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A glimpse at what Hugh is doing? Well, at least this time that he does his stuff by the book it´s the time for it.
Holiday? Why, wouldn´t that be an excellent opportunity to sit down and write some more?
And as you mentioned classics to read a few posts above, I´m just wrestling myself through the Canterbury Tales. Worse than Shakespear, Chaucer is, though being German actually helps - his language structure has a lot more in common with German than modern-day English.
Shouldn't it be b o u g h t
And since I've already wasted post space :) : in the latest episode, the first word of the 3rd sentence in the first paragraph should probably be m a y
(That's nit-picking, but bought *is* different than brought.
great some action (or at least the beginning of some action) again.
I'm somewhat confused about the postions/state/movement of the armies, castles and towns. I know it's a lot to ask but could you clarifie this with a map of some sorts. It would help me understand/follow the action going on in this kingdom.
Quote:
Vladimir: Nell's been saying ever since the possibility appeared that she doesn't want the crown, and she's been saying why to the point of me fearing I was hammering it home with a mallet the size of Ireland. Conversely she's been in love with Fulk for far longer than that. Given that I don't see how her choice is anything but predictable.
Doesn't want or won't take? It seems clear that the final choice still awaits her. As the story progresses not only are you trying to legitimize Fulk but you’re also grooming her for the throne. Whether she intended to represent England or not is irrelevant because that’s how you wrote it.
I can just imagine it though: Jocelyn takes a boat to Perth only to find that Nell and Fulk are fighting against locals back in Northern England. I wonder if she’s ever going to get that ring.
Wow, long time no frog. Maybe she was visiting DC and got washed away in the flooding ~:eek: .
O.T.: .org slllooooooowwww
On the day Fulk gained the biggest honour of his life he found he was most appreciative of small things: being seated with Hawise, the only dining partner he could have with who knew what was to happen and so understood if he did not talk as much as usual; being placed at one of the lower tables, where he was not the subject of much attention and so any slips in his mask of normality would hopefully pass unobserved; sharing a trencher, having a companion who did her limited all to keep him from dropping dead from sheer tension.
Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, knight in the princess’ entourage and minor baron of no import, did not know that this feast was anything but a celebration of the reasonable alliance signed between his lady’s family and the Scottish crown.
On the dais Eleanore Regis Anglia e Filia, Lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Ketton, and Barrowden did not know this feast was anything but a mark of her success. By his cautious glances Fulk thought Eleanor was doing a better job of it then him.
Prince Malcolm’s place was empty, the prince gone that morning and not to return. Eleanor partnered with the king, the empty place at her side insulating her from Anne. Fulk was glad of it. Eleanor might extend some forgiveness to the girl; he couldn’t. All Anne’s talk of her father meaning to humiliate them anyway and her turning it to something they could use to their advantage, her trying to do her duty by both her families, her winning them what they could not otherwise have, all her excuses and explanations – it did nothing to change the one thing which mattered to Fulk. She had betrayed the secret they had entrusted to her, flung their lives out into God knows what, and she had done it because she had wanted to. Because her head was so stuffed full of her stories that she could not see it as anything but wonderful. She hadn’t asked, she hadn’t warned them; Fulk didn’t think she had given them a moment’s true consideration. He’d told Eleanor to maintain polite contact, and otherwise keep away from the girl. Harder for her to do more damage then. He still wondered how much heed of that Eleanor would take …
This waiting was miserable. He wanted it over with. He wanted it to last forever.
Dish after dish he choked down, tasting nothing and wanting nothing. He followed along the conversation Hawise supplied, laughed and smiled and exclaimed and frowned and made all the right responses in all the right places. He pretended to be amused by the ‘tourney’ fought by a troupe of dwarves dressed in mock armour and riding children’s stick horses.
As the final course was being set out the King of Scots rose. When the hall had gone still he began to speak. “It is known that when a king is anointed he is set apart from all men, closer to God and granted gifts to reflect this and aid him in his burdens. It is given to a king to see that which others do not, to know that which is unknown, to do that which is undone. It is our duty to do that which God wishes to be done.” A dramatic pause, then he declared, “And so we shall.”
Jesù, this was it. It had begun. No turning back. Their old lives were dying. Fulk hid his hands beneath the table so none could see if they shook; his nails bit into his palms and he consciously battled to keep his mind unclouded by what they were doing and all that it meant.
“A man must be true to his sworn word. He must be so always, no matter the personal cost. He should be loyal to his father, his lord, and God. We find we cannot bear to allow one man to continue in this, for he does richly deserve that which he denies himself by his very steadfastness. We find it unjust to allow him to continue lacking in honest recognition.” A murmur grew up in the hall; the king raised a hand to still it. “Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, stand forth.”
Fulk exhaled once, inhaled what was intended to be a steadying breath, placed his hand on the tabletop and rose onto legs which felt like jelly. He walked along to the gap five men wide at the top where his table ended and the dais began to rise. He passed through the gap, travelled to the centre of the hall and the space before the king, feeling as he did so the curious eyes of a tableful of nobility; the low tables were too far away for him to be overly aware of the people there.
He knelt before the king, gaze fixed firmly on the floor. He’d ceased to notice his injured knee aching.
“We have commented much on your deeds and the quality which must prompt them, and so we have looked to see the source. Consequently, we do know of much. Let us furnish you with your full name. Sir Fulk FitzWilliam de la Bec.”
And so Beaumains the Kitchen Knight was supposed to stand and declare himself to be none other than Prince Gareth of Orkney. Fulk counted the rushes on the floor, shutting his ears to the uproar and declining to react. He feared what he might do if he did otherwise.
Loudly, to carry across the noise in his hall, Malcolm the Elder consoled Fulk. “We declare you have not broken your oath, and none could say it otherwise. We named your father; you did not, and by no action did you betray him, save those merits stemming from your noble blood that cannot – and never should be – concealed. Indeed, we find your silence to guard the reputation of William de la Bec to be further proof of your goodness. But let it be no more. Archbishop of York though he may have been, he was but a man, prey to all a man’s weaknesses.”
It was no injustice. Fulk knew that – the man had been chosen carefully, name, blood and life all making the story convincing enough not to be dismissed outright. The injustice lay solely in refuting his own father. He had sworn to himself he would never do that; he would never directly claim his father to be anyone than the right man.
Fulk liked to believe that if they could see this his parents would be proud of what he had achieved and wish him and Eleanor well, or at the very least understand it. Liked to believe – he couldn’t escape the stronger feeling that they would have been horrified. No such doubts could be held over Eleanor’s side; if parental ghosts were present then at least two would be trying to throttle him.
“We do create a new earldom, the Earldom of Alnwick.” Fulk let the description of his lands flow by. “And thus, in honour of his many merits, and of our friendship to him, we do bestow the lands, titles and honours upon Sir Fulk FitzWilliam de la Bec.” He stepped out from behind his table, came to the front of the dais and offered his hand to Fulk. “Do your homage.”
Fulk placed his hands between the other man’s. He filled his lungs, raised his voice and pitched his words clear for all to hear. “I become your man from this day forth, for life and for worldly honour, and shall owe you faith for the lands that I hold of you; saving the faith that I owe unto my lord the King of England.” The last bit flowed faster than the rest, a little louder; Eleanor’s twist, and he would not let it be stifled or claimed never to have been said. He was an English baron first, then a Scottish lord, and never now could he be decently required to act against Eleanor’s family, save in the worth cause of self defence. Nor could Hugh call him a traitor.
Malcolm the Elder let go of Fulk’s hands with a motion which was almost like casting them away; he showed no other reaction to having his desire for an earl who belonged primarily to him thwarted. It was his own fault, he was a victim of his own overconfidence; he’d never stipulated the form Fulk’s homage must take, and had allowed them to rush on past the subject with no more than blanket assurances.
“Furthermore,” continued the king, “when silence on this matter harms two worthy people and denies the will of God then we find it even more fitting to act.” Offering his hand once more to Fulk he said, “Rise, friend.”
In the midst of some frantic prayers Fulk still found time to be astonished that his trembling legs didn’t dump him face down on the floor. He took the king’s hand, allowed himself to be brought onto the platform and led over to the table.
As they halted by the table in front of Eleanor’s place Malcolm the Elder took her hand in his empty one, and, twisting about so all in the hall could clearly see, pressed it into Fulk’s palm and let go, leaving their hands linked and in the air. “Those whom God wishes together let no man put asunder or stand in their way.”
The only sound in the hall which rose above a whisper was the clatter of a laden tray dropped by a serving boy.
Eleanor wasn’t looking at him, she wasn’t looking at the hall, she wasn’t looking at anyone; her head was ducked, face hidden.
Then, uproar.
The king held up his hands, and was ignored. He tried to speak, and was drowned out.
Fulk took considerable delight in the wretched man’s discomfort. Finally Eleanor looked up; her mouth twitched in an aborted effort to smile. Fulk squeezed her hand and did his best to return the effort.
In the end the dignified King of Scots was reduced to hammering a goblet on the table, sloshing the dregs of its contents over his arm and damaging the goldwork with the force he required to make sufficient noise. He had to repeat the beginning of his words to make them heard. “When two love so faithfully, so purely, without hope, each keeping their feelings hidden, brought together by what seemed like chance and to such mutual benefit and in such time of need, what else can it be but the Almighty’s will?” To Fulk he said, “Is it your desire to marry her?”
He’d been told what to say, some high and fancy words which, somehow, he was supposed to stuff full of emotion. Fulk rejected them, as he’d always intended to. He spoke from the moment. “There is no other in my eyes, and never can be.”
Eleanor didn’t wait for the king to direct the same question to her, as she was supposed to. Her other hand came up to cover the one holding hers. “There is no other, and never can be.”
And if the bearded spider didn’t like their deviation from his plan he could go stick his head down a privy.
Eleanor arrived back at her rooms to a bevy of anxious men in her livery demanding to know if the rumour was true, all her knights and her senior men at arms crammed into her solar and antechamber fussing away like a flock of hens.
“It is true,” she confirmed. They deserved to hear the explanation from her own lips and so she gave it, or – more accurately – repeated the pack of lies the King of Scots had just told the hall. Fulk was a very noble bastard, he was now an earl, they had long loved each other in boringly proper fashion, and now the King of Scots had made all public and endorsed their marriage. However she told it, it was never going deviate too far from the witnessed truth in the last part – that they had done nothing to break their secrecy but had been pressed to it by Anne’s father.
The reception was better than she had dared hope. Luke advanced on his master. “You bastard!” The squire was prevented from drawing his belt knife by one of his fellows; more came to help restrain. “You were her bodyguard!” he yelled, struggling to win free of the hands fixing on him. “You were supposed to protect her! Who was there to protect her from you!?”
Fulk said quietly, “I did nothing wrong.”
An acid voice with a Scottish accent commented, “Well, we did always call him a Lancelot. There’s more truth in it than we thought.”
Waltheof contributed a bit of sense that won him a tiny smile from Hawise. “There’s been rumours enough about him, and we thought it fine enough then.” He dipped a shallow bow to Eleanor. “With your forgiveness, your Highness. Warriors as big a bunch of fools for such stories as a gaggle of lady’s maids.”
Luke subsided into his companions’ grips, seeing how futile his efforts to win free were. “They didn’t prove him a viper in our midst! They said nothing about him dragging her down!”
“As I heard it, the king left them little choice.”
Luke snarled at the Scottish knight, “He could have denied it. He could have left, both realm and service to our lady. He could have done something!”
“That would have been insulting to our lady. She’d never have heard the end of it – a princess, considered by some to be rightful Queen of England, rejected by a newly raised earl who supposedly loved her?”
“You lied to us,” Luke accused Fulk. “All this time you’ve been playing the perfect knight, dedicated to our lady and willing to do anything to protect her. Now this. Now you ruin her, and for your own gain.”
Fulk took Eleanor’s left hand in his. “A husband is the best protection a lady can have.”
Luke freed his arms with a wrench. “Find a new squire. I won’t serve the likes of you.”
Sensing Fulk’s anguish Eleanor took command of the situation. “You are not Fulk’s men. You are mine, sworn to me. You may serve under him at my will, yet you are still mine. That will not change. I have need of you. I need protection until the wedding, and a force to assert our rights after. I need men to march against Trempwick for me. You swore oaths; does this change them? I see not, but as a gesture of good will I will release any who no longer wishes to remain.
Rubbing the back of his neck one of the Englishmen muttered, “To dance about near hell I want more bloody money.” He flushed, and added, “Your Highness.”
“Pay and a half,” Eleanor promised serenely. Bankruptcy was tomorrow’s problem; extra money would be found, somehow. Today’s problem was staying alive and ensuring that happy state continued. “The offer is not negotiable; if it is turned down it will not be offered again. All new men will be hired at the standard rates, as will any who leave now and return later. Put these offers to the rest of my men, take the night to think on it, and I shall come for your answer tomorrow.”
These would be the easiest people to convince; soldiers cared for little other than pay and continued employment. The few noble-born knights were Eleanor’s real source of concern; they were born in a different world to the common men, brought up differently, saw their world and their place in it differently. They would sway as easily as grass in a breeze compared to the remainder of her world.
Waltheof’s brow furrowed; he spoke softly. “I don’t like what the man who should be my king has done. If I read it rightly. He’s using this to his gain, no other motive, and no choice in it for you. You have my loyalty, as ever.”
Constance would be abed. It was unreasonable to expect her to greet him. More than. She needed her rest, in her delicate condition. Exposure to the night’s chill risked her taking ill. Moreover, he stank after days in the field without a bath, his armour and clothes were infested by biting mites, and after riding breakneck back to Waltham he must surely look a horror; it would not be kind to inflict that on her.
Hugh emerged from the inner gatehouse having reasoned away once more his unreasonable expectations. She was not there. It was good, he told himself. There was an irrational sinking feeling in the pit of his belly, his hopes dying in truth this time.
He dismounted. Then Constance was running towards him from the keep in a most indecorous manner, calling his name. A queen should not act like some common soldier’s woman, he would tell her that! Save that he was running too, like a common man at arms, and it would not be fair.
“Are you well?” he asked, then kissed her before she could reply. A back corner of his mind observed this was a poor thing to do, for she couldn’t answer and thus he was in suspense over their child for that small while longer. Another corner observed that if he did not hear the worst then for that small while the dream lived on and the final fragment of the loss would be delayed.
“Very,” she answered. She was smiling; that smile filled her eyes, it lit her up. “The child has quickened – I feel it begin to move.”
Hugh parted them enough to rest a hand over her lower abdomen. Speechless, completely speechless with joy.
“You will not be able to feel anything for weeks yet.” Constance’s smile took on a wry quality. “I feel like I swallowed a live butterfly, one which tries to fly every now and then.”
The kiss began like an inferno, and slowly died until he became aware of the courtyard of people seeing to his group’s horses, his escort seeking food and places for the night, other women beginning to draggle out to see if their own men had returned.
Constance pulled away a little, “Your bath should be ready, food also. We should get you out of that armour.”
Hugh flushed. Careless! He had not thought – holding her so tightly, his mail would have bruised her all over. He began to apologise as they entered the hall, for that and for inflicting himself on her in such a soiled state.
Constance merely interrupted softly, “Oh Hugh, it is perfectly flattering that you missed me so much.”
Hugh’s throat grew thick. “And that you missed me.”
When he was disarmed and soaking in his bath, sipping from a goblet of mulled wine, he raised the subject of her message to him. “Sir Miles is dead.” Bless his soul, and may God assoil him. Hugh felt the loss of a good man keenly.
“His body is in the chapel. The circumstances and all were as I said in my letter.”
“So Eleanor is loose on her own. I had fears enough of the state we would receive her back in after her jaunt through the wilderness with that knight of hers. Now …” The best descriptor of how he felt was, alas, unpardonably rude. And that Jocelyn – another problem careening about unhindered! He would share the tale of the man’s visit and message with Constance later, and discover what her thoughts were.
Constance set down the pitcher of hot water intended for his hair. “She writes that her covert journey went well, save for one attack. Her knight did his duty admirably. He did so again when the second attack came, the one in which poor Miles died. Remember, there is a reason we left them together, and this is it. There is nothing he will not do to keep her safe; for her part she will not be reckless where his safety is involved.”
“This is true,” Hugh admitted with a sigh. “And I am glad it has worked as we desired, bringing her safely through these trials. Yet …”
“I am sure they will do nothing foolish. Regardless, we have already decided it is a risk we must take, and we have had it proven that there is need for that.”
“We also saw fit to do what we could, within tactful measures, to prevent anything untoward happening. The main of those measures has been returned to us in a coffin.” Hugh squirmed at dismissing his loyal friend in such terms. “The same measure responsible for providing an experienced diplomat for the negotiations, and for keeping my sister from causing her characteristic mayhem.”
“New at such missions or not, Eleanor is very much her father’s daughter. What is the worst that could happen?”
Constance’s effort at reassurance made Hugh’s frown deepen.
Morning revealed that one knight and three men at arms chose to leave. Those who remained professed their dislike for the way their princess and her knight had been treated like two of the King of Scots lesser vassals – desired or not as the marriage may be.
Wary of his former squire, Fulk repeated, “You’ve changed your mind?”
Luke nodded stiffly. “Maybe it wasn’t for gain.” He had a black eye, a reddened ear, and he held himself like he’d been kicked well in the stomach and balls.
Fulk felt on solid enough ground to try a bit of humour. “It was a nice, peaceful discussion last night then?”
The man winced. “Mostly.” For the first time since requesting a word he met Fulk’s eye. “It wasn’t for gain, was it?”
The question wasn’t phrased in want of an answer; Fulk confirmed it anyway. “No. All I want from it is her.”
“Christ Jesus, man. A princess and … and you.”
Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know.”
“I’d like to stay. As your squire. Christ knows you’ll need one, all the fighting coming your way. Not many will be so easy to win around as us.”
Fulk’s new room was far and away the most luxurious he had ever been assigned. Decoratively carved furniture, a sizeable fireplace, a feather bed, the chest and armour stand he needed for his equipment. Hangings on the walls depicted knights engaged in valiant deeds in battle and tourney. The ceiling had been painted with simple geometric designs.
Five days from now it would be his wedding day. He could not sleep outside his gooseberry’s door without prompting a scandal. Furthermore he was an earl, with his own dignity to maintain. He was no longer Eleanor’s bodyguard.
None of this had stopped him from ensuring she kept a strengthened guard with her at all times, with four armed men in the antechamber each night. He himself kept two men borrowed from Eleanor: Luke and Waltheof. One because he didn’t trust him, and one because he wanted to know more of him. It was in the King of Scots best interests to keep them alive; if either of them were daft enough to trust solely to that then they deserved to have their throats slit.
Fulk finished his idle circuit of the square chamber. “Please have my possessions moved over,” he said to the steward.
The man nodded, and spoke in turn to his assistant. “Have the Earl of Alnwick’s effects transported across. Best have someone scatter some fleabane too.”
He’d been dumped in a room filled with fleas? That sounded highly unlikely. “Is there a problem with pests?”
The steward graciously returned his attention to Fulk. With a tiny bow he answered, “Not yet.”
Fulk had risen something over an hour ago. This was but his second task of the day, after accompanying Eleanor to collect her men’s answer. He wasn’t sure if he were surprised it had taken so long or that it had come so quickly. The first poke at the bastard earl who’d come from nowhere to snatch a pair of prizes many believed should have gone to proven men of better circumstance. “I do not like the implication.”
Another tiny bow, hedged with decently fained horror. “No implication, my lord! Pests go where there’s nothing to stop them. So it’s best to prevent.”
It was, Fulk reflected, a good thing he had long since schooled himself into being a cool-headed man. Years ago this man would have abruptly lost teeth. “So then I must assume you’ve neglected your job. Since there’s nothing already here. I shall have my men move my belongings; I can expect competence from them.”
The page bowed deeply to Eleanor, and rattled off his message so quickly there were scarcely any gaps between the words. “My lord regrets it mightily, but he must beg the return of his book, for he has an urgent need for it. He begs pardon for the inconvenience, and says you will be welcome to it the very instant his need passes.”
This was the second boy sent to retrieve one of the books lent so freely to her; she expected there to be others. People were severing close contact with her until they had some feeling for where her future would go; if she clawed her way up in the world they would be back seeking her favour. For Fulk’s sake she regretted the losses; there were many volumes he had not managed to read.
As if she didn’t see anything more than the surface request Eleanor replied, “I understand, and thank your lord for the loan.”
The book was handed over, the page left.
Prince Malcolm’s absence made inserting Fulk at the high table considerably simpler: a brisk reordering of the seating order ensconced him next to Eleanor without anyone being displaced.
So at last, that lunch, Fulk dined formally with his beloved. None could have faulted him in technique or manners. She had the best part of every portion, and each portion was the best part of the dish presented; he prepared ever morsel to perfection for her. He sought out her favourites, refused anything she showed no liking for. If there was an area where he could be faulted it was one where Eleanor too failed. They didn’t talk much, and they were ill at ease. If their affection showed through in a gesture or a look or a word then it was by chance, not design. This, too, was not by design. It pervaded all their time together. Where before all had been private and nothing could be public, now all must be public and nothing private … until the wedding.
And a servant, a impeccable servant involved in one of his many impeccable repeats of his own impeccable performance, spilled crumbs on Fulk’s sleeve.
Gah! Powercuts! Gah! A veritable plague of them over the last few days. Nearly had my PC toasted a few times, and I’ve lost work over and over. Gah! And who turned up the sun!? ~:pissed: Britain is not supposed to be all hot and sunny ~:pissed: Frogs do not like heat. ~:pissed:
Ciaran: It might be, and I have been, but the power cuts – gah!
Hugh is growing. He’s been doing so slowly for a while. He’s developing a bit of a ruthless streak.
Furball: quite right. Oops. It’s hard to proof read my own work; I tend to see what I know should be there instead of what is.
Peasant Phill: Someone else on the other forum repeated your request shortly after you posted it, and if this were a book I’d want one in it. So I’m trying to find something. I work primarily off an absolutely massive unfoldable map of England and Wales, with Scotland covered on the other side. I can’t find anything which goes into anything like as much detail on the net. Even a simple road atlas style of map would do – it’s the place names I need. Internet maps tend only to mark the more important places. Where I find something almost usable invariably half of what I need isn’t on the map, for example I found one where I could draw out one side of Fulk’s earldom, but not the rest.
I’m thinking, trying to find a way.
Vladimir: I thought you meant you didn’t understand why Nell had chosen as she did. (“But...um, I don't get it. We know a civil war is basically being fought over this flippin bird (a little English lingo there) but she's just going to say no thanks, I think I'll marry some nobody instead?”) So I was answering that.
Powercuts? That sounds like the danger of getting fried in front of the monitor, probably not a very pleasant experience...
And as for the heat, you have my sympathy, it´s the same here and I don´t like it one bit, either. But I wonder, wasn´t there a song stating something of "mad dogs and Englishmen" taking strolls out in the midday heat? Perhaps they were tougher back then...
Anyways, even with the powercuts you managed to convey quite the update. And Hugh, for once even behaved like a living man instead of a role-model come to life ~:eek:
I´ll have to go a couple of pages back, though, to find out when Luke, Fulks squire came around, can´t remember him right now. Neither Jocelyn nor Malcom the Younger wreaking havoc this time, but then again, in it´s fashion, the happenings in this update created more than enough havoc...
Despite the change in location and women this second outfitting for a wedding was not so different to the ones Eleanor had endured when set to marry Trempwick. A flock of women whipped up from heaven knows where by Anne’s grandmother, all clustered about her as she stood on a stool in her shift, suggesting colours, fabrics, cuts and going on and on about the wedding until Eleanor felt so full of pent up frustration she could have exploded.
For the umpteenth time she declined to remove her shift, saying she would use the one made for and never worn at her aborted wedding. This much it appeared they would allow her, content to rifle through the rest of those fine clothes and cast them aside. She couldn’t marry one man while dressed for another, they maintained. It would bring bad luck!
There was one slight difference … or maybe more than one difference. She’d learned from last time, there was the main difference. She was shorter on patience, she was not sunk in despair, and far from losing her stupid knight she was marrying him. She wanted to get it right. And there was a certain statement to make of this wedding.
When the women were mostly agreed on what colours and materials her clothes should be made of - and thus the conversation was slowing - Eleanor hopped down from her stool. She strode over to the mountain of sample squares and plucked out some she’d marked while the debate raged and kept her eye on. With a sweep of her arm she brushed the samples chosen by her ‘helpers’ to the end of the table and set her own choices down. “These.” She outlined what she had in mind.
There was some resistance at first; it faded quickly when Anne’s grandmother entered the fray and took Eleanor’s side, along with her granddaughter, Hawise, a couple of the anonymous Scottish noble ladies Eleanor hadn’t bothered to put a name to yet, and - amazingly - Godit.
So it wasn’t malice over her asserting her choice which caused measuring cords to fall hard enough to sting, or to be pulled too tight. It wasn’t that which occasioned comments on how narrow her hips were, how fragile she looked – surely her husband would break her if he wasn’t careful! – how unfashionable her hair colour was, and more, comments which went further than the usual, and stung more.
The steaming liquid in the mug was nearly transparent; it smelled herby. Eleanor raised it to her lips, steeled herself … and lowered the cup again. “Are you certain you made it correctly?”
Hawise answered gravely, “Yes. I made it often enough for my former lady.”
“So you are sure?” A fatuous question; Eleanor knew it. It delayed. It delayed the least worrisome part; the rest was unstoppable.
“Yes.”
“And it is necessary I start drinking the stuff now.” Another question in need of no answer. Start taking the infusion now, and by her wedding day it would be working. Then she shouldn’t conceive. Then she wouldn’t die. Shouldn’t – there was the worst of it. The fact it might not work.
She was being a coward, intolerable; by any form of sense it should have been far easier to drink this stuff than it had been to broach the subject with Hawise and ask the questions which had led to its being made. It managed to be nearly as difficult. Eleanor raised the cup again, debating whether to sip or down the whole lot in one go. The tea was hot enough to scald her throat as she consumed it in several big swallows. It didn’t taste that bad, faintly minty, sweetened with a trace of honey. As she lowered the empty mug Eleanor found her maid watching her with faint concern.
“Does Fulk know?” Hawise enquired softly.
Eleanor swapped mug for comb and started to run it through her hair, half turning her back on the maid. “Some choices are made as part of others, so there is no choosing them. He chose me; he knows no children can come of it.”
“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.”
Comb frozen midway through a stroke, teeth clenched, Eleanor nearly threw the question again. The damned maid was too perceptive for her own good. “I would hope not. If he is concerned he will try and reassure me. And dither. Then I shall lose whatever nerve I have. The marriage must be consummated, there is no avoiding it.” And afterwards. Some choices were made as part of others. However much or little she liked it, she would not avoid his bed. She had chosen to marry him, and so there was no choice left in that smaller thing.
“All brides worry. You have less cause than most-”
“I do not want to speak of it.”
“If you did it might reassure you.”
“My wedding day is going to be the worst day of my life, without a doubt. I am going to sincerely regret ever having agreed to it. I wish I could go through it all drunk, or better yet completely insensible, a state sadly impossible as I must be able to say my vows.” She lashed out at the empty cup stood on the table, sending it bouncing onto the floor. “And I feel like an animal being fattened for the table! The clothes, the tea, the coterie of matrons’ chattering, the planning of the ceremony – it all comes down to one end. Like an animal for slaughter.” Through gritted teeth she repeated, “I do not want to speak of it.”
On that note she went to bed.
The first day back in training after any injury was always the hardest. Fulk had kept to a light workout, one gentle on his still-sore knee. His shrunken audience had urged him on to greater efforts, and he’d refused them with the jolly assurance he intended to be in perfect working condition for his wedding. As expected that had gone down well. Mostly. Some had left. He hoped they did so from boredom.
As he left the yard he spotted a familiar figure bearing down on him. Godit. He pushed himself to a faster pace, diverted course and made it to the shelter of company before she caught up.
“I came to offer my congratulations,” she announced as she ignored his effort to escape and joined the little group. “So, congratulations. My best wishes, for both of you. May you life long and happily, have hundreds of children, prosper, and all the rest.”
“Thank you.” He’d had a lot of practice lately at sounding gracious while filled with cynicism.
Godit turned a radiant smile on the cluster of men at arms. “You’ll forgive us, I hope, if we walk slightly ahead?”
Jesù! She was trying to start rumours that would end with Eleanor killing him! “Now hold on-”
She waved a careless hand. “Oh, be sensible! We shall be a little ahead, with a large train of men behind us and many witnesses that we did nothing but talk.”
“Talk of what – that’s what people will wonder. And why. There will be enough wondering over you seeking me out like this.”
“Very well. Then I will say it here, and don’t blame me when you’re not happy about it.” She pouted, and found that pout impossible to hold as she complained, “Honestly, men! Nothing but trouble and thick-headed fools the lot of them. Try and help them and they trample all over your efforts. Inconsiderate, thoughtless, heedless, useless-”
Fulk scrubbed his hands through his sweat-drenched hair, leaving it tussled and with one lock thrust out at a silly angle above his ear. “Godit, the point?” Unexpectedly he realised that he knew from whom Anne had learned to chatter on and on at length. It was no credit to his intelligence that he’d not seen it before.
“You flatter yourself if you think I’d draw this out for the pleasure of your company. Conceited creature, you let your very fine looks and smooth tongue go to your head! I am going to marry a nice man. One without a beard, vaguely close to my own age, in possession of wits, resources and a good nature. He is going to be far more aware of my existence than his own. I do not want anything to do with married men, engaged men, or annoying men.” She scowled at him. “And you are highly annoying.”
“So Eleanor tells me, frequently.”
The muffled chuckles amongst the men at arms grew more noticeable.
“I never believed she loved you. Until yesterday. What she has done is unthinkable. Insane.” A gust of wind disrupted her veil; Godit’s hand rose to smooth it back into order. “My God,” she said quietly, “how well you belong together .”
“If that’s an insult-”
“It is not! Very much the opposite. So I don’t like to see you as you are. Miserable, the pair of you. Uneasy, like strangers crammed together. All the little things about your relationship with her are gone; you don’t joke, you don’t talk, you don’t tease. You hardly touch her, nor her you. I’ve not seen you kiss once, save that required once when you finished exchanging your betrothal vows.”
Fulk stepped into the flow and tried to dam it. “It takes time. We’ve had things changed without warning, and we’re able – expected to do things we never let ourselves think of. Two days ago being her friend was audacious.”
“You don’t have time. You’ve four days – no, three; the wedding day itself doesn’t count. I shouldn’t need to point out what marrying in this state will be like. After all that she’s thrown away for you she deserves better.” Without giving him time to reply, hell - without giving herself time to catch her breath, she admonished, “No excuses! Didn’t I once tell you every knight needs a pushy lady’s maid to set him to rights. It’s still true; the focus may be very different, but it’s still true. Do something; break the ice before it’s too late.”
As she left Fulk felt sets of curious eyes burning into him, he heard the strain of held back amusement and comments. She’d been right – he hadn’t wanted to hear this in front of an audience.
He allowed himself the face-saving luxury of muttering indiscreetly, “Easy for her to say.”
When he entered the common room Eleanor’s soldiers stopped what they were doing; dice cups ceased to rattle, drinks were removed from lips, talk died, the man who’d been singing fell silent. All attention settled on him. The two men at the high end of the table stood and offered the pick of their seats with formal bows.
In the eerie silence Fulk stepped forward and took a stool without lending thought as to which. A mug was filled for him and set in easy reach with a murmured, “It’s only ale, my lord.” As if he’d expected wine! Fulk drank; it was good ale, and he appreciated it.
He set the mug down still half full; no need to hurry his drink.
“My lord,” enquired Alfred, breaking the hush, “what is it you want?”
And Fulk knew he no longer had a place here. He groped for a reason, anything but the truth, that he had wanted to relax in friendly company and forget for a time all his qualms. To drown the longing to get Eleanor alone and let her soothe him as he reassured her. “I came to …” His mind fell back on a need he’d been contemplating. “To ask for a volunteer who doesn’t mind missing most of the wedding feast. Who’ll stand a bit of guard duty. You know what weddings are like, and how the couple are bothered … later. Hammering on the door. Advice. People listening and trying to break in. And so on. I won’t have that.”
Once there’d have been an assortment of lewd jokes about why he feared such treatment. Once.
“Eleanor,” Fulk explained awkwardly, trying to fill the stillness. “She won’t like it, not at all.”
Unsurprisingly there was a dearth of men willing to miss a party to stand a sober vigil before a door.
Over in the corner Waltheof’s whetstone fell still. “Seems like a job for a monk. Or someone who narrowly avoided that fate.” He resumed putting a new edge on his eating knife. “And I won’t try to listen myself, I promise you that.”
Hugh gazed down on the preserved body of his father, its journey home now complete. He brushed a stray strand of hair back off the corpse’s temple. It would be a lie to think this made the great half-healed scar more visible – a single strand of hair could not cover that mess. Yet it seemed to, to Hugh. That one kindly meant act of tidying somehow made the scar loom clear. The body was robed in finery befitting a king; it hid the other wounds, and it hid the incisions made when the body was split and treated to last longer. Despite that treatment and the cold of the season, the length of the journey home told in the faint smell of putrefaction.
His father’s favourite clerk, one of the few who had remained with their master’s body and helped to restore it to dignity and bring it home, said softly, “His entrails rest in Caen. His heart is to stay here, in Waltham, next to his first wife’s heart. His body will lie in Westminster. This was his wish.”
It was customary, a grand noble’s burial. The body was split and laid to rest in favoured churches so that the departed soul might benefit from more prayers. All Hugh could think of was his gratitude that his father had not chosen to have his eyes bestowed separate to his body. He could not have borne that.
London was in the hands of the rebels. He couldn’t bury him in Westminster.
Constance touched Hugh on his shoulder. “We can re-inter him. We can bury him somewhere dignified now, and then move him when all is settled. It has been done many times before.”
“I know.” And in no way did that lessen Hugh’s sense of failure. He should have been able to carry out those last wishes.
As he studied the chess board Fulk remained alert, ears pricked and eyes on the move. When the next batch of nobles came to gawk at Eleanor and himself he wanted warning. He knew she kept a similar watch over the part of the hall which lay behind his back.
They should have held this game in her solar, chaperoned by someone who couldn’t be called into question by the court. Anne, perhaps - use her as she’d used them. Anne and her two maids, in addition to Hawise, and no one could have said anything untoward happened. But no, they had to be seen. To fix them as a couple in people’s minds and prove there was truth in the King of Scots’ claim.
A few moves in the game, then Eleanor clasped both her hands together on the tabletop, thumbs tucked in and hidden. Someone was approaching them.
An ornately dressed Scot halted beside them, lowering himself into a bow aimed primarily at Eleanor. “Your Highness. Sir Fulk. Allow me to give my best wishes for a long and fruitful marriage.”
Eleanor graced him with a slight smile. “Thank you, Sir Douglass.” She named the man with only a tiny pause to betray the fact she’d not met him before.
Douglass … wasn’t he the Earl of Berwick? If so, he’d be one of Fulk’s neighbours. “Thank you,” Fulk echoed.
“William de la Bec was a friend of my father’s.”
“I’d hope one day the same can be said of the sons.”
The polite courtier’s mask didn’t budge. “I confess I don’t see much resemblance in you.”
Fulk kept his own façade in place, though apprehension attacked his heart. “Maybe I take after my mother?” In truth he was a decent mix of both parents, with some throwbacks to his maternal grandfather; the rest was all his own.
“Quite possibly. You will be incorporating the de la Bec device into your coat of arms?”
“No. I’ve born the arms of the man who raised me so long they’ve become my own.
“Ah. I see.”
“You will be joining the offensive?”
“Against Northumberland? Yes. And you?” The enquiry was civil, no trace of any actual interest.
“When I’ve set all in order in my new lands, and I’ve paid my respects to my brother-in-law.”
“A pity. I had thought you would march with us after settling your affairs. I hoped to see what you are capable of off the tourney field. Pray excuse me. I promised my lady wife I would not be long.”
When he landed in Perth and heard the news Jocelyn nearly turned around and got back on his ship again. The princess – the one who he’d been sent to find and put on the throne – was getting married. To a newly raised earl of a tiny new earldom. Who was a bastard son of a long dead house. Probably – there was a lot of yattering about that. Sometimes he wasn’t even that much, others he was some long lost son of an unspecified king.
Women! God damned bloody minded, difficult, inconvenient women! Jocelyn was now firmly convinced that, based on all available evidence, the damned capricious creatures had been put on this earth purely to make his life damned difficult. And occasionally highly enjoyable, he’d give them that. But overall very bloody difficult. The world would be a far better place without them; he’d said as much to his company.
|That had set the translating monk off on a tremendous sermon about the many and varied evils of women, devil’s tools that they were. In the end Jocelyn had had to shut him up by threatening to punch him for insulting his wife. Richildis was virtuous, thank you very much. She didn’t run about naked waving her privy parts at passing travellers, inviting them to indulge in carnal sins purely for the light entertainment of having them damn their souls. Nor did she sit at home of an evening plotting the overthrow of man’s just and fit rule over the weaker sex. Or at least he didn’t think she did.
What the damned monk – quivering in righteous outrage and more than a little fear of Jocelyn’s bunched fist – hadn’t initially grasped was that when you blasted on about a broad group like ‘women’ you inevitably categorised the good with the bad. So it shouldn’t be done. Because then you wound up passing off good men’s equally good wives as creatures fit only for destruction … or a wild night out. What you had to do was pick clear and precise examples, and give some evidence.
And anyway it was clearly absurd, the rot he was expounding. There was nothing at all wrong with women. Nothing at all. They made the world a far brighter place. They were man’s equal, his other half; if, overall, they were a little weaker in strength then they were also ahead in cunning. He wouldn’t be without them for all the riches in some very rich country.
By the end of the spirited religious debate the group was all far more enlightened and tolerant and in full agreement with him, and Jocelyn felt he’d done a lot to further the education of the young monk.
Getting in to see the princess wasn’t as hard as he’d feared. Jocelyn merely showed his letter with its royal seal to the gate guards and stated his mission, then repeated that with a few score of people until the directions proved useful and he finally found someone in the princess’ livery. A bit of standing about waiting in the antechamber to her suite of rooms, and that was that, job half done.
He got chance to see both of them; he’d interrupted some meeting about something or other – probably trivial, neither looked terribly excited; they were only sat next to each other in the cosier window seat - and caught them with just several maids for company, one of whom was little more than a child.
He’d given it all plenty of careful thought on his way here. He’d got a plan. It wasn’t like he was going to withhold the ring – heaven, no! That would be breaking his sworn word to the old king! – but it wouldn’t be prudent to walk up and say, “Hello! Your dad’s dead; you’re queen and here’s the ring. Have fun. Now, about this land grant …” No. Far better to ease into the subject naturally. He’d introduce the subject when he felt she gave him the right opportunity. If opportunity didn’t arise, well, it wouldn’t be breaking his word. No, it would be God giving him a bit of guidance, preventing him from doing something which He didn’t want done.
As he knelt before her Jocelyn’s first thought was that this Eleanor was a bit short. His second was that she wasn’t as bad as some made out; she was almost very nearly pretty. His third, as he looked up at her after murmuring his greetings, was that by God’s teeth she’d got her father’s eyes and no mistake.
“Count of Tourraine?” she repeated. “Welcome, and please stand. You have come a long way to find me.” She spoke to him in langue d’oil. So, she’d got a bit more sense than her brother.
“Yes, your Highness. At your father’s command. It grieves me to report he died of his injuries sixteen days ago. At first we thought him like to die, yet he strengthened and began to heal, only to sink at the last because he drove himself too hard and would not rest. He wished me to bear to you a final message.” Remember: nice, posh language. No cursing, no swearing, nothing. Be nice. Princesses needed handling with caution. Nice and fluffy and harmless and polite and nice.
The little girl slapped a hand over her mouth and stared at him in horror. Maybe she was a God-touched simpleton?
The princess merely said, “Oh?”
Until now the man had been impassive; he set his hand over one of hers in a gesture Jocelyn saw as uncertain, like he didn’t quite dare do what he wanted to. So, this would be the Fulk FitzWhoever de la Whatever he’d heard so much about. Outstanding knight, fearsome warrior, loyal, courtly, handsome – not that Jocelyn ever had the least inclination towards men, boys, or anything which was not thoroughly human and female, by God! – and head over heels lost irredeemably in love for the princess he had served and was now to marry. It didn’t show. The fool probably couldn’t even understand what they were saying.
Jocelyn cleared his throat to deliver his words with appropriately impressive style. “At the end of his life the former king spoke much of you, your Highness. With exasperation, with fear, with regret, and with love. You weighed heavily on his mind in his last days. He commanded me to beg humbly for your forgiveness for him, for the sake of both your souls.”
“Forgiveness?” she snapped. “Never.”
Fulk, or whatever his name was, tightened his hold on her hand into something which might actually be called comforting. He put his arm around her and murmured something in her ear Jocelyn couldn’t catch, probably some pointless rubbish, or maybe demands she ask about her inheritance as he’d gain whatever she did. She replied, equally soft, turning to face him, their faces so close their noses nearly touched. This time he caught the man’s reply, a mix between chiding and loving the single word, “Beloved.”
The princess returned her attention to Jocelyn. “I cannot forgive him, not now. Perhaps in the future I may be able to.” She shot a pointed sidelong look at the man. “If I ever can.”
How very interesting.
Still more interesting was that the half-wit girl chose to thrust herself into the conversation. “Did he say anything for me?”
Why in the name of Saint Anthony would he have a message for her?!
Then the girl added hopefully, “He was my husband. He must have done.”
Oh. Oops. “He spoke of his regret in leaving you, of his fondness for you, and of his hopes you’d find a better husband to replace him.”
The girl broke down into tears. “I don’t want another one!”
To be fair Jocelyn didn’t think the old king looked like he’d been that much fun as a husband either, and one bad experience could be so very off-putting. But forget her, she wasn’t important. The princess was. He’d try her mettle with a bit more detail. “He spoke strongly of you, your Highness. Always he spoke from strong feelings. He railed and cursed, and he spoke of how proud he was of your strength.”
“I do not care to know. I have heard enough words in ‘strong feeling’ from him to last me from now to kingdom come with a surfeit to spare.” Her fingers curled about those of the knight, and she leaned into his arm, only a fraction, not relaxing but like she was drawing some desperately needed strength from him but wouldn’t let appearances waver. Made a change to the usual feminine shrieking. “Tell me of my brother instead. Did you see him? Is he well?”
“I did, and he is. I can’t say much more; I wasn’t with him for more than an hour.”
The man spoke – in excellent langue d’oil! “You must have gotten some idea of his army and how it fared: morale, numbers, condition.”
Jocelyn was too dumbfounded to speak. With difficulty he rallied. “Several thousand, but finer than that I couldn’t say. Good morale, good condition. He’d got some Germans from his sister; they didn’t seem to be mixing in too well.”
“To be expected. I doubt they spoke any common tongue with our king’s men.”
Eleanor took the initiative back. “You must be thirsty, and hungry. The latter we can do nothing to amend, but the former …” She indicated one of the maids should pour a drink for him from the jug and goblets clearly readied for herself and her whatever-he-was.
Surprised, Jocelyn spoke his thanks and accepted the drink. He couldn’t say that he didn’t feel a bit stupid, stood alone in the space before the door holding a drink like he was at a party. It was good wine, and it wet his throat commendably. He’d try another gambit. “Forgive me if it’s out of place, but I did swear to your father I’d do what I could for you if you had need.” The lie slid by so easily. She narrowed her eyes at it, ever so very slightly. “There’s quite a fuss in Perth, and about the palace, and it’s all so mixed it’s hard to know what’s true and what’s not. Is it truly your wish to marry this man?”
“Oh yes.”
Careful now, careful; women were so unpredictable in their tempers. “Then you find it to your advantage?”
“Very much, and truthfully far more than any other I have been offered.” Her free hand came over to cover the man’s hand.
Alright, think, and think fast. What could this lowly man possibly offer her which made him better than all other prospects? Not much: a puny earldom he’d yet to take, his person, his love, and a whole load of strife. He’d be dependant on her for so much it was shameful for him, it made him … Jocelyn’s racing mind coasted to a halt. He felt himself smile. He’d be so dependant on her. She’d have a husband she could control, not one who could attempt to control her. The conniving little bitch, he thought with considerable admiration. Damn, he’d better say something before they thought him cracked in the head. “Your Highness, it gladdens my heart to hear you say that.”
Like a bolting horse Jocelyn’s thoughts raced off again. And if the man were as a good a warrior as he’d been hearing then she’d got herself a reliable man to head her armies, once he’d established himself, one who couldn’t turn on her without losing everything. In a stroke she’d disprove that Trempwick man’s claim he was married to her, freeing herself from him, and put herself safely from the marriage market so she couldn’t be claimed again or used as a bargaining counter by her bastard brother. And she couldn’t be forced into a marriage distasteful to her by her nobles either, if she made it to the throne. She’d be doing things on her own terms. The alliance with Scotland – she’d got that and managed to actually bring land into her control without ceding anything. It worked nicely on the personal side too; the man was handsome, fair spoken, and in love with her and her with him. It was unlikely he’d ever try to assert himself with her, let alone mistreat her.
Holy shrimps! It was bloody genius. For a woman. If they survived the initial turmoil. It was like one of those battle plans for chess, where if you survived the deliberately hazardous opening you were set up to an advantage.
“Your Highness,” he said. “I have another message for you, to be conveyed in private. It’s very important. From your father.”
The response was sceptical. “Really? About what?”
He had to find something to win her trust; he couldn’t pass the ring on with all these people about, damn it. “About the throne, and your brother. Your father’s wishes for his heir.”
“Surely it should be Hugh’s business, not mine.”
“Part of the message was for him. The rest for you.”
Eleanor stood. “Very well. But Fulk will remain with us, and at the least odd move he will kill you.”
She went through into her bedchamber, the knight at her heels with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Jocelyn entered, and was directed to stand in one corner.
Eleanor sat down on her bed, her hands in her lap with her right hand resting very close to her left wrist, an odd pose. “Talk.”
“When he knew he was dying he named you his heir.” He removed the coronation ring from his belt pouch, not appreciating the way the damned knight part drew his weapon in readiness. He held the ring up so they could see it. “As token of your right, he sent this.” At a nod from the princess Fulk claimed the ring from Jocelyn and passed it on to her. It was all wariness Jocelyn could appreciate, in theory and when it wasn’t directed at him.
She held the ring, inspecting it. Probably making sure it wasn’t a forgery. “Why should I believe this came from him, and this was his desire? There are others who would see me on the throne.”
“He .. he said that he wished you were a son, because you were the best of his children-”
“Rubbish. I run low on patience.”
Damn. What would best get her to believe? “He was poisoned, and bloody distraught over the news he’d been hearing of what was going on here – his supposed son and his friend squabbling over his throne, and you in the centre of it, either victim or master player. He admitted he knew Hugh wasn’t capable, and he didn’t want to leave that for a legacy. He then said that either you’d keep your seat and ride like a man born to it, or the kingdom would buck you off and trample you. Either way he’d be avenged; those who betrayed him would go down with you, or be crushed by you. And he was very sure you’d keep your seat. Because,” he added on sudden inspiration, “you never flinched from him.”
For a very long time she didn’t say anything. Jocelyn waited, apprehensive, hating the way Fulk’s attention never left him and having some idea of how much the man wanted to forget him and turn to his princess.
She turned the ring over and over in the palm of her hand, staring at it. “You will swear loyalty to me?”
“I will.”
“Then do so. On your honour, your soul, and the souls of your family, and, as soon as I may borrow one, on a holy relic.”
Bloody hell! That was one damned strong oath she wanted.
She looked up at his hesitation. “Or leave. And do not come back.”
Alright. Alright. So. She was queen, and she had more mettle than her half brother, and maybe the old king was right. It was going to be tough for her for a time; she’d surely remember those who stood by her then. And it had been the old king’s will, which he’d promised to carry out.
So Jocelyn swore loyalty to her, on his honour, his soul, and the souls of his family.
Now probably wasn’t the best of times to mention that land grant. Later, when he wouldn’t look so much like a grasping git.
“I need to think,” the princess – queen announced. “Leave me.”
Jocelyn bowed and headed for the door.
Eleanor commented softly to Fulk, “You too. I need to think.” Some of her better thinking she’d done in his arms. It wouldn’t be safe. The group outside held at least one person who had proven herself unreliable. “Continue to draw what you can out of Anne about her father’s plans.”
“In a moment.” He came and clasped her to his chest; he claimed a kiss, a lengthy and agreeable one.
The first proper close contact in days loosened something inside her; she didn’t want to carry the weight alone any longer. “The bedding ceremony. It will be done in the old tradition.” Her voice failed.
“You mean with the bride and groom displayed naked before the guests to prove there’s no unstated bodily flaw being concealed that might make the marriage void?”
Miserably she nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Inspected night and morning for cuts that would prove the only source of blood aside from the honest one they would disprove Trempwick’s claims for good before many high ranking witnesses. And everyone would get a good look at her. Then they would see what the King of England had done to his own daughter, and his memory would be defiled by it. And they would get a good look at her. All of them. A roomful of drunken men. She didn’t know how she was going to manage it.
“Jesù!” His arms tightened until Eleanor felt crushed, she tightened her own embrace until her arms ached and wished she could hold him closer still. “I won’t have it. I’ll talk to that bearded spider, refuse it-”
“He will not change his mind. I tried. It is this way or not at all. I knew that before I told you of the offer. And it makes good sense. I hate it.”
He didn’t let her go. He didn’t make vain promises.
:the frog is laughing: Oh dear! That Jocelyn! And now I have this mental picture of a little shrimp with a halo and white robe …
Poor Nell. ~:mecry:
The danger the power cuts present is all to my PC. That is, the physical danger. The howls of frustration as my work vanishes without warning for the third time in a day is all mine, as is the worry the manuscript might have become corrupted or the computer melted.
Luke has been Fulk’s squire for a bit now. He’s not been around all that much. He was the one doing Malcolm impressions, and he’s seen tagging along after Fulk in the background of quite a few scenes. He fought in the tourney ion Fulk’s team, and he was also in the battle just before Nell ended up as the Dunning brothers’ prisoner, to be rescued by Malcolm. He had the odd mention before Scotland, starting from Trempwick’s attempt to abduct Eleanor from Waltham palace, when Fulk’s original squire tried to kill him and so needed replacing.
Be careful with that computer of your my lady, frogs and lighting don't mix to well.
I really like these last pages, the fleshing out of personalities is so important. For instance the 'other' side of Godit and Waltheof becoming more and more Fulks right hand and Hugh with the remains of his father.
I always liked Jocelyn but now it seems he ( or atleast you) is setting himself up to play an important role in the further developement of these events. He can be very beneficial for Nell as a powerbase in the French provinces. It seems that Jocelyn himself appriciates Eleanor (or will if he starts to know her) and knows that serving her could be very benificial. He has the wit and flair of ... the new spymaster?
Can't wait until the next instalment as all the story is coming to its end and the last moves are taken.
Whoa, now that was amazing. Though I halfway expected Jocelyn to arrive in the middle of the wedding, just when the priest says his little piece of someone having obejections should speak up et cetera.
But you´ve done it more than great the way you did it - showing Nell´s entourage from Jocelyn´s point of view.
Did they really dismember the bodies of kings? I´ve read about something like that happening with saints, who on their bier got literally ripped to pieces for reliquiaries.
But now I´m looking forward to the wedding.
Ok. I get the Joclyn scene, amd most of the latter bits, but from this quote through the next scene, I'm at a loss:
"So it wasn’t malice over her asserting her choice which caused measuring cords to fall hard enough to sting, or to be pulled too tight. It wasn’t that which occasioned comments on how narrow her hips were, how fragile she looked – surely her husband would break her if he wasn’t careful! – how unfashionable her hair colour was, and more, comments which went further than the usual, and stung more. "
Is that paragraph referring to the "ignonomy" of the marriage again? I guess it is, to reiterate the poor nature of the marriage?
And the entire scene that begins with, "The steaming liquid in the mug was nearly transparent. . . " What is that? Is she drinking something to ensure she doesn't get pregnant? I really don't understand. I guess I still don't understand how MISERABLE the King of Scots' offer was. I'd have expected at least SOME sort of joy and anticipation that this 18 year old virgin and her true love might be getting to be together legally, joyously and after all this time! :) Granted, Eleanor is aware of the stakes, and Fulk is worried and wary of the nature of his elevation to the status of a queen's consort. But, HECK, Froggy! They're in love! They DO want to be together and - all kingdoms aside - they love each other! So what is she drinking?
Godit, or any other thing you want to toss in for future stuff is fine. But, come on. Once the necessary and admittedly icky royal plans of the marriage are accepted and acted upon, these are two kids, young and healthy, in love and knowledgeable of each other. I understand the necessity of dramatic uncertainty. But these two healthy humans have travelled together for months and learned most of each others' secrets. She's let him climax near her and knows his need. She also seems to want him.
So what is she drinking? If it's some sort of abortive thing, or something, wouldn't she tell him? And, as much as I appreciate Jocelyn and all of the Hawise and Godit stuff, why aren't these two young lovers - who are now married - locking the door and climbing all over each other? I appreciate the nod towards, "was the marriage consumated? and all the official stuff. But if it was THAT accepted, surely the couple would couple and blithely show the proof?
Sorry. My romantic (or base) side is showing. It's just that, given the politics and such have been dealt with, wouldn't they "get together" in this chapter?
Sizing up his enemy is he? This should be an interesting confrontation.Quote:
The polite courtier’s mask didn’t budge. “I confess I don’t see much resemblance in you.”
“A pity. I had thought you would march with us after settling your affairs. I hoped to see what you are capable of off the tourney field. Pray excuse me. I promised my lady wife I would not be long.”
Where is Jocelyn and what did you do to him? But in all seriousness I expected more fanfare upon his arrival. A flourish of trumpets heralding his arrival, rose petals strewn about his feet, and angry husbands hot on his trail. (This ship is too damn big. If I walk the movie will be over. HAH!)Quote:
What the damned monk – quivering in righteous outrage and more than a little fear of Jocelyn’s bunched fist – hadn’t initially grasped was that when you blasted on about a broad group like ‘women’ you inevitably categorised the good with the bad. So it shouldn’t be done. Because then you wound up passing off good men’s equally good wives as creatures fit only for destruction … or a wild night out. What you had to do was pick clear and precise examples, and give some evidence.
I do like his perceptions of Anne though. Serves her right for chattering away again.
What else? There was something else...:oops: . Oh well.
That speech from Hawise made me drift off. Something about not touching and laughing. Was Fulk on his horse while she was talking?
It's good to read "language d'oil" again. For some reason it always makes me think of French women oil wrestling. :2thumbsup:
Good selection, I can feel a climax building.
Peasant Phill: He – it’s Jocelyn’s doing, not mine. My plans for him had him in France still. Humph, as if he ever cared what I wanted. He’s as bad as the rest of them for walking all over the frog. Huh, he can set himself up all he likes; if he doesn’t start getting more of his assumptions right he’ll be in trouble. :sticks her tongue out at Jocelyn:
Lightening and frogs don’t mix. Lightening and frog’s computers don’t mix. Simple answer – ban lightening! Yeah!
Ciaran: Medieval weddings didn’t have that bit ~:) Instead they had what was called ‘the bans’, a series of announcements posted in church on Sunday for four Sundays prior to the wedding. If no one objected before the wedding day then tough luck. They were not compulsory; marriages could be held without them, like this one will be.
They did indeed dismember bodies. Souls benefited from prayers at the place of burial, so if there are multiple places of burial … It was a rich person’s thing, as multiple tombs cost money and the religious foundation would expect a fat contribution in return for prayers. It wasn’t the only way to be buried if you were rich, and its popularity wasn’t constant. The splitting was kept reasonable, as is described here. Saints were really hacked up, a finger here, a toe there, a body somewhere else, a bit of hair there, here an arm … Most of the relics were fakes, taken from animals or corpses no one cared for.
Vladimir: Now you’re being an űber Jocelyn groupie!
Poor Anne hardly said a thing. He just decides she’s a halfwit because she’s upset on hearing William is definitely dead, having already decided in his mind that she is nothing more than an exceptionally young lady’s maid.
Godit, not Hawise. Fulk was walking. She was telling him he needs to be more proactive with Nell.
(saved for last since it’s so long)
That paragraph is two things, about a 50/50 split. It’s a group of women who are, for the most part, horrified at what she is doing; it’s a group of women with a stranger thrust in their midst whom they don’t particularly like, doing what sadly often happens in such cases: being bitchy.Quote:
Originally Posted by furball
The scene is more. It’s Nell asserting herself, showing how she has changed from the last time she was in this position. It’s her showing she cares about this wedding, and is doing what she can to make it fit what they want, within the framework of what the KoS wants. It should be planting the seeds of some very minor wondering – she’s so determined to have her clothes as she wants them; how does she want them, and why?
That is what “Start taking the infusion now, and by her wedding day it would be working. Then she shouldn’t conceive.” would imply. Along with the others bits in the scene. It’s in essence the medieval version of the pill, less reliable and in the form of a herbal tea not a tablet. There are many different herbal contraceptives known or suspected to have been used at this timeQuote:
Is she drinking something to ensure she doesn't get pregnant? […]Why?
Nell’s got narrow hips. Without the wonders of modern medicine that is a significant problem in childbirth. She’s got a much higher than usual chance to die, and chances of dying are already terrifyingly high for the average woman: 1 birth out of every 40 ending in death for the mother is the figure usually quoted. So the why is obvious, I’d have thought.
I do wonder why you seem to link contraceptives with her marriage being socially shocking. Twist the picture about so that Nell is as good a breeder as it’s possible to be, and I don’t see why they wouldn’t want a bit of time to themselves to enjoy the marriage they’ve done so much for, as they don’t urgently need heirs. Or they could want to wait until they have settled their situation and have a home, income and security. Or perhaps Nell hasn’t changed her mind about not wanting children, because she knows they would end up in the royal rat race, a feeling Fulk agreed with when she voiced it ages ago.
Fulk’s thrilled at being able to do simple things like hold her hand in public. It’s taking him time to get used to being able to do this, and he’s trained himself well to act as though he had no attachment to her, and above all it’s a shock that the impossible has become possible; it takes time to adjust.Quote:
I'd have expected at least SOME sort of joy and anticipation that this 18 year old virgin and her true love might be getting to be together legally, joyously and after all this time!
She’s terrified. :sigh: Begin minor essay on Nell and sex.
I hate this aspect. It’s an absolute swine to write. That’s before you take into consideration that it is the kind of thing I dislike writing, and it’s kept to a few limited places through the story, from near the beginning right up to now and beyond. Worse, it’s being told mainly in scenes I don’t like writing, don’t have much skill at doing, and hardly know what I am doing with. I’m not completely happy with how it is working; I have never believed I have got it quite right. It’s always been something which needs editing.
She’s scarred, she’s used to being slighted, obviously doesn’t make her a great believer in her desirability. She thinks Fulk will be revolted if he gets a good look. Some things would involve Fulk getting a good look :winkg:
She loves the man something stupid, but knows he’s experienced and she’s not, ergo she thinks she will be a disappointment. He’s been waiting a long time, so the likelihood of her being a disappointment feel larger. She also fears Fulk will lose interest after a bit; she can’t bear the thought. And she knows however much he loves her she is likely to lose him if she keeps him dangling about at semi-arm’s length for too long.
All her life sex has been bound up in terms of limitation. Consummate this marriage to that unwanted husband and live with his whims until someone dies. Not tempting for a gooseberry. Even with Fulk there’s an aspect of being subject to his whims; she’s not convinced that can be good.
She has all the usual fears of the unknown we poor females tend to end up with to some degree. Hers are closer to the extreme end of the scale than the calmer one. She’s got a lovely fear of being crushed; this is practically gone by now; she’s getting to like the proximity. She’s frequently told that her chances of surviving childbirth are next to none. So it’s dicing with death, relying on unreliable herbal contraception.
Then there’s the value of her virginity. She’s spent her life acutely aware of how much that’s worth. That goes hand in hand with her, ahem, education on these things. Can anyone see Trempy managing to do a decent “Useful facts of life for princesses” lecture? Me neither. The man would die of embarrassment; Nell has learned that much from him. There’s not been anyone else in her life to do it. The way she has grown up hardly helps: surrounded by a few men with precious little female company.
Let’s be honest, thus far her experience isn’t terribly encouraging. Trempy had ulterior motives. Fulk is trying not to repeat his past mistakes, scare her, or push her into something she’ll regret; above all he knows she is of a mixed mind on the subject. Broadly speaking – there’s more to the knight’s side of things.
The idea doesn’t exactly appeal. At the same time it does, very much. She’s crazy about the stupid knight, the idea appeals, but the baggage puts her off. She wants to, and doesn’t want to. This ball happens to be weighted with lead and has spikes on the outside. It’s so hard to get the balance right. In a moment she can go from wanting to to not. It’s hellish to write, especially from an external POV.
Like many such feelings, these are not consistent. She’s dumping the responsibility on Fulk, sometimes. “I’m not going to protest, so get it over with; I’m too scared to do anything.” almost. From time to time she gets the idea that she has to, to make him happy, from duty, to keep him, a “I know you want to; I’ll suffer bravely for your sake.” sort of thing. Then she remembers who she is, or something else which sends her right back into “Gah! No way!”
All this before you throw a wedding into the mix. Medieval weddings make me wonder why on earth more people didn’t elope! They’re the ‘lucky’ victims of a bit of revived tradition, which makes it all far worse from Nell’s POV; being put to bed with Fulk while a bunch of drunkards make crude jokes was bad enough, being stripped naked and displayed to them, gah!
:cough: Out of three times one was a disaster, one she didn’t much like, and one was decently enjoyable; the most recent is the disaster. The first time she was very carefully trying not to think the er, results of it was disgusting.Quote:
these are two kids, young and healthy, in love and knowledgeable of each other. […]She's let him climax near her and knows his need. She also seems to want him.
Fulk has always been trying to keep things within reasonable bounds. He hasn’t er, let go and done his best, so to speak. And he needs to. She does want him, but not strongly enough that it overcomes the fear or makes her forget herself. Because he’s not given her reason to. What she had now is a desire to make him happy, the knowledge that it is something he wants, a grudging sense of duty, and a personal interest which is all over the place and not as high as it should be and needs to be.
Er … because they aren’t married? Secretly, they are still married; publicly they are only betrothed. That’s why there’s all this fuss about the upcoming wedding.Quote:
why aren't these two young lovers - who are now married - locking the door and climbing all over each other?
Realistically speaking many couples did pre-empt things, so to speak. People knew it happened. It’s happened in this story, too – Fulk and his first intended, Maude. But it wasn’t advertised, and it wasn’t something ‘nice’ young ladies got tangled up in; Fulk’s Maude never said a word and married the man chosen to replace Fulk still without saying a word, because it would plunge her into disgrace. Nell being a princess she is expected to be Nice with a capital N and italics.Quote:
But if it was THAT accepted, surely the couple would couple and blithely show the proof?
Thanks, ma'am. You've reiterated a lot of things I used to know in the story but forgot. Even your lectures are a joy to read!
I don't know, I'm gone for a few days (actually maybe its months...) and next thing I know the threads 20 pages long! Time to re-read m'thinks, roughly how long is the story now Froggy, I want to guage how bad my eyestrain is going to be from catching up!~D
Welcome back, Zelda ~:wave: .
Without Godit’s frantic waving Fulk still would have joined her and her companion; he’d been searching for the French count.
As he sat down opposite the pair Godit explained, “I know you can speak that mess those continentals call French, so you can translate for us. I only speak proper French, and a bit of English.” All this before his behind had contacted the bench! Fulk drew breath; she chattered on. “I’ve just about established his name – between you and I that I already knew – and where he’s from – which I also already knew – and what he is – again, I’d done a little bit of research. The rest: mysteries, mysteries, and more mysteries. Honestly, you’d have thought those in your king’s French holdings would have made a bit more of an effort to keep up with their ruler’s language. I mean, I’m not subject to whoever’s currently in charge of England this week, and here I am, fluent in one and really quite good in the other-”
“But Anglo-French is the main language of the Scottish court!” protested Fulk.
Godit glanced shyly at Jocelyn from under her eyelashes and blushed, acting for all the world as if they were discussing how wonderful the man was. “Yes, I know that. But the point is he’s negligently come here in a state where I can’t say anything to him, and can’t get anything at all from him.”
From the way the Frenchman was steadily watching her every move Fulk was willing to bet she was wrong on both counts. “Godit, he might not understand a word you say, but the rest …”
“Pish.” Godit waved a hand airily. “I have to attract his interest, and I’ve not done much at all. It would appear he’s rather keen.” Her mouth dimpled as she caught the inside of her lip in her teeth, her brow furrowing. “Then again, that can be worrying. No, on second thoughts you are probably right. I’m now worried.”
In langue d’oil Jocelyn asked Fulk, “She doesn’t seem so happy now. What in God’s name did you do?”
“Find out,” Godit demanded, “if he’s married. Quickly. If I’ve got to be wary of him in narrow corridors I’d like the advance notice so I can gather a troop of companions to follow me everywhere. Otherwise there’s less of a problem, so long as we can get him to pledge the proper oaths. And teach him a useful language. I will not marry anyone who cannot understand a word I say, nor I them.”
Fulk cleared his throat and swapped languages. “The lady would like to enquire about your family, if you have one.” Why did he end up in situations like this?!
“Oh?” Jocelyn’s attention rested on Fulk, and slowly slid back towards the beacon of upstanding feminine virtue that Godit was presently trying to be. “Family, or just my wife?” His next words were lost to Fulk, muttered and containing a few curses.
Back to Anglo-French. “He’s married.”
“Oh, curses and damnation!” Godit shot to her feet, shaking the folds of her skirts out to fall pleasingly around her feet. “That’s it, I’m off.”
Watching her departing back Jocelyn said, “Damn.” He swallowed a few mouthfuls of wine, and refilled his cup, pushing Godit’s abandoned drink over to Fulk. “Well, I did think it damned queer that a widow would be so open about wanting a lover; I didn’t think her the sort to be a court whore.” Somehow he implied that queer was the least a man could expect when away from home.
Fulk accepted the cup, taking a sip for the sake of manners. “It would have been more than queer. It’d have been scandalous.”
“You speak good langue d’oil.”
“I spent a few years in France.”
“That will explain it. So … she’s done with her thinking? Since you were looking for me.”
“No, not yet.”
“How much longer can it take? All she’s got to do is decide when to raise her banner, damn it, and then hand the rest over to them that’s made to handle it.” With all the slipperiness of an eel the man changed direction and doubled back, as though remembering who his listener was. “No slight intended to her, none at all. Just that she can’t lead an army, and that’s what will be needed.”
Fulk stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles in a deliberately nonchalant shift, all the better to lend weight to his words by making them simple fact. “If Eleanor’s thinking it’s because she has cause.”
Jocelyn grunted an agreement. “There is the matter of who she’s going to delegate to. Still, not like she’s got much choice.”
Knowing full well the answer, knowing and wanting to assert a few home truths in the face of such egotism, Fulk asked, “You’d serve under me then?”
Setting his drink down the count drew back as if a foul smell had wafted under his nose. “I am Jocelyn de Ardentes, Count of Tourraine. My noble bloodlines go back generations. I’ve fought, I’ve led, and I’ve trained for that since I was six.”
“So have I, for that last.” Fulk tucked his thumbs in his belt, again acting with deliberate nonchalance. The man had to protect his standing, and Fulk his.
“Yes. I have heard, and heard you’ve done well.” The pause spoke eloquently enough the final part of that comment: that it didn’t make a jot of difference. “So.” He reclined, mirroring Fulk’s relaxation. “Do you hope for a son first, or a daughter?”
The question caught Fulk off stride; to cover he sipped at his wine. “In truth I’ve not given it much thought. First it was impossible, now … having gained a wife I’ll not lose her.”
“Come on, you’ve given it thought – admit it, damn it. Along with many other things you weren’t supposed to be letting your mind near.”
Sons with their mother’s eyes, and their father’s height and colouring; daughters with his facial features married to their mother’s build; children who took more strongly after one parent or another so that one day he might find Eleanor looking back at him in the form or mannerisms of a child, or himself reflected likewise; so many possibilities. With them came other images long repressed: a family gathered, himself teaching his son to fight, Eleanor telling him that their children had better take better care of the nose they’d inherited from him than he had or she would go grey from sheer exasperation … He indulged himself for a time before sending the ghostly brood back to their grave. “I’d be well content with either,” he said softly. “But I’ll be far more content with my wife.”
“Most men clamour for sons. I was the same, and I was bloody fortunate; I’d a legitimate son and a bastard one before my first daughter appeared. I was disappointed – until I found I wasn’t. My little Mahaut is damned perfect! I thank God daily for all of them, but she’s always first in the list.” The glow of parental fervour dimmed, only a fraction, as Jocelyn refocused on his companion. “It was the same for your king, I expect. He spent much of his time when near death speaking of her.”
“Don’t tell her this, please.”
“Why not? She should know, damn it. He was her father, and he bloody well near burst with pride for her.”
“And with hate. There’s nothing so ugly as love gone sour.”
“Or so sweet as it recovered.” Jocelyn grimaced as if disliking the taste of what he’d said.
“More like expediency. Lightens his soul for judgement and maybe makes her more amiable to doing as he wanted.” If the dead king had been so foolish as to think that Fulk hoped he burned in hell as he deserved, and looked on as once more Eleanor set her own direction. He didn’t believe Eleanor would tamely cast away all she was because she received a ring from a father who had long ago ensured she had no loyalty to him, no love, nothing which might have promoted her to place his deathbed wishes above her own mind.
“Oh, I don’t believe he regretted their fighting, not completely. Not when so much of what he was proud of came from that.”
“Fighting?” Fulk choked down the heartfelt comments which rushed to his tongue, about longing to kill his former king for more than ‘fighting’ with his daughter. “He nearly killed her. More than once. She needs to forget, and she needs to forgive – if she ever can, and I do hope so - before she can accept he held anything but hate for her. Or it’ll be too much.”
Jocelyn hunched forward, hands wrapped about his cup. He hitched his shoulders. “You’d know more then I, I’d suppose. Still, seems bloody wrong to me.” Restlessly he sat back again, regarding Fulk with his head tilted slightly to one side. He raised his drink, lowered it, raised it again, and placed it back down half empty. “So you love her, this princess of yours.”
“Yes.”
“More than anything.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve done so for months.”
“Yes.”
“How in God’s name did you manage it?!”
Fulk indicated he didn’t understand.
“You love her, therefore you want to bed her, but you can’t and don’t for months. Months spent right near her, all the time without respite. You must have had some damned idea as to how she felt about you too.” Fulk opened his mouth to tell the man to mind his own business, to snap it shut when Jocelyn added, “What the hell are you – a eunuch? From what I hear it sounds like it.”
“Restraint. Layers of it built up over all that time, strengthened as my feelings grew. There’s a part of myself that’s been held back for so long …” For so long he didn’t know if he could fully loose it. “As for the rest, I’m particular. When I want one woman no other will do.”
The count drained his cup, refilled it and drained that one in a single draught. He set his empty vessel down with a thump and reached for the jug again; aside from a dribble it was empty. “Yes … when you’re cursed with knowing what you want and not able to have it nothing else is quite enough.”
As the great hall broke up into entertainment after the day’s final meal Fulk headed towards one of the wall alcoves, holding Eleanor’s hand loosely in his. Over his shoulder he encouraged, “Come along, my love. I’ve had enough of people gawking for a time, and enough of being surrounded by clusters of curious chaperones. I’d like a bit of time alone with my betrothed, in a scrupulously proper way, of course.”
“But …”
He tossed a dazzling grin in her direction. “Oh my love, my heart, my soul, my endless source of strife and perennial headache, it’s not polite to drag your heels until I’m let no alternative to admit I’ll die for wont of your company, like a plant without the sun.”
She followed, unresisting and some distance from happy. People were watching, many trying to seem as though they weren’t, others being open about it. She could guess what they thought, what words they put in Fulk’s mouth to stand in place of those they couldn’t hear, what motivated him … and her, whatever she did it would provoke speculation. Above all it was that she hated: the scrutiny and the strain of that scrutiny, that nothing could be what it was but must have a greater meaning or purpose or some motive. It would, she prayed, die out with time, so that one day they could do the simplest of things without a hundred reasons being bandied about.
Once they were in the alcove Fulk put his back to the hall and used his body as a screen to block as much of the arch as possible, giving them a measure of privacy. So none might think the pose odd – and because he wanted to, she thought with a considerable amount of delight – he put his arms around her and pulled her to his body. Near her ear he murmured, “Anne didn’t know much. Her father is going to wait until I’m solidly in power before doing anything about Trempwick. That could take a month or more, if things go badly.”
“Too long.”
“What’s more it sounds like he’s planning to trail along at my side, unless there’s significant gain to be made from launching a quick strike elsewhere. So the two-pronged attack I was hoping for doesn’t look likely.”
“He will call upon you to discuss strategy at some point; do what you can there.”
“I had planned it, oh gooseberry mine.” He launched a swift attack on her neck, running light kisses from under her ear down to the collar of her clothes. “How goes your thinking?”
“Uncooperatively.”
“Your French knight is one to be wary of, I’d warrant. He’s got visions of being your lord marshal dancing in his head already.”
Eleanor wound a lock of his hair around her forefinger, her other fingers caressing the back of his neck. “They can remain there.”
“It’s also definite you’ll declare yourself, if you listen to him. No thinking required. He’s seeing things clear cut; you take your army and kill your rivals, and then all is done and well.”
“If there was ever doubt there can be none now: being a knight impairs your intelligence.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “You are an exception to that rule.”
Gazing down at her with a funny look in his eyes Eleanor was sure she heard Fulk mutter, “Sod it.” The length of their bodies pressed together as he kissed her and kept on kissing her until she was giddy, crushing her against him as though he could merge them into one being if he only held her tight enough. Awareness of their watchers faded; Eleanor’s world filled with the feel of him, the scent of him, her racing heart. Long minutes later he broke the kiss, gasping. “Why do these last few days feel longer than all the months? I want you in my bed, every night for the rest of my life. And,” he added, interrupting himself with another kiss, “most of the days too.”
Eleanor buried her face in the front of his tunic. “You will be disappointed.”
“My heart, the only way that would be possible is if I lose control and act like a green boy. I’d be disappointed with myself, bitterly.” His hand stroked her back, thumb following her spine.
“Hoi!” called a loud voice, “Put each other down! The wedding isn’t for a few days yet!”
Eleanor started, and leapt free. If she had felt herself blushing before now her face and neck felt as though they were on fire.
“Brazen it out,” Fulk breathed in her ear, before turning to face the hall again and offering her his arm. Together they walked back out into the hall, into the storm of teasing and laughter. Eleanor inwardly cringed away from it, and kept her crimson face ducked; she couldn’t do as Fulk was, and return her own shots now and then. She concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other and not running away to hide.
It occurred to her, midway across the hall, that she was making of herself a better target. Where people knew they could draw blood they all to often did. So she stiffened her neck and dragged her gaze back up, blushing and silent as any would expect of a young bride-to-be and no more.
It’s been one of those weeks again, sprawled over two whole weeks. Thunderstorms, work, this hideous heat wave, I suspect my PC’s primary hard drive is beginning to fail (probably due to those power cuts, gah!), plenty of upheaval which all settled only to go to more upheaval within days, things I needed to do which robbed me of time to write … gah! The heat wave and thunder promises to continue. Much of the “needed doing” is done. The upheaval aught to be done now – if it’s not I’m like to turn grey. Really I can’t see how it can go anywhere more … unless one of my colleagues takes my promotion worse than expected, and tries to murder me with a cunningly placed stack of book boxes. Yup, I did say promotion. I’m going up in the world; I shall be hopping up to the lowest management role, training now and getting the title/pay/whathaveyou in two months time.
Zelda: As of this update Eleanor is 925 pages long, or 601,315 words. Just a little bit long then. :gring:
Congratulations on the promotion, Froggy! And thanks for the episode!
:laugh4: Jocelyn and Godit, well, I should have seen it coming.
It looks like Fulk and Jocelyn will one day meet head on, though, the latter´s ambition seems to be running a mite too high. Seems like this King-making (or rather Queen-making) business got to his head.
Congratulations to your promotion, does that mean you´ll get a nice cosy office with powercut-proof electricity, climatisation and a secretary to dictate new updates to ~;) ?
Ok, nobody's gonna comment on Jocelyn finally meeting Fulk?
(glrarg) From my point of view, these two guys are ME in that time. Well, ok, I'd probably be a dung-merchant's whipping-boy. But, I mean, if I was to put myself in the STORY. . . . well, you know.
So, here's Jocelyn, the "trying-to-be-right-Knight" while knowing how the king died AND also sort-of knowing that the whole "We give you fealty" is, well, based on power, yes?
And he KNOWS the King gave his blessing to Eleanor, but he has to talk to Fulk over booze. And talk about expectations and responsibilities from HIS point of view.
Perfect, Froggy! Wonderful!
Now look. You don't have to describe Fulk and Eleanor's wedding night in detail.
Granted, Jocelyn and Godit and EVERYBODY might be waiting for the exact thing, but that isn't required by the story.
Aw, heck, I'm wrong, aren't I? After all this time, SOME sort of story will have to be told of their night.
Interesting conversation between the would-be eunuch and the man who should be neutered. That was also a nice intimate scene between Fulk and the princess.
Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
I do believe my eyes will explode before I'm finished here!:2thumbsup:
Might I have permission to copying the posts into a word document so I may read a chunk of it again over my holidays when I will be unfortunately cut off from the internet? Chances are it'll prove a better (and much longer) read than most of the other books I have waiting in the wings at the moment.
Congratulations on the promotion by the way!
And thanks for the welcome back Ludens!~:)
Her father was dead; Hugh, her guardian, was many miles away. No male relations were here, no high-ranked male friends of the family. Eleanor went to the church door on the arm of the King of Scotland, like one of his more significant wards being disposed of to a favoured lord.
The procession of high-status witnesses was some three hundred people long, trailing out behind her in a riot of colour and noise as they passed out of the palace and through the city. Townspeople filled the streets; more than once Eleanor heard fighting behind her as someone pressed too close and fell foul of the guards walking at the edges of the column.
Walking along in a daze only parts of the scene reached Eleanor: noise as if from a distance, the bright colour, an occasional person or face, the threat of rain in the sky, the scent of roasting meat as they passed one of the cook fires set up by the king to provide a feast for his subjects. The day’s archbishop-blessed suspension of the fast combined with free food and the promise of money being dispersed on the return trip wasn’t the only reason behind the crowd. People here would spend the rest of their lives boring their children, their children’s children, and any other victims they could pin down with tales of how they had attended the great royal wedding, and, what’s more, the wedding where the princess married the handsome knight of status greatly argued.
It was a day long avoided and a day long desired, a day pregnant with dread, crammed with far too much good and bad. It was a dream – how else could she be marrying her knight? A nightmare – how else could she be the centrepiece in a state wedding? After a lifetime of evading the obligatory wedding, here she was. A night spent sleepless was but the final thing she needed to detach herself from this and walk as though in a dream, seeing this from a distance … or as if it happened to someone else. After today all should begin to settle; she needed only to get through this and all should begin to settle. She had made her choice, had chosen what she wanted knowing well what it involved. The thought of hundreds of people gawking at her believing she disgraced herself and her family out of lust for an ambitious nothing was easier to bear than the reality.
When they reached the church Fulk and his smaller party were already waiting. The King of Scots led Eleanor into position opposite Fulk, removed her hand from his arm and stepped back, leaving the Archbishop of Glasgow to begin the wedding. Which he did, and it all flowed by like the murmuring of a stream.
Fulk taking her right hand and beginning to speak his vows snapped Eleanor back into the flow of the here and now. “I, Fulk, take thee Eleanor to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.”
The most formal form of the vows; it would add that little bit more insolubility to the marriage. Another worry on her mountain of worries – her necessary reply contained promises the keeping of which was against her nature. She didn’t want to lie: making a lie of part reduced the whole to the same. The same for promises given and broken. It had to be in good faith. Before letting go of her hand Fulk gave it a light squeeze. It was enough. She could trust him; he would release her from the worst of the vows. She took his right hand in hers. “I, Eleanor, take thee, Fulk, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to be meek and obedient at bed and at board, to love and to cherish, till death us depart, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.”
An attendant brought forth a cushion with two plain gold bands lying on it. The archbishop blessed the smaller of the two rings, and gave it to Fulk.
Fulk placed the ring on her thumb. “With this Ring I thee wed,” on her index finger, “and with my body I thee honour,” and on her heart finger, “and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
The second ring was blessed and offered to Eleanor. She repeated the process of working the ring along to the correct finger. The poor man, he hadn’t gained much: one battered body, and a few lands in England worth less than his own new holdings.
They exchanged one chaste kiss, waited for an interval to accommodate the congratulations, and the headed into the church for the wedding mass with the most important guests following.
Grains and seeds stung Eleanor’s exposed skin as they rained down in handfuls; she tucked in closer to Fulk’s side, using his body as a shelter. With the bare minimum of time spent waiting before the church door in the hail of confetti Eleanor tugged on Fulk’s arm to set him moving. Once far enough out from the building four servants rushed into place with a canopy to keep off the rain; it served well to intercept more of the seeds.
Fulk bent his head and murmured, “You might blame me for the weather. I prayed it would rain tonight, so no one would want to stand beneath our window and shout advice.”
“You overestimate your own importance just a little, do you not think?” With her free hand she brushed away a few bits of rice which hadn’t taken her blackly thought hint and bounced right back off her; she didn’t want the fertility blessing, thank you very much.
“I’m the lord of a very small earldom – how can I not be important? Besides, I did add that you wouldn’t be very happy if people were making a raucous din under our window and that it would be all His fault for not answering my prayers. How could a god of love and forgiveness wish a distraught gooseberry on me? Obviously He has great sympathy for me.”
“You are going to need a bigger helmet. Something is going to your head, and I am not convinced it is wit.”
“Married for the time it takes to say mass, and already I think I’m going to have to beat you. You do not believe in wasting time, do you?”
As it was their wedding Eleanor and Fulk displaced the King of Scots from the seat of honour at the centre of the high table; he’d taken his throne with him, and moved to sit at Fulk’s left, in the third best place.
When the great hall was full and the guests seated, the king rose. He made a lengthy speech on his hopes for their marriage; Eleanor paid little attention, as it consisted of the usual stock phrases and trite wishes. That done he turned to generic tedium on his pleasure at the alliance with England, all of which he had orated on before and with much the same words.
She started paying attention again when the king pulled Fulk to his feet. “We do have great faith in our new earl and friend, and do greatly anticipate his actions upon our behalf, and to the aid of his wife’s family, against the traitor Northumberland. Indeed, such is our faith that we shall assign him fully two thousand of our men and allow him to act in our name in regard to this strike, independent of our chosen marshal and his own troops.”
There was nothing for Fulk to do but bow and act grateful for the dubious opportunity of bearing the brunt of the fighting with men he couldn’t rely on, and later on the larger portion blame if things went awry. More, he managed to make it sound as though he were eager to charge off into the wilderness and play with death.
Oh, he did look splendid! Plain Fulk might seem when stood next to a king loaded in finery and crowned with a mass of gold and jewels, yet it was he who put the king to shame. Glossy brown hair falling to barely brush the shoulders of his clothes, his face composed into noble serenity, posture which told of his high health and fitness and of confidence; he was an arresting figure and would have been if he were dressed in rags. Unpretentious his clothes may be, they became him as flamboyance never would. Nor could any say he had not done her credit, or had failed to dress as his position required. The fawn brown outer tunic was of the best quality fine wool, the hem reaching mid shin and the collar, cuff and hem were host to complex embroidered patterns. Where visible at the sleeves and collar his undertunic showed a rich light yellow, his hose an expensive deep blue. He wore his best sword, and the dagger her father had given him, the waist belt, sword belt and scabbards polished into a black shine which gave the sparing ornamentation more lustre.
She felt an upwelling of pride in him that threatened to make a fool of her; plucked from his meagre place he had put a king to shame. From baseborn man at arms with outdated armour to this, and in the space of not quite eight months, done without losing any of his goodness.
When Fulk sat back down she slipped her hand into his under the table, feeling the new ring on his heart finger and marvelling once again that he loved her.
It made him sick, it did. It really, really did. By God’s testicles it made him sick. Those two being all so caring and mushy and stuff. What it did was make him sick. Jocelyn blearily watched the happy couple dancing in the middle of a load of people who were dressed far too bloody fancily. It just wasn’t right! Well it wasn’t. What business did they have being all happy and tender and all that pointless crap he didn’t care one dried lump of turd for? Yes indeed.
He put his cup to his lips and found it empty. Waving the vessel about in the air attracted the attention of a servant and won him a timely refill of wine.
No, really, it was just really, really obnoxious and not right at all, damn them and their happiness and stuff. So she was all delicately pale and nervous and not getting on well with the increasing rowdiness and a whole load of other boringly womanish stuff Jocelyn didn’t care about. So why did the stupid what’s his name – the one’s she’d (who was she again?) married – keep on looking all worried and stuff over her, and keep on trying to be nice and crap, and from the way he was being so bloody tender anyone would think he loved … whoever she was – the one with the black hair, shortish, absolutely bloody beautiful. Yeah, beautiful, really, really beautiful, like every other maiden … lady … thing in a dress in the hall. Yeah.
Jocelyn’s face scrunched up; he knew somewhere he’d lost something. Something he’d been thinking. He gulped a bit more mead to see if that would help.
Yes! There! That was it, and it was all swimming about like some fish thing in a watery thing what fish lived in. This was a wedding! Having remembered that Jocelyn had another few swallows to celebrate. A wedding. And it was all wrong! It was! The thought was so profound he knew he had to share it with his neighbour. “’t’s all blordy wong, know tha’?” He didn’t get a response. Damned bastard was still sulking over losing their little competition of wits and culture and other highly classy stuff which Tildis would have been proud of and not whined about. Yeah, well he could get stuffed. It wasn’t Jocelyn’s fault he’d had the brilliance to see one answer no one could argue, by God! And it was right – the best thing Christianity ever did for any man was getting rid of bloody circumcision. Having bits chopped off your manhood wasn’t friendly and all those other religions did it. Anyway it was the plate of sausages which had given him the idea, so it was their damned fault.
He’d been married and it wasn’t all like this. No. Not at all. No, no, no, no. See, when he’d been married there was a lot less of this … this … He put his tongue out at the corner of his mouth to see if it would help him catch the elusive idea. Mahaut always said doing that helped her think, yes she bloody well did by saint Jeremiah, and Richildis was always whining about it being inelegant and all that drivel what didn’t really matter about anything at all. Mahaut was really clever and he was so proud of her.
Happiness! Yeah, that. Right. There was a lot less of all this happiness nonsense. And there shouldn’t have been! It was a wedding, for Christ’s sake! What did people think it was? Some kind of happy event like a wedding or one of them funeral things?
It was wrong! And it made him sick because he was so tuned to wrongness that he was like a man finely tuned to wrongness and the only man who was … that in the whole bloody hall. No one else could see it!
See, now, see, what it was meant to be was all miserable. Yeah, miserable. Right, but the guests were allowed to be happy and all that annoying stuff, but not the ones who had just got whatever-it-wased, you know, thingy. No. What they were meant to be was unhappy. Jocelyn shivered and drained his cup, bellowing for another refill.
Really, thinking back, see, it had all been like that for him, and it just wasn’t fair that these two had all this wrong and were doing things the wrong way and being all happy and crap in a terrified or worried sort of way depending on whether you were the man one or the other one. She wasn’t supposed to like him much and he didn’t like her much either but he put in a big effort and tried to be nice to her by saying things which were nice, like how much he couldn’t wait until he got her into bed and all that nice stuff. And she didn’t like any of it! No, she was all miserable and getting miserabler as time went by and nothing he could do was right and she wasn’t being very helpful either ‘cause she kept on going on about him maybe wanting to dance or something or stop drinking because he was getting drunk. So he - the man one, whoever he was - did what any decent bloke would have done and left her to it, only that didn’t help at all and it actually got worse, which was just annoying because there was no way he could win then, stay with her or go she whined. And then when the fun part actually arrived he’d found that she wasn’t interested, which wasn’t nice and all the others had been. So he’d had to do everything all by himself without any help from her and she complained which the others didn’t, and anyway enthusiasm was good so she shouldn’t have complained at all about him being enthusiastic. It just wasn’t nice, damn her! All the others had been helpful and hadn’t left everything to him and they hadn’t complained either. No, damn right. They’d said he was good at … whatsit. That. It was flattering anyway, if she’d the wit to see it. Flattering. She should have been happy he jumped on her and was enthusiastic right the moment the door closed and got rid of all the people. Showed keenness, it did, and some hefty attraction to her, but no she complained and didn’t like it and whinged it hurt. And it’d been the same when he tried again that night – which had been a real feat of amazing endurance and stuff, since he’d been very tired and drunk, but did she see that, oh no, course not. And then when he’d tried things the nice and faffing around way a few days later she’d just cowered like some cowering thing so it had all been a waste of time and he had to jump on her again anyway, and still she complained. What more could a chap do? And he only didn’t like her because she was all posh and made him feel stupid and like an arse on legs. What kind of pathetic man couldn’t even satisfy his wife? A really, really pathetic one, that’s what sort. Except, except, except everyone else liked him, so there! Christ, he was so useless!
Jocelyn tried to stand – it was only fair someone warned the groom. He wouldn’t go off unprepared like Jocelyn had, into disaster expecting something a damn sight more bloody fun. Oh no! This one would be fairly warned that he was doomed. But the hall had turned into a bloody ship on one of those things which had storms, and Jocelyn knew he’d better sit back down or risk getting washed overboard and drowning. So he did, and he hooked a leg around the bench’s support in case there was a big wave. And because it was all so terribly cruel he couldn’t warn him Jocelyn drank a toast to the poor doomed man, because that was all any decent chap could do.
It made him sick, really it did. He was the one who was supposed to have the wife who adored him and was all nice to him, and he was meant to be the caring one who everyone loved – and they did love him, everyone except his wife … and those ones he paid who probably loved him but it was hard to tell because of the money and only seeing them the once and all that. No. So it was all wrong! And it wasn’t fair. He was so lonely and alone and lonely. He’d never wanted much from life, just loads of money and a nice lot of land and a important title and good hunting grounds and a gentle war or two where he could keep fit and really wonderful children and stuff and a loving thing … yeah, one of them things. It was all he’d ever wanted and he hadn’t got any of it except the children and the title and the land and the money and the hunting and the war. Hardly anything! It was so sad Jocelyn felt a tear escape and run down his face. Muttering a curse he wiped it away with his arm, getting it on his second attempt. He didn’t deserve such a cruel fate! That God person hated him. Everyone hated him! No, it was true – they did. All of them, including God. And it wasn’t like there was any reason, I mean he’d never gone and farted on God’s favourite cushion or anything. Cruelty, that’s what it was. And hate and meanness and stuff. Yeah, well he didn’t want to be happy, so there!
A realisation prodded at Jocelyn. He told it that it could damned well sod off right now and stay sodded – sodding? - off. It prodded again, insistent and bloody well rude, and it kept on with its prodding. He lurched to his feet and zigzagged his way to the wall, nearly making it before he threw up. It just wasn’t fair! He couldn’t even get that right.
He collapsed to his hands and knees, and slumped to one side, the deck tossing wildly in the storm. He just missed the puddle of vomit which was really nice, but he could see through the forest of legs and stuff to the middle of the hall, and there he could see them, the ones who were all important and all that crap, standing and he was fussing over her and saying something quietly to her, and that wasn’t nice because it just rubbed it all in his face yet again. Jocelyn started to cry, not caring to wipe away the tears this time – that could have been dangerous: everything he did made everything worse, always! And he wasn’t going to do it any more! He should have been like that! Like the man, all kind and all that stupid rubbish and stuff and then she’d have liked him and then his life wouldn’t have gone crap and now it was all too late and he was doomed, doomed, bloody doomed, and everyone hated him because he’d been sick everywhere!
His squire turned up to drag him off to his room to recover, muttering nice words to him about how he’d gone much to far this time and he didn’t usually try to kill himself with drink so what the devil was wrong with him.
Jocelyn broke into sobs.
Late afternoon faded into evening, the sunlight dimmed and torches were lit. Course after course was brought out, showed off and admired, before being eaten in tiny portions by guests who knew they had a long haul ahead of them. Fish featured in small part, for those who wished to observe the fast despite the archbishop’s dispensation; meat made up the main, in great quantities, every possible sort cooked in every possible way. Starved of flesh the guests fell on it with greater than usual zest. In assembling the fruit and vegetable dishes the kitchens had exhausted all the possibilities offered by late winter; if the result wasn’t spectacular than it was not for wont of trying.
Drink was available in quantifies fit to float a barge: nine varieties of wine between both red and white, clairet, mead, cider, ale, beer, and a few concoctions made of fermented fruits. For children, ladies approaching their capacities and those few men not wishing to get drunk there was watered wine, small ale and small beer, and mead watered with apple juice. So by the time the banquet had been going for several hours it was no surprise most of the men were drunk to some extent, and a few of the women scandalously tipsy.
As the hall grew merrier Fulk watched Eleanor grow ever more timorous. After the first course she barely ate a thing, despite his best efforts. She took no more than cursory sips from the large goblet they shared – a restraint in which she was not alone, to the amusement of those nearby. The night was going to be difficult enough without his being befuddled, and if he had to parry too many jokes about his fearing to make himself impotent and being a miserable git who couldn’t enjoy his own wedding, then it was by far the smaller price.
In proportion to the growing inebriety the atmosphere took a dive, becoming increasingly crude and raucous. The entertainment twisted to fit, with the minstrels’ songs become lewd, the games rougher, the jokes louder, the conversation vulgar. By the time the subtlety in the form of a half life-sized naked couple with a marked resemblance to Fulk and his wife appeared, Eleanor was as pale as her snowy white mantle. The Countess of Berwick, having drunk more than she aught, crawled under her table out into the central space, assaulted the sugar groom, snapping off his overly large erect penis and waved it in the air, exuberantly claiming it as a memento of the day.
“I hope she doesn’t try that again later,” Fulk commented to Eleanor.
She didn’t say anything, staring at the sugar figures with the beginnings of panic.
Enough was enough. Much more and he feared it would take more time than they had for her to recover some good humour, and the whole night would be a disaster. The guests were the ones to announce the end by clamouring for the bedding ceremony, so with a little prompting perhaps …
Fulk took a quick drink to steady his nerves – blood was pounding in his ears as if he’d run a mile – and gathered Eleanor to him in a showy kiss, a kiss which had to be the single worst they had ever shared; she acted like a statue, and for an instant he thought she was going to shove him away. Not that he could say his own efforts were much better. He made a show out of playing with her hair, worn loose to signify she was a virgin bride, and kissed her again.
It took longer than it should have, and he was beginning to wonder about giving it up as futile when the first shout came, “If we don’t put them to bed soon we’ll be watching the consummation over dessert!” That sent Eleanor bolting out of his arms, eyes wide with terror. Fulk gave her a reassuring smile, thinking better of his initial impulse to tell her that it would be alright; to her the night would get worse before it improved.
The cry was taken up, spreading through the hall. As the highest ranking member of the group chosen to help Eleanor prepare, Anne collected up the designated ladies and came to fetch Eleanor.
When Eleanor stood Fulk feared she was going to collapse; she teetered, hand bunching up in the linen tablecloth to steady herself … or as if she didn’t want to let go.
Fulk steadied her. “Trust me. I won’t let it get too bad.”
Through numb lips Eleanor whispered, “I refuse to do worse than Anne did, and she managed dignity.” With that she moved out from her chair and off towards the oncoming party, pacing on stuff legs.
Watching her go Fulk wondered what else he expected from a princess born and raised and a gooseberry to boot, a person capable of, in the midst of her fear, turning her wedding clothes into a bald statement: mantle, dress, underdress – every bit of visible clothing was white, save for the decorative borders. The colour of purity and innocence.
Having reduced Eleanor to her shift the circle of ladies seemed content to idle a while, chatting about their own weddings. Chatting – exchanging horror stories, more like! Well, apart from the ones who were insisting that they had thoroughly enjoyed themselves; most of that was hair-raising enough.
Standing ready with Eleanor’s mantle, Hawise reminded her quietly, “When they speak in the same way of childbirth all labours last six days, and the child is the size of a two year old. None of it can be as bad as made out.”
“Small comfort – I cannot tell where the truth ends and the exaggeration begins,” hissed Eleanor.
The muted conversation attracted attention back to Eleanor. One woman in green, Maynild by name, said, “She’s a bit old for all this.”
Anne’s grandmother countered, “Better too old than too young.”
The next three comments occurred simultaneously.
“I should have preferred too young over too old. Being kept in storage all that time, with no status and no control over anything; hardly a life at all.”
“She should have been married four years ago, or more.”
“When is your birthday, anyway?”
The last question had been Godit’s; Eleanor might have thought it a kindly effort to re-include her in conversation and direct things to a less alarming line if it had not come from her. “The day after Saint Bartholomew’s day.” The twenty-fifth of August, and two weeks before she had been dispatched to France to kill Fulk’s lord; it had been the arse in the crown’s idea of a gift. Travel, excitement, a chance to win his favour, and all while being of use – it was very typical of him.
Whatever the intent behind Godit’s foray her mistress squelched it with another stunning display of her ability to commit tactical errors of the sort which, in the field, frequently led to the loss of elephants to the Alps. “Anyway, I doubt she has anything to worry about. He loves her.”
Significant looks were exchanged amongst the married members of the group.
The grandmother pursed her lips, then sighed “In her excuse she is only thirteen. Child,” this addressed to Anne instead of generally, “love does not conquer all. Nor does it solve all. It has its own difficulties.”
The one called Aline produced a little pot from somewhere. “Always better to have and not need than need and not have. This is very good for ah, soreness. If he’s considerate you will not need it, and that should be your aim. Don’t let him act like some creature in rut, however eager he is.” Reflexively Eleanor’s hand closed about the pot as the woman pressed it into her palm, tightening on it in a death grip.
Too late another made a grab for Aline’s arm to prevent the transfer. “Oh, nonsense! When something hits you with great force it’s better to roll with it; the same can be said of over-eager new husbands.” She winked at the gathering. “It’s no accident that doing just that dumps you on your back, you know. And then, having disposed of the over-eagerness, you can set about training him to something more useful without raising his hackles as you would if you tried to resist.”
One of the older women produced her own concealed item. “If he gets too bothersome find an excuse to give him a drink and slip some of this in.” She set a greenish glass vial down on the room’s little table. “He’ll sleep like a rock and wake with no harm done.”
“Bah!” Godit shouldered her way into the space at centre of the group. “All this doom and gloom. It’s a love match, and whatever else may be said of him Fulk’s a gentle man.”
Aline planted her hands on her hips. “Bah yourself. From what we hear he’s been waiting a very long time, and from I’ve seen it’s having effect.”
“Quite right.” Anne’s grandmother made a very evocative movement with her stick as she said, “All the good intentions in the world are no good if he is done in seconds.”
And so the flow of advice and speculation resumed, now with a very tight focus on Eleanor, Fulk, and the animated discussion on how patient or impatient Fulk would be and how that would affect matters. Eleanor’s attention jumped ship and went swimming off in the hopes it could escape. Or drown. Regrettably good fortune was not with it, and sufficient made it through to make Eleanor wish she could plug her ears with her fingers and hum very loudly. Knowing it wouldn’t have helped did nothing for her nerves; she’d heard too much already, and now it all churned over and over in her mind until it took enormous effort not to break and run.
Aline tugged at the sleeve of her shift. “Useful as some of this may be, time is passing and we don’t know how much longer we have until they arrive.”
The interval between removal of the last bit of clothing and Eleanor shrouding herself in her ankle-length mantle was small; people still saw.
Maynild’s “God’s mercy!” was joined by several less ladylike exclamations.
Anne’s grandmother vigorously thumped the heel of her walking stick on the floor to restore the room to a state where a person could speak and be heard. “What in heaven’s name happened to you?”
Eleanor held the mantle tight about her with one hand and gripped the pot of salve equally hard with the other, and didn’t answer.
Anne’s English maid, Adele, filled the conspicuous gap. “She refused to marry Trempwick, to her lord father’s displeasure.”
“There was more than one set of scars there,” said Aline, still with her gaze fixed on Eleanor’s covered back.
“So, now we know of the man under the crown. I consider my granddaughter a most fortunate widow.”
Anne knelt at her grandmother’s side, taking one of her hands in both hers. “No, you did not know him. He was a good man-”
“An animal.” The stick thumped into the floor again. “Worse. Had I known I would have supported your brother’s protests against the match.”
Drunken male laughter echoed in the corridor, sufficient in volume to be heard through antechamber, solar and bedchamber door. “Here they come!” exclaimed Godit unnecessarily.
Eleanor considered the practicality of downing that sleeping draught herself. Alas, it wouldn’t work in time.
Standing before the witnesses – Eleanor’s generously sized bedchamber was packed so tight that should someone step in any direction they would tread on another, save for the area of clear space about the bed – Fulk fixed the vision of an alluring gooseberry more firmly in his mind, and let his cloak be pulled off.
Eleanor was looking at him; he didn’t think she was seeing anything. In truth she looked like she was about to faint; her mantle now held more colour than her cheeks. Enough! Distressed Eleanor had its own effect, and not one the mob of morons expected to see from an eager bridegroom. The mockery at the first sign of his wilting would be vicious; more importantly he knew some would claim it as a lack of desire, and ensure Eleanor knew it. He turned on the spot, letting everyone see him from all angles.
The appreciative racket was such that the king’s chancellor bellowed, “Shut up so we can hear her, damn your eyes!”
Silence it wasn’t, but it was quieter. Fulk saw Eleanor’s throat work several times as she tried to find her voice. Stiffly she nodded her head. “He is flawless.”
“She doesn’t sound very keen. If she’s changed her mind I’ll have him!” The woman was shouted down by others volunteering to take Fulk off Eleanor’s hands.
A scowling noble in the front flung up his hands, nearly poking his neighbour up the nose. “Oh, get on with it. There’s still some good mead waiting in the hall.”
The neighbour gave him a shove. “Don’t be such a sore-arse. Just because your wife would swap you for him-” A fist to the face cut him off, and his return hit sent the scowling man tumbling back onto the people behind him. Hands swiftly closed on the pair and they were hustled out, still blazing abuse at each other.
The King of Scots advanced into the island of clear space at the foot of the great bed, worming his way closer to Eleanor. “We did hear her, she finds no fault.” When his hand reached out for the shoulder of her cloak Eleanor shrank away from him, stepping sideways. There was nothing Fulk could do but fume as the king laughed and followed.
Then Hawise was there, ‘accidentally’ in the king’s way and ready to catch the cloak. Eleanor’s white-knuckled grip on the material loosened fractionally, and the maid took this as her sign to remove the cloak. The garment didn’t come away gracefully; Eleanor’s hand was still locked on the front folds, fastening them together. People started to snigger. As if that wrenched her back to the here and now Eleanor blinked, took a deep breath … and let go.
She’d taken off Trempwick’s betrothal ring; the only ornament she wore around her neck was the teardrop shaped rock crystal he’d given her. And for some unknown reason she clung to what appeared to be a pot of salve in her left hand. The rest he didn’t give more than a cursory glance to – he’d look when it wouldn’t feel so damned sleazy.
The King of Scots lifted Eleanor’s hair up out of the way as she began her turn.
Across the approving din cut one expletive, followed by another voice, “Blessed Jesù!”
Fulk was moving before he knew he would; he flung his arms around her and used his own body to shield hers. “She is flawless in my eyes.”
Those who didn’t exclaim fell silent, and the silence spread to those who had not yet seen. There was no shortage of disparagement, voices vying to make themselves heard all at the same time. “Better look again.” came at the same time as “Maybe he’s blind.” followed by, “That’s why they made him promise fairer or fouler!” and more, drunken people latching on to this new reason to be humorous or call advice.
Hawise wasn’t much slower than Fulk, holding the cloak up ready to cover Eleanor; he let go and moved back as the cloak came into place.
Livid he turned on the witnesses, despising them all in that moment as he had never done before. “Get out!” It served only to make the flurry of comments multiply.
“Look! He’s drooping!”
For every person agreeing there was one disagreeing, and some demanding a closer look to establish the truth. One very piercing voice cut over the others, “Faced with that who wouldn’t? But thinking of the gain should help.”
A bunch of young men pushed and shoved, jostling and sniggering until their spokesman was clear of the crowd. The youth was holding something behind his back. “We all thought you’d need a bit of a hand. Well bred mounts don’t take to lowly riders-”
The youngest of the bunch broke in, “She’ll buck you right off!”
“And that was when we were thinking about a nice palfrey, not an old destrier.” He displayed the object he’d been hiding, a leather riding crop, to more laughter.
Fulk’s hands fastened around the speaker’s neck; choking, the speaker’s hands shot up to try and prise the grip loose.
Fulk gave the wretch a shake. “Out.” And he flung the youth away from him. “Out! The cursed lot of you!”
At the back of the crowd he heard new shouting, a change in tone from the derision; cutting through it he heard Waltheof and Luke taking up his cry. Expecting trouble, Fulk had arranged for them to forcibly eject guests if a need was shown.
The archbishop of Glasgow raised his hands in a call for peace. “Indeed, it is time to go. We have seen there is not a mark on either of them-”
A man bawled, “The blindness spreads! Flee, before it takes you too!”
Between the archbishop’s exhortations, Fulk’s fury, and the delicate threat – and occasional application – of the soldiers’ sheathed swords the room was eventually emptied.
Fulk slammed the door, shot the bolt across, and stood panting. “Damn them.” He turned to see what had become of his wife.
Eleanor was perched on the very edge of the bed, wrapped up tightly in her white mantle, the folds pulled so he could trace the outline of her shoulders and arms before they fell loose enough to conceal her shape. Silent tears ran down her cheeks; she was trembling.
“They’re gone, love. They won’t be back; I set Waltheof to guard the outer door, and it’s raining to hard for any to want to sing under the window. See? I told you God would listen.” His grin passed with no effect. The whip lay on the floor, abandoned and dust-smeared by many feet. Fulk snatched it up and dumped it in the fire. Next he turned his attention to the bed; the covers were pulled invitingly back and the sheet was strewn with seeds, a winter’s improvisation on the usual flower petals. He tried another smile. “Up; let me get rid of this. Sleeping in a granary’s for mice.”
Wordlessly she complied, until the mattress was cleared; she sat back down as though expecting the bed to be covered in spikes. At least she wasn’t crying any more.
Fulk brushed her cheeks dry with the back of his hand. “People are cruel. You know that. And you know how much it’s worth: nothing.” Fulk managed another smile for his cringing wife, and teased, “When you promised to be meek I didn’t think you’d take to it so wholeheartedly.”
Someone knocked at the door; Luke’s voice called, “It’s me, my lord.”
Fulk ran his hand over the top of Eleanor’s head, smoothing her hair back from her face. “By arrangement.” Pausing at the door he checked over his shoulder; she sat as she had, covered from neck to ankles and staring at the floor.
The squire bore a massive tray loaded down with food taken from the feast; Fulk’s clothes were rolled up into a bundle and stuffed under his arm. “I hope Alfred got it right; I did tell him what you wanted.”
“I’m sure he’s perfectly capable of fetching food.”
“Er … if you could take the clothes, my lord? Before I drop something.”
Fulk prised the bundle out and threw it at the bed, landing it in a tumble of escaping sleeves. Taking the tray he said, “Goodnight.”
“And you -” As Fulk turned away he gave the door a kick with the back of his foot, closing it in the man’s face.
Eleanor produced a very shaky smile. “I will not tell you how silly you look stood there like that.”
“Silly?” Fulk puffed out his chest. “My very dear gooseberry, let me tell you that silly is a long way from the word you are looking for. I feel a complete prat. Silly is much too mild.” Dumping the tray on the floor near the fire, Fulk went in pursuit of his shirt; prancing about like Adam was well enough, but not when he expected to be scuttling about the room like this for quite some time and not in early March.
As he tugged the linen over his head Eleanor blurted, “But we have to-”
“No,” he interrupted, head emerging from the collar with another of those harmless expressions on display. “There’s no more ‘have to’. That is done with. Our wedding has been naught but a parade of what other people wanted us to do. No more. Now it’s what we want. If we don’t want to consummate the marriage tonight, we won’t. Simple as that.”
“Then I shall be disgraced come morning.”
“No one thought to examine the inside of my nose, or to take my fingernails away.” As ways of getting blood went a nosebleed was unpredictable, too easy to end up with enough blood to fake a slaughter; he hoped she wouldn’t think of that, and ruin his effort at removing pressure. “So we ‘have to’ nothing.” He busied himself with the tray, taking covers off dishes and digging the eating knife out from the silver plate it had slid under.
When he glanced up he found her watching him, shoulders slumped.
“I noticed you were hardly eating a thing; I didn’t eat so much myself. I thought a private meal a good idea, and arranged it after you were gone.” Fulk collected a scattering of cushions and added them to the impromptu dining area. Plumping one up invitingly he said, “Come on, or it’ll go cold.”
As she made the shift he had chance to admire a delightful pair of ankles. That was all; the entire move was made without the mantle revealing anything, a feat of skill he couldn’t quite view with awe. Mind you, the cloak was far better than her ending up in her shift again; winkling her out of that would pose a far greater challenge. And still she clung to that pot of salve!
“Beloved, you might find it easier if you put that pot down. You won’t need it.”
From the way she had to check her hand to discover what he was talking about he realised she’d forgotten she was holding it. Her lips compressed, her fingers tightened about the pot until her tendons stood out stark white. “No. I do not suppose so.”
In the end he had to take it from her, prising it out of unresisting fingers which had lost the will to release it. A cursory sniff revealed a strong scent of nettle mixed in with the other ingredients. “They didn’t have much faith in me, did they?”
Eleanor’s eyelids lowered.
“Forget all that they said.”
The corner of her mouth wrenched down. “Yes. It does appear to have been misguided.”
“My heart, I’m only suggesting we wait until we’re both less scared, rather than jump right in as everyone expects and do less well than we could as a result.”
To say she gaped at him wouldn’t terribly far from the truth. “Scared? You?”
Fulk’s head bobbed as he nodded vigorously, exaggerating just enough to make it seem comical. “Oh yes. And for good reason. If you knew all the things which could go wrong …” An embellished shiver. “Stiff with fear’s a very misleading expression. Too much anticipation leads to the same effect. Same for too much drink, not enough sleep, too much worry, stress, cold … Sometimes I think God has a cruel sense of humour. And then I’d be mocked as incapable, and, worse, you’d think I wasn’t interested.” He set his head bobbing again, a resigned expression on his face. “Then you’d do something nasty to me. If that’s not stressful I couldn’t say what is. Yes, you women definitely get the easier side of things.” As expected she scowled and looked set to argue; he grinned, and winked. “Oh, alright. We’re about even.”
“Huh.”
“Oh sceptical one, you don’t know half of it. The other set of problems run in entirely the opposite direction. Eagerness can do terrible things.” Now he made his face doleful. “I have nightmares of you doing that shrivelling glare of yours and saying, ‘Is that it?’”
Far from raising a smile this made her stare at him in bewilderment.
“Ah. Well. Never mind. With some fortune you’ll never understand. But anyway, delayed for a better result, not abandoned.”
He’d cut up most of the food into bite-sized pieces before she spoke again, in a low voice and blushing badly. “I would understand if you did not want to-”
“Not want to!?” Fulk nearly gashed his left hand, his abrupt loss of attention a poor partner to the task of carving a rack of ribs into individual bones. He stabbed the knife point first into the meat and rested his hands on his knees. “Listen. I have told you many times I view those scars as a mark of honour – knowing how you came by them how could I not? They do not bother me. There is nothing off-putting about them. You are beautiful to me.” It would take a lot more than simple words repeated now and then before she could begin to; deeply held beliefs were difficult to change. He would achieve it. Once again he cursed the King of Scots and the drunken witnesses.
Fulk poured some wine into the single cup. “The white was unexpected. I’d thought to see you in your family’s colours, or some of your favourites.”
“What better statement could I make to refute all those rumours and lies?” Anxious, she added, “You did not mind?”
“Not in the least. Here.” He offered her the cup. She accepted it, sipped, and handed it back with the liquid’s level barely decreased.
Her chin came up and she looked right at him. “There will be no children. Hawise has been making me some tea … I have not had chance to tell you.”
“I know; I asked her. I’d have gotten her to raise the matter with you if you hadn’t beaten me to it.”
“I am sorry.”
“Think of the trouble it saves. Imagine trying to name our unlucky progeny – we’ve three families now to put a nod to: yours, mine, and the de la Bec’s. William would be a safe bet, since there’s one in each. As for the rest, disaster! No name would be a safe choice. It’s all very well naming a new child after a dead sibling; there’s something morbid about naming each boy the same thing. And as for girls! Williamina, Williametta,” Fulk snorted. “I don’t think there’s a single female variation on the name which isn’t downright ugly.”
A smile began and died on her lips in the space of a heartbeat. “I suppose so.”
Fulk put the finishing touches to his carving of half a pheasant. “Besides, think of the fuss. We’d never have a moment of peace to ourselves again, nurses or no.” He waggled the knife in the air. “Some things are damned hard to with little Primus hanging about your neck. Romance for one. Bawling brats don’t lend to the atmosphere the sophisticated knight strives to create for his lady-love. Which reminds me.” He went and retrieved something from one of the storage chests, the one furthest from the fireplace. “I asked Hawise to conceal this here for me. It was an old Saxon custom for the groom to give his bride a gift the morning after the wedding, to show his appreciation for er, the previous night. It’s died out in most places. Not where I grew up.” Fulk placed a regularly shaped rectangular cloth wrapped bundle in front of her. “I know it’s not morning, and don’t dare argue I’ve nothing to show appreciation for.”
Eleanor folded back the silk, until a prettily carved box sat in the middle of a square of flame-red. On opening the box she found another wrapped object nestled on a bed of scrunched up linen.
Fulk watching her expectantly, his eyes dancing in the firelight. “Go on,” he encouraged when she looked up.
Eleanor picked the right-hand package, undid the pretty little ribbon binding it, and repeated the unwrapping process. Dumbfounded she stared at what she revealed. “Cheese!?”
“A more personal gift than jewellery and such.” Fulk offered her the knife, making a show of it by resting the handle on his left forearm and keeping the blade tucked back towards his body like a warrior offering his sword to his commander. "A large piece of very good hard cheese, and in the middle of Lent no less. It wasn’t easy to arrange. I hope the warmth of the room hasn’t spoiled it.”
Eleanor laughed quietly as she put the cheese and its square of cloth down. She cut off two bits, and gave him one. “Since you find favour, Sir knight, your lady shall reward you. Behold her great generosity.”
“Generous indeed.” Fulk accepted the cheese gravely – and ate it in a single go. “I didn’t expect to get near any of it.”
“I think I am being maligned. You make me sound parsimonious.”
“Not at all, oh rising of my sun. I’m indifferent to cheese; I like it and no more.”
“And you wait until now to tell me?” Eleanor turned her face from him in mock disgust. “I want an annulment, on the grounds of your concealing important information about yourself!”
“Ah, but think. This means all the more cheese for you. I was going to let you eat all of that chunk yourself, with none wasted on me. But I didn’t want to be impolite when you offered me that bit.”
“I repeat, you wait until now to tell me? After you have eaten my highly generous gift?”
“You may have it back if you like.”
“Thank you, but no. My tastes do not extend to used cheese.”
“Just as well. I’d find that disconcerting.” He picked up a titbit from the feast before them, and held it to her mouth. After a hesitation of squinting down her nose at it, she took the meat.
“I will always share my cheese with you, my luflych little knight.”
“I’m honoured.” He leaned across and kissed her lingeringly on the lips.
“So you should be.”
He fed her a few more morsels, easing his way to her side under the pretext of changing his seat to be more comfortable. To the dismal sound of a deluge hammering at the windows and over a banquet of leftovers Fulk worked at relaxing his princess, and then at seducing her.
Fulk nibbled the last bit of meat from rib they were sharing and dropped it onto the silver plate serving as a bin. “I’ll let you off the meekness. It’d be much too boring, and you’d sprain something trying. The obedience though … I can see uses for that.”
“Is it too late to change my mind and marry Trempwick instead?”
“Much too late,” Fulk assured her.
She nipped his finger as she took the bit of egg tart.
“Now what could I do with an obedient Eleanor?” He offered the drink, then drank himself, setting his lips to the same place she’d drunk from, watching her from under his eyelids to determine the effect of his flirting. “I could have you rub my feet after a long day.”
“I am going nowhere near your smelly feet.” His piece of egg tart she stuffed in his face; the crumbs she tidied by the simple expediency of kissing him.
“Or I could demand you be pleasant to me.”
“You would become unbearably haughty without my charitable efforts to keep you unpretentious.”
“Or have you mend my clothes.” He captured her hand as it rose again, threatening him with a bit of pheasant, and kissed her palm.
“I cannot sew.”
“You can – I’ve seen you!”
“Alright.” She bit the proffered carrot into two. “I cannot sew well.”
Fulk consumed the rest of the carrot himself with a grin. “I love it when you’re modest; it’s such a rare occurrence.” He stroked the fingers of one hand up along her jaw until her cheek rested in his hand; another kiss, this one deeper.
“Well, I am royalty.” She kissed him in return, so tenderly.
His first finger followed the curve of her ear. “Very.”
“There is a certain obligation to be prideful.”
“Oh yes.”
“It comes with the crown, one might say.”
“Quite.”
“I could not change.”
“Never.”
“So …” With that impish smile of hers she said triumphantly, “I could never be obedient.”
Fulk slid his hand up to the back of her head and drew her to him. “Sod the obedience.” When his mouth was free again he added, “Same terms as before: I order, you obey, but otherwise do as you see fit.”
“Yes, my lord.” The very letter of meek obedience. Until she stuck her tongue out at him.
He selected a very spicy bit of beef, and licked the sauce off his fingers when she’d eaten it, again watching to see what she’d make of it. “She’s my other half, the keeper of my heart and my soul, the centre of my world and the rising of my sun … and she sticks her tongue out at me.”
“Says the knight in possession of a disreputable nose.”
When she held out a bit of the beef he licked the sauce off her fingers too. “Nobody’s perfect.” Least of all him – he’d had enough of dinner and desperately wanted to advance to dessert. The urge to fling himself on her was strong; he knew it would do her no good, as it had done Cicely and Maude no good, and they had not been so apprehensive. With Eleanor there would be no second chance if he botched the first. He would never forgive himself for not doing as well by her as she deserved – as he longed to do. This time it truly mattered that all was as perfect as he could make it. And he knew the longer one took with such things the more pleasurable the experience for both … which did nothing to quench his boiling blood.
He pulled her close and, mental fingers crossed, slipped a hand inside her cloak, brushing her nipple with a fingertip. He felt her gather herself to escape, and the relax again, one hand going to the back of his neck to pull him closer, the other shyly rising to copy his every move. Greatly encouraged he continued to explore, relishing the silken feel of her flesh.
Nibbling her earlobe, he ran kisses down her neck, skipping over the mantle at her throat and continuing from her collarbone, holding the folds of wool out of the way with one hand. Stopping only for a brief detour to a breast he travelled down close to her navel before the awkwardness of the various contortions required caused him to drop the cloak and nearly smother himself. Extricating himself he said, “Clothes get in the way.”
“Says the man with the shirt.”
Fulk’s shirt found itself ripped off and flung over his shoulder. He reapplied himself with a will. Waiting a bit to smooth away any anxiety the pause might have resurrected, he moved a hand to the brooch fastening her mantle. Her hand clamped down on top of his; she tore her lips free of his.
“Beloved,” he urged.
Eleanor ducked her head, and froze. After what felt like forever she took a breath and met his eyes once more. “Do as you will.”
He picked her up and carried her to the bed, the snow-white cloak falling away behind them.
They lay quietly for a long time, Eleanor tucked in to the curve of Fulk’s flank and enfolded in his arms. Blissful.
Eventually, feeling that the silence had passed its time, Fulk said, “I know it hurt …” A conversation had to begin somewhere, and concern was a good growing ground.
“Not for long. Only at the start … and the end.”
“It does get better.”
A delicate flush mantled Eleanor’s cheeks as she shifted her head on his shoulder, seeking a more comfortable pillow. “I think I should have no complaints if it did not.”
His heart swelling fit to burst, Fulk clasped her until his arms ached. Into her hair he whispered, “With my body I thee honour.”
They settled back into their peace, half dozing.
Eleanor bolted upright, belatedly wrenching the blankets about her so they covered her torso. “The bloodstain!”
“It’s there.”
Paying him no heed she scrambled down the bed, yanking the covers along with her until Fulk was proven correct.
Lying there exposed to the shins Fulk shivered at the abrupt loss of heat. “Dearling, if you’re going to rob me of your warmth you might at least leave me the covers! Show your poor husband some compassion.” His admiration of her tousled hair and an exposed shoulder ended when she lay back down beside him. At which point his admiration of the rest of her began again.
The second time was more confident, slower, and even more tender.
As she drifted into sleep Eleanor murmured with no small amount of wonder, “It does improve.”
That was … hmm.
‘“Nobody’s perfect.” […] “Beloved,” he urged’ – gah! That entire section makes me cringe! GAH! And it took longer to write than the rest of it put together! Days! And it’s glergh! Strangely I quite like the last two lines of that scene, where she trusts him. But the bit before makes me want to run about shouting “Ick!” Not because of what they are doing (well, yes, some of that) but because of my utter inability to write it in a half decent way. Some numberless (lost count at 26 …) revisions on and still it feels lousy, icky, rubbish, crap, and any other words you care to toss at it. Blergh.
There were some sweet bits in it though. Nell telling Fulk “I will always share my cheese with you, my luflych little knight.” is one of her cutest lines to him, methinks.
935 pages and Fulk finally gets to bash someone maligning his gooseberry. :much cheering: While nude and in a state of some delicacy. :everyone peters out into silence with shuffling feet and looking embarrassed: Dunno about anyone else but I find the notion of Fulk going ‘Celtic Warrior minus woad’ quite terrifying.
Jocelyn’s tip: don’t mix your drinks, don’t drink in large quantities on an empty stomach, and most especially don’t do any of this at a wedding to try to drown your sorrows – they come back and drown you. Believe it or not but channelling drunken Jocelyn for this scene left me with a migraine and feeling badly sick. Spooky.
Furball: Thanks.
:tries to decide what a Fulk/Jocelyn blend would be like … runs screaming!: With two sets of ‘causes trouble’ genes that person would be …!! :winkg:
Seeing how that lousy bit near the end of the second to last scene turned out I think you all had a very lucky escape – imagine a page or more of that horrificness. Yes very muchly, it is a Good Thing™ I never planned on more detail. Yup.
Ciaran: Alas, the promotion means I’ll be doing more work, if anything.
A lot of things go to Jocelyn’s head. It must have its own gravitational pull.
Vladimir: “the would-be eunuch and the man who should be neutered” That had me laughing out aloud. Brilliant.
Zelda: Personally I can’t see that being practical. It’s 938 pages long without all the spacing out; that’s a huge print job. With the spacing you can add roughly a third more to that page count. Removing all the extra spacing and restoring it to book format would take you as long as reading the whole thing from start to finish.
Oh my goodness. Brilliant, Froggy! [I]All[I] of it.
There is no reason for you to 'ick' at all. I thought the entire scene with Fulk and Eleanor was believable, tender and true to the tenor of the story. Splendid writing.
But I must say I was most intrigued by Jocelyn's scene. If you've never been that drunk or that self-abusive then you have an incredible and spot-on imagination!
When they make the movie, I could play Jocelyn without even trying. :)
An absolutely wonderful episode, Froggy. I'm sure it must have been hard and time-consuming to write, but it was worth it. A joy to read.
Awesome. Few authors would get that scene just right (from my experience the tendency is towards "too much"), but you did. I pity Jocelyn, though, I know perfectly well how it´s like when you get sentimental and depressive instead of cheerful from drink, it takes the fun out of it.
My favourite line, though:
"A man bawled, “The blindness spreads! Flee, before it takes you too!” " :laugh4:
By the way, my word copy of this story breached the 1000-pages mark with this update. That´d be quite a pile of paper if I were to print it out.
The tapping at the door woke Eleanor; Fulk slumbered on. Grey light was beginning to creep through the cracks in the shutters. Quietly she called, “Yes?”
“My lady, they’re coming.” Waltheof.
“Thank you.” The final part of this drama approached – early.
Propped on her elbow Eleanor considered how best to wake Fulk. Sleeping people always looked younger, vulnerable. She ran a fingertip down his profile, traced his lips. He looked like he needed someone to care for him, to protect him from life’s abuses. The touch of her lips to his failed to wake him.
Eleanor leaned back again, the limits of her knowledge exhausted. How else was one meant to wake a knight after a night like that? Her mouth quirked, she shifted to gaze down at him again. If the soppy romantic way didn’t work there was always the gooseberryish way, or ways plural. As a concession she set her lips to his again before prodding him in the ribs.
Fulk’s eyes cracked open. He saw her, began to smile, eyes drifting shut again at the same time. His eyes opened again, a good deal more quickly; they widened as once again he saw her. He bolted upright, sweeping her to one side and narrowly avoiding head butting her. “Oh. Yes.” He flopped back down beside her, tucking an arm about her. “For a moment there I forgot we’re officially married. Good morning, my very beloved gooseberry.”
“The witnesses are coming.”
“It’s barely dawn yet.”
“Yes. Another prod from our dear friend, the King of Scots. An effort to catch us unaware, I should guess.”
“And foiled so easily.”
“He must have known Waltheof was on sentry duty …”
“My heart, don’t worry. I’ll let them in, they can have their look – respectfully – and then I’ll boot them out, all the while standing on my earl’s dignity.” He took her left hand, raised it to his lips and kissed the new ring. “Yesterday I had to be a good sport. Today I have a wife and standing to guard.”
Voices in the solar; a cursory, soft knock at the door, and immediately it tried to open.
Fulk rolled his eyes at her, and mouthed, “Idiots.”
The King of Scot’s voice came, “It is morning, and we none of us have time to idle. There is much to be done.”
Pulling his shirt on as he went, Fulk opened the door. This morning required fewer witnesses in the bedchamber, a happy circumstance Eleanor was positive had grown out of the general lack of sound bodies to be found the morning after any big party. The king, the archbishop, a couple of senior clergy, and two Scottish nobles looking rather the worse for wear filed in and assembled about the bed; seven to last night's two score and more.
Fulk strode over to Eleanor’s side, plucked up the blankets, waited long enough that she could brace herself, and yanked them back to the very foot of the massive bed, saying, “You’re right. It’s going to be a busy day. We shouldn’t waste time on formalities.” The briefest of pauses so they could see her unmarked by any new cuts and with blood smudged on the insides of her upper thighs, and Fulk pulled her out of the bed, tucking her behind him.
Everyone dutifully examined the blotch of dried blood which marred the crisp whiteness of the sheet. Strange, how so little result had come from so much pain. But then if the membrane hadn’t been so tough it likely wouldn’t have survived her unquiet life, and if Fulk hadn’t been careful there’d have been a lot more, blood and pain both. Or so she’d been led to believe. So little result … Eleanor’s face burned as she remembered; actually, not at all a little result and not one she felt inclined to bemoan.
Fulk said, “And that concludes the formalities.”
The king indicated his nobles should gather up the sheet for display in the hall. “We have not yet seen you, my lord of Alnwick. No negligence must be allowed, to return in the future as trouble.”
Fulk tugged his shirt back off, pressing it into Eleanor’s hands in such a way it covered her from shoulder to near-knees. He turned on the spot. “Now, if you could send my wife’s maid in with some hot water for washing …”
With surprisingly little fuss the band of witnesses were replaced by Hawise with the morning wash water. Eleanor told her, “We shall manage on our own.”
“You usually do,” the girl retorted. “I’ll wait in the solar, for when you want your hair doing.”
Left alone with her husband again Eleanor began “That maid …!”
“Is perfectly matched to her mistress.” Fulk kissed her, long and slowly; her blood began to burn.
Feeling absurdly shy Eleanor asked, “Would you mind if we did without help all the time? Only, we do not need them to help us dress.” Last night’s bedding ceremonies had stuck a sword through the heart of the feeble tolerance she had for the thought of having anyone but Fulk in the room while she was less than completely dressed.
“Hawise can sleep in the solar. She can deliver what we need and come back in when called for. My squire’s more of a problem; it wouldn’t be fair to expect Hawise to share a room with him. So I’ll do without him completely. Pretty much as I did before, truth be told.” He tweaked the shirt out of Eleanor’s hands and draped it over his arm; wonky smile growing he looked her up and down. “You really are very neatly formed.”
Running would have meant turning her back on him, then he’d see again what she hoped he would forget. So she brazened it out, wishing she could scuttle under cover. “I could say the same of you, and think I shall. Perhaps your neatly-formed-ness will be good enough to pass my shift?” She should have dived back into bed during the distraction as the witnesses left! As a side benefit he might possibly have followed …
Instead he dropped his shirt on the floor. “I can think of a few other things I’d rather be doing.”
Over a breakfast which had become substantially later than originally expected, Fulk asked, “What have I married?”
Eleanor blushed to recall some earlier words spoken in breathless admiration. “I would not know.”
He put his bread down and, clasping his hands on the tabletop, met her eye. “Have I married a queen?”
Appetite entirely gone Eleanor dumped her food back on the trencher. She fished the coronation ring out of its hiding place in the toe of a stocking right at the very bottom of her clothing chest. Sitting back down she slid it into her left ring finger above her new wedding ring. “See how well it fits?” A shake of her hand emphasised the dangling looseness; straighten her finger out and the ring would fly off.
“It can be altered to fit.”
“Of course.” Removing the ring she set it on the table – reverently: this was the sacred ring which bound ruler to realm. “But the wearer cannot be altered to fit it.”
Fulk took a very careful breath. “Eleanor, that’s very … simplistic.”
“I cannot rule; I do not have the training, nor the will to break all and make it anew. It would do considerably more harm than good. If my beloved regal ancestor wished me to rule he aught to have put some effort behind it when there was time; instead he named me as an afterthought. What is more, he named me with the thought of vengeance; he sought to use me. I will not be his revenge. He spent much of our time together killing any notion of duty I had to him, and I find I would rather kiss the hand of his killer than order his execution. And I definitely will not wreak havoc on my realm to satisfy his sense of betrayal.”
“Your realm,” Fulk repeated, eyebrows raising.
Eleanor cursed at the slip. “By birth, by blood, and by … ownership, of a sort. I am my father’s daughter.” With a curl of the lip she added, “In some aspects. And I refuse to be anyone’s puppet. Furthermore, I do not foresee any great amount of support for me now I have married you.”
“I did not think you likely to declare yourself; I know you too well. But … I expect this is not the simple all and end. As you said, your realm. You’ve never called it that before.”
Eleanor picked up the ring again and held it so Fulk could see the gemstones set in formation at the front. “The sapphires match my eyes, do they not?” Letting the burst of humour fade she became sombre.
“What are you going to do?”
“You are my husband and my lord. Your life steers mine.” To seize what was not by custom hers would be a very poor start to their marriage, and would show no respect for him. If he chose to keep her subordinate it would be no more than she deserved for misjudging him so spectacularly.
“The man decides and the woman follows; all very well where it works, but here and with us it can’t. Equal partners, my love. No major decision by either taken without our discussing it.” He gestured at the hand holding the coronation ring, the same hand wearing his wedding ring. “What would you do.”
It was Eleanor’s turn to take a deep breath. “The one wearing the crown is not invariably the ruler.”
Fulk nodded slowly, thinking it over. “The hand behind the throne, then.”
“Let Hugh have the bother of ceremony. Let him have the fawning sycophants, the hate, the being trapped and defined by the gold he wears on his head. Let him breed the next generation – heaven knows he can survive failure over and over where I could not, and is not risked by either success or failure, and if the mother of the heir dies she can be replaced.” May blessed Mary watch over Constance and protect her from that ugly death. Keenly aware of her own risk Eleanor repeated the prayer, exchanging Constance’s name for her own. “Let him have the tedious minutiae. He may lead the armies, judge the pleas, pay for things, and live his life under scrutiny. I shall do what I am trained for: lurk in the shadows, forgotten and getting things done.”
Something had crawled into Jocelyn’s mouth and died. No, that was too much a bloody understatement. Something had crawled into his mouth, vomited, shat, died and decayed. He’d scrubbed his teeth over with the salt and sage mixture several times and gargled half a flask of mouthwash; the only notable effects were increased nausea and a more damned pains in his aching head, God damn it! He winced, one hand rising to clutch his forehead. Thinking too loudly smashed his skull apart as effectively as a crossbow bolt at short range. Christ’s torments surely hadn’t been as bad as this!
The door into the princess’ solar opened; Jocelyn applied his remaining mental resources and figured out how to walk. It was a case of putting one foot before the other and not falling down into a weeping heap. Simple. Damn the woman! He waited days to hear what she wanted of him, and she had to go and wait until he felt like Death and Pestilence mixed together while War sat inside his skull having a bloody battle, and Famine gnawed at his belly. If he belched very bad things could happen – the Apocalypse could escape.
Saint Paul on the privy, what had possessed him to drink so much and in such mixed quantities!? He knew better than to do that, ever since that time when he was fifteen when he’d nearly … And as for cider! Only an utter bloody moron drank overmuch of that stuff.
The princess was alone, except for her maid. Jocelyn knelt like a proper knight of the sort Tildis was always going on about; it wasn’t difficult, he simply stopped trying to stay upright. The shock of the impact nearly shattered every bone in his body; he couldn’t help a groan.
She looked down her regal nose at him. “If you ever again behave in such a manner as you did yesterday you will find yourself banished back to the continent in short order. Associated with me, your disgrace besmirches my own name. I will not have it!”
Jocelyn flinched, smothering another groan. Did she have to damned well raise her voice like that!? “Yes, your Highness.”
“I expect my fighting men to be fit to serve at all times. You presently struggle to walk.”
“Yes, your Highness. It won’t happen again.”
“My husband and I leave tomorrow, to secure his earldom. It is my wish that you aid us.”
“The earldom,” he repeated dumbly. The earldom. Fiddling around after a trivial little dump of land when there was a kingdom at stake. Women couldn’t plan worth a damn, and they hadn’t the least notion about war.
His disapproval must have been plain, for her face hardened. “One must attend to the smaller details before considering the larger. Alnwick assembled and under our control, then Northumberland attacked with forces combined from my own, my husband’s and Scotland. Then aid to the south, as soon as is practicable, catching Trempwick on two fronts and encouraging the midlands and neutral lords to rise for us.”
A sound bit of strategy, that, and what else had he ever expected from his queen? “And when will you declare yourself, your Highness?”
Sharply she said, “I will not.”
What!? He was going to look a complete tit if he went and threw his support behind the named heir who calmly passed on her inheritance to her bastard brother! “But it was your lord father’s wish-”
“I am loyal to my brother; I go to his aid.”
“But … but …” But she’d got less sense than the gooseberry she used as a badge! The whole bloody damned point, damn it, was to put her damned behind on the bloody throne, stuff the bloody crown on her damned head, and carry out the bloody old and dead king’s damned wishes by bloody well helping her to damned well rule the whole damned realm, by God’s nose hair! And his head ached so much!
“It is fool’s talk like that which will drive a wedge of suspicion between my brother and myself, and place me in grave danger. I will thank you to keep your treason to yourself.”
Jocelyn sighed in relief. That was it. Of course. Another bit of brilliance, another demonstration that he’d not fouled up and misunderstood God’s intent. Of course – she didn’t want her brother to expect her to supplant him. Dagger in the ribs from close range, so to speak. Neater, tidier, easier, less costly in lives and all that. More assured than a war. No, get in close while smiling, bang him up and make the announcement of the old king’s will, stuff the bastard into a prison for a bit, then stick him on trial before the lords of the realm and have him executed for treason or some such. When she said she wasn’t going to be queen she simply couldn’t mean it. “I beg pardon, your Highness.”
“Prepare your men to leave tomorrow.”
He bowed and his head didn’t actually fall off, it only felt like it. He levered himself to his feet and his joints didn’t blow apart; the room did toss and sway about him and his gorge did rise. But. One detail. “I can’t serve under your husband.”
One royal eyebrow rose into a very elegant arc. No more.
Oh, now he felt like a cat on hot coals, damn it all to hell! Jocelyn babbled, “I’m better than him. My blood’s better, my birth’s better, my lands are better, my title’s older and I’ve held it longer. I’ve led my own men in my own battles and won. If I serve under him it will be … people will say …” Alright, here’s a fine pickle. How could he tell his queen that a count didn’t play subordinate to a peasant, whether that peasant be whole or part blooded, beggared or rich as rich can be? How could he get her to understand the complete, thorough humiliation of it? The loss of face, prestige and status? The man was simply inferior, however skilled, whoever he married, and whatever titles he grubbed for himself. He could be Alexander the bloody Great and Julius Caesar rolled into one and he would still be inferior. Lamely he finished, “It simply isn’t done. Men of standing can’t follow him any more than a pig can fly.”
She sighed as if this proved something. “I will be accompanying him; you will be placed with my own men. In the event of fighting you will first take orders from me, then carry them out at your own initiative.”
“Thank you, your Highness.” Jocelyn crept out to go and die in a corner somewhere.
Only Jocelyn could think he’s the owner of an apocalyptic belch. Mind you, given his antics at the wedding he’s probably right!
Furball: No, I’ve never been drunk in my life. I don’t really like the taste of alcohol; I struggle to drink half a glass of wine, and that’s the best I can manage. All else gets one sip and me pulling a face and going “Yuck!”
I did like the Jocelyn scene, very much. It’s the first time he really admits the truth to himself. He’s choked out bits of it before, and done plenty of skirting about it so it’s clear to readers while still denying it to himself, but this is the first time he’s spat out the whole. He wants his wife to love him but she doesn’t because he blew his chance without even realising it, and blew it because he’s something he doesn’t like being. The lack of that love undermines him completely and makes him insecure, desperate. And he loves her, or would if only all was well between them. Above all he knows that so much damage has been done they will never recover completely from it – if they can recover at all - and that he’s fouled up the progress he made.
Helps that it has some funny lines too. “and a loving thing … yeah, one of them things.” Wife, Jocelyn, a loving wife :winkg:
Ciaran: Too much indeed; I’ve noticed the tendency myself. It can be done well, it can be made to serve the story and reveal aspects of the characters, and it can be appropriate. More often the result is faintly absurd, boring, stupid, off-putting or laugh out loud funny.
My favorite passages. I just love references and comparing the mother of all hangovers to the work of the horsemen of the apocalypse is just pure brilliance ( and a correct comparison at that).Quote:
The door into the princess’ solar opened; Jocelyn applied his remaining mental resources and figured out how to walk. It was a case of putting one foot before the other and not falling down into a weeping heap. Simple. Damn the woman! He waited days to hear what she wanted of him, and she had to go and wait until he felt like Death and Pestilence mixed together while War sat inside his skull having a bloody battle, and Famine gnawed at his belly. If he belched very bad things could happen – the Apocalypse could escape.
"She sighed as if this proved something. “I will be accompanying him; you will be placed with my own men. In the event of fighting you will first take orders from me, then carry them out at your own initiative.”
I am VERY surprised at this statement. Granted, the division between 'noble' and 'common-born.' But with this one statement, Eleanor has put Jocelyn in an impossible situation. 1) We KNOW that in a fight, Eleanor has already (mostly) agreed to take orders from Fulk; 2) So a Fulk order might seem to Eleanor that it came from her, but in the heat of battle, with Fulk talking directly to Jocelyn, Jocelyn might not see it as coming from her; 3) By telling Jocelyn - in so many words - that all orders come from her, she is actually undermining Fulk. Shouldn't she have said, "Sir, as you know my father placed his dying trust in me, so I place my trust in the Earl whom I have married and who has now become royal with me, and, thus, deserved of your trust. Do you doubt this trust or refuse to pledge your loyalty to me and mine?"
V fast note: low on time but it feels important: Nell's just made Jocelyn and his men a seperate unit. Fulk commands all else, including Nell's own liveried and sworn force. Seperate unit under her commands; dodgy guy who won't follow Fulk removed from situation where he will undoubtably cause trouble and undermine Fulk's authority. Gives Fulk safer command, and allows him to prove himself a bit more without having to watch his back and try to batter Joss into obeying - which he likely won't. And with Joss and his group staying close to Nell then her bodyguard force can do whatever without her being left unguarded, giving Fulk a larger portion of the better, trustier men.
Historically there were many incidents where nobles refused to obey or follow lesser men, even when those men had been boosted up the ladder, had proven themselves to be highly skilled over and over, had been given command by the king, etc etc.
It's a good plan. Those who will follow Fulk, however grudingly, go with him; they get action, glory, etc. Those who won't are kept away, where Nell can keep a close eye on them, where they can't cause trouble and where they'll be kept out of the action for the most part.
Thanks, ma'am!
Didn't read all of your stories yet, but I must say, when I started reading, I got the "Robin Hobb" or "Raymond E. Feist-feeling".
I bow for thee, lady Frogg. :bow:
You're the master.
Riding immediately behind the bier which bore the mortal remains of his father, Hugh found no respite. Knowledge was power, so it was said. The truth of this Hugh did not dispute; knowledge and power both did his peace of mind scant good, and so there must be a kinship. Both, at present, brought forth in him most indecorous things, touching that rotten core of his with gossamer fingers which stirred and pulled.
It was best that his father was dead, no more than a soul long fled and a corpse being carried in procession to St Albans, there to rest until Westminster was reclaimed. An unfilial thought. Best for all concerned that now he was beyond the mortal cares of this vale of tears. Best. If he yet lived … Hugh shuddered to think what this knowledge would have done to his lord father. To hear his youngest daughter was to wed her baseborn bodyguard, the ignominy would have destroyed him. No, best he could not see what his line had come to, how profoundly it had sunk. For the sake of a man’s belief in his legacy preserved to comfort him in his dying, Hugh was glad, and ever would be.
From this vantage point Hugh could see the crown of his lord father’s head, a monk’s tonsure forming naturally in the sandy locks, growth forever now arrested. Tonsures represented God’s ability to see into the minds of men. Fit to be less than dust before the Almighty’s feet, Hugh would never claim such an ability, yet the coincidence struck him and mocked him, as it had throughout this day’s journey and as it would doubtless continue to do. He believed he could see into the now still thoughts – knew. Knew, and knew it was for the best Eleanor’s disgrace had come after their father’s death. Else once more he would have had to stand by as … Resolutely he formed the thought into words in the shelter of his mind; to flinch from it was spinelessness. Eleanor would have died, by their father’s hand. Not a thing of law as John’s execution had been. Murder.
Altogether it would have been the ultimate breakdown, the ruination of a good man the damnation of his soul and his memory and his life’s work. An explosion of temper, a crumpling of a vital thing within … thus the man who was his father would have died, taking Eleanor with him and leaving an animated shell which resembled the man now gone.
But their father was dead, safely dead. It was only Hugh left to face what his sister had wrought.
Hate. Hugh meditated on that word as he rode, viewing it from all angles and trying it in all applications, tasting it, testing it, weighing it. In all, he concluded about a half mile later, it was too mild a word. He hated what Nell had done. He hated her for doing it. He hated his own reactions to it. He hated her for not being clever enough to find another way to satisfy the King of Scots. He hated the King of Scots for his part in it. Such understatements!
And he hated that he was relieved. His most dangerous rival in one motion rendered considerably less hazardous. To welcome the ruin of his sister for the security it brought him! Then to celebrate her tearing the heart from Trempwick’s rebellion! To delight in her increased need of him, to know that with this he could draw her fangs and fasten her to his side for long years to come – she would need him to escape the full consequences of her ill-chosen husband, and to keep from being the King of Scot’s creature. Oh yes, all of this he hated.
Some part of him – a grain of sand out of a beach – wished Eleanor joy in her marriage. He hated that too, and hated himself for begrudging her his kindly wishes.
Hugh turned to Constance, suddenly grateful that she had defied him to ride her palfrey at his side instead of in a carriage. “Do you think … Does a child inherit any personality from its parents?”
“Some, perhaps.”
“Then I hope any ours inherits comes exclusively from you.” Hugh’s gaze lowered unwillingly to focus on Constance’s midriff and the child therein, wondrous promise and dire threat both, and reminder of other potential children. “If Nell had a child …”
“It would have no firm place in the world. Part royalty and close to the throne, part common.”
“And a threat to ours,” said Hugh, his words weary with the weight of their meaning. If his children must take some part of his character let it not be this, let the corruption pass over this next generation and become extinct, let it be content with the two generations it had already blighted.
A pained expression stole over Constance’s face. “Yes. Nell’s child, the ‘rightful’ heir to the ‘rightful’ heir cheated of her kingdom.”
“A child with no place save the one it makes, and that place of necessity high, for the world would never allow it to sink into obscurity.”
“A ready-made figurehead for discontent to form behind, as Nell herself is being used. Save a child could not resist, as she does. Or it may not wish to, once grown.”
“Or the parents may become ambitious on its behalf. It would only be natural.” Leaning over he placed a hand over his growing baby; still he could feel nothing, but Constance reported flutters of movement increasing in frequency. “Parents will risk much to give their offspring a better life.” He straightened in the saddle, letting his hand slip away. The purity of that precious life should not be marred by such thoughts as he held now. It was for the protection of that life he thought in such ways; he would barter away life and soul and eternity and all else, and do so gladly, if only it would keep his baby safe. He could not lose another, could not – would not – fail this one as he had the others. Nothing would be permitted to harm this child. No matter the cost. “So many newly born babies die. I should hate for Nell to endure that loss.” Hate, that inadequate word again. His limp hand flailed out again, caught Constance’s like an anchor to secure him against the wave of desperation surging through him. “Make sure she does not. Please. No child, no loss – you can give her sisterly advice, convince her. She is not build for breeding anyway – say it is for that. Only, please, do something.”
Sometimes the few must suffer so the majority did not have to. Sometimes one died so more did not. Sometimes it was the innocent who paid, to keep the base safe from their own flaws. Sacrifice. It was a very kingly lesson, one Hugh was learning well. His soul groaned under the burden of it. He feared the day when it might not, the day he found himself drained dry.
Sorry, only 1 day off last week, and I didn’t get to spend it writing.
Probably not the reaction most expected from Hugh. Anger, yes. Relief and the rest, no … or perhaps so, with some thought for where he is going. Makes sense if you think on it.
Hugh the father is formidable. After seeing his children murdered, all but one before they were even born, he’s verily bursting with protective urges. Already he loves that baby so much he believes he will do anything for it. It’s one of the things I like about him.
Now I must get some sleep before I drop on the keyboard; I was up late last night doing this scene and frogs simply are not made for disrupted sleeping patterns. Makes me feel like I haven’t slept at all. Got to be up early tomorrow, again. I shall come back to the comments tomorrow evening.
Thank you, AndresTheCunning. :bow:
Ah, Robin Hobb ... there's one author who isn't too squeamish to put her characters through hell, and isn't afraid to go for a realistic character when it will prompt complaints. Poor Fitz; he was young, falliable, and didn't know everything. He was better for it! Damned fine character writer indeed. Shame she isn't too good at endings.
I liked Feist's collaboration with Wurt's on Empire trilogy; the first book was my favourite, since I didn't like Kevin and found his influence on Mara and then her world to be predictable, cliched and tedious. Magician (the only one written by him alone I've read) wasn't so good for me. It felt simplistic and a bit shallow really, and thwe characters weren't interesting.
Welcome back. I hope you slept well. :sleeping:
It was a mark of his finding great favour that his queen had asked him ride to with herself and her husband. Now how was that – not at all bad for all of a few hours’ acquaintance. Yes, the bird of importance had landed on his shoulder and it absolutely definitely no way at all was going to shit on him!
Jocelyn deigned to nod at a cluster of locals as he approached the city gates; a little bit of grace and favour from up on high would brighten their humdrum lives. If it made him more noticeable then that was entirely an accident, honest! Currying attention was so callow, damn it, as was showing off. Anyway, the queen waved at the townspeople now and then, and if she could do it then there was nothing at all wrong with him nodding once at a single group.
Leaving Perth behind Jocelyn couldn’t help but feel he was headed home, if slowly. It shouldn’t take all that long to settle things in England enough that attention could be paid to the crown’s lands across the Narrow Sea, and when that time came the logical choice for leader of any campaign out there was, quite simply, obvious. A powerful local man, skilled, loyal, one who’d come to his queen’s side right at the start …
Laughter. Turning to its source Jocelyn saw his queen and whatshisface engaging in yet more of that smiley-smiley lovey-dovey happy-happy mushy garbage, eyes locked, faint stupid bloody smiles pasted in their stupid bloody faces, the world all but forgotten as they teased each other! Again! Had it been possible he’d have clamped his spurs to his horse and left to them their nauseating display, damn it all! No consideration, not a jot between the two of them, flaunting their adoration bloody near constantly – it was enough to make any real man sick. It was impossible now to believe that pair of … of … of soppy-brained, love struck ninnies had managed to hide their feelings for any longer then it took a snowball to melt in hell!
He fixed his attention on the ground passing under his right stirrup. He didn’t care. He didn’t envy them. He only wanted them to stop before he spewed his breakfast. It was going to be a bloody long trip, this. Being made Lord Constable – or whatever you wanted to call it - of the French holdings might not be worth the misery.
In every noble marriage each partner had their own independent household, a flexible organisation capable of growing and shrinking to reflect the needs of the time, providing a fine standard of living regardless of which property the noble resided at or was travelling to. Where husband and wife resided together the households operated side by side, where necessity had them part the two units simply split and went their separate ways as efficiently as only autonomous units could.
Presently their combined households formed what looked like an army. Because it was – men in six liveries rode in this party. Eleanor’s own guard rode centre-front, flanking their lady and her companions. Hugh’s men, Miles’ men, Jocelyn’s men, the soldiers pushed on them by the King of Scots, and Fulk’s own little army – a coup he was quite proud of; FitzGilbert’s men were renowned as one of the best Scottish mercenary companies – placed here and there in a convoluted series of arrangements intended to keep from insulting any of the donors. Some five hundred men under arms total, with another six hundred and seventy owed by the King of Scots. The logistical necessities gave Fulk a thumping migraine each time he caught sight of the multicoloured snake with its spear-point hackles. Keeping this thing from shivering apart in his hands promised to give him another.
They would gather the non-military members of their households as they went, pieced together slowly to get the best balance between competence and trustworthiness as possible. By agreement Fulk’s household would take more people from the North and Scotland while Eleanor’s remained predominantly English; a most diplomatic split. For now the servants loaned by Hugh served them both.
Overhead two banners snapped and danced in the wind, their bearers riding a horse-length behind Fulk and Eleanor. One Eleanor’s crowned gooseberry, green and gold against a scarlet background; the other a hastily made thing of white and rich blue, turned out in a frenzy of work to fit his new status. It was a strange feeling, to see at last his boyhood dream realised and his white wolf rampant as banner and livery badge both. He’d had the right to this months ago on becoming a baron; lack of any real privileges of that status had prevented him, his land and funds locked firmly in the royal fist.
They passed some miles in pleasant conversation. Eleanor was the happiest he’d seen her in a long time, it warmed his heart. Fulk suspected the dour French count riding in near silence would have said it should have scared him, since a good part of her joy came from knowing that her life was in her own hands, as much as ever could be true for someone in her position. Jocelyn didn’t seem to approve of anything which did not benefit him directly, and, strangely for a man who had offered a throne to Eleanor, he held some drearily traditional views about women.
Lunchtime came, and a halt was called. Servants ran about, setting up a tent for privileged to eat in. As the last rope was secured Eleanor went inside to oversee the placing of the portable furniture and food.
Leaving her to it, Fulk took a brisk stroll about the camp, inspecting, making himself visible, lightly asserting himself a time or two to establish his authority in function as well as theory.
As he passed by Jocelyn’s men the count finished his conversation with his squire and strode over.
“I’m not under your authority,” declared Jocelyn, matching his pace to Fulk’s.
“I know.”
“Your own wife declared it so.”
“I know.”
The repeated admission seemed to flummox Jocelyn. “You don’t mind?”
Tamping down the returning resentment with practiced ease, Fulk indicated his army with a raised hand. “Why would I?” And why, when he knew the count’s being under Eleanor’s command would keep him from battle and any chance of gain, tucked safely under mistrustful eyes which used him as a protector so other and better men could march with Fulk.
They travelled several more steps, the count’s thumbs tucked in his belt. “Well, I would,” Jocelyn said suddenly.
“I grew used to being dismissed because of my birth long ago.”
“Don’t you hate it?” Jocelyn stopped, whirling to face Fulk. “And don’t you cringe to find yourself overruled by your own bloody wife? A wife’s place is beneath her husband.”
Fulk battled to keep a straight face; the image that provoked! “I’ll remind her of that later.”
Jocelyn waggled a finger in Fulk’s face. “See that you do. Go wrong at the start and the whole thing goes to a right bloody mess! Assert yourself. Make sure she knows her place, damn it. Then you’ll both be a damned sight happier in the long run.”
“Er …”
The count placed a brotherly arm about Fulk’s shoulders and pulled him into walking again. “Now, listen. We’ve had our disagreements-”
Which was news to Fulk! He raised a hand to adjust his new hat – a brimless thing with a big jaunty feather held on by a small jewelled brooch; very stylish - trying to get the other man to let go without seeming rude.
“But I don’t hold grudges. Bloody stupid, doing that. You’re in need of help, plain to see, and being an upstanding chap and all I’ll give you the benefit of my wisdom.”
“I think I have a good idea-”
“Pah!” Jocelyn’s free hand sliced through the air. “Main thing’s to show her who’s in charge and be consistent in it – never let her behave badly and get away with it. Don’t bribe her either; no gifts to get back in her good favours, no apologies, none of that bloody weakness! If she sulks, don’t give in. Ever.”
Good advice; Fulk would be certain to follow it if he ever felt an urgent need to die. “Eleanor’s not-”
“It does work. Why, my Richildis is as obedient as anything. Meek, gentle, pleasant-tempered … She’d never disagree with me or anything of the damned sort, certainly never argue or shout at me, no bloody way! Absolute pleasure to be around, is my Tildis.”
Somehow Fulk had the impression the man was lying … he said it much too brightly.
“Always be firm on your rights, especially in the bedchamber. Headaches are just an excuse. Course,” Jocelyn’s stride gathered a swagger, “I’ve never had the least problem there; my Tildis is almost too keen on me, if such a thing is possible, but I always keep up and acquit myself very damned well. I won’t worry yourself too much yet; it’s perfectly normal to get off to a bad start and bungle things so she’d rather sleep outside in midwinter than share your bed, but you’ll improve with practice. Probably.”
Through gritted teeth Fulk answered, “We are doing perfectly well, thank you very much.”
“I never said otherwise,” the count soothed.
Twisty – that had been Eleanor’s one word description of this man. “Thank you, but I think I have some idea of married life.”
“Probably, but they’ll all be wrong. You’re not a normal man, and she’s not a normal woman, and this isn’t a normal marriage. She’s a princess of a most noble house and in line for a great future,” he winked at Fulk; it was a wonder he didn’t squish one of the crowns dancing in visionary form in his eyes. “You’re … er, you. You can’t go flinging your weight about, damn it man! You should protect her and help her; that should be your main purpose and aim in life. And she’s been badly mistreated by her father – who’d ever have thought it of such a good king? Disgraceful! Can hardly believe it – so you’ve got to be extra careful with her. She deserves a bloody sight better than some heavy-handed fool ordering her about, hitting her, crushing her down into a submissive wife.” He grunted. “Submissive wives aren’t that wonderful anyway. A real man can take a bit of criticism from his wife, let her help him, treat her as an equal, that sort of thing. That’s what I do with mine.”
Twisty? Outright dizzying! “I know,” interjected Fulk firmly.
They stopped. The friendly arm departed Fulk’s shoulder. “I suppose you’re right. You’re in a right awkward place and you’re the only one who can do anything with it. Got to find the right balance, see. Like me and my Tildis. I only hope you’ll take my advice as intended.”
“Er … thanks.”
Jocelyn beamed. “Happy to help. Anything else, just ask me. I wish every married couple was as happy as my Tildis and I are.” The grin never wavered; it fixed. “Exactly as happy. Only fair. I don’t see why some should get all the luck.”
Fulk decided there and then that this handsome count and his mysterious wife didn’t like each other one bit. That might also explain why he went so peculiar while talking about women. Eleanor had been very clear; she wanted this man kept where they could watch him as much as was practical. “Will you join us for lunch?”
“With pleasure.” They began to walk back to the tent. “Incidentally, where are you going to get your soldiers from? Since most nobility won’t serve you.”
Nightfall once again saw them settled on the King of Scot’s hospitality, at one of his royal manors. Their army camped outside, Fulk and Eleanor settled into the best bedchamber. The king’s parting gift – or insult – had occasion to be useful long before they had anticipated. As the property was not one particularly favoured by Anne’s father he did not maintain a set of furnishings in it. The English servants deployed and did their bit with efficiency which did Hugh credit, unpacking and setting up furniture equally provided by Eleanor’s brother. The only item Eleanor and Fulk could supply themselves was the bed; the King of Scots had gifted them the bed in which they had consummated their marriage, complete with mattress, covers and hangings. Since they needed to keep the sheet they may as well have the rest, he’d said. Pointing out their material poverty, more like. Still, it was a fabulous bed and Fulk wasn’t about to wish it away.
Fulk, being the very soul of chivalry, allowed Eleanor first use of the bathtub. Uncharitably it was much too small for both of them at once.
“Oh.” She stood fiddling with the knot of her girdle, and not to undo it.
Fulk plonked himself down on the bed, easily able to guess what bothered her. “I’ll sit here. I won’t be able to see your back unless you turn it to me.”
“Oh.” Lack of further protest demonstrated the progress he’d made in the last two nights; the fact she dived in before her cast off shift touched the floor showed how far he had left to go. Still, he had a nice view of her upper body … and she was washing very quickly.
He said, “If we keep them with us until we reach the southern-most part of my earldom, I think we will be able to do without Miles’ men. By then we’ll have taken hold of my lands. Trying to keep them with me when I leave to fight will be impossible, and I’d rather not march out with men who want to return to their lord’s son and do their duty by him.” He grimaced. “They’re likely to stab me in the back if I try. Can you persuade them to that much?”
“Certainly I cannot persuade them to do more than work south with us until our paths part. I shall try. It may be best to allow them to go their own way tomorrow.”
“I’d rather have the extra men while gathering up my castles; less likely to encounter trouble then.”
“But we will have the same worry each time we approach those lands until we install loyal castellans.” She held up a dripping hand to forestall his reply. “Oh, enough. I shall do as you wish. I have heard more than enough military talk for the day, thank you very much. Honestly, I did not think two men put together could spend an entire meal discussing recruitment, and occupy themselves with tactics for much of the afternoon.” Scrubbing at her leg, Eleanor grumbled, “I should have known better.”
Fulk spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry, ‘loved. I didn’t realise we were boring you; you’ve been quite curious about such things of late. Jocelyn had some useful points. I wouldn’t worry about his competence.”
“Wonderful.” Eleanor scooped up another handful of soap and started work on her left arm. “A competent general of uncertain loyalty. Precisely what we needed.”
“He swore the oaths well enough.”
“Yes, very true. I would feel better if I did not find the man so …”
“Phoney?” suggested Fulk.
Eleanor made a sound of agreement, and began to rinse her upper body.
“I think he lies a lot. About himself. He cornered me and tried to give me some advice; he contradicted himself when describing his wife, and I got the impression they don’t get along. He says otherwise, rather too often.”
“Sometimes I wonder if he has a brain. Others I fear he is dangerously sharp.” Eleanor wrapped herself in her towel as she stepped from the tub. “Your turn,” she informed Fulk, shooing him off the bed so she could sit on the spot he had warmed.
“You’ll made a damp patch,” he grumbled.
“On the foot of the outermost blanket.” She flapped a hand at him. “Go on! Before the water goes cold.”
Fulk grinned salaciously. “Ah, but then you’d charitably offer to warm me up after I’d washed.”
“No I would not. I do not want you leeching my heat when you are chilled through your own negligence.” She sniffed. “Far better that you suffer, learn your lesson, and not let it happen again.”
“Dearling, that would be doubly cruel. I’d then catch a chill. Sneezing knights aren’t impressive. Besides, you’d enjoy warming me up.”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “I am not going to bed with you for mercenary reasons, thank you very much. Some things are not about helping you evade the consequences of your own stupidity.”
“Dearling, there’s more than one reason for wanting a princess in my bed,” said Fulk patiently. “It’s well known that a wife’s very good for warming cold feet on. There’s nothing mercenary about my curling up close to you to warm myself.”
“Six foot of chilled knight takes a lot of heat to warm. I’d be frozen by the time you grew cosy. That is not chivalrous. Now get in that bath!”
Fulk tossed his hat down on the bed with a studied air of disgust. “Earl of Alnwick and her husband, and still she treats me like a common man at arms. Orders, more orders, sarcasm, insults, bah!” Being a dignified, brave knight Fulk undressed at a normal rate with nary the least thought of diving for cover. At every opportunity – and he made sure there were many – he watched Eleanor drying herself. A lower leg here, a peek of breast there, the odd hint of a hip … wonderful. By the time he reached shirt and hose he had slowed down to better watch, his interest in the bath gone.
She watched him in return, shy, yes, but open about it where she hadn’t been before.
When he’d shed his last layers Fulk began to strike silly poses, showing off his muscles. Eleanor began to laugh.
Fulk froze, clenched fists up near his ears. “Yes?” he enquired with stilted dignity.
“I was just thinking ... I wonder if it is possible …?” She caught up his hat, and hung it so it acted as a tolerable imitation of Adam’s fig-leaf, the long feather sticking out in obscene imitation of its improvised hat stand. She fell back onto the bed laughing helplessly.
Fulk shoulders slumped, and his expression became one of tolerant exasperation. “Irreverent creature!”
“Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. Another look, and she started giggling again.
Fulk shifted the hat to its correct location. Painstakingly he made certain it sat just so. Then with his best fearsome growl he lunged towards the bed. Eleanor rolled across the mattress in the opposite direction, towel falling into disarray; she nearly made it to her feet before he caught her. Holding her tight to his body he twisted over, pulling her back into the middle of the bed with himself propped on one elbow at her side. Damn, she was beautiful with her hair in disarray all over the pillows, and that wicked little smile of hers ...
Eleanor threw his hat across the room, buried her hands in his hair and pulled his face down to hers.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, that pair! Incidentally, frogs hate hats. Completely detest them; any sort on anyone for any purpose.
So passes another week with just one day off, that day mostly spent researching and ordering a new video card. My current one is dying; it never was the same after that power surge melted most of my PC a year and a bit ago. My cause was not helped by my trapping a finger in a big, heavy filing cabinet. Oh, the agony! And I'm a two-fingered typist! The next few weeks should be more promising for writing.
Decently enough, Vladimir. Now I feel like I could use a couple of days solid sleep. :sleeping:
The door closed behind Jocelyn with a very final click. His fingers slackened, letting his saddlebags drop to the ground. “Bugger.” Here he was, all favoured and important and so on, and he’d been turfed out of his room. “Bugger!” he repeated, this time with plenty of feeling – and cautious softness. Other than the queen and her whatsit he’d been the only one to get a private room in this poxy little dump of a damned royal manor, and now he’d lost it. Why? Because the wretched daughter of the wretched owner of this wretched God-damned pile had to turn up, that’s why!
Picking his belongings back up Jocelyn stormed off – quietly! – to find somewhere to settle down. The main hall would have been the usual place; bedding down there would show his apparent drop in standing to too bloody many people for comfort.
As he travelled the corridors muttering to himself, he passed the chapel. That would do. God wouldn’t mind sharing with someone He favoured so much, surely? Whatever anyone said, Jocelyn knew he didn’t snore.
Placing his bags next to the wall near the back, Jocelyn genuflected to the altar. “Uh … You don’t mind, do you?” Nothing happened. Great! That was all settled then.
Settling himself on a bench near a candle, Jocelyn looked about furtively. He was definitely alone. He pulled a sheet of low grade parchment, an inkhorn and a quill from his bags, spread the sheet out at his side and resumed his letter where he’d left off.
He twizzled the quill in his fingers, shifted his posture a few times, hummed for a bit, drummed his fingers, shifted some more and … nothing. The sullen blankness of the parchment taunted him.
What the hell was he playing at anyway, fiddling about like this?! Sending some bloody letter to that damned miserable cow. Huh. Slaving away like a clerk, cramping his fingers, straining his eyes, hunching his back and dirtying his hands with ink – menial labour, damn it, not for the likes of him! She wouldn’t appreciate it, not one bit. Probably prefer to hear nothing and hope he was dead. That was it – he was writing to her so she would know he wasn’t dead, to bust her hope and make her miserable. Exactly what she deserved for having such wicked wishes.
Aiming his quill with new resolve, Jocelyn wracked his brains for something to start off with. It needed to be assertive; this wasn’t some soppy effort at comfort, or an apology, or concern or any bloody soft damned nonsense, by the wings of Gabriel!
The quill stutter-screeched as he wrote, Deer Richildis. No! Her scrubbed that out. Too damned kindly. To my wyf Yeah, that would do … but wasn’t there a usual fancy poncy traditional opening which was practically obligatory for any literate letter writer to start with? There was, he had this nasty feeling. Some crap about greetings to your best beloved wife, and all that guff. What was it? She’d mock him if he didn’t get it all exactly right, he knew it. “Sod it,” he muttered. Some people might not mind a pack of lies like that being scrawled in their name; he did, very much. He didn’t hope she was well, and he didn’t miss her, and he didn’t care at all, and if she didn’t like it then he’d thump her when she complained.
I am in Ingland. Al gos wel. I hav sworn my oths. Now I traval with princes Elaynor.
Jocelyn gnawed the end of the quill; should he go into more detail? A bit, maybe. He didn’t want the infuriating woman getting all la-de-da and whittering on at him for not saying much supposedly because he struggled to write anything at all, which plainly wasn’t the case. He was a very accomplished letter writer.
She is marid now to some niyt, and I waz at the wedding. He is sed to be a gud fyter, and seems alright. What he is no one noes. Some bastad, sertanly. But whoz? The Scotz king says he is a de la Bec, important and the last of that house. Others say he is just the son of a pezant and a miner noble. He needs help to get on with his new lyf and wyf and all becoze he is preeveously very unimportant, and he looks on me as a natral frend. I thynk he will turn out alright in the end, maybe. The princes is wat her father sed and mor and very in luv with her niyt. They remind me of one of Mahaut’s storees almost, but real. I hope they wil not bee as dum as those storees or there wil be truble. I saw prinse Hyu as wel. But not much, onlee a part our or so. He was alright. I saw no lykenes to the old kyng. Witch may be gud, sinse the old kyng is reveeled to hav beyn right crul and by no meens decent like we all beeleeved. It was the talk of the weding, the scars al ovr Elaynor witch wur his doing, and I feer the beding cerymoany was crul too becuz everyone saw them and there was much mokry. I didn’t go to the cerymoany to luk, being a gud man who dos not luk at naked wimin without invite, so I didn’t see the scars myself but it is comon talk.
Pause.
I mis the children. I hope they are wel. Tel Thierry I sayd he must be good and lurn his lesons and look after the yunger ones like a good niyt. Tel Mahaut that I wil tel her abot the princes when I get home. Giv Jean a kis four me.
The quill crunched between his teeth. Jocelyn spat fragments onto the floor; remembering where he was he crossed himself. “Sorry, sorry!”
Before he could think better of it he scribbled, I got yu a gyft. I mis yu. Almost immediately he crossed the words out again, pressing so hard the nib of the quill split. Flinging the useless implement aside he cursed, “Buggering hell! Accursed bloody thing!”
He drew a spare quill from his pack, dipped it in the ink and resumed staring at the page.
I am sor- He scrubbed that out.
It wood be nise if yu wer here. No, too bloody soppy. Anyway, what the devil was he doing writing all this crap anyway? He wasn’t apologising, he wasn’t trying to get back in her good favours, he didn’t miss her, and he sure as saints didn’t fart wasn’t trying to please her with this ordeal by feather! He hadn’t blown their little truce, she had. So she should be the one grovelling to him, begging his forgiveness for her outburst and for daring to complain about Serlova. It was her fault. It was. If Richildis had been there with him he’d have tried her first, and she’d have refused him yet again anyway, and besides it wouldn’t have been gentlemanly to turn down Serlova. Practically charity, comforting the poor widow like that. He had nothing to make up to her, nothing.
Tayk care of my lands. If anything hapns to them I wil be riyt angry. Yes, that was more like it.
He signed his name at the bottom and laboured to review his work.
Fulk had been hearing the muffled chaos of a new arrival at the manor for a while now. At his side Eleanor slept peacefully on, for which he was glad. As of the last couple of nights she hadn’t been spending half the night worrying away; the restoration of decent hours of sleep had already eased the stress lines which had been threatening to etch themselves permanently into her face, the dark smudges under her eyes were fading.
Someone had arrived at the manor. To get through the army camped outside the walls they must be very important; to cause such bustle they must be staying. Which made Fulk wonder, who was it? The possibility it may be Malcolm fetched Fulk out of bed and set him to dressing quietly in the dim light of the night candle. He had no wish to be caught any more unprepared than he already had been.
With a final glance back at his sleeping wife Fulk moved to the door. Midway across the room his foot came down on something soft. Fulk retrieved his much abused hat and dusted it off, fortunately no damage had been done.
The manor had nearly settled down for the night, rooms and corridors filled with pallets and would-be sleepers and only a few still up and about.
Outside the main hall Fulk encountered a man in royal Scottish livery, a badge of a dove on his sleeve. Anne, the late arrival was Anne. Hastening after the man, Fulk enquired, “What are you doing here?”
The man shrugged. “You think her royal mightiness tells the likes of me anything? Balls to that.”
There appeared to be some mistake as to Fulk’s status; it wouldn’t be kind to inform the man of his mistake, so he let it be and played the simple man at arms. “But it is just the princess? Not her brother?”
“Yes, just her, and don’t go wishing that damned demon-spawn on me neither.”
Thanking the soldier, Fulk headed back to his own rooms. Eleanor could deal with Anne. His trencher had enough problems without the addition of another princess.
Passing the chapel on this different route back, Fulk noticed that someone was inside, definitely not praying. He slowed his pace; the man hunched over, a quill in his hand. Writing, in the chapel? Suspicious. Fulk went in.
The man’s head came up at the sound of boots on the tiles; Jocelyn. He snatched his work up and rolled it into a tube.
At the same time they both asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I’d come to see who had arrived.” Fulk looked pointedly at the letter the other man held in his left hand.
“The Scottish princess took my room. I wanted some peace to,” Jocelyn spoke the next words as though they burned his tongue, “write to my wife.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Jocelyn squared his shoulders. “Are you suggesting I’m illiterate or that I have no reason to, or something?”
“I’m wondering why you didn’t dictate to your clerk.”
“I didn’t want to. You have a problem with that? It’s my bloody letter.”
Fulk looped his thumb through his belt in a casual gesture which placed his right hand closer to the hilt of his dagger. This stank; a nobleman engaging in a menial task in such a strange location, becoming defensive, aggressive almost, when questioned. Could he be a spy? “I write my own letters,” he said evenly. Few of good station had reason to dirty their hands with the tedious task of writing, in the same way they had no reason to turn their hand to the plough or smith’s hammer.
“Well there you are then.” Jocelyn turned his shoulder to Fulk, plainly wanting him to leave.
Fulk refused to take the hint. “Why here?”
“Because it’s quiet.”
“So is the hall, now.”
“I didn’t want to go to the hall.” Jocelyn came to his feet, his own hand hovering near his dagger’s hilt. “Why all these questions? Can’t a man write to his bloody wife? Is that a crime?”
“I have a duty-”
“To pry? To scut about poking your nose in other’s affairs?” Jocelyn spat on the floor, winced and crossed himself, which looked odd as at the same time he snarled, “Bet that’s how you broke the bloody thing – someone slammed their door in your spying face.”
“To protect my wife,” Fulk finished calmly. “There have been enough attempts on her. She’s been betrayed by those close to her more than once.”
Jocelyn’s fist crushed his letter. “You think I’m a traitor?” He flung the message on the floor at Fulk’s feet. “Read it then. Damn you!”
Fulk scooted the squashed tube along the floor until he could stoop to pick it up without exposing himself to a quick attack by the other man. As he’d expected the handwriting was awful, barely legible and from an unpractised hand. It was the spelling which betrayed Jocelyn; a literate man would know the correct spellings. That was the sole incriminating thing, and it explained a lot. Perhaps there was some love between the count and his mysterious wife after all, which made Fulk wonder why it was so furtive, so hidden in lies.
Fulk rolled the message back up and offered it to the Frenchman. By way of apology he said, “I think she’ll appreciate your effort.”
Jocelyn snatched back his work. “You do?” he asked suspiciously.
“Yes, and quite a bit.”
The set of Jocelyn’s face eased, he glanced down at the letter as if he couldn’t believe it had any worth. He scratched his cheek, fingers feeling over his cropped beard. “From what I hear you’ve a right to be wary.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“I’ve sworn myself to her, more I swore on the souls of my family and on a relic. Like she required.”
Fulk nodded, once. “You did.” This man had put care into learning the correct spellings for his wife and children’s names. He turned to leave. “Goodnight.”
Alone again, Jocelyn picked up his quill and laboured to add one final line. I hope yu ar wel.
Touching, particularly spelling the kids' names correctly. <sigh> Yep, another nice Froggy touch I missed til Fulk pointed it out.
great job once again. I hope the 'endgame' starts soon.
It really made me laugh. It reminded me of inspector Grim from 'the thin blue line'.Quote:
Turning to its source Jocelyn saw his queen and whatshisface engaging in yet more of that smiley-smiley lovey-dovey happy-happy mushy garbage, eyes locked, faint stupid bloody smiles pasted in their stupid bloody faces, the world all but forgotten as they teased each other!
:laugh4: Oh, that was great, Jocelyn trying his hand at writing. The problem is, show that letter to your average school kid and he´ll tell you, in an absolutely convinced tone at that, "So? What´s supposed to be wrong?":dizzy2:
Or is that actually medieval English? Having tried myself at reading the Caterbury Tales by Chaucer, I´ve found that to be a real chore.
I don't like the Jocelyn character much, but that last scene was very entertaining.
(Yes, I am way behindhand with comments, but I'll make up for it. Sometime. :hide: )
If he didn't have any power I'd like him very much. But there's hope.
And another thing; about that mystery hat, you know that gravity defying one from the previous part. What's up with that? :stupido2:
Anne was still getting dressed when Eleanor arrived. “Oh, I had not expected to see you until later.” At Adele’s tut Anne turned her head back to face front again, sitting meekly still as the maid worked at her hair.
Eleanor cast about for a seat and gave up; there were none in this cupboard of a room. Instead she stood before, out of the way. “I am always up early, you should know that by now.”
“Yes, but … well, you did just get married.”
Eleanor’s eyes rolled heavenwards. Well, there was some grain of truth in that accusation, perhaps. If Fulk had not been so neatly to hand she would not have wasted minutes trying to make the man understand that he should have woken her and told her of Anne’s arrival when he returned from his excursion. All very well for him to insist she had been asleep – that was precisely the point! Slumbering away precious time in which she could have prepared countermeasures against this unreliable stepmother of hers.
Forgetting herself, Anne turned her head again, causing Adele to scurry around to keep the braid she was working on from tearing at her lady’s scalp. “I barely saw you the day before you left, and then you went so early in the morning I did not have chance to say goodbye.”
“We had a lot to plan.” And she had wanted none of it reaching Anne’s ears, for fear of where else it may reach and what harebrained notions the girl may grow from a little knowledge.
“You look a lot less tired. Really, you do, and less worried.” A shy smile stole over the girl’s face. “There must be some truth in what they say: a good knight-”
“Yes, yes, yes,” interrupted Eleanor, feeling her cheeks flame. “So everyone keeps telling me.” A good (k)night in bed does wonders for your health. Very droll. “I had not expected you to sink to such depths; crude puns indeed!”
Far from being chastened, Anne giggled. “I think it rather clever.”
“And there is proof romance stories rot the mind,” remarked Eleanor dryly.
Anne clicked her fingers over her shoulder, prompting Adele back into action on her hair. “You are happy though; it shows.”
“Yes. Very.”
“I would not have thought it made so much difference, except in that you do not have to pretend not to care for each other.”
“It does. It is as if …” Eleanor’s search for words was not aided by the memories adjoining that which she was trying to express; most distracting, they filled her with a warm glow. If before she had known he loved her, then now a thousand thousand new proofs made that knowledge bone deep, making it something that simply was. No more secrets, no more holding back, no more fears. An awareness of him keener than before, as though some part of him had remained with her and of her with him. The simple joy of having more time with him and no longer any need for them to hide. A deep sense of peace, contentment flowing like a river under the eddies of worry, fear, strain. “It is all deeper.”
“Everyone is talking of it – the court, soldiers, servants, companions, the people you passed by. You have become one of those stories you just disdained. The princess who married her knight-”
“And lived happily ever after?”
Anne took a while to answer. “There is no ending, not yet. They all have their own ideas, coloured by what they think of it.”
Eleanor bared her teeth in a mirthless grin. “And in how many of those tales am I struck down by a righteous thunderbolt?”
The girl’s chin ducked down. “I do not like to listen to those ones, or the other nasty ones.” Her face came back up again, to regard Eleanor with shining eyes. “Do you know that in one version Fulk is my half-brother, my father’s unacknowledged son? Which is why he did so much for him, and why you agreed to the match. I think I should like that, if it were true. Brothers like Malcolm are perfectly horrid, but Fulk would be wonderful, just like Alex, and then you would be my sister-by-law as well as my stepdaughter.”
Now there was a rumour fit to get Fulk knifed in the dark. “Why are you here?”
Anne blinked, entirely guileless. “Oh, I am coming with you, of course.”
“No.”
“But”-
“No. I am not having you tag along into a war.”
“I have my own soldiers, nearly fifty men, and my own household and incomes and everything, so I would not be a burden and would be able to help.”
And spy, and heaven know what else. “No. It will not be safe.”
Anne stood up, stuck her chin in the air, and ruined the effort at a mature air by stamping a royal foot. “Then I will follow after you, and you will not be able to stop me unless you shut your gates in my face and drive me off with armed force, and then you would be declaring war on my father too, so you will not. I told you, I want to see the end of this, and I want to help. You need soldiers and money, and I have both. You asked me to help, back at the start of this, and I said I would. You used to trust me; why will you not do so now?”
Eleanor set down the bald truth. “Because you proved yourself unworthy of it.”
Anne spread her hands in a plaintive gesture. “But you are happy. It was what you wanted!”
“And I have been used as a tool to weaken England and my family, and know I will be used again and again. Fulk and I, we have been thrust into balancing on a pinhead, with death in every direction should we fall. I see no end to that balancing act, so long as we live and whatever we do. You promised to say nothing, and you broke that promise to someone who would obviously use the information against us.”
“I was trying to help.”
“You broke your sworn word.”
Anne took a deep breath. “I will … I will make up for it all to you. You can trust me; I will swear the same oaths you have your followers swear, and I will never dishonour myself again, ever. I am coming with you. I am going to help you.”
Eleanor returned to breakfast with Fulk. He broke some bread off the loaf for her. “Well?”
Eleanor slumped down opposite him. “How do I end in these situations?”
“Probably because you’re a gooseberry, my love.”
“I have a dowager queen sworn in personal loyalty to me, and her maids too. She is following us like a vassal, adding her army to ours. As if I did not have enough dubious people to watch.” With a groan Eleanor buried her face in her hands. “Her family is going to think we have taken her hostage, I know it.”
“I was wrong.” Fulk patted her on the shoulder. “It’s too much trouble for a mere gooseberry. This is the princess at work.”
Been having computer trouble, in copious amounts. Everything appears to be working now. I have never had such trouble reinstalling windows, gah! Think I shall be investing in a new primary hard drive soon; it is still sending out delayed write failed messages, and appears to be botching non-critical parts of the windows updates because it won’t copy the information correctly. :sigh: But not for a short while, anyway. I want to recover my sanity after this time first.
Furball: Characters get paid 1 penny extra for each froggy touch they point out. :winkg:
Peasant Phill: ooh, Thin Blue Line. The first series of that was very good, the second slightly less so. Haven’t seen it since it was originally broadcast. Grim was good, as was Fouler and Habib.
Ciaran: No, that’s just modern English with awful spelling.
I found The Canterbury Tales, and other Old English, hard to get on with until I had read a reasonable amount of it. As long as it is in printed form, I’m, alright, just a bit slow. It helps if you think phonetically.
Ludens: If you’d said that on the other forum you’d be seeing how flameproof mod robes actually are. :winkg: He has a big following. Actually, you’re the only one I know of who doesn’t like him. His fanclub is the third largest (8), behind Fulk and Nell (9 each).
Vladimir: Er … well. You see :blushes: Oh, the things a frog ends up explaining! :in one big rush with barely a space between words: Well, Fulk is newly married to his beloved gooseberry, so he’s rather er, ah, um, let’s say excitable. And he’s been watching her while she was doing all that bath stuff, and watching with marked interest. Which has :cough: effects of a blood rushing south sort. And those effects result in something you could hang a hat on. So Nell did. Which is why the feather sticking up resembles what the hat is hanging on.
Well, that was a nice little update, so Anne is back on Eleanors back (bad pun, I know, but no worse than the Knight one - which I liked). She´s got something of a puppy dog, Anne has.
Hunting. Sit on horse, chase, kill. Repeat ad nausium. Not Trempwick’s idea of a day well spent. Ah, but he hunted a different quarry. So he made a show of enjoyment. Talked with his noble host. Talked with the noble guests. And obligingly didn’t mention politics. No need to. These midland lords had heard him. Dithered still, most of them. Unwilling to side, to risk their own positions. Ah, but he hunted them. And he didn’t need a spear.
The day passed. Blood was spilled. More prey found. It escaped. More prey found. Repeat over and over.
Finally they found the boar. Trempwick thought it well to distinguish himself a little here. Managed to stab it in the shoulder while it distracted itself with another fool. Not a kill, but brave. Protecting the fool who had stepped in front of the lethal animal. Risking his own life as the furious beast turned on him.
Later he felt nauseous at the risk. One goring tusk could have put an end to all! As deplorable as battle, this. As necessary. The fragility of human life was petrifying. The fragility of causes which hung upon those slender threads, outright terrifying.
The messenger rode up as they butchered the boar. At last!
The message was for Trempwick. Of course. He stepped to one side to read it. Scanned the lines, to ensure the passage of time was believable. Now! Let it all loose! He let out a cry of pure anguish. Cried, “No!” Dropped to his knees, pounded at the bloodied dirt with his fists. The letter crumpled in his fist, becoming befouled by the ground. “No!” Drive fist to earth again, with more anger! “I will kill them!” Sob, restrained sob. A person on the brink of destruction but struggling manfully to hold on. And days of pent up feeling unleashed.
The cattle stopped their babble. Stared. Oh, he had their attention now.
His host, the noble Earl of Stafford, asked, “What the devil has happened?”
Expected a coherent answer from a man in this state? Trempwick disappointed him. “I will kill them! I swear it! All of them! Oh, Christ God! Nell. Oh my poor Nell.” Sob some more.
It … hurt. It had been hurting since that first message. He had kept it dammed up. Hurt. Amazed him how much. She had turned from him.
Too late to stop. Too late to go back. Now there was only onwards. Committed. Path chosen, set, begun, half walked. And he would not go back if he could. Had no choice. The bastard or Nell, one or other must rule. It could not be the bastard.
Choked out, “They will pay in blood!” He hurled the message to the ground in Stafford’s rough direction.
The man was slow. Slow to take the hint. Slow to pick up the message. Slow to read it. So God-damned slow! “My God!” he exclaimed, after reading. Went pale. Crushed the parchment in his own fist. Nearly cast it to the ground; aborted the motion at the last instant.
Babble. They asked what it said. What could possibly cause such reactions?
Now, aim the arrow. Trempwick gained his feet, unsteady, filled with barely controlled fury. “He has given my wife to the Scots.” Battle for control … almost nearly close to an honest battle. “They have-” Choke on the words. Crush out the burning embers of respect for her gambit. Of pride in her. Let only the passion rule. “They have-“ voice failed again. He felt wetness on his face, and knew the tears to be honest. His student, his Nell, years in the teaching, in the raising, one of the rare limited few whom he had trusted with his truths, with his naked unarmoured self. And she had turned on him.
Stafford jumped in eagerly, if with most fittingly grim tone. “They have married her to her bodyguard. A bastard nothing jumped up to earl of a new-made pitiful scraping of land.”
Outrage. Predictable outrage. Fitting, oh so very fitting outrage. A married woman handed off to another – despicable! It was against the laws of man and God. A noble to a nothing – ghastly! Against the natural order of mankind, against all decency. An English princess married off by the Scots – insolent! It was none of theirs to dabble in. The bastard treating his sister so – shameful! Against all codes of good conduct, against all sense. The bastard employing such underhand methods to discredit and dispose of his rival, the rightful heir – intolerable! He demeaned his ‘own’ blood so as to grasp more tightly his ill-gotten gains.
“Married?” Trempwick spat. “Married? Put it plain – they have made her the plaything of a peasant. My wife! Our rightful queen! They may call it what they will, but those with eyes see through it.” Yes, subtle prompting: those with sense see it his way, those without don’t. “Do not be fooled that they call him part noble – I know the truth of him. A de la Bec? Never! He is the son of a peasant called Emma and a William Destier, once a minor lord of a small fief centred about Walton. A nothing!”
One of the local lordlings grasped at the letter and started to read it himself. “It says she appeared to be willing.” Sounded incredulous.
Key: it was hard to believe a princess would marry so low of her own will. Greatly easier to believe in foul play. Greatly easier again when the present civil war was considered.
The fact included in this letter so he could combat it here and now. “Appeared?” Trempwick laughed bitterly. “How many ‘willing’ brides have you seen marrying someone they do not want with a pretence of cheer because their lives will become insufferable if they do not? Or grooms, for that matter. There are many ways to make someone marry where they do not wish to, and do so with an appearance of gladness.”
Some other was nodding. “True. And she would be very alone out there, without support of her own.”
Don’t give them time to think. Keep them focused on the distraught husband, the bad of the situation. “I will destroy those responsible! I will burn Scotland to ashes, and mount the bastard’s head on a spike! And as for that peasant they have handed her to …!” Let them imagine what he would do. Save his imagination. A quick knife to the throat would be his choice: fast, clean, effective. Hardly the stuff of vengeful legend.
Would Nell forgive him? No. Pain. If he succeeded she would be queen and she would hate him. But. Overall view: her feeling toward him did not matter. Couldn’t help but add: on the relative scale of things. Duty and what must be was larger than one person. And … Tentative hope: she may understand.
The tide of melancholy was strong; he succumbed. “I should have torn Waltham to pieces at the start. I should have done more. Anything but leave her in the hands of that usurping scum.” Closed his eyes, shoulders sagged, let it all go to despair.
Stafford said, “You did not have the resources. You would have failed.”
“And I will fail again.” He made a small, empty movement with his right hand. “If I go north to her the bastard will cut me off and crush me with the aid of his ill-gotten ally.”
“Not if you still have a strong presence in the south …”
Trempwick looked up. Allowed hope to glimmer in his face.
Stafford cast a quick glance about his vassals. Stood tall. “I will not follow a man with such contempt for his own royal bloodline. As good as a kinslayer – prince Hugh could never be trusted. We would live in fear of his next depravity. After this there can be no doubt he is capable of anything.”
Assorted agreement of an aggressive tone. Some silent faces … but Trempwick had never expected to convert all. And he did not need to win all hearts to make men follow. If sufficient came to his side others would follow to promote themselves. To gain.
The earl’s son elbowed forward, aglow with the senselessly hot blood of youth. “And I, for one, will not suffer the Scots meddling in our affairs! To treat our royal blood like his vassal?” The idiot drew and brandished his hunting knife. “Here’s my answer for him!”
The earl clapped his son on the shoulder approvingly. “It’s been many long years since Langholm. Time to remind those wild louts of our superiority! We slaughtered them then, and we’ll do it again!”
Posturing. Trempwick sighed in the safety of his heart. Always the same when talking war. The speaker’s group is superior to the other. Slights are trotted out, always from the same narrow group. Nobility, courage, easy victory, all this garbage spoken of. The past called on; victories remembered and to be emulated, defeats to be avenged. Blah, blah, talk, talk, yatter, yatter. Because men needed their courage stoking. Because the current enemy must be rendered safely faceless and subhuman, to spare conscience and ease killing.
The hunt was abandoned. The castle erupted into action. Beginning the first stages of the muster. Planning the defence of the homelands with garrisons and patrols. Planning the offensive. Messages, scores of messages sent: to summon allies, to call up vassals, to spread word of what the bastard had done and call the neutral to arms, to coordinate with the army still fighting on the Welsh border, word sent to the loyalists in the North informing them of the aid soon to be on its way.
Alone at last after an exhausting day, Trempwick sat by the fire and toyed with a drink. To think. As was his custom.
“Ah, Nell,” he murmured. “Did you never think it could be used so?” A deathblow, parried and used to launch a new attack.
His mother still kept occupied a goodly portion of the bastard’s army. A good risk she had accepted: being a visible target to distract and divide. In Rochester she could hold for months, half a year, mayhap more. Unless the bastard threw away men in great quantity assaulting the walls. Which he wouldn’t. And with the strength Trempwick was gathering now he could …
So many options.
But first, he had need of securing more midland lords. One earl and the majority of his followers was not enough to be decisive. So he must ride out, and play the distraught husband some more.
Perhaps now Trempwick will stop menacing me?
At long last, the answer as to what is happening with Trempy and his mother.
Ciaran: At least unlike the puppy Anne won’t chew Nell’s shoes. :gring:
Enjoyable to see the change in style during a Trempwick chapter.
Indeed, and finally Trempy resurfaces, I was almost wondering if you had completely forgotten about him.
I took a dislike to him when he first entered the story: I felt he was a distraction to the main story line and I didn't consider him or his family interesting enough to make up for that. His continious arguments with his wife served only to illustrate a theme I already knew very well. I began to like him more when he became part of the main story line and right now he's is the funniest character in the story, which is probably why so few people agree with me, but I still feel that his scenes tend to be a bit repetitive.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Nice to Trempwick return, BTW :2thumbsup: .
A speck separated out from Wooperton’s walls and sped off towards the coast; from the speed it moved at Fulk judged it to be a courier on a horse riding at full pelt. Very well; the castellan had a right, nay duty, to be cautious of an approaching army.
He did all by the most impeccable standards. He halted his force outside range, sent a single man forward to speak on his behalf, and waited with good humour.
His messenger gave his report without meeting his eyes. “He says … um, he says go away. And that he’s sent for reinforcements, so if you attack you’ll be hit by armies from several directions before you take his walls.”
The removed insults edited themselves back in; Fulk bit back an oath. “You reminded him of the legitimacy of my claim? Told him his lord the king had settled the lands on me?”
“Of course, my lord.”
Fulk spurred his mount, reining to a stop in shouting range. “I am the Earl of Alnwick. Open your gates.”
The man who’d been pacing up and down the ramparts braced his hands on the stonework and yelled, “Fuck off to hell and take your procession with you, mongrel!”
“These lands are rightfully mine, bestowed by the King of Scots himself – your lord.”
“Since I was seventeen I have had charge of this place. My father guarded these lands for a near decade. I’ve served loyally; he served loyally. Now I’m told to hand it all over to some jumped up whore’s spawn, and what am I offered in return? Sod all! Nothing! I’ll lose everything, and I’m not going to lose it to the likes of you.” The man spat in Fulk’s general direction.
Bad business practice on the part of the Scottish king; castellans should be moved to new lands every couple of years to prevent them coming to view the lands they shepherded as their own. The same for asking a man to give up his livelihood in return for nothing. Fulk directed some malevolent thoughts in the King of Scot’s direction; he didn’t like being used to clean up another’s mess, and liked less still artificial hurdles being tossed into his path. “Think again. I’ll winkle you out from those walls like an oyster from its shell, and then I’ll send you to your king to explain your rebellion.”
“Bark, little mongrel, bark all you please. You’ll end up howling when my help arrives. Yappy little curs get kicked. I’m not the only one asked to lose all for nothing thanks to our king’s mad fancy. And when prince Malcolm gets here we’ll make a gift of you to him.”
“The prince …!” Another civil war? Could kingdoms catch them as people did colds?
The sneer pasted on the castellan’s distant face was evident from his voice. “You barked too much and in the wrong places, mongrel; I’ll enjoy seeing what he does with you. Won’t be pretty, I’ll tell you that.”
One thing Fulk was certain of: this was a lousy time for the prince to announce himself in rebellion. No time to gather sufficient support, ergo precious little chance at a quick victory. The boy was too young to rule alone, and opinion of him was none so full of love. He’d have to be mad! The memory of the boy flooded with the arrogance of the young who believe themselves advanced beyond their years ran strong in Fulk. The brightness in Malcolm’s face as over and over he pushed as far as he could, goading and slighting and posturing; the prince had come completely alive at such times, unrestrained, thrilling at soaring along so close to disaster but holding on and coming away unburned. Another memory ran concurrent, that of a boy trying desperately to prove himself to a world which cared not for him.
Fulk hitched his shoulders, making the movement large enough that it could be seen up on the walls. “Better to ask what I’ll do with him. If he raises his banners in rebellion there’s nothing to hold me back; it’d be my duty to my liege to send him home to get his backside warmed.” He pointed at the mass of his army. “And it won’t be your concern; by the time he arrives I’ll be sat in my keep drinking your wine by my fireplace in my bedchamber. You’ll be in chains. You can’t stop me. Surrender.”
“I can slow you. That will be enough.”
It may be at that. If the castles in supporting range sent men to harry Fulk’s siege it could draw matters out sufficiently for the prince to save – ruin - the day. Ah well, all the above-mediocre generals had functional minds for a reason. Fulk waved at his troublesome castellan. “My thanks for the kind warning; I’ll be sure to send extra scouts out. We’ll speak again, face to face, soon.” A heel to the ribs and Fulk’s horse made good speed away from the return insults.
If the set of his face hadn’t been eloquent enough, Fulk’s saying, “Will Alnwick give you trouble?” before his horse had come to a stop at her side told Eleanor all she needed to know.
“I think not,” she answered. “As one of the keys to our border it was placed in loyal hands by my father.”
Fulk pursed his lips. “Loyal to him, not to you or to Hugh.”
“Loyal to our house. Myself or Hugh, it matters not. It will add up to the same end.”
He dismounted, and stood staring towards the castle with its wooden outer walls, high stone inner wall and blocky Norman keep. One hand dropped to rest on the hilt of his sword.
Eleanor was willing to wait and see what he was about, a patience she saw Jocelyn didn’t mirror. The count shifted and fidgeted, his disquiet spreading to his horse. Eventually the man said, “Well, there you are. This is why you don’t let castellans stay in one place too long, and why you absolutely bloo- er, never let anything resembling inheritance take place. If the son’s talented fine, but pack him off to a different estate to the one his father was last holding. Else they start getting jumped up damned notions of having a right to the place, like a vassal.”
“I know,” stated Fulk, without looking back.
“Surprising that the king made such a damn- er, simple error.”
Eleanor shot the count a sideways glance from under a raised eyebrow. He swore like a common soldier and demonstrated many lacks of refinement, yet he was noble born and noble raised. When she was present, or another of high status, Jocelyn edited himself, with varying success. From what her people reported he didn’t make that effort around those of lesser status; it was telling that the count still cursed and swore in Fulk’s company.
“He thinks to test me, or allow me to prove my mettle. Or to use me to remove disloyal men at cheap cost to him. He aggravated this.” Fulk swung back up into his saddle and kneed his mount around to face his company. “Beloved, you will take your contingent and go to Alnwick. Once inside those walls you will stay inside them and wait for me. Leave that safety and I will want to hear why, and there’s little you could say to convince me to view it in good humour.” He addressed Jocelyn. “You will accompany her.” Before the count could do more than suck in a noisy breath at being given an order, Fulk finished, “I will resolve that.” He indicated the castle. “I shall storm it, rather than damage my new property; it shall not take long. All inside who survive I shall send in chains to their king, to explain themselves. If any arrive to interfere I shall deal likewise with them. Having placed a garrison I shall pay a cordial visit to the other formerly Scottish holdings, to see what awaits me and do whatever must be done.”
Jocelyn’s protest came out hot and loud. “It is not for you to decide what I do.”
Fulk merely met the man’s eye, composed. “If you go then you are at my lady’s command. If you stay you are by default at mine. I but stated the obvious.”
The count chewed on this. “Mind your tone in future. Lest someone take exception to it.”
Sent away. A desire not to damage Fulk’s authority in this first demonstration of his new status kept Eleanor silent. It would take very little to undermine him until he had better established himself in the eyes of others - and in his own also. There was some merit in his decision. Without the need to keep her guarded at the back of his lines he would be freer to act; she was the one best able to bring the strongest part of the new earldom into their hands, a gain best made sooner than later.
Fulk gave the necessary orders to his captains and extracted Eleanor to an island of peace in the midst of the raging sea of humanity that was an army splitting in two with one part preparing for a siege.
“Malcolm’s rebelling, or so the castellan tells me. He expects help from the prince, and the other nearby castles.”
Eleanor stopped walking, her grip on Fulk’s fingers tightening. “You will be careful.”
“I’ll have my two-thousand and my mercenaries, the boy can’t hope to raise that many in such a short time. He is not loved.”
“No. Rebelling now would be folly for him. He could not win, and he would lose much.”
“But does he see that?” Fulk pinched the bridge of his nose. “No matter. I can win here, I feel sure of it. Assuming the worst, they will all be coming at me without consolidating. As long as I move swiftly I can pick them off one by one instead of being trapped in the centre of a many-pointed pincer.” His effort at a smile came closer to a grimace. “Or so I hope. I’m not a general.”
Eleanor touched the curve of his shoulder. “Your confident earl is justified; I was proud of you just now. You have fought for me and you have always won, whatever the circumstances and seldom with any time to prepare. You were trained for war, and do not dismiss your time with Aidney; following at the elbow of a count for so many years, you will have learned much. You have had as much preparation for this as any born earl, more – you have had more field experience.”
“Such is my hope. The act had best not be hollow …”
Eleanor came in close and laid her head on his shoulder, inviting him to put his arms around her. An invitation she didn’t need. “Confidence comes with success.”
“About your plan to raise your banner.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t. Not yet.”
“I know. It will have to wait until you have your lands settled. I shall need you in full force at my side. Those who voice loyalty to me do so with the thought of me as queen, to their gain and all others’ loss. Getting them to march to my wishes and not their own will be … delicate.” Always trying to act, so often having to react instead; initiative was advantage. Over and over she reeled from one reaction to the next despite her best efforts to take control and move the fight to ground she chose.
“Your lot should be ready to march within the hour. That will give you several hours of good light. Better for you to leave today, before others in this area can mobilise.”
Eleanor pulled away enough to lock her hands in the front of his tunic and drag his face down to her level. “You will not get yourself killed. You will do nothing to mar that handsome exterior of yours. On no account will you tarnish your soul or make yourself depressed, guilty, or otherwise out of mood. Absolutely you will not do anything I would not approve of. Do I make myself clear? I will not become known as the princess whose husband got himself killed after four days of marriage! People would say you did it on purpose, to get away from me.”
Fulk took her hands in his and raised them to his lips; he kissed each and every knuckle before gravely informing her, “Only those who have met you would think such a thing. Everyone else would think you had me murdered.”
How is it that when you are training a new person at anything, they always manage to find all the mistakes you know about plus at least two you didn’t think possible? I’ve had three new people doing this to me all last week. This was my first week officially occupying my promoted position, so I was furiously trying to learn the many things about being the junior management frog which I couldn’t learn until I had to do them. Little things like leadership, staff organisation, time management, shop-wide merchandising … Talk about initiation by fire! Normally I’d be on my own for a day or two each week; I had the ‘lucky’ fortune of taking up the position in the week where the manager was on holiday and the deputy manager covering another shop for much of the week. I survived. The shop didn’t burn down. No one was killed. All in all I think it went well … considering. After this I should be able to cope with anything. Which is good – this week we get to do refurbishment with the shop open for most of the time. Next week we get to start on double deliveries. :wails:
Furball, Ciaran, nice contrast to some of the reactions Trempy’s scene got on the other forum, which was basically “Oh crap, him again. Blergh!” I do like the way opinion differs on the characters :gring:
Ludens: Jocelyn’s early scenes aren’t so well balanced for an overall narrative, I agree. Many of those scenes are there because I was learning the character. Some could be removed entirely, others trimmed down; that would remove the repetition. He needs to be there early though, before his link to the rest becomes obvious. Or so my frog sense whispers. It feels right to get to know him before William arrives. Away from abstract and impossible to explain things like feelings and senses, he shows how and why someone might rebel against a king who can and will crush them … though Yves’ plot is mostly placeholder at this point. An idiotic noble he most definitely is, unsuited to his position and a moron to boot, but not quite so blunderingly suicidal. Or no one would follow him.
Froggy, I just hope the promotion and added responsibilities don't have a negative effect on your writing. I know that might sound like a non-sequiteur, but I've seen age and experience quench creative fires before.
Great some action again. I really love the logic behind there actions from every character. Especially the military and political logic.
For what my opinion's worth: don't drag it out to much. The story is allready massive and the 'endgame' has already started some time ago.
Finally got full member status and all the privileges that go with... which means I can finally tell you how great this story is in the actual thread instead of having to constantly bombard you w/ PMs ~D
I'm still only about halfway through, but it's all great stuff. Don't stop writing this until you've finally reached the end! ~:)
EDIT: This forum's smiley system is straaaaaaange... :dizzy2:
Sir Gervaise knelt in the mud before Eleanor with not the slightest hesitation on the part of his clothes. “Your Highness, believe me when I say I’m mighty glad to see you. I have heard so many things and … rightly I don’t know what is happening. The more I try to discover the truth, the more confusing it all becomes.” The man raised his greying head. “I hear my lord king is dead.”
“That, sadly, is true.” Eleanor indicated the man should get to his feet; it was not meet to keep such a loyal man sinking into the ooze.
Gervaise came to his feet and once more tucked the thumb of his left hand through his belt, to reduce the strain on arm muscles damaged in royal service and healed imperfectly. “Then now whom is my liege?”
“Hugh. Despite all rumour to the contrary. It was my father’s will.” Before he had gone daft with guilt and misguided revenge, Eleanor added silently.
“Then he has my loyalty.”
“Good.”
“There is another rumour of pressing import I wonder on. That Alnwick is ceded to the Scots and you have married a …” Diplomatically he did not say what he thought Eleanor had married.
“Alnwick and certain other lands go to the Scots, to join with holdings of theirs and create the new Earldom of Alnwick. The earldom has been bestowed upon my husband.” Standing outside her gates was gaining her nothing but an additional soaking by the fine drizzle which had replaced the day’s steady rain. “It is not my preference to stand here for what remains of the day.”
“Of course not, your Highness.”
And that, gratifyingly, was that. The gates opened and her army marched in with pleasing stateliness. The castle’s staff erupted into a panic of preparation. Hawise was dispatched to oversee the delivery and unpacking of Eleanor’s belongings. Anne refused to be parcelled off and acted as though glued to Eleanor’s skirts, to Eleanor’s aggravation.
Eleanor had Gervaise remain at her side, telling her all about the castle, its people, the town, the area, the news – everything. He reported, concise and every word to the point, nothing held back – that Eleanor could see – and personal views colouring little. As he talked she toured the halls, the common rooms, the kitchens, and when she had seen them she went to the counting room, inspected the strongboxes, viewed the stores. She had the castle’s account books brought out for her reading; not wishing to bore herself with them until later Eleanor gave them to Jocelyn to carry. Since the man was following her he may as well be of use. She met as many people as possible, spoke a few words to each and had all pay their proper respects to her.
Eventually Anne grew bored, and wandered off grumbling about being cold and wet and more in want of new clothing than sightseeing. At that point Eleanor was free to begin asking the questions she didn’t want the Scottish princess to hear the answers to: questions on the state of the garrison, the defences, the mood of the other landholders. She asked for and received Gervaise’s opinions on the men holding the other lands in what was now the Earldom of Alnwick, both English and Scots.
Heading back out into the cold and damp, Eleanor began a rapid tour of the walls. The castle was sighted on grassy, fairly flat land with the river Aln curving gently along to the north-east, a stone bridge crossing it within defensible distance of the castle. The shell keep at the heart of the castle was its oldest part, begun in the reign of William Rufus. As space became short and demands on the castle grew, new stone buildings had been added on to the outer walls of the keep, leaving the spacious inner bailey clear. Two outer baileys sprang off opposite one another, one to the north-east, the other to the south-west; they housed a mish-mash of timber, mixed stone and timber, and stone buildings. The towering white stone walls were decorated here and there with carvings, and small statues of knights, ladies, and beasts stood guard in recessed decorative arches. Scattered about the tops of the gatehouses, towers and keep stood half life-sized stone soldiers in the Northern tradition, eternal sentinels to watch over the castle.
One of the towers atop the circular, hollow-centred keep provided the best view of the lands between Alnwick and Wooperton, as it was taller than the towers mounted on the curtain walls. Gentle plumes of smoke were visible drifting up into the sky, the camp fires of Fulk’s army.
Eleanor said, “Keep a man on watch here at all times. If there is sign of anything I wish to know of it immediately.”
“Highness.” As they headed back to the stairs leading down Gervaise stepped in closer to Eleanor and spoke softly, “If it’s your wish we can hold against his two-thousand for months, time enough for your brother to arrive. Or we could cut him to pieces as he passes through the gatehouse. You don’t have to suffer the indignity-”
Before he could dig himself too deep Eleanor interrupted, “It may not have been precisely of my choosing, but this marriage suits me. I love Fulk, and he me. We are well matched. And it has benefits – it shows Trempwick’s lie for what it is and makes it impossible for him to continue in it. In a stroke it takes the wind from the rebellion against my brother. Overall we gained land from this treaty too; think of what it does for our border, and for presenting a threat to the rebel northern lands.”
Gervaise stepped back to a more correct distance. “As your Highness says.”
Last of all on the tour was the lord’s solar and bedchamber. Hawise had done her part well; the original bed had been removed and replaced with the one gifted to them by the King of Scots. New clothes warmed by the fire, and a luxurious bathtub steamed, the water fragrant with herbs. The chamber only had one noticeable lack for her comforts: there was no Fulk to talk to, bother, tease, love.
Gervaise dipped a shallow bow. “As you’ll know, much of the furnishings here belonged to your father, kept in readiness for when he came north. So now they are yours, I would suppose. My own belongings are,” a light pause, “at your disposal.”
One did not reward nearly four decades of loyal service by making off with your subject’s best tapestry. Not if one had hopes for another four decades’ loyalty. “That will not be necessary, but I thank you for the offer. Have them moved to your new room. I intent to arrange the outfitting of my household while I wait for my lord husband to return.” Dubbing Fulk lord anything made the poor old castellan twitch, however proper such wifely deference may be.
“Highness.” Gervaise turned to go. “I shall leave you then, if there’s nothing more?”
“I wish you to send messengers to all those holding lands now belonging to my lord husband. Order them to present themselves here immediately, with an entourage of no more than four. The same for the representatives of each town. Finally, summon the merchants with the best to be had in these parts; as I said I wish to outfit my household.”
“As you wish.”
Still in his bloodied armour Fulk seated himself on a backless chair in Wooperton’s solar. He accepted the goblet of wine from Luke, and nodded to Waltheof. “Bring him in.”
The former castellan shuffled in between two guard, his step hampered by the chain running from one ankle to the other. He was shoved to his knees before Fulk.
With his best effort at noble dispassion Fulk sipped his drink. “I’m known as a man of my word. As you see, I’ve kept mine to you down to the last detail.”
“I looked to be treated with honour.” The prisoner brandished his shackled wrists in jingly reproach.
Fulk handed his drink off to his squire. He stood at the prisoners side, and leaned down to say near his ear, “So did I.” He turned away, pacing to the far side of the room he declared, “You were loud enough when there were walls between us. Do you lack courage, or have you finally gained sense?”
“The prince didn’t come.”
“No, he didn’t.”
The former castellan wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I’m a loyal man, I-”
“Rebelled against your king, and denied me my lands.” Fulk ordered the guards, “Take him away. Lock him up. Put his family in with him, remember they are not to be harmed. They belong to king Malcolm now.”
As he was removed the prisoner, seeing there was no hope of freedom, cursed Fulk in very base terms, and kept on cursing even after his guards cuffed him a few times.
For a few moments silence reigned supreme over Fulk’s little council.
Standing again Fulk looked out of the window, down into the bailey. A collection of men stood surrounded by guards, stripped of armour and hands bound. His men, the ones who had been broken his orders not to pillage, rape or murder. Seven of them. From two-thousand that was not so bad, however only several hundred had taken part in the assault. So little did his army respect him.
He attended the hanging, and gave a short speech reiterating his desires with regards to non-combatants and his property. He balanced along a fine thread, needing there to be no hint of weakness in him, no hint of mercy – he must set himself up as a harsh lord to be feared or forever be dealing with the consequences of exploited kindness. As backward as it seemed it was best for any new lord to set out hard and then ease his rule, else his people expected kind dealing always and took it for granted, not valuing it and demanding more. Armies were still more troublesome. Above all it must be seen to be in men’s best interests to surrender to him without resistance.
His army chastened he turned to Wooperton’s populace, and announced a fine of two shillings per head to pay his costs, to be collected in full by the last day of April. Non-payment would be met by the confiscation of goods and livestock. Many would be paying a visit to a moneylenders, he knew, and working to pay back that loan for much of the year. Walton had been much like Wooperton’s village, the people he had grown up with had been much like these people, his own mother much like any mother here, and if his father hadn’t lifted him up away from it his own life could have been much like any man’s here. He shut those thoughts out; these people would struggle so others might possibly not.
At last he went to disarm.
Tomorrow he would dispatch the castellan and his surviving men under strong guard to Perth. To their number he would add the scattering of prisoners he’d taken when driving off the trio of relief forces, including one from Rochester. Leaving a garrison here, he’d take the rest of his army and strike at Rochester before they could recover. As that castle was so strong he could not assault it without unsustainable losses, and reducing it by other means would take months; if he attacked now they would be short of men and demoralised from his victories.
Fresh from his bath Fulk composed a letter to Eleanor. She had left the day before yesterday, and should have arrived in Alnwick yesterday. A messenger should be able to make the trip there and back in a day, if he rode swiftly and had access to fresh mounts. His quill fell still after he had written of his success. That which needed relaying had been recorded, the letter was ready to send and could be in her hands sometime tomorrow morning if he get it underway within the hour. And yet … When he began to write of things he wanted to tell her instead of those he had to the words flowed faster than he could keep up, the chunk of ice nestled beneath his heart melted, and once more he felt like himself.
Rain, rain, more bloody rain, and to provide variety sometimes it rained. Jocelyn’s distaste for this island gained strength with each passing day. Alain could claim it was simply a spell of bad weather exactly like those at home, but Jocelyn knew better. The sun simply didn’t exist in Britain. Never had, never would, and it was a marvel the whole bloody place hadn’t submerged. “Huh,” he grumbled under his breath, wiping away the drip which was running down his face and gathering at the end of his nose. “Damned place is fit for ducks. Ducks and frogs and bloody fish. Not men!” Small damned wonder the English kings were so touchy about their continental lands – they needed somewhere to escape to, before they sprouted fungus in their ears.
He’d been too loud, Alain had heard. “Oh, come on, my lord! It’s been clear for much of our time here. Two days of rain don’t make for Noah’s flood.”
A drip went down the front of Jocelyn’s cloak via the gap at the bottom of his hood. A cold drip, which soaked the neck of his tunic. “Shut your bloody mouth,” he snarled. “It’s not right being so damned cheerful, damn you! And three days, not two. Three bloody days. Today, yesterday, the day before.”
“It only rained for a bit yesterday, and we were dry inside Alnwick. Two days, my lord, today and the day before yesterday.”
“Don’t be such a cocky bastard, Alain. If you like this God-forsaken hole so much you can stay when I return to Ardentes.”
The squire grinned. “Yes, my lord. But please stop grumbling about the weather, it’s very tedious. I swear you’ve spent twice as much time complaining about rain than it has actually done so.”
Jocelyn settled once more into a dignified silence as he rode along at the head of the expeditionary party, as befitted a count off doing the biding of his queen/princess. Inwardly he kept up his litany of curses, complaints and grumbling. How dare the puny little burgesses of Embleton send Eleanor’s messenger back to her with word that they couldn’t come immediately but would pay her the required visit when repairs to their guild hall’s roof had been completed. The cheek of it! He’d soon put paid to that by jamming a very just sword up some laggardly bottoms, by Christ’s wounds! He’d repay the queen’s trust in him tenfold. He could see it now, his triumphant return met with rewards and all the best things in life. Brilliant.
When they arrived at the coastal town Jocelyn rode right up the main street to the town hall. He drew his sword, filled his lungs and started to pronounce fire and pillage on the unruly place. “I am Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes, Count of Tourraine and representative of Her Royal Highness, princess Eleanor. Your lady! The wife of your liege lord! Whom you have scorned and disobeyed! And so …” The wind left his sails with a puff – hadn’t she said something about not doing her port town any damage? Yes, come to think of it she had. Her precise words: “You absolutely will not kill or maim anyone, burn anything, pillage or steal, or otherwise do anything which may damage the incomes from our land. Or I shall have you damaged.” Quite the testy lady, this daughter of the old king’s. By his reckoning the bloody guild hall needed burning to the ground to remind people of their priorities.
He tried again. “And so I’m here to collect you.” Jesù, that sounded utterly shite. What it needed was more oomph, a bit more of that which made peasants’ skinny knees knock together in terror. “And I’m not bloody happy about having to make the trip, less still given this God-awful weather! So get your arses moving, so I can get you to Alnwick and return to roasting gently by my fire, damn your hides!”
The townsfolk stood about staring at his soldiers. Then they stood and stared some more. Sullenly. Action was notable by its lack.
Applying some creativity to the situation, Jocelyn swatted the nearest body on the behind with the flat of his sword. “Move!” That set the idle buggers shifting, and a few more careful blows kept everyone hurrying along right nicely. There, a perfect example of how to follow instructions. He hadn’t so much as drawn blood, so the princess couldn’t possibly complain and would be impressed by his ingenuity.
He retired to the nearest inn to wait in the dry for the headmen to be collected up, wrapped up and dumped on horses. Over a cup of mulled wine he decided that this place was a teeming hive of treachery and corruption, as was plainly visible by the surly looks the commoners kept giving him and his men. So he set out on a brisk inspection tour, under the cover of perusing the town’s wares.
It was a good bit of perusing and all; he returned with a wooden stick-horse and some other toys, an assortment of spices for Richildis, and this nice pretty young girl to help him carry it all back. She should clean up nicely, a change of clothes and a bath and she’d soon stop smelling of sea salt, bilge water and fish. Best of all she spoke langue d’oil, since the merchants had collected her as a passenger in Calais. A bit of charm, a nice smile, a compliment or two and she’d jumped right into his arms, eager to be away from the sailors. So he’d practically rescued her – no one could complain about that. It was moral, even, taking a vulnerable woman away from a situation where she was prey to the whims of a bunch of lusty men and probably actually obliged to meet those whims to pay for her passage or something. Very moral.
The other part of his inspection was less successful. He didn’t find anything, though he felt in his bones there must be something.
The news from home he’d collected from the merchants had been interesting. The boy-king had attempted to wrestle his power from his mother and uncle, and had failed. Hearsay had it that he’d ordered his own supporters to arrest the pair in the middle of the night, but they’d been warned and set a trap for the boy-king’s men. Now Paris was filled with the uncle’s soldiers and a purge was underway, hunting down and disposing of those who opposed their control of France’s fifteen year old king. So, the boy did have some balls after all. Shame he’d failed. Might have gotten the boy’s head out of those damned books he was famed for ruining his eyesight with, got him to shut up about philosophy and all that crap, and fixed his mind on proper manly pursuits like ruling and war.
Civil war nearly. If Jocelyn didn’t miss his guess then the regents’ opponents would gather and challenge the pair openly, now the king himself had made an effort.
Tourraine touched borders with France. In the event of fighting flaring up … No, foolishness, he was getting like an old woman – Richildis would be perfectly alright. She’d look after his lands, keep the children safe, and if there was any profit to make then she’d damn well make it.
Eleanor had arranged a careful display of her status, crown included. Some well chosen words had the burgesses of Embleton trembling like gaudily dressed leaves, visions of all the possible methods of royal vengeance playing vividly in their imaginations.
One carefully calculated blow hit them in the proverbial bollocks, or more literal and all-important pockets. “A hundred pounds will regain our kind regard.” They could pay; it would hurt.
Groans, pleas, claims they could never raise that much, wailing they would be ruined for generations by the expense - exaggerated all of it.
Eleanor smiled icily. “Then we shall say no more of it. Incidentally, my lord husband and I have plans to raise a levy on all ships using our docks. A tenth of the cargo’s value.”
This time the outcry was a deal more honest. This was most tragic, the burgesses agreed. It would do their trade significant harm. Embleton was but a fledgling port, slowly gaining usage. Such a levy would cause ships to avoid docking there, and the town – nay, the whole new earldom! - would be greatly harmed.
This, Eleanor allowed, was truly a pity. Perhaps she and Fulk may change their minds.
Much praise for her insight and willingness to listen to advice was forthcoming. Emphasis was laid on the need to encourage more ships to visit, thus raising the wealth passing through and into the area.
A twelfth part of any cargo’s value, Eleanor suggested.
More wailing.
Again an icy smile. Eleanor put it to them that she and her husband had many expenses due to the uncooperativeness of their lands, and thence had a war to fight in aid of the rightful king. Income must be raised. This was the best way.
Tentatively it was suggested that the town might manage a gift of sixty pounds to support their most beloved lord and lady.
Eleanor in return suggested a levy in the fifteenth part.
In the end she wrung a promise for one-hundred-and-twenty pounds from them. The town would have empty purses for a very long time.
As the burgesses rose to flee the room Eleanor smiled her frosty smile again. “I would be greatly pleased if you would remain and enjoy my hospitality. Perhaps you might advise me further on matters of trade? Only one is needed to carry word of our agreement back.” The unspoken words which made those who remained at Alnwick hostages until their home paid in full had a deflating effect similar to a pin thrust into a bubble.
:gring: Extortion: one of the great noble traditions of government during the middle ages.
Furball: At the moment the only effect is that the first two weeks were rough enough I didn’t feel like writing in the evenings. It’s easing off now.
Peasant Phill: If I didn’t have anything else at all to claim my time, and could write all day every day, I estimate I could have this done in about 4 - 5 weeks. :sees people running about wailing and waving placards saying :end:
Welcome, Specialist290. Nice to see you here.
The smilies were split up because having them all on one page took ages to load, especially for dial up users.
There's an absoslutely massive debate going on at the other forums. Something like 70 posts in a week! Mostly about Hugh versus Trempy, who has the advantage, who would be the best ruler, possible outcomes and loads of theories; there's also a fair bit on Nell and her assorted impacts on the issue. If anyone's interested it starts, roughly speaking, at post 1137. I make some comments which might prove of interest to readers here; they need to be seen in context. They're at the end of my story posts.
Well, I can see why those posts in the other forum would warm a frog's blood. It must be thrilling to see your characters and plots take on a life of their own in the discussions of others. But there's something unsavory to me when posters start talking about what a character will or won't, can or can't do.
But the discussions are interesting as all get-out. :)
Meanwhile, I'm tickled yet again how we can tell a scene is one of Jocy's just by its opening sentence: "Rain, rain, more bloody rain, and to provide variety sometimes it rained." Trempy's scenes often have as strong an individual style and, to a lesser extent, Hugh's.
I haven't voted for a favorite character but I'll unabashedly admit I like the writing (interior voice, if you will) of Jocelyn's scenes best. They are unique, serve the story and character brilliantly, are fun to read, have several *wonderful* turns-of-phrase. . . I could go on and on. Don't get me wrong. There are several *excellent* scenes of other characters and I'm enjoying the story as a whole immensely.
But I think an entire week could be taught in a college literature course about the style and techniques used in Jocelyn's scenes.
As usual, YAY froggy!
Oh, I liked those latest updates, though I had hoped for an assault scene with Fulk. But even so, they´re great, after all the marriage parts previously things are moving back to emphazise the "Macchiavelli" part of the title.
By the way, I wholeheartedly disagree with Peasant Phill: The longer the story the better! Yes, it´s long as it is, but there´s always something new happening that, well, has to happen.
I don't mind a good read at all. I've read the Hobbit, The lord of the rings, it and many other comprehensive book. So it isn't the volume of the story that bugs me a bit.
It also isn't the time it takes to write this long story. I understand that writing is your hobby and not your occupation. What I said did not imply that it takes to long for every new installment. I'd rather wait for a chapter that is well written than be bombarded with rushed ones.
It was only my intention to point out that in my opinion, for what it's worth, the story is a bit to slow moving. The reason for this ,again IMHO for whatever it is worth, are the vast amounts of quasi-essential but somewhat repetitive passages that tend to slow it down remarkably.
I may have it wrong here. I have no idea how many booksized pages this story is counting and the periods between chapters isn't helping either (in estimating the volume of it*) but that's the feeling I have with the Machiavellian adventures.
I will of course keep on reading the story . I really want to know how it ends.
*I've been reading for a few months now.
Lady Frog, do you appreciate how much damage catching up on this is doing to my eyes?
Keep up the good work! :thumbsup:
A constant among the .org and the mead hall, i can see you're still going strong froggy. Bravo! :2thumbsup:
good to see you are still alive Monk :)... i guess i should one day take my time to read this and the many classics of the .org
Please do Stranger.
We'll even provide you with the mandatory eyedrops and pain killers against headaches.
heheheh, well, i had a idea to put the best stories in one thread. but it takes a lot of time and i cant do it on my own, not the least because my taste definitly differs from others.
I now have 10 stories that i think are among the best but i could use some help
The knock on the door came as Eleanor recovered from a lunge and began to throw her left knife at a target precariously placed atop the doorframe. Stood stock still in the doorway, the door itself still swinging open, Jocelyn looked up at the still-quivering dagger buried above his head, at Eleanor, back at the weapon, at the knife Eleanor still held, at Hawise and her own pair of blades. He made a noise midway between a strangled sob and a curse. The little wicker target, struggling to recover its balance after being struck, surrendered to the inevitable and fell off its perch, bouncing the pommel of the dagger off the count’s head.
Anne clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.
Eleanor slid her remaining dagger back into its wrist sheath. “That serves you quite right for bursting in without permission.”
“Urp.” Jocelyn was busily engaged with feeling the crown of his head with both hands.
“I assume you have a very good reason?”
“There’s a message.” The count’s fingers probed a sensitive spot to the side of his parting. He whimpered something which sounded like, “Bloody hell. Knives!? Gah!”
Scowling Eleanor demanded, “And this justifies your intrusion how?”
“From your brother.”
“I still fail to see how this is your business. The messenger himself could have brought it me – and with more respect.”
Jocelyn removed his fingers from his scalp and stood up properly. “His horse slipped as he came through the inner gate, he broke his blo- er, leg. The man, that is, not the horse. Thought you’d want it quickly; I thought it would be important.”
Eleanor held out her hand; it took a bit but the man finally got the hint and handed over the letter. She examined the seal and found it intact. “You will leave. You will in future remember your manners, or I shall have you balance an apple on your head and use you for target practice. Good day.”
When the count had slunk away Anne and Hawise burst out laughing.
“Did you see his face?” Anne asked. “And when the target hit him!”
Ignoring them, Eleanor opened her letter. A second, smaller missive was tucked inside; it bore Constance’s oval seal. She turned first to Hugh’s and read swiftly. Crumpling the parchment in her fist she screamed, “A half-million marks!?” Further comment was made impossible by her choking on the multitude of - mostly unpleasant - words trying to burst forth.
Anne cocked her head to one side. “A half-million marks what?”
“A half-million marks as a fine for marrying without his consent, my lands confiscated, a public apology to him, more bloody oaths of obedience and all to be taken in public and sworn on relics, and an investigation into whether my marriage can be allowed to stand! I am to present myself at once to beg for royal pardon!” Lungs empty, Eleanor dragged in another breath and kept on howling, “And that is only me! Fulk is fined another half-million! And all the rest!”
Anne edged back a few steps. “I doubt he means it.”
“We are ordered to stand our armies down and come to his custody with no more than five attendants each.”
“But those fines are impossible to pay off, and Hugh is not that mean.”
Eleanor’s hand clenched about the fastening of her girdle, where she had hidden the coronation ring. “I would need a kingdom to make any headway paying it! And to see if my marriage can be allowed to stand?!” Eleanor cast the letter to the floor. “Sod that! He will find no reason why it cannot stand, however hard he searches. Nor will he have our complicity in undoing it.” Her temper ebbed as several details fitted together. “And all of it is in the formal, stuffy, smug, arrogant, conceited official tone – none of it is Hugh himself speaking. It is in essence a proclamation.” In her rush to unfasten Constance’s letter she snapped the thong. Done reading she rolled it up and tapped the missive thoughtfully against the palm of her hand. “Well, it appears I shall not have to go into rebellion to preserve myself.”
Anne beamed. “There. I told you everything would be alright.”
“Alright?” Eleanor favoured the girl with a miniscule not-quite-smile. “Only insofar as that our lives will not become so impossible we are left no choice but to try and overthrow Hugh. We are ordered to present ourselves – with an escort of five only – within fourteen days of receiving this. It shall not be as bad as the public statement, of that I am assured. Our marriage will be let stand. Yet we will suffer. How could it be otherwise? My brother is thinking like a king. He must be seen to be in control where he should be, and vengeful where wronged. He would be the worst kind of fool if he did not twist our arms to breaking point.”
The ground her composed façade was built on was tremulous; Eleanor made her excuses and shut herself in her bedchamber. Constance’s letter she threw at the wall with all her might. She slumped onto the bed holding another tight to her breast: Fulk’s notification he’d taken Wooperton.
They’d threatened her children. And herself. The message was couched in concern for her well-being; the meaning was obvious to her. She and her baby would be dead within the day. It was strange, to find herself torn between protective wrath and tearful fear over children who did not exist and were not wanted to.
That, with some luck, is the end of the PC issues for a couple of years to come. This new install of windows is stable and working well; only one problem is left and it’s identified and curable when I get chance to try an assortment of different video drivers. The misc. annoying bits have been subdued, my backups copied into place, and the PC generally restored to compatibility with a frog’s preferences.
Gah! I’ve spent days burning to write but not able to! Nearly drove me mad. I still feel the need to sink an entire day into hammering out page after page; alas for the present lack of a day off. Got some neat bits to write. Wednesday, roll on Wednesday … :dreams:
Furball: If such a course existed I’d be sat at the back taking notes :gring:
I wondered what authors felt like seeing their characters and plots discussed in such detail. Especially when someone says something which is wrong when compared to the author’s vision. Now I have some idea.
Ciaran: Too many fight and assault scenes get repetitive. Rough draft though this is, I do try to keep some balance. This one wouldn’t have been as interesting to show as some of the other fights in the tale.
Peasant Phill: I think you mistake my meaning. My estimate of how long this will take is based purely on content: I could complete it in five weeks solid work because we’re close to the end. Which answers your earlier post: I’m not going to let the story drag on unnecessarily. ~:)
There’s a quote from Orson Scott Card I like: there are a thousand right ways to tell a story, and ten million wrong ones, and you’re more likely to find one of the latter than the former the first time through the tale.
Orb: Welcome. Probably less damage than writing it did mine :winkg:
Monk: Yup, strong. It’s all the lifting and carrying of books I do at work :tongueg:
The Stranger: If you ever do, I hope you enjoy reading.
Good Details with the Characters and such. I enjoyed the Story Trembously :)..
(edit)
A royal funeral was an occasion to attract magnates great and small from across the land. A king’s funeral would set men travelling for many days to attend. Thus the church was packed, and more stood outside, and still more outside the church’s outer precincts. The lowly came as close as they dared to observe the last appearance of their dead lord, and to catch glimpse of the man who would be their new king and of his lords.
There was risk in this, calculated risk. Trempwick knew where to find him, this event being so advertised, and an army could not surround a funeral to keep Hugh safe. Assassins could mix into this crowd and come at him without major difficulty – petitioners jostled and shoved to come within speaking range of Hugh, and frequently he had need to stop and exchange a few words of reassurance that the matter presented to him would receive attention. Proving once and to all that Trempwick was scum was, Hugh felt, a poor cause to die for. Security was in place, guards both visible and hidden amongst the crowds. The greater security was in knowing the man: Trempwick would not commit an act which would turn nearly every hand in the realm against him as a sacrilegious, disrespectful man false to his dead lord’s memory, and an open murderer.
At the peak of the ceremony Hugh deviated from the norm. He stepped up to the bier and held up his right hand so all could see. Then he placed his hand on his father’s breast, fingers splayed out. “This is my father. I did him no harm. I had no part in his death. If I lie let him accuse me now.” He waited, breath caught; would the dead man repudiate him now, at the end? Would this common test for a murderer prove his end? No incriminating red stains appeared on the corpse’s clothes, the dead man did not accuse. Hugh took great heart from this; the fear he was truly not this man’s son had been gnawing at his innards for so long. The fear that somehow his actions had caused Trempwick to act against his father.
Hugh held his hand there unmoving as the senior churchmen witnessed that blood did not spring forth at his touch. By his request the barons filed past the bier to bear their own witness, each and every last man of significance in the church.
When the procession was done Hugh displayed his spotless hand to his audience one last time. “Let me hear no more of those foul slanders! I am innocent. I am my father’s son. Pay no more heed to those who wish to discredit me and usurp my inheritance.”
Stopping back to his place Hugh let the ceremony proceed as normal to its conclusion.
As he emerged from the church a crossbow bolt whipped past his face to hit the carved stonework. Royal dignity did not prevent Hugh from ducking and pushing Constance behind the cover of his bodyguards, drawing his sword as he went. The unarmoured knights formed a wall of human flesh between Hugh and all possible lines of attack, offering up their lives for his own. No second attack came.
The hue and cry was up, and Hugh’s men raced to find the one responsible, fighting their way through the alarmed crowd.
A bodyguard touched Hugh’s arm. “Sire?” He pointed at Hugh’s face.
Raising his fingertips to his cheek Hugh found a trail of blood seeping from a cut.
“From there,” suggested the guard, indicating a chip taken out of the stonework by the quarrel.
Hugh wiped the blood away with his hand. At the centre of his guard Hugh stood calm, invoking every dreg of kingly dignity that was in him. He spoke to his wife, enquiring after her well-being and giving reassurance. With so many to see him here it was vital he present an appearance that inspired respect, and which would be remembered as implying abilities a leader needed.
At last the human sea parted for a trio of guards. One man bore a crossbow, the other two dragged a man along by the arms. Hugh’s heart sped until he saw the trail of blood the prisoner left behind him, and the total limpness of his muscles: the man was dead.
The body was dumped before Hugh; the soldier with the crossbow knelt and laid it on the ground beside the would-be assassin. “Sire, forgive us. We were too slow. He killed himself when he saw he would not escape.”
Hugh waved the corpse away. “Get rid of it. My father’s funeral has been profaned enough.”
He named no names as responsible for the attack, and carried on through the day as though nothing had happened. Away from his immediate presence gossip ran with the speed of fire and less mercy, guided to the correct targets by a handful of select agents. It had been Trempwick behind the attack. Trempwick who had disrupted the funeral. Trempwick who was perverse enough to dabble with open murder before the lords of the realm. Trempwick whose scheme to seize the throne had gone so far awry that he resorted to such means. Trempwick, who had lied over and over to serve his ends and was now proven to have lied, for was not the princess Eleanor married to another with the church’s blessing and had not the old king’s body accepted Hugh?
At the end of the day, alone at last save for his wife, Hugh let the façade drop. Bone weary he sank onto the bed. “It worked,” he sighed.
“Yes.” Constance settled at his side and placed her hand on his. “It worked. I near died from worry, but it worked. Never do such a thing again.”
“That should not be necessary. Let the man have a taste of what he deals to others, and may he choke on it.” It was not possible to tell all the truth of Trempwick’s character; that would mean many accusations and scant proof. A little artifice and instead they had been shown. Miles’ trusted men had done their work well. Hugh felt no pity for the man hired to take shot at him and die for it – the man was a criminal, who had accepted the offer of his life in exchange for taking the shot and missing under the supervision of Miles’ most trusted agent. Alas, he could not have been allowed to live; he would have talked. “If God wishes me to become king then such will be my destiny. If not, nothing shall preserve me. You should not worry.”
For a moment Constance looked as though she might give voice to one of her rare scathing remarks, the thinning of her lips was a clear sign. Evidently she thought better of it, for when she spoke she said only, “You did not say you were going to lay hands on the body like that.”
Hugh met her concern with a slight smile. “Did you fear my father’s body would begin to bleed, and denounce me?”
“No, I mean only that you surprised me. It should do some good. If nothing else people will now speak of your dramatic rebuttal of Trempwick’s accusations.”
“Yes.” Hugh gazed into the distance, imagining Trempwick’s reaction to this news. “If word of my sister’s marriage has not discomforted him enough, this aught to light a fire under him. In desperation he will make mistakes, and that will be the beginning of the end for him. He has had all go his way for years, playing a game none other knew of. I doubt he can manage well when the pieces make moves of their own in directions he has not thought possible. His success is become his weakness.” Focusing back on what was before him, Hugh shrugged. “Whereas my life has always been working with want others created, endeavouring to mark it with my own stamp.”
The picture daubed on the side of the stable wall was crude in both senses of the word. The couple so busily engaged in an imitation of animals coupling were identified by simple renditions of a wolf and gooseberry banded by a crown. The artist had been caught in placing the final touches to the scene: the young lad who acted as the cook’s second helper. Whether he had chosen the pose from ignorance of how decent people did things, or from deliberate intent to cast his victims as perverted animals Eleanor was not about to ask.
“Flog him,” she pronounced. “Then make him scrub that away.”
She stayed to watch her sentence carried out, as she felt it to be her miserable obligation. One had to witness the truth behind the neat, clean words to understand the true weight of the power one held.
The agreed seven days had passed. Prince Malcolm had not come to the aid of Rochester castle; no one had. Knowing himself to be cast adrift to fend for himself the castellan could honourably surrender in accordance to the bargain struck; the gates opened and he came out alone, unarmed. Brought before Fulk, he said, “I keep my part of the deal. Do you keep yours?”
Fulk inclined his head. “I do. Take your family and go.” It had been a gamble, playing his need to conserve men and stronghold against the chances of the prince coming to the rescue. It had paid off handsomely; only time had been lost.
The castellan and his family headed off into exile at a respectful turn of speed, carrying only the most portable of their possessions and escorted by a handful of their most loyal followers. The most troublesome members of the garrison thus removed, Fulk offered all others a chance to swear allegiance to him, an offer most accepted. He would mix them in with his other men, and remove them from this castle to serve elsewhere as a precaution against disloyalty.
Finally, after a siege of a week in which very few had died, Fulk marched into his undamaged new stronghold, to occupy it peacefully.
Dignity. Royal dignity. There were a lot of people rushing about Alnwick, preparing for the arrival of their new lord, an arrival which came slap in the midst of their Easter celebrations. If she ran about like a dizzy fool she’d spoil what authority she’d built up over the last six days. Dignity: with that word tolling in her head Eleanor devoted herself to not rushing to the main gate as fast as her feet could carry her, and from there however far down the road was necessary to meet with Fulk on his way in. Fit to burst with impatience she did what was expected of her, overseeing the preparations and ordering things for Fulk’s comfort.
Fulk had exercised no such restraint, it appeared, for he descended on her while she was still in the kitchens, still in his armour and begrimed from the road. As soon as he spotted her his face lit up.
Seeing him crossing the massive room at a rapid stride Eleanor dropped the spoon of soup she was tasting, snatched up her skirts and ran to him. Working people scrambled to get out of their way.
Fulk crushed her in his arms and smothered her barely begun greetings with an enthusiastic long kiss. He stopped that only to take her face between his hands, remark she looked wonderful, and kiss her again. All in all Eleanor was not about to complain, even if his armour was digging into her uncomfortably.
Still pressed again him it was hard to check for wounds; she did so anyway. The armour hid any possible damage. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
Eleanor rewarded him for his care with a kiss fit to make his toes curl.
Fulk looked about the kitchen, and its populace of people studiously devoting all their attention to the food. “Let’s leave, before they turn you into a gooseberry pie.” He kissed her on the forehead, winked, and began walking to the exit, her hand tucked on his arm.
“Walk faster,” Eleanor suggested brightly.
Eleanor lifted the blankets and peered down at her front. “I am still covered in an imprint of your armour.”
Fulk smothered a yawn, looking contrite. “Sorry. In my defence, I had missed you very badly.”
“It was actually quite impressive.” Eleanor sighed with a faint, silly little smile. “Fun, too.”
“Mmm. Exceedingly.”
Eleanor’s smile took on a mischievous turn as she teased, “It should not be too hard for Hawise to mend that rip on my dress.”
“And she can repair my shirt afterwards.”
“There is nothing wrong with your shirt.”
“The way it was taken off there surely must be.”
Eleanor sighed again. “It was rather … incendiary.” Understatement!
“I’ve been wanting to do that for months. I’ve been crushing the impulse for so long I thought I’d killed it. Slow, tender, thorough, and all the rest of it is marvellous most of the time, but on occasion …”
“Mmm. I suppose I may permit you to turn into a human fireball again, but only on special occasions.” Eleanor glanced sidelong at him, one eyebrow lifting. “It seems so wasteful to let you exhaust yourself in minutes. It is like buying a fancy candle and then chucking it in the hearth. It may entertain, yet it is poor economy.”
“Fancy candle. Economy.” He pulled a wry expression, and yawned again. “Well, at least you’re not complaining about my whisking you away like that.”
That sprung Eleanor’s mind out of the contented lassitude it drifted in. “It will put an end to those smug bastards who said you would have no further interest in me now you have gained all you are likely to via me. And speaking of smug bastards, there are nine days remaining before Hugh’s allotted time runs out.”
Fulk rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shifted to sit up in bed. “Overall little has changed since you wrote to me of it, and so my reply is no different.”
Damn. Maybe she could talk some sense into him. “I know you cannot leave your new earldom. Let me go.” Eleanor sat up as well, pulling the blankets about her shoulders like a cloak.
Instantly Fulk was shaking his head. “No. I will not leave you to face your brother alone.”
Scowling at his obdurate attitude, Eleanor pointed out, “Someone must go and you cannot.”
“Nor will I let you. I have no reason to think he will treat you decently-”
“He is my brother-”
Fulk jabbed a finger into the mattress between them. “Which, as I recall, was his excuse for mistreating you before!”
As if it mattered! If hitting her would appease Hugh sufficiently to let them live in peace then it was a small price to pay, and one they could readily afford. “He would not harm another man’s wife. He is far too concerned about propriety to consider it.”
“A slender thing to wager on – if he raised a finger to you it would break any chance of a tolerable relationship between us.” Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes tight shut. “I am letting enough of his work go by without so much as a word of reproach; no more. And there are many ways for you to suffer his ire without breaching respectability. I will not leave you to explain it all, nor to bear his grumbling alone, or any of the rest of it.” His jaw clenched, one corner of his mouth twitched as though he battled a grin. “Besides, I know what you two are like when put together. I do not wish to find myself owing a million marks for myself, and two million for you.”
Eleanor dismissed his claim with a wave of her hand. “We will never pay even half of one million. It is not meant to be paid in full; it is meant to be awesomely impressive and hang over our heads for the rest of our lives, keeping us poor enough to be no threat and always in his debt so he may lawfully move against us if he wishes.”
“I know that. It changes nothing; you are not going alone. It would not be safe. Remember, he threatened our potential children and you.”
“Out of panic, I am come to believe. He would not actually do so, surely he could not.”
Fulk made a sceptical noise.
Eleanor turned away, not liking to see her husband’s ill-feeling for her brother. Little love may be lost between herself and Hugh, yet the antagonism between the two men came in great part from her being between them and that abraded her nerves. “When he has a child or two of his own and his seat secure he will forget he said such things. It comes from insecurity. It must. The more I think on it the more I am convinced. Constance is reasonable, yet she wrote of this herself – that must mean something! They would not do to others what Trempwick has done to them. They are too decent.”
“I’m sure you know them better than I.”
“I am certain I do,” she replied coolly. “I would take a large escort-”
“And then he would say you came in force.”
“He cannot expect me to do otherwise!” Eleanor cried, turning back to him. “The country is in civil war! One side wants nothing more than to grab me, stick a crown on my head and the rule through me!”
“It may very well be what he wants you to do,” Fulk said with infinite patience, which only added to Eleanor’s building temper.
Eleanor raised her chin defiantly. “It likely is. Then he can make a show of having me leave my escort to come and submit to him alone. Politics. Simple costless measures which repair a little of the damage to his standing.”
“Whereupon he may do as he pleases with you. No. You are not going alone.”
“You will have us declared rebel!”
“We will send him a message. We will promise to go as soon as Alnwick is secured – as he’d have asked us to, if he’d any sense.”
“If he waited he would look weak-”
“Whereas now he can look eminently sensible for compromising and exercising a bit of wit.”
“You stubborn, ox-witted-” Eleanor bit her tongue before she said something she’d come to regret. She’d try again later, when he wasn’t half asleep and travel-worn. “You need a bath. And a shave.” The words sounded so much like a threat that Fulk’s eyebrows went up. Bravely Eleanor continued, struggling to moderate her tone, “And there is a feast, and a deal of celebration. Your new vassals are here ready to pay homage. You cannot laze around in bed for the remainder of the day.”
“Ah, no,” he agreed, watching her with a faintly cautious expression. “You’re not plotting, are you?”
Eleanor gave a good show of innocence rousing back to former temper due to false accusations. “Of course not.”
“Because I have this feeling …”
“Why would I? My lord and master has spoken, making himself quite clear.”
Fulk hopped out of bed and began retrieving his clothes from where they were scattered all over the floor. “You are plotting, I know it. Well, it will do no good – I find myself attached to having a wife, and reluctant to let her wander off into a fool’s risk.”
“You are paranoid,” growled Eleanor.
“Living near you I have to be, dear heart.”
As they undressed after a long day filled with Easter revels, Fulk asked her, “Have you finished plotting now?”
The after effects of their quarrel had faded quickly on emergence from their private rooms. There had been too much to do and too much to celebrate, and it was hard not to be glad of his being back at her side. The thunder clouds came rushing back, complete with a few drops of rain. “I am not plotting.”
“Oh, still working on your plan, then.”
“No.”
Fulk dropped his shoe onto the floor. “Dearest, either you are going to wait until I leave and then rush off south, or you are going to drug me – incidentally if you do that again I’m going to drape you over my knee and ensure you can’t sit comfortably for a fortnight the very minute I catch up with you, large audience or no – and then go.”
“I am not!” Scrub the backup plan – the consequences were going to be too lively.
“So it appears I have but two choices. Either I lock you up, or I let you go.” Fulk plucked a coin from his purse. “We shall flip for it. Heads or tails?”
“I shall go with heads, as it has my father stamped on the silver. He should give me some family advantage.” Eleanor predicted confidently, “It matters not; you will let me go whichever.”
Fulk flipped the coin, then dropped it back in his purse without looking to see which side it fell on. “You will take all of your loyal men, and Jocelyn and his men also. I’m assigning Waltheof to you, in addition to fifty of my own men. You will send me word each and every day by fast courier. If a day goes by and I receive no word I am coming to fetch you with every last man that remains to me. You will report anything and everything your brother or anyone of consequence says or does with relation to us. You will not goad your brother, or quarrel with him, or do anything which may cause him to act in such a way I’ve little honourable choice but to bash his face in. You will be mindful of the fact the way you behave and are treated reflects upon me; I do not wish to have to avenge anything, nor do I wish to be thought a coward because I hold to peace.” Fulk waited until she nodded acceptance. “You will take Anne and her men with you, and you will do your utmost to leave her behind with Constance. I do not want her spying in my lands. You will come back as swiftly as may be, and stay not an hour longer than you must.”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Eleanor. At this rate he would go on all night and detail how she would or would not fasten her shoes. “I believe I understand.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose hard, Fulk detailed, “I don’t want any trouble. Of any sort. In any way. You create trouble without trying; it’s the gooseberry in you.”
“Thank you very much!” Eleanor returned to removing her clothes, working at the knot tying her braided silk girdle, the one which bore hidden the coronation ring. “I shall leave tomorrow morning.”
“I expected you would. One more thing.” His eyes stopped following the girdle to meet hers. “I’m keeping the ring. Your brother needs it; worst come to the worst it will give me some bargaining power.”
Since receiving it from Jocelyn’s hands Eleanor had kept it close by at all times. Giving it away went against the grain – it was hers, the only thing her father had given her but scars. Yet she did so, handing over the silken belt without a word.
Fulk set the girdle down near his sword. “I’ll take care of it, have no fear.”
“I know. Or I should not have given it you.”
:grumble: Why is it when you look forward to spending an entire day writing you end up doing everything but?
Good news, {BHC}KingWarman888. ~:) Thank you.
<hopes that Froggy gets more time to write soon>
Five miles outside St Albans Constance and a sizeable escort waited, Eleanor’s advance messenger having given sufficient warning for them to meet her if they so chose. Eleanor was shown alone into the pavilion where Constance waited.
The first thing Eleanor’s sister-by-law said to her was, “That knight of yours has best be worth it, Nell. If you go off him, or if things go sour, or-”
“Thank you for your well-wishes.” Stepped back from the embrace to take a look at the other woman. “How does the baby?” Not yet visible, but Constance now wore her girdle high, around her ribs instead of on her hips in a clear boast of impending motherhood.
Constance’s hand dropped to her belly, her face split into a board smile. “It is a lively little thing; I feel as though I have swallowed a frog. I am beginning to wonder at the truth of those stories of babies breaking their mother’s ribs with a misplaced kick.”
Breaking ribs!? Having experienced that already Eleanor could safely say it was nothing to smile about.
Constance’s smile died, the hand clenched. “Nothing is going to harm this one. Nothing and no one. If God has any mercy, by the time this one is born Trempwick will be nothing but meat rotting on a gibbet.”
On that cheering note Eleanor felt it best to change the subject. “How is Hugh?”
“He is on the horse; now he is beginning to find a feel for the reins, I think.”
“Good.”
“Now, about you and that knight of yours. In the main you need not be overly afraid; we do see the advantages to your marriage and so far as we can we do approve. So we will do what we can to make matters easy on you.”
“But not on any family I may have,” said Eleanor, with a pointed look at Constance’s stomach. “I would have thought you both the last people to make such threats, knowing what it is to lose children in such a way.”
Constance raised her eyebrows. “Can you honestly say we are not reinforcing a decision you have already made? Or is your knight keen to risk losing you in favour of children who will have no true place, being neither royal nor noble nor common? Children who will have to fight for everything they have, and who will never be free of the stigma of having such unusual parents. Children who will be used,” she stressed that word, “as you yourself have been, as a tool and rallying point for rebels and would-be usurpers?”
“You take the grimmest view of it.”
“As have you; I know you must have in your private reckonings. Optimism and sentimentality is not for the likes of us; it does not work in a world peopled with the likes of Trempwick. We are positioned to be their prey.” Constance took the moment of silence as assent on Eleanor’s part. “As I was saying, we will make it as easy as possible. That does not mean terribly easy – appearances must be served. And to be frank for jumping into something so insane you deserve to be roasted, however beneficial the jump may be to us. There were other ways we could have gained from your marriage, ones which did not bring such disrepute. Leaping from a cliff may be faster than climbing down it, yet it is still idiotic.”
“Hugh told me to make an advantageous marriage if any were offered. I did so.”
“I believe he had prince Malcolm in mind.” Constance winked. “I know it was the knight you chose, not the strengthened border and knife in the heart for your putative husband.”
“You do?” said Eleanor, startled.
“Quite. You gave yourself away when you asked for him back as your bodyguard; a bit of thought and watching soon unravelled things.” She fixed Eleanor with a positively chilling gaze. “We also see that the further you are from being able to sit on that throne the safer Hugh is. If putting you from the running brings us an alliance with Scotland and a safer border then so much the better.”
How many times had she seen others go through the humbling motions required to acquire royal forgiveness? Not so many, in truth. Trempwick had kept her informed of the doings in the realm, and many times she had heard him describe a lord reconciling himself with her father. As with so many things, Eleanor was discovering that witnessing and hearing were some distance from doing.
The walk through the town bad been bad enough. Dress the part of humble penitent, Constance had told her, and she had; her wardrobe still catered better for unremarkableness than ostentation. The hem of her skirts was thick was mud and filth from the streets, and a splat of muck rode at knee level; some louts had chucked missiles at her on part of her walk, calling her a failed traitor and offering to show her to the lowest brothel in town so she could indulge her taste for low-bred men to her heart’s content – if she could find any clients who’d take her. Her limited escort hadn’t been numerous enough to do more than close up about her and draw their swords; they were enough to save her in the event of an attempt on her person, so long as they did not split up, not enough to wade into a crowd and hunt down troublemakers. Some of the townspeople had been more sympathetic to her; there had damn near been a brawl before the city guard decided that, while they were meant to let her make the trip unassisted, they were also meant to stop her being trapped in a riot. Hugh needed to have a word with the captain of the city watch, a sour word. A few idiots had gone so far as to hail her as queen. Common people: rumour and lack of knowledge plagued them like a disease. The consequences could be seen broiling in this volatile mob, half supporting her and half damning her and none of them with any true idea of what had happened.
Steadying her nerves she stepped away from the six men who formed her escort and began her passage down the great hall, walking the corridor formed by a host of whispering courtiers and staring eyes. There was one thing to be glad of – this hall was not even half the size of the one at Waltham.
Hugh was not wearing his prince’s crown; his head was bare. She had expected him to wear his prince’s crown in lieu of the king’s: his place as rightful lord of the realm must be reinforced at occasions such as this. For the rest he made a fine vision of kingly state, stern and grave as he looked down his nose at her.
About one large pace before the step of the dais Eleanor knelt and bowed her head. And waited.
After a time Hugh said, “I scarce know what to say.” She heard him move, and his feet appeared in her lowered vision as he came down to her level. He offered his hands to help her up. “But what is done is done, and you are my sister. The Lord commands us to love our family, and to forgive.”
Eleanor did not trouble to hide her surprise as she stood; the worm was always left to wriggle on the hook to remind all that royal forgiveness was by no means guaranteed and did not come cheaply. A few pointed remarks and a lecture had been the least she had been expecting.
Hugh embraced her, a formal clasp lacking any warmth. “We will talk. You will explain yourself, and we shall restore our family to harmony.”
The reunion was adjourned to a private room, leaving the hall to amuse itself.
Hugh waved her to a seat before the fire, and poured her a cup of wine. “Do you deliberately set out to make my life difficult, or is it purely unintentional on your part?” he asked as he handed the goblet over and took his own seat.
“A little of both, I would imagine.”
Leaning forward Hugh seized her left hand without warning; he twisted it until he had a good view of the ring on her heart finger. His face went blank, he cast her hand away. “That is the best he could do for you? I should be comforted to know the husband you have found yourself is so scrupulous he will not squander my ally’s riches to buy a ring worthy of my sister.”
Eleanor rubbed her thumb across the slender band of plain gold. “Fulk brought it with his own money.”
“Then now I must be comforted to know that he finds it a better use of the money he was gifted by the King of Scots to buy soldiers than keep my sister in good estate.”
That Eleanor found a bit rich, considering how miserly Hugh had been towards her.
Hugh set his drink down on the floor at his side so roughly some of the contents slopped over the brim. “I did my all to look on the man with some hope, knowing some little of him and believing you would not act such a fool over someone without a shred of worth. But, dear sister, what now do I find? He does not honour you nor care for you as he should.” Hugh’s eyes flashed with the anger he was trying – as he ever did - to smother out of existence. “He left you to face me alone!”
“He is bringing his new earldom under control. If you had but waited a few weeks-”
“You know I could not. It must be seen that, though having acted the stray in this, you are not only at my side but subordinate to me. We must be seen to stand together and in the right order: it is the only way to counteract thoughts of division in the family.” Emphasising his words he spelled out, “Where we stand together you cannot be seen as my rival, nor as any willing replacement for me. Therefore there is no ground to sow the seeds of rebellion in.”
“I know that.” Eleanor averted her eyes from his. “The whole affair was … unfortunate.”
“It warms my heart to find you in agreement.” Hugh held his eyes closed an instant longer than usual as he blinked; the spark of anger was gone from his next words, “However I admit there is benefit to be had also, if all is played correctly. And believe me, dear sister, it has best be. That will be the true price you pay for what you have done.” He caught up his drink again, fist clenching about the shapely stem of the goblet. “As for that husband of yours, I find it would give me good cheer if he were stricken from God’s green earth.”
“Hugh!”
“I have no good opinion for the man. I had expected him to take care of you, to cherish you and to give you all that is in his power to make you happy. I expected him to have the courage to face me himself, and the decency to put himself as a shield between you and the misery of that.” A hand swiped through the air in the direction of the hall and beyond it the path she had taken into his presence. “Any man who presumes to marry my sister I expect to move heaven and earth on her behalf!”
“Hugh,” Eleanor said gently, trying not to smile at this demonstration of something she didn’t think he wanted anyone to know existed: brotherly concern for his little sister’s happiness. “Fulk moves heaven and earth - and sun and moon and stars. I have never been so happy. Be assured, anything within his power I have for the asking, and anything out of his power he will do his all to win for me. And the same for him from me. He did not want to let me come alone, indeed it was hard to convince him he must.”
Hugh’s nostril’s flared. “He lets you command him still? And I am to take this as better than neglect?”
“No. He listens. Then he thinks and comes to his own decisions. That is all.” With a burst of amusement at the memory of the struggle she’d had convincing Fulk to let her come alone, Eleanor vowed, “You need not fear him leaving me to run amok unchecked.”
He buried any reply he might have in his drink.
“Hugh, Fulk is risking his life and expending his limited resources to bring the north under control for you. He is bringing formerly Scottish lands under his control, and so under yours. Then he will move again Trempwick’s northern holdings.”
“And he is growing wealthy from it.” Hugh swallowed a last mouthful and deliberately put the goblet aside. Leaning back he rested his head on the back of his chair. “I wish to meet this husband of yours. Properly. He has a very great deal to explain. I had hoped he would be doing so at this very moment.”
A lengthy silence indicated Hugh was done with the topic of Fulk, leaving Eleanor free to enquire, “Hugh, why do you not wear your crown?”
“I have no crown. I am not now a prince, nor yet anointed king. I do not lower myself below that which I am, nor do I raise myself to a level I have not yet obtained.” Hugh scrubbed his hands over his face, and stood. “You both swore fealty to me; you are both my vassals. The law is clear: you may not marry without my consent on pain of a fine and loss of your lands. Thus my expected course is clear, and to wave it away would be serious weakness on my part.” He began to pace the room. “Others would look to take advantage of it for the remainder of my days. That must never be allowed; I will have peace in my realm, if I must force it with the point of a sword. Due to your rank, and the nature of the marriage, the fine needs must be harsh. Half a million each it shall remain. Impossible as it is to pay in its entirety, I do not expect you to. The statement is makes it the main aim of it. However you will make every effort pay it, or I shall be left no option but to declare you both in rebellion. I expect a minimum of a hundred pounds per half year.”
That would amount to perhaps a third of their income if they only had Fulk’s tiny earldom, untenable. “Our lands?” asked Eleanor.
“Lost, in the entirety.”
Eleanor started forward in her chair, halfway top her feet. “Hugh-”
“Sit down,” he snapped. “For once do me the basic courtesy of allowing me to finish, if you cannot grant me any faith, or belief in my knowledge of my duty to ensure you are provided for.” Following his own command Hugh slammed himself back down in to his chair. “If I am to keep your husband from going to Scotland I needs must tie him to me. None would expect me to do otherwise. Thus I am spared the two-pronged fork you would have placed me upon: I shall not look cruel for casting you out, nor weak for not so doing. In any case, there must be a place in England where you can reside for the majority of the time; I cannot have you much at court. You are in disgrace, both of you, out of favour and in near exile, and thus it must stay until people begin to forget the infamy of this match. If they ever do begin to forget.”
“Hugh, so much concern for how you appear rather than what you feel to be right … it cannot be good for you.”
Hugh’s shoulders jerked. “You shirk the burden and dare lecture me for taking it up?” With a surprising amount of bitterness he added, “Ah, but then I am not a king born, only a king left no choice but to be made. I do not play the part naturally, but must play it all the same and must play it well.”
“Almost you sound as if you do not wish to be king.”
“My wishes matter not. Since Stephan died this has been my path, for better or ill. I do not have the luxury of turning my face from it.” Unlike her, the accusation was clear. “I am the heir. I know my duty.”
“Well,” said Eleanor, with an attempt at levity, “if you dislike it so much you could always leave it all to Trempwick, and run away to Constantinople.”
Hugh curled his lip. “I see some things never do change. Praise be disciplining you may no longer be my responsibility.”
“Praise be, brother dear?” Eleanor arced an eyebrow. “I always felt you enjoyed pretending to be superior.”
With a face like thunder Hugh clasped his hands behind his back and turned away from her. “Your husband will present himself to me at the earliest opportunity to make an accounting of himself. If he does so satisfactorily I will make for him an earldom sufficient to match his Scottish one. I know Constance has explained other matters to you.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “And, sister, I will never publicly approve of this match or wish you well in it. I cannot. To be known to approve of such a travesty …! It would finish me if people believed I condoned your flouting my authority to squander your blood and future on such a low creature. To be seen as one with so little respect for his noble lineage and most high status ...” Hugh shook his head. “No, it shall not be.” Standing at the door he placed a hand on the latch. “I have had my fill of you for now. Come, let us return to the hall and make a show of being warily reconciled for the masses. We will discuss more of what is to be done later; if your husband is to be of the least use he must be tied in to my overall strategy.”
He was a royal bodyguard now. Jocelyn strode along behind his princess, hand on the hilt of his sword and eyes busily hunting for the tiniest little hint of a possible threat. Nothing was going to harm Eleanor while he was around, nothing! And when he’d saved her life she’d be so grateful. He’d be famous too; saving her life a few times had made Fulk’s name into one known about court. Even now people mixed in tales of his heroics when talking about his amazing marriage. This could be the best thing ever to happen in his life, next to the births of his children. He’d skilfully cut down four or five – or six! – assassins, taking a slight wound in the process, maybe to the arm or shoulder so it could be tended by his grateful queen without dipping into circumstances which might be called inappropriate, and then, standing proud, modestly saying he’d done nothing but his duty and was glad to … Hell yeah! That was the stuff, damned right.
There weren’t any assassins or kidnappers on the route to the cathedral.
The reason for this trip lay near the altar: a plain tomb, no more than a stone slab set in the floor and carved with some Latin words. Saint Bartholomew’s balls, what a way to bury a king. Damned inconvenient how London was all up in arms and all, so William, sixth of his name blah blah, couldn’t be buried in Westminster like he wanted. World was in a right state when kings and royalty didn’t get treated proper; next the common lot would start giving their nobles disrespect. Jocelyn wouldn’t stand for that, no bloody way. Heads would have to be liberally lopped and evil smited generously to restore rightfulness to England, and like any proper knight he couldn’t wait to get stuck into such an ethical cause.
There weren’t any villains in the cathedral either, though one of the monks tending the altar did have a positively wicked cast to his features, all swarthy and dark like some bloody heathen from the Holy Land. Jocelyn flexed his fingers on his sword hilt when he saw the monk looking towards him, a nice subtle hint that he’d better not try anything. See? A more discreet guard the princess couldn’t have found. A born natural for the job.
Eleanor stopped at the side of the tomb and gazed down at the slab. “Stand a little further back, please,” she instructed Jocelyn.
“But …” But that was a bloody harebrained idea and no mistake! Except he couldn’t say that; softly, softly, careful, polite, nice, harmless … “If I’m too far back you could be killed before I can do anything.”
The look she gave him was withering. Honestly! Did she want to get killed? If he stepped back and she got shot to death or something because he was too far back to dive in the way of the fatal arrow and save the day he’d never heard the end of it, she’d go on and on like women always did: wah wah, I got killed because you were negligent, boo! She indicated the space between their bodies. “I am flattered by your effort to make kneeling on this floor more comfortable to me, but your efforts would be better spend offering me a cushion to rest on, not your feet.”
“Eh?”
“Let me put it another way. If you were my executioner you would need to stand further back, else you would club me with the axe handle and the blade would miss my body by a foot or more.”
Eh?
She heaved one of those feminine “Men are so stupid!” sighs. “Please. Just go and stand several paces that way.” She pointed to her left. “Now.”
Oh well, he’d done his best, and she’d got a bad temper and probably those bloody God-damned knives – and what in the name of Sampson’s best loincloth was a princess doing with bloody knives!? Jocelyn went and stood where he’d been told to, drew his sword and stood there at combat ready. He heard one of those lady-like “Oh Jesù, how do I manage to be so patient?!” sighs as the princess knelt at the side of her father’s tomb.
No assassins appeared to break the monotony while she did whatever it was she was doing. She stayed praying/meditating/wishing the deceased to the torments of hell/whatever until Jocelyn’s sword arm ached so badly he had to let the blade sag to rest on the floor and the chill of the massive stone building had sunk deep into his bones. He kept an eye on that monk the whole damned time, barely even blinking such was his amazing dedication. Until the monk left. Then he scanned the shadows, and watched the doors, and scowled at the statues so they didn’t get any ideas either.
Hesitantly Eleanor rose her right hand to her forehead. There it hovered, trembling, as though she couldn’t make up her mind what to do. The hand steadied, and she sketched out a cross, head to heart, shoulder to shoulder.
She’d been kneeling there that long he had to pull her back to her feet. No one ever sang songs about knights doing that.
Computers. They pretend that they are fixed, then they break anyway and you find yourself buying and installing new hard drives after all. Except it doesn’t go smoothly, oh no. For some mysterious reason your 4 SATA port hard drive will only take 1 SATA hard drive at a time without nuking its BIOS, necessitating resetting the entire board each time you try to set up your beloved arrangement with the secondary hard drive to hold games, back ups and junk. :sigh: Still only got the one connected up and functional. Being limited to viewing the net via that ancient laptop is a subtle form of torture. Not only is it hard to navigate anywhere and difficult to read pages with, it also allows me to look at my writing thread when I have no way to pen anything new :( In summary: failing hard drives should be banned. The grief they cause to frogs is immense.
That scene with Hugh and Nell is one of my favourite bits with the together. I love Hugh’s brotherly concern for the sister he doesn’t get on with, his outrage that Fulk appears to have left Nell to bear the fallout alone, and his determination that her husband will take proper care of her … even if he does partly class proper care as stopping her running riot :D It’s good to see his control slip a little too, making him a bit more human.
That Jocelyn :shakes head:
Furball, it was a nice hope. Too bad it didn’t work. Not being able to write is literally sending me mad ~:mecry: I start seeing the scenes more and more vividly, and hearing the characters speaking dialogue, and it grows more and more frequent as the effect grows stronger. Last night I was dreaming Eleanor all night, yesterday I heard and saw parts of scenes over and over.
Great chapter. Hooray for humain hugh and honour hungry Jocelyn (the new heroic duo).
Jocelyn as a bodyguard, Eleanor was compelled to admit to herself, was not one of her best ideas. Fulk’s professional competence had spoiled her – he’d never stood between her and her brother with his hand on his sword hilt and a “Don’t mess with me!” expression on his face.
“Jocelyn,” she said wearily, “I doubt Hugh is going to stab me. Almost definitely he is not concealing three assassins in his cloak; there simply is not room. He is my brother; we speak from time to time, and thus far neither of us have died.” Though on occasion it had been close …
The count stood down looking like a kicked puppy. “But you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, your Highness.”
“Yes. But, as my king and my kin, my brother is an exception to that.” Especially when he was stood not thirty paces away and could see her kneeling at their father’s tomb. If he had decided to interrupt her then he had reason. “You may leave us to speak privately.”
Muttering Jocelyn wandered off to a fitting distance.
As Eleanor clambered stiffly to her feet Hugh observed, “Loathe as I am to admit it, I find a definite preference for your prior bodyguard. He knew his place.” He spoke in continental French, voice raised enough that Jocelyn should be able to hear.
“Yes.”
In English, privately, “I do wonder why you felt need to take my sworn man as bodyguard when you have sufficient men of your own.”
Eleanor quickly forgot her vague thoughts on bringing a cushion if she came here again. “Your sworn man? But he swore fealty to me! I thought it the best way to keep him secured to our house, until you had your crown.”
Two heads turned to direct royal gazes at the count. Jocelyn noticed their attention and gave them both a tentative smile.
“I think,” said Hugh, “I shall have that man watched. Closely.”
“And closer still, I should imagine.”
“Just so.” Hugh turned his back on the count. “I was most astonished when, on sending for you, I was informed you were here. The semblance of duty was discharged on your first visit.”
It took Eleanor a very long time to reply. “Nonetheless, I am here.” Why that was she struggled to explain, even to herself, yet here she was. “Why did you want me?”
“To enquire as to your intentions on a few matters. As it relates to that which we are presently discussing, I shall begin with the secondary issue, that being your keeping my vassal as your guard.”
“You may have him back if you like,” offered Eleanor, labouring to keep hope from entering her voice.
“Keep him, and keep watch upon him for me.” Hugh gave her a thin-lipped smile. “I trust your talents in that regard more than my own, given your many years apprenticed to Trempwick. One would hope the man attended to his duties and taught you something of use when he was not murdering my children or otherwise entertaining himself.”
“Thank you. I think.” Eleanor regarded the tomb once more; a hot prickling burned at the back of her neck. All too easy to imagine that as the arse in the crown flogging her onwards to do what she’d reluctantly told him she would, on her first visit some days ago. Tossing a mentally snarled curse at the inhabitant she said, “Give me Miles’ resources. Let me hunt down our father’s killers, and those who robbed him.” There. She’d asked. Duty done. The bloody man had asked her at avenge him, now it was out of her hands. The effort was more than he deserved from her, not that he’d have shown the least sign of gratitude. No, he’d have thrown a tantrum because she hadn’t destroyed his realm by taking the throne.
“Why do you wish to undertake this? I had expected you to dance upon his grave.”
“Because even he deserved a little better than to die so alone and betrayed.” Because the accursed man had asked her, not Hugh the son and heir, not Matilda the perfect stuck up cow, not anyone else, her, to avenge him. Because he could no longer hurt her or had any power over her. Because she’d promised Fulk she’d try to find some peace with him. Because, if Jocelyn didn’t lie, he’d had some good to say of her, and, that being true, she wondered if there might be a grain of truth in the other reports that he had held sentiments other than complete hatred for her. Because …?
Hugh regarded her for a long moment. “You are not telling me all, I suspect.”
“Oh, I do not know!” exploded Eleanor. “I do not know why myself. Tell me why I pity the dead fool even as I hate him. Why I find some very slight forgiveness for him, just enough for me to choke out a single prayer for his miserable soul, and all because of some stupid, stupid words he spewed when dying and in all probability did not mean. Why does knowing he cannot hurt me again alter anything?” Glowering she growled, “I am sick of the man. Even dead he is a bane.”
Hugh’s eyebrows head crept steadily upwards during her rant. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice, as he worked to find a reply. “Interesting,” he concluded faintly. He rallied with visible effort. “Well. I would suppose it a worthy cause, however … conflicted the motive. A timely request, also – my other purpose in seeking you was to remind you of my purpose in assigning you to Miles as his student. Until this very moment you have indicated no interest, let alone intent, in continuing that purpose. A purpose that, if you will recall, I reluctantly agreed to at your insistent request.” He nodded curtly. “Miles’ second will visit you within the day. You will take up your duties forthwith.” Hugh rubbed his forehead with his fingers, abruptly weary-looking. “And I pray to God you make a better spymaster than diplomat.”
I have one word to say: Gah!
To expand on that, I can’t wait until January, when what retail calls Christmas will be over. Back to normal hours, no more extended opening, no more shifts, no double deliveries, and generally more time for a frog to do froggish things. Like write.
Peasant Phill, interestingly, on the other forum it’s more like everyone has their knives out and aimed at Hugh. I wonder why he seems to be liked more on one forum than the other?
A simple answer, your characters are not stereotypes. They all have their good and bad sides and their reasons why they do what they do. So some people can relate more to a character more than others. Even more, there is no real 'evil' character all the readers can be against. The dead king just had no idea how to deal with his mixed feelings towards Eleanore, Trempwicks biggest 'flaws' are his ambition and background as spymaster and finally Hugh suffers under weight of his responsibilities and a low self esteem. Put every character in another situation and they would be regarded in another light. that's what great about your writing, your characters are real, human.Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
“We’re leaving.”
Trempwick faced the lord. Faced the cluster of other lords behind this one. Moulded himself into the essence of polite concern. Inwardly roiling. “Leaving? Whyever would that be? I had thought your word worth more than casual abandonment.” Trouble: if they were simply going then they would have gone. Purpose in staying to talk was …?
The spokesman made sure he was supported by his fellows. Coward. “You’re a God-damned treasonous liar, and a failed murderer!”
Damn. As suspected. Quick choice: outrage or shock. Outrage. Trempwick’s hand flew to his dagger. “You dare say such things?”
Eleven other hands went to weapons. Not much delayed other, loyaler hands did likewise.
The idiot at the spokesman’s left shoulder barked, “Your murder failed – prince Hugh still lives!”
Suppressed sigh. Ironic value was unmissable. If he could murder the bastard he would. It’d make all easier. Except it would be stupid. Because this would begin to happen. Galling, to have such stupidity attributed to him. “I swear on my soul I had no part in that.”
“You don’t have a soul – you sold it long ago.” Moron looked so pleased with his ‘wit’.
The spokesman must have been feeling left out. He took an extra step forward to make himself prominent. “More lies. Everything you say is likely a lie. We’re not listening any more.”
Except they were. They hadn’t left. So they were listening. So he still had a chance to turn things … or to die at the hands of a mob. Damn the bastard and his spurt of cunning! How, where and why had the bastard discovered the grain of wit and lack of tedium it took to construct such plans? The audacity to carry them out? Went against everything Trempwick knew of him and his mewling sense of honour.
Didn’t get chance to speak, the cattle started lowing again. “You said he was a bastard – he’s proved he’s not.”
Suppressed sigh. Not one blow. No. No, the bastard had managed many. Many! And as for Nell …! “He is a bastard,” Trempwick said through gritted teeth. It was true. More irony: to be challenged on the truth.
“The old king’s body accepted him!”
“The old king’s body was embalmed. I would stake my life there was not a drop of blood left in it.”
Another fool: “The church blessed the test.”
So? “The church as represented by those who follow the bastard.”
Some other: “It was all right and proper, legal, and in a court of law it would be proof enough!”
Not good. Slightly new tactic: blazed back, “And my proof is more than good! Look at his eyes, look at the damn bastard’s eyes and tell me what colour they are. Hazel. Not blue. Everyone knows blue eyes breed true where both parents have them! William’s eyes were famously blue. So were Joanna’s. So where did he get those eyes from?” Anxious. Wait. Wait. See how it went …
Some were beginning to think. Then the loud idiot shouted, “More lies!” Pounded his silly fist into his silly palm. “He said he was married to the princess. He isn’t! He said she’d been named chosen heir. Then why didn’t our king send back word and proof of it? He said she was her brother’s captive. She just came back to him of her own will! Will anyone believe a word this man says?” Brandished his useless fist in the air. “I won’t, not if he tells me the sky is blue!”
Cheers.
Damn. Mob building. Cattle following cattle. Lured by noise. Seduced by strong words. Rabble-rousers. Sense wouldn’t prevail. His words were getting lost. Harder now to appear calm. “Actually, the sky today is grey, overcast and with considerable promise of rain.” Baffled them a little, made the rush slow, falter. Now he might be heard. “I do not lie. I do not lie! He is a bastard, and he wants that throne – he will do whatever it takes to get it.” Alas, and mores the pity. “Nell returned to him of her own will? Look again – she was surrounded by an army, yet again! And look what they delivered her to: humiliation. To further discrediting of her claim! To a shoddy attempt by the bastard to hide the fact he handed her off to that nothing he calls her husband!”
Interrupted by a belligerent human ox. “More fucking lies! Enough! We said we’re leaving, and we’re going. Now.”
Damn! New direction. Trempwick said softly, “You are running away because you are faithless cowards, too afraid-”
The ox exploded into action with a roar, ripping his blade out and diving towards Trempwick.
Trained reactions laboured over more industriously than knight’s combat skills buried Trempwick’s dagger in his attacker’s guts almost before his thought of DAMN! had finished forming. Not what he’d wanted. Crude mess and in so volatile a situation! Blood soaked his clothes; the dying man sagged, his weight bearing Trempwick down to the ground. Working to free himself from the thrashings of the not-quite-a-corpse. Heard a shout, “Kill him!” Understood in the same instant why they hadn’t left: showy scene and his severed head to garner favour from the bastard. An attempt to bring others over to their side. To end his ‘rebellion’ in one go. All to make the bastard forget they’d risen against him and changed sides to support him when he appeared to be … Say it, say the bitter, bitter word: winning. Nell and the bastard cutting the ground out from under his feet. Not over yet. Temporary setback. He’d turn it about, always had, always won in the end. Would this time.
Fighting. Quite a bit of it. After gaining his feet Trempwick worked his way into the circle of his guards, defending himself as necessary.
In the end there was no one left trying to kill him, few trying to protect him. Just bodies, clinging to life and dead.
My PC is finally complete fixed. Huzzah! And about time too.
The next week does not look good for writing :( Only one day and an afternoon where I’ll have time to do anything, and I’ll have to do everything in that time. Multitasking is all very well, but reading, writing, playing M2TW, going shopping for new shoes and seeing your pet boyfriend is a trifle difficult to do all at one time.
Peasant Phill: I’m enormously pleased it reads that way – human characters are right at the top of things I want to achieve. I always suspect I have managed it, yet doubt because over and over I see it spoken of as something which is hard for writers to do. Difficult would have been writing plainer, simpler characters, or clichéd ones. Writing these characters as they are is easy, incredibly so.
Another reason to look forward to Sundays.
A back-hand blow sent her reeling, a punch knocked her sprawling before she could recover. “Get up!” he roared, lashing out at her with a foot. Eleanor curled up, trying to shield herself and crawl away.
“Up!” The toe of her father’s boot slammed into her thigh. “Get up, damn you!”
Always the same refrain, and always she tried to obey, pride forbidding her to give up and stay down.
Half way to her feet Eleanor found herself hauled up by a fist knotted in the front of her clothes. “Traitor!” The accusation was accompanied by a slap. “You and him, traitors the pair of you!” The world spun as he shook her so violently she would swear she heard her teeth rattling. “My dutiful children! And he’s the one who will pay for it, not you, you foul brat!”
He let go. Eleanor staggered backwards; she flung up an arm to ward off the next blow.
“You did this!” he accused. His fist smashed into her hasty guard again, breaking through to deliver a glancing hit. “You led him on! You must have! John was a loyal son until this!” Each statement was hammered home by another blow, until Eleanor lost her footing once more.
Get up!” Eleanor felt her lower ribs give under the force of his boot – and woke to find herself doused in a cold sweat, her heart racing.
With a shaking hand she pushed tangles of hair back from her face. This was what came from thinking overly much of the arse in the crown before retiring to bed. Damn him to hell! Would he never leave her in peace?
She lay back down, and realised she could hear the murmur of conversation from outside. One knife lay under her pillow; her hand closed about the hilt. Climbing out of bed she held the weapon at the ready as she stole across the room, being careful not to wake Hawise as she passed the maid’s pallet.
Eleanor stood to the left of the doorway, a precaution against it being opened and hitting her. From here the voices were recognisable as Jocelyn’s and a woman’s.
In dodgy Anglo-French the count was listing, “Chair. Table. Fire … firepl …”
“Fireplace,” the female prompted.
“I knew that,” he grumbled in his native tongue.
“And this?”
“A window.”
Eleanor grimaced at his accent. If he’d wanted to learn the language of the court why had he not asked her for help? Why take lessons in secret? Unless he did not wish it known that he could understand some of what he heard? She put her ear to the crack of the door, straining to recognise the count’s companion.
“Try your poetry now,” the woman commanded.
The count rattled off in barely passable Anglo-French, “Where is my light hiding far from my searching eyes, Not letting my glance find it? I examine everything: the air, the rivers, the earth; Since I do not see you, all this is little to me. The sky may be calm, free from clouds, But for me, if you are absent, the day is without sum.” A pause, then, “It’s hardly going to help me get a meal when I’m in the middle of a damned town, is it?”
The female tutted. “Ah, but it may get you lodgings … or at least a bed, hmm?”
Eleanor decided that the female must be one of the court whores, the like of whom could be found tagging along in any sizeable noble household. In a household packed with unmarried men and men away from their wives, they were a necessary evil. That made sense; no lady would meet with a man alone and at this time of night. Well, no lady but one with a lover, she amended charitably. This one, however, Eleanor felt comfortable in labelling as no lady at all.
The woman was continuing, “Anyway, you asked me to teach you some poetry.”
“Oh. Yes.” Jocelyn sounded quite shamefaced about it. How bizarre. “What’s the word for that?”
“That I should call a foot, or a right foot if I wished to be specific. You know, most men just go to sleep after their exertions.”
“Easier to learn from a pretty woman.”
“Only pretty?” the female pouted.
“But very … appealing. Very. Speaking of which, what would you call this?”
There was rustling noise followed by an unlady-like giggle. “Tireless.”
On that note Eleanor scuttled back to bed. She’d have to have a word with Jocelyn tomorrow; he was meant to be guarding her and he couldn’t do that if he were … distracted. Worse, the whore could be one of Trempwick’s agents, or a similar threat. Jesù, she was going to die of embarrassment!
Sprawled comfortably before the solar’s fire Jocelyn sang as he polished the metal decorations on his dagger’s sheath. “Oh he hewed and he chopped, many heads did he lop-”
Came a royal command: “Yes, thank you. That is quite enough of that. I am trying to think.” The princess was reading some bits of parchment. They looked boring.
But he’d been so tuneful! How could she not like his singing? And the maid was trying not to smirk. Damned women. They went on and on about wanting you to sing, then when you did they told you to shut the hell up. He’d only been on the nineteenth verse of the deeds of Sir Simon de Rouen in the battle at Falaise, there were another forty-eight to go, and all full of daring exploits and exciting stuff. What he said was, “Sorry, your Highness.”
She put her reading down; a glint came into those blue eyes of hers. He didn’t like it one bit. “Perhaps you know something in Anglo-Norman instead? Poetry, perhaps?”
“No, your Highness.” Alright, careful here. Careful. Don’t want to end up looking uncultured or like a right prick. “Are the any you recommend me to learn?”
Bugger – she had this diabolical little smile now! “How about the one which begins, ‘Where is my light hiding far from my searching eyes, Not letting my glance find it?’”
He didn’t understand the words; he did remember them and the translation associated with them, his memory being bloody excellent at learning by rote. Oh flaming hell and a turbot! She knew about Arlette! And she didn’t look very happy. She might be jealous or something? Her husband was at the other end of the country, and here she was, newly married and all alone, having just gotten used to the delights of having a man in her bed, and here he was, handsome, dashing, manly, a fine and experienced figure with obvious talent in the bedchamber direction. He couldn’t blame her. In her place he’d be after himself too. “She doesn’t mean anything to me,” he assured her.
Eleanor’s chin came up; her face flamed with this quite attractive blush. “I sleep lightly. I do not like to wake to hear your … antics. Definitely not when at first I think that another attempt has been mustered to kidnap me. Absolutely not when you are supposed to be guarding me. If you must consort with whores kindly do so in your off-duty time like the other men.”
Yeah, she was jealous … sort of? Suave, sophisticated, be a gentleman. Show her that he could admit error and stuff. Women ate that like pie. He bowed right nicely. “My deepest apologies, your Highness. I assure you I remain your most faithful servant. I’m at your disposal always, no matter the time or reason.” There. That damned maid was trying to contain a smirk yet again.
“If you neglect your duty again I shall have you thrown from my service so hard you bounce back to France.”
Jocelyn suppressed a wince. This one had quite the temper on her. “Your Highness, I beg pardon once again for the whore-”
Again with that nice blush. “I do not care about the whore. I care about my safety. You may waste your entire life in a brothel for all care, so long as I am not carried off or killed while you are doing so.”
Nah, she had to be lying just a bit. She did care about the whore, she was just being properly high-born and pretending otherwise. Right? “Sorry.”
“What bothers me equally is that you are attempting to learn Anglo-French without deigning to notify me. Do you think to spy on me?”
“No!” Jocelyn was mortified to find his voice came out a bit squeaky. “No. Never, I swear it on every relic ever found. I didn’t think it important, that’s all.”
“You could learn far more far faster with the aid of me and mine. I think it remarkable this did not occur to you.”
“Your Highness …” He stalled; her glare could have melted ice – or shattered it. Just like the old king, only clearer, without anger clouding it. Oh, it was there alright, but reined in, controlled. It drove her, yes, but ruled her not at all, and that was bloody dangerous, Jocelyn felt. “It’s simply that …” Bloody hell, he felt like he should have a hat to twiddle in his hands!
“Speak up, and explain yourself. And explain yourself well.”
“It’s … You see …” His big chance was ebbing, he could practically see it going. Royal favour leaving, high position lost, disaster. Richildis would never let him hear the end of it. Damn it he’d probably jump off a tower or something to get away from her going on about it! And all because he’d been bloody fool enough to try and learn some poetry and rubbish to make her happ – because he felt like it, damn it! Nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with that admission she’d extorted out of him about feeling ignorant. Nothing sodding well to do with anything but him deciding it might make a pleasant change. Nothing!
“Well?”
His chance was dying. His chance to build up his life. His chance to provided better for his family. To leave them a legacy of more than a few scraps of land and some armour. To be a man of whom they could be proud. Jocelyn straightened his shoulders with a twitch. “My wife says I am unlearned. She’s right, damn her. I thought …” He gave a helpless shrug. “It was a chance to learn a bit without admitting I don’t know what I should. Poetry and that crap. See, it was in a language I don’t know so how could I know it?” Broiling in self-mortification he nonetheless managed to add with a growl of pride, “And I don’t like not knowing what people say. Makes me feel a right arse.” In a very small voice he said, “I thought she might like it. If I had some nice words or something. Since she’s always going on about how much she likes that bloody rubbish. But I don’t know any.”
The princess rubbed the bridge of her nose in a gesture he recognised as borrowed from her husband. “To make your wife happy you betrayed her with a whore.”
If you insisted on putting it like that then it didn’t sound too good, did it? Jocelyn shuffled his feet.
“You, sir, are hopeless.”
What else could a man do but nod? She was a princess.
The princess pulled an expression which could only be called resigned. “Well, I suppose we shall have to see to it that you are educated somewhat. Quietly, so your dignity is not bruised.” She raised a finger. “But. You have no leeway remaining. At the next failing or thing which raises my doubts you will be gone from my service so quickly you will not have time to blink. Do you understand? I am weary of correcting you; I seem to have done little but since the day you joined me.”
“Yes, your Highness. Thank you, your Highness.” See? God’s beloved or what? Everything was going exactly as he’d planned it right at the start: he was deeper in royal favour then ever. Not that he’d ever doubted, not even for the briefest of moments.
18 days to go. 18 days … (a frog’s countdown to Christmas is different to the traditional one. It looks forward to the day when the cursed Christmas CD gets booted from the shop, when the shifts end, when double deliveries are nearly over for another year, and when generally life begins to calm down. It does not look forward to the day when you get presents, else it would be 19 days)
Furball, I used to like my Sundays. A nice short working day, quiet and relaxed. Then they slapped an extra hour’s opening time onto my day, assigned our extra delivery to that day, and rampant crazy crowds run amok in the shop spending wodges of money and cluttering the place up so there is no chance to a relaxing day.
<nods to the overworked amphibian>
I have to admit a continued empathy for Jocelyn. He is the character most like myself in the story. I hope he fares well by story's end. . . though please don't construe that as wanting you to change your plans for him in any way, froggy!
In this latest episode, I particularly liked that when he was finally backed into a corner, he admitted his shortcomings, "unmanly" though that may be. :) And yet, he still has the optimism (stupidity?) to think Eleanor may be jealous and that he is deeper in her favor than ever.
I love your characters, ma'am! They are not black-and-white, yet each is unique, with a distinct world-view and tone of voice.
As a die-hard Trempite, let me wave the flag for him a little. He's having a hard time these days. Then again I've been rooting for the unfortunate spymaster in 'The State Within' as well.
Funny how these things go. I've been reading this story, on and off, since it was first posted over at the Paradox forums, and yet this is my first post in a Froggie thread.
Have you written a book before? ~:thumb:
And the list of froggy addicts swells on. Go forth and multiply
Curses! Now I have read all that has been posted! Now what am I to do untill the next post? Good Read! Eagerly awaiting the next installment.:book:
“Quiet night?”
The sentry nodded. “Yes, lord.”
The glee at the natural way the sentry called him lord was childish, yet Fulk couldn’t help it. No minute pause, no light emphasis, none of the varied ways of turning the deference into an expression of scepticism which could not be answered; he was making progress.
“Remain alert. I’ve had reports prince Malcolm is gathering an army, and against his father’s wishes.”
As he trod down the stairs leading from the keep’s roof Fulk’s step had a light bounce. His work was beginning to pay. All those hours sweating in the yard practicing his skill at arms so his men could see his competence and willingness to work, all the days spent in the saddle riding out and about meeting as many of his people as possible and allowing them to see him, all the tedious trips round the sentry posts when he didn’t need to disturb his rest, all the evenings spend straining his eyes to read the accounts and documents pertaining to each of his new holdings, it was all beginning to pay.
As he neared the main hall he heard the laughter of his vassals and knights, still sitting undisturbed at the meal he’d left to make his rounds. Pausing at the foot of the steps to throw his cloak back over his shoulders he heard a dog yapping. Curious; there had been no animals in the hall when he’d left. Another burst of drunken laughter rang out, drowning out the efforts of one man to be heard.
Before he could open the door someone else did, striding through with such haste he nearly flattened Fulk. The man arrested his step, his eyes going wide when he recognised Fulk in the dim candlelight. He shoved the door nearly to behind himself. “Now the cat’s in amidst the pigeons. I’m not staying for more of that,” he jerked his tow-haired head towards the hall, “but you surely should, my lord.”
Fulk asked, “What’s happening, Warin?”
“Better to see for yourself, my lord.” The knight snorted. “See, then sort. As for me, I’m for my bed. I’ve had a bellyful of their entertainment. If you need me come morning you have me.” Warin slapped his hip where his sword would hang to make his meaning clear, then pushed his way past without further word.
Words from the hall filled the space the departing knight had left, loud and coarsely spoken, the product of an inebriated man. Fulk recognised the voice as belonging to Robert, the castellan of Morpeth. “Small wonder he runs, we all know his mother was some merchant’s brat his father married because he was so indebted he was set to lose his lands. He’s half peasant himself. Not proper noble. Another mongrel.”
The dog yapped again, and Fulk heard more laughter. Robert declared, “Ah, sod him. We’ve got our guest to look after.” The tone changed to one wheedling and coaxing. “Here, want some meat? Nice meat? Here, come get the bone, there’s a good muck-blooded little monster. Good boy, nice meat, yes, good boy.” More laughter. The voice returned to its former harshness. “God’s blood, look at him beg for leavings!”
“Maybe he’ll lick your boots to get it?” suggested another man.
“I’m sure he will, and like it.”
Fulk crept forward to peer through the gap between door and frame. Robert stood on the dais before the table where Fulk’s platter still lay with the remnants of his meal, indeed this was the likely source of the meat being offered to the most misbegotten dog Fulk had ever set eyes on. Short stumpy legs attached to a body shaped like a barrel, the head’s graceless lines promised a strong jaw but no intelligence, one ear had been torn off at some time in the past and the wagging tail was a many times broken rattail-like string.
Robert bent over and dangled the meat at his boots. “Come on, come on, good ugly mutt, lick my boots, come on Alnwick, good boy.”
The name made Fulk stand at attention, his fists clenched. They’d named the creature after him! Uncurling his fingers he forced the anger away almost automatically, letting the sting of the abuse slip by.
The mutt whined and sniffed around Robert’s boots but made no effort to lick them; it lunged for the scrap of meat only to receive a kick.
“Bloody damn thing!” cursed Robert. “I said lick my boots not bite my hand.”
“Mongrels always bite the hand that feeds them,” commented a laconic voice Fulk didn’t recognise. “It’s why right-thinking people don’t have any part with them.”
Robert turned his head to the speaker, alas still not enough to identify him for Fulk. “I see you here like the rest of us, so you’re not right-thinking either.”
Not all of the men still in the hall were watching the dog’s antics; a good proportion were broken up about the hall engaged in activities like board games or gambling, or simple conversation. The majority of them had pointedly turned their backs to the group with the dog. Now one looked back over his shoulder. “I believe Wooperton’s former castellan was singing that same tune – that is, until he was sent off in chains to explain himself to his king.”
“I’m pragmatic and not ashamed of it. I’ve no choice but to bow – for now. It won’t always be so. He’ll fall from favour sooner or later; he’s little more than a toy for the King of Scots, something to amuse him while he watches the scrabble over who’s to be our next king.”
“Jesù, man, give it a rest before you talk your way to your end.”
“You going to report me, Simon? Go running to our new ‘lord’ to scrabble for favour by selling other men for being honest?”
“Honest? Or drunk and over-full of bravado? I find my game more interesting than your waffle, and a deal better for the mind.” The knight turned back to his chess.
Robert hurled the meat at the mongrel, hitting it smack in the face. His group roared with laughter as the dog recoiled whining, then returned to warily sniff at the food. “See? Give the mongrel decent food and it turns its nose up at it. Picky thing. You’d think it would be grateful for whatever it could get.”
Robert’s eldest son grinned. “Probably holding our for better. A whole chicken or something, whatever the canine equivalent to an earldom is.”
One with his back to Fulk said, “Best be sure he doesn’t get near your kennels, or you’ll find he’s made free with your best breeding bitches.” In case his companions less than sober minds were too slow to work his meaning out he clarified, “Canine princess, see.”
It was the reference to Eleanor which did what the other insults hadn’t managed to, and broke a lifetime’s careful training to start Fulk forward into the hall, slamming the door open and moving so rapidly his cloak streamed out behind him. He didn’t know what he was doing; he frantically tried to form a plan as he went.
He stopped before his castellan with some clear facts standing forth in the sea of inner turmoil. The first he acted upon, drawing his sword and running the mongrel through in one clean stroke, pitying the creature but knowing he couldn’t let it live to remind people of this night’s insults.
He aimed the bloodied tip of his sword at Robert and stepped forward, forcing the other man back. He advanced another step, over the twitching body of the unfortunate dog. And another, until the castellan’s back was pressed against the table. Trepidation was sobering the hall rapidly.
Fulk said, “I will see you tomorrow at the hour of Terce and I will kill you. If you aren’t man enough to fight me then I’ll cut you down as you try to run. And since your son shares your opinion of me he can watch you die and then leave to explain to the rest of your family why they are being thrown from my lands with nothing but the goods they can carry.”
He managed to control himself until he reached the solar. There he dropped his sword and sank into the nearest chair. The last time he’d challenged anyone over his bastardy he’d won the fight with his bare fists, grinding his tormentor’s face into the dirt until two of his friends hauled him off in fear of what he’d do. He’d been eight.
A large space outside Alnwick’s walls had been marked off with stakes and rope. The sides were lined with spectators shivering in the early morning breeze. At opposite ends the two combatants prepared.
Fulk checked over Sueta’s harness, making sure each buckle and fastening was secure, that each strap was in perfect condition. The simple task gave him focus and kept nerves at bay. Not that he doubted he would win – he’d seen Robert on the practice field and knew himself to be by far the superior fighter.
Robert’s second, his son, detached from his father’s group and began to cross the arena. Proof of how desperate his opponent had become did nothing for Fulk’s spirits.
Giving Sueta a final pat Fulk went out to meet the emissary.
The young man kept his eyes firmly directed above Fulk’s head; he bowed slightly. “My father deeply regrets allowing drink to muddy his thoughts so greatly he engaged in a joke that could be taken as slighting to you. He apologises unreservedly, and begs your forgiveness. He will leave your lands and never return, if it is your wish. Will you accept his apology?”
“I will not.”
The son took a deep breath, his lips narrowing. “Then you are unreasonable.”
Fulk turned his back and walked away.
“You bloodthirsty bastard!”
Fulk stopped. Without looking over his shoulder his said, “I can kill you as well. And will, with one more insult.” With a flash of anger he turned around and stalked back towards the youth. “No other noble would be subjected to the abuse I have received. No other noble would be expected to swallow it. No other noble. And so I shall not.” He could not. His authority was tenuous enough as it was, his ability to stand equal to born lords insecure at best. Respect would not be granted him, he would have to carve it out for himself. He’d known that when he agreed to marry Eleanor. And so, in the end and despite his labouring to make himself immune, his mother’s tearful prediction had come true: his need to prove himself as good as any trueborn noble was going to dominate his life, and one day quite probably end it.
Fulk donned his great helm and mounted up, accepting his shield from Waltheof and his lance from Luke. The lightest touch of his spurs and Sueta started out into the cordoned off area.
On the other side of the arena father and son were engaged in a vehement discussion, the younger waving his arms about, clearly imploring. The elder spoke for some time before embracing his son and turning away to complete his arming. The youth stood defeated, staring at Fulk; though this distance was great he could feel the hatred burning from the young man.
When both men were on the field the herald stopped slouching against one of the stakes. “A duel for honour between Sir Fulk FitzWilliam de la Bec, and Sir Robert of Morpeth, over insults given by the latter to the former. To be fourth to the death. Sirs, are you ready?”
Fulk brandished his lance to indicate he was. Robert did likewise.
“Then do battle.” The herald ducked under the rope cordon and didn’t stop running until he was a goodly distance away.
Fulk dug his spurs in before the call to begin combat was finished, bringing his shield up and bearing down on his foe swiftly. There was no reason to drag this out and every reason to demonstrate his ability – and willingness – to kill those who upset him rapidly and without mercy.
There were no rules; Fulk dipped the tip of his lance at the last possible instant and killed his opponent’s horse. At the same time he dipped his shield low, the lower edge catching the point of his opponent’s lance before it could gouge into his thigh. He released his lance as he flicked the edge of his shield outwards to throw away the point of his opponent’s weapon, and guided Sueta away from the falling tangle of man and horse. Bare seconds had passed.
Drawing his sword he dragged his destrier around in time to see Robert roll free of his thrashing mount and struggle to his feet. Fulk slowed to a walk, allowing his enemy time to draw his sword and set himself to defend; fearsome as the reputation he sought to build, he had no care to become known as a man who rode down defenceless enemies.
Some few would have said that he should have dismounted and continued the battle on equal terms with Robert. Those few were the sort who took up a priesthood or died in their first battle, for where was the point in exerting yourself to win an advantage if you threw it away? Fulk ran his enemy down the moment he could be said to be decently prepared, hacking his head near clean from his shoulders with a downwards chop as he rode past.
:froggy huddles in a corner and chants “Four working days left, four working days left, four working days left” over and over: Four working days left until Christmas, as I get one more day off before then. Thanks be to the deity of your choice. It’s hell out there! Who’d have thought working in a bookshop could be so gruelling? It’s like watching a swarm of locusts descend on a field of crops, running rampage and devouring everything in sight, leaving behind only shattered and scattered remnants …
Most of them aren’t even buying the good books ~:(
Furball, I too like the way he admitted his shortcomings, all the more so because of the reason why: he did it for his family.
I never expected Jocelyn to be so popular when I first wrote the character. I didn’t expect to like him either. He’s a multiple rapist, violent, delusional, a liar, not particularly reliable, less than steadfast in his loyalty, an adulterer, and motivated primarily by personal gain. The incredible thing is he can be all that and still be likeable, funny, touching, and even sympathetic.
Weclome, Beefeater. Have you considered selling copies of that flag to the Trempy fanclub over at the paradox forums? I’m sure they’d like to wave along :gring:
Shaka_Khan, I’ve never written a book or been published. Hopefully one day … At that point I shall expect all my loyal followers to buy at least one copy each, preferably twenty! :gring:
Peasant Phill, I’m not sure I want my fans multiplying. Babies take up so much time, time which could be far better spent reading and commenting on my work! :winkg:
Von Nanega, ah, the endless problem of addiction. When I reach the end of a particularly good book, one which I do not want to end, I go back and start reading from the beginning again. I find that I notice a lot of new things and understand some of the earlier parts a little better, and that enhances the overall experience.
Just a post to let you know I'm still reading this. I'm still a little more than halfway through (as more has been added since the last time I posted here), but like an African jungle explorer with machete in hand, I'm slowly but surely making headway.
One odd thing I've noticed is that when I read, I sometimes imagine Peter Cushing as Trempwick and Christopher Lee as "King William, Sixth of That Name" (a phrase which is now semi-permanently burned into my brain).
Finally: Keep up the good work, lady froggy! :beam:
EDIT: Aargh! Psychotic forum smiley codes keep confusing me! :dizzy2: