courtyard. “I mean why is it always fighting?” he demanded. “What about the slightly less belligerent man? Why do we never have contests of brains? Why does the idiot in armour who is more talented at hitting people always get the girl?”

William considered. “I know you have a good point, Raoul, but a fight is traditional. Perhaps we can compromise? A test of brains, and a test of swordsmanship? A game of chess too?”

Eleanor said, “But Fulk will win the swordfight and Trempwick will win the chess game.”

"Hey!” protested Fulk.

Eleanor smiled apologetically at him. “Sorry, but I am trying to be realistic here.”

William sighed heavily. “So that is no good either. You do cause trouble, brat. I hope you know that.”

“Sorry, father.”

“I should hope so – my hair has begun to fall out and go grey because of you.”

“And I am covered in scars because of you.”

“Your fault, brat.”

“Yours, baldy.”

“Yours!”

“Yours!”

“Yours times ten!”

“Yours times one hundred million!”

“Yours times infinity! Ha! Take that, brat! Schooled by your old man.” William started doing a very stupid dance and chanted, “I win, I win, I win, I win, go me, go me, go me, yo!”

Eleanor muttered something nasty and wriggled deeper into Fulk’s embrace. “I am not related to him,” she declared, her voice muffled by the fact she had her face buried in Fulk’s tunic. “He is too embarrassing;. I don’t even know him. Never seen him before in my life.”

The little frog sighed and said in a saintly manner, “To think, right back at the beginning people wished Fulk would fall for Nell. Well he did, and now look at the mess. Mush, love, feelings, romance and all that crap are just trouble!” Everyone ignored the amphibian.

Trempwick said very innocently, “I have an idea; how about we both learn to share? Fulk has Nell as his wife for one half of the year, and I for the other. I shall even let him choose; he can have her while the trees have no leaves, or while the leaves are out.”

Eleanor dissented, “I do not want to be a time share!” She was ignored, just like the poor frog.

Fulk looked at the bare winter trees and grinned. “Ok, I choose-”

Eleanor slapped a hand over his mouth. “No! Not that old trick.”

Trempwick spread his hands and continued his not at all overdone innocent act. “Nell, Nell, you wound me. What old trick?”

“Hold on.” Eleanor removed her hand from Fulk’s mouth and asked urgently, “What were you going to say? While there were leaves or no leaves?”

“No leaves, as in right now.”

“Twit.” She raised her voice again, “The old trick where the eager moron,” she glared witheringly at Fulk, “chooses when there are no leaves, thinking it means winter, conveniently when the question is always asked. As there are some plants with leaves all year around his time never comes.”

There was a long pause as everyone wracked their brains. Fulk was the one to speak in the end. “This whole interlude was a reader request thing, right?” The gathering nodded, for once all able to agree. “So, two of the readers requested that I beat the crap out of you two,” he waved at the king and Trempwick. “Seems obvious to me.”

“But that is not fair!” complained Trempwick vociferously. “I do not like pain, and I have just as many fans as you!”

Fulk held up a finger. “Ah, but think. Two against one, and I am wounded. By the terms of the request Eleanor is not allowed to get involved. The reader can request but there is nothing to stop you overpowering me; reality can’t be bent.”

Oh no?” muttered the frog. “Take a good look around, rusty.”

William and Trempwick exchanged a few covert words then began to smile. William said, “Is this agreeable to everyone?” Again the gathering nodded. “Right, then let us begin.”

Before the king had finished talking Trempwick threw himself at Fulk, pummelling away. The knight blocked and defended himself, searching for a chance to lay the spymaster out in one go as painfully as possible. William dodged around to behind Fulk and wrapped his hands around his throat. Fulk began to choke, clawing at the hands while Trempwick very carefully began landing blows all over Fulk, avoiding his armour to catch him in unprotected areas.

Fulk rolled his eyes and gasped, “Cute.” He pushed off from the ground, springing backwards so William lost his balance and got crushed under one armour coated knight. The king said something akin to, “Oahshgdge!!!!” and lay still. Fulk rolled, then sprang back onto his feet. Cockily he beckoned to the spymaster. “Come on, I have been waiting 229 pages to get you.”

Trempwick began to move backwards, keeping his distance from the advancing knight. Eleanor called, “Come on master. If you are really that bothered about marrying me you could at least fight with a bit more enthusiasm. If not you can just let me go.”

Trempwick sighed and began to exchange blows with Fulk, each attacking and blocking at a blur in a cheap imitation of a martial arts film. This was clearly an anachronism because oriental martial arts had not made their way to medieval England at this time. “Why does she have to have a thing for fighting men?” he asked mournfully.

“No idea,” replied Fulk, jumping over a kick. “But it comes in handy for me.”

From the sidelines Eleanor instructed sternly, “Less talking; more fighting.”

Fulk’s fist slammed into the side of Trempwick’s head and the spymaster dropped like a pole axed ox. Fulk rested one foot on his foe’s chest and raised both fists in a triumphant celebration. “I win!”

At this point a horse magically appeared in the courtyard, saddled up and ready to go. Fulk lifted Eleanor up onto the horse’s withers and swung into the saddle. They began to ride away. Trempwick scraped himself off the ground and waved a fist after them. “This isn’t over, you’ll see! We still have the real story to get on with! I will-” He conveniently fainted away before he could give out any spoilers.

Together Eleanor and Fulk rode away. “Now what?” asked Eleanor.

“Quick stop at the nearest church, I think.”

“Then what?” Fulk answered with a grin. Eleanor sighed. “Typical male.”

“How would you know, oh innocent one?”

“I have heard stories.”

“Really? And you’re also a mind reader?”

“I don’t need to mind read – I was enquiring as to what we are going to do with the rest of our lives now we are homeless, jobless, friendless and penniless. You do not answer a question like that with a grin that drips … intent.”

“Intent for what?”

“You know what.”

The bickering continued as they rode off into the sunset.

finis


Remember: none of this actually happened.



:stretches lazily: That was fun; it has been far too long since I indulged my mad comedy streak. Less than an hour’s work, and 6 ½ pages long.

The real story will resume soon.

Somone's been going to bed with a wedge of cheese again...

Made me laugh. Very good, Froggy ~D

*sits down to read froggy's festive post.*
:book:
~:eek:
:duel:
~D

Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.

lmao, That was brilliant. You need to do more like this. Reminds me of Jasper Fforde and his literary series.

Have a Christmass drink on me. ~:cheers:

I bow to your briliance. :bow:

Can we have more please, comedy preferably. Maybe when this ones finished. As it is funny beyond compare.

If you like my comedy then you should probably check a story I only posted on the paradox forums. It's about my efforts to learn their most complex game, Victoria. If you haven't played the game it will probably not make much sense, but you might get a few giggles from it. link

Someone call the Guiness Book of Records. This must be a competitor for the 'most clichés in one scene' record ~D .

Very good work, Froggy. You are getting the hang of love scenes. Good combination of action and romance over the last few parts. Looking forward to the next episode.

The spymaster’s face as Eleanor rode through the gate into the manor’s courtyard was a picture. Eleanor handed the reins of the horse she was leading to Fulk and went to report while the knight took the animals to the stables and unloaded them.

Trempwick inspected Eleanor with a mildly distressed expression. “Blood, mud, melting snow,” his eyes went to the hem of her dress and cloak, “dead leaves, and what looks like a small patch of spilled pottage. Numerous minor tears and rents to your clothes.” He walked around behind her and lifted her untidy plait between one thumb and forefinger. “You even have some blood in your hair.” He came back around in front of her, sniffing the air as he went. “Sweat, both human and horse, and a strong note of flea’s bane.” He shook his head, unsuccessfully fighting off a chuckle. “Dear Nell, I cannot let you go anywhere!”

Eleanor simmered quietly; as if she could help this! Through gritted teeth she asked, “Can I have a bath, please, master?”

Trempwick’s nose twitched again. “Yes, I think you had better.” He turned away to find a handy servant. Well, at least that had proved painless enough. Normally it took long minutes of protracted servant abuse before she could convince them that yes they really did want to spend an age heating water and carrying it upstairs in buckets to fill the wooden bathtub they had manoeuvred with great difficulty up to her room.

Young Walter ran out of the manor and across the courtyard to the stables to attend to the horses. Late to attend to his duties – Gerbert’s removal didn’t seem to have made much of an impact after all. He was fortunate the snow and slush had been shovelled off the cobbles and dumped in a few heaps against the door to melt harmlessly.

“Water is heating already; I thought you may require a bath when I heard the description of your approach, darling Nell. Clean clothes are also laid out, and food is cooking.”

Eleanor mumbled her thanks and began to follow Trempwick inside.

Fulk limped out of the stables, juggling his battered shield and two of the smaller, loose bags of gold. “You’ll have to get someone else to move the rest,” he told Trempwick curtly as he caught up with them.

Trempwick’s nose wrinkled once again. “Beloved Nell, your pet can wash in the remaining water in the kitchen. Not glamorous, but more than sufficient. Help him disarm, then come up to my room; I am having the bath set up there, out of the way.”






Eleanor dodged swiftly to one side and gave Bertram a filthy look as he nearly smacked her kneecap with one of his empty buckets. As calm and serene as a lake on a clear day the servant ambled out to refill his buckets with more hot water, her hostility not bothering him. So much for servants making way for royalty when both wanted to go through a door.

Trempwick turned from his window at the scuffle of evasive feet and saw the end of the latest skirmish in the war between Eleanor and the servants. Letting Bertram go unreprimanded Trempwick said to Eleanor, “Dear Nell, I truly have no idea how you manage to upset so many people so comprehensively.”

“It is easy, master. I just be myself; everybody apparently hates that.” Except Fulk!

Trempwick produced a rather peculiar smile. “Sweet Nell, you being yourself, as you put it, might often fray my nerves, but that does not mean I dislike it. But I know you are right; I am lonely in my … appreciation of your … finer qualities.”

Except for Fulk! “Thank you, master.”

Edward, the steward but seemingly filling in for the second general servant, lugged two more buckets in and began pouring the water into the tub. It was about two thirds full now. Trempwick watched with an eagle eye for any unnecessary spillage. The iron bound tub had been placed in front of the fire on large swaths of cheap, absorbent cloth to limit the damage any spilled water might do to the floor but that did not stop Trempwick from worrying. Out of the blue the spymaster announced, “I am thinking of having this room’s window glazed, dear Nell.”

“Won’t that disrupt your illusion of an average, unnoteworthy manor, master?”

“A single window will not make so much of a difference, and those who end up in a position to see it will be those whom I have authorised to get close.”

“That makes me wonder why you have left matters so long.”

“Ah! That is my suspicious little Nell!” His jesting met with no similar reply, making it difficult for him to evade the question. “I was thinking of you, actually. I thought you might welcome the luxury.”

The fact he was willing to spend a considerable sum on something frivolous and indulgently lavish just for her made Eleanor genuinely happy. She couldn’t remember the last time, if indeed there had been one, that someone had forked over cash, especially in such a large quantity, just to please her. “Thank you, master.” The moment was ruined by Gerbert arriving and dumping yet more water in her bath.

“You like the idea?” inquired Trempwick when Gerbert had gone.

“Yes.”

One of Trempwick’s rare, real smiles appeared on his face. “Good. I shall arrange matters.”

Edward delivered another load of water, followed by Bertram before Trempwick spoke again, and then it was to proclaim the bath had more then sufficient water so no more would be required. The last servant out shut the door properly behind himself, and Eleanor waited for Trempwick to make himself scarce.

He didn’t. “There are a few important things we must discuss, urgently, Nell.”

“After my bath,” replied Eleanor firmly.

“It cannot wait.” Equally firm. Hastily, before the expression of horror could be joined by wailing of any form, Trempwick added, “I promise not to jump in and join you, however tempted I might be. Nell, this cannot wait. If my suspicions are correct …” He broke off with a frown.

He was emphatically not going to leave. Eleanor could have cried at the unfairness of it all – she had been dreaming of this bath all day, and now he was going to ruin it! Left with no option she turned her back to the spymaster and began to unfasten the ribbon holding what was left of her plait together. “Well?” she asked. “What is so urgent?”

“Tell me about those bandits; did they give any clue as to who sent them?”

“They mentioned a man who was willing to play a lot for me alive and unharmed. He was not so interested in Fulk.”

“Anything else?”

Hair loosed Eleanor grabbed her comb, she had thought to bring it up knowing she would need it, and began to drag it through the tangles. “They were clearly bandits, not trained fighters in disguise; they did not have the skill. The leader was, I think, a professional at some point. He was the only one who had a real idea of what he was doing.” She paused, head cocked to one side as she considered. “Although … some of them had better equipment than I would expect from a bandit – swords, simple helms, one old style hauberk, gambesons. Granted the equipment was all of munition quality, and there were some of the expected improvised weapons, but all the same it was rather … grand.”

She worked at her hair until it was smoothly knot free, thinking all the while. She laid the comb back down on the bed next to her clean clothes and began to slowly unfasten her girdle. “They seemed … they knew what they were doing; they were not new to the game, but they had no cohesion, no real plan. They were a bunch of individual fighters made to act like a group. Bandits work like a wolf pack, don’t they?” Trempwick agreed with a nod.

Eleanor slowly began to undress, mind split between supplying the necessary details for the report and wishing Trempwick would go away. Yes, they were going to get married. Yes, that would entail him seeing her nude. No, she could not see any way to avoid this short of running out the door. No, none of that absolutely did not mean that she had to like this at all in any way! Stood in just her shift Eleanor played for time. “They could have surrounded and mobbed Fulk but they tackled him in a very haphazard manner, despite acknowledging he was the main obstacle preventing them from grabbing me. One allowed himself to be gutted in an unsupported attack, and another stood back to watch his leader fight instead of lending support. With a better approach they could have won easily.”

Trempwick mulled this over, rubbing his chin and staring pensively at the floor. Eleanor took advantage of that to remove the last of her clothes and vanish into the tub in one fluid movement. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around herself. One quick glance over her shoulder revealed that – damn him!! – he had stopped thinking to watch. It was something of a toss up as to which view was more embarrassing; front or back. Mordantly she decided it was whichever view he was currently looking at.

“Embarrassed, darling Nell?” Trempwick wandered over and rescued the washcloth from the floor. “Don’t be,” he advised cheerfully. He dipped the cloth into the bathwater, blobbed a bit of the runny soap onto it and began to scrub her back, holding her long hair out of the way with his free hand. Eleanor couldn’t decide if she should begin complaining loudly, or sink beneath the water and pray he left before she surfaced. In the end she did neither; complaining would be useless, and she would run out of air long before he took the hint and cleared off.

“Lean forward a bit, Nell,” he instructed happily, giving her shoulder a light push. She did so; the sooner she was clean the sooner she could get out the bath and get dressed. Trempwick kept scrubbing away at her back, talking as he worked, “You are certain that they wanted you, that there had been no mistake?”

“Yes, master.”

“You are very tense.” The cloth splashed down and Trempwick began to massage her shoulders. Once the initial indignation wore off it was quite … pleasant.

Trying to get matters back on the correct course Eleanor said, “I cannot see how it could be a mistake, but nor can I see how or why they would be after me.”

“I have my ideas, but they need to stew a little longer before I share them. Your back is healed quite nicely, dear Nell. Fresh scars, but no more healing left to do. A few months and you will be hard pressed to pick out the new scars from the old ones.”

Quite what she was supposed to say to that Eleanor had no idea.

Trempwick ran a fingertip across her back in a gently slanting line from high to low, presumably tracing one of the many marks. “He has made such a mess of you.” Quite regretful sounding. It did wonders for Eleanor’s already fragile, limited confidence – it shattered it. Trempwick continued to talk, his tone remote and mournful, “I have never really seen, only a few glimpses and a lot of guesswork. It could have been worse; I at least managed that much.”

After a long silence Trempwick came and crouched at her side. “It does not bother me, Nell. Most men it would, but not me.” Except Fulk?

“Your important discussion, this is not it.”

“How do you know, dear Nell? It might very well be.” Trempwick sprang lightly back to his feet and vanished off to sit on the bed next to her clothes. “You are right in that this is not what I intended to speak about, but you are wrong in dismissing it so casually.”

There was no more talk until she finished washing. Trempwick insisted on standing by the bath to hold her towel ready as she climbed out. “Nicely proportioned,” he commented. “Your hips might be narrow but the rest is better, and in any case it is all daintily to proportion with your height.” Eleanor seethed in mortified outrage, and lost no time at all in grabbing the towel and wrapping it about herself like a shroud, covering as much flesh as possible. Her wet hair she left dripping unattended; to turban it up in another towel would require letting go of this one.

Trempwick scooted her back until her legs where brushing the wooden side of the tub. Thus positioned he folded her long hair up several times and wrung it out so the excess water ended up back in the bath. He caught up one of the spare towels and began to vigorously rub the still sodden roots of her hair. Trempwick ceased his towelling and sniffed the air about her. “Much better, but there is still room for improvement. I can do something about that clinging nasty fat and wood ash undertone to the soap, something far better than waiting for it to wear off overnight.”

He dropped the soaked towel to the floor and retrieved a small glass vial from the pile of clothes. Returning to her side he uncorked it and waved it under her nose so she could test the fragrance. Delicate, floral, simple, working along a similar note to the scents added to the soap to cover the odour of the ingredients. “Quite pleasant, master.”

Trempwick put the bottle back safely on the bed and found another towel. He kept working at her hair. “Dry yourself off; mixing it with bathwater will do no good.”

When her hair was reduced to being merely damp Trempwick began to comb it, as uninvited as all his previous help. Eleanor stood stock still, keeping the towel wrapped tightly about herself. Trempwick had seen more than enough, and if she moved while he was combing she could get an ear mangled.

“Bath attendant to a princess; the job I always dreamed of when I was a boy. I ended up as a spymaster only because I took a wrong turn on bath night and found myself with the king instead.”

Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I tease, dear Nell.”

“If you say so, master. I shall never quite believe you though.” She left just enough of a spark there to indicate it was a joke. The spymaster had never been quite so adept at understanding her humour as Fulk. Frivolously, on a impulse she said, “You know, I always wanted to try one of those fancy baths my grandmother was famous for.”

“Rose petals floating in the water, candles everywhere, a small buffet accompanied by a jug of chilled wine, a larger than usual tub filled with plenty of very hot water that had been perfumed, a roaring fire made up of pleasantly scented woods … that kind of bath?”

A slow, wistful smile. “Yes, that is the one.”

Trempwick’s answer was considering, “I shall see what can be done.”

Hair restored to good order, and as dry as she was likely to get using her towel as a shield from her unwanted audience’s eyes Eleanor headed over to the pile of clean clothes. A bit of careful balancing of options and Eleanor dumped modesty along with the towel to began dressing normally. All she was doing by giving in to her embarrassment was giving the spymaster new insight into her mind, and potentially new weapons to use against her. Be discomfited; don’t show it. A very old lesson. All the same once her shift was on she felt much better.

“Silk!” she exclaimed in surprise as her hand closed on the slate grey underdress. In the dim fire and candle light the material had looked somewhat odd, but it took touch to reveal why.

“A gift, and a surprise, beloved Nell.”

“Why?” Aware of how confrontational that sounded Eleanor added, “Even when we were buying my court clothes you insisted silk was too expensive.”

“To expensive for my pupil, yes. Too expensive for my future wife, not at all. I did not have the excuse before.”

With shaking hands Eleanor tried the dress on; it fitted very well. The overdress too was new, a light grey very fine wool, cut, as ever, in her out of fashion style. “How?” she asked. How, when and where had he gone shopping for all this? How had he managed to get something tailored to fit her without having her measured? Not to mention the short timescale, if he had indeed conjured the clothes up in the few days she had been away.

“I have my resources, and my contacts.” He came over and helped her into the dress, fastening the two sets of side lacings to pull the loose upper half of the dress in to a flattering, figure hugging fit. He stood back and surveyed his work. “You know you get a much better fit if someone else does the lacing for you. I shall play lady’s maid again in future, I think.”

The largess did not cease there; a pair of new silk stockings, some dainty new shoes, and a beautiful girdle worked with silver ends and a simple running flower and leaf pattern completed the new outfit. She was wearing more than the yearly income of her own paltry lands, and for no good reason except that Trempwick thought it looked nice. It was all rather too much to take in.

After dabbing some of the perfume on her neck and wrists Trempwick nodded in satisfaction. “An improvement, I think. I shall get you more clothes of similar quality.” A hesitation. “If you like?”

Dumbly Eleanor nodded; she liked.

“One final touch.” Trempwick fished out the ring she wore on a leather thong and untied the knot at the back of her neck. He offered the betrothal ring to her. “Your ring.” She swapped the solid gold band with Fulk’s little ring, placing the knight’s ring on her right hand’s ring finger instead. “Now, finally, I get to give you that welcome home kiss.”

He did, and it wasn’t actually that bad.





Eleanor watched as Bertram began filling a bucket with the bathwater and emptying it out of the open window. “If you get glass put in we will not be able to empty the bath like this,” she said thoughtfully.

“I shall make sure the glass is fitted like a shutter so we can open it. It will cost more, but the convenience is worth it. Come.” He tugged lightly at her elbow, “Dinner is waiting in the solar.”





Dinner for two; pottage with a bit of beef and a handful of winter vegetables in it. Exciting. They ate in silence, the spymaster seeming most preoccupied.

When he cleaned out his bowl and laid down his spoon Trempwick said, “The bandits, then. It seems clear enough they were after you, and only a bare handful have access to privileged information such as your whereabouts and movements. One of those people obviously feels they have much to gain by removing you from the scene, perhaps to prevent our marriage, or perhaps for other reasons. I knew where you were. Your father knew. Hugh knew.” He laid the names out with a serious flourish, inviting her to consider and arrive at her own conclusion.

Eleanor’s mind began working at full tilt. Trempwick: she could see no motive. He simply had no need to kidnap her.

Her father: if she went missing this marriage would be cancelled or delayed, but that would bring shame to the family, not benefit. If she was kidnapped he would gain nothing, even if she were ransomed back. It would only state that he left his family so unprotected that mere bandits could steal them away and demand ransom for them. If he wanted her dead there were many better, quieter ways which would not harm the family’s good name. Again, no motive to be seen.

Hugh: her brother might have plans for her to suit his own ends; perhaps he had already promised her away to a follower for when he took the throne? It would gain him serious support from one powerful ally. He could prevent the marriage and then … what? Keep her hidden until the king finally died? If she married anyone but Trempwick now the man would not last long before William’s wrath, and Trempwick’s too, caught up with and annihilated him. Or … working to a tune she seldom even thought about, she was well placed to contest his succession. To a man with an uncertain grip on his future she was a threat, a gathering place for any and all who did not want Hugh on the throne. She had her own claim, a good one. Married she would be more of a threat, gaining the support and resources of the realm’s spymaster.

“Hugh,” she said in the end. It hurt. They had never been close, but he was her brother. Bitterly she laughed at herself for being so naïve; John had been her brother too, and look at how he had planned to use her - a reward for his biggest supporter, a bone handed out to a favourite dog. He had planned to remove Hugh. Brothers; treacherous scum the pair of them. She supposed they were only taking after their father. A mystery, then, where Stephan had got his goodness from.

Trempwick nodded dourly. “The same pair of shoulders I found the blame rested easiest on myself. I would prefer it to be a fourth party, but I can find no way for any out of our little circle to find out about your mission.”






Hehe! There were plenty more cliches I couldn't fit in.

Trempwick’s light snoring provided a steady background to the stillness that only came with the middle of the night. The chill seeped into Eleanor’s arms and shoulders, covered only by the thin linen of her shift with the blankets pushed well back. It was intentional; cold staved off sleep and combated the fug of exhaustion, perfume and comfort clouding her senses. For the first time in hours she felt aware again. She kept her breathing slow and controlled and her eyes shut, giving an appearance of sleep on the chance Trempwick himself was faking.

Away from Trempwick’s persistent talk and affection, away from the stupefying warmth and relaxation, away from the unaccustomed luxury, in that small space between removing most of her clothes and getting her space in the big feather bed warm she had begun to see, see something … like a grain of gold hidden in a pan of river mud. Freezing misgiving.

Her best thinking was always done in the lonely quiet; no noise and interruptions, and no need to give a prompt verdict.

For heaven knows how long she had been sifting away at the black mud, revealing a few more specks of gold, just tiny little bits of dust, no weight or worth on their own. A small collection of these gold flecks; suspicion, mismatches, odd details, things that did not quite fit. Nothing large, nothing solid enough to sell alone, only a collection of worthless little specks that needed a deal more adding to them before they could even register on the scales. Chilled doubt.

Sieving mud would only get her so far. Action was needed; very cautious, subtle, guarded action.







The world's smallest Eleanor chapter. It's all I have time for right now, and it really belonged in with yesterday's part. I didn't have time to write it then, so it was delayed until today. A good thing, as it allowed me to make some very good chances to the original outline.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

The moment was ruined by Gerbert arriving and dumping yet more water in her bath.

“You like the idea?” inquired Trempwick when Gerbert had gone.

---

Tiny point; wasn't Gerbert given the boot a few chapters ago?

No matter though; interesting plot twist, I'll be interested to see where that goes

Yes, that should be Bertram, not Gerbert. No idea what happened ....

I'll edit it in all versions tomorrow.

In the depths of the same night Eleanor carefully chipped away at the dam sealing away all her unshed tears, weakening it so a single push would cause it to collapse. Thus prepared she suddenly sat bolt upright, as if waking from some terrible dream. She took a deep, steadying breath and ran a hand over her face as the spymaster too shot into alertness. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, his voice thick with sleep.

“Nothing, just a dream.”

“Nell?”

“Never mind; it is not important.”

“If you are going to wake me up you could at least have the decency to tell me why.” There was a deal of his old stern coldness in his voice now.

Her reply was short, grudging, “Nightmares. About the bandit I killed.”

“Oh Nell.” The coldness was gone, replaced by sympathy. He put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close, then flopped backwards, pulling her back down with him. “Your second kill, correct?”

“Yes.” A long delay, then she said in a low voice, “There was blood everywhere. I heard the hiss as the blade went into his lung. He stared at me, even as he fell and ripped the knife from my hand.” Her voice wobbled, and the emotion was shamefully real. “Sometimes I still see Aidney, dying from poison I gave him.” The first tears began to fall, unintentionally, just like last night.

He held her close and let her cry herself to sleep. His embrace was comforting, but it lacked the tenderness Fulk had exhibited. Trempwick’s hand might be slowly stroking her shoulder in a soothing manner, but he didn’t think to murmur anything reassuring as Fulk had done in the same situation. Protective, not loving.





With the excellent timing she had carefully plotted for Eleanor met up with Trempwick in the tiny mews located in the second floor of the manor’s tower just as he was fastening a tiny note to the leg of one of their messenger birds. “To the palace?” she inquired with a gesture at the bird.

“Yes, informing the king of your success.”

Very slowly, idly she wandered over to his side. “Of course you say nothing of Hugh.”

“No,” agreed the spymaster. He stuck the bird, held carefully between his palms, out of the window and gave it a gentle throw out into empty space. A few graceful wing beats saw the bird up and away, already vanishing from view as it sped off towards Waltham. Turning back to her Trempwick said intently, “Do not worry, beloved Nell. I shall protect you.”

“I am relying on that, master.” A pause. “Did you ask about advancing our wedding?”

“I did. I was refused; the original deadline stands and will not be changed.”

“As I thought; my father is stubborn like that.”

“Disappointed, darling Nell? I did not think you would be.”

Eleanor took a while before answering, fiddling with her betrothal ring as she thought. “I will not pretend I am heartbroken, but perhaps very slightly …” her eyes focused distantly while she searched for the right word, “saddened. I am getting used to the idea.”

Another of those rare, sincere smiles lit Trempwick’s face. He pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her passionately. “Seeing the advantages?” he asked.

“Yes, you could say that.”

He kissed her again, and this time her response was less timid. “Getting used to intimacy?”

“I think so.”

A third long kiss. “Not planning to knife me as I sleep?”

Eleanor moulded her features into mock horror. “But think of the mess it would make, and I would then have nightmares about three deaths.” Trempwick’s mouth twisted, as if her joke tasted rancid. She very shyly kissed him on the lips, a chaste, brief kiss that none the less delighted the spymaster and banished his impatience with her fooling around. It was the first time she had taken any initiative. “It seems that I am beginning to enjoy all this attention,” she admitted softly, managing to sound utterly ashamed.

“Darling Nell!” exclaimed Trempwick extravagantly, “You astonish me!”

“Your predictions are proving accurate.” Eleanor poked him in the chest with one finger, “However if you say ‘I told you so!’ I shall kick you.”

“Then I shall say nothing at all.” Another kiss. “But do excuse me, dearest Nell, if I say this seems rather sudden.”

Eleanor eased away from him a bit. “I found I missed a few things in the time I was away, just a very few. During that attack … and afterwards too, no more afterwards, I guess. I found I do not want to die alone, or live alone. One night I was left to face my nightmares alone; last night I was not.” She looked up at him, meeting his eyes steadily. “So the cart can keep trundling along slowly, and as long as it does not begin to roll too fast and get out of control I think I shall settle back and enjoy the ride.”

“I presume that is your delicate way of telling me if I try to seduce you we shall end up in a repeat of the farce that was the night you left?” A flicker of something quite like wounded pride came and went in his eyes.

Eleanor quoted from memory, “‘Leaving any important matter to chance, or gambling on illusion when reality can be provided with only a little more effort is a fool’s game.’ Tell me who said that, master.”

Trempwick pulled a wry face, “I did, but never did I think you would quote it back to me in this context.”

“But it is true, and I will not risk my poor little neck taking the chance on illusion. I am entirely sick of being kicked about by my beloved regal ancestor; I shall not hand him another excuse to do so.”

He considered carefully, taking longer than Eleanor had expected to arrive at his conclusion. “I suppose another month is not so long to wait, not after all these years.” Again that brief, so rapid to vanish it may never have been there flicker of angrily damaged pride that she was refusing him. Gone before it even appeared, and another kiss to prove he was not bothered in the least. “I am going to be busy today, sweet Nell. You shall have to amuse yourself.”

“Oh.” Eleanor let her disappointment show. “Oh well; I shall find something to do with myself.”







“Papa! Papa! Look what I made.” Mahaut skidded into the armoury in a four-year-old hurricane of exuberant energy. She halted at her father’s side and thrust a drop spindle covered in lumpy thread under his nose for inspection. “Look,” she demanded proudly. “My first completed lot of thread!”

Jocelyn laid down the sword he was sharpening and took the spindle. He made a great, grave show of inspecting the uneven work. “Well done. Some of the best spinning I have seen.” He whistled sharply to catch his squire’s attention, then threw the spindle over to the lanky, ginger haired youth. “Take a look at that, Alain, and tell me it’s not the best thread you have seen.”

With a flamboyant flourish Alain caught the spindle in the bowl of the helmet he was polishing. He fished the spindle out and held it up, examining the work with an easy smile. “Very neat,” he agreed.

Mahaut twirled the end of one of her braids in her fingers. “Mama said it’s all lumpy now but I’ll get better, just like I can do a whole lot of thread now instead of a lot of little lumpy bits on their own.” The little girl stuck her chin out defiantly. “She did,” she repeated.

Jocelyn held out his hand for the spindle, and Alain sent it skimming back with a flick of his slender wrist. Jocelyn held the weighted bit of wood up between his face and his daughter. “Compared to your mother’s work, yes, it is rough.” He winked at her. “But I’ll wager she couldn’t do as well as this when she was your age, or even a few years older. I’ll also wager she is happy you decided against being a valkyrie.”

“Valkyries are silly,” she proclaimed scornfully. “I’m going to be the lady of a castle and have nice clothes.”

“Good,” beamed Jocelyn. “So you won’t be using your spindle as a sword any more?”

The girl gave him a withering look. “It was a mace. Swords don’t have lumpy bits on the end.”

“Ah, of course.” He dropped the spindle back into her waiting hands and gave her a push towards the door. “Go on, your mother will wonder what mischief you have gotten yourself into now.”

“She said the same about you!” With an angelic grin Mahaut scampered off out the door.

Jocelyn picked his sword back up and began applying the whetstone to the edge again. “Women,” he grumbled affably.







Hugh re-entered the room he shared with his wife in a panic, his heart pounding and frantic, garbled prayers racing through his mind. Oh Dear, Merciful Lord, not again! Not again! “Constance?” he called. “I heard you were unwell.”

“In here.” Her voice came from the corner privy.

He found her hunched over the hole, gagging but not quite being sick. “I heard you were unwell,” he repeated again uncertainly.

“Do I look ill?” she demanded acidly. She retched again, one hand resting on the wooden seat for support.

“You are alone.” Hugh could have punched himself - any fool with eyes could see that!

“I sent everyone away claiming I had a headache and wanted to rest.” Her words were interrupted by more heaving. “You want this to be kept a secret, remember? So I am left to vomit my heart out alone and uncared for, again.”

Hugh sagged with relief, resting one hand on the wall for support. “Praise be!” Her reply bordered on the obscene and raised Hugh’s eyebrows a notch. “I thought … another miscarriage,” he explained softly.

She laughed bitterly, then heaved some more. “If I had lost the child I would not be stuck here puking my guts out!”

“I doubt we can keep this secret for much longer.”

“Slow, Hugh, you are slow – I am already getting speculative looks.”

Hugh fiddled with his belt buckle. “You are certain …?”

“No,” she snapped. “I am huddled here because I like the view. I ate something which disagreed with me, just as I have carelessly done for weeks now. I feel tired because at night I am rebuilding the tower of Babel by hand on the sward next to the church, and my bleeding has stopped because I grew over-weary of the mess each month and wished it away. That I might be pregnant is just wishful thinking.”

The temper and mood swings were a good sign too; normally Constance was mild mannered and sensible, not prone to the more annoying tendencies of most of her gender. Hugh really could not see the excuse; it was entirely illogical. If she was being kicked day and night by the baby then perhaps she would have cause for this grumpiness, but a little sickness? Women; irrational creatures at best. “I meant you are certain … previous … misfortune …” He broke off uncomfortably.

Constance levered herself up off the floor with weary difficulty. More kindly she said, “I am sure. The others were all lost by now; within the first two months.”

Hesitantly Hugh took his wife into his arms, one hand resting over her still flat belly. “Remember our agreement. Be careful.”

She rested her head on his shoulder. “I know.”

They stood in peace for a short while. “I shall announce this to the public today,” said Hugh eventually. “Along with a gift of five hundred pounds to be given to the church if this is a boy, five hundred pounds every year of his life.”

“If it is a girl?”

“Three hundred, again for each year of her life.” Bleakly, “We need a son, a prince to follow after me.”

“We will get what we will get; in half a year you will know. Now, if you do not mind I have to be sick again.”

Hugh beat a prudent retreat as his wife began retching over the privy again.






Slow, but I have cut the tip my left index finger. I'm a two-fingered typist. I'm improvising; it's working but slow.

When Trempwick finally shooed her away Eleanor wandered back to her own room. She found Fulk lying fully dressed on her bed, one arm bent up under his head and the feather filled pillow. He’d dozed off. Delicately Eleanor tiptoed into the room and slammed the door behind herself.

Fulk rocketed awake, grabbing for a sword that was not there and trying to leap to his feet on a leg that was not interested in cooperating smoothly. As soon as he saw who was responsible for his rude awakening the urgency left him and he settled himself into a sitting position with his wounded leg stuck out in front of him on the bed. “Finally; you’ve found time in your busy schedule to torment me. I was beginning to feel abandoned.”

“Having a nice dream, were we?” asked Eleanor pointedly.

“Actually, yes. I was in a big tournament, and I was winning my latest joust; I’d already won several earlier and gained plenty in ransoms. The crowd was cheering, and the ladies were competing to offer me their favours to wear.”

Eleanor looked down her nose at him. “How sad.”

“I know; they all ended up disappointed. It was a shame; I’m so chivalrous I don’t like upsetting ladies.”

“You are making this up as you go along, aren’t you?”

“How did you know?” he admitted with a cheerful grin.

“If it had been real you would have ended up unhorsed and flat on your back in the mud on the first run.”

“Not likely – the lady whose favour I accepted would have complained vigorously at my disgracing her token.” His left hand rested nonchalantly on his dagger, his middle fingers curling over to rest against the hairpin secured in its hiding place. “I’d do anything to win for her; better for my health.”

“I should hope so too,” said Eleanor haughtily. “Handing out your token to a knight only to have him lose immediately is mortifying in the extreme.”

“I feel nothing but pity for whoever got your colours. Poor chap would get his arse kicked if he came anywhere but first.”

“No more than he would deserve for being clumsy enough to lose. Prudence would dictate my colours must obviously go only to the best knight present.”

“And I’d obviously accept some meek blonde’s colours so that when I lose she cries for my wounds instead of giving me a few extra ones.”

“So you would lose against my champion?” she enquired with a teasing glint.

“No doubt about it, oh victory obsessed one,” replied Fulk humbly. “You would drug my horse or weaken my lance so I had no chance against your hero.”

“I was hoping you would be loyal enough to lose on your own without my help.”

“Oh. Well, I guess being your devoted knight and all that I should do so if you asked, not that I would expect any gratitude from you. In fact I’d expect you to complain then too, because everyone would think you were only served by lack-skilled ninnys.”

“You know me too well,” sighed Eleanor exaggeratedly.

“It’s in the interests of self-preservation, oh royal one.”

“You are being rather depressing today.”

Fulk hitched his shoulders and said engagingly, “You know me, I’m an optimistic type of fellow who likes spending his time talking about death, doom and misery for a little light relief from my arduous job of spending time with a gooseberry.”

Eleanor stumbled on that; the easy humour faded and the back and forth flow lost its timing. She muttered, “Flat-nosed idiot,” in an effort to keep their repartee going.

“See? If I wasn’t braced for insults that could have hurt. And it’s crook-nosed, not flat-nosed.”

“Whatever,” declared Eleanor loftily. “I do not take much notice of what you look like; I would not even recognise you in a crowd.” She rather spoiled the illusion by winking at him.

“I’d recognise you anywhere, oh memorable one, and I’d soon spot you in the crowd. I’d just have to look for a mini-riot and there you would be, right in the centre being all short, dark haired and sour. There’s a little image of you seared into my memory, all I need do is close my eyes and there you are, glaring at me. It’s the same with all traumatic events.”

Reverting to seriousness Eleanor said, “Speaking of trauma, let’s have a look at your leg wound.”

“Oh it’s fine; I dressed it not long ago. I only dozed off while waiting for you to turn up and decide what I am going to do with my day.”

“What we are going to do,” she repeated desolately.

Utterly straight-faced Fulk said, “We can play a game of chess. Fun and respectable.”

“If by play chess you mean something entirely different then I agree it could be fun. However if by play chess you mean actually playing chess then no, I do not think fun belongs anywhere in the same bit of speech.”

“Do you know how to play merrels?”

“No; it is not a game Trempwick favours.”

“I’ll make a board and some counters then, and teach you to play. Know where I can get a suitable bit of wood? Something about the same size and shape as a chess board?” Eleanor shook her head. “Ah well, I’ll find something. For now, chess.”

Silently Eleanor fetched the chess board and set it up at the bedside, just as Fulk had done for her. They began to play. For once Eleanor considered her moves, taking a good long while before moving a piece. She played no better than usual, repeating the same old mistakes and falling into the same easy traps that a bit of thought would have helped her avoid. For all her thinking her mind clearly was not on the game.

“You seem very sad,” commented Fulk softly.

“Today is Friday.”

“Which means fish, and the cook is even worse with fish than meat. His eel pie is enough to depress anyone.”

“I wish it were Saturday; just one extra day … so precious. No one travels on a Sunday. My father may be here tomorrow.” She obviously didn’t want to talk about it, so Fulk let her be.

The end of the game played out in the same silence it had begun in, punctuated by the clicks of the pieces moving about the rosewood board. Fulk won.

Eleanor swallowed hard and stood up, gathering her resolve. “We are going to resume my sword fighting lessons; I will not end up so defenceless again.”

“But your Trempwick-”

Her jaw set stubbornly. “Let me worry about my Trempwick; you worry about following my orders.”






Eleanor walked briskly away from the manor building, setting a pace that Fulk struggled to keep, hampered as he was by his hurt knee. She slashed a few cuts at the sparse winter grass with her wooden sword as she went, a seemingly idle motion filled with pent up energy. Several paces ahead of Fulk she stopped and spun around. “Keep up,” she commanded.

“I’m doing the best I can,” returned Fulk tersely.

When he caught up to her she began walking again, matching her pace to his fastest speed. A quick scan of the horizon and she began to talk in a kinder, quieter voice. “We do not have long. Trust me, however things look. Do not interfere without my express order. Do exactly as you are told; promise me.” When he didn’t reply immediately she demanded again, “Promise me.”

Fulk’s frown was puzzled. “I promise,” he swore.

She skipped a step away, bringing her wooden sword up and around in a slashing cut. Fulk managed to get his own sword up to block and the lead weighted training blades clacked together. Swiftly she began to rain more cuts down at him, knowing he would defend against them effortlessly. The clattering of the swords rang out through the bare landscape, a distinctive sound that could not be mistaken for anything else.

Their blades crossed and tangled. Eleanor’s eyes flicked back towards the manor building in the middle distance. “I love you; never doubt that. Never.”

“I don’t.”

They fought on, Fulk holding back on the defensive. Eleanor’s eyes again went to the manor. A lone figure was just leaving the gate, marching towards them with purposeful haste. “I would not wish to be without you,” she said urgently, quietly, to Fulk.

“I should hope not! This is quite the cushy job, and I don’t think I could ever find another gooseberry.” Swapping from defensive to offensive Fulk easily began to drive her back, one small step at a time. She spared another glance at the advancing person. Distracted, her block was weak; Fulk’s sword drove through but he pulled the blow before it could land.

Trempwick cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Stop that at once!” Even though he was still a good distance away there was no pretending they had not heard. With a tiny, sad smile Eleanor disengaged her sword and stepped back, lowering her guard.

Trempwick came to a halt, tense, his body coiled as if to leap at someone’s throat. “Leave,” he growled to Fulk. If looks could kill the knight would have been lying in a pile of very small parts surrounded by his own blood.

Fulk stood his ground. “Eleanor?”

“Go. Wait in my room, and take this with you.” She extended her training sword hilt first, holding it mid blade.

Fulk took her sword’s hilt in his left hand and stepped back a pace, swinging his left sword experimentally while bringing his right up to guard. “I knew a chap who could fight with two swords; he taught me a fair bit. Not nearly as good as sword and shield, much too showy and impractical, but then what’s to be expected of a skill learned from a travelling player? Later, then.” Smothering his misgivings, and true to her instructions, he left, his step resolute and his eyes firmly nailed on the stone and timber buildings of the manor complex.

Trempwick offered her his arm. “Walk with me, darling Nell.” Polite words that invited refusal, phrased in a way usually reserved for ordering men’s heads removed.

Arm in arm they walked, Trempwick setting the pace and direction; an amble towards one of the many clumps of trees in the area. She could guess a little of what was coming; the spymaster was wearing the simple sword Fulk had retrieved from the dead agent Trempwick had sent after him as a test months ago. That small prediction didn’t much matter; she had thrown the dice and all that was left was the waiting to see what numbers they would turn up along with a little astute tinkering to encourage them to land as she wished.

“Swords.” The word was a question, a statement, a rebuke, a joke, more, all rolled into one. Pissed off; that crude peasant epithet she had found most fitting for the spymaster’s mood when she had brought Fulk home for the first time once again suited, despite appearances of something milder. He hadn’t been this angry in a long time.

“I will not be left defenceless again, master,” Eleanor said simply.

Trempwick yawned, covering his mouth with his spare hand. “Defenceless? Dear Nell, at which point in that bandit attack were you defenceless? The point where you had two knives, the part where you had one knife left, or the part where you engaged in hand to hand combat? Or are we speaking of something else entirely, something you have not told me about?”

“No, the bandits. I have knives, I know a very little unarmed combat, but I lack height, reach and strength – any extra advantage is not to be cast away. If nothing else a bit of sword fighting would build my strength and stamina-”

“I think not, dear Nell,” said Trempwick reasonably. “In fact I forbid it, as I have done every time this issue has arisen. I will not have you fighting; if you have to draw steel then something has gone badly wrong.”

“Yes! And at those times I need every advantage I can get.”

“You have your pet to do your fighting, and you can protect yourself well enough. Much better to put energy into finding ways to avoid such situations.” Trempwick went silent. He moved his right hand over to cover her right hand where it lay at the crook of his arm, and began to drum his fingers on the back of her hand as if it were a table top. Finally he sighed. “There is more to it, more that I have never thought needful, or appropriate, to say. You have to remain mostly ignorant; self-defence becomes ingrained into a person if they practise too well. It becomes an unconscious reaction, automatic, unthinking, effective. Tell me, with that in mind who would you most likely end up defending yourself from?”

“My father,” she admitted reluctantly.

“So it is safer for you to remain ignorant, dear Nell. Especially when faced with someone you hate. Our king and his rages are predictable and certain; unanticipated circumstances like bandits are most assuredly not.”

“So you would by far prefer me to die at the hand of some bandit than try to defend myself against my beloved regal ancestor and get beaten unconscious because of it?” asked Eleanor caustically.

“Dear Nell, you are taking this badly - stupidly, even. I see that you are adequately guarded when you are away from me, and you usually manage to defeat my agents when I send them after you as a test.” They had reached the edge of the tree line now.

“Then where were your guards when Fulk and I were being attacked?”

“Your pet is your guard, darling Nell.”

“So you let the two of us wander off on our own, entirely unwatched and unguarded and you insist you are protecting me?”

“Now you ask me about things I will not divulge.”

Eleanor stopped walking and pulled her hand free of Trempwick’s arm. “Either you had me followed by incompetents, or you left me very vulnerable; which is it?”

Trempwick aimed a maddeningly patient smile at her. “Beloved Nell, you are really beginning to annoy me. I advise you not to push me any further. The matter at hand here is that you have once again disobeyed me, disobeyed a long standing edict that has very good reason to exist, and exists solely for your own good. To add to that you did so in a way which proves you have learned nothing from the Gerbert incident -”

Eleanor cast her eyes heavenwards in frustration. “Not that again!”

“Exactly what I thought; you clearly have no idea how to behave-”

She countered instantaneously with, “It is acceptable for me to travel alone with Fulk for days on end, but not to do a bit of fencing with him in public view?”

“Availability – no one else could travel with you but you could have asked me to teach you to fight. Instead you favour your pet for all to see. Whether you intend it or not you set tongues wagging with this thoughtlessness. I will not wear a cuckold’s horns for you, beloved Nell, real or the product of others’ imagination.”

“So the spymaster is on the run from the gossip of his four lousy servants?”

“Nell,” said Trempwick warningly.

“You do not trust me, not at all.”

“I know what people will say; you are a few months shy of twenty and not married or devoted to God. It is common knowledge that women are the more lustful sex, and morally weaker-”

“Oh, I see – I am a brainless lump who will leap into bed with any man who I find even mildly attractive, and will have been doing so for years because I really cannot survive without a male presence of some sort! All those male scholars and their fancy ideas.” Eleanor dismissed them with a contemptuous wave of her hand. “Tell me this, master, which sex is famous for chasing whores, keeping mistresses and visiting brothels?”

“Nell,” he repeated again, his warning far stronger.

Eleanor’s temper was in full, wounded spate. “It reveals a lot. You wanted proof that your sick dream was not true, or perhaps you hoped it was so you could take advantage -” Trempwick’s clenched fist slammed into her solar plexus, dropping to her to the ground gasping for breath.

“You ignored my guidance before, so I advise you to listen well this time. Do not push me any further.” He began to prowl around her, talking almost contemplatively. “I am not a violent man, sweet Nell, never have been and never will be, but even I have my limits and I am not some soft pushover you can exploit. Here is the very important bit, so listen very closely. I always go for effect, not heedless fury or intimidating show. I work quickly and efficiently, and I can assure you that I can make your father look like a kind, gentle soul even though I do not break bones or anything similarly unsophisticated. My worst side; until now you have managed to avoid seeing it, although you have come close several times.”

He halted in front of her and extended a hand to help her up. “You are attracted to him; he is attracted to you, and yes I have known about that right from the start. I hoped to gently lead you in the correct direction with my insistence otherwise, letting you make up your own mind rather than pressing the issue. Left to your own devices that attraction could prove problematic. Sending him away will cause you to hate me; all I can do is watch and have faith, faith that is not shared by others. For what it is worth, dear Nell, I do not believe there is anything except attraction there, and if I did believe there was more I would be honour and duty bound to report it to your father. The problem is in what others can believe.”

Eleanor stayed put for his speech and only warily took his hand when he very pointedly did not let it drop. Once on her feet she did not pull her hand free of his light grip. “As long as Fulk is here you will worry, your servants will gossip, and this will happen again and again.” She bit her lip and nerved herself. “Send him away. But,” she added immediately and clearly, bringing her gaze up to meet his, “if you harm even a hair on his head I will never forgive you. He saved my life many times; he has served well and been a good friend. I did not lie yesterday when I said I was beginning to appreciate what we have, nor do I fake anything.” She smiled ruefully. “I would not know how to even if I wanted to. It is just an attraction, nothing more. What we have is more … solid.”

“I agree that in this area experience is required before anything can be convincingly faked. Disposing of your pet is going to be tricky; he knows far too much to be sent just anywhere.”

“Send him somewhere you can keep a close eye on him?” Eleanor’s heart was racing so fast she could feel it hammering against her ribs.

Trempwick considered for a long while. “He has found royal favour, aside from your own. I wonder if William might take him?” He murmured to himself, “Well watched, hard to give away secrets when his new master is privy to them also, out of the way, safe …”

“You could say it was a reward for saving me, a promotion of kinds, to keep the real reason secret.”

“Indeed.” Trempwick considered more, absent-mindedly dragging his thumbnail over the etched gold plate attaching his dagger to his belt. “I shall see what I can arrange.” He unbuckled his sword belt and offered the weapon to her. “The lover is inclined to forgive, but the spymaster is never so clement. Break it. Your opponent awaits.” He gestured mockingly at a sturdy oak tree. “Let’s see if you can defeat this fearsome foe, dear Nell.”

Eleanor drew the sword. It was iron, not steel, with a simple leather hand grip and the wide blade and tapered point of a slash and thrust sword. It was nothing like the work of art her brother’s sword had been, and the weaker blade should prove much less capable of handling stress. It would have been better if she had a target made of stone; the softness of wood negated any advantage gained from the plain craftsmanship.

Trempwick leaned his back against the trunk of another tree and folded his arms, settling comfortably to watch. “Come on, sweet Nell, surely you are not afraid of your foe? Don’t let his height intimidate you; he is more than likely slow on his feet.”

Eleanor threw the sheath and belt into the leaf litter and swung the sword with all her strength, smashing the flat of the blade against the broad oak. The impact jarred her arms but was not sufficient to snap the blade. Trempwick laughed. “Using the flat of your blade, cherished Nell? My, my, how incompetent – you use the edge. Anyone would think you were trying to overstress the blade.”

Eleanor set her face and posture into firm neutral; determined not give him so much as an ounce of satisfaction or the merest hint of what she was feeling. She swung at the tree again, using the edge instead of the flat as he demanded, scoring a white scar along the bark and dulling part of the sword’s razor sharp edge. The weapon was of better quality than first appearances would suggest. This was going to take an age and Trempwick’s commentary would only grow more mocking, and this was almost certainly only the beginning of what he had planned.






From the window of Eleanor’s room Fulk watched the tiny, distant figure hacking away at a tree with what looked like a sword. He’d got here just in time to see the taller figure hit the smaller one, by all accounts something the spymaster had never done before except that one time where it had been necessary for a disguise.

It looked as if once again Eleanor had had lost in her attempt to take control over her own life.

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

You're a Fulk partisan and you want to see Eleanor get together with Trempwick, Ludens?

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It seems my Trempwick joke misfired: I picked that one because I thought it was the most complex option plot-wise, not to mention that it would be interesting to see how the three characters involved would react to it. However, everyone seems to have taken it the wrong way. Well, back to what we were discussing:

You said Fulk has been jealous since page 69 (wherever that may be). However, I saw it differently. He had some jealous feelings, true, but was not acting like a jealous lover. In fact, I remember that at the banquet scene I actually admired the way you described Fulk having those feelings without making him seem jealous. I did not comment on that because I wanted to see if you were going to build those feelings up towards a later jealousy on his side. If my memory serves me right that is the last time Eleanor and Trempwick were seen together from the Fulk-perspective before the marriage announcement. And neither can I remember him being particularly jealous of Trempwick after the fight.

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They aren't careful of each other's feelings like good lovers because they aren't good lovers. A few guarded kisses do not make a smooth, functional relationship.

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I am not talking about the workings of their relationship; more about their love in general. Fulk sounds as if he expects Eleanor to submit to a day of torture for his sake, before she can agree to a marriage proposal of anyone but him.

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Purpose: Quite a lot, too much for me to detail just now. Take that fight scene away and see how much of a knock on effect it has. Loads; entire scenes gone, entire dialogues, gone, character growth, gone, plot points, gone.

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No, you’re right. It was a stupid remark on my part. What I think I was trying to say (I can’t exactly remember it) was that it need not have been an immediate explosion. It could just as well have been a slow poison. Like in the second fight-scene.

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Thoughts and the necessity thereof: Tricky, from my POV all explanation is unnecessary as I know it all. (...) If you (or anyone) could give a few examples of what is unnecessary I'd be able to better judge in the future.

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Well, you have been doing it quite well in the last few chapters so I have no recent examples. I think that you just need to bear in mind that we are now (or I think I am) thoroughly familiar with both Eleanor’s and Fulk’s character and motives, so these don’t need explanation anymore.

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I've not chosen any limits or any one style. I do prefer to stick to one character at a time, either in great depth or in loose focus. The preference is simply economy; it allows me to keep some things hidden while revealing others. Swapping may not be the best thing, or the most professional, but in a way I'm cobbling this together as I go, making something in a style I have never encountered before (...).

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Judging by your reply, you may have misunderstood what I was trying to say. I was not objecting against switching the perspective from one person to another, but against switching the perspective type from third person semi-omniscient to third person omniscient. One of the unwritten rules of writing is ‘unity of style’, and that means not switching the type of perspective halfway. If you don’t do this the effect is not so much wrong as... odd. Off course, breaking the rules of writing can actually result in literature (that’s what experimental literature is all about), but I don’t think that was the idea here.

Secondly, you said this technique is praised. I wondered (and still do): what is praiseworthy about it?

Again: I am not objecting to the use of perspective switches, but against switching perspective type, and thus writing style, for a single scene.

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Remember all that time ago, back when she was at John's, she was watching Fulk's reaction to her losing her temper and she thought he hated her? Remember how seeing it through her eyes it did look like he hated her? I had plenty of people comment on that. They did not understand, just as she did not, why Fulk had suddenly gone so cold and uncaring. Of course when we hit a Fulk POV it is revealed he is actually too caring; he was at the edge of his control and doing all he could to stop himself from grabbing her and comforting her. This was intended; a part of my big plan, even down to the confusion it caused.

I tried over and over to write the scene in question from just Nell's POV, but Fulk always came out as out of character, odd, slightly ... scary, actually. I tried many times writing it from Fulk's POV, but then Nell was a lunatic, ranting for no reason, almost psychopathic seeming. To use someone else's POV was to never see the scene at all. Hence the merger; it had to be the two together. The characters could navigate the scene, but not the readers who know both Nell and Fulk so intimately. Fulk can accept that he touched a nerve with his joke and dismiss it as that. The reader, however, knows Nell better. They know there is something deeper, but they would probably not know what. It would have been the scene at John's all over again times ten, and their behaviour would never be explained in retrospect, unlike Fulk's behaviour at John's. There was simply no space, no way to work a retrospective explanation. It would not work either; the understanding had to be paired intimately with the action.

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I see. I am a bit confused as to which of your sentences refers to which scene, but I understand what you mean (I can remember the scene at John’s vaguely, but have almost no recollection of the scene which started this discussion). Have you tried suggesting that Eleanor was imagining things? For example, putting something like “However, Fulk did not look condemning” in? If properly placed, it will carry the suggestion to the reader that there may be another interpretation. Just an idea, I have no idea what you actually tried.

Back to the present: last three parts you posted were marvellous. The interaction between Trempwick and Eleanor is excellent. I may dislike Trempwick, because he is an arrogant bastard who thinks the world is at his feet, but he’s got style and that makes up for a lot.

By the way, is it necessary for Eleanor and Fulk to have patched up things when they meet Trempwick? I am wondering what would happen if a disgruntled Fulk and an angry/dispirited Eleanor returned to Woburn to face the spymaster. Now that might result in a thrilling scene ~D .

Arms linked Trempwick and Eleanor walked sedately back to the manor, as if they had been on an idle noonday walk instead of quarrelling and making a mess out of an unfortunate tree and sword. Eleanor’s arms ached and the palms of her hands were throbbing with bruises caused by the repeated shock of the impacts of iron against wood. It wouldn’t enough to satisfy Trempwick, not nearly enough.

Merrily, as if it were all a great joke, Trempwick said, “Letting your sword get stuck in a tree trunk, dear Nell. How very inept.”

“Yes, master.”

“Good thing I was there to free it for you, but a pity about the chip taken from the blade.”

“Yes, master. Thank you, master.”

“If that had been a real battle I doubt your enemies would have had the same sense of courtesy.”

“No, master.”

Trempwick tutted. “And breaking the sword’s blade too. Nell, sweet Nell, I do think you have no skill whatsoever.”

“If you say so, master.”

“You did manage to put up a lengthy fight though, darling Nell. That at least is something to be proud of. We shall speak to your pet now, I think. You can keep me company the rest of the day.”

“As you wish, master.”

“Do you want to do the talking or shall I tell him?”

This time a dutiful answer would not suffice; she owed Fulk that much at the very least. “He is my knight, master.”

Trempwick wasn’t bothered in the least. “You tell him, then. I doubt he would take it from me anyway.”






Too angry to watch the distant princess and spymaster Fulk sat down to read his tattered copy of king Arthur. He knew the story by heart and every page was familiar to him, but the feel of the parchment, the smell of the inks, his ability to read the Latin texts, the incredible luxury of a man like him possessing a book - they were all things he loved. The book always gave him a sense of comfort and steadiness, and had done so ever since he had taken it as his portion of a knight’s random back in France. He had never regretted letting the other men divide up the coin themselves, and he had enjoyed the knight’s embarrassment at putting a book to make up for the lacks of his purse for a very different reason to the mockery of the others. He hoped it would help blank out thoughts of rushing to Eleanor’s rescue.

He was midway through the tale of Lancelot’s arrival at Camelot when Eleanor entered the room, closely followed by Trempwick, like a rain cloud tagging after the sun thought Fulk sourly. Fulk shut his book with a snap and placed it to one side, getting to his feet. “Is there something I can do?”

Eleanor’s blue eyes sought his. “We have decided to give you an opportunity, as a reward for your loyal service. You are going to transfer to the king’s household.”

The bottom dropped out of Fulk’s world, spilling the contents all over the floor and breaking a few of the more delicate items. Stupidly flailing around, trying to get some grip back on reality he asked, “What?” Then. “We?”

Trempwick protectively put an arm around Eleanor’s waist, answering the already evident ‘we’. Fulk found his stomach turning at the sight, all the more so when she leaned into the spymaster’s hold. “It will require a little effort on my part but you will be in the service of the king.”

Quickly Eleanor added, “It is a wonderful opportunity. You will be well paid; you will more than likely get a bit of land too, your own fief. You would be a direct tenant to the king, an enormous honour. You could marry into the lower nobility. You will have people to train with; you could hone your skills back to the level befitting a knight. You would have prospects.”

“I gave you my word,” said Fulk numbly.

Her reply was simple, and it ripped out what was left of his heart. “I release you from it.”

“You are sending me away to die.” Strangely he didn’t care abut the dying, only the leaving. “I know too much to simply leave.”

Trempwick said scornfully, “Talk and I shall hear about it. No one would believe you anyway; the idea of a princess working as an agent is absurd. You overestimate your import if you think I need to kill you.”

“It is the best I can do for you, in gratitude for … for everything,” she finished in the end. “It is the chance to pick up your life as it would have been if I had not interfered, but with a better lord.”

Somehow Fulk inclined his head in a concise bow. “Thank you.” With the spymaster here there was nothing else to say or do; he was too stunned and lost in the feeling of floating without anchorage or grounding to feel his way back to reality and a clear, sharp mind. ‘I would not wish to be without you,’ she had said. So timely. There was more to this than met the eye, and he would seek a chance to get her on her own and find out.






The room on the third floor of the tower was Trempwick’s study. A training room come storeroom above, the mews below, lifted out of the day to day activity of the manor, quiet. From Eleanor’s point of view it was the most unpleasant place to be in the manor; it was a room Trempwick only allowed her in if she was in deep trouble. Otherwise he ignored the world when he was in here, not to be disturbed except and unless the manor was burning down.

The room itself was inoffensive; of good size due to the tower’s larger than usual girth, square, plastered walls with whitewash, the usual carpet of rushes and fragrant herbs, a small fireplace, and a quartet of arrow loops, one in each wall. Currently only the eastern window had its shutter open; the others had theirs closed to keep out the cold. A large, strong table rested in the north/west corner, paired with a throne like chair set to face the wall. Along the blank walls were huge chests, locked tight and filled with the spymaster’s business related books, records, correspondence and other spymasterish junk.

Trempwick poked up the fire and added another log from the nearby wicker basket. “Shut the door, dear Nell. You are letting in a frightful draught.” She complied. Trempwick retrieved a set of papers from a chest, not bothering to refasten the lock after himself. He seated himself and began reading, ostentatiously totally oblivious to Eleanor’s presence, but she knew better.

Sure enough several minutes later he looked up with an innocuous smile. “How dreadful, I forget my manners. Please do be seated, dearest Nell.”

Mentally sighing Eleanor played his game. “There are no other chairs, master.”

He looked amazed, as if he had not already known that very obvious fact. “Oh dear, how embarrassing for me. A guest, a lady too, and nowhere for her to sit.”

Sod this. “I can go fetch a stool, master.” It was worth a try.

“Oh no, if we were to open the door that draught would return, and I confess I would miss you terribly in those moments you were gone, beloved Nell.” He pretended to think; Eleanor knew already what his answer would be. Trempwick indicated the floor at his side. “I am sure you won’t find kneeling there much of a hardship, sweet Nell. You used to do it very often as a child.”

Indeed she had. Stony faced she knelt on the hard floorboards at his side. Trempwick caught one of her hands and examined the red marks the sword’s hilt and caused. He tilted the palm of her hand so she could see it and said sternly, “Now this is why you really should not insist on sword fighting, beloved Nell. Look at that little mess. You had better keep your hands elevated to reduce the swelling.”

Swelling? What swelling? A nonsense to keep his pretty little game going. Eleanor had never understood why the spymaster loved to wrap her punishments up in such a glossily kind exterior. Heaving another mental sigh she linked her hands together at the back of her neck. Trempwick beamed affably. “Good idea, dearest Nell. Please don’t move; I have a lot of work to do and you will only distract me.”

From her position on the floor Eleanor could just read the lower halves of the parchments Trempwick was working with. Woburn manor’s accounts and reports. She was careful to remain staring ahead at the wall and not shift her posture to try and see more. Unless the spymaster stopped and looked down at her he wouldn’t see her reading.

The spymaster busily worked away, ignoring her. The minutes rolled by. Her already aching arms began to sag, placing weight on the back of her neck and slowly she began to slump forward. Her knees began complaining.

Trempwick spared her a glance from the corner of his eye. “Do sit up straight, precious Nell. You will make your back ache.” She dragged herself back to correct posture.

More time passed. She began to loll again, faster this time as her tiring and cramping muscles redoubled their protests. “Do sit up, Nell. I have told you before how important good posture is. Slouching is for the heedless lazy who do not wish to create a good impression.” Once again she corrected her posture.

Trempwick began to draw, a map marked with symbols depicting different crops and land uses from the little Eleanor could see. The steward, like so many, was mostly illiterate. Her knees had gone flat and she tried not to think of how pleasant it would be to sit back on her heels instead for a bit.

More time. Trempwick rang a hand bell he kept in one corner of his desk, the clanging deafening in this small space. He smiled down at Eleanor. “Nobles do not slouch, royalty most certainly not, not unless they are old, overweight and entirely useless.”

Casting some colourful mental curses at the spymaster Eleanor straightened her back yet again, or as close as she could get, not managing to get her tired muscles to cooperate sufficiently.

Edward, the steward, answered Trempwick’s summons quickly. Though her face was to the wall Eleanor could tell he was elated to see her stuck on her knees with her hands clasped behind her neck like an errant child. Within five minutes of his leaving the rest of the servants would know, and they would be celebrating her fall from grace, same as they always did. Stubbornly she managed to return to perfect posture; laugh they would but her pride wouldn’t allow them to see her as anything other than composed and dignified, bearing up better than most would.

Eleanor heard the rustle of parchment changing hands. The spymaster said, “My intended uses for the lands this year. What do you think?”

“Mostly right and proper, my lord. But I do question this here.” A finger tapped on the map. “I am not sure I understand the symbols right.”

“A garden with some … useful medicinal herbs.”

“That’s what I’m seeing, but it’s a rather large area, if you’ll beg my saying so, my lord.”

“I suspect I shall require large quantities of certain of these herbs, and others are best to have on hand in case of need. Travel will be pointless when my needs are met here.” That was said with one of those significant men-joking-together-on-manly-things overtones.

“I see, my lord.” An echo of that same tone was in the steward’s voice.

“You can also see to buying in a decent supply of certain of those plants now, in usable form. The sooner the better.” Yet more of that overtone. Eleanor did not want to know what they were talking about … well, outside of the part of her that was curious she didn’t want to know.

“I’ll send the boy to procure some right away. Trip into town’ll do him good, and if he leaves today he’ll be back afore Monday. Will that be all?”

“Tell the cook that there will be one less for dinner; her royal highness is not feeling hungry today.”

“I see. Will she be hungry tomorrow, my lord?”

“Oh I very much doubt it. The day after, more than likely starving. So contrary. That is all; you may go.”

Eleanor heard Edward leave. Trempwick swapped his current set of parchments for another and kept working.

Time passed and kept on passing, keeping to the same theme. Slowly, inevitably she began to sag forwards. Trempwick would politely request her to sit back up. Each time she slumped further forwards and managed to straighten up less. Her knees went numb, her lower legs cramped, her arms turned into dead weights, her neck ached ferociously, her spine began to groan.

In the end she drooped far enough forward that her head rested against the plastered wall, unable to will her exhausted muscles to keep on working. Trempwick looked up at the soft clonk of skull on plaster. “You really should not keep that pose to the point of exhaustion, dearest Nell. Now you have substituted one problem for another; your hands are less swollen but I doubt you can even stand. Good thing you have me to help.” He stooped and picked her up, one arm under her knees and the other about her shoulders. This was new, better too. Far better than being left to lie on the floor until some feeling returned and she could limp away.

“I do not know what you would do without me,” he chided her in a friendly manner as he carried her down the spiral staircase towards the second floor of the main building.

“That is not something I ever think about.”

“A real shame about dinner; I had ordered griddled mackerel with pease pottage.”

Griddled mackerel and pease pottage; Eleanor wouldn’t go so far as to call it a favourite but it was the only fish dish – perhaps the only dish full stop - the cook never messed up in any way. She didn’t bother to reply; his mind was made up and trying to change it would only reveal how little she liked the idea of an enforced fast.

Trempwick carried her into his bedchamber and set her down on the bed. “I have more work to do, so I shall have to leave you. I will eat up here tonight, to keep you company. Do not abscond from this room, dear Nell. You look tired; you should rest and relax for a bit.” The spymaster fished out a small bunch of keys from his belt pouch and unlocked the chest next to his clothes chest. He propped the lid open on the wall behind it. “I keep my more frivolous books in here; you may read if you wish.”

Before he left he pressed a kiss into her bruised palm. “Don’t blame the lover for all this; he’s doing his best. The spymaster is very obdurate.”

Alone Eleanor waited for the feeling to return properly to her limbs.

Finding nothing better to do, and loving the excuse to pry, Eleanor investigated the books, crossing the room on stiff legs and crouching with difficulty at the side of the chest. There were four books, an enormous investment. The first proved to be Tristan and Iseult, a tiresome romance Eleanor had never liked.

The Iliad, a boring Latin translation of a boring Greek poem about a war full of boring people doing boring things, and a certain famous Helen of Troy who, Eleanor had always felt, needed a hefty clout to the side of her head to start her brain working.

King Arthur, dreary, with the exception of a few tales. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was not bad, but only because it featured subterfuge and Things Going Wrong. Much of the book, however, hit too close to home, just like Tristan and Iseult. All those stupid love stories with their tragic endings and foolishly blind characters.

The forth book was one Eleanor had heard much about, most of it in church on Sunday. Ovid’s Arts of Love. Based on that recommendation her choice was clear. Besides, she had never seen the contents of this one, unlike the other volumes. If she had to idle her time away with the tedium of reading it only made sense to take the book which was new to her. It had nothing to do with curiosity about the famed ungodly information contained within the pages.

She settled down on the bed to read, angling the pages to get the best of the weak winter light. She skimmed quickly past the flowery opening.

She sighed and muttered her way through “All this nonsense about where to meet women. Anyone who needs to be told where to go to find women was born in a monastery and never stumbled beyond the gates!”

The chapter entitled ‘How to win her’ favoured no better; it flew past in a torrent of muttered complaints.

The section on bribing the maid had more staying power; Eleanor read it properly instead of skimming. “What a lot of elementary level drivel,” was her opinion on Ovid’s deception.

The section on birthdays she skipped entirely, proclaiming to the world at large, “Obvious.”

Ovid on making and keeping promises drew the scathing remark, “Twit.”

The moment she saw the heading ‘Be where she is’ she skipped over the chapter, saying only, “That generally helps; hard to romance someone if you never see them.” The chapters on looking presentable and dinner received similar short shrift.

Promise and deceive, now that sounded more fitting reading for an agent. Eleanor was sadly disappointed and the short chapter soon passed by with a frown.

‘Tears, kisses and take the lead’, a chapter heading so unfortunate sounding Eleanor nearly ignored it full stop. At first she skimmed, then slowly began to read more in-depth, her blush growing deeper by the page. She began holding an outraged conversation with the long dead author, mostly consisting of insults and outraged protests. Finally the book sailed across the bed to land with a thump in the pillows. “I do dearly hope that … that creep got brought to trial and executed. Rape pleasing to women indeed.” She snorted. “I am willing to be he had no love life outside of his imagination.”

Feeling guilty about how she had treated the spymaster’s expensive book, and not wanting anyone to know what she had been reading, Eleanor replaced it in the chest. She took the Iliad instead; it could sit open at a random page and look all innocent while she ignored it. Virtual prisoner she might be, but that did not mean she had to endure reading such drivel. Stories were so much more fun when the teller was a cute knight with a broken nose whom you could heckle and bother.

An indeterminable amount of time crept slowly past; she passed much of it in deep contemplation. When the door opened Eleanor expected it to be Trempwick but was surprised to see Fulk scuttle in. The knight shut the door softly behind himself. “Do you wish me to leave?” he asked urgently. The expression on his face was so pained, so trusting, so hopeful it tore Eleanor’s heart. He was taking a horrific risk in coming here.

With difficulty she joked, “Well, I doubt my betrothed invited you up here.”

“No games,” he requested quietly. “Is this what you wish?”

Eleanor closed her eyes. “No, it is what I want. If you cannot tell the difference you are living in a dream.” She regretted her harsh words the instant they left her mouth. They had grown from her anguish.

Fulk stood there, stricken. “You want me to leave?”

Very gently, afraid to even look at him, she said, “It is for the best, as I explained before you will have … a life, prospects, a future. I would not wish to be without you, but I know it is for the best, for both of us. No more living right next to what we cannot have, no more temptation to disaster.” Her eyes brimmed with tears as she begged for understanding. “I love you; that is why I am doing this. It is the best way to keep you safe; we cannot hide from a spymaster forever. If we force his hand he will act. At court you will be safe, you will have prospects, status, a life – it is all I can give you.”

Dully he accused, “You arranged this, when you took me out for that swordfight you had this in mind.”

“Yes. To do this any other way would have only made him more suspicious. It had to come from him, or from something he did. I had to get you away before he felt forced to act.”

For a moment she thought the unthinkable, that Fulk might cry; his jaw tightened and his eyes blinked rapidly as he looked away from her. In the end he just said, “I should go.” Shoulders slumped, head drooping, posture screaming abject defeat and loss, he walked in a daze back to the door, not even trying to fight her decision as she had expected he would. Had she wounded him that badly? Yes, she probably had, that badly and worse. She balled her hands into fists in the blankets, as if to hold herself back before she could give in to that desire to run to him, cling on to him and never, ever let go. He paused at the door, looked back over his shoulder at her. “Goodbye.” He left.

Eleanor buried her face in a pillow and wept, clutching the necklace he had given her in one tight fist.






Dead. He was dead. She had torn his heart out and thrown it away and called it for the best, without even asking him. He had to be dead; he felt so numb, so hopeless. He was not part of this world now; he felt detached, floating like an observing entity, knowing but not feeling. Nothing was real; it was all dreamlike. A dream … if only, if only. It was not. In his dreams they were always happy.

He had nothing left. He had lost everything, the one person who meant everything. She had given him all that he had ever dared dream of as a boy and egotistical youth, everything his imagination could conjure up and more. A place with the king, a chance at a good fief, status, wealth, security, an opening for fame and further fortune. He didn’t want it any more, any of it. It didn’t matter how much wealth or fame or glory or honour he had. He still would not have her. The one thing he did want.

She had set him up, neatly reordered his life for him and not even asked, not even given him a choice. He should be angry. He should be drowning in the pain he knew he had. But he felt nothing, just nothing. Too badly wounded to feel; maybe, just as with battlefield wounds, that would come later as awareness slowly sank in and the shock wore off.

Fulk pulled the hairpin from its place behind his dagger and began turning it in his hands, end over end over end, not realising what he was doing. His carelessness cost him; he stuck his thumb on the end. The pain aroused a certain curiosity in him, muted and dimmed. He looked down to see what caused the pain and saw a bead of crimson building on his thumb.

That drew his attention to the hairpin itself. She didn’t want him any more; the pin was not his now. It had no meaning, just bitter memory. Finally a part of that anger he knew he should have battered through the deadness surrounding the space where his heart had been. He had set him up, used him and discarded him! He took the pin in both hands and prepared to snap it in two. The instant he began to apply pressure he stopped, the anger swallowed back up in the numbness.

The pin meant nothing now. It was not his. He should give it back. She didn’t want him. She didn’t want to see him. He could leave it hidden here; she would find it eventually. Yes, that would be best. He would put it under her pillow. No, she would never find it there; she was Trempwick’s … his mind shied away from that, sheltering him from further agony even if he no longer cared to avoid it. He would put the pin under her pillow and one day she would find it.

Fulk slipped the hairpin under the feather filled pillow and willed his fingers to loose their grip. They were reluctant to cooperate but in the end he succeeded. There. Done. He sat in his daze for a moment, then his hand shot out and grabbed the pin back, clasping it tightly, as if his life depended on keeping hold. It was all he had left of her; he would die before he parted with it. He had lost everything, but he would keep this and remember, remember and wish things had been differently.

So numb. He wished that would change even as he acknowledged gratitude for it. The lack of feeling sheltered him, kept the flood of pain at bay. It kept him immobilised, like an ox struck by the butcher’s hammer before being slaughtered. He didn’t want that pain. He didn’t want to be detached like this.

She wanted him gone. She loved him. She wanted him gone.

He would go. Because she asked it. No other reason. For her, anything. An old motto bandied about by poets and romantic men. He had never much cared for it, finding it an idealised expression of what love was meant to be, nothing to do with reality. Now he did. He understood. It was possible to care so much for another you put them far above yourself.

She wanted him gone; he would go.







:wipes tiny tear from her eye: Bah! I hate their mush, but knowing both characters as well as I do this hurts a surprising amount. Even killing Margaret was not as hard as this.

Just for future reference I’m the writer of the week over in paradox's AAR general. I’m still blushing, even though I saw it a few days ago.

I’ll come back to the comments tomorrow; it’s nearly midnight here.

Anne was reading again, curled up on William’s lap and racing through the book with rapt focus. This evening she was devouring the lai of Chaitivel, a tale of four men in love with the same unobtainable woman. The ending brought tears to many men’s eyes – the poor winner ended up castrated, frustrated and generally ignored, far worse off than he was before.

When she reached the part where the poor unfortunate parted company with some valuable items William, reading over her shoulder as he often did, winced and protectively inched his legs closer together. He would have crossed his legs but then Anne would have fallen off onto the floor.

Marking her place in her book with a thumb Anne looked up and asked, “What is the matter? Are you getting cramp again?”

Being the big, brave man he was William’s best answer was obvious. “Er … yes.”

“I can move if you prefer.”

“No need.”

“Well, if you are sure.” She returned to her reading.

William tucked a stray strand of Anne’s dark red hair back behind her ear. Red hair; he smiled ironically to himself. So many things said about women with red hair, and all of them proving to be a nonsense with Anne. Impetuous, unruly, wild, fiery tempered – it sounded far more like his youngest daughter than his wife. Wonton; certainly not Anne and it had better not apply to the brat either.

Anne sighed dreamily and closed the book, hugging it to her chest. “How romantic.”

“What? Three of the four would be lovers die and the survivor does little better.”

“I know, but think of what he sacrificed for her.” She smiled distractedly.

“Exactly,” muttered William blackly.

Anne examined him closely. “You are in a strange mood tonight.”

“I have a lot on my mind.”

“Want to share?”

The grandmother was well and truly routing now; Anne was now eager to give her opinion in areas she had been taught were nothing to do with women. “I also have a message from my spymaster; one of John’s treasuries has been retrieved and is awaiting collection. I will not drop everything and go running to my spymaster’s beck and call. I have much to do. Preserving Woburn’s secrets is proving to be a tiring menace.”

“Send Hugh?”

Not a bad idea, and one William had been playing with himself. Hugh could be trusted to get the job done without problems, and it would save William a long day in the saddle travelling at punishing speeds so as to get there and back in one day. It also saved him from having to tell Anne she would be left behind this time, breaking both his promise and her heart in one go. As an added advantage Hugh would get to deal with his future spymaster and his sister’s unique position, becoming familiar with another aspect of his future kingship. Eleanor, now there was another advantage – if he stayed away he wouldn’t have to deal with the annoying brat.

“I shall send Hugh,” agreed William. “Where is the point in having sons if you do not send them to do all your unwanted work?”

She giggled at his joke, all unguarded mirth and delight. For a brief instant there she had looked damned appealing, not at all like the child he usually saw. That happened from time to time, a shift from girl to young woman, unappealing to desirable in a kitten cute kind of way. Reminding himself of just how young she was William resolutely shunted those thoughts from his mind, hoping, as he always did, that she had not picked up on them. Abruptly he wanted to be alone, alone and far away from her.

He made some excuse or other and left the solar, wandering slowly up the stairs to the floor above, the battlements of the tower keep. A couple of men were on sentry duty but they gathered on the far side when he indicated he wished to be left alone, giving him space.

William looked out across his realm. The great height of the keep afforded an excellent view; on a clear day you could see both the coast to the east and London to the west. Now, in the night, the land lay shrouded by the sky revealed itself as a sparkling array of stars interacting with passing clouds. Heaven and earth, his kingdom and God’s, one visible by day and the other by night. A more philosophical man might have derived some great significance from it all.

William placed both his hands flat, palm down on the waist high stone embrasure, framing himself in the gap between the two merlons. His kingdom; forged by his sword and will, anointed in his blood and sweat, and his father’s, and his grandfather’s, and one day his son’s. Blessing and burden. Provider and devourer.

Enough of business tonight; let the king take second place to the man for one rare, sweet moment. He was to be a grandfather! He already had grandchildren out in Spain and Germany but he had never set eyes on them and never would. This one he would see, and hold, and watch grow. His first real grandchild. Optimism faded to grim remembrance. His second grandchild for all those things; the first that would be alive as he held and saw and watched. They had named the first after him, little William. Dead before even his mother could see him. Christened in haste to save his soul and allow Christian burial. To say nothing of those lost before their souls could even merge with their tiny little bodies forty days after conception. No, say nothing of them; without souls they were not human. By the teachings of the church there had been nothing lost there except potential.

So why then did he feel so joyfully optimistic about this new one? Because it was hope, and to be otherwise was to write the baby off as dead while it still lived. Hugh had informed him in private before announcing it to the world this afternoon. All England would now begin to pray for both baby and mother.

A sudden gust of wind ruffled William’s hair and clothes; only his iron will held off a shiver. He had left his cloak inside and stood here dressed for indoors. He lifted his chilled hands from the icy stonework and folded his arms, warming his hands while showing a strong, dominant pose to the rest of the world.

Off in the future, a year, maybe two, lurked something else to worry an aging man. Off in the future and in himself. No! Trying to see into the future was something best left to old crones and wizards; he would not try his hand at it. Either he and Anne would have children in the future or they would not; he had kept his lines of succession neat and clear thus far and he could continue to do so. He could have had several bastards, an army of them even, if he had wished but he had not. They would have had no claims but still they could muddy the waters. He could have more legitimate children or he could not; he would concern himself over that when the time came. He would wonder about Hugh’s chances of continuing the bloodline then. If the line looked insecure he would do his best to reinforce it; if it looked strong then he would leave matters to his son.

Anne. How long did he have with her? William had altered his will to provide for her; she would not be forced back home, into poverty, or into another marriage. She would be under his family’s protection, able to take time to decide her own course. William smiled wistfully; in a year or two she would be a deal more woman than child and she promised to be quite striking. He wondered if he would live to see it. He noticed it again, the small reawakening need that had long lain dormant. The need for female company; company he could laugh and love with, company which provided much more than a way to scratch an itch. “Damn the girl,” he cursed fondly, so quietly it was not quite a whisper.

The need had died out because he had had no success in finding someone to fill it, not that he had much time to look. Those few he had found in his younger days were all gone now; dead, respectfully married, dedicated to God. Companions of the heart, not simple bed warmers, or so one had told him one very pleasant evening. Martha. See? He still remembered her name. Of course he did; he remembered all of them. There hadn’t been many, even after Joanna died. He’d been fond of them all.

Anne had the makings of a companion of the heart, for all her youth. He was stuck in a bind though; he’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch her until she was considerably older, and he’d promised her he would not do anything which might lead to people suspecting he was an unfaithful husband. The first promise was very rational; the second was a hastily said, unconsidered offer to console her. Both were very easily dispensed with, even the second if he was careful be circumspect. But there was the bind – either promise would risk hurting her in some way if cast aside. He didn’t want that.

William chuckled to himself. The mighty king of England brought to heel by a thirteen year old girl!







Yes, I know it is several days past tomorrow :sigh: busy froggy, and it was my birthday a couple of days ago too. That throws things somewhat. Such a long comment definitely deserves a good, well thought out reply, not another hasty response crammed in to a few minutes. I'll get there ...

Anne was still waiting for him when he returned from the ramparts. She had allowed her maids to help her dress for bed but sat alone by the fire in the solar, draped in a bed robe. She had her legs curled up into the chair, keeping her bare feet warm. At first William thought she was asleep but her head perked up as he stepped into the room and she said, “I wanted to ask you something, if you do not mind. I do not mean to pry or anything, and I am very sorry if I am prying.” Her old timidness was back. William indicated that she should ask. Very, very nervously she did so. “I wanted to know how Eleanor ended up as … she did.”

William acquiesced with a dour face, not because he wanted to tell the story but because to refuse would send Anne back down the path towards being the painfully shy thing she had been when she first arrived. He stood next to the dying fire, absorbing what warmth he could. “I was there when she was born. That was rare; I missed the births of most of my other children. However much I wanted to be present there was always something demanding my attention. Eleanor I was there for, Rowena and Stephan too; all the others I missed. She was a small, dark haired little scrap who was not interested in me at all; she was too busy sleeping. Even when I picked her up she stayed asleep.”

The corners of William’s eyes crinkled as he remembered how he had felt. “I … liked that; she had a certain unflappable style. I chose her name, you know. I did not consult with my wife that time. We had planned to call her Emlin for some reason or other; I do not recall why. I had always liked the way Eleanor sounded and I thought it suited this tranquil little thing far better than Emlin ever could, so I named her that instead with no warning or consultation.” Joanna had not been happy with his sudden shift but she had been too tired, and too well bred, to bat an eyelid when he told the priest. Eleanor; a beautiful, peaceful sounding name. It had suited the baby but she had not grown into it; calling her Eleanor now felt like blasphemy.

In a wistful voice he admitted, “I liked her, you know. She was so quiet, you see. Unlike the other two I had seen at that age she was quite placid, and she … I felt she liked me too. I think perhaps she was my favourite out of the babies.” Aware of what a sentimental old sot he sounded William added, “She never threw up on me; that helped.” In the next breath he found himself admitting, “I loved her, right from that first sight.” As quickly again he was unpicking what he had sewn. “I loved some of the others instantly too, the ones I saw right on the day they were born. The others took more time before I felt any attachment; they were … old.”

“I managed to find time to visit her frequently for a few days, but soon enough I had to leave. I am not sure quite why I left; all these similar years roll into one and blur together. Travelling to show myself to my vassals, settling disputes, hearing the most important court cases, some fighting I think.” He shrugged. “The usual business of a king. When I saw her again she was walking and talking. I did not stay long; soon I was off again. It was always like that until recently. These last few months are a rarity; I have not been this sedentary since I was a lad myself. I had little time to see her, or any of my children. When I did see them they had grown and changed so much I barely knew them, and very often they did not recognise me.”

“Joanna did not like young children; she preferred them when they were old enough to think, reason and mind their manners. There was no malice in it, you understand,” he said firmly, not willing to let his new wife form a less than complimentary portrait of his old one, least of all through misunderstandings. “She did care about them when they were younger; she just did not feel she knew what to do with them, and she found herself easily bored by their simple minds. She thought it unkind to make them spend much time with someone who could not hide her disinterest in their childish things. She was busy too; while I was away she handled whatever business arose here, ruling as queen in my stead, that is, when she was not travelling with me on royal progress. You will have to learn to do all that; even delegating to Hugh where I can I still need support from my queen. You will also have to learn to travel so quickly; I demand military forced march pacing, not the idle wandering slowed by carts and clutter most other monarchs allow.”

Recalling his point William dropped his plans for the future and delved back into the past. “So neither of us really knew what our children were doing, except in a hazy kind of way. By the time I found out Eleanor had become her eldest brother’s shadow it was too late; she was already a hellion and a tomboy. It set a pattern; I was always too late or too absent to be of much use. All I ever heard about Eleanor was bad, or good tainted with bad. ‘She is very intelligent; if only she would try she could go far’. Almost every time I saw her she was sent to me because she was in trouble; almost every time I heard her name it was a request for me to do something to curb her disgraceful behaviour. I would only be there for a few days, so she found she could get away with almost anything unless I was around. That is the problem with girls; boys you can hand off to someone suitable when they are of age to become a page and that mentor will handle everything; you can forget the boy exists, knowing they will be well taken care of and turned into a man you can be proud of.”

“Girls, on the other hand, are different. You can hand them off to tutors but the rules are different. No one cares if a tutor beats a boy but the world would cry shame if he did the same to a girl. Only the father or guardian can do that, because it potentially harms her marriage prospects. Eleanor, like the tomboy brat she was, did not care about the odd slap or cuff. If you locked her up she tended to escape or amuse herself with whatever that room had to offer, even if it was just a floor to do handstands on. You could not forbid her from doing much because the things she enjoyed doing where the very things you did not want her to be tampering with.”

A jab of guilt compelled him to say, “Sometimes I think those I gave responsibility to were negligent.” A pause, then more guilty honesty. “No – I know they were. They did not care what she was doing; if she was with her brother playing knights and sieges then they did not have to keep an eye on her. It only mattered if she might come to some serious harm, for which they would be held responsible. Her lack of refinement and education could simply be blamed on her unwillingness to learn, not on their neglect. I should have replaced them, but somehow I never had the time. We found better people for my other children; I was in a hurry when I chose for her, and Joanna was not having a particularly easy time with this pregnancy so she could not help.” Angry guilt, snapped out like an accusation, “What do I know about wet nurses anyway? Nothing to do with me.”

Anne shrank back from his bad temper. William forced himself back to a cross growl, the closest to good humour he could currently manage. “She picked up a reputation and no one would take my tentative marriage offers seriously. She climbed things, played with toy weapons, sneaked about, followed after her brother like a lost dog, explored places she was not supposed to go, got in fights with her siblings, stole food from the kitchens – in some lesser noble family this might be acceptable but not in a princess in a royal palace. One ambassador saw her covered in mud with a ripped skirt from falling out of a tree! You know what she said about that? ‘I don’t usually fall’.” He grimaced at the memory. “That marriage proposal died before I even had chance to get the ambassador inside.”

“No one wanted a girl who was famous for being a disobedient hoyden marrying into their family. A convent was out of the question; she would have raised hell so badly I would need to remove her to prevent further harm being done to our family name. Sometime in her fifth year Stephan broke his leg in a fall from a foul tempered stallion he was not supposed to go near, let alone ride. It healed badly, and a short time later he drowned while swimming. I think the weak leg must have been responsible. It broke his mother’s heart, and mine.” William stared blankly at his boots. Joanna had never known it was anything other than an accident; she would have strangled him with her bare hands if she had known the truth.

“Without him she got even worse, and her poor reputation grew. Every tutor I gave her left quickly, swearing they wanted nothing more to do with her. It became very difficult to find anyone willing to give her a go, and Joanna and I did not have much time to search. We were doing the right thing far too late; some of them were good tutors and she would have done well. My spymaster met her somehow and decided she had the makings of a good agent; he asked for her. I agreed. I intended it to be a temporary arrangement; I thought she would soon tire and become more tractable. I thought it would shock her into behaving. It didn’t. My wife hated the arrangement; I was not fond of it myself, but I knew something had to be done. The things people were saying about her and about our family, well, they were unspeakable, revolting, dreadful. If anyone had uttered them in my hearing I would have been honour bound to kill them.” William thought it most prudent to leave it at that: the truth, but lacking the painful detail.

Anne digested this for a while. “Does she know you intended to bring her back?”

“No. The pattern continued in many ways; I saw her, I tried to put her back on the right path, I left, and my work was undone by lack of time and consistency. Trempwick has many good points but he is soft, despite my urging him to be otherwise. I will not give up; I will fix this mess or die trying. Now, if you do not mind that is all I care to say about the brat just now.”

With a small smile curving her lips Anne told him, “She is very much like you. She would never admit it, nor would she welcome me saying so, just as I think you do not really welcome it. None the less the resemblance is there.” William snorted, secretly peculiarly and irrationally pleased by her words. His hand just touched the latch to his bedroom door when she ventured, “You are very grumpy tonight.”

He said dismissively, “Talking about the brat always makes me grumpy, as does anything related to her. Love soured and turned to hate sits poorly in any man’s belly, especially when the fault is mostly your own.”
“No, you were in a funny mood before she was mentioned. That is why you left, I think.” He didn’t answer, but nor did he continue to leave. She begged quietly, “Please tell me; you always say your queen should help you, and I cannot help if you do not tell me things.”

William laid his forehead against the smoothed wood of the closed door. There was no kind way to dodge out of answering; a lie would be unworthy. “Those two promises I made you are weighing rather heavily tonight.”

“Oh.” The word dropped like a stone into a pond, leaving a few ripples of potential but no activity or sound. William waited for a bit; he knew without looking that her mind was working overtime. He was not sure what he hoped her answer would be; there wasn’t really any answer he would entirely like. “Are you calling on our marriage debt?” she enquired. She sounded very calm but a tiny quaver betrayed her anxiety.

“No, not at all. I promised; not until you are older.”

“I am older; time has passed and so I am older. You would not be breaking your promise as you did not specify how much older.”

Startled William spun around, turning her own question back on her, “Are you calling on our marriage debt?”

“No,” she admitted rather miserably. “But I do know my duty, and a part of that is to help you burrow your way out of promises you do not wish to keep.”

“If I did not wish to keep promises I break them very quickly. I just wish you were older.”

“A person’s age is not solely derived from the day they were born. Mental state and learning has much to do with it.” She met his eyes and said seriously, “I think I am much older now than I was a month ago.”

“True,” agreed William freely. His own mind was racing now. Too young to be a mother, but that had been taken care of last time and could be avoided again. Mentally a lot older and more appealing. The worst was over, so no need to rush again, plus they knew each other now so this time things could and would go better, and would improve with familiarity. Disgusted he put such thoughts from his mind. “But all this is moot; you are no more interested than last time.”

He floundered, suddenly rather embarrassed. She probably never would be, not until she knew something better than the very brief, painful experience that had been their wedding night. At some point, interest or no, she would end up back in his bed and he would try to give her enough good memories to banish the bad ones. So why not now? From one viewpoint it would even be a kindness – she would lose that dread sooner. Why not now? Because there was something repulsive about the idea of bedding a girl so young, that’s why. He demurred, picking his words with extraordinary care because last time he had expressed this sentiment he had wounded her deeply. “Our wedding night was purely duty and we both hated it. I see no reason to repeat that; neither of us enjoyed it and so it is pointless. It is best to leave things until there is more than duty on both sides.” By which point she would be older. Or until the point where he felt she was of age, at which point he would begin the chase himself.

“But my grandmother said-”

There – suddenly the newly won maturity peeled away and she reverted back to the thirteen year old girl she was. That was why. William cut across her, “A load of rubbish that does not apply here. We have had this conversation before; if something I say or do contradicts your grandmother you forget about her advice.” More kindly he said, “I do not want to hurt you again.” Then, on an unexpected flash of inspiration he added, “If you want to join me you can do so, but only if you want to. If you want to; not out of duty, or some misguided notion about kindness, or anything similar.” He saw her brow crinkle; she didn’t understand, just as he’d expected. For all her reading romances and knowledge of mechanics she was very innocent when it came to the feelings behind it all. “When you understand that, then you are old enough.” And since she had only found the bottom rung of the ladder, a liking for being held, it would be a while indeed before she scaled to those lofty heights, particularly since he was doing nothing to give her a helping hand towards even the second rung.





Eleanor jolted from the nightmare, gasping for air as if she’d been running. She had, running from a dead man with a knife in his ribs.

Trempwick was awake now, pulling her close and rocking her like a child. Like a child; now there was a spur to her ego. Only children were supposed to wake with nightmares. At least when she had been on her own no one else had witnessed the times when her composure slipped; now those contemptible emotions were exposed for Trempwick to see and utilise.

“There always has to be a catch,” he grumbled wearily. “I finally have you for company but now I get very little sleep.” He made it sound like her fault, something she was doing on purpose.

“It is hardly my preference either,” replied Eleanor waspishly. The nightmare eased its grip on her and slowly retreated to dim memory. She’d killed a man and how his vengeful ghost haunted her. She didn’t know a thing about him, not even his name. He could have had a family. How had he ended up a bandit? Was he driven to it or did he choose to become an outlaw? So many questions; she would never have answers. She tried to convince herself the man had been a criminal outlawed for a reason with no family or dependants to slowly starve without him. He was better off dead, and the world was better without him. As usual her attempt failed.

She wriggled closer to Trempwick, seeking enough comfort to chase away the dead man’s ghost. Trempwick was not nearly as good at this as Fulk, but the sensible work with what they have.






:Insert sign with 'reply to comment pending' in flashion neon letters here: The last part of the William/Anne scene took me absolutely forever to write and now I don't have time to do a reply before I have to start cooking. Soon ...

I hate to clutter up my own thread but something went wrong when I posted the last part; it appears in the topic but everywhere else (last post dates, post counts etc) it is as if it does not exist. This post is to correct that.

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Originally Posted by Ludens

It seems my Trempwick joke misfired: I picked that one because I thought it was the most complex option plot-wise, not to mention that it would be interesting to see how the three characters involved would react to it. However, everyone seems to have taken it the wrong way.

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That removes the nagging feeling I had missed something; I had. At least the cute little confused geisha smiley had a rare opportunity for use. :gring:

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You said Fulk has been jealous since page 69 (wherever that may be).

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I thought I gave a small excerpt to show where? Some description of where it was in the plot? I was in a big rush, so maybe I forgot. I’ll just retrieve and dump the bit here:

“Fulk watched them leave, saw her looking up at Trempwick as she walked, saw her walking close to him, saw her leaning to hear what the spymaster was saying. His fists clenched, nails digging into the palms of his hands. He paused, recognising consciously what he was doing. He forced his hands open and mustered a laugh, weak and hollow sounding. Jealous of something far beyond his reach, something he didn’t even want.”

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However, I saw it differently. He had some jealous feelings, true, but was not acting like a jealous lover. In fact, I remember that at the banquet scene I actually admired the way you described Fulk having those feelings without making him seem jealous. I did not comment on that because I wanted to see if you were going to build those feelings up towards a later jealousy on his side. If my memory serves me right that is the last time Eleanor and Trempwick were seen together from the Fulk-perspective before the marriage announcement. And neither can I remember him being particularly jealous of Trempwick after the fight.

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Back at that banquet he hadn’t made himself known so he had no way or right (however tenuous) to act on his feelings. He was also being rational. Fulk will … generally simmer away quietly like he did at that feast, telling himself to be sensible. However if he is already stressed and if the circumstances are set up correctly he will blow. On this jealous explosion everything was nicely set up; shock, disbelief, a lot of deal with both emotionally and mentally, deep denial of the truth, being forced to look at some facts about himself and reality he does not – and never will – like. Bang. He is deceptively placid.

Currently he is in a kind of catatonic emotional state. If circumstances had been kinder when he found out about her betrothal he’d have gone the same then. If circumstances when she told him to leave were more stressful then he would have exploded again.

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I am not talking about the workings of their relationship; more about their love in general. Fulk sounds as if he expects Eleanor to submit to a day of torture for his sake, before she can agree to a marriage proposal of anyone but him.

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No, not at all. Think of what Fulk has seen of Eleanor; he’s seen her beaten up twice. Both times she was a mess, once far more so than the other, but both times very visibly hurt. What does he see when he finds her after the betrothal?

“Eleanor seemed alright; she looked exhausted and run down, and from the way she was sat stiffly her back was troubling her. She had a cut on her face, a welt on the back of her right hand and her left hand was out of view, but otherwise she was alright. Fulk suspected most of that came from her fight with her father the day before John died; he did not know for certain because they had not allowed him near her since before then.”

Sounds bad if you know what she has been through but compared to what he has seen in the past it is quite mild. Note he is also deciding it all comes from an unrelated event. Sure she tries to tell him what happened to her but he isn’t really listening by that point, already beginning to drown in his little explosion. Nell being Nell she also understates. So he thinks she didn’t resist at all, then when it begins to sink in that she has, well from this evidence she barely tried. She doesn’t have to fight for him, but he knows her and her usual attitudes. He knows she really does not want to get married, and he knows that she usually fights to the end to get her own way. He expects her to fight for herself. He does mention a thought that they had some kind of agreement not to marry anyone else, but he is again mostly thinking that she will fight to get and keep what she wants, i.e. she wants no one but Fulk so she will fight to have no one but Fulk, even if that really means fighting to remain single. To him it looks like she gave up without trying, maybe after a token resistance. Fulk is expecting to see something very similar to the time her rib got cracked, the results of a titanic struggle. That lack can only mean one thing – she did not even protest, ergo she wants to marry Trempy. He didn’t reckon on the king being somewhat subtle for once.

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No, you’re right. It was a stupid remark on my part. What I think I was trying to say (I can’t exactly remember it) was that it need not have been an immediate explosion. It could just as well have been a slow poison. Like in the second fight-scene.

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Nope, it needed. I’m on a very tight schedule and have been since shortly before they arrived at the palace. Even moving something by a day is growing next to impossible. Correction; it is impossible now, back then it was next to impossible. To move this fight moved other things too, and then everything ends up weeks off where it absolutely has to be. :pulls face: It’s a real pain in the rear to handle sometimes, and actually rather stressful. Not to mention there were reasons that fight happened just then, mostly down to the Fulk Explosion™ effect.

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Well, you have been doing it quite well in the last few chapters so I have no recent examples. I think that you just need to bear in mind that we are now (or I think I am) thoroughly familiar with both Eleanor’s and Fulk’s character and motives, so these don’t need explanation anymore.

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Someone who happened to agree with you came to your aid and sent me an email with a couple of scenes covered in red ink. That proved invaluable; it allowed me to see exactly what was too much. Even quoting a couple of lines and screaming, “No!!! Bad froggy!!” helps enormously. I was actually thinking of something slightly different to what you and your supporter meant. That’s why these recent scenes have been better. So thanks for bringing that up and starting the events that ended up with the junk being cut out; if you hadn’t said anything I would still be writing in the same tedious manner~:)

Actually if I’m honest almost every single bit that needed removing was a bit I didn’t like anyway. I had been feeling these junk heavy parts were wrong but I had reasons to wander that way, and generally it looked as if this approach was working better even if I didn’t like it. It’s a very long story, so suffice it to say the frog should listen to her gut instincts more.

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Judging by your reply, you may have misunderstood what I was trying to say. I was not objecting against switching the perspective from one person to another, but against switching the perspective type from third person semi-omniscient to third person omniscient.

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There’s the thing; I never think of the perspective. I didn’t know this was third person semi omniscient until you said so. I really, honestly give it no thought at all. I don’t think I even know all possible perspectives a person can write in, or what the fancy name is for them. I know first person and third person; that’s all. :sigh: Technicality, and I have no idea where to learn it.

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One of the unwritten rules of writing is ‘unity of style’, and that means not switching the type of perspective halfway. If you don’t do this the effect is not so much wrong as... odd. Off course, breaking the rules of writing can actually result in literature (that’s what experimental literature is all about), but I don’t think that was the idea here.

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I don’t know the unwritten rules either. :looks mock indigent: Now you are making me show off just how clueless I am! :tongueg: The only rules, written or unwritten, I know are ones like “Never start a sentence with and, if or but.” You may have noticed I break that one.

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Secondly, you said this technique is praised. I wondered (and still do): what is praiseworthy about it?

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Don’t ask me, ask the reviewers. I seldom agree with them or even take much notice of them these days. They seem to delight in stating something as if the whole world should understand but never coming down from their lofty perch to explain why. It’s probably supposed to be self evident why this technique is good; we are just too plebeian to see why. :rolleyes:

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Again: I am not objecting to the use of perspective switches, but against switching perspective type, and thus writing style, for a single scene.

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I know, and I was not happy with it either. For a third version I would find some way to improve it and make it fit far better, but a third version I would have weeks to think and work on this scene alone. Perhaps if I altered and added a lot to the previous scenes I might find a way to hint much of what was said in that scene, picking up content and placing it somewhere else. Hmmm …. I dunno. I guess I could, but it would probably take a lot of time and effort, playing with the manuscript, drafting and revising, tweaking and altering, plus I’d need outside views on how well it works … a proper book type undertaking, not a serialised web story type.

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I see. I am a bit confused as to which of your sentences refers to which scene,

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First block of text for the John scene, second block of text for the Nell/Fulk scene.

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Have you tried suggesting that Eleanor was imagining things? For example, putting something like “However, Fulk did not look condemning” in? If properly placed, it will carry the suggestion to the reader that there may be another interpretation. Just an idea, I have no idea what you actually tried.

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I tried everything I could think of, except suggesting in the text that Nell was wrong. I simply can’t and won’t do that. The characters get things wrong many times and I cannot point that out; Bad Things would happen, possibly involving the end of the universe as it collapses back in on itself. If it’s continuing Nell’s POV and she thinks Fulk looks condemning then he looks condemning. If Fulk doesn’t look condemning then the point would never have been raised.

:scowls: Just for once I’m going to speak out on one of the characters many mistakes – Fulk never did love Maud!! He only thinks he did because he is dumb! If he had loved her he would never have treated her so badly! His out of control thing is never going to happen with Nell because he cares far too much about her to ruin her life like that! That is one of many hundreds of things they get wrong, and the one which annoys me the most. I don’t want people thinking I think that is love. It’s his dumb idea, not mine. The best I can do is show how wrong much of it was and hope the reader picks it up. Humph, even if they do it still makes me look bad.

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Back to the present: last three parts you posted were marvellous. The interaction between Trempwick and Eleanor is excellent. I may dislike Trempwick, because he is an arrogant bastard who thinks the world is at his feet, but he’s got style and that makes up for a lot.

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He is not my favourite either, but his style and general arrogant bastardness do make him fun to write sometimes.

The last few parts have felt much better to me, and with the exception of the William/Anne talk about their love life bit they have been much easier to write too. Most of the junk I had to add in to the scene after I had written the ‘natural’ version. My fingers itch to go back and redo about 100 pages of work, cutting out all the junk.

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By the way, is it necessary for Eleanor and Fulk to have patched up things when they meet Trempwick? I am wondering what would happen if a disgruntled Fulk and an angry/dispirited Eleanor returned to Woburn to face the spymaster. Now that might result in a thrilling scene ~D .

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Yes, necessary. As you’ve seen by now Fulk is leaving, and you’ve seen how and why it was done. Such a scene would have been fun to write though.



Now I should go and face some more of my inboxes; an uphill task if ever there was one. :hide:

Actually forget the entire jealously thing; if Fulk doesn't read like a jealous man then he isn't one. The characters as I imagine them must differ somewhat to the ones you know because I can't write them exactly as I seen them, perhaps only 98% correct. When it comes to writing emotion I'm wrong footed because of my own lack of experience with emotion; I'm working mostly from learned knowledge gleaned from books with a bit of visual aid coming from films and watching other people. Jealousy is one of the most tentative emotions for me to handle; I really have very little idea about it aside from the loud guy beating up his ex's new boyfriend. Quietly jealous, as I tried to make Fulk, on reflection seems a bit more like quietly resentful occasionally spilling over into open upset if pushed too far. Or something. Perhaps you'll remember I did this more often in my older stories, especially the original Eleanor? Emotion that didn't quite seem right? I've mostly fixed that but in some areas it is still problematic.

These times when I'm made aware people view my characters slightly differently to the way I do are quite strange. Oh well, I'll just grin like an idiot because for a very short while I'll be writing Fulk's emotional state based on my own experience. Mmm, using experience not learned theory, I've never had the opportunity to do that.

So whatever Fulk reads like is what he is; forget my original intent.

“Hugh is coming in your father’s place,” announced Trempwick as he entered the solar early that morning. He set his food down on the table and seated himself opposite Eleanor. To her he gave only a cup of small ale.

Eleanor hungrily eyed the piece of cheese next to Trempwick’s morning bread and drink. “He is? Good; even if he does wish to dispose of me he is easier to deal with than my beloved regal ancestor.”

Trempwick broke his stale bread into two halves and sprinkled some salt on one part before taking a bite. He washed it down with some of his ale. “I knew if I brought cheese you would pay it more mind than me.”

“Sorry, master.”

Trempwick cut off a small wedge of cheese with his belt knife and examined it, before eating it with some more of yesterday’s bread. He savoured the flavour. “Good, very good. A pity I did not get more of this particular vintage.” Another bit vanished down his gullet. “A pity indeed. Would you believe I only brought a chunk half the size of my fist? I purchased it at the same time as your clothes.” He looked pointedly at her grey ensemble. “I do believe you would have preferred the cheese to the silk, beloved Nell.”

With reckless honesty she replied, “Not exactly, master. I would have preferred both.”

Trempwick’s eyebrows drew together. “You could have had both, but you expressed a certain disinterest in eating, dear Nell. Hardly my fault.”

“Of course not, master.”

Trempwick sliced off another bit of cheese and paused with it half way to his mouth. He pulled it off the tip of his knife and threw it to Eleanor. “Here, but do not tell the spymaster I am flouting his decision.”

She caught the precious cheese adroitly and ate it before he could change his mind. “Thanks,” she said belatedly.

Trempwick laughed under his breath. “I notice again your priorities run cheese first, with me along way second.”

“One has to concentrate on the important things in life.”

Trempwick grunted. “You can spend the day with me again; I will run through your land’s accounts with you and try to teach you some of the basics. If the decisions are made and noted in a timely manner they can be dispatched along with the instructions for my own estates.” He bit off another chunk of bread, chewed viciously and swallowed. He said severely, “I am so glad to hear you are going to concentrate on important matters, dear Nell.”

“Yes, master,” mumbled Eleanor.

“I expect you to make great progress and prove yourself apt, beloved Nell. Use that intellect of yours and you will learn quickly, as usual.”

“Yes, master.”

“I do not have time or patience to waste, sweet Nell.” Trempwick tossed off the last of his ale in one swift motion and banged the cup back down on the table. “You should have learned all this years ago. If I must play lord and spymaster then you must play lady and agent; years worth of teaching must be crammed into weeks!”

“It is not my fault, master.”

Trempwick recalled himself. “Yes, well, be that as it may, you need to learn and quickly. Pray to God we do not need to call upon my mother; odd as it may seem I do not have the education of a noble lady, only a noble man.”

Hesitantly Eleanor said, “Speaking of your mother, after the wedding Countess of Kent will be my title, not hers. She can retire to her dower lands when she parts company with it, or she can go to a convent. I think neither of us wants her to linger.” At his enquiring look she smiled very slightly, calculating and determined. “Oh yes; I am thinking of the two titles I shall collect by virtue of marriage to you.”

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “Ambition, darling Nell?”

Eleanor toyed with her cup, running a finger around the earthenware rim. “Not as such, master,” she admitted uncomfortably. “Even a king will think twice before hurting the Duchess of Northumberland and Countess of Kent, especially when she is married to someone who might take exception to it.” She aimed a half pleading look at him, then looked back down at her cup. “Married, titled or no, I should be safe, but I do not really believe that. I do not believe he will keep to social niceties unless he sees the risk as too great.”

He leaned across the table and placed his hand over one of hers. “Dear Nell, I promised I would keep you safe, and I shall keep that promise to the best of my abilities.”

Eleanor curled her fingers around his, interlacing and holding tight. “I know.”






“I always win,” remarked Trempwick conversationally.

Fulk regarded the spymaster impassively. The numbness that had engulfed his heart had spread and settled overnight, turning his blood to ice. He said nothing.

Trempwick fastened the last buckle on Fulk’s coat of plates and stepped back to find the next bit of armour. “She will soon forget about you.”

Fulk ducked to allow the other man to aid him with his surcoat. Carefully examining how his facial muscles were working he decided he was presenting a blank face to the world. Without emotions to act as a catalyst he found he either had no outward reaction where he expected one, or occasionally one that worked his face but sparked nothing internally to inform him what he was doing and why. Fulk tied the thin cord belt about his waist to hold the surcoat in place and gestured for his sword, his new top quality sword.

Trempwick set blade and belt into Fulk’s waiting hands. “I suppose you will forget her just as quickly.”

Lacking any natural reaction Fulk forced an imitation of his old friendly smile, finding one set of muscles more willing to cooperate than the other so the end result felt lopsided. “Take care of her,” he requested politely.

“I will. She is mine, and I always take care of what is mine.”

Fulk folded his arms and looked at the annoying man, knowing once again his face and manner was perfectly calm. He didn’t want to ram a fist through the gloating fool’s face; he should but he didn’t. Trempwick was so much easier to deal with from this tranquil emptiness. “I doubt she considers herself anyone’s property.”

Trempwick shook his head and tutted. “You are the one who mentioned property; I only said she was mine. You twist my words, bodyguard … ex-bodyguard. After last night I really doubt she would quibble anyway, except perhaps for appearance’s sake.”

That insinuation also had no emotional effect, and Fulk was glad. Fully armed up now, except that his head was still bare, his legs were unarmoured because of his wound and he lacked his shield, Fulk cast his eyes around Eleanor’s old room once more. He saw only his bags, packed and ready to go, and her own personal touches and furniture. He had missed nothing; there was nothing left to do. He said tonelessly, “I suppose I shall wait here until my escort arrives.”

“Yes, that might be better. You will explain your shield was damaged during a live steel training exercise with one of my agents. You will not take your warhorse; there is no good way to explain why it is lame. You will use the chestnut instead. Above all you will stick to the cover story we arranged for you before we went to the palace. Those who need to know the truth already know it; those who do not must not. Do you understand?”

Fulk’s only answer was a curt nod.





Jocelyn collapsed onto his wife, gasping for breath with his heart racing. Awkwardly, her arm half trapped under his bulk, she pushed at his shoulder, trying to prise him off her. “You are crushing me,” she protested.

Jocelyn pulled himself free and rolled off her. The cool air hit his sweat soaked front and suddenly the castle’s bedroom felt a lot colder than it had moments ago. One hand flailed for the top of the blankets and pulled them up over himself, casting some over Richildis as a courtesy. Before the material even settled she was pushing the bedding away and sitting up. “Leaving so soon?” he asked sardonically. “But we are such a happy pair of lovers.”

Her lips tightened. “It is the middle of the day.”

“So what? Lie back a bit, rest, relax. Damn it, woman, you don’t need to run for it immediately.”

“We have inspired more than enough gossip.” She rose and began to dress.

Jocelyn admired the view. Three children had thickened her waist somewhat, and she had silvery stretch marks on her stomach but overall she was still in fine shape and attractive. Not breastfeeding had certainly helped; he’d done well to insist on her obeying noble tradition and getting a wet nurse. There was little worse in Jocelyn’s eyes than great sagging breasts, especially when you knew they had previously been delightfully pert. It was a very great pity Richildis the person was not nearly as pleasing as Richildis the body. “We’re married; if I decide I want you in the middle of the day then it is none of anyone else’s business.”

“It is demeaning,” she replied through clenched teeth, “and indecent. You marched into the main hall and asked if I had a headache before everyone, then all but dragged me off when I said I said no!”

Jocelyn sat up, grinning easily. “Proof of passion; you will be the envy of every woman in the castle.”

“Envy?” she asked scornfully.

Jocelyn clambered out of bed himself and posed naked, bending his arms up and making fists to show off his biceps. “A nice head of corn coloured hair, blue eyes, even features, fair skin, a fit body, hard muscles, good stature-”

“A prickly beard, the manners of a pig and the consideration of a lout,” Richildis finished waspishly. She briskly began rebraiding her hair, twining the dark gold mass back to strict order.

Jocelyn rubbed a hand over his lower face. True, his beard did need trimming back to follow his jaw line neatly again. He’d have that taken care of today. “The beard I’ll give you; the rest I won’t.” He began to dress himself, fighting the post-coital torpor filling his blood. “Very well, I’ll stop disgracing you with my passions now. We can pick this up again tonight.” He aimed a suggestive wink at her as he tied the cord holding his braies up at his waist.

Richildis’ nose wrinkled. “I’m sore enough already, thank you.”

“Oh, now what are you whinging about?” snapped Jocelyn testily.

She flushed a bright red and suddenly found the view from the open window very interesting. “Nothing.”

“No, go on – tell me what I’m doing wrong now. You can’t leave that slur half spoken; either finish it or retract it.”

“You are too rough.”

“Arlette doesn’t complain.” His scowl deepened as another thought occurred to him. “And anyway most women like it rough.”

“I’m your wife, not your whore.”

He bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Funny thing is the whore’s a damned sight more compliant, for all her lack of wifely duty.”

“Then go bother her and leave me in peace. Just don’t bankrupt us or catch some disease.”

“Tildis, Tildis, please – when you aren’t complaining I do rather enjoy our conjugal duties. Just a pity you are so slow to conceive; you do love our children, as do I.” She did; all the tenderness and affection in her heart was reserved solely for their three children. At first he had been a little jealous, but now he saw the advantage; it made her a fierce protector of the little mites, very concerned with their welfare and upbringing.

Stonily she retorted, “Don’t blame me; you know that a woman has to enjoy sex before conception can take place. With your brutish efforts it’s a miracle we have any children at all, and then you send them away without even warning me!”

“Oh Christ Jesus! Not Thierry again!” roared Jocelyn. “He has a good position-”

Richildis screamed back, “I know! But you could have told me when you arranged it, not the night before he left!”

Jocelyn winced. He had been drunk, then busy, then he had been avoiding speaking to her because of an argument about something or other, then he’d had a cold, and before he had known it the boy was packing to leave. He held up his hands placating. “Alright, I admit it – I should have told you. I’m sorry. There; happy now?”

Richildis swallowed a few times, blinking rapidly. “He’s my son,” she said quietly, “my first born.”

Comfortingly he offered, “We will get him back soon, when Yves’ head rolls for his treason.”

“If your head does not roll as well,” she answered bleakly. “For all that we do not get on I have no wish to be a widow. If you fall you take us down with you.”

“Tildis, I told you, I have a plan to use this to our benefit. At the worst we will be no worse and no better off than we are now. Besides, I have to go, or would you have me known as a coward and an oath breaker?”

“This folly is doomed from the start.”

“I am counting on that. I can keep my word and still use this to my advantage.” Jocelyn rummaged about in the open neck of his tunic and shirt until his hand closed on his golden crucifix. “God favours me, poor sinner that I am. He has heard my prayers and given me the sign I begged for.”

“Then I do hope you were praying for something worthwhile.”

Jocelyn released the crucifix and studied his wife through lowered eyebrows. There was nothing there to suggest she was mocking him, but he would not put it past Richildis to make a joke of this. She returned his scrutiny openly. Finding nothing to take issue with Jocelyn snatched up his belt from the floor where it lay. “Tonight I’ll try that courtly love nonsense if it will make you happy; all gentle, charming, courteous and unmanly, though I’ve no idea how anyone can find such a milksop of a creature attractive. Damned well took you long enough to mention it.”

“I did; repeatedly.”

“But not clearly; believe me I’d have remembered such a slight on my abilities. Well, now you have I’ll show what a considerate man I am and try to please you. That will be a damned sight easier if you don’t sour my mood; I don’t like having to resort to trickery or force to get what is mine by rights.”

Richildis’ chin went up. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Jocelyn produced a grin that possessed a good portion of leer. “Then I’ll demonstrate it several times for you.” Fully dressed once again Jocelyn swapped to business. “Have you found the supplies I need for my troop?”

“Most; I was arranging the purchase of the new blankets when you dragged me up here.”

“The castle is already well stocked and you checked the inventories recently, so little should need your attention there.”

“I shall check again anyway, and inspect all the stores personally, barrel by barrel right down to the bottoms. I shall not be fooled by tainted supplies.”

Jocelyn nodded curtly; she might be a right pain in the rear half the time but she knew her business well. “Good. The armouries are well stocked in all aspects. Have you any preferences as to who I leave for the garrison?”

“I shall trust your judgement in that; I know the men are all capable and biddable.”

“Anything else you want?”

“More crossbows, and permission to train some of the servants in the rudiments of their use. If this castle comes under siege I want to present a warmer welcome than expected.”

“Done. I doubt we’ll come under siege here but negligence is inexcusable.”

“Exactly.” Richildis’ face set as hard as granite. “No one is going to capture this castle while there is something I can do to prevent it.”

“Don’t fight into folly though, Tildis.”

“Oh I won’t; I know what happens to those in a captured castle. I have my children to think of, and the women, and myself. This is my home, and my fortune, and my status, and my son’s inheritance. So you had better make sure we are on the right side at all times because if the English king, or one of his representatives in force, turns up at our gates I’m going to join him, regardless of where in hell you are and who you’re bending knee to. A change of allegiance, not a lost siege.”







A small note on something so outlandish sounding it seems like I made it up: “You know that a woman has to enjoy sex before conception can take place.” Out of all the strange and completely wrong medieval ideas I have encountered that one has to be one of the most … um … memorable ones, I guess. Widespread, popular, and I would guess quite, erm handy too, for women at least. That’s what happens when you take male physiology and apply it in reverse; orgasm is required for the release of female seed. The unpleasant side effect is that no rape case can ever be brought if the woman gets pregnant as a result; she obviously enjoyed it, ergo it wasn’t rape.

Fulk stood by his horse, waiting as the last of his belongings and the treasury were loaded onto the packhorses. Only Hugh had come to the manor, stringing along a pair of sturdy ponies after his beautiful part Arab courser. Fulk had got the distinct impression the prince was not happy at being forced to play baggage handler even for a few miles.

The prince, Eleanor and Trempwick had gathered into a small knot off to one side, talking. Trempwick was holding Eleanor and she had a silly little smile on her face, obviously relaxed and enjoying the contact. Her attention focused entirely on her brother and Trempwick; Fulk may as well not existed.

The wind picked up and he just heard Eleanor say, “… tell the queen I am well.” She continued to speak for a bit, leaning closer to Trempwick as she did so. Hugh could not quite hide his disgust, though whether it was at seeing his sister with the spymaster or at her happiness Fulk could not decide.

They talked some more; Fulk could only hear snatches here and there, nothing that made sense. Finally they broke up, a short while after the servants loaded the last of the bags. Eleanor freed herself from Trempwick’s embrace and came over to Fulk. She pulled the purse that was hanging from her girdle free. “Your pay,” she said quietly, offering the money to him.

“I don’t want your money.” Even to Fulk’s own ears that sounded flat and cold.

“Perhaps, but you need it.” He was still reluctant, so she took his hand in hers and pressed the purse into it, closing the fingers firmly about the bulging leather. The usual thrill at the contact was missing; it was no more significant than meat touching meat. Fulk decided he should be disappointed, but that too was missing. Aware that some reaction was needed and no natural one forthcoming Fulk settled on a courtly bow. “Thank you, your highness.” As he straightened up he saw hurt in her eyes, and that too caused no response inside him. Finding that fact made him decide he should be sad for all he had lost. He was incapable of it.

Trempwick rejoined them. He offered a letter sealed with his coat of arms to Fulk. “Give this to the king; it explains everything.” The note joined the purse in one of Fulk’s bags.

Fulk placed one foot in the stirrup and began to mount up. Eleanor’s hand caught his arm. “Wait.” For an exquisite moment hope flared to life in his heart before being ruthlessly stamped out by her next words, pitching him back to the numbness and making the icy desolation seem all the worse by contrast. “At the palace it will be safe for you to send messages and tell people what you are doing. Find your mother; tell her you are still alive. She would want to know. Consider that my final order.”

“I will.” Fulk swung up into his saddle and settled into a comfortable seat. This was it; he was leaving. Just a few moments left, then he would probably never see her again. He looked down at Eleanor but once again her attention was on Trempwick. She was still close; if he reached out he could touch her. There was only the spymaster and the prince here. The treasury was loaded for transport, and there were two good riding horses available. He had his sword, and he was the only armoured man here. The last time he would see her. In his mind’s eye Fulk saw himself cutting down the spymaster and running away with Eleanor to freedom. It would be so easy; the stage had practically been set to give him this chance. So easy, assuming she would cooperate, assuming she wanted to be with him. That he no longer believed.

The moment passed and Fulk found himself riding out the gate behind Hugh, leading the train of pack ponies without even getting to say goodbye. He did not look back.





Standing alone in the courtyard, watching the retreating backs of the horsemen Eleanor asked Trempwick, “How will you tell the arse in the crown about the bandit attack? His saving me is a large part of Fulk’s recommendation; without it …”

The spymaster squeezed her shoulders comfortingly. “Don’t worry, beloved Nell. I included a short note about it in that letter I gave him. The king will know everything he needs to; your pet will have his new home. Now, let us return inside; we have much to cover before you even know the basics of land management.”

“Yes, master.” Eleanor trailed after her betrothed, outwardly composed but inwardly bleeding. Fulk was gone; this was her life now – again.





Hugh and Fulk rejoined the rest of the prince’s escort in the little village between the manor and Waltham, about nine miles out from Woburn. Fulk handed the chain of packhorses off to one of the squires accompanying the party and then took up a place at the rear of the short chain of household knights and men at arms. He said nothing to anyone, and no one spoke to him. The lack of conversation did not prevent the other men from casting sidelong, hurried glances at him and conducting hushed discussions well sprinkled with speculative looks at his mount, equipment, possessions, and the laden packhorses.

When the small group had put a few miles between themselves and the village Hugh sent word back that he wished to speak to Fulk. The knight spurred his horse and advanced up the side of the column to the head. He bowed his head respectfully as he reached Hugh’s side. “Your Highness?”

"Are they always like that? My sister and her betrothed? An honest answer, mind.”

“Pretty much, Your Highness, but only since the betrothal. The spymaster appears to be very fond of her, and she has slowly grown to return that affection.”

Hugh’s face twitched as he battled his emotions. “It is disgusting,” he said finally in a choked voice. “A complete shame to our family; my sister and some newly made duke from poor stock. Damn her!” he spat. He spurred his horse viciously and rode off at a canter.





I begin to feel I am limping along :(

Speaking of limping....

Eleanor spent the afternoon much as she had spent the previous one; kneeling at Trempwick’s side in his study with her hands clasped at the back of her neck. This time he had been going over the rudiments of accounting, teaching her where the assorted figures for her two manor’s incomes came from and how they were derived. When she finally collapsed from exhaustion, something which took less time because her body was already worn out and stiff from yesterday, Trempwick sat her up against the wall until he decided she was fit to kneel again. This repeated several times over.

The lecturing never ceased. As soon as the incomes had been explained he moved on to expenses. To test what she had learned he had her break down the sources of income and expenditure for his own vast collection of lands.

He kept her working until dinnertime. She was secretly glad of the endless demands on her attention; it kept her from thinking about the great gaping hole Fulk’s leaving had left in both her heart and her life. Small attractions do not warrant mourning on any scale, and that appearance had to be kept up.

After dinner, a very one-sided affair as Trempwick stuck to his earlier dismissal of her as “Evidently not at all hungry, what a pity.” They sat together in the solar for a while playing chess.

“You told Hugh you were happy,” said Trempwick inscrutably.

Eleanor looked up from the board. “Yes?”

“I do wonder why exactly. I want you to be happy, and not just for the sake of my own health.”

Eleanor leaned back slightly and clasped her hands in her lap. She played with her betrothal ring as she talked, making the light catch and dance about inside the sapphire. “Truth be told I do not much like the spymaster, not even in part. The spymaster would never have cared to ask or consider my feelings; he takes what he wants and uses people like toys for his own amusement. The other side of you, the one you have only recently begun to display, I like quite a bit. He is quite good company, kind and comforting. That goes a long way, even if it seems a small thing. It was the spymaster I thought I would be marrying.”

“The spymaster is what his job requires him to be.”

Carefully Eleanor suggested, “Perhaps we should acknowledge a non-aggression pact? Fighting is futile, and it only ensures I see the less pleasant side of you. That does not mean I am a meek pushover though, and I never will be. Do not push me or expect too much and I will do likewise. You keep the spymaster out of things as much as possible and I keep … myself under control.”

“Ah, an admirable sentiment. Agreed. I do have some appreciation for your … spirited side, just not when it gets out of control. Bear that in mind.”

“Yes … Raoul.” The unfamiliar name felt strange on her lips. She waited tensely for his reaction, covering her nerves by making her move on the chess board.

The spymaster smiled. “I wondered how long it would take you to try that. If I have two different sides it only seems fair to give them two different modes of address, no? Just make sure you pick the right one for the right time, beloved Nell.”






After an afternoon of hard riding Fulk and the rest of Hugh’s party made it back to the palace. Dinner was long over and much of the castle was bedding down for the night. From the stables Hugh sent most of his escort off to take the treasury to the counting rooms. The stablehands discreetly removed the horses’ tack and began to brush them down. Another man he sent running off to rouse out his squires and have them fetch food and water to wash with. He held a hushed conversation with the final remaining knight, then bade the man to send someone called Simon over to them.

Finally, wearily, he turned to Fulk. “It is too late to decide on your future tonight. I shall arrange for you to speak to my father tomorrow as soon as is convenient for him; word shall be sent to you. One of the retained knights died recently; you can take his room and squire for the night. Although not officially a retainer yet you may feel free to request food, wash water or any other such comforts. Simon will see to your needs. I will ask that you remain in your room until given leave to do otherwise; the king is a busy man and I will not see his time wasted by you vanishing when he decides to deal with you. You may go to Sunday mass, however, but be careful to return immediately.”

“Thank you, your highness.”

Simon turned up several minutes latter, running and out of breath. He turned out to be a scrawny looking boy somewhere around twelve or thirteen with dark hair and wary hazel eyes. His pale face was hostilely neutral but something about him suggested fear. He was dressed well enough in good quality material but nothing much outstanding; a typical set of squire’s work day clothes. He halted before Hugh and bowed deeply.

Hugh said, “I hear Sir Godfrey has passed on.”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Then you are in need of a new master. You will serve Sir Fulk. He will take over your master’s quarters. Show him the way now and see to his needs.”

Simon bowed to Hugh again and said politely to Fulk, “If you will follow me, my lord.”

Fulk collected his tattered shield and smallest bag of belongings. “Here, lad, help me with the rest of my things.”

Silently Simon lifted the bag containing the rest of Fulk’s armour. He staggered under the awkward weight, set his jaw and slung it on his back and then carefully crouched so he could pick up the second bag with the rest of Fulk’s clothes without overbalancing. With difficulty he straightened and began to walk. “This way, my lord.”

As they crossed the courtyard towards one of the towers built into the inner curtain wall Fulk asked, “What’s your name, lad?”

“Simon Peche, my lord.”

“From?”

“Preston, my lord.”

“Ah. Which son are you then?”

“Third, my lord.” The boy had a very soft, grave voice; Fulk had to strain to hear him.

“You’re lucky to have a place in the palace then.”

“I do not, my lord. I served Sir Godfrey; he had a place at the palace.”

“So unless you find a new master here you’ll be back off home?”

“Yes, my lord.”

They arrived at the door to the tower and Simon pushed it open, struggling with his heavy load. The boy struggled up the stairs to the first floor and staggered over to the entrance to the small room. He stood still, panting for breath for a few seconds, then his face set resolutely and he lifted the latch with his elbow and he tried to open the door, hampered badly by his load.

Fulk shoved the door open himself. “There we go,” he said with a cheerfulness he did not feel. Simon carried his load in. He dropped the bags in one corner with a clatter which made Fulk wince and snap, “Watch out!”

The boy blanched and ducked his head. “Sorry, my lord.”

Competently, and in total silence, he helped Fulk disarm and set his equipment up for storage. It was too late to clean the armour tonight.

“Go see what food you can chase up, bring some for yourself if you want some. Get me a bowl of water to wash in; I’m not in my best state.” Fulk battered at his chest and a cloud of road dust rose from him. He managed to get one side of his mouth to quirk up into a smile. “See? I dare stay I stink of horses too?”

Simon didn’t answer. He bowed curtly and scurried off on his errands. Fulk dismissed the boy’s reticence with a shrug and seated himself on the stool at the small table.

The room was of very good size, taking up the entire second floor and following the D shape of the tower with a compact square space lost from one corner because of the staircase. Remarkably the room was very clean, and the floor rushes were fresh and lavender had been mixed in with the flea’s bane to give a pleasant scent. Somehow Fulk found it felt as if the room had recently been scoured from top to bottom, something which made him uneasy; he didn’t know what the previous occupant had died of. He made a note to find out as soon as he could.

There was a simple wooden framed bed in addition to the table and stool but no other furniture. The bed was large enough for two; that, along with the rooms size, made Fulk suspect the room was really intended for a married retainer and his family. Either someone was going to find him a wife or he was likely to get relocated as soon as was convenient. A tiny fireplace was set in one wall. The room had five windows, all long, narrow slits; three provided a view of the inner bailey while the other two overlooked the outer bailey, although currently the shutters were closed to keep the night air out. Lighting currently came from the fire and a pair of cheap candles stuck on wall prickets near the bed.

A simple armour stand made up of an upright post with a crossbar fasted in place near the top in imitation of a man’s shoulders stood in one corner next to a sizeable chest for storing the rest of his equipment. Another chest provided a place to store his clothes and personal items. There was no trace of anything that might belong to Simon’s former lord. The boy would obviously sleep elsewhere, presumably in one of the two big halls, but a small chest slightly separate from those for Fulk indicated he kept his possessions here.

At this late hour the room was quiet but in daylight hours that would be different as it was trapped between two of the busiest parts of the castle. The thick stone walls would cut out a lot of the din though. There was a room below and another above, presumably also given over to accommodation. Even if occupied the thick floorboards should provide ample insulation from their occupants’ noise. All in all it was quite satisfactory and he’d do whatever he could to hang on to it for the duration of his stay without picking up a wife.

When Simon returned he had brought a hunk of brown bread, some cold meat, a bit of hard cheese and a jug of wine. As soon as the food was placed down on the table he shot off again without so much as a word. Fulk drew his dagger and sliced the bread in two, filling it with the slices of meat. He sliced the cheese along its length to produce three slabs suitable for his sandwich. As he arranged the cheese on top of the meat he found a faint smile on his lips without knowing why. Something inside him trembled then gave way and he found tears pricking his eyes as that sense of loss and pain he’d been expecting to feel ever since Eleanor told him to leave crashed down on him. Now he knew why the smile was there: the cheese. She’d have snatched it out from under his nose with that impish grin of hers or come up with some silly scheme to wheedle it away from him.

He placed his dagger down on the table with a clatter and buried his face in his hands. He dug the tips of his fingers into is his scalp as if that could somehow help. Footsteps echoing on the spiral staircase alerted him to the return of his new squire; he whipped his hands away from his face and grappled to keep his hurt under control. Though he was no longer interested in food he began to eat, chewing mechanically and choking down the food without tasting it.

Simon placed a bowl of water on the clear part of the table and stood waiting for further instructions. Fulk managed to ask in a normal sounding voice, “How did your lord die?”

The boy’s face retained its fixed blankness but the hazel eyes showed contempt. “He got drunk and drowned in his own vomit overnight.”

Fulk waved the boy away to his bed for the night and continued to force down his food, knowing he needed to keep his strength up. The last few bites he couldn’t manage so he left them, along with much of the wine. He stripped down to his braes and washed, paying little heed to how cold the water had gone. He then tended his wounded leg and climbed into his new bed.

Sleep did not find him; his mind was awash with what he had lost, feverishly trying to find some way to deal with the agony. He’d tied his heart to her, and his sense of worth. His sense of honour too; he’d only truly found one after he met her. Now they had parted ways he was adrift, not even sure what he was any more. He had slowly managed to forge himself into something close to that man of honour he had always wanted to be, and he had done that because of, and for, Eleanor. Without her there was no motive to continue, no motive to even hold on to what work he had done. Without her whole parts of him were missing, torn away leaving ragged bleeding edges and overwhelming pain.

There was no motive for doing anything. Fighting and working for reward and advancement; she had told him to built a life based around these things once again but there was nothing he wanted that could be gained that way. Eleanor was the only thing he wanted and it didn’t matter how high he rose he would always be unworthy of her in her family’s eyes. He would be too late too; it would take years of extraordinary luck combined with the odd miracle for him to climb even as high as earl and he only really had days, weeks at the most. He had to save her before Trempwick could do too much damage. That was, as well he knew, impossible.

It all left one question: what in hell’s name was he going to do now?

The only answer he found was not much help. He had to someone present a normal face to the world; if he let even part of this pain show people would ask questions that would spark suspicion if word spread to the wrong ears. If the king or Hugh knew he was devastated by the loss of a love it would take them all of two seconds to figure out who that love was.

The numb shock had been safer, so much safer.





Speaking of limping, I do hate breaking in new shoes. My poor feet.

I forgot to tack this on the end of my previous post. What would Fulk say in a letter home?


Dear mum,
Well I guess this is a big surprise! It’s me, your little Fulkin. I’m not dead after all; I just didn’t have time to tell you that until now. You know how it is, battles, fighting, chicks, mingling with royalty – I’ve been on the go non-stop. Yeah, well, I guess that’s not entirely true. See I screwed up my life big time and kinda sorta got dad killed (long story, but I got wounded and he was protecting me when he got hacked up), utterly trashed my future, and there’s a set of men with nasty knives out looking for me so they can cut me bits off. It’s all a big, silly misunderstanding, honest, mummy. I was going to marry the girl, but then it all went pear shaped and all.

Oh, and that brewer guy – he’s lying. Totally. Just because he had this gorgeous wife, and just because she had a thing for my broken nose, and just because I rather liked her, and just because I was rather lonely, and just because he really wasn’t capable where it counts (wink wink), and just because he caught her sat on my lap looking all adoring he decided we were having it off. We weren’t, honest. She had something in her eye and I was helping her get it out.

Um … have you been contacted by a lady called Alliese? I mean, I say lady but what I mean is cute looking extortionist scheming harlot. Just ignore her and anything she might say.

Look, mum – I can hear you being all disapproving even from this distance. Relax, k? I was gone for eight years. I got lonely a few times. In unfortunate circumstances. While being a boneheaded dolt. I’m over that now; believe me, please? I found my one true love; she’s called Eleanor, as in ‘princess Eleanor, youngest daughter of king William of England’. You’d love her; she’s cute and rather grumpy. Got a nice wit too; we argue a lot. No, no not argue like that – I know you always taught me to be chivalrous and all, and I am, so calm it down, ok? We argue cutely, it’s more like banter really. Eleanor’s a real blast; I’m telling you you’d love her.

Yeah, anyway, speaking of Eleanor … by any chance could you have got my dad’s identify wrong? I’m not accusing you of being a whore or anything, far from it. I know it was love and all; you and my dad were married in all but name and stuff, plus you never even looked at anyone but him. It’s just I could really use some royal blood in my veins right about now. I wanna marry my little gooseberry (hehe, I call Eleanor that. Cute isn’t it?) but she’s a princess and I’m some bastard nothing with a knighthood … Yeah, so, got any ideas? At all? I’m desperate here. Very desperate. Totally desperate.

And before you ask, no I haven’t done anything to put my gooseberry an a difficult situation! Jesus, mum, you have a one track mind and a low opinion of me! Oh and shut up about Cicely, I just know you’re going to start nagging about her again and whinging about how you never approved. Can it. I was just taking your advice: don’t waste your money, Fulk, you said. Well Cicely was free, alternate arrangements weren’t. Also she was kinda hot. Yeah, and anyway where do you think I learned all this kind of thing from? That’s right – you and dad. Let the innocent cast the first stone and all that.

Moving on to other news, I’m a knight now. My beloved Eleanor knighted me because she knew I always wanted to be a knight. I have some really cool armour; it’s the kind of thing really rich knights wear, all up to date and everything. I’ve got some cash too, and I’m in royal service. I just got transferred to the king but I’m looking to get back with my little gooseberry ASAP. Look, just don’t ask about my transfer, k? It doesn’t involve scandal, and it doesn’t involve her getting sick of me, or anything else bad. I blame that Trempwick guy she’s being forced to marry. I’ve got to save her, and I haven’t got much time left. Damn it, I just can’t leave her to him! He’s all creepy, and kinda cruel, and nasty, and sarcastic, and he tramples all over her and treats her like dirt, and shows her no respect, and he killed her favourite brother, and I just know this is all going to go horribly wrong! I just can’t bear to see my little gooseberry’s spirit slowly die because of this bastard. She doesn’t want to marry him anyway; perhaps you’ve heard the rumours about how she resisted? I was locked up in a dungeon during that, bastards.

Look, I’m going to wrap it up here and go back to manically scheming to save my beloved from that odious Trempy. If you hear of a man abducting (yeah, that’s what it’s always called but she’d be cooperating with me so it’s more like rescuing, even though her family won’t believe it) princess Eleanor that’s me. If you hear of someone dying while trying to run off with her, that’s me too.

Love,
Fulk.

PS: If I ever have the enormous pleasure of introducing Eleanor to you (preferably as “This is my wife, Eleanor…”) please don’t call me Fulkin! I’m twenty-five now; diminutive names are for kids. She’d laugh herself sick and never let me hear the end of it.

PPS: If at any point in all this you feel the urge to remind me, yet again, that I was an unwanted accident and the cause of much pregnancy related discomfort, DON’T! I’m sick of it, really sick of it, completely and utterly sick of it! It was not my fault; blame dad and yourself and whatever it was you did which caused your usual … arrangements to fail. And anyway you always said you were glad I was born after I was born; you said it was one of those mother-son love at first sight things and it made up for all the general misery of the previous nine months. Yeah, so shut up about it. Thanks.



:sighs happily: I need my comedy.

"Yesterday,
Love was such an easy game to play,
Now I need a place to hide away,
Oh, I believe in Yesterday."

This has been playing through my head for the entire day, but it seems appropriate for Fulk's state of mind. I am feeling sorry for him (though rather less after I read his "letter" :confused: ). Good work, Froggy.

I have worked out the main lines of my replies (both of them), but I am too tired to write them down and anyway I should be heading to bed about now. All I can say is: soon.

Soon sounds familar :tongueg:

The letter is just silliness with no more relation to the story than the scene I wrote where Fulk and Nell ran off together. Comedy versions of Eleanor use slightly warped versions of the characters.

Poor ickle Fulkin misses his gooseberry something chronic. Aaahhhh.

I liked the letter from Fulk; it was pretty funny, although it sounded a bit more like one side of a phone conversation than a written letter. I suppose we couldn't have that in the Middle Ages, though, could we?

I'm not quite sure what you mean when you say you feel like you're limping along. Perhaps you mean the story seems to be moving a little slowly? That would make sense to me. Your additions are coming at a more than quick enough rate, but the major plot developments that have been hinted at are rather slow in coming. It seems that everyone has a plan - Eleanor, Trempwick, Jocelyn, Fulk (well, maybe he's only trying to develop a plan) - but they're all taking their sweet time putting their plans into action. While there's not much in the way of major plot development, there doesn't seem to be a lot of character development either (with the possible exceptions of Hugh and Jocelyn). That is, we aren't really learning anything new about the major characters that we didn't know before - Eleanor continues in her diplomatic, deceptive ways, Trempwick is being his usual sadistic, scheming self, William continues to drum up sympathy for his position and circumstances, and Fulk is, well... still Fulk. There have recently been entire chapters that have simply left me wondering "so what?"

Of course, all the little hints and seemingly pointless paragraphs may eventually come to a point - in fact, I expect them to. I don't think that it's all there just to serve the purpose of filler; I'm sure that most of it will make sense in the end. If this were a paper-back novel in my hands, I would simply do a little speed-reading until the plot picked up again, and many of these low-key sections would seem shorter as a result. That doesn't change the fact that I keep wishing for more to happen.

By the way, I'm not trying to criticize here. The fact that I keep reading is evidence enough that the story is still interesting, and I'm looking forward to the rest. Some scenes have been very good indeed. The fight scene naturally comes to mind; the bit of action was welcome. I also enjoy seeing William and Anne interact - the glimpses into William's soul haven't been worn out yet. Most of the Eleanor/Trempwick scenes, on the other hand, sort of turn my stomach (I can't put my finger on it, but they somehow leave a bad taste in my mouth). Perhaps they're supposed to; after all, what is more sickening than feigned affection?

Overall, I'd echo those who have said "keep up the good work." Good day,

Kommodus

It was mid afternoon before a messenger summoned Fulk to the small throne room on the second floor of the keep. Fulk had dressed in his best and groomed himself immaculately ready for the audience. It never hurt to make a good impression. He took Trempwick’s letter along with him, tucked through the left side of his belt with the seal turned outwards for others to see. He didn’t want the spymaster’s insignia in contact with his clothes any more than he would have wanted rotting meat in contact with them.

He was ushered in to the throne room and left to kneel on the floor before the dais. The king’s clerk accepted the letter and passed it on to the king. As he waited on bent knee Fulk surreptitiously examined his surroundings. With his head bent reverently he had an excellent view of the polished wooden floorboards; they had been left bare of coverings and were damned hard. Quick glances at the walls revealed that running from the right side of the throne around the room to nearly reach the left side of the throne was a pictorial history of the dynasty, beginning with the battle which won them the throne and ending with William’s accepting the Welsh as his vassals and thus as part of England. Someone had done some very fast work there; the Welsh had only been absorbed around two months ago. The throne and dais were about what you’d expect from a throne and dais; a simple platform with a high backed, ornately carved wooden chair stuck on it.

The ceiling, what very little Fulk had noted before being required to make his obeisances, was unusual. It was patterned along the same pointed roof supported by beams running horizontal from one side of the room to the other creating an A shape that many single story buildings had. Suddenly Eleanor’s story of sitting up in the roof beams and listening in to affairs of state made a lot more sense.

The king rolled Trempwick’s letter back up. “Very well; I shall accept the recommendation. If Trempwick calls a person useful then it is always so.” He snapped his fingers at the clerk standing at the side of the throne’s dais. “Draw up a contract based on the usual terms and a wage of eight pence a day. The name is Sir Fulk …?”

“FitzWilliam,” supplied Fulk.

“Am I correct in thinking the horse you arrived on belongs to Trempwick?”

“Yes, sire.”

“A groom shall return it. The horse market is on Tuesdays; find yourself a war horse and a saddle horse. I do not expect you have the money to pay for quality horses?”

“No, sire.” A pang of guilt shot through him; he hadn’t even opened the purse Eleanor had given him yet. All the same it was a moot point; his back wages would not pay for two good horses.

“The treasury will loan you funds at a favourable rate of interest, so send the bills to my clerks.” William frowned and drummed his fingers on the ornately carved arm of his throne. “I expect my knights to pay their own way. I expect them to do me credit at all times.” Of his clerk he demanded, “Sir Godfrey’s estates, any heir?”

“Sire, a brother.”

William grunted and leaned back to rest his shoulders against the padded back of the throne. “Any other suitably sized fiefs?”

“Sire, there are …” the clerk did a rapid mental tally, “three in the hands of heiresses or widows, and one you could reassign with only minor bother. All others are not of suitable income.”

“Which is it to be, Fulk? Married safely into a fortune or taking land that you may have to fight to hold on to?”

“I shall remain single, sire.”

From the king’s disapproving expression it was clear he thought Fulk wanted to marry for further benefit at a later date, boosting his status still further. It was a mistake Fulk was more than happy to leave alive. William raised an enquiring eyebrow at the clerk. The man provided, “Thaxted, Essex; no heirs and reverting to the crown. The former holder’s brother in law contests this; he says the fief should pass to him through his wife, the dead man’s sister because of a verbal agreement to which there are no witnesses except the claimant’s son. The fief is currently valued at sixty pounds per annum.”

“That will do,” said William decisively. He extended his right hand with his signet ring. Fulk got to his feet, advanced a few steps onto the dais before kneeling again. He kissed the ring, paying homage for his new lands. When Fulk had retreated back to his old position the king enquired of his clerk, “Has a reliable steward been set in place yet?”

“Yes, sire. Edward of Salisbury sent word of his arrival eleven days ago.”

“Excellent.” To Fulk, “You may choose your own steward if you wish, but this Edward of Salisbury is one of my royal trained stewards. He will wring the best incomes possible from your land; it is in my own best interests to have him do so, yours as well. He will ensure you can pay what you owe me each year and still have enough left over to maintain the standards I expect from my knights plus a surplus. I shall rent him to you for ten shillings per year; you would lose more than that to a corrupt steward.”

A baron for all of a minute and already being given offers he couldn’t refuse aimed at draining him of money. Perhaps this was not all it was cracked up to be, or then again perhaps it was; it just depended on who you listened to. “Thank you, sire.”

“Someone else will have to explain the rest; speak to another of my knights.” The king waved his hand in dismissal. As Fulk left William said, “You are perhaps surprised we are conducting business on a Sunday?”

Fulk stopped walking and turned back. “I admit I am, sire.”

William’s mouth turned in a bitter smile. “God may have time to rest but I do not. I suspect that is because He is omnipotent and I am merely human.”






Fulk arrived back at his room to find a richly dressed, handsome young woman waiting for him. “The queen wishes to speak with you, if you have finished your business with the king?” She had a Scottish accent to add flavour to her English. In one corner Simon sat on the stool cleaning Fulk’s armour. With faint amusement Fulk noticed that the boy was watching the woman from under his eyelashes, hardly paying attention to his work at all.

“Just finished,” said Fulk.

She led him to the keep’s solar, getting him past several sets of armed guards with no more than a cheery smile and a wave. She signalled to Fulk to wait outside while she bobbed a curtsey. “Sir Fulk, your highness.”

“Send him in,” came Anne’s voice. Fulk was beckoned into the solar and immediately bowed to the queen, noting the presence of another two maids in addition to the one who had fetched him. The maids were all considerably older than their mistress; two were somewhere around sixteen and the other looked to be somewhere about thirty. The older maid was probably intended to provide a steadying, motherly influence on the young queen. All three women were seated and working away at panels for a larger embroidered hanging; the maid who had fetched Fulk seated herself with the group and resumed her own sewing.

As soon as she saw him Anne wailed, “It is true; I did not want to believe, but here you are.” Impatiently she instructed, “Oh, do stop that bowing and tell me why you are here.”

Fulk straightened and said neutrally, “It was decided my talents were wasted in my previous post, your highness.”

Anne’s brows drew together and she worked her needle safely into the fabric then laid her work to one side. “My maids are all trustworthy; you can speak the truth without fear. Did Eleanor send you away or Trempwick?”

“The order came from her, and when I queried it Eleanor stood by it and claimed it as her own. She may have been forced to it though; she had quarrelled with Trempwick, well as much as she ever can quarrel with a man who tramples her underfoot at the least provocation.”

“Why did Eleanor send you away? How could she? I do not understand.”

“She thought things would be better this way, no more living next to what we can’t have.”

“Is it true she is reconciled to her marriage?”

“Yes.”

“And that she is growing fond of that Trempwick?” Fulk’s face answered for him. Anne pounded a fist on her thigh. “No! But that can’t be! She loves you!”

The older maid chipped in, “The poor thing is probably only making the best of a bad job. Nothing as bad as being married to a man you hate and who hates you.” This maid also had a Scottish accent. She continued stitching away at the tree forming the centrepiece of her embroidered scene. “Love has little to do with marriage.”

“I know that. What I do not see is how Eleanor can be all … all … gooey with her betrothed if she loves Fulk.”

The older maid said knowingly, “Men can love several women, why can’t women love several men?”

“Because that is disgusting,” protested Anne matter-of-factly. “True love is supposed to be exclusive and all consuming.”

“Dear, there are all kinds of love. Why can’t your stepdaughter love her betrothed in a comforting kind of way and this handsome knight in a more … passionate way?”

“Because.” Anne split the word up into its base syllables, a one-two blow to any opposition.

The maid who had fetched Fulk offered comfortingly, “Maybe she is faking it? Acting. I have done that from time to time; it can look very convincing.”

Anne considered both maid’s suggestions at once, answering one and revisiting the other with the same question, “But why?”

“For a quieter life,” said the younger maid. “Or to promote jealousy amongst her suitors.”

“Because the heart is annoying like that,” explained the older one. “It delights in creating tangles of lives.”

“Because Trempwick accuses her of being cold if he’s dissatisfied and he presses himself on her regardless,” stated Fulk. “He hurls himself at her and blames her if she is not suitably … enthusiastic. He is not a man you want to get on the wrong side of.”

“Poor thing,” commiserated the second young maid. She had a true English accent, making her a sop to English pride and the token English maid in the Scottish queen’s intimate little group.

Anne was thinking rapidly. “So … she cannot love him at all because she truly loves you, so this must be a ruse or dreadful despair at work. Yes, and you are despairing too because you think you have lost her. But if a benevolent force helps bring you together-”

“No!” said Fulk adamantly. “This is not some bard’s tale – this is real. She’s going to marry Trempwick and she loves me. There’s no way out for either of us; we’re stuck with it no matter how much we wish otherwise. She’s not faking anything – she’s somehow found something to cling to, something to like in Trempwick, and whatever that is she’s hanging on to it for dear life as it’s the only thing that can maybe bring some hope out of this God damned mess! I’d wish her well but I know that scheming bastard’s going to ruin her and all I can do is sit here and worry.” Silence fell as Fulk’s tirade ended. Sinking realisation set in; he had gone a long way too far.

Anne said quietly to the world in general, “You see? A very ardent love, so deep it is a kind of pain.”

The older maid said, “All well and good but the knight has the truth of it; there is nothing to be done except be glad she has found something tolerable in this marriage while mourning how cruel fate can be.”

“I will not give up so easily. I am queen of England, Eleanor’s stepmother; there has to be something I can do.” Anne burned with determination.

“Like what?” asked Fulk. “Remember I am your long lost brother and get your family to agree? Murder Trempwick? Help me run away with Eleanor and shelter us for the rest of our lives from the wrath of your husband and his spymaster?”

Anne’s face set. “You are just being cruel.”

“Lady, you are offering false hope to a desperate man. That is cruellest of all.”

“Not false hope. I can at least get her to visit me often so you can see her.”

Fulk laughed harshly. “Conduct an affair in the middle of the palace, under her father’s roof? Mostly impossible and tantamount to suicide, and it still does not save her from Trempwick. It also brings her closer to her father, and if you’d seen what I have you’d know that’s a very bad idea indeed.”

“I do have some idea! There was blood all over the floor one night,” she flung a hand at a spot on the floor, “and everyone knows about her resistance to the betrothal.”

“Did you see her lying barely conscious in a pool of her own blood, her ribs cracked, covered in bruises from head to toe with her back a bleeding chaos of cuts? Did you actually see what he’d done to her to cause that spilt blood here? Or to cause those famous screams? You ever sat safely in a kitchen while she gets shredded to save your life? Have you tried to ease her pain and patch her injuries back together so they can heal? Have you held her and tried to offer some comfort only to find the best you can do is agree with her when she says she won’t die? Have you ever wanted to protect her but known all you will do is get yourself killed, leaving her completely alone and friendless?” Raggedly he finished, “You have no idea.”

Anne had gone very pale. “William is not a bad man-”

“Oh no, course not,” agreed Fulk brashly.

“It is wrong, all of this is wrong. I will do what I can to fix both parts of this; if I come up with something I will contact you. You do likewise; you may count on my help, Fulk.”

“I will keep that in mind, but I don’t see what we can do. Please, think carefully before you act, please. Her situation’s precarious.”

“Any of my maids can be trusted with a message; you should find it easy enough to speak with them.” Anne looked consideringly at the younger Scottish maid. “Yes … yes, I shall arrange for you to be dining partner to Godit each meal. I can pretend I want to play matchmaker.” Hastily she assured them, “You do not have to play along to that, just be friends.”

Godit smiled into her sewing. “There is no point in saving the princess if her knight’s been stolen by someone else,” she joked lightly.

“Have faith, Fulk,” implored Anne. “If you give up then there will never be any hope.”

“I shall continue to search for ways whether I wish to or not,” admitted Fulk. “And I do wish to; I want her back, or if that is too much, safe. It is impossible but I won’t give up on her.”







Extremely rushed answer because the forum keeps breaking and refusing to display for me today: Limping along in several senses. I lost some of my momentum, the parts got smaller and less frequent, and the story is currently in a slow patch. Nothing to do but keep on going; the momentum problem appears to be disappearing now, at least. Nell and Trempy is unpleasant if you prefer Nell and Fulk, however some like the Nell/Trempy pairing and therefore, presumably, have a more favourable view of their mush scenes.

:hits 'post', crosses fingers and hopes it works:

i will not post here EVER again (any forum for that matter) but i will read this still, so keep writting. (this is the only thing i will come back to see) keep writting froggy if this is ever done and u make a new story i will lurk here and read that but nothing else


c ya

“He has done what?” exclaimed Jocelyn in disbelief.

“Lord Yves has declared his independence to the world at large,” repeated Renaud.

Jocelyn kneaded his temples; he felt a headache coming on. “How can a man so stupid still be alive? Really – how? I fail to see it.”

Richildis said, “Please, Renaud, won’t you come inside and accept our hospitality?”

Jocelyn grudgingly admitted his wife had a point; the courtyard of their castle was not the place for business, or for receiving the man who had trained you up to knighthood. “Yes, come inside, we’ll get you something to wash the dust out of your throat.”

Renaud beamed. “Most kind, most kind. It has been a very long ride; I set off early.”

Jocelyn took the hint, not that it was unexpected. Ever since he’d lost his right hand in battle Renaud had taken up a lifestyle more suited to a lazy merchant than a knight, one revolving around food, wine, and other fleeting pleasures. He was usually an expensive guest. “And some food, of course.”

“My boy, you’re truly an excellent host.”

The three walked inside the main hall of the castle, Richildis and Renaud exchanging polite, tedious formalities while Jocelyn delved into the impact Yves’ latest folly would have on the situation. He was rudely awakened from his schemes by Renaud clouting him on the shoulder and boomed admiringly, “Still an impressive sight, my boy.”

Jocelyn pasted a smile on his face and hopped his attention back into the world. Richildis had disappeared off to the other side of the hall to organise the servants, leaving him alone with his old mentor. “What is?”

“Your delectable wife. If you ever get tired of her send her over to me!” He laughed loudly at his own joke.

From the way Richildis’ shoulders stiffed Jocelyn knew she had heard. Hell, the whole damn castle had probably heard. He ushered the other man towards the nearest seating, the bench at one of the lower tables, and encouraged him to sit. “Tell me about Yves.”

“Ah, Yves.” Renaud looked hopefully about for his promised sustenance.

Choking on his swallowed impatience Jocelyn prompted again, “Yes, Yves.”

“Well, the man has announced that he is now the independent count of Tourraine, bowing knee to no one but God.”

“But what is he doing? Except sending messages and inviting his death? I’ve not been summoned to bring my men to muster yet.”

“Not many have. Not me … no, not me.” He smiled shakily, rubbing the unnatural ending of his right wrist. “No, never again me. But I still listen, even if I can’t fight. He has not summoned more than half his men, and some of those he has called upon have refused his call to arms. Damned fool’s more likely to fall to civil war with his own before the king of England gets here to have his revenge. He is pondering about hiring a few mercenaries, pondering – faffing, talking, posturing, in short doing nothing much there either.”

“Does he truly think he can stand alone? Here, on the border between England and France?”

“I’ve no idea, my boy. He’s not had much use for me since I lost my hand fighting to keep his miserable little arse on his father’s seat. Gratitude.” Richildis delivered a jug of wine and a pair of goblets. With a smile that made Jocelyn’s hackles rise Renaud accepted his cup and waited as she poured for him. “Why thank you, my dear.”

Jocelyn recalled his guest’s wandering attention, and eyes, yet again. “Yves. So any ideas when he will summon me to arms?” Richildis filled the second cup and gave it to her husband before demonstrating her good manners, or perhaps his dislike of their guest, and vanishing.

“When he remembers, and that’ll probably be in the night of the night so he’ll delay until tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll forget. Then when his enemies are at his gates he’ll throw up his hands and curse you for not being there, just as he’ll curse the rest he forgot to send for.” Renaud drained his cup in one go. “The man is a complete tosspot.”

Jocelyn choked out a brief burst of laughter. “Exactly right!”






Fulk’s aim was off; the tip of his lance caught the quintain off-centre and the sandbag whipped around and ploughed into his shield. He reeled and fought to keep his seat. Fortunately for the sake of his already tender pride he managed to do so, but the laughter coming from the few people watching him did nothing to soothe his severely ruffled feathers. As he turned his borrowed horse about for yet another go he saw Simon had returned from the errands he had been sent on. The boy looked devastated, watching with a kind of horror. He must think he had been stuck with a lack-skilled master; somehow Fulk found it hard to contest that based on today’s efforts. Well, so far he had only tilted at the quintain; he’d soon show a considerably more advantageous side when he took to foot combat.

Fulk reined in near the boy and pulled off his bucket like helm. “Did you order my new shield?”

“Yes, my lord. They are painting your arms on a prepared blank shield; it will be ready tomorrow.” As ever the boy was polite, softly spoken and faintly hostile in a defensive way. Fulk felt certain his last master had not been too kind to the boy. He hadn’t managed to find much out about the deceased Sir Godfrey, he’d had very little time to talk to his fellow men, but what kind of man got so drunk he drowned in his own vomit while passed out?

“And the badge maker?”

“Yes, my lord. The badges will be done by Thursday.”

Fulk had chosen a standing wolf as his own badge to go with a green and white livery. He hadn’t actually put much thought into choosing the scheme; it was the one he had decided on as a young boy and he had not had the motivation or reason to change it to something more suited to his current frame of mind and status. His men, when he actually had some, would wear his livery while he wore whatever he wanted with the king’s badge on it somewhere. His new status as baron protected him for being permanently stuck in livery, for which he was very glad. He had been so proud to wear Eleanor’s livery, but William’s? He needed to wear the lion badge and he had a fancy to wear his own badge next to it as was occasionally the fashion, proclaiming himself a lord as well as a king’s man. It also served as a way to separate himself out from a man whom he had absolutely no kind feelings for. At present the only other person needing a wolf badge was Simon; squires seldom wore their lord’s colours. Good news for Fulk’s purse.

“Good lad.” Fulk put his helmet back on again and spurred his horse back towards the quintain. He was so badly out of practise he found it hard to believe he had ever been good at tilting. Since he lost his own in the battle which killed his father he had had very little access to warhorses until recently, and at Woburn there had not been the facilities to practise with a lance. He had managed to get in the very occasional few hours of practise on a borrowed horse with lent equipment while in France but he had not been expected to fight in imitation of a knight and so Aidney had not allowed him to keep his skills in best condition, claiming it a waste of money and time. Only a knight or aspiring knight should fight as a knight, he had proclaimed loftily, and Fulk had been neither.

He lined up for another run and paused to prepare for his latest run. He played his tongue over his dry lips and stared through the narrow eye slits of the great helm, focusing on his target. He brought his shield back in close to his body and levelled his lance. A light touch of his spurs started his horse at a trot, then a canter. The target with its simple red ring of a bulls eye began to close rapidly. Fulk aimed carefully, his breathing seeming loud in the confines of his helmet. Yes, this was all as he remembered; the flowing speed, the smooth gait of the horse, the echoing private world so far away from the real one, the sense of rightness as he knew his aim was spot on.

The lance point gouged a scar into the red paint and the sandbag delivered another buffet to his aching left side. So close! At least this time he didn’t need to battle to keep his seat in the war saddle. The hooting and hilarity of the crowd came rushing to him and Fulk swore under his breath. “I used to be good at this!” he grumbled to himself. He turned back for another go.

He did even worse; he let his anger cloud his judgement and his aim was so badly off he only clipped the edge of the target. He could hear laughter, more laughter away from the audience of idlers. This laughter came from his imagination, a certain dark haired princess laughing herself silly at his clumsiness. Despite himself Fulk smiled.

Another run; another failure, but not nearly so severe this time. He might not be having any success but Fulk knew he was doing better now than in his first runs at the start of the morning. As long as he kept a calm, clear head and kept on trying he would meet success eventually, and from there he would steadily improve back to his old level. Another hour or so and he’d try some foot combat; it had been a while since he had faced competent training partners but he knew his skills there had not waned much at all.

His contract might demand four hours practise on five days each week but Fulk had no intention of dropping to that level until he was back in peak condition, and maybe not even then. The activity kept his mind busy, away from Eleanor and away from the queen and her dangerous meddling. Absently Fulk turned his horse back for another run. Yes, the queen and her determination to use Eleanor and himself as characters in some romantic story. She was a child reducing them to her toys, playing with them as younger girls might make two of their dolls fall in love. Except unlike those dolls it mattered a very great deal if things went wrong, and unlike dolls people had feelings and ideas of their own.

Anne was so eager to help she was dangerous, so naive she was deadly, just getting a real inkling of her powers but not yet able to use them to any reliable effect or even fully aware of how harmful they could be. Most hazardous of all she managed to bring that frantic element of Fulk to the fore, the side of him who would gladly ride off right now to Woburn, kill Trempwick and run away with Eleanor and the devil take the consequences.

The sandbag bashed into his borrowed shield again; another failed run. Fulk’s entire left torso and arm ached fiercely now, muscles working in ways they were no longer accustomed to and taking blow after blow for their pains. Fulk decided it was justice, in a way. No one could handily beat some sense into him so the quintain was doing it. When the queen demands you talk you talk, but never again would he allow himself to become so abjectly desperate that he would speak freely before an unsafe audience. He didn’t need to be happy out here, and he could not stop loving Eleanor, but there was one thing he could do in this painful exile. He could do everything in his power to protect Eleanor. That he was familiar with and it was a goal he could put his heart into. He was still her knight, in his heart, and he could still serve her in some small way.

Fulk made another run at the quintain. The crack of his lance on the wooden target was followed by a notable lack of a sandbag hitting him. The small knot of watchers was quiet, then a few called encouragement while others demanded he do it again to prove his success hadn’t been a fluke. Grimly Fulk turned for another run; he had his stride back now, and his confidence. A few more weeks of this and he’d been reliably good again. He only hoped the same could be said of his equally rusty mounted hand to hand combat skills.


Eleanor stood on her little hill looking down at the distant village. If she had possessed a dramatic streak she might have found some bittersweet pleasure in the way this must look. Instead she found only mild irritation. Here she was, a princess, standing alone with her neat clothes and long, loose hair being played with by the breeze, watching other people live their lives from a safe distance. She hadn’t done this for … years. It was pitiable that she was doing it now.

Trempwick had no time for her today and without Fulk she had no company at all. Exactly as it had been before she had brought Fulk here, exactly as it had been most of her life. She didn’t even have her horse anymore, thanks to Gerbert. She had only her feet, her own room in the manor, the ramparts on top of the tower, and several square miles of countryside minus the bits where there were people. She was not allowed to mingle with anyone not from the manor building itself; Trempwick had been very clear right from her very first day at Woburn he would kill any peasant he found in speaking distance to her. It was to preserve her secret and keep her safe, or so he said.

Fulk’s persistence in keeping her company had driven her half mad at first, as had his tendency to poke his nose in where it was not wanted. So strange how one got used to little irritations, then grew to like them, and love them, and missed them so badly when they finally stopped.

Trempwick had promised her a trip into Saint Albans sometime, shopping. Shopping. Not something Eleanor had ever really done; a few trips to tone her cover personalities so they could cope with market places, bargaining and the like, but nothing else. Trempwick always had other people do much of the buying or, if his or Eleanor’s presence was required, had a trusted trader brought over to Woburn.

Shopping; a nice little treat handed out to a child who looked set to cry. Commiseration; no time for her now but in the future this little trip will make up for his neglect. No time for her today, or tomorrow, or the day after, and probably not the day after, or after that, or after that, and then it would be another month and that too would be the same, and the month after, and so on until the year had fled, and then the years would pass and nothing would change. Nights, some evenings, and whenever else he felt like her company. No more. He would see her when it was convenient for him.

Nights and some evenings would have to be enough; it was all she had. Work with what you have. The set of Eleanor’s face eased at that but she did not manage even a minute smile. She would be mad to expect him to drop his life because he was marrying her; indeed he had promised her this. “Nothing would change,” he had vowed and he was keeping that pledge. It had been what she had wanted all that time ago.

Shopping; she almost managed a smile. It had damned well better be with Trempwick’s money because she had given every single coin she possessed to Fulk. Every single penny of the compensation Trempwick had wrung out of the man who had been fool enough to accost her on her father’s wedding night, every single penny she had stolen from mission funds and hidden over the years. Her entire fortune; all that was left was her small demesne of land, her two rings, her pair of knives and her necklace – the immovable or easily missable stuff. Her clothes didn’t belong to her, nor did anything else she had. Until she received some of the revenue from her lands she was once again completely reliant on Trempwick’s largesse. She had heard several times how much fun it was to spend your husband’s money and if she was honest the idea of dragging a spymaster around stall after stall, making him carry her purchases and hold out lengths of cloth and so on did have a certain … appeal.

Down in the village smoke from the cooking fires plumed up into the sky. A woman came out of her house to shout at some children. A few people walked about on errands. Life; simple, pure life. People talking, spending time with their loved ones, children playing, folk going about their everyday business.

Unwilling to watch any longer Eleanor slowly wandered back down the small hill. She had come out here for two reasons: to stretch out her very stiff, painful muscles and to think. She would do just that.





“Oh shut up your God damned whining!” bellowed Jocelyn.

“Whining?” Richildis planted her fists on her hips. “You are intent on destroying this family and you call my objection whining!?”

“I keep telling you, if you will pack up your screeching and listen, that I have a plan!”

“A plan based on a reality far better than the one we have, you cretinous oaf!”

“Blah, blah, blah!” Jocelyn flapped one hand about in the imitation of a mouth. “That’s all you ever do – blah, blah, blah. Talk endlessly about a load of crap and expect me to listen to it – shut up!”

“Oh yes, I like that! I put forth an intelligent objection and what do I get? Puppet shows!”

“Puppets shows are all you understand, woman!”

“Maybe if you spoke langue d’oil like the rest of us instead of gibberish you’d do better!”

“I’m your husband – you owe me respect!”

“Respect is earned, not shouted into existence. I thought you might have learned that from your odious mentor; he taught you how to be a mannerless pig sure enough!”

Jocelyn felt his blood boil over; he hurled himself across the room. He easily blocked her attempts to punch him, almost casually captured her wrists and bundled them together in one hand, and entirely effortlessly cuffed her across the ear. “I don’t think that’s shouting, do you?” Her answer was an oath so blistering it even shocked Jocelyn. She began to struggle, kicking at him and wrenching her hands in an effort to free them. He held on to her easily but collected a series of bruises for his pains. “Damn it, woman, stop it before I actually hurt you!”

Her struggles subsided very resentfully and she said scathingly, “Oh, so now you’re concerned with niceties? That’s a first in all these years I’ve been lumbered with you!”

With exaggerated patience he stated, “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m taking my soldiers. You’re minding the castle. I’m fighting for Yves. I have a plan. You will stop whining. That’s how things are going to be, so shut the hell up!” He let go of her, pushing her away and taking a long stride back to put space between them. Richildis staggered then headed for the door like a ship in full sail, her dishevelled dress billowing out behind her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m not staying here with you tonight; I’d sooner sleep in the hall like our lowest servant than stay here!”

“Oh no you don’t.” Jocelyn intercepted her and pushed her back towards the bed. “I’m leaving.”

“Oh, nice! Your ego at work again – I can’t be seen to leave you but it’s fine for the whole castle to see you leave me! Same as bloody usual!”

“Oh, shut up!” snapped Jocelyn snidely. He marched out the bedroom and slammed the door behind himself so hard it bounced back open and hit him on the rear. With a vicious oath he kicked it shut and stormed off, heedless of the frightened, embarrassed glances the maids in the solar sent at him.

He got halfway down the stairs towards the hall before he halted. “Christ on the bloody cross and a whole set of apostles shitting on chamber pots – I don’t have God damned time for this!” He turned and ascended the stairs with the same furious energy he had descended them with. Once again he blasted past the maids in the solar, setting them twittering like a bunch of starlings. He barged back into the bedchamber and roared at the maid helping Richildis. “Out!” With a frightened squeak the girl fled.

Jocelyn booted the door shut yet again, furiously noticing all this kicking doors had left his toes feeling broken. He grabbed his wife in a rough embrace and kissed her with a mix of pent up passion and aggression. “Well, I’m leaving tomorrow so we’d better hurry up on the making up,” he explained as calmly as he could manage.

“Lout.” She tried to jam her knee into his groin but he held her so close she couldn’t manage it.

“You’re not getting rid of me, Tildis, at least not until tomorrow.”

“Morning can’t come soon enough. And for some reason,” she glared at him and gingerly put a hand to her bruised ear, “I have a headache.”

Once again he pushed her away and took a good long step back. “Well, if that’s your attitude I’m leaving again. I’ll go say goodbye to someone more … cheerful.”

“One of my maids, you mean. Again.”

Jocelyn’s voice rose again. “Oh let me guess – more recriminations about Eremberga?”

“And why not? I liked her, damn you! I suppose you will be expecting to foist her and your bastard brat off on me while you go play soldiers?”

“Actually, yes. And I don’t play soldiers, woman!” He took a few steps closer to the door. “I’m leaving.”

“Go on then,” she challenged him.

“I will; I’m just giving you chance to change your mind.”

“Why would I? It’d mean putting up with you instead of sleeping soundly.”

“That makes you the only female in the whole castle - no the whole fief – who thinks that way!”

“Then go take your charging bull at a gate act to them!”

Jocelyn poised on the verge of flinging back another loud insult. “Actually,” he said fairly normally, “I’d rather not. You look rather stunning when you’re angry.”

She gaped at him. “Something suspiciously like a compliment? From you!?”

“Well, you did say chivalrous milksop. I’ll overlook the fact you laughed at my previous attempts so long as you promise not to do that again. It has a rather …”

“Deflating,” she supplied quickly with unrestrained glee.

He scowled, remembering how she had laughed at his predicament as well as his attempt at a change in attitude. “Effect on me,” he finished shortly.

Amazingly she smiled. “You are a strange man sometimes, Jocelyn. You come in here, scream blue murder at me, hit me, tell me you are leaving on some fool’s errand because you have a plan you will barely explain, foist your bastard and her slut of a mother on me, and then try to charm me.”

Jocelyn shrugged. “Well, they say variety is the spice of life.” Suddenly she was laughing and so was he. When he got his breath back he said almost sadly, “This is about the happiest we’ve been in each other’s company for … months.”

“I suppose seeing how I am not going to be rid of you tonight I may as well resign myself to your existence. I shall get to sleep sooner.”

Jocelyn pulled a face and said plaintively, “That is so welcoming.”

“If you don’t like it you can leave.”

“Oh, shut up!” groaned Jocelyn. “Don’t start that again.”







Goodbye, caesar, and thanks for reading. I hope the rest of this story lives up to your expectations.

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

The letter is just silliness with no more relation to the story than the scene I wrote where Fulk and Nell ran off together. Comedy versions of Eleanor use slightly warped versions of the characters.

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I wasn't quite that tired ~D . What I meant to say was that after a moving scene I am not in the mood for silliness.

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Originally Posted by frogbeastegg

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Originally Posted by Ludens

You said Fulk has been jealous since page 69 (wherever that may be).

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I thought I gave a small excerpt to show where? Some description of where it was in the plot? I was in a big rush, so maybe I forgot. I'll just retrieve and dump the bit here:

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Thank you. The thing is: "page 69" is meaningless to me, since I don't have the original document. An excerpt helps, but I'd rather have the number of the post where it is in so I can check the context and location in the story as well.

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Back at that banquet he hadn't made himself known so he had no way or right (however tenuous) to act on his feelings. He was also being rational. Fulk will . generally simmer away quietly like he did at that feast, telling himself to be sensible. However if he is already stressed and if the circumstances are set up correctly he will blow. (...) He is deceptively placid.

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I see. I was under the misimpression that the scenes in the garden and the nursery had already taken place at this point. But I have been thinking about Fulk, and I now think that you are right: he is jealous, just not in the way you describe. To me he appears as someone who experiences occasional flashes of jealousy, but doesn't linger on them. The way you describe him, he should be brooding on the possibility that Eleanor betrays him, which he doesn't. Instead, he dismisses his jealous feelings. Jealous people tend to be constantly expecting to be betrayed and ill used, which Fulk isn't, and are very possessive about their lovers, which Fulk has no opportunity to be. The cliché of the loud guy beating up his ex's new friend is not a good example, because it suggests the jealousy appeared after he lost his ex. This is not the same as a jealous personality.

The only thing that does not make sense from my interpretation is Fulk's explosion: he goes from ardent lover to jealous lover in less than one paragraph. It should be a bit slower. But Eleanor's reaction probably would have made things worse and the scene could proceed as before.

Though it still seems a bit odd that Eleanor is so careless that she doesn't prepare him for what must be the worst news in his life. It appears like she didn't worry about what Fulk would think, and that is certainly the way Fulk interprets it.

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I guess I could, but it would probably take a lot of time and effort, playing with the manuscript, drafting and revising, tweaking and altering, plus I'd need outside views on how well it works . a proper book type undertaking, not a serialised web story type.

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You are probably right. These scenes need to be prepared in advance.

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I tried everything I could think of, except suggesting in the text that Nell was wrong. I simply can't and won't do that.

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Sorry, bad translation. I meant hinting that Eleanor was wrong by showing something that did not fit her interpretation of Fulk's behaviour and next having her reason it away. A bit like you have Fulk reasoning away the real explanation of Eleanor's behaviour.

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I don't know the unwritten rules either. :looks mock indigent: Now you are making me show off just how clueless I am! :tongueg:

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~D That was not my intention. I am making this up as I go along just as well.

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Don't ask me, ask the reviewers. I seldom agree with them or even take much notice of them these days. They seem to delight in stating something as if the whole world should understand but never coming down from their lofty perch to explain why. It's probably supposed to be self evident why this technique is good; we are just too plebeian to see why. :rolleyes:

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I couldn't agree more. Though if you think it is bad in England, it's worse over here. We haven't got any literary critics, we've got the literary police! :lipsrsealed2:

I agree with Kommodus that the story seems to be rather slow lately; I have thought the same for some time now. However, I am not sure it is a bad thing. You said that you are trying to write a story that could be published, and books have a slower pace than Internet series. You don't want a story to be over quickly when you read it from a book as opposed to from a monitor. Perhaps it would do the story good if there was more variety in the plotlines, but that is very hard to do. Anyway, since Fulk and Eleanor have split up that is not exactly needed right now.


Keep on posting, but don't worry if it slows down. The longer you can think about a story, the better it becomes.

As always, looking forward to the next instalment,

Ludens

“You had a good day, darling Nell?” asked Trempwick as he climbed into bed. He was late up; Eleanor had been waiting for him for so long she had gone to sleep.

“Yes.” She didn’t budge from the nice spot she had warmed in the middle of the feather mattress. Trempwick worked his way across the large bed and joined her in the middle; he caught her up and pulled her against his side, prompting an outraged squeak of, “Jesú! Your feet are freezing!”

“Sorry, adored Nell. I must say you are lovely and warm, toasty even.” He gave her an appreciative kiss. “So what did you do today?”

“Same as I always did when not training; walked, wandered, thought.”

“You were not entirely happy,” guessed the spymaster shrewdly.

After a pause she confessed, “No.”

“I had a lot of work to do; I am beginning to hear some fascinating whispers coming from France. No matter how much I might wish to spend my days with you it simply is not possible. It never has been, and I did warn you of this”

“I know.” A long pause. She spoke resentfully into his shoulder, “I did not even see you for dinner. I have not seen you since we got up.”

“These whispers from France are important; the slightest hint of potential treason.” He turned his head on the pillow but she kept her face angled downwards, towards his shoulder. Trempwick gently placed two fingers under her cheek and encouraged her to look at him. “Nell?”

“It rankles, coming clear second to my beloved regal ancestor.”

“Oh Nell! Not second, not in my heart. I have to do my job; it lends me power and trust and in turn that keeps you safe. The more useful I am to him the more likely the king is to listen to me.”

“So our trip to Saint Albans is cancelled?”

“Yes. I am sorry, dear Nell.” Eleanor dropped her head back onto his shoulder. Her mouth curved downwards in a miserable arc and she looked utterly dejected. Trempwick pulled her into a tighter, two armed embrace and said consolingly, “You can still have your new horse; you need one rather urgently. I will not have my princess riding about on a borrowed nag. I can get someone to bring up some suitable animals for you to look over; I could spare a half day to help you choose.”

“Thank you,” she said despondently.

“I shall send a message to my usual stud tomorrow; they can have a selection of their best mounts here for the end of the week.”

There was a long pause. Eleanor timidly placed her right hand on Trempwick’s stomach and began picking at the finely woven linen of his shirt with one fingernail. “We are going to have a big wedding, right?”

“I am afraid it is unavoidable, beloved Nell.”

“It is going to be Anne’s wedding all over again, except this time we will be the target.”

“Sadly true; I shall do all I can to avoid the worst nonsense and excesses.” Trempwick captured her hand and moved it over so she had her arm flung lazily over his chest, then his own hand returned to stroking her spine.

Eleanor shuffled her head a bit, moving so it rested more comfortably in the hollow below the shoulder joint, and so her mouth was clear and she was not mumbling into his ribs. “That was not entirely what I was thinking of. We will be set slightly apart from everyone else again, at our own wedding. We will be sober, alert, listening and watching, sensible - agents through and through. There will be no one else like us there. This time we will be at the centre instead of just next to it, and yet we will still be … lonely.”

“Before I trained you, sweet Nell, I was entirely alone. My agents only know what I wish them to, and that is only ever precisely what they need to know. The better quality ones share some traits with us, such as the remaining sober, but they never see the whole picture in the same way we do.”

“They do not look along the tables at the guests and quantify them as ‘idiot, manipulated by his steward, ambitious, reliable, ambitious, dangerous, adulterous wife, ambitious, ambitious …’”

“Yes; that is our preserve and ours alone. My agents will view but a handful of people in that way: their targets. It is the worst part of it all, really. No one is just a person; they are always quantified according to what threat they could be to us and to our king.” Trempwick ceased running his fingers along her spine and began to twine them in her hair instead. “I am told by Edward my attempt to style your hair self destructed after just a few hours. I shall keep trying; an old spymaster can learn new tricks and I am still quite young.”

“I wonder what they see when they look at my father? And my brother?” said Eleanor thoughtfully.

“That depends greatly on the person doing the looking, darling Nell.”

“Of course, but I doubt they will see ‘Explosive tempered cruel man with ambition. Is proud and stubborn, aging and slowing down but still strong and fit, easy to provoke into losing his temper if you apply the correct stimulus. A murderer many times over, a kin slayer who shows no mercy when it comes to removing anything and anyone he views as a threat. His attributes help him hold the realm together and make him a good king but by the same token a horrible man and father.’ Hugh certainly will not come up as ‘Outwardly an honourable and chivalrous man but inside a festering copy of his father; treacherous, murderous, cruel, will do anything to hold and expand his power. Smiles to your face and knifes you from behind, then blames someone else and pretends he never did a thing to harm you. Stolid and staid, lacking in imagination, and it is this which truly holds him back currently. Treat with extreme caution.’”

“No, they would not see much, if any, of that. Their opinions would be as mundane as their view of you.” He kissed the top of her head.

Eleanor sighed and asked forlornly, “How are we going to manage?”

“Nell?”

“At our wedding. Hugh will be publicly congratulatory, pretending he is delighted while we will know he sent a bunch of thugs after me. We shall have to smile and play along. I am not sure I can.”

“You managed when he was here a couple of days ago. I was proud of you then, beloved Nell.”

“I do not think I can do it again, not with both of them at once. They will be there, one pretending he never tried to prevent our wedding while the other smirks and tells me he was right to force me to this.”

“You will cope, I know you will. I will do my best to keep them away from you, and you know I do not plan on remaining at the feast for long.”

“Everyone will laugh,” said Eleanor desolately. “And I know my family will blame me for the breach in protocol.”

“Nell, if I pick you up and drag you off you can hardly be blamed.”

“I always get blamed whether it is my fault or not; I thought you knew that by now. But I do not care about that … much.” Trempwick gave her time to broach whatever was on her mind, and eventually she did so. “Which one of them killed John? Who placed his neck on the block? My father with his anger or my brother with his ambition? Why couldn’t you save him?”

“Nell …” sighed Trempwick.

Eleanor propped herself up on one elbow and starred earnestly at him. “Tell me. I want – need to know; I cannot have this uncertainty added to the feelings I must conceal. Tell me how my brother died, all of it. I know next to nothing.”

“And for good reason! Nell, it was terrible-”

“Yes – I heard he died a coward and somehow managed to fix things so I urgently needed publicly dumping on some suitable man or other, but no one would tell me how or why. Tell me; which one of them killed him, and how did he manage to twist my life like this.”

Hurt, he said, “I thought you were happy with our betrothal.”

“I am, but none the less I want to know why I am in this position. Tell me.”

Trempwick’s resistance collapsed reluctantly. “Your father knew what he felt he had to do but your brother pushed him to it with plenty of talk about upholding the law and applying justice equally. He effectively countered my insistence we could handle John being left alive. Every point I put forward he smashed with his talk of justice. If he had not been there I would have been able to talk your father around; I was very nearly successful.”

Eleanor said sadly, “I do not think Hugh ever liked John.”

“Perhaps when they were boys he did?”

“I think not. He has turned against his family, first John and now me …” She dropped back down and pulled the blankets back up to her chin, settling back into Trempwick’s arms.

“Power can warp people, it corrupts. Some withstand it but many do not. Hugh may be corrupt now but that does not mean he was always so.”

“What did John do to get me married? The arse in the crown has been content enough to leave me single all these years, well not exactly content … you know what I mean.”

“Nell …” sighed Trempwick again.

“Tell me,” she demanded evenly.

“I do not want you to get the wrong idea.”

“Tell me.”

“He reminded the nobles that you were single and being kept in a state very similar to imprisonment because your father dislikes you. He said any man wanting the throne only needed you to put in a valid claim to rival Hugh’s. Nell, that is not my motive.” He said the words distinctly. “It is not my motive. I have grown fond of you; for years I wished I could marry you but knew I could not, and then I was given that chance, ordered into it by the king in a way that nearly destroyed everything I hoped to gain. It is you I want, no one and nothing else. That is not something I will say often.”

“Why? Why me?”

Trempwick laughed. “Nell, it is late and you were asleep when I came in. You lie there interrogating me and plotting politics, and accuse me of being a liar! Who else would do any of that, especially just after waking up?” He scrutinised her. “Who would ever have thought you of all people wanted to hear a lot of sentimental stuff? I always thought you scorned it. Very well, the world may consider you plain at best, beloved Nell, but I find a much more favourable verdict. I do not want some cowering cretin of a wife; I want someone to sharpen my wits and give me the odd battle now and then – I like your wilfulness, so long as it is kept within appropriate limits. I know I can trust you to play the dual role of spymaster’s wife and duchess, and play it well. Money I care little for, and I have more than enough power. Look at what we were saying earlier, about how we are two of a kind and lonely. Now we have each other, and I at least am much less lonely now.” She lay back down at his side. He kissed her on the forehead and joked, “Dearest Nell, at this rate I might even believe you want to hear me say I love you.”

“Go on then.”

“I never thought you needed telling.” She let an expectant silence speak for itself. “Nell, I love you.”

“Very nice.” Eleanor snuggled down in the crook of his arm and closed her eyes. She had nearly dozed off when Trempwick spoke again.

“Hugh’s wife is pregnant; there is great hope, although I admit I am not entirely convinced this time will be different to any other. He will perhaps turn his attention from you now; I have made it subtly clear I am guarding you closely and he has a potential heir to secure his position.”

“And if it is not enough to turn his attention?”

“Then I will do everything in my power to protect you, you know that.”

“I only hope it is enough.”

“So do I, beloved Nell. So do I.”






The Tuesday horse fair was a sizeable gathering with several different traders from local studs bringing strings of horses to sell. All kinds of animals could be found, from exceptional destriers to sturdy little pack ponies. Despite the king’s saying the fair was held on Tuesdays, implying it was a weekly affair, it was actually a monthly market. The huge markets held on Saint’s fair days may offer far more variety and choice by dint of drawing traders from further afield but the monthly royal market was nothing to dismiss as unimpressive or limited.

The market was held a short walk outside the settlement, in one of the empty patches of clear land. Lines of horses had been picketed for buyers to walk along while the sellers extolled their wares’ virtues, charmed, haggled, and used every trick they knew to make sales. Clear space behind the pickets allowed prospective buyers to try out any horse which caught their eye, and those traders with warhorses had set up rough quintains to prove their mounts had the correct training to deliver a man and his lance point smoothly to his target. Simon trailed around after Fulk, carrying his new riding saddle; Fulk himself carried his equally brand new war saddle. It was a rare horse merchant who kept saddles for his customers to try his mounts with, and thanks to Trempwick Fulk had lost his old pair of saddles. More expense, and more discomfort too – saddles needed breaking in before they provided a truly comfortable seat and he’d only really got the last two nicely worn.

Fulk found himself a nice dun palfrey for a reasonable price without too much trouble, but finding a suitable warhorse was taking much longer. While a saddle horse only needed a nice temperament, a smooth gait, good form, sound health, and stamina a warhorse needed all that in addition to the correct training, the right kind of controlled aggression, strength and size. Any decent saddle horse would do for a good horseman; a warhorse needed to suit its rider to the point where the man trusted the animal with his life in battle.

Fulk had tried several likely looking animals only to find small faults. One had been too wilful for his tastes, another had possessed a hard mouth so it required a heavy hand, still another had just not felt right somehow. He hadn’t counted the horses he’d looked at and turned down without even taking them for a trial ride. Courser or destrier; he was not picky so long as it was a sound creature and reasonably priced. There was something uncomfortable on an unconscious level about buying a horse while considering how badly its death would hurt you financially but scrimping was equally disquieting. Scrimping weighed your own life up against your purse.

He wandered along the lines of the final trader. He gave several warhorses a cursory inspection but there was only the one which really drew his attention; a blood bay destrier. Scenting a potential sale the merchant hurried over to his side. “Sir, an excellent choice. This animal’s got some Arab blood; his grandsire was an Arab by the name of Asan, meaning ‘beautiful’ in the heathen tongue, and truly he was well named. You’ll see much of the Arab breeding showing in this grandson.”

“Spare me the sales pitch,” ordered Fulk, absorbed in his inspection of the horse. Intelligent eyes, good lines, healthy, temperament was pleasant; all in all quite promising.

“Blood red’s a good colour for a warhorse, shows class too. You’d be the envy of all on your own side and strike fear into your enemies’ hearts riding into battle on this beauty.”

“I don’t care about colour; it only inflates the price.” Fulk broke away from his inspection. “I’ll try him.”

The merchant waited for Fulk to put his new saddle on the horse, then unhitched the reins and led both knight and animal around to the space of empty ground reserved for customers trying his horses. There Fulk put the animal through its basic paces, riding about in a lazy loop at steadily increasing speeds until he was galloping. Next he tried the battle exercises, checking the animal knew all the prompts and their associated movements. Despite its earlier docile attitude the animal had no qualms at all when required to rear up and kick out, or bite. The stallion was agile too, able to twist and turn about at the lightest touch. So far so very promising.

Finally Fulk shouted to the merchant to get him the lance he kept for customers wanting to try tilting with their prospective purchases. All his practise the previous day had left him tired, stiff, and peppered with bruises but at least he did not need to fear making a complete fool out of himself today. As long as he didn’t show off. His run went smoothly; man and horse in tune and competent. A few repeats made sure of it; this was the horse for him.

A long session of hard haggling later and Fulk was the proud owner of one destrier for the princely sum of forty-one shillings. The palfrey had only cost twenty shillings. He mentally excused the extravagance by telling himself that the king demanded only the best of his knights and he could hardly use a second rate animal, and with his new lands both animals could easily be paid for within the year.

Together with Simon he collected his other horse and led the two animals back towards the palace stables. Fulk considered various names for his new horse. The palfrey he’d dubbed Tace, meaning ‘silent’ in Latin. Tace he could explain easily away; no one but him would know the horse was a four legged oat eating reminder of his vow not to gab away like an old woman at a fish market. “Sueta, I think.”

“Sueta?” asked Simon. “From the Latin for sweetheart?” So the boy did speak Latin, and he was quite disgusted.

Fulk flashed a grin. “Yes. Something brave and battle worthy might be traditional but I find this suits. He’s a damn fine horse, it’s a nice sounding word, and I like the irony. Sueta here will bite a man’s face off. Hell has no fury like my sweetheart.”





Eleanor crumpled Matilda’s letter and tossed it onto the solar floor. “Bitch.”

“Is something the matter, beloved Nell?” inquired Trempwick, looking up from his simple breakfast of yesterday’s bread and a bit of cold meat.

Eleanor’s mouth set into a thin line. “You know what is wrong - you read the letter before giving it to me, same as usual.”

“Nell, it is for -”

“I am quite familiar with your excuses, thank you.” She shoved away from the table and began to stomp up and down the room, scowling furiously. “Marrying below my station and disgracing the entire family indeed – as if I had any choice! This after years of her snidely suggesting I should grab the first person dumb enough to offer for me because I can do no better.”

“Calm down, dearest Nell. We both know the truth of our situation; what does your sister’s opinion matter?”

“It matters because -” Eleanor caught herself just in time; she had nearly let a very large piece of her inner self go. It mattered because she had been compared to Matilda and found lacking in all respects for as long as she could remember. She could never be as good as her eldest sister at anything and so she had decided early on to be completely different, to use her own traits and embrace them rather than trying to tamp them down and become another perfect noble lady. Matilda was the first person to really tell her exactly what she was instead of dressing it up and lying to insist she would one day be every bit as pretty and regal as her sisters. Matilda and her scathing verdict on her lamentable youngest sister; the original and the first in a very long line. An honest truth that had only strengthened her resolve to avoid a life she was clearly not suited to. Eleanor barely missed a beat, “Because she is a bitch and I refuse to lose in our little on-going spat. She would never let me forget it, never.”

Trempwick got up and put a stop to her restive pacing by capturing her in a loose hug. “I am willing to bet she will be much more upset if her letter received either no response or a cool one which leaves no space to continue the battle. She wants to beat you, darling Nell, and she can only do that if you continue to fight.”

Eleanor grinned up at him. “Or on the other hand I could send back a letter gushing about how madly in love we are, making it plain I am disgracing my family and having the time of my life too.” When Trempwick would have spoken she laid one finger across his lips and said softly, “I can include a part of your suggestion. I can make it plain that you are my family now, and I am done with the rest of them.”

“Nell-”

“It is true – a brother who wants me dead, a bitch of a sister, a deceased brother who plotted to use me as some kind of dog treat and then invited all and sundry to grab me when he was about to die, an imprisoned sister who does not even have the mettle to try and dig herself out of her own grave, a dead mother I barely knew, and a father who is nothing more than an inhuman monster. The only one I liked died years ago, and I am now not entirely sure he would have been any better if he had lived to adulthood. I am done with them; they have made it exceptionally clear they do not care about me and now I no longer care about them.”

“When will you write it?”

“After the wedding; I think obnoxious newlywed bliss will only make it all the better and it gives me more material to use. As soon as we are married I have no family but you.”






I'll reply to the comment when I have a good amount of time.

Her last order, and he had disobeyed it. Fulk sat on his stool alone in his room with his arms folded on the tabletop and his chin resting on top of them, staring at the fat leather purse Eleanor had given him. He had used the few loose coins he had and there was no prospect of him getting any more for a good long while; to pay for a messenger to his mother he would have to break into Eleanor’s purse. He had been too tired after his trip, then too disoriented, then too busy buying his horses and other new bits and pieces, then too busy training. Now it was eight days since she had issued that order and his conscience was most definitely pricking at him.

It was not as if he wanted to ignore his mother, not at all. He just did not know what to say. She believed he was dead; how could he explain why he had not contacted her before? Much of what he needed to say he did not wish to speak of; his father’s death, how he had ruined Maude’s life, his deluding himself like a craven because he refused to look at what he was and work towards becoming what he wished to be. Much of what he wanted to say he couldn’t; he could never tell his mother about the woman he loved and had lost.

Without lifting his head Fulk extended one hand and caressed the purse, running one thumb over the bulges of the coins inside. It seemed like sacrilege to open this purse, sealed by Eleanor’s own hand and filled with her own money. Untying those knots and emptying out the contents would destroy her work, and spending any of the contents would part him from something that had been touched by her. This, the hairpin, his removed and hidden gooseberry badge – it was all he had left except his memories. Sheer, black misery welled up inside him.

He could work all day, training until both he and his horse were exhausted. He could while away his evenings talking and wasting time with the other knights. He could not stop missing her. He could not stop sensing the parts of his make up he had left behind with her, sensing them like amputees sometimes claimed to feel missing limbs. He still dreamed of her, and each night they were together as they always had been, but now she was never there when he woke up. He was now viewing only might-have-beens; before good parts of it had been reality. What had once comforted now only mocked and twisted the knife thrust deep in his heart. He had stopped playing chess with the other knights in the evening after just one game; the memories of those many games played with Eleanor were all much too vivid.

Amid this mess of broken dreams, missing pieces, longing, desperation and need there still remained a spark of the solid, honourable reliance he had found for, and because of, Eleanor. She had ordered him to contact his mother and so he would. He had promised her he would, and he always kept his word. He picked up the purse and cradled it lovingly in one hand. Well, as far as she went he was a man of honour and bound by his oath. No one else was worth that; no one else could inspire it. A selective man of honour then, able to admit and find pride in it.

For a moment he savoured the feeling of contact to her the purse gave him then he slowly, with exquisite care, untied the draw strings. There, it was done. A sense of loss swept through him. “Love makes fools of us all,” he told himself at a whisper, not sure if he was pardoning his sentimental foolishness or encouraging it. He stiffened his resolve and upended the purse on the table, pouring out the contents onto the stained wood. Mixed in with the coins, somewhere from the middle of the pouch, was another, smaller purse.

Elation; complete euphoria – she had a plan! This was all a charade; she hadn’t really dumped him so she could concentrate on Trempwick! Feverishly Fulk snatched up the little purse and examined it. A bit of parchment cut from a larger sheet was tucked securely in the precise bow of the tied draw strings. A message, for him. No doubt it would go some way to explaining her plan. Perhaps the contents of the pouch would tell him more. He’d put himself through hell because he had disobeyed her; if he’d done as she asked he would have found this on his first night at the palace. He prayed it was not already too late. His hands shook with his eagerness as he gently pulled the note free and unfolded it.

His eyes reported the message and his mind decoded it, but surely there must be some mistake here? He read it again, then a third time. “A gift for Anne. See that she gets it.” Such a terse message, written in Eleanor’s neat, plain handwriting. Fulk read it again slowly, anger replacing euphoria. “See that she gets it.” An order, not even a please. She just assumed he would do as she wanted, even after all this. “A gift for Anne.” Why Anne? Why Anne?! Was Anne Eleanor’s supposed love sent away to moulder in exile so she could be happy with the spymaster? No!

No more dancing about this – Eleanor had claimed to love him, then broken his heart, ground the pieces underfoot, reordered his life without even consulting him and sent him packing with a cheery wave while she turned her attention, and affection, to Trempwick. She had manipulated him into guarding this purse, knowing he would need the money and so would open it instead of casting it aside or preserving it as a relic, and then she had the audacity, the sheer barefaced cheek to give him orders! Fulk screwed the tiny note up and hurled it into the small fire burning in his room’s hearth. Not even a please – that showed a lot; it showed how she really viewed him. He was nothing, some base born bastard she had amused herself with, someone she could order around without even the smallest thought he might refuse her. She was royal enough to expect it done and to take it as her due, not a favour.

Fulk ground the heels of his palms into his closed eyes until he saw flashes of colour springing up against the perfect darkness. He couldn’t believe it; this was not the Eleanor he knew. It was what she had done. He must be missing something; she was not like this, she was nice, and brave, loyal … spirited enough to hack her own path, and innocent, and … and so … Eleanorish. She was not a manipulative, cold hearted bitch to use others and discard them, and she did not know how to play with men’s hearts.

Fulk groaned and dropped his hands to the table. She didn’t know how to play with men’s hearts and she was too innocent to effectively fake affection; she needed plenty more experience or someone to teach her and she had neither. But she had been doing a convincing enough show of shy, growing affection with Trempwick. She was falling for the spymaster; why he could not say. The man was no good; he might have changed his tune a little recently but how could his petty little gifts and his cloying affection make up for years of coldness? The man had murdered her beloved Stephan for Christ’s sake!

Just one part of this riddle, one tiny part, summed it all up. Trempwick had hit Eleanor; not a significant thing in itself, just another inextricable part of the world they lived in, but two things put a spin on it he’d expect to make her loathe the spymaster completely. Firstly they were not even married yet, making it assault, not a husband’s right. Secondly Eleanor being Eleanor Fulk had always believed anyone but her father laying so much as a finger on her would wind up missing a few teeth as they faced the full force of an irate gooseberry. But no, she’d only fawned all over Trempwick all the more. For all her good sides Eleanor was rash enough, and in possession of that explosive temper, to belt Trempwick back if she objected, prudent or not. Fulk snorted in disgust; maybe she liked it. Or maybe, suggested his most reasonable side, she felt so threatened she could not object? He snorted again; if she was living in fear she wouldn’t be fawning on Trempwick. She’d be enduring grimly just as she had in the days after the betrothal. If she didn’t want to be close to someone it showed, no matter how she tried to hide it.

Go over what had happened: She had arranged a sword fight knowing it would upset Trempwick. She had carefully taken extracted an oath from him so he wouldn’t interfere and harm her plan. She’d provoked Trempwick so much he’d hit her, something they both insisted he’d never done before. From that he’d been sent away, and she had claimed that choice as hers both before the spymaster and in private. She’d been very careful to tell him she loved him and did not want him to go, just as she had been careful to explain this was what she wanted, contrasting ideal and reality. Fulk came to the same conclusion he had arrived at many times; she had set it all up, planned it before hand and executed it with precision and skill. She loved him and she believed they could build separate lives and be happy.

It was time to accept the truth instead of flinching away from it and trying to find another interpretation; she might love him but she was falling for Trempwick. However much she might love him it would do no good because he could never be worthy of her. She had no choice but to marry the spymaster now, now that she had thrown away her only chance at an escape and isolated herself from her sole ally, and she did not want to be living the rest of her life comparing what she had to what she could not and finding it lacking. She did not think he wanted to see her living as Trempwick’s wife, and she was right.

He picked up the tiny pouch she wanted taken to Anne. But why all this to send a gift to Anne? Surely she could have been more overt about it? Perhaps she had been; he had no way of knowing what she had said to the spymaster. Anne had ‘given’ Eleanor her necklace a return present was undoubtedly very polite and to be expected and Fulk was the first person to make the trip from Woburn to Waltham while Eleanor was at home. For that matter Eleanor had nothing to give unless she begged for aid from Trempwick. What possible reason could Eleanor have for sending anything covert, no matter what it was, to Anne? Fulk could see none. She had probably been unsure of his loyalty and thought this the best way to get him to cooperate.

This was pathetic. Truly. No more of this – no more trying to do the impossible, flinching away from the truth, or hoping for miracles. It was over. Time to move on.





Jocelyn rode along at the head of a column of Yves’s infantrymen, leading them into an attack on Hugues de Ardon’s lands and castle. His was one of three such groups, converging to surround the castle and block roads as they marched. Hugues had refused to answer his liege’s call to arms and was now paying the price. Advance parties of skirmishers had always gone ahead to scout and soon the sleepy castle town would be put to the sword to demoralise the castle’s defenders, many of whom had kin in the settlement. Then the army would settle down for a siege.

Jocelyn sourly spat on the ground. He’d argued against this loudly, frequently and publicly. “These people are our people,” he had proclaimed, “and their lord is the problem. Why harm our own? Why destroy a part of our own land? Where’s the point in smashing up our economy? The castle’s all we need, and the peasants will run like cowards if we give them chance. They’ll be grateful for our mercy and we’ll benefit from it later.” He’d been ignored by a gung ho Yves, of course, but it was well known he’d wanted a precise attack to remove the problem with as little damage as possible. That would come in very handy later; he was a loyal man but one who had tried to stem his lord’s excesses and preserve Tourraine for its rightful lord, the English king.

The sooner the English king turned up the better; Jocelyn had been sorely tempted to strangle Yves with his bare hands within seconds of his arrival. The bloody moron had whinged Jocelyn had been expected days ago and had accused him of being slow to answer the summons delivered by Renaud. Then, after all his blathering about the need for speed, he’d kept Jocelyn and the lion’s share of the other soldiers sat about on their arses doing nothing for days. Tosspot? Jocelyn was beginning to think of far nastier words to apply to his liege. He sighed and tried to let his frustration bleed out with his breath; once the king arrived this farce could end in days, if that.

The first screams of the peasants began to make their way to the approaching army on the wind; the army had been spotted. Jocelyn caught up his helm and donned it, hiding his triumphant smile behind the face plate. He had given up hope of the castle’s idle sentries spotting them and sounding the alarm in time for the peasants to flee. Collateral damage was so wasteful. Damned sentries must have the keen eyesight of a mole to have let the approaching force go unseen this far. More God damned incompetence – under Yves Tourraine had gone as rotten as a worm eaten apple.

He turned in his saddle and shouted, “Looks like the game’s starting early; pick your bloody feet up and get moving!” The foot soldiers began to jog. The commander of the group, a pasty faced streak of piss who just happened to be Yves nephew, glared and furiously snapped a rebuke at Jocelyn’s usurping his command. The youth’s voice didn’t carry far and Jocelyn ignored him, pretending his helmet had blocked his hearing. See, thing was he was a loyal man. Yves wanted this place burned and so it would be, with all the attendant violence and mess. It wasn’t his fault their approach was so clumsy it had been spotted and so idle it dawdled instead of swooping in. He was only picking up the pieces to turn Pasty’s disaster into something a bit better.

Jocelyn spurred his horse and advanced at an easy canter, followed by his squire, Alain, the only other man of his in this group. His eleven men at arms had been put in the scouting group, a deliberate insult. The screams and shouting grew louder, still faint but unquestionably more urgent, and now Jocelyn could see a line of refugees running with whatever they had managed to grab at such short notice towards the castle. Others more sensibly took to the fields. The other two groups of Yves’ men were not in view, not even as dust clouds on the horizon - they were late! Jocelyn spat an oath; a cock up in a helmet, this.

Sixty yards from the village outskirts he spurred his horse again; the animal burst into top attack speed, stretching its neck out and seemingly to fly without its hooves touching the ground. Jocelyn couched his lance and swung his shield tight in to his body. Despite the unworthy target of his charge elation and adrenaline surged through him and his lips peeled back in a frenzied grin; knights were born and trained for this, to thunder down on their enemies with lance and shield in a charge that every infantryman alive feared more than the devil himself. Filling his lungs he raised his battle cry at the top of his voice, “De Ardentes!”

A few village men were fool, or desperate, enough to stand and fight with whatever came to hand. Jocelyn skewered one man through the chest with his lance, releasing the weapon before it could pull him about in the saddle and drawing his sword in a smooth, practised movement. He slowed his horse, turned about and cut down a few more men as easily as if he were in the training yard and facing straw dummies. Seeing how speedily he cut through the first few the other men flung down their ‘weapons’ and took to their heels. Jocelyn dug his spurs in and chased after them, felling a couple more with slashing blows to the space between neck and shoulders before breaking off and letting the pitiful survivors go.

The infantry had entered the fray now. Jocelyn ignored them, not caring to watch men at arms scurrying about starting fires and killing; soon they would begin stealing whatever they could set hands on and raping. He’d seen it enough times before, and he had no intention of taking part. Stealing a farmer’s set of wooden spoons was not a knight’s work. He wiped the gore off his sword on his blood spattered surcoat and put the weapon away. He began to ride back the way he had come, wanting to be away from this pitiful, noisy waste of resources. Alain took up station at his side; his begrimed cream coloured gambeson now sporting crimson splash marks as proof of his fighting, but the youth was entirely unharmed.

“War’s so glorious, right lad?” said Jocelyn. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the din of the dying settlement.

“No, my lord,” he replied.

Jocelyn had to turn his head right around to see his squire through the helm’s narrow eye slits. The youth looked a bit ill. Well, he was only fifteen and he’d never been one for killing. “Tell that to the chronicle keepers and song writers, damned morons the lot of them. I just led the charge and near single-handedly captured this dung pile; that’s glorious, or so they’d insist. A pox on it. Get a real battle and fight on the victor’s side, now that’s glorious. This is just pig sticking.”

“It’s a damned waste, my lord.”

“Watch your mouth! You’re a noble, not some gutter scraping.” Alain rolled his eyes at the poacher turning gamekeeper but neither of them said more.

Alan’s keen young eyesight, and his open faced helmet, allowed him to spot something Jocelyn had overlooked. He flung an arm our towards the tiny stone church. “Look!”

Jocelyn’s head snapped around and reflexively his hand flew to the hilt of his sword. He saw a group of soldiers dragging a nun out of the building, along with a girl in expensive clothing. The nun was putting up a tremendous fight but the girl seemed paralysed by fear; she looked to be only about fourteen or fifteen. One of the soldiers wrapped a fist in her hair and pulled her head back then kissed her, his other hand pawing at her breasts. The nun began making even more of a fuss. Someone slapped her hard enough to send her reeling even though she was held up with her arms pinioned.

Jocelyn ripped his sword out and spurred his horse over towards them. “Put them down!” he shouted, putting every ounce of authority he possessed into his voice. The men didn’t even look up. Behind him Jocelyn knew without even looking Alain was following him, ready to fight if need be. Jocelyn halted his horse close to the group and got the animal to rear up and lash out with its front legs. “Put them down, damn you!” This time they heard; the small struggle stopped and everyone turned top look at the new arrivals. Jocelyn angled his shield forward so his coat of arms was on full display. “I am Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes and you will put them down or I’ll chop your bloody heads off!”

“Fair game,” muttered one man, uneasy about taking on a knight but drawing confidence from his friends. “The place was given over to looting.”

Jocelyn nudged his horse forward a few paces and thrust his sword into the man’s belly before he knew what was happening. To the rest he said, “She’s a God damned nun! You want to court your soul’s damnation? I’ll take the girl too – she’s noble. Now piss off before I lose my temper.” The moment hung; no one moved. Jocelyn raised his sword ready to strike again. “I said piss off!” The men dumped the two captives and fled, seeking easier prey.

Jocelyn cleaned his sword yet again and slammed the weapon back in the sheath. He snapped to Alain, “Get the girl.” To the two he said, “Come on, unless you want to hang about for the next lot?” He thrust his hand out to the nun to help her up. She didn’t move. “Damn it! You think I have nothing better to do than keep killing my own side? You want her to see this place die?” Her nodded at the girl, his helmet masking the movement.

With a combination of disarming confidence and gentle words Alain had coaxed the girl up behind him and now she sat clinging on with her arms flung about his waist. The nun finally took Jocelyn’s hand and climbed awkwardly up to ride pillion behind him. She disdained a secure grip, placing both hands about Jocelyn’s sword belt and trying to have as little contact with the knight as possible. He sighed gustily, the sound echoing about inside his helmet. “For Christ’s sake! Hold on properly unless you want to topple off!” The nun cautiously began to wrap her arms around his waist; Jocelyn speeded things up by roughly grabbing one hand and dumping it in front of him, then the other and ramming them together to encourage her to interlace her fingers.

Passengers secured they made their way out of the village and away from the doomed castle. The girl buried her face in Alain’s back, trying to blot out the death of her home. The nun looked about, cataloguing and watching it all. “They don’t deserve this,” she commented stiffly.

“Way of the world, sister.”

“I know; I was out in it for more than thirty years. This is why I left it. Can’t you do something?”

“No,” replied Jocelyn curtly. He encouraged his horse to speed up; a woman’s insistent, high pitched endless screaming match by a child’s wailing came from one of the houses and it was getting to him.

“For pity’s sake-”

“I have children! I have a wife, and I love. I tried, but now fishing out the two of you is all I can do.” The child’s cries ended abruptly on a choking gurgle. Jocelyn swore and gouged his horse’s flanks until they were bloody and he was riding away with more haste than his heavily burdened destrier could stand for long. Well, he reasoned to himself, he had to get his two prisoners away safely before some fool who had no idea what he’d found tried to ruin their value.

A mile out from the dying settlement and the noise was limited to snatches blown over when the wind picked up. Both horses were labouring for breath, overburdened and already wearied by the day’s travel and fighting. Jocelyn reined in at the roadside. He pulled off his helm and looked back. A thick plume of inky black smoke poured up into the sky and some of the largest fires could just be made out. Mercifully that was all; the human aspect was hidden. This could so easily be his own castle and lands, his own family.

“Rest the horses,” he ordered Alain. “Everybody down.” The nun shot over to her charge as soon as her feet touched the ground. The girl numbly shook her off and stood watching the clouds of smoke pouring into the air. The squire led both horses to a patch of grass and tied their reins about their front legs, hobbling them. He then cautiously joined the two women, not saying anything but oozing caring sympathy in that way he’d always had. The boy had always been good at soothing the scared and at easing anguish; Jocelyn was happy to leave him to it.

Jocelyn untied his mail ventail and pushed his coif off his head, then tugged off his padded arming cap. Cool air on his sweat soaked hair felt blissful. He wiped the back of his left hand across his forehead. He unslung his shield from his back and placed it on the ground, leaning it up against a rock so the painted leather facing did not get damp.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the nun’s voice said from behind him, “I shall thank God you are not prey to the same lusts as the rest of your mob.”

Jocelyn laughed harshly and tossed his damp cap to the ground next to his shield. He combed his damp hair with his fingers to encourage it to dry. Her calm assumption that she had his measure based on a few brief comments in a dying village and his saving them really bugged him. Derisively he told her, “Sister, I’ve got several bastards, I fornicate, I commit adultery, I pay for whores, and I do it in unnatural positions and on holy days. I only keep my clothes on if I’m in a rush. I’ve used force to get what I want too, but mostly that was my wife so it doesn’t count. I enjoy it, profusely – it’s the whole damned point, and I take exception to anyone who doesn’t enjoy my efforts because it’s a matter of pride to me that I’m good at this. You know the main reason I hate my wife? Because she lies there like a damned corpse and is the only one I don’t have squealing with delight. The only church ruling I keep to is the one about doing it in the dark, but that’s only occasionally and if there’s no handy light source. There’s no damned difference between those men I saved you from and me, not really.”

“You saved us; there is the difference.”

Damned ironic – tell a woman that you’re as chaste as a lamb and she never believes it; tell the truth and again they refuse to believe. “As I said before, you’re a nun and she’s noble; by the rules of war you’re supposed to be safe. I like the rules of war being obeyed; they’re the same blessed rules that get me kept alive for ransom instead of stuck like a pig and left to die.” He aimed another shot to shatter her irritating calm. “Besides, it’s dammed hard to bed a woman when you’re wearing some fifty pounds of armour, even more so if she’s trying to claw your eyes out and escape. Willing women are generally more fun and less effort anyway.”

“And that matters how? So far you are only agreeing with me; you are the same but acting differently, and therefore different.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Not at all; I don’t doubt you’re telling me the honest truth but you’re running from my point.”

“I’m a warrior; I don’t mess about with philosophy.”

She tilted her head in what could be an acknowledgement of a point scored. “I came to thank you, and to see what you intend to do with us now.”

“She’s de Ardon’s daughter; she’d be worth a bit to Yves.” The nun drew breath to speak but Jocelyn didn’t give her chance. “But he’d only waste her somehow, trying to wheedle an early surrender from her family by … maltreating her, taking his revenge on her instead of her father, or similar. I don’t like waste. You, my dear sister, are noble too, I think. Not just any nun would end up as her keeper. You speak nicely too, educated, and you’ve got the bearing.” She regarded him impassively, giving nothing away. “Way I see things you’re both mine to do with as I see fit. I’m loyal but not insane; I won’t give Yves what he doesn’t ask for to curry favour.”

“And if he asks?”

Jocelyn examined his right hand; his mail hauberk ended at the wrist and left his hands bare. The skin was caked in drying blood, spidering in the cracks of his skin, clotting in tiny rivers down the sides of his finger nails, pooling darkly under the short nails. He took a flask of water down from his saddle and swilled some over his hand and began scrubbing to remove the worst of the filth. He spoke as he worked, lending an uncaring air to his words that pleased him. “We don’t always get what we ask for. I hate waste, but I’m a loyal man. Pity I can’t give what I haven’t got; I’ll give you over to my wife’s keeping. Damned woman’s a miserable, contrary bitch and it’ll be hard to pry you away from her if I don’t go and shout at her until she finally gets it into her thick skull that Yves wants you. Plus all that message sending takes time.”

He wandered away from the nun to check his horse over for injuries. The girl was the only daughter of a traitor, but a traitor to Yves who had remained loyal to the English king. That made her useful, and William would be glad to get her back safe and unharmed. A tame nun to tell tales of how he’d rescued them from rape and murder, well that was nearly as good. Truly God did smile upon him to give such bounty into his hands so easily. Jocelyn drew his sword and stabbed it into the ground to form a crude cross. He knelt before it and said a devote, private prayer of thanks. As he stood he saw the nun watching him. “For the dead,” he lied.

He went to check on his squire and the girl, Elianora de Ardon. The girl stood watching, silent and white as a sheet. After a long time she said bleakly, “Everyone is dead. Some still walk and breathe but they are dead too, living on borrowed time until the castle falls. Everyone I knew. My entire family. Everyone.”

Jocelyn cursed mentally; reassurance was not something he was good at and now he was trapped. “If they hold out for long enough help might arrive to lift the siege.”

“No one will come. I have no dowry and my family is dead; no one will marry me now. I have no life, so in a way I am dead too. My betrothed is in the castle. I don’t like him; he has bad breath.” She burst into tears. Jocelyn sighed. Females; crack-brained hysterical lunatics the lot of them, except his beloved Mahaut. His little daughter would never become an annoyingly typical female; she’d keep some common sense and grit.

Alain put a hand on her arm and began murmuring more comforting stuff Jocelyn couldn’t hear. It seemed to work; after a bit Elianora collapsed into the youth’s arms and allowed him to gently lead her away, still crying. Jocelyn watched them with a calculating eye. He didn’t really need to worry about Alain; he was a good lad. Problem was Jocelyn knew exactly how he’d thought when he’d been that age and that was bloody terrifying. No, Alain had a good grasp and respect for social rules and niceties; the girl was safe with him. Tomorrow he’d send the pair of prisoners back to his castle under the protection of Alain and five of his most trusted men. There they would be safely stored for when he needed them.



A bumper update: 8 ½ pages.

I can field a few parts of your last comment now, Ludens. The rest will have to follow later. Episodic replies on my episodic story

I don’t know the post numbers very well, so I have to rummage through the entire topic moving about based on the contents of the posts I find. This usually involves quite a bit of shuffling between pages and right now the org is Slow with a capital s, and it has been that way for me since we moved from Iconboard. This last week and a bit I have been waiting around 30 seconds to a minute for each page to load and I’m using a broadband connection. Even posting each part is an Odyssey sometimes. Today I’m actually typing up my reply to your comment while the org is down, after a day of the org breaking down on me every few minutes. So as nice as it would be to reference post numbers in this topic I can’t do so practically. I can’t even give a rough estimate based on the Paradox version of the thread; that is now 453 posts long.

Comedy either strikes or it doesn’t.

The org is currently down and I can’t remember any more to comment on. I deleted the subscription email in the mad belief I would be able to look at the org version complete with quotes so it made sense. Oh well, back to the rest another time.

:over half an hour later: Ah ha! :runs to post ASAP!:

Fulk looked over the letter he had written for his mother. It was only four lines long but the product of much hair pulling and agonising. He had simply noted he was alive, a baron and in royal service now. The rest he promised to explain in person if she wished to see him. Since she could not read she would have to take this to someone who could; if Fulk dreaded telling his mother about the past eight years then he certainly did not want anyone else knowing.

He carefully folded the bit of low grade parchment and blobbed some sealing wax onto it; he stamped the wax with his new seal ring, imprinting his coat of arms into the uneven lump of cooling wax. This was the first time he had used his ring, the first time he had been able to use his new status in this way. Fulk examined the sunken, backward coat of arms cut deeply into the broad front of the gold ring, checking to see no wax had stuck. None had; the ring was well crafted and he’d timed his stamp to perfection, allowing the wax to cool just enough but not too much.

Fulk sent his squire off with the letter to find a messenger, stressing to the boy it was vital to pick someone reliable who would make the trip in excellent time. He wanted a reply, and if Emma of Walton was no longer there then he wanted good word of what had happened to her. He impressed that the messenger had better get the right Emma if there was more than one; the Emma who had a son called Fulk FitzWilliam.

That was that; nothing to do now but wait nervously and see what reply he got.

He still had a few hours until dinner and his first opportunity to speak to Godit and request an audience with the queen.




Sweating heavily Fulk walked away from the training ground, back towards his rooms. He had dropped to the stipulated four hours training on five days each week now instead of working to exhaustion; the time the king demanded was more than enough to keep an elite group in peak condition. He had caught up on most of his skills, although he was no better than average at tilting and mounted combat, both individual and working in a conroi. It would take time before he got consistently excellent at those skills again, time in weeks not hours packed together.

A woman detached from the watching throng of idlers and headed towards him. “Good morning,” Godit greeted him. As she got closer she wrinkled her nose at the smell of sweat, horses and iron wafting from him. Gamely she fell into step at his side pretending he didn’t reek. “You are going to take me out; you promised at dinner last night and I’m holding you to it.”

He had done no such thing, but he had told her he needed to speak to the queen. “But-”

“I spoke to the queen and she gave her blessing; you know how she likes to play matchmaker. I shall wait out here while you transform into a nice courtly suitor.”

With Simon’s aid Fulk quickly stripped off his armour, washed in a bowl of lukewarm water, dressed in his better clothes and snatched up the purse Eleanor had told him to take to the queen. He emerged from the bottom of the tower with his hair still wet, pinning his cloak on as he went.

Godit raised her eyebrows in approval. “Much better. One should never risk one’s reputation in a way which will not make others green with envy, and you fit the bill admirably.” She caught hold of his arm and began to pull him towards the gatehouse leading to the other bailey. “The other two maids are already furious the queen did not try to pair them off with you.” She laughed at the expression on his face. “Yes! Even old Mariot! Well, she’s not that old; thirty-four is more middle age but really to young bloods like us she’s old.”

“Even old Mariot. Well, well.”

“Yes, that’s what I said. She does have more to her life than playing mother hen to our queen, you know. She had three children, but they all died as babes and then her husband followed them. So sad. They were well known as a pair of lovebirds. She never got over it; now she pours all that side of herself into our young queen. But,” she looked up at him from under her eyelashes and smiled in a way which made Fulk’s throat constrict, “you are tempting enough to bring her out of her shell, maybe?”

“Good God; I hope not!”

Godit indignantly rushed to her friend’s defence, “You needn’t be like that; she’s a nice person, you know. Quite handsome too, kept her figure and looks well despite the years.”

“No, no,” Fulk hurriedly assured her, “that was not what I meant. I don’t like the idea of being a bone fought over by several dogs.” They were passing through the gatehouse now, into the outer bailey. Godit lead him towards the second gatehouse, indicating they were leaving the castle.

Godit giggled. “Then you need to worry about Adela, the English maid. She has already hinted she might bat her eyelashes at you and try to steal you. Can’t blame her; I’d do the same if our positions were swapped.” She aimed another flirty look up at him. “I’m afraid you caused quite a stir in the solar; you’re one of the favourite topics of discussion. You don’t want Adela though; she’s quiet as a mouse and so serious. You’d think the world was about to end, really, from how cheerful she is.”

“Oh.”

“You’re not really taking much notice, are you?”

“I am,” protested Fulk.

“Poor thing,” cooed Godit, “still mourning your lost love?”

“Well …”

“Don’t tell the queen, but I think it’s hopeless. Give up, there’s nothing to be done. She won’t hear about it, of course. She’s still in that idealistic stage where true love conquers all. What you need to do is hit life running again – get out, meet people, do things, have fun, get another girl to look adoring, and as I’ve said there’s no shortage at all of those! I don’t just say this because I’m hoping to snag you myself, though I should warn you I’m a shameless flirt hoping to snare a husband and you’d do very nicely, but because you are so wasted sat about looking woeful. Mind you,” she said thoughtfully, “it does lend a certain brooding edge to your good looks and that’s quite delicious.”

Fulk went back to the most important part. “Er … husband?”

“Oh yes! That’s mostly the reason I’m here, well that and the queen liking me. I’m the third daughter of the count of Morey, all that’s left for me after my sister’s good marriages is a two hundred and fifty pound dowry and nothing else. I said I’d catch my own husband. I have to admit I’m loving the search; flirting, teasing, the odd bit of kissing …” She tugged on his arm to be sure he was paying close attention and said sternly, “Don’t think that makes me shameless or a slut; I’m not. When fishing with a small dowry and seeking someone you could love you have to kilt your skirts up a bit and go paddling in the water. That does not mean I jump in and start swimming.”

“Oh,” said Fulk weakly. They passed through the second gatehouse and out into the world at large. Godit now began to lead him in the direction of the royal garden.

“Yes. I can prove it too, but you have to marry me to get that proof. Cruel world.” Quick as a darting fish she changed the direction of the conversation. “But all this is mostly academic to you, right? Lost your heart, still in mourning, not ready to tangle with the oh so deadly female of the species again yet because you’re still recovering those love scattered faculties. She really did a number on you; I’m certain you were damned impressive in your heyday but now you’re kind of like a wilting flower. She’s a lucky woman; I do hope one day someone ends up so hopelessly in love with me.”

“I’m sure someone will.” He meant it too. From what he’d seen of her over his time at the palace he might have fallen for her himself once, not a spectacular grand passion but an agreeable little one.

“I just hope it’s the one I marry, or things could get a little tricky.” Her brow crinkled, then she shrugged and said, “You know, I never expected our dear little queen to fall for her husband, or even he for her but that’s what’s happening. Poor thing’s been so sad this past week while he’s been off on business, and she’s always saying how kind he is to her. Indulgent too, if I’m any judge. You should have seen the stir when he said he’d only take her back into his bed when she wanted to be there; she was asking questions left, right and centre because he’d phrased it carefully so she wouldn’t really understand until she was older and none of us wanted to answer! It took a lot of very careful stepping about certain topics to give her an answer without actually giving her an answer. In the end we had to plan it like a campaign! Thinking up good answers to all possible questions; it’s a good thing we’re a diverse group, let me tell you. Poor girl’s still victim of all those humiliating ideas of duty and the like rammed into her head by her nasty old grandmother, now she really was a harridan if ever there was one. But really, how many husbands would say a thing like that? Not many, and the way he came rushing back the day after their wedding to dry her tears and assure her he was very careful of her dignity when she thought he was not even the least bit interested in her, well it was really quite sweet. Love blooms in the strangest soils, and some such poetry stuff.”

“Really?”

“Ah, of course, you’re Eleanor’s ex-bodyguard.” She broke off awkwardly, her chatter dying away into something slower and more serious. “I saw the blood all over the floor, of course, I helped clean the mess up. I also heard the stories about her betrothal. I’ve also seen the king with Anne, and heard her speak of him. It’s like two different men, both in the same body. Twins, maybe, one nice and one brutal. No, that’s more some storyteller’s fancy, but truthfully the king does have two very different sides. He’s even nice to our little posy of maids; he’s polite when throwing us out so he can be alone with our queen instead of roaring away and sticking to monosyllables like some. I like that; self interest though, no one likes to feel like a dog caught chewing a pillow. I wouldn’t like to get on his wrong side though, not for love nor money!”

Fulk began to recognise the path they were taking, although the only other time he had taken it had been near Christmas. “We’re headed to the royal garden?”

She laughed, a pretty little sound. “Of course! The queen is waiting there playing gardening; we’re playing trysting lovers and we’ll loop around the back and climb over the wall, or rather you will. I don’t climb in these skirts, or at all for that matter. I’ll just stand waiting for you to get back, all forlorn and slowly getting cold. I do hope you’ll be chivalrous and get me some mulled wine to warm me up when we get back to the castle.”

“Yes, if you want.”

“See? I can be nice; I could have asked you to warm me up with a corner of your cloak and your arm. Actually that might not be so bad; in the interests of our cover story, you understand.” She winked, making it clear it was no such thing. “The other maids would positively die of envy.”

“I’m beginning to feel like a mouse being played with by a cat!”

“Oh, I do promise not to claw you,” she purred. “Anyway, why are you complaining? You are having fun; that wilting plant look is slowly receding.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Fulk assured her.

“Well there you are then, you just sit back and relax and I’ll keep pouring water on your roots until you perk up completely. Don’t let the queen ruin all my work though, or I’ll be most displeased. No more mooning after your impossible love; get on with your life, pick yourself up and get right back on the horse and all that.”

“I plan to.”

“Good!” she said heartily. “I think all heartbroken knights need a chatty, pushy somewhat improper lady’s maid to set them back to rights. Maybe I could make a business out of it?”

“I do hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to charge me for this little pep talk,” he said so seriously it was plain he was joking.

“My first customer? Never, but I might ask you to recommend people to me. Or then again I might quit on the first knight.”

“And deprive others of your services? There’s such a big need for people like you out there.”

She slapped his shoulder lightly. “Cruel! Now I feel all obliged to hunt down these poor knights and sort them out; my life has a new mission. I wonder how much I should charge? A case by case basis, I think, on top of a base fee of nine shillings. Perhaps a shilling per half hour? Yes, that does rather sound better.”

The rest of the trip out to the garden was filled with her rapid, near ceaseless chatter about this and that, mostly palace gossip; an endless flow of names, events, scandals, plans, secrets and information. It was chats like this that had helped Fulk find his feet and put names and lives to the many new faces he was encountering here at the palace. Godit was a most competent guide to the world of the palace retainer.

At the back wall of the royal garden Fulk climbed over. The action brought back a clear memory along with a pang of sorrow mixed with wistful joy; he had only done this once before, the day he had first kissed Eleanor. Anne waited with her other two maids; the trio was walking slowly about inspecting the grounds and passing comments on what needed doing this year to make the place beautiful. When they saw Fulk they made a beeline to him, the two maids still chattering to cover the whispered conversation between queen and knight. This was one well planned and coordinated operation; not a single chance was being taken with the queen’s good name.

Fulk bowed, pulled the purse out of his belt pouch and said quietly, “Eleanor wished you to have this; I only found it yesterday. Now I shall go, with your permission?”

Anne took the purse eagerly. “Yes, and thank you.”

Fulk easily scrambled back over the wall. Godit asked as he dropped lightly to the ground, “Done?”

“Yes.”

“Now I’ll claim that mulled wine you owe me.” She linked arms with him and they began to walk back via a different route so the guards at the garden gate did not see that they had come out all this way only to turn back after a minute or so. That would be to suspicious. The maid kept on chattering and Fulk nearly drowned in the flood of frivolous information.

About halfway back Godit abruptly stopped walking. “Call me curious,” she said, suddenly almost shy. She placed one hand on either side of his face, pulled his head down and kissed him. Too stunned to do anything at first Fulk didn’t resist. As the tip of her tongue ran over his lips several months of frustrated passion boiled over, along with a desperate need for human contact and he began to kiss her back, slipping one arm around her waist and putting a hand to the back of her head, pulling her closer. Awareness of the world began to slip away and all that mattered was bringing her closer still, as if he could somehow crush their bodies into becoming one and fill that empty space in his soul.

Eventually the kiss ended, and when it did Fulk took a pace back to put distance between them while he still could. Godit staggered slightly as he released her. “Good God!” she said breathlessly. She fanned herself with one hand and struggled to get her wind back. “Curiosity more than satisfied. If that was just a spill-over of what you feel for your Eleanor she’s lucky she never went up in smoke! I don’t suppose you want to try again?” Fulk looked incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. Godit sighed. “Let me guess; you prefer to do the chasing?” She snapped her fingers. “Darn.”

“Well, no, not exactly.” His voice sounded rather constricted even to his own ears, and he sincerely hoped she hadn’t noticed his hands were trembling.

“You’re just not interested in getting embroiled in another affair of the heart?”

“No, I’m not.” It was a white lie and far kinder than saying that he still wasn’t interested in anyone but a certain princess, except as a purely physical reaction mostly born from these past five months of celibacy. Even there she was far inferior; blind passion with no greater significance or depth.

She ran the tip of her tongue over her bruised lower lip with a kind of wonder. “Ah well, a tremendous pity, and I do hope you won’t mind if from now on I have this funny tendency to sigh and go all dreamy when I think about you.”

Fulk began walking again, not offering her his arm this time; more contact would only tempt him further. She fell into place at his side, for once very quiet.





It had to be near eleven o’clock at night; late, very late. William collapsed gratefully into bed; he had been riding hard to get back to the palace today instead of tomorrow morning and he was stiff with joints and muscles because of it. A week long trip around Middlesex, hearing a few vital court cases, accepting homage from his lords, collecting the monies owed to him that his sheriff had been holding in trust, and generally showing off that he was alive, well and working hard. His party had arrived back so late only the sentries were still awake. Even worse it was raining, great sheets of water pouring down from the sky, matched by a cruel wind that always contrived to blow water into his face no matter which direction he looked.

William sneezed, clamping a hand over his nose and trying to be quiet. Anne was asleep next door; he didn’t want to wake her. He sniffled then sneezed again. He pulled the blankets tightly about himself, and wished someone had thought to keep a small fire burning in his room’s hearth. Tomorrow he would speak to the necessary people; it was sheer negligence. In the few weeks he had been stationary here his usual rulings ensuring he came home to comfort had been forgotten; heads would proverbially roll and someone was going to be demoted to kitchen runabout. He sneezed once more and nearly blew his ear drums out as he tried to stifle it. This massive bed took forever to warm up alone; every time he moved he left his warm patch and the heat disappeared off into the vast depths very rapidly.

A few moments later the door between his room and Anne’s opened. “I thought I heard movement; the sneezing gave it away,” she said cheerfully. She stood there in her shift and robe holding her night candle. She must be feeling a lot warmer than William was to stand about wearing so little.

“I was trying-” he sneezed, “not to wake you. I did not even let my squires up the stairs; I did everything myself.”

Anne skirted the pile of soaked clothing lying haphazardly in the middle of the floor and made her way to his bedside. “I do hope you are not sickening for something.” She placed one little hand on his forehead, then held the candle close to his face so she could peer into his eyes. “You don’t look ill,” she said doubtfully.

“It is nothing, just sniffles and sneezing brought on by going from cold outside to warm inside. Always the same.”

Anne scolded him seriously, “You were silly pushing on so late and in such bad weather; you should have sheltered overnight and returned tomorrow.”

“I have always done this; it does me no harm and in fact keeps me as fit and hale as a man half my age.” Another sneeze rather ruined his grandiose statement.

“You are pathetic.”

“And you have very warm blood to stand there like that, and most unfairly you are making me feel even colder.” He shuffled over in the bed and peeled part of one blanket off himself. Patting the cleared space he said, “Sit yourself down and wrap this blanket around yourself.” Anne placed her candle down safely on the little corner table and then did as he said, sitting with her knees drawn up and the blanket bundled about herself. The blanket was made to the size of the bed, and was therefore so big most of the thickly woven wool still lay completely undisturbed.

“Did you get something to eat when you came in?”

“No.”

“Oh, William!”

“I ate in the saddle; bread stuffed with meat and vegetables. A proper meal, if a little soggy from the rain.”

Her mouth remained in its tight downward curve. “That is not a hot meal and so it does not count.”

William sneezed again. This was intolerable. “It is not my fault I returned to a cold room, no food, no chance of a bath or even a wash, and a distinct lack of dry clothes laid out for me. My standing orders were ignored, and you should be grateful I am not yet wondering why my wife let matters disintegrate this far when she has a duty and responsibility to keep my household in order.”

“You had your own arrangements; there is nothing for me to do,” said Anne quietly, uncertainly.

“You can find out about my arrangements and ensure they are adhered to. A few questions, a bit of carefully displayed interest in ensuring things go as they should, and there is your job done.”

Her head sank. “I did not think you wanted me to interfere.”

“You are my wife and queen; I keep telling you I expect you to work. You have done well, until now.”

“Are you going to hit me?” she asked miserably.

“Either do what you claim to be capable of doing or admit you can’t and get help.” There was a very difficult pause. William silently began praying she was not going to start crying.

Timidly she mumbled, “I have not been completely useless, I hope. I was thinking you said two months minimum before Eleanor and Trempwick could marry, and shortly after that deadline expires Lent begins. If you want them married before the end of Lent we shall have to begin preparations soon. I think it would be best to wait.”

“Why?”

“Because she does not want to marry him-”

Harshly he stated, “I do not care what she wants.”

“It would be kind-”

“She has not earned my kindness. They will marry before Lent; I promised my friend I would not drag my feet.”

“You care more for his feelings than your daughter’s?”

William’s brows snapped together into a passionate scowl. “The brat should count herself lucky I managed to find someone willing to put up with her; there is not another person barring Trempwick who knows her and would have her. Remember, the last we heard she seemed content enough with the arrangement.”

“At least bring her here for a time before the ceremony,” she begged. “It is not right her living with her future husband as she is, and if they arrive together people will talk. She will need new clothes if you wish her to do credit to the family, and it would be a sound idea to check she knows exactly what is expected of her. She helped me before my wedding; I would repeat that favour. She is very publicly marrying someone she does not want, and that is not easy.”

“I suppose you know about that,” said William bitterly, suddenly keenly aware of both his age and his ability to make her miserable.

Anne’s voice wobbled as she said very softly, “No. I married someone I did not know; that is hard in a different way.”

“So be it, I shall order the brat to come here if it will make you happy, and I agree you have a point about ensuring she will not disgrace the family any further.” She nodded and visibly tried to pull herself together. Awkwardly William offered, “I am sorry. I am cold, tired and generally grumpy.”

“But you were right; I should have done something. I am sorry too. I will not fail you again,” she vowed. Though she kept her head down William felt certain she was crying now. “I missed you. I missed our evenings together.”

Wryly he asked, “You missed using me as a book rest?”

“I did not mean it like that.” A tear dripped down onto the blanket, followed by another.

“I was joking,” he hastily assured her. Not knowing what else to do he sat himself up and pulled her over to him. He wiped her face with the edge of the blanket and soothed, “I missed you too.” A pause, then he said glumly, “I have to leave again the day after tomorrow; heading along towards Cornwall doing much the same thing I did in Middlesex. I will be gone for at least two weeks.” Through the blanket he could feel her small body shivering. “You must be cold; you can go back to your own bed if you prefer or … you … could climb in beside me?”

She very bashfully took the latter option. William held on to her and did his best to comfort her, battling his encroaching weariness as he watched her slowly cheer up, relax, and begin to sleep herself. In the end he dozed off with her still in his arms.









Anne’s maids really meet that funny mental image I’ve had ever since I first said “gang of maids” about 100 pages ago; a kind of Charlie’s Angels in pretty medieval dresses. If harmless little Anne can do operations like this with her trio imagine what Eleanor could do with a similarly good set of maids …


I’ve barely been able to get on this site for 30-4 days now, and when I can get I’m lucky if the site works for more than a few seconds. This should actually have been posted yesterday afternoon. I’ll post as I can but until this technical difficulty is resolved I advise those of you anxious to keep up with the story as I post to check the paradox version here. That link goes right to the duplicate of this current chapter. I’ll post here as and when I can, and eventually this thread will be fully up to date again.

The weather was clear, cool but dry. Eleanor stood on the top of Woburn’s tower, leaning on the parapets and looking out over the land while slowly working over a few thoughts she had already examined many times. There was nothing much interesting to see from up here but she had to do something with her free time. Trempwick was, once again, busy with his work.

Behind her the trap door in the floor lifted open and Bertram clambered gracelessly off the ladder and onto the planked floor. The master said to fetch you.”

Eleanor turned around slowly and treated the man to the full force of her best royal condescending ‘oh dear I have stepped in something unpleasant’ stare. “Dogs are fetched, not princesses.”

The man sniffed and completely ignored her words. “I wonder what you’ve done now?” He suddenly grinned, displaying a few missing teeth. “No matter; everyone will soon find out.”

“I have not done anything.”

“Of course you have - why else would he want to see you?”

“It may have escaped your very short memory but Raoul and I are going to be married. If you cannot work the rest out from there then I truly pity you.”

Bertram flung back his head and roared with laughter. He showily stopped his laughter and said in a voice still shaking with mirth, “Oh, wait – you’re serious?!” He crunched away the last traces of his humour and sombrely pulled a face and shook his head. “Well, there’s no limits to the master’s bravery. Poor man. Still, gaining power always comes at a cost.”

It was a jibe along a very familiar line; it brought Eleanor back to reality with a very sharp bump, smashing that tentative idea that maybe she wasn’t entirely unattractive. “Maybe he can see beyond appearances.” The retort was weak, little more than a confirmation of what he had said, and they both knew it. Bertram smirked and began to lead the way down to Trempwick’s study without even feeling the need to complete his victory.

Trempwick turned around with a bright smile on his face as she entered the room. “Ah! Nell.” He squinted at her. “Is something wrong?”

Her reply was stony, “No.”

“Sure?” His second enquiry met with silence. Accepting defeat – for now, Eleanor was sure he would keep on winkling away until he knew what had bothered her - he held up a small note from one of the messenger birds. “Good news – our wedding is set for the eighteenth of February.”

“Oh.”

“You do not seen very happy,” he said neutrally. “I thought we were past all that.”

Eleanor brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and said simply, “You know how I feel about all this fuss; I shall be glad when it is all over. Besides, I believe it is traditional that the bride should be nervous.”

Trempwick’s eyes glinted. “Since when have you ever held with tradition, beloved Nell?”

“It appears to catch up with you sooner or later. I shall do my best to get over it; I do not like breaking the habit of a lifetime, especially not one I have invested such a lot in.” Significantly she touched the scar under her eye.

“There is more.” The tone of his voice made it clear he was not happy with this ‘more’. “You are summoned to the palace ahead of me to prepare. It seems Anne has requested she get chance to return the favour you did her.”

“You mean she wants to play ‘dress up the Eleanor’ while my beloved regal ancestor lurks in the background like a hungry wolf, waiting for opportunities to try and bring me over to his way of thinking. No,” said Eleanor firmly. Her chin jutted stubbornly upwards. “I will not go – I refuse to go.”

“Nell, it is not a request. You have to go.”

“Or what? They will send a small detachment here to arrest me and drag me over in chains?”

Trempwick snapped, “Don’t be foolish, Nell.”

“Foolish is assuming this visit will be different to any other. Is this the protection you promised me; sending me off alone to meet dear daddy so he can lose his temper at me over and over, just like our last visit?”

“It is a royal command,” gritted out Trempwick. “I cannot do anything. You should be fine so long as you keep out of the king’s way and do not antagonise him.”

“If I do not stand up for myself he will walk all over me and that is even worse. You promised to protect me.” She stressed that last part, making it clear she considered this another betrayal of her trust in him.

“I know – you think I like feeling useless? Until we are married my position is tenuous and delicate; once we are married you will be out of his reach, but until then there is precious little I can do. I shall most definitely send a message along with you saying that I will not appreciate having a bruised bride; I shall dress that up in … practicalities so it does not seem so compassionate. He is much more likely to listen to cold reasoning that emotion.” Trempwick thought for a few moments. “I can send you with an escort; it will be expected anyway. Yes … my mother and her little band, just as at Christmas. She can remain close by your side; as long as she is there your father will not harm you.”

“No, but he can send her away in all of two seconds and then start trying to beat me unconscious. She will offer no protection and you know we do not get along.”

“But you must have chaperones and a maid. No, it is settled. My mother, her maid and a small detachment of my men will escort you to the palace; I shall have my men dress in your livery making them ‘yours’.”

Slowly Eleanor said, “The queen is very protective of me …”

“Yes, she will help too. Do as you did during your last visit; keep out of his way and stick to the truce I shall arrange between you. This time there will be no John to destroy my careful arrangements.” Trempwick enfolded her in his arms and stroked her back. Reluctantly she relaxed against him, letting some, but not all, of the restful stiffness go from her body. “Take heart,” he murmured, “this is the last time you need to worry about this. In fourteen days you will be my wife and it will be exceptionally bad manners for him to even growl at you.”






“Your Highness.” The filthy, exhausted messenger collapsed to his muddy knees before Hugh. “Rebellion, in France. Sir Yves de Tourraine has declared his independence from all lords but God.”

Hugh dispassionately crushed the urge to leap to his feet and begin shouting orders; a king must not be seen to rush, panic or be perturbed by anything. He may not be king in fact yet but he was receiving this man in the king’s name while seated on the throne in the palace’s main hall. At his side the queen gasped and leaned forward. “Word must be sent to my husband at once.”

Hugh very nearly scowled; she had jumped in and stolen the dignity from his moment, making him look slow and indecisive. Quite intolerable, but then what could be expected of a mere child, and a girl at that? He stood and said in a clear, carrying voice, “Send a messenger to take this news to our king at once. Also send word through our French domains; they will provide support and add men to our levies or be counted as in rebellion and so earn our enmity. Marshal?” Roger de Powys strode forward and awaited his prince’s commands with calm poise that Hugh envied. Swiftly he banished that unworthy feeling; it was distinctly shameful. Calm came from within, as did poise, and if a man possessed these traits then they should be admired as virtues, not envied.

Hugh ordered, “Begin the muster; I want one thousand men including no less than four hundred knights under arms and ready to go as soon as possible. Draw only on the nearby sources; we do not have time to wait longer. I shall organise the necessary ships, supplies and details personally until my father returns.” He looked about the massive hall, trying to make his pose confident and assured, regal yet paternal. “We shall crush this folly, make no mistake of it. England is strong; a petty count with delusions of grandeur poses no more threat to us than a gnat, and like a gnat he will be swatted as an annoyance. As will any fool enough to join him.”





William’s worn out horse staggered through the outer gate of the palace; he showed the poor creature no mercy and once again jammed his spurs into its flanks, trying to coax just a little more from the animal’s fatigue trembling legs. He had ridden endlessly and relentlessly for a day and a night to get back from his progress and now he only had a short distance left. He thanked God most devoutly that he had been travelling slowly on his way out. He had gone through several horses aside from this current one, working them all to exhaustion with his haste. Some of the animals had been of remarkably poor quality, not the sort a king would usually ride, but their owners would be paid back handsomely for coming to their king’s aid in his moment of need.

The demands on his own body had been no easier; he had only rested when stopping at a settlement to change horses and then only for a few minutes. Sheer will kept his body in the saddle now. Most of his escort were long gone, left behind by his pace and then those who had kept up slowly fell away as insufficient horses could be swapped at each rest stop. Now only six of his best knights remained with him. By looking at them William got a good idea of how he must appear himself; so covered in road dust, sweat and spattered mud he looked more a beggar than a king, red-eyed with tiredness, posture slumped with fatigue but animated by a kind of fervour that made the red eyes glow like a madman’s.

His horse stumbled; the creature was done in. William swung down from the saddle, his legs nearly buckling when first requested to take his weight. He clung to the saddle until the feeling passed and then flung away, marching as fast as he could with his aching, stiff legs onwards towards the central keep. God help Anne and his new chamberlain if they had botched up his arrangements like last time. God help him too; he had driven himself to the edge of his limits and beyond.

A servant came running towards him, holding a goblet brimming with wine. William grinned, white teeth contrasting with the dirt brown of his face. Excellent, his little temper outburst had done its job; the instant the sentries had spotted his party the palace would have gone into a flurry of activity and he could simply wander in and enjoy the benefits. He snatched the proffered drink and gulped it down as he walked. The servant jogged along at his side waiting for the empty vessel; William tossed the goblet to the man without checking to see if he caught it. Up ahead he could see a running procession going from the kitchen outbuilding to the keep, followed by a bucket chain – his food and bath. Another bucket chain was streaming away from the keep back towards the kitchens, their water delivered. Oh yes indeed, things were definitely back to rights.

By the time he burst into the main hall Anne was waiting. She wasted no time, quickly dipping a curtsy and reporting, “Your bath and food await you in the solar. Your council has been summoned and is convening to wait on your convenience.”

“Well done.” His voice emerged as a croak, his throat still clogged by road dust and dry despite the wine. He didn’t pause; he kept on striding towards the stairs leading up to the solar.

Anne trotted along at his side, continuing her report. “The muster has begun; it is reckoned the full one thousand will be reached within another five days if we include a full three-quarters of the men stationed in the palace, longer if we rely on outside sources.”

“Word of anyone else joining Yves?”

“None so far.”

“The King of France?”

“Still idle.”

“Good,” he declared. “I do not expect him to get involved; he is but a boy and his realm is still recovering from the last defeat I gave them. I would rather keep the situation simple, even if I do expect to defeat France easily if it comes to war again. General attitude about court?”

“As would be expected; many find Yves to be a fool intent on suicide. They wonder what motivates him to a pointless endeavour which will lose him all. The most common joke about court at the moment is always a variation on the theme ‘How do you commit suicide without it being a mortal sin? Rebel against king William!’ I really do not find it very funny,” she said earnestly, as if that was a significant character flaw.

William asked finally what was perhaps the most important question she could provide an answer to, “And how are you?”

“Worried,” she said honestly. “I know I am not doing as much as I should; I just am not capable and much of my burden is falling on Hugh as well. I am trying to learn more, to do more but-”

“Never mind; do what you can and let others handle the rest. No one expects you to shoulder the workload of someone years older with more familiarity with what is required. We managed without a queen for years, so even taking a little of your responsibility eases things for others. You have done very well in arranging my household for my return.”

They arrived in the solar just as the servants emptied the last of the water into the bath. A selection of food was laid out on the table and new clothes were draped over a chair near the fire to warm. Jobs done the servants made a discreet exit. Anne said, “I made sure water was kept on heat all the time since the messenger set off after you, the same for food. When one lot of food spoiled another was ready, and the spoiled lot was given to the beggars in the town.” She clasped her hands in front of her skirts and bowed her head. “It was very wasteful; I am sorry if you do not approve.”

William began stripping off his clothes. “Dearest, you have done a marvellous job. Waste matters little if it is impressive and kingly; look at my careful importing of live fish and sea creatures in buckets. I have to show off my power and wealth somehow.” He stood in his braies, ill at ease. “Um … are you planning on remaining or would you prefer to leave? I can have one of my squires serve me instead.”

“I shall stay unless you want me gone; I am your wife and this is my duty.”

Fair enough; no need to spare her blushes. He stripped off the last of his clothes and sank into the steaming tub with a grateful sigh. Anne bravely collected up his abandoned clothes and held them at arm’s length as she carried them to the door. She dumped them outside at the top of the stairs for the servants to collect and closed the solar door before a draft could bother William.

William waved at the food. “Bring some of that over into my reach; I can eat and bathe at the same time. Two birds, one arrow.” Anne grabbed hold of a platter of roast chicken and a jug of small ale and placed them on the floor beside the bath. By the time she returned with a dish of pottage and some bread stuffed with meat and vegetables William was already draining the jug, drinking straight from the rim near the handle instead of waiting for a cup. He set the jug back down half empty and noticed she was staring at him. Beneath his coating of grime he felt himself redden. “Well, I don’t suppose usual manners apply when eating in a bath.”

Anne laughed quietly and pressed one of the stuffed rolls into his empty hand. She located the washcloth and some soap and began scrubbing his back. “Killing three birds with one shot now.”

William bolted down the roll followed by another, much of the pottage and a chicken leg while Anne kept scrubbing at him. She even rolled her sleeves up to get at his legs while he remained seated, but for all her stout hearted bravery William noticed she kept her eyes firmly averted from his groin. The hot water began to work its magic and his muscles began to relax and the stiffness slowly receded. The effect would only be temporary, as William well knew; tomorrow he would be as stiff as a board and feeling every single mile he had travelled with a vengeance.

Washed all over and hunger satiated William let her soap his hair and empty a jug of clean water of his head. The instant the jug was empty he rose, or tried to; his aching muscles had locked. “Give me a hand up.” She seized one arm and pulled. This time he succeeded in gaining his feet but sloshed a lot of dirty water all over the floor and Anne. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he grabbed the towel she held out and began drying himself, standing next to the fire so the heat would speed the task.

Still damp he began to dress. Anne played body squire and handed him each item of clothing. “You are going to lead the army, aren’t you?” she asked as he tied the points of his hose to his braes belt.

“Of course; I am king.”

“You could delegate to Hugh or your marshal.”

“I could but I never have unless I am fighting on more than one front and I will not begin now; it would announce I am growing old and weak.”

“I knew you would say that,” she admitted unhappily.

“Don’t worry; I am a seasoned warrior, still fit and in good condition. You know I train regularly. I have the best armour a man can buy, a warhorse that can all but read my mind, and my bodyguard of chosen men. No one will even scratch me.” William decided that soon, before he set out, he would have to tell her exactly what arrangements he had made for her in the event of his death. For all his calm assurance he was all too familiar with the unexpected, almost trivial accidents that could claim a man’s life.

Anne helped settle his tunic so its hem fell evenly. “We had a reply from Eleanor; she will arrive on the thirteenth. Will the wedding still be held as planned? You will be gone and the current atmosphere is not the best.”

“It will go ahead as planned; to delay now is to delay for over a month and lose face in the eyes of the world. Which reminds me, got to speak to the Archbishop of Canterbury. My army will be fighting during Lent; we need exemption from the fasting and his blessing.”

“I shall send someone to summon him here right away.”

Fully dressed William grabbed another stuffed bread roll and headed to the door. Poised in the doorway to leave he looked back. He couldn’t help but smile; Anne stood sopping wet in the middle of a large puddle, surrounded by chaotically abandoned half empty platters and dishes, a bath full of filthy water with a lonesome washcloth floating forlornly about in it, several scattered wet towels, a bowl of soap and some king sized wet foot prints. “I shall take care of the Archbishop, and I will send your maids up to help you out of those wet things. The servants can tidy up.”






As William strode into his council room all those waiting within came to their feet and bowed respectfully in his direction. William took his seat at the head of the table, working hard to disguise just how tired and unresponsive his body was. He looked about the table, checking each man. Hugh; calm and stolid as ever, reliable. Roger de Powys, the marshal, grimly determined. Geoffrey, the chancellor, calm and unflappable. Eustace, the steward, his thick browns locked tightly together and his face thunderous.

“Let us begin,” said William. “I hear you have begun the muster, aiming for one thousand men all told.”

Hugh serenely answered, “Yes, father. The number is excessive considering Yves will have no more than five hundred even assuming all his vassals turn out and he empties his treasury to hire mercenaries, but I thought you would wish to go in splendid force.”

A spark of fatherly pride burned to life in William’s heart; Hugh had seen exactly what was needed and acted without hesitation, demonstrating both sound thinking and sufficient confidence to be a leader of men. “Yes, a show of power. I can afford to waste pay on unnecessary soldiers and will show no mercy to those who rebel, and all the other usual ‘fear and power’ messages. I shall leave a third of my retained force here to guard the palace and act as reserve against any other crisis springing up. Roger,” he looked intently at his marshal, “you will chose those to remain and those to go. I want an even split; do not give me all the best men and do not keep the worst sheltered here.” When speaking of Williams’s own retainers even the worst were nothing to take lightly; he only accepted the best and he had an entire empire to draw upon to find that best.

Roger bowed his grizzled head. “Sire.”

Eustace de Leon rubbed his bearded chin pensively. “Can we be sure of the other French lords’ loyalty?” he asked. “If they are also suspect then a much larger force would be wise, despite the delay and increased costs.”

William raised a finger from the tabletop in recognition of a very good point. “My spymaster assures me all the other lords are safe in their loyalties. There are some few who would go against us if a larger power became involved and looked to win, for example if France attacked and won some few victories. Our power is well known and respected, also feared. They know Yves will be crushed and they know they will share his end if they join him. We need have no worries unless our situation takes a drastic turn for the worse.”

“Has Raoul been summoned to join us?” enquired Geoffrey.

“No.”

“What of his wedding? Will that go ahead as planned, and will he take a break from his duties then? We need him to act in his official capacity without distractions.”

“Yes and no; the date is fixed and will not be altered and he will lose but an afternoon and a night. He will not remain at the palace any longer than is necessary.”

“Sire, forgive me,” interjected Roger, “but he will also lose two days at the least travelling. We need him to act as centre to his network.”

“I know,” replied William heavily, “but think of how it would look if we delayed the wedding. It would look as if we feared this upstart count and needed to exert great effort to defeat him; we would appear weak.” Sombre silence greeted his words; the small gathering knew how fragile the illusion of power could be and how deadly the loss of that appearance could be.

Hugh said, “What of your queen, father? What place does she have in our plans? She cannot be expected to shoulder the usual burden but nor can we, or should we, leave her out of the issue entirely.”

“I have already spoken with Anne; she will do what she can and learn as much as possible. You are to include her as much as possible and educate her where she is lacking, but do not overburden her.”

Eustace said, “Sire, forgive me but is this the time to play nursemaid and tutor to a child?”

“You would prefer to wait until a bigger crisis to teach her how to take her place?” asked William bluntly. That silenced the opposition effectively. “Now, the main detail. I shall lead the army out to France. Hugh, you are in control of England until my return. Roger, you will accompany me and act as my second in command. Eustace, you are, as ever, in charge of finding me the funds for this and seeing to our supply. Geoffrey, you will support Hugh. I think that is all we need concern ourselves over at this very minute; you all know what to do so you can go and get on with it.”







:yawns: boring, seven pages of boring. Well, maybe the king’s bath has some oddball value to it but the rest is all so much standing about talking about planning. Gah!


………………………………………………………………………………………� ��.

“You said you wished to help Eleanor …”

Anne looked up from her book, tonight the familiar ‘Tristan and Iseult’. “Yes?”

“I will be away; management of her will fall to Hugh but …” William sucked his teeth; this was not coming out right. Firmly he said. “Don’t mistake this for some tender affection for the brat or anything, it is actually very good sense.” Damn! From her knowing smile she had now decided he was going all soft! He tried again, “She will marry my spymaster, no matter what it takes to get her to say her words. That part falls on Hugh in my absence. However it would be much more seemly if she did not need half killing this time; that part falls on you. I want you to do whatever you can to lure her into peaceful cooperation.”

“You are saying you want her to be happy in this match she does not want?”

“Not at all!” he protested swiftly. No, that was not quite right. “Well, that is I want her to be content with the arrangement …” And nor was that. “I just want her to stop being so mulish and accept what is best. We will both be happier then.”

“If she despises your spymaster she will never even be content. She will be miserable.”

“She does not despise him, and her happiness is not a requirement or the purpose of all this.”

Anne deliberately closed her book and said neutrally, “Have you ever considered that she may love someone else?”

“What?!” Anne resentfully put one hand over the ear nearest him, deafened by his shout. William sat bolt upright; Anne’s hand left her ear and grabbed the front of his tunic as she nearly toppled off his lap. William ranted, “She can’t - by God, she is a princess of the royal house, not some peasant slut to mate where she will!”

“Now you are being disgusting,” complained Anne sternly, “and letting your imagination run away with you. It was just a suggestion.”

William muttered darkly, “It would have to be someone deeply unsuitable – she never said anything, why would she say nothing if he was suitable?”

“It was just a suggestion,” she repeated, louder this time.

“Then what made you say it?”

“People fall in love; it is a common thing. She is, what? Nineteen? It really would not be surprising at all. People in stories often find true love by that age.”

Stories; William’s heart resumed beating in its usual pattern. Of course, she had got this notion from her reading. “Stories are not everyday life; the brat can’t have fallen for anyone and you should be glad – it makes this marriage easier for her. If her heart belonged elsewhere …” he trailed off, his mind wandering back to how hard she had fought to avoid the betrothal. That would be understandable if … No, as soon as the thought began to form his dismissed it. This was the brat; love really was not her thing. Anyway, she would have said something, she would have flung it in his face to annoy him – she delighted in doing that. There were many other, far more believable reasons for her resistance, including the fact she hoped to kill him with an apoplexy.

In the end he said, “Life is not a story. She will marry the spymaster and I do not care what her objections are; in fact if she is fond of anyone it is her betrothed, from all accounts. I am looking to you to keep up a steady stream of whatever it takes to keep her placid and cooperative; if she digs her heels in and becomes mulish yet again Hugh will have to force her into obedience and that will do the family name no good.”

“I shall try,” she promised meekly.






Trempwick was late to bed yet again; thanks to the situation in France it was now entirely usual for Eleanor to only seen him when he came to bed and when they were dressing in the morning. He even ate while working in his study. Trempwick slid into bed beside her and she turned over to receive the inevitable kiss. This time it was not the expected gentle kiss but something demanding and passionate, something she could not really return. No sooner had he let her go from the first kiss then he launched into a second in the same tone, and again she was unable to do anything other than weather the storm. He pulled her closer and murmured, “Good evening, darling Nell.”

“Um …” She had no time to expand that into something which did not sound entirely lack witted; he covered her mouth with his own again, more demanding still. She couldn’t match it, she just could not; it was just like the early days and soon he would begin complaining she was cold, and perhaps he would be right. She would hurt him terribly; from there everything would unravel.

Eleanor gathered up her desperation and the panicky fear and flung it at him as a desperate need for reassurance that she could actually handle this; at first she had clung to loneliness and a need for quiet comfort until she had grown accustomed to and better able to respond to his quieter attentions, so maybe the same would work again now. It had better do. She cast one arm over his ribs and drew the other up to tuck out of the way under her side, and used her desperation to add a bit more fire to her returned kisses. The rest she left to him.

It worked; he didn’t complain or even falter and steadily it grew easier for her to relax and go along with him as if this had not knocked her badly off balance. As long as she firmly blocked her mind from comparing his efforts to Fulk’s it was pleasant enough and, based on experience, it would grow better as she settled into this.

Abruptly he sat up and tugged at the sleeve of her shift. “Take that off.”

Eleanor felt herself turn beet red and the mood died a very fast death. “What!?”

“Humour me.”

“But-”

“Dear Nell, you have nothing I have not already seen, and I assure you I have not forgotten my promise to you.” She still lay there, miserably discomfited and once more completely lost. Trempwick ventured, “Perhaps you are embarrassed by your scars? I assure you there is no need to be, and sooner or later you will have to get used to me seeing them.” Still she did not move.

Trempwick pulled his shirt off over his head and knelt in the middle of the bed with his back was to her. In the dim, shifting candlelight she counted twenty-four long scars, most running from high right to low left but some few going the other way to cross over them. They were concentrated on the upper half of his back and had faded well, now only just visible as chalk white lines against the slightly darker white of his skin. He waited long enough for her to get a very good look and then turned back around. “So you see it really is nothing much to bother about.”

Eleanor took the opportunity to get her first look at his torso, quickly cataloguing what she saw. He had toned muscles and a flat stomach just like Fulk, but she had pretty much expected that since she had now seen him exercising and practising alone with his sword. A few scars peppered his chest and arms, most trivial but one long one snaking down from the outside of his body into the fuzz of hair emerging from the waist of his braies as if someone had tried to gut him. Proof he had done some fighting with live weapons and survived at least one vicious looking brawl; not at all what she had expected. A bare handful of fights she had just about allowed him, but to have collected this many scars when he was reasonably skilled he would have to have been very much more active then she had estimated.

Her entire examination was so rapid she managed to pick up the conversation with only a tiny pause, “This is different and you know it; boys are expected to arrive at manhood with some marks on their back – it is almost a badge of pride.” Twenty-four nearly invisible lines against the uncountable hundreds in various stages of fading all over her own back. Quietly she said, “I do not know what exactly my back looks like but it will be nothing nearly so tidy as that.”

“Beloved Nell, the point is … we are perhaps a little different to the norm here. My scars represent a lesson learned and taken to heart, shaped into the central principle of my life. Yours, I think represent you very well; tough, determined, unusual, not for most people. Knowing what I do I consider them in a favourable light rather than as proof you are unmanageable.”

“This lesson learned of yours,” she asked curiously, “what was it?”

Trempwick’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “A little bit of judicious violence will solve some things, but for the rest subtle is far better.”

“If all this is so unimportant why did you always keep your shirt on?”

“Because I did not wish you to start panicking about my intentions. Admit it, dearest Nell, you have misunderstood me enough times for me to expect you to misunderstand again. Well, I have kept my side of our bargain …”

She replied quickly, “We made no bargain.”

“Drat.” He gave up on talking and resumed where he had left off, holding her very close and exploring her body with his hands while endlessly kissing her. Bit by tiny bit he winkled her out of her shift, slowly working the hem up until it was obvious he intended to remove it for her eventually anyway. At that point she gave up and took it off herself, trying to salvage some dignity. Trempwick didn’t complain when she immediately buried herself under the blankets; he only pulled her close again and his hands continued to wander, the same things but feeling odd now against her bare skin. The blanket advantage was negated when he trailed a line of kisses from her neck down to her navel, then worked his way back up to ramble around the scenery at leisure. She was still struggling to match even a part of his passion, but fortunately he had grown used to the way it took her a very long interval to respond in kind when he tried something new. Feeling a bit daft the only thing she could think of to do was pat him on the head, and somehow that did not quite seem appropriate. Better to stick with doing nothing.

After a while he suddenly shifted his weight, rolling her over onto her back and propping himself on his elbows above her. His weight crushed down along the length of her body, pressing down on her ribs so it was hard to breathe. At either side his arms trapped her in place. Something very unwelcome was prodding uncomfortably into the top of her thigh. The moment hung in the air for a split second then she let out an outraged, “Get off me, damn it!”

“Relax, beloved Nell,” he urged with a smile. “See? I told you you always misunderstand.”

“You are crushing me,” she complained, trying to hide her dread at being ensnared.

“Not at all, you are just not used to it. Relax.” He began nuzzling her neck, ignoring her attempts to boost him off her by pushing at his shoulders. Eventually she gave up trying to get him off; he was not going to budge and it was hard work. This was every bit as bad as she had expected, worse even. In the end she just lay there slowly getting used to the feeling she was going to be as flat as a piece of parchment by morning; there was nothing else for her to do.

As she resigned herself to her pancaked fate and relaxed the situation got a little better; true enough to what he had said she was not crushed, more crowded. As long as she didn’t try to breathe deeper than was normal his weight on her chest actually made no difference. Now she had stopped trying to dump him off Trempwick began wandering his hands, lips and tongue over her body once again. Little by little she found this was about as enjoyable as the rest of Trempwick’s tricks, something else which would improve with time and familiarity. Even so she still felt crowded and that detracted from the experience significantly.

After a while he went very still and looked down at her. “Nell?” he asked softly. She was not entirely sure but Eleanor also thought she detected a hint of pleading in his voice; there was certainly something beseeching flickering in the depths of his brown eyes.

“No,” she answered equally softly but very firmly.

For a moment she thought he would ignore her; then he sighed and thrust one arm under the small of her back and the other under her shoulders and rolled to the side, pulling her with him. Finally freed of his weight Eleanor felt tension she had thought she had banished finally bleed away completely. “You are slowly killing me, beloved Nell,” complained Trempwick.

“Sorry, master.” Quickly she amended, “Raoul. Sorry; habit.”

He stiffened. “So whenever I grumble you automatically agree with ‘yes, master’?”

“No, more I have fourteen years of calling you that; I have barely used your name. My wits are rather scattered.” She kissed the tip of his nose and said dryly, “I blame you for that.”






The irony was not lost on Fulk, far from it. He had paid to get a kind of peace but instead he had ended up with a new variety of torment. He rolled over onto his back and flung an arm across his eyes. It had all sounded so simple and sensible before, so easy too.

He had followed a recommendation from several other knights; he had allowed their words to unpick his reservations, if he was honest with himself he had not made it too difficult for them to persuade him. The king only allowed licensed brothels in the town outside so he could flesh out his treasury on the fees; they were inspected by a possibly lucky official every month to ensure the workers were healthy. He was alone, had no commitments and did not want to get entangled with another woman. It was perfectly normal to have urges and to satisfy them in this way instead of limiting himself to self gratification; in fact it was actually a good deal less degrading to aim his passions at a woman instead, even if she was paid for the privilege. He had a nice empty few hours in his day. He had the money and status to go to a nice place instead of some fetid pit. Anyone who might be upset, for example a certain princess who was no longer interested in him anyway, would never find out.

The recommendation had been honest; the establishment, with its ridiculous name of The Garden of Flowers, had been clean and Ermesinde has been every bit as good as her collection of adoring devotees had said. Fulk dragged his arm away from his face and let it drop onto the covers. So simple, so easy; he had no reason to feel bad. Problem was he did - he felt terrible.

Men who went to brothels, in his mind, were pathetic creatures unable to get within three feet of any women without flashing a handful of money. They were probably mostly clueless as to what they were doing and entirely selfish lovers. They liked to think they were good though, which is why they paid someone to pretend they were. Blind fools that they were they reduced something very special down to a physical process about as exceptional as scratching a flea bite, removing any deeper meaning and losing half the fun in the process. They had more money than sense. They were essentially pathetic, pitiable, contemptible creatures. Now he’d sunk to their level.

Restlessly he shifted onto his side. A short while later he moved to his other side, then returned to lying on his back. He would go to confession, do his penance, and never make this mistake again. He moved again, still restless. It was worse than that, worse in a way he could never share with another soul, not even in the sanctity of confession. No one could absolve him of this second sin; few would even understand it, but it was the one which weighed heaviest on his mind.

For the first time in his life he had got the name wrong, and since there was absolutely no romance involved this time it would have been infinitely better to say nothing at all. He certainly hadn’t intended to; it had been an accident. Eleanor was a common name; many parents had named their daughters in honour of the youngest princess. Anyone who knew who he was would have no trouble guessing he referred to the original, not one of the many namesakes. This time it was unlikely to do any harm, but in the future? Was he going to spend the rest of his life worrying about gasping “Eleanor” at rather delicate moments? Probably; he still worried endlessly because of his one mistake with Maude.

Fulk rolled onto his front and dragged his pillow over his head, stopping his ears and trying to smother the nagging voice suggesting his crime was even worse that he had admitted. He’d dragged something pure into a brothel and defiled it.






Simon scrubbed his iron stained hands on the skirt of his tunic and answered the door. Fulk didn’t look up from sharpening his sword until he heard a woman’s voice say, “Hello.” Godit. Fulk put the weapon to one side, stood up and jerked a thumb at the door, indicating his squire should make himself scarce. Simon ran off, only just taking time to close the door behind himself. Godit filled the expectant silence, “The boy wanted to be a monk, you know? He begged and begged but his father was adamant; even though he is the third son he would bring more to the family as a knight than as a priest.”

“No, I didn’t know that. He doesn’t talk much.”

“Ah, well his old lord hated chatter from the lad; he was a bit ruthless too. I’d guess Simon learned to keep his mouth shut for his own sake, but he used to talk more and I’ve picked up what he said from others. Mind you, Sir Godfrey was so often drunk I doubt he knew what a morning without a hangover looked like, and when you feel that bad noisy boys are God’s own punishment for your sins. Before you ask, yes that does mean I have been drunk, and no it does not make me immoral despite it being something gently reared noblewomen like myself are supposed to avoid. And anyway, it was only mildly drunk, just enough to give me a pounding headache the next day, and it was on a feast day too and so practically good manners. Don’t allow me to give you the wrong image of our dead knight; he was ferocious in combat and skilled as any other in the king’s service. Probably because of his hangovers; passing on the pain or something.” She peered at Fulk and said, “You do look a little worn; are you sleeping badly? Or ill?”

“Restless night.”

“Really? I won’t ask why. Sometimes my generosity and kindness astonish even me.” She helped herself to a seat on his vacated stool in the middle of the orderly disruption caused by laying out every single piece of Fulk’s armour and weaponry for inspection, maintenance and cleaning. “Dear, dear, I do seem to have interrupted something. I do hope you are not doing all this solely because of the war in France?”

Not wishing to tower over her and set an intimidating atmosphere Fulk seated himself on his bed and leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “I have been summoned to fight.”

She replied cheerily, “No you haven’t.”

“I have,” repeated Fulk.

“I’m afraid you haven’t, sorry. Change of plan.”

“What?” He’d not been looking forward to the channel crossings at all but the trip had promised a distraction from the turn his life had taken recently.

She crossed her legs at the knee and carefully rearranged her skirts so they fell to hide her ankles again. Then she looped her hands about her upraised knee, assuming a storyteller’s pose. “I shall take that as a polite invitation for me to tell you my wonderful story of self-sacrifice and stuff. The queen does not wish you to go; she wants you to stay here. She told me to arrange it. You have no idea how I had to do that, no idea at all and I do hope you are grateful, and the queen too.” She smiled sheepishly. “Well, I also hope you don’t mind the other aspect of what I did too or things may get a little awkward.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What are you talking about?” he demanded wearily.

“Well, you know how the queen is supposedly pushing us together and we are mildly playing along? But not too much? Only a little; polite friends, harmless stuff type playing along? Well, I had to tell the marshal I didn’t want you to leave for personal reasons. Worse; I had to mention a lot of stuff about not wanting to lose you to death or maiming and of being afraid you’d pick up a liking for some camp slut or other if away from me. If that does not make me look insecure nothing will. I even ended up including a bit about being terrified of your handsome face being ruined somehow! Can you imagine how shallow that made me sound? It also cost me eleven shillings as a bribe; good thing he didn’t try for something a bit more … intangible to turn his mind or I would have had no choice but to create on heck of a fuss and fail my queen. Most fortunately for my limited means the queen will give me the money back, thank heaven, but I’m afraid I now have to fling myself at you quite a bit. My poor, poor reputation!” she complained gleefully with a dimpled smile. “You’d better appreciate this – if I’m supposedly madly infatuated with you I can hardly keep playing with anybody else now, can I? Quite the setback to my husband hunting.”

“But-”

“The queen doesn’t want you to go because of the upcoming royal wedding; your Eleanor is going to get married at the church door here instead of elsewhere. So far as I can gather from the early plans the ceremony is going to be an echo of their betrothal, minus the bride being half dead, I do most fervently hope and pray. For some reason the queen seems to think you want to watch your dear love marrying someone else. I told her how cruel it was, we all did, but no, she would not listen no matter how we put it. She still thinks true love will conquer all. It won’t, of course. Doesn’t do you much good though, does it?” she enquired, a rhetorical question loaded with sympathy. “As for me, well I plan to keep on working on you until I either get bored and give up or get some success.” She winked at him. “Don’t worry; if I get some success I promise not to drop you unless you turn out to be rather different than you appear. It’s the one part of the queen’s plan I like. It can’t do either of us any harm; it might even do you some good. You’re under no obligation though, but if you want to join in I certainly will not complain, and as I said before I do have designs on snaring a very nice husband and you would be very suitable, I think.”

Fulk went back to the most important bits of the deluge of information she had just given him. “So I’m not going to France?”

“No.”

“Because of the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“And you are going to keep harrying me?”

“Of course! That one goes without saying.”

“And this is supposed to be good news?”

“I think so, but you can make up your own mind about the part involving me chasing you.” She toyed with one of the buttons shaping her sleeve tightly to her lower arm and studied it intensely as she added in a meek little voice, “I promise not to sulk if you say you are not interested again.” Her eyes flicked upwards to study him coyly from under her lashes.

Fulk muttered to himself, “Why does someone somewhere with control over my fate love kicking mud in my face?”

Godit had good hearing and was happy to prove it. “No idea, but am I included in the mud part or can I instead say I’m going to mop said mud off you tenderly?”

“You’re relentless!”

“I know, but really I can’t help it.”

“You barely even know me,” he said quietly.

Godit ticked off points on her fingers. “Handsome, a knight, landed, in royal service in the king’s elite unit, literate and well educated, excellent kisser, decent enough person and I like spending time with you – that sounds very good to me. Well, I shall keep on trying to mend your poor heart and being the shameless flirt I am I will continue to play with you in the hopes that one day you might find you have fallen for me instead. If not, well I do like to have a mission and I have already said I will sort you out.”

Fulk was very tempted to squeak “Help!” Instead he said seriously, “I told you before, I am not interested in starting another relationship now.”

“And I told you that was not entirely what I was trying to do. For such a cute man you are remarkably stupid sometimes.”

That sounded almost like something Eleanor would say; Fulk found himself smiling slightly. “I don’t want you to-”

Quick as anything she interrupted with, “Hope for something I’m not going to get, end up broken hearted and crying, or get taken advantage of because of my appalling naiveté? After all I am so stupid I think that kiss was for me, not stolen from someone else. Oh deary, deary me! Now I know the truth the world is going to end and I shall drown myself in a millpond because of the horrific disappointment! Quite insulting of you, really. But don’t worry; I forgive you. I’m so kind like that.” She stood up. “I need to get back to the queen; I shall see you at dinner.”






William lowered himself onto the stone bench in the royal garden; he had taken this brief opportunity to speak to his son alone of a small collection of delicate matters. “I am leaving you in charge while I am away.”

Hugh remained standing dutifully before his father, his posture stiff and his thumbs hooked through his belt in an attempt to look relaxed. It only served to make him look strained. He’d never got the hang of relaxation, always too concerned about maintaining a dignified royal appearance. “Yes, father. I shall do my utmost to prove myself worthy of your trust.”

“I do not just refer to the realm; I also mean your sister.”

“You anticipate further trouble?”

“When dealing with the brat it is wise to assume there will be plenty of trouble before you even begin. This way you are never surprised.” Generously, and to arm his son all the better, he added, “Well, except for those much too rare times where she actually does what you want her to.” His face creased and he drummed his fingers on the hilt of his dagger. “And the times where she manages to go in an entirely unexpected direction with her resistance; that too is surprising, but in a slightly different way.”

“So it is fair for me to say that you expect her to revolt at this marriage once again? Despite your spymaster stating she had grown reconciled to the idea, and my own witnessing her behaving in a most disgracefully intimate way with the man?”

“Yes, that is right. I will not be here to … ensure things flow smoothly; that burden falls on you too. I have spoken with Anne; she will do what she can in a peaceful direction. The rest is in your hands.”

“Father?”

“You will inherit control over her in the event of my death; I am lending you those rights early, just for the duration of my absence. Remember also she is a special case; I have had it written into the betrothal contract and into a separate contract, both of which Trempwick has put his seal to, that I do not and will not relinquish any of my rights to her. If she proves troublesome after the wedding and Trempwick will not deal with it then you must.”

“I will not let her disgrace our family, father,” swore Hugh gravely. “I do not approve of this match, the spymaster is far beneath her, but I swear I shall see them married as you wish.”

“I presume I do not need to tell you exactly what to do?”

The prince’s jaw clenched then relaxed as he consciously quashed his irritation. “I would be most ignorant if I had need of telling what to do.”

“Yes. None the less you would do well to remember what I have told you of your sister; she is not going to crumble into tearful surrender if you slap her, and she is very intelligent, despite how stupid she may seem on occasion.”

“I know, father,” said Hugh stiffly, “if you will forgive my rudeness in passing over your wisdom in this way. Your advice I have taken to heart previously, and I feel that there is no need for you to concern yourself in this taxing time over a detail that is already well in hand. I would request you put this transfer of power into writing and affix your seal to it; she may contest this and I think it most wise to counter this potential problem long before it can prove disquieting.”

“So be it. I am also leaving Anne in your care. I have made you familiar with my desires for her while I am away, and I have also shown you my will towards her in the event of my death. I am charging you to take care of her, as if she were your own daughter. Swear that to me.”

Hugh knelt on the ground and put his hands in William’s. “I swear on my honour and my immortal soul I shall care for your wife as if she were my own daughter. She will be treated with all honour, and her rights and interests will be protected in the event of your death, even against myself.”

“Thank you; that sets my mind at ease.” He released his son’s hands and let him stand once more. “One final thing, from a hopeful grandfather. How is your wife, and the baby?”

“Still well; both midwives and physicians agree on this.” Hugh frowned and hesitantly confessed, “Constance’s mood is still varying both suddenly and bafflingly; I confess I really do not understand her. One moment she is happy, the next sobbing her eyes out at some imagined grief. Then she is sick again. I do not know what to do.”

William grinned, lost in fond memories of Joanna’s pregnancies. “Perfectly normal, and it wears off about the point you think you will tear your hair out. Just be supporting, indulgent and caring.”

Hugh’s brow creased and for a instant William thought his son would ask for advice on how to do that too, but in the end he nodded thoughtfully. William released a mental sigh of relief; Hugh all too often confused emotional tranquillity with self control and denying his feelings with keeping a clear mind. He was not the best of people to provide emotional support.





:goes nauseated frog green: Blergh! I’m sure you are familiar enough with my grumbling to guess exactly what I am referring to, saving me the effort of constructing a “Gah! Mush!” rant :p






Two chapters, even the second is several days late.

Eleanor spun on her heel, aimed and threw both knives, her left hand working a split second behind her right for maximum effect. The instant her hands were empty she was reaching for her hairpins. She drew one and threw while still working the second free. As the second sailed through the air she was pulling out the third, and before that one hit the target she had the last pin free and the throwing motion begun. Her hair tumbled free, the two braids falling to land behind her back without obscuring her vision. It had taken her a long time to learn to do that, to let her hair down so rapidly without blinding herself.

She paused for a moment, letting things settle. On checking the target she had placed on top of a chest and leaned against the wall she found exactly what she had expected – the two knives with their points sunk deep into the centre of the wooden board surrounded by a halo of hairpins. Stationary targets were so easy as to be pointless; only moving targets presented an acceptable challenge. She worked the knives free first and returned them to the sheathes fastened to her forearms. The hairpins she gathered into a bundle and put to one side; she could not pin her own hair up in any satisfactory manner. Using that as an excuse she pulled her braids undone too, ruining Trempwick’s latest effort at taming her hair in much less time than it had taken to fasten it up.

Eleanor went through a few more practise throws with her knives before giving up, too bored with the exercise she had mastered over a decade ago. She flicked her right knife up and down a few times, throwing it up so it spun around and landed with the hilt in the palm of her hand again, another simple exercise while she thought. With a hitch of her left shoulder she made up her mind and began to juggle her knives while whistling a disgustingly cheerful song like a player at a fair. It was not long before she lost interest in this too and the two knives went flying to the target once again.

This time Eleanor did not retrieve them; she sat down heavily on her bed and looked about her room for something else to do to pass the time. Her bedchamber had never been a great source of activity and now it was even more pitiful than it had been before; many of her things had been moved up to Trempwick’s room. The items which remained were either furniture or somehow dangerous, such as her stash of poisons and drugs. The room felt empty now, not because her clothing chests were now empty and her comb had been moved to another room but because Fulk’s pallet and blankets was gone, along with his bags of belongings.

Eleanor lay back on the mattress and clasped her hands over her midriff, staring up at the ceiling and thinking. She could only pick over old thoughts yet again and listen to the rain pattering against the building but anything to pass the lonely hours was welcome.

The daylight was just beginning to dim indicating it was about four o’clock when someone rapped on the door. Whoever it was didn’t wait for a response; the door opened. Trempwick. Eleanor sat up quickly. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your company? It is not yet midnight.”

“You know the French situation keeps me busy. Or rather it should have … I found my mind kept returning to last night.” Trempwick dithered for a second, then dropped to one knee before her, bringing his face level with hers. He bowed his head marginally. “Forgive me. I ignored your very clearly stated wishes and generally let my passions get the better of me. I was not very considerate and I did not give a very good account of myself, although perhaps that was for the better – you kept your senses when I did not. I promise this, any of it, will not happen again. I know you prefer something more tender than …”

“Being bowled over by a lust struck spymaster?” suggested Eleanor.

Trempwick’s head bobbed back down again, but not before Eleanor saw the beginnings of a very faint blush. “Yes.” Rather defensively he added, “I can do a lot better than that, as you know. It is hard to be patient when full of pent up ardour. Many would find someone more accommodating; I promised I would honour you. This one time I let my control slip, unintentionally.”

“Oh,” she said tonelessly. After a bit she added with a slight frown, “Interesting triple bind I am caught in; give in, watch as you go wandering, or keep on risking you going barmy again.” And a little later. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“But you are not,” said Trempwick perceptively. He clambered to his feet and sat next to her on the bed, claiming her hand to press a kiss into her palm.

“Well …” Eleanor’s face scrunched up. “It is so absurd!”

Trempwick laughed. “Dearest Nell, there are many women out in the world who dedicate considerable effort to gaining the kind of hold you have on me.”

“The absurdity is in me having the stranglehold on your unmentionables; it is not something I ever considered. Oh well, I shall not look a gift horse in the mouth - there is a lot to be said for devoted, love struck males; they do have their uses.”

Trempwick crossed himself. “Oh Jesú! Now she begins to understand what power she has!”

“Alas, at some point you either have to give in or watch your pet go feral; the game cannot be kept up indefinitely.” She sniffed and said seriously, “I suppose I forgive you, although next time I will not.” She brushed some invisible dust off her dress. “Now, how are you planning to make up for your neglect?”

“Ah.” His mood became more gloomy and he stooped playing with her fingers. “I thought to leave that until after the French situation calmed, pay off my entire debt in one go.”

“I shall charge interest.”

“Dearest Nell, good Christians are forbidden from such practises!”

“I am not lending money, merely slowly growing more wrathful as time goes by.”

“Forgive thine enemy?”

“Are you my enemy?” Eleanor looked at him sidelong from under her eyelashes.

Trempwick brushed her check with one hand, encouraging her to look at him. When she did he gathered up her other hand in his spare one and met her gaze openly. “Never.”

“I should hope not.” She leaned forward and kissed him gently. “I rather like having a pet spymaster.”

Mid morning, the tenth of February. Eleanor found herself resentfully waiting just inside the manor’s door for Trempwick to get back with his mother. Aveline had disdained travelling late into the evening to get to Woburn yesterday, causing quite a bit of muttering from Trempwick. Eleanor could not quite see why he had been so upset; Aveline was not young any more and she must have been travelling hard to get here even this soon. Perhaps the difference was that Eleanor was dreading the older woman’s arrival for the problems it would bring; Trempwick would have very little part in them.

The party rode into the courtyard over half an hour later than she had expected; Trempwick, his mother and her maid, Juliana. Reminding herself of several pertinent facts, including her private vow to become a dutiful wife, Eleanor pasted a polite smile on her face and launched out to meet them, dropping her usual stride for a more demure step. She stood quietly as they dismounted, waiting to greet them with her eyes downcast.

“Welcome back,” she said to Trempwick as he came to her side and pressed a quick kiss to her temple. In the bright daylight Eleanor noticed just how tired and worn he looked now; the late nights and long days were beginning to tell in the dark smudges under his eyes and the drooping eyelids.

“Impressive,” he breathed, lingering with what must look like undue affection to his audience. “Keep this up for half an hour without wavering and I shall buy you a new dress.”

Eleanor smiled minutely and said in a quiet voice meant to be overheard, “You are too kind, Raoul. But surely you should attend to your lady mother?” More secretively she added, “Silk; I shall have earned it.”

“You drive a hard bargain, beloved Nell. Done.” With one final kiss he left her with a show of reluctance to help the two women down from their horses.

No sooner had Aveline’s feet touched the ground than she strode over to inspect Eleanor. Eleanor held her decorous attitude with significantly less effort than she had expected, however she did flick her eyes back up to meet Trempwick’s mother’s. She knew exactly what the other would see; her neat clothes would pass muster but her loose hair would draw comment. Sure enough Aveline said archly, “Well, you have managed to improve matters, Raoul, although still much remains to be done.”

Trempwick immediately crossed back to Eleanor’s side, saying, “All I have done is what I wished to do from the start – take care of her. Propriety forbade it before but not now.”

Aveline sniffed. “Propriety – how can it be propriety with her hair like that? She looks like she just escaped from something carnal!”

“Mother!” grumbled Trempwick. He slipped an arm tenderly about Eleanor’s waist, looked down at her and then back to his mother with a faintly challenging air. “I do Nell’s hair myself; she has no maid and nor is there space for one in our lives. It might please your sense of propriety to find I have very little idea of how to pin up a woman’s hair; even braids fall to bits on me after a short time. I am learning. Today’s effort fell to bits just as I was leaving.”

“While we are here Juliana will take over,” decided Aveline. She cast a searching glare over princess and spymaster as if to observe every part of their reactions.

Eleanor kept her peace with some difficulty. Trempwick smiled easily and said, “She can teach me at the same time. I am a quick study, as I am sure you will remember, mother dear.”

“I thought you might like to explain why you have dragged me here again, Raoul. That would be a better use of your time than playing with hair.”

“Nell has been summoned to the palace before our wedding.”

Aveline squinted suspiciously at Eleanor. “She has not revived her foolish protests again, has she?”

Nettled into action Eleanor indignantly declared, “No I have not!”

“Oh, incensed now are we? Why? You surely made enough fuss before, and made it very clear my son was not good enough for you. Are you claiming to love him now?”

“I am growing to.”

Once again Trempwick came to Eleanor’s rescue. “Really mother I would have thought that was quite obvious from Nell’s welcome?”

Aveline just grunted, ungracious in defeat. “Well are we going to stand out here all day or do you have the manners to invite me in?” she demanded querulously.

Eleanor said civilly, “Forgive me. Please, step inside. The servants have mulled wine ready for you if you wish for some.”

Aveline grunted again. “I should hope so; basic manners is that.”

“Yes.” Basic but it had taken her many long minutes of fighting with the servants to arrange; in the end she had had to ask if they wanted to disgrace their master’s name and hospitality merely to carry on their grudge with her. Begging almost, and it really galled. Belatedly noticing no one had helped the maid down, just like at Christmas, Eleanor said, “What of your maid?”

Aveline turned around and fixed a vicious glare on the poor girl. “Well, get down! We do not have all day.”

“I could help,” suggested Trempwick, taking one step in the direction of the girl on the horse.

Aveline snapped, “I think not. Let the little fool manage on her own.”

Eleanor was astonished to see the spymaster obeyed his mother and let the maid dismount on her own. Juliana was obviously unused to riding, let alone dismounting from a side saddle without help; she landed very awkwardly and twisted her ankle. Half her skirt was still caught up on the saddle’s pommel. Trempwick averted his gaze and said drolly, “Well, now perhaps you are satisfied, mother dear? Quite the view.”

Aveline’s hand shot out and cuffed him on the ear. “Men!” she proclaimed with palpable disgust. Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek and battled the laughter threatening to escape. Aveline swung around on her. “Laugh while you can; it won’t keep.”

Trempwick bypassed his mother and put an arm around Eleanor again. “And now perhaps we can go inside? Unless my mother has more entertainment planned?” He began walking, pulling Eleanor along with him without waiting for Aveline’s response.

Trempwick took Eleanor and his mother to the solar where the mulled wine awaited. Aveline made a beeline for one of the two chairs and moved it closer to the fire. She seated herself with a few inches of empty air between her spine, which she kept as straight as a lance, and the back of the chair as if leaning back a little was a kind of unforgivable degeneracy. She fixed the princess and the spymaster with her formidable gaze and waited to see what they would make of the solitary remaining chair. Trempwick sat down, and Aveline glowed with approval. Her glow soon frosted over when her son gently pulled Eleanor over to sit on his knee. “For shame, Raoul,” she complained quietly.

Trempwick only pulled Eleanor closer. “Really mother I do not understand your difficulty; Nell and I are betrothed and we are chaperoned by your good self.” Because of her proximity Eleanor noticed Trempwick’s throat strain slightly as he smothered a yawn. He blinked rapidly a few times, water building up in the outer corners of his eyes because of the yawn. He look so vulnerable for once; Eleanor felt a spark of pity.

“You know very well what I meant,” she replied softly. There was a glint of steel in her words.

Trempwick’s grip on Eleanor tightened enough to be uncomfortable. “I know you are a cantankerous old crone and I will not tolerate it. Be civil or be silent.”

“My darling son,” stated Aveline bitterly. “I hope your children have a little more respect for their mother, Eleanor.”

Trempwick sat bolt upright; his face went white and his brows locked together. “I told you I am not going to risk her life like that; I told you!” He spat those last three words slowly and deliberately. “Work that fact into your thick skull – no grandchildren. Not even bastards. Not even the thought of brats in any form. Not even the desire to be a father. Stop pestering me on the matter. I am sick to the back teeth of it!”

The old woman simmered, taking a long time to think up her retort and ending up using a stock one. “Well at least then she will still be alive; there is no glory or use in a dead wife no matter what her bloodlines. Those hips are pitiful and she is so dainty I really doubt the baby could be born alive; it takes hours to die like that, you know, and the midwives can’t cut the mother open until she is dead. You would be burying the pair of them.”

Trempwick sat back, outwardly calm but Eleanor could feel his muscles still tense and hard beneath his clothes. “I spend hour upon hour slaving away to serve my king in this time of crisis, neglecting my love and my life, and now - the first few daylight hours I have not spent working in six days - I have to deal with this. Very well, mother dear. If you cannot conduct civil conversation we will advance to business; the whys and wherefores of this testing little visit.”

“And while we talk your princess can have her hair sorted out by Juliana. I will not share a room with such licentiousness and it is most unfitting for a princess, a dignified noblewoman, or indeed your bride. If it were her wedding day it would be another matter and entirely fitting and proper, but it is not and so it is shocking.”

Trempwick rolled his eyes and let his breath drain away in a long sigh. Eleanor could feel him gathering himself for another round of arguing. Quickly she interjected, “No, it is alright. I will go. It will not take long.”

He kissed her gratefully and murmured in her ear, “Don’t hurry back; take the chance to escape.”

Safely out of the room Eleanor paused at the closed door for a few seconds. She heard the hum of conversation pick up again, Trempwick talking with the occasional brief interjection from his mother. She could not even pick out individual words let alone content through the thick wood of the door so she soon lost interest and went to find the maid.

Juliana had come to rest in the main hall next to her mistress’s baggage. She was busy imploring Trempwick’s steward for help in carrying it all up to wherever Aveline was going to be sleeping. Edward was as useful as ever; not at all. He refused to even tell the poor girl which room Aveline would be in.

Eleanor joined in without breaking her stride, calling across the hall, “Is this how you treat your lord’s guests, Edward?”

“It’s how I treat those that barge in and start making demands with no right.”

Eleanor said to Juliana, “You will be staying in my old room.” Top Edward again, “Take the baggage up to the room or arrange for someone else to do it.”

“I don’t take orders from you, and no matter how much you bat your eyelashes at the master you won’t talk him into getting rid of me either.” He sneered and started to walk away, calling over his shoulder, “You want stuff moved? Move it yourself, Princess Idlebones.”

“You are going to let him get away with that?” gasped Juliana, horrified.

For a few seconds Eleanor allowed herself the luxury of thinking some very unregal words. Feeling a very little bit better she shunted those thoughts aside and admitted, “I really have no choice.” Eleanor picked up the two lightest looking bags. “Come on, you take whatever you can carry. You also need to do something with my hair before your mistress will deign to allow me back in her presence.”

Juliana grabbed another two bags and followed after Eleanor as she led the way up the stairs to her room. She did not really want the miserable old woman occupying what used to be her bed but unless she absconded from Trempwick’s bed and returned to her own there was no excuse to make Aveline sleep on a pallet on the floor this time. It would only be for two nights.

On reaching her room Eleanor dumped the bags none too gently in a corner. “Your mistress seems very angry with you,” she said to the maid.

Juliana wouldn’t meet Eleanor’s eyes and she flushed as she placed her own burden down in the corner. “Oh no, not with me, your highness.

“Then what? She takes it out on you.”

The maid become even more uncomfortable and her answer was very reluctant, “With her helplessness, your highness. Forgive me but I should say no more; I have already said more than I ought. I’m no gossip.”

“Perhaps you are right, she is certainly giving her son hell, so it is not specific to you.”

“Really?” asked Juliana quickly. She turned hurriedly away and began to look through one of the bags, hers presumably. “Oh dear; the trip out here has done her no good, I fear.” She stood up again. “I can’t find a comb; we shall have to use yours. Oh, and we need your hairpins too, your highness.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes at the scatterbrained stupidity of the girl; the need for Eleanor’s comb and pins was incredibly obvious. She fetched the necessary items from Trempwick’s room and sat down so the maid could go to work.

Juliana worked in silence for a time, then shyly asked, “Do you mind if I ask a question, your highness?”

“Go on.”

“Your bodyguard, is he still about?”

“No, he left when my brother visited.” In several more hours it would be sixteen days exactly since Fulk had ridden out the main gate. It felt much longer. He hadn’t even looked back.

“Thank you, your highness,” replied Juliana meekly.

“Raoul found him a position in the king’s household.”

“That was very good of him.”

Eleanor did not reply; she was not at all convinced she could keep her voice suitably careless sounding. After a while she noticed Juliana was still combing away at the same spot she had begun on even though it was now completely tangle free. Eleanor turned to see what the maid was doing and found her staring off into space with a faraway expression on her face and a slight tinge of colour in her cheeks.

Juliana woke from her daydream when the comb ran over Eleanor’s ear. “Oh! I’m so sorry, your highness!”

“Forget it,” Eleanor told her. She turned back around to let the maid continue her work. Eleanor had not really seen that particular expression before but she could put in a very good guess as to what prompted it; she was positive she had picked up a similar look the few times she had thought about a certain someone and really let her guard down. Juliana had a crush on someone, very possibly Fulk.






When Eleanor returned to the solar Trempwick and Aveline were talking civilly enough, although their conversation cut off the moment the door began to open. Trempwick extended a hand to her, indicating she should return to sitting with him. “Very nice,” he said of her new hairdo.

Aveline managed to sound disapproving as she agreed, “Yes, much more fitting.”

Eleanor sat back down on Trempwick’s knee and he wrapped his arms around her. “Sweet Nell, you remember my promise to teach you everything you should know about being a duchess?”

“Yes,” said Eleanor warily.

“And you know how currently I do not even have time to eat unless I am working?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my mother has agreed to step in and educate you. Truth be told she is far more knowledgeable than I in these areas, and there are some things I cannot teach you.” There was a very difficult silence as Eleanor fought the self preservation instinct which demanded she scream and run away as fast as she could. Encouragingly Trempwick said, “You will be spending a lot of time with each other anyway, and my mother’s offer is generous. The lessons also give you that excuse to avoid your family that you were desperate for. She can teach much that I cannot,” he repeated again, stressing that one point as if it made the whole thing tolerable.

Aveline rested one hand on the end of each arm of her chair, her bony fingers curling around the wood like talons. “Oh yes, I am sure I can soon whip her into shape.”

“Figuratively speaking, mother.” He smothered another yawn.

“Of course,” she replied impatiently. Her voice softened to that not unkind tone Eleanor remembered her using a few times with Anne, “There is much you need to know, things you should already have been told but clearly have not. Better you hear from a friendly source then find out to your cost later.”

Trempwick smiled brightly. “Well, there you are then. Settled.”

Eleanor finally found her voice. “Oh. Um … good?”

Trempwick shooed Eleanor off his lap and stood up. He gave her a quick kiss and then declared, “Well, now this is all settled I will return to my work.” He exited with just a hint of a swagger, a man who considered his job well done and the world set to rights by his actions.

Eleanor stared after him. A hint of what she was thinking must have shown through because Aveline said, “I can hardly say I am best pleased to be spending so much of my time with you either; I doubt you will pay much attention, and doubtless you will continue to go your own sweet way regardless of what is proper, seemly, fitting or dignified. You know better than us all, being so old and wise and all. After all your elders and betters never did a thing in their lives, and nor did their parents and their parents, and so on back. You are the first person to ever really live, and so you know best.”

“That is not what I think.”

“Ha! Could have fooled me. So what do you think then?”

“I want some say in my life, and I want to use my brain and do something more than play boring proper princess.”

“Oh yes? Happy, are you? As a murderer?” Eleanor’s silence was its own answer. “Happy with my son, are you?”

“Yes,” acceded Eleanor grudgingly.

“And was that your choice? Or did it perhaps come from those older and wiser than you?”

Eleanor countered, “You chose your second husband, and by all accounts you did far better with him than with your family’s choice.”

“Yes, because I knew how to choose by that point, thanks to my family’s efforts and my first husband. So bend that stiff neck of yours, shut up and actually listen for once in your life.”

“I am not going to sit around doing needlework and chattering about babies and how cute the new squire is with a pack of maids!”

“Whoever said you were? You can manage the agent part of what Raoul wants from you; I have to somehow equip you for the wife part.”

“I really do not think-”

“Believe me when I say that is quite apparent!” interrupted Aveline stridently. “This has got nothing to do with dancing or table manners and everything to do with taking that control over your life you so desperately crave. You want to be dependant on Raoul for money and on your stewards to run your estates? Perhaps you want to be like my maid; so useless she can’t even get off her horse without help?”

“Of course not.”

“Then shut up and learn for once in your life.”

In the folds of her skirts Eleanor balled her hands up into fists with frustration. “I already said I wanted to learn those things – Raoul has been teaching me. You are the one who diverted the topic from that! And you will not say I have not learned – I have. Plenty. Although much of it so unorthodox you have no inkling of its existence; your ignorance, not mine.”

“So you are proud of your ability to murder? I expected better of you, though I do not know why. I see you never did learn to control your temper much.”

Eleanor applied a little control, unclenched her fists, regained the calm she had foolishly allowed to slip under the old woman’s malice and said, “You are fortunately wrong about my temper.”

“Oh yes? So why are you all angry now? Spitting fire, or trying.”

“How about we speak of you and your temper?” she suggested evenly. “You are always angry and you always target that anger onto others in an effort to make them play your games. Perhaps it makes you feel important? Or perhaps it is the only way you can get any real feeling from people? Not managing love and so trying for hate instead; that is a deep feeling, after all.”

“Besides the point!” declared Aveline loudly. “Raoul wants you to learn and so learn you will, though neither of us are happy with it. I assume you have a basic knowledge of numbers?”

“Of course, also a more advanced knowledge. I can also read and write fluently in English, Latin, langue d’oil, langue d’oc, Welsh, and Raoul’s own preferred code. Will that be quite sufficient?”

“Then we shall begin with accounting. The more advanced subjects can wait until you are less stubborn and more inclined to listen, if such a day ever dawns.” Aveline smiled, a mix between gloating and pitying bitterness. “You will learn those parts eventually, though not necessarily kindly.”






“Convent,” mumbled Trempwick as he crawled into bed very late that night.

“Convent what?” Woken up in the middle of the night yet again Eleanor’s eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. It suddenly occurred to her that she probably looked a little the worse for wear too. She would have to see if she could find a mirror tomorrow; Aveline must have one, no one else in the manor did. She rolled over to face him and pulled the blankets up to her ears, fighting the temptation to ignore him and go back to sleep.

“My mother can retire to a convent and complain to God instead of us. Doubt she will take vows but as a guest she will still be out of our lives.”
“If she is complaining to God we had best start praying He ignores her or we will find ourselves struck down,” joked Eleanor. She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand.

“With luck He might flatten her with a lightning bolt to shut her up. I know I would if I had the power.”

Eleanor quoted sleepily, “Honour thy father and thy mother.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Why were you so late back this morning? Trouble?”

“They were not ready to go when I met them; still faffing about with how they looked. Then it took a time to make my mother see sense; she was determined to bring the rest of her party along instead of leaving them in the village. Then she wanted a drink. Then she wanted to use the privy. Then the weather was colder than expected so she needed her warmer mantle. Then the blue of her mantle clashed with the yellow of her dress and so she must change to the blue she arrived in. Darling Nell, please forgive me and know you are not included when I say women are enough to drive any sane man mad!”

“Speaking of clothes, did I earn my silk?”

“Yes,” sighed Trempwick, “you did. My poor, brave Nell, I am quite proud of you. One day down, eight to go, and that is assuming I send her packing at our wedding feast.”

Trempwick was so tired Eleanor felt guilty for pestering him on a rather trivial matter, and she did not like that she had to go crawling to him for help yet again, but there was no help for it. “Your servants … they still will not take orders from me. They are downright rude, even in front of guests. They know I am powerless and that you will not sack any more of them, and they exploit that. Short of stabbing the next servant to defy me there is nothing I can do to convince them to cooperate.”

“I will speak to Edward again,” promised Trempwick. He sounded more than half asleep now; Eleanor knew she wouldn’t get much more out of him before he fell into an exhausted slumber. “They see you as an outsider with no right to give orders; that will change the instant we are married. They are very loyal to me.”

“At least the cook has improved enough to produce decent food now, although your mother still complained all evening. She is going to take matters into her own hands tomorrow and knock him into shape too, she says.”

“Let me know if blood starts to flow, beloved Nell, otherwise leave her be. Actual literal blood, not proverbial.”





:thunder and lightning abounds. A silhouette of a medium height, slender woman in medieval clothes fills the open doorway. A little voice calls in a singsong way, “She’s back…”:

At the sound of his name William snapped awake, fully alert and already beginning to sit up, the reflexive action of a soldier and man used to disturbed nights. The source of the disturbance was easy to locate; Anne stood in the doorway between their rooms holding her night candle. It had burned down to just a waxy stub, promising only another half hour’s light at best. William said, “Tonight you cannot say my sneezing woke you, and it is not dawn yet.”

“No.” Her free hand toyed with the end of her very long plait; the motion caused the reddish gold highlights picked out by the light to shift and shiver restlessly. She gnawed at her bottom lip

“What can I do for you?”

After a little pause she said softly, “You leave tomorrow … today.”

“I know.” William blinked a few times to push back the sleepiness now catching back up with him.

“You will be gone for quite a long time.”

“No more than a month, I estimate.”

“And it is a war.”

“I keep telling you I will be perfectly safe.”

“It just seems … well, I have been curious about something for a while now but I never … you see I … well, I never quite manage…” She was beginning to blush, a pink stain slowly spreading from her cheekbones across much of her face. William found it quite adorable. “And tomorrow you are gone, and really it does have to be you and all, and if you are gone then I will just keep on wondering, and I never manage to pluck up the courage …” By now she was a fiery red to match her hair, and her voice was little more than a mumble that William had to strain to hear. “I was wondering … I want to know … that is … well, could you …” She took a very deep breath and said all in one indistinct rush, “I want to know what it is like to kiss someone. Properly.”

William’s mouth twitched into a smile; he quickly straightened his face so she would not think he was laughing at her. So that was why she had kept on looking at him with that assessing ‘do I, don’t I?’ expression for nearly a month!

Having managed to finally spit her request out Anne kept on gabbling, “I mean it always sounds so wonderful and everyone is always talking about how wonderful it is, and it looks rather like fun, sort of, and in stories it is always magical and really wonderful, and it is kind of sort of traditional and all since this is a war and you will be gone for a while and you say I am too young for more, and really I agree that it really would not be a very good idea, but I would like to say goodbye somehow.”

William had to work hard to keep another smile in check. “Well, you will have to come a bit closer; I can’t reach all the way over there.”






“What do you think?” inquired Godit, holding the length of pale orange silk up against her face and hair. “Will it do for a veil or is the colour all wrong for me? I think it must be; a pity as it’s really a pretty colour.”

Fulk managed no more than, “Erm …”

Godit pouted. “Typical male – can kill, ride, hunt, wrestle, look handsome, even read and sound intelligent, but can he give advice on clothes? No, course not. My mother was right, alas, it does appear. Men do have very limited uses, and when it comes to shopping those are just twofold – paying and carrying.”

The shop owner, a pinch-nosed old woman, sourly agreed, “Aye, my old man was the same, actually all three of them, and my sons too. Useless. Now me? I know my cloths and if I don’t know what suits and what doesn’t no one does, not in the whole of God’s pleasant earth. Do try this beautiful lawn …”

Lawn was, apparently, a kind of finely woven white linen. Fulk dolefully told himself that at least he’d learned new one thing, so the morning could not count as entirely wasted. The trick with Godit, he had steadily discovered, was to let her do all the talking; something which was not the least bit difficult as she was a one woman gossip ring. He just let her words flow over him in a pleasant hum, allowing and relying on his subconscious pick out bits and pieces that were noteworthy. That happened now; one fragment of that mostly ignored speech bubbled up in his consciousness. “Hold on – pay?”

Godit turned from her nattering with the merchant. “Oh don’t worry about that; stick with carrying. I’ve got money.”

Good, because Fulk had only brought a small handful of lesser value coins. Breathing a sigh of relief he once again let the discussion on various materials and colours pass right over him, along with the noise from the rest of the market.

One small eternity later Godit shoved a small roll of cloth into his hands. “Be a dear and carry this, please.”

Fulk looked at what she’d brought; the exactly same lawn she had been looking at in the beginning. He pulled a face; women, shopping and vanishing time, one of the great mysteries. He fell into step at her side, padding along with a resigned expression. “Where next?” She was leading him along the crooked street filled with cloth merchants, weavers and tailors towards the central square.

“Do you want to look for anything?” Godit’s brow creased. “What exactly do men buy anyway? Horses and weapons, usually. Very strange creatures, you men. I don’t see how you manage to ignore half the interesting stuff only to go for dumb animals and lumps of metal used to hit people. But no, I have seen, much to my great astonishment, great groups of men of all ages gathered about weapon sellers going on and on about the various merits of this sword or other, and how this pommel design is far superior to that one, and other such trivial nonsense. A sword’s a sword; you stab people with it and lop off limbs. One style works as well as another, and the things never look very pleasant, not at all, so discussions of the assorted beauties of blades are pointless, if you will pardon the pun.”

“One style of sword is very different to another, and it’s best to have a blade matched to your height, build and fighting style. There is plenty to talk about.”

Godit waved a hand in dismissal. “Boring! One stick shaped lump of metal is much the same as another.” She crinkled the tip of her nose and asked without trying to hide her complete disinterest, “So does that mean I have to stand about feeling like I’ve been abandoned while you go play with swords and gush about braided red leather binding on a hilt being the current fashion?” She looked at him hopefully, hazel eyes pleading for rescue from such a dread fate.

“No, there’s nothing I want in town.” As they walked along the street Fulk could hear shouting, and plenty of it. Nothing dangerous, but it did sound like something good was cracking off in the square.

Godit beamed with pleasure. “Excellent! I was so worried there for a moment. Well, we can go then; I only needed a new veil for posh occasions and I can tell you hate shopping.” She ignored Fulk’s polite, unconvincing claim that he didn’t mind shopping. “What shall we do next? I did promise to keep you occupied all day and it is probably no later than ten in the morning. Life! I promised life, laughter, fun, pleasant diversions, gentle relaxation, a chance to be more than a knight practising his fighting and looking woeful. I do wish I could tack love on that list somewhere but really I don’t want to be overly optimistic. I know; we can go for a nice walk away from both palace and town.” She glanced at the bundle he was carrying and suddenly grinned. “We’d best drop that back off in the palace first though; if somehow I do manage to coax another kiss from you I don’t want my material crushing or dropping on the ground. It would only get in the way anyway.”

“Er…”

They had reached the central square now, and the source of the uproar was clear. A fishmonger was currently enjoying the benefits of being stuck in the stocks with a pile of rancid fish burning next to him, warning everyone he had been convicted of selling rotten food. A group of apprentices were pelting him with rubbish while the prisoner cursed and threatened, futilely trying to dodge. The fishmonger’s woes were completed by a very loud woman with an exceedingly long and varied list of complaints; apparently the man’s wife. His life might be about to improve; her current spiel was on how she intended to take the children and go home to her parents right this afternoon and if she ever saw him again she would get creative with a frying pan. Every once in a while the man took a little time out from yelling at the apprentices to direct his torrent of abuse at the woman instead. Together they managed a blistering exchange of swear and curse words that Fulk found surprisingly educational. Godit’s ears began to burn a bright red, indicating the language lesson was even more enlightening for her.

At the other end of the stocks sat a beggar, hunched up with his chin propped on one hand, apparently an old hand at this business. Seeing Fulk’s eyes on him the beggar shrugged cheerfully, as if to say ‘that’s life, and better his life than mine!’ The fishmonger was doing an excellent job of drawing all the attention away from the beggar.

Godit only spoke up a little to make herself heard across the din; she didn’t pause at all, burning ears or no. “Actually that is a very good idea – a nice blanket and a basket of food. It’s very fortunate the weather is fine today, though it may get a little chilly. Never mind, just grab your warmest cloak and I’ll do likewise, and perhaps freezing has some potential advantages, such as a nice warming hug from a broken nosed knight.”

The crowed cheered and hooted as the wife dumped a bucket of decaying fish guts over her husband, spat at him and then began to flounce off. She wasn’t fast enough; the crowd jeered at her in her turn as the fishmonger hurled a handful of muck at her and hit her square in the back, and told her in no uncertain terms exactly what he thought of her, her family and her virtue.

“You are beyond relentless!” They began to make their way back up the street they had just walked down. Behind them Fulk could hear that the wife had gone back for more, armed with a marching tirade about his family and lack of ability in certain delicate areas.

“Persistence is its own reward, and she who dares wins.”






Not even an hour later Fulk found himself sat on a thick blanket with Godit on a grassy hill about twenty minutes walk from the palace, a basket with a picnic resting untouched at his side and a view of rolling, empty grassland with the palace slap bang in the middle right before his eyes. The distance reduced the people hurrying to and fro on the main road and castle walls to ants, but the palace itself still effortlessly managed to be imposing.

“It was a very nice speech he did, short and to the point with the right bit of inspirational quality. You know I’ve never seen a king march off to war before? It was really something, well worth seeing, but I doubt I’d share that opinion if you were leaving. It’s easy to see the glamour when you’re losing nothing. I did love that bit in the speech about how he was discharging his sacred duty as anointed king, not delegating because he loved his country too much to hand over its defence into another’s hands, and how he will only stop fighting to defend what God has given into his care when he is called to Paradise. It’s true you know; he’s never, not once, sat at home when there’s fighting to be done, no matter how minor. It’s one of the reasons his lords like him, I think. Fear him too; you know who’s going to turn up at your castle gate with an army and a battering ram looking for vengeance if you break faith. And where William goes much of his own army goes too, and you know he only accepts the best. The sight of men in his livery – and that includes you, Sir Fulk FitzWilliam! - is enough to make even Scotsmen discover the meaning of fear.”

“Even?” asked Fulk flippantly.

“Englishman!” Fulk saw the slap coming and rolled with it; his cheek was left stinging but he doubted the mark would last more than a few minutes.

His face split with a broad grin. “And proud of it.”

“I just did a great honour to you and yours and you respond by insulting me! Ignorant English pig! You’re all the same.”

“Makes me wonder why you’re looking to marry an Englishman then,” Fulk teased. “Go home; find yourself a nice Scotsman with a matching funny accent, red hair, and a beard like a bush.”

“Now there is the sole advantage you English have – you’re mostly properly shaved. Scotsmen? More hair than a flock of sheep, thanks to our king’s fondness for facial hair. I hope his successor changes the fashion. And we’re not the ones with the funny accents.”

“No?”

“No – that’s the Welsh.”

“Yes. Funny bunch, the Welsh.”

Godit nodded. “Mmmm. Very funny.” Silence held for a moment while they both considered the hapless Welsh. “Well,” she said brightly, “you’re only English but I like you. You’re bright enough; I can soon finish teaching you good manners. Lesson number one: never cast doubt on Scottish bravery.”

“I didn’t mean to offend; it was a joke.”

“Lesson two: beware the prickly Scotch pride.”

“Prickly pride I’m well versed in.” Fulk idly rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger, curling his fingers round to touch the hairpin safely hidden there. Silence held sway for a bit.

“Today’s little arrangement was quite timely,” said Godit. “I found I just had to get away from the solar for a bit; the queen is going on and on about her first kiss and it really is quite enough to drive me insane. Actually poor old Mariot is going quite mad; she’s worrying about her dear little Anne just like a mother would, on the one hand happy for her and on the other anxious. I would have thought just telling us about the general event would have been enough but no, she will go on and on in very great detail over and over, telling us exactly what happened and how wonderful it was. She drags each second out to a minute of talk! What’s more they kissed several times, so as you can imagine there’s a lot of seconds there, and she’s under the illusion that old joke about ‘not sure we got it quite right; let’s try again’ is new and just for her. Please! Age old and rusty, although I admit I did fall for it myself way back when I was a deal younger. Amazingly in this case it was her, not him who said it; well, well, wonders never cease and all that.”

Fulk smiled wistfully, hearing an echo of Eleanor saying, “I am not quite sure … perhaps we could try again?” when he has asked what she had thought of their first kiss. Still smiling he said, “Sometimes the best ways to say a thing are long taken, and all we can do is repeat them over again.”

“Mayhap,” agreed Godit easily. “But really, anyone would think we trio of maids were entirely innocent and in need of enlightening to hear her talk, or even that she just invented the sport and is the only one in the whole of Christendom who knows what to do. She must be exaggerating though; not to cast doubt on our king’s abilities but they just don’t have that fire to them yet. Pleasant, no doubt, but wonderful? Ha! She’ll soon learn, I think. In a way it’s rather charming, watching her grow up like this and experience for the first time some things of us have come to take for granted. Not me, you understand; you did an admirable job of burning away that rather jaded familiarity I had built up. Well, I do understand how she feels; I just can’t sit still and smile nicely while she tells me about it for the seventieth time this morning! Christ! She has been married for two months now and they only just got around to kissing. It is quite sad really, and of course now he is off on his little war and by the time he gets back who knows? Absence makes the heart grow fonder or forget entirely, as I’m sure you know. Speaking of which, how are you doing? Forgetting or growing fonder?”

Fulk said nothing, his mind still wandering a past a couple of months old.

Godit made a show of peering into his face, searching for clues. She straightened up again and said confidently, “Let me guess, you are thinking a Thibaut?”

Fulk blinked back to the present having heard nothing, painfully aware she expected him to say something. “What?”

“Oh come on! You must have heard of Thibaut the Songwriter’s famous verse:

Could I forget her gentle grace,
Her glance, her beauty’s sum,
Her voice from memory efface,
I’d end my martyrdom.

Her image from my heart I cannot tear;
To hope is vain;
I would despair,
But such a strain
Gives strength the pain
Of servitude to bear.

Then how forget her gentle grace,
Her glance, her beauty’s sum,
Her voice from memory efface?
I’ll love my martyrdom.”

“I don’t want to be a martyr,” said Fulk softly. His throat choked up.

“Then I shall valiantly redouble my efforts,” declared Godit merrily, taking the wrong meaning. Fulk didn’t bother to correct her; longing for the impossible was a habit he dearly needed to break. Godit was speaking again; Fulk reined his wandering attention back in. “… her play games with you. She’ll be here to marry anyway, so I doubt she’ll even have a second to spare for you. Anyway, it wouldn’t be seemly. No, don’t make the mistake of allowing things to backslide; keep away from her while she’s here or you’ll only regret it later.”

“I don’t want to see her at all. The wedding and the feast; I can’t see a way to avoid them and I don’t want to be there. Dear Jesú, I do not want to be there. I couldn’t just watch. I wanted to be in France, anywhere but here to watch.”

Entirely serious for once Godit said, “I’ll see what I can think of, and if the worst comes to the worst I’ll stick firmly at your side and do my best to support you.”

“Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while. Godit leaned over and brushed her lips on Fulk’s cheek; his eyebrows shot up and he started out of his reverie. “Well,” she explained coyly, “I had to recall your attention somehow and I always found slapping people melodramatic.” She placed one hand lightly on his arm, the pressure barely altering the natural lie of his tunic sleeve. “Forget. Don’t linger on what was, not unless you’d spend the rest of your life looking backwards and never, ever forwards.”

“It sounds a good deal easier than it is.”

Godit snatched her hand back. “Only because you never try. How long has it been since you left her?”

“Sixteen days and around twenty hours.”

“See? You’ve kept count to the hour, you bloody great fool! How is that forgetting? Every time I’ve seen you you’re off wandering in your memories half the time.”

“I am not!”

“Look at today then. We went shopping; you stood about moping. We went back to the castle; you walked along daydreaming. We’re out here now and what are you doing? Off with your princess in your imagination!”

It was on his lips to complain that part of him had been left behind with Eleanor and nothing filled the gaps or even numbed the awareness of his loss, no matter how hard he tried. He swallowed the words, not wanting to share something so intimate. “I suppose this little rant has nothing to do with your relentless husband hunting failing on me?”

“It is a common, well known, universal truth that every single woman needs a husband; until I get to be a widow I need a man to hide behind, and to be a widow you need to have been married at some point. Being a daughter’s the worst lot in life; being a wife’s one step better. Being a widow leaves you free, with control over your own life.”

“Oh, so what you’re really looking for is some poor sod to marry and then die swiftly leaving you a tidy inheritance?”

“I wouldn’t be looking for young and tolerable then,” said Godit scornfully. “I’d be looking for some rich old fool. With the right person I’d be very happy as a wife, far happier than as a widow.” She looked down at her clasped hands and admitted, “I’m getting old; I’m sixteen, seventeen in May. If I keep this up much longer my name will be mud and no one respectable will have me. I’m running out of time, you see.”

“Which makes me your last ditch effort then.”

She snorted. “And that’s how my little bit of honesty is repaid. As I’ve told you repeatedly you’re a good match and I like you. I haven’t met anyone else I like even half as much. Imagine how I feel knowing you’re far too busy in your little dream world to even notice I’m alive.”

Fulk quickly said, “I’m not quite that bad.”

Godit seemed to have great difficulty expressing what she wanted to, speaking slowly while her brow was furrowed by a faint frown. “It just … seems … right. You came here with next to nothing and were soon granted lands and a place here which makes you a suitable match for me. I’m only here to find a husband without my family poking, prying and shunting men I don’t like at me. The queen decided to push us together, although not quite in this way. It seems like someone up there,” she flicked an index finger up to point at the sky, “has decided we belong together.”

“Funny; I remember thinking someone up there wanted me to fall for Eleanor. Look how that turned out.”

“Perhaps the purpose of that was to bring you here?”

“Then it was a damned cruel way to do it.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“You deserve someone to value for you, not someone who dreams of another.”

She laughed quietly. “Your concern means in some way you do value me for myself.”

Fulk made a noise midway between a sigh and a growl of frustration. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand this; if I don’t find someone soon my family will call me home and lumber me with someone of their choice the instant I walk through the main gate, whether I like him or not. Then they’ll send me back to serve my queen with my new husband in tow. They’ll use my position at court as an extra selling point, and I’m most likely to get stuck with some ambitious type who sees me as a stepping stone.”

Fulk tried once again to express his point without getting too blunt. “We are nothing more than friends; that’s not a good foundation.”

She only laughed again. “Your roots are showing; I’m noble, you are noble now. Start thinking like one.”

Fulk closed his eyes and said in a level voice, “Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a replacement? A very poor second best?” He looked at her, trying to impress some of his solemnity onto her.

Godit raised her chin and met his eyes with a small, confident little curl to her lips. “I doubt I would.”

“No, perhaps not. I value you as a friend and I suppose eventually I’ll mostly get over Eleanor, but how long will that take? Months? Years? Decades? A lifetime? I will never completely forget, and I’ll never feel anything close to the same for you. I might grow fond of you, but I doubt more than that. Until then you’d be nothing more than a convenient body and an obligation I don’t want. You think it wouldn’t matter, but it would. A very great deal. You wouldn’t be a friend any more, and there’s a good chance I’d grow to resent you, perhaps even hate you.”

“But-”

Fulk pounded his fist into his thigh with bruising force. “No! I don’t do substitutes, and I don’t care to repeat past mistakes. You’d make a very nice Maude the Second, and it seems you’re doing the best to become one. I’m not interested, either in marrying or in courting. I will not start thinking and acting like a noble when it comes to love and marriage; I know how that ends up. I’m a bastard – living proof of two people’s sin, a walking reminder to one poor woman that her husband didn’t love her, a reminder to one man of what he didn’t have at home, and a reminder to another woman that she was always going to be alone when it mattered. Common nothings get the better end of the stick in this one thing. I’ll marry for love or not at all; not for money, or alliances, or social gain, or any of that. I’d like children, before you try and fling that at me, yes I’d like sons and daughters of my own. But not at any cost, and not so badly I’ll do something I know is a mistake.”

There was a very difficult silence. Godit had blanched as soon as he had raised his voice, and was now staring fixedly off at the palace, ignoring him. Slowly her colour began to ebb back. “Who’s Maude?” she asked quietly.

“Someone to whom you should be very grateful. Your family won’t be able to drag you home to marry if the queen requires you to stay with her, and she can speak up on your behalf. Your family can’t go against her, even if she is little more than a child. You’ve got influence and power because of your position with her; use it. Don’t throw yourself away on someone like me.”

Godit considered that for a while and then very slowly nodded. After another long silence she said sadly, “You are going to die a very lonely man.”

Fulk choked out a laugh. “Yes, and live as one too. Good thing I don’t expect my life to be a long one.”

“Friends?”

“Of course.”





:cleans tumbleweed out of the topic:

All this mush, mush, mush, mush stuff is really getting a strain to write. Plot required and necessary, but such hard work.

That's actual medieval poetry, so don't blame the frog if you don't like it.

The atmosphere in the solar was thick and heavy, ripe with promised trouble. Seated beside Trempwick and opposite Aveline at the small table Eleanor kept her head down and pretended to find the platter of food before her fascinating.

Trempwick sliced another strip off the lump of cold bacon on a serving platter in the centre of the table, hacking more than carving with his dagger. With one final savage stab he severed the smaller bit of meat from the larger and speared it on the tip of his knife, holding it up ready to serve. “Mother?” He spoke deliberately, showing off the very tips of his fangs as he formed the word.

Aveline replied stiffly, “No. Thank you.”

Far more pleasantly he enquired, “Nell?”

Eleanor didn’t lift her eyes from the mound of picked at but uneaten food already present on her platter. “No, thanks.”

“Ha!” muttered Aveline beneath her breath.

Trempwick dumped the meat on his own platter and jerked his knife free. He glared at his mother before drawing the edge of his knife across the hapless bacon in one swift, hard stroke which scored deeply into the stale bread of the trencher.

Aveline set her own eating knife down on the table with a clunk. “Well you did ask.”

“Did I indeed?” he replied.

“Yes, and then you do nothing but complain and act the ingrate when I do as you requested.” In a much lower voice, her lips not even moving, she added, “And I can guess where that came from.”

Eleanor picked up her cup and forced down a few mouthfuls of the weak ale while she fought back the urge to respond in kind to her soon to be mother-in-law.

Trempwick’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his knife’s hilt. “Asked for what?”

“Sort her out, you said. Make her a fitting bride, teach her what she does not know, turn her into something useful.”

“Yes, I asked for you to educate her. We were all in agreement about that.”

“Exactly.”

“Yes, mother dear, exactly. Just that. I did not ask for you to sit across the table and ruin my first meal with company in nearly a week by muttering to yourself like a senile old crone!”

“Senile, is it? Ha! You are the one with the memory problems – you ask me to sort her out and then make such a fuss each time I try my efforts are entirely wasted. If I am reduced to muttering to broach a point it is because of you.”

Trempwick’s knife thudded down onto the tabletop and he grabbed hold of the edge of the table in both hands, finger nails straining against the wooden surface as if he could claw marks into the grain. “You are malicious, and I will not have you insulting or belittling my princess.”

“You want her to act like the lady she reportedly is-”

“Not reportedly,” snarled Trempwick. “IS!”

“Is, but does not act. Play about with words however you like, Raoul. We both know the truth.”

“Do we now? Go on, remind me of this truth we both know.”

“Born but does not act, therefore she is not. She is not a lady, nor even a noble, and certainly not royalty. She is a hellion.”

Eleanor bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.

Trempwick’s nails drew a loud scraping sound from the woodwork as they attempted to bite into the solid planking but slid off harmlessly, too soft and blunt to harm the polished oak. Softly he said, “She is my princess.”

“She does not even have the good manners to look up and talk clearly, instead choosing to mumble into her lap.”

“I believe my dearly beloved Nell is fighting very hard to keep her temper under control. Is that not so, sweet Nell?”

Eleanor looked up and said clearly, “No, that is not right. It is my father who loses his temper so easily, not I. I am trying to keep from asking how one with so poor a set of manners feels qualified to judge others in that regard.”

Aveline’s eyes narrowed and she looked down her nose at the princess. “Snippy, very snippy. Rude too. You miss the point, hellion. I have licence to speak as I do; you do not.” She dismissed Eleanor from her attention and turned back to her son. “You want her manners fixing, and then look at all this fuss caused when I attempt to raise one very small point – attempt now on request, but did not bother when it was more pertinent because I knew this would be the outcome. Your princess is a wilful, stubborn, rude, arrogant, disrespectful, ignorant, selfish little brat. I am sure it is not your fault, Raoul. She must have come to you flawed; sometimes such … degeneracy is in the blood.”

Trempwick went very pale and then flushed red. He pushed away from the table so violently the objects on it shook and jostled. “You are leaving tomorrow, mother dear. I am glad.” He turned on his heel and marched from the room, leaving the door swinging freely to do as it pleased.

Aveline turned on Eleanor, her face contorted with anger. “I hope you are happy – this is your doing!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Eleanor got up to leave.

She did not get far; Aveline flung herself after the younger woman and her hand fastened about Eleanor’s upper arm, fingers gripping tight enough to leave bruises. “Oh yes, as innocent and cheery as a daisy, aren’t you? Daisies get plucked, or trodden on, or pulled to pieces by some idle person.”

Eleanor jerked to a halt, unable to keep moving with another person’s weight dragging her back. She half turned, aiming her best regal glare at Aveline. “Is that a threat?” It was at times like this a few extra inches of height would be wonderful.

Aveline’s face evened out and she said seriously, “I do not play games of threats, princess, and if you think my warning to be otherwise than it is then it is your own loss. Another warning; Raoul has changed because of you, though you deny it. My son was always calm and self composed; look at him now. If you cannot see the significance there then you do not deserve any of the praise he has lavished on your intellect.”

“He claims to love me; that is known to change people. Now unhand me.”

Aveline’s grip didn’t waver. “Be that as it may or may not it does indeed appear Raoul overestimated you.”

“I shall go and cry my eyes out immediately.”

The old woman’s fingers spasmed and her grip tightened; Eleanor could feel nails digging into sensitive flesh even through the layers of her clothes. “I promised to educate you and I will, though partly from charity than any real hope or liking for you. Think, and think well. He was self controlled but is not so now.”

“It means you manage to punch through his armour and wound him. Satisfied?”

Aveline closed her eyes for a moment and visibly collected herself. “More than that, much more than that and relevant to you.” She sighed in immense irritation. “Very well, if I must spell it out – he is losing control of himself, because of you. Now think on what that might mean for you; let us see if you can get this part right.”

“Why does it have to be me? The French situation-”

“Is something he has been dealing with for much of his adult life, that and similar. Think! I do not like wasting my time, even if the Lord does approve and look kindly on charity and acts of mercy. Firstly it makes him more volatile; you have a gift for angering people because of your stupidities and now Raoul is far more likely to react harshly. You might be behaving in a more fitting manner towards him now, but if you begin your foolishness again it is likely to have very unfortunate consequences. Secondly you are sharing a bed with my son before your marriage and allowing him all kinds of liberties.”

Eleanor tried to prise the talon like fingers free but the older woman’s grip was surprisingly strong. “I do not recall you complaining when your son barged his way into my bed uninvited very shortly after our betrothal, nor do I recall you grumbling on our trip home when he continued to do so. It is none of your business what Raoul and I do.”

Aveline sighed again and said testily, “Oh, do try to think! You are playing a very dangerous game, in effect waving a very juicy bone before a starving dog and hoping it does not leap to bite your fingers off. I see the way he looks at you – hungry. You keep fending him off, I trust? Despite these disgraceful arrangements of yours?”

Eleanor’s eyes blazed. “Of course, and I will thank you not to imply otherwise.”

“There you are, you see. You have worked yourself into a neat little trap; either you
continue fending him off and hope that Raoul’s patience lasts, knowing that if it does not he will go elsewhere or get forceful, or you can surrender with a bit of dignity.” Aveline studied Eleanor hawkishly, and with a glimmer of triumph said, “You look mildly sick. Now I wonder which upsets you; the thought of him going elsewhere or you surrendering?”

“Neither, I assure you. He promised to honour me, and we both know he will keep that promise.”

“So …” said Aveline thoughtfully, finally loosing her hold on Eleanor’s arm a little. “What I do not quite see … you claim to be learning to love him, the pair of you certainly act like lovers, and yet you refuse him, quite frequently, I think. I do wonder why.” When Eleanor would have spoken Aveline tightened her grip once more. “Spare me the lies about honour; if you were concerned about honour you would still be in your old room at the very least. Also spare me the lies about that very necessary bloodstain; even stupid peasant girls can manage to blob a bit of chicken’s blood on a sheet and fool the outside world, and they do not often have the complicity of their new husband. So you see I am very curious; if you are what you claim then one would expect …” She smiled wolfishly and hitched a shoulder.

“I pity you. If this is all you have to fill your life you are a sad creature indeed.”

“Just answer the question, indulge an old woman’s curiosity. The obvious answer is that you really don’t have an attraction to him, despite your nice little shows. That, my dear, means you are lying. I wonder about that too; why? What do you gain?”

“The attraction is there and real; I would not know how to fake it.”

“Then why?”

Eleanor gave up on the fingers and tried squeezing Aveline’s writ hard at the joint; she felt the one woman’s bones shift slightly, ready to pop out of joint with more pressure, but still she could not win free of Aveline’s grasp. “Not that it is any business of yours I am frightened; simple, honest, dignified nerves.”

“Very easily mended, and waiting only makes the worrying worse. I know; I have been there and worried on it in the past. No need to torture yourself any more; I would wager my life Raoul will tear himself away from his work for you. With this mutual attraction of yours the experience should prove quite agreeable. Happy memories are so much better than imagined horrors, don’t you think?”

Eleanor spoke through clenched teeth, “You are disgusting.”

“And you are lying once again. You know what I think? You know my best answer to this little riddle you pose? I don’t think you are quite so innocent as you claim.”

Eleanor’s hand began to travel towards Aveline’s face in an open handed slap; about half way there she regained control and diverted her aim to chop the side of her hand into the pit of Aveline’s elbow. She hit with sufficient force to partly numb Aveline’s lower arm, and twisted free of her grip. Eleanor forced herself to laugh, not caring the end result sounded strange even to her own ears. “Look at me; it has been years since I have seen my reflection but I am familiar with the comments so I know what you must see. Who on earth would ever want me? Aside from Raoul? He is something of a miracle.”

Aveline cradled her injured arm close to her body and mused, “That bodyguard of yours was quite handsome, and he is mysteriously gone thanks to a small bit of very cautious speculation.”

“I send my bodyguard away myself to put an end to those rumours.” Eleanor headed for the door.

Aveline hurried after her, talking rapidly. “So, not a lack of attraction, not honour, not really fear, not a case of trying to hide lost virginity for as long as possible to delay the inevitable storm, certainly not lack of opportunity, and undoubtedly the problem rests with you because he is very eager. Interesting little problem I have found.”

Eleanor halted so abruptly Aveline nearly crashed into her back. “I am nervous. I am not suited to this and it is not something I ever saw myself doing. For once in my life I would like something to be honest instead of a fraud, and I would rather not start my marriage off on one big lie. I really do not care for the assorted risks, especially when they are mostly negated by waiting just a few more days.” She began walking again.

“Risks: there are none, not for a spymaster and his agent; at least not any you will not face anyway. Nerves: easily fixed. Shock of an unexpected change of direction: should have worn off long ago, and again easily fixed. Honesty: considering you are lying yet again now I wonder that you dare try that excuse on me, and in a strange way it would be rather fitting for this marriage to start on a lie which requires a partnership between you and him to work.”

“Speculate away; I do not care. Raoul has more sense than to listen to your nonsense, and he is so busy now he should not be disturbed.” Eleanor rushed down the staircase as quickly as she could.

Aveline could not keep pace so she raised her voice and let it echo exultantly through the stairwell, “He is already wondering!”





Eleanor sat on the ground, knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs. The chill of the ground and air was seeping into her bones now; she had not stopped to grab a cloak before leaving the manor building in considerable haste. She regretted that now; not only was it a cold day but she had come perilously, humiliatingly close to losing her temper completely. She had fled in a kind of mindless fear, proving her weakness and inviting more attacks in the future along a similar vein.

Her arm stung and throbbed on the imprints of Aveline’s fingers. For a second she focused on the pain, then with the ease of long practise she mentally shunted it to one side so it became no more than a background irritation.

The space between her shoulder blades itched; Eleanor glanced back over her shoulder, towards the manor. She could not tell if anyone was watching her through one of the windows; she would not be surprised to find Trempwick’s mother lurking at one like a sentry watching for a besieging army’s moves. Eleanor shivered; this exposed position right in full view of fully half the manor was not comfortable, not when she wanted to be alone without even the suspicion of other people. But she had to stay where Trempwick could find her easily; he had made it quite clear at the palace two months ago, and in the time since then, that he was no longer inclined to be tolerant of her vanishing.

She said quietly, “He is already wondering.”







Scary yet mildly cool fact: I recently picked up a new (to me, actually 5 books with a few more to come) series of books by someone called Diana Gabaldon. According to a post I saw by the author on her forum the last book in the series is 500,000 words, though whether that is rounded up or down I don't know. My paperback copy of that book weighs in at 1412 pages. Eleanor is currently 252, 525 words long, making it about 700 pages long if published in the same format, text size etc. I've written a normal sized novel and still have plenty left to add ...

Hi. It looks like it's been a while since anyone has left comments here, so I thought I'd weigh in. First of all, I can't believe this story has grown so long! Congradulations are due for sticking with it. I find it nearly as hard to believe that I've read so much; while I read a fair amount, I haven't consumed such a long novel in quite some time.

It seems things are starting to pick up a little since the last time I commented. The addition and development of new characters is certainly a help, since we already knew just about everything about the existing ones. The lack of Eleanor/Fulk interaction leaves a hole in the story - a hole which the introduction of characters such as Godit and Jocelyn attempts to fill, and does a fair job of it. I actually find Godit's character rather appealing, besides the areas in which you simply gloss over big chunks of her conversation by referring to them as meaningless chatter. At those times she seems banal and annoying, but anytime you zero in and actually give details of her interaction with Fulk, she seems interesting, worldly-wise, and even fun. Jocelyn, on the other hand, is much easier to despise, but I suppose this is mostly by design. The fact that he is far more nobel than the "lesser" men that surround him somehow doesn't arouse the sympathy that perhaps it should. It just seems too separate from his brutish, grating personality. Trempwick's mother, who has recently taken a bit more central role, seems to fulfull her role as one of the worst specimens of humanity ever - once again, clearly by design. The way in which her ambition rubs off on Trempwick is hard to miss, and is a nice touch.

Something occurred to me recently about this story. There is, in my opinion, a dearth of appealing characters. In most stories I've read, it's possible to find a number of characters that, though they certainly have human flaws, I mostly enjoy, and could imagine spending pleasant time with. This story has precious few such characters - though most have perhaps one or two redeeming qualities, they are mostly quite disagreeable. One might think you had a low opinion of humanity, or at least humanity during this time period. I wonder where that comes from.

I've noticed that a number of your chapters (throughout the story, but even more recently) have come with notes attached indicating that you didn't like it, or that it was tough to write but somehow necessary for plot development. The length of this piece, however, indicates to me that perhaps not all of it is necessary. Like many of the characters in this story, you seem to feel forced into a certain course of action which you would not otherwise choose to take. Might I suggest that you instead write the kind of story that you personally enjoy reading? If mush is really so terrible for you to write, don't include so much of it - the Eleanor/Trempwick interaction is absolutely dreadful, and as unpleasant to read as it was for you to write. It's not that it's poorly written; in fact, it's up to your usual high standards, but it's obvious you don't like writing it, and it simply doesn't ring true.

You stated early on that you don't really like most of the characters in the story, even Eleanor and Fulk. Why not rather have created some characters that appeal to you - you would have had more fun writing about them, and the result would have been more enjoyable to read. You often call a section boring but necessary for plot development. Why not rather have taken the plot in a different direction - you could have created a story in which every chapter had a unique appeal to it, and none felt difficult or painful to get through.

Two of my favorite modern authors are J.R.R. Tolkein and C.S. Lewis (I know, not exactly unique to me). However, one crucial factor they had in common was this - they wrote the stories they wanted to read. This is a common thread among the greatest artists: great songwriters write the songs they want to hear; great painters paint their idea of beauty; great game-makers create the games they want to play. You clearly have significant talent as a writer, but if you want to take it up a notch, you need to eliminate the "forced" feel of your writing, and write what you love.

Every character in this story is doing exactly what they feel they must do in order to survive, yet every single one of them is mistaken. You are not forced either; you could exercise your freedom as a writer. If the story comes alive for you, it will do so for others as well. I realize this story may be too far along to change much, but this advice is meant for future writings (if, of course, you choose to take it - after all, I'm not a writer and I don't really know you, so what do I know anyway?)

Congradulations again on having persevered on such a momentous project. It is a significant achievement, and one that I am sure you will learn much from.

Sincerely,

Ken

Kommodus’ comment reminds me I never did reply to the end of Luden’s last one, thanks to the new resolved problems with my firewall.

Fulk and jealousy: Hmm, what does a frog know? As I already said large chunks of emotional stuff are purely academic to me, and so occasionally it goes wrong. This is one of those times, and should probably now be filed under ‘froggy Gaff’ and forgotten about. That scene is earmarked for revision at some point in the future; there’s nothing much more than can be done with the current version of it.

Nell in that scene is drowning in the worst news of her life, and more than a little the worse for wear. She’s not taking the time to be extra careful about what she says because she’s really not fit for it at that point; despair, pain, quite a lot of blood loss, shock etc – it all adds up. In that kind of state she’s not really able to be eloquent or pick her words with care.

Back to that declaration of love scene: Hmmm … I’m not really sure I could have got Nell reasoning away odd Fulk behaviour there; it probably wouldn’t have fitted. I seem to remember trying it and finding it read so badly I cut the entire thing and started writing from scratch again.

I think that takes care of the half I missed. Now to Kommodus. Warning, this is more like rambling than a structured reply.

Yes it has been a long time; I was beginning to wonder if I had scared people off! :nervous grin: The paradox thread has now passed 10,000 views and has plenty of discussion, but this place is grave like.

It is quite funny that you say Nell and Fulk left a hole in the story; indeed they do, but for me in a very personal kind of way. I love writing their scenes, always. Ok, so I do grumble if they are being mushy, but even then they have that nice back and forth dialogue and so that’s my compensation for having to find a new way to write yet another kiss. I did actually cry when she sent him away; damn near broke my heart and I wasted countless hours looking for a way to avoid it without weakening the overall story.

Characters, now that is a very interesting point. It’s not obvious here, but on the other forum it is very clear I have created a cast where every character appeals to someone, and one person’s favourite is another’s bane. There’s actually a set of fan clubs over in the other thread, all recently started thanks to one person starting a Trempwick fan club and creating a trend. The membership tally currently runs:
Trempy: 2 members
Anne: 2 members
Fulk: 4 members
Nell: 3 members
Godit: 5 members
Anti-Trempy: 2 members

Even characters not mentioned in that list have appreciators and/or haters; all of the major and minor characters are covered. So as the Fulk fans boo and mutter good-naturedly about Nell’s scenes with Trempy the Trempy fans cheer, and vice versa back when Fulk was still around. People hate William for what he does to Nell but understand why he feels it necessary and like him for other things; he inspires quite a bit of pity. And so on. Aveline and Godit are the only characters I can think of now who do not have this split of opinion, and that is my design. My characters are for the most part grey, and that is precisely what I want. They are almost all a mix of good and bad, though the quantities of both vary from character to character. I find it makes them far more human, and I really dislike black and white characters.

The problem with grey is that there is no clear cut hero. If a reader does not find any of the grey characters suitably engaging then they are left rather adrift. That’s actually not something I had thought about until now; thanks.

Do I have a low opinion of humanity? Probably; I’m a cynic and I have seen a lot of the bad sides of this species. But I do also see some good points, and I see quite a bit of that good in this story, some of it not written yet, some not visible yet, some open to opinion, some plain for all to see.

My own position on the characters is … complicated. Nell is my favourite character, both in this story and that I have ever created. Simply put I love the gooseberry. That does not mean I like everything she does, and there are a great many occasions where I would love to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattle! “Gah! Send Fulk away!? No! You need him, you silly gooseberry!!!!” Ahem. That is the reader and idealist speaking; I also have the writer side, and that side knows exactly why Fulk got sent away and knows how important that was.

Fulk I also love; he is my second favourite. I would love to smack him about a bit for what he did to Maude, and sometimes he can be a bit thick, but on the whole he’s a great guy.

Trempwick, well this is a love hate relationship. I do love writing him; he is great fun because he is so … Trempwickish. He does do a lot of good, protecting Nell and so on, but I dislike him because of the way he treated Fulk and other unpleasant things he has done, including the murder of a lame boy, aka Nell’s brother Stephan.

Aveline, I like her because she is pure fun to write. There is nothing quite so delightful as really letting lose and saying all kinds of nasty things. Aveline flows down onto the page beautifully; I just wind her up and let her go.

William, I have great pity for this man. What he does to Nell is disgusting, and he is a hard man, but deep down and in unexpected ways he is actually quite decent. He is perhaps my favourite minor character, not having enough pages to really count as major.

Anne I do like, but I dislike her when she is acting her age. So that is about a 30/70 dislike/like split based on her scenes now. I never have liked children.

Godit; fun character again. She chatters on and natters pretty pointlessly, quite playful. She was only supposed to be a way for Fulk to contact Anne; the rest she was done herself, a walk on part transformed into a minor character.

Jocelyn, well this man pretty much invented himself. He certainly developed the swearing on his own, and bizarrely it does suit him. My original plan was for a French character who didn’t get on with his wife; so far all the arranged marriages are happy and I didn’t want a skewed perspective. He also fills certain plot needs, and that is his real purpose. Everything past that very slender outline he has added on his own, including that droplet of not exactly consideration to Richildis and his real love for, and patience with, his children.

Hugh is the closest to a character I mislike; he is so staid he is dull both to read and to write. But in that too … well, I know why he is this way and for that I do rather pity him.

Have I missed anyone aside from tiny, hazy characters like Richildis or Constance? Don’t think so. So you see I can dislike a character but really like or even love writing them; Aveline is the best example of this.

All of this does rather beg the question, if I love Nell so much, and if I love her interaction with Fulk so much, then why do I treat Nell so badly and why did I split them up? Because it’s needful, a part of this greater story I really want to tell. There’s some quote I remember, fairly famous too, about how the best storytellers will hurt, torture of even kill their favourite characters if the plot requires it whereas the lesser ones will protect them, sometimes to the detriment of the work as a whole. I definitely don’t make any claims to greatness, but I will never, ever guard my favourites. Nell and co are all sacrifices on the altar of plot. If the story requires any of the characters to suffer or die then they will, including my beloved Nell. If I have to kill her I will cry my eyes out as I write, but write I will.

To the plot itself, and writing what I want to read. The mush is all very needful to this plot, and it is a story I want to tell. If it wasn’t I could never have started it; I find I can only write something I have an interest in. In this story I attempt, with varying degrees of success and competency, to do many things I want in books I read myself. Mush is a part of the whole, and if I want to write the ‘good’ stuff then I have to write the mush too. Would it surprise people if I said only two loves were planned by me, and that the rest all developed on their own? Eleanor and Fulk were always going to fall for each other, and Trempwick was always intended to be like this. All the rest has developed on its own, sparking out of characters I sketched as outlines and let them come to life. William and Anne are the best example of this; they were intended to become a mildly happy father/daughter kind of arrangement. Elements of that intent are still there, incorporated into their growing fondness for each other. They did that, not me. I could try and stop them, but firstly that is impossible because the characters are what they are and will not be changed by a mere frog, and secondly I rather like the way it is turning out. Gives me some nice possibilities in the future …

How many people here have read Clavell’s Shogun? How many could imagine it without the Blackthorn/Mariko romance? I view this story in the same light; the romance(s) are an integral part.

I don’t like writing mush, but I can’t shy away from it. I have to learn to write every potential facet of any story I might want to do, and love in its assorted forms is a rather common thing. Actually, for all my grumbling I rather like the way this is turning out. The mush works mostly very well; it counterpoints some of the less pleasant aspects, for example Nell gets beaten to a pulp but Fulk was always there for her.

Guilty confession: There are actually a few mush scenes I very much want to write. :embarassed:

I do need to eliminate the forced feeling, and pep up the variety of what mush is needed, and generally refine and get better at the whole thing. I don’t like it, but I need it. I’m now reading books with higher romance quotients than I usually do in an effort to learn how to handle it better.

Hmm, if I stick to writing what I like then I have real problems – nothing much would happen. I don’t like writing mush, or violence of the Nell being beaten kind, or the burning of villages kind, and I hate writing posh functions, legal stuff, religious stuff, … um, actually I mainly like doing witty dialogue and the occasional fight scene, and I like crafting characters and seeing how they turn out when they come to life.

Why not take the plot in a different direction? Because … I have a destination in mind, and along the way there are a great many landmarks I want to go past. There are also a great many streets I have to go down to get to that destination. If I change the route I end up somewhere else entirely. As I travel down my pre-planned route I see many, many things I did not expect to. While sometimes I get travelsick, and the food is not always to my tastes, the trip is damned fun.

Credibility; an important word for me. How credible would it have been for Nell to tell her father she loves Fulk and would only marry him, and then for William to grudgingly accept instead of hitching her to Trempy? It wouldn’t have been at all believable, and so I could not do it even if I wanted to. Or how credible for Fulk and Nell to run off to Ireland during that last mission and escape to live in perfect happiness for the rest of their lives? It wouldn’t have been; they would have been found. Whatever I do I have to get there in a believable manner, and if I can’t then it cannot happen. Perhaps the best answer would have been to make Fulk a suitable match right from the beginning? But then he would be an entirely different person, and almost certainly already married, and he would not have met Nell as he did, and so they could never fall for each other, and then …

Changing even small details has a knock on effect, and so a lot is changed and latered.

As far as length, necessity etc goes: well, I need an editor :tongueg: Writers write, and editors edit, and it is supposedly a general rule of thumb that writers insist on putting in far too much and want to keep scenes that may not be needed. But you do have to judge from a finished work, I think. I could go through this entire story and explain why each and every scene is here; to me each and every one has a point. I’m too close to the work to judge it now; it needs an editor.

Anyway, to put an end to that rather large dose of froggy musing, thanks. You got me thinking, and presented a bit of a contrast to the other views on the story I am getting. Contrast is always good; it presents new ideas for me to think about. I’m only a beginner; I have a long way to go. These forums are where I am learning, and the comments are a part of how.

Eleanor’s nose, feet, ears and hands had just gone comfortably numb with cold when she heard someone walking up behind her, quiet but making just enough noise for her to catch. She turned her head a little and said, “How kind of you not to ruin my peace with a lot of shouting and hollering, master.”

A pair of legs clad in dark green hose appeared in her view as Trempwick looped about to stand in front of her. “My mother was being most insistent I chase after you and drag you back home right now, so here I am. She is also insisting I beat you for nearly breaking her arm, and is making a lot of noise about your general behaviour, lies and lack of good manners. She came barging into my study presumably shortly after you left, and has been most adamant ever since.”

“Really? Well then I complain loudly and generally, supply the details yourself, about her manners, behaviour and insist you beat her for attacking and insulting me.”

Trempwick sighed and massaged his temples. “Quite frankly this is giving me a headache. Do get up, beloved Nell. I find speaking at the ground most undignified.” He took her hand to help her to her feet. “Nell, dearest, your hands are freezing!” He touched the back of one hand against her cheek, then checked her other hand. “Freezing indeed.” Quickly he pulled his cloak off and bundled her up snugly. “If you really must go gallivanting around in light clothes you could have done so yesterday when the weather was warm! Are you trying to make yourself ill?”

“I am perfectly alright.”

“Like a block of ice, almost as if you wanted to catch a chill. Come on.” With one arm wound about her back and holding onto her far elbow he began to escort her back towards the manor. “I shall stick you next to a fire and get you something warming to drink, and heaven help you if you move before you are suitably toasty.”

“Really, I am fine.”

“Until tomorrow when you have a nasty cough, you mean? Nell, you cannot afford to take chances with your health; journeys, weddings, your family, my mother – quite enough trouble when you are hale. I have great faith in you, sweetest Nell, but I will not lie and say your days at the palace before I arrive are going to be easy or safe. You will only have my mother for support, and unlike I she will not risk stepping in between you and your family. You must keep your head down, play your part to perfection, stay out of trouble, and above all be alert.”

“I am very resilient; you know that.” Eleanor leaned into Trempwick a little, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Yes, but that is no reason to tempt fate.”

“Tempting fate is stuffing me back in the same room as your mother. There is a reason I left, why I prefer to freeze out here. Much more of her and one of us is going to die, and I am the one with the agent’s training.”

“Sweet Nell, while I might actually be very grateful if you killed my delightful mother I would much prefer you not to. You would feel very guilty, and those nightmares would return; I do hate to see you suffer, and I like being able to sleep soundly too. You will apologise to her-“

Eleanor stiffed. “But-”

Trempwick raised his voice substantially to drown her out, “Don’t interrupt, darling Nell. There will be no more fighting; you will learn from her and tolerate her as necessary. She is a part of your cover act while you are at the palace, just as she was before. You will not damage that cover, or draw undue attention to yourself during your little trip to play with the queen.”

“She should be apologising to me. She said-”

“I know what she said. I have dealt with it; she will not meddle like that again. Really you should not have risen to her bait.”

Eleanor stopped walking and pulled free of him. “If I did not then many would claim it proved her right,” she said hotly.

“Equally, many could claim your reaction was a tad guilty. There is no single response which looks more innocent than others, so best choose dignity instead.” He raised his eyebrows to enquire if she had anything to add to that but Eleanor kept her jaw firmly clenched on the threatening explosion, fighting once again for control. “Speaking of dignity, and please note that this is just me covering all potential possibilities, if there is anything you need to tell me I will forgive you so long as you do not let me find out for myself, and be assured I would know, you could not hope to hide any .. well, that is … um, … prior experience.” He began to colour.

Eleanor flailed her arms free of the enshrouding woollen cloth of the cloak and planted her fists on her hips. “There really is no way I can win, is there? You know, this is why I liked being single and forgotten – much easier.”

“Nell-”

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and everyone has their own ideas of what I should be doing with my life and they persist in telling me them over and over and then insult me if I do not match up with them!” She waved an arm in the air energetically; not held in place by the heavy brooch Trempwick’s cloak began to slip off. “No one will believe me when I say I am not some slut; really I am beginning to wonder what exactly it is about me which makes people say these things!”

“Nell-”

“Demands, endless demands! If I don’t meet them then people start wondering, and people have very unpleasant imaginations! I can’t possibly be worried or have a sense of honour or propriety, no, such things are entirely beyond me and I am a liar to even suggest I might posses such traits, and that only makes me all the more despicable!”

“Nell-”

The cloak slipped some more, and now the dangling weight of the clasp began to tug the rest of the material inexorably groundward. With a growl Eleanor tore it free of her body and began to cramp the heavy woollen folds together into a more wieldy bundle with the brooch in the centre, twisting and thumping the material as if she could somehow wring its neck. “All the expectations are even worse; I am supposed to have done all kinds of things, really most of them quite insulting! Everyone has decided what I should be doing and not a one cares what I might want. I am far too old for this, and not suited to all this mushiness at all, but I do the best I can and that is obviously not good enough for anybody!” By now she had screwed the cloak up into a tight, misshapen ball. Finding nothing better to do with it she hurled it at Trempwick.

Trempwick caught the speeding bundle of cloth adroitly and began to shake it back out ready for wear again. “Nell-”

“To add the final annoyance to it all I am always left worrying; what if, what if, what does this mean, where might this go, now what am I supposed to be doing?! And in the end no matter how you look at it I am failing somehow – I cannot win! And who will get the blame regardless of how this turns out? Me, that is who! I am a lack moraled, untrustworthy, weak, sinful whore if I do sleep with you now and any but the two of us know about it, and a cold, lying, whore with a great deal to hide if I do not. Have you any idea what my family would do in that first case? Disowned, cast out without a penny to my name, battered close to death, hated, reviled – that would just be the beginning, and I would only be lucky enough to escape being dumped in a remote, unpleasant, strict convent because we are contracted, and I presume you might complain about losing me and press your claim on me. In the second instance? You hate me, your mother insults me, and both of you are wondering away, tagging me with all kinds of foul labels and accusations, and doubtless so is everyone else who see us! And in all this no one cares that, honestly, I find the idea quite disgusting and terrifying. No, go on and get it over with now, they say, or stop being stupid, or whatever. Same logic as having all your teeth pulled because one might go rotten and you are afraid of having it pull-”

Trempwick put an end to her outburst by clamping hand over her mouth; her words emerged muffled into his palm for a while and she struggled unsuccessfully to pull his hand away before she gave up and fell into smouldering silence.

“Dear Nell, I think I get the idea; I think most of the shire gets the idea.” He removed his hand, placing it on her shoulder instead. “My mother’s poison is quite effective, I think. If I am honest, yes I do wonder, but who would not in like circumstances? I do not ask because I do not wish to be pushy, and I do not really believe you capable of any of the … erm, well … unpleasant options.” He took a slow, deep breath. “Frightened. Well, you had not really said, and, you never struck me as the kind to be bothered by something so mundane.” He cleared his throat noisily a few times. “I take it from a part of your little outburst that someone,” his tone left no doubt as to whom he believed to be the guilty party, “has told you that the best way to … erm, suggested that … experience and all that?”

Eleanor admitted miserably, “Yes. But really that does not help at all – I am still damned petrified, and will continue to be so. Same problem, just moved forward a bit in time.”

“True, but I suppose less pressure and no waiting guests might help?”

“I do not think so; it is generally the same er, events.” She felt her face burn as she went a nice scarlet.

“Um … well, I suppose I had also really better say …” The blood rushed to his face and he addressed his shoes in a mumble, “Stop thinking and worrying and leave it all to me. You see, it will … that is to say … physically speaking it … um, it will just … it will make things worse. For you. Um, mentally too …”

Eleanor’s eye ticked. “Er …?”

“It … well, it …” He coughed and cleared his throat a couple of times. “Just ask my mother to explain or something. Trust me, stop worrying, and above all relax.” He coughed a little more and swapped to staring up at the sky. “Erm … as much as I would like to set your mind at rest, well if I am equally honest, that is … look, I am no good at talking about these things, only doing, and um, well this really is not the place, not that I meant we should here, no, no far from it!” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a few times like an empty barrel in a turbulent river, and he went a deep crimson. “Ahem. Yes, well, all in all this little trip to the palace might be a good thing. More knowledgeable people, and stuff. Useful. I just … well, that is you are kind of a daughter to me, and, well, really this just is not the type of thing …”

Eleanor nodded in perfect understanding. “Yes, it feels like incest to me too.”

“Erm, that was not what I meant. Um … incest?”

“I always saw you as something of a second father. Our present situation does begin to get … um, weird, at certain points.”

“Oh. Damn. Now there is an unforeseen downside to raising your future wife. Incest, well, well. Damn. Er, I imagine that feeling will go away?”

“Hmmmm, no idea. You see me as a daughter, partly.”

“Well, yes … that is, no … well, not quite, certainly not in that way! No incest feeling anyway, just a nagging feeling I should really pass you off to your mother right about now and run for it.”

“Pity she is dead.”

“Quite,” agreed Trempwick quickly. “Inconvenient.”

“Yes.”

“Very.”

“She never had much time for me anyway.”

“No.”

“So that does not help at all, does it?”

“No, quite right.” Trempwick forced a silly looking bright smile. “Well, I imagine we will manage somehow. Incest – Nell, you really do know how to put a damper on things!”

“Sorry.”

“You know I shall forget any ideas of suggesting a nice traditional private farewell tonight; we can play chess instead. Er, well, that is unless you want …?”

“Not really.”

“Ah … um … yes. Look, I shall tell you what, sweet Nell. When we get inside I shall sit you down next to a nice fire and go see about some food for a private dinner, just the two of us. We can spend the rest of the day doing whatever we end up doing, whatever that might be. Whatever we do find to do will definitely lack my mother, and that is a very great advantage.”

“But what about your work?”

“France can spy on itself for the rest of the day.” He replaced his cloak about her shoulders, this time pinning it in place, and risked a very tentative kiss.

Eleanor declared faintly, “I think I need a drink.”

Trempwick nodded sagely. “Me too. Something strong. Very strong. And in a large cup.”






The next morning Eleanor’s, Aveline’s and Juliana’s horses were saddled and ready to go, along with a singular pack horse loaded with everything Aveline had brought to the manor and a bag with the few items and changes of clothes Eleanor was taking to the palace.

The servants rushed about, finishing their preparations and helping Aveline and her maid onto their mounts.

Trempwick had drawn Eleanor to one side, safely out of the chaos. He had decided not to accompany them to the village where the rest of Aveline’s escort waited to join them, claiming that dragging out a separation only ever made it worse.

“I thought you might like this,” he said, pulling a small square parcel of plum coloured silk from the scrip at his belt. “A parting gift. I have had it for a while; I have been holding onto it for a suitable occasion and now, especially in light of yesterday, seems like the right time.”

Eleanor carefully unwrapped the gift, revealing the glitter of a simple gold ring. She picked it up by one edge and examined it closely. It was a slender band with one face flattened and widened very slightly. A gooseberry exactly like the one in her badge had been engraved lightly there, rather like a seal ring; the design had not been reversed or cut deep enough for the ring to be used for that purpose. A leaves and stem design chased around the middle of the band, again not cut very deep into the metal.


Trempwick urged, “Look inside the band.”

She did so; tiny little letters chased about the inside of the ring. It was written in Trempwick’s code, and the sixth word had been engraved more strongly than the rest. She read it out, “Not a proper princess, and better for it.”

“Now you can carry the truth with you you have no excuse for forgetting it. I trained you; if I am not qualified to judge no one is.”

Eleanor teared up. “Thank you.” She flung her arms around him in a tight, which he returned. Trempwick winced as the hilt of one of her knives caught him on the collarbone and eased away from her a bit before further damage could be inflicted.

“Try it on; it should fit your right ring finger.”

It did, resting comfortably above the slender gold twist that had been her false wedding ring without hampering her finger’s flexibility or promising to harm her ability to grip her dagger firmly.

Trempwick held her hand lightly at the wrist and fingertips, turning it carefully so he could admire the fit and look of his gift. “Perfect; it fits very well, and only when you look right up close can you see that it is anything more than a simple, plain band. You have to be thinking of princess Eleanor to make the gooseberry connection; the writing will be hidden unless the ring is removed and only a very few can read my code, so it will be quite safe for you to wear all the time.”

From the middle of the courtyard Aveline said loudly, “When you have quite finished.”

Trempwick glanced over his shoulder and then back. “Well, I do believe we have our orders.” He kissed her fiercely, crushing her body against his, taking his time with this final goodbye. Eventually he broke the kiss; suddenly deprived of his support Eleanor tottered, breathless and rather giddy. Wordlessly he led her over to her waiting horse and helped her up into her saddle. “Six days,” he said softly.

“Six days,” she agreed. Impulsively she placed one hand on his shoulder for balance, leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

Trempwick grinned and placed one hand at the back of her head so he could kiss her on the mouth again. It was short lived; the angle was too awkward and her seat too precarious. He clasped her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm instead. “An eternity. Now get moving before my mother starts griping.”

Eleanor obediently touched her heel lightly to the flank of her new milk white mare. Trempwick walked along at the side of her horse, out the main gate and some distance along the road, still clasping her hand. He gradually began to slow his pace slightly as he went. His hand began to incrementally slip free of hers. Soon only their fingers remained in contact, and then not even that. Eleanor looked back and raised the same hand in a forlorn wave. Trempwick smiled and raised his own hand, then blew her a kiss.

Eleanor ducked her head, her eyes welling up with unexpected tears. A few moments later she had her control back and proudly raised her head to look straight ahead. She did not look back again.









:puts up a sign saying ‘Warning! Gooseberry explosion in progress!’: I think she is a trifle upset. :p

Please excuse me while I giggle at the embarrassed Trempwick :D I think that has to be one of my favourite Nell/Trempy scenes. He has often been embarrassed when talking about sex with Nell, but this is the first time he has really gone to pieces :D

“So much for not even wanting to see her,” said Godit, her voice rather distorted because she was sat slumped forward at Fulk’s table with her head resting on her crossed arms.

Fulk neither looked away from the narrow window overlooking the inner courtyard nor spoke; he continued to stand with his arms folded and his face impassive, eyes and attention riveted on the scene below. Though the courtyard fairly teemed with people to Fulk one stood out from the rest; a short, slender lady in red seated on a white palfrey. She was flanked by another expensive looking woman in blue, and a third, poorer woman hung back behind them, a maid of some sort, no doubt. There were no men at arms, and no sign of the spymaster. Sunlight caught and bounced off the narrow gold circlet Eleanor wore on her head, holding a simple white veil in place.

“She’s wearing her crown …” Fulk leaned forward slightly, bracing one arm against the stone wall.

The party came to a halt near the entrance to the great keep. Fulk’s lips curved in a faint smile as Eleanor dismounted on her own, dropping to the ground in a quietly showy dismount which left her looking every bit as composed and dignified as if she has been lifted down. She stood, hands clasped in front of her and her head bowed, apparently waiting. The woman in blue and the maid were both aided down, and the one in blue quickly made her way to Eleanor’s side. A quick conversation was held, one ending with Eleanor inclining her head deferentially to the other woman. She accepted without complaint the other woman attaching herself as closely as a guard with a particular untrustworthy prisoner. Eleanor made no move to do anything except continue to wait.

Grooms took the horses away, and servants hurried over to the royal nursery with bags and packs of belongings; someone had set up orders for her lodgings but no one had appeared to greet her. The third member of Eleanor’s party, the presumed maid, held a brief discussion with one of the servants and then departed off towards the rooms Eleanor had occupied during her last visit.

Footsteps crunched on the floor rushes behind him; Fulk did not turn. Godit evidently decided he would not be moved from his window so she could see; she took up station at one of the others giving a similar view. “So,” said Godit slowly, “the one in red; that is the famous Eleanor? The source of all your grief?”

Fulk’s reply was softly spoken, “No.”

“That is not the princess?”

“It is her.”

The woman in blue looked around the courtyard as if searching for something; as she turned to his tower Fulk caught a decent glimpse of her face. Even at a distance she was recognisable, and he pulled away from the window a bit. “Aveline.”

“Who?”

Furious with himself for flinching away Fulk stood so close to the arrow slit that the tips of his leather boots scuffed against the stonework of the wall.

Down in the courtyard Aveline said something to Eleanor; the princess nodded demurely and her head bowed a little lower.

Hugh and Anne finally put in an appearance to greet their guest a short while later. Fulk scowled as Aveline prompted Eleanor into going forward and delivering a curtsey as if she would never have thought of the idea on her own. The curtsey was far deeper than was required and she held it until her brother waved her up; he took longer than was needed in doing so, Fulk thought. Aveline was instantly back at her side, dropping her own, noticeably shallower, curtsey. Hers also ended sooner, following what was required to the letter but not going further.

“What have they done to you?” Fulk asked quietly.

“Nothing,” answered Godit cheerily, “I’m in quite excellent health.”

He ignored her, watching as Eleanor, Hugh, Anne and Aveline disappeared into the keep.






Hugh tamped down his impatience as he politely escorted his sister and her chaperone up to the royal solar, leaving much of the conversational work to Anne. Such banal trivialities suited the queen better than he, and he had other, more important matters to concern himself with. However it would be deeply unchivalrous to say so, or to interfere and bring and end to this too prematurely. Hugh reminded himself that women really could not be expected to understand the necessities of state business, and so how precious his time was at present.

In the solar the facileness continued; enquires about the two day trip – set out yesterday, arrived today; typical female dawdling - questions on health, compliments on appearances and clothes. Hugh smothered a sigh and rigidly set his face so his impatience would not show, settling down to endure the required, very polite boredom for a suitable length of time.

His patience was rewarded with one most interesting observation; Eleanor herself barely said a word, speaking only when spoken to. Perhaps the display outside was not purely acting, perhaps she was finally learning some good manners? This did not sit entirely comfortably; his sister was one of the higher ranking people here, far above the lady Aveline, who carried a good half of the conversation, and so one of those entitled to speak more freely. The potential possibility that Eleanor might not have any interest in the conversation and was therefore equally as bored as he was did cross Hugh’s mind, but was dismissed rather swiftly. Eleanor was female; pointless chatter about clothes and hair was something all women liked, even the remarkably sensible Constance, therefore it was quite inconceivable that she might find this tedious conversation not to her tastes. Nor could her reticence simply be dismissed as her natural character. No, Hugh decided, customary explanations did not suit whatever she was doing. She was being perversely contrary again, and that boded trouble. Trouble could not, and most certainly would not, be permitted.

“If I may speak with my sister alone for a moment?” he said politely, interrupting a while later at a suitable point where the conversation naturally paused to swap to a new topic.

The other two ladies filed out. Eleanor stayed seated; she clasped her hands in her lap and, miracle of miracles, continued to avert her gaze very properly at the floor instead of staring defiantly back at the world as she usually did. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I thought it best, and most honourable, to be entirely honest with you.” Hugh opened his scrip and removed the folded piece of parchment set with the royal seal that his father had given him prior to marching out. “You should read this; it concerns you.”

Eleanor accepted the letter from him, untied the thongs holding it closed and read in silence. “How delightful.” Hugh thought he detected a touch of dry sarcasm in her tone.

Hugh’s back stiffened. “Delightful is hardly a fitting term to describe a royal decree.”

“I find it most touching that our dear father is thinking of me and making arrangements for my … betterment.”

Hugh suspected that too was not the seemly reply it appeared to be on the surface, but he could find no one thing to take issue with. Not wanting to appear foolish and overly sensitive he did not deliver the firm rebuke he suspected he really should, telling himself it was not cowardice to give his sister the benefit of the doubt in light of her recent good conduct. “Indeed. It gladdens my heart considerably that you see it in that way. I shall take this to mean I do not need to dispense a long lecture on how I expect you to comport yourself while here; I am pleased.”

“So, he has transferred parental authority to you for as long as he is away.” She smiled and said warmly, “Congratulations; that is an unusual honour and a mark of his faith in you.”

Hugh found he had to pause again before he could answer, once again trying to discern any solid traces of mockery in her tone. “Thank you.” He took the letter back and replaced it in his belt pouch. “I was pleased to see you behaving in a dignified manner upon your arrival, in particular I am most pleased with the way you immediately and neatly removed any chance of public strife and contention between us by paying me such a deep homage. I do most sincerely hope your very public and fitting acknowledgement of me as your superior is not just an act; as my new responsibilities dictate I will not tolerate any of your … troublesome conduct.”

“I have no particular wish to marry as a mass of cuts and broken bones, so yes you may say that it is not an act.”

“The sentiment is fitting; the way it is expressed is not. I will overlook your implied mockery no longer.”

Eleanor’s eyes went wide and she looked up from the floor to meet his eyes. “Mockery? Dear brother, that is the truth; do remember how I got betrothed in the first place.”

Hugh dithered; at last he said sternly, “It is only fair, I believe, to warn you that you will probably find me far stricter than our father; I take my responsibilities very seriously at all times.”

“Are you implying our beloved father does not?”

“No, never,” he replied with alacrity. A wave of wretchedness swept through him, and he drowned in it. Caught so easily in behaviour which would be undignified and unacceptable in the lowest heathen beggar; this could never happen again. It would not, he privately swore, burning the terrible feeling of shame and his disastrous words into his memory so he would never, ever forget.

A moment of deliberation and the solution to his predicament concerning her potential mockery presented itself. He placed one hand on the hilt of his dagger and struck a pose he fancied to be imposing and masterful, fitting airs for this situation. “I also consider it most fair to warn you that from now on I shall no longer give you the benefit of the doubt; if I suspect there is room for mockery in your words I will assume it is so and act accordingly.”

Her face tiled back towards the floor, demure attitude restored. “Thank you for the warning.”

Stood as he was, with her seated and her face angled downwards Hugh abruptly realised she could be smiling – laughing at him! - and he would never see. “Look at me,” he commanded. Instantly she did so; blue eyes as clear as a summer sky, face open and easy to read, and mouth straight and serious. Still, something bothered Hugh.

Eleanor asked, “Is something wrong?”

Anger burned through Hugh; she could toy with him and make a fool of him in her own mind, leaving him with only these vague suspicions she was mocking him! His earlier solution now looked more harmful than it had first appeared; he could end up reacting to something no one but he thought was there, making a fool of himself again, or not reacting at all and still looking the fool. Hugh recognised and then banished the emotion; he would not walk that path. Peace, and calm clarity. “No. That is all for now; you may go.”





Eleanor sat in her room doing her best to keep her tenuous hold on her patience. Several hairs nearly departed her scalp as Juliana did something inept while braiding her hair; Eleanor did not bother to hide her wince.

Aveline, sat so she could scrutinise the princess, spotted it. “Watch what you are doing,” she snapped at her maid.

Juliana mumbled an appropriately contrite sounding apology and kept on braiding, no more careful now than she had been before.

Aveline was turning one of Eleanor’s hairpins about in her hands, seemingly fascinated by the way the steel core lent the pin the same springy flexibility that could be found in the best blades. “Why can’t you use proper hairpins?” she demanded.

“Because those are the only hairpins I have. They were a gift from Raoul, just like my knives.”

Aveline grunted. “We shall find you some proper ones.”

“They were a gift from Raoul,” Eleanor repeated. “I will not be parted from them.”

“They are weapons!”

“Yes.”

“So they are entirely unsuitable.”

“But only a very few people know this; to everyone else they look normal. Raoul gave me them; he told me to wear them whenever I had need of hairpins. This way I shall not be defenceless when I cannot take my knives. I believe you have been impressing upon me the importance of obedience to my future husband?”

Juliana finished tying off the end of Eleanor’s long plait with a ribbon and began pinning the braid up into a coil at the nape of her neck, a style much simpler than Aveline considered fitting but one of the few Eleanor would allow.

Aveline returned the pin she was looking at to the small pile on the table next to Eleanor. “I was delighted to see you heeding my advice when we arrived. I presume your brother was most pleased?”

“With Hugh one can seldom tell. He claimed to be pleased.”

“I told you as much; be dutiful and well mannered, let him know you accept that he is in charge and show this to all, then abide by it, and then there is no space for threats, bickering or violence. Know your place; all works better if you do.”

“My place? I really do not have one; agent-princesses do not feature in the lists of protocol.”

“Fool girl! Whatever else you may be you are royal first and foremost; blood is not discounted because of a dubious profession or attitude such as yours. You were born a princess, you will live, although you may claim otherwise, a princess and finally you will die a princess. You may play at being something else, and granted your life is not at all fitting to your rank, but in the end you are, and always will be, inescapably royal. It is who you are. The blood of three kings flows in your veins; you are sister to our next king, and even before your great grandfather donned the crown your family had ties to the throne.”

“I do know my family history, thank you.”

“Then start paying attention to it.”

Juliana finished working on Eleanor’s hair and offered her a polished bronze mirror; Eleanor waved it away without even glancing at her reflection. She felt over her hair, memorising where the blunt ends of her hairpins lay in case she needed to draw one swiftly.

Aveline said, “You are seated with a Welsh prince at dinner tonight; I do hope you mind your manners.”

“Almost prince,” corrected Eleanor. “His father would have become Prince of Wales, and his son royalty, if not for a slight diplomatic disappointment some years ago. Now he is merely the firstborn son of the Duke of Gwynedd, a hostage to his father’s good behaviour and our chosen pawn to inherit the dukedom, though we call him guest.”

Aveline waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. I expect you to be on your best behaviour – polite, courteous, pleasant, but beware not to be too flirtatious. I will not see you damage your name and nor will your brother, mark my words. If you misbehave your will answer for it.”

Eleanor laughed quietly. “Oh, I do think it a little late for that. Llwellyn ap Marfyn ap Tewdwr is one of the many suitors I scorned before my sixth birthday; if I wished to flirt with him I would have done so years ago. I only knew a little Welsh back then; Raoul taught me to be fluent. I was instructed to greet Llwellyn in his own language, since we would spend the rest of the time speaking French and English. I did; I told him ‘Rwyt ti'n esgys fach pathetic am dyn’.”

Eleanor smiled faintly, remembering the scene as she told her suitor he was a pathetic little excuse for a man, then winced at the memory of how much trouble she had gotten in as a result. Insisting that she was not trying to be very crude and had only wanted to say Llwellyn was very short, which he had been – several years older than her but only a finger’s breadth taller, had not had quite the disarming affect on her father’s wrath that she had hoped for. Still, she had been very young and her plan had worked out well enough, unpleasant ending or no.





Fulk lay abed staring up towards the ceiling of his room, only able to see it thanks to the pair of still lit candles burning on wall prickets near his bed. He could not sleep; once again he could not sleep.

The door to his room opened silently and a figure in a long, hooded cloak slipped in. Fulk’s hand closed on the hilt of his sword and he was out of bed with the blade drawn before his unexpected guest told him quietly, “I would say I can come back when it is more convenient, but I cannot.” Eleanor pushed the hood of her cloak back; her face was pale in the dim lighting, pale and apprehensive. Fulk’s heart leapt and twisted, both pain and joy at seeing her again, and he wanted very much to catch her up in a tight embrace and soothe away that anxiety, to fill that empty hole in his soul.

Fulk returned his sword to its sheath and leaned it up against the wall by his bed once again. He took his time carefully arranging the weapon, keeping his back to her.

“How is your leg?” she asked softly as he worked. “Did it heal well?”

“Just another scar now.” He stood up and turned to face her but moved no closer.

“I do not have long. I drugged Aveline and Juliana’s evening drink; one small dose of poppy juice split between two, all I could smuggle into the palace. I doubt they will think to check my room this late but I cannot be sure. We must be careful to be quiet; if I am found here I am ruined, and you along with me.” She was playing with her betrothal ring, spinning it around on her ringer. Fulk saw the corner of her lip crinkle as she bit the inside of it.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Somehow I don’t think you’re risking so much just to ask about my leg.”

She took her time in answering. “Why is it everything seems so simple when you plan, but when the time comes it is hard to know where to begin?”

Fulk grabbed his tunic and pulled it on over his shirt. He reached for his hose; by the time he had one leg tied in place she still had not said anything else. “Start at the beginning,” he suggested briskly, pulling on the other leg.

“He knew, all along he knew but pretended otherwise.”

“‘He’ being your Trempwick, of course.”

“He is not my Trempwick; he never was and never will be. If he was I would not be here. If he knew I was here, and he has many spies in this place, he would be,” she grimaced, “extremely pissed off, as the peasants say.” She paused.

Fulk waited, giving her the time she needed to say what she wanted. His heart beat quicker; he was beginning to suspect he was about to be proved a complete idiot. He had seldom wanted something so much in his life.

“My feelings towards Trempwick have always been so mixed I could not unravel them no matter how hard I tried. Since our betrothal he has been kind, generous, forgiving, considerate, patient. He has bent himself to my wishes. He says he loves me.” She quietly admitted, “I hate him. He is a lying, manipulative bastard.” She stopped playing with her ring and took a deep breath. “I will not marry him; I am going to run away, although I prefer the term ‘escape’.”

Fulk finished buckling his belt on with trembling hands. “When do we leave?”

She smiled, her face lighting up and her nervousness disappearing. She came a half step closer, almost within his reach if he stretched out. “I had rather hoped you might say that. He knew, right from the start he knew – he was never fooled. He was trying to kill you, quietly, with the blame going elsewhere. I had to get you away to safety; I much prefer you alive to dead. I hoped to join you, just as I have done.”

“You could have told me,” said Fulk softly.

“I did my best – I said you should trust me no matter what.”

“Then you told me all my oaths were cancelled!”

In a shouted whisper Eleanor snapped, “Well I could hardly specify that you should keep the one which would have given it all away, you lackadaisical rust heap! And you are the one who brought up the whole question of oaths in front of Trempwick in the first place!”

Fulk found himself laughing. “I have missed you, oh joyously sweet tempered one, missed you more than I can say. Your plan was terrible though, no offence.”

“It worked. Anyway, I only had one rather disturbed night to plan things. Can we leave the complex, lengthy assigning blame and explaining until a more fitting date? I only have minutes. Tomorrow; be in the royal garden at ten o’clock in the morning. Do not tell anywhere where you are going; no one must know.”

“As you command, your royal shortness.”

Eleanor pulled the hood of her cloak back up, tugging it well forward to conceal her face. “I should go.”

Only a few short steps apart anyway they met without being sure of who made the first move. Fulk wrapped his arms lightly around her and pushed the hood back off her head; he ran a hand over her loose hair, smoothing it back down. He could smell very faint perfume, the lingering traces of some light, floral scent she had been wearing in the day. Fulk breathed deeply, slowly filling his lungs with the elusive, pleasant fragrance. Eleanor leaned against him, arms entwined around his chest and head pillowed on one shoulder, relaxed and peaceful. Tension, worry, concern, tiredness, everything flowed away from Fulk, leaving only serenity and a knowledge that this was perfectly right, and that for now, here, all was very well in the world.

Eleanor sighed happily. “I am promoting you to … husband, I should think. Unless you have any objection?”

“None at all.”

“A secret marriage, unfortunately, and I suspect it will have to remain unconsummated for quite a while, but I can at least provide us a witness no one would dare accuse of lying. Tomorrow.”

Fulk caught up her right hand in his, still cradling her close. “I, Fulk, plight thee, Eleanor, my troth, as God is my witness.”

“I, Eleanor, plight thee, Fulk, my troth, as God is my witness.”

They sealed the betrothal with one very lengthy kiss.

Eleanor’s hand touched the side of Fulk’s face lovingly. “Do not worry about a ring; I have one from you and I do not need another.”

“I can get you one if you want.”

Eleanor chuckled. “I all but heard your heart skip a few beats there! You cannot afford one, and I could not wear it in public anyway, so we shall do without.” When he would have protested she silenced him with a kiss. “Rings and expensive gifts did Trempwick no good. I will not be brought.”

Fulk gently traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “I never thought that.”

“I know.” Without moving she said, “I should go.”

“Will you be alright going back alone?” Reluctantly Fulk let her go.

She touched the heavy folds of her cloak with one hand. “This breaks up my outline and makes it easier for me to hide. Even if I am spotted no one will know it is me unless they get close enough to see my face. If that happens …” She pulled a waxed cord out of her left sleeve. “Strangulation is easy so long as it is unexpected, and I doubt anyone expects to be murdered by me.”

Fulk drew her back for one final, tender kiss. “Be careful.”

“I will.” As Fulk walked over to the door with her Eleanor suddenly grinned. “You half expected me tonight, I think.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your door; you left it unbolted.”

“I hoped.”







:gring:

A note for those who can’t remember little things said months ago: Nell’s betrothal to Trempy was (obviously) done under duress, and therefore according to medieval secular and church law it is not legally binding. That leaves her free to get betrothed or married to someone else. Obviously this creates all kinds of tangles, and general running around of characters yelling “Gah!”.

That would be one of very few mush scenes I actually want to write. I think it turned out … not exactly great. Well, whatever it is, it is substantially better than the plain horrible early drafts. For once I have a very, very clear mental picture of what they are doing for the entire scene; usually I can half hear the characters’ voices in my imagination. It has proven very hard to describe what I see, very hard. I just don’t know how to; I don’t have the words or knowledge.

It’s a rather beautiful scene in my mind; one of those major scenes which make me want to tell this story. A princess and her knight (or perhaps a knight and his gooseberry?), about to shove a lit rocket up the arse of their world :gring:

This is another ending but still not the ending. This marks the end of the slow part, aka ‘building but not quite there’.

Yes, this does leave a lot unexplained, and I know I also promise realism in what happens. As Nell says, “Tomorrow.” However it will not be tomorrow for you poor, addicted readers; I suspect the next part is going to take me quite a while to write.

No sooner had she dressed Eleanor found herself whipped off to the royal solar by Aveline and Juliana, stripped down to her shift and stood up on a stool in the middle of the room surrounded by breakfasting ladies with designs on outfitting her for her wedding. Anne took some mercy on her and handed her a cup of small ale and some of yesterday’s bread with strict instructions to eat without dropping crumbs.

Juliana had lugged up all of Eleanor’s clothing and, as the least important person present, held up each item one by one for inspection by the others as they ate. The jury passed verdict on each item, deciding if it should be placed on the accepted pile or the rejected pile.

By the time the food had vanished the sorting was complete; the accepted pile consisted of one pair of soft leather shoes with a decorative band running from ankle to toe tip. The reject pile held everything else.

The older Scottish woman, apparently one of Anne’s maids with the ridiculous name of Mariot, began clucking about the princess catching her death of cold while stood on her stool in nothing more than her shift. A fire was quickly laid out and lit in the hearth.

Ignored up on her stool Eleanor took a look about her. Constance sat in one of the high backed chairs, dozing with one hand draped protectively over her lower stomach. She had refused all offered food, claiming her digestion was still tender even if the morning sickness was slowly fading. Hugh’s wife looked surprisingly well; she smiled as she slept.

Aveline had taken the other seat near the fire in a cacophony of creaking joints; the journey to Woburn and then on to the palace had taken its toll on her aging bones, she had declared primly when everyone had collectively winced on her behalf. Juliana hovered near her mistress when she did not have reason to be away.

Anne had chosen one of the window seats; seated properly her feet hung an inch off the ground, and the tip of one shoe could be seen swinging carelessly beneath the dangling hem of her skirts. Anne’s three maids dispersed themselves about the room; Mariot sat with Anne. The other two, introduced as Godit and Adela, claimed the second window seat.

Surrounded, isolated, singled out and put on display – Eleanor felt like a murderess at her trial.

Aside from the two piles of her belongings a third enormous pile took up most of the solar table; bolts of different fabrics in all sorts of materials and colours. A few wicker sewing boxes littered the floor ready to break someone’s ankle.

Godit snatched up a knotted cord and advanced on Eleanor. “Right, to work.” She quickly whipped the cord around Eleanor at several critical points, calling out her measurements for someone else to note down. Done, she cast the measuring cord back where it came from and declared, “Good figure, except for those hips. Suggestions, ladies?”

Predictably Eleanor felt herself blush. She did her best to close her ears and not react to the following conversation; she had far better things to occupy her mind than another recitation of her lacks and the problems they caused. Suggestions ranged from dressing her in baggy clothing to hide her lack of hips to padding them out with extra material. Such simple, petty worries and with such simple, petty solutions, and yet the whole room acted as if this minor nothing of a crisis was deeply significant. Eleanor envied them such straightforward cares.

In the end Constance provided the answer; she didn’t even open her eyes as she suggested sleepily, “A girdle, clinch it tight at her waist and no one will take any notice of her hips. Her clothes will naturally flare out a bit too then, and the contrast between waist and rest will make her hips seem larger.”

Adela clutched one hand to her heart, scandalised. “Girdles aren’t in fashion; hardly anyone wears them with a cyclas!”

Anne countered, “Eleanor is a princess; she sets fashion, not follows it.”

“Indeed,” proclaimed Aveline somewhat ominously. “It is up to us to make best use of what is there, princess and clothing both. As long as we can make it look good then it is acceptable.”

Godit giggled. “I always wanted to be a fashion starter!”

Up on her stool Eleanor rolled her eyes.

More debate ensued on the choice of colour. The group swiftly split into two main parties and one stubborn outsider. Anne, Aveline and Adela favoured blue. Constance, Godit and Mariot went for a shade that was a mix between deep red and plum purple. Juliana stubbornly, and friendlessly, insisted on a similar red to the clothes Eleanor had arrived in yesterday.

Mariot grabbed a scrap of the reddish purple and held it up against Eleanor’s breastbone. “Look, see? It brings colour and warmth to her skin, goes with her hair, looks well enough and is undoubtedly expensive.”

Anne snatched up a few bits of the assorted shades of blue and held them up on the other side of Eleanor’s breastbone; she had to stand on tiptoe to reach. “Blue does all that and goes with her eyes.”

“She wears blue frequently; her wedding is supposed to be special.”

“She often wears blue at court because it suits her.”

“Only deeper blues are expensive enough for royalty; lighter hues even peasants can wear.”

“So? Everyone knows who she is – no one can mistake the bride at her own wedding.”

“Believe me they can.”

The bits of blue were pressed against Eleanor’s chest firmly. “Blue. This is a royal wedding, not some yokel affair where the bride is wearing only her Sunday best and her drunken groom is off making free with the bridesmaids!”

The plum equally increased in firm pressure. “Murray. As you say, this is a royal wedding.”

Aveline was not at all happy with the maid’s familiarity with her queen. She interrupted, “My son likes her in blue.”

Godit went to her friend’s aid immediately, saying, “But we are not dressing her for you son, are we?”

“Unless she is going to swap the groom with no warning or permission, yes we most certainly are!”

Anne heatedly retorted, “No – we are dressing her to do credit to herself and her family!”

Up on her stool Eleanor said, “I was thinking russet …” Then everybody would be happy – Fulk liked russet on her, she rather liked russet, Trempwick tolerated russet, no one had never complained specifically about russet.

She was completely ignored as the war between blue and purplish red went on.

The sun had moved around so it shone directly on Constance’s face, forcing her to move her chair over, by the time the group had reached a sullen consensus on blue, but only if a deep blue brocade featured prominently somewhere.

Eleanor was beginning to worry; it was already about half past nine and she looked likely to be trapped here for hours longer. She had given Anne some rushed, secretive orders yesterday evening, but she was not entirely sure she could rely on the young queen to remember and enact them in the midst of something which was clearly supposed to be exciting. Unnoticed by everyone else she smiled wryly; either she laughed about her allies or she would start weeping. A child, a baseborn bastard and herself; with this she had to stop a spymaster. Saints did easier tasks daily. Two allies, only one of whom was in this room. Eleanor quickly glanced about her again; there was at least one Judas here, possibly more, and Aveline did not count because she would betray Eleanor without the traditional forty pieces of silver. Involuntarily Eleanor shivered and the hairs at the back of her neck stood up; a combination of events usually attributed to someone walking over your future grave. Lonely panic welled up; frantically Eleanor battled to repress it.

“Cold, dear?” enquired a voice with a Scottish lilt at her elbow. Eleanor fairly jumped out of her skin. It was the older maid, Mariot. “I’ll put another log on the fire. You’re lucky there’s window glass here or you would truly catch your death.”

Eleanor managed a weak smile. “Thank you.” She began to take notice of the conversation again, taking more careful note of everyone, what they said and how they acted.

Anne said, “The shift has to be fine white linen, of course, but we can add a heavy border to the neck and hem in several shades of blue stitching.”

Godit was nodding enthusiastically. “Perhaps we can make use of her gooseberry badge for the motif?”

Adela suggested, “And we could work in her father’s lion too?”

Eleanor scowled and insisted loudly, “No. No gooseberries, and no lions or anything else designed to tell everyone who I am. If they do not know by the time I am stuck in bed with Raoul then they are fools beyond all aid.”

A rather awkward silence held until Mariot suggested, “I saw this very simple design used once before; a cross shaped emblem contained in the diamonds formed by a pair of crossing zigzag lines. The empty spaces are filled with half versions of the cross.” She sketched out a quick demonstration on the bit of cheap parchment with Eleanor’s measurements jotted down on it and passed it around the company. “Simple, but quite stunning to the eye; perhaps this will do?”

Juliana gave one of her rare contributions as she pulled out a bolt of very fine white linen from the mass on the table and set it to one side ready for use. “We could do the thinner borders like that, and use some kind of animal motif for the thicker borders? Roosting birds in branches?”

Aveline said, “Combine the two; we can use the bird pattern for the main, and the cross pattern for the edging, all done as small as may be. Three or more solid inches of good embroidery at hem and collar; it will look most impressive without introducing a clash of theme.”

Godit leaned forward to confide in a scandalous raised whisper, “Why do we need to use linen? Why not white silk?”

Aveline sniffed and glared reprovingly at the maid. “Because we do not want her to look like a harlot, that is why.”

Godit raised her eyebrows and muttered, “Well, my eldest sister would argue there; she wore silk and she is so virtuous she could bore a nun to tears.”

“What fits the lower nobility does not fit royalty,” declared Aveline firmly.

Eleanor ignored much of the following conversation about clothing, instead focusing on surreptitiously watching people, studying their mannerisms and responses, learning what little she could about everyone here. At least one of Anne’s maids would be in Trempwick’s employ; if not he was getting unforgivably lax. Eleanor found that all three made good choices, and all three seemed highly unlikely. Trempwick might choose to approach someone who seemed totally unsuitable, or then he might pick the most obvious one simply because it was never supposed to be the obvious one. If you wanted obvious then you immediately went for the sole English presence, followed by the gossipy, stupid seeming one. If you wanted unlikely then you had a tie between all three; ‘mother’, moron, and meek. Eleanor mentally tagged all three as Trempwick’s people for safety. She could only hope Anne had not let any of them find out too much of the already exceptionally limited information Eleanor had fed her. Looking at how the young queen interacted with her three maids Eleanor had the sinking feeling that the girl trusted them all implicitly. Eleanor also earmarked Juliana for future investigation.

Godit’s confident, “She will wear her hair unbound, of course, so no need to worry about styles.” Captured the edges of Eleanor’s attention and pulled her mind back from her musing. Clothing details had been finalised. Quickly piecing together the things she had overheard without paying attention Eleanor decided they were going to dress her in much the same thing as she had worn at court after Christmas. One unfortunate detail finally dawned on her; with those clothes, the limitations placed on a bride, and her hair loose she would be completely disarmed. This should not be a problem but still it sat uneasily.

Mariot said, “What about a veil? She could or could not; either would work.”

Eleanor raised her voice and said, “No, no veils.” Simple principle; if she was going to be disarmed she would not be hampered by headgear as well.

“What about a circlet of flowers?” suggested Adela. “What blooms in February anyway?”

Anne said, “She will be wearing her own crown.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh golly! We should have taken the gold into account when choosing our colours!” Anne dug Eleanor’s crown out of the chaos and handed it up to her.

Eleanor took the simple circlet, holding it carefully so her fingertips only contacted the narrow edges of the band where no one would see the marks they left, and inspected it. She wiped a thumbprint off the gleaming gold with the sleeve of her shift. Slowly, holding the crown in both hands, she lowered it onto her head with conscious dignity. Because she had insisted on a simple style with the bulk of her hair kept low down on her head the circlet fitted exactly as it had been made to do. She arched one eyebrow at Aveline, silently scoring a victory in her battle against Aveline’s insistence on fancy hairstyles.

Mariot nodded approvingly. “The gold goes so well with her hair. Say what you like in praise of corn coloured blonde; nothing goes so well with gold as proper black.”

An agreeable murmur ran about the room and a few offshoot conversations on hair colours started. Eleanor began to despair; it had to be ten o’clock now, probably later.

Anne clapped her hands. When she got the silence she wanted she said, “We have four days until the wedding; three days to work and one morning to tweak shortly before she goes to the church door. We had best get to work. You two,” she pointed at Juliana and Adela, “work on the shift. You two,” Mariot and Godit, “the cyclas. Aveline, you tackle the underdress; I shall find someone to help you if Constance does not feel up to sewing. I will also enlist competent people to take over our work when we require a break; if we make use of every daylight hour God sends, and burn a few candles, we will have our work done. I will make sure Eleanor knows everything she needs.”

Aveline said cautiously, “It may be best if I were to do that. I have been married twice; that lends me a certain … seniority.”

Constance yawned, stretched and sat up properly. “No need to put yourself out, lady Aveline. I shall assist Anne; family, and all. I think I am senior enough.”

A significant look passed between the two, removing any last lingering traces of hopeful doubt Eleanor had as to what kind of education they were talking about. Aveline inclined her head very slightly. “Then I shall set to work. Make sure she is word perfect on the vows in particular; it is bad luck to hesitate or stumble on the words.”

Anne and Constance quickly helped Eleanor back into the rest of her clothes and made their escape. Eleanor began to search for ways to get to the garden without it seeming remarkable. For a very brief moment Eleanor considered letting Constance tag along; she was highly unlikely to be in Trempwick’s employ and she could make a very valuable ally. Eleanor dismissed the idea rapidly; valuable Constance might be but there was very little chance Eleanor could win her over to her cause just yet. She would have to be dumped along the wayside somewhere; judging from the way the poor woman could barely stay awake they would have no difficulty persuading her to return to her rooms and rest.

They made their way down the staircase and through the main hall in silence. Hugh was holding court in the hall with some important looking men Eleanor didn’t recognise; from what she overheard while stealthily making her way to the exit it appeared to be a discussion of tavern licensing in the castle town, in which case the men would be guild representatives and town aldermen. Hugh occupied the throne stiffly; even kings enthroned on wax seals looked more comfortable and less formal than he did. Eleanor was astonished to see Hugh raise one hand in a salute to his wife as she skulked past, a wave Constance returned. Hugh blushed and his speech fragmented and slowed down as he forgot what he was saying in the distraction; it picked up soon enough, now with a new tone that sounded quite close to embarrassment to Eleanor.

The bailey was also busy; Eleanor managed to direct things in her favour by suggesting they retire to her guest room where they would be assured of peace and quiet. As they closed the front door Constance said to Anne, “You are getting very good at giving commands to those who are not servants.”

“Thank you. I do try my best.”

“Eleanor, your future mother-in-law is a dragon. If you cannot find Saint George to give her battle I suggest you hit her over the head with your crown.” Constance left a beat before adding innocently, “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Eleanor laughed. “Believe me I have considered it!”

“Rather than delay I shall get the embarrassing bit over and done with now; advice for your wedding night from someone a deal more experienced than our little queen, no offence intended, Anne.” Constance made a dramatic pause and fixed her audience with a stern, motherly gaze. She imparted extremely gravely, “Do your duty and do as your husband says; be guided by his superior knowledge.” She shrugged and reverted to her normal voice. “Well, I am sure that was far less painful than Aveline’s version of the same speech would have been. Now for the bits she would not have told you. Do not listen to other people’s horror stories or tales of wonder; what was theirs will not be yours. Remember who you are; he would be a fool to upset you. Remember who you know, and again he would be a fool to harm you. The spymaster may be a trickier proposition than most husbands but you are a princess, you are friends with the queen and myself, and your father and brother will not stand for any slights to you. Do not antagonise him, but do not let him crush you underfoot either. Now I shall leave you in peace and see about finding myself something to eat which I will not bring right back up again.”

Eleanor watched through the murky, distorting window glass as Constance headed off towards the kitchen building. Eleanor asked, “She is going to eat in the kitchens?”

“Yes, she does that most days now; evenings are the only time she eats like everyone else. It is because of the sickness; she is not able to eat when everyone else is, and she also craves odd foods. She is running the servants off their feet in the evenings, eating anything and everything except what you might expect. Half the time she has gone off whatever food she requested by the time it arrives, instead demanding another dish!” Anne giggled, then hurriedly straightened her face. “It is perfectly normal for a pregnant woman, you know.”

Eleanor made a thoughtful noise and continued to look off towards the kitchens for a moment. She shook herself. “Motherhood really does not sound like much fun. Right, to the garden. We should find sufficient peace to practise those longwinded vows there.”







:gring:

Well, instead of three parts (starting from the previous post) for this current part of the story to really make sense it has now gone up to four thanks to this scene and the one after growing much longer than I expected. But hey, you either get it in four parts with confusion or one 20+ page lump with eyestrain and a long wait. Yup, thought you might prefer the four parts :tongueg:

Oh, and if anyone is wondering why I keep grinning like a loon while posting the parts of this bit of the story, well that is because I am finally writing a bunch of scenes and lines I have been imagining and working towards for half a year. I doubt the grinning will last; this story is now officially The Hardest Thing I have Ever Written, Ever, In The History Of Everything Ever. The next part is perhaps going to be the single hardest to write scene in this entire story. :self pitying frog:

Milady Frog, :bow: I must apologise. I have not been following the story since Christmass I think. Life, as usual, got in the way and I have been daunted by having missed so much.

This post is purely to gain sympathy as I will now be losing my eyesight from staring at a screen for the next 7 hours catching up. ~:) It will be worth it, but I'll have to get a custom smiley made showing me laying comatose at my desk. ~D

I am looking forward to catching up.

Anne sat tactfully on a different bench to the one Eleanor and Fulk occupied. The little queen had not been able to hide her delight at finding Fulk waiting for them in the garden; now she kept watching the elder pair as if waiting for something magical to happen. She was probably already disappointed, Eleanor thought, and if she was not then eventually she would be. True love, as Anne had determinedly labelled it, was supposed to be far more exciting than sitting cosily together on a bench, doing and saying nothing, although they did have a queen acting as accomplice and there would be excitement aplenty if this were ever discovered. But for now she treasured her time, relishing the sense of peace Fulk’s solid frame and quiet, assured calm brought her.

She and Anne had entered through the main gate, telling the gate guard that they were not to be bothered. The entire trip from castle to garden had been filled with wedding related chatter, and Eleanor had carefully timed things so she was repeating the main part of her vows under Anne’s patient tutelage when they approached the guard. As long as they kept their voices to a normal level once inside the sheltering walls they would be safe from spies. Fulk had been equally careful in his approach; he believed no one had seen him.

Eleanor’s happy peace of heart was soon being assaulted. Anne’s blissful enthusiasm slowly began to wear thin, then vanished, then she began to fidget and looked decidedly uneasy. When Anne began giving the impression she was seated on an ant’s nest Eleanor asked her, “What is wrong?”

“This is a terrible risk, if this is found out Fulk will die and we will be utterly ruined.”

Anne had said exactly what Eleanor had expected, although it had taken longer for the gloss to chip away than she had anticipated. The statement presented a very good starting place for what she had come here to say … but Eleanor cringed away from it, daunted and more than a little fearful. “My father created this garden for my mother, long before I was born. I have always heard he did it simply to make her happy.” Eleanor adjusted the arm she had resting around Fulk’s waist so it sat more comfortably; safely out of Anne’s line of sight she began to tickle his ribs with her thumb. “I wonder if they ever sat here like this?” She glanced up at the knight; he was managing to keep a straight face. Fulk glanced sidelong at her and winked.

Surprisingly Anne answered confidently, “They would have, but without the chaperone. The notches cut into the back wall were done at his order so he could climb over to meet her in secret, without half the court waiting outside with petitions. A rather transparent deception, but it worked.” At Eleanor’s reaction she asked, “Why are you amazed? They were a happy pairing.”

“Really?”

“William often speaks of her. Have you heard that old song, the one which starts, ‘Though I wander far, you are always in my heart’? He wrote that for her, anonymous, and had his minstrel play it. Back then everyone knew who had written it and who it was dedicated to, even if it was never openly said. It fell from favour when the queen died; now it is mostly forgotten, he had to tell me of it himself. He thought I would appreciate the tale, and I did … for several reasons.”

“My beloved regal ancestor played courtly lover? But he seems so …” Eleanor let it lie at that; Anne seemed quite attached to her husband.

“He was young once.”

“Songs and gardens.” She snorted. “As if that could make up for the rest.”

“What rest?” asked Anne curiously.

Eleanor found herself reluctant to speak, to explain a past and maybe predict a future too. Anne sat up and stopped swinging her feet, waiting. Fulk’s hold on Eleanor tightened and he answered for her, “A wife is much more convenient to vent your temper on?”

“Yes,” agreed Eleanor sadly. “She was an English noble; her family was powerful but very small in number, and many of her close relatives had died one way or another. That is why she was a better catch than a foreign bride; she was incredibly wealthy and she brought direct control over large parts of England. She had no real protection, even assuming her family would have cared anyway.”

Anne shook her head and declared vehemently, “You are both so wrong about each other. It is really sad.”

“Wrong?” Eleanor sat bolt upright, pulling away from Fulk. “Oh yes, he is really a saint. I saw his halo once. Flowers sprout under his feet as he walks, butterflies come out of his nose when he sneezes, and a choir of angels sing him to sleep each night after a day full of charitable acts of mercy.”

“I was terrified of him after what he did to you; he saw that and explained himself. He will only ever hit someone if they have given him cause, and he insists he never draws blood or does lasting harm. So he would not have hurt his first wife without cause, just as he would not harm me.”

Eleanor said scathingly, “If you believe that you are a fool and denying the evidence your own eyes have seen.”

“I asked about you, because that was obviously not true. You are the exception to his rule, but only the part about drawing blood. I asked why again. He said, ‘Because that is the only way to make her take notice; she ignores anything less.’ Then, after a pause so long I thought he had forgotten I was there, he added very quietly, ‘And because she makes me lose my temper.’ For the rest, he was not lying; if anything he is merciful. He had his cause once but did not use it; he let me go. So your mother would have been quite safe unless she really upset him, but that is the case in most marriages.”

“He broke my ribs and beat me unconscious because my brother betrayed him, my brother, not me. He claimed otherwise but I could tell my ‘failure’ to entrap John was just an excuse. He always loved John, but not me. Never me. So when John hurt him he took it out on me, just as he did that night here in the palace, just after John was dragged home, just as he has done many times in the past. Cause, excuse, whatever you want to call it, has nothing to do with it.”

“He did love you; he chose your name because-”

“I don’t want to hear!” shouted Eleanor. Fulk’s hand exerted a gentle, warning pressure on her wrist. Eleanor allowed Fulk to pull her back into sitting comfortably against him, grateful for his quiet efforts to calm her down before she let her temper get the better of her and did something very regrettable. She moderated her voice, “He is what he is, clearly different to you than to me. Leave it at that.”

“But-”

“You think I want to wonder why he can be so kind to you but never, ever to me? Why nothing about me pleases him and never has? Everything I am is wrong, or inferior to one of my siblings; he made that quite clear from the very beginning. It does not matter what I do now, and perhaps it never did; he will always hate me, and believe me that galls.”

Anne looked almost as if she were about to start crying. “You are both so wrong-”

“I don’t care. This is not why I arranged this meeting; it is a waste of time far better spent. If you must preach about Saint William do it later, and not to me.”

Anne opened her mouth to say something else; Eleanor glared at her, willing her to admit defeat before matters became even worse. Anne closed her mouth again so abruptly her teeth clicked. The queen stared intently down at her clasped hands, shoulders slumped. Eleanor felt a stab of guilt; involving Anne in all this was bad enough without snapping at the girl.

Fulk continued his soothing efforts, only to unintentionally spoil them with a single question. “You said you wanted to explain something?”

Left no way out, and seeing how her last diversion had turned out, Eleanor nodded. “Yes.” She got a firm grip on her emotions, searching for a place to start. Slowly she said, “It is hard to begin … it all links together, circling around and intertwining, one thing to another and another …” Now she was on the brink, after days of inching her way towards this point, taking little baby steps and focusing only on getting here. She could still stop, stand still and let everything continue as it had been and let others, and God, decide the outcome. Perhaps there was no need for her to do this. Perhaps there was. She took a last breath of this calm before the storm, gathered her courage and took the next, irrevocable step. “No matter how good you are it only takes one small mistake…”

“Then don’t make a mistake,” said Fulk simply. “Don’t do anything to put yourself at risk. You know what I wish, but as you told me wish and want are two different things, one possible, one not. I want you to be safe; I can’t protect you from a king and a spymaster. I’d die to save you, but it would only leave you to face them alone. But don’t misunderstand; if you leave then I follow, I’m your knight and always will be.”

“Remember I said you were all I had?” asked Eleanor. Fulk nodded. “I was wrong. I had a home, I had Trempwick to make all the hard decisions, he gave me some protection from my family and the world, I had a purpose and something to do with my life, even if it promised to be short and end with my death.” Eleanor hesitated. “The mistake I meant was not mine; it was Trempwick’s. Now I don’t know what to do; he was always the one to worry about things, the spymaster while I was only an agent.” Eleanor considered the many different ways she could say this. With a sigh she settled for the bluntest, “Trempwick is a traitor; he plans to put me on the throne as his puppet.” After a brief pause Eleanor added honestly, “I think. I do not have evidence, just a thousand little things which all add up this way when taken together. He was always the one to worry about proof and to interpret the gathered facts; he was the one I went to for help. What am I supposed to do without him?” In the shocked silence which followed her announcement Eleanor once again drew on the peace and clarity of mind Fulk’s presence often brought her. Refocused she said, “From Constance’s eating habits I think Hugh may be more willing to listen than I had thought; thank heaven for small aids.”

Anne picked on this easiest starting place. “Constance’s eating habits?”

“One of those interlinking titbits; if you assume Trempwick is a traitor and has been planning this for some time then it is logical to also assume he does not want Hugh to have heirs. Therefore all those miscarriages, including the few on other women, begin to look suspicious, rather than a simple fault with Hugh’s seed. Therefore someone must have been dosing Constance, and the others, with something like hyssop shortly after each pregnancy was discovered. A spymaster could easily set that up; even placing the guilt elsewhere and covering up his tracks would be relatively simple. Now she is making it very difficult for anyone to add something unexpected to her food and drink, therefore she, and probably Hugh, must be suspicious of foul play.”

Fulk said, “Let’s take this to the main point; could you be a queen?”

“While my father is alive, no. When he is dead and only Hugh is left? Quite possibly. My brother is not terribly popular; he is competent but not outstanding, and he does not have a gift for winning people over to his side. Hugh is rumoured to be a bastard; untrue but insidious, it provides an excuse for disloyalty, and some do honestly believe it. As everyone knows bastards cannot inherit anything under law, certainly not kingdoms. There are no other legitimate male heirs unless you go to underage grandsons, distant grandsons off in Spain, the product of a mother who is a famed adulteress. Poor Adele is another of these little tangents; assume everything is as publicly acknowledged for now. Both of my surviving elder sisters are married; they have better claims but are far away, and their husbands have their hands full with their own realms. That leaves me as the best example of royal blood available, though my niece, John’s daughter, would also have a claim, inferior to mine and she is less useful.”

“She’s just a baby; controlling minors is difficult when half the country wants to play with the baby,” said Fulk.

“Indeed. She is also with her mother, locked away safely because of John’s treason. She may or may not be barred from possessing or passing on any right to the throne; I do not know the details of the decisions made there. Assuming she is not barred I am still better by far. I could marry Trempwick, binding me to him, making it harder for others to take control over me unless widowed and remarried, and, importantly, I could support Trempwick actively. I could be loyal to him, exactly as he trained me to be. I am also old enough to make a reasonable figurehead, far better than some toddler barely able to talk. To the main question: a woman on the throne; tricky, but possible. There would be fighting at the start, to oust Hugh and scare off anyone else who might try their hand. I could be competent if I put my mind to it, and given enough time to prove myself most worries could be dealt with. Of course the husband is vital; if he was unpopular, incompetent, or a hindrance in some way people would try to remove him, and possibly me also.”

Eleanor drew a deep breath. “Trempwick is powerful, noble, although only midlevel nobility by birth he has recently risen dramatically, a friend of our current king, and as spymaster he has been able to set things up, I think, clearing the way of his most dangerous rivals and wooing allies covertly. Approaching people openly with his plans would be madness; he must have set up fronts, broken things up into small pockets of seemingly unrelated grievances. I am not sure about this part; I have no evidence, just guesswork. But with this in mind it is not hard to see the old Duke of Northumberland as a man lured into folly and removed - with the blame falling on my father, mark you - because he was somehow dangerous to Trempwick’s plans. That, typically, leads on to John also being led into foolishness and removed … but that is another tangent. Trempwick could remove people easily, placing the blame openly on the king, or working through agents of agents of agents to kill and put the blame on others. I think he must have been doing this for years.”

“As far as ruling goes, and loyalty, as long as Trempwick was competent and supported by much of the nobility, and as long as I did not annoy people, it could work. People will go where they see advantage; so long as the powerful felt they profited by my rule they would side with me until they saw a better opportunity. Some few would stick with me because my royal blood is undoubtedly pure; sentimental family loyalty, and royal blood counts for a lot. Once crowned and anointed I would gain a few more of the steadfastly loyal. The clergy may present a few problems, but I feel only a fanatical few would quote a woman’s inferiority and God defined place as subject to men as a reason to keep me off the throne – widows and heiresses already control their lands and all that goes with them until marriage. There might be a few people wondering how I could be properly subordinate to my husband while still being queen, but that could be handled somehow. A split between private life and public life, maybe. I do not know and nor do I really care. It would only be a small number of people worrying about that anyway; everyone else would have an eye to their gains, and I think many would admit that a queen sounds far easier to exploit than a king. The Pope’s official blessing could be secured via the usual methods; a large quantity of gold and some diplomatic bargaining. Where the Pope leads most others follow.”

Eleanor paused so they could digest the influx of information, also to rest her voice. She was not used to speaking so much, and her throat was becoming sore. “Back to Hugh, my father and weddings. It is possible to say that my father intends Trempwick to be his heir, knowing Hugh is a bastard. He publicly betrothed him to me and stated very clearly he intended us to marry; that says he trusts, likes and approves of Trempwick. I was reluctant to marry, but perhaps I changed my mind when it was explained this was a part of my beloved regal ancestor’s plan to make me his heir, or so the story could be spread. In the future my father could announce I am his heir. It will not happen, but it could easily be claimed he intended it to be so but never managed to make the change to his will … or a forged will could be produced, and then he never managed to make the announcement. Games, nothing but games, but important ones. The nobility might not honestly believe such a thing, but the peasants and townsfolk might; a story of a king foully betrayed by his wife and tragically dying before he could alter his succession because his illegitimate son hindered him so he could hold on to his power and status for as long as possible does grab the imagination, and if told correctly it can convince those ignorant of court affairs. Or you can put a somewhat different twist on this theme and say that I was intended to be the heir and Trempwick was considered the best person to support me.”

All in all only the beginning would be tough; once crowned, anointed and settled on the throne with resistance dead or put to flight the worst would be over and the largest problems defeated. As long as, and mark this as it is most important, my father is already dead in a way which does not link back to Trempwick or myself he stands a chance of pulling this scheme off. While my father is alive it is impossible; no one would support me over him. Trempwick is not ready to move yet; he need to be married to me publicly, and he needs me settled down and happy in that marriage. It would also be suspicious if the king died too soon after our wedding, only for Trempwick to begin his attempt on the throne.”

“So what was Trempwick’s mistake?” asked Fulk.

Eleanor lightly tapped his leg where he had been wounded. “Those bandits, or perhaps more accurately what came shortly after. He sent them with several ways to gain that I can see. He could kill you without turning me against him, depriving me of your influence and allowing him to comfort me and prove how caring he can be. He could possibly play hero and save me if I was captured. He scared and shocked me, giving him excellent reason to be kind and sympathetic. He blamed Hugh for the attack, turning me a little more away from my family. Was it Hugh? No. Trempwick trained me to think how he wants; this one time it came back and bit him. I obediently came to the desired conclusion, that it was Hugh who was responsible, and he agreed and continued to encourage me to think that way. The subject was then neatly dropped, except for the rare reminder that I was in danger, and they focused more on the future than on the supposed past. Most of those reminders were started by me to check his reactions and try to learn more. But, and here was his error, I had also been trained to think carefully, and so I did when I was safely out from under his scrutiny.

“Hugh gains nothing but risks plenty by trying to kill or kidnap me. He could not possibly hope to keep his involvement quiet; he would upset both my father and Trempwick, and also me, if I count at all. Unless you assume someone is slowly twisting things to give me a good chance at the throne I pose little threat to Hugh’s position. He could not marry me off to someone of his choice either; most consider my betrothal with Trempwick to be binding even though it was forced. Also the marriage would count as forced, and unless I stood by it it would be easy to dissolve, and having had my bodyguard murdered, been kidnapped, and then forced to marry someone who would more than likely rape me to consummate the marriage I would not be the least bit inclined to help them out. Any fool could see that. Also, Hugh could have found much better men than those bandits, and in larger quantities; if you are going to take a risk you make as certain of things as possible. But Trempwick only had a very short time to get his men hired and in place, if my theory as to why he suddenly sent us on that mission is true. He was not fooled by my excuses; he believed Gerbert. I think Gerbert may have been the horseman following us; if you remember he stole my horse, and the horseman appeared to be riding a grey.” Eleanor waved her free hand dismissively. “But Gerbert ties into the bit about servants; so forget it for now. My whereabouts are very carefully guarded; only a few know of them. Trempwick would have done better to assume one of his servants was in outside employ and a traitor; it would have been far more believable.”

Eleanor wearily let her head drop onto Fulk’s shoulder. “Once I realised it could not be Hugh I began to wonder why Trempwick wanted me to think it was, and from there I found suspecting him added a new twist to several other things, then I began to see a few other new things, which also added a new understanding, and after that I found many odd little things which count as nothing alone but add up with everything else to cast real doubt on Trempwick. We were stupid to think we had fooled him; he knew how we felt from the beginning, perhaps before we knew ourselves. He did not see or know everything though; he was furious when we met here, in this garden because it meant he could not find out what we were doing. He was also fooled with the necklace, and unless he hired someone who could see through walls there is no way he could have us watched when we were alone in a room together. We assumed he would act if he knew, but he needed me to like him, trust him and rely on him. He watched and he learned, then applied what he had learned when it was safe for him to court me. I only noticed the little things he stole from you because I was wary; he made your words and actions over into his own. It was only a small part of what he did; most of his courtship was his own.” Eleanor paused, and admitted truthfully, “There was some attraction there, and fondness, just not to the depth he claimed.”

Anne exclaimed, “But everyone thought you liked him! William, Hugh, even Fulk all told me how you liked Trempwick. I did not want to believe, but they were so instant, and they all told me separately.”

“Good; I may have fooled him then.”

“How?”

“I would rather not talk about that, but I suppose I must.” She pulled on the arm Fulk had resting about her waist, pulling it tighter. She took a firm hold on his other hand. “I am a fast learner when I want to be; I studied what he did and turned it back on him. I got him used to the idea it took me a while to do anything if he threw something new or unexpected at me. I used what emotion I did have as substitute for what I did not; fear, in particular, makes a good stand-in for passion.” That could be left precisely at that; they did not need to know that on a very few occasions, mostly when Trempwick was not pushing things very far and she was feeling very keenly the loneliness Fulk’s departure had left, it really had not been entirely unpleasant.

“I used all the cunning I had and it nearly was not enough, or perhaps it was not and he is just letting me hang myself. One night ...” Eleanor broke off, frowning as she thought. If she told them about Trempwick’s repeated seduction attempts Fulk would be very upset on her behalf and Anne would be equally unhappy, not to mention she’d nearly die of embarrassment relating it. No, she would not mention any of that unless she had to. “He got his mother, or she decided of her own accord because I did not fool her, to ask what he could not, to ask why, for all my supposed liking for him, I would not sleep with him. Some very nasty accusations were made, but I think I managed to allay his suspicions by losing my temper, shouting about a lot of the excuses I had been using in a very hurt manner, and then adding that it felt like incest.” And that too could be left at just that; they did not need to know there had been a lot of truth in her hurt anger and what she had said. She had told Fulk last night that her feelings towards Trempwick had always been so mixed up she could not hope to unravel them; sadly that was still all too true. “I really do not want to talk about it.”

Eleanor looked up at the sun, gauging how much time had passed. “There is plenty more, but I do not know how long we safely have here, and there can be no more meetings like this. Trempwick has spies everywhere.” Eleanor looked at Anne. “One of your maids will be a spy, possibly more than one.” And at Fulk. “You have a squire? He may be a spy also. Trust no one.” Back to Fulk. “It is going to be hard for me to see you again; I cannot risk meeting you secretly again. I trust no messengers. So I will ask that you wait and continue as normal; if I need you somehow I will find a way. Hugh may summon you and question you, if I manage to get him to listen to me he might. Be truthful, but be sure not to let slip anything which might lead him to suspect we love each other.”

“Of course; I like not being maimed and dead.”

Eleanor pulled away from Fulk, sitting back so she could study his face. “One more thing; when they were … persuading me to get betrothed to Trempwick you were locked up? At whose order?”

“The king’s.” Fulk’s answer was quick, positive, and the same as the one he had given two months ago. “He told me so himself; remember he gave me his ring in compensation. I still have it.” He indicated the leather pouch fastened onto his belt.

“If you had been free would you have tried to help me? Honestly?”

The look on Fulk’s face was nearly enough to break her heart. “Of course I would have,” he said softly.

Eleanor considered this, nodding slowly. “I need to talk to my beloved regal ancestor; typically he is not here and will not be back for a long time.” She sighed. “That man is just plain inconvenient.” She spent a few moments meditating on what promised to be a miserable meeting if it ever happened. “Anne? Do you know why he ordered Fulk locked up?”

“I know he has heard good reports on Fulk and his loyalty, but that is all.”

“So … he may have thought there was a tiny chance you would intervene because you are loyal … maybe. But if he does not know you love me then the only motive you are left with for your probable suicide is loyalty, and that is a rare commodity. A failed rescue attempt would have left me feeling even worse, so it would have been almost useful for him. If Trempwick had asked him to lock you away … now that would make sense because of what he knew … but then it would have been in Trempwick’s best interests to have you loose. If you had tried to rescue me you would more than likely die; the blame would be firmly at my father’s feet, and Trempwick could comfort me over your loss as well as all the rest.” Eleanor sighed again, fed up of thinking herself around in circles and running into dead ends. “Trempwick wants you free; my father does not have very good grounds to lock you safely away … it makes no sense!”

Anne considered, then suggested, “If William kept hearing of Fulk’s loyalty he may suspect there was a small chance he might interfere, and so locked him up to ensure that could not happen. Believe it or not, but William does not like unnecessary killing and he prizes traits like fidelity.”

“And so once again we end up back with the elusive Saint William!” growled Eleanor. “I need to talk to my father; I never thought I would say that, and I do not like it one bit, but it is sadly true. There are so many things only he can say; I need his account of that council the three of them held on the night of John’s return I have Trempwick’s version; I need Hugh’s and my father’s too.”

Fulk patted her on the back. “At least you can’t complain you’re bored now,” he said encouragingly. “I know how much you like to keep busy, and you do love a challenge.”

Eleanor smiled and said warmly, “I did miss you, you know.”

“I should damned well hope so! When I think of all I survived at your hands … I still have nightmares.” Fulk sniffled and rubbed at his eye. “Casual cruelty, insults, belittlement, torture, attempts on my life, out and out attacks-”

“And you enjoyed every minute of it, you lying wretch.”

“Certainly not!”

“Sorry, every second of it.”

“You are impossible!”

Eleanor beamed. “That is so sweet of you.”

“And here I am again, lured back into a vicious life of gooseberry inflicted torment,” lamented Fulk. “I should have run away to live with my mother while I had the chance.”

Eleanor kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Fulk smoothed her forehead with a thumb. “If I left you sitting about frowning and fretting all the time you’d soon end up with wrinkles, oh beloved mine. I’d rather you got laughter lines.”

“I shall remember that next time you make a prat out of yourself and will laugh heartily.” Reverting to seriousness Eleanor broached the reason she had called this pathetic little council of war. “I have three main choices from here; I can go to Hugh now and tell him what I know, but I have no evidence so it may look like the last ditch attempt of a troublemaker to avoid her unwanted marriage. I can delay a few more days, two at most, and try to find out more before making my decision. I can marry Trempwick anyway and do what I can to wring some gain from the situation.”

Eleanor paused to take stock once again. “The last is not tolerable; I can just about forgive him for killing Stephan when left no other choice by my father. But he is probably the reason John died, plans to remove Hugh, possibly set Adele up to remove her and her children from the competition, tried to kill Fulk, and planned to exploit me. I do not want to be queen, and I do not want people fighting and dying in my name, even less so when they are fighting to remove my brother from a throne I do not want. Since it appears Constance, and therefore surely also Hugh, is distrustful and suspicious of foul play my brother may be more willing to listen to me. I doubt he has any evidence himself, so he may be a little more appreciative of my own problems there. I do not love my family, but they suit my purposes far more than Trempwick does, and I think I hate them less. I know Trempwick will never allow me to have the one thing I want, so I gain nothing by helping him and lose everything. Problem; I cannot bring in any of my facts which relate to a certain rather unfortunate love affair involving a princess and a rust heap. It would cause entirely too much trouble, and possibly ruin everything. I can carefully twist most facts to remove anything … unseemly, but it does make my case even weaker.”

“So you’re not going to run?” asked Fulk. “And it’s a gooseberry and a noble, gentle knight.”

“No,” said Eleanor flatly. “I will not run; I will stand and fight. If I lose then at least he will have to be honest; no more honey coated poison and endless lies, and I shall wring whatever advantages I can from the situation. I am sorry for deceiving you, but it was a safe excuse. If we are discovered with this excuse he will be furious, but he cannot tell my father about us unless he wishes to lose me entirely. I would make it very clear, once again, that if he harmed you I would never forgive him, and he could not harm me too much or again he would turn me against him. That is not to say we would escape lightly, but I could shape the situation into something we could both survive well enough. In the end that is what it all comes back to; turning this mess to my best advantage, and doing what I can to look after those few I care for. Well, it may prevent a war as well, or then again it may cause one where they may not have been one; I cannot see the future. And perhaps …” Eleanor trailed off, afraid to put this last, fragile, deep wish into words, terrified of how hopeless it would sound when isolated. Her grip on Fulk’s hand tightened. “Perhaps if I do well enough, and if you distinguish yourself … perhaps somehow we might … if I save Hugh’s throne he will owe me … somehow we might come out of this married and safe. They will owe me, a lot. You too; without you I would never have seen any of this. It is a distant, forlorn, unlikely, probably impossible hope, but some hope is better than none.”

The prospect of a wedding had Anne swinging her feet happily again. “I shall do whatever I can to help that.” The feet slowly swung to a halt. “But as you say it is most likely impossible. What did you mean, you would not have seen this if not for Fulk?”

“He must have been planning this since shortly after he took me from the palace, perhaps before.” Eleanor let her head drop back onto the solid curve of Fulk’s shoulder and wound her arm back around him. “You he did not expect; you threw his plans slightly, loosened his hold over me. In you I have someone else to rely on and trust, someone else to be kind to me, someone else to fend off those who attack me in some way. I have something I want that does not come from him, something I would risk myself for. If not for you I would have accepted his suit, been grateful for it almost. Until you appeared he must have thought it inevitable I would accept him; who else was there? In my closed little world he would have been the only one showing me the least bit of kindness, and as soon as he could pursue me fairly he did so. Actually, looking back I suspect he had been dropping hints he might love me for a while but I did not see them; I simply did not think it possible. As things were he could do his best and it would not work; I only had eyes for you, and you were doing everything Trempwick was, only completely honestly, and aided by real, mutual attraction and love which, I freely admit, produces far more enjoyable results. Trying to remove you was his mistake.”

Eleanor paused, thinking of what she had just done. The feeling of being lost, overwhelmed and unsure swept back along with the burning anger mingled with sorrow that came from Trempwick’s betrayal. “Now you really are all I have; I have thrown the rest away.” Fulk just held her, stroking her back and not bothering with empty words. After a while the tide of emotions receded. “I shall have to talk to Hugh without it looking like I want to, alone. I suppose I shall have to see what I can get out of him before telling him what I can; I only hope he listens. I doubt he will, and he is so …” her nose wrinkled, “thick. Quite where that comes from I do not know; he was smart enough as a boy.”

Anne crossed her legs and paid very careful attention to rearranging the folds of her skirts, speaking in a measured voice as she worked, “Your brother is a very frightened man. I know; I recognise myself in him. He clings to duty because it is a comfort, a guide and a shelter to hide behind when you are lost and alone, trying to do something that you know you cannot, something you are not suited to. All you need to is let go, let yourself be buried and absorbed into duty and it tells you what to do, how, when. You do not need to think overly much, or to worry beyond getting your clearly defined duty right.” Anne looked at Eleanor with a kind of simmering envy. “We are not all strong like you.”

“Stubborn,” corrected Eleanor. “And probably stupid too.”

Anne’s brows locked together and she said with exaggerated, angry precision, “No, strong. You went to your unwanted betrothal a mess and said your unwanted vows before a sizable audience and you were still yourself – you hesitated right before everyone and you refused to look weak. I did mine to perfection, exactly as required because I drowned myself in my duty. My vows were not really what I wanted, though I admit they have turned out well. Your brother does exactly what is expected of a man, a knight, and the heir to the throne. Hugh-the-person is hidden safely behind it all, terrified. I did not want to marry a stranger decades older than me and become queen of an empire while the whole of Christendom watched but I had to; my fate was decided by older, wiser heads and I lacked the courage to even ask for some consideration of my age. Duty said I had to come to England and get married, duty said I should accept the absurdity and horror of being treated as if I was a few years older, duty told me when and how to accept gifts and well wishes, duty told me how to act throughout it all, so I clung to it, worked to the exact letter of it, and when I found myself stood at the church door with my hand linked to William’s and a huge crowd watching duty supplied the words and actions when all I wanted to do was cry and run away to hide. Hugh is the same; the man wants to run but he holds on to duty because it is all he can see which will get him through whatever he is afraid of.”

Eleanor mused, “Hugh was the second son for twelve years, made into the heir suddenly and unexpectedly. He was always very different to Stephan … he had none of our brother’s talent for making friends or love of attention. He was quiet and serious, shy in many ways.” She rubbed her chin, deep in thought. “So Hugh is struggling to fill his brother’s place and terrified he will fail, and so he buries himself in what he thinks people expect and want?”

Anne nodded. “Hugh-the-person is no use, so Hugh-the-prince takes over, just as Anne-the-person is no good when Anne-the-queen is needed. Present your brother with a situation where there is no instructions or guidance and he falters.” Anne nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “Duty did not help me with you though; our meeting was unexpected, and you were not what I expected. I imagine you have the same effect on poor Hugh; he does not know want to do with you.”

“Nice insight. I shall have to think of some way to make use of this,” Eleanor announced resolutely. “Fulk has his orders, now for yours … if you are willing to help further?”

“Of course!” replied Anne eagerly.

“Pick a fight with Aveline, announce you do not like her and then keep on getting rid of her as much as possible. Keep me away from her. Claim my time as much as you can; say you want to do something about the wedding, play games with your pet princess, or similar, I am sure you can think of the type of excuse I mean. Also try to get me away from maids and other company; Constance is … tolerable, she at least is not going to be spying for anyone and will let me think. If you manage to get a moment alone with Hugh tell him I wish to speak to him in private, but do not go out of your way to get such a meeting. I have a few ideas of my own to get my brother to summon me. Lastly, please get me away from Llwellyn at dinner! He holds more than a small grudge over my refusing to marry him and the effects that has had on his status. Dinner and death wishes might be very fitting for an agent but it grows very tiresome, especially when those snide comments are couched in flowery compliments. Above all I need your cooperation; I have to work this so it looks as if I do not want to talk to Hugh, spend time with you, or anything aside from get married with as little fuss as I can manage and go home as soon as possible.”

“I can do that.”

“Then there is only one small thing left.” Eleanor stood up and shook the creases out of the heavy skirts of her dress. Ruefully she hand a hand over the coiled braid at the nape of her neck; that would have to stay as it was, tradition or no. It would take too long to loose her hair and then put it back as it was. She said to Fulk, “I believe I somehow managed to inveigle you into marrying me. That is, if you still want to.” Quickly she warned him, “It will be nothing more than words known only to the three of us, probably never anything more.”

Fulk rose and took her right hand in his. He looked into her eyes and spoke his words clearly, eschewing the lengthy formal vows, but not quite dropping to the simplest ones, which were more a statement of ownership. “Eleanor, here I take you as my wife for better or worse, to have and to hold until the end of my life; and of this I give you my faith.”

“Fulk, here I take you as my husband for better or worse, to have and to hold until the end of my life; and of this I give you my faith”

One customary, but not very proper, kiss ended this ceremony also.

Fulk grinned. “So, you escaped promising to be meek and obedient for the rest of your days. I wondered how you’d deal with that in the fancy ceremony.”

Eleanor shrugged. “I was going to lie outrageously.”









:wavers … collapsed into an exhausted heap: Oh, that was hard! Very hard, and I still don’t think I have it right. Unlike every other bit of this story posted so far that scene did not come to me whole; it came as self contained little snippets, sometimes just a single line, sometimes a lot more. I had to piece them together into something which worked while trying to avoid the info-dump and ‘telling, not showing’ effects. Having such huge quantities of dialogue sloshing about is a pain; I had to break it up somehow, and indicating who was speaking was not nearly as easy as usual. I think really it is too much dialogue in one big block, and far too much of an info-dump. As for telling, not showing … well, much of this has been there all along, if you only know to look. There are so many things I had to put into that scene, so many it was frightening, but worse than that this scene is the turning point, the explanation of loads of little things, the big shock (which got given away ages ago thanks to crappy writing as so is about as shocking as a dead power socket), the beginning of something complicated, critical. If it gets stuffed up then everything will probably just implode. And then I have to be careful so a later scene does not end up too similar to this one …

The episodic nature and long delays in the last few parts have already done their harm; there is going to be no forced happy sappy ending involving Fulk and Nell running away because that was never the plan, not that I could tell anyone that. I get this horrible sneaky feeling I lost a lot of readers with people throwing up their hands in disgust … or maybe that is me being paranoid about view counts, and thinking of my own reaction. Hmm, no, I’d be furious but keep on reading just to see how big a mess the author made. But who wants to wait a little over two weeks for something 22 pages long before it is spaced out for easy reading?

So, if this were a house I think the structure has a few cracks, none of them really dangerous but some rather unsightly and inconvenient when putting up wallpaper. I’ll just have to cram them full of polyfiller and paper over them while praying for the best :tongueg:

A princess and her knight, shoving a rocket up the world’s backside. But the rocket was lit by Trempy; the duo only found it and moved it to somewhere it could be found.

Now this is written maybe I can get a bit of peace? I’ve been hearing a lot of those lines echoing in the back of the Eleanor-space in my mind for months now! “He is what he is, clearly different to you than to me. Leave it at that.” And “He always loved John, but not me. Never me.” Stand out as the worst offenders; been hearing them endlessly since right near the beginning. Actually, the most common line I hear is the duo exchanging their wedding vows. They kept on trying to get me to write that early and out of place. Gah! Unruly characters!


Welcome back, zelda. :looks up at post: Eight hours :tongueg:

"what who said that?"

I'm almost caught up, but I decdied I needed sleep last night so I only got half way through. Everything I read so far has been up to standard, mialdy. ~D

Fulk nursed his mug of wine in one hand, turning over the sealed letter with his other. The parchment was obviously cheap, and faint ghosts of text indicated it had been used not once but twice before, then sanded clean for reuse. The sealing wax was nothing more than plain candle wax drizzled on over the join, meanly done so the letter threatened to unfurl on its own accord. There was a telling lack of a seal’s imprint in the wax. Fulk smiled slightly; a mark would have boded ill – it would mean his mother had not replied to his message and someone else had, and that would probably mean the worst. He would have questioned the messenger but Simon had been the one to accept the letter, and the boy had sent the man on his way without anything more than the rest of the money Fulk had set aside to pay him.

Fulk turned the letter once more, examining the back side. He squinted at the writing, managing to decipher the odd word here and there of the second, less faded usage. The parchment had previously been a list of foodstuff brought and sold; the quantities were too great for it to belong to a single family, more suited to a tavern. So the parchment had not come from the one who had sent this letter, not unless his mother had set up business as an innkeeper. Given how much she liked people making a mess out of her nice, clean floors that was unlikely.

Fulk sipped his vernage, set the cup to one side and drew his dagger. He prised the seal open with the tip of the knife and set the letter back down unopened, taking his time to carefully clean shavings of wax off the blade with the hem of his tunic. Deliberately he unfolded the letter and read.

Edmund Reeve to Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, this day the eighth of February in the Year of Our Lord Thirteen-thirty-eight, dictated and taken down by father Thomas, village priest of Walton.

It’s my sad duty to tell you of the passing of your mother, my stepmother, some two years hence. She died peaceably and at good age, surrounded by her family. She was much loved by all of us, my father especially.

You’ll want to know what happened, so I’ll set it out. After a goodly period of time had passed since the news of your father’s, and your own, death arrived here my father, also Edmund Reeve, resumed his suit, being tired of his widower’s state and both of them honourably free. A while more passed, but before the year was out your mother and my father married, as they’d intended to do before your father claimed her for his own. No children were born of this marriage. The years they had together were happy and contented.

Fulk drained his cup and tossed the letter back onto his table. “Pack of lies,” he muttered darkly. His father had claimed no one, even if it’d been his right. Emma had loved her lord, and she wouldn’t have done that if he’d bulled in, reminded her she was his property and then snatched her planned future away from her like this Edmund chap claimed. Thinking back he remembered nothing untoward or special between his father’s reeve and his mother, nothing at all. He did remember this younger Edmund Reeve as a boy though; a few years his junior, a snivelling coward, a tattletale, a self righteous little oik, or so he’d thought.

Fulk’s hand dropped to his dagger hilt; he’d have to go home and see what was what, and while he was there he’d remind this Edmund Reeve that aside from her long dead parents and siblings who’d died as children Emma had only had two people as her family – himself and his father. His plans for a trip were stillborn; he might be able to beg a few days grace from his royal duties but he couldn’t leave Eleanor behind. She needed him, and he wasn’t too inclined to wander without her anyway. Next time he saw her, whenever that’s be, he’d ask her if they could go to Walton at their earliest chance.







Er, busy. You know the usual by now, so I’ll spare the repeat.

I ended up doing an essay for the other forum in reply to a comment; you may as well have a copy:

The bandits … ah yes, the bandits. If you read the whole thing over again, even without this new information in mind, the bandit thing makes more sense. As things are though you are needing to think, remember and compare things which happened half a year ago for readers to things which are happening now, things which looked honest to things were are admitted to be tricky. You also have the handicap of the uneven writing quality and style. So I’ll recap briefly and do a tiny bit of explaining.

Right back at the beginning, when Fulk first arrives at Woburn and the adult Nell/Trempy relationship is shown for the very first time, Nell is obedient and compliant, almost completely. She does as he says, and even when she does try to speak up for herself she is not very forceful and quickly subsides. If Trempy says jump she jumps, or at worst asks how high. She is quite the loner, though she will accept Trempy’s company well enough. Trempy is very much in charge.

Slowly this changes, thanks to Fulk. Fulk stands up for her, and gives her opportunities to assert herself a little. He shows her Trempy can be argued with a little. He reminds her of who she is. Fulk slowly gains her trust, liking and confidence, going from very grudgingly accepted follower to friend. And then this happens:
Eleanor moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, “Actually, I would prefer he stayed. He was part of this mission, it is only right he sees how it is tied up.”
Trempwick reeled back as if she’d slapped him; he almost looked … hurt, as if he considered it a betrayal. It only lasted a half second; the spymaster stepped back from Fulk and gestured him to a stool with an elaborate, mocking bow, “Your seat awaits, bodyguard.”

She slowly begins to stand her ground. The more time passes the worse she gets, openly arguing, then defying Trempy. She begins to lie to him, keeping information back from him with the sole aim of controlling her own life. She begins to really fall for Fulk, and Fulk for her. Trempy knows, and he tries to carefully steer them apart. He fails, and can only watch as they keep on getting closer, and as Nell keeps on slipping out of his grasp. He does keep on trying to get things going his way, but it is not exactly working as well as he’d wish. As long as they are together they gravitate towards each other, and he cannot effectively put Nell back into her place without causing more trouble – Fulk would get upset and start complaining and/or stick up for her. Any effect Trempy has on her is temporary at best.

While Fulk is around it is hard for Trempy to make any headway in his attempt to win Nell’s heart. She loves someone else, and much of what Trempy is offering (kindness, companionship, someone to talk and joke with, care, concern, a boost to her self respect, reassurance, the assorted physical stuff) Fulk is also giving her (much of Trempy’s unique benefits come from the fact they are two of a kind, both agents and slightly apart from their world. He also does a more comprehensive line of protection than Fulk is able, and some assorted stuff based on the mentor/second father background they have). Even worse the more she does with Fulk the more she notices the unfortunate lack of natural chemistry between herself and Trempy; the whole “like comparing a simple rushlight to the noonday sun.” thingy Nell herself was mentally commenting on at one point. He knows she is not going to be happy with a simple rushlight when she could have the sun, and she will not give things a chance to grow into something brighter when she has an alternative.

Trempy also knows (thanks to his own poking about) Fulk has a history as a heartbreaker; Maude is especially worrying to our spymaster. Incidentally he knows what happened to Maude after her last meeting with Fulk (the one where he refused to marry her until he was a knight). Cicely (the girl from his home he used rather badly) is also a source of worry. He’s had other romances, but they were of a different sort with more experienced women. But Nell is far more a Cicely or Maude; innocent, rather naive, in love, not overly religious or prudish, and actually quite clueless as to what she is getting herself into. Based on past history Fulk is likely to take advantage if he can safely do so.

Then comes that day in the snow, the day Gerbert overheard some suspicious things and walked in on a Fulk who was still dressing after changing his clothes and a furiously blushing, dishevelled Nell. Knowing how they feel about each other, but not privy to the insider’s view of what they had been doing that the reader has, you have to admit it looks very bad indeed. Not only has his princess gotten out of hand but she is now dangerously close to flinging herself away one some idiot knight, if she has not already one so. Something which would place her in danger, make Trempy’s life more difficult later, take her further still out from under his control, and generally bugger things up something rotten.

Fulk has to go. Now. Trempy can’t act openly, nor can he confront Nell; to do either of those things would be to risk losing her. He has all of half a day to plan and set things in motion, a distracted half day which is mostly night time (with her right next to him, alert, tense and suspicious) anyway.

Was Trempy also distracted? Not saying :tongueg: Well, Nell’s presence was certainly distracting him a little :embarassed: Ahem, but away from that the frog is staying silent.

So the tiny, unforeseen happening that is Fulk swearing allegiance to Nell was the stone which caused a series of ripples in a calm pond. Fulk introduced many, many little factors scattered widely across both plot and characters, none of them really large or important alone, but taken as a whole …

This story really does benefit from re-reading once you know certain things. Go right back and you’ll see Trempy hinting he loves her with steadily increasing bluntness, assorted odd moods explained, comments with alternate meanings, little details suddenly picking up new significance, characters thinking things you know are wrong but previously believed (e.g. Nell thinking her mother must have suffered badly) and so on. All those pointless looking scenes have something in them or will have some use in the future, even if it’s just the one line.

“Love, fear, control of something or someone they care about; those are the three main ways to gain control over a person. Pick a person apart to see how they work, then apply that proverb and they are yours.” – Raoul Trempwick to his king, 295 pages ago.

The tall stone tower keep of his home, encircled by a tall stone wall studded with towers, was the single most beautiful sight Jocelyn had seen in days, since he had left, in fact. The afternoon sun reflected off the armour and weaponry of the sentries patrolling the walls, and his own banner flew proudly at the very top of the keep, stretching out in the wind to declare his ownership to the world.

A ripple of chatter ran through the men following him on foot and horseback at the sight. Jocelyn listened with tolerant good humour as his men at arms set about the pressing business of planning what exactly they were going to do now the oft dreamed of moment of their homecoming had arrived. It was a simple business really, for all their overcomplification. If you had a family you visited them first, or else your wife and/or mother sat waiting for you with her second best iron skillet and a scowl fit to wither your manly courage into a small blob. If you didn’t have family you went to the kitchens or tavern and exploited the returning hero aura to get as much free food and drink as you could.

Up on the ramparts extra men were running into position. Jocelyn squinted and shaded his eyes with a hand. Most of the men had crossbows, and once in position they set to winching the strings back and loading. Men with hand to hand weapons dispersed at even distances along the wall. The drawbridge remained up. Jocelyn dropped his hand back to his saddlebow, impressed despite himself at the way his wife had maintained discipline in the castle.

When they had closed half the remaining distance a new figure appeared up on the gatehouse, this one dressed like a woman. “Ah, Richildis,” commented Jocelyn, aiming a cheery salute he didn’t exactly feel at the figure. Characteristically she ignored him. “Cold hearted bitch,” muttered Jocelyn.

Still the drawbridge did not lower. Surely those up on the walls could see his banners by now? For an uncomfortable moment Jocelyn had visions of himself sat here outside the walls, shouting futile threats while the bridge remained up and Richildis laughed. He turned in his saddle to check his pennant was flying properly; it was, along with his other flags.

He checked back at the walls; the defensive attitude continued with no signs of recognition. “What in the bloody blazes of hell does the damned woman think she’s doing!?” Right; plan. He was not going to act like he was afraid; it was his wife and his castle, God damn it! But nor would he obligingly trot on up only to be shot full of crossbow bolts if Richildis had taken up with the steward and was desirous of an end to their marriage. That would be a bloody embarrassing way to die.

Jocelyn beckoned to his squire. The youth rode up beside him. “Alain, your young eyes are sharper than mine, see anything wrong?”

“They’re not lowering the bridge, my lord.”

“God’s toenails! I know that, damn you! Anything else?”

“Looks like the lady Richildis up there on the gatehouse, my lord, and if my eyes aren’t deceiving me that looks like Gauthier next to her, judging from his stance and all.”

“So they’re definitely our people?”

“I’d say so.”

“So why is the damned woman pissing about? We look like us, and we’re not waving burning brands about and shouting death threats, so we’re hardly mistaken for enemies.” They were almost in range of the crossbows now. Jocelyn signalled a halt. If he ended up looking daft he’d be sure to inform Richildis of his displeasure later. At length.

“Sir!” Alain pointed at the gatehouse. The drawbridge lowered and a lone horseman rode out, the bridge winching up behind him as soon as his horse’s hooves had cleared the wooden planks.

“Oh, Christ on the cross!” swore Jocelyn. “I’ll have her hide for this!”

The horseman rode up within hailing distance and reined in. He stood in his stirrups and shouted, “My lord! Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me! Who else would it be, you thrice damned fool!? Try opening your bloody eyes and take a look at my banners!” Jocelyn flung an arm to point at the assortment of flags behind him. “And check the livery too – mine!”

The horseman waved back at the castle in a prearranged signal; the drawbridge began to lower again and the men on the walls stood down.

Jocelyn spurred his horse over to the messenger. “What is this God damned game my wife is playing?”

“My lord, you and your men returned six days ago in the company of Raymond de Issoudun.”

“No I bloody well didn’t!”

The man pulled a face. “Aye, so we saw just in time. They had the banners and all, damned convincing, my lord.”

“Oh, brilliant!” declared Jocelyn to the sky. “Just bloody brilliant! I’m gone for a short time and someone tries to steal my bloody castle!” He signalled to his men to move out again.

He passed the rest of the short journey to his castle in a smouldering rage.

Safely in the bailey Jocelyn climbed down off his horse. He scarcely got two steps before he heard pounding feet and his exuberant daughter yelling, “Papa! Papa!” His black mood evaporated, and he knelt down on the muddy cobbles of his courtyard, bracing himself for impact. Even so Mahaut nearly bowled him over as she crashed into him. She squeezed him in a tight hug, her little face buried in the curve of his shoulder, making Jocelyn worry she might cut her face on his mail. “You’re not dead!” she said with such joyful exuberance Jocelyn found himself smiling broadly.

“No, I’m not dead.”

Mahaut looked up at the others who had returned home with Jocelyn. “Thierry’s back,” she commented, before sticking her thumb in her mouth.

She wasn’t the only one to notice his eldest son’s return; Richildis, emerging from the gatehouse, froze as she spotted the boy on his pony. She hitched up her skirts and sprinted the rest of the distance, ignoring her husband to get to her son.

Mahaut pulled her thumb out of her mouth with a popping noise. “She always tells me off for running. It’s not fair!”

Looking at his wife fussing over their son Jocelyn was inclined to agree; it wasn’t fair. He stood up, taking Mahaut’s hand in his, grimacing only slightly when he found her thumb was still covered in drool. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t suck your thumb any more? You’ll make your teeth go crooked.” She mumbled something contrite and scuffled at the floor with one foot. Jocelyn ruffled her hair. “Come on, let’s go join the others.”

Mahaut smoothed her hair back down and stood her ground. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she scolded. “Beautiful ladies don’t have messy hair.”

Jocelyn grinned roguishly. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure there.”

“Why?” she asked curiously.

“Er … well, I mean after you’ve been rescued from an evil knight by your one true love you’re bound to be a bit ruffled about the edges, right?”

“Oh. That. I guess.” Mahaut looked beseechingly up at him. “Papa, can I have a new comb, please? A really, really nice one with a pretty pattern on it? Please? I’ll be ever so good, I promise.”

“Well …”

“See, if I ever get rescued I want my hair all neat and nice and all.”

“I don’t think you’re going to need rescuing for some years yet; you’re much too young.”

“Oh.” Mahaut’s face fell. She sucked her teeth, mind visibility working at full capacity. “But,” she ventured carefully, “you never know, though, right? So it’s better to be prepared, just in case, right?”

Jocelyn made a few mental adjustments to the list of gifts he’d brought back, assigning Richildis’ comb to Mahaut instead. He sent up a small prayer of thanks for the heaven sent inspiration which had spurred him on to pick the comb instead of hair ribbons; more proof of God’s favour towards him. “We’ll see later, when I’ve taken my armour off.”

The girl beamed brightly, knowing she’d won. “Thank you, papa!”

They began to walk over to Richildis and Thierry. “I pity your husband,” teased Jocelyn.

“He’s going to love me, you know.”

“Of course he is.” As if he’d let anyone but the best and most worthy get his slimy hands within five feet of his little girl! Thank God he had another ten years before he needed to start looking; he knew entirely too well what men were like … women too, for that matter.

At their arrival Richildis reluctantly looked up from her careful examination of Thierry’s bruised hand; she inclined her head to Jocelyn. “I am pleased you are back, my lord.”

“And I’m pleased to be back.”

A small scuffle broke out between the children; Mahaut trying to look at her brother’s injured hand, proclaiming that as a kind and gentle noble lady she was supposed to bandage people and stuff, while Thierry gruffly insisted he was perfectly well and barely even noticed he was hurt at all, and anyway knights got hurt all the time.

Jocelyn said sternly, “Thierry, be nice to your sister. Mahaut, don’t pester your brother. Now run along.” To Richildis he said, “Thierry’s hand’s nothing to be worried about, just a bruise he got while learning the sword. He didn’t block properly, or so I’ve managed to wring out of him. Don’t fuss over the boy, Tildis; it embarrasses him and you’ll make him soft.”

“I suppose I should just be thankful he is back.”

“Exactly,” replied Jocelyn with a tight lipped smile.

Richildis digested that with down-turned brows. They were still in the public eye, and simple courtesy, and curiosity no doubt, demanded she ask, “All in one piece?”

“All in one piece,” he confirmed smugly. “Not even a scratch.”






Half an hour later, after giving thanks in the castle’s chapel for his safe return and removing his armour, Jocelyn settled in the solar with his wife, a cup of ale and a mutton pie.

Richildis left him no time to relax and gather his wits. “Why are you back? Why is Thierry back? You said not until the English king was here, and he’s not. Did something go wrong?”

“Ah.” Jocelyn sank his teeth into his pie. He chewed and swallowed hastily, scorching his tongue on the hot gravy. “Jesú! Damned thing felt cool enough.” A driblet of gravy boiled its way down his wrist; he wiped it away on his other sleeve before he could burn too badly. He was uncomfortably aware of Richildis’ disapproving gaze. Conscious of his wounded dignity Jocelyn growled, “I saved Yves’ nephew’s pasty arse when the little moron made a bunch of mistakes; course he whined to uncle about big bad me stealing his authority. I was already in poor favour thanks to my disagreeing with Yves’ fantastic plan to ruin Ardon entirely, which he’s done. The place is devastated; it’ll take years and a lot of money to rebuild, and people’ll need moving in from outside if there’s any hope of even trying. I got sent away, no longer required he said, but really too competent and so showing up his sodding nephew. A used chamberpot has more brains than Yves; the nephew takes after his uncle, but worse, if you can believe it. They weren’t happy that I was the one credited by the men with much of the success and glory, not that there is any when mowing down peasants like so much damned hay. I grabbed Thierry on the way out; snatched him out from his lessons, stuck him on his pony and got the hell out of there as fast as I could.”

That hadn’t been part of his plan, but Jocelyn had soon taken advantage of what the Good Lord had offered him, adjusting his plans for this latest divine gift. He’d fought bravely and competently for his lord, so well his jealous lord had turned on him. With all the hurry and sudden unexpectedness in his departure, and the fact he’d left behind much of Thierry’s belongings, he’d obviously been rescuing his son, Yves’ hostage for his good behaviour. That done he’d had no more part in the butchery he’d protested against from the start, duty discharged and family safe. He was at home, guarding what was his from Yves’ potential reprisal and waiting for his king to arrive so he could loyally trot out to his side and fight with him against the traitor with the exact same bravery and skill he’d recently demonstrated.

Remembering about the pie still clutched in his hand Jocelyn bit off another mouthful, this time mindful of the gravy. The food stuck in his throat and he had to work to force it down, his hunger abruptly gone. “Speaking of Ardon, I’d better ask how our guests are doing. The girl and the nun?”

“Elianora … well, she’ll talk if you speak to her and she’ll do things if you ask her to, but otherwise? She just sits there, staring off into empty space. I’ve heard of this before, but never seen it; the mind just can’t cope, so off it goes, sometimes to return, sometimes not. The nun spends much of her time with her, trying to coax her back to the world of the living.”

Unable to recover even a hint of his earlier appetite Jocelyn placed the partly eaten pie down on the broad arm of his chair. The filling began to ooze out, much to Richildis’ guarded distress, but Jocelyn didn’t even notice. He wiped at the gravy on his sleeve with his thumb. “Well, the good news is that when the king gets here and straightens things out she’s going to be sole owner of a badly damaged castle and ravaged fief peopled by the dead. That’s the best news, and it’s damned poor. And of course as an heiress…”

“She’ll be sold off to the highest bidder and forced to marry,” said Richildis, finishing his sentence for him with far more self composition than he was managing.

“Indeed, and she’s no family to protect her; Yves butchered the lot.” Her father’s, brothers’ and betrothed’s heads were all mounted on spikes and displayed on the castle walls, just above the splintered main gate. They’d been coated in tar so they’d last longer before they rotted. “So there’s nothing to be done, but from the sounds of it it’s best not to tell her just yet.”

The gravy stain was not budging, not that he’d expected it to without water. Spots and smears against the deep green of his sleeve, dark brownish, almost like dried blood. Jocelyn brushed one final time at the wool and then tore his eyes away; he was seeing blood everywhere these days. Fools fired up on legends of heroes might call it cowardly guilt, but it was common, far more common than those who’d never seen blood spilt might like to believe. Cowards killed at a distance and Jocelyn had always thought this was why; not the danger, but the fact three feet of cold steel left no impersonal space between you and your victim. Recalling his mind to the conversation Jocelyn said, “I’ll speak up on her behalf, do what I can. Simple Christian charity.”

He saw an unfamiliar expression spread across his wife’s face, unfamiliar when aimed at him but one the children often prompted. A kind of surprised pride. “They told me what you did; it was very brave and … decent.”

His reply was brusque, “It was nothing special.”

“You behaved nobly-”

“No.” He relived again the instant when his sword had come down on a skull, cleaving it through nearly to the jaw. It’d been in the brutal room to room fighting when the keep had finally fallen; the man had jumped out at him with a blade and he’d reacted on years of hard trained instinct. Except it hadn’t been a man, just a skinny boy in patched, worn clothes and a kitchen knife clutched in his hand. “No,” he repeated. And there it went; the soft expression he’d waited so long to cause flitted away, turning to confusion, then back to the usual politely guarded mask. “Tell me about this attempt to steal my castle.”

“A group of men with your banners and livery rode up with a group of Raymond de Issoudun’s men; we – I – thought it was you, so the gates were opened and the men stood down. We realised it was a trick just in time and pulled the bridge up; we shot a few as they broke off and rode away to safety, but only one of the men we recovered survived. He’s safely locked up; I thought it best to leave him to you.” Her head bowed and her voice dropped to no more than a whisper. “My stupidity almost cost us everything. So much for all my fine words. So easily fooled …”

Jocelyn didn’t bother to try and comfort her; he’d learned long ago he could do no right there. “I’ll take this to the king when he arrives, see what justice I can get.” It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Jocelyn to see how useful this could be; God truly did love him. He could spin this beautifully; he’d done his best by his liege out of loyalty and fear for his son, then when his duty had been judged, by his liege himself, finished he’d rescued his boy and returned home. This attack was obviously a reprisal; Yves’ revenge for his taking his son back.

“You were right; you did need to go. If you hadn’t Yves might have come here instead of Ardon.”

“He hasn’t, and he won’t.” It was only afterwards Jocelyn realised that he’d said that in the same way he usually comforted the children. Astonishingly it seemed to work; she didn’t recoil and get defensive or scornful. Spurred on by this unusual mood of theirs Jocelyn stood up and held out a hand to her. “Come to bed. I’m no good at fancy words like a knight’s supposed to be, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think or feel.” Jocelyn frowned, labouring with a task he usually gave up on without even trying; wording his feelings. “I … just feel lonely. I don’t want to be alone. Please? I’ll try and be gentle since you like that. I don’t want to be alone … and nor do you.”

She sat there without moving so long Jocelyn’s hand slapped back down against his thigh. All the time she continued to look at him with a certain measuring air. Very slowly she pushed herself to her feet. “Since you’ll only keep asking …”






Eleanor nibbled a morsel of quail and wondered if this could count as her wedding feast, after all she had got married this morning. Stuck here at the high table between her brother and Llwellyn, unable to even see Fulk in his place in the low tables, eating what passed for a plain meal for the palace, dressed in her normal clothes instead of her court finery, and faced with an uninteresting evening and lonely night. Well, she’d always said she didn’t want much of a fuss.

Seeing her sardonic smile Llwellyn asked in his Welsh accented English, “Is something amusing, your highness?”

“Amusing, no. Painfully ironic, yes.”

“Pray pardon me if I ask to be included in the humour.”

On her other side Hugh stopped speaking; Eleanor could feel the sudden tension rolling off her brother. This was a perfect opportunity; Anne had not yet had much time to try more peaceable methods of securing a meeting with Hugh, but in the end this way would probably be the best. “If you wish,” she told Llwellyn, pitching her voice so Hugh could overhear. “I was thinking that I once swore I would only marry someone I considered a fitting match. Now I have found that person here I am, sat next to you, someone I passed over.” She heard Hugh’s sharp intake of breath with a kind of grim satisfaction. It was a minor lie; she had vowed never to marry full stop. Funny how things changed.

The Welshman’s dark eyes narrowed. “I am loath to think what a fitting match for you would be.”

Eleanor folded her arms, feeling the reassuring shapes of her wrist knives beneath her loose sleeves, her right hand resting just above her left elbow where the garrotte she carried was hidden. “Llwellyn, if you had a thousand years I am sure you would never guess, and that is why you would never be a good match for me. You simply do not have the wit, cunning or imagination.”

Hugh clamped one hand on the top of her arm; he leaned close and said in a tone which did not invite discussion, “Dear sister, I am horrified to hear you are not feeling well. You should retire to the solar. Now. I shall come up and see how you are feeling later.”

“How very diplomatic of you, Hugh.”

As Eleanor began to stand up Llwellyn told her, “A cheerful little fact to warm you through the long days ahead, princess. Welsh men do not beat their wives. Remember that, and me, when you upset your husband.”

With complete confidence Eleanor said, “He would never harm so much as a hair on my head. I stand by what I said before – you are a pathetic little man.”

“Such confidence; I would love to be there when you discover you are wrong.”

“You would have a very long wait, you see he likes my little quirks.”

Llwellyn sneered. “If it would get me a royal link and a tidy dowry even I would pretend I liked you for a short space. The more you gain, the more you pretend, and you will admit he is gaining a lot.”

Dinner was uneventful, falling into the same pattern as it had the many previous nights. The food was excellent, as was the drink, the setting sumptuous, the service courteous and prompt even down at the lower tables, and Godit still made agreeable company even if he was now considerably more wary of her motives. As wedding feasts went it was far better than Fulk had ever expected, although he had always believed he would be seated with his bride and at the centre of the traditional celebrations. He needed to lean far forward to see Eleanor, risking drawing attention to himself and smearing food on the front of his tunic, so he did not even have the pleasure of watching her from a distance.

Fulk had looked forward to being subjected to the attention, ritual and horseplay about as much as any man, but he did not dread it particularly. Eleanor he knew felt differently; she would hate being the centre of attention, loathe the fuss, despise the infamous bedding down revels, and by the time they were finally alone she would be one unhappy gooseberry, unhappy in addition to the inevitable nervousness. He’d then get to spend time trying to cheer her up a bit, only for some fool to hammer on the door and shout helpful suggestions, setting off another round of grumbling and plunging her right back into her bad mood before they really had chance to do anything exciting.

And yet despite all that he knew she would be sat up there wishing they were the centre of attention and about to be subjected to the revels - it would mean their marriage was public and accepted, and they could live normally.

Instead she was stuck with company he knew she wouldn’t be too happy with, continuing as if everything was as usual, and, very probably, fretting away about the future, Trempwick, family, plots, and Fulk himself. That was just as likely to produce a grumpy gooseberry. Fulk chuckled; poor Eleanor, however you worked things out she was going to be peevish.

The back of a hand slapped into his upper arm. “I really didn’t think it was that funny,” said Godit, who had been chattering away, mostly ignored, same as usual. “I mean, yes, there was a certain comedy value to it, but I don’t like being barefoot in mud! But I am glad you find some humour in my poor ruined shoes, my difficulty in retrieving them, and my squelchy walk home. Next time I go to the town I’m taking you with me; you can carry me over muddy patches like the gallant knight you are. Oh yes, I’ll definitely have to drag you along …” She sighed and leaned her chin on her hands, smiling stupidly. “I could be very happy being carried around by you …”

Her reluctant acceptance of Fulk’s lack of interest had lasted a scant few days before steadily eroding back into her usual flirtiness. Originally Fulk had taken it for granted her persistence was purely from her decision he was a good match; now he wondered if she had other reasons to get close, gain his trust and worm for information.

Fulk clasped his hands at his front, tucking both his thumbs in his belt either side of the buckle. “Until my arms tired and I dropped you, you mean.”

“Don’t be daft,” instructed Godit, her dreaminess abruptly disappearing as she claimed a small, round cake from a passing serving platter. “Your silliness is one of your least attractive features, and I’m determined to purge you of it. Anyway, you’re a lot better now, melancholy still, but not such a moping misery as you were when you first arrived. Now I really think that’s just brilliant; it means you’re recovering, and if you’re recovering I have a better chance of stealing your oh so handsome heart.”

“Really?” asked Fulk nonchalantly. “Recovering, that is?”

“Oh yes, and the heart stealing too.” Godit took a bite of her honey cake in a very provocative manner. A passing serving boy stumbled as his head twisted to keep her in sight. Noticing his attention Godit pouted. The boy almost dropped his tray.

“Looks like you’ve picked up yet another admirer,” teased Fulk.

“Yes, yet another boy. It’s not fair; I’m aiming for men.”

“Then eat properly and behave yourself. You’re pushing it so hard tonight you might strain something.”

“I’m a flirt; flirting is what I do, at least till I catch what I want.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. Fulk’s breath caught in his throat; he worked hard not to react. Godit tossed the remnant of her cake down onto their shared platter in disgust. “Pity only useless boys notice. Men are as dumb as rocks, I’m thinking. If I’m overdoing things that’s why; I’ve got to get the message home somehow.”

“I’m not a rock,” insisted Fulk with mock gravity. “I’m a happy little boulder with a bit of moss on one side and a lovely sunny spot at the top of a hill.”

“There you go again – being stupid. Stop it.” Godit scowled, managing to look more a sulky child than anything else. “Anyway, nice change of subject. You won’t get off that easily. As I was saying, you’ve picked up this … well, almost a sense of peace, like a man who’s just had a rotten tooth pulled. Well, ok, so not just had it pulled, but a few days on when all the pain finally dims and a feeling of better health settles in. You’re more focused. It’s only slight, and I only notice it because you always grab my full, undivided - and unrequited too, damn it! - attention whenever you’re around, but it’s there alright. I wonder why? I mean, she comes back, you don’t have any contact at all, and then you go all serene.”

“I saw she was alright, and that’s enough for me. I don’t need to worry any more; I know she’ll be well enough. The way we parted I wasn’t completely sure she’d be looked after; her betrothed was being very … unpleasant to her. Beyond that, time heals. I just needed to be sure.”

“Ah, but did you want time to heal?”

Fulk shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you love her.”

“I’m unworthy of her, and never can be. She cares for someone else, and is spoken for. I have very little to offer her, only myself, and given who she is she wants, needs and expects far better.”

“But what of the rules of love? Every true knight needs an unobtainable lady to love truly and completely, lust after in a heartbreakingly pure way, and in whose name he is driven to do great deeds, though he can never declare who she is.”

“You bring out romantic stories, but think of how those men suffer, and they often get their lady in the end. I won’t.” Those words were very probably all he would ever get. Words were important. These words gave him purpose and clarity, they set his path out for him, bound him to her and her to him, and set out very neatly exactly what his place in the world was. ‘I am your knight’ had never quite been enough. ‘I am your husband’ encompassed it all. He would follow, serve, protect, love, now and always without thought of reward, unhampered by other, interfering loyalties because this one came before all of them. There was a very great honour in that, and a very great peace also. They were not trouble free words, or ones which promised to make his life easier, indeed they promised just the opposite, but the problems they augured somehow seemed much easier to tackle than the ones he would encounter alone.

Fulk raised their shared cup to catch the attention of a server with a flagon of mead. The strong honey drink was the closest thing available to Bride Ale; he should be sharing a cup of that special brew with Eleanor right about now. “Anyway, they are just stories. Real people are not so stupid as to endlessly hang about in the hopes of winning a smile from someone’s who’s plainly a lost cause, or at least I’m not. I told you before, I’ve no desire to be a martyr like that idiot in your song.”

“Alleluia! I knew I’d manage to change your mind and wean you away from a monkish future.” She clasped her hands in a prayer-like attitude and cast her gaze devoutly upwards. “Thank you, Lord, for answering my prayers!” Godit inched up on the bench so her body was just brushing his. “Give it another month or so and you’ll be swimming around my fishing line, eyeing the bait and wondering about a cautious nibble.”

And here was one of those problems: he was no longer free but he had to pretend he was, and not break any hearts in the process. “I’m recovering, not recovered, and as I told you before you deserve someone who values you for yourself.” Fulk raised the newly filled cup and drank deeply, toasting in the safety of his mind, “Long life and happiness to you, my love.”

“I know; that’s why I said another month, not now. Give me time to work …”

“Relentless is such an inadequate word when applied to you!”

Godit claimed the cup from him and drank, setting her lips to the exact same spot his had occupied. “Can I help it if I like you?”

Fulk began thinking nice calming thoughts about rainy days and cold water. He let Godit talk to herself for the rest of dinner, listening with one ear and returning the appropriate noises at the correct places.





When Eleanor arrived the solar was empty, a fire burning low in the hearth. Only two of the candles were still lit, those on prickets closest to the door. Eleanor collected a willowy twig from the basket near the fireplace and made a circuit of the room, lighting each of the fine wax candles in turn. What was to come was best played out in the light. That done she added another log to the fire; cherry wood to perfume the room with its fragrant scent.

She surveyed the room a while, taking in each small detail. This room had never been completely familiar to her, and changes had been made, most likely by Anne. The two chairs had been moved a little, one scooted a little closer to the fire, the other moved back out of the way as if infrequently used. A small table used for supporting game boards or books sat next to the less favoured chair. The main table had been pushed back against the wall, clearing a larger central space. Several books lay out on it, all closed and arrayed neatly side by side in a row. The window seat had new upholstery, the previous natural greyish hue of undyed wool replaced with a lively orange. The shutters had been removed from the windows, the holes for mounting them still clear in the stonework. They had been pointless anyway; the windows were all glazed and only those capable of flight could spy up here.

Unsure of how much time she would have Eleanor continued her preparations without further investigation; the cursory look gave her what she really needed anyway. She moved the favoured chair a little, turning it so its back was slantwise to the stair door. Then she stood by the door herself, checking the appearance. After making a minor adjustment she was satisfied, and seated herself, tall and proud as if this were a throne before a sizeable audience. Disdaining a suitably docile pose Eleanor rested her hands on the arms of the chair, fingers curling around the ends in a loose grip.

All this was so much empty posturing; she had never had patience for it but she had learned what Trempwick had taught and posturing, as did everything, had its time and place. The spymaster would have been sharp over her dismissal of this as empty; she’d have been in for another lecture on the need to choose and prepare your ground as carefully as any general set to give battle.

Eleanor took a deep, slow breath, filling her lungs to capacity. She began to order her mind, strengthen her control, seek acceptance of what was to come. She had chosen her path, bound herself to it so she could only move forwards, and now all that remained was to do what must be done, good or ill. Fear had no part in this, or cowardice, or doubt. She was going to get hurt, probably badly. Eleanor embraced this knowledge, accepting it so it became nothing more than the rising or setting of the sun: an immutable fact which provoked no sentiment. Controlled, disciplined she began the next part; drawing up and gathering in parts of her mind, placing them safely away.

Trempwick had taught her this; to endure with dignity, endure beyond what could be managed with simple will and pride. You sent your mind away, away to wander through happier memories with no more link to your present and your body than could be helped, separating the now and the you. The two had to come back together in the end, through the control required being taxed too far either by time or by torment. The shock of being fully aware again was terrible and sudden; the denied pain hitting you with all the force of a storm’s wave.

Trempwick had said even some of the best he knew of had failed there, at that precise point; they withstood a bout of torture but then crumpled at the last. He’d laughed then, quite gaily, and said that it was a good thing, for it saved his torturers’ time. He had assured her that she would never fail that like, after all she was naturally stubborn and too damned proud for her own good, trained by the best, young and malleable, and given excellent opportunity to hone her efforts by her father’s regular visits. He had been right; her recent failures had come from control strained much too far.

Eleanor banished the memory of her rib giving way, sending it back into the recesses of her mind, gone and out of the way but not forgotten. Forgotten was impossible. The memory of huddling in a corner, terrified, bleeding, waiting for her father to return once again with his demands for her to marry was also banished. Forgotten was impossible there too. She had almost managed to forget enough though; she still remembered too much of how the last two beatings had hurt, but now the agony was distant, halfway between being a remembered awareness that it had hurt terribly and recollection so raw she felt her stomach revolt with fear whenever she remembered. She had managed before and she would manage again, and both those previous times had been far worse than was typical. For a long time her store of good memories had been limited, and none of them so powerful as those she had now, and she had managed well enough.

This would be different; Hugh was not their father, he was an unknown quantity and she had little idea of what he would do. He would be calm, methodical, controlled. Eleanor was not sure if that would be better or worse. Hugh could not harm her overmuch; she needed to remain presentable. And this time there was much more at stake here; it was not simply a case of paying the price of the path she had chosen. There was no point in dwelling more upon it; what would happen would happen, she would find out then.

There was nothing left to do. Detached, disciplined, calm, Eleanor waited.

The waiting was always the worst part; she did not possess the patience required to wait well. With waiting came thinking, and with that always came doubt. Doubt could be poisonous. It would be all too easy to stop and leave everything to unfold of its own accord, to play the part she had been shaped for. That was, in the end, a large part of why she had married Fulk, pulling him still further into a danger she would rather keep him safely isolated from. She could not go back to Trempwick and allow herself to drown once more in obedience and follow his lead without second thought. She could not bow her head and wait for Trempwick to pick off the rest of her family and wreak whatever other havoc would be needed to place her on the throne he coveted. Fulk was the bit of timber she clung to as she floated adrift and lost; without him she could not do this.

Time dragged onwards. Eleanor had left the meal early on. That was probably just as well; for all her preparation her stomach was uneasy with nerves. Hugh would not do the same; he would be careful to do everything exactly as people would expect, without break in routine.

When the door to the solar finally opened Eleanor did not move, except to force a wry, mocking smile to curve her lips a little.

“What on earth do you think you are doing?” came Anne’s voice. The door shut and the queen hurried over to Eleanor’s side. She shoved a bundle into Eleanor’s lap. “Food, since you left early. You did not even give me time to talk to him!”

Eleanor let the smile go but otherwise did not relax. “I had an opportunity; I used it. I do not have time to waste; I only have a few days before as much as possible must be settled.”

“And now-”

“Yes, I know. Hugh is furious, gossip is spreading, and soon the whole castle will know that once again I am in trouble. Good.”

“Good!? You are insane!”

Trempwick would have understood her plan at once if he had been party to as much as Anne. If the scheme had not been so detrimental to his own goals Trempwick would have been adding to it, reinforcing the weak points, working subtly towards supporting her, and all the time teaching her how to go about this better. Anne continued to look in askance at Eleanor, understanding so little and unable to make the required leaps of thought to see it on her own. No one else here would think in the same way as Trempwick’s prized pupil; they had not been trained to it. Only Trempwick could.

Feeling Anne deserved some explanation as she was unavoidably a part of all this now, and hoping perhaps to reduce the feeling of isolation a little, Eleanor said, “No, it is merely better this way. Trempwick will hear of all this; my meeting with Hugh now looks very innocent. I will be able to grumble about this unfairness to Trempwick later if need be, and it proves my point when I said I would not be safe at the palace. Until things are … safe he must continue to think I am what I appeared to be.”

“You are going to get hurt.”

“All pain is fleeting,” said Eleanor calmly. She was disappointed to see how Anne homed in on the least important part, passing over a great many more areas on which questioning would have been welcome as it would have enabled Eleanor to teach a little. “Alas, not fleeting enough for my liking.” The feeble joke sank like a stone into water. Eleanor emphasised her next words, “It is the larger game which matters. This is a means to an end, a small portion of a whole, a little of the price, if you will, of going my own way instead of being a pawn.”

Anne continued to stare at her with open bafflement, not even asking questions. Eleanor gave up; the queen was intelligent, she had demonstrated a little talent for intrigue, but she clearly was not going to make a good apprentice. As queen Anne would unavoidably have to dabble with subterfuge, but she would do it as most others did, not as an agent with a good portion of spymaster’s skills. Anne would be a piece on the board, not one of the players sat slightly apart from the game.

At last Eleanor unwrapped the napkin, revealing several chewettes of undeterminable filling. Dutifully she began to eat one, recognising also the need to keep her strength up. She could only force down tiny bites; nerves and having a mind engaged elsewhere had never done her appetite any good. “I shall be twenty in August,” she said quietly. “Everyone tells me that is old; old to be marrying for the first time, old to be finally starting to recognise what I am, old to be taking up my inheritance, old to begin playing with the power I should have been using for years. But it is not; it is so young …”

Perplexed, Anne said, “I do not understand.”

“No,” agreed Eleanor regretfully. Slowly she finished off the first chewette. Eleanor dusted her hands off and rolled the napkin back up with the rest of the food untouched. “Lend me some of your hairpins, ones which will not be missed.”

“Why?”

Eleanor smiled tightly. “It is always good to appear far more dangerous than you are.”

Anne fetched a couple of pins from her bedchamber, along with a wooden gaming board and a bag of pieces. Eleanor carefully concealed them both in the folds of her skirt, working them securely through the dove grey material of her underdress near hem level.

As she worked the queen asked, “Did things have to go like this, even though you asked for my help? Was I always going to be useless?”

“I hoped you may have opportunity before I did; I hoped you could repeat your success in bringing me to the palace. You did not, and I had to take things into my own hands. What else was I supposed to do? Sit about praying for help as my best, and possibly only, opportunity passed by? I have tried that in the past; the results have always been less than useful.” Eleanor straightened up to find Anne was now gaping at her in horror. “Oh don’t look at me like that! I only mean it is entirely foolish to expect God to solve everything for me; I am sure He has far better things to do with his time, and there are a great many people far more worthy of His help then I.” People who are not already certain to fry in hell, she added privately. Even so she had politely pointed out in a private prayer this morning that to marry Trempwick, or anyone else, now would be bigamy, and that while she was doing everything she could to stay true to her husband a little divine help …

Anne dragged out the little table so it stood between the two chairs and placed the ornately carved board down on it. She seated herself, emptied a set of playing pieces out of the silk bag and began to set them up. “This was going to be your wedding present, so you may as well have it now. Have you ever played tafl? It is quite popular in Scotland, but not so here. I always preferred it to chess because the two sides play very differently.”

“No, I have not played it.”

“Then I shall give you your first lesson tonight.”

Eleanor was grateful for the offered distraction; it meant less time for doubt to set in. “Thank you.”

“I think you might find the game to your liking.” The white pieces she arranged on squares in the centre of the board marked with a wavy pattern carved into them, little ivory warriors forming a circle about the tall king who resided on the central square. The brownish-red warriors she set along the four edges of the board on the squares marked with a spiral pattern. Brown had no king piece. She explained as she worked. “The rules are very simple and every piece moves in the same way, but there is plenty of strategy involved. The object is for the defenders to save their king by getting him to one of these corner squares.” She tapped one of the four squares marked with a cross pattern. “The attackers must capture him by placing a warrior on each side of the king.”

Eleanor smiled. “I had best play the defence then, to get used to the unfamiliar concept of guarding a king.”






Fulk parted company with Godit after dinner, secretly glad to be away from the temptation she offered. He had no intention of ever betraying Eleanor, but that did not stop Godit from appealing on some base level and she would be very easy to seduce. Tonight of all nights he was not really in the mood to be lonesome. Making a few bland excuses he returned to the solitude of his room; Godit stayed behind to gossip.

Simon had not returned; the boy was probably playing with his friends before bedtime. Fulk settled before his fire with a cup of wine, intending to while away the remainder of the evening in thought.

He was not left in peace for long; someone knocked on his door. Fulk’s heart leapt, remembering how Eleanor had sneaked away to meet him here once before. Sense quickly reasserted itself; it would be far too dangerous for her to come here again, and the castle was still busy. Wishful thinking, in part prompted by what today was.

His visitor turned out to be Godit, flushed with excitement. She barged past him without waiting for him to invite her in. Fulk was highly tempted to tell her to go away, but before he could frame the words politely Godit exploded, “Your princess is in trouble!”

The muscles in Fulk’s legs tensed to propel him out the door at a run. He overrode the instinct just in time. “What?”

Godit sidled up close and began speaking in a rapid, hushed whisper, her breath warm against Fulk’s ear. “It’s the talk of the hall; she insulted that Llwellyn person she was sat with, insulted quite badly. She said he was a pathetic little man! Worse, she said he hadn’t got the wit or intelligence to be a good match for her, and that her choice was a far better man! Then the prince taunted her, reminding her of that charming Welsh law on wife beating and insinuating that her husband was going to spend the rest of their married life flaying her alive. She just replied very confidently that he’d never harm even a hair on her head, can you imagine that? Men who would never hit their wives even when given excellent reason and sorely provoked are incredibly rare!” She placed a hand on his arm, intimating that she thought him just such a man. Well there she would be wrong; given excellent reason and sorely provoked Fulk would indeed discipline his wife, just as he would a child or unruly animal. He would not like it but he had a certain duty to do so. But not with Eleanor; she had been hurt too much already, and she would get very inventive in her revenge. In the six months he’d known her she’d done very little which he would count as cause anyway.

Not noticing his unease with her unwarranted praise Godit continued, “Llwellyn didn’t give up so easily, and said that her betrothed was only being nice because of what he stood to gain. That would soon end, he said, and even he’d be nice to her if he thought it worth his while. Of course she was sat right next to prince Hugh, and he overheard it all. He was furious, they say, as furious as anyone’s ever seen him, not that you can ever really see it with him, so controlled. But they said it was quite plain from the way he ordered her from the hall and promised to see her later, even if he was really polite and concerned and pretended she was unwell. His eyes were gleaming, actually gleaming with anger, and he gripped her arm so tight it’s a wonder the bone didn’t snap. Those closest say that in that moment he really looked like the king, bastard’s looks or no. She’s going to be in for real hell; everyone’s talking about it. Hugh’s so angry he’s avoiding her for now, leaving her to stew while he regains that boring control of his. The queen went off up to the solar, I guess to commiserate and do one of those disappointed lectures she’s go good at. Our queen can fairly make you die of guilt just by looking woeful and saying a few words on how saddened she is.”

Stomach rolling with sickened disgust Fulk heard himself saying calmly, “She never was too diplomatic, and she lashes out if goaded too much. Sounds like that Llwellyn pushed her too far.”

“So you’re not going to mount a daring rescue?”

“I don’t like to disturb my horse’s sleep, and my armour’s neatly put away,” he joked, earning a black glare from Godit. “Why would I? I’m not her bodyguard, or her keeper. It’s nothing to do with me. Even when I was her bodyguard I didn’t interfere; she didn’t like it, and that suited me fine – kept me alive.”

“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Godit. “How can you say that?”

“To interfere between her and her family is to die, and no one is worth dying for, no matter how much you care. I don’t like it, I never did and I doubt I ever will, but there is nothing I can do, nothing I should do, and nothing she would want me to do even if I had an obligation to her, which I don’t – she freed me of it herself. And if I’m blunt, love her or no, this is her own fault. She should learn to control herself better.”

Godit drew back a pace and said coldly, “I’d better go; my queen might need me.” Her distaste for him did not last; more kindly she offered, “I can find out what happens and let you know, if you like?”

“It’s really nothing to do with me.”

“But you will worry anyway. You’re a good person, Fulk, and you do still care for her.”

“And I’m trying to forget, remember?”

“It’ll be easier to forget if you’re not wondering.”

Fulk sighed. “Oh, very well.”

Alone again Fulk sat down before his fire, door safely shut and bolted. He rinsed the foul taste left by the lies he had just spouted away with some wine. So she had got her meeting with Hugh then, but at what price? If even half of what Godit had said was true Eleanor was going to need her official royal cut tender, not that he could even go and see her. Gossip inflated and exaggerated; he prayed it was true here. Eleanor would be a little safer then.

Fulk murmured into his drink, “Oh dear one, you do take winning hard.”





EDIT: forgot to add this:

Tafl is the usual abbreviation for hnefatafl, a Viking board game. The name means 'King's Table'. It gradually faded in popularity as chess took over, but it was still being played in England around 1700. The whole 'played in Scotland but not so much in England' thing is just froggy plot convenience, and based off some logical guesswork type stuff involving bits of research, cultures, invading Normans, and so on. There are several variants of the game; they are playing my favourite one (yes, I've got a board and play it quite often, unlike merrels which I have decided I shall have to get a board for and learn). You can find out a little about the game here. My variation is the left most board illustration out of the two Norse ones pictured.

So now you know Anne grew up in a slightly Norse influenced area :winkg:

There was not a single pastime which surpassed sitting quietly and thinking. The subject of the thoughts mattered little. It was the act of exercising logic and mind that mattered. Thought separated men from animals, and then separated men from men. Any idiot could wave a sword and kill people. It took real finesse to think beyond the simple facts which cluttered up most people’s minds.

Of course when he said ‘men’ what he really meant was ‘people’. Trempwick ran a hand over his jaw, skin rasping on the day’s newly grown stubble. People always expected things to be simple. People always wanted you to explain to save them from needing to puzzle out meaning and solution for themselves. People were tiresome. People were little more than human cattle. Men were what counted, men in the biblical sense, as in the family of man. Indeed, some very notable thinkers were female. Scheming noble ladies, a handful of ambitious mistresses, some of those who married above what was expected, some of his better agents.

Nell was not a good thinker, contrary to what people might believe. No, that was akin to comparing a wild rose to a carefully cultivated one. Nell did not think, she thought. Her keen little mind had been honed, focused, carefully set up to channel thoughts, like an irrigation channel taking water. Just like his. Except he had placed careful limits on her, blocking a select few of those channels. It was necessary that she would follow where he led; he did not need her as an equal. Did he want her to be his equal?

Trempwick reached for the goblet of ice wine on the floor beside his worn fireside chair. As a tiny sip of the liquid burned its way down his gullet and made the pit of his stomach glow warmly he considered this question once again. It would be very motivating to have a true equal, someone he needed everything he had to keep up with. It would be dangerous, and in such a contest the winner may live. The loser would not. But if she were not a rival but instead an ally …? That would still be dangerous. In every relationship of any sort there must always be a stronger and a weaker party. A master and a follower. The follower did not need to be blindly obedient, that would truly be detrimental to what could be achieved, but must be loyal, obey when it mattered, and recognise that following was in their best interests.

The goblet was set down again. Still, it would be so fascinating to see what Nell would be if unleashed, to see what he had forged, shaped and honed into being from the raw material. He suspected she had the potential to be very worthy. But he was not a follower. Any way the battle resolved would be a disappointment. If he lost then he lost, though he may be proud of his creation. If he was forced to destroy her then he also lost, and would be gravely saddened into the bargain. If he managed to subdue her and bring her back under his control once more after allowing her to stretch her wings then not only had his teaching failed, his judgement been flawed, his dear Nell lost, but she would not even be worthy of notice any more. Those who have freedom and throw it away could not be respected.

Nell would remain as she was; carefully fettered, so carefully she did not even know she was hampered. There were things it was not safe for her to see. Even so she managed to provide a rather … exhilarating challenge from time to time. He could never sit back and completely relax where she was concerned. This was one of the reasons he was fond of her.

Someone knocked on the door to his bedchamber. “Enter.” The command was softly spoken, cultured in tone. Shouting at doors and at servants was so uncivilised.

Edward, the ‘steward’, entered. He padded across the floor to the fireside chair where Trempwick sat. Standing to attention he offered a small rolled up note to Trempwick. “Master, your mother’s report just arrived.”

Trempwick accepted the message but did not move to open it. “I think it is time for young Walter to move on; there is little left for him to learn here. I wish him placed in the Earl of Warwick’s household. See to it.”

Edward bowed. “Master. And for a replacement …?”

“I shall consult my wife; it is her right to have a say in my household. As long as her decision is fitting I shall go along with it, and you will find me someone suitable. I shall also fill the gap left by Gerbert this way. Speaking of which, you will all now accept and obey orders from Nell once we return. You can be polite to her, but not overly so. You will not, however, follow any order that may compromise our situation. Do keep chipping away at her confidence when given good occasion, but do so more subtly and less to her face.”

“Yes, master. I shall inform the others at once.”

Trempwick cast his gaze towards his bed, and the windows behind it. “When I return with my bride I expect the alterations I requested to be completed.” A couple of new hangings for the walls with pleasant scenes on, glass in the windows, clean rushes on the floor mixed with dried lavender, his finest linens and bedding to accompany the new blanket being embroidered with his badge paired with Nell’s, the new bed curtains made to match the blanket. A room fit for a princess, and a promise kept. Several promises kept.

“It will be done,” assured Edward.

“My wedding gift should be completed by now; have someone collect it.”

“I shall go myself early in the morning.”

Trempwick waved a hand to dismiss his deputy. As Edward left as quietly as he had arrived Trempwick saw another way the battle could end. He could once again subdue Nell, but keeping her as his acknowledged second, his acknowledged follower, his acknowledged partner is his venture. Win her over to his cause. Give her a little more freedom. Work a little harder to win and keep her trust, liking and love. Have her work to his ends knowingly instead of unknowingly. Keep a closer eye on her, always. It would be proven that he was still the master. Surely there was sense in recognising after a long struggle that someone was superior to yourself, and had a vision from which you could benefit greatly? Surrendering then would be … worthy. Not as worthy as victory, but perhaps more so than a wasteful defeat. As long as the fight was a good one, fought with everything one had then becoming an ally-vassal of the victor before total defeat … yes, that could be respected.

Nell would be far better than Edward. The man was competent, cunning, able to think. He would make a decent spymaster, just as he made a decent deputy. He was devotedly loyal, never had and never would consider betrayal. But he lacked … flair. He did not have that final something that Trempwick had so far spotted only in Nell. If the two ever truly fought Trempwick knew Nell would win. She would beat each and every one of the agents in his house. So far she had not recognised then for what they were, not that he knew of. He had been most careful. They had been most careful. They were some of his best. Not the best, the best were out working for him. They had done their work well. Watching, protecting, subtly guiding and shaping the young princes to his needs. They chipped at her; he offered reassurance and comfort. They drove her towards him and blocked her from looking elsewhere, making her an easier target. That was … no longer needful. Nell would be so much better as his second than Edward.

None the less, he would not unleash her. He would be pained to have to harm her, and harm there would have to be to break her sufficiently to be safe for this new role. Nell was to be kept safe, protected, sparred with, tutored, guided, watched, honoured, cherished, controlled. He should add love, but Trempwick had never been fond of deceiving himself. Deception was a tool aimed outwards, never inwards. Alas, ‘to be very fond of, feel affection for, and find a worthy opponent in’ just did not have the same delightful ring as ‘love’, and it did not fit into his ordered thought neatly. He would have to find a fitting word.

Trempwick cracked his knuckles and began to work silently through his vocabulary. Endearment … tenderness … warmth …partiality …kindliness … admiration … fondness … none of them quite worked. All parts, not a one a whole. Trempwick scowled, exasperated. This was quite intolerable. If he could not find a word he would make one. It was all an intelligent man could do when confronted with inadequacy caused by others. No one had created the word he needed; he would make it himself. But not now.

Trempwick unrolled the tiny message his mother had sent by bird. It would be about a day out of date by now, perhaps only half a day if she had managed to get it dispatched soon after writing.

Arrived safe. Girl obedient. Child active, much fuss over girl. No trace of dog.

Trempwick’s lips curved. So, it was all as he had expected, for the most part. He had not expected Nell to be quite so tame, either to his mother or before the queen’s fussing. No sign of the dog; Fulk was routed, removed from the picture, no longer an issue. No. Not quite. Nell still had feeling for the knight, but that would pass in time. Nell was closely chaperoned at the palace; she could not meet her pet even if she wished. Not without him hearing of it. He had already made it very clear he would not be pleased with her meeting Fulk again.

Hearing was not always knowing. Hearing was sometimes a half word, not a whole. Half words and Nell went hand in hand when she was away. He could not have her followed everywhere. No one could read her as he did. Half words were … a challenge. He moved his piece, she moved hers, both players deceptive. Was her trap real or not? Did he overlook something? Did he perhaps suspect when there was nothing to uncover? Truth or bluff? Real or imagined? Harmless or deadly? Trempwick began to tear up the message. Her greatest puzzle so far was the knight. Evidence said she had been fool enough to sleep with him. Evidence said she would not. Half words.

He always won, in their little contests. He planned for all outcomes, and planned many moves ahead. Had or had not; what Nell may have done with Fulk mattered less at this point than what he would do. Had not was simple; he would do the obvious. Be kind, affectionate, try to please her. That was advantageous … also … appealing. Had; that was complex. Had presented several needs. A need to prove his displeasure. A need to show his hurt at her lack of trust in him. A need to prevent her straying again in future. A need to prove himself a far better lover than Fulk. A need to make her entirely his, curbing this new effort to edge away from him. A need to do all this without losing her. So many ways these needs could be met. Broad categories, each filled with many smaller potentials. Forgiving and kind. Rough and vengeful. Hurt and shocked. Disgusted and disappointed. A natural reaction, perhaps. Mostly natural. Anything partly planned and considered in advance could not be entirely natural. Natural would be … all of the above.

Trempwick leaned his head back to rest on the back of his chair, drumming his fingers on his thigh. So many options! To choose poorly would do untold harm. Abruptly he grinned. Nell was a challenge, even if she did not intend it, and surely she must intend. Trempwick considered his potential moves, staring up at the roof beams with uncaring eyes. He could spend hours on this one puzzle alone. He had spent hours on it. He would spend hours more on it. This was only one facet too. The others also needed examination, consideration, deliberation, planning, and finally enactment and outcome.

A long while later Trempwick let this particular puzzle drop. He was leaning towards blending several categories. Forgiving and kind, hurt and shocked, and a little of disappointed. That would be most honest, minus the less … pleasant parts. Trempwick’s lip curled in a sneer. A man should not indulge his less pleasant sides, no matter how much people thought it was manly, suitable, justified or understandable. This blend was most likely to cover all the needs successfully. It would also add an increased hold over her. “I forgave you the unforgivable” he murmured, trying the words out. They sounded well. One part of vengeful appealed brightly. It suited nicely. It was fitting. It spoke eloquently and at length. Someone would have to provide the bloodstain. Let it be her. Let her be the one to slash skin with knife. “Betray me and I will not bleed for you. The consequences of your acts are your own to bear. It is harder to go it alone, without my aid. I am extremely upset with you, more upset than I have ever been. I am merciful to let you do this, but not soft enough to harm myself on your faithless behalf. If you had been honest, though, I would have done this for you.” Yes, this would be used if needed. Now only deciding the smaller details of the other categories remained; a task for another time.

Nell was tame. Trempwick let the thought sit in his mind for a while. He was not sure he trusted this. But … she had misstepped badly, he had asserted his authority, made a very great fuss, allowed his betrayed hurt to show instead of hiding it as he usually did, then carefully been kind to her at the same time as reinforcing his message. “I am the master. I can be kind or not kind. Choose.” The irritant was gone, and he had done his best to turn her mind from Fulk. She believed her brother wished her harm. No doubt the stolid Hugh did. But more still would Hugh wish she would sink into the woollen-headed submission he and his father coveted so much. There was harm and harm. Hugh wanted the former, not the latter. She was on ground she hated and felt uncertain with. He had made her see that his mother offered her some protection. She wanted to come home. She had not wanted to leave. Perhaps, then, this was … acceptable.

Perhaps his mother had it wrong. He had only been able to give her a few short lessons in Nell. She could not read the princess as he could. She could not judge as he could. She could not think as he could. She did not value what he did. But she could chaperone. She could give some reports. Juliana would also see, also spy, also report. All too easy; a little time, a few promises with no intent to keep them, a very little pleasure, and the infatuated girl was his loyal creature. Juliana was very … people. But the risk of playing so dangerous a game, oh now that had been more like it. But if Nell ever found out Trempwick was confident he could turn the situation to his advantage. In a nutshell, “But my love, it is so hard to be patient when full of pent up passion, and I remember my promise to you. It was nothing, scratching an itch, very common, everyone does it. It will never happen again, it never need happen again, because now you are mine and I have no thought of wandering. I only bedded the maid because I could not have you.” It would be stormy for a while, but he would win out because it was true. Except for the omission of gaining a spy to watch over both Nell and his mother, and to ferret for information from Nell harmlessly. And the omission that he had also been putting his mother in her place, reminding her of how powerless she was when he put his mind to it. She could not even keep him away from her maid; all she could do was wait outside.

And then there were his other people. He would wait and see what the others said. But there was no undue cause for concern. As long as Nell was watched over nothing could go wrong before he arrived.

Only days, four days now. In four days he would be married to Nell. Trempwick leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. From there so very many appealing prospects beckoned …







I bet that was not what you expected to be reading today :tongueg:

Another part which changes a whole lot of what was, revealing more of what is. I kind of like Trempy’s POV; this is the first time I have ever used it but he’s been whispering in my ear throughout.

man frogbeastegg do you have any life AT ALL!? no im just kidding, great stories, i just would not have the patience to do that much writing

... uh oh was i not supposed to write :wall: oops

You tried to kill me, geisha froggy? ~;p I've been trying to follow months of work in a few days. ~D

Great! Though I believe you must have some kind of publishing ambition in it (want it to be published - to make it simple.) If yes then good luck, if no then I'm just a useless John. ~;)

master of the puppets: your parents don't want you to write or just don't want you to spend time surfing the net? I've been wondering... ~D
1. if the first one then why... then again...my parents never knew I'm even on this site. They believe I've been playing "That Rome Game" all day again. Hehe ~D
2. They are reasonable since I'm near coma now for reading froggy's story all day for many days. Death from lack of sleep. Hey, good title for a new short story! ~;)

By the time Hugh finally put in his appearance Eleanor and Anne had played two swift games in which Eleanor had acquainted herself with all the rules and had just started a slower, more serious game. Eleanor was finding her detached, controlled state left her better able to concentrate on the game, and for once she was taking her time considering her moves. Unsurprisingly this meant she was doing better at tafl than she ever had at chess. She was still losing before Anne’s experience and skill though, steadily but inevitably.

Hugh had changed from the flowing, ankle length tunic he had worn at dinner to a shorter, tailored one more suited to action. His jewel studded belt had been exchanged for a plainer one, much to Eleanor’s relief, and his dagger had been left behind. He closed the door and stood by their game table, stiff backed and waiting. After a very lengthy pause he said to Eleanor, “You do not rise to acknowledge my presence?”

Playing tafl with Anne did not give off the same imperious air as the pose she had intended Hugh to find her in, but Eleanor thought she preferred the casual disdain being found playing a game provided. She moved her piece randomly even though it was not her turn, speaking in a preoccupied tone, “How keenly observant of you, Hugh. I do not, nor shall I.”

“Regrettable; it would demonstrate a little sense, self preservation, and repentance.” Hugh bowed minutely to Anne. “Pray forgive this ugliness, my lady. I am afraid I shall have to ask if I may interrupt your game; I wish to speak to my sister in private. I am most painfully aware that by rights this room is yours, not mine, and that I am asking you to leave where I have no prerogative.”

“Hugh, I do not like this. Eleanor only wants to-”

Eleanor interjected, “Hugh is right, you really should go. This is going to get unpleasant; you do not want to watch.”

“But-”

“Go.”

Anne reluctantly left the solar, retreating not to the stairs as Eleanor had expected but to her own bedchamber. She shut the door audibly, but Eleanor noticed it slowly and silently open a tiny crack so the young queen could watch. With his back to the door Hugh didn’t detect the queen’s subterfuge.

Eleanor suppressed her annoyance at having an audience and focused on the task in hand. “Well, there is no point in delaying, so let us get on with this. The first move is yours; play it.”

“This is not a game,” chided Hugh.

“Pity,” retorted Eleanor trimly, leaning back in her chair and resting each hand just above the opposing wrist. “Well, since you made your move I shall make mine. Tell me about John. Tell me why he died. He was my brother; I have a right to know, and people are reluctant to speak about him.”

“You are already aware of why; his treason caught up with him, and no man is above the law of the land.”

“But surely you spoke up for him? He was our brother.”

“I did indeed speak on his behalf. I spoke for clemency; a swift, merciful end.” He said it without the least trace of shame. “I knew he would not get better than that, and a traitor’s death is seldom so clean.”

“So you argued to kill him?”

“I argued for an honourable, clean death.”

“You encouraged our father to kill our brother.”

A flash of annoyance came and went on Hugh’s face. “Father wavered, but his mind was clearly made up from the start. He would follow the hardest path for the sake of the realm. To spare John would be to invite disaster and make a sham of the king’s law and king’s justice, without which the crown will become powerless. If men do not fear the king’s anger at their wrongdoing and trust implicitly in his righteousness then they will go their own ways, and from there can only come devastation, disharmony, destruction, impiety, fear, unlawfulness, injustice, and every abuse of power and might known to man. It is our duty, as entrusted to us by God, to ensure that never comes to pass.” Hugh’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her. “Though duty is a concept you seem to have great difficulty in comprehending. John should have died a traitor’s death – hung until nearly dead, disembowelled, mutilated, and put on display until the crows pecked his bones clean, just like his co-conspirator, Northumberland”

“But with Trempwick’s help-”

“The spymaster could not have chosen his words better if he had wanted John dead.”

The triumph Eleanor had expected to feel at this did not appear; instead she felt empty, empty and drained. “What do you mean?”

“As I said our father wavered; he did not want to kill his son. Trempwick offered him numerous ways to spare John, often saying that he could easily handle any unrest it may cause, in effect reminding father of why John must die.”

“So he was trying to ensure our brother died?”

“He was offering another path, one which could not be taken but father had visible interest in. He was doing his duty,” Hugh stressed that word, giving Eleanor another meaningful look, “finding a way to give his lord what he wanted. His efforts were misguided, and this was one of very few times I have seen the spymaster misread our father. I do not see the relevance of this to the matter in hand. You will stop stalling; I have little wish to waste all evening on you.”

“Hugh-”

“Stand up.”

Resigned, Eleanor changed tactics. “No.”

“What?” asked Hugh, incredulous.

“I said no. Are you going deaf, brother dear?”

“You are only making this worse for yourself.” Hugh reached out a hand to pull her up; Eleanor batted it to one side. She cocked an eyebrow. Hugh tried again, a more determined effort. Eleanor grabbed one of his wrists with both hands and devoted everything she had to keeping the hand away from her. When Hugh focused on winning the upper battle Eleanor kicked him, missing his groin but catching his thigh. Shocked, Hugh gave ground, pulling his arm free of her grip easily. “I see,” he said grimly. He dropped into a fighter’s crouch as Eleanor came to her feet and assumed a similar pose.

She waited, watching for any hint of his move. Hugh lunged, she twisted to one side skipped to her left. Hugh recovered quickly, sidestepping to follow her and pressing forwards. He grabbed, and as Eleanor dodged he drove forward and seized one of the long trailing ends of her girdle. Swiftly he yanked, hard, pulling her off balance. He relinquished his hold on her girdle to catch her right upper arm in an inflexible grip.

“Oh bugger!” cursed Eleanor. With her free hand she chopped at his wrist, trying to free herself. She tried to drive her knee into her brother’s groin, but he twisted so she only hit solid thigh muscle. With her free hand Eleanor shot a punch at Hugh’s throat; he caught that hand in his. “I’m too short for this!” she grumbled, as he wrestled to get a better grip on her hand while maintaining his hold on her arm. She stamped on Hugh’s foot, immediately trying to follow up with a second stomp. Hugh anticipated the attack and pulled his foot back. As he transferred his weight Eleanor flung herself to that side, dragging him off balance, and at the same time working frantically to free her arms. She managed to get one hand free. It did her no good, only freeing up Hugh’s right hand so he could slap her in the face hard enough to set her ears ringing. She attempted to rake his face with her nails, but he jerked his head back so she did little damage. Hugh delivered an expert blow to her upper stomach, winding her. As Eleanor fought to get her breath back he manhandled her over into a corner and dumped her down, blocking her escape while he began to unbuckle his belt.

Still working to get air back into her lungs Eleanor drew both her knives, and said, “I have an offer for you, brother dear. We sit down cordially, you listen to what I have to say, you think about it and give me fair hearing, and then I shall peacefully let you do whatever you want to my poor hide. The alternative; we keep on fighting and you never find out why I arranged all this.”

Hugh’s hands had ceased their movement the instant he had seen her weapons. Outraged he exclaimed, “You have knives?!”

“Knives and more; I came here dressed to kill, to defend myself, not to dispatch you. I don’t doubt that you would win in the end, but it will be a messy victory. So there is my offer; take it or leave it.”

Hugh tapped one finger against the solid gold buckle of his belt as he considered. “Put up your weapons – all of them – and I will listen.”

“Promise,” insisted Eleanor. “Promise no trickery and a fair hearing.”

“You have my word on it. I would likewise ask for your own solemn oath but I fear I could not trust it. It will not matter; as you say I can subdue you again easily.” He stepped out of the way, eyeing her guardedly. With a shallow, sardonic bow Eleanor made her way past him to freedom. Hugh said, “I shall add that to the list of grievances as well. You really do lack self preservation and sense.”

Eleanor flipped her knives so the blades hung below her hands and stabbed them both down into the surface of the table. “Brother dear, self preservation sometimes comes second.” She gave him a copy of his earlier meaningful looks. “Duty to family and realm, and all that.” Eleanor started to remove the pins holding up her now muddled hairstyle.

“I did not hit you hard enough to scramble your brains.” He gestured towards one side of her face, which was now beginning to show a red hand mark. “That will not even bruise; I was very careful. So I must conclude that this is more of your foolishness, and that this too must be added to my increasingly long list.”

Eleanor laid the collection of hairpins out in a neat row in front of the two standing daggers. She began to untie the two ribbons holding her braids together; strictly they were not weapons, but Hugh did not know that and she could easily improvise with them if she wanted. Every little bit helped the illusion of strength. “People always believe the worst of me. Hugh is it so hard to believe that for once I might be doing as I say? If I wanted you dead or harmed I could do it easily, just not in a fair fight. Do you think I actually like getting hurt? I provoked this so I could speak to you without certain eyes growing suspicious. You already know how much I hate being at court. If I did not see cause to be here I would still be at Woburn, peacefully trying to appease Trempwick so he does not stomp on me.”

“You would not - you were summoned here and your opinion on the matter was not requested.”

“Brother dear, I arranged that. All so easy; one very careful yet simple deception to get past Trempwick, a quick message to our queen, she drips a few careful words in our father’s ear, and here I am, and all without my visibly wanting to be here. In fact much the opposite – I protested loudly and refused to come until I let Trempwick persuade me.” Eleanor coiled the ribbons up neatly and placed them beside the hairpins. Next she rolled up her outer sleeve and began to unwind the garrotte from her arm. Hugh’s face had remained carefully blank, but now a flicker of surprise escaped. Seeing it Eleanor forced herself to grin. “I did say dressed to kill, brother dear. I left my poisons and drugs behind though, along with several other choice items like lockpicks.”

The length of waxed cord was also carefully coiled and set down next to the other items. Eleanor knelt and began to retrieve the borrowed hairpins she had worked into the skirt of her underdress. Once collected up she set them in an orderly row above her own pins. She dusted her hands off and made sure her clothing hung neatly once again, indicating she was done.

Hugh stared at the pile with ill-concealed distaste. “Now stand away from the table and start talking. My patience will not last forever.”

Eleanor crossed back to the chair she had been seated in previously. “I take it you know someone is trying to keep you heirless?” She sat down, hands folded in her lap and once more apparently at ease. The truth was her heart was hammering fit to burst, her cheek throbbing in time with her pulse, and the faint feeling of nausea was not solely caused by the blow to her stomach. She reached once more for her control, pushing awareness of these pains away until they were more background bother than a distraction.

“Constance is pregnant; the child will be born in five months.”

Eleanor applauded him, smiling broadly with delight at his skilled dodge and change of subject. “Oh very well done, brother dear! Perhaps we do have a little in common after all. Did you find out who was murdering your children?”

Hugh remained calm and unflappable. “My children were not murdered.”

“Hugh, I know, you know, there is no need to lie, not here and not know. Do not worry about Anne overhearing – she can be trusted, believe me. Your silence here will not protect your family, quite the opposite.”

Hugh wandered a slow circuit of the room, not speaking. Eleanor left him, knowing he was thinking and weighing risk against potential gain. “They were not murdered; a baby only receives a soul forty days after conception. Things without souls cannot be murdered.” He sat down heavily in the chair opposite her. “But it is impossible to tell exactly when those forty days have passed. It pains my heart, this not knowing quite what was lost.”

“Did you find out who?”

“I have my suspicions.”

“Who?” Hugh kept his peace, staring back at her impassively. “Let me venture a guess: Trempwick.”

Evenly he said, “Trempwick is our father’s most trusted friend and confidant, his spymaster also, and that is a position of great trust. He is my future brother-in-law. There is no reason to mistrust him.”

“And yet you do.” Eleanor sat up, intent, focused and no longer bothering to hide it.

“I have not said that.”

“No, you have been very careful not to. Why do you suspect him?”

“I will not indulge in idle speculation. Those with greater experience and better judgement than myself find him to be reliable, even admirable.”

“But you do not,” surmised Eleanor. “Why?”

Hugh answered mildly, “Your betrothed will have his place secure when I assume the throne; I have no reason to remove him, and I acknowledge his competence, experience and skill. I also acknowledge that he is well looked upon, favoured even, because of his abilities and achievements.”

Eleanor spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully and not quite managing to keep all trace of irritation from her voice, “But what do you think of him?”

“Let us instead speak of you,” countered Hugh smoothly. “What do you think of him?”

Eleanor frowned and sat back once again. “He is like a second father to me.”

“And you love him.”

“No.”

He made a gesture with the first two fingers of his right hand, acknowledging and also dismissing her denial. “Like him then, and are attracted to him.”

Eleanor’s frown deepened. “It is not as simple as that,” she said charily.

“It looks very simple to me; I have seen with my own eyes, I have heard the reports, I have read his messages.”

“What are you implying?”

“You know he had the audacity to come asking for your hand at Christmas, before John returned? A relative nothing compared to us, and he thought himself a fitting match for you. He thought this match would make you happy, and that you would accept it despite your wilful refusal to marry more suitable candidates.”

“I didn’t know …”

Hugh recognised her claim with another twitch of his first two fingers. “He swore you had not encouraged him.” He paused, then added with a flourish, “But why else would he ask?”

Eleanor bolted forward in her chair, planting her hands on the arms with twin thumps of bad tempered flesh on wood. “I did not encourage him! Remember how hard I fought to keep from marrying him? Would I do that if I wanted the match?”

“Perhaps you panicked. Perhaps you at last thought of your reputation and wished to settle this in such a way as to preserve your status; ‘forced’ to marry so far beneath you, not choice. But most likely of all perhaps you wished to protect yourself.”

“Oh Hugh! You cannot think-”

“You wished to cover up your little affair. To consent too quickly would be to invite father to wonder why after all this time you changed your mind, and for a man you have been living with unchaperoned for years. His anger would be terrible indeed.”

Eleanor felt the blood drain for her face, and the feeling of nausea returned with new force. “You do, you actually believe that,” she whispered. The shock soon wore off, and she raised her chin proudly. “Choose your respectable matrons and have them examine me; they will find my maidenhead is still intact.” Hugh continued to sit as he had been, face unreadable, posture unreadable, no reaction at all. Eleanor’s temper grew; she held up one hand and said brusquely, “I swear on my immortal soul that nothing improper happened between myself and Trempwick before we were betrothed, not even a brush of hands. If I lie may I be struck down his instant and damned to hell for all eternity.” She looked about the four corners of the ceiling exaggeratedly, as if searching for signs of God’s fury. Once she felt she had given sufficient time for lightening to rain down on her for lying Eleanor enquired self-righteously, “Satisfied? Even I would not dare lie under oath like that.”

Grudgingly Hugh nodded. “Very well; I believe you. Although now I am left wondering why he asked.”

“Ambition, what else? As you have so delightfully pointed out love does not require marriage, and all and sundry know my dowry is an insulting pittance given my rank; that leaves only the assorted benefits my blood and family can bring, and they are only of interest and use to an ambitious man. Asking for my hand would have been a big risk; if refused his position may have become perilous, so whatever he expected to gain must have been worth this risk.” She sat back again, rubbing thoughtfully at her tender cheek. “He must have been so certain …”

Hugh considered, his face still a blank mask. “That is … believable, but I do not see how he could hope to profit from your bloodlines.”

“Yes you do,” said Eleanor tiredly. “You see it now; you had parts of a suspicion before and now you have enough to make it a whole. You just do not want to say it. He wants to make me queen, with himself as king-consort. That is why he has been murdering your children. That is why his eloquence achieved the opposite of what he appeared to want. That is why he asked for me, and why he worked so carefully to win me over even though I wanted nothing to do with him.”

“There is no evidence, only vague suspicion and tenuous connections.”

“Why did you never tell our father you suspected Trempwick was behind these miscarriages?”

Hugh shrugged. “I had no evidence, Trempwick has no motive and nothing to gain, for a long time both Constance and I believed it to be the will of God with no aid from man, and unlike you I do not question the judgement of those older and wiser than myself. Father trusts Trempwick.”

“Because he does not know what we do! How can he possibly make a judgement if you keep information hidden from him?”

“Impossible!” snapped Hugh. He flushed at his brief bust of temper and composed himself with effort. He was not quite successful; the corners of his mouth remained downturned and his usual articulation was missing as he defended himself tersely. “So I was to go to him and report that my wife noticed this strange, bitter taste in all her food and drink shortly before she miscarried each time? The midwives said it was a sign, like feeling nauseous a brief while before you vomit. An effect, not a cause. Likewise those very things which could be side effects of abortants she had been given could equally be innocent – women tend to be very ill after miscarrying anyway. It does not mean she ended up with a little too much of whatever had been scattered throughout her food. Was I supposed to say that Constance has always believed that the one child born to us was healthy and strong, though she never got to see him before he died suddenly within minutes of his birth? I suppose my exhausted, grief stricken wife’s opinion on the health of a child she did not see is solid, credible evidence. Even if this were so babies die abruptly and without warning; it does not necessarily mean someone included poison in the honey and salt used to purify my son’s gums. My suspicion came from knowing Trempwick out of very, very few had the ability to do this, and any other would – should – need to get past his own guards and counterspies. I trust my wife, and to a lesser extent I trust those of my mistresses who also mentioned similarly strange yet innocent details. I trust because of who they are to me and what I know of them; that counts for nothing as evidence, and evidence is sorely needed here.” With quiet pride Hugh stated, “We do not condemn on hearsay, rumour and wild speculation in England.”

“But if he wishes to rule through me then he does have both motive and gain,” persevered Eleanor, sensing victory was both possible and coming steadily closer. “Your lack of heirs would make it easier to place me on the throne. He arranged for John to die, both ensuring he was executed and probably leading him into treason in the first place, working through the influence of an agent of an agent of an agent, or something equally convoluted. I wonder if he slandered Adela to remove her from the competition, after all her husband is a very old man, past seventy now, and he has been tacitly expected to die for years, leaving her a very eligible widow. He has disposed of all your children, not only limiting the competition but also weakening your own position because people look to you and fear for the future. Also remember those bastard rumours; who better than a spymaster to spread them?”

“My parentage is quite evident if you but look beyond the surface, or even if you think a little of the past. Our grandfather’s two younger brothers were fair in colour, though both died quite young. The darker coloured line is the more prominent and more recent, and so far clearer in people’s minds. I have my own people working subtly to rectify this.” Hugh smiled minutely at her surprise. “I am heir to the throne, it is only logical that I have resources of my own.” The smile twisted sourly. “Although they are never quite so effective as I might hope.”

“Trempwick would know, and he would move to block you.”

“That is perhaps so; the spymaster will surely know, and he is in position to hamper me if he so chooses. But that would be treasonable.”

“Once you find one dubious aspect it leads on to others, and they in turn lead onwards. After just under a month’s thought I could sit here all night listing tiny thing after tiny thing, all of them connecting in with other facets, most of them entirely harmless alone but far more worrying when combined with other facets. But we do not have all night; Trempwick has packed this court with spies, and if he knew I was speaking to you alone he may begin to get suspicious, hence my little diplomatic gaff to get you alone for a bit. What are we going to do?”

Hugh countered her question with one of his own. “Why should I believe you? You have no evidence, only your word and your interpretation of events.”

“Exactly the same as what you have to support your own misgivings, brother dear.”

Hugh scratched the back of one hand idly, thinking once more. “Why are you doing this?” he asked at last.

“Because I do not want to be queen,” said Eleanor vehemently. “I hate attention, ritual, fuss, expectations, ceremony, needing to dress up in fancy clothes and play royalty before a crowd. I could not stand the thought of everyone eagerly prying into my life, wanting to know every detail of every little thing I did, and then gossiping about it. Then there is the succession – I could not secure it. I have heard more than often enough how children do not feature in my future, not unless I care to die as the first is born. I would have to pass the throne to a relative outsider, a nephew or something, and that very seldom goes smoothly. I will not be a pawn; I have fought all my life against that. I have no wish to make major decisions, I am not a leader – even interfering this much terrifies me. What if I make a mistake? Or if I am wrong? Looking at how badly this could go makes me feel faint with terror, as does looking at what could happen if I do nothing.” Eleanor paused for breath. She decided on a piece of honesty she had not shared with Fulk and Anne. “I am not sure I could do it even if I wanted to; I am not certain I am up to the task. Given time and guidance maybe I could hope for competence, but every mistake I made while learning or later… think of the cost. I know I could not hold this empire together, maybe the English lands but not the French and Welsh.”

“I … understand, far better than you may believe.”

“The burden must fall to one of us, and I fear you are far better suited, Hugh.”

Hugh rose and began wandering circuits about the room again, a mobile thinker. “Four legitimate children and three bastards dead because of you; only one of all of them was born, a son, dead within minutes. And all so you can be placed on the throne in my stead. All because of your stubborn stupidity making this possible! You should have done as you were told!”

In a small voice Eleanor admitted, “It is worse than that; there is no telling what damage he has done to set this up. People killed, slandered, families disinherited, wars maybe both big and small, rifts in our family, and probably others, started and exaggerated, our king manipulated …”

“This is why women are supposed to be dutiful and obedient, and the younger open to the guidance of the elder, as laid out in the bible. Know your place, sister, and keep to it, and perhaps we may avoid further disasters!”

Eleanor found herself blinking back tears. “But what else could I do? Married or a convent – neither suits me and no one would listen.”

“Does your alternative suit you?”

“I should have taken vows and rotted my life away miserably, praying and playing with religious politics.” The scary thing was Eleanor found she actually meant it.

Hugh softened, once again reining in his temper. “Jesú! Our father tries for years to do what I have done in a night, and by accident at that. Nell, you are a more unnerving sight when cowed than when spiting fire. Not a thing happens in this world that is not God’s will, though we cannot always hope to understand His workings and often His methods seem strange and convoluted.”

“And if that reason is to destroy our family?”

“Then it is God’s will, and will happen regardless.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Eleanor again.

Hugh resumed his pacing and took his time before answering. “I do not see what we can do; we have no evidence, no witnesses, I am not king, and you are betrothed to Trempwick with the marriage imminent. Once father returns we could speak to him, without the spymaster’s knowledge, but still we have no evidence.”

“It will be too late by then!” cried Eleanor. “I would be married to him, from there he only needs to bide his time.”

“Who are we to question our father’s judgement? Or to meddle? Look where that has got you, sister!”

“Into a mess,” she admitted. “But also in a position to see and work to rectify that mess. We cannot do nothing, we cannot. Too much is at stake. Once tied to Trempwick I cannot be freed except by his death, and think of how much worse the scandal will be if my husband is discovered to be as traitor, not my betrothed. He would be in a better position to resist; I know he could potentially turn the situation to his advantage if he managed to rouse support or flee, dragging me along with him. Look at how he turned his rejected proposal around to his favour, and other setbacks I do not have time to detail. I will not marry him; I cannot marry him! Not with this doubt, not knowing what I do, not seeing where it could lead. If once informed father still wishes me to marry Trempwick then I shall, but not now. Hugh, you are the heir, one day you will be king. You must act like it, truly act like it. You lectured me on duty and doing the right thing even when it is hard, now I repeat it back to you.”

Hugh’s pacing speeded up; he hunkered his head down and clasped his hands behind his back. “The wedding cannot be halted, not without alerting him and letting others know something is wrong. That too will be harmful.”

“We can think of something. We still have a short time, although as I said his spies must not suspect why we are talking like this. Hugh, if necessary I will throw self preservation out of the window to talk to you again, but our time is limited. We cannot waste even a second of it.”

A few moments later Hugh stopped. “Do you have any requests as to how I go about this?”

Eleanor swallowed and tried not to betray how much this request mattered to her or why. “I want my bodyguard back; I know I can trust him completely, trust him with my life no matter the circumstances. He would die to save me, and already nearly has. He takes his oaths very seriously; once sworn to me he will never betray me. That is why Trempwick forced me to send him away; Fulk kept intervening between us, protecting me. I will need someone to rely on, someone to watch my back. Trempwick will not let me go easily. He could also play messenger as a last resort.”

Hugh wandered a little more, straight lines back and forth instead of circuits of the room. “It is true he was recommended to us as a man of honour, and father does seem to have some regard for him in this aspect.” A little more hard thinking, without any clue as to what was on his mind. Eleanor continued to watch in trepidation, the palms of her hands damp with sweat. Finally Hugh stopped again. “I will arrange it. Certain events will happen; do not do anything … freakish. Act as would be expected. You will come to no harm. This will also make the wedding quite impossible for some time, until father is home and we have spoke with him if I handle matters correctly. I will not, however, allow myself to play entirely into your hands if you have treachery in mind. You will sign a certain document, admitting you have knowledge of what I am going to arrange and stating that you gave your consent. I will keep it, safe and close to hand.”

“What are you going to do?”

Hugh’s face split with a grin of pure delight that Eleanor hadn’t seen since he was a young boy. “I am going to have you assassinated, Nell. Incompetently. Do not be concerned; you will be quite safe, although it will not appear so. But you will need a bodyguard, and I can hold up the wedding while I investigate.”

Eleanor started to smile herself, but gave up when it made her face ache. It seemed there would be a bruise of some sort after all. “How very apt; Trempwick has already accused you of trying to remove me once. But you will not fool him for long. I shall do what I can to keep things going our way.”

“It will be dealt with; I have my resources, and I shall cover my tracks very well.”

“One thing remains; my cover must be complete, and I did give you a promise. See, brother dear, I do keep my word.” Hugh raised his eyebrows in query. Eleanor stood up. “Just one request - no more scars.”

Hugh nodded briefly in assent. Eleanor crossed to the table and began to shift her collection of weapons out of the way. As she did so she cast a quick glance to the door where Anne was hiding and watching. She was still there, hidden behind the tiny gap. At least the girl had had the sense to keep back out of the way, not interfere, and not betray her presence. Eleanor looked away and checked Hugh. He stood waiting, his belt doubled over and hanging loosely from his right hand. Eleanor braced her hands on the table, each arm thrust out stiffly, forward and out to the side so she leaned forward to present a good target. Scars; what vanity. As if there was anything left to ruin. Her clothes would protect her; brute force made leather cut flesh and the cloth would both blunt the force and keep the edge of the slender leather strap away from her skin. It was the edge which did the most damage, the edge and any metalwork decoration. “Have done with it,” she ordered, at the same time slipping off into memory.

Hugh began to methodically work his way over her back, each blow falling next to where the previous one had landed, driving the breath from her body and leaving an inch wide, long burning line, the force knocking her forwards so she had to straighten up a little each time. Aside from this unavoidable, dimmed awareness Eleanor ignored it, once again sat with Fulk in her room, listening as he told of how he had broken his nose.

It grew harder to hold onto the more complicated memories; stories gave way to fragments of conversations. Hugh began to work the other way, landing blows from left to right instead of right to left. Her grip on those fragments faltered, and she slid back to sentences. Finally she was left with that smile, the touch of a hand, the sound of a laugh, the way his eyes shone with ardent passion when he looked at her unguardedly, the grim determination as he entered combat, the feel of a kiss, the endless patience, the gentleness of his hands …

It stopped. Hugh said, “I think that is enough; it will match what people will expect, and probably exceed it.”

Eleanor slowly, carefully released her grip and returned to reality. She promptly bit through her lip at the shock. Stiffly she straightened up and turned around, dabbing at her bleeding lip with the back of her hand. “For what it is worth I offer you whatever aid I can provide, both now and when you are king. I will not marry for you, and I will not enter a convent at your order, but otherwise I am at your command.” The significant, short speech was ruined by the slight clumsiness of speech her lip forced and the tight, stiff tone which came from pain.

Hugh nodded graciously as if neither of those impediments had been noticed. “And what of our father?”

“That is up to him when we next meet; if he is willing to accept those two caveats and stop exploding every time I breathe then my offer stands for him also.”

“Then I think we are concluded. If I wish to see you I shall send for you. You already know how to attract my attention if required.” He glanced over at the door to Anne’s bedchamber. “And now our queen can stop skulking and see to your hurts.”

The door opened sheepishly and Anne emerged. “Well, I was curious,” she mumbled, blushing at being caught. “And I already am part of this anyway. And I am queen here. And this is my room. And … er … sorry.” Recovering her poise Anne inspected Eleanor from a safe distance, then said to Hugh, “Send my maids up, now. I shall create a bit of a fuss; that will spread word nicely.”

Hugh bowed to his queen and left.

“I can manage,” slurred Eleanor.

Anne ignored her, producing a scrap of clean linen and handing it to Eleanor so she could dab at her lip with something a little more effective. “We will soon have you sorted out,” she assured Eleanor cheerfully. She set to work busily hiding all of Eleanor’s weapons except the hairpins and ribbons in the room’s locked book chest.

“I do not need sorting out.”

“A nice balm on those bruises … I have this really good one made with comfrey and hyssop. Another balm for the lip, though, one with honey in.”

“I am fine,” growled Eleanor. “I am going back to my guest rooms.”

“But-”

“I need Aveline to see this and hear my grumbling about how right I was.”

Anne planted her fists on her hips and struck a pose of regal sternness which may have been intimidating had she been older. “She can hear tonight; there is plenty of time for seeing and grumbling tomorrow. You can stay up here overnight; once we get you settled it would be best for you to stay still. You can have my room; I will move over into William’s.”

“Thank you, but no.”

“It is no bother.”

“That is not what I meant,” protested Eleanor helplessly. “I am leaving now; I can manage on my own, but thank you anyway.”

Followed by a protesting Anne she managed to make her escape through the door, only to find her path blocked by Anne’s trio of maids half way down the stairs. Anne ordered, “Help me get her back upstairs; she is determined to escape!”

Eleanor’s instance of, “I am fine!” went completely ignored, and she found herself shepherded back up to the solar. Immediately after the door closed Eleanor was shooed to stand in the best light while everyone looked at her, most with some variation on sympathetic purpose.

“Well,” started Mariot, “that’s going to bruise for a start.” She pointed at the side of Eleanor’s face. “But not badly, I’m thinking. We can cover it tomorrow with face power, then no one’ll be any the wiser.”

“That is not necessary,” declared Eleanor firmly.

Everyone else was nodding in agreement – with Mariot. Godit was the only one who gave hint she had heard Eleanor; she asked, “You want everyone to see the bruise? How odd.”

“I have nothing to hide,” claimed Eleanor icily. “Let everyone see what he has done.”

The gathering assortedly expressed polite, unbelieving disapproval.

Anne took command. “Godit, fetch the required balms, that one with comfrey and hyssop and something with honey for her lip. Adela, you go and inform those in Eleanor’s guest house that she will be staying here tonight; be sure to tell lady Aveline personally. Mariot, you go and get some nice broth and a bit of bread for her supper; she did not eat much before she left the hall.”

“I am perfectly alright,” wailed Eleanor, once again to unheeding ears.

The room emptied out. Anne told Eleanor, “Give me the sheaths for your knives so I can hide them, and anything else which no one else should see.” When Eleanor didn’t hurry to remove the sheaths Anne scurried over and started undoing the straps for her, assuming somehow she was incapable. “How did you do that?” she asked Eleanor, sotto voce as she worked.

“Do what?”

“Not even a whimper! It was really quite amazing.”

“Oh … er … thank you.”

“So, how did you do it?”

Eleanor couldn’t hold back the sardonic answer which sprang to mind. “I stood there and pretended to be a tree.”

“Really?” Anne blinked a few times. She started work on the second sheath. “I shall remember that, not that I think I will ever need it, but really it could be quite handy some day.”

“I wish Fulk were here,” groaned Eleanor, not actually meaning to say it out aloud. He at least had the sense to keep quiet and not chatter, and very occasionally he even followed orders too. Anne started to giggle, evidently thinking of different reasons for Eleanor to want her knight. Eleanor glowered at the wall, fighting the temptation to swat at her stepmother with the bloodied bit of linen.

By the time the three maids had reassembled Eleanor had been bullied into undressing and getting into bed. She had stubbornly refused to part with her shift, and that was the only part of her protests Anne had even given hint of hearing. Eleanor had to admit that the queen was very good at getting cooperation, even when the subject was determined to resist. This was a useful skill, one Eleanor could potentially use to the advantage of their newly forged cause. It was just a pain how she had discovered this unexpected talent. Trapped, she sat up in bed, arms folded and a dangerous gleam in her eyes; a sight which would have made Fulk take a bit of notice. Anne, however, blissfully ignored the fact her prisoner was becoming murderous.

The bread and broth were set in front of the fireplace to keep warm, the balms laid out on the unoccupied half of the bed, and the quartet of dogged healers assembled at Eleanor’s bedside looking faintly ominous.

Godit offered her a cup. Eleanor raised it partway to her lips without more than a cursory glance at the contents. “Dwale?” Eleanor couldn’t hide her disbelief as she caught scent of the contents. She set it down on the floor, wincing safely into the bedclothes as the movement upset her stiffening back. “What do you think you are doing here? Extracting arrows?”

“It will help with the pain,” explained Godit.

“It will also send me to sleep. I do not need it in any case – I am perfectly alright, as I have been saying all evening if anyone cared to listen!”

“You should drink it,” chivvied Anne, picking up the cup and holding it out to Eleanor again.

Eleanor refused it. “I shall endure, thank you very much. I am not so weak, and, as you may have heard me say a few times already, I am fine!”

“Drink it; I am queen and I get to order people around.”
“
No.”

Anne pouted and whirled away from Eleanor to be rid of the cup. “You are so stubborn!”

Mariot crossed her arms and took charge in light of the queen’s dereliction of duty. “Well someone get her out of her shift then.”

The two younger maids sprang to comply; Eleanor swatted them away. “None of this is at all necessary!” she insisted plaintively. The quartet stared resolutely back. Eleanor sighed; she was outnumbered four to one, disarmed, trapped, really not in the best of moods, and in quite a bit of pain, despite her frequent claims otherwise. It would be far faster to submit – within reasonable limits - than try to shoo these people away. It was clear she was not going to escape anyway. “Oh, all right! If it will get me some peace I will play along to your little game of healers.”

With another heavy sigh Eleanor shifted onto her knees facing the wall, pulled off her shift and quickly lay down, reaching blindly with one hand for the covers. Eleanor heard the predictable series of gasps as everyone caught sight of her back; she clonked her chin down on her folded arms and scowled at the headboard as if it had mortally offended her. An unknown hand helped arrange the blankets so she was covered from the waist down.

“So that is the king of England’s handiwork,” said Mariot inscrutably. “Look at that, sweeting, and remember to stay on his good side.”

“Oh, he would never hurt me like that, not unless I did something really stupid or horrible, like set fire to his bed.” Anne coloured, remembering her audience. “Sorry, Eleanor. I did not mean that you were stupid or horrible, honest.”

“It really isn’t that bad,” offered Godit kindly. “Just a load of lines really.”

“An awful lot of lines,” said Adela dubiously. “Scars, all of them, permanent. Hundreds, probably, and then all covered in these new bruises and welts.”

Eleanor head the impact of shoe on ankle. “But some almost faded, some pinkish and liable to fade, and the bruises’ll go in two weeks or so, so really it’s not that bad,” added Godit cheerily.

Adela leaned forwards to peer at Eleanor’s right shoulder. “There’s one complete outline of a buckle here.” Another kick, followed by a squeak from the English maid.

With great authority God declared, “Well, scars always fade anyway, so in a year or so there’ll be nothing here but a bunch of pale white lines that you’ll have to look closely at to see.”

“Unless more get added,” muttered Adela, moving out of range of Godit’s foot.

Mariot sternly said, “Do stop squabbling. Now, someone pass me that ointment.” Jar in hand Mariot began pasting pleasant smelling ointment all over Eleanor’s back, from the curve of her shoulders down to the small of her back.

“It is a neat lattice pattern,” commented Anne, “almost pretty in a way.”

Acidly Eleanor added, “Oh yes, my brother is a real artist.”

Everyone shut up, and Mariot kept working, rubbing the ointment in gently. She was better than Aveline, but that was not too hard, and obviously at home with what she was doing, but Fulk’s job as royal cut tender was in no danger. Cut tenders who had a thing for their subjects were so much more … caring, and they had a real interest in your health. They also never tried to pour dwale down your throat, or poppy juice, or any other sleep inducing drug, because they knew you well enough not to bother.

“I really should have brought a bigger jar of that balm; this one’s emptying out so quickly. You never really think of just how big your back is,” yattered Godit, quite inanely, Eleanor thought.

“I do,” chuntered Eleanor darkly, her voice muffled safely by her arms.

The rest of the treatment proceeded in silence, for which Eleanor was grateful.

Not to be left out entirely Adela advised solemnly, “You will have to sleep on your side, but not the side where your face’s bruised.”

“I think I had worked that one out, but thank you anyway,” replied Eleanor, saccharine sweet.

Anne said, “Well, we should get going and leave you to sleep. Sleep is the best healer. Unless you need help with the broth?”

“No!”

“If you want the dwale now-”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, I will leave it just in case. If there is anything else you want …?”

Yes, thought Eleanor, I’ll take one Fulk promoted to prince and brought up here for a spot of intelligent conversation, one Trempwick plot disarmed, one Trempwick safely removed into an exile from which he will never return because he has given up on ambition and so does not need executing, one nice set of manors to flesh out my demesne of land to a suitable level for my rank, one of those wretched public weddings involving me and the broken nosed idiot, followed by a life of peace and quiet on our joint lands, and finally something to do to prevent me from becoming bored once I have all of the above. Instead she said, “No, nothing, thank you.”

She rolled onto her side, twitched the blankets up to her nose, and ignored everyone until they went away. Once alone Eleanor hopped out of bed and settled down to eat her supper, but only after pointedly ejecting the cup of dwale from the room. The damned stuff, and the temporary senseless oblivion it offered, was getting too tempting.








No, I’m not dead! :grins: I’ve been very busy, mostly updating my RTW guide, and I was actually ill for a couple of days with one of those generic, mild spring colds. Nothing bad, but my eyes were a bit too tired for me to look at a monitor for more than a few minutes. Also this scene is very long; twice the usual size of an episode, so it took longer to write. Also it was strange to write; it kept changing as I worked. I would write a few pages from the start, then suddenly I would find myself deleting it all and starting over because the scene had shifted. Sometimes Anne left, sometimes she did not, and she did not always stay to watch in secret. Sometimes Nell picked a fight with Hugh, others they did not fight at all. The only constants were those which had to be included in the scene. Finally it all settled and I wrote all 13 pages in one sitting. The end result is … well, I don’t quite know. It’s a bit of everything, almost a summery of what exactly makes up this story. Character, dialogue, action, emotion, drama, mush, comedy, twists, scheming, and Nell being stubborn. I think I quite like it, certainly parts of this set me smiling for assorted, not always comedy related reasons. ‘Queen Anne hospital’ was entirely unplanned, but somehow it balances out the less airy 10 pages preceding it. “It is a neat lattice pattern.” leaves me laughing; it’s the mental picture I have of the characters and scene, and the way I hear Anne saying it.

Chuntered is possibly a bit of a very regional English word, so I’ll play dictionary just to be safe. Chunter: to grumble, mutter under your breath.

Master of puppets, there’s no reason not to post if you want to. It’s nice to see that people are actually reading this still. Alas, I do have a life. If I didn’t I would have more time to write.

:hands out the new standard eyedrops to AntiochusIII: A bit late with those, but better late than never, right? Anything to help the eyestrain.

I do indeed have publishing ambition, though that is mostly residing in a different story. This one however … it could make a very good backup if I am asked if I have anything other than my planned book, and it could also be easier to sell because it is a single story rather than a part of a series.

It was more than two hours after she left that Godit returned; Fulk had given up on her returning tonight, deciding she could not get away and so would have to give him her news tomorrow. But when someone knocked on his door that night he knew it would be Godit before he even pulled back the bolt.

She slipped past him into the room, brushing against him ever so slightly because she didn’t give him chance to get out of the way fully.

“You should stop doing that,” Fulk scolded, trying to be both light and serious at the same time.

Godit spun a neat pirouette, turning back to him with a coquettish smile. “Why? It’s such fun. I don’t do that with anyone else, if that’s what you’re worried about. Anyway, don’t you want to know about your princess?”

“She’s not my princess.”

“Dear, dear, hardhearted, aren’t we?”

Fulk said decisively, “Yes.”

“Liar! I know you’re a big softie. If I’m ever hurt I’ll count on you to come rushing to my side with flowers, gifts and tender, tender concern. In fact I may well twist my ankle and end up bedridden tomorrow, or maybe I’ll just swoon in a few minutes when I’ve passed along my news. Yes, I like that one more – you’d have to catch me, and it’s a lot easier to do too.” Godit pressed the back of one hand to her forehead and pretended to stagger a bit. “Oh yes, swooning is much better than twisted ankles. But anyway, this princess of yours has certainly been in the wars, what a mess! I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, well maybe a little similar once, years ago when one of my father’s squires was unfortunate enough to be caught romancing one of my mother’s maids. Alright, so that was more a resemblance to the bruising, not at all the scars and stuff, but I think between the two of them, maid and squire, they could just about match your princess stripe for stripe … but only if you added the two together, if you do it individually it doesn’t come close. Certainly casts a new light on prince Hugh; I thought he was a quiet type! Must take after his father a bit after all, but then as I’ve told you before the king’s got two sides, nice and nasty, and your princess is beginning to look like an expert at infuriating people, if you ask me. She’s alright, though it must hurt like hell. Not that she’ll admit that; I tried to give her some dwale and she acted like it was poison!”

“Dwale is poison,” pointed out Fulk. He wasn’t pleased to hear that a sleeping draught had been thought needful; it didn’t bode too well, even if Godit did claim only bruising.

“Yes, but only if you take too much or mix it up badly. I was careful, and I only measured out the right amount. Oh well, I tried and you can’t expect more than that.”

“She hates to look weak.”

“Well, if it were me I’d be wailing like a newborn and I’d drink the dwale faster than you could blink, appearances be damned.”

“Yes, but that’s you. She’s used to it, that and worse - you saw the scars.”

“Aren’t you going to ask for my opinion on your princess then? I’m sure you’re dying to hear.”

“She is not my princess.” Fulk was rapidly getting fed up of saying that; the “They are not my whatever” line belonged to Eleanor and he’d prefer it stayed that way. At least she wasn’t lying when she said the same of Trempwick.

Godit made a somewhat rude dismissive noise. “Anyway, my worshipful opinion on her royal highness, princess Eleanor of England, for the delight and edification of Sir Fulk FitzWilliam.” She cleared her throat. “She’s not bad, but not what I expected. I was expecting someone a bit more … well, a bit more like a princess is supposed to be, really. She’s got some guts, I’ll admit that, and endurance too, but maybe not sense. She’s grumpy, but then I suppose anyone’d be if their back was one big bruise and all. She’s stubborn, you know it took three maids and one queen to get her to sit down and behave even like a grudging, bad tempered patient?” She giggled. “We ran into her on the stairs being chased by the queen, with the queen yelling, ‘Stop her! She’s trying to escape!’.”

Fulk smiled fondly. “That’s Eleanor for you.”





Constance yawned. “Put out that candle and go to sleep. Stop fretting over the day and your sister.”

Mindful that it was ill-advised to subject pregnant women to any form of distress or irritation as it may harm the baby Hugh complied, snuffing out the solitary candle at his side of the bed and plunging the room into darkness. He pulled the curtain of the bed closed; a draft would not do his wife, or the baby, or even himself any good. He settled back into holding Constance, the two of them fitted together her back to his front, his hand resting protectively over her belly and the child therein, the faint camomile scent of the perfume on her hair lulling him. The day’s worth of tension finally began to leave his muscles.

Long minutes later she said, “What is troubling you?”

“I am uncertain it would be advisable to tell you.”

“Hugh, we share everything.” She set her hand above his, stroking his calloused knuckles with her thumb. “You say telling me things helps you to set them straight in your mind.”

“Indeed it does, dear one. But I do not wish to trouble you, and this … I do not believe anything could clarify this tangle in my mind. It is a Gordian knot, and there is no Alexander to cut through it.”

Constance rolled over. “I am troubled already,” she said softly.

In the dark he could see nothing of her face, but his mind’s eye supplied the detail. She was indeed concerned; her already serious face more so than usual, and her eyes fixed on him steadily with her clear, sure intelligence shining imperturbably in them. “I had an interesting evening; I learned much.”

“While fighting with your sister?”

“I would not consider fighting to be a fitting word; attempting to rein in would be a more suitable choice of phraseology. To answer your question, we are not alone in considering Trempwick’s loyalty to be potentially suspect.”

“Ah.”

“Quite. I find myself forced to act while still unprepared, to make a decision based on the insubstantial, knowing if I am wrong or if I make a mistake … civil war, perhaps, at worst. If she is playing me false the folly is hers; father will take my side and believe my word when I explain, likewise she cannot make me appear a fool in public without destroying herself also. I do not believe she is deceiving me, or perhaps best said I do not believe she is deceiving me on the larger matters, only the smaller and less significant ones. It is probably best to say little more for now. I do not trust her; I wish you to keep a close watch on Nell, but without her knowing. Her information does tally with ours and adds to it considerably, but I question her motives and sudden discovery of family loyalty.”

“Anything in particular I should look for?”

“Just watch her closely for anything which may betray her true motivation, if indeed it does differ from those she espoused. Also …while she claims innocence of any inappropriate behaviour with Trempwick before their betrothal I am perhaps not entirely convinced. It is for the most part unimportant, however certain complications may arise and it would be advisable to be alert for them.”

He felt Constance nod, her hair tickling his bare skin. “I shall watch,” she promised.

“She requested her bodyguard back; I am going to oblige. However … watch them closely also. I have nothing much to go on, but I cannot help but wonder … she requested him specifically, and from the way she described him, and from what has already been said by multiple sources of his loyalty to her … and perhaps also from his departure from her service at Trempwick’s command …”

“You think they are lovers?”

“In the physical sense of the word it is exceptionally unlikely, but even in the other sense of the word it would go a long way to explaining why she has confidence enough to say things such as ‘he would die for me’ with complete, staunch faith that it is true. That was one of very few times I could tell beyond all doubt that she was being entirely honest. It would answer why Trempwick felt the need to send the bodyguard away; I do not quite find it believable that the spymaster would do so because a simple knight kept trying to protect Nell, and again why would Fulk undertake such a substantial risk for Eleanor unless he cared for her? The spymaster does not brook insubordination, except perhaps in small amounts from my sister, and I strongly feel that forbearance comes from who she is.”

“This bodyguard would be the one you brought back to the palace nearly a month ago?” There was a pause as Constance searched her memory for his name. “Fulk?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the broken nose …”

Into the dark Hugh smiled, shyly, uncertainly joking, his rarest expression. “You remembered the face far easier than the name, and from the tone I wonder if I ought be vexed.”

Constance wound a strand of Hugh’s golden hair around her finger. “I prefer fair colouring; sadly he is brown in both hair and eyes. I shall not be going to watch him train, although I hear it is a sight well worth seeing.” She smoothed his hair back down, brushing stray strands back from his face. “You think this will be a problem?”

“I considered the matter at some length and found it best to wait and ascertain more; currently I have but the vaguest of understandings. If indeed they do have feelings for each other it is not necessarily a complete disaster; it could even prove to be an advantage. He is entirely unworthy of her, baron or not, and they cannot help but know it, so to act upon their feelings or give themselves away is to end the man’s life and ruin hers. I think neither will want to destroy the other. There are many who love another and follow them entirely loyally to the end of their days because of this, without crossing the line because they know that for whatever reason to act would be to lose that which they love. Every care will be taken with her reputation anyway, I shall ensure that, so nothing … unfortunate can happen. With a little more information I shall be in a better position to take the correct steps, whatever they should prove to be.”

In the ensuing silence Hugh’s confidence slowly began to fade away and again he found himself wondering if he was wrong. Nell could destroy herself and do her family great harm. She could get the bodyguard killed. Or perhaps she was entirely innocent and he was doing her – and the knight - a grave misjustice? What of his duty to protect her, her virtue, and her good name, safeguard the family, set an example, and uphold the trust placed in him by their father? He had promised he would see Nell married to Trempwick; he had given his sworn oath, and now he was breaking it. Was he doing the right thing? What would others do in his position? He had no guidance now, none, only himself and his own reserves, his own feeble, flawed, limited reserves. After hours of thinking he could not find one single example to follow, not one single case similar to this worrying position he now found himself in. No other prince or king he knew of had a sister who was an agent and possibly in love, and loved by, with a simple knight. Never before in his knowledge had a spymaster tried to seize the throne in such a way as this. He was alone, so alone, and on his shoulders everything rested. Himself, alone. Constance could only be limited help, hampered by pregnancy, a child to protect from a persistent and dangerous foe, barred from parts of his life by the fact she was female, and lacking in much of the knowledge and expertise he so desperately needed to consult.

Himself, alone. Hugh could feel the weight on his shoulders, pressing him down, threatening to crush him. He had no example. He had no advice. He could ask for no help. By the time his father returned it would be too late. Everything depended on now. Everything depended on him. The family name. The realm. His child. His wife. His sister. Justice. Truth. Honour. Duty. Peace. All for him to guard. Him. Alone.

Constance kissed him lightly on the lips. “You must try to stop doubting yourself; it undermines everything you do, everything you could achieve. You devote too much time to worrying about what if you make a mistake, and so it becomes more likely you will make one. If you devoted that time and energy to more confident thinking you could do much. Remember how pleased your father was with the muster you raised for his campaign, and with how you dealt with the news while he was away. You did well then, because you acted without doubt or fear.”

“I know, but I cannot help it, I am ashamed to say. I look at the task set before me and it is so big … I am not my brother; Stephan was born to be king. I was not.”

“No, you are not your brother. You are not your father either, or your grandfather, or any other king or prince. You are yourself.”

Hugh said nothing, holding his wife closer and letting her drift off to sleep believing she had reassured him, as she often managed to. He was himself; he already knew that. And that was where the problem lay. He was himself; blemished, ill suited to his task, a pale shadow of the father and the elder brother. And now it all depended upon him.

Eleanor was up bright and early the next day. After dressing herself, a talent which was nothing if not an advantage, one which most of the upper nobility lack to some extent or other, and hiding her weapons about her person so she could smuggle them back out Eleanor emerged into the solar before Anne.

Mariot was the only other occupant of the room; the other two maids were with Anne in the king’s room. The senior maid looked up from setting out a simple breakfast; she pulled a face. “The queen won’t be happy.”

Eleanor poured herself a cup of small ale, wanting to wash away the lingering, acrid taste of tooth powder. “The world does not stop because I am a little worse for wear.”

Mariot began to slice a loaf of yesterday’s bread into generous pieces. “Her concern annoys you. She’s a good girl; she means it only in the best possible way.”

Eleanor made a noncommittal noise and drained the rest of her cup. It didn’t do much to shift the sage and salt flavour; very little but time did.

“My little one likes to care for things, is all.”

As if awaiting her cue Anne emerged from her room, trailed by Godit and Adela. She stopped dead when she caught sight of Eleanor, folded her arms and scowled. “You should be in bed!”

“No, I should not.”

The queen waved an admonishing finger. “You are hurt; you should be resting or you will only make yourself worse.”

“Nonsense. I am as stiff as a board but it will wear off faster if I move.”

“But the more you move about the more pain you will be in; now go back to bed!”

“After spending all that effort getting up in the first place? No, thank you. I cannot laze about idle all day.”

“You did not even give us chance to put more of that balm on.” Anne disappeared into the queen’s bedchamber; her voice drifted back, “At least we can put some of that lipsalve on you …”

Someone knocked on the stair door. Godit commented wryly, “It’s all go this morning.” and went to see who it was. Eleanor collected a bit of bread from the table and pricked her ears up to listen in to the quiet conversation Godit was holding with the visitor, an armed man in royal livery. Godit thanked the man and closed the door again. “Prince Hugh requests the delight of his sister’s company as soon as is convenient.”

Eleanor swallowed hastily, careful to pretend she had not expected - or overheard, for that matter - this. “Which means now, if not sooner. Why do people never say what they mean?” She ran a hand through her loose hair, wondering if she could escape with it still unconfined.

“Diplomacy,” answered Adela. She too quickly began eating, cramming food away as if half starved while still somehow managing to look genteel.

Godit looked at her breakfasting colleagues and sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll do the princess’s hair then, since I’m the only one not eating. Do try to leave me at least something to eat. Oh, and the guard also said lady Aveline came trying to visit last night, but the man on duty turned her away like his job says because it was past the accepted time for visitors. She said she will return this morning, before mass.”

Anne emerged, pot of balm in hand and advanced purposefully on Eleanor. The princess generously stood still while Anne applied the salve to her lower lip. “If Aveline comes while I am gone tell her I will be returning to my guest rooms this morning and will see her then.” That said Eleanor decamped to her borrowed room and sat ready for Godit to begin. Since this was unavoidable she may as well use it to her advantage a little. “I have a specific style in mind …”





Eleanor arrived at her brother’s room quarter of an hour later with her hair split into two braids and twined around her head in a simple, slanted imitation of a crown, or perhaps a halo. She was shown in immediately.

Hugh was sat at a small table in the corner of the room, eating and looking over a document. Constance had already left, along with her maids and Hugh’s squire. Hugh stood up and gestured at his vacated seat. “This is the document we spoke of last night; you will sign now.”

Eleanor took his place and scanned the writing. The document stated in brief terms that Hugh had undertaken a false assassination attempt on his sister with her knowledge for the purpose of drawing out from cover traitors in the realm. “Good enough.” She signed her name at the bottom; neat letters and a follow-up she seldom bothered with: Eleanor filia regis.

Leaning over her shoulder Hugh scrutinised her signature. “Felia regis - princess. You do not usually sign as such.”

“No, I do not.” Hugh did not even try to hide his suspicion. “Brother dear, it is not an attempt to make it look as if you forged my signature, nor I am pointlessly showing off my Latin. It is what I am.”

Hugh studied her for a long spell, unblinking, his brow furrowed. “So you finally recognise that fact, and accept it,” he said gravely. “Good.”

Eleanor was not really interested in discussing the delicate and intricate subject of what exactly a princess Eleanor was and did, and explaining how the fragile and still forming composite of royal, agent, spymaster and gooseberry worked, especially not to a brother who would still disapprove. Hugh could find out as they went; at least that would spread out his complaining to a, hopefully, bearable span of time. “Is that all? I have work to do, with Aveline especially.”

“You will apologise to Llwellyn, humbly.” Hugh dropped his voice to a murmur. “I presume this ‘work’ of yours in part involves complaining about myself to allay the spymaster’s mother’s doubts?”

“Of course,” said Eleanor, equally quiet.

“Be certain that your words find the correct ears and only those; I will not have all of Christendom believing there is a rift between us. That has potential to be dangerous and problematic in both the near and distant futures. So far as the world is concerned you erred, have been punished, and now all is well with no hard feeling remaining on either side apart from the inevitable embarrassment on your part.”

Eleanor nearly shrugged her shoulders, but remembered just in time not to. “So be it. The fewer people I have to feed information to the easier it is for me anyway.”

“Good. You will remain in the company of your future mother-in-law and her maid today in your guest rooms, aside from joining morning mass and attending dinner tonight in the main hall. You will take lunch in your rooms, you will amuse yourself in your rooms, you will speak to anyone you wish to in your rooms – am I making myself quite clear?” He waited until she nodded. “Ostensibly you are in disgrace, or perhaps only in discomfort and too ashamed to show your face until gossip has had a time to die down. You may complain you are a prisoner in all but name if you judge it useful, but complain only to those who need to hear it, mark. Matters have been arranged; a jug of poisoned wine will be delivered to you along with your midday meal. I trust from there you can act as is needed without further instruction from me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You may go. Remember; act as befits you, no more of your unconventional behaviour unless you wish to capture my attention.”

Eleanor dropped a very precise, shallow curtsey. “As you say, brother dear.”






“You are a disgrace!”

Eleanor ducked her head so her smile would go unseen, and stepped into the first of her two guest rooms. “Good morning to you too, Aveline.”

“Don’t give me that! You are gone all night and you return in such a state – you should be ashamed!” Trempwick’s mother was waiting in the improvised solar near the door to the passage like a cat at a mouse hole. She had left the door open a bit so she could see anyone entering the building through the main door; she hadn’t even waited for Eleanor to shut the outer door before launching her attack.

“State?” Eleanor looked upwards as if trying to see if her hair was still tidy, then downwards at her clothes.

“You know very well what I mean, you brazen hellion!” Aveline pounced, taking Eleanor’s jaw in an ungentle grip and twisting her face to the light. “No swelling, and it is only a yellow bruise, so harder to see and faster to mend. With luck it should be gone before Raoul arrives.” She released Eleanor as abruptly as she’d grabbed hold of her.

“Gone or not; I do not see how it matters. Raoul will be hearing about this – I told him I would not be safe here!” Her lip was beginning to tickle; Eleanor dabbed at it with a finger, it came away with a thin line of blood imprinted on it. She must have reopened the cut a little when she had smiled.

“From what I hear this is your own fault again. You cannot blame my son if people take exception to your unruliness.”

“From what you hear,” repeated Eleanor scornfully. “Did you not think that Hugh is the one who decided what people hear? He would not tell the truth; it is not too good for his reputation. He sat there while that Welsh crony of his insulted me, ignoring it.”

“You should have kept your mouth shut.”

“I did, until he started insulting Raoul. Hugh jumped in right away, before I even said much, and what I did say was quite reasonable. I think they arranged it; Llwellyn goading me and Hugh waiting to jump in and attack me. Neither cares for me, so both benefited from their safe little game.”

“Still and all you should have bitten your tongue; it would have done you a damn sight more good than biting through your lip later on.”

“What would I be if I let my betrothed be slandered?” Eleanor dabbed at her lip again; it was still bleeding lazily. “I was duty and honour bound to speak up, and if I had not Hugh would have seized on my silence as an excuse instead. My brother does not wish me well; one way or another he would have had his entertainment.”

“As your brother he does not even have the right-”

“I know,” agreed Eleanor. “I am marrying in three days; rights regardless they should not be doing this to me. It will only reflect badly on all involved, and it is an affront to Raoul. My father signed over his parental rights to Hugh while he is away; he showed me the written agreement. The arse in the crown wants me married with as little mess as possible but still subordinate to the family I am leaving, Raoul wants me safe from my family, and Hugh seems intent on causing as much harm as possible without damning himself instead of me.”

“Raoul will be arriving the day before the wedding; that only leaves today and tomorrow before he can protect you. Your face should be healed by then, your lip will not be, and heaven alone knows what the rest of you is like.”

“Bruised, stiff, sore, and doubtless quite colourful.”

Aveline sank down into the window seat. “Oh, what are we to do? This is a disaster. Raoul will be furious.”

“Good question. I suppose there is nothing we can do; I cannot be healed overnight and delay is unfavourable. I shall keep to my rooms as far as I can; I am required at mass and at dinner, but with luck I may escape the latter. Staying out of Hugh’s path will make it harder for him to attack me again. Speaking of mass, we had best get ready. I shall remain close to you; that will give me a little protection.”






Jocelyn dunked his clerk’s head into the horse trough and held him under for a few seconds. He hauled the man out and submerged him again. Several more repetitions and the clerk’s struggles became a deal more lively. Jocelyn fished him back out, spun him around and examined his pockmarked face. A pair of watery blue eyes tried to stare back. In disgust Jocelyn dropped his clerk back into the horse trough and left him to find his own way out.

He kicked the man’s leg and roared, “Bloody useless! Drunk! God damned drunk! I have work for you and you can’t even sit on your damned stool without falling off, you addled-pated son of a whore! Jesú, but you’re useless! It’s not even ten o’clock yet! And it’s Sunday, for Christ’s sake! If I ever see you even mildly tipsy again I’ll throw you out on your scrawny arse! And if you think I’m paying you for today’s ‘work’ you can go to hell! I’m not paying you for the next week either!”

He delivered a final kick to the hapless man’s backside and stalked off, leaving the clerk to the tender mercies of the laughing crowd which had gathered.

Jocelyn’s feet carried him in the right direction even though he had made no conscious decision on what to do next. He needed a letter written, a good letter, one which looked impressive and used all the right words. He couldn’t do it himself, his clerk currently couldn’t even hold a quill, and that only left Richildis.

Jocelyn paused outside the solar door, working up his courage and trying not to turn tail and go in search of a drink or two himself to ease this ordeal along. Through the door he could hear his wife’s voice along with his son’s. Jocelyn opened the door and flung himself in before he could take that tempting prospect and try some of his new cask of malmsey.

Thierry stood by his mother’s side, book in his hand and reading out aloud in a clear, smooth voice. “The seneschal ought, on his coming to the manors, to inquire how the bailiff bears himself within and without, what care he takes, what imp … impro…”

“Improvement,” supplied Richildis. She leaned over and pointed at the word, “See, im-prove-ment.”

The lesson halted when he made his entrance. Jocelyn indicated that they should continue, and stood listening as his son read the rest of the section on the requirements and duties of a seneschal without any further problems. Seven years old, and already so far ahead of his father. Jocelyn comforted himself with a reminder that he had a seneschal, and had worked with the man for years without ever needing advice from some book.

“Well done, son,” said Jocelyn, wishing he could find a comment which sounded less generic. “Now run along and find Father Errard and tell him I sent you for a Latin lesson.”

Thierry returned the book to his mother and made a quick exit.

“What do you want?” inquired Richildis, her disapproving tone indicating she thought she knew already.

“Quite a lot actually.” Jocelyn produced the obligatory leer to annoy her. Richildis’ thaw had proven to be momentary; she had soon frosted back up, with several new icicles as a dubious bonus. A blend of pity, fear, relief, gratitude for a son returned, and a close brush with disaster – at least he’d finally found something that warmed her up a little where he was concerned. Shame it was too awkward to arrange on a permanent basis. “But what I had in mind needs you.”

“No.”

“Come on Tildis, where’s your spirit of charity?”

“No!”

“‘Let the husband render to his wife what is her due, and likewise the wife to her husband.’ – St Paul.”

“‘Not on Sundays’ – too many authorities to list.”

“But you like it.”

“I most certainly do not!”

Jocelyn stretched indolently, a few stiff tendons cracking. “Tildis, you like writing. You like reading. You like showing off. I’m offering you a chance to do all three. I can guess what you were thinking, but dearest I’m really not in the mood just now. Sorry, you know how I hate to disappoint.”

“Oh.” Jocelyn enjoyed the sight of his normally composed wife blushing wretchedly at her mistake. “Good.”

“I need a letter written.” Jocelyn paced a few steps, idly making his way closer while trying to make it seem accidental. “My clerk is drunk.”

Richildis continued to watch him suspiciously. “So that’s what all the noise was about.”

“You have a very nice hand – your due, dear wife; it’s called credit – and you have a way with words when you don’t aim them at me. So you’ll get to work on my behalf – that’s my due. King William’s about four days march away; I finally got word this morning. He’s sounding out the local lords as he goes, doubtless taking notes of exactly who’s doing and saying what, and not doing or saying, more than like. I need to send a message to him now; I’ll ride out myself when he’s one day away. I’m not going to give Raymond another chance to play sneaky buggers, not that I don’t have faith in your ability to slam the gates in his face if he comes calling a second time. Get whatever materials you need and get writing; I’ll leave the wording up to you but make sure you explain it all as I told you last night.”

“Explained, pah!” she grumbled as she fetched her writing equipment from the small decorative chest where it was stored and began to lay it out on the solar table. “I had to drag details out of you, and you kept trying to go to sleep so you wouldn’t have to say anything.”

Jocelyn rolled his eyes but said nothing. He stood behind his wife as she worked, a few steps away and out of her line of sight, arms folded and a small frown of concentration as he thought. If he could read her mind like a bit of parchment what would he find? Probably a few familiar lines deploring him as an uneducated barbarian, a few long passages on how much she loved the children, plenty of miscellaneous and tedious rubbish, some bits in some foreign language or other, and a frightening collection of large words he couldn’t quite decipher. It would all be on fine grade parchment, written in an elegant hand with illuminated letters and border illustrations.

Finally Richildis laid down her quill. “Do you wish to sign it?”

“Might as well.” Jocelyn strode over with a swaggering, easy confidence he didn’t feel.

“You should read it first, make sure you know what you’re putting your name to.”

“I was going to!” lied Jocelyn. “Give me chance, woman!” He checked the ink was completely dry and then began to read, running one finger along under the beautifully formed words, lips moving silently as he stumbled his way along the document. He skipped the biggest words, and several smaller ones he couldn’t make sense of.

“Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes to his king, this day the fifteenth of February, the year of Our Lord thirteen-thirty-eight, this letter as dictated to my wife.

Sire, I await your call to arms with eager heart, having discharged faithfully my duties to my liege lord and rescued my son, previously hostage to my good conduct. Know that I have not taken part in treason against you, only aided my lawful liege against those who broke allegiance with him, thereby breaking their sacred oaths as sworn before God and acting in disharmony with all laws recognised by good and honest men. When asked to aid Yves against you our paths split.

I have custody of de Ardon’s daughter, now his sole heir, and also her tutor, a nun, and have protected them as best I am able where others sought to do them great and grievous harm. I stand ready to transfer the them into your own custody, howsoever and whenever your majesty wishes.

I plan to join your army when it is one day from my position, unless your majesty desires otherwise. In the few days since I parted ways with Yves my castle has already been subject to one underhand attack; an effort at reprisal for my loyalty to my king, and a manifestation of Raymond de Issoudun’s ambition and foul treachery to both other men and to you, sire, his king. Because of this it is not prudent for me to come now in person; I would be unworthy of faith if I let this stronghold I guard for you to be taken by your enemies, thus allowing this treason to spread and infect Tourraine further.

“It’s fine,” declared Jocelyn, not really sure it was. He hadn’t spotted anything wrong or liable to arrange his head parting company with the rest of him. The main thing was it said what he wanted to say, but with the benefit of nice lettering and loads of really impressive words. He wasn’t going to ask what half of it meant; showing off his clumsy reading was embarrassment enough. He picked up the quill, dipped it indelicately into the ink and signed his name in his chaotic, splotchy script. Richildis’ wince as the quill screeched in protest at his ineptitude did not go unnoticed; it fed the burning humiliation already threatening to consume him. At least with all his fancy teaching from his mother and the castle priest Thierry would never have to endure this. “I’ll set my seal to it and get the messenger underway now.”






Sunday mass in the castle’s small private church was a simple, short affair, or as simple and short as anything involving royalty and religion ever was. Due to the building’s small size only the royal family and their closest followers attended here, with all others going to one of the churches in the castle town or simply not bothering.

Eleanor passed the time kneeling on a cushion at Aveline’s side, not really paying attention, going through the motions automatically. The sermon on the importance of caring for guests could have, and quite probably had, been chosen especially for her benefit, and she was uncomfortably aware of people glancing at her during it. Eleanor demurely kept her face down while letting her eyes rove and identify these people as best as she could without moving. There was nothing useful likely to be gleamed from this; it was simply trained habit.

The only mildly noteworthy part of the whole service was confession. Lacking a safe priest Eleanor had to leave out what Trempwick called the good bits; the assorted bits and pieces anyone in their line of work ended up weighing their soul with. The village priest at Woburn knew exactly what she and Trempwick were, and the poor man was balding rapidly in the knowledge the king’s spymaster was keeping a close eye on him in case he thought it advisable to break the sanctity of confession and pass the information along. Quite what the royal chaplain’s reaction to the disgraced princess confessing to several secret meetings with a knight whom she had now married without family permission while contracted, in the world’s opinion, to another man, whom she was now betraying to his probable death would be Eleanor didn’t know, but guessing was fun.

Together with Aveline Eleanor left the church, emerging into the pleasantly sunny morning air and the castle’s inner bailey. The servants all ended up in the back of the church, and so were the first out. Now they were hanging around in clusters, waiting for their assorted masters and gossiping. Pacing along tamely at Aveline’s side Eleanor navigated through the throng towards her guestrooms. As she passed people stared, most covertly but some dared to be overt. A ripple of quiet chatter ran along at her sides like water displaced by the prow of a ship; much she couldn’t catch but what she did was generally speculation on what exactly her brother had done to her. Sprinklings of sympathy floated in the sea of general hilarity and approval at her fate. Eleanor lifted her head up high, giving everyone a good view of her injured face as if she did not care in the least.

A few steps on Eleanor’s heart lurched as she noticed Fulk, unexpected because he was not one of those allowed into the royal church. The lurch was swiftly followed by a painful stumble; he was talking to Godit. He was standing there, left hand on his hip where his sword hilt would rest if he was wearing it, head inclined slightly towards her, posture easy and open while Godit kept on smiling at him, looking at him from under her eyelashes and mimicking his posture and gestures. Neither had noticed her.

Eleanor’s reflexive desire to go over and inform Godit that no one was going to steal her knight, and certainly not with such cheap and tacky tricks died as soon as it formed, although the part involving dragging Fulk off by his ear stubbornly refused to leave peaceably.

Fulk looked up and spotted her; shocked turned swiftly to concern, then equally quickly to careful neutrality. But his eyes remained on her, and they spoke powerfully.

Eleanor looked away before she could betray herself and kept on walking. The unexpected sight remained unnerving. Godit was pretty, far more available than Eleanor and, quite importantly, not likely to end up with one angry royal family trying to kill Fulk for his attention. Although perhaps one furious princess could be as bad as a set of miscellaneous royals in that aspect. Fulk was loyal; even though his very tricky position and choice of wife gave him better reason than most for turning elsewhere, an accepted thing for men even without good reason, if he chose to he probably wouldn’t. Or so Eleanor hoped; it might be beneath her to notice or care if he had an affair but theory and practise didn’t want to combine.

Far more importantly they obviously knew each other; Godit had wormed her way into Fulk’s trust enough for him to relax around the maid, enough for her to visit him as a friend and talk inoffensively on a great many subjects. Eleanor had no way of knowing what Anne had told her maids about herself and Fulk; she had had little option but to trust the queen to help get her to the palace and prevent Fulk from leaving in the meantime. As one of Anne’s maids Godit was one of the most likely people in the castle to know there was something between princess and knight, and she was one of three potential spies for Trempwick. Close to Fulk in addition to the queen Godit was very well positioned to spy. This was not even close to enough to identify Godit as a spy, but it was enough to arose Eleanor’s suspicion and make her the leading candidate. Godit would have to be investigated.







Felia Regis, literally king’s daughter. It’s the best term for princess I could find in my Latin dictionary.

Midday found Eleanor sat in the improvised solar of her guest rooms, sewing. She was not working on part of her trousseau, but mending a few rents and tears in her overdress caused by her scuffle with Hugh last night. She was not the only one stitching away; Aveline and Juliana were busy with their designated parts of Eleanor’s wedding clothes. They had been working ceaselessly since the party arrived back from church, several hours now. Eleanor herself hadn’t been working nearly that long, but she had run out of alternate things to do, and the dress did need repairing.

Adela had arrived early in the day with the part of Eleanor’s trousseau she was working on in cooperation with Juliana. She also brought a friend; a quiet noble girl politely introduced as Hawise. She was, Eleanor was assured, excellent with a needle, and the queen had agreed to her becoming one of the ever-growing collection of people helping out with the mass of work needing doing in preparation for the wedding. The two had also delivered Eleanor’s new tafl set, which she had put safely aside in the other room on her bed until she could find somewhere better to store it, or until she needed to go to sleep; whichever happened first.

Eleanor placed several stitches into the same spot at the end of a small rip to finish the seam off. Work secured she snipped the thread with some scissors and began working on the next hole. Trying for the almost automatic labour the others were demonstrating Eleanor didn’t pay complete attention to her work, studying the newcomer as closely as she could without giving herself away.

Hawise was another in the sizeable collection of young lesser noble girls playing lady’s maid to a social superior at court awaiting a suitable marriage. Reasonably tall with a good figure, warm brown eyes, fair skin and hair several shades closer to gold than brown she was certainly pretty, but probably not more than that. Her face was entirely too serious for that, and it made her hard to age. She could be anywhere between fifteen and twenty, but Eleanor was favouring the older end of the scale. Her manner was equally serious, again placing her closer to older than younger. If Adela was quiet then Hawise was practically mute. Even when she did speak her voice was so soft it was easily lost in background noise, soft but certainly well-spoken. She joined in with very little of the conversation, and her contributions were always brief. The tales of her needlework had not been exaggerated; she was very gifted, and a good worker too. All of which made Eleanor wonder why exactly Hawise was not already married, given that she appeared to be several years past the age when most parents began searching in earnest for a suitable match. A lacking dowry, picky parents, a dislike for the suitors put forth combined with parents who listened to her, some aspect of her not immediately obvious which put people off once known about – it could be any of them. A small dowry seemed the most likely, perhaps. Hawise was neatly turned out, but her clothes were not highly decorated or of costly cloth, and a plain gold chain necklace with a simple, small crucifix pendant was her only jewellery. She fitted the same ‘minor noble at home’ pattern that Eleanor herself occupied when at Woburn. However people always wore their best at court.

Not an accomplished seamstress at the best of times Eleanor’s lack of attention cost her; she pricked her finger. She muttered, “Damn!” and sucked at the bead of blood building on her fingertip. Whoever said sewing was good for ordering your mind and thinking had obviously never tried it. Eleanor worked the silver needle safely into the woollen fabric and set her dress aside. “Surely it is time for lunch?” Waiting was proving, as ever, insufferable. The sooner she was ‘poisoned’ the sooner events could continue to move onwards.

To support her the church bell conveniently tolled Sext. Perhaps someone up there was lending a helping hand after all.

“I’ll go get us a tray of something from the kitchens.” Juliana tidied her work up and left. Everyone else kept sewing, and Eleanor picked up her mending once again so as to not be the odd one out.

Some time later Juliana struggled back through the door with a large tray containing a big pitcher of wine, five goblets, a stack of bowls, one cooked chicken, some chewettes, a selection of pastries, and a big bowl of pottage filled with bacon and assorted vegetables. She set it down on the table with a grunt. “Whew! That was heavy.”

The five congregated around the table with varying degrees of anticipation. Eleanor’s main concern was to be the first – and only – one to touch the wine; she could identify it as poisoned before something unfortunate happened. But she had to maintain her cover. To that end she picked a chewette and nibbled at it with false enthusiasm. It, at least, tasted alright.

Adela poured out the wine while Juliana set out the bowls. Hawise set to jointing the chicken without a word, moving the serving dish over to benefit from better light and quietly getting on with it. Aveline did nothing, like a queen expecting to be waited upon.

Three people ended up grabbing drinks as soon as Adela set her jug down: Eleanor, Aveline and Adela herself. To Eleanor’s private horror she didn’t get chance to put her careful plan into action; Adela took a good gulp of her drink.

Aveline also took one swallow, then stared medatively into her cup. “This wine is off.”

“Is it?” asked Adela. “I drank mine so quickly I didn’t notice.”

“It has a bitter undertaste. Faint, but there.”

Eleanor took a tiny sip of her own drink, which she immediately spat back out. It was a clairet, mild flavoured wine with a decided bitterness underlying its more usual sweetness. Poisoned; there was no doubt if you knew to look for it. “I think it might be best if no one drinks any more of this. It is certainly tainted.” She didn’t want to provoke a panic, especially not since two people were now in need of treatment, but not in danger of more than unpleasant sickness if they did not receive it. Panic would help no one; slow and orderly could still win the day, minimalising the damage and maintaining her own cover. With grim humour Eleanor admitted that the two had certainly helped the fake assassination attempt look real, even if she had not wanted anyone but herself to touch the wine.

Aveline nodded, her suspicions confirmed.

“Tainted or not I’m thirsty,” said Adela. “It didn’t taste that bad anyway.” She raised her cup to her lips; Eleanor grabbed her arm, yanking it down at the same time Aveline wrenched the goblet from the maid’s grip, sloshing the remaining contents over the three of them. There was alarmingly little left.

“By tainted I meant possibly poisoned!” snapped Eleanor, giving up on subtly. She now had no idea how much Adela had now drunk, possibly enough to kill herself.

Adela wailed, “I’m going to die!” She clasped one hand to her mouth, eyes flooding with tears.

“I said possibly,” shouted Eleanor. This was why Trempwick often said if you wanted something done right you should remove everyone in a six mile radius of anything required by or linked to your plan before you began. Also why hastily put together plans made by someone of unknown skill with scarcely a minute’s discussion between those involved should never be used. Nice theory; pity circumstances hadn’t allowed for it to become practise. “It needs testing! Wait here, no one move, and for God’s sake no one touch any more of that food or wine!”

Eleanor marched outside. She pointed at a servant in royal livery. “You!” The man looked about himself to check she did indeed mean him. “Yes, you,” she said impatiently. “Find me a dog or cat no one cares about, and quickly.” The man sped off, puzzled but obviously deciding it best to indulge the mad princess in her strange whims. Eleanor picked another victim from the bailey full of people who had stopped to gawp. “You! Fetch the royal physician to my rooms, and hurry up about it. Tell him two cases of suspected poisoning.” It was only on her way back inside Eleanor realised she was still wandering about in her underdress, the light grey now soaked with splotches of pink wine.

Back in her room little had changed. Aveline was seated once again, pale but composed. Adela was moaning and hugging her stomach tightly with both arms, sick with fear rather than the wine, Eleanor thought. Juliana was doing her best to calm the other girl down; if she was having any effect it wasn’t too impressive.

Closing the door Eleanor announced, “The physician is on the way; it will be best to assume there was poison and act accordingly. I have also made arrangements to test the wine. All we can do is remain calm and wait; it will take a good while before the poison, if indeed there is any, begins to work, so you are quite safe.” A slight overstatement, but at this rate Adela was more likely to expire from terror than anything else.

Eleanor resumed her mending, finishing the rent she had been working on previously. As soon as she completed that little repair she gave up on the rest and donned the dress once again. Hawise assisted, unbidden, helping to settle the material in place and lacing up the sides to gather the fabric in to the correct figure hugging arrangement. Girdle fastened in place once again Eleanor settled down to wait in a corner, keeping everyone in view and watching everything.

Hawise picked up her sewing again. Seeing Eleanor’s questioning gaze on her the quietly explained, “No point in wasting time, and what else can I do?”

“Quite,” declared Aveline. She too returned to her work. She was working a little slower than before, each stitch a little more deliberate, but if her hand shook or she was agitated Eleanor couldn’t see it.

Juliana followed their example after a short delay. Adela didn’t break from her frantic praying, interspaced with requests for her funeral and last messages to give to various people.

The dog arrived first; a stubby-legged, patchwork mongrel caught near the kitchens. Eleanor had the man carrying the animal hold it steady with its jaws open while she emptied the jug down the poor creature’s gullet. A larger dose would begin to work sooner. The small size of the dog would also help; it would take less time for the poison to begin to take effect. Sure enough, shortly before the physician appeared the animal began frothing at the mouth and spasming, curling up into a miserable ball on the floor as it tried unsuccessfully to vomit. Adela’s wailing grew louder.

“Oh, be quiet, girl!” ordered Aveline, still industriously sewing, “Have you never heard of dignity?”

“I don’t want to die!”

“Nor do I.”

The physician arrived at a trot, tailed by an assistant with a selection of medicines and an unexpected guest: Hugh. “Your messenger had to pass me in the great hall; he told me of your request for the physician and why,” he explained.

The physician cast one glance to the poor dog and proclaimed solemnly, “Aconite. This substance is known to me, and I can treat it.” He gestured to his assistant, and the young man selected a small bottle and two earthenware cups from the large bag he had carried in. He began to pour out two draughts of a nasty looking dark coloured liquid. The physician continued to talk, “An emetic of mulberry bark boiled in vinegar to induce vomiting, followed by fresh milk once the stomach is emptied, then another dose of the emetic, followed this time by cream mixed with butter, a final dose of the emetic, and more milk, this time to be kept in the stomach. By this process the substance will be purged from the body entirely.”

Adela’s moans increased in volume at the unpleasant remedy. Aveline set aside her sewing and calmly rose to collect her dose from the assistant. “I do so hate doing this,” she groused, before steeling herself and downing the mess in one go. She could not quite suppress a shudder as she finished. “But I always find it infinitely preferable to the alternative.” She returned the cup to the assistant, collected a large, empty bowl and resumed her seat.

Adela had considerably more trouble; she took one small sip, wrinkled her face up and tearfully proclaimed, “I can’t drink this!”

“Then you will die,” stated the physician blandly. “You must hurry; the longer the toxin is left in the body the more danger. Already much time has been lost.”

“It won’t even work!” None the less Adela continued to clutch the cup as if it were a lifeline.

“Nonsense,” said Aveline. “If it did not work I would not have been alive to get poisoned today.”

Hawise somehow managed to get her friend to drink her dose, and settled her down next to Aveline with a bowl in her hands, waiting for it to work. Hawise then retired to a safe distance.

The initial bout of activity over Hugh at last stepped forward from the spot near the door where he had been keeping out of the way. “Only the two are affected? No one else took anything suspect?”

Eleanor said, “I tested a sip of the wine but spat it back out. The food is untouched.”

“Who fetched the tray?”

Juliana raised a nervous hand. “I did, your highness.”

“Where did the food come from?”

“The kitchens.”

“Nothing from an outside source?”

“No, your highness.”

“Did you say it was for the princess?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Did you see anyone tamper with the tray?”

“No, your highness.”

“Did you see anyone do anything suspicious with the wine while measuring it out for you?”

“No, your highness. But I could not really see.”

“So you watched the contents at all time?” When Juliana did not reply immediately Hugh sternly enjoined, “Answer me!”

“Well, yes, mostly. While I was waiting for the chicken to be taken off the spit a man started talking to me. He was trying to flirt with me, but I wasn’t interested and told him to go away; after a bit he did. We were right next to the tray.”

“But you did not see him add anything to the wine?”

“No, your highness.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well …” Juliana hesitated. “forgettable, really. Mid height, blondish hair, average build, no noticeable scars, dressed in royal livery like any other kitchen servant.”

Hugh said to the man who had fetched the dog, “Escort her to the cells in the inner gatehouse and see she is kept there for questioning. She is not to be harmed; treat her with dignity.”

“I didn’t do this!” squealed Juliana, looking to her mistress for aid. Aveline had gone very pasty, and was concentrating closely on her bowl.

“Perhaps not, but I will not give you chance to abscond before the matter can be investigated.” The dog convulsed again, making a piteous noise. “Someone put that creature out of its misery and remove the body. Have the wine and food destroyed.”

The servant drew his dagger and thrust it point first into the dog’s heart. He wiped the blade clean on the animal’s scrappy fur and replaced it in its sheath. He indicated Juliana should proceed him from the room; she stood rooted to the spot.

Aveline said, “Oh, just go with him.” She quickly refocused on the bowl as the emetic began to work. Sight and sound soon combined with smell, and Eleanor felt her gorge rise at the back of her throat. She swallowed hastily several times and looked away, noticing others in the room doing likewise. Adela also began to vomit.

Hugh’s face crinkled with distaste and a fine sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His throat worked a few times before he felt sufficiently sure of himself to speak. “Sister, let us leave. Arrangements must be made for your safety, and we will only be in the way here.” He asked Hawise, “Who are you?”

She dipped a curtsey. “Hawise FitaClement, your highness.”

“You will attend my sister; the patients will be well cared for by the physician and his man, or I will know why.” He swept from the room, plainly expected Eleanor and Hawise to follow.

Eleanor cast a distressed look at the mess the dog had left on her floor, then another at the two vomiting patients. She hurried after her brother. “Can you arrange to have the room cleaned and aired?” she asked pitifully. Back in fresh air Eleanor felt much better.

Hugh nodded, but kept on walking towards the keep. “Indeed I was planning upon it, Nell. Even a peasant would baulk at a house filled with vomit, blood and the by-products of an expired mongrel.”

The main hall had already been set for business. The throne had been moved in front of the high table on the dais, along with the queen’s chair, which Anne was occupying with a earnestness which sat at odds with the fact her feet swung a good half inch above the ground. A throng of important people waited before the dais, with more arriving in dribs and drabs. The usual collection of people passing time with games or fine work had been moved down to the far end of the hall; at Hugh’s entrance many of them had stopped what they were doing and begun to watch what was unfolding. The servants were still clearing the far ends of the two low tables after dinner, and they worked in larger teams than usual to get the job done sooner. There was a distinct air of excited anticipation; people swapped suggestions as to what the big fuss could be, some already repeating the story of a half dressed princess pleading piteously for help and the castle physician as her two friends had been poisoned.

Hugh headed straight for the dais. He mounted it and stood before the throne. “Where is Richard de Clare? I summoned him before I left.” He looked about the hall; no one moved. “I presume he is still being located then.” Hugh sat down on the throne and beckoned Eleanor and Hawise closer; Eleanor took up station at her brother’s side while Hawise waited nervously in front of the gathering of royals. Hugh dropped his voice from the public pitch, but those at the front of the audience could still easily overhear. “Hawise FitaClement, you said.”

Hawise curtseyed once again. “Yes, your highness,” she said softly.

“I have heard a little of you, and all of it agreeable. You are seeking position as a lady’s maid, are you not?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“My sister is in dire need of a suitable maid.”

Eleanor leaned down and hissed, “Hugh! No!”

Hugh murmured, “You find her disagreeable or dislikeable?”

“No,” admitted Eleanor reluctantly.

“You have … other reasons not to take her? I am quite certain that she is indeed just what she appears to be, no more.”

“No.”

“Then I fail to see your objection.”

“I do not need a maid!” Eleanor looked to Anne in appeal, but the little queen only shrugged apologetically and continued to keep her own council.

Hugh raised his voice sufficiently to carry to those nearest. “You do; you should have several. It is entirely unbecoming that you do not, and reprehensibly negligent on the part of those who have had custody and care of you. I am determined to amend this.” Panicked guilt flitted across Hugh’s face as he realised how that could be taken. “I mean no disparagement or condemnation to our father; I know well the burdens he has been labouring under. Rather I fear your tutor has shamefully mislead our father, misrepresenting precisely what he has provided you with, for it is only too clear that despite his insisting otherwise you have not been supplied with all fitting and necessary to your rank. I aim to make good this lapse.”

Eleanor dropped her voice back down low. “If you think to plant a spy on me-”

“Dear sister, you are quite unreasonable. My own choice of spies is always far more subtle than such obvious candidates, by necessity of that limitation which we discussed previously. You suspect her from the start, thus she could glean very little of worth and is easily countered by other … influences equally wary. I meant what I said; there is a lapse and I will amend it.” Hugh ended their private conversation without giving Eleanor time to object further. “Hawise, you will serve princess Eleanor from this moment forth. You will receive two shillings a day, two new outfits in winter and two in summer, one outfit in royal colours with my sister’s badge each year, and the sustenance and shelter as would be expected under any such contract.

“Hugh,” whispered Eleanor urgently, “I cannot afford a maid! I do not have even two shillings!”

Hugh ignored her. “I require you to take an oath of fealty to my sister, sworn upon your immortal soul. Is this acceptable?”

“Yes, your highness.”

A richly dressed man Eleanor recognised as Richard de Clare, chief of those parts of palace security not under the spymaster’s jurisdiction, pushed to the front of the gathering before the dais and waited on bent knee to be acknowledged.

“Hugh!” protested Eleanor. She was uncomfortably aware that Hawise was looking at her with a kind of quiet, resigned hurt.

“Then there can be little space for doubt, sweet sister,” said Hugh simply, for all to hear.

Eleanor saw little choice but to accept. Hawise knelt before the princess, placed her hands in Eleanor’s and said, “I swear upon my immortal soul to serve you loyally in all things, now and forever.”

“Good,” said Hugh. “Now take up your place with your mistress; you will be provided with opportunity to assemble your belongings and move them to the princess’s lodgings, and inform your family of this news later.”

Hawise curtseyed and moved to stand behind Eleanor.

Hugh finally turned his attention to the kneeling man. “Ah, Richard, at last.” Hugh indicated the thick candle clock burning on its special table in the corner of the high end of the hall. “I fear I must wonder what exactly you were about which delayed your response to my summons so greatly that you were the last to arrive, despite being the first summoned.”

“Your highness, I came as soon as your messenger found me. Blame him if I am tardy.”

“I may, or then perhaps I may not. It will become clear in future, I think. If you are sluggish again it will be obvious the fault lies with you, if speedy then with the messenger selected for today’s charge.”

De Clare bowed his head. “Yes, your highness.” Eleanor thought she detected a hint of resentfulness in the man.

“Someone tried to poison my sister; two of her companions are undergoing treatment for the aconite they ingested even as we sit here wasting precious time.” A murmuring broke out in the throng of listeners at this. “You are in charge of security here - investigate; find who was responsible. The maid who fetched the food is confined in the cells; she is to be treated fairly and not harmed unless evidence is discovered to justify such handling. She made mention of a man who talked to her while the food was prepared; get the description from her once more to be sure it is consistent. Her account to me was of a man of average height and build, no distinguishing marks or scars, blondish hair, dressed like a kitchen servant.”

“Highness.”

“One more matter. I require a bodyguard for my sister, someone competent and experienced, known to be loyal.”

For the sake of appearances Eleanor objected, “That is not necessary! Raoul made arrangements; he will be insulted by this.”

Anne said, “Whoever organised this may try again; you need security and those arrangements have already failed spectacularly once. A second time may be fatal.”

“Precisely,” agreed Hugh.

“It is quite shameful that you were parted from your bodyguard in the first place; he was proven capable several times over.”

Eleanor had already prepared and practised her excuse; she deployed it slickly. “I thought him unnecessary, and knew he could be put to better use here as a knight.”

“With you it will always be necessary, Nell. You upset too many people.” Hugh pointed at one of the messenger boys clad in royal red and white waiting at the side of the dais. “You! My sister’s previous bodyguard is currently in palace employ; Sir Fulk FitzWilliam. Fetch him.” The boy shot off at a run, skipping and weaving through the people towards the exit.

“Hugh-”

Hugh cut her off sharply, and with sufficient volume to carry to the back of the hall. “Be silent; my decision is made!” Eleanor’s cheeks burned as some in the hall laughed.

Fulk appeared before ten minutes had passed. Unlike the boy he didn’t run, but he didn’t amble as de Clare had done. As he walked briskly down the hall he looked neither left nor right, and demonstrated none of the nervousness that might be expected from a minor baron summoned by the heir to the throne. Well groomed, dressed simply in fawn brown, light blue and white with his plain old sword belted at his waist he visibly claimed no ambition or rivalry with his superiors, but at the same time looked fit for a baron in the king’s personal service. The sizeable audience in the hall watched the latest player in this unanticipated drama mostly with ambivalence. Before the dais Fulk dropped smoothly to one knee and waited with bowed head.

“You are required to resume your service as bodyguard to my sister. Her life is your life, what happens to her happens to you tenfold if you do not prevent it; if she is even scratched and you yet live I will wish to know why, and you will pay dearly for your ineptitude. Your wage will now be four shillings per day; otherwise your existing contract still stands. Take your oath now, upon your soul.”

Fulk drew his sword slowly, so none could take it as a threat, and offered it hilt first to Eleanor. She held the weapon out before her with the flat of the blade resting on her palms. Fulk knelt at her feet and put his right hand on the sword in the middle of the space defined by Eleanor’s hands; he looked into her eyes with a solemnity which made Eleanor’s heart ache and at the same time made her want to laugh. “Your life is my life, your path is my path, my sword to guard you, my shield to shelter you, now and always, come what may, this I do swear upon my soul, so help me God.” It was a very powerful oath, also a very old one, perhaps even pagan in origin and adapted to Christian usage.

A wave of chatter flowed around the hall; Eleanor could catch not a word of it, but the tone was generally a favourable one. Amongst all but the highest nobility a bit of drama and some pretty words well spoken often met a good reception, in many parts of the higher nobility too. This was the embellishment which turned some remarkable events into a good story in the eyes of the general public. A knight swearing poetical allegiance and protection to a princess who had narrowly escaped death thanks to two of her faithful companions was splendidly close to a troubadour’s tale; the dream of life instead of the reality. Tales to this day’s work would spread throughout the kingdom, becoming more and more embellished with each telling. Eleanor could not have hoped for much better. From this day on people would expect to see Fulk following her at all times, and Trempwick would have numerous matching accounts of how she had been ‘forced’ by her brother’s concern for her life to take back her bodyguard.

Fulk stood up and took his sword back. He slid the weapon into its sheath at his hip, then bowed and kissed the ring he had given her months ago, a customary pledge of fealty with their own private meaning. Ceremony complete he joined Hawise in standing behind Eleanor. Eleanor glanced sidelong at her brother; his face was inscrutable.

“Good,” said Hugh. “Retire to the solar, dear sister. You must be wearied and disheartened; I shall send word to you the very instant something happens. I shall arrange for a safe meal to be sent up to you, and arrange for your rooms to be cleaned as soon as may be.”

“Thank you, Hugh.”

Her brand new retinue following a few paces behind Eleanor left the dais and began to climb the long staircase leading to the private rooms at the top of the keep.







Well, we’ve had a few songs (gah! Bad ones!) mentioned that suited the characters so far, mostly Fulk. Now I’ve found another one, again by accident (No, I don’t look for these things on purpose! After the horrors ‘Sometimes’ I’m still hiding from new music as far as possible!), this time thanks to a John Denver CD someone gave me insisting that it was really great. Yes, well poor froggy was forced to listen to one track (forced as in trapped with no escape and subjected to one entire song despite my numerous, uncreative excuses not to) and it … well, it was decent background music type stuff for writing quiet scenes (‘Two different directions’, if anyone cares). After some 458 pages of Eleanor alone I’m getting a wee bit sick of most of the music I usually write to. :sigh: Silly me; I made the mistake of trying the other tracks when left alone by my benefactor. Most of the tracks were not compatible with frogs, but then I hit upon this:

Follow Me

It’s by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done
To be so in love with you and so alone

Follow me where I go what I do and who I know
Make it part of you to be a part of me
Follow me up and down all the way and all around
Take my hand and say you’ll follow me

It’s long been on my mind
You know it’s been a long, long time
I’ve tried to find the way that I can make you understand
The way I feel about you and just how much I need you
To be there where I can talk to you
When there’s no one else around

Follow me where I go what I do and who I know
Make it part of you to be a part of me
Follow me up and down all the way and all around
Take my hand and say you’ll follow me

You see I’d like to share my life with you
And show you things I’ve seen
Places that I’m going to places where I’ve been
To have you there beside me and never be alone
And all the time that you’re with me
We will be at home

Follow me where I go what I do and who I know
Make it part of you to be a part of me
Follow me up and down all the way
Take my hand and I will follow you

That’s Nell, at virtually any point in the story. If you need to know who the ‘you’ is then go stand in the corner :tongueg:

Mmm, I need new medieval, medievalesque and renaissance music, yesyes. Nice music, good music, pleasant music, good for writing music. :sticks ‘There is no rose of such virtue’ in media player for the eight-thousandth time: