In a patch of empty grass less than half a mile from the royal palace two children were playing outside in the summer sun; one a boy, short for his fourteen years, with sandy hair, the other a girl of nearly six, her jet black hair bound up into a thick braid and coiled at the nape of her neck. They were both dressed in rich clothes, and spoke the educated French of the noble classes.
“Come on, Nell, you’re not even trying.”
Eleanor looked up at the sandy haired boy and pulled a face, “Princesses aren’t supposed to do swords, we’re supposed to look pretty and dance and stuff.”
“And you hate doing that, dear sister.” Stephan grinned and raised his wooden sword to the en garde position, “You always say knights get to do the interesting stuff, well now’s your chance to do some fighting.”
“But you’re older and bigger and stronger and you’re a squire now” replied Eleanor uncertainly, scuffling up the soil at her feet with the tip of her wooden sword.
The boy rubbed his pug nose and shrugged, “If you are too scared…”
“I’m not scared, Stephan!” Eleanor drew herself up to her full short height and glared at her brother’s chest, “I’m nearly six now and I’m not scared of anything!”
“Prove it.” Stephan looked down at Eleanor and raised an eyebrow. She stepped back a pace and struck an imitation of her brother’s pose, holding the sword gracelessly in both hands. “Now try lunging at me.” invited Stephan, “That’s an easy move for beginners.” Eleanor lunged forward clumsily and Stephan easily parried the blow, “Good.” he said encouragingly before slowly attacking to her left. Eleanor stepped back, tripped on the hem of her dress and fell over. Immediately Stephan closed the small gap between them, limping with his twisted right leg “Are you alright?”
Eleanor nodded, dabbing at the mud on her clothes, trying to scrape the worst of it off, “Now I’m going to get in trouble; I’m not supposed to get covered in mud because it’s not elegant”
“Don’t worry, you’ll wriggle out if it same as usual” said Stephan confidently, “Just burst into tears and wail about it being an accident”
Eleanor giggled, “That always works. Since I’m all muddy…” she threw her sword down and began pulling out her hairpins, then untied the end of her plait, loosing her hair into a dark mass that reached almost to her waist, explaining as she worked, “If I’m going to be yelled at for being undignified I’ll let my hair down, I hate wearing it pinned into a proper lady’s style.” She picked her sword back up and brandished it at her brother, “Come on then! Bet I win in the end!”
Stephan laughed and swung his sword slowly enough for her to block and easily dodged her counter stroke, making it look much harder than it was, “One day, Eleanor, you’re going to be a better with a sword than any knight.”
Eleanor’s eyes went wide, “Really?” she gasped.
“Of course, why would I lie? I’m your brother, and I always tell you the honest truth.”
Her confidence boosted by Stephan’s praise, Eleanor threw herself into a wholehearted attack, raining clumsy blows down on him, which he easily blocked.
King William, sixth of that name to rule England, sat brooding in his private chambers, waiting for his spymaster to arrive. He went over his decision many times, as he had been doing for days now; his mind was made up, it had to be done, but that did not make things any easier.
A knock at the door preceded Trempwick’s appearance; the spymaster entered and knelt before his king, “Sire, you summoned me.”
“Yes, a matter of great import has arisen, or should I say I can no longer delay.” William began to speak, his heart heavy as he finally faced that which he had delayed for so long, “Stephan is…a good boy, he has great potential and is my firstborn son and therefore my heir; it is a shame, then, that his leg has mended badly. But for that fall he might have made an excellent king.”
“Sire? Am I to understand…?”
“Yes, kill him.”
“Sire.” Trempwick chose his words with equal care; William was well known for his foul temper, “Sire, the boy only has a slight limp-”
“No.” interrupted the king, “No, I am a king first and a father second, the good of the realm must come first. I cannot remove my son from the succession, but nor can I let a cripple rule – how would he lead an army? Who would ever respect him? He walks with a limp and has trouble riding; he could not even travel the country on royal progress to keep his vassals in check. I have two more sons, I may yet have others; I will not – cannot leave my crown to Stephan. As long as he is alive he can contest my succession, reducing the realm to civil war between brothers; he has been raised to expect the crown, he thinks of it as his already, he would never accept being passed over.”
“He is just a boy.” Trempwick felt obliged to make the protest; he knew it would do no good, but he needed to be able to tell himself he had tried, that someone had spoken up for the doomed boy. He may have worked his way to spymaster over the dead bodies of rivals, all of whom had died in perfectly unsuspicious circumstances of course, and he may arrange assassinations on a regular basis, but he still needed something to salve his conscience from time to time.
William’s eyes hardened, he leapt to his feet and advanced on the spymaster; despite his short stature the king was an intimidating man, heavily built and a famous warrior, “You dare question me?” he hissed, “You think I have no idea of how to rule my kingdom, my kingdom, the kingdom I have ruled for nigh on eleven years?”
Trempwick bowed his head, his interjection had only increased the king’s determination to kill his eldest son, “No, sire. I shall get to work as you command, immediately if you wish.”
“Yes, get it done and over with; make sure none can suspect the death was anything but natural.”
The royal nursey often resembled a battlefield more than anything, most of the children in this family had inherited their father’s famous temper, which lent those inevitable childhood squabbles a rather loud edge. The nurse assigned to care for the royal children had long since gained the ability to block out and ignore the ear splitting noise her charges created when quarrelling, arguments such as the one going on now.
“You broke it!” Matilda flourished her necklace at Eleanor, displaying the snapped gold chain; “You broke it, you stupid, clumsy, idiotic-”
“I didn’t!” yelled Eleanor, “Why would I want your stupid necklace?”
“Because you’re determined to ruin my wedding! You are jealous of me-”
“I’m not! What have you got that I don’t? Nothing!”
“Beauty, seniority in our family, a sense of decorum, brains, a nice large dowry, a fiancée who is heir to the German emperor.”
“I don’t care!” Eleanor’s face was going red, “I don’t care – I like being plain, I don’t care if I’m muddy, and I don’t want to get married!”
Matilda laughed scornfully, “Good, because no one will ever put up with you; you shall end up in a nunnery.”
“No I won’t.” Eleanor’s denial didn’t have much energy behind it; she had been worrying about that herself, there were only two paths open to women of her rank, and she didn’t like either of them.
“Yes you will, unless father finds some poor dope who is utterly desperate for your tiny dowry and loathsome company.” Matilda smiled her best superior, smug elder sister smile “I will be an empress one day, you will remain a grubby little girl who speaks like lower nobility, looks like shabby minor royalty, and acts like a churl.”
The nurse was rather surprised when prince Stephan entered the nursery; he was now far too old to live here, he slept in the main hall with the other squires now. She was rather pleased he had arrived though, as he usually managed to break up his arguing siblings, restoring peace before she got a headache; for this reason alone she encouraged him to visit regularly, something he was already inclined to do.
“What is going on here?” Stephan crossed the room to join his two sisters as quickly as his limp would allow him. “I could hear shouting half way up the staircase.”
“She broke my necklace, I am supposed to wear it when I arrive in Germany-”
“No I didn’t!” shouted Eleanor, balling her fists up and trying not to cry, “You blame me for everything, I hate you!” she pushed her sister as hard as she could, then ran off, slamming the nursery door behind herself.
Stephan sighed, “You should try to be nice to her, Tilly.”
“Why? She is a disgrace to our family; I was never like that, and nor were Rowena and Adele.”
“She is our sister, and she is only five; you are eleven, you should look after her.”
“She broke my necklace, I leave for Germany in a week, and she broke it.” Matilda was furious to find her eyes filling with tears, “This marriage is important, father is relying on the alliance it will create, and it’s all going wrong already.”
Stephan put his arm around his sister, “You will be alright, Tilly, I know you will; you will be a credit to our family, you have no need of a necklace to make an impression.”
“I do wish…I did not have to go to Germany now. I want to be empress and all, but…it is so far away.”
Stephan waited a few hours before going to search for Eleanor; when she didn’t want to be found she was very good at hiding. He could tell she had been waiting for him; she was in the first place he looked, the great oak tree out in the meadows where they had been sword fighting earlier. He sat down in the shade under the tree, waiting for her to drop out of the branches and join him.
It took a while but eventually she did; she began pulling up blades of grass and tying them in knots before throwing them away, “I didn’t touch her necklace, Matilda always blames me. I saw nursey playing with it.”
“Really?” Stephan couldn’t help doubting that a wet nurse would ever dare do such a thing.
His doubt showed in his voice, Eleanor leapt to her feet, “She did, I saw her.”
“I believe you.” replied Stephan hastily, he wasn’t sure if he did, but he didn’t want to upset his baby sister again, “Honest, I do.”
Eleanor studied him from under lowered eyebrows, “Alright.” she said, and sat back down. She knew he didn’t believe her, but it was the truth; no one ever believed her. She felt compelled to ask a question that had been bothering her all her life, What am I supposed to do?”
“What do you mean?” asked Stephan, smiling slightly.
“I’m the seventh and youngest of the family, everything I can do someone else can do better, and I’m none of the things a princess should be. I’m not pretty, or graceful, or nice, or gracious, and there’s not much left over for me as a dowry so I’m a poor princess too – Matilda was right.”
“Contrary to what they would tell you none of your sisters were born as ideal princesses either; when you are older you will be every bit as regal as them.”
“I don’t want to be a princess.” confessed Eleanor guiltily, “I’d rather be a really rich peasant, then I could start my own business and not have to marry anyone or be a nun or anything What can I be if I’m not a princess or a nun?”
Stephan laughed and said kindly, “You can be Eleanor, and I think you are quite good at that.”
07-11-2004, 02:32
Waterloo
Great Prologue, that's one cold-hearted man you gone on the throne there......
I spotted you putting it in the CK boards also.
07-11-2004, 04:31
Monk
Greetings lady frog
I closed the other Eleanor thread, since these two are named exactly the same. If you want me to reopen it i will with no protest, but i just thought i'd go ahead and close the other one seeing as how this is to be the new version.
Thanks, Waterloo. I thought I may as well cross post the story, it doesn't take much more time or effort.
No problem, Monk, leave it locked.
07-11-2004, 11:44
zelda12
Unfortunately I missed the first series, I had planned to read it but now as you are re-writing it I shall just read this. Not that my humble opinion is worth much when my first piece of writing flopped before I even finish the first part. But here goes. Milady Frog you once again throuh the eloquence in which you write, prove that you are the undisputed Queen of the Meed Hall. Long may you rule.
You are a great writer, the way in which you can make the characters come alive within a few lines, is quite frankly amazing. You have a gift too, and please forgive my french, to grab the audience by the ball and take them where you wan't them not matter what they wan't.
Right that's enough praise. Back to typing three essays at once due in tommorrow.
So in the words of the legendary Rincewind.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
And beleive me when my Geography teacher reads my work I'm gonna have to run very, very fast, unless of course I wan't to sing high soprano in the school choir.
Stephan looked down at his sister and ruffled her hair, disturbing it from the already unruly hairstyle, “Not now, I’m late for my tilting practise.”
“But it’s really important.” she insisted earnestly.
“I’m sorry, Nell, but it will have to wait; if I hurry my arms master may not notice I’m late, I would rather not spend all morning doing handstands in full armour. I’ll meet you under the oak tree this afternoon, if I’m all in one piece!”
Eleanor stared after her bother’s retreating back, “Brothers.” She had just spotted a way to avoid being either a princess or a nun and he was more interested in hitting things with swords; well, he’d just have to hear about her plan to become an independent countess later, if she still felt like telling him, since he was obviously not interested.
Eleanor waited under the tree all afternoon and half the evening; she only gave up and returned to the palace when the sun began to set. She entered the nursery; it was empty aside from Nursey, “Where’s my brother?” asked Eleanor politely, “Where’s Stephan?”
Nursey gave her a slightly wobbly smile and said in a kind, concerned voice Eleanor could immediately tell was false, “He’s gone away to a better place, don’t be sad.”
Eleanor frowned slightly, not understanding but starting to worry, “Where’s my brother?”
“Stephan is dead, Eleanor. He drowned in the river while swimming this afternoon.” Nursey gathered her resisting charge into a hug, “Don’t be sad, he’s gone to heaven now and he’s with God and his angels now; he’ll be very happy there.”
Eleanor stared at her nurse in shock, fighting her way out of the embrace, “No! You’re lying!” she shouted, Eleanor’s lip started to tremble and she blinked back her tears.
Nursey let her go, “Your father is so upset he has banned anyone from mentioning Stephan; he never existed, you have two brothers now and that is all you ever had.”
“He existed.” replied Eleanor defiantly; she ran from the room, tears pouring unheeded down her cheeks.
The months passed; Matilda went to Germany and married the heir to the throne. The new eldest son, Hugh, began to be groomed as the new heir and he showed great aptitude for his lessons. The third and final son, John, continued to work hard in the training grounds, but all could see his interests lay in more gentle, scholarly pursuits; king William prayed daily that nothing would happened to Hugh, leaving the unsuitable John as his sole heir. Rowena spent all her time learning Danish for her upcoming marriage to the brother of the Danish king; she had been moved away from the royal palace to a convent so she could concentrate better. Adele was engaged to the Spanish king, a man of some thirty-six years to her seven. The queen, their mother, died of a fever shortly after Stephan drowned; William did not remarry. Eleanor’s sixth birthday came and went, and she began her formal education; there was a problem, however. Each and every tutor left within a month of his or her arrival, swearing the young princess was a hopeless case. The litany of complains was long and varied.
“No, no, no, you step to the left, princess, not the right.” Sir Chundleton gestured to the small group of musicians to stop playing, “A pause, if you will”
“I don’t see the point.” Eleanor’s eyebrows drew together into a frown that was promising great things for when she was older, “Step left, step right – what does it matter?”
“It matters, a very great deal, your highness. If you go one way and everyone else goes the other you collide.”
“So? Dancing does nothing and it’s boring.”
“It is the melting pot of cultured society.” lectured Chundleton, his charge’s lack of interest in anything he tried to teach was bad enough, but her unusual dislike for dancing was something he couldn’t even begin to understand, “It is one of the signs of civilisation, it allow nobles to mingle freely and without suspicion, you can even flirt with a chosen favourite while dancing.”
Eleanor curled her lip, “Disgusting.”
“Start the dance again, from the very beginning; you will not leave until you get it right.”
The musicians began to play, and Eleanor resentfully started to go through the steps that had been drummed into her; Sir Chundleton was not pleased, however, “Stop, you’re doing the wrong dance!”
“Really?” Eleanor had always done a good line of fake innocence, but now she was excelling herself, “They all seem the same to me.”
“That does it!” Chundleton ripped the hat off his head and threw it down on the floor, “That does it – I quit!”
“I am master Bufflemore; I do not tolerate noise, mess, unruliness, tardiness, untidiness, bad manners or any other misbehaviour.” the plump little man waved his cane through the air to emphasise his point.
Eleanor looked at her latest tutor, weighting him up; he had only just arrived, this was their first meeting and already she could see a way to remove him. “I understand perfectly.”
“I will teach anything, as any good tutor would” the cane whipped past Eleanor’s nose, “but I have a special interest in teaching mathematics.” the cane swooshed past Eleanor again; she threw her right arm up to intercept it, gritting her teeth at the pain as she caught it, twisting her arm to divert the cane away from her body, then bringing her right hand down to grasp it just above where Bufflemore gripped the wood. Before he could react she disarmed him; she crossed the small room in several rapid steps, paused next to the window, treated her stunned tutor to her best smile, then tossed the cane out the window.
Master Bufflemore stared at her, his jaw gaping wide open in astonishment; his mouth flapped a few times before he managed to speak, “A killer…. I quit!”
“Would you like some cake, lord Alfreton?” Eleanor held out the tray with bits of cake on, knowing her current tutor wouldn’t be able to resist. As she predicted he took a slice and ate it with relish, before taking another and finishing that too. Eleanor put the tray down beside him and sat back down at the table, thankful that she and her tutors always ate in the nursery instead of the main hall like everyone else.
Alfreton yawned, covering his mouth with one hand, “I’m so tired, I confess I always seem to be tired since I arrived here.”
“Perhaps you are sickening?” asked Eleanor, her concern very convincing even though she knew the cause of his tiredness was the poppy juice she had been lacing his food with. Lord Alfreton made no reply; he slumped forward onto the table, snoring gently.
From her very comfortable seat in on a roof beam in the palace’s small throne room Eleanor listened to the search, enjoying herself greatly; they could never find her if she didn’t want them to, and she certainly didn’t want Monsieur François to find her and start yakking away in his stupid foreign languages again. French was what the nobility spoke, along with the newly fashionable English previously only spoken by the lower classes, and she was word perfect in both of them, she didn’t need to know Latin or any other language thank you very much. As she started to eat an apple she had stolen earlier she heard Monsieur François declaring out in the adjoining main hall, “I quit! She is quite impossible.”
“Princess, I demand you pay attention to your studies.”
Eleanor smiled politely at her latest tutor, Sir Toryn, “But, as you keep telling me, a princess is only of lesser rank when compared to a king, queen or prince; you cannot demand I do anything, you’re only a knight.”
Toryn chewed the inside of his lip, wondering just how she managed to absorb the parts of his lessons that would allow her to cause trouble, but ignored the rest, “Then I request it.”
“I don’t feel like studying today, sorry.”
“As your tutor I strongly advise-”
Eleanor put on her best regal pose, perfect posture and careful pronunciation and all, “You may go; I think I shall take some air, alone.” Sir Toryn had no choice, by the rules he had been so carefully trying to teach her he had to obey, he dropped a bow and marched out the door; Eleanor couldn’t help grinning, she could get used to this.
07-12-2004, 21:35
katank
good job, lady froggy. so the entire series is being rewritten?
I rather enjoyed the series and wondered when it will be back.
looks like the background got fleshed out.
are the later chapters also to experience significant change?
07-12-2004, 22:22
frogbeastegg
Yes, the entire series is back and rewritten. The later chapters will change a lot, they will be cleaned up, the excessive use of exclamation marks will be tamed, the grammar improved, the non-dialogue material will be substantially expanded, and then I will throw most of it away and rewrite it from scratch.
I am actually changing certain areas of the plot, altering their dialogue in places, adding plenty of new material, and bringing the whole thing back to earth. You can see a few of these changes already appearing; the queen is now stated to have died of natural causes, and William decided not to remarry; before she was murdered because he wanted an Aragonese princess to forge an alliance. I am cleaning up the worst of the plot holes, removing the most unbelievable things, swapping some things for others (easy example: that medieval marriage law about unmarried couples alone under one roof gets swapped for another medieval marriage law dealing with a promise and sex, far easier to explain in the story and better documented in history books), and adding in real place names, so instead of 'the manor' you now have 'Woburn manor'.
Same story; very different spin indeed.
Tomorrow’s literary ambitions: write the next chapter of Eleanor, catch up on my reading in the mead hall (it’s been about a week since I looked at anything not started by me), finalise some names on my new map of the Isles, rename the last few Red Hand characters in need of name changes, rest tired typing fingers.
The three essays weren't that bad just very, very annoying. I don't know what year you were talking about but I would think that you were talking about six form. I'm still in year ten although year eleven in september. Then again when you read anything I write you can see just how bad education is. Got an A* on my English essay, even if it was the most boring tedious work I have yet completed. God but I do hate Great Expectations.
07-13-2004, 11:23
Ludens
I once wrote that it is very hard to be a proper critic, who gives constructive critisism without sounding insultive or superior. However, I have now found something more difficult: properly critising a story that you already know http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cg...c-confused.gif .
In the first place: it is definitly better written than the earlier version.
On the other hand, the opening is less inviting. In the original story, you start with the seemingly innocent visit of a princess, who, the fourth paragraph reveals, is not half as innocent as looks.
Here it begins with some children (well, one child and one grown-up) playing, then one of them get's killed. And immediatly after that scene, it is as if nothing has happened. Off course, that is what the king intended, but it is not what Eleanor feels. You might give some hints to that, instead of having her just torment her teachers (I guess the part about the teachers is fun to read for a new reader, but since I already knew what was going to happen, it didn't work for me).
You need not stick to a chronological order of event. You might even want to leave something hidden for her to reveal to Fulk later.
Fulk hasn't appeared in this version yet, caesar. You could call him Eleanor's partner in crime; I usually call him 'rusty' these days, just as Eleanor is 'gooseberry'. As for how they got those names, well you will either have to wait or go back and read the original.
Ludens, you know how we have this strange habit of you posting a comment like needs more... and then in my very next part I do that anyway? Sorry, I am going to do that yet again, at least on the Stephan count. There are still many secrets for gooseberry to reveal along the path, some new ones, some altered ones, and a few that remain the same. The beginning is slower but Fulk will still be acting as an instrument for the readers to learn more about our beloved gooseberry, but this time he is not going to be nearly as blind, slow, ignorant and stupid as he was before, hence the need to explain a little more now.
zelda, I can indeed sympathise with your hatred for Great Expectations; we always covered things so slowly and in such a bad way that you developed an immediate, impassioned hate for whatever it was you were reading. A book called 'Daz 4 Zoe' was my Great Expectations, terrible piece of writing, absolutely terrible; half of it wasn't even in proper English. I think it wanted to be Romeo and Juliet for the modern day, since I hated it as much as Shakespeare’s play I suppose it succeeded.
Now, back to finishing the final part of the proglogue.
07-13-2004, 21:38
frogbeastegg
The next morning Eleanor didn’t even bother wasting time on Sir Toryn, she simply vanished after breakfast, slipping away unnoticed. She made her way across the empty grasslands away from the palace towards the oak tree where she spent a lot of time, thinking and dreaming, planning to become a countess or something else that enabled her to remain single and stay away from nuns. Sometimes she even went through a few practise routines with the wooden sword Stephan had given her, she had learned the basic exercises by watching the squires and pages training; she wasn’t improving much, not without someone to instruct her. There was no one to teach her; she couldn’t let anyone find out that she had a training sword in the first place because they would only take it away and she’d get in trouble. A beating was easy enough to survive, but the sword would be hard to replace and she would gain nothing; it was better to keep working alone, trying to remember what Stephan had told her. Besides, it was highly unlikely she could find anyone willing to teach her anything anyway.
In the middle of the morning her peace was interrupted by a rather whimsical query; “What are you doing up there?”
Eleanor peered down through the branches of her tree and saw a stocky man with dark hair, brown eyes, and a long, hooked nose looking up at her. The man looked amused, “Yes, I can see you princess. What are you doing up a tree at this time of day; don’t you have lessons?”
Eleanor shrugged, “I don’t want to learn what they teach so I don’t go.”
“You will need to know those things later, when you are grown up and married.”
“I won’t marry.”
The man seemed amused, “I can’t see you as a nun; of course you will marry, what else could you do?”
“Don’t laugh at me.” commanded an indignant Eleanor, “I won’t marry and I won’t be a nun, so there.”
“I doubt you will have a choice, princess.”
“I wouldn’t cooperate, no matter what they did; I’d die rather than give in.” said Eleanor solemnly, with deep, unshakable belief.
The man considered pointing out that many had said that about various things, but they usually changed their minds when put to the test; instead he asked, “Just what are you so afraid of?”
Eleanor dropped out of her tree and drew herself up to her full, short, height, “Nothing. I’m, not frightened of anything at all, ever.”
“Then why this strange determination to avoid marriage?”
“None of your business.” Eleanor chewed her lip, thinking quickly, “You’re Trempwick, the spymaster, aren’t you?”
The man hooked his right thumb through his belt and leaned back slightly, he raised his eyebrows and asked mildly, “Now how do you know that?”
“I know loads of things.” Eleanor dismissed his surprise without further thought, she was used to people being surprised that they had underestimated her, “I want to know how Stephan died.”
“Who’s Stephan?” returned Trempwick with a faint, polite half smile.
“You know, everyone knows even if they pretend they don’t – it’s silly!”
“You should be careful who you say that to, it’s dangerous.” Trempwick could see she wouldn’t leave the matter be so he offered the standard explanation, “He drowned, simple as that.”
“No.” Eleanor shook her head, “No, I know he didn’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He wouldn’t drown, he could swim too well, and he wouldn’t have been in the river in the afternoon because he promised to meet me; he always kept his promises. I don’t see why we can’t talk about him anyway because mother died and we can still talk about her, loads of other people die and we still talk about them, so that makes him special.”
There was a long pause before Trempwick spoke, this time deadly serious with no trace of his former good humour, “A piece of advice, princess, and you’d do well to heed it; don’t repeat that to anyone, whatever you think or feel about your brother, hide it.”
“I already do, I pretend like everyone else; I hate it but there’s nothing else I can do.” Eleanor seemed much older than her six years as she admitted; “I can only fight so many wars at once. I just wanted to know if I was right…and why.”
“Even if, and that is a very big if, you understand, your suspicions were correct what difference does it make? He’s dead, and now he never existed. Good day, princess.” Trempwick patted her on the head, rather patronisingly she thought, and walked away towards the palace.
Eleanor was acting on a hunch when she decided to spend the afternoon of that day sat on her beam in the throne room; she suspected Trempwick and her father would be meeting here and she wanted to know what they were saying. She liked to listen to the business of state; all the wars and intrigues were far more interesting than anything they’d let her learn. Today though she was hoping they would say something about Stephan; her encounter with the spymaster earlier had only increased her suspicions, and her determination to find out why her brother had been killed, there was no doubt in her mind about that, Stephan had been murdered. She might not be able to do anything about Stephan, not even keep insisting that he had existed, but she could at least find out as much as possible; she had to know the truth, she owed him that much.
The king and the spymaster entered the room together; the king immediately began wandering aimlessly about the room, unable to keep still but lacking the energy or need to pace about. Trempwick stood by the door, “Sire, how may I serve?”
“I am not sure.” William paused for a moment, “I have a problem, I must solve it, but none of the solutions are…satisfactory.” he sighed and began walking again, this time slightly faster, “Another one has quit; Sir Toryn would rather join my armies in France than stay here, and you know how the war with France stands at the moment – boring, inglorious, unprofitable, with no battles, just small raids on towns; in short the kind of place a knight would choose to avoid, and yet he would rather be there than remain as royal tutor.”
Eleanor had been surprised to find they had met to talk about her, she was even more surprised by how sad her father sounded; he must have realised how unhappy she was, maybe now he would listen to her and let her be a countess, because then she’d be happy and he would too.
“Thirteen tutors, thirteen in just over seven months.” the king sounded more than sad, tired almost, “Do you realise what that is doing to the reputation of my dynasty? Thirteen tutors leaving here with tales that are less than complimentary, tales that are spreading rather too rapidly, and rather too far.” William began to talk faster, became more animated; pacing up and down the room like a caged lion. To those who knew the signs it was obvious his temper was beginning to build, “You know I offered the king of France a peace treaty, which he refused? I demanded the surrender of Blois, its lands and castles to me, two thousand marks in tribute, and offered her in marriage to the king’s second son to seal the peace; now tell me what they refused on?”
Trempwick knew it was a rhetorical question, but he also knew his lord wanted him to reply, “They balked at the marriage, sire?”
“Yes! Surrendering the lands and paying tribute was acceptable, but that God cursed fool of a Capet said he would rather see all of France burned by the English than marry Eleanor to his son! He claimed it was on grounds of consanguinity, but, as all and sundry know, a payout to the Pope will get you special dispensation to marry cousins and other close kin; while there has been generations of intermarriage our houses are not so close as that. No, it was her, not the bloodline, not the fact we are distant family – I have asked others of suitable status, not as single one will consider her. So, I cannot marry her off.”
Eleanor’s heart lit up, it had taken more than half a year and a lot of getting in trouble but it had worked – she was safe!
“What about a nunnery, sire?” suggested Trempwick, although he suspected the answer.
The king stopped pacing and stared at his spymaster, “Can you imagine the havoc she would cause in a sheltered community of holy women? I have nothing but respect for those who dedicate their lives to God, but their methods only work on those willing to follow the rule of their house.” William’s mouth twisted into a resentful smile, “I doubt having her head shaved would slow my daughter down much; none of her many problems are an excess of pride in her appearance, and if bread and water diets or beatings were going to work they would have done so years ago. She is remarkably resilient when she decides to be stubborn, I have to give her that much.”
He resumed his pacing, waling up and down the room rapidly, his hands clasped at the small of his back, “So, not marriage and not a convent, what am I to do with her? She is destroying the prestige and reputation of this dynasty; she cannot be left as she is now. I…can see no future for her.”
“Sire?” Trempwick was not sure he had understood his king, “You surely don’t mean…?”
The king rounded on his spymaster with a fury born partly of desperation, “What else can I do? She has no use, I can think of no way to make her behave as befits her rank, and to be honest I am not sure it would be worth the trouble even if I could - she is the youngest of four daughters, I spent her dowry fighting the French, she will never be a beauty, her reputation is already so bad that the only people who might think her acceptable are those willing to grab any blood link to my throne they can; I will not parcel her out to some grasping knight with ambitions, it would only store up trouble for the future. Only weak kings will waste daughters like that; there is no prestige in such a match, nor any use, and I will not lower my family by marrying beneath our rank. What else can I do?”
There was something in this exchange Eleanor didn’t like, she couldn’t pin down what it was but her excitement had long since given way to a feeling like butterflies in the pit of her stomach.
“Give her to me.” said Trempwick, “Let me train her.”
“What?” asked the king, incredulous.
“Sire, while many people mutter under their breaths there is only one I know of who has spotted the truth behind Stephan’s death – your daughter. All those complaints from her tutors indicate she has a natural flare for intrigue.”
“A princess of the blood as an agent?! Never.”
Trempwick smiled, a calculated, cold smile, “Precisely, sire. No one would ever suspect a thing, not if she is…competent. She would have access to places other agents couldn’t reach, she would be above suspicion; it has never been done before so none would expect it, just think of the possibilities.”
“And what if she is not suitable? What if you are wrong, Trempwick? What then?”
“We revert to your current plan and kill her. Better to try and get some use from her first, though, I think.”
Eleanor was too horrified to make a sound; they were actually planning to kill her. Her eyes filled with unshed tears, she was used to being told she was useless and no one would want her, but this time it was different, this time it was not another fight with her more stuck up siblings.
William began pacing slowly, deliberately, “I am not entirely convinced of her potential.”
“Sire, if I may offer one final piece of proof?” Trempwick crossed the room until he stood underneath the beam where Eleanor sat, hidden in the shadows, “You had best come down right now, princess, or we’ll fetch you down.”
Eleanor hesitated for a second before reluctantly working her way along the beam and dropping off onto the throne to break her fall. The king stared at her, his shock slowly giving way to his famous temper. Cursing and ranting at the top of his voice he advanced on Eleanor and slapped her so hard her lip split, the ring on his hand gouged a cut on her cheek bone; she was thrown to the floor by the force of the blow. She curled up into a ball, sheltering her head under her arms as blows and kicks rained down on her.
Trempwick decided it was time to intervene before he lost his prize, “Sire, you’ll kill her! She is more use alive, don’t you see – if she can spy on you here then think what else she can do in your service!”
William restrained himself with considerable effort, “You have a choice, brat; you die, you go with Trempwick and learn what he has to teach, or you stay here and learn from the next tutor I find for you, pending a diplomatic marriage. Choose.”
Eleanor looked up, her face covered in blood and tears, but set into grim determination, her deep blue eyes cold; an echo of the expression on her father’s face, “I will go with him.”
“So be it, but I will tolerate no more missteps; you will be useful.” William turned to his spymaster, “You can have the manor at Woburn; you will leave immediately. I do not need to tell you to keep this secret, concoct a decent lie to explain things.”
Trempwick extended his hand to Eleanor; she got up stiffly, her many bruises, scrapes and cuts protesting loudly. She took Trempwick’s hand and limped out of the room with him.
The Beginning
07-14-2004, 15:28
scooter_the_shooter
VERY good froggy i like it
07-14-2004, 16:04
katank
darn, what a nasty old man.
nice job with the description, lady froggy.
07-14-2004, 16:47
zelda12
V. Good, i likes.
07-14-2004, 19:43
frogbeastegg
France: September 1337: Nantes castle, Nantes
Fulk clattered noisily down the spiral staircase and into the main hall; he crossed to the high table where his lord sat idly playing chess against one of his household knights. Fulk bowed, “Sir, the sentry reports the princess’s carriage is in sight.”
“It’s about time.” Aidney waved his knight away, leaving him to talk to his bodyguard in relative privacy, “She will be here soon?”
“Yes, within the half hour.”
“Excellent.” Aidney stood up and held his arms out to his sides, “So, how do I look?”
Fulk hated it when his lord asked him that; giving fashion advice was not his strong point. He looked his lord over, circling around him to get the whole view, as he knew Aidney would demand.
“Well?” asked the count impatiently.
“You look very er, rich, sir.”
“And?”
“The orange of your tunic compliments the gold of your hair.” Christ, but he did feel stupid! “The, er, the cut of your clothes make you look very…um, they show off your muscles?” The further into this he went the more tenuous the ground under Fulk’s feet; he hated being made to feel like a lady’s maid. “You look like a count, sir, a very successful one at that.”
The comment pleased Aidney enormously, “Then I look like what I am; not every man gets to marry a princess.” Aidney let his arms drop back to his sides and sat back down, “You will be well looked after when I this is done, Fulk, never you fear. I do not forget loyalty and good service, I may even knight you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Fulk didn’t let himself feel the joy he should have; he would take Aidney’s word as real only when he was safely dubbed knight, he had learned long ago his master was free with promises he didn’t intend to keep.
“Now, let’s have a look at you.” Fulk slowly turned in a circle feeling more like a prat than ever; the things he did because of that oath of loyalty. “I do still wonder if I should have had you wear your armour, Fulk, you do look rather more impressive in that than plain clothes.”
“Impressive how, sir?”
“Armour suits you, Fulk, combined with that nose of yours it makes you look quite dashing.” Fulk subconsciously rubbed the bridge of his nose; it had been broken and healed slightly crooked. Aidney finished his inspection, “I suppose you will do, it is too late for you to don armour now.”
“Yes, sir. Will you wait outside to greet the princess?”
Aidney heaved a sigh, “I suppose we had better; I don’t want to give offence, not until we are safely married, anyway.”
Generally speaking when Eleanor was offered a choice between riding in a carriage or on horseback she went with horseback, when she was offered a choice between walking or travelling in a carriage she went with walking, and if she was ever in a position where she needed to choose between a carriage and crawling on her hands and knees she was certain she would pick the hands and knees. Now, as the carriage jolted and lurched along the muddy, ill kept roads, she wished once again she had been offered the chance to crawl instead. There was, however, one thing even worse than her mode of travel, and that was her companion; Edith. Just looking at the pasty faced, travelsick girl made Eleanor feel like strangling someone with her bare hands.
The carriage lurched as it hit another rut in the road, Edith weakly fluttered a handkerchief in front of her face, “Oh, I shall be ever so glad when we arrive, my lady.”
“I won’t.” returned Eleanor tartly, thinking of the purpose of this trip.
Fortunately the girl misunderstood her meaning, “I know you are unhappy to have been taken out of your life of religious contemplation, mistress, but think on the many benefits you will gain. Marriage is a blessed state too.”
It had been a long journey; Eleanor was tired and fed up, and couldn’t resist the opportunity to liven things up a little, “Blessed but second best, or do you not listen to our religious scholars? Virginity is the purest state; anything else is to become closer to Eve and her faults. Also remember that lust is a cardinal sin, and one I do not take kindly to being exposed to even inside the sanctity of marriage. Finally remember that the bible says ‘bring forth children in sorrow’, you can be assured the majority of that sorrow lands on the poor, unfortunate mother; men do not descend several levels from grace upon marriage, nor do they develop an alarming tendency to die whenever children are born.” she left out the bit about ‘go forth and multiply’ to see if Edith would mention that herself; she didn’t, much to Eleanor’s disappointment. The maid merely blushed and went silent; the tedium resumed.
All these years of religious study and the subject remained both profoundly tedious and utterly useless, you couldn’t even use it to start a good argument with a travelsick drip who evidently held a very different viewpoint to the one preached every Sunday. Well, if Eleanor were completely honest with herself, she did have to admit the whole religious fanatic princess made for a good cover story; it was far better to claim she had spent most of her life in a backwater nunnery rather than to tell the truth.
By the time they arrived at Nantes castle Eleanor was strongly tempted to order the carriage burned, unfortunately that would be classed as unusual behaviour, something she couldn’t afford. After making sure her wimple and veil were on straight Eleanor allowed herself to be helped out of the carriage by one of her guards; she waited, eyes demurely cast downwards, for Sir Aidney to come forward and greet her; he did so, bowing over her proffered hand and kissing it in courtly style, “Your highness, I am Sir Aidney. We have rooms prepared for you and the wedding guests are beginning to arrive; I thought we could hold the wedding the day after tomorrow.”
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” thought Eleanor, “That will be acceptable.”
Aidney offered her his arm; she took it and allowed him to lead her over to the man he had been waiting with. Aidney introduced him, “This is Fulk, my bodyguard and most trusted man.” Fulk bowed; Eleanor studied him closely from underneath her eyelashes. He was rather tall with the lean, muscular build gained from spending a lifetime practising for at least two hours a day in full equipment with weighted weapons. His glossy brown hair was cut in the most fashionable style, the same style the king wore; Eleanor couldn’t understand why it was such a favoured style as it looked like the wearer had had a bowl clamped on their head and the hair trimmed around it. His eyes were brown also, and they seemed to miss nothing. His nose crooked; Eleanor grudgingly admitted that he would probably be labelled as ‘handsome’, she would have to confer with Edith on that later, the girl took far more of an interest in these things than her mistress.
“A question, if I may?” Aidney’s voice interrupted Eleanor’s evaluation of his man, “What colour is your hair?”
It was a rather rude request, right here in the middle of the courtyard. Eleanor’s sense of propriety warred with her desire to ditch the wimple; the wimple quickly lost the battle and ended up snatched off and dumped in the mud. Aidney was obviously disappointed to find she had black hair instead of the fashionable blonde; for some reason that needled Eleanor, even though she had a lifetime of people lamenting the fact she had dark hair. “You want to know how long it is too?” she asked pointedly.
Aidney flushed, “I think there will be plenty of time to find that out later. Let us go inside, I shall show you to your rooms so you can rest before we dine.” As they walked into the castle Eleanor watched Fulk surreptitiously; he moved with an assured grace and lightness of step she hadn’t expected. She decided that her initial impression was proving to be rather too accurate; he was trouble.
Aidney personally escorted Eleanor to the guest room set aside for her and Edith; the maid made herself scarce with, Eleanor thought, an incredibly annoying and presumptuous glint in her eye. Her feeling of unease grew as Aidney shut the door to give them some privacy, “I know you spent much of your life in cloisters expecting to take holy orders but I am sure you will soon adjust.”
“Thank you.” mumbled Eleanor; she might not be an expert on situations like this but she had a sneaking suspicion Aidney was not going to stay safely at arms length. Why was it Edith disappeared at the only time she could have been useful? Her misgivings were proven correct when Aidney grabbed her in a tight embrace and pressed a kiss onto her mouth; Eleanor went as stiff as a board, her main thought to work her left arm free before he noticed she had a slender dagger in a hidden sheath on her forearm. His grip was so tight she couldn’t move; eventually he took the hint and let her go.
Aidney was no happier than she was, but for a different reason, “You’re supposed to…um, never mind, later.” He made his excuses and left quickly, leaving Eleanor alone in her room.
She scrubbed the back of her hand over her mouth, “Disgusting!” She began to unpin her hair, wanting to get it out of the fancy style as quickly as possible. She held the first freed pin between her right thumb and forefinger and checked she was still unobserved, seeing that she was she threw the hairpin at an imaginary target on the wooden window shutters; it hit the imaginary Aidney right in the eye. She threw the rest of her hairpins in rapid succession, each one hitting ‘Aidney’ with unerring accuracy. When she ran out she commented quietly to herself, “Well, he just made my life easier, if a little unpleasant in the short term.” She started pulling her hairpins out of the shutter.
Aidney entered his own private room with a flourish, “Statuesque, Fulk, statuesque.”
“Sir?” asked Fulk, pouring a cup of wine for his lord; to his perpetual annoyance Aidney liked him to serve as squire as well as bodyguard, reasoning that since Fulk spent much of his time following him around he may as well serve food, pour wine and help him dress as well. That oath of loyalty was so hard to keep sometimes.
“My bride.” Aidney sat down on his bed, rested his elbow on his knee then propped his head on his fist, sulking, “I have met friendlier statues; in fact I think a statue would be more...flexible when kissed. What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” Fulk couldn’t resist adding, “I’ve never kissed a statue or a princess.”
Aidney snatched his drink from Fulk’s hand, “You know what I mean; what did you think of her?” he didn’t wait for a reply, “I think that Alix will be quite safe in her townhouse, Sophie will continue to hold her place in my affections…Mahaut too; I may have to lose Douce though, then I can spend her jewellery budget on my new wife, a pity. I think it is a very good thing indeed that Eleanor comes with a promise that I can keep all the French land I can capture, and has royal blood, or I suspect I would send her back.”
“Really, sir?” a nice generic comment that suited so many occasions, Fulk was very fond of it. He wondered whether to tell Aidney his princess had been wearing a knife concealed on her arm; it had been very hard to spot, even to his expert eyes, undoubtedly that was the reason she had been wearing an old style dress with loose, flowing sleeves instead of the more fashionable tight ones. Fulk decided to wait; this princess warranted further investigation before he could voice his suspicions, he would watch her closely.
“Oh yes. The poets know their standards of beauty well; she does have blue eyes and curves, but she is so short I can see clear across her head! Black hair, I ask you, black hair!?”
“I thought jet black, sir.” interjected Fulk, feeling honour bound to defend a much maligned hair colour he had never seen any fault in.
“Have there ever been any great beauties in stories with black hair? I think not, golden is far superior and the poets know it.”
“Guinevere, sir, she had black hair. I believe Helen of Troy did as well.”
Aidney looked nonplussed, “Alright so there are some, what matters is that I do not like the shade at all. Now, as I was saying, too short, too dark, her skin is too rosy, it should be a pale white, like milk. All rather plain, really.”
Fulk suppressed a sigh; his master was one of those dolts who let fashion dictate everything, including his taste in women.
“And it doesn’t end there! She is nineteen, positively ancient! She is every bit as boring and stuffy as I had expected from an aspiring nun; I do doubt she could hold an interesting conversion.”
“It’s not too hard.”, thought Fulk; an interesting conversation to Aidney was one that flattered him a lot, or that agreed with everything he said.
“The final straw, Fulk, the final straw is her hips – I think my dreams of a large family just died. I suppose I shall have to get by with just a couple of heirs, assuming she doesn’t die on me.”
“Really, sir?” Fulk didn’t particularly care.
“Yes, Fulk, indeed it is so.” Aidney heaved a martyr’s sigh, “Royal blood and royal approval for my conquests, I shall just have to remember that. I shall forge myself a small kingdom with William’s blessing, and then one day, one sweet day, I shall have enough power to declare independence.”
Letting her hair down proved to be a mistake; when Edith returned she took one look and started giggling. It took Eleanor a while to work out why, when she did she found herself once again lamenting the fact Edith was an airhead. “I let my hair down, me, myself, on my own while I was alone, despite what was said in the courtyard, so you needn’t get any peculiar ideas.”
“Yes, mistress.” Edith plainly didn’t believe her. She busied herself unpacking Eleanor’s clothes, “You’re so lucky” she sighed, “Aidney’s so young and handsome.”
“Is he?” asked Eleanor sceptically; she alone in the entire female population of Christendom seemed immune to the strange need to find people handsome or not. To Eleanor people just were, they had faces you could describe but she had yet to meet a face she wanted to keep looking at or would daydream about as so many others did. Quite frankly she couldn’t see the point in searching for one either, there were many more interesting things to do in life than spend time mooning over some twit with a bad haircut.
“Oh yes, he’s very handsome, his guard too, though it’s a pity about the broken nose.”
“Is it?” Eleanor couldn’t see why, the nose added a bit of personality.
“It’s like a chip in the rim of a glass vase, it spoils the effect but you can still find the whole pleasing to the eye.”
Now Edith had lost Eleanor completely, vases looked like vases, which looked like vases, they were all vase like, and a chip didn’t matter much. Eleanor gathered her courage, as much as she hated to ask this was rather integral to her plan, “How do you….um, I want to….that is how to…” Edith giggled, and Eleanor felt herself go a deep crimson, “flirt.” she finished so quietly the maid could barely hear.
“You don’t know?” Edith couldn’t believe her ears. Eleanor went an even deeper shade of beetroot; her maid took pity, “Of course, nuns are hardly going to allow you to learn things like that. See, I told you he was handsome.”
Eleanor wondered if she could stab her maid with a hairpin, ‘accidentally’ of course.
Sorry don't mean to nit pick but you put an e in straw so you said strew,
The final strew, Fulk, the final straw is her hips
Sorry. But it seems a shame to leave a mistake in.
Great story
By the way how do you put things in Italics I cant find a button above the text box when typing and because I have to convert to text only when I want to post stories on the site.
07-14-2004, 20:13
frogbeastegg
Thanks, I like to have my mistakes pointed out.
To get effects like italics I just write the whole thing with the iconboard coding in place, for example: Code Sample “And it doesn’t end there She is nineteen, positively ancient She is every bit as boring and stuffy as I had expected from an aspiring nun; I do doubt she could hold an interesting conversion.”
[I]“It’s not too hard.”[/I], thought Fulk; an interesting conversation to Aidney was one that flattered him a lot, or that agreed with everything he said.
[/QUOTE]
Becomes:
“And it doesn’t end there She is nineteen, positively ancient She is every bit as boring and stuffy as I had expected from an aspiring nun; I do doubt she could hold an interesting conversion.” “It’s not too hard.”, thought Fulk; an interesting conversation to Aidney was one that flattered him a lot, or that agreed with everything he said.
When you don't use the special tags to keep it from being converted.
I memorised the coding ages ago: Code Sample
[i]italics[/i]
[b]bold[/b]
[u]underline[/u]
[center]centred text[/center]
[color=red]red text, you can sue other colours too[/color]
[size=5]size 5 text, 1 is the standard size[/size]
to get this code box so the code will display instead of being converted you just type [code] then close it off the same as the others, which I can't do in this example without ruining it
[/QUOTE]
So eleanor is over 100 years old because from 1225 to 1337 is a LONG time
07-15-2004, 08:42
frogbeastegg
Yet another example of froggy's craptastic maths skills in action; should have been 1325. Don't ask me where the extra 100 years went, as usual I have no idea, as it is perfectly obvious 1225 is the wrong answer; that is probably why I didn't notice it. https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/no...ns/gc-oops.gif
Fixed.
07-16-2004, 15:50
scooter_the_shooter
i am going to make a prediction(my are never right) but here it is ellenor will kill the count take all his money and leave.
07-16-2004, 17:53
katank
just kill him and run off with fulk. or rather, fulk runs off with her.
07-16-2004, 20:53
frogbeastegg
As she sat next to Aidney at the high table during dinner Eleanor only listened to his endless self-promoting talk with half an ear. She suffered through five courses, hearing all about his grandiose plans, his past deeds of note, his incredible skills in all arenas of life – if Aidney was correct about Aidney than she was engaged to a demi god who was about to become king of the world inside of a decade. She had to admit she did have a few small doubts as to the validity of that.
Something Aidney was saying pricked her attention, she started to listen properly, “-not very happy about this match, are you?”
Concern, how…touching, “Why ever do you think that?” she replied neutrally.
“You were dragged from your quiet life to be here; I am far beneath you, a poor match for a princess. I get the impression you do not like me much.” He sounded as if he couldn’t quite believe that last part.
“I do not know you well enough to form an opinion.”
“Bluntly put I want to know if you are going to be difficult; I want to know if you are going to make this wedding awkward. It would be…unfortunate if this wedding became legendary for the wrong reasons.”
Eleanor put her dining knife down and looked him in the eye, “I admit I do not want to be here, I also admit to promising I would die before I married anyone, but time and age has…shown me the error of that statement. I can promise I will do as I was bid, and I will say my words as taught.”
“Good, I can assure you I will not be a mere count for much longer, why I…” Aidney continued his recounting if his plans, telling her just how far he planned to rise; Eleanor tuned him out once again. She might have guessed his concern was purely selfish in nature.
Fulk watched the princess closely during the meal, closely but very circumspectly; he didn’t want her to know of his suspicions. He could see no trace of knives hidden in her sleeves this time, but that didn’t make her harmless; she could have other weapons hidden about her person, Fulk had to admit the only other kind of concealed weaponry he could rule out was a boot knife, since she was wearing dainty shoes.
He couldn’t fault her performance so far, she had played the part of princess so well that he would never have been wary if he hadn’t noticed that tell tale, barely visible distortion in the way her sleeve had hung earlier; whoever she was she was very well trained. She had the expected royal entourage, the rich clothes, the accent, the skills and manners; she even looked like the descriptions of king William’s youngest daughter. Someone had done their research and done it well, but why? Aidney was not nearly important enough to warrant such effort and expense.
He was aware that, once again, she was watching him, and, if he were scrupulously honest with himself, she was doing a better job of subtle observation than he was. No matter how carefully he watched he couldn’t find anything more solid, and he would need indisputable evidence before he brought this to Aidney.
She was most definitely trouble.
He was watching her, that broken nosed man with the bad haircut…Fulk, that was the name; oh, he was very subtle about it, but it was more than enough to kill the tiny remaining part of her that suggested flirting to get what she wanted would be a good idea. Edith’s tutorial had been extensive, detailed and in-depth; it had also lost Eleanor by the third sentence. It was hard enough to follow vague instructions like ‘be nice’ without an attentive audience. She did what any well brought up princess would do in a situation where things were slipping ever so slightly out of line; she mentioned dear daddy, “I have a message to give you, from my father. In private.”
“Really?” Aidney’s eyes sparkled, “Then I shall look forward to it. I shall pay a discreet visit to you tonight, you can tell me then.” he seized her left hand and repeated, for the umpteenth time that day, his courtier’s showy kiss. Eleanor starting wondering how many times she could scrub her hand before the skin started to peel off.
Eleanor waited for Aidney to arrive, both impatient to get on with things and dreading the moment. She had sent Edith away with instructions not to come back until sent for; the maid had giggled and left with a knowing smile that drove Eleanor crazy, but she could hardly say she was going to give Aidney a secret, important message from the king. Eleanor had the feeling Edith wouldn’t have believed that anyway, the girl had an astonishing tendency to assume the worst.
When he finally arrived he didn’t even bother to knock, stepping though he door and shutting it quietly behind himself. He aimed a grin at Eleanor that turned her stomach, and said, “It would hardly be a secret if everybody saw me arrive now, would it?”
Eleanor poured two goblets on wine, took a sip from the one in her right hand and gave him the other, the one she had laced with poison. She raised her drink in a toast, “To the future.” The wine was a dry vintage, not at all to her taste, but she forced herself to drain the goblet in one go, before pouring a refill. As she expected Aidney wouldn’t allow himself to be outdone and he too drained his goblet and held it out for more. Once he had a refill he waited for her to drink again, cursing him silently she did so, noting that her head was beginning to spin and her mouth was swearing never to forgive her.
“So, this message?” Aidney drained his goblet again and reached for the pitcher of wine, pouring the last bit for himself.
“My father says he recognises ambition and treats it accordingly.” she spoke slowly and deliberately, watching him closely.
“That’s it?” Aidney frowned, “What does that mean?”
“What do you think it means?” returned Eleanor coolly.
Aidney’s fevered, and tipsy, imagination caught fire, “Promotion? More lands? Wealth?” he cut off abruptly, a hand going to his stomach, “Damn it!” he looked up at Eleanor, sweat beginning to break out on his forehead, “Are you well? The wine is disagreeing with me, a bad batch?”
“I wanted to thank you for your welcome.” Eleanor rested her hands in her lap, each hand near the wrist of the other arm, “I was concerned I might like you; that would make this harder.”
“Christ Jesus!” groaned Aidney, wrapping both arms about his abdomen as if he could squeeze the growing pain away. Realisation hit him suddenly and he staggered to his feet, “You poisoned me!”
Eleanor was on her feet too, gracefully keeping out of arm’s reach of the stricken man, “The words I was taught and sent here to say: treachery and ambition such as yours are unforgivable-”
The door was flung open and Fulk burst in, sword drawn; he had been sat outside, carefully listening with his ear pressed to the door. Much of what had been said was too muffled to be understood, but Aidney’s bit about poison had carried clearly enough. He kicked the door shut behind him, thinking to deny Eleanor an escape route. One look at Aidney told Fulk all he needed to know; there was nothing to be done for him.
Within seconds of Fulk’s unexpected arrival Eleanor had ripped both her knives from their hidden wrist sheathes and took up her usual pose, trying to look far more threatening than she actually was, keeping out of range of Fulk’s sword. Aidney gave a final gargle and collapsed to the floor, dead or unconscious, it mattered not; if he wasn’t dead yet he soon would be.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Fulk, he kept his sword point aimed at her but made no other hostile moves; he didn’t want to kill her if he could possibly avoid it.
“Exactly whom I said I was before.”
“So I’m expected to believe a princess is an assassin?” Fulk snorted sceptically, “I think not.”
Eleanor played for time, trying to think of a way to remove this latest threat; since she couldn’t kill him in a straight fight and he was too close for a thrown knife to be safe, it was a tricky proposition, “I was not needed to marry and my father deplores waste.” She could see he didn’t believe her, “Do you honestly think someone would waste their money setting up this elaborate charade just to kill that foul man? Granted the servants and escort were specially hired in France, but the rest is real; where else could I learn to act the part, except at the royal court? You must admit I do look quite a lot like myself too.”
Fulk had to admit he hadn’t managed to think of a satisfactory answer to that question himself; he found both possibilities equally implausible, but what she said did make sense. Suddenly it became important to distance himself from his master, “I had nothing to do with his treachery.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, “Really? Then why did you follow him instead of turning him in?”
“I swore an oath of allegiance, loyalty until death – you know, the usual. Unlike many I keep my word, always.” he said that last with quiet pride.
“A man of honour?” she threw her left knife up into the air and caught it hilt first again, showing off, again trying to look dangerous, “How very believable.”
He watched her display with mild amusement, “You’re still alive and unharmed, aren’t you? I would call that honourable.”
“I am alive, and will remain so, because you would die first.” she bluffed; it was quite convincing, though she was too short, too light and too poorly equipped and trained to win this fight she was obviously at home with her weapons and quick on her feet.
Fulk considered, he wasn’t sure who would win; he was quite confident he would but he didn’t like having holes punched in his hide, and Eleanor looked capable of doing just that. He also didn’t want to kill her, “How old are you, girl?”
“What has that got to do with anything?” Eleanor couldn’t see where this particular line was going; she fell back on her title to grab a bit of breathing space while she figured out his intentions, “My title is princess, not girl.”
Fulk grinned despite himself; that reminder of her high status rankled as much as it amused, “You are obviously young, your Royal Highness, and generally young people don’t want to die. At twenty-five I think I still count as young, and I certainly don’t want to die. There is an alternative, your supreme majesty.” he wondered how she would take his mockery of her status; he found it strangely satisfying to warp her title like that, “I could swear loyalty to you; your path sounds an interesting one, and you will need a loyal guard for those occasions when things go wrong, occasions like just now.”
“Your supreme highness?” repeated Eleanor, knowing he was mocking her but not caring; she had never liked her title anyway, “I can take care of myself; I do not require your assistance.”
He hadn’t got a rise from her as he’d expected so he tried again with a slightly more fanciful title, “Are you sure, oh rose of a thousand years? If you end up in another situation like this you may need a brute with a sword.”
“Rose of a Thousand Years?” Eleanor found his attempts to be insulting nothing but comical. She considered his offer, it would allow her to get away from here safely; she would have to kill him before she got home, Trempwick had been very specific on the ‘no witnesses’ part, but that would be easier to manage when his guard was down. “So be it, the job is yours, unworthy one.” She impulsively decided to play him at his own game, insult for insult.
Fulk knelt and held his sword to Eleanor, hilt first; she put her knives back in their hidden sheathes and took the weapon. She held it out towards him, hilt in one hand and blade tip in the other; Fulk laid his hand midway along the blade, “I swear to follow, serve and protect you faithfully for the rest of my life, through hell fire if need be.”
Eleanor gave him his sword back, “And I swear not to walk into hell fire, I would rather not get charred; I do have to look after myself, you know.”
Fulk put his sword away and kicked Aidney’s body over into the shadowy corner of the room where it was least likely to be spotted, “Of course, oh serene one; as long as you do what I say.”
“I am the princess here, sword for brains.” replied Eleanor sweetly as she dragged a set of packed saddle bags out from under the bed. She had set everything up for her escape before Aidney arrived, cramming her clothes, crown, weapons, tools and other items she needed to take back with her into the bags.
“Yes, but I am the bodyguard, petal of silver.” He still hadn’t got a rise out of her; no matter, he would keep trying. Somehow it was important to him to make it clear he wasn’t going to respect her fancy family.
“Not if I decide to poison your wine, you walking suit of armour.” That was an idle threat; while he had to die poisoned wine wouldn’t work, not after he’d seen her use the same trick on Aidney.
“I don’t drink, most precious pearl.” said Fulk honestly, his mind supplying the not quite an insult automatically.
“After travelling with me for a week you will!” Eleanor promised with a hint of a friendly smile. She shoved the saddlebags towards Fulk, “Now, to plan our escape. A pair of horses and a diverted guard will work nicely; we will travel to the port in Rennes. I was going to knock the guard out or something, but you can divert them with a false order or something.”
“How was a slight, delicate little thing like you planning to lug those saddlebags down to the stables?”
“With difficulty.” replied Eleanor, she shoved the bags at Fulk, “But since you are here and handy you can do it for me; I am promoting you to pack mule.” she walked out the door, expecting him to follow.
“As you say, my regal encumbrance.” he muttered under his breath, before swinging the bags over his shoulders and setting off after her, making sure the door was closed behind him to delay the discovery of the body.
07-16-2004, 21:32
katank
so wine this time. I still liked the original killing when he died of poison on her hand. the scene with fulk talking about bandits was also better IMHO.
the language is more interesting this time round though.
nice job as ususal.
07-16-2004, 21:41
frogbeastegg
I preferred the original method of dispatch and Fulk's bandit interruption too, but it just wouldn't work now - it would require them going back to the castle to pack, then leaving in broad daylight. Far too suspicious, princesses do not run off with men at arms when the lord has died because of 'bandits', and she can't abandon all the things she brought with her, some yes, but not all. She could send Fulk back for them without causing too much suspicion, but neither of them will trust just isn’t there; she needs him to come back so she can kill him, he doesn’t want her running off without him.
07-16-2004, 22:09
katank
I guess so.
still, the princess travels light and spontaneously elopes with M@A after killing his master during a romantic interlude out in the woods sounds better.
07-16-2004, 22:23
frogbeastegg
But, as she explains in the next part, she was never actually there; the whole thing is a cunning plot to discredit England, after all Eleanor the pious boring princess was at home all the time. https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/no...geishawink.gif
Got to admit your version does give me an idea for an alternate scene...comic mush....
El: I do love that nose of yours and I'm quite bored of this princess gig; let's run off together.
Fulk: Ok, why not? I like short and you're very petite; I can use your head as a chin rest.
07-17-2004, 10:06
zelda12
lol
07-20-2004, 15:55
scooter_the_shooter
so she now is going to kill fulk
07-20-2004, 17:13
frogbeastegg
They left the main keep easily enough, almost everyone was asleep and the handful of guards on duty were posted on the walls and towers, not inside the peaceful keep. Once they got outside Eleanor ducked into a shadow to observe the patrolling guards on the nearby walls; Fulk gracefully followed, making far less noise than she had expected with his burden. “We have to get over to that tower” he indicated one set between the main gatehouse and the cookhouse, “my room is in there; I am not leaving without my armour and stuff.”
“We do not have time to faff about with chain mail.” replied Eleanor in a furious whisper, “And how are you planning to carry it? You are decidedly not Sampson.”
“I shall carry it on my back, your supremacyness.” He set off without waiting for her reply, knowing she would follow her saddlebags and whatever was in them that was so important; he walked across the bailey with nary a care in the world. After a moments hesitation Eleanor followed, matching his carefree step and trying to look like she had every right to be in this castle and wandering around after dark.
They made it to the room without incident, fortunately Fulk’s somewhat privileged position has given him that rare luxury – a private room he shared with no one. As she looked about the tiny room Eleanor decided it was more a converted storeroom that anything else, simply furnished with a rickety looking bed and a pair of wooden chests. Fulk dumped the saddlebags down on the bed, which creaked alarmingly; his sword belt and cloak soon joined the bags. Fulk knelt in front of and opened the larger of the two chests, pulling out a mail hauberk, helmet and gambeson. “You can play squire, your superiority, or we shall be here until morning as I struggle to put my mail on.”
Eleanor let out an exasperated sigh, “Of all the things I expected from this mission dressing a training dummy was not one of them.”
Fulk pulled on his gambeson easily enough on his own; the rigidly padded tunic was cut in a very old style and reached to his knees and wrists, it had an impressive collection of rips and cuts that had been stitched up, and a few ancient bloodstains. He indicated she should help him on with the hauberk next, which she did, dumping the armour down onto his shoulders with scant regard for his well-being; Fulk staggered slightly under the sudden weight, “You’re not much good at this, are you?”
“What did you expect, you overgrown rust pile? Not even I, with my rather unconventional education, got to play about with armour and dressing knights.”
Fulk finished fighting to put his arms into the sleeve and jumped up and down a few times to settle the mail tunic down so it covered his gambeson, “I thought you might figure out it takes a pinch of gentleness, rather than dumping the full weight on in one go, your incredibleness.”
Eleanor gave him an apologetic smile, “I did not suspect you were made of straw, sorry.”
He muttered something she didn’t catch and reached for his sword belt, refastening it about his waist. He picked up his helmet, an old fashioned conical affair with only a nasal to guard the face and placed it on his head, lacing it securely under his chin. He had chosen to leave his mail coif down, so his ears would be clear; he didn’t anticipate any fighting anyway, it was just simpler to carry armour on his body than in a sack.
Eleanor surveyed the full effect; he had obviously cared for his equipment well, but there was one slight problem that rather spoiled the image, “Vintage armour, you look just like my great-great-great-grandfather at the time of Hastings.”
“I earned this armour; unlike you lazy nobles I didn’t buy it with money extorted from my lands, or inherit it from a relative.” replied Fulk frostily, he had always been proud to own his own armour, even if it was antiquated, but now he felt rather embarrassed of its age and he did not like that one bit.
Once again her reaction was different to what he expected; “No, you looted it off the dead body of some lazy noble who did inherit it, right?” a small smile took the sting out of her words.
“Actually he was another man at arms.” explained Fulk as he unhooked his leather satchel from the wall where it hung and checked the contents to make sure he had got everything, “To find the lazy noble you’d have to go back a hundred odd years. If he’d been a knight I’d have ransomed him instead; I could use the cash.”
Eleanor noticed he was eyeing her thoughtfully, “You had better not get any ideas about ransoming me; it would be such a shame if I had to kill you, since we are getting along so well.” She knew no one would bother to pay her ransom, no matter the circumstances she was captured in; she simply wasn’t worth the money.
Fulk grinned as he crossed the room to open the door, “I was thinking no such thing, oh suspicious one, I was wondering how much to demand as pay.” he opened the door a crack and peeked out, “Just the one guard at the gatehouse, we can get out easily enough if I divert him for a bit. We’ll have to walk though; horses would attract too much attention. You mind walking?”
Eleanor thought of the carriage trip to the castle, “Not in the slightest, you should worry about yourself, crooknose; worry about whether you can keep up with me, not the other way around.”
Fulk handed her his satchel, “I can see you are going to be an endless source of delight. Wait here, I shall send the guard away then return for the saddlebags, and you as well, I suppose.”
“I should warn you, purely for the purpose of talking out aloud and not because I do not trust you, that if you sell me out I shall implicate you so deeply that you will hang for murder, not I.”
“As I said, an endless source of delight.” he bobbed an ironic bow and left, walking across the yard, his armour jingling softly. Eleanor watched through a tiny crack in the door as he spoke to the guard, pointing back at the keep and gesturing firmly; the guard grabbed his spear and set off at a quick walk to the keep. Fulk headed back to his room, moving quickly but being careful to avoid suspicion; he pushed past her and grabbed the saddlebags, “Quickly, I told him I had seen a suspicious person wandering about near the rear of the keep, I also said I was going to investigate outside, so they won’t miss me for a bit.”
“So you do have brains in amongst the straw stuffing your head.” remarked Eleanor quietly as they crossed the courtyard once again.
Fulk pushed the small door cut into the larger main gate open for her and ushered her through, “Oh yes, I have plenty of brains, precious object.” And that was why he still didn’t believe her when she said she was a princess; her explanation might form a picture that the pieces fitted but it was also a story so unlikely that even the bards hadn’t thought of it and used it for a story.
More a fragment than a chapter or part, I was intending to cover her entire trip home but I have been very busy. I shall try to get the rest up soon.
Well, the writing has improved immensly. I'm looking forward to the new improved window scene, it'll be interesting to see how you do it this time around.
07-21-2004, 12:24
Ludens
I had prepared some comments about the first part (young Eleanor), but after reading your comments on my comments, I just say:
Eleanor's first assignment is fine, though you should have tried to make Fulk's transition from Audney's vassal to Eleanor's assistant somewhat more believable.
A few small notes:
Quote:
Originally Posted by [b
Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ July 14 2004,20:43)]Generally speaking when Eleanor was offered a choice between riding in a carriage or on horseback she went with horseback, when she was offered a choice between walking or travelling in a carriage she went with walking, and if she was ever in a position where she needed to choose between a carriage and crawling on her hands and knees she was certain she would pick the hands and knees.
Was is very good, but:
Quote:
Originally Posted by [b
Quote[/b] (frogbeastegg @ July 16 2004,21:53)]if Aidney was correct about Aidney than she was engaged to a demi god who was about to become king of the world inside of a decade. She had to admit she did have a few small doubts as to the validity of that.
Is a bit redundant. You could have done without that last sentence.
Quote[/b] (Ludens @ July 21 2004,12:24)]I had prepared some comments about the first part (young Eleanor), but after reading your comments on my comments, I just say:
Probably; I'm not good at children. I suppose it's to balance things out, now I find mush reasonably easy to write I struggle with the brats instead. The irony of this is not lost on me, since most of the brats come from the mush.
Quote:
Originally Posted by [b
Quote[/b] ]Eleanor's first assignment is fine, though you should have tried to make Fulk's transition from Audney's vassal to Eleanor's assistant somewhat more believable.
:takes deep breath: Well, later on, in fact in the very next part... https://forums.totalwar.org/forum/no...geishagrin.gif It's handled in the next bit I'll be posting; the explaination of Fulk's apparant sudden trust and Eleanor's scheme for escape were originally all supposed to be one post instead of two, but I have been so busy I had to split it.
The window scene mark II, Axeknight? I think if there is one single scene in this story that will benefit from the rewrite more than any other then the window scene is it; it will probably be barely recognisable. But that is far off into the future, probably some 100 pages away...
I've got to invent a religion, not just any old religion but one that lends itself to swearing in the same way Christianity does; it's one of the last details of the new Red Hand world that needs taking care of, and so far the hardest. I think I shall write some more Eleanor while I try to think.
07-21-2004, 17:28
frogbeastegg
They passed the night in a small dry-stone walled, turf roofed shepherd’s shelter about a mile and a half from the castle; it was too dangerous to travel far at night. After dumping the bags in the corner nearest the doorway Fulk settled down in the far corner out the draft of the open doorway; still in full armour and wary beneath his relaxed appearance.
“So…” began Fulk in a conversational tone, “Now you’ve killed Aidney and everyone knows who did it, what next?”
Eleanor laughed softly, “I did not kill him.”
“Yes you did, I saw you do it.”
“No, some impostor who claimed to be me killed Aidney; I was safe at home in my tiny little manor, praying and behaving like a good religious recluse while awaiting a worthy marriage. No one will ever believe I was even here; what princess would ever consent to marry a mere count, and what king would waste his bloodlines on such an inferior match? A princess as an assassin, well you will admit it is a tale better suited to a fireside yarn.”
“But your escort, they will all swear you were here.”
“An escort hired near the port where I landed, hired by the captain of my ship, which was a private vessel and gave no name. Believe me I would never allow someone like Edith to work for me, I was hard pressed to tolerate her presence for the few days it took to get to this point.”
Fulk had to admit her reasoning was very sound; even though he had seen the pageantry and the murder he found it impossible to believe she was the real princess Eleanor, if he couldn’t believe that then why should anyone else? Finding out the truth was going to be difficult, and this particular line would get him nowhere.
He pulled his helmet off and placed it on the beaten earth floor next to him, leaning back into his corner, “Goodnight, oh incredible wonder of wonders.” He shut his eyes and pretended to sleep, remaining alert for the slightest sound that might hint she was going to poke him full of holes.
Eleanor didn’t even bother to pretend to sleep; every time she shut her eyes she could see Aidney’s contorted features as he died. It was not a pleasant image, regardless of how much she had disliked the man. When she could sit still no longer, when the first light of dawn peaked through the open doorway, Eleanor pushed herself to her feet; Fulk’s hand instantly shot to his sword hilt and his eyes snapped open.
She cocked an eyebrow, “Sleep well?”
He released his weapon and relaxed again, “Very well, all things considered. You?”
“Like the dead.” She tried not to think of Aidney. “There is a town within an hour of here, we shall stop by there and buy a couple of horses and some supplies. I will wait for you in the church with our bags while you do the shopping; if you betray me I can claim sanctuary, you” she began ferreting around in one of her saddlebags, “get most of my money to go shopping. I think that handles our slight problem with trust; I need the money and you need your belongings.”
She found what she was looking for, a small leather drawstring purse, and tossed it to Fulk; he caught it deftly and immediately opened it and began counting the contents, “There’s not nearly as much as I expected here.”
“You were expecting boundless riches? It will buy us two decent horses, some food, and passage back to England; that is all we need.”
A voice at the back of Fulk’s mind suggested that yes he was expecting boundless riches actually, thank you, and that was why he had been so quick to throw his lot in with her. He squashed the voice as soon as it appeared; he was a man of honour, she had obviously needed help, following her promised to be interesting, and it gave him reason not to kill her. That was why he had chosen her path, not money or thought of reward.
As she waited in the church for Fulk to return Eleanor began a careful, surreptitious inspection of the contents of his bag, trying to determine just what kind of a man he was, looking for a clue that may suggest a simple way to kill him. Most of the items where what you’d expect from a soldier, bandages, medicines, spare clothes, stuff to clean his armour, needle and thread, a small purse with barely any money in it, a small iron pot, spoon and eating knife; nothing much interesting or useful.
One item, however, stood out; a book, not particularly fine or lavishly illustrated, but a rarity none the less. Where would a simple man at arms learn to read, and why would he want a copy of ‘King Arthur’ anyway?
Eleanor put everything back how she had found it, with more questions than she had discovered answers.
That night they were once again camping out, this time under the stars due to the lack of both funds and a convenient hut. Fulk crouched next to the fire he’d built, stirring the pot of stew that was their dinner; he looked at Eleanor out of the corner of his eye, she was checking over her wrist knives for rust. Satisfied that she’d be able to hear him he quietly began to sing a catchy song currently popular in Nantes.
“The queen of Spain
She had a knight
Her lord husband
Did get a fright
When he-”
A rock bounced off his back, interrupting him before he could get to what was widely considered the good part; the missile did no damage because he was still wearing his armour. He turned to see Eleanor tossing another stone up and down in an obvious threat, “That is my sister you are referring to.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think.” mumbled Fulk apologetically, returning his attention to his stew. So even an oblique reference to the English royal family got the correct response you’d expect from someone claiming to be princess Eleanor; interesting. Time to push things, just to see what happened, “I never believed the rumours anyway, I just like the tune.”
She scrubbed at an imaginary rust spot on one of her knives, “So now I am stuck with an aspiring minstrel? Just what I always wanted.”
“If I were a minstrel I’d add a verse or two about the queen needing rescue from her prison, that’s always popular with an audience. The lack of such a verse makes me think the chap who wrote this version was a rank amateur.”
“No one will save Adele, she will rot in that lonely castle until she dies, knowing her children are scorned and their parentage doubted, ruining their futures and all because she had to dally with some drip in armour. She always too naive to see those stories she liked so much would never work in the real world. We always told her that, Stephan and I, but she never…” Her voice caught in her throat; she ducked her head and scrubbed enthusiastically at that rust spot.
Fulk watched her work while absently tending to the food; her reaction had been realistic enough, but that last bit was either a very cunning lie acted out superbly, or the honest truth. As he regarded that forlorn, unhappy figure the hair on the back of Fulk’s neck stood up and he began to wonder if perhaps she could be whom she said she was.
As they sat under the tree in a small copse at the end of their second day on the road trying to shelter from the driving rain, Eleanor smiled and told Fulk nicely, “This is entirely your fault, you know, if you had not spent so much on the horses then we would be in an inn right now, warm and dry with decent food.”
“Sorry, oh righteously furious one.” He had given up on trying to upset her with his elaborate titles right about the point he had figured out that she actually liked it; now it had become something of a contest to see who could find the most ridiculous insult, a game of wits. “In my defence I did think a princess would have more money, and you’ll admit they are good horses.”
“Let us hope they do not catch a cold, or they shall lose that advantage.” she replied dryly, casting a glance over to the animals tethered under another nearby tree. “If you rust in place I will not rescue you, you know; I shall leave you here to meet whatever fate rusted men at arms usually encounter.”
Fulk wished, for the umpteenth time since he had left the castle, that he could take his armour off just for a few minutes, but he couldn’t risk it; she might use the opportunity to carefully plant a dagger in his ribs. He yawned, he hadn’t slept since the night before Aidney’s murder; he needed to find a way to make a truce he could trust with Eleanor, before he keeled over dead of his own accord.
With some effort he dragged his mind back to their conversation, “I do wonder why you chose this instead of some plush kingdom and marriage.”
“I did not exactly choose.” she frowned, her dark eyebrows forming two gracefully arced lines, “But then again perhaps I did, in a way. Regardless, this is vastly preferable to the alternative.”
Fulk couldn’t believe his ears, “What? You’re joking, right?”
“No, not in the least.” she met his unbelieving eyes and raised her chin slightly, “I once swore I would die before I married anyone, now I see the error of those words; why should I be the one to do the dying? For that matter why should anyone die at all? My life would be as good as over anyway, so I may as well run away instead, and see how things turn out.”
Fulk was tempted to laugh but he suspected she would take offence if he did, “Unless they take holy orders almost every single person in Christendom gets married, and many of them even like it; what makes you so different?”
A legion of reasons crowded forward, poised on the tip of her tongue but she swallowed them again; some were too embarrassing to reveal, others no one would understand, still others were too private, and then there were the ones she couldn’t even put into words. She grabbed the single reason most likely to satisfy his curiosity and end the line of questioning without revealing she didn’t want to talk about it, “Would you relish the prospect of spending the rest of your life in perfect obedience to someone, subject to their every whim, with no way out except death, knowing your hands were neatly tied by law, church and society so you could never even disagree unless they let you?” Fulk shook his head. “Then why should I?” she asked.
She expected him to launch into the usual speeches about man’s superiority being stated in the bible, about things always being like this and not in need of changing, about her changing her mind later after she’d been married and had several children, but he didn’t, he just shrugged his shoulders and admitted, “A fair point, though it appears many don’t mind.”
She offered a bit more, both from gratitude for his understanding and to see just how far it went, “By law there are two groups who get that kind of power, husbands and fathers; the father is sadly inevitable but the husband is not.”
Fulk chortled, “I bet your meetings with your dear papa are very interesting!”
Eleanor’s hand went to her cheek, her index finger absently tracing the barely visible scar under her eye, “Yes…you could say that.”
Fulk reached for the bag containing their food and pulled out a loaf of brown bread, “Would you like some hard, nasty looking cheese with your stale bread, oh delicate blossom?”
“I suppose I shall, or you will finish it off yourself, you bottomless pit of a stomach.”
Ok, so the trip home is now splitting into three parts; you know the reasons by now, so I won't repeat them. Once again I'll try to get the rest of the trip done ASAP.
07-21-2004, 19:39
scooter_the_shooter
this is a good story i wasnt plannning to read all of it but i will now
07-24-2004, 15:54
Ludens
So Fulk decided to follow a girl that murdered his master, is not a princess and is likely to kill him to given the chance, because he wanted money?
In the history of hare-brained schemes this one deserves at least special mentioning.
The bit about Fulk testing her by singing about her sister is very inventive. The song itself, well, the only songs that lend themselves well for writing down are those that should be recited more than sung.
About Fulk's haircut, I understand medieval hairfashion for males was dominated by the need for wearing helmets. I think all knights wore plain, flat haircuts because those fit comfortably into a metal helmet (the hair functioning as padding), and come out of the helmet looking roughly the same way as when you put on the thing.
07-24-2004, 16:50
frogbeastegg
Fulk has exactly the same set of motives as last time, they are just better explained and spoken of before page 60; he didn't want to kill her, he wants some cash, and her job sounds interesting. Veterans of the original will (hopefully) remember another motive not yet mentioned:
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
he desperately wants to be a knight; she probably isn't a princess but he does have those doubts and suspicions. Either way her employers are rich and powerful and it opens the door to knighthood.
It's pretty damn harebrained all right, but if he can survive it does promise quite a lot and it is less dull than serving Aidney for the sole motive of cash; of course he won't admit he was serving Aidney for anything other than honour.
The song would probably be better if it wasn't written by a frog.
You are right about the haircuts; the two prominent medieval haircuts for men were the 'bowl cut' that Fulk is sporting, and the longer style where the hair reaches midway down the neck.
Hopefully you will have something to read soon, caesar, if you are going to keep following. So busy...
07-24-2004, 22:22
frogbeastegg
Somehow, most likely through sheer exhaustion, both Eleanor and Fulk dozed off while battling to keep awake and alert, wrapped in their damp woollen cloaks with their backs leaned against the trunk of the tree for maximum shelter from the incessant rain. Eleanor’s rest didn’t last for long, shattered by yet another vision of the dying Aidney; now, as she looked at the sleeping figure of her unwanted bodyguard, she found herself wondering how he would haunt her when she finally killed him too.
She had decided to wait until they were safely back in England, travelling alone was never a good idea and he had proven himself to be useful enough. She was beginning to wish he would stop being so, so…likeable! He had to die, there was no avoiding that, and yet it was nice to have someone to bandy wits with, someone who didn’t insist on the painful formality she’d never liked.
She noticed Fulk’s hand was still wrapped limply about his sword hilt; the corners of her mouth quirked into a tiny smile, it was time to put an end to this endless state of mistrust before they both died. She stood up, stretching out stiff muscles, then cast about for a stick. Picking up a nice long dead branch she stood over Fulk and prodded him softly with the end, “Wake up you hay stuffed hauberk!”
Fulk was awake instantly, staggering to his feet and half drawing his sword; Eleanor tossed her stick away and said, “If I were going to kill you I would have done so by now, it is just as easy to prod someone with a blade as a stick and your armour offers you very little protection.”
Fulk let his sword slide back into its sheathe, “Fair point, but I’ll argue my armour makes it hard for you to poke me full of holes.”
“You have a rather low opinion of me then, I think, or you would not imply that I need to resort to such crude methods to remove you from this existence.” Eleanor slowly drew a single hairpin out from her damp, dishevelled and now lopsided hairdo and deliberately, so he wouldn’t mistake the action as a threat, threw it at the tree, “Add a certain poison to the pin and whomever you hit tends to die in a rather distressing collection of contortions; as long as you have exposed skin I can turn you into a pincushion at leisure.”
Her hair listed some more, one of the two braids had escaped sufficiently to sag down and tickle her neck; with an irritated tut Eleanor set about loosing her hair before it collapsed of its own accord, secretly very glad to finally have an excuse to be rid of the fancy style Edith had insisted on working her hair into days ago which she had kept because without a maid she had no way of taming her hair into a respectable style. For the rest of the trip she could leave it loose without having to explain herself to her unwanted companion. As she worked she kept talking, “I suspect if you were going to kill me you would also have done that long ago, though in your case there is nothing sophisticated about hacking someone down with a dirty great sword.”
“Again, a good point. You are suggesting a truce, then?”
“Well we do need to sleep sometime, as you so nicely demonstrated.” she didn’t mention she had dozed off too, that would remain a secret; thank heaven for small mercies. “If we keep jumping at shadows sooner or later someone will get hurt.”
Fulk broke into a twisted grin, looking at Eleanor’s hair, “It’s a damn good thing Aidney didn’t take you up on that offer to see how long your hair is – he’d have had a fit it’s so short!”
“Hardly short.” It was true; it did reach down to the middle of her back.
“To him it would be; I’ve got to admit I’d have loved to hear his reaction.”
Eleanor wondered what Aidney would have made of her collection of scars, “So, a truce then?”
“Yes, why not?” Fulk rolled his aching shoulders several times, the mail of his armour softly clinking, “Now, perhaps you’ll help me remove my armour, though it’d be nice if you were more careful in removing it than you were in putting it on; being injured in battle is one thing, being injured by your squire’s ineptness is another entirely.”
Eleanor leapt at the chance to learn something Trempwick had decided she didn’t need to know; skills like flirting and armour removal might not seem like much but in an existence as precarious as hers having a few unexpected skills could be critical. She hid her enthusiasm behind a wry smile, “Then you had better teach me to play a squire’s part; I only hope you are a better teacher than you are watchman, or I shall end up removing your ears along with your hauberk.”
Fulk proved himself to be in possession of an eye that missed nothing; he spotted her interest, “Heaven forbid, oh indecently eager one, and did no one ever tell you playing with armour is for boys?”
“Incessantly; now do you want that armour removing or are you too much of a coward to risk my aid?”
“I suppose I shall endure and suffer bravely.” He held his arms out away from his body, “You start with the sword belt, since I’m lazy and determined to make the most of this opportunity to boss about royalty.”
“Like this?” asked Eleanor innocently, yanking the belt so tight Fulk made a rather peculiar sound somewhere between a gasp and a protest; she flicked the fastening of the buckle out of the way with her thumb nail and released the pressure on his stomach, whipping the sword away before he could even catch his breath.
“I thought you’d promised not to kill me!” he grumbled.
“And I thought you were a big tough soldier.” she replied as she placed the sword on the ground out of the way.
Getting the mail hauberk off was easy enough, Fulk simply bent over with his arms above his head while she pulled at the shoulders, pulling the armour off his body until the weight of the freed portion was sufficient to drag the rest of the tunic off without human intervention. He could have removed the padded gambeson on his own, as easily as an everyday tunic, but he insisted on her help as a matter of form. Finally he stood in the clothes he had been wearing before they fled the castle; looking down at his tunic Fulk saw it was a creased, rumpled mess. He should have taken it off before donning his armour, but it was rather too late for that now.
He flexed his shoulders and stretched his own cramped muscles; his whole body felt wonderfully light, “We’ll reach the port today, about mid afternoon by my reckoning. Now, let’s see about breakfast.”
As soon as they arrived in the port town Fulk found a horse dealer and sold the two horses, leaving them to carry their bags on foot through the tightly packed, narrow streets until they reached the docks themselves and found a ship bound for England. As they passed through the market place they noticed a large crowd gathered about in a large circle; they were cheering someone on, then there was the crack of wood on flesh and a man’s voice bellowed, “Next!”
Fulk craned his neck, trying to confirm his suspicions, “Sounds interesting, let’s go see; if it’s what I think…” He started to elbow his way through the crowd, the princess following in his wake and protesting that they didn’t have time to waste. The crowd began to cheer someone one, but almost immediately there was the sound of a blow and the bored voice calling, “Next!”
They arrived on the outside of the circle; Fulk pushed some people out of the way so they could see. A man stood in shirt and hose holding a wooden sword, his left hand propped on his hip as he harangued the crowd, “Not a single man with guts left? How about a boy then? Someone, anyone with a spot of bravery, or is this town packed full of cowards? I’m here as champion, offering a purse of nearly seven shillings to any who can best me, and I’m only charging tuppence a fight, you can’t say fairer than that. It’s not a death match, it’s not even to the point of collapse, merely to the first blow, the very first hit that touches flesh, and yet none have the guts to step forward now; you’re all pathetic! Cowards! Spineless!”
Fulk didn’t wait to hear more, he started unbuckling his sword belt, “How do you feel about a nice purse full of money so we’ll be able to stay in inns for the rest of the trip?” He didn’t give her time to respond, he thrust his sword into her hands and dumped his bag at her feet, “Stay here and hold these, this won’t take long.”
He stepped forward, drawing the attention of the man; he flipped him a coin and held out his hand for the wooden sword the fighter’s accomplice handed him. He swung it a few times experimentally, gaining a feel for its weight and balance; the fighter didn’t wait long, he began a powerful overhand blow aimed at Fulk’s shoulder. Fulk parried the blow easily, swinging his opponent’s guard open and rapping him of the wrist with the tip of the wooden blade. The fighter howled and dropped his own sword, clutching at his numbed wrist. The crowd cheered, glad to see someone finally defeat the obnoxious man who had been casually beating townsfolk all day.
Both accomplices ran forward, one shouting, “You broke his wrist, you bastard!”
“I can’t help my birth” retorted Fulk, “and that wrist’s not broken, I’m not an amateur like you. Now, give me my money and I’ll be on my way.”
“You cheated!” the fighter’s face was red with pain, humiliation and fury, “You cheated! I challenged the townsfolk; you’re a soldier or mercenary and didn’t declare so! I’m not giving you a penny!”
“You challenged easy pickings.” returned Fulk easily, moving slightly to keep all three men in front of him.
Eleanor didn’t like the way this was going, she had no interest in seeing if Fulk could defeat the two accomplices and escape with the money. As Fulk and the men argued she looked about and spotted a pie seller with a half empty tray of meat pasties. She left the pile of bags unattended for a few seconds while she swiped a pie when the seller’s head was turned, then threw it with unerring aim at a woman in an expensive dress.
The woman screamed as the pie exploded over the rich fabric, and started looking about for a culprit; she started yelling at some children, who protested their innocence loudly. The situation grew worse as the children started throwing mud, figuring that if they were going to be yelled at then they might as well be guilty. A gallant young man stepped in to protect the lady, and he too got pelted. A mudpat missed and hit a merchant, he sent his bodyguards in to exact revenge, and a couple of apprentices joined the fray, protecting the children; the situation rapidly spiralled out of control into a full-fledged brawl.
In the centre Fulk decided he was done with persuasion and advanced threateningly on the accomplices. Now that the audience was no longer focused on them they felt able to beat Fulk up without intervention or later trouble with the law, they both attacked him together, raining powerful but clumsy blows down on the man at arms. Fulk defended himself easily, but they kept him too busy for him to counter attack. Suddenly a handful of mud hit one thug in the face, blinding him. Fulk didn’t waste the opportunity; he smashed his sword into the remaining man’s knee, disabling him before punching the blinded accomplice in the stomach, knocking him to the ground. He snatched up the purse from where it had fallen, threw down the wooden sword and worked his way back to Eleanor, grabbing his sword and the saddlebags, “I presume the mud was your doing?”
“I thought you looked like you could use some assistance.” Eleanor grinned, “You know I have never started a riot before, it was fun.”
Together they fought their way out of the brawling crowd and headed down the closest street at a rapid walk.
They were able to buy a private room in a good inn near the docks with part of the prize money and it was a simple matter to arrange two places on a ship leaving for Dover the next morning. As they sat in their room eating their dinner, a rather greasy stew that the innkeeper insisted was made from prime beef, Eleanor felt that at long last she had gained an excuse to pry into Fulk’s past, “’I can’t help my birth’ you said, so you are a bastard then?”
Fulk grimaced, though whether it was because of the food or the question Eleanor couldn’t decide, “Fulk FitzWilliam, son of Sir William Destier and Emma, a common peasant from his fief. He was decent enough to give me his name; FitzEmma leaves no doubt as to my tainted birth.” Fulk sighed and set his spoon down, “To be honest he was very decent to me, to my mother too. He brought me up in his household, trained me in the skills of knighthood and used me as his squire. He even had me taught my letters and numbers, though he never did say why. I was to serve him and then his son after him, a livelihood guaranteed and set down in a binding contract.”
“What went wrong?”
“It’s hard to squire a dead man, and even harder to serve one who was never born.”
As the ship left the port and set out into he open sea Fulk grew paler and paler; finally he clutched his stomach and with a mumbled, “Oh God!” ran to the side and was violently sick. Eleanor wandered over and patted him on the shoulder, “Feeling a mite ill?” she asked with the annoying confidence of someone who never gets travelsick.
“Now I remember why I didn’t go back to England when the war ended!” Fulk began to take on a greenish tinge.
“You are actually going green.” observed Eleanor with keen interest, “You will end up resembling a frog!”
“I hate you.” whimpered Fulk. Whatever else he might have said was lost overboard along with the rest of his breakfast.
When he finally ran out of stomach contents Fulk sat down on the deck and looked utterly miserable, shivering uncontrollably. Eleanor watched him from her spot at the rail near the back of the ship where she was surveying the waves; it seemed so unfair to let him survive this crossing, seasick and suffering as he was, only to kill him when they set foot on English soil. Eleanor wondered how the king and Trempwick would react to her bringing home a stray man at arms who knew too much; the likely outcome was not a pretty one, keeping him would prove…costly.
She pushed away from the rail and moved to Fulk’s side, unpinning her cloak and wrapping it about his shoulders, “You will never know how lucky you are that you get seasick.” she commented softly, moving away before he could ask what she meant.
It's very rough around the edges but I'm too busy to clean it up today.
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Five days later they were less than seven miles from Woburn manor, if they pushed their horses then they would arrive before midday. Fulk took a sidelong look at his companion; Eleanor had been very quiet all morning, and now she sat there in her saddle pale and tight-lipped. He’d noticed that she kept looking at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice; it was as if she was double-checking some conclusion she’d made about him. He didn’t like it. When they arrived at this Woburn place he’d have his final answer as to what she was and he’d also see if this gamble of his was going to pay off after all. He was as certain as he could be without further proof that she was actually princess Eleanor, but that said very little about his chances of surviving meeting her superiors; they might take exception to a common man at arms knowing their secrets and joining their little group.
He saw her taking another covert glance at him; he grinned and jokingly said, “Looks like I’ve got an admirer.”
“Looks like I have a conceited bodyguard with delusions of grandeur.” returned Eleanor absently.
Fulk grimaced, “I suppose I asked for that.”
“Yes, you did, bowl cut brains.”
“This is a fashionable hairstyle, one your own father wears, if I’m not mistaken.”
“No, sadly you are not mistaken, he does indeed have a problem with taste.”
“It looks that bad?”
“Oh yes, just like someone’s stuck a bowl on your head and gone to town with a pair of shears.”
Fulk silently resolved to grow his hair out into the longer style that reached down to the shoulders; after hearing her verdict on his current style he couldn’t help but wonder how many others shared it. Actually, now he thought about it, he shared it himself; a pox on Aidney and his stupid ideas! “Of course my own hair can never hope to compete with your crowning glory, my dear raven.”
“We can’t all be perfect; the world needs people like me to make my sister Matilda look good.” Her self-depreciating humour was practised, convincing, she’d had a lifetime of it. It made a very good shield against those frequent laments on her appearance people directed at her; it also tended to stop them in full flow and stun the person into shutting up.
Fulk looked at her strangely, “I meant in length, as well you know.”
There was a minute hesitation before she gave an answer, a telling sign that she hadn’t known after all, “Yes, of course. I can always see through you and your stupidities effortlessly.”
Fulk changed the subject, getting to the real topic that interested him, “Why are you so worried? Don’t deny it, you’re as tense as a bowstring; sometimes I do wonder if your mind’s even here and not off elsewhere. You’ve been like that all day and much of yesterday too.”
The best lies contain a grain of truth and Eleanor was a skilled liar, “I am rather…concerned at how they will react to you, Trempwick and my glorious ancestor. The last I checked you were still alive and that does put a slight damper on the ‘no witnesses’ part.”
“You likely to need my bodyguard services?”
Eleanor laughed quietly, perversely amused by the mere idea of this base born man at arms daring to challenge a king on a matter where he had no right to interfere in the first place. She knew he wouldn’t protect her, oath or not oath; to plunge into certain death like that required a certain attachment to the person you were saving, not to mention suicidal tendencies and a lack of brains. “I think not. It is your life I am concerned about, not mine; they might simply decide you are unneeded and kill you. That would be…disappointing.” Eleanor hurried to justify her concern; if Fulk ever found out she rather liked his irreverent attitude the damned man would never let her hear the end of it. “I don’t like you, not in the slightest, but you are useful and if anything goes too badly wrong I can hide behind you. And, of course, I would not want to lose my pack mule.”
“As you say, oh precious jewel.” replied Fulk airily, “If you’re not in danger there’s nothing for me to worry about; you’re a one woman argument, no one will dare complain if you want me to tag along.”
“Nice!” Eleanor touched her heel to her horse’s flank, moving from a slow walk to a canter, expecting Fulk to keep up on his own. She had been dawdling all day; delaying, playing for time, time to gather her courage, to brace herself for the inevitable onslaught when she met her father. Instead she was clinging to the minutes, trying to gain even more time, as if by putting off the meeting she could forget it would ever happen. It was better to jump in headlong, before she had time to think too much, to change her mind and play with that delicately seductive idea - that Fulk’s life wasn’t worth the pain and risk.
She nudged her horse again, breaking into a gallop.
They arrived at Woburn shortly before the sun was at its highest. As they rode into the small courtyard in front of the main manor building and near the stables, cookhouse and other outbuildings a groom hurried out to take their horses. As they were dismounting Trempwick appeared from the main doorway of the manor house. He looked at Fulk with an amused half smile, not the least surprised to see the man at arms; evidently he had heard about Fulk long ago, just as Eleanor had predicted. “I didn’t think you were the kind to bring home stray pets, Nell. I wonder what we are to do with him; if he were a cat I suppose we’d give him a bowl of milk, or mayhap drown him in the river.”
Fulk found himself staring at this hook nosed man, thrown off guard by his levity. Trempwick grabbed Eleanor by her elbow and pulled her over next to him, turning her to face Fulk and saying merrily, “Oh yes, she is princess Eleanor, although it’s very understandable that you are sceptical and this is hardly a royal welcome now, is it?” He picked up a strand of Eleanor’s loose hair and held it between thumb and forefinger, “Yes, rather hard to believe, even when you stick a crown on her, isn’t that right, Nell?”
“I do my best.” replied Eleanor through gritted teeth. Trempwick was in his cheery mode; out of the many fake personalities he had carefully learned and honed this had to be the single most annoying. She knew from long experience that Trempwick was not nearly as happy as he appeared; his mood was best described by a faintly crude peasant epithet she was not supposed to know: ‘pissed off’.
“I am certain they will carve that on your tomb, dear Nell.” He gave her a push away from him and turned to the few curious servants peering through the partly open door of the cookhouse, swapping to his intimidating act and roaring, “The princess is back, don’t stand there gawping – show your respect, damn you!” The servants hurried out and dropped to their knees on the muddy ground, their eyes downcast. Trempwick looked at them with contempt, “Better.” He turned back to Fulk and swapped back to his friendly attitude, “There you go, a royal welcome and if that isn’t proof enough then you can wave to the king when he arrives later today.”
Trempwick snapped his fingers and directed his orders into midair, confident that the servants would be hanging off his every word, “Take our stray pet and feed him; look after him until I send for him. Don’t let him get lost or run over by a cart, as stray pets have a wont to do.”
As a servant came forward and gestured at Fulk to come with him into the kitchen building Trempwick started to walk back inside the manor, calling over his shoulder, “Follow, if you please, your royal highness.” It sounded more like he was talking to a dog than a person.
Fulk delayed on the threshold of the kitchen doorway just long enough to watch Eleanor start after Trempwick, that tight mouthed, worried expression on her face once more. As he ducked the low door lintel and entered the kitchen he couldn’t help but feel that Trempwick was treating his supposed princess more like a maid. Far from allaying his qualms Woburn had increased them.
Eleanor followed after Trempwick, running over her arguments once again, knowing they would have to be flawless to stand a chance of convincing him. He bypassed the solar, it was being prepared for the king later in the day, and went instead to the second floor room built into the small square stone tower at the west end of the manor house. The room had been set up for training in assorted skills like knife throwing with targets on the walls, practise knives, copies of Eleanor’s hairpins, and other unlikely objects cluttered the room.
Trempwick held the door open for Eleanor, then kicked the door shut behind himself, “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?” he demanded, “No witnesses, what part of that does not make sense to you? Or perhaps you propose to blab to all and sundry that you are an assassin? Mayhap you want to start a home for dispossessed men at arms? Your highness, you are a bloody idiot! I would say that he will possibly kill you for this but I doubt that would have any effect, so I will save my breath.” There was no need to specify who ‘he’ was; they both knew it was the king Trempwick referred to.
“I know, believe me I know, and that reminds me…” she started unfastening the straps that held her wrist knives in place under her sleeves, “It would not do to be tempted to try my hand at patricide, or regicide, whichever would take precedence.”
Trempwick clasped his hands at the small of his back, looping his thumbs through the back of his belt, “If you know why are you doing this? Don’t forget, Nell, your life belongs to me.”
“My life is my own.” she insisted.
“No.” replied Trempwick calmly, coldly, “No, it is mine. You live because I saved you so many times, you live at my sufferance, and you can die at my whim. All I have to do is stop finding excuses to keep you alive when you upset your father.”
Eleanor looked away, unable to hold her master’s cold gaze, “Fulk will be a good bodyguard, he is quick witted, keen eyed, he can fight, and most importantly of all he can think. I cannot travel alone; it is both dangerous and suspicious. If something goes wrong then I have no one to help me, to rely on. A partner will prove useful, and he is ultimately…disposable. If the worst comes to the worst he can be a decoy, he could take the blame.” She knew a cold, rational explanation was most likely to succeed; saying she enjoyed Fulk’s company as well as seeing his many uses would prove instantly lethal for him.
Without realising Eleanor held her breath while Trempwick deliberated. When he spoke at last he had reverted to his calm, calculating personality, “There is…a fair bit of truth in that. Very well, you may keep your pet, but I will be watching closely. Remember Adele; don’t do anything foolish.”
“Christ God! Remember? It is impossible to forget!” blazed Eleanor. Almost as quickly as her temper had flared it cooled again; her shoulders sagged, “I wonder what tender mercy I could expect from my dear father? I doubt I could expect a gilded cage; I do not have a death wish.”
“You could have fooled me; you-” Trempwick broke off, tilting his head to one side, listening, “Horses; the king is here. Time to save your life once again, your highness.”
I actually finished this chapter a couple of days ago but I couldn't see the point in posting it in the temp forum.
Grrrr, this new forum deletes my indents and ruins my book alike layout! :angryg: I have used the same horrible extra spaced out layout I use on the paradox forums; they are vBullitin boards too. Hopefully there will be some way I can keep my preferred layout...
08-03-2004, 15:25
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Right, I have fixed everything up and altered the layout; the original book style is rather hard to follow in places without the indents. I think I accidentally deleted a few of my comments, but nothing important.
I should also apologise for the poor quality of the last story part; I was busy with my book so it is little more than the roughest of rough drafts. I will try and work the next part into something a bit less crude.
08-04-2004, 18:29
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
“Here.” The servant who had taken charge of Fulk shoved a couple of chewettes into the bodyguard’s hand, “The master said to feed you and so fed you will be.”
“Whether I like it or not, by the looks of things.” quipped Fulk, biting into one of the meat filled pasties. It was under-seasoned and bland; it appeared that someone in the manor had no liking for even a pinch of pepper. Since he had seen Eleanor happily eating some rather highly spiced gingerbread shortly after they arrived in England he knew it wasn’t her; that left Trempwick as the next best suspect. Fulk swallowed and forced a smile for the benefit of his audience, “Thanks.” He tried to break the ice a little and find out more about the manor and its occupants, “So, you are the…?”
“Steward.” came the blunt, grudging reply.
“It’s a big household then?”
“Big enough.”
“I’ve seen you, a groom, that chap over there” he nodded at a man busy stirring a pan of stock, “is obviously the cook; who else is there?”
The steward eyed Fulk with distaste, as if deciding whether he could be trusted with the information, “One cook, two general servants, the groom, and my good self; that is all.”
“No lady’s maid?” asked Fulk, surprised.
The man looked down his nose at Fulk, “There is no lady here.” he said in a tone that did not invite disagreement.
Fulk wasn’t intimidated in the slightest, “There’s Eleanor.”
“As I said, there is no lady here.”
“Well she is a bit…unconventional.”
The steward brightened, his attitude towards Fulk warming considerably; evidently complaining about Eleanor was one of his favourite pastimes. “They say blood tells, and perhaps that is so, but in her case either blood tells nothing or she’s a changeling. I’m Edward, by the way.”
“You know I still find it rather hard to believe she’s a princess.” Fulk delicately angled for a bite, for confirmation from yet another source.
“Oh aye, she is, more’s the pity.”
Their conversation was interrupted by one of the general servants running through the door and speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the background noise, “The king! He’s left much of his escort behind and he’s almost here!” His message delivered the servant sped away.
The steward grinned, “Time for a spot of entertainment, if Walter can get close to overhear.”
“Entertainment?” repeated Fulk, not understanding.
“The king’s never best pleased with her and he’s got a temper that burns like dry wood drenched in oil. I’ll say one thing for her, she’s got pluck; there are not many who spit defiance in the face of our king.”
“Entertainment?” asked Fulk again, this time with a sinking feeling he knew.
“Oh aye, stick the two of them together and it’s a regular bearbaiting, and unlike the fairgrounds here the bear always catches his prey. We even lay the occasional bet.” He leaned closer to Fulk and whispered conspiratorially, “Since you’re new I’ll give you a tip, but don’t let on to the others that I helped you. If you want a safe wager bet on her saying something snappy; if you want to show off then bet on how many comments she’ll get off before he shuts her up.” Edward noticed the thunderous look on Fulk’s face and hastened to reassure him, “Don’t worry, she’ll survive; Lord Trempwick will see to that, never you worry. When the master talks even the king listens.” The steward glowed with pride, “Our master is a great man, truly great and deserving far more than being stuck here with that…” he snorted, not using the insult out of consideration for Fulk.
Edward made to join the other servants peering out the door for the king, but Fulk’s hand shot out and grabbed him by his podgy arm, “Why do you hate her so much?”
The steward turned back and gave Fulk an apologetic yet mocking smile, as if the answer was self-evident, “She doesn’t know her place; if she can’t be happy with what God allotted her then how can we? We suffer and serve the nobles in the hopes of a place in paradise, but she rejects that along with the tenets of society that are laid out in the bible itself. She rejects God’s will.” In a deeply religious world it was a damming verdict indeed.
Fulk let Edward go and followed him to look out for a glimpse of the king. The man Edward pointed out was dressed in rich clothing and flanked by two heavily armoured knights, but otherwise as a king he disappointing. He was short, just as the steward had said, with limp hair that could probably be called sandy; it was shot through with grey and his crown was balding. He had the build expected of a warrior, but age was visibly creeping up on him and he moved rather stiffly. Fulk felt slightly disenchanted; he had never expected to mix with royalty and now that he was he had discovered that they were nothing like the golden figures of popular legend.
Just as when Fulk and Eleanor had arrived Trempwick hurried out and greeted the king, although with considerably more civility than he had given the princess. Together the two men went into the manor; the knights sat down outside the main door and began to play dice.
“Walter, that’s the second general servant, the young lad, will nip on over and see if he can hear anything.” explained Edward, “He’ll report back later with any particularly good bits.”
“I’m her bodyguard…” said Fulk quietly to himself, no longer paying much attention to Edward.
“Aye, kind of tricky, isn’t it? Got to save face while saving your hide too.”
“No!” protested Fulk loudly, trying to drown out the little voice agreeing fervently with the steward. “I am a man of my word; I swore an oath.”
Edward considered for a bit, “Perhaps, but oaths of loyalty to the king take priority above all others, and you were a soldier, right?”
“Yes, in France.”
“There you go then, you would have sworn loyalty to him when you joined his army. He hasn’t asked you to get involved so you don’t, simple.”
“Yes…yes, exactly so.” Like a drowning man Fulk grabbed the excuse; he was a man of honour and simply doing what he had sworn to do.
Night was beginning to fall by the time Trempwick appeared. Fulk was sat alone in one corner; he had left the group when he had found himself unable to stomach their glee at the royal ‘cockfight’. He had been grimly amused when several of the servants had lost their bets when Walter reported the princess hadn’t made a sound except a few taunts right at the beginning. He had a feeling if Eleanor ever found out about that then she would be fiercely happy, as well as busy plotting revenge.
Trempwick didn’t cross the threshold, standing in the doorway, “The king and his escort have departed.” he informed the servants brusquely, “My thanks for looking after Nell’s pet; I will take him now.” The spymaster beckoned to Fulk, “We will take a short stroll.”
Together Fulk and Trempwick strolled out of the kitchen into the courtyard. As soon as they were out of earshot Trempwick spoke, “I will be watching you, very closely. You had best be the very paragon of bodyguards, or you will answer to me.”
“I understand, and now if you’ll excuse me I’ll take my leave.”
“You are going to look for her.” It was not a question. Trempwick stopped walking and studied Fulk, pinning him with a level, cool gaze. Finally he inclined his head slightly, “If you can find her she’ll not thank you.” Fulk said nothing, meeting Trempwick’s gaze. The spymaster laughed, “Fine, go play hide and seek with your princess. I doubt you will find her, and if you do then I expect to see you running for it with your tail between your legs in short order. Have fun.”
By the time Fulk had scoured the manor house and outbuildings he was beginning to think Trempwick might have been right; there was no sign of Eleanor. On his trip he had collected a few items and gotten a good idea of the layout of the manor, but the main object of his wanderings eluded him, making all useless. Now he stood in the middle of the courtyard, looking around to see if there was anywhere he hadn’t yet checked. His eyes flicked past the corner of the manor house, over the defensive tower; he stopped and looked up, the tower had ramparts at the top. Fulk smiled triumphantly and set off to find a way up.
The roof of the tower was accessed by a ladder leading up to a wooden hatch. As he pushed the hatch open and climbed up onto the ramparts a voice observed, “I should have sat on the hatch.”
Fulk shut the trapdoor behind himself and sat down on it, “Allow me, your featherweightness; I’m a mite harder to shift.” He put a cloth bundle down next to himself and drew his cloak in about him.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was slightly muffled and clumsy; Fulk couldn’t see why, the night was too dark and the feeble moonlight did a good job of hiding and distorting fine detail.
“I am your bodyguard, I will keep following you, even if you do bite my head off when I finally find you.”
“Ah. Bodyguard. How nice. Go away.”
“No.”
“Get lost and leave me alone before I topple you off the top of this tower!”
“I’m quite comfortable sat here, and like you I thought to bring my thick cloak so I’ll not freeze. I even brought a picnic.” he indicated the bundle. He had stuffed her two wrist knives through his belt next to his own dagger, now he pulled them free, “I also found these; I thought I’d rather be knifed than pushed off the top of a tower.” He leaned forward across the gap between them and placed the weapons at her side, then sat up again.
Eleanor picked up one knife and drew it from the sheath, holding it by the hilt and examining it with a small, bitter smile that died almost as soon as it began, “Toys.” She stabbed the dagger point down into the wooden floor of the roof, “Toys, for all the good they ever do me. Fancy, expensive little toys.” she looked at Fulk, “Why are you here? To satisfy your curiosity and see that unthinkable rarity that our society says never should be - a princess who has been flogged like the lowest serf? Go away before I take you up on your tempting request to be stabbed.” She pulled the knife free of the floorboards and flicked it over so she was holding it by the point, ready to throw.
“I don’t think you will; I think your threats are rather harmless.” While he was almost entirely certain he was right a tiny voice in the back of his mind pointed out that she was an assassin in a bad mood.
The moment drew out; a bead of sweat ran down Fulk’s face. She cocked her wrist, beginning to throw, and he began to wonder if he had made a bit of a mistake. Eleanor sent the knife flying so it buried itself point first in the floor, “Are you always going to be this exasperating?”
“Only when you try to kill me, oh frighteningly furious one.” Fulk’s voice was filled with relief.
“I was only trying to kill you because you are annoying.”
“You know that Trempwick fellow of yours was predicting I’d never find you; he also said if I did you’d soon see me off. Want to prove him wrong?”
“Well…it would be nice to wipe the smug look off his face, even if I do have to tolerate your presence to do so.”
Fulk took that as a very reluctant invitation to stay. “How are you?”
“In the peak of health and more than able to rip your ears off without even trying.”
“Spare me your noble’s pride, oh wonder of wonders.”
“And you spare me your stupid questions, you overgrown oaf.”
“Alright, if you insist I shall forget my offer of my medical skills and drop to plan B, which involves giving you a sweet and telling you a silly story in the hopes of coaxing a smile.”
“A smile will prove tricky; I bit through my lip.”
“I’ve got some balm for that somewhere, hidden amongst all the junk I carry. Standard soldier’s kit and all that boring stuff.” Fulk unwrapped his bundle; it proved to be a napkin containing a small pile of sweet pastries. He selected a flat, spiral of pastry with cinnamon mixed into the dough and handed it to her; she took it after a brief hesitation.
Eleanor ripped off a tiny bit and ate it, wrinkling her nose in mild disgust, “You know I can barely see why they call this a cinnamon roll, there is so little of the spice in it. Posh food on an exceptionally tight budget; the expensive spices are amongst the first things to go, right after gilded food, sugar, and subtleties to astonish us all with the skill of the cook at making inedible, fancy sugar sculptures.”
“That explains the chewettes.” said Fulk, grimacing at the memory.
Eleanor examined the pastry closely, struggling to see by the weak moonlight, “Oh gosh! This one actually has a couple of raisins in it; we must be celebrating something. The extravagance makes me quite giddy.”
“I promised you a story; I think I know one you’ll like more than the usual damsels in towers seducing helpless knights.”
“Oh dear, it appears I have been lumbered with an aspiring bard.” lamented Eleanor dryly.
“Well it seems there was this princess-”
“Let me guess, she was as fair as fair can be and so beautiful she made Helen of Troy look like a hag?”
“Um…probably?” Fulk scratched his chin, “I suppose, since they always are.”
“Wonderful, you are telling a story and you can barely even remember the details. I have an amnesiac aspiring bard; delightful.”
“You just shut up and eat your pastry, dear chatterbox, or you’ll never find out how the story ends. Anyway there was this princess, let us assume she was appropriately princess looking and generally princessish.”
“What was she called?” interrupted Eleanor again, before finishing the last bite of her roll. She was determined to make his life as difficult as possible; she couldn’t see why she should let him have an easy ride when she didn’t particularly want him around.
Fulk blinked, he knew he should have expected that demand but it still took him by surprise, “She was called…Elizabeth; I always liked that name. Yes, so there’s this Elizabeth and she’s a princess and all that-”
“Yes, I know; you have done that bit a couple of times already. Get on with it or I shall start booing and calling for the next act, you incompetent troubadour.”
“If you would stop interrupting I could get on with telling the story, oh infuriating one! Now, where was I? Oh yes, Elizabeth, princess, blah blah. Right, so one day the king decided she ought to have a knight as her bodyguard-”
“I am not going to request you be knighted.” interjected Eleanor firmly.
“Have another pastry, oh eternally delightful one.” Fulk shoved a fruit tart into her hands, “If you are eating then you can’t keep interrupting! Yes, so this king holds a tournament and announces that the winner will become her bodyguard. Now our Elizabeth is a contrary sort and decides she doesn’t much like this-”
“Sensible girl.” said Eleanor approvingly between nibbles at her tart.
“Ahem, yes, I suppose she might be. On the day of the tournament she locks herself in her rooms, alone and sulking. In addition to all the famous and skilled knights at the tournament there is a stranger with no coat of arms. He is known only as the Black Knight because his armour, surcoat and horse are pitch black-”
“Boring!” complained Eleanor loudly, “Why is it always black? Do knights have no imagination?”
“Alright, there was a strange knight only known as the Puce Knight, better?” he gave her no time to answer, rushing onwards, “Yes, good. Right, this Puce Knight is a bit good and he wins all the jousts and melees. He kneels before the king and the king says ‘Haha, you are a good chap, bravo! You win, congratulations Mr. New Bodyguard. The princess is off sulking but she will soon come around once she sees your nice puce armour and horse; it will coordinate nicely with her favourite dress!’. The Puce Knight pulls off his helmet and everyone gasps in horrified shock; it’s Elizabeth.”
Eleanor raised one eyebrow, “So this princess managed to suddenly pick up the build of a seasoned warrior, learn to use weapons, find a suit of armour that fits and a warhorse, and go off to fight with out anyone noticing?”
“Um…I suppose she did.” mumbled Fulk, “The bard I got this off was a bit drunk, so it was rather garbled, and don’t forget you made me change half of it. Anyway, it ends with the king taking her side and forgetting the whole bodyguard thing.”
“That has to be the single most stupid, idiotic, rambling, ridiculous story I have ever heard in my life!” Eleanor couldn’t help herself; she started laughing, “You bird brained twit; you had best remain in my employment as a bodyguard – if you run off to seek your fortune as a bard you will be starving in the gutter inside of a day!”
“I aim to amuse, Nell.”
Eleanor’s amusement died instantly, “Never call me that, never. I might have to put it with it from Trempwick but not you.” She saw the uncomprehending expression on Fulk’s face and explained quietly, “My brother used to call me that before he…died.”
“If the name pains you as much as that why does he keep using it? It seems very…” he shrugged, at a loss for words.
The rash words of a long gone child rushed back to Eleanor, ”You killed my brother and I will never forget that.” One of the very few occasions she had let her emotions run away with her about Stephan. Now it was impossible to forget; Trempwick reminded her ceaselessly, part of his ever contradictory nature, one minute helping her, the next reminding her she hated him. “He likes the name and he does not know the effect.” lied Eleanor smoothly.
“Nell seems rather…well, I never had you pegged as a Nell, put it that way.”
“No, somehow I do not suppose I am a Nell; not now.”
Silence fell, heavy and smothering. Several minutes ticked by. Finally Fulk felt compelled to ask, “I don’t understand; why did you do this?”
“Because…one dead man is enough of a burden on my conscience.” she rallied from, her gloom and sniffed, “Don’t think this means I like you, you great hulking brute.”
Fulk grinned, “As you wish, oh guiding light. I hate you too.”
Not so bad this time; it could still use more work but it isn't nearly as half finished at the last parts. Finally things are really getting going. Vets will notice the first major deviation from the original plot in today's part; as you may imagine it changes quite a lot including that famous window scene, and it changes them a lot.
I've left it in this spaced out format because I don't have time to go throguh and use the three space indent tag TosaInu has put together; I have to space it out like this for the paradox forums anyway. Hopefully when the forum settles and I have finished fixing dragon's topic I will fix up this one too.
08-06-2004, 15:00
scooter_the_shooter
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
vey good froggy ~:cheers:
08-13-2004, 15:06
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Fulk hauled open the trapdoor and stepped back with a small bow, “After you, your happiness.”
Eleanor returned his bow, wincing slightly as the scabs on her back tore, “Thank you, my dear doorstop.” She stood on the edge of the gap, looking down at the floor below. She looked up and shot Fulk a tiny, challenging smile and jumped down instead of taking the ladder as he expected, landing lightly on her feet and quickly springing out of the way. Feeling a trickle of blood running down her spine Eleanor silently cursed her stubborn pride as she looked up to see if Fulk would follow suit.
Fulk took her place on the edge of the gap; the drop seemed massive even though it could be little more than six feet. He swallowed, trying to mask his nervousness; he had never been all that happy with long drops, or more accurately with the sudden stops at the end of them. While he might be graceful his training had all been aimed at a man at arms rather than a feline; the last thing he wanted to do was land and fall flat on his face or something equally humiliating. “Looks like I’m guarding a cat; could be a problem since your Trempwick thinks I’m a dog.”
“I promise not to claw you as long as you don’t bite me.”
“Deal.” Fulk held his breath, looked straight ahead and stepped off, landing heavily but safely in a crouch below. Straightening up he gave Eleanor a broad grin, thankful he wouldn’t find out if she would laugh or, worse yet, ask if he was alright if he was clumsy enough to break his ankle on impact. “I think I’m the braver, after all the drop’s larger for me since I’m not such a diminutive midget as you.”
“Bravery has nothing to do with it.” She brushed at her skirts with one hand, smoothing away a crease, “It is simply practise; ‘an agent’s life is unpredictable, you most be prepared for every eventuality.’ – Trempwick, the knowledge and wisdom thereof. One day I might need to jump out of a window; my life may depend on it, or it may be my only escape from a particularly long and tedious banquet.”
As Eleanor crossed the room towards the door Fulk got a decent look at her back, in the dancing light and shadow cast by the torch on the wall. Blood was slowly seeping into the fine wool of her dress, joining the multitude of bloodstains already present and half hidden by their closeness of hue to the deep russet of the material. Fulk winced in sympathy, glad that she couldn’t see his reaction; he was sure she would not appreciate it, and he had spent enough time negotiating around her touchy pride for one night.
Eleanor opened the door only to come face to face with Trempwick; she didn’t seem too surprised, “Master.” she greeted him coolly, “Hear anything interesting?”
“Yes, I always do when you are talking, dear Nell.”
He raised an eyebrow; Eleanor answered his unspoken question, “I shall survive, which is more than I can say for my clothes.”
Trempwick studied her before speaking, searching for clues in her body language, “I cannot decide if that is more of your infernal humour or the truth.”
“Would I joke about something like this?”
“Ah, Nell, dear sweet Nell, your sense of humour has always been wildly inappropriate and perversely unique; I would never dare to guess what is a jest and what is not. I do recollect banning you from joking so I could always be sure of what you were saying; do you remember that, Nell?”
“You need only look for yourself.” said Fulk mildly, gesturing to the view of her back he had in the flickering torchlight, irritated by the spymaster’s endless not quite jokes. He didn’t know the man well enough to see if they were barbed, friendly, concerned, mocking or something else entirely. His confusion over the words didn’t carry over to the man behind them; the more he saw of Trempwick the more his dislike grew. The pet comments really galled. “Or you could ask me since I’ve got a good view. I’d say she’s right, pity because that colour and style suits very nicely.”
“Ah, the bodyguard.” Trempwick stepped forward, brushing the princess out of his way, standing toe to toe with Fulk, “Finally learned your duty, bodyguard? Well, it is a bit late, no?”
Fulk looked uncomfortable, so uncomfortable Eleanor felt obliged to come to his rescue, “His committing suicide would only have made this whole thing pointless. Getting into a fight to keep a bodyguard is only worthwhile if said bodyguard is still alive at the end.”
“Silence!” snapped Trempwick, not turning away from Fulk, “The very paragon, remember? The very paragon or you answer to me; so much as a hair and you will not die a happy man, I can assure you of that. Make yourself scare.” Fulk looked to Eleanor for confirmation; Trempwick exploded into scorn, “She does not need your protection from me; I would cut my own hand off before laying so much as a finger on my pupil.”
Over Trempwick’s shoulder Fulk saw Eleanor give a very slight nod. He broke the deadlock with the spymaster and started towards the door, pausing long enough at her side to say quietly, “I found your room earlier; I’ll wait outside the door like a good dog. You can be rid of me elsewhere when you get back. Since I’m your pet I follow your orders, not his.”
When Fulk had left Trempwick crooked his finger at Eleanor, meeting her halfway, in front of the torch in the wall bracket. He cupped her chin in his hand, gently tilting her head to the light so he could examine her lip, “How very elegant and dignified, Nell. I know a little colour is all the fashion but surely drenching yourself in blood is going a little too far? Stick to lip rouge like everyone else.” He let her go, shaking his head sadly, “You could have been safely married and away from this. It is far too late now, of course. You are too dangerous to ever be allowed to escape, dear Nell. Trapped by your own doggedness.”
Eleanor didn’t consider herself trapped by her own fault at all; she had overheard her father’s opinion in what she needed in a husband. Being compared to a particularly obdurate horse in need of breaking did not bode well at all. She would get a husband who met her father’s approval, which by default meant someone very like him. Far from being safe she would only have changed the scenery. She kept her objection silent, unwilling to give Trempwick even a tiny bit of insight into her mind if he didn’t already know that. Chances were that he did; Trempwick appeared to know everything, much to Eleanor’s frustration. Trying to outwit him or hide something from him was a wasted effort. She decided he definitely already know about the horse comparison; he was trying to draw a reaction, nothing more. She would not give him one.
Trempwick lapsed into a brooding silence, studying her cut lip as though mesmerised. Eventually he shook himself, swapping to his jolly character, “Still, in the game of sisters you are in second place behind Matilda, and if she still fails to produce that longed for son I can see you snagging first place given more successful missions. Rowena is dead and confined to fourth place having done nothing more than marry, get sick and expire, and all inside of a year. Adela is imprisoned in third and only kept from falling to last place because of her two little princelings. You only have to survive to win, and between your new pet, your innate stubbornness, and my incredible skill and years of experience at saving your neck that should be manageable. You just keep on refusing to drop dead, dear Nell, and I shall handle the rest. We are a formidable team, don’t you think?”
“As you say, master.” replied Eleanor impassively.
“I know what you are thinking, dearest Nell. You think I am quite mad, no?”
Eleanor responded entirely honestly, “I am very certain you are not mad, master.” You are too damn dangerous to be insane.
“But none the less you think me quite potty for making a great joke of all this. I think then, dear Nell, I shall indulge you.” Trempwick dropped to his rarest personality; the deadly serious one. Eleanor suspected this might be the real him, but she could never be certain. He heaved a deep sigh, “Our king has become a cruel man; you of all people will have noticed that. His rages have become more dangerous and he holds grudges for far longer, plotting away. It is getting very…difficult, even for me, to divert his attention from thing that upset him. If left to his own devices he will fume away until he decides on a suitable course of action.” Trempwick looked uneasy, “The duke of Norfolk made the mistake of complaining the summer was too hot for his tastes in the king’s hearing. He has been sent on crusade to the Holy land, to fry in his own armour and to ‘learn the true meaning of hot weather’. I doubt he will return alive.”
Eleanor didn’t want to spend any more time stood here picking her way through a conversation with Trempwick than she could avoid; it was late, she was tired and sorely tempted to take up Fulk’s offer of treatment for her injuries. She got to Trempwick’s point for him, bypassing his rambling, “You are trying to tell me I am likely to find myself dead if this keeps up; dead in a highly unpleasant way. I am not surprised; I have been expecting that for years. Agents seldom die of happy old age in their beds surrounded by their families.” she smiled wryly, “In any case when the time comes I will have no family, at least not any of the variety usually found at those sorrowful deathbed scenes. I will live as long as I am useful, not an hour more. You told me that as you carried me away from the palace all those years ago; I have not forgotten.”
“Then stop antagonising him, if only to save yourself all this unnecessary pain.”
Eleanor laughed dryly, “If I let Fulk die he could hardly be useful to me now, could he?”
Trempwick scowled, “Then on to making you useful; I have a mission for you.”
Busy, book, etc etc I'm sure you are more than familiar with the reasons for slow and rouhg work by now :p No, actually I wouldn't call this rough; it has enough word variety and descriptive stuff to class as vaguely decent for a net story. It is more...very dry.
08-13-2004, 19:26
katank
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
great work. more, more, more. :jumping: ~:p
08-14-2004, 16:12
zelda12
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Briliant, pure genius. More please.
08-14-2004, 17:00
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Fulk stood leaning on the doorpost outside the room he decided had to belong to Eleanor; it was where he had found her knives, after all. All around him the manor was settling down to sleep; the torches, candles and rushlights were being put out, and sleeping pallets set out in the main hall. There was still no sign of the princess.
Fulk began to pick at his nails, wondering if he had got the wrong room after all. The knives were the only Eleanor related touches he had seen; the rest of the room was only slightly less bare than his own room back in Nantes castle. Granted the furniture had been of good, if cheap for royalty, quality, but whitewashed walls and bare floorboards were hardly the stuff of troubadour’s tales.
He had no idea of how long he had been waiting when Eleanor appeared, walking along the corridor thinking she was alone and everyone else gone to bed long ago. As soon as she spotted him she forced the tired, pained expression form her face and pulled her shoulders back, walking like the noble she was supposed to be, not a battle worn soldier. Fulk pursed his lips; her pride would be the end of her at this rate.
Eleanor stopped at her door and said imperiously, “I am here. I am self evidently alive. You can go do whatever it is you plan on doing tonight now.”
“Really? Whatever I planned on doing, with your blessing?”
Eleanor’s brows slipped into a slight frown, “Yes.” she said tersely. “Now scat.”
Fulk reached into the pouch he wore at his belt, pulling out two small clay pots sealed with a bit of cloth tied in place over the openings, “I thought I might dab some balm on that lip of yours, then do something about that mess on your back.”
“I see.” said Eleanor frostily, her frown deepening, “You thought me so weak I would be grateful for, no would need your help-”
“No!” Fulk overrode her, “I thought you might have the sense to accept my help because wandering around as you are does little good to any; it only soothes that wounded dignity of yours.”
“I see.” she snapped, “Do you not think I might have done this before? Perhaps I have grown accustomed to having no one to help me? Perhaps I can tend my own wounds? Did you think of that? Did you think that after all these years I might be able to manage alone? No, you did not.”
Fulk surveyed the hostile figure in front of him. There was no trace of the earlier friendliness they had established on the tower, no trace of the wary humour they had found on the road back. The observation struck a pang in his heart to match the irritation caused by her endlessly defensive attitude. “You are one prickly customer, princess thornbush! What would it harm to accept my help? I don’t doubt you managed before, but why make life harder than it needs to be when I’m around?”
The aching throb of her back warred with her instincts; the ache won in short order. “Fine.” Her frown faded slightly, “But one single joke, comment or question and I will re-break that nose of yours and set it as straight as an arrow.”
Fulk’s eyes widened in mock horror, “But that would damage my dashing good looks!”
“Good.” The rest of the frown cleared away as Eleanor sniffed and stuck her nose in the air, “It will prevent you being distracted by stupid girls ogling you when I need you to chop someone in two.”
Fulk had to work to hide his relived grin; she was back to joking, thank God. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, “You leave my poor nose alone; it’s done you no harm.”
“Ha!” Eleanor opened the door, crossed through and stood holding onto the handle in one hand and the doorframe in the other. “Wait here.” She shut the door in Fulk’s face, “And mind your precious nose.” she instructed absently. There was no way Fulk would be dumb enough to let a door smash his face in.
Fulk glared at the woodwork just an inch away from the tip of his nose, “A little late on the warning, oh nasally concerned one.”
She left him standing there for so long he began to wonder if she was intending to ignore him in the hopes he would go away. Finally she called, “Alright, let’s get this over with before I regain my senses and change my mind.”
Fulk slipped through the door and was about to shut it when she instructed, “Leave it ajar, I do hate to think of the fuss that could be raised otherwise. People and their lewd ideas, quite disgusting really. I do not appreciate being dragged down to their level, but needs must to anticipate and divert trouble.”
He did as he was told, crossing to the bed where she lay face down, her chin propped on her crossed arms and her modesty preserved with a carefully draped sheet. One of her knives lay within reach on the pillow. Her bared back was a riot of cuts, welts and bruises, crisscrossed over old scars. A clotted mess still leaking blood where gashes had broken open as she removed her clothes. Her right forearm had fingerprints appearing in a vivid purple where someone had grabbed and twisted with considerable strength. Another mark on her left flank hinted that someone had kicked her.
“You can bring your eyebrows back down from your hairline right now.” Eleanor said firmly without even looking for his reaction. “I can hear them flying upwards and I do not approve.”
“Then you are imagining things, dear stinging nettle. I had some idea of what to expect.” He thought it best not to say the only other time he’d seen a mess like that it was on a runaway serf who’d been unfortunate enough to be captured and returned to a vengeful lord. “Perhaps it was my surprise at the dagger you heard?” he suggested neutrally.
“Keeping up appearances; I have to cover both lethal agent and royal propriety. Trempwick would have a fit if I did not keep an obvious threat hanging around, though I cannot help but feel it would serve him right for poking his attention where it is not wanted” She flicked a finger in the direction of the table; “There is a pitcher of water, a bowl and some cloth over there.” A smile flitted across her lips, “You see? I am well able to cope alone, even if salving your own back is rather clumsy.” And hideously painful.” she added silently.
Fulk poured some water into the bowl and soaked a scrap of linen in it. He started washing away the blood with surprising gentleness.
“We leave tomorrow morning.” said Eleanor, simply for something to do. Lying around thinking was all right in its place, but right now the thought foremost on her mind was that she could have used a Fulk years ago. There was a lot to be said for a pair of soothing hands, and that an entirely disturbing discovery.
“That’s not going to do you much good.” Fulk sponged at a large clot on her shoulder, slowly revealing a deep cut in the shape of half a belt buckle.
Eleanor could guess what he was seeing and tensed, waiting for the inevitable prying for salacious details. Fulk kept his peace. Well if he wasn’t going to leap on the opportunity she wasn’t going to hang about waiting, “A mission is a mission, I have very little choice.” Actually no choice at all, she had simply been told to go.
“Trempwick?” Fulk set aside the bowl and untied the string holding the bit of rag over his pot of comfrey ointment. He started dabbing it carefully over the host of injuries, “I’ll speak to him, tell him to stuff his madness where the sun doesn’t shine. You need a few days rest or you’ll only burst these cuts back open.”
He had expected a furious outburst but there was a long pause. When she eventually spoke it was quietly, “If you want to help then you will get me away from here as quickly as you can.”
It was the tone rather than the words that made him listen. Fulk sighed heavily, “I won’t ask why, but alright. We’ll get away from here then stop somewhere for a few days, good enough?”
“More than. Thank you.”
“Since you’re in such a cooperative mood I’ll also demand you let me continue to treat this mess.”
“I am not certain that would be a good idea.” replied Eleanor doubtfully.
“Better than letting them get infected.”
Since she didn’t trust herself to answer Eleanor said nothing. Fulk cheerfully took her silence as acquiescence, and finished applying the ointment. He looked at the half empty pot, “I’ll have to buy more of this.”
“It is comfrey, correct?” She was working off the smell wafting about the room, “We have some of that in the manor’s stores.” She turned her head so she could watch him, needing to see the inevitable bloodthirsty enjoyment on his face, hidden behind the pretty words and gentle hands. There was none. “You are the only person who has never laughed or gloated.” She was mortified to find tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Any other would simply use helping as an excuse to see my ‘downfall’ firsthand for their own glee. You are the only one who…”
“Cares?”
“I was thinking more … behaved chivalrously.” She wanted to ask if he did actually care.
“Oh.” Fulk blushed and scratched the back of his neck.
“I am promoting you to royal cut tender.” said Eleanor softly.
“Thank you, oh generous one.” He placed the second, smaller pot of balm down next to her dagger, “I shall leave you to do your lip alone. For me to do a decent job of it you’d have to sit up, and I think your Trempwick would have me dead by dawn if you did that in your current state.” Eleanor’s quiet laughter banished the echo of Trempwick’s warning “So much as a single hair…” from Fulk’s mind. The spymaster had chosen his words carefully, a dual-purpose warning: keep her safe and keep your distance.
“Goodnight, your highness. Since I’m supposed to be some kind of dog come paragon bodyguard mix I’ll sleep outside your door. Shout if you need anything.”
Your wish is my command :bow: :tongueg:
I thought a small demo of why I keep calling the other parts rough might be in order. This part is polished to the same standards as the draft for my book. I still have a long way to go but I feel this is a substantial improvement over the rough stuff I have been posting. It did take me twice as long to produce though; I wrote this instead of adding more to Red Hand today.
08-15-2004, 14:10
zelda12
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
I have to admit it is a much more fluid read. Although the rough ones you post are incredibly good. Also I was wondering if you have actually sent the original Red hand that you posted here to any publishers to wet their appetites so to speak. I ask this because you may get a better reception from the publishers if they read the original and like it.
08-15-2004, 22:37
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Fulk stood next to a horse blinking sleepily in the chill dawn; Eleanor had insisted on leaving as soon as possible. They could have left quietly; only the spymaster needed to know they were leaving, but Eleanor had grinned evilly, splitting her lip open again, and told Fulk to rouse the entire household. After all, she had said, well brought up princesses did not cook their own food or saddle their own horses. On this one occasion the staff appeared to resent her being proper as much as they usually despised her for not being so.
He watched with passive interest as Trempwick slowly crossed the courtyard, dodging his servants as they scurried about loading up the single packhorse. “Good morning, dear sweet Nell.” he said exuberantly, “You are looking remarkably hale this fine morning.”
“If you say so, master.”
“I do, Nell, I do.” He tossed a purse at her; she snatched it out of the air. He smiled sardonically at her surprise at the purse’s weight, “A small fortune, dear Nell, to follow the plan I outlined last night. You will also need to outfit him” he nodded towards Fulk, “accordingly. Do remember to bring your shopping home, Nell. Not only do we need the supplies but I confess I am eminently curious to see what exactly you will buy.”
“Nothing interesting, master.” Eleanor thoughtfully tossed the purse up and down a few times before handing it to Fulk. He fastened it to his belt next to his sword.
“Trempwick watched the exchange with rapt interest, “Oh dearest Nell, I find everything you do entirely fascinating. You are simply far too unique to be dull.”
“If that is your opinion, master, I do not see how I can argue otherwise.” Hoping Trempwick was done Eleanor moved to her horse. She was surprised to find Fulk waiting to give her a helping hand up into the saddle. Until this point he had been quite content to leave her to her own devices and he well knew that she didn’t need his help.
Fulk could easily guess what she was thinking. He nodded just perceptibly at the brooding figure of the spymaster and murmured quietly, “Paragon bodyguard; just try not to leave boot prints on my face.”
Eleanor could feel Trempwick’s eyes boring into the back of her neck, could almost hear his mind weighting up the possibilities and laying out predictions. What would she do, and what meanings could he infer from her actions? More than sick of Trempwick’s endless games Eleanor decided to follow the most predictable route; she accepted Fulk’s help. Once settled in place she told him, “Don’t make a habit of it.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Trempwick’s mouth lift in a microscopic smile that was gone almost before it appeared. She had guessed correctly and done exactly as he thought she would: protected Fulk and asserted once again that she was the one giving his orders. Predictable, and therefore giving less insight to the spymaster.
As soon as Fulk was mounted and leading the packhorse she kicked her horse into a walk, “Goodbye, master.”
“Goodbye, dearest Nell.” He walked at her side as far as the gate, “Be careful.” he said sincerely.
“Of course, master.” Eleanor was finally on the open road, the spymaster and manor left behind, not far but getting further away with each step the horse took.
As soon as they were out of sight of the manor and in open countryside Eleanor cast a quick look about, drew rein and jumped down from her horse. “Unless he has people tunnelling underneath us he cannot overhear, and even then he would not be able to see.” She began to unfasten the wrist knife on her right arm, grateful to remove the pressure from her bruised, swollen skin.
Fulk watched, “I don’t know why you put the thing on in the first place.” he commented, “Pride, I suppose. I’m convinced you’ve got such a strong sense of pride you could catapult rocks at it and they’d only bounce off!”
She tapped the hilt of the knife against her palm, wondering what to do it, “Pride comes with the crown. This was more expediency than pride, just like your paragon act. If Trempwick scents weakness he pounces on it mercilessly. I have neither time nor inclination to play around with one of his little tests.” ‘Little tests’ was an understatement; the last time she had been unable to convince him she was perfectly fit she had been ambushed by three of his agents. The scene had not been pretty even though her opponents had training weapons and strict instructions to do no real harm. No matter how skilled a fighter very few could win against such steep odds when already badly injured; that fact brought precious little comfort. She knelt on the ground and fastened the knife to her shin instead, on the outside of her leg where it wouldn’t hamper her movement.
“Is that why you wanted to leave as quickly as possible?”
“No. His sympathy, his concern, they make me sick to the very pit of my stomach.”
“Because it is false?”
“No, because it is sincere, just like his mockery.” She scrambled back into her saddle and turned her horse back to the road, “Let’s go; when we stop for lunch I shall explain this mission.”
When the sun reached its peak they stopped to eat, sitting at the edge of the road with the horses tethered on a loose rein so they could get at the grass. Another meal provided by the royal kitchens, another tasteless disappointment. Fulk nibbled the end of a pasty, “You know I’ve had better from a stall in the midst of a fair; a meat pie that was probably made with some stray dog. It was full of gristle; I think I fed most of it to another stray dog to save my poor belly.”
Eleanor nearly choked as she tried to laugh and swallow at the same time, “The cook’s abilities are not very awe inspiring, are they?”
“Oh they inspire plenty of awe.” replied Fulk, his face perfectly straight, “Awe that anyone can cook so badly and still be in royal service!”
“If it were up to me I would sack him; I would also increase the budget considerably, right now it is miserly in the extreme. You know the average minor noble eats better than I do? Sad, really, when you think about it.”
“It’s worse than that, your culinary torturedness, the average peasant eats better, maybe not in terms of ingredients but in taste…” Fulk moved to take another small bite, checked, glared at the pasty and put it back in the bag it had come from. “What do you say to giving our packed lunch to some particularly unlucky beggars and buying something decent in an inn?”
“I thought the whole point of charity was to help the less fortunate, not to give them our woes on top of their own.” Wrinkling her nose, as if that would somehow help, Eleanor took another bite and her own pasty and swallowed it without chewing. “I shall give you some friendly advice, small bites allow you to swallow without needing to chew; you barely even have time to taste the total lack of flavour.”
“Oh, mine had flavour.” Fulk shuddered, “Though quite what it was I don’t know…dung, perhaps?”
Eleanor laughed again and threw the remnant of her lunch at Fulk, missing him by a fraction on purpose, “Will you stop that? At this rate my lip will never heal.”
Fulk looked contrite, “Sorry, I shall try to be more depressing, oh giggly one.” Eleanor glared at him, fists firmly planted on her hips and a well-schooled expression of superior distain on her face. Aside from the fact she was shaking with repressed laughter just one thing spoiled the effect. “Here, let me do something about that.” He tugged the sleeve of his tunic over his thumb and softly dabbed at the trickle of blood oozing from her lip. When she opened her mouth to protest Fulk said, “I’m the royal cut tender, and you did agree to behave.”
There was no point in arguing past that; it was the work of seconds to clean her lip. Trying to banish the gentle touch of his hand from her mind Eleanor began to describe the mission as she had promised, “Our mission is to find proof of corruption at Elstow abbey. Trempwick knows they are forcing their peasants and tenants to pay more than is owed, sadly without incontrovertible proof coming from a reliable source nothing can be done. Peasants and burghers are not reliable, not in the eyes of a court, not when against their landlords. There is very little else to say, much of the rest depends on what we find-”
Movement caught Fulk’s eye; years of experience had him moving before he had even consciously recognised the danger. He threw himself on top of the princess, pushing her to the ground and only just in time. An arrow whipped through the air where his chest had been only seconds before. Fulk jumped to his feet, “Stay down.” he ordered, drawing his sword and running in a zigzag pattern towards where the shot had come from.
Another arrow zipped past him, another close miss. The archer flung away his bow and stood from his crouch, ripping his own blade from its sheath and bracing himself for Fulk’s assault. The ranged threat over Fulk slowed to a wary walk, holding his sword in the ready position. The archer lunged at him, the blades clashed and Fulk moved in body to body with his foe, using his height to his advantage as he leaned his weight on the locked swords, forcing the other man to bend backwards.
Desperate, unable to break away or to win the contest of strength, the archer punched Fulk in the stomach with his free hand, once, twice, slamming his knuckles into hard muscle. Fulk stepped back, breaking the deadlock and immediately plunging back in with an overhead cut. The archer flung his sword up to block, deflected Fulk’s blade to one side and stepped back, playing for space.
His hand went to his belt, to his dagger, which he drew and threw at Fulk. The man at arms twisted out of the way, the blade just skimming his flank. Fear began to show in the archer’s eyes; the man was no match for a well-trained warrior in close combat and he knew it. He threw everything he had into one desperate attack, taking his sword hilt in both hands and swinging down at Fulk’s left shoulder, screaming a wordless battle cry in both fear and defiance. Fulk parried the blow high, bringing his blade down and around in a motion that flung his opponent’s guard right open. The sword continued its arc unchecked and bit deep into the archer’s side, smashing through ribs and coming to rest near his spine.
Fulk twisted his sword free of the falling man and brought the blade down again, ending the man’s life. Fulk immediately checked to see if there were any more enemies; there were none and despite his instructions Eleanor was back on her feet and headed his way with both knives drawn. He wiped his sword clean on the man’s clothes and sheathed it, then turned to meet her. “I thought I said ‘stay down’, your royal disobedience?”
“Sod that.” replied Eleanor delicately, “If you get killed I have to pay for your funeral and they tend to be expensive.”
Fulk looked at her, the gleam in her eyes and expression of intent concentration mingled with relief and exuberance now fading away. The only other time he had seen that look was when he had confronted her over Aidney’s corpse, and he hadn’t been paying much attention then. It was the eyes that did it, that caused his anger to ebb away. Sighing he touched a hand to his side where the knife had grazed him, “I suppose expecting you to keep out of the way was a bit foolish.” His fingers came away bloody but the gash was not a bad one. “I should have known you’d insist on joining in.”
“Yes, of course; I am not a helpless pot plant.” Eleanor brushed his hand out of the way and inspected the wound for herself, “Barely broken the skin; now that is why I did not bother trying to hit you with one of my own knives – I though you had the grace and reflexes to dodge even if you are a cumbersome scrap heap.”
Fulk crouched next to the dead archer; “I would have preferred to get him alive so we could find out who he works for. He’s no common bandit, he’s too well equipped and dressed for that, and alone too.”
“I know who sent him.” replied Eleanor grimly, trying to ignore the stinking carcass near their feet; the sight and smell made her stomach heave. “Trempwick. Evidently I did not do a good enough job of looking perfectly healthy; this” she nudged the body with her foot, “is one of his little tests, although with a more lethal bent than usual.” She saw the incensed expression on Fulk’s face and hurried to explain, “No he did not intend to kill me, if you remember all of his deadly attacks were aimed at you. I do not doubt he was supposed to kill you if he could, and I shall add that to my tally of grudges to nurse. But the main purpose of this was to surprise me, to make me burst open all those nicely tended wounds, which, incidentally, thanks to your sitting on me I have done. This is Trempwick’s version of ‘those who look weak get attacked, so learn to hide your weaknesses’.”
Fulk made his opinion on the spymaster and his training ideas clear, swearing fluently and obscenely in both French and English for quite some time.
“Very nicely put.” the princess told him approvingly. “We should go, get to an inn where we can patch ourselves up in peace and quiet.” She went back to the horses while Fulk picked up the archer’s bow, quiver, sword and sword belt; the weapons were of good quality and too expensive to leave lying in the dirt.
Been writing like a mad thing today, turning out page after page after page, first the book and then this. From now on I am going to try and write only in the more polished form; the more I practise it the easier it gets, and I think the story really benefits from the subtle touches it brings. Besides I owe a certain princess quite a bit for setting my feet more firmly on this path.
Zelda, no, I haven't sent the original Red Hand to anyone. I suspect they would take one look and throw it in the bin; it just is not of anything approaching good enough quality. Also my rewritten book version has a huge number of changes: a new world, new characters in addition to the old ones, some new names, loads of new events, stacks of new reasons for old events, and about 6 new scenes for every old one. Red Hand is a whole new beast, so complex and detailed it would take me about 20 pages just to give a quick explaination of it and how it all works, both story and world.
08-18-2004, 19:20
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Predictably enough there was an inn halfway between Woburn and Elstow, isolated and alone but within easy reach of both places. The tavern was quiet when they arrived; October was not the best time of year to be travelling and so only those who had business were out on the roads. Pilgrims were all safely at home unless they felt particularly obliged to undertake a harsh penance, and only the most unfortunate of the travelling minstrels, pedlars, tournament knights and the like were still wandering in search of a hearth to spend the winter at.
Despite the current lull it was clearly apparent business had been good in the past; the timber and thatch inn building was large, clean and well furnished. There were several small private rooms above the main room and the separate stables were large enough for nine horses.
The innkeeper hurried out as soon as he heard their horses, wiping his hands on his tunic and smartening himself up as he went. He checked for an instant, seeing the blood splattered all over Fulk and the spare weapons slung on the packhorse, but then his eyes rested on Eleanor’s expensive clothes and he began moving again, a welcoming smile on his face and enthusiasm clear in the exuberance of his welcome. A stable boy soon appeared to take the horses.
As she slid down from her horse Eleanor hid a smile; she was only in average noble mode, dressed and behaving like a noble with no more than a couple of smallish manors, but people still tripped over themselves to serve. She wondered what the innkeeper would have done if she had been in full royal mode complete with crown, probably keeled over dead of shock on the spot.
The innkeeper hovered, uncertain as to whom to address himself to; the obviously rich woman or the not so rich but blood spattered man. Eleanor took a mental deep breath and launched into one of her own cover personalities: the rich bitch, too loud to be questioned, too imperious to be doubted. She stalked over to the innkeeper and waved her hand, “I expect a search party to be send out immediately; we were attacked by bandits and one of my escort lies dead or dying on the road. Do something. My man here managed to fight them off, but stopping to rescue Geoffrey would have been folly.” She scowled, “We had to leave his horse behind; an expensive waste.”
“My lady.” the innkeeper bowed, “As it’s a quiet time I only have the boy and my wife-”
She flung her hands up in the air with an exasperated sigh, “Oh forget it! I shall simply have to sort this myself when I reach my uncle. Forget Geoffrey, he is only a lazy serf and not worth the bother, even less so if he is dead, which he probably is just to be inconvenient.”
Eleanor launched herself towards the doorway, trusting the innkeeper’s greed to take care of the rest. It did, “My lady, allow me to show you to my best rooms.”
She stopped and asked, “I trust the inn is empty and will remain so? I will make it worth your while; I do not want to hear farmers belching into their ale.”
“Of course not, my lady. I’ll shut the inn right now. My wife’ll prepare a room for you, and another for your man-”
“He will be sleeping outside my door; I have already nearly been murdered once today and that is quite enough! This is a lawless county; we never have this problem on our lands. Laxity, sheer laxity on behalf of the local lord. I shall tell my uncle about this at great length and there will be action” Still grumbling Eleanor swept off into the building, the innkeeper trailing in her wake, leaving Fulk to sort out their baggage.
Fulk made his way up the narrow wooden staircase that led to the private rooms, carefully balancing two bowls of steaming food. He halted outside the door of the furthest room, the one set aside for Eleanor, and nudged it open with his foot. Once inside he balanced on one leg and pushed the door to with the other.
“An acrobat as well as an aspiring bard. Well, well, what an extraordinary find you are.” Eleanor shuffled up on the bed, making space as the only place to sit down in the room. She accepted the bowl he held out and idly stirred at the contents, “Can you juggle as well?”
Fulk perched himself at the end of the bed, “No, never tried.” He blew on a spoonful of pottage before taking a tentative sample, “Hmm, nice. Bacon, peas, bit of garlic, some white wine and a few herbs; far superior to the muck your cook turns out.”
“That is not difficult!” She sampled her own food; evidently it met with her approval as the rest rapidly disappeared. She put her empty bowl on the rush-strewn floor and moved back to lean against the wall behind the bed with her feet tucked under her. She soon sat back up again; her back was still too raw to stand much pressure. Instead she sat cross-legged and rested her elbows on her knees, watching Fulk.
The man at arms noticed a couple of bare toes sticking out from under the folds of her skirts, “Eccentric little bundle, aren’t you?” he said, gesturing with his spoon at the toes.
They wriggled with the owner’s discomfort, “Those shoes are hot.” explained Eleanor rather shamefacedly. “Please don’t breathe a word to Trempwick or I shall be walking about barefoot for a week. He does not approve of barefoot princesses at all, and disapproval combined with ingenuity is rather uncomfortable.”
“My word on it.” replied Fulk solemnly, holding up his hand as if taking an oath. The effect was ruined by the spoon and bowl he was still holding
Eleanor regarded the lowering level of food in his bowl, “We do not have long before your excuse for being here expires, so we will lay our plans now. We will leave as soon as possible tomorrow morning.”
“So much for resting for a few days.”
“My imitation of my aunt Adelaide will only work for so long; sooner or later they will look beyond the obvious and start seeing and noting other details. The lip is of little consequence, such injuries are common and it will elicit nothing more than pity or curiosity at what I did to upset my husband that badly. Which leads to the second problem – I have no wedding ring and I am years too old to be single. Even widows hang on to their rings, so I cannot claim to be in that happy estate. Besides I would be a rich young widow by default, and that is every bit as dangerous as a single young rich thing.” Her mouth twitched, “I do not want to test your combat skills against a group of ambitious types who see much to gain by abducting and marrying me for my supposed lands and riches. We might be investigating unscrupulous clergy, but extortion is thankfully very different to performing marriages on unwilling victims.” Eleanor blushed slightly and focused intently on her hands clasped in her lap, “I need you to get me a suitable ring. I can hardly go out and buy one myself.”
“Now there’s a story to tell my grandchildren – the day a princess asked me to get her a wedding ring.”
She burned a deeper red, “Oh, shut up you chain mail wearing twit!”
Fulk bobbed an ironic half bow, still sat down and being careful not to spill his food, “As you command, oh crimson one.”
Eleanor watched him, squinting very slightly as she decided whether to pursue that line or not. She decided not; let him have the last word if it meant the whole subject was nicely dropped before she hit beetroot red. “Then there is the hair.” She pushed a hand through her tresses, sweeping them back from her face, only for a few strands to immediately flop back out of place again. “I still have no one to style it and anything I do with it myself falls to pieces within an hour. Wandering about with it loose only attracts attention, as well as making me look like I am perpetually on my way to my wedding as a virgin bride; not at all a good thing, and you have no idea how much that bothers me.”
“I can help on that one too.” offered Fulk as he scrapped his bowl clean and licked his spoon. Truth be told he rather liked her hair as it was, and he suspected no style was the only style that it would ever agree to.
The squint returned, along with a slight frown, “An entirely disreputable story lies behind that expertise, no doubt. I do know how these things are usually learned, and I cannot see you disguising yourself as a maid and learning that way, nor do you wear a wedding ring yourself. I do not wish to know; I just ate and I do not require my stomach turning, thank you.”
“It was entirely honourable.” replied Fulk quietly, supplying the rest in the privacy of his own mind, ”In a disreputable kind of way.”
“Really?” asked Eleanor sceptically, “How nice for you. The hair neatly brings me to the final, and most obvious, point. Even including that archer our party is too small by at least one person; I should have a maid. It would be easy to hire one but we would only have to kill her as soon as the mission was completed. If we did not Trempwick would; the way we will be operating she would know too much if questioned. So, no maid; murder is Trempwick’s passion, not mine. Currently if asked to describe me our hosts will use terms like bossy, loud, or noble. The more they see the more likely they are to provide a description that could help someone locate me, and to note and speak of those aforementioned oddities. We leave tomorrow; I will only leave this room when we depart. That way they will not have much extra time to think or see. You had better go; you have no excuse to linger any more. We will plan further on the road tomorrow; it will be quieter and safer than here, and easier to spot any listeners.”
Fulk didn’t move, “I haven’t done anything about your back; I am determined to be the best royal cut tender ever. I don’t want to be demoted or replaced, oh barefooted one.”
“You have no reason to stay, and so our hosts will grow suspicious.” Soothing might be all right in its place but its place was not here or anywhere in Eleanor’s life, thank you very much. Better to avoid a potential path that would only lead to disaster if followed; the damned man had already saved his life by being too likeable and she could see a possibility peeking out of the shadows at her. She did not like it, not at all. “Remember Adele…”
“Then I shall tell you a story while I work.”
She scowled, hoping to insult him into leaving, “After that last one I am very much inclined to stab you before you have chance to breathe so much as a word; you are the worst story teller I have encountered in my life.”
Fulk only grinned, “It’s about a dragon who captured a damsel and then spent the next few years picking fights with knights in the hopes of getting rid of her. She was a bit of a nag.”
The princess conceded defeat with scant grace, annoyed at how easy it had been for Fulk, and the prospect of those hands combined with that balm, to sway her, “Oh alright.” She made a shooing motion with her hands, “Go see if you can persuade our hosts to part with a bit more of that pottage and I shall get ready.”
All that writing about pottage has made me hungry, wish I could have a bowlful myself.
08-18-2004, 19:33
zelda12
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Coincidentaly I'm just eating a nice bowl of home made soup I made.
08-19-2004, 16:30
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
He was coming, hunting her, and if he found her then it was all over. Eleanor shrank back in her hiding place, barely daring to breathe. After a while she could hear footsteps crunching over the leaves and grass. A shadow blocked out the sun’s light.
“Now I wonder where she could be?” said a man’s voice, exaggerating the question just enough to make it clear he knew she was here. Eleanor stopped breathing. The footsteps got closer. “I thought she would be around here, looks like I was wrong.” The footsteps retreated but the man was still nearby. Eleanor’s chest was feeling tight; she was running out of air. Cautiously she exhaled, then started to breathe in. A pair of hands grabbed her and pulled her out from the little cave under the tree roots. Eleanor shrieked and kicked her legs as Trempwick swung her up into the air.
The spymaster grinned and set her down before collapsing onto the ground next to her, sitting with loose-limbed untidiness that shrank him down into a less intimidating figure, his left arm draped across his raised knees. “Found you, sweetling. I win. Care to play another game?”
“You’ve not won yet!” Eleanor stuck her tongue out at Trempwick then turned to run.
Trempwick grabbed a handful of her skirts, and she fell over when she tried to flee. He stuck out an arm to catch her and break her fall, unbalancing himself so he jointed her face down on the grass. Recovering slightly he tickled her in the ribs, “Boast when you have got clean away, or else you only give your foe warning to prevent your escape.”
Eleanor rolled so she was sitting up, folded her arms and sulked, “You cheat; you always cheat! I’m not playing any more.”
“Cheat? I?” Trempwick looked horrified, “Never.”
“You always find me, you must cheat or else you wouldn’t. “ Eleanor scrambled to her feet and jutted her chin in the air, “I’m really good at hide and seek; no one can ever beat me unless they cheat!”
“Ah, but they are not agents like we are, so of course they are no good.” Trempwick got up and held out his hand to her, when she didn’t take it immediately he wiggled his fingers. “I shall show you how I always win.” he coaxed. Timidly Eleanor slipped her hand into his and followed him back over to the entrance of the little hollow between the tree roots where she had hidden. Trempwick pointed at the ground, “You see how the grass is disturbed?” He turned and pointed back towards the manor, “And if you look back you can see a faint track. Princess, you leave a trail easy that is to follow to those with the eyes and mind to read it.”
Eleanor looked at the grass with a rapt expression, “I want to learn that.”
“And so you shall, I promise. Come, now, let’s go back to the manor. It is nearly midday.”
Still hand in hand they began to walk back, Trempwick’s pace slow so the child could keep up. “You still cheat, sorta.” said Eleanor carefully. “I mean if you follow my track and all, well you’re always going to win and you didn’t even say so.”
Trempwick stopped and dropped to one knee beside her, looking her in the eye, “I will always find you, if you leave so much as one tiny clue I will find you. There is a lot more to tracking than simple trails, and I will teach you it all.”
“But you’ll still be cheating every time we play this game.” insisted Eleanor, not even slightly mollified.
“Yes.” laughed Trempwick, “But then if you learn to hide your trail, to hide your thoughts, to be unpredictable, and to baffle me, well won’t your victory be all the sweeter?”
“I ‘spose so.” allowed Eleanor reluctantly, “But it’s going to take a long time, right? Like weeks, or maybe even months.”
“Years, sweetling.” Trempwick patted her on the head, “So I’ll offer you a piggyback back to the manor to make it up to you, fair?”
Eleanor stood up tall, freeing her hand from his and putting on every ounce of regalness she had, “Not really, but I’ll settle for what I can get.”
“You remind me of your lady mother, she always drives a hard bargain!” Trempwick hoisted her up onto his shoulders and started walking home.
Eleanor drifted awake, the remnants of the dream still clinging to her. She always slept poorly when lying on her front, but currently it was less uncomfortable than lying on her back or side. She got up, cautiously, not making any sudden moves that make reopen her back or make enough noise to bring Fulk and his stupid questions. Opening the shutters, she looked at the moon; it was a couple of hours too early to get up. Sighing she got back into bed, wishing it was time to get up so she could avoid courting any more such dreams. As she drifted off into slumber again she wondered why on this occasion she had been dreaming of the good times.
Consider this a reader request for a certain coz1 over on the Paradox forums. Details of her training will be appearing in the story reasonably regularly for plot purposes, but since it was asked for several times I thought I would expand a little more now. Of course this probably raises more questions than it answers, what with "the good times".... :D
08-20-2004, 01:10
scooter_the_shooter
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
GOOD story my new fav in the mead hall by the way how long do you plan to have red hand
08-20-2004, 13:08
Ludens
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Very good, Froggy. I see what you mean with 'polished style'. I didn't really like the dream scene, I would rather see how the story got on. But perhaps that dream scene becomes important later. Just a question: do you plan out the story or do you write it as you go along?
Quote:
Fulk watched, “I don’t know why you put the thing on in the first place.” he commented, “Pride, I suppose. I’m convinced you’ve got such a strong sense of pride you could catapult rocks at it and they’d only bounce off!”
~D Now that sounds familiar. Mind you, I think it a bit out of place, but still funny.
08-20-2004, 14:25
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Caesar, Red Hand will be as long as it turns out to be; a tremendously useful answer, I'm sure. I estimate it will be about 500 pages in MS Word. Red Hand now finishes when Margaret dies; Culad's life after that is a second book, and GillaIsu's lifetime is another book or three. Just for reference Margaret died on page 100 of the version I posted here and several pages past that point also make it into Red Hand the book. Hmm, I think I may need to up that estimate to around 600 pages...
Ludens, so, you spotted my Easter egg Discworld homage :gring:
The dream was a way of filling a reader's request. I am always open to request so long as they fit the story. I don't really like dreams but I felt this one could be useful since it opens up quite a few possibilities very subtly, as well as making a certain bit later more dramatic. Froggy has gotten rather more subtle with this new polished style and focus on real books. I'm afraid I am not going to state everything clearly all the time now; there will be lines that tell you plenty if you stop and think about them, lines such as "she wondered why on this occasion she had been dreaming of the good times." That tells you several things if you think about it, it also hints at other events and should get you asking questions. Whether it actually does or not is a question I can't answer, but it should do.
I do plan, I shall demonstrate but keep it spoiler tagged for those who don't want to know what is going to happen next:
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:
-Item: must leave inn. Use opportunity to show off details of clothes etc.
-Item: They need to arrive, bit about Trempy's plan and townhouse.
-Item: Fulk goes shopping, get ring and that necklace. Inc. bit about him wondering what to do with necklace, since he has no one to give it to.
-Item: Now Fulk is fixed up they can go shopping together. Bit with El working to play to Trempy's expectations, musing over what the significance of assorted choices mean.
-Item: snoop about and locate the abbey's library.
-Item: Go home and lay plans.
-Need: insert the bit about the sword here? Or later? Needs to be in here before they go back to Woburn.
-Idea: maybe Fulk should do some private joke about not giving her the necklace because he doesn't want to die?
-Idea: State a bit more obviously that Fulk has romantic troubles? Too soon, but maybe another subtle hint.
-Idea: El is bothered by that hint at Fulk's past? Hmm, nope, she's too royal for that.
-Need: to find a use for that joke about maturity...
-Need: Fulk should be concerned about Trempy and plotting a bit.
-Query: brother, uncle, husband, pet canary, what on earth should he be? Hmm, she'd go crazy about the husband, he's rather young to be the uncle, so maybe brother? Needs a disguise and Trempy is waiting to see what she chooses with great interest.
-Need: Make it clear Trempy isn't all horrible, he has been both good and bad and she's kind of torn...
That's the plan for the next section,and it's all very fluid, I can add or remvoe eaisly. Beyond that it is less clear, running to the tone of "they need to go to HERE and do MISSION 2." Hmm, detailed or what? :tongueg:
08-21-2004, 14:48
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
The innkeeper and his wife were astonished at the transformation in their noble guest the next morning. Eleanor had swapped her finery for a plain, simple light grey dress and, thanks to Fulk, her hair was neatly braided and coiled under a wimple. She was nothing more than a well-dressed townsperson, or perhaps a rather poor noble. “Well I hardly want to be robbed a second time, do I?” she said angrily at the look on her hosts’ faces. “You.” she glared at the innkeeper; the man froze in fear, “Go help my man on with his armour.” The man shot off; he didn’t know the first thing about armour but he would have offered to serve as archbishop of Canterbury if it would get him away from his guest.
That left his wife alone with Eleanor and the poor woman didn’t know what to do. She did not want to offend their rich guest; she did not know of anything suitable to say, but she couldn’t just ignore her either. Eleanor solved the woman’s dilemma for her by holding out a small pouch of money, “I believe this will settle my account.”
The woman unlaced the pouch and tipped the money into the palm of her hand; it came to twice what was owed. “Thank you, my lady.” she said reverently, dipping a deep curtsy.
Eleanor ignored her, going to stand in the doorway, watching as the stable boy brought their horses round, saddled, laden and ready to go. “I always feel those unfortunate enough to encounter my aunt Adelaide deserve compensation for suffering her loathsome company.” she thought to herself, “God knows I wanted to charge for enduring her on the single occasion we met!”
The goldsmith’s apprentice looked up at his customer, a warrior still in his mail hauberk with his hand resting comfortably on his sword hilt, and sucked his teeth, “Gonna cost you, take it from me. If you go wandering off with just that ring you’re gonna get kicked in the balls and told ta get stuffed. Whatcha need is this here necklace” he whipped out a small teardrop of clear crystal set on a gold chain, “to show off your wealth and all, aye, mayhap a few other choice items too. That’ll see you home and dry, take it from me.”
Fulk drummed his fingers on his sword hilt, biting his lip to stop a smile. Taking advice on getting engaged from a brat of indistinguishable, but young, age, what a surreal experience. “I don’t think so, the ring will do.”
The boy shook his head, tutting sadly, “Look, I’m a nice chap, I like to see the hero come out on top.” He winked and nudged Fulk with his elbow, just as he had seen his master do when running this sales patter, “So I’ll cut you a deal, that there ring and this here necklace for just the five shillin’s nine pence. Da necklace’s special, it were brought in from some far off land and all. One of a kind, she’ll love it, trust me.” While the necklace was undoubtedly fine it did not look either special or unique.
“The ring, just the ring, and only the ring.” replied Fulk sternly. He did not want a necklace, especially not at that inflated price. He might be spending the crown’s money but he was still leery of paying more than he had to for anything.
The boy scratched his head, unable to figure out what was wrong. This line almost always worked for his master. “Now see here, if you wanna get kicked then that’s your business-”
“Exactly; the ring, now. I’m a busy man.”
The boy didn’t miss a beat, “-but I’m a family man and all so I’m not wantin’ ta see that, I’m on your side.”
“Oh goodie.” muttered Fulk.
“Aye, so if you’re not gonna help yourself I’ll help ya from the goodness of my heart.” He placed a hand over his breastbone, as pious as a saint. “Looky here, that ring’s a bit small like, you’ll want something a tad grander-” he pushed the ring Fulk had chosen to one side and plonked down a new one.
“No.” replied Fulk pushing the new ring, a gaudy affair with a pair of clasped hands engraved on it, back across the counter and placing his own choice back in the centre, “She’ll like that one, it will suit her, so if you’ll sell it to me…”
“So ya really wanna get turned down, fine, fine.” the apprentice shrugged, “So maybe you don’t like her or sommat? Yeh, ya wanna get turned down, right?”
“Call me confident; I know plenty you don’t. The ring…?”
“Confident? Huh?” The boy lost the thread of his sales patter, his face screwed up as he laboriously tried to work out what his customer meant. Why on earth would he be confident? The master always said gold worked with women, no gold meant no chance, and this armoured customer had very little gold. Recovering with some effort he continued his pitch, faltering and disjointed, “Er…oh yeh, so how’s about the ring and the necklace? I’ll let ya have it for four shillin’s.”
Fulk headed towards the door, “I’ll go elsewhere, thanks.”
“No!” yelped the boy, panicking. This was his first customer and he’d been dreaming about telling the goldsmith of his first sale ever since his first day in the shop. He could practically see it, the master patting him on the head and saying “Great work, Edwin. I’ll let you keep a third of the sales fee, you’re the best apprentice I ever had and you’ll be journeyman within a month.” and then he’d reply, “It were nothin’ master, honest.” and the goldsmith would look awed and say, “Then you’re a natural, my lad! You’ll go on to be the best goldsmith, nay the best merchant in the town! They’ll make you mayor and shower you with riches and everyone will love you! I’m so proud you’re my apprentice!”. Now that dream was within reach and crumbling from under his fingertips. He pursued Fulk, stopping him just as he began to open the door, “Look, see the ring’s only two shillin’s and I’ll chuck in the necklace for free. How’s that for fair?”
Fulk stopped; not a bad offer at all, even if the necklace wasn’t quite free. It appealed to the inner bargain hunter.
The boy didn’t wait for him to answer; he could feel his dream coming back to life, “One shillin’ ten pence?”
One free necklace and a reduction in the ring’s price, an offer too good to refuse. “Deal.” The money changed hands and Fulk left the shop, carefully stashing his purchases in his belt pouch. They were both fine items, but what was he was at a loss as to what he was going to do with the necklace, but it would be foolish to refuse. Doubtless the goldsmith would not be best pleased when he returned.
In the shop the boy had a broad grin on his face; his first sale and on his second week in the shop too. The master would be so proud.
Ok, so this is only part of what I planned. I'm busy.
Pint-sized medieval used car salesman :gring:
And before anyone tells me there is a ring shaped gap in the description department I shall say that is reserved for later.
08-22-2004, 20:38
zelda12
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
I kept expecting the apprentice to say guv'nor every six words.
Good work.
08-25-2004, 21:19
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Fulk arrived back at the townhouse they were working from with a large bundle tucked under one arm, the fruits of a successful shopping trip. Trempwick had sent an agent to rent it weeks ago; it was in a quiet part of the town and the neighbours had been informed via very careful gossip that it was for a certain lady Eleanor, who was far too miserly to hire servants to take care of the house when she wasn’t in residence. Too miserly, for that matter, to even hire servants in the first place.
“It came free with the ring; I thought you might like it.” mumbled Fulk to himself as he opened the door and entered the building. “No, she’ll ask why I thought she might like it.” He shut the door and began to wander very slowly through the empty, almost bare building, still muttering to himself, brows locked together in deep thought. “How about, I got it with your money so you keep it. No, she’ll ask me what I expect her to do with it. It will look nice on you – no, definitely not, I like being alive. Maybe, I got this free with the ring; it was an offer too good to refuse, so here you go. Don’t ask me what to do with it, sort that out yourself. No, it’s kind of abrupt. Ok, what about the goldsmith said to give it to someone I like.” Fulk paused at the bottom of the steps leading up to the second floor. “Um, no…no, just no.”
He decided to leave any mention of the necklace until he could think of a way to explain it without inviting her to do something detrimental to his health. He would mention it, of course, as soon as it was safe. He certainly wasn’t going to keep it for himself; stealing from a royal assassin and her spymaster mentor was not an activity conductive to a healthy lifestyle. And anyway it would be dishonourable and Fulk was very much an honourable man, as he frequently told himself in defiance of that bothersome little voice in the back of his mind.
He clattered noisily up the stairs; the last thing he wanted was to be accused of sneaking up on a certain knife wielding, bad tempered princess. At the top he pushed open the door to the house’s pokey little solar. It was the best furnished room in the house; kitchen, main hall and the single bedchamber were all but bare. Even so this room was hardly a beacon of excellent interior decoration; it had a table, three chairs and a straw stuffed mattress, which Fulk had discovered to be lumpy and uncomfortable. He was not looking forward to a good night’s sleep, or more accurately he was looking forward to one but knew it wasn’t too likely. That was the problem, Fulk reflected, with working for a princess. She always got the best bed and he couldn’t even claim to be gallant because there was no way a simple man at arms could lay claim to the best in order to offer it away.
The sight that greeted him raised a smile. Eleanor was sat hunched up sideways in the biggest chair, her shoulder and side leaning against the back of the chair and a rolled up cloak stuffed under her head, fast asleep. Fulk tiptoed across the rush-strewn floor and peered down at her. “Isn’t she just adorably cute when she’s unable to kill, maim or threaten you?” he commented in a mischievous whisper. Sleeping or not he didn’t feel like pushing his luck with further remarks in case she woke up.
He retreated, pausing by the table with the ring in his hand. He tossed it up and down a few times, then put it back in his belt pouch, deciding that he didn’t want to miss her reaction.
It was early evening, some time shortly after 7 o’clock according to the church bells, when Eleanor appeared in the kitchen looking for Fulk. “I knew you’d follow your nose eventually.” he said, gesturing idly towards the iron cauldron hanging above the fire.
“Cooking, are we?”
“If you like.” shrugged Fulk. He’d actually trotted across to a nearby tavern with the cauldron under his arm and brought enough stew to fill it because he didn’t fancy any more of his own cooking. He reasoned that he wasn’t lying; the stew was still above heat and therefore cooking, and since he was sat nearby observing it that made him the cook.
Eleanor watched with mild interest as he stood, uncovered the pot and began stirring at the contents. “I should learn that.” she decided suddenly, “I have no idea how to prepare food that is not lethal.”
“Your cooking that bad, oh culinary disastrous one?”
She glowered and yawned, a strange combination. “No, and I do suspect you have boiled your brains along with our dinner! I meant that my education extends as far as adding hemlock and other unorthodox flavourings.” Eleanor yawned again, cursing herself roundly for dozing off in the first place. She might not have got much sleep the past few weeks but that was little excuse. “Cooking is not regal; it is practical and therefore unnecessary. If you ever want to remove the royal house from a country simply remove their kitchen staff and prevent them for hiring replacements. A bloodless coup; you simply wait for them to starve.”
“I’ll remember that if I ever need to take over a kingdom.” Fulk replaced the lid on the stew pot and returned to his stool find it was occupied by a tenant he couldn’t evict. “Please do sit down, your wide-awake royalness.” he said ironically.
With an irritated sigh Eleanor vacated his stool and sat on the table instead, “Happy now?”
Fulk bowed deeply before seating himself. He hadn’t expected her to move, “I am forever in your debt, oh gracious one. So, you want to learn how to cook from an old soldier used to burning stuff over a campfire…” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and pulled a face “This should be interesting.”
Eleanor smothered yet another yawn, “Not half as interesting as my next request. I want to learn to use a sword. I refuse to be as defenceless as they seem to want; knives are all very well but they have their limits. I will not die because they want to keep me ignorant.”
“If you’re serious-”
“I am. Deadly serious.” said Eleanor grimly; an effect ruined by the fact she looked half asleep still. “With you around things will be…different this time.” Fulk frowned quizzically, opening his mouth to speak. She waved him into silence, “Yes, yes, you get to hear a long boring story if you really want.” She hoped he didn’t want; it was not a story she much wanted to share.
“Nothing you say is ever boring, oh source of enrapturement.”
Eleanor ignored his light humour, recounting her tale emotionlessly, briskly as if it was in no way connected to her. “I had a sword once, actually two. They both belonged to my eldest brother, Stephan. One was a gift, a wooden training sword. The other was steel, smaller than a normal sword because it was made for a growing boy. As you might imagine the crown prince’s blade was the best to be found in the realm, fill in the details of how fabulous it was for yourself. I shall not go into details of how I acquired the steel; I had been under Trempwick’s wing for a good year or thereabouts and I had learned rather a lot. Swords are not now, nor ever have been, part of Trempwick’s plan for me. Let us say that when he found my new treasure he was displeased. No, then again let us not say that at all. Instead we shall say he was livid, furious, raging. You can hide nothing from Trempwick; he sees right through lies, he learns you in the same way others learn poetry so he can always predict what you will do, he always finds you when you run. Do you know any of those old legends where they ritually kill a sword when the hero who owned it died?”
“Yes, a few. They bend the blade or snap it clean it two so none can use it.”
“Trempwick murdered my brother.” Fulk started at this revelation but Eleanor studiously ignored him and he took the hint not to inquire further. She continued, barely missing a beat as the unsaid discussion on murder only took moments to complete. “He made me murder my brother’s sword. No, not murder - slaughter, mutilate and desecrate. He threw my wooden sword on a fire and forced me to watch as it burned to ashes, which he then scattered on the wind. Do you know how to destroy a steel sword of the best quality? You smash it into stone over and over with all your strength, bending, chipping, mangling, and shattering the blade. The damned sword was nearly as tall as me; it took so long to ruin it, hours I suppose, and all the while he talked.”
She could hear the spymaster’s mocking voice even after all these years, turning the whole thing into a parody of a fencing lesson. “No, keep your guard up, Nell. Don’t hack, slash, dear Nell. Oh dear, Nell, you will never make a swordsman at this rate. Come on, dearest Nell, put a little energy in or you will never pierce armour. What are you doing, Nell, cutting crops or sword fighting? I have seen ploughmen with more grace, dear Nell. Yes, yes that swing was rather good, sweetest Nell, try again and put more strength into it.” It had been the moment where ‘sweetling’ was replaced with ‘Nell’. The spymaster’s reaction had been more violently uncontrolled than any she had ever seen from him before or since. Why? She had never been able to decide, the possibilities were too numerous and plausible. It could be because she had outwitted him, however briefly. It could be concern for her safety as he had insisted. Perhaps simply to assert his authority. Or maybe even because he was bored and the idea amused him. It was probably all of them, and more as yet unthought of.
Bitterness seeped into her voice and the cold glint of repressed anger replaced the sleepy half awake look her eyes had sported. Her foot was swinging slightly in a manner that put Fulk in mind of an angry cat’s tail twitching. “In the end all that was left was a twisted mess and my aching arms, and even that was not enough. No, he dragged me off to the nearest blacksmith, threw the bits of sword into his furnace and made me watch as it was melted down and forged into a misshapen iron ingot. And still it was not enough; my sword rests at the bottom of a lake. Those two swords were all I had left of a brother who is stricken from the records. Trempwick was not just making me destroy items, he was making me erase the last remaining traces of Stephan’s existence, making me destroy my memories of him too.”
“What will you do if you are discovered again?” demanded Fulk, “This sounds dangerous!”
“We will keep this secret, I think perhaps we can manage that. And if not” her face went hard, “I shall obediently do exactly as he demands, behave just as he expects and make him think he has won. And then I shall go get another sword and begin again. You need not worry, you will be quite safe, and I shall survive.”
“Let me guess, if I refuse you’ll just try and teach yourself?”
“Am I so predictable?”
“Let’s just say I’m getting to know and appreciate some of your finer points.” Fulk got up and started ladling the stew out into two bowls, more for something to do than out of any desire to eat. He had lost his appetite; his mind teemed with questions he knew he shouldn't ask, especially about the murdered brother. “Well, looks like I’ve got myself an apprentice.”
“I do have one question though.” Eleanor frowned, “Why didn’t that dragon just eat Alix? In your stupid story, I mean. Why go through all the rigmarole of fighting and trying to lose in order to get rid of her when one gulp would have solved the problem without risking more than an upset stomach?”
So, more than an unspoken request not to ask; she was removing his chance to continue the subject. Interesting, it only increased his curiosity. “Because, contrary to popular opinion, damsels are not particularly tasty or succulent.” He finished dishing out the stew and put the lid back on to keep the remainder warm. As they sat down to eat he threw something towards her with no warning, “Here, before I forget.”
Eleanor caught the object quite neatly in the only way she could with her hands full – in her bowl. She fished the ring out and put the bowl down on the table, then set about cleaning the metal on the hem of her dress.
“I do hope you like it.” said Fulk neutrally, pretending to be very busy with his food. “Although quite why I say that I’ve no idea; it’s only a disguise, after all.”
“I think I would prefer a slightly less spectacular delivery.” Eleanor examined the ring closely, holding it in the palm of her hand. It was a simple gold band, rather thin. The only decoration was a twist worked into the metal itself, the front part twisted, the half that would rest on the inside of the hand left plain. Hesitantly she slipped it onto her left ring finger. “It fits.” she said, a touch of surprise showing.
“Of course; it took ages to find somewhere selling ready made clothes that could pass as a noble’s but I did.”
“Then tomorrow we shall snoop around the abbey as planned.”
“So, what do you think?”
“Quite a lot.” returned Eleanor matter-of-factly, “But on what particular subject do you want the benefit of my knowledge?”
“The ring!” Fulk looked woeful and injected a touch of martyred patience into his voice; “I trudged up and down for hours searching goldsmith after goldsmith to find something suitable and I bargained as if my life were at stake. What do I get for my troubles? Nothing but surprise at a job well done; quite frankly I’m insulted!”
“Poor dear.” Eleanor leaned over and patted him on the head, nearly losing her balance and falling off the table in the process. “It is the best wedding ring I have ever had; satisfied?”
“You’ve only had the one!” exclaimed Fulk.
“Yes, I do not wish to create a habit out of collecting them.”
Er, delays this time caused by a wedding, specifically Culad and Margaret's. Erm, yes froggy has been working on that in some fine detail, creating the appropriate religious stuff for the ceremony, planning a feast Irmilian style, peppering the scene with notable nobles from Verdere, and finally setting down just what did happen (and go badly wrong) on that rather famous night. In detail. :embarassed: Um, I couldn't post it here, let's say that much :embarassed: Damn, you'd be shocked at how much planning goes into Culad the drunken 15 second wonder! :embarassed: Still a work very much in progress but pulling together nicely, which is more than I can say for the cast of that scene; they are managing to upset each other perfectly to plan :grin:
So all in all it's nice to escape to Fulk and Eleanor's considerably less, er troubled existence, even if the damned ring keeps reminding me of a certain other couple, and the need to pair Donchad (due to be renamed) and Nuala off sometime soon. This segment isn't too bad but I feel the last part of their sword conversation could use more work, it kind of slumps when Fulk gets involved and only recovers part way through the ring bit. On the positive side I do love “Isn’t she just adorably cute when she’s unable to kill, maim or threaten you?” and Fulk's neat rejoinder on her cooking.
Lol, yes, I kept expecting that too, zelda. I also expected him to suddenly produce a genuine Rolex watch for £5.
EDIT: typo, questions Fulk shouldn't ask, not should ask.
08-25-2004, 21:48
zelda12
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
All that was needed was a cab driver of some description. Who gets lost and drives around for two hours faithfuly proclaiming it'll be five more minutes or Bobs my uncle. Or using the cliche that he won't go south of the river when there isn't a river anywhere near the town. ~:joker:
Exellent as ever Lady Frog.
08-26-2004, 11:48
Ludens
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Very good. I like the “Isn’t she just adorably cute when she’s unable to kill, maim or threaten you?”-bit.
Here is a tip about dialogue: if you add the tag (the 'he/she said'-part) after the dialogue; you should use a comma, not a point. Example:
“It came free with the ring; I thought you might like it.” mumbled Fulk (...).
Should be:
“It came free with the ring; I thought you might like it,” mumbled Fulk (...).
Of course, this doesn't apply when you close the dialogue with a exclamation or question mark (or both). Along the same lines: if you put the tag first, there should be a comma between the tag and the dialogue:
Fulk mumbled, “It came free with the ring; I thought you might like it.”
08-26-2004, 12:39
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Now how to do a medieval taxi driver... ~:joker:
Really, Ludens? :runs off and checks loads of books at random: Yes, you are quite right. Thanks, I shall try to remember that. And so at the bottom of page 55 Eleanor gets a major stylistic change, and I will have to go back and edit Red Hand to match.
08-27-2004, 14:41
Ludens
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Really, Ludens? :runs off and checks loads of books at random: Yes, you are quite right. Thanks, I shall try to remember that. And so at the bottom of page 55 Eleanor gets a major stylistic change, and I will have to go back and edit Red Hand to match.
It gets even more complicated if you put the tag in the middle of a sentence in dialogue. Then you should use comma's on both sides.
If you are interested, I can prepare a primer on the punctuation of dialogue.
08-27-2004, 14:43
zelda12
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
I think a, "Ludens Guide to Grammar" would be a great idea.
08-27-2004, 16:11
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Yes, please do put a guide together, Ludens. Punctuation with regards to dialogue is a subject that does not feature in the grammar guides I have read, and I find it difficult to spot these rules while reading. Once they are pointed out then it becomes obvious, but before they are highlighted them I can't see them. It doesn't help that some authors have their own peculiarities, such as Sharon Penman's habit of missing out joining words, like this: He crossed the room, flung the window open. There should be an ‘and’ in there. I call this Penman's Disease.
Since I am going to be sending Red Hand to agents and publishers it had better be as perfect as I can make it, and poor grammar won't help my cause.
Right, back to work on Eleanor. I had just started when a power cut hit my area. I hope I will still be posting something new today, but I have lost a couple of hours working time. I suppose I can steal time from Red Hand today.
08-27-2004, 22:19
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
The next morning Fulk stood in the kitchen, feet planted slightly apart, back straight, chin up and hands clasped at the small of his back like a soldier under inspection. Eleanor paced slowly around him, inspecting him from every angle. “Well?” he asked, turning his head to follow her. “I’ll do?”
“Not if you talk like that.”
“Bah! I’m supposed to be a big tough noble knight warrior chap; I’ll skin anyone who complains!”
“Oh dear, and I thought we were going to remain low key.”
Fulk neatened up his French while she continued to scrutinise him, “Is this better, oh elocutional one?”
“I suppose it will do. Fortunately we are only pretending to be minor nobles; you would never pass muster at court,” she removed some of the precision from her own speech, “I’ll have to tone my language down to match yours, or else it’ll only look out of place.” Toning down, possible and easy, a very versatile disguise, and such a waste of all those hours of being yelled at by Trempwick for not speaking properly.
“So, that’s my disguise sorted, now how about yours?”
“Oh that is very easy; I just go with what will be expected. You will have the privilege to see my perfectly behaved and boring noble act, with all that entails. Since I am going to be spending much of the day in the company of monks, behaving impeccably and generally being bored out of my mind I think I shall do something scandalous and morally bankrupt this morning to make up for it,” she grinned at Fulk and announced with relish, “I am going to have breakfast.” Eleanor lifted the lid off the iron pot hanging over the kitchen fire and set to work stoking the fire up from the embers it had burned to overnight.
“Glutton! Two meals a day is all anyone needs, one at midday and one in the evening. Even the richest in the land abide by this; you are a sinful creature, weak of morals,” accused Fulk mock sternly. He matched her grin with a hopeful one of his own, “Is there enough for me too? What can I say? You’re a corrupting influence, and the devil works best in groups.”
A monk must be patient, modest, self-sacrificing, and ready to help any who needed him. As Brother Prior met his guests he discovered an entirely new meaning in his vocation; self-sacrifice did not include dealing with situations like this, no, instead it meant nice, tame things like the occasional fast. Normally he was only too happy to deal with nobles, but this pair? Well, the man was rather dangerous looking and he had a sword that was exceptionally serviceable, instead of the usual decorated toy most nobles had for everyday wear. The woman looked like she had been backhanded across the mouth, so either she was completely amoral and therefore dangerous to monks, or the man had a very bad temper. All in all it looked like a job for Father Abbot, and so the Prior excused himself and exited the scene as rapidly as his dignity would let him. As soon as he was out of sight he started running, sandals flapping and his cassock billowing out behind him, running as if all of hell were on his heels.
While he was away other passing monks gawped shamelessly at the spectacle of two well-dressed nobles being left to stand in the middle of the church’s aisle. Fulk resisted the urge to drum his fingers on the hilt of his sword and strike up a conversation with Eleanor to pass the time. Drumming fingers was bad manners, and Eleanor was doing an unbelievably good job of being boring and proper, so any conversation would consist of him saying something and her agreeing respectfully. At first it had been nice having a princess padding along slightly behind him, agreeing with everything he said and generally not trying to kill him, but that soon wore off. Fulk was disturbed to find he actually preferred the less demure edition of Her Royal Shortness. He decided it must be something to do with prolonged suffering making him immune, just as drunkards slowly became accustomed to alcohol.
Relief finally arrived in the shape of an elderly, harmless looking man; the abbot. The man fitted the stereotypical image of a kindly old grandfather to perfection; his hair snowy white and wispy around his tonsure, his face wrinkled like an old apple, his smile compassionate, his posture ever so slightly stooped, his eyes twinkly. Fulk idly wondered if he kept a stash of sweets hidden about his person to give out to young children.
Fulk aimed a half bow in the abbot’s direction, “I am Sir Fulk.” ‘Sir Fulk’, those words summoned an echo of a rash boy making an angry vow, “I will be a knight, with or without your help, faithless bastard!”, an echo best forgotten and buried so deep down it could no longer bring forth the poison that belonged to it. Best not to use ‘Sir Fulk’ again unless he could not avoid it.
He saw the abbot looking politely at Eleanor, waiting to be introduced. A sense of devilry came over him; he’d had enough of this tedium, thanks, and he was sure she was equally fed up. “This is my wife, Eleanor.” Now if that didn’t put an end to the peace nothing would. Fulk briefly wondered if he was being entirely too provocative for his own good here.
“Brother Prior said you had business?” said the abbot. Even his voice matched the grandfather image, soothing and mild.
“Yes,” interjected Eleanor in her politest, most dutiful tone, “We’re here to inquire about a tomb for my husband.”
Well, she was back, if only in a politely ominous kind of way. To battle! “And one for you, my dear. I would not wish to be lonesome.”
Eleanor inclined her head, “As you wish,” she turned to the abbot, “A spot nearest the altar would be preferable.” The insinuation was clear to Fulk but the abbot only nodded benevolently and smiled. The closer you were to the altar the closer you were to God, and therefore you got a helping hand on the way to paradise, or in other words Fulk wasn’t going to get there on his own merits. What a nice, subtle way of saying “Go to hell!”.
“I don’t feel that is necessary, dearest,” He claimed her hand and patted it comfortingly. If you’re going to hang for a sheep then you may as well swipe the whole damn flock, “But then perhaps for your sake it might be best.” Oh dear, she had that look again, the one that he had only seen when she was running about knives in hand and about to kill someone. He rather liked it. Oh dear.
“Ah,” the abbot’s face light up, a mass of wrinkles well worn in place by constant smiling. “Then perhaps you will accompany me to my office where we can talk in peace?”
They followed along behind the abbot, Eleanor pacing at Fulk’s side, her hand resting on his arm, the very picture of a respectable noble couple. Fulk bent his head and said quietly to Eleanor, “Don’t laugh in church, it’s not becoming.” She wasn’t laughing – yet. Now there was a goal to work towards; one laughing princess when she’d set her mind firmly on decorum.
“I am going to kill you later, “ replied Eleanor amiably.
“I’ll look forward to it,” he answered, not the least bit perturbed.
If the abbot overheard their whispered conversation he gave nothing away.
This part is about as short as the titular princess. In addition to a lengthy powercut I've had a few other unexpected distractions and so my writing time was cut back. Still, I do rather like this bit; I love it when they're arguing.
08-28-2004, 13:27
Ludens
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Quote:
Originally Posted by zelda12
I think a, "Ludens Guide to Grammar" would be a great idea.
Well, a complete grammar guide might be asking a bit too much Zelda ~D . But I shall certainly work on the punctuation primer.
Frogbeastegg, the dialogue in the abbey is great, but I found the opening a bit hard to follow. Expressions like 'Neating up your French' sound rather odd to me ~D .
Another thing: aren't you using thought-reading a bit too often? It is a great and easy-to-use device to explain what is happening, and I am not saying that you use it so often it starts to annoy, but I find that it distracts people from the dialogue. The dialogue becomes more powerful if no thought-reading is neccesary.
Also, you should leave people room for imagination: if you explain every thought, then the story becomes dull very quickly.
EDIT: I sound a bit too negative here: the dialogue in the abbey was really great, probably one of the best scenes I've read from you.
08-28-2004, 16:08
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
No problem, Ludens. I was just trying something new and not entirely sure about it's success myself. Can you provide a few samples of the worst bits? Just for reference and learning purposes.
Neaten up your French, well I couldn't think of a better way to say "start sounding a bit less like a peasant and more like an educated noble, for example precise pronunciation please". The same in reverse applies to her toning down.
08-28-2004, 19:38
Ludens
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Quote:
Originally Posted by frogbeastegg
Neaten up your French, well I couldn't think of a better way to say "start sounding a bit less like a peasant and more like an educated noble, for example precise pronunciation please". The same in reverse applies to her toning down.
How about something along the lines of 'Fulk thought for a moment and than said in a more polite/aristorcratic/posh voice,....'
Of course, it is not neccesary for you to state it, you can also have Fulk say 'I guess I shall have to try to sound like a noble.' Or have Eleanor snap it at him. The possibilities are endless ~:) .
I just said it because it struck me as odd. But then, English isn't my first language and when it comes to fancyfull expressions...
About thought-reading: the instance that struck me most was:
Quote:
Toning down, possible and easy, a very versatile disguise, and such a waste of all those hours of being yelled at by Trempwick for not speaking properly.
Completily redundant, doesn't add anything to either dialogue or character. So much redundant, in fact, that I wondered if you had put it in on purposes.
Quote:
Fulk idly wondered if he kept a stash of sweets hidden about his person to give out to young children.
Was also not really necesary either, and it struck me as rather a-historic. Nice way of describing someone in one line, though.
In theory, you could get rid of all the toughtreading after Fulk introduced himself to the abbot (except for the bits relating to the grave). Explanations of how Fulk feels can be done through describing his reactions. In practice, off course, you might want to highlight certain things by thoughtreading; I have no idea where you want to take this scene.
It is very hard to mentally 'rewrite' a scene from another author, so this is not very helpfull, I am afraid. I just mentioned it for you to keep in mind. I am not a fan of this 'thought-reading' myself and try to avoid it, especially in dialogue scenes. But this is sometimes harder than you would imagine ~;) .
08-28-2004, 19:56
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Well my excuse for "Toning down…" is it confirms (and explains for those who haven't been thinking for themselves) how she got the posh accent, as well as revealing a bit more about her and Trempwick. I was in two minds about including that bit; I think we are actually in agreement here. If nothing else it feels very dry.
Fulk's idle wondering about sweets was a failed attempt at humour. I don't think it will happen again. Ever.
The rest of his thought reading....well I thought some was necessary. It is so hard to tell whether people spot things or get jokes since no one says so! I can't sit here watching people's reaction line by line, I get occasional comments on the highlights, a few comments on the lowlights, and a nice bundle of overall opinions which tell me the story is working nicely as a whole. It is so hard to know when I need to point something out and when I don't. And, of course, there are limitations occasionally applied by the story, for example Fulk can't break out of his cover in the abbey so any reactions to Eleanor have to be very carefully hidden. If he’s going to show a reaction to that gleam in her eye it has to be something quietly thought in the privacy of his own skull.
I don't particularly like this business myself, as I say it was an experiment. If I only knew what people did and didn't get throughout this work...
08-31-2004, 13:28
Desiderata
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
frogbeastegg - I like the way you mix 'thought reading' with other descriptive tools; if you change your style too drastically, then your prose would either eventually become some mediocre slug deviod of any character or it would sound like someone else. Find your style and stick with it. And grammer be damned; it's a more of a framework than cast iron set of rules - don't be too pedantic, otherwise your writing would be too formal and whilst it may be correct, it could become unreadable.
I liked the quip about a bag of sweets under the cassock - it may be temporacentric, but it works - like the Actress said "keep it up please"
However, if worried by grammar, then check out "Eat, Shoots and Leaves"
09-02-2004, 14:34
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
The abbot’s office was plain, as befits a man who has taken a vow of poverty. However, as so often was the case, there were traces of wealth and luxury. A small, fancily bound casket stood on a dedicated table off to one side. Nearby a large, iron bound and locked chest stood on the floor. The abbot’s seat was a great, high backed almost throne with ornately carved banded decoration along the edges. The great desk was no plainer. Two chairs were provided for guests, and they were far closer to the quality found in homes that could afford something grander than a simple stool; not as ostentatious as the abbot’s chair but still pricey considering the wood and labour that went into them.
They seated themselves and Fulk began to explain what he wanted, “I would like a nice warrior effigy for myself, and of course a matching statue for my wife, one with her likeness at prayer.”
“The specifics belong to the craftsmen, not us, but I can foresee no problem with a tomb of the type you describe,” said the abbot, “I presume you will want an inscription? It would be good to have an idea of what you intend, and if you wish the church can act as intermediary between you and the craftsmen. This would reduce your burden and cares.”
“Yes, I’d like that,” confirmed Fulk, “I’d like something recording my greatest deeds like…”
“Your grand construction projects,” supplied Eleanor gracefully, “such as your expansion of the manor’s cattle sheds. You did a wonderful job there, I consider it to be one of your greatest achievements.”
“I was thinking of something a bit more martial, darling.”
“Well, how about your stunning single-handed arrest of three armed men?” Eleanor frowned, as if struggling to recall something, “Now who was it?” her face cleared, “Ah yes - the coroner and his escort. You were so brave, I was so proud of you.”
On the note of that supposed spectacularly incompetent gaff Fulk launched a swift counter attack; if he was going to hang for a sheep he might as well swipe every fluffy white animal that said ‘baaa!’ in a fifty mile radius, “But let us forget my own epitaph; we shall consider yours. I thought something like ‘Dearly beloved of Fulk, was always dutiful, polite, obedient, pious. A shining example to every woman in the land.’”
“I had expected a simple ‘I try my best’ and nothing more,” demurred Eleanor.
The abbot smiled inoffensively and drew a cross in the air, “Indeed, you are both good examples of Christian virtues, my children.” Both Eleanor and Fulk looked at him blankly. “Will you be requiring nearby spaces for your children’s tombs?” enquired the abbot.
“Currently I’m rather lacking in the heir department,” said Fulk stoically.
“That’s because your barber cut too close to the pudding bowl he’d stuck on your head,” interjected Eleanor solemnly.
Fulk choked as he tried to maintain his serious façade in the face of an onslaught of laughter. Damn it, she was the one who was supposed to end up laughing! Once again the abbot proved he was either a brilliant actor or entirely oblivious, “I shall ask the brothers to pray for you, that you might be blessed with a son.”
“Yes,” Fulk aimed a rakish smile at Eleanor, “remind me to take advantage of those prayers tonight, oh beloved mine.” She went a bright pink, opened her mouth to say something, and then closed it again, blinking a few times in rapid succession as she did so. Having won that battle Fulk returned to the skirmish currently running on the abbot front, “So, how much will this tomb cost me?”
The abbot named a sum. Eleanor’s eye ticked, “We can’t afford that.” The abbot and Fulk stared at her, Fulk with an expression of mild surprise, the abbot with nonplussed but endearingly grandfatherish shock. She forced an ingratiating smile and aimed it at Fulk, “You said this was for my benefit; I can’t justify spending so much on me.”
“Consider it a gift, my precious.”
“You’re far too kind, my lord, but I couldn’t possibly accept in good conscience because…” her mind worked frantically, thinking ahead while she was still talking, “It would be very close to vanity, and so imperil your own soul.”
He knew that they had enough money, so she must have another reason for wanting to save cash. In the hopes of winning points to put towards saving his neck later, and since it was her money, Fulk played along, “For your peace of mind then, I’ll not bother,” he turned to the abbot, “How much for two plain slabs with just names and a simple epitaph?”
The abbot named another, substantially smaller sum, and Fulk reached to the purse he wore at his belt. Before he could take out so much as a shilling Eleanor piped up, “Shouldn’t we have witnesses for the contract?”
Fulk took her cue; this wasn’t what they had arranged, but he would follow as best as he could, “Yes, we should have witnesses to see the money handed over, to check the contract you’re about to draw up. I think four’s a good number.”
“I am not sure that is necessary…” the abbot wavered.
“I’m not accusing your or your abbey of corruption,” said Fulk reassuringly, “but these things should be done properly.”
“As you say.” The abbot rose in a cacophony of creaks and clicking joints, and shuffled towards the door, “If you’ll be so good as to wait here I will find suitable parties.”
The door closed and Eleanor waited a few seconds, giving the abbot time to get clear. “Guard the door,” she ordered. She grabbed one of the trailing ends of her girdle and turned it over to the plain, undecorated back. A lock pick was secured in place by two loops; she pulled the pick free and headed over to the fancy chest. It was the work of moments to bypass the simple mechanism. As soon as she saw the contents she cursed and shut the casket again, replacing everything carefully. “That one has a book,” she explained to Fulk as she started work on the iron chest. This lock took a little longer, but once again it soon sprang open. This chest was full of parchment, rolled up and tied with a leather thong. The thong had the abbey’s crest stamped in wax at the end. It was possible to open each scroll without breaking the crest, but the seal proved the documents to be official. Eleanor rummaged through them, searching for something that looked less than official. Each time she found a likely candidate she untied the thong, rolled the first part out, scanned it, then cursed, re-rolled it and put it away.
She soon ran out of likely scrolls and shut that chest too, “Where is it? Records have to be here…” her eyes lighted on the fancy casket once again, “Why would an abbot want a copy of Beowulf in his office?”
“He wouldn’t,” replied Fulk, crossing over to the casket and trying the lid. It was locked again but Eleanor soon had it open. Fulk pulled out the book, holding it reverently. It was a beautiful piece; there was silver work all over the sturdy cover, and opening it to the first page revealed a delicate scribe’s hand and plentiful illustrations. He brushed a fingertip over the text, caressing the illuminated first letter.
“Falling in love, are we?” inquired Eleanor. Fulk flinched, nearly dropping the book. He stared at her in uncomprehending shock. She nodded at the book, “The book, you lackadaisical object.”
“It’s Beowulf,” he said sheepishly as if that explained everything.
Eleanor smiled, “You know most sword wielding types would be perfectly content to rip the silver off the cover to sell before tossing the book itself on a fire. I am not sure if your interest makes you special or deranged.”
She took the book off him and began flicking through the pages. Bits of loose parchment were soon falling out, records of extra rents, ‘gifts’, and other corrupt dealings, with one small bit of parchment stuffed between random pages. Eleanor stopped when she had found three notes, “We cannot take too much or the theft will be noticed.” She grabbed the scraps of parchment and stuffed them in Fulk’s hand, “Here, hide these.” While Fulk secreted the evidence between his tunic and shirt Eleanor replaced the book and refastened the casket. Job done they checked the room looked identical to how it was before, then sat back down and waited.
The abbot was gone for a long time; when he finally reappeared he had the prior, and three lay servants with him. He seated himself wearily, and began to write out the contract. Fulk reached into his purse and counted out the required amount, his heart aching with each shilling he placed into the abbot’s lined hand. They could have done a lot with that money, and now he knew they weren’t going to steal it back again. The abbot placed the money safely to one side, pulled out a piece of parchment and carefully wrote out a contract and receipt in a spidery hand. Finally he pushed the parchment towards Fulk and held out his quill, “Now if you’ll place your mark…”
Fulk took the quill, holding it as if he were unfamiliar with writing. Laboriously, with much spattering of ink and a split nib, he scratched an x at the bottom where the abbot indicated. Literacy was a rare skill, one liable to make him stand out in the abbot’s memory.
The abbot took the contract back and scattered sand over the wet ink. He then asked each of the witnesses to make their own marks next to their names; most people knew how to recognise their name when it was written. When the last ink had dried the abbot unlocked the iron bound chest with a key from a draw, then he rolled the parchment up, tied it with a bit of ribbon, sealed it and placed it in the chest.
A few generic pleasantries later and Fulk and Eleanor allowed themselves to be ushered to the gate, back out onto the street.
The front door of their townhouse closed, Fulk held his breath for a few seconds before expelling it noisily in an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I’m still alive! Glory be!”
“I have no idea why you sound so surprised,” replied Eleanor tartly as she headed up the stairs towards the solar, “I really do not.”
Fulk followed after her, left hand resting on the hilt of his sword and a confident spring in his step, “I believe it has something to do with the death threats, oh merciful one.”
“Do you really think I would cut you down here and now?” asked Eleanor, politely incredulous.
“Well, I did wonder if I should have worn my mail.”
“I do not give in to fits of temper, unlike certain people with crowns whom I have no desire to emulate, so you are quite safe now, oh fortunate one.”
Fulk grinned, “I knew it – you’re just a soft, fuzzy thing with a warm heart.”
“Not at all,” Eleanor assured him cheerfully, casting her wimple off onto the solar’s floor. She began to unpin her hair as she talked, casually throwing each removed pin so it stuck point first in the nearby table, “I wait, biding my time until the moment is perfect to exact my revenge. I will wait years, decades even, if need be.”
Fulk watched as another hairpin dug into the table, “Would buying a load of expensive gifts for you help my cause?”
Eleanor tilted her head slightly, thinking, “I have no idea, no one has ever tried to bribe me before. Why not try it and see?”
He pulled a pin free of the table and tested the point with his finger. It drew a bead of blood, “I think I’ll save my cash and stake my life on you being too fond of me to kill me.”
“Fond of you?” she arched an eyebrow and paused, one of the two plats half undone, “I think not; I barely even like you. You do realise that it is now a matter of honour to prove you wrong?”
“Me and my big mouth,” said Fulk sardonically, “but I still don’t believe you, little princess.” He tossed the purloined hairpin back at the table; it bounced on impact and skidded to a halt.
“I am too old to be little.”
“You’re too short to be otherwise, oh miniaturised creator of empty threats.”
“We shall see, shan’t we? But I will not kill you-”
“See!” interrupted Fulk gleefully, “I said you liked me.” He pulled their evidence out of his tunic and placed it on the table, then went and sat down in the best chair, sprawling his legs out and looking very self-satisfied.
“I do not believe in waste; if you are going to die then you can die being useful, rescuing me from a dragon or something.” Eleanor grinned evilly, “But you would be surprised what the average human can live through without much trouble.”
“I think you like me too much to seriously hurt me,” said Fulk smugly.
“I most certainly do not like you, you woolly eared oaf! Try listening for once; I shall say it again slowly for the benefit of your dawdling wit – I. Do. Not. Like. You. Not even slightly, in any way, shape or form. At all. Got that?”
“I hate you too, oh brightest star in the sky.”
Something in the way he said that made Eleanor look at him; their eyes met and for a long moment neither of them moved. Fulk was the one who ended it, wrenching his eyes downwards, “It’s Friday, so that means fish. If you want I’ll teach you to cook griddled sardines.”
“Yes,” Eleanor’s voice shook slightly, “Yes, you buy the fish and I will go and…and hide the evidence.” She grabbed the scraps of parchment and vanished into her room.
“Jesù…” whispered Fulk, closing his eyes and resting his forehead in the palm of his hand, “Damn it…”
Once again a slow update, scenes like that last one are so hard to get right, and I have been distracted by a lot of real life stuff recently. I have a few more scenes to do before this part is really finished; basically you should consider this part, the previous one and the next one as one single bit. 61 pages in and the story is about...one quarter to one third complete.
So the heir/hair joke is as old as time, but it's still funny.
Desiderata, a discworld reader, perchance? I have a copy of 'Eats, shoots and leaves' and it has been very helpful, although there are still aspects it does not cover. I do have my own style and I like it too much to ever throw it away. Sadly my style doesn't exhibit at its best on the net, as it is not totally PG and it goes into more detail, slowing things down too much for an episodic story like this. My net style is a toned down, simplified version of TrueFroggy(tm). At least now I am writing with polish, and in terms of text this is TrueFroggy.
09-02-2004, 15:28
Desiderata
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Im writing somethin meself and hope to post it soon - certainly not as polished as yours, but feedback would be most appreciated
09-04-2004, 16:33
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
Fulk poked the charred sardine on his trencher with a forefinger, “You did this on purpose,” he accused. It was not a happy sight; a burned fish on a slice of thick, coarse textured, stale bread with a small dollop of stewed mushrooms and onions next to it.
“I did not,” protested Eleanor. She removed the spine from her own, nicely cooked fish and put it on the edge of her trencher, “If I were going to singe anything on purpose it would be you, not the poor, innocent fish.”
They had come to a mutual, unspoken agreement to act as if that spark had never happened. Business as usual; it saved a lot of awkwardness.
Fulk muttered something about cruelty to men at arms and kept peeling the burned skin off, revealing mostly edible fish underneath. “You are just like king Alfred,” he accused.
“What?” asked Eleanor, perplexed.
“You don’t know the legend?” Fulk scooped up a mouthful of fish and popped it into his mouth, chewing cautiously at first, then swallowing with apparent difficulty, “Well,” he sighed, giving his verdict on her first attempt at cooking, “it could be worse, it could be-” his eyes bulged and he grabbed his throat.
“What’s the matter?” Eleanor dropped her eating knife and spoon and watched him anxiously.
Fulk kept choking and gurgling for a few seconds, then made a miraculous recovery and grinned, “Where’s the point in working for an assassin if I can’t make the occasional joke about being poisoned?”
“Someone is asking to be poisoned for real,” she said haughtily. She speared a mushroom on the end of her eating knife as if to illustrate the point.
“Sounds like fun,” another bit of Fulk’s fish vanished, “Now, a quick lesson in king Alfred for ignorant royals. He’s the one who burned those cakes; you see the resemblance? Like you he was sat about daydreaming instead of minding some unfortunate, hard working poor person’s food and he let it burn, again, just like you.”
“I was not daydreaming, I was fretting; there is a difference,” insisted Eleanor. Her shoulders sagged and her head went down, “I did try but I have never cooked anything before, I really did try so hard. It has been such a horrible day,” her voice trembled slightly, “and you were so…”
“It was just a joke,” said Fulk awkwardly, “all of it. I don’t think you’re a beacon of feminine virtues, and I don’t hate you; I like you a tiny bit in a grudging kind of way. Feel better?” She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. “Oh Christ,” mumbled Fulk, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “Come on, don’t cry, I’m useless at crying people.”
The noisy tears switched to triumphant laughter, “No one has ever been stupid enough to fall for that act before!”
“If I kill you will anyone complain?”
“I think you might have a spot of trouble under the ‘wasting of crown property’ law, and you would be jumping to the head of a very long queue. There are a lot of people who have a prior claim on my head.”
Fulk drained half his cup of wine; he studied her over the rim, “I might get a reward for doing the realm an outstanding service.”
“Yes, you might. I had better chose an epitaph; I have two options, Trempwick’s short edition or your more elaborate one. You know I was half expecting you to start comparing me to a rose.”
“A rose?” asked Fulk, “My dear floral themed delight, if you were a rose you’d have entirely too many thorns and a caterpillar would be crawling about ready to give anyone sniffing the flower a nasty shock!”
Eleanor dimpled, “It makes me interesting.”
“Yes, suppose that is one way of putting it.” That did not sound complimentary. The overcooked sardine looked as if it agreed with him.
“If you were a plant you would be pondweed.” She had grabbed the first unglamorous plant that came to mind.
Fulk’s eyes focused far off into the distance, “Pondweed is honest; it’s clear what it is and it pretends to be nothing else,” he said quietly. His eyes focused back on her; he smiled tentatively, “I think I’d be happy with pondweed.”
“Are you saying you are not those things already?”
The smile grew wistful, “I’m saying … there are worse things to be than boring old pondweed, although by the time you find that out …” He nodded very slowly, barely moving his head, “Yes, pondweed will suit well enough.”
Oh how very curious, and he still hadn’t answered her question. Eleanor filed the information away for future prying.
“While we’re on the subject of honesty, I’ll remind you of your nice promise to take a few days holiday. Since we didn’t do that before we got here we’ll delay in going back.”
“I do not think that is a good idea.”
So, she had never intended to keep her word; slippery little blighter, wasn’t she? Well he would not give up that easily; decent bodyguards did not allow their employers to wander around in the sort of state she was currently in – exhausted, obviously in pain, and with a collection of injuries that were still at a very fragile stage in their healing where lethal infection could set in. Pride might work as a fuel source but it only lasted so long and tended to be costly in the long run. “Do you really want to go back and tell your Trempwick that you didn’t do that shopping he was so interested in because you fell asleep?”
“Not as such…”
“So, we stay here, you do your shopping and then we slowly wander back in a week or so.”
“I can say it was to avoid suspicion from the abbey; if we remain here then we have nothing to hide.”
“That’s the idea,” said Fulk encouragingly, “it sounds better than the truth.”
“Which is?”
“You’re nearly dead on your feet.”
“I am not!” Fulk plainly didn’t believe her. “I am not,” she insisted again, “I shall prove it.”
“Oh golly, a half dead princess wants to arm wrestle with me,” Fulk showed his fangs, “I quiver with fear, your royal very batteredness.”
“Not arm wrestle, you lack witted chunk of sputum, sword fight.” She abandoned her food and stood up, grabbing Fulk’s platter out from under his nose and placing it out of his reach. She gestured at the table, “Move this out of the way.” With that she disappeared from the room.
Fulk heaved himself to his feet and started working the table over from the middle of the kitchen to a corner, “I wonder if she does this to Trempwick?” he mused, “Poor devil, suffering year after year of this, it’s little wonder he’s gone eccentric.” He paused in his war of strength with the table, “If he went crazy because of her then where’s that leave me in a few years? Either unemployed or gaga.” He set to the table again, “I should have stayed with Aidney, a lot less trouble all round.”
Eleanor returned several minutes later with the pair of wooden swords Fulk had picked up that afternoon along with the fish. She threw one to him; he caught it deftly. She took up position with the other, trying to remember the little she had learned with Stephan than a decade ago. Fulk held his own sword in a single-handed grip with the point trailing by his feet; he wasn’t on guard, he just stood there with an irritating smile, waiting. Nettled by his obvious contempt for her skills Eleanor swung. The blades clacked together and hers went pin wheeling through the air.
Fulk rested the point of his sword on her collarbone, “Dead.”
“Er, it has been about fourteen years since I last did this,” said Eleanor as she went to retrieve her weapon. As soon as her hands closed about the hilt of the sword she flung herself back towards Fulk, hoping to gain the advantage of surprise. He parried her wild swing, then caught the blade of her sword in his hand, twisted it from her grip and threw it away.
His blade levelled at her neck again, “Dead.”
Her mouth twisted a few times as if she were trying to bite back a particularly choice insult or two, or perhaps as if she couldn’t think of any insults at all, much to her annoyance. She retrieved her sword again and stepped back, on guard and waiting. Fulk swung his sword lazily at the floor, scuffing up the rushes. He started whistling as he swung at the floor, the blade tip weaving back and forth in idle forehand and backhand cuts. Abruptly he changed targets and lunged; the point of his blade went right past Eleanor’s guard and hit her under the solar plexus with barely bruising force. “Dead,” repeated Fulk once again, “You’re not very good, are you?”
Eleanor recovered and brought her sword around and down. She was fast but Fulk was faster; once again he parried, this time rapping her leg as her guard went wide, “Legless.” He didn’t stop there, reversing his swing to catch her on the shoulder, “Armless.” Finally the blade rested on the top of her head, “And very dead.” Eleanor said something that wasn’t very regal. Fulk’s eyebrows shot up, “Where did a delicate princess like you learn a big, nasty word like that?”
“From a certain bad-tempered arse in a crown,” growled Eleanor. She stepped back and planted her fists on her hips, no mean feat since she was still holding her wooden sword.
“Nice to see you respect your noble father,” said Fulk wryly. With no warning he jabbed her lightly in the stomach with his sword, “Dead. You want to try fighting instead of posing and swearing; I always find that helps.”
“Right,” snarled Eleanor, taking her sword in a two-handed grip and stepping back until Fulk was only just in range, “Someone is going to get hurt. A lot.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Fulk airily dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand, “I’ve got good control, so you won’t collect more than a gentle bruise or two.”
“You … you … utter bastard!” spat Eleanor.
Fulk only grinned, “I can’t help what my parents did. Running out of good insults, are we? I know, it’s so hard to think when you’re dead.” Her eyes were blazing again; damn, he liked that.
Eleanor started circling slowly, watching him warily, this time intently focused. Spotting the change in attitude Fulk took up a relaxed, one handed guard and moved to keep her in front of him. As she neared the table she lunged, then leapt back as he parried, and grabbed a mug of wine from the table. She threw it into his face, simultaneously moving in with a downwards cut. Fulk had been expecting something like that; he managed to avoid most of the wine and blocked her attack. He raised an eyebrow as she skipped back, not giving him the chance to lean his weight on their locked blades and force her to the floor, “You cheat, my beacon of virtue, and I hadn’t finished eating my dinner!”
She didn’t reply, instead hurling the nearest sardine at him. The fish was an unimpressive missile at best; it broke up in the air and rained down on the floor with a soft splatter. The trencher, then the other sardine, another trencher, and finally the last cup followed the first sardine in its airborne attack. Fulk dodged some of it, blocking the rest with his free hand. “You’re messing up my clothes,” he protested as a slab of stale bread with vegetables still clinging to it thunked into his forearm just in front of his face.
He stepped rapidly to one side, away from the slippery mess on the floor, then moved in. She just managed to block his cut at her flank, flung herself out of the way of a second cut, and barely blocked a third. As she blocked Fulk grabbed her sword arm in one hand and carefully twisted just enough to get her to drop the training blade. Eleanor punched him with her free hand; he cast away his own sword and caught that hand too, then transferred his grip so both her wrists were caught in one fist. He smiled down at the defenceless princess, “I win.”
Eleanor disagreed; she kicked his shin. She tried to wrest her arms free, without much success, and kept up the barrage of kicks. Fulk struggled to keep his grip while trying to dodge, “Look, just give up and admit defeat.”
“Burn in hell!”
“Now isn’t that nice,” muttered Fulk, wincing as yet another kick landed on his abused shin. Deciding enough was enough he changed his grip on her wrists, pulled her in close to him, turning her around so her back was facing him. Then he wrapped an arm casually around her throat, the other keeping her hands firmly prisoner. “Surrender?” he asked, confident she would, after all her arms were pinned, she was trapped, and he could cut off her air at will. Anyone sensible would admit defeat; if this were a real fight then he had won.
Sense and Eleanor were apparently old enemies; she sank her teeth into his upper arm and stomped on his instep. With a howl that was more reflex than reaction to real damage Fulk let her go. She sprang away, then barrelled back in again, ramming him with her shoulder. Fulk let her knock him off balance, grabbing her in a bear hug as he fell over. He landed on his back, rolled over so she was trapped on the bottom. She went berserk, using every trick available to her as she tried to claw her way free. He braced his weight carefully so he wasn’t crushing her, but kept her firmly pinned down. “Give up, damn it!” he demanded.
Her attempt to stick her knee in his groin failed, and Fulk jerked his head back so her head butt missed. Somehow she got an arm free and started thumping him in the back, “Get the bloody hell off me!” She punctuated her request by entwining her fingers in his hair and pulling.
“Surrender,” he repeated again, bracing his left forearm across her chest, freeing up his right to grab her free hand. He grabbed her wrist and slammed her hand to the floor, pinning it down, “Before someone, such as you, gets hurt.”
Eleanor glared up at him, then tried to bite his nose. As long as he kept his face out of range the worst harm she could do was deafen him with a lot of loud complaining. The fight left her, “Alright,” she gritted out, “you win.”
Fulk got nimbly to his feet and extended a hand to help her up. She ignored it, getting up on her own. “Don’t be a sore loser,” he chided, earning himself a foul look.
“I did not lose,” retorted Eleanor, contrary to what she had said earlier, “The idea was to prove I am not half dead, not to try and win a fencing match against someone with the advantages of height, weight, experience, training, and reach.”
Fulk rolled up the sleeve of his tunic and linen shirt and examined the tooth marks on his arm, “Look at that,” he insisted, pointing at the barely visible marks with a finger. The thick wool of his tunic had protected him well, “Just look at that! It looks like I’ve been attacked by a wild animal!”
“Do you want fishing out of that lake of self pity before or after you drown in it?”
“I thought I’d have a good swim about, care to join me? Lake Self-Pity is very picturesque and the water’s nice and warm.”
“I suppose I might be persuaded to paddle about in the shallows, and say that that was embarrassing.”
“Yes, it was,” agreed Fulk. He tussled his hair to shake out any rushes that might be stuck in it, then started dusting himself down to remove the copious bits of debris clinging to the wool of his clothes.
Eleanor ignored the bits stuck all over her own clothing and retrieved the two swords. She was trembling slightly; she was thankful Fulk either hadn’t noticed or had decided to say nothing. The day had been trying enough without having to find excuses to avoid explaining why she had panicked. A fear of being crushed by some idiot climbing all over her was not the kind of thing she wanted to talk about, now or ever.
Fulk misinterpreted her silence, “You didn’t do so badly,” he offered kindly, “You actually did quite well at the end.”
Wonderful, thought Eleanor, she had done better through blind panic than through strategy and half remembered basic lessons. What an accolade. She would have to remember that in a sticky spot where her life was at stake; when in danger panic and act like a prat for best results.
Fulk watched her, concerned, “You will get better; I’ll soon have you handling the basics of sword fighting with ease.” Silence. “You’re not going to have me executed for winning, are you?”
“No, for that kind of pettiness you need my sister, Matilda,” Eleanor forced a smile, a thin, tight lipped affair which looked more angry than reassuring, “I suppose I did not realise just how vulnerable I am. No knives, no … chance.” And that had potentially nasty ramifications that blew a hole in her emergency marriage avoidance plan. By the time she had opportunity to do away with her unwanted husband without a crowd watching she would be literally naked and defenceless. The first possible opportunity after that was … too late. She remembered how vulnerable she had been, how easily she had been totally immobilised, and felt sick. “Add hand to hand combat to the list of subjects you are teaching,” she nodded firmly, “Yes, I am promoting you to master of arms.”
Yes, that's the book. I got mine from Sainsbury's of all places.
You may be interested to know that this new version is now offically longer than the original I posted so long ago, and it has only covered about half of what was in the original. All the extra detail and plot alterations have really expanded things. In fact I think this is now obviously a very different story to the original.
Those of you who read my spoiler tagged plan will have noticed that the final version is rather different to the plan I posted. These things happen, and I think the spontanious, unplanned changes worked much better.
09-05-2004, 16:31
frogbeastegg
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
They remained in town for ten days, finally leaving for Woburn when Eleanor collected her new clothes from the dressmakers. They managed to make the trip back in just one day, an impressive feat considering the time of year. They left the town just before dawn and arrived at Woburn late in the evening. The sleepy-eyed groom appeared and took their horses, but otherwise the manor remained still. “Leave the baggage to the groom,” she directed Fulk when he moved to collect some of their stuff, “Trempwick will be inside and he will expect a report now I am back.”
“Your Trempwick’ll be asleep by now if the rest of the household’s any indication.”
She frowned, “He is not my Trempwick.” She entered the manor and started to head towards the solar, Fulk dogging her steps without asking. They made their way through the dark, unilluminated corridors with the aid of a candle lit from the embers of the main hall’s fire. When they arrived in the solar they found that room was also dark and unoccupied. The only light came from the dying fire in the hearth. “He will be here,” said Eleanor, “Poke up the fire, we could use the light.”
“Afraid to met a spymaster in the dark, Nell?” inquired a voice from the shadowy corner where a door led into the main bedchamber.
“Not at all, master. Incidentally you should be wary of sneaking up on armed, decently trained agents; it would be unfortunate if you had an accident.”
“Is that a threat, dear Nell?” Trempwick stepped forward into the flickering semi-circle of light provided by the fire, giving Fulk a cursory look in passing but keeping his focus on Eleanor. He was wearing only shirt and hose, his tunic, shoes and other clothes removed; he must have been about to go to bed. “I do have great faith in your abilities, dearest Nell, I do strongly doubt you would ever so much as harm a hair on my head by accident.” He turned his attention to Fulk, a condescending sneer, “Run along, little chain mail man, run along off to bed. This is far above you.”
Fulk stood his ground, “You don’t pay my wages, and I’ve not sworn myself to your service. It’s not for you to dismiss me,” he replied evenly.
Trempwick turned and took a step closer, “Do you know who I am?” he demanded softly, dangerously, “I am the king’s own spymaster and close confidant, a knight and lord in my own right, ex royal tutor and mentor to her Highness, princess Eleanor. I am one of the highest in the land. You are nothing.”
“I’m her Highness, princess Eleanor’s personal bodyguard, her sworn man, and I think you’ll find she outranks you.”
Trempwick glanced over his shoulder towards Eleanor and said with forced levity, “Dear, sweet, innocent, happy little Nell, if you insist on keeping this pet of your I shall have to insist on you teaching it some manners; if you will not I will. Since you have been most foully remiss I shall fill your little pet in on a few little, tiny, but somehow critical details.” He turned back to Fulk, “She does not pay you; I do. I do. Has my beloved Nell neglected to tell you she is quite literally penniless, and everything she owns is paid for from my treasury? I pay for everything, food, clothes, expenses, pets.” He took a step closer, his bare toes just brushing the tips of Fulk’s muddy boots. He stabbed Fulk in the chest with his forefinger, “So off you go, go polish your helmet or bluster about in your armour, bodyguard. You were hired to fight, there is no fighting to be done here.”
“I see,” said Fulk, still not budging, “but you forget I took that oath to her, not you.”
“Nell, tell your pet to go away before I have him put down.”
Another of his tests, and she did not have the time to carefully examine all the options. Fulk was risking his life to give her a chance to make up her own mind, or perhaps he was just trying to get up Trempwick’s nose; the two men appeared to have established one of those accursed male rivalry things. Who to choose, Fulk or Trempwick? The possibilities, the interpretations spreading out from this supposedly simple choice were too many to count. Eleanor moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, “Actually, I would prefer he stayed. He was part of this mission, it is only right he sees how it is tied up.”
Trempwick reeled back as if she’d slapped him; he almost looked … hurt, as if he considered it a betrayal. It only lasted a half second; the spymaster stepped back from Fulk and gestured him to a stool with an elaborate, mocking bow, “Your seat awaits, bodyguard.”
Fulk collected the stool, it had previously been used as a foot stool rather than a seat, and carried to over to Eleanor’s chair. He settled himself at her side, his legs stretched out as if at lazy rest but remaining alert and ready to move. Eleanor pulled their evidence out of its hiding place, tucked behind the straps securing her right dagger to her arm, and handed it over to Trempwick. She then sat down herself, leaning back in the chair. Trempwick smiled slightly when he was that, “Feeling better, are we?”
“Yes, much better, thank you, master.”
“Good,” he exclaimed, “but a pity about poor Cedric, he was a good archer.” Trempwick slapped the scraps of parchment against his palm several times, frowned, then said to Fulk, “I suppose I should thank you for doing your job well.” It sounded as if it nearly killed him to say that. Fulk merely inclined his head in acknowledgement, not making a fuss about his apparent victory over Trempwick.
The spymaster read the evidence. When he was nearly finished he looked at Eleanor over the top of one sheet, “Any fuss when they were discovered missing?”
“No, as we discussed previously the monks could hardly start a hue and cry over stolen records of illegal dealings. They sent out feelers to see if we were still in the town; our continued presence must have allayed their doubts about us, we were not bothered or watched beyond that.”
“You managed to get your pet to play a nobleman with few problems?”
“Yes. The ruse made the whole process much easier.”
“Mission complete and successful. Well done, dearest Nell.” He laid the parchment to one side, crossed his legs, and clasped his hands around his up-drawn knee, “It is gone nine o’clock at night, so you will forgive me if I keep my enquiries about your shopping brief for now; you managed to get what you wanted?”
“Yes, new clothes tailor made in the old style with loose sleeves.” Or in other words proof his training had stuck; her wardrobe was replaced with yet more clothing suitable for hiding knifes and other tools in. She had considered carefully all the possible implications of each style and garment she had ordered, from fashionable tight sleeves that left nowhere to keep a knife, to a long cloak that would nicely hide a sword or full sized dagger. She was confident Trempwick would find nothing she didn’t want him to know.
“Good,” Trempwick stood and stretched, his muscles cracking, “I had fears of presenting a princess dressed in rags to her father on his next visit.”
“That would be entirely his fault,” said Eleanor, “He is the one most responsible for ruining my clothing, and he is also the one who sold off my inheritance and dowry to fund his French war without replacing them with an income from his own purse.”
“Very true, sweet Nell, but the idea is not to tell him that.” Trempwick clicked his fingers at Fulk, “You, pet, keep what you clothes you got, wear them. If you insist you are a princess’s man then you had best look the part. If I see you looking less than immaculate again I shall be rather upset.”
“I only have one set of new clothes, and my armour’s not suitable either,” said Fulk, sitting up and giving the spymaster the courtesy of his full attention, “I’d be happy to look the part but I’ve neither the money nor resources.”
“Then I shall get a tailor out here,” snapped Trempwick, “And of course I shall have to pay for this. My generosity does not extend to armour, but clothing I shall provide. Now shoo, the both of you.”
Together Fulk and Eleanor exited the solar and headed back towards her room. Fulk went and grabbed a pallet from the main hall, by the time he got back to her room Eleanor had vanished inside. Technically he didn’t need to sleep outside her door since they were in a safe, if not glowingly friendly, location but it had become habit. He had just settled down when the door cracked open, “Look, if you insist on sleeping there you can leave the dratted pallet in here during the day,” said Eleanor, “It will save you from going and fetching one.”
The door shut again so she missed Fulk’s quiet answer, “Great, now to do something about the damned draft in this corridor!”
A few minutes later the door opened again, “Where is the point in being a princess if you do not abuse your rank?” she asked Fulk. She didn’t wait for him to answer, instead grinning and saying, “Fancy a bath? I do, and since it will wake the entire household and cause a lot of work boiling water you may as well have one too.”
“Well, you are a princess,” replied Fulk, “and I’ve got to look immaculate as your man, and we have been travelling all day.”
“Exactly, in any decent noble household we would have been offered a bath the instant we arrived, and the two of us managed well enough when we were in Elstow,” her manner changed from cheerful to dour, “These servants are lazy, neglectful and discourteous. They are barely even competent. I think it is about time I started sorting things out in this grim dump.”
Small bit, but every little helps, right?
:quietly wonders if anyone understands what Trempwick is doing with Eleanor's name:
09-05-2004, 18:10
DemonArchangel
Re: The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
