Blood Red Hand: The Dukes of Ulster

September 10 1067
Aside from a few hours sleep around midnight Culad hadn’t had a particularly restful night; a question had been dancing around in his head making him restless. Now it was nearly morning; Margaret was still curled up in his arms, peaceful and looking as though she were asleep. Culad could tell that she was as awake as him, and so he finally asked his question, “Margaret? Do you ever think of England?” To his surprise she burst into peals of laughter; Culad looked wounded, “What’s so funny about me asking if you miss your home?”
Margaret tiled her head to look at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth, “You’d have to be English to understand it.”
“Is it something about the weather?” he ventured, provoking more laughter.
“Er, no” she assured him, before changing the subject slightly, “Why did you want to know if I missed England?”
“I was thinking last night-”
“I’m surprised you were in any state to”
“Thank you, but as you know I’m well able to recover from life’s ills quickly.”
Margaret propped herself up her elbow and looked down at Culad, “So I’m an ill now? I think I’ll leave rather than stay here to be insulted.” she moved to get up, but Culad dragged her back down; with scarcely any effort Margaret landed with part of her weight on her elbow, which landed right in Culad’s stomach. Culad groaned, melodramatically clutching his injury with his free arm, “I’m not convinced you’re worth all this pain.”
“I remember thinking the same thing about GillaÍsu, and look how he turned out – better than you.”
“Moving swiftly back to our earlier topic of England; do you ever wish you could go back?”
“To the England I was born in and grew up in, yes; to the England William the bastard’s built, no.”
“So you don’t regret coming here then?”
“If you keep asking daft questions I’ll batter some sense into you with a blunt instrument.”
“I doubt that.”
Margaret grabbed her pillow with the hand furthest away from Culad, whipped it out from under her head, them smacked him in the face with it. “Pillows are blunt.” she informed him tartly.
Culad looked pained, “I wonder what the law books say about this? A man can hit his wife, but what do they say about the wife beating her poor husband?”
“Don’t care.” Margaret whacked him with the pillow again, Culad half blocked the third blow with his arm; Margaret flashed him a challenging smile, and took a swipe at his legs. Culad made a grab for the pillow, “That’s it – I’m disarming you before someone gets killed” They grappled, until Margaret half fell out of the bed; Culad caught her just in time and they lay in each other’s arms catching their breath. “Day off?” asked Margaret. Culad pretended to consider, before nonchalantly replying, “I suppose so; let GillaÍsu do the work for once, lazy devil barely does a thing.”




Ladies and gentlemen, so concludes a very special mush scene. I didn't need to add that, no one asked for it, the story doesn't need it - I chose to write it. More than that; I actively searched for ideas so I could write a Culad/Margaret mush scene now. You will understand why later.

And yes, that opening joke is evil http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...geishagrin.gif

Axeknight, maybe I should start some kind of frequent poster scheme? 15 posts in this topic = a prize, the more at 25, 50, and 100. Then again I could just say your comments keep me posting, and if you like the story that is its own reward. It's cheaper that way too http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ishatongue.gif

Quote:

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Originally Posted by [b

Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ June 08 2004,19:04)]Then again I could just say your comments keep me posting, and if you like the story that is its own reward.

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Aw, shucks http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...cons/smile.gif Thanks, Froggy. Course, I'm still going for the prize

*counts posts* 43, including this one... So, where's my holiday to the Swiss alps? http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...icons/flat.gif

Swiss alps is 1,000 posts. For 43 posts you get...:thinks hard: a Red Hand mousemat, with all the principle characters posing nicely on it.

good story http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif

been me fav in the mead hall for a about a week now

November 19 1067
“That’s the third day in a row you’ve been sick, are you sure you’re not ill?” asked Culad, all honest concern, “Maybe we should send for the physician?”
Margaret poured herself a cup of small beer and drank it, trying to rid her mouth of the foul taste of vomit, “I told you before; I’m in perfect health.”
“Aye, but that’s not what the evidence suggests. You’ve been so tired for a while now, and you’ve been sick some mornings for some time, but now it’s constant…” Culad’s eyes went wide, he phrased his suspicion in the most eloquent way his stunned brain could supply, “Er…?”
“This child gets a nice Saxon name.”
“Oh. Um…oh. Oh.”
“I do hope none of our children inherit your lack of word power.”
“Oh.” repeated Culad, still in shock. With some effort he pulled himself together enough to ask, “How long have you known?”
“Just over two months. I thought this time I’d avoid the fuss for as long as possible, being treated like a fragile object is wearisome after all of a minute – so don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“Um…happy?”
“Ask me that 41 days after the birth, when it’s all safely over with a new baby in the nursery and my life’s back to normal.”



That tiny scene is your lot for today; got a headache that is rapidly becomnig a migraine. I'm going to go sleep it off...

Thanks, caesar. I'm flattered to hear it.

get well soon froggy http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/bigthumb.gif

Gah, sorry to hear that Froggy. Bad headaches are rotten things to have, hope you feel better soon. Will my mousemat be delayed because of this? http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ns/biggrin.gif

But regarding the story. Dang, Culad's really trying hard to shake off the 'Incompetant' title...

Get well soon, frogbeastegg.

I'm printing the chapters you wrote the last 4-5 days... Good reading for tomorrow when I'm at the office http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/gc-grin2.gif

Thnaks everyone, I'm back up and running.

Axeknight, I sent the mousemat via orgmail yesterday.

Culad's not trying to prove anything, everyone needs an heir and a spare, and maybe a few more spares after that. Children die frequently, something like 40% never reached adulthood. Margaret is, well she's doing precisely what she expected to be doing; in the middle ages motherhood was the default and you only escaped it by taking religious orders, aka being a nun. That doesn't mean she'll be having a baby every year, as you've already seen in the story people do take steps to avoid that, but every woman expected to have multiple children and would continue to do so until they either had a large family or were told they would die if they got pregnant again. Heh, of course that relies on a reasonable husband...

November 30 1067
Cathaoir was fiercely proud of the simple professionalism that his small raiding party had exhibited over the last week of hard riding and cautious travel; crossing the border into Tir Eoghain, and then into Uliad itself had been perilous, and Sigtryg was counting on them – on him, Cathaoir told himself – to get him what he needed to win his place as duke. Sigtryg had promised a rich reward for all five men if they succeeded on their dangerous mission, but the richest of all rewards would go to Cathaoir, as he was the leader. He’d spent many a moment dreaming of what he might be granted, land, maybe even several new manors, or gold…gold was always nice, or perhaps a title? And now, after many nights of sleeping in a ditch and days spent travelling hard, their target was in sight, oblivious to the presence of five lightly armoured horsemen. Cathaoir gave his orders silently, using hand signals. One man to go around to the back to their target, one man to each of the sides, and one to the front while he himself went in to grab their target; as a pack of wolves herding their prey. At a wave of his hand all five started off at full gallop, careening towards the small group of people out hawking ahead of them. As ordered his men went and blocked the escape routes while Cathaoir swept in, spotting his desired target with ease – a dark haired, tall woman in fine clothing. To make life easier for him she was even wandering around on foot, her horse safely in the hands of a groom, and now she was running away from him, trying to reach the rest of the frightened group. He galloped past her, and leaned from his saddle to snatch her up, flinging her across his saddlebow and holding her tightly so she didn’t fall. As he moved away from the hawking party his men broke off and joined him. They rode hard for several miles, using every trick they knew to baffle pursuit, and soon lost their tail. They rode for a while longer, at a slower pace, before calling a halt in a small cluster of trees. Giving the weary horses chance to rest, Cathaoir examined his prisoner; sat on a tree stump with her hands bound and displaying a unexpectedly calm, collected demeanour. Cathaoir had been expecting her to scream and rage, making his task more perilous with her noise, so her cool silence was a blessing from heaven in his eyes. In addition to the height and colouring he’d been instructed to look for, she was about the right age, though maybe a trifle young looking for twenty-two. She fit the description exactly, except for one thing - it was hard to believe this was the famous beauty Sigtryg had spoken of; she was pretty enough certainly, but not what Cathaoir had expected. Shrugging his shoulders he reasoned, “There’s no accounting for different tastes, I always liked a nice brunette so maybe that’s it? Ah, what’s it matter? If the count thinks Margaret Atheling’s beautiful then who’s to say otherwise?”

did they take margaret the soy maater or a different one

Margaret Atheling is Culad's wife, the spymaster.

Culad looked out the window of his room, watching the rescue party assembling with all possible haste, rushing about trying to save even a few seconds time. They all knew that the longer it took for them to start tracking the abductors the less chance they stood of rescuing the hostage. Culad felt queasy, shaken to his core; he hadn’t thought that Sigtryg would – could - strike so close to home. “I’ll make him pay.” he vowed, “He’s given me an excuse to declare war again, and this time I’ll not stop until his head has parted company with the rest of him.”
“Poor Agatha, she followed me here from England.” Margaret spoke so quietly Culad couldn’t decide if she meant him to hear or not, “She’s been in my service for years. She was so happy to escape becoming another of William’s Saxon peacemaking brides, parcelled off to some dolt from Normandy to ‘bind our two peoples together’.”
Culad went and sat next to his wife on the bed and pulled her into his arms, holding her close and trying his best to be comforting, “We’ll get her back.”
“But in what condition? They were after me, they will hardly be pleased with a lady’s maid in my place.” she smiled weakly, “I never suspected morning sickness could be useful...if I hadn’t been too busy being sick I’d have joined the party.”
“If Sigtryg had kidnapped you I’d be expecting him to be offering to pay to give you back inside of a week.” joked Culad, brushing over Agatha’s unknown fate; he could offer only hollow reassurances Margaret would never believe, “As the story says, only Fulk can put up with Eleanor, anyone else would go mad in trying; you’d have Sigtryg running for cover with scant effort.”
“Flatterer.”
“No, it’s true – you certainly scared seven shades of hell out of me at first, you still do and I’m sure young headache will agree he’s in possession of one scary mother.”
“Only you could land a baby with the outlandish nickname of headache.”
“You’re the one who thought it up; ‘our future headache’ you said.”
Though she appreciated Culad’s efforts to distract her Margaret returned their talk to more serious lines, “So, when does the call to arms go out? Tomorrow?”
“That’s just what Sigtryg’d expect, so I’ll wait a while, until winter’s mostly over and the good campaigning weather’s beginning. February at the soonest.” Even though she said nothing Culad could tell what Margaret was thinking, “I’ll be back before the child’s born; fighting a war’s easier than pacing about waiting, but I’ve a few cunning tactics to try on the midwives this time and I’d not miss the chance if I can help it.”

December 5 1067
By the light of a couple of torches Sigtryg sat in his bedroom, playing chess against himself, as was his habit before bed. After careful deliberation he picked up the black rook and took one of the white pawns, carefully removing the piece and setting it to one side. He stood, and went to sit in the chair at the other side of the board; leaning an elbow on the table and propping his head on his fist for a better view of the situation. By the time he moved again the torches had burned lower, and time had passed from late evening to true night. Sigtryg reached for some wine and sipped it thoughtfully, his mind still on a game of strategy, but a different one to that laid out in front of him. “Gain: one pregnant wife, at long last. Loss: one bishop, run off to hide in his liege’s tunic hem, in Conchbar’s court and far from my reach. Unknown: one Margaret. Loss: One spymaster, Fionna ran too soon. Gain: Said spymaster will not be asking for a pay rise at moments where it’s hard to refuse, so I save money. Loss: Those amazing blue eyes of hers, well the rest of the package will be missed as well, but the eyes…” Someone knocked at his door. “Enter.” called Sigtryg, and to his mild surprise a dark haired woman was shoved through the door, followed by Cathaoir. “I don’t recall asking for company.” said Sigtryg placidly, taking a sip of his wine. The woman flushed, and Cathaoir pushed her forward a step, eager to claim his reward, “Margaret Atheling, delivered with nary a scratch or split hair, as per your instructions.”
Sigtryg set his goblet down on the small table with a click, and rose; languidly stretching his stiff limbs. He drew his dagger, and cut the rope binding the woman’s hands together, before brandishing on of her bruised, chaffed wrists in Cathaoir’s face, “Not a scratch, true, but still damage. Now tell me, do you think when I said ‘without a scratch’ I was giving you leave to do as you want, as long as it didn’t leaver a scratch, or do you think I was asking for her to arrive unharmed in any way?”
“Well…Lordship, speaking plainly, it was obvious, but yon bitch tried to claw my eyes out and I took exception to it. Now you’ve got Margaret Atheling, she’s in one piece and’ll heal in a few days, so I’m not seeing the problem.”
Sigtryg released his prisoner’s arm and asked her kindly, “Please state your name for the not so nice man.”
“Agatha.” replied the prisoner.
“Now there’s a problem, add it to your other failings here and I’m thinking I’m justified in being less than pleased.”
“But she was the only one who fit the description” protested Cathaoir.
Sigtryg waved Agatha to a chair, “Sit down dear, no sense in standing on ceremony.” he poured a refill of wine into his goblet and gave it to her, “Have a drink, and I’ll send for some food later. I do try to be a good host, since the rules of hospitality are there for all, and I never know when I may require them myself.” The count wandered back over to Cathaoir, gave him a friendly smile, and clapped him on the shoulder, “Don’t look so worried, I’m not going to kill you where you stand, or anything so crude; blood scarcely pays wages now, does it?” Relieved Cathaoir nodded, allowing himself to match his lord’s smile. Sigtryg continued, “I’m thinking of a new job better suited to your obvious talents, for there’s no denying you’ve skill and courage.” Cathaoir practically preened, suddenly his reward didn’t seem so distant after all; Sigtryg was obviously awed by his skill even if things had gone awry. “I need a messenger to take a letter to Mael-Isu at his liege’s court, and you’re the man. The bishop’s buried away deep, so you’ll have to work a bit to get to him.” Sigtryg went over to his work desk, pulled out a sheet of parchment, and wrote My dear bishop, I have killed your son, as you know, and now I could target all those whores you have such interest in; trying to twist your arm into doing as we agreed. I’m a decent man, so I’ll not do that; they may not be innocent little lambs, but they’re hardly party to your decisions. Instead I’ll handle the problem at the root cause – you. I will collect your head at the earliest convenience. Thank you for your cooperation. He folded the parchment, dripped some wax from a candle onto the spot where the folds joined, then stamped his signet ring down on the wax. Waving the letter about to encourage the wax to set quickly, he returned to Cathaoir, “Here you go, be sure to wait for his response. Now you’d best set out immediately, it’s an urgent message – and remember; wait for a response.” Cathaoir saluted and left; Sigtryg sat himself down opposite his prisoner and smiled, “And I think that takes care of that; his head’ll roll as soon as the bishop reads my letter, and the bishop’s warned of my displeasure and will await his end fearfully. Two birds, one stone. Now my dear, what am I to do with you?”
Agatha looked apprehensive, and Sigtryg flashed a disarming grin at her, “You’re hardly what I was looking for, but I’ve never felt there was any advantage in killing folk out of hand. So that leaves a few other options…ransom is next to worthless, for who’ll pay out a dukedom for a lady’s maid? I can’t just let you go, for I’ve a reputation to keep. I could use you as bait for a trap, but it’d be a sorry trap indeed and so I’ll not bother. I think I shall just keep you as a guest, a prisoner to the world, but not to us. When this war’s over, well you’ll either be free to go back to your lady, or you can stay in service to mine, depending on who wins and who dies, of course. My honoured guest, safe from any harm or ill intent; I do assure you rape has never interested me, so you are quite safe.” “My guest, to be plied with wine, fine food and all other comforts until you begin to trust; then to be charmed and flattered by my interest, until you begin to like; then I can extract information from you, drip by drip by drip. Love thy enemy; so sayth God. Seduce thy enemy and use them to the full; so sayth Sigtryg.”





Updated the character list with two new entries:
Guy de Brityany: a hooked fish
Agatha: sleeping with the enemy?
Also updated a few others, fine tuning them.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by [b

Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ June 03 2004,00:53)]Most men go crazy for long, loose, free-flowing hair, and I never know why. Since I have long hair I would like to know, I see the effects but don't quite understand the cause...

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Philosophers have been seeking for the secret of beauty for years without finding it, and you think you can find the answer on a game forum? http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ns/biggrin.gif But it was never found, and I think I know why: because the concept of beauty changes over time. Why do men like playing with the hair of women then? Well, probably because it's a good way to be intimate while... er... while still keeping their clothes on. Ahem. http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/gc-blush.gif

Anyway, it's great to see how the story has developed over the last few days. I like the attention to the characters.
But exactly what is Culad planning to do? Because I get the impression that he just lets things come for him, and that Sigtryg does all the planning.
You spend so much time on the intrigues of the antagonist that you don't have time for the intrigues of the protagonists http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ns/biggrin.gif .

As for the Nuala question and the Nuala bet:
I actually blame Donchad, because it was his behavior that forced her into this stance. Now he is stuck with the results, because he cannot do anything to get her out. Off course, neither wanted to change their stance so neither is innocent. In the best tradition of tragedy: neither parties can be blamed, they were destined to bring each other to grief. I think you've catched that pretty well.

With the bet I am more conventional: I think Nuala will break down first. Pending any unexpected developments off course http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...icons/wink.gif .

Quote:

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Originally Posted by [b

Quote[/b] (Ludens @ June 11 2004,18:28)]I actually blame Donchad, because it was his behavior that forced her into this stance. Now he is stuck with the results, because he cannot do anything to get her out. Off course, neither wanted to change their stance so neither is innocent. In the best tradition of tragedy: neither parties can be blamed, they were destined to bring each other to grief.

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:gives Ludens a cookie: Congratulations You are the first person to spot that I had given up hope. People have managed to get fragments of the idea I had in mind, this is the final fragment, but no one person has pieced them all together.

It's both of them, acting as their natures dictate in circumstances that would never have happened if not for Sigtryg, Culad and Fionnghualla. They could, and probably would, have been perfectly happy if Siggy had never meddled.

I decided that since everyone was blaming Nuala almost unconditionally (exceopt for those who placed secondary blame on Siggy, Fionnghualla and Culad) it was too late to change things to spread the blame a bit; my plot works well enough with her carrying the can.

To anyone who wants to say But you only gave us the choice of Nuala, Donchad or both; do I have to tell you everything? http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ishatongue.gif



Intrigues of Culad, given more than a few hours a day I could come up with some plots for him, but as things stand I have to spend much of my time thinking of the story's future. Culad has the upper hand, he can beat Siggy in battle with ease, but he needs an excuse to go kill his 'loyal' vassal - if Culad just kills him when he is sat about being 'loyal' then Culad will become hated. You cannot pick off certain nobles at will to take their lands without worrying your other nobles. They will fear that they will be next on the list when you feel a bit cash poor.



Hair...I found something on that by accident, reading pone of Sharon Penman's books. It makes sense for the past, but not exactly for the modern day. Back when all women wore their hair in some kind of style only a husband or lover would get to see if flowing loose, and you can guess when they'd have that oppertunity most of the time. Since the western world spent about 3,000 years with women wearing their hair up maybe it has become genetic for men to like loose hair? http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...geishawink.gif

Froggy, I believe (I may have to research this one) that in Elizabethan times a woman wore her hair down when she was a virgin. Once she had done the deed for the first time (usually on her wedding night, as they wouldn't want to advertise any extra-marital flings), a woman would wear her hair up in whatever style was fashionable. So free-lowing hair was a sign of a woman's 'purity' (for want of a better word). Queen Bess wore her hair down.

No idea if this was true in the middle ages, though.

February 19 1068
As Culad rode out the main gate of his castle to meet those who had answered his call to arms he looked back, and saw Margaret on the battlements, and well wrapped up in a thick cloak. She had insisted on watching him leave, even though it was a cold, blustery day. When she saw he was looking at her Margaret raised her hand, and waved almost forlornly; he raised his hand and waved back, before setting in his saddle with his eyes resolutely on the road ahead. His levy was waiting in a field outside the castle, just as it had two years ago. The men from Tir Eoghain were waiting for him in that province; he would join the two forces together as he marched to Tir Connail. He had not been idle in the year of peace; Culad had expanded his heavy cavalry bodyguard to fifty men, supported by another fifty light cavalry. He could summon six hundred men to form his shield wall now, and there were more than one hundred and fifty skirmishers to disrupt and harass the enemy. His force had all but doubled from the battle weary men he had brought home when peace had been signed. Culad knew his count could never hope to match even half his army, but that was hardly surprising as Culad was drawing on the resources of twice as much land. As he rode to the head of his army he watched his soldiers stand, collect their equipment and fall in to place ready to march with quiet, organised efficiency; all those weeks of extra training were already proving worthwhile. Donchad was already waiting for his kinsman at the head of the forming column, cheerfully anticipating an adventurous campaign. “Finally got here then, Culad? Anyone’d think you’d rather stop at home – you’re one of the last to arrive.” Culad glanced back towards the gatehouse; Margaret was just visible, a barely recognisable silhouette standing vigil on the ramparts. Donchad followed his gaze, and broke into a grin, “Speaking for myself I’m so happy to be away from home I’d pay to fight this war”
“What’s gone wrong now?” asked Culad; truth be told he’d rather not know, he couldn’t see how it was possible for two people to manage to hurt each other so much that love turned to hate in the space of a few short months. He suspected that both partners were being stubborn and stupid, blind to each other’s wounds.
“She tried to leave me.” replied Donchad, “She actually tried to leave me, can you credit that?”
“Yes.” thought Culad wearily, but he said nothing.
“Well of course I soon put paid to that, I had to assign her a guard in the end; if I’m not with her then Eileen is, so she’ll not get away now. I’ll not have people thinking she’s a failed wife and all that, sent off to some backwater house of ours out my way. It’s for her benefit, I’m thinking of her, but she’ll not see it so, same as ever.”
“Now how did my father put it? Ah yes, ‘if you throw her out the blame lands on her, if she leaves then people wonder about you, so for heaven’s sake, son, keep your wife safely at home or pre-empt things and send her packing yourself’ Keeping your own wife prisoner, the old man would have been proud.” Culad knew his kinsman expected an answer, so he searched for a tactful response, “So why did she try to leave?”
“Now that’s a mystery, to tell the truth.”
“None so blind as those that’ll not see…”, Culad heaved a mental sigh.
Donchad continued in full spate, scarcely stopping for breath and growing more vexed with each word, “I just don’t understand her, not even in the slightest. Much of the time she’s perfectly content to do as I ask, and to tell the truth that’s boring. Then other times she’ll dig her heels in and fight, unreasonably too. I have managed to find a solution to a problem that baffled you though, Culad.”
“And what problem’s that?”
“The combination of a locked door and a decent heart; all you need do is rip the bolt off the door as soon as she leaves the room, then no more problem.”
“Ah yes, I’m sure she’ll suddenly discover a change of heart just because the door won’t lock – you’ll not fool me, you’re not so callous.”
“Then perhaps you’ll be kind enough to tell her?” Donchad laughed bitterly, “After all my kindness she thinks I’m some kind of violent monster who’d stoop so low as to rape his own wife I drop in to talk to her, and she starts inching towards the dagger she’s taken to keeping by her bed. How very gratifying.”
“And so once again he does something to upset her, she flings it back at him, and he starts planning to turn it back on her, and so on and so forth in an endless cycle neither has a will to break, so focuses are they on scoring minor victories over each other.” Culad decided that enough was enough; maybe Donchad would shut up once they got underway. Even though the army was still assembling to move Culad gave the signal to start marching; the cavalry lead the way, fully formed and ready to go. The infantry fell into place on the move, running to get in position, before settling down into an easy stride to cover the miles with the minimum of effort. The two cousins travelled in silence for a while, until they passed a couple of peasant girls watching the army go by. A smile slowly spread on Donchad’s face, “You know” he said to Culad, “I’ve a sudden feeling I may just prove to my dear wife I don’t need her at all, if she’s not interested there’s plenty who are.”
“You’re trying to steal my name again.” chided Culad jokingly, mindful he couldn’t play the fool with Donchad as easily as he once had, wary of reopening old wounds, “But surely it’s not worth the trouble?”
“No trouble, and I’ll admit I’ve missed the thrill of the chase.”
“No trouble – until you get home.”
“Oh still no trouble; just think of a wife’s primary duty to her husband – obedience. Not something I ever thought I’d call on, but I’ve found it to be mighty handy…’shut up’, two of the most beautiful words in the whole Irish language when talking to Nuala. She’s decided I’m a monster, remember? So she thinks I’ll back my words by force, and you’d be surprised at how well that ends arguments. She’s a coward at heart, she always decides cooperation’s better than trying to use that dagger.”
“Thank you, that was a detail I did not want to know And so much for just dropping in to talk.” thought Culad, thankful that Donchad had at last lapsed into silence. They had travelled about half a mile when Donchad suddenly spoke again, quietly and viciously, “She brings out the worst in me, the very worst, and I hate her for it. I should be better than this, and I hate her for that too.”


http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...cons/mecry.gif


I flicked through my single, solitary book on medieval clothing and fashion. Hairstyles are scattered throughout it, the predominant thing seems to be hair arranged in at least a very simple style, sometimes covered and sometimes not. It looks like the uncovered hair is for unmarried women, as the ones with those styles are much younger looking. It is not always platted and pinned up, some of the styles are quite free flowing, but still not just plain loose hair. This does add a bit more credit to Penman's theory.

At the same time you have to remember many noble girls got married very young, sometimes before they were even a year old. Generally speaking though it appears the marriage was only consumated when they were 12 or older. Generally, there are some exceptions listed in the history books. You do have to love 10 year old mothers :sick looking smiley here: Of course just to baffle historians there was no set age, unlike today there were no laws stating minimum age for marriage, but it is safe to assume the vast majority of noble girls would have been married off by 20 at the latest (at that age you're sat on the shelf as an old maid), and those girls with the loose hair in the book looked about 21; they certainly weren't children. Um, gah?

In an extraordinary feat of usefulness the book only covers 1200-1400AD, so no chance to check those Elizabethan ladies, or even Norman era women like those in the story. :sigh: The book is part of a series which helpfully does not list the titles of the other books, and they are by different authors. I do hate that, it's a good book and I'd like to read the rest.

I think I give up, frogs aren't meant to deal with the trauma of hairstyles One day maybe I'll find a nice book that explains it for me...

Now, to plan a battle and to find someone to mop up the blood and guts that is going to be spread librally about the mead hall

Quote:

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Originally Posted by [b

Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ June 12 2004,20:02)]You do have to love 10 year old mothers :sick looking smiley here:

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I'm off to arrest some knights now http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg.../gc-dizzy2.gif

Quote:

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Originally Posted by [b

Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ June 12 2004,15:02)]Now, to plan a battle and to find someone to mop up the blood and guts that is going to be spread librally about the mead hall

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:looks around as everybody seems to be looking at Monk:

What? You expect me to clean it up? http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/rolleyes.gif Ok ok i'll go get the mop.

edit: btw, i haven't had the chance to catch up on reading this story until now, but it looks very promising http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...-2thumbsup.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...s/gc-book2.gif

February 27 1068
Culad stepped out of his tent, and into the bitter night air. “Lordship?” inquired one of the two sentries, his breath freezing the instant the words left his mouth.
“Where’s my marshal?” asked Culad, “He was due here more than half an hour ago.”
The first sentry hugged his thick woollen cloak tighter about himself, “He’s not been here Lordship, neither hide nor hair’s been spotted, right, Bécc?”
The second sentry nodded his agreement, and volunteered, “I’ll go search him out, if your lordship wishes.”
“Please do.” Culad ducked back inside his tent, and settled down to wait. About a quarter hour later someone tapped on the flap of his tent, and Bécc stuck his head through the gap, “Found him, lordship, he’s drunk.”
“Drunk.” repeated Culad in disbelief, “Drunk? We’ve a battle tomorrow How in hell’s name does he propose to think up strategy and lead men if he’s barely capable of standing? Right, that’s enough of this.” Culad leapt to his feet and strode out of the tent, “Bécc, go find me a bucket of water, ice cold water, Eamonn you’d best get one too.” The two sentries hurried away, glad to be moving and gaining a bit of warmth. Culad paced up and down as he waited, heated by his anger; as soon as he saw his men coming back towards him carrying buckets with water slopping out of them Culad set off to meet them. “Lead the way.” he ordered; Bécc headed towards the outskirts of the camp, to one of the great fires men were warming themselves by. Sure enough, there was Donchad, sat on a folded cloak on the ground with a few empty jugs scattered nearby. The other men at the fire stopped their talk when they spotted their leader striding furiously at them; when they saw it was Donchad he had business with they backed away to a respectful distance, but not so far they couldn’t overhear what was said. Culad directed his guards to put their buckets down, and then went to his cousin. Donchad smiled up at him, and waved as if Culad were a long distance away, “Hello, long time no seeing thing.” he slurred.
“Get up.”
Donchad yawned widely, clumsily covering his mouth with his hand, “Friad not, I like it here.” he started laughing madly, as if he’d just told a wonderful joke.
“I said get up” Culad kicked his cousin on the leg with considerable force; Donchad slumped over onto the ground, protesting, “Now that’s not nice; why’s everyone so horrible? You’re horrible, she’s horrible, Sigthingy's horrible, whole damn world’s horrible and it’s not fair”
“Bécc, the first bucket of water, if you’d be so kind.” The soldier gleefully tipped the water over the marshal; Donchad howled and leapt to his feet, accompanied by the laughter of the growing crowd. At Culad’s order Eamonn also emptied his bucket over Donchad, leaving him dripping and shivering but closer to sober. Culad grabbed his kinsman by his sodden tunic and shook him, “You damn fool of a heedless, feckless, bastard What kind of a marshal are you? We’ve a battle tomorrow, fighting across a bridge to boot, and you’re sat here so dunk you can barely stand” Culad wrinkled his nose in disgust at the stench of alcohol wafting from his cousin, and pushed him away; Donchad stumbled but just managed to keep his feet. Culad’s diatribe hadn’t ended yet, “Now I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, you’re going to get sober – fast. You’re going to dunk your head in cold water until you either start talking straight or die of pneumonia, and tomorrow you’re going to lead the first assault and either fight like the great Hound of Ulster himself, or die trying God help you if you’re not fit to lead; you’re going to pull yourself together and start acting like the man you used to be, not this spineless, petty, unfit, worthless sop you’ve become”
“But-” Donchad tried to defend himself.
“Silence I don’t care, I really don’t care, in fact I’m beyond that – I don’t damn well want to know Listening to you and your whining and whinging makes me sick, and I’ve had my fill You either start acting like my marshal or I’ll find someone fit for the position.” Culad turned on his heel and stormed away; his kinsman stared after him, shocked and humiliated. The crowd slowly began to chatter, and one voice could be heard louder than the rest; “Donchad the Dripping.”
Another loud voice countered it, “Nay, Donchad the Drunk”
“Donchad the Drowned’s far better.”
Cheeks flaming, Donchad kicked over the jug with the rest of his wine in, and half stalked, half staggered away as the jeers got louder.



Same proceedure as the other battle - write a bit, post a bit, write a bit, post a bit etc.

Don't worry Monk, I've got some people coming in to do the cleaning...here they are
http://webpages.charter.net/connectingzone/misc/13.gif http://webpages.charter.net/connectingzone/misc/5.gif

The next morning dawned clear and promised to remain so, even if it was too cold for comfort. With the aid of his squire Sigtryg shrugged his mail tunic on over his padded gambeson, and impatiently waited for the boy to belt his sword about his waist, taking part of the weight off his shoulders. Like most other men of his class Sigtryg was well able to take the weight of his arms and armour, but unlike so many he saw no reason to discomfort himself just to prove this. When the boy offered him his arming cap Sigtryg declined, and stepped out of his tent. He had chosen a good location to set up his command centre, on top of the hill that overlooked the bridge and soon to be battlefield. Shading his eyes with his hand Sigtryg looked across the river at Culad’s camp. All his information had been correct – Culad outnumbered him by more than two to one, and he had a large contingent of cavalry. Satisfied, Sigtryg went back to his tent and ordered his squire to fetch him something to eat; cavalry counted for nothing when crossing a bridge, and a small force could destroy a much larger one in such a battle. It was worth the cost of all those destroyed bridges along his border, it would only take a half-year to rebuild them. He had forced Culad to play his game, and this time he had no intent of losing.

Donchad reported to Culad in full armour, his helmet tucked under his arm. “Ready for battle.” he said stiffly. The moment hung tensely in the air; then Culad pushed away the plate with his breakfast on and swallowed the chunk of bread he was chewing, “Good. You’re the first to arrive, the other officers are still eating.”
“Call me eager.” Donchad looked abashed, “I’ve some ground to make up and the sooner I get started…”
“Drink?” Culad offered his cousin a goblet of wine; Donchad refused it firmly, “No, no more. I will never get drunk again, I’ve…a few changes to make.”
“I wasn’t asking you to get drunk, but if you want to turn down a fine wine on the day of battle so be it.”
“If I don’t drink anything strong then I’ll never find myself drunk.” replied Donchad matter-of-factly, “God knows how she did it, but Nuala warped me into a disgusting mess.”
“No change there then, still totally innocent yourself, of course.” Culad’s thoughts must have shown, because Donchad’s mouth twisted and he began to study his feet, “…And I played along.” the admission sounded as if it nearly killed him.




Biggest casualty so far is the actual writing - as fast as I finish the beginning of the fighting I decide I hate it and delete it. :sigh: Just when I had learned to handle everything that has appeared in the last 30+ pages of this easily I have to write a battle, and discover that while duels are relatively easy now, battles are still hell. I think this may take longer that I hoped...

Donchad was armoured from head to toe, and yet he still felt naked and vulnerable when he looked across the river at the mass of spear points he was about to walk into. Drawn up in close formation about him were the heavy infantry, men equipped just like him in the best equipment available; their long mail hauberks, spangenhelms, and huge shields providing excellent protection against arrows and most other weapons. While they were proofed against wounds as best as any man could be they were no better protected from the real threat here than a peasant in a cloth tunic. In a bridge battle the biggest danger was forcing a crossing, then holding on while surrounded and cramped together, fighting at a huge disadvantage while waiting for more men to arrive and provide support. Until they could force Sigtryg’s men back Culad’s force would only be able to fight on the far shore in a ramshackle formation, no shield wall could be formed in such a tiny space when pressed on all sides. Densely packed together it would be even harder to fight against the enemy swarming them in greater numbers. But, as the officers had concluded after hours of lively discussion, they had to cross the river and all the other bridges had been destroyed, and there were no fords at any point. Donchad drew his sword; like many he had chosen to leave his battleaxe behind, preferring the added protection of his shield. At Donchad’s order the men began to march forward, armour rattling; as he took his first step onto the wooden planks of the bridge Donchad swung his shield up to protect his head and upper body, as did the other soldiers. On the far side, behind the waiting spearmen, Sigtryg’s archers notched their arrows and drew, releasing a volley of arrows as soon as the order to fire at will was given; then they kept firing as fast as they were able, the more skilled men loosing a shot every eight seconds. An arrow glanced off Donchad’s conical helm, and hit the man behind him in the face; another fell with an arrow embedded in his thigh, but the infantry kept moving, stepping over the fallen and speeding up in their haste to reach the melee and the strange safety from missiles it offered. About two thirds of the way across Donchad called for the charge, and everyone began to run. The two forces met with a crash that could be heard echoing for more than a mile; Donchad flung himself into the fray with his usual enthusiasm and competence, hacking and slashing at any targets that presented themselves.

Safely on his hill Sigtryg watched as Donchad’s infantry ploughed into his own spearmen, just past the end of the bridge. The force of their impact simply made it easier for the spearmen to envelop them, pressing in on both flanks in addition to the front; the only safe side of Culad’s force was its rear. Sigtryg’s squire shifted his feet, and the count noticed the boy was watching the fighting with keen interest. “Let me guess.” said Sigtryg, “You want to be down there.”
“Yes, lordship.” replied the boy eagerly, thinking Sigtryg meant to let him go.
The older man chuckled, amused at the boy’s zeal, “You know the best way to survive a battle?”
“No, lordship.”
“Don’t die.”
The squire looked scandalised at his lord’s levity, “I thought skill did count.” he suggested tentatively, “And training too.”
“How old are you, boy?”
“I turned fifteen last summer.” replied the squire hotly, “I’m not a boy now.”
“Ah, the fire of youth; burning away sense and reason in a bonfire of pride and vanity. In the eyes of the law you’re a man at sixteen, boy. Training and skill are important, but they don’t help much when you’re stepping over the corpses of your friends, they help even less when you’re so weary you can barely lift your weapon.”
The squire said nothing, sullenly watching the battle.
“Our turn’ll come later, lad.” said Sigtryg, not unkindly, “Much later when there’s something to gain; this is just the first of many skirmishes.”



I quit for the night All the good ideas I'm getting are for several months past this battle, not a single one for now.

Exhaustion was beginning to set in; Donchad didn’t know how long he had been fighting, but it seemed an eternity, and eternity of hacking and slashing, of screaming faces, of spurting blood, of tripping on the dead and dying. Donchad hacked at the upper arm of the nearest foe, wincing despite himself as he dragged his blade free of the shattered mess of bone and flesh; his blade was growing blunt. As he dragged his guard back up, looking for the next target he realised he was slightly out in front of his allies; his men were being forced back. He stepped back a pace, back to the shelter of his brothers in arms, and kept on fighting; the man on his left went back a step, then the man on his right. All along the line Culad’s men were giving ground; somehow, and Donchad was not clear how, this one step back soon became anther, and another; then they were fighting at the mouth of the bridge, no longer on grass but on the wooden planks of the structure itself. The line broke, and Culad’s heavy infantry started to run for the safety of their own side. Donchad kept fighting, calling for the men to rally and keep battling, but to no avail; left with no choice Donchad joined the retreat.

By mid afternoon Sigtryg and his army had beaten off three more attempts to cross the bridge; the ground was littered in the dead and dying making for treacherous footing, bodies lay in mounds forming impromptu walls and barricades, and a few corpses had fallen into the water where they floated in the shallows, or drifted away on the current. Thus far Sigtryg’s casualties had been light, around eighty men dead or wounded out of further fighting this day. Culad, on the other hand, had not been so fortunate; his losses were estimated at well over two hundred and fifty. Splattered in gore, his armoured battered and begrimed, Sigtryg flopped to the ground, resting his weary bones; he had been fighting in the front line to repel that last attack for more than half an hour. “It’s at times like this I’m reminded I’m no longer a young man.” Someone thrust a wineskin in his face, which the count grabbed eagerly. He swilled his mouth out with some of the watered wine, cleaning away the dust choking him, and then drank greedily, emptying half the skin in one go. “Something to eat, lordship?” his benefactor - a youthful soldier from the half of the army assigned to rest during this last bout of fighting - inquired. Sigtryg nodded, to weary to speak. His squire should have been attending him, but the boy was in the hands of the doctors now; his face slashed open from chin to ear. If he lived he’d have an interesting scar to boast of, if he lived.

Culad looked about the small gathering, at the group of bloody, battered men who were his officers, brought here to his command tent to find a way to break Sigtryg’s defence. “So, any suggestions?” Culad’s query was met with dead silence; each man looked away, avoiding their lord’s gaze, hoping he’d not ask them. The youngest at the gathering, Tomas, gathered his courage, “I’ve one, lordship, if I may?”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, it seems to me that we’ll not fight our way past him on this accursed bridge; if we were ever to do that it was before our path became cluttered with our dead. We need to outflank him.”
“Oh aye, fine idea.” Enna waved his hand dismissively, “We’ve none of us thought of that, it’s a mighty fine thing you’re able to spot the obvious when we’re not”
“You misunderstand me.” countered Tomas, “We can’t go past him by land, and we’ll not sail by either, but how about swimming?”
“The current’s too strong, lad.” said Pilib kindly, “A man’d have to leave all his gear but a sword behind, and then he’d be easy pickings, and tired too, before the fighting even began.”
“A man yes, but not a horse.” Every eye in the room turned to focus on the young man. “We take the light cavalry, they’re none to heavily burdened, and send them swimming across; the horses’ll handle the current well enough. It’d have to be the light cavalry, or the weight of man and arms would drag the animal below.”
“And they’ll just let us swim over?” asked Donchad sceptically.
“No.” Culad was deep in thought, rubbing his chin, “But if we go a mile or two downstream then they’ll not be able to attack us while we cross; then we can loop about and catch the enemy from behind.”

Sigtryg was gnawing on a strip of dried beef, letting his marshal repulse the latest attempt on the bridge, when a scout reported to him, “Lordship, cavalry approaching on this bank, Culad’s got around us”
“Has he indeed.” Sigtryg tossed the beef over his shoulder and pushed himself to his feet, “Form up the resting men to face to the rear, tell them to hold all as if their lives depended on it.” “And so the ending, inevitable enough perhaps, but it matters little that Culad’s crossed the river, for his army’s broken down to half strength, that’s before his further losses finishing this battle today, and I’ve a nice stone castle fully stocked staffed with well rested, loyal men. My liege’ll not dare assault it with his remnants, and he’ll not starve me out in anything less than months; but little does he know I’ve some men left hidden away, waiting for his force to reach breaking point, then in I’ll swoop to claim my victory.” The count started looking for a horse.

It was going dark by the time Sigtryg’s army finally crumpled; fleeing the field, caught between Donchad’s infantry storming across the bridge, and the light cavalry lead by Culad. The rebel count was no where to be found.




Ok, so that is not good, really not very good at all and don't tell me otherwise - I hate the way that turned out. Now you know what a froggy rough priliminary draft looks like. I had such grand plans for this, alas my head is buzzing with another scene which I can't get out of my head. It is time to move on, this charts what happened well enough, but with none of the narrative, detail, flare, interest or enthusiasm I had in mind.

And now I must write that scene that is bothering me, at long last. Days, weeks, months - this scene has been in my mind since the very beginning, and now it is time...

March 3 1068
Sigtryg lightly clasped both of Agatha hands between his own, “You understand what you must do?”
“Yes.” A tear escaped from the corner of her eye and began to run down her cheek. Sigtryg brushed it away with his finger, “Don’t cry, you’ll be alright, and so will I; this is a backup plan, nothing more. And now it’s time, you must make ready, and so must I.” He kissed her on the lips, and then led her towards the door of his solar; placing her in the care of the guard outside, “Take her to the main gate, when I give the word she’s to be freed to Culad’s keeping.” The guard saluted, and lead Agatha away; to her credit she didn’t look back, not even once. “And that’s me back to being lonely; as much as I enjoyed her company I do hope never to see her again.” A cold, tingling sensation ran down Sigtryg’s spine; as if someone had run an icicle down his back. Dismissing this with a simple shrug, Sigtryg set off to his own destination, the ramparts above his main gate out of the walls.

Culad waited on the ground outside Sigtryg’s gate; reckless enough to enter bowshot, although he was sure his count wouldn’t just shoot him out of hand, not just yet. A dark haired figure swaggered into view on the wall above, crossing over to the parapet and leaning his elbows on one of the notches cut in the wall. Sigtryg looked down on his liege with a mocking smile, “Morning, Culad, how nice of you to join us.”
“I’m here for your surrender. Open the gates and I’ll spare the garrison.”
“Ah, but not me?”
“But not you, you’ll be taken prisoner; I give you my word you’ll not be killed.”
“I’m not one for giving up when I’ve still a good chance of winning; go ahead, try my defences, you’ll find them in the bets of repair and well manned. You’ll not assault me without heavy losses, and that’d be bad tactics. I’ve supplies enough to hold out for months, more even. Try your patience, for that’s what this comes down to; your patience against mine, and I’ve always been able to wait far batter than you.”
“As you will.” Culad pulled at his horse’s reins, turning the animal back to his own army.
“Wait a moment.” Sigtryg disappeared from the ramparts for a second, then reappeared as the great iron bound gates opened enough for one person to leave, “You can have your lady’s maid back now. She’s an extra mouth, and you know how I’m none so fond of those in a siege.” Agatha walked out the gap, holding her arms away from her body so Culad could see she was unarmed and meaning no harm. He pulled her up onto his horse in front of him, gently dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks, and rode back to his army. Soon after the catapults began their bombardment.

April 28 1068
Culad sat in his tent reading a letter from home;
To the curmudgeon with brown hair, greetings from your devoted wife.

And so the days crawl by and still you are off fighting, I begin to doubt you will be home in time. Knowing you as I do I’ll wager that after reading that you are probably protesting I’m wrong; don’t bother, save your breath since you’ll need it for all that shouting orders and similar you solider types get up to. It doesn’t matter, as long as you get home safely at some point it doesn’t matter; I feel I should warn you that if you make me a widow I’ll not be too pleased.

GillaÍsu has begun to talk; he says ‘dada’ with such a strange expression on his face, almost as if he wants to be sick. I know how he feels; you used to have a similar effect on me. Looks like you have another devoted fan there, then. You asked what we can call this new baby, since you do persist in calling GillaÍsu ‘headache’, may I suggest this one be called ‘restless’? I begin to wonder if (s)he is currently fighting a war with no less than five hundred warriors per side; I would be grateful if (s)he could wait until after (s)he is born before being so active Still, the midwives say it is a good sign, so I won’t complain. Too much.

Returning to the subject of names, and decent ones this time, you agreed on a Saxon name, so take your pick. Boy: Thurstan, Edwin, Alfred, Godwin, Edgar, Leofwine. Girl: Edith, Athelflaed, Hilda, Elfleda.

And now I fear I will humiliate myself, and add that I miss you.
Signed, Margaret; expectant mother wishing she could dump the expecting part on the father. Next time I’ll fight the war, you handle the baby

PS: If GillaÍsu is ‘headache’, this new baby is ‘restless’, then what am I?

Culad rummaged around for a suitable bit of parchment, his inkhorn and quill pen, seated himself at the tiny table, and started to write in his clumsy, laboured hand;
To the harridan who inspires a nervous tick every time her name is mentioned, greetings from your favourite torture victim.

I keep telling you I’ll be back in time, so have a little faith? Sigtryg is trapped like a pig in a snare, it is only a matter of time before this is over and I’m back at your side, being derided and subjected to your foul persecutions; maybe I should prolong the siege a little for the sake of my health? Edwin and Edith are the best of those names you sent, although I rather liked the good Irish sounds of Indrechtach for a boy, or Caoimhe for a girl. No, I tease, your Saxon names will suit well enough, for I’ll just call the sprog ‘restless’ if I can’t pronounce the true name

Tir Connail will be GillaÍsu’s inheritance, and Tir Eoghain will belong to our next son. I’ll have no more rebellious counts; I’ll hold the land in trust until they are of age to rule it themselves. Ulster’ll be run by one big, happy family, though I think I’ll keep any future conquest to myself…Dublin’s a rich province.

Being a polite chap I can’t let you humiliate yourself and keep aloof myself; so I’ll go one better and say I love you.
Signed, Culad; that man with the brown hair and seductive smile you may remember getting married to a couple of years back.

PS: You’re ‘tiring’, for an assortment of reasons you can probably supply yourself.


Culad put his quill down, grinning as he imagined Margaret’s reaction to that last line; she’d have a field day looking for ulterior meanings, he’d have to ask how many she’d managed to come up with when he got home.

June 3 1068
A messenger rode into Culad’s camp so early in the morning few men were up, travel stained and dusty; his horse struggling for breath and sweat covered. He half fell, half slid from his saddle and began asking the nearest men where he could find either duke Culad or Donchad. It was Donchad he found first; saving no time for formalities the messenger stuffed a letter into the half-awake marshal’s hand, gasping, “Most urgent, from your lady wife.” Donchad called for his squire to take the messenger away and tend to his needs. As soon as he was alone he opened the letter, wondering what Nuala could possibly have to write to him about.

Culad woke to find someone shaking his shoulder, rubbing his eyes he sat up in bed, “What is it now, Donchad? Sigtryg surrendered?”
“No. News from home.” Donchad passed the tip of his tongue over his lips, “Margaret went into labour a little over five days ago.”
“So I broke my promise, she’ll give me an earful when I get back” Culad’s face split with a grin, “If it weren’t for Sigtryg’s stubbornness I’d have been home well in time; well I dare say she’ll forgive me. So what is the child, boy or girl?”
“A son, they christened him Edwin before…before he…died.” the last word was scarcely more than a sigh; Donchad continued to stand awkwardly, unsure of what to do for his kinsman. Culad’s lips worked, but no sound emerged. “Died.” he breathed, “Died…” A single thought jerked Culad from his numb shock, and he leapt out of bed, grasping Donchad by the tunic, and asked urgently, “Margaret? What of her?” Donchad said nothing; he didn’t need to, the answer was written on his haggard, sorrowful face. Culad’s grip loosened, and he collapsed down onto his bed, sitting staring blankly ahead.
“Nuala says it was a difficult labour, more than twenty hours.” Donchad’s voice wavered slightly, but he pressed on, “The midwives did as their creed dictated, christened the child then tried to save the mother even at the cost of the baby. She was bleeding they…they couldn’t stop it, Margaret was exhausted and the child sickly.” his haltering retelling of the contents of the letter was interrupted when Culad stood up; he walked out of his tent, dressed only in his shirt and braies, eyes staring blindly ahead. Oblivious to those speaking to him Culad kept walking until he was long past the outskirts of the camp, away from everyone else. Dazedly he sat on the ground, lost in a world of his own.

Culad didn’t move for the rest of the day, nor the night; he resisted all attempts to move him and ignored everybody who tried to talk to him. Only when Donchad brought him some food and drink in the middle of the night did he break his resemblance to a statue; he kept looking up at the starry sky, and said quietly, “If the stars can tell us the future why didn’t they warn me of this? It needn’t have happened…we didn’t have to have another child.” This said, Culad returned to wherever his mind had retreated.

“What are we going to do?” asked Pilib, keeping his voice low so only his brother officers could hear, “Our duke’s gone mad, we’ve a war to finish and he’s…gone, just gone.”
“He isn’t mad” Donchad’s eyes blazed, “He is not mad The man just found he’s lost his wife and baby son”
Young Tomas bit his lip, “He’s like a man whose heart has been torn out, I’ve never seen the like.” The light in the tent was blocked, as a figure stood in the entrance. At a swift glance anyone could mistake the man for a ghost, so pale was he. Culad had dressed, not in cloth but in mail, his full battle armour except the helmet. When he walked to the centre of the gathering his step was heavy, as if the weight of the world had suddenly dropped onto his shoulders; his face was set in an expressionless mask, but his eyes betrayed his pain, “We’re going to assault the castle. Take no prisoners, but I want Sigtryg alive. Move.”
“Cousin…” began Donchad.
Culad’s head turned and his pain filled eyes met Donchad’s. “Don’t protest; we’re going. I will end this now, today.”
Pilib broke the heavy silence, “We’d best form the men up.”

The battering ram thudded into the gates, the wood protested and began to splinter. Another thud, and the splintering grew; as Culad stood by the ram waiting for the siege crew to finish their work his men dropped about him, hit by missiles flung by the defenders. Breaching the gatehouse was the more dangerous part of the assault, at other points along the walls men were climbing ladders and pouring onto the ramparts, fighting the desperate defenders. The man right next to Culad gurgled and clawed at his throat, and the arrow embedded in it, before dropping to the ground. Culad stared at the corpse dispassionately; the gates gave a final protest before falling open; drawing his sword Culad joined the rush of men pouring through the gap to slaughter the defenders. He’d discarded his shield, choosing to wield his sword in an unorthodox two-handed grip, and now he fought like a man possessed, cutting down any within reach, heedless of the blood that splattered over him. Culad ripped the stomach out of one man, then severed another’s hand, before burying his blade in the shoulder of a third; then it was over, there was nobody left nearby to kill. Culad looked about himself, dazed, as though waking from a dream. He stood alone in the gateway, surrounded by dead and dying; he saw his men running through the castle, slaughtering the defenders without mercy. And he remembered…he remembered…her; Culad’s sword fell from his limp hand, clanging off the flagstones. He dropped to his knees beside it, and wept like a broken man.

The sun was just beginning to set when Sigtryg was shoved through the entrance to Culad’s tent; his hands shackled together, stripped of his armour and weapons. The guard rammed the butt of his spear into Sigtryg’s knees, knocking him to the ground, and forcing him to kneel before Culad. “You may go.” the guard followed his lord’s order, leaving the duke and his count alone together. Culad began pacing restlessly up and down, “Where’s your wife? We’ve not found her yet; I mean her no harm but she can hardly be left running about a castle that’s just fallen to an army with a taste for vengeance after you killed more than half their comrades.”
Sigtryg stayed on his knees, knowing attitude rather than pose spoke truly, “You’ll not find her, I sent her away when it became clear you intended to assault.” Sigtryg’s lips twitched into a sad smile, “I sent her off to safety with Niall, told them to pick up their lives from where I’d interrupted. I’m sure they’ll marry, but it’ll be my child that they care for as their first born, for she’ll love my brat as much as she hated me.” A woman slipped into the tent, carrying a tray with two goblets and a pitcher of wine. Ignored by Culad, she set the tray down on his small table, poured wine into both vessels, and offered one to Culad. He declined; if he started drinking now he’d not stop until he passed out. The woman offered the drink to Sigtryg and he took it gratefully, “Thank you, Agatha.” He raised the goblet in a toast to her, the movement causing his chains to clank, then drank the contents in one go. “Bittersweet, pleasing to the tongue, but I suspect the aftertaste will be less agreeable. Another, if you’d be so kind.” Agatha poured him a refill, and the count drank deeply, before handing her the nearly empty cup. Throughout this Culad had been lost in his own world again, paying no heed to the world about him. Sigtryg probed to find a reason for Culad’s unexpected decision to assault the castle; he based his guess from the dreadful state of the duke, “So how’s things going, then? How’s family?”
Culad answered automatically, still his mind wandering, “Dead, she’s dead…so’s my boy, my second son. Both gone.” He blinked, then snapped back to this world, “Gone, and I wasn’t there because of you I won’t even be there for the funeral, I won’t be back in time and it’s all because of YOU” Culad grasped the chain running between Sigtryg’s wrists and hauled him to his feet, “You’ll die screaming for this”
“I’m sure that’ll help bring them back” said Sigtryg evenly; he could feel his lips beginning to tingle and burn. With a wordless cry of rage and despair Culad threw Sigtryg away from him, watching with grim satisfaction as the count struggled to keep his feet, hampered by his chains. “I am going to have you hung like a common criminal, then your entrails torn out while you still live; no fast, easy end for you. You will die right in the centre of my capital for all to see, watched by little children who’ll remember and boast they were there to see They’ll collect your blood on cloth as souvenirs, to remind them of how they saw you gutted like a fish, torn to shreds screaming and begging for mercy, shaming yourself as you died I’ll have your head on a pike above my castle, and your body hacked up and parts sent to all the major castles and towns in Ulster”
“As you will.” Sigtryg could feel his stomach beginning to hurt now, and he fought to hide the agony, talking in the same even tone as before, “I’m none so certain of what it’ll accomplish, but as you will.”
“Yes, as I will; now if you’d said that in the first place we’d not have had this war, but no, you had to-” Culad halted; Sigtryg had clutched his stomach, stifling a groan. His skin had gone the colour of candle wax, and sweat was beginning to spring out on his forehead. “Poison.” said Culad, suddenly realising the importance of the drink – and the maid – he had all but ignored, “You took poison.”
“Oh yes.” It was hard to talk now, Sigtryg’s lips were going numb and his body was a blaze of agony, “I thought I’d deprive the children of…their plaything…not for me…such an…end.” somehow he forced a triumphant grin, “I out thought…you to the…finish, a good…pupil, but…you’re not good…enough.” Sigtryg slumped forward, his face pressed into the ground, “Promise…me you’ll…leave my…family …alone…”
“I promise.” Culad didn’t know why he said that, only that he did, and he meant it. Sigtryg must have heard; he died with his mouth contorted into a half smile, half grimace, satisfied that while he had lost the war he had beaten his old pupil, and that was what mattered more.




And now perhaps after 97 pages you understand the romance, and the crying smiley under Margaret's last proper appearence. It was the only way to lend her death the same impact it had on my game. One second the world was bright and cheerful; I had an heir and another about to be born, my war was nearly won, everything was going so well...then she died, the child too. I lost my spymaster, my future, my dreams; Culad, too, took it hard, the castle fell as soon as he heard. This changed everything. she was only 23 years old; I knew the event existed, but I never thought it'd happen to me, not like this. No game has ever modeled the high morality rate in childbirth before...I was so certain she'd be alright.

I knew I had to write this story when I thought of Culad kneeling in that gateway, utterly berreft. I could have saved her, you know...so easy to alter history, I've already done it several times, but if I did that then...then the rest of the tale would never happen, and I knew no matter how much I wanted to change things I couldn't, not without causing the story to unravel.

I've killed my favourite character, and one of my other favourites too. That's 3 out of 4, gone, all gone.

:raises a toast: Margaret Atheling, hail and farewell http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...cons/mecry.gif




And so the question is: now what? There is a lot more story in this, but I can tie things neatly off here for a good ending. I don't want to keep posting this if people aren't interested; I can tie this topic off and keep writing it over at paradox, or just keep writing for myself, or I can continue as I am now with two topics.

As you may guess from this point a lot changes, many new characters, new events, a new focus; there is less fighting, I haven't found a way to replace the humour that died with Margaret. It becomes...more character focused, still some skull splitting but it is rarer.

Now what?

Good grief. I join the toast: Margaret Atheling, you will never be forgotten.

I am still interested in how the story will unfold, so please keep writing it.

As you may imagine after that last scene I'm a bit burned out; I'll leave the story for today at least, take a break and give people time to decide if they want to keep going on this.

I feel I should emphasise once again how long it is going to be if I continue; you are looking at months of updates on a similar scale to this. Months.

http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...cons/mecry.gif *joins toast* To Margeret Atheling, goodbye.

Keep writing, Froggy.

yep. margaret was certainly one of the most unique characters around.

story would be tough but keep writing, lady froggy.

perhaps a resurrection of say Fionna would spice things up a bit in terms of replacing the void left by Margaret.

June 19 1068
Handing the reins of his horse to a groom, Donchad hurried inside out of the evening rain; took his dripping cloak. The staff of his manor hurried about in frenzied panic, rushing to prepare food and beds for their lord and his remaining soldiers, returned unexpectedly from the capital. Donchad caught the arm of a passing maid, “Where’s my wife?”
“In her chamber, my lord, with your daughter.”
Donchad’s eyebrows shot up, “Is she indeed? Send our dinner up there then.” He released the maid, and started towards the staircase that led up to the two bedrooms. At his wife’s door he paused, his hand hovering just above the latch; he braced himself for whatever he might encounter, and opened the door. Whatever he had expected it was not what he found; Nuala and DubEssa were playing with a small rag ball on the floor between the bed and the fireplace. They both looked up when the door opened; Nuala’s face fell into a neutral mask, and DubEssa ran to her mother’s arms, alarmed by this stranger. Donchad stood in the doorway, his damp clothes dripping onto the rush-strewn floor; he felt like an intruder, an intruder in his own home, “It’s nice to see you acting like a mother.” He’d meant it as a compliment, but from the set of Nuala’s jaw he could tell she’d taken it as a slight.
“I’d have thought” she said carefully, “That you’d be with Culad.”
“And that’s what I’d have thought too, but he sent me away, nothing I could do but go.”
“Sometimes it’s reasonable to say no, but you never did think that in any setting – you should have refused to leave, he’ll need his friends.”
“’If at first you don’t succeed keep on bashing away’, let me tell you, my dear wife, that not all of us share you bull headed view of the world.” Donchad knelt next to his daughter, still huddled in her mother’s arms, and gently asked, “Do you remember me? I’m your father.” The little girl nodded obediently, but Donchad could see she had forgotten him in his long absence. His disappointment must have shown, because Nuala said, “She’s not even two yet, she forgets easily.” Donchad rose, and started to unbuckle his sword belt, covering the sense of betrayal he felt, that his daughter had forgotten him but obviously loved the mother who never wanted her, “I ordered that food be sent up here; I thought we might manage a civil meal together.” He set the weapon aside, dumping it on the bed.
“As you wish.” Nuala stood, and took DubEssa’s hand, walking her slowly over to the door, “I’ll send her back to her nurse then, civil or not I doubt either of us want her to watch.” Several minutes later Nuala came back alone, to find a tray of food had been delivered. “I sent the servants away” said Donchad, “I thought we’d serve ourselves.” his lips twisted in a bitter smile, “A tender reunion, one victorious soldier back from the wars and his wife…I doubt we need witnesses.”
“If you say so.” replied Nuala coolly.
“I do say so.” Donchad began picking the covers off the assorted platters and bowls on the tray, “Roast chicken, assorted boiled vegetables, salmon pie; truly a wondrous feast for my homecoming with no expense spared.”
“We didn’t know you were going to get back today; not that it would have mattered – you told all the servants to ignore my orders, remember? I can hardly whip up a celebratory feast, even if I want to.”
“I remember, and I also remember why I did that; though now Sigtryg’s dead I may be persuaded to change things a little, maybe.” Donchad transferred a piece of chicken to his trencher, cut a bit off and impaled it on the tip of his eating knife, “What, no comment?”
“Where’s the point? You’ll decide and I’ll have to follow, same as usual.”
Donchad swallowed his chicken, “Not this time, oh no, not this time. You’ll not cause me to lose my temper; I’ll not be twisted into displaying my worst side yet again.”
“I wasn’t trying to provoke you, we both know who loses when we fight – me. I was simply stating the truth, saving us a bit of time.”
“So that’s the way of things, is it? Fine, I’ll play along, this is what we are going to do; we will stop this endless bickering, you will stop sniping at me and in return I’ll keep better control of my temper. You act the perfect wife, and I’ll let you have some more freedom, if you’re going to act the part you’ll need the power, but I’ll have your word that you’ll consult with me before doing anything major. You will stop painting me as some kind of monster, stop trying to make me into one, and above all you will stop cowering every time I enter this room. You can also stop trying to leave me, for I’ll never allow it – we’re bound together in this, like it or not, there’s no way out of this marriage except one of us dying or taking religious orders, and I doubt either of us is willing to make that sacrifice for the other’s joy. Now, anything you want to add?”
“I want a lock back on my door; the other things I won’t bother asking about, I know you’ll protest innocence and we’ll be back fighting yet again.”
“And already you try to skip out of the dutiful wife part; okay, I can take a hint, I’ll take my passions elsewhere. Not much point in confining them to you anyway, unless you’ve changed your mind about more children?”
“I don’t want to die.”
“Very well, I’ll ignore you unless I feel like a dose of hypothermia; you, on the other hand, will most certainly not take a lover or anything of the type – I’ll not have DubEssa’s parentage called into question. So, that’s settled then; we shall exist in polite civility from this point on.”
Donchad kept eating, but Nuala didn’t touch the food in front of her. When he reached for a piece of salmon pie she asked, “Since I have to ask before I can do any thing, I want to sack the cook; he knows I hate salmon pie and he’s been serving it nightly for months to taunt me.”
“He’s a good cook; we’re keeping him.”
“Then you’ll at least allow me to ban him from ever making salmon pie again?”
“Oh very well, if you really must act on this grudge.” Donchad watched his wife pick at a piece of carrot, playing with it rather than eating it. “Why the sudden change of heart towards DubEssa?”
“Hardly sudden; you were gone for four months you know. A little bit of age goes a long way; in small doses she is…tolerable. Time heals; I’m finally forgetting just how close to death I came, how bad it all was.” They both went silent, remembering how Margaret had died. “We should have been like them.” said Nuala softly.
“Like who?”
“Culad and Margaret, who else? We should have been like them…happy.”

June 20 1068
Fionnghualla knocked on the door to Culad’s study; there was no response, but she knew he was in there. Cautiously she opened the door; Culad was sat at his table staring aimlessly into the distance, “Get out.”
“No.” Fionnghualla shut the door firmly behind herself, making it clear she intended to go nowhere, “You’ve got a realm to run; I am here for your decisions on several matters, also to broach an important matter of-”
“Got out” repeated Culad.
“Not until my business is finished.”
“GET OUT” roared Culad, throwing the closest thing to hand at her; Fionnghualla dodged out of the way of the inkhorn, but still got splashed with some ink when it hit the wall. Shooting a furious glare at the duke she spun and stomped out of the room, leaving the door to slam shut or not as the fancy took it. She did not remain gone for long; bursting back in with GillaÍsu tucked under her arm, carrying him with the awkwardness of one unfamiliar with children. She shoved the boy into Culad’s arms, “Look at him.” she ordered; when Culad failed to comply she grabbed his ear and twisted it until he obeyed, “Does that look like it can rule Ulster? Does it look independent? No, that brat needs you, and you’re determined to die. Do you think she’d thank you for this? I don’t – I think she’d be disgusted, disgusted and horrified that you’re so selfish that you ignore your child, choosing to waste away rather than pull yourself together and carry on.” she could see she was beginning to get through to him, so she softened her tone, “It hurts, live with it.”
Culad hugged GillaÍsu protectively to his chest, “What did you want?”
“That maid who poisoned Sigtryg, you’ll let her go now.”
“No”
“You will; vengeance will bring you nothing but grief when you realise what you’ve done; let her go home to England.”
“I can’t; she cheated me of Sigtryg’s death. I was going to make an example of him.”
“Oh yes you can; can and will – you were never going to execute Sigtryg, you haven’t the stomach for it. All she did was save him from a lifetime locked away, and if you think on it you’ll see she saved you a lot of money; prisoners are expensive, even if you put them in your worst dungeon and barely feed them. Exile her back to her homeland.”
“No, she’ll die at my convenience.”
“Will no one lend me strength before I throttle you?” declared an exasperated Fionnghualla, “Did I just waste a year helping keep your rear on that ducal throne only to have you go useless on me? You’ll not kill her, you just like to think so; I’m beginning to wish I’d killed you and gone to work for Sigtryg as he suggested At least that man had the sense to admit what he could and could not do”
“I said she’ll die, and I mean it.”
“So be it, I’ll have her brought up and you can behead her or somesuch; get it over with, she’s cluttering up my cells – I’m a spymaster, not a prison guard.”
“Bring her up then, if you’re so insistent on removing her quickly, bring her up and send someone to fetch my sword.” Fionnghualla went and quickly gave the orders to a nearby guard, before waiting in silence with Culad. Agatha arrived before the sword, chained at the wrists, pale and filthy after days of imprisonment in a dungeon. Culad stood, and carefully placed his son on the chair, before starting to pace in circles impatiently around Agatha. When his sword was delivered he ripped the blade clear of the sheath, and tossed both scabbard and sword belt into a corner. Agatha went pale, under the grime coating her skin, “What…?”
“You’re going to die.” Fionnghualla cheerfully informed her, “Our lord duke has decided he’s going to kill you right here in front of his infant son, spilling gore all over his study, and staining his hands with the blood of a defenceless woman.”
“Silence” ordered Culad, pressing the tip of his sword into Agatha’s neck; his hand shook, and he accidentally cut her, a thin trickle of blood ran down her neck. The Saxon closed her eyes and began to pray, her lips moving silently, resolved to die with dignity. Culad’s hand was shaking so badly he could barely keep the weapon aimed at her throat; he held his pose for a long time, before sighing and throwing his sword down, “Damn it.”
“Exile then?” inquired Fionnghualla merrily; Culad nodded, and Fionnghualla patted Agatha on the shoulder, “There, there, it’s all over; hope you don’t get sea sick on the way back. By the way, if you do anything else to harm Ulster I’ll assassinate you myself, have a nice trip.” The stunned prisoner was ushered from the room by the same guards who had brought her up. Told you.” said Fionnghualla smugly, picking the sword up and putting it safely back in its sheath.
“Is that all?” Culad sat back down with his son on his lap, the boy grabbed the discarded quill pen from the table in front of him and began to chew on it, Culad didn’t notice, “Can I be shot of you now?”
“One last thing; the coffers are all but empty, our armies are depleted and Ulster is vulnerable, your succession is not secure. You must marry again.”
“I have a son.”
“Children die; you need more of them, and you need a new wife with a good dowry to pay your bills.”
“I won’t let GillaÍsu die”
“Oh, so you’re God now? I always wanted to be spymaster for someone powerful.”
Culad hung his head, “There’s no getting away from it, is there? I’ve been thinking up excuses for days, but I knew…I can’t even wait a few months, can I?”
”No.” confirmed Fionnghualla with more sympathy than might be expected, “There’s only one local candidate of suitable rank, wealth and so on; Dubchoblaig O’ Reibly.”
“Details?”
“Dark hair, light brown eyes, not too bad skin, large dowry, some land, twelve years old-”
“Twelve? No, no way in hell”
“Why ever not? She’s very suitable.”
“No way am I marrying and bedding a child I don’t care what the church says, or her family, or even what she says – I have more mature tastes, thank you very much”
“Oh how very squeamish. In that case you’ll have to go foreign again.” Fionnghualla pulled out a list she had tucked through her girdle, and put it on the table before Culad. He picked it up and quickly skimmed the list, “So then, headache, which one’ll it be? You choose.” he picked his son’s podgy hand up and positioned it over the list, “Go on, pick a name.” GillaÍsu frowned in concentration, and then stabbed his finger at a name, proclaiming one of his very few words, “Duck.”
“Eve of Mar.” read Culad, “Eve of Mar…Scotland?”
“Yes, one of the north-eastern lords. Before you ask she’s seventeen…just.”
“Seventeen?” Culad pulled a face at his son, “Well I suppose to your excuse that’s mature from your whole one year; seventeen…so much for my preference for mature, I was thinking twenty at the least.”
“If you really want I can send a proposal to Ella de Normandy, she’s forty-nine,” suggested Fionnghualla acidly.
“No” Culad looked horrified at that prospect, “No, Eve’ll do just fine, seventeen’s not that young when you think about it, and ten year age differences are quite common, so there must be something good about having a much younger wife, right?”
“Good, I’ll send the proposal.” Fionnghualla swept from the room before he could contradict her; striding off down the corridor towards her own room, examining the ink stains on the sleeve of her dark blue dress and frowning in displeasure when she saw some ink had worked its way onto her white linen under dress. “Shock tactics: success. Gained: one fully functioning duke. Outcome: back to business as usual.”





In case you can't tell this is setting up for a continuation of the story, rather than a neat ending with what's here. Don't say I didn't warn you when we're still here far into the future.

“We should have been like them.” said Nuala softly.
“Like who?”
“Culad and Margaret, who else? We should have been like them…happy.”
Swap the speakers and the people being talked about around and you've got the same line that started the Culad/Margaret romance; that line has been both the beginning and the end of a love affair, how poetic http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...ishatongue.gif