The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[frogbeastegg]

No sooner had she dressed Eleanor found herself whipped off to the royal solar by Aveline and Juliana, stripped down to her shift and stood up on a stool in the middle of the room surrounded by breakfasting ladies with designs on outfitting her for her wedding. Anne took some mercy on her and handed her a cup of small ale and some of yesterday’s bread with strict instructions to eat without dropping crumbs.

Juliana had lugged up all of Eleanor’s clothing and, as the least important person present, held up each item one by one for inspection by the others as they ate. The jury passed verdict on each item, deciding if it should be placed on the accepted pile or the rejected pile.

By the time the food had vanished the sorting was complete; the accepted pile consisted of one pair of soft leather shoes with a decorative band running from ankle to toe tip. The reject pile held everything else.

The older Scottish woman, apparently one of Anne’s maids with the ridiculous name of Mariot, began clucking about the princess catching her death of cold while stood on her stool in nothing more than her shift. A fire was quickly laid out and lit in the hearth.

Ignored up on her stool Eleanor took a look about her. Constance sat in one of the high backed chairs, dozing with one hand draped protectively over her lower stomach. She had refused all offered food, claiming her digestion was still tender even if the morning sickness was slowly fading. Hugh’s wife looked surprisingly well; she smiled as she slept.

Aveline had taken the other seat near the fire in a cacophony of creaking joints; the journey to Woburn and then on to the palace had taken its toll on her aging bones, she had declared primly when everyone had collectively winced on her behalf. Juliana hovered near her mistress when she did not have reason to be away.

Anne had chosen one of the window seats; seated properly her feet hung an inch off the ground, and the tip of one shoe could be seen swinging carelessly beneath the dangling hem of her skirts. Anne’s three maids dispersed themselves about the room; Mariot sat with Anne. The other two, introduced as Godit and Adela, claimed the second window seat.

Surrounded, isolated, singled out and put on display – Eleanor felt like a murderess at her trial.

Aside from the two piles of her belongings a third enormous pile took up most of the solar table; bolts of different fabrics in all sorts of materials and colours. A few wicker sewing boxes littered the floor ready to break someone’s ankle.

Godit snatched up a knotted cord and advanced on Eleanor. “Right, to work.” She quickly whipped the cord around Eleanor at several critical points, calling out her measurements for someone else to note down. Done, she cast the measuring cord back where it came from and declared, “Good figure, except for those hips. Suggestions, ladies?”

Predictably Eleanor felt herself blush. She did her best to close her ears and not react to the following conversation; she had far better things to occupy her mind than another recitation of her lacks and the problems they caused. Suggestions ranged from dressing her in baggy clothing to hide her lack of hips to padding them out with extra material. Such simple, petty worries and with such simple, petty solutions, and yet the whole room acted as if this minor nothing of a crisis was deeply significant. Eleanor envied them such straightforward cares.

In the end Constance provided the answer; she didn’t even open her eyes as she suggested sleepily, “A girdle, clinch it tight at her waist and no one will take any notice of her hips. Her clothes will naturally flare out a bit too then, and the contrast between waist and rest will make her hips seem larger.”

Adela clutched one hand to her heart, scandalised. “Girdles aren’t in fashion; hardly anyone wears them with a cyclas!”

Anne countered, “Eleanor is a princess; she sets fashion, not follows it.”

“Indeed,” proclaimed Aveline somewhat ominously. “It is up to us to make best use of what is there, princess and clothing both. As long as we can make it look good then it is acceptable.”

Godit giggled. “I always wanted to be a fashion starter!”

Up on her stool Eleanor rolled her eyes.

More debate ensued on the choice of colour. The group swiftly split into two main parties and one stubborn outsider. Anne, Aveline and Adela favoured blue. Constance, Godit and Mariot went for a shade that was a mix between deep red and plum purple. Juliana stubbornly, and friendlessly, insisted on a similar red to the clothes Eleanor had arrived in yesterday.

Mariot grabbed a scrap of the reddish purple and held it up against Eleanor’s breastbone. “Look, see? It brings colour and warmth to her skin, goes with her hair, looks well enough and is undoubtedly expensive.”

Anne snatched up a few bits of the assorted shades of blue and held them up on the other side of Eleanor’s breastbone; she had to stand on tiptoe to reach. “Blue does all that and goes with her eyes.”

“She wears blue frequently; her wedding is supposed to be special.”

“She often wears blue at court because it suits her.”

“Only deeper blues are expensive enough for royalty; lighter hues even peasants can wear.”

“So? Everyone knows who she is – no one can mistake the bride at her own wedding.”

“Believe me they can.”

The bits of blue were pressed against Eleanor’s chest firmly. “Blue. This is a royal wedding, not some yokel affair where the bride is wearing only her Sunday best and her drunken groom is off making free with the bridesmaids!”

The plum equally increased in firm pressure. “Murray. As you say, this is a royal wedding.”

Aveline was not at all happy with the maid’s familiarity with her queen. She interrupted, “My son likes her in blue.”

Godit went to her friend’s aid immediately, saying, “But we are not dressing her for you son, are we?”

“Unless she is going to swap the groom with no warning or permission, yes we most certainly are!”

Anne heatedly retorted, “No – we are dressing her to do credit to herself and her family!”

Up on her stool Eleanor said, “I was thinking russet …” Then everybody would be happy – Fulk liked russet on her, she rather liked russet, Trempwick tolerated russet, no one had never complained specifically about russet.

She was completely ignored as the war between blue and purplish red went on.

The sun had moved around so it shone directly on Constance’s face, forcing her to move her chair over, by the time the group had reached a sullen consensus on blue, but only if a deep blue brocade featured prominently somewhere.

Eleanor was beginning to worry; it was already about half past nine and she looked likely to be trapped here for hours longer. She had given Anne some rushed, secretive orders yesterday evening, but she was not entirely sure she could rely on the young queen to remember and enact them in the midst of something which was clearly supposed to be exciting. Unnoticed by everyone else she smiled wryly; either she laughed about her allies or she would start weeping. A child, a baseborn bastard and herself; with this she had to stop a spymaster. Saints did easier tasks daily. Two allies, only one of whom was in this room. Eleanor quickly glanced about her again; there was at least one Judas here, possibly more, and Aveline did not count because she would betray Eleanor without the traditional forty pieces of silver. Involuntarily Eleanor shivered and the hairs at the back of her neck stood up; a combination of events usually attributed to someone walking over your future grave. Lonely panic welled up; frantically Eleanor battled to repress it.

“Cold, dear?” enquired a voice with a Scottish lilt at her elbow. Eleanor fairly jumped out of her skin. It was the older maid, Mariot. “I’ll put another log on the fire. You’re lucky there’s window glass here or you would truly catch your death.”

Eleanor managed a weak smile. “Thank you.” She began to take notice of the conversation again, taking more careful note of everyone, what they said and how they acted.

Anne said, “The shift has to be fine white linen, of course, but we can add a heavy border to the neck and hem in several shades of blue stitching.”

Godit was nodding enthusiastically. “Perhaps we can make use of her gooseberry badge for the motif?”

Adela suggested, “And we could work in her father’s lion too?”

Eleanor scowled and insisted loudly, “No. No gooseberries, and no lions or anything else designed to tell everyone who I am. If they do not know by the time I am stuck in bed with Raoul then they are fools beyond all aid.”

A rather awkward silence held until Mariot suggested, “I saw this very simple design used once before; a cross shaped emblem contained in the diamonds formed by a pair of crossing zigzag lines. The empty spaces are filled with half versions of the cross.” She sketched out a quick demonstration on the bit of cheap parchment with Eleanor’s measurements jotted down on it and passed it around the company. “Simple, but quite stunning to the eye; perhaps this will do?”

Juliana gave one of her rare contributions as she pulled out a bolt of very fine white linen from the mass on the table and set it to one side ready for use. “We could do the thinner borders like that, and use some kind of animal motif for the thicker borders? Roosting birds in branches?”

Aveline said, “Combine the two; we can use the bird pattern for the main, and the cross pattern for the edging, all done as small as may be. Three or more solid inches of good embroidery at hem and collar; it will look most impressive without introducing a clash of theme.”

Godit leaned forward to confide in a scandalous raised whisper, “Why do we need to use linen? Why not white silk?”

Aveline sniffed and glared reprovingly at the maid. “Because we do not want her to look like a harlot, that is why.”

Godit raised her eyebrows and muttered, “Well, my eldest sister would argue there; she wore silk and she is so virtuous she could bore a nun to tears.”

“What fits the lower nobility does not fit royalty,” declared Aveline firmly.

Eleanor ignored much of the following conversation about clothing, instead focusing on surreptitiously watching people, studying their mannerisms and responses, learning what little she could about everyone here. At least one of Anne’s maids would be in Trempwick’s employ; if not he was getting unforgivably lax. Eleanor found that all three made good choices, and all three seemed highly unlikely. Trempwick might choose to approach someone who seemed totally unsuitable, or then he might pick the most obvious one simply because it was never supposed to be the obvious one. If you wanted obvious then you immediately went for the sole English presence, followed by the gossipy, stupid seeming one. If you wanted unlikely then you had a tie between all three; ‘mother’, moron, and meek. Eleanor mentally tagged all three as Trempwick’s people for safety. She could only hope Anne had not let any of them find out too much of the already exceptionally limited information Eleanor had fed her. Looking at how the young queen interacted with her three maids Eleanor had the sinking feeling that the girl trusted them all implicitly. Eleanor also earmarked Juliana for future investigation.

Godit’s confident, “She will wear her hair unbound, of course, so no need to worry about styles.” Captured the edges of Eleanor’s attention and pulled her mind back from her musing. Clothing details had been finalised. Quickly piecing together the things she had overheard without paying attention Eleanor decided they were going to dress her in much the same thing as she had worn at court after Christmas. One unfortunate detail finally dawned on her; with those clothes, the limitations placed on a bride, and her hair loose she would be completely disarmed. This should not be a problem but still it sat uneasily.

Mariot said, “What about a veil? She could or could not; either would work.”

Eleanor raised her voice and said, “No, no veils.” Simple principle; if she was going to be disarmed she would not be hampered by headgear as well.

“What about a circlet of flowers?” suggested Adela. “What blooms in February anyway?”

Anne said, “She will be wearing her own crown.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh golly! We should have taken the gold into account when choosing our colours!” Anne dug Eleanor’s crown out of the chaos and handed it up to her.

Eleanor took the simple circlet, holding it carefully so her fingertips only contacted the narrow edges of the band where no one would see the marks they left, and inspected it. She wiped a thumbprint off the gleaming gold with the sleeve of her shift. Slowly, holding the crown in both hands, she lowered it onto her head with conscious dignity. Because she had insisted on a simple style with the bulk of her hair kept low down on her head the circlet fitted exactly as it had been made to do. She arched one eyebrow at Aveline, silently scoring a victory in her battle against Aveline’s insistence on fancy hairstyles.

Mariot nodded approvingly. “The gold goes so well with her hair. Say what you like in praise of corn coloured blonde; nothing goes so well with gold as proper black.”

An agreeable murmur ran about the room and a few offshoot conversations on hair colours started. Eleanor began to despair; it had to be ten o’clock now, probably later.

Anne clapped her hands. When she got the silence she wanted she said, “We have four days until the wedding; three days to work and one morning to tweak shortly before she goes to the church door. We had best get to work. You two,” she pointed at Juliana and Adela, “work on the shift. You two,” Mariot and Godit, “the cyclas. Aveline, you tackle the underdress; I shall find someone to help you if Constance does not feel up to sewing. I will also enlist competent people to take over our work when we require a break; if we make use of every daylight hour God sends, and burn a few candles, we will have our work done. I will make sure Eleanor knows everything she needs.”

Aveline said cautiously, “It may be best if I were to do that. I have been married twice; that lends me a certain … seniority.”

Constance yawned, stretched and sat up properly. “No need to put yourself out, lady Aveline. I shall assist Anne; family, and all. I think I am senior enough.”

A significant look passed between the two, removing any last lingering traces of hopeful doubt Eleanor had as to what kind of education they were talking about. Aveline inclined her head very slightly. “Then I shall set to work. Make sure she is word perfect on the vows in particular; it is bad luck to hesitate or stumble on the words.”

Anne and Constance quickly helped Eleanor back into the rest of her clothes and made their escape. Eleanor began to search for ways to get to the garden without it seeming remarkable. For a very brief moment Eleanor considered letting Constance tag along; she was highly unlikely to be in Trempwick’s employ and she could make a very valuable ally. Eleanor dismissed the idea rapidly; valuable Constance might be but there was very little chance Eleanor could win her over to her cause just yet. She would have to be dumped along the wayside somewhere; judging from the way the poor woman could barely stay awake they would have no difficulty persuading her to return to her rooms and rest.

They made their way down the staircase and through the main hall in silence. Hugh was holding court in the hall with some important looking men Eleanor didn’t recognise; from what she overheard while stealthily making her way to the exit it appeared to be a discussion of tavern licensing in the castle town, in which case the men would be guild representatives and town aldermen. Hugh occupied the throne stiffly; even kings enthroned on wax seals looked more comfortable and less formal than he did. Eleanor was astonished to see Hugh raise one hand in a salute to his wife as she skulked past, a wave Constance returned. Hugh blushed and his speech fragmented and slowed down as he forgot what he was saying in the distraction; it picked up soon enough, now with a new tone that sounded quite close to embarrassment to Eleanor.

The bailey was also busy; Eleanor managed to direct things in her favour by suggesting they retire to her guest room where they would be assured of peace and quiet. As they closed the front door Constance said to Anne, “You are getting very good at giving commands to those who are not servants.”

“Thank you. I do try my best.”

“Eleanor, your future mother-in-law is a dragon. If you cannot find Saint George to give her battle I suggest you hit her over the head with your crown.” Constance left a beat before adding innocently, “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Eleanor laughed. “Believe me I have considered it!”

“Rather than delay I shall get the embarrassing bit over and done with now; advice for your wedding night from someone a deal more experienced than our little queen, no offence intended, Anne.” Constance made a dramatic pause and fixed her audience with a stern, motherly gaze. She imparted extremely gravely, “Do your duty and do as your husband says; be guided by his superior knowledge.” She shrugged and reverted to her normal voice. “Well, I am sure that was far less painful than Aveline’s version of the same speech would have been. Now for the bits she would not have told you. Do not listen to other people’s horror stories or tales of wonder; what was theirs will not be yours. Remember who you are; he would be a fool to upset you. Remember who you know, and again he would be a fool to harm you. The spymaster may be a trickier proposition than most husbands but you are a princess, you are friends with the queen and myself, and your father and brother will not stand for any slights to you. Do not antagonise him, but do not let him crush you underfoot either. Now I shall leave you in peace and see about finding myself something to eat which I will not bring right back up again.”

Eleanor watched through the murky, distorting window glass as Constance headed off towards the kitchen building. Eleanor asked, “She is going to eat in the kitchens?”

“Yes, she does that most days now; evenings are the only time she eats like everyone else. It is because of the sickness; she is not able to eat when everyone else is, and she also craves odd foods. She is running the servants off their feet in the evenings, eating anything and everything except what you might expect. Half the time she has gone off whatever food she requested by the time it arrives, instead demanding another dish!” Anne giggled, then hurriedly straightened her face. “It is perfectly normal for a pregnant woman, you know.”

Eleanor made a thoughtful noise and continued to look off towards the kitchens for a moment. She shook herself. “Motherhood really does not sound like much fun. Right, to the garden. We should find sufficient peace to practise those longwinded vows there.”









Well, instead of three parts (starting from the previous post) for this current part of the story to really make sense it has now gone up to four thanks to this scene and the one after growing much longer than I expected. But hey, you either get it in four parts with confusion or one 20+ page lump with eyestrain and a long wait. Yup, thought you might prefer the four parts

Oh, and if anyone is wondering why I keep grinning like a loon while posting the parts of this bit of the story, well that is because I am finally writing a bunch of scenes and lines I have been imagining and working towards for half a year. I doubt the grinning will last; this story is now officially The Hardest Thing I have Ever Written, Ever, In The History Of Everything Ever. The next part is perhaps going to be the single hardest to write scene in this entire story. :self pitying frog:

[zelda12]

Milady Frog, I must apologise. I have not been following the story since Christmass I think. Life, as usual, got in the way and I have been daunted by having missed so much.

This post is purely to gain sympathy as I will now be losing my eyesight from staring at a screen for the next 7 hours catching up. It will be worth it, but I'll have to get a custom smiley made showing me laying comatose at my desk.

I am looking forward to catching up.

[frogbeastegg]

Anne sat tactfully on a different bench to the one Eleanor and Fulk occupied. The little queen had not been able to hide her delight at finding Fulk waiting for them in the garden; now she kept watching the elder pair as if waiting for something magical to happen. She was probably already disappointed, Eleanor thought, and if she was not then eventually she would be. True love, as Anne had determinedly labelled it, was supposed to be far more exciting than sitting cosily together on a bench, doing and saying nothing, although they did have a queen acting as accomplice and there would be excitement aplenty if this were ever discovered. But for now she treasured her time, relishing the sense of peace Fulk’s solid frame and quiet, assured calm brought her.

She and Anne had entered through the main gate, telling the gate guard that they were not to be bothered. The entire trip from castle to garden had been filled with wedding related chatter, and Eleanor had carefully timed things so she was repeating the main part of her vows under Anne’s patient tutelage when they approached the guard. As long as they kept their voices to a normal level once inside the sheltering walls they would be safe from spies. Fulk had been equally careful in his approach; he believed no one had seen him.

Eleanor’s happy peace of heart was soon being assaulted. Anne’s blissful enthusiasm slowly began to wear thin, then vanished, then she began to fidget and looked decidedly uneasy. When Anne began giving the impression she was seated on an ant’s nest Eleanor asked her, “What is wrong?”

“This is a terrible risk, if this is found out Fulk will die and we will be utterly ruined.”

Anne had said exactly what Eleanor had expected, although it had taken longer for the gloss to chip away than she had anticipated. The statement presented a very good starting place for what she had come here to say … but Eleanor cringed away from it, daunted and more than a little fearful. “My father created this garden for my mother, long before I was born. I have always heard he did it simply to make her happy.” Eleanor adjusted the arm she had resting around Fulk’s waist so it sat more comfortably; safely out of Anne’s line of sight she began to tickle his ribs with her thumb. “I wonder if they ever sat here like this?” She glanced up at the knight; he was managing to keep a straight face. Fulk glanced sidelong at her and winked.

Surprisingly Anne answered confidently, “They would have, but without the chaperone. The notches cut into the back wall were done at his order so he could climb over to meet her in secret, without half the court waiting outside with petitions. A rather transparent deception, but it worked.” At Eleanor’s reaction she asked, “Why are you amazed? They were a happy pairing.”

“Really?”

“William often speaks of her. Have you heard that old song, the one which starts, ‘Though I wander far, you are always in my heart’? He wrote that for her, anonymous, and had his minstrel play it. Back then everyone knew who had written it and who it was dedicated to, even if it was never openly said. It fell from favour when the queen died; now it is mostly forgotten, he had to tell me of it himself. He thought I would appreciate the tale, and I did … for several reasons.”

“My beloved regal ancestor played courtly lover? But he seems so …” Eleanor let it lie at that; Anne seemed quite attached to her husband.

“He was young once.”

“Songs and gardens.” She snorted. “As if that could make up for the rest.”

“What rest?” asked Anne curiously.

Eleanor found herself reluctant to speak, to explain a past and maybe predict a future too. Anne sat up and stopped swinging her feet, waiting. Fulk’s hold on Eleanor tightened and he answered for her, “A wife is much more convenient to vent your temper on?”

“Yes,” agreed Eleanor sadly. “She was an English noble; her family was powerful but very small in number, and many of her close relatives had died one way or another. That is why she was a better catch than a foreign bride; she was incredibly wealthy and she brought direct control over large parts of England. She had no real protection, even assuming her family would have cared anyway.”

Anne shook her head and declared vehemently, “You are both so wrong about each other. It is really sad.”

“Wrong?” Eleanor sat bolt upright, pulling away from Fulk. “Oh yes, he is really a saint. I saw his halo once. Flowers sprout under his feet as he walks, butterflies come out of his nose when he sneezes, and a choir of angels sing him to sleep each night after a day full of charitable acts of mercy.”

“I was terrified of him after what he did to you; he saw that and explained himself. He will only ever hit someone if they have given him cause, and he insists he never draws blood or does lasting harm. So he would not have hurt his first wife without cause, just as he would not harm me.”

Eleanor said scathingly, “If you believe that you are a fool and denying the evidence your own eyes have seen.”

“I asked about you, because that was obviously not true. You are the exception to his rule, but only the part about drawing blood. I asked why again. He said, ‘Because that is the only way to make her take notice; she ignores anything less.’ Then, after a pause so long I thought he had forgotten I was there, he added very quietly, ‘And because she makes me lose my temper.’ For the rest, he was not lying; if anything he is merciful. He had his cause once but did not use it; he let me go. So your mother would have been quite safe unless she really upset him, but that is the case in most marriages.”

“He broke my ribs and beat me unconscious because my brother betrayed him, my brother, not me. He claimed otherwise but I could tell my ‘failure’ to entrap John was just an excuse. He always loved John, but not me. Never me. So when John hurt him he took it out on me, just as he did that night here in the palace, just after John was dragged home, just as he has done many times in the past. Cause, excuse, whatever you want to call it, has nothing to do with it.”

“He did love you; he chose your name because-”

“I don’t want to hear!” shouted Eleanor. Fulk’s hand exerted a gentle, warning pressure on her wrist. Eleanor allowed Fulk to pull her back into sitting comfortably against him, grateful for his quiet efforts to calm her down before she let her temper get the better of her and did something very regrettable. She moderated her voice, “He is what he is, clearly different to you than to me. Leave it at that.”

“But-”

“You think I want to wonder why he can be so kind to you but never, ever to me? Why nothing about me pleases him and never has? Everything I am is wrong, or inferior to one of my siblings; he made that quite clear from the very beginning. It does not matter what I do now, and perhaps it never did; he will always hate me, and believe me that galls.”

Anne looked almost as if she were about to start crying. “You are both so wrong-”

“I don’t care. This is not why I arranged this meeting; it is a waste of time far better spent. If you must preach about Saint William do it later, and not to me.”

Anne opened her mouth to say something else; Eleanor glared at her, willing her to admit defeat before matters became even worse. Anne closed her mouth again so abruptly her teeth clicked. The queen stared intently down at her clasped hands, shoulders slumped. Eleanor felt a stab of guilt; involving Anne in all this was bad enough without snapping at the girl.

Fulk continued his soothing efforts, only to unintentionally spoil them with a single question. “You said you wanted to explain something?”

Left no way out, and seeing how her last diversion had turned out, Eleanor nodded. “Yes.” She got a firm grip on her emotions, searching for a place to start. Slowly she said, “It is hard to begin … it all links together, circling around and intertwining, one thing to another and another …” Now she was on the brink, after days of inching her way towards this point, taking little baby steps and focusing only on getting here. She could still stop, stand still and let everything continue as it had been and let others, and God, decide the outcome. Perhaps there was no need for her to do this. Perhaps there was. She took a last breath of this calm before the storm, gathered her courage and took the next, irrevocable step. “No matter how good you are it only takes one small mistake…”

“Then don’t make a mistake,” said Fulk simply. “Don’t do anything to put yourself at risk. You know what I wish, but as you told me wish and want are two different things, one possible, one not. I want you to be safe; I can’t protect you from a king and a spymaster. I’d die to save you, but it would only leave you to face them alone. But don’t misunderstand; if you leave then I follow, I’m your knight and always will be.”

“Remember I said you were all I had?” asked Eleanor. Fulk nodded. “I was wrong. I had a home, I had Trempwick to make all the hard decisions, he gave me some protection from my family and the world, I had a purpose and something to do with my life, even if it promised to be short and end with my death.” Eleanor hesitated. “The mistake I meant was not mine; it was Trempwick’s. Now I don’t know what to do; he was always the one to worry about things, the spymaster while I was only an agent.” Eleanor considered the many different ways she could say this. With a sigh she settled for the bluntest, “Trempwick is a traitor; he plans to put me on the throne as his puppet.” After a brief pause Eleanor added honestly, “I think. I do not have evidence, just a thousand little things which all add up this way when taken together. He was always the one to worry about proof and to interpret the gathered facts; he was the one I went to for help. What am I supposed to do without him?” In the shocked silence which followed her announcement Eleanor once again drew on the peace and clarity of mind Fulk’s presence often brought her. Refocused she said, “From Constance’s eating habits I think Hugh may be more willing to listen than I had thought; thank heaven for small aids.”

Anne picked on this easiest starting place. “Constance’s eating habits?”

“One of those interlinking titbits; if you assume Trempwick is a traitor and has been planning this for some time then it is logical to also assume he does not want Hugh to have heirs. Therefore all those miscarriages, including the few on other women, begin to look suspicious, rather than a simple fault with Hugh’s seed. Therefore someone must have been dosing Constance, and the others, with something like hyssop shortly after each pregnancy was discovered. A spymaster could easily set that up; even placing the guilt elsewhere and covering up his tracks would be relatively simple. Now she is making it very difficult for anyone to add something unexpected to her food and drink, therefore she, and probably Hugh, must be suspicious of foul play.”

Fulk said, “Let’s take this to the main point; could you be a queen?”

“While my father is alive, no. When he is dead and only Hugh is left? Quite possibly. My brother is not terribly popular; he is competent but not outstanding, and he does not have a gift for winning people over to his side. Hugh is rumoured to be a bastard; untrue but insidious, it provides an excuse for disloyalty, and some do honestly believe it. As everyone knows bastards cannot inherit anything under law, certainly not kingdoms. There are no other legitimate male heirs unless you go to underage grandsons, distant grandsons off in Spain, the product of a mother who is a famed adulteress. Poor Adele is another of these little tangents; assume everything is as publicly acknowledged for now. Both of my surviving elder sisters are married; they have better claims but are far away, and their husbands have their hands full with their own realms. That leaves me as the best example of royal blood available, though my niece, John’s daughter, would also have a claim, inferior to mine and she is less useful.”

“She’s just a baby; controlling minors is difficult when half the country wants to play with the baby,” said Fulk.

“Indeed. She is also with her mother, locked away safely because of John’s treason. She may or may not be barred from possessing or passing on any right to the throne; I do not know the details of the decisions made there. Assuming she is not barred I am still better by far. I could marry Trempwick, binding me to him, making it harder for others to take control over me unless widowed and remarried, and, importantly, I could support Trempwick actively. I could be loyal to him, exactly as he trained me to be. I am also old enough to make a reasonable figurehead, far better than some toddler barely able to talk. To the main question: a woman on the throne; tricky, but possible. There would be fighting at the start, to oust Hugh and scare off anyone else who might try their hand. I could be competent if I put my mind to it, and given enough time to prove myself most worries could be dealt with. Of course the husband is vital; if he was unpopular, incompetent, or a hindrance in some way people would try to remove him, and possibly me also.”

Eleanor drew a deep breath. “Trempwick is powerful, noble, although only midlevel nobility by birth he has recently risen dramatically, a friend of our current king, and as spymaster he has been able to set things up, I think, clearing the way of his most dangerous rivals and wooing allies covertly. Approaching people openly with his plans would be madness; he must have set up fronts, broken things up into small pockets of seemingly unrelated grievances. I am not sure about this part; I have no evidence, just guesswork. But with this in mind it is not hard to see the old Duke of Northumberland as a man lured into folly and removed - with the blame falling on my father, mark you - because he was somehow dangerous to Trempwick’s plans. That, typically, leads on to John also being led into foolishness and removed … but that is another tangent. Trempwick could remove people easily, placing the blame openly on the king, or working through agents of agents of agents to kill and put the blame on others. I think he must have been doing this for years.”

“As far as ruling goes, and loyalty, as long as Trempwick was competent and supported by much of the nobility, and as long as I did not annoy people, it could work. People will go where they see advantage; so long as the powerful felt they profited by my rule they would side with me until they saw a better opportunity. Some few would stick with me because my royal blood is undoubtedly pure; sentimental family loyalty, and royal blood counts for a lot. Once crowned and anointed I would gain a few more of the steadfastly loyal. The clergy may present a few problems, but I feel only a fanatical few would quote a woman’s inferiority and God defined place as subject to men as a reason to keep me off the throne – widows and heiresses already control their lands and all that goes with them until marriage. There might be a few people wondering how I could be properly subordinate to my husband while still being queen, but that could be handled somehow. A split between private life and public life, maybe. I do not know and nor do I really care. It would only be a small number of people worrying about that anyway; everyone else would have an eye to their gains, and I think many would admit that a queen sounds far easier to exploit than a king. The Pope’s official blessing could be secured via the usual methods; a large quantity of gold and some diplomatic bargaining. Where the Pope leads most others follow.”

Eleanor paused so they could digest the influx of information, also to rest her voice. She was not used to speaking so much, and her throat was becoming sore. “Back to Hugh, my father and weddings. It is possible to say that my father intends Trempwick to be his heir, knowing Hugh is a bastard. He publicly betrothed him to me and stated very clearly he intended us to marry; that says he trusts, likes and approves of Trempwick. I was reluctant to marry, but perhaps I changed my mind when it was explained this was a part of my beloved regal ancestor’s plan to make me his heir, or so the story could be spread. In the future my father could announce I am his heir. It will not happen, but it could easily be claimed he intended it to be so but never managed to make the change to his will … or a forged will could be produced, and then he never managed to make the announcement. Games, nothing but games, but important ones. The nobility might not honestly believe such a thing, but the peasants and townsfolk might; a story of a king foully betrayed by his wife and tragically dying before he could alter his succession because his illegitimate son hindered him so he could hold on to his power and status for as long as possible does grab the imagination, and if told correctly it can convince those ignorant of court affairs. Or you can put a somewhat different twist on this theme and say that I was intended to be the heir and Trempwick was considered the best person to support me.”

All in all only the beginning would be tough; once crowned, anointed and settled on the throne with resistance dead or put to flight the worst would be over and the largest problems defeated. As long as, and mark this as it is most important, my father is already dead in a way which does not link back to Trempwick or myself he stands a chance of pulling this scheme off. While my father is alive it is impossible; no one would support me over him. Trempwick is not ready to move yet; he need to be married to me publicly, and he needs me settled down and happy in that marriage. It would also be suspicious if the king died too soon after our wedding, only for Trempwick to begin his attempt on the throne.”

“So what was Trempwick’s mistake?” asked Fulk.

Eleanor lightly tapped his leg where he had been wounded. “Those bandits, or perhaps more accurately what came shortly after. He sent them with several ways to gain that I can see. He could kill you without turning me against him, depriving me of your influence and allowing him to comfort me and prove how caring he can be. He could possibly play hero and save me if I was captured. He scared and shocked me, giving him excellent reason to be kind and sympathetic. He blamed Hugh for the attack, turning me a little more away from my family. Was it Hugh? No. Trempwick trained me to think how he wants; this one time it came back and bit him. I obediently came to the desired conclusion, that it was Hugh who was responsible, and he agreed and continued to encourage me to think that way. The subject was then neatly dropped, except for the rare reminder that I was in danger, and they focused more on the future than on the supposed past. Most of those reminders were started by me to check his reactions and try to learn more. But, and here was his error, I had also been trained to think carefully, and so I did when I was safely out from under his scrutiny.

“Hugh gains nothing but risks plenty by trying to kill or kidnap me. He could not possibly hope to keep his involvement quiet; he would upset both my father and Trempwick, and also me, if I count at all. Unless you assume someone is slowly twisting things to give me a good chance at the throne I pose little threat to Hugh’s position. He could not marry me off to someone of his choice either; most consider my betrothal with Trempwick to be binding even though it was forced. Also the marriage would count as forced, and unless I stood by it it would be easy to dissolve, and having had my bodyguard murdered, been kidnapped, and then forced to marry someone who would more than likely rape me to consummate the marriage I would not be the least bit inclined to help them out. Any fool could see that. Also, Hugh could have found much better men than those bandits, and in larger quantities; if you are going to take a risk you make as certain of things as possible. But Trempwick only had a very short time to get his men hired and in place, if my theory as to why he suddenly sent us on that mission is true. He was not fooled by my excuses; he believed Gerbert. I think Gerbert may have been the horseman following us; if you remember he stole my horse, and the horseman appeared to be riding a grey.” Eleanor waved her free hand dismissively. “But Gerbert ties into the bit about servants; so forget it for now. My whereabouts are very carefully guarded; only a few know of them. Trempwick would have done better to assume one of his servants was in outside employ and a traitor; it would have been far more believable.”

Eleanor wearily let her head drop onto Fulk’s shoulder. “Once I realised it could not be Hugh I began to wonder why Trempwick wanted me to think it was, and from there I found suspecting him added a new twist to several other things, then I began to see a few other new things, which also added a new understanding, and after that I found many odd little things which count as nothing alone but add up with everything else to cast real doubt on Trempwick. We were stupid to think we had fooled him; he knew how we felt from the beginning, perhaps before we knew ourselves. He did not see or know everything though; he was furious when we met here, in this garden because it meant he could not find out what we were doing. He was also fooled with the necklace, and unless he hired someone who could see through walls there is no way he could have us watched when we were alone in a room together. We assumed he would act if he knew, but he needed me to like him, trust him and rely on him. He watched and he learned, then applied what he had learned when it was safe for him to court me. I only noticed the little things he stole from you because I was wary; he made your words and actions over into his own. It was only a small part of what he did; most of his courtship was his own.” Eleanor paused, and admitted truthfully, “There was some attraction there, and fondness, just not to the depth he claimed.”

Anne exclaimed, “But everyone thought you liked him! William, Hugh, even Fulk all told me how you liked Trempwick. I did not want to believe, but they were so instant, and they all told me separately.”

“Good; I may have fooled him then.”

“How?”

“I would rather not talk about that, but I suppose I must.” She pulled on the arm Fulk had resting about her waist, pulling it tighter. She took a firm hold on his other hand. “I am a fast learner when I want to be; I studied what he did and turned it back on him. I got him used to the idea it took me a while to do anything if he threw something new or unexpected at me. I used what emotion I did have as substitute for what I did not; fear, in particular, makes a good stand-in for passion.” That could be left precisely at that; they did not need to know that on a very few occasions, mostly when Trempwick was not pushing things very far and she was feeling very keenly the loneliness Fulk’s departure had left, it really had not been entirely unpleasant.

“I used all the cunning I had and it nearly was not enough, or perhaps it was not and he is just letting me hang myself. One night ...” Eleanor broke off, frowning as she thought. If she told them about Trempwick’s repeated seduction attempts Fulk would be very upset on her behalf and Anne would be equally unhappy, not to mention she’d nearly die of embarrassment relating it. No, she would not mention any of that unless she had to. “He got his mother, or she decided of her own accord because I did not fool her, to ask what he could not, to ask why, for all my supposed liking for him, I would not sleep with him. Some very nasty accusations were made, but I think I managed to allay his suspicions by losing my temper, shouting about a lot of the excuses I had been using in a very hurt manner, and then adding that it felt like incest.” And that too could be left at just that; they did not need to know there had been a lot of truth in her hurt anger and what she had said. She had told Fulk last night that her feelings towards Trempwick had always been so mixed up she could not hope to unravel them; sadly that was still all too true. “I really do not want to talk about it.”

Eleanor looked up at the sun, gauging how much time had passed. “There is plenty more, but I do not know how long we safely have here, and there can be no more meetings like this. Trempwick has spies everywhere.” Eleanor looked at Anne. “One of your maids will be a spy, possibly more than one.” And at Fulk. “You have a squire? He may be a spy also. Trust no one.” Back to Fulk. “It is going to be hard for me to see you again; I cannot risk meeting you secretly again. I trust no messengers. So I will ask that you wait and continue as normal; if I need you somehow I will find a way. Hugh may summon you and question you, if I manage to get him to listen to me he might. Be truthful, but be sure not to let slip anything which might lead him to suspect we love each other.”

“Of course; I like not being maimed and dead.”

Eleanor pulled away from Fulk, sitting back so she could study his face. “One more thing; when they were … persuading me to get betrothed to Trempwick you were locked up? At whose order?”

“The king’s.” Fulk’s answer was quick, positive, and the same as the one he had given two months ago. “He told me so himself; remember he gave me his ring in compensation. I still have it.” He indicated the leather pouch fastened onto his belt.

“If you had been free would you have tried to help me? Honestly?”

The look on Fulk’s face was nearly enough to break her heart. “Of course I would have,” he said softly.

Eleanor considered this, nodding slowly. “I need to talk to my beloved regal ancestor; typically he is not here and will not be back for a long time.” She sighed. “That man is just plain inconvenient.” She spent a few moments meditating on what promised to be a miserable meeting if it ever happened. “Anne? Do you know why he ordered Fulk locked up?”

“I know he has heard good reports on Fulk and his loyalty, but that is all.”

“So … he may have thought there was a tiny chance you would intervene because you are loyal … maybe. But if he does not know you love me then the only motive you are left with for your probable suicide is loyalty, and that is a rare commodity. A failed rescue attempt would have left me feeling even worse, so it would have been almost useful for him. If Trempwick had asked him to lock you away … now that would make sense because of what he knew … but then it would have been in Trempwick’s best interests to have you loose. If you had tried to rescue me you would more than likely die; the blame would be firmly at my father’s feet, and Trempwick could comfort me over your loss as well as all the rest.” Eleanor sighed again, fed up of thinking herself around in circles and running into dead ends. “Trempwick wants you free; my father does not have very good grounds to lock you safely away … it makes no sense!”

Anne considered, then suggested, “If William kept hearing of Fulk’s loyalty he may suspect there was a small chance he might interfere, and so locked him up to ensure that could not happen. Believe it or not, but William does not like unnecessary killing and he prizes traits like fidelity.”

“And so once again we end up back with the elusive Saint William!” growled Eleanor. “I need to talk to my father; I never thought I would say that, and I do not like it one bit, but it is sadly true. There are so many things only he can say; I need his account of that council the three of them held on the night of John’s return I have Trempwick’s version; I need Hugh’s and my father’s too.”

Fulk patted her on the back. “At least you can’t complain you’re bored now,” he said encouragingly. “I know how much you like to keep busy, and you do love a challenge.”

Eleanor smiled and said warmly, “I did miss you, you know.”

“I should damned well hope so! When I think of all I survived at your hands … I still have nightmares.” Fulk sniffled and rubbed at his eye. “Casual cruelty, insults, belittlement, torture, attempts on my life, out and out attacks-”

“And you enjoyed every minute of it, you lying wretch.”

“Certainly not!”

“Sorry, every second of it.”

“You are impossible!”

Eleanor beamed. “That is so sweet of you.”

“And here I am again, lured back into a vicious life of gooseberry inflicted torment,” lamented Fulk. “I should have run away to live with my mother while I had the chance.”

Eleanor kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Fulk smoothed her forehead with a thumb. “If I left you sitting about frowning and fretting all the time you’d soon end up with wrinkles, oh beloved mine. I’d rather you got laughter lines.”

“I shall remember that next time you make a prat out of yourself and will laugh heartily.” Reverting to seriousness Eleanor broached the reason she had called this pathetic little council of war. “I have three main choices from here; I can go to Hugh now and tell him what I know, but I have no evidence so it may look like the last ditch attempt of a troublemaker to avoid her unwanted marriage. I can delay a few more days, two at most, and try to find out more before making my decision. I can marry Trempwick anyway and do what I can to wring some gain from the situation.”

Eleanor paused to take stock once again. “The last is not tolerable; I can just about forgive him for killing Stephan when left no other choice by my father. But he is probably the reason John died, plans to remove Hugh, possibly set Adele up to remove her and her children from the competition, tried to kill Fulk, and planned to exploit me. I do not want to be queen, and I do not want people fighting and dying in my name, even less so when they are fighting to remove my brother from a throne I do not want. Since it appears Constance, and therefore surely also Hugh, is distrustful and suspicious of foul play my brother may be more willing to listen to me. I doubt he has any evidence himself, so he may be a little more appreciative of my own problems there. I do not love my family, but they suit my purposes far more than Trempwick does, and I think I hate them less. I know Trempwick will never allow me to have the one thing I want, so I gain nothing by helping him and lose everything. Problem; I cannot bring in any of my facts which relate to a certain rather unfortunate love affair involving a princess and a rust heap. It would cause entirely too much trouble, and possibly ruin everything. I can carefully twist most facts to remove anything … unseemly, but it does make my case even weaker.”

“So you’re not going to run?” asked Fulk. “And it’s a gooseberry and a noble, gentle knight.”

“No,” said Eleanor flatly. “I will not run; I will stand and fight. If I lose then at least he will have to be honest; no more honey coated poison and endless lies, and I shall wring whatever advantages I can from the situation. I am sorry for deceiving you, but it was a safe excuse. If we are discovered with this excuse he will be furious, but he cannot tell my father about us unless he wishes to lose me entirely. I would make it very clear, once again, that if he harmed you I would never forgive him, and he could not harm me too much or again he would turn me against him. That is not to say we would escape lightly, but I could shape the situation into something we could both survive well enough. In the end that is what it all comes back to; turning this mess to my best advantage, and doing what I can to look after those few I care for. Well, it may prevent a war as well, or then again it may cause one where they may not have been one; I cannot see the future. And perhaps …” Eleanor trailed off, afraid to put this last, fragile, deep wish into words, terrified of how hopeless it would sound when isolated. Her grip on Fulk’s hand tightened. “Perhaps if I do well enough, and if you distinguish yourself … perhaps somehow we might … if I save Hugh’s throne he will owe me … somehow we might come out of this married and safe. They will owe me, a lot. You too; without you I would never have seen any of this. It is a distant, forlorn, unlikely, probably impossible hope, but some hope is better than none.”

The prospect of a wedding had Anne swinging her feet happily again. “I shall do whatever I can to help that.” The feet slowly swung to a halt. “But as you say it is most likely impossible. What did you mean, you would not have seen this if not for Fulk?”

“He must have been planning this since shortly after he took me from the palace, perhaps before.” Eleanor let her head drop back onto the solid curve of Fulk’s shoulder and wound her arm back around him. “You he did not expect; you threw his plans slightly, loosened his hold over me. In you I have someone else to rely on and trust, someone else to be kind to me, someone else to fend off those who attack me in some way. I have something I want that does not come from him, something I would risk myself for. If not for you I would have accepted his suit, been grateful for it almost. Until you appeared he must have thought it inevitable I would accept him; who else was there? In my closed little world he would have been the only one showing me the least bit of kindness, and as soon as he could pursue me fairly he did so. Actually, looking back I suspect he had been dropping hints he might love me for a while but I did not see them; I simply did not think it possible. As things were he could do his best and it would not work; I only had eyes for you, and you were doing everything Trempwick was, only completely honestly, and aided by real, mutual attraction and love which, I freely admit, produces far more enjoyable results. Trying to remove you was his mistake.”

Eleanor paused, thinking of what she had just done. The feeling of being lost, overwhelmed and unsure swept back along with the burning anger mingled with sorrow that came from Trempwick’s betrayal. “Now you really are all I have; I have thrown the rest away.” Fulk just held her, stroking her back and not bothering with empty words. After a while the tide of emotions receded. “I shall have to talk to Hugh without it looking like I want to, alone. I suppose I shall have to see what I can get out of him before telling him what I can; I only hope he listens. I doubt he will, and he is so …” her nose wrinkled, “thick. Quite where that comes from I do not know; he was smart enough as a boy.”

Anne crossed her legs and paid very careful attention to rearranging the folds of her skirts, speaking in a measured voice as she worked, “Your brother is a very frightened man. I know; I recognise myself in him. He clings to duty because it is a comfort, a guide and a shelter to hide behind when you are lost and alone, trying to do something that you know you cannot, something you are not suited to. All you need to is let go, let yourself be buried and absorbed into duty and it tells you what to do, how, when. You do not need to think overly much, or to worry beyond getting your clearly defined duty right.” Anne looked at Eleanor with a kind of simmering envy. “We are not all strong like you.”

“Stubborn,” corrected Eleanor. “And probably stupid too.”

Anne’s brows locked together and she said with exaggerated, angry precision, “No, strong. You went to your unwanted betrothal a mess and said your unwanted vows before a sizable audience and you were still yourself – you hesitated right before everyone and you refused to look weak. I did mine to perfection, exactly as required because I drowned myself in my duty. My vows were not really what I wanted, though I admit they have turned out well. Your brother does exactly what is expected of a man, a knight, and the heir to the throne. Hugh-the-person is hidden safely behind it all, terrified. I did not want to marry a stranger decades older than me and become queen of an empire while the whole of Christendom watched but I had to; my fate was decided by older, wiser heads and I lacked the courage to even ask for some consideration of my age. Duty said I had to come to England and get married, duty said I should accept the absurdity and horror of being treated as if I was a few years older, duty told me when and how to accept gifts and well wishes, duty told me how to act throughout it all, so I clung to it, worked to the exact letter of it, and when I found myself stood at the church door with my hand linked to William’s and a huge crowd watching duty supplied the words and actions when all I wanted to do was cry and run away to hide. Hugh is the same; the man wants to run but he holds on to duty because it is all he can see which will get him through whatever he is afraid of.”

Eleanor mused, “Hugh was the second son for twelve years, made into the heir suddenly and unexpectedly. He was always very different to Stephan … he had none of our brother’s talent for making friends or love of attention. He was quiet and serious, shy in many ways.” She rubbed her chin, deep in thought. “So Hugh is struggling to fill his brother’s place and terrified he will fail, and so he buries himself in what he thinks people expect and want?”

Anne nodded. “Hugh-the-person is no use, so Hugh-the-prince takes over, just as Anne-the-person is no good when Anne-the-queen is needed. Present your brother with a situation where there is no instructions or guidance and he falters.” Anne nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “Duty did not help me with you though; our meeting was unexpected, and you were not what I expected. I imagine you have the same effect on poor Hugh; he does not know want to do with you.”

“Nice insight. I shall have to think of some way to make use of this,” Eleanor announced resolutely. “Fulk has his orders, now for yours … if you are willing to help further?”

“Of course!” replied Anne eagerly.

“Pick a fight with Aveline, announce you do not like her and then keep on getting rid of her as much as possible. Keep me away from her. Claim my time as much as you can; say you want to do something about the wedding, play games with your pet princess, or similar, I am sure you can think of the type of excuse I mean. Also try to get me away from maids and other company; Constance is … tolerable, she at least is not going to be spying for anyone and will let me think. If you manage to get a moment alone with Hugh tell him I wish to speak to him in private, but do not go out of your way to get such a meeting. I have a few ideas of my own to get my brother to summon me. Lastly, please get me away from Llwellyn at dinner! He holds more than a small grudge over my refusing to marry him and the effects that has had on his status. Dinner and death wishes might be very fitting for an agent but it grows very tiresome, especially when those snide comments are couched in flowery compliments. Above all I need your cooperation; I have to work this so it looks as if I do not want to talk to Hugh, spend time with you, or anything aside from get married with as little fuss as I can manage and go home as soon as possible.”

“I can do that.”

“Then there is only one small thing left.” Eleanor stood up and shook the creases out of the heavy skirts of her dress. Ruefully she hand a hand over the coiled braid at the nape of her neck; that would have to stay as it was, tradition or no. It would take too long to loose her hair and then put it back as it was. She said to Fulk, “I believe I somehow managed to inveigle you into marrying me. That is, if you still want to.” Quickly she warned him, “It will be nothing more than words known only to the three of us, probably never anything more.”

Fulk rose and took her right hand in his. He looked into her eyes and spoke his words clearly, eschewing the lengthy formal vows, but not quite dropping to the simplest ones, which were more a statement of ownership. “Eleanor, here I take you as my wife for better or worse, to have and to hold until the end of my life; and of this I give you my faith.”

“Fulk, here I take you as my husband for better or worse, to have and to hold until the end of my life; and of this I give you my faith”

One customary, but not very proper, kiss ended this ceremony also.

Fulk grinned. “So, you escaped promising to be meek and obedient for the rest of your days. I wondered how you’d deal with that in the fancy ceremony.”

Eleanor shrugged. “I was going to lie outrageously.”









:wavers … collapsed into an exhausted heap: Oh, that was hard! Very hard, and I still don’t think I have it right. Unlike every other bit of this story posted so far that scene did not come to me whole; it came as self contained little snippets, sometimes just a single line, sometimes a lot more. I had to piece them together into something which worked while trying to avoid the info-dump and ‘telling, not showing’ effects. Having such huge quantities of dialogue sloshing about is a pain; I had to break it up somehow, and indicating who was speaking was not nearly as easy as usual. I think really it is too much dialogue in one big block, and far too much of an info-dump. As for telling, not showing … well, much of this has been there all along, if you only know to look. There are so many things I had to put into that scene, so many it was frightening, but worse than that this scene is the turning point, the explanation of loads of little things, the big shock (which got given away ages ago thanks to crappy writing as so is about as shocking as a dead power socket), the beginning of something complicated, critical. If it gets stuffed up then everything will probably just implode. And then I have to be careful so a later scene does not end up too similar to this one …

The episodic nature and long delays in the last few parts have already done their harm; there is going to be no forced happy sappy ending involving Fulk and Nell running away because that was never the plan, not that I could tell anyone that. I get this horrible sneaky feeling I lost a lot of readers with people throwing up their hands in disgust … or maybe that is me being paranoid about view counts, and thinking of my own reaction. Hmm, no, I’d be furious but keep on reading just to see how big a mess the author made. But who wants to wait a little over two weeks for something 22 pages long before it is spaced out for easy reading?

So, if this were a house I think the structure has a few cracks, none of them really dangerous but some rather unsightly and inconvenient when putting up wallpaper. I’ll just have to cram them full of polyfiller and paper over them while praying for the best

A princess and her knight, shoving a rocket up the world’s backside. But the rocket was lit by Trempy; the duo only found it and moved it to somewhere it could be found.

Now this is written maybe I can get a bit of peace? I’ve been hearing a lot of those lines echoing in the back of the Eleanor-space in my mind for months now! “He is what he is, clearly different to you than to me. Leave it at that.” And “He always loved John, but not me. Never me.” Stand out as the worst offenders; been hearing them endlessly since right near the beginning. Actually, the most common line I hear is the duo exchanging their wedding vows. They kept on trying to get me to write that early and out of place. Gah! Unruly characters!


Welcome back, zelda. :looks up at post: Eight hours

[zelda12]

"what who said that?"

I'm almost caught up, but I decdied I needed sleep last night so I only got half way through. Everything I read so far has been up to standard, mialdy.

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk nursed his mug of wine in one hand, turning over the sealed letter with his other. The parchment was obviously cheap, and faint ghosts of text indicated it had been used not once but twice before, then sanded clean for reuse. The sealing wax was nothing more than plain candle wax drizzled on over the join, meanly done so the letter threatened to unfurl on its own accord. There was a telling lack of a seal’s imprint in the wax. Fulk smiled slightly; a mark would have boded ill – it would mean his mother had not replied to his message and someone else had, and that would probably mean the worst. He would have questioned the messenger but Simon had been the one to accept the letter, and the boy had sent the man on his way without anything more than the rest of the money Fulk had set aside to pay him.

Fulk turned the letter once more, examining the back side. He squinted at the writing, managing to decipher the odd word here and there of the second, less faded usage. The parchment had previously been a list of foodstuff brought and sold; the quantities were too great for it to belong to a single family, more suited to a tavern. So the parchment had not come from the one who had sent this letter, not unless his mother had set up business as an innkeeper. Given how much she liked people making a mess out of her nice, clean floors that was unlikely.

Fulk sipped his vernage, set the cup to one side and drew his dagger. He prised the seal open with the tip of the knife and set the letter back down unopened, taking his time to carefully clean shavings of wax off the blade with the hem of his tunic. Deliberately he unfolded the letter and read.

Edmund Reeve to Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, this day the eighth of February in the Year of Our Lord Thirteen-thirty-eight, dictated and taken down by father Thomas, village priest of Walton.

It’s my sad duty to tell you of the passing of your mother, my stepmother, some two years hence. She died peaceably and at good age, surrounded by her family. She was much loved by all of us, my father especially.

You’ll want to know what happened, so I’ll set it out. After a goodly period of time had passed since the news of your father’s, and your own, death arrived here my father, also Edmund Reeve, resumed his suit, being tired of his widower’s state and both of them honourably free. A while more passed, but before the year was out your mother and my father married, as they’d intended to do before your father claimed her for his own. No children were born of this marriage. The years they had together were happy and contented.

Fulk drained his cup and tossed the letter back onto his table. “Pack of lies,” he muttered darkly. His father had claimed no one, even if it’d been his right. Emma had loved her lord, and she wouldn’t have done that if he’d bulled in, reminded her she was his property and then snatched her planned future away from her like this Edmund chap claimed. Thinking back he remembered nothing untoward or special between his father’s reeve and his mother, nothing at all. He did remember this younger Edmund Reeve as a boy though; a few years his junior, a snivelling coward, a tattletale, a self righteous little oik, or so he’d thought.

Fulk’s hand dropped to his dagger hilt; he’d have to go home and see what was what, and while he was there he’d remind this Edmund Reeve that aside from her long dead parents and siblings who’d died as children Emma had only had two people as her family – himself and his father. His plans for a trip were stillborn; he might be able to beg a few days grace from his royal duties but he couldn’t leave Eleanor behind. She needed him, and he wasn’t too inclined to wander without her anyway. Next time he saw her, whenever that’s be, he’d ask her if they could go to Walton at their earliest chance.







Er, busy. You know the usual by now, so I’ll spare the repeat.

I ended up doing an essay for the other forum in reply to a comment; you may as well have a copy:

The bandits … ah yes, the bandits. If you read the whole thing over again, even without this new information in mind, the bandit thing makes more sense. As things are though you are needing to think, remember and compare things which happened half a year ago for readers to things which are happening now, things which looked honest to things were are admitted to be tricky. You also have the handicap of the uneven writing quality and style. So I’ll recap briefly and do a tiny bit of explaining.

Right back at the beginning, when Fulk first arrives at Woburn and the adult Nell/Trempy relationship is shown for the very first time, Nell is obedient and compliant, almost completely. She does as he says, and even when she does try to speak up for herself she is not very forceful and quickly subsides. If Trempy says jump she jumps, or at worst asks how high. She is quite the loner, though she will accept Trempy’s company well enough. Trempy is very much in charge.

Slowly this changes, thanks to Fulk. Fulk stands up for her, and gives her opportunities to assert herself a little. He shows her Trempy can be argued with a little. He reminds her of who she is. Fulk slowly gains her trust, liking and confidence, going from very grudgingly accepted follower to friend. And then this happens:
Eleanor moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, “Actually, I would prefer he stayed. He was part of this mission, it is only right he sees how it is tied up.”
Trempwick reeled back as if she’d slapped him; he almost looked … hurt, as if he considered it a betrayal. It only lasted a half second; the spymaster stepped back from Fulk and gestured him to a stool with an elaborate, mocking bow, “Your seat awaits, bodyguard.”

She slowly begins to stand her ground. The more time passes the worse she gets, openly arguing, then defying Trempy. She begins to lie to him, keeping information back from him with the sole aim of controlling her own life. She begins to really fall for Fulk, and Fulk for her. Trempy knows, and he tries to carefully steer them apart. He fails, and can only watch as they keep on getting closer, and as Nell keeps on slipping out of his grasp. He does keep on trying to get things going his way, but it is not exactly working as well as he’d wish. As long as they are together they gravitate towards each other, and he cannot effectively put Nell back into her place without causing more trouble – Fulk would get upset and start complaining and/or stick up for her. Any effect Trempy has on her is temporary at best.

While Fulk is around it is hard for Trempy to make any headway in his attempt to win Nell’s heart. She loves someone else, and much of what Trempy is offering (kindness, companionship, someone to talk and joke with, care, concern, a boost to her self respect, reassurance, the assorted physical stuff) Fulk is also giving her (much of Trempy’s unique benefits come from the fact they are two of a kind, both agents and slightly apart from their world. He also does a more comprehensive line of protection than Fulk is able, and some assorted stuff based on the mentor/second father background they have). Even worse the more she does with Fulk the more she notices the unfortunate lack of natural chemistry between herself and Trempy; the whole “like comparing a simple rushlight to the noonday sun.” thingy Nell herself was mentally commenting on at one point. He knows she is not going to be happy with a simple rushlight when she could have the sun, and she will not give things a chance to grow into something brighter when she has an alternative.

Trempy also knows (thanks to his own poking about) Fulk has a history as a heartbreaker; Maude is especially worrying to our spymaster. Incidentally he knows what happened to Maude after her last meeting with Fulk (the one where he refused to marry her until he was a knight). Cicely (the girl from his home he used rather badly) is also a source of worry. He’s had other romances, but they were of a different sort with more experienced women. But Nell is far more a Cicely or Maude; innocent, rather naive, in love, not overly religious or prudish, and actually quite clueless as to what she is getting herself into. Based on past history Fulk is likely to take advantage if he can safely do so.

Then comes that day in the snow, the day Gerbert overheard some suspicious things and walked in on a Fulk who was still dressing after changing his clothes and a furiously blushing, dishevelled Nell. Knowing how they feel about each other, but not privy to the insider’s view of what they had been doing that the reader has, you have to admit it looks very bad indeed. Not only has his princess gotten out of hand but she is now dangerously close to flinging herself away one some idiot knight, if she has not already one so. Something which would place her in danger, make Trempy’s life more difficult later, take her further still out from under his control, and generally bugger things up something rotten.

Fulk has to go. Now. Trempy can’t act openly, nor can he confront Nell; to do either of those things would be to risk losing her. He has all of half a day to plan and set things in motion, a distracted half day which is mostly night time (with her right next to him, alert, tense and suspicious) anyway.

Was Trempy also distracted? Not saying Well, Nell’s presence was certainly distracting him a little Ahem, but away from that the frog is staying silent.

So the tiny, unforeseen happening that is Fulk swearing allegiance to Nell was the stone which caused a series of ripples in a calm pond. Fulk introduced many, many little factors scattered widely across both plot and characters, none of them really large or important alone, but taken as a whole …

This story really does benefit from re-reading once you know certain things. Go right back and you’ll see Trempy hinting he loves her with steadily increasing bluntness, assorted odd moods explained, comments with alternate meanings, little details suddenly picking up new significance, characters thinking things you know are wrong but previously believed (e.g. Nell thinking her mother must have suffered badly) and so on. All those pointless looking scenes have something in them or will have some use in the future, even if it’s just the one line.

“Love, fear, control of something or someone they care about; those are the three main ways to gain control over a person. Pick a person apart to see how they work, then apply that proverb and they are yours.” – Raoul Trempwick to his king, 295 pages ago.

[frogbeastegg]

The tall stone tower keep of his home, encircled by a tall stone wall studded with towers, was the single most beautiful sight Jocelyn had seen in days, since he had left, in fact. The afternoon sun reflected off the armour and weaponry of the sentries patrolling the walls, and his own banner flew proudly at the very top of the keep, stretching out in the wind to declare his ownership to the world.

A ripple of chatter ran through the men following him on foot and horseback at the sight. Jocelyn listened with tolerant good humour as his men at arms set about the pressing business of planning what exactly they were going to do now the oft dreamed of moment of their homecoming had arrived. It was a simple business really, for all their overcomplification. If you had a family you visited them first, or else your wife and/or mother sat waiting for you with her second best iron skillet and a scowl fit to wither your manly courage into a small blob. If you didn’t have family you went to the kitchens or tavern and exploited the returning hero aura to get as much free food and drink as you could.

Up on the ramparts extra men were running into position. Jocelyn squinted and shaded his eyes with a hand. Most of the men had crossbows, and once in position they set to winching the strings back and loading. Men with hand to hand weapons dispersed at even distances along the wall. The drawbridge remained up. Jocelyn dropped his hand back to his saddlebow, impressed despite himself at the way his wife had maintained discipline in the castle.

When they had closed half the remaining distance a new figure appeared up on the gatehouse, this one dressed like a woman. “Ah, Richildis,” commented Jocelyn, aiming a cheery salute he didn’t exactly feel at the figure. Characteristically she ignored him. “Cold hearted bitch,” muttered Jocelyn.

Still the drawbridge did not lower. Surely those up on the walls could see his banners by now? For an uncomfortable moment Jocelyn had visions of himself sat here outside the walls, shouting futile threats while the bridge remained up and Richildis laughed. He turned in his saddle to check his pennant was flying properly; it was, along with his other flags.

He checked back at the walls; the defensive attitude continued with no signs of recognition. “What in the bloody blazes of hell does the damned woman think she’s doing!?” Right; plan. He was not going to act like he was afraid; it was his wife and his castle, God damn it! But nor would he obligingly trot on up only to be shot full of crossbow bolts if Richildis had taken up with the steward and was desirous of an end to their marriage. That would be a bloody embarrassing way to die.

Jocelyn beckoned to his squire. The youth rode up beside him. “Alain, your young eyes are sharper than mine, see anything wrong?”

“They’re not lowering the bridge, my lord.”

“God’s toenails! I know that, damn you! Anything else?”

“Looks like the lady Richildis up there on the gatehouse, my lord, and if my eyes aren’t deceiving me that looks like Gauthier next to her, judging from his stance and all.”

“So they’re definitely our people?”

“I’d say so.”

“So why is the damned woman pissing about? We look like us, and we’re not waving burning brands about and shouting death threats, so we’re hardly mistaken for enemies.” They were almost in range of the crossbows now. Jocelyn signalled a halt. If he ended up looking daft he’d be sure to inform Richildis of his displeasure later. At length.

“Sir!” Alain pointed at the gatehouse. The drawbridge lowered and a lone horseman rode out, the bridge winching up behind him as soon as his horse’s hooves had cleared the wooden planks.

“Oh, Christ on the cross!” swore Jocelyn. “I’ll have her hide for this!”

The horseman rode up within hailing distance and reined in. He stood in his stirrups and shouted, “My lord! Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me! Who else would it be, you thrice damned fool!? Try opening your bloody eyes and take a look at my banners!” Jocelyn flung an arm to point at the assortment of flags behind him. “And check the livery too – mine!”

The horseman waved back at the castle in a prearranged signal; the drawbridge began to lower again and the men on the walls stood down.

Jocelyn spurred his horse over to the messenger. “What is this God damned game my wife is playing?”

“My lord, you and your men returned six days ago in the company of Raymond de Issoudun.”

“No I bloody well didn’t!”

The man pulled a face. “Aye, so we saw just in time. They had the banners and all, damned convincing, my lord.”

“Oh, brilliant!” declared Jocelyn to the sky. “Just bloody brilliant! I’m gone for a short time and someone tries to steal my bloody castle!” He signalled to his men to move out again.

He passed the rest of the short journey to his castle in a smouldering rage.

Safely in the bailey Jocelyn climbed down off his horse. He scarcely got two steps before he heard pounding feet and his exuberant daughter yelling, “Papa! Papa!” His black mood evaporated, and he knelt down on the muddy cobbles of his courtyard, bracing himself for impact. Even so Mahaut nearly bowled him over as she crashed into him. She squeezed him in a tight hug, her little face buried in the curve of his shoulder, making Jocelyn worry she might cut her face on his mail. “You’re not dead!” she said with such joyful exuberance Jocelyn found himself smiling broadly.

“No, I’m not dead.”

Mahaut looked up at the others who had returned home with Jocelyn. “Thierry’s back,” she commented, before sticking her thumb in her mouth.

She wasn’t the only one to notice his eldest son’s return; Richildis, emerging from the gatehouse, froze as she spotted the boy on his pony. She hitched up her skirts and sprinted the rest of the distance, ignoring her husband to get to her son.

Mahaut pulled her thumb out of her mouth with a popping noise. “She always tells me off for running. It’s not fair!”

Looking at his wife fussing over their son Jocelyn was inclined to agree; it wasn’t fair. He stood up, taking Mahaut’s hand in his, grimacing only slightly when he found her thumb was still covered in drool. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t suck your thumb any more? You’ll make your teeth go crooked.” She mumbled something contrite and scuffled at the floor with one foot. Jocelyn ruffled her hair. “Come on, let’s go join the others.”

Mahaut smoothed her hair back down and stood her ground. “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she scolded. “Beautiful ladies don’t have messy hair.”

Jocelyn grinned roguishly. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure there.”

“Why?” she asked curiously.

“Er … well, I mean after you’ve been rescued from an evil knight by your one true love you’re bound to be a bit ruffled about the edges, right?”

“Oh. That. I guess.” Mahaut looked beseechingly up at him. “Papa, can I have a new comb, please? A really, really nice one with a pretty pattern on it? Please? I’ll be ever so good, I promise.”

“Well …”

“See, if I ever get rescued I want my hair all neat and nice and all.”

“I don’t think you’re going to need rescuing for some years yet; you’re much too young.”

“Oh.” Mahaut’s face fell. She sucked her teeth, mind visibility working at full capacity. “But,” she ventured carefully, “you never know, though, right? So it’s better to be prepared, just in case, right?”

Jocelyn made a few mental adjustments to the list of gifts he’d brought back, assigning Richildis’ comb to Mahaut instead. He sent up a small prayer of thanks for the heaven sent inspiration which had spurred him on to pick the comb instead of hair ribbons; more proof of God’s favour towards him. “We’ll see later, when I’ve taken my armour off.”

The girl beamed brightly, knowing she’d won. “Thank you, papa!”

They began to walk over to Richildis and Thierry. “I pity your husband,” teased Jocelyn.

“He’s going to love me, you know.”

“Of course he is.” As if he’d let anyone but the best and most worthy get his slimy hands within five feet of his little girl! Thank God he had another ten years before he needed to start looking; he knew entirely too well what men were like … women too, for that matter.

At their arrival Richildis reluctantly looked up from her careful examination of Thierry’s bruised hand; she inclined her head to Jocelyn. “I am pleased you are back, my lord.”

“And I’m pleased to be back.”

A small scuffle broke out between the children; Mahaut trying to look at her brother’s injured hand, proclaiming that as a kind and gentle noble lady she was supposed to bandage people and stuff, while Thierry gruffly insisted he was perfectly well and barely even noticed he was hurt at all, and anyway knights got hurt all the time.

Jocelyn said sternly, “Thierry, be nice to your sister. Mahaut, don’t pester your brother. Now run along.” To Richildis he said, “Thierry’s hand’s nothing to be worried about, just a bruise he got while learning the sword. He didn’t block properly, or so I’ve managed to wring out of him. Don’t fuss over the boy, Tildis; it embarrasses him and you’ll make him soft.”

“I suppose I should just be thankful he is back.”

“Exactly,” replied Jocelyn with a tight lipped smile.

Richildis digested that with down-turned brows. They were still in the public eye, and simple courtesy, and curiosity no doubt, demanded she ask, “All in one piece?”

“All in one piece,” he confirmed smugly. “Not even a scratch.”






Half an hour later, after giving thanks in the castle’s chapel for his safe return and removing his armour, Jocelyn settled in the solar with his wife, a cup of ale and a mutton pie.

Richildis left him no time to relax and gather his wits. “Why are you back? Why is Thierry back? You said not until the English king was here, and he’s not. Did something go wrong?”

“Ah.” Jocelyn sank his teeth into his pie. He chewed and swallowed hastily, scorching his tongue on the hot gravy. “Jesú! Damned thing felt cool enough.” A driblet of gravy boiled its way down his wrist; he wiped it away on his other sleeve before he could burn too badly. He was uncomfortably aware of Richildis’ disapproving gaze. Conscious of his wounded dignity Jocelyn growled, “I saved Yves’ nephew’s pasty arse when the little moron made a bunch of mistakes; course he whined to uncle about big bad me stealing his authority. I was already in poor favour thanks to my disagreeing with Yves’ fantastic plan to ruin Ardon entirely, which he’s done. The place is devastated; it’ll take years and a lot of money to rebuild, and people’ll need moving in from outside if there’s any hope of even trying. I got sent away, no longer required he said, but really too competent and so showing up his sodding nephew. A used chamberpot has more brains than Yves; the nephew takes after his uncle, but worse, if you can believe it. They weren’t happy that I was the one credited by the men with much of the success and glory, not that there is any when mowing down peasants like so much damned hay. I grabbed Thierry on the way out; snatched him out from his lessons, stuck him on his pony and got the hell out of there as fast as I could.”

That hadn’t been part of his plan, but Jocelyn had soon taken advantage of what the Good Lord had offered him, adjusting his plans for this latest divine gift. He’d fought bravely and competently for his lord, so well his jealous lord had turned on him. With all the hurry and sudden unexpectedness in his departure, and the fact he’d left behind much of Thierry’s belongings, he’d obviously been rescuing his son, Yves’ hostage for his good behaviour. That done he’d had no more part in the butchery he’d protested against from the start, duty discharged and family safe. He was at home, guarding what was his from Yves’ potential reprisal and waiting for his king to arrive so he could loyally trot out to his side and fight with him against the traitor with the exact same bravery and skill he’d recently demonstrated.

Remembering about the pie still clutched in his hand Jocelyn bit off another mouthful, this time mindful of the gravy. The food stuck in his throat and he had to work to force it down, his hunger abruptly gone. “Speaking of Ardon, I’d better ask how our guests are doing. The girl and the nun?”

“Elianora … well, she’ll talk if you speak to her and she’ll do things if you ask her to, but otherwise? She just sits there, staring off into empty space. I’ve heard of this before, but never seen it; the mind just can’t cope, so off it goes, sometimes to return, sometimes not. The nun spends much of her time with her, trying to coax her back to the world of the living.”

Unable to recover even a hint of his earlier appetite Jocelyn placed the partly eaten pie down on the broad arm of his chair. The filling began to ooze out, much to Richildis’ guarded distress, but Jocelyn didn’t even notice. He wiped at the gravy on his sleeve with his thumb. “Well, the good news is that when the king gets here and straightens things out she’s going to be sole owner of a badly damaged castle and ravaged fief peopled by the dead. That’s the best news, and it’s damned poor. And of course as an heiress…”

“She’ll be sold off to the highest bidder and forced to marry,” said Richildis, finishing his sentence for him with far more self composition than he was managing.

“Indeed, and she’s no family to protect her; Yves butchered the lot.” Her father’s, brothers’ and betrothed’s heads were all mounted on spikes and displayed on the castle walls, just above the splintered main gate. They’d been coated in tar so they’d last longer before they rotted. “So there’s nothing to be done, but from the sounds of it it’s best not to tell her just yet.”

The gravy stain was not budging, not that he’d expected it to without water. Spots and smears against the deep green of his sleeve, dark brownish, almost like dried blood. Jocelyn brushed one final time at the wool and then tore his eyes away; he was seeing blood everywhere these days. Fools fired up on legends of heroes might call it cowardly guilt, but it was common, far more common than those who’d never seen blood spilt might like to believe. Cowards killed at a distance and Jocelyn had always thought this was why; not the danger, but the fact three feet of cold steel left no impersonal space between you and your victim. Recalling his mind to the conversation Jocelyn said, “I’ll speak up on her behalf, do what I can. Simple Christian charity.”

He saw an unfamiliar expression spread across his wife’s face, unfamiliar when aimed at him but one the children often prompted. A kind of surprised pride. “They told me what you did; it was very brave and … decent.”

His reply was brusque, “It was nothing special.”

“You behaved nobly-”

“No.” He relived again the instant when his sword had come down on a skull, cleaving it through nearly to the jaw. It’d been in the brutal room to room fighting when the keep had finally fallen; the man had jumped out at him with a blade and he’d reacted on years of hard trained instinct. Except it hadn’t been a man, just a skinny boy in patched, worn clothes and a kitchen knife clutched in his hand. “No,” he repeated. And there it went; the soft expression he’d waited so long to cause flitted away, turning to confusion, then back to the usual politely guarded mask. “Tell me about this attempt to steal my castle.”

“A group of men with your banners and livery rode up with a group of Raymond de Issoudun’s men; we – I – thought it was you, so the gates were opened and the men stood down. We realised it was a trick just in time and pulled the bridge up; we shot a few as they broke off and rode away to safety, but only one of the men we recovered survived. He’s safely locked up; I thought it best to leave him to you.” Her head bowed and her voice dropped to no more than a whisper. “My stupidity almost cost us everything. So much for all my fine words. So easily fooled …”

Jocelyn didn’t bother to try and comfort her; he’d learned long ago he could do no right there. “I’ll take this to the king when he arrives, see what justice I can get.” It didn’t take more than a few seconds for Jocelyn to see how useful this could be; God truly did love him. He could spin this beautifully; he’d done his best by his liege out of loyalty and fear for his son, then when his duty had been judged, by his liege himself, finished he’d rescued his boy and returned home. This attack was obviously a reprisal; Yves’ revenge for his taking his son back.

“You were right; you did need to go. If you hadn’t Yves might have come here instead of Ardon.”

“He hasn’t, and he won’t.” It was only afterwards Jocelyn realised that he’d said that in the same way he usually comforted the children. Astonishingly it seemed to work; she didn’t recoil and get defensive or scornful. Spurred on by this unusual mood of theirs Jocelyn stood up and held out a hand to her. “Come to bed. I’m no good at fancy words like a knight’s supposed to be, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think or feel.” Jocelyn frowned, labouring with a task he usually gave up on without even trying; wording his feelings. “I … just feel lonely. I don’t want to be alone. Please? I’ll try and be gentle since you like that. I don’t want to be alone … and nor do you.”

She sat there without moving so long Jocelyn’s hand slapped back down against his thigh. All the time she continued to look at him with a certain measuring air. Very slowly she pushed herself to her feet. “Since you’ll only keep asking …”






Eleanor nibbled a morsel of quail and wondered if this could count as her wedding feast, after all she had got married this morning. Stuck here at the high table between her brother and Llwellyn, unable to even see Fulk in his place in the low tables, eating what passed for a plain meal for the palace, dressed in her normal clothes instead of her court finery, and faced with an uninteresting evening and lonely night. Well, she’d always said she didn’t want much of a fuss.

Seeing her sardonic smile Llwellyn asked in his Welsh accented English, “Is something amusing, your highness?”

“Amusing, no. Painfully ironic, yes.”

“Pray pardon me if I ask to be included in the humour.”

On her other side Hugh stopped speaking; Eleanor could feel the sudden tension rolling off her brother. This was a perfect opportunity; Anne had not yet had much time to try more peaceable methods of securing a meeting with Hugh, but in the end this way would probably be the best. “If you wish,” she told Llwellyn, pitching her voice so Hugh could overhear. “I was thinking that I once swore I would only marry someone I considered a fitting match. Now I have found that person here I am, sat next to you, someone I passed over.” She heard Hugh’s sharp intake of breath with a kind of grim satisfaction. It was a minor lie; she had vowed never to marry full stop. Funny how things changed.

The Welshman’s dark eyes narrowed. “I am loath to think what a fitting match for you would be.”

Eleanor folded her arms, feeling the reassuring shapes of her wrist knives beneath her loose sleeves, her right hand resting just above her left elbow where the garrotte she carried was hidden. “Llwellyn, if you had a thousand years I am sure you would never guess, and that is why you would never be a good match for me. You simply do not have the wit, cunning or imagination.”

Hugh clamped one hand on the top of her arm; he leaned close and said in a tone which did not invite discussion, “Dear sister, I am horrified to hear you are not feeling well. You should retire to the solar. Now. I shall come up and see how you are feeling later.”

“How very diplomatic of you, Hugh.”

As Eleanor began to stand up Llwellyn told her, “A cheerful little fact to warm you through the long days ahead, princess. Welsh men do not beat their wives. Remember that, and me, when you upset your husband.”

With complete confidence Eleanor said, “He would never harm so much as a hair on my head. I stand by what I said before – you are a pathetic little man.”

“Such confidence; I would love to be there when you discover you are wrong.”

“You would have a very long wait, you see he likes my little quirks.”

Llwellyn sneered. “If it would get me a royal link and a tidy dowry even I would pretend I liked you for a short space. The more you gain, the more you pretend, and you will admit he is gaining a lot.”

[frogbeastegg]

Dinner was uneventful, falling into the same pattern as it had the many previous nights. The food was excellent, as was the drink, the setting sumptuous, the service courteous and prompt even down at the lower tables, and Godit still made agreeable company even if he was now considerably more wary of her motives. As wedding feasts went it was far better than Fulk had ever expected, although he had always believed he would be seated with his bride and at the centre of the traditional celebrations. He needed to lean far forward to see Eleanor, risking drawing attention to himself and smearing food on the front of his tunic, so he did not even have the pleasure of watching her from a distance.

Fulk had looked forward to being subjected to the attention, ritual and horseplay about as much as any man, but he did not dread it particularly. Eleanor he knew felt differently; she would hate being the centre of attention, loathe the fuss, despise the infamous bedding down revels, and by the time they were finally alone she would be one unhappy gooseberry, unhappy in addition to the inevitable nervousness. He’d then get to spend time trying to cheer her up a bit, only for some fool to hammer on the door and shout helpful suggestions, setting off another round of grumbling and plunging her right back into her bad mood before they really had chance to do anything exciting.

And yet despite all that he knew she would be sat up there wishing they were the centre of attention and about to be subjected to the revels - it would mean their marriage was public and accepted, and they could live normally.

Instead she was stuck with company he knew she wouldn’t be too happy with, continuing as if everything was as usual, and, very probably, fretting away about the future, Trempwick, family, plots, and Fulk himself. That was just as likely to produce a grumpy gooseberry. Fulk chuckled; poor Eleanor, however you worked things out she was going to be peevish.

The back of a hand slapped into his upper arm. “I really didn’t think it was that funny,” said Godit, who had been chattering away, mostly ignored, same as usual. “I mean, yes, there was a certain comedy value to it, but I don’t like being barefoot in mud! But I am glad you find some humour in my poor ruined shoes, my difficulty in retrieving them, and my squelchy walk home. Next time I go to the town I’m taking you with me; you can carry me over muddy patches like the gallant knight you are. Oh yes, I’ll definitely have to drag you along …” She sighed and leaned her chin on her hands, smiling stupidly. “I could be very happy being carried around by you …”

Her reluctant acceptance of Fulk’s lack of interest had lasted a scant few days before steadily eroding back into her usual flirtiness. Originally Fulk had taken it for granted her persistence was purely from her decision he was a good match; now he wondered if she had other reasons to get close, gain his trust and worm for information.

Fulk clasped his hands at his front, tucking both his thumbs in his belt either side of the buckle. “Until my arms tired and I dropped you, you mean.”

“Don’t be daft,” instructed Godit, her dreaminess abruptly disappearing as she claimed a small, round cake from a passing serving platter. “Your silliness is one of your least attractive features, and I’m determined to purge you of it. Anyway, you’re a lot better now, melancholy still, but not such a moping misery as you were when you first arrived. Now I really think that’s just brilliant; it means you’re recovering, and if you’re recovering I have a better chance of stealing your oh so handsome heart.”

“Really?” asked Fulk nonchalantly. “Recovering, that is?”

“Oh yes, and the heart stealing too.” Godit took a bite of her honey cake in a very provocative manner. A passing serving boy stumbled as his head twisted to keep her in sight. Noticing his attention Godit pouted. The boy almost dropped his tray.

“Looks like you’ve picked up yet another admirer,” teased Fulk.

“Yes, yet another boy. It’s not fair; I’m aiming for men.”

“Then eat properly and behave yourself. You’re pushing it so hard tonight you might strain something.”

“I’m a flirt; flirting is what I do, at least till I catch what I want.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. Fulk’s breath caught in his throat; he worked hard not to react. Godit tossed the remnant of her cake down onto their shared platter in disgust. “Pity only useless boys notice. Men are as dumb as rocks, I’m thinking. If I’m overdoing things that’s why; I’ve got to get the message home somehow.”

“I’m not a rock,” insisted Fulk with mock gravity. “I’m a happy little boulder with a bit of moss on one side and a lovely sunny spot at the top of a hill.”

“There you go again – being stupid. Stop it.” Godit scowled, managing to look more a sulky child than anything else. “Anyway, nice change of subject. You won’t get off that easily. As I was saying, you’ve picked up this … well, almost a sense of peace, like a man who’s just had a rotten tooth pulled. Well, ok, so not just had it pulled, but a few days on when all the pain finally dims and a feeling of better health settles in. You’re more focused. It’s only slight, and I only notice it because you always grab my full, undivided - and unrequited too, damn it! - attention whenever you’re around, but it’s there alright. I wonder why? I mean, she comes back, you don’t have any contact at all, and then you go all serene.”

“I saw she was alright, and that’s enough for me. I don’t need to worry any more; I know she’ll be well enough. The way we parted I wasn’t completely sure she’d be looked after; her betrothed was being very … unpleasant to her. Beyond that, time heals. I just needed to be sure.”

“Ah, but did you want time to heal?”

Fulk shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you love her.”

“I’m unworthy of her, and never can be. She cares for someone else, and is spoken for. I have very little to offer her, only myself, and given who she is she wants, needs and expects far better.”

“But what of the rules of love? Every true knight needs an unobtainable lady to love truly and completely, lust after in a heartbreakingly pure way, and in whose name he is driven to do great deeds, though he can never declare who she is.”

“You bring out romantic stories, but think of how those men suffer, and they often get their lady in the end. I won’t.” Those words were very probably all he would ever get. Words were important. These words gave him purpose and clarity, they set his path out for him, bound him to her and her to him, and set out very neatly exactly what his place in the world was. ‘I am your knight’ had never quite been enough. ‘I am your husband’ encompassed it all. He would follow, serve, protect, love, now and always without thought of reward, unhampered by other, interfering loyalties because this one came before all of them. There was a very great honour in that, and a very great peace also. They were not trouble free words, or ones which promised to make his life easier, indeed they promised just the opposite, but the problems they augured somehow seemed much easier to tackle than the ones he would encounter alone.

Fulk raised their shared cup to catch the attention of a server with a flagon of mead. The strong honey drink was the closest thing available to Bride Ale; he should be sharing a cup of that special brew with Eleanor right about now. “Anyway, they are just stories. Real people are not so stupid as to endlessly hang about in the hopes of winning a smile from someone’s who’s plainly a lost cause, or at least I’m not. I told you before, I’ve no desire to be a martyr like that idiot in your song.”

“Alleluia! I knew I’d manage to change your mind and wean you away from a monkish future.” She clasped her hands in a prayer-like attitude and cast her gaze devoutly upwards. “Thank you, Lord, for answering my prayers!” Godit inched up on the bench so her body was just brushing his. “Give it another month or so and you’ll be swimming around my fishing line, eyeing the bait and wondering about a cautious nibble.”

And here was one of those problems: he was no longer free but he had to pretend he was, and not break any hearts in the process. “I’m recovering, not recovered, and as I told you before you deserve someone who values you for yourself.” Fulk raised the newly filled cup and drank deeply, toasting in the safety of his mind, “Long life and happiness to you, my love.”

“I know; that’s why I said another month, not now. Give me time to work …”

“Relentless is such an inadequate word when applied to you!”

Godit claimed the cup from him and drank, setting her lips to the exact same spot his had occupied. “Can I help it if I like you?”

Fulk began thinking nice calming thoughts about rainy days and cold water. He let Godit talk to herself for the rest of dinner, listening with one ear and returning the appropriate noises at the correct places.





When Eleanor arrived the solar was empty, a fire burning low in the hearth. Only two of the candles were still lit, those on prickets closest to the door. Eleanor collected a willowy twig from the basket near the fireplace and made a circuit of the room, lighting each of the fine wax candles in turn. What was to come was best played out in the light. That done she added another log to the fire; cherry wood to perfume the room with its fragrant scent.

She surveyed the room a while, taking in each small detail. This room had never been completely familiar to her, and changes had been made, most likely by Anne. The two chairs had been moved a little, one scooted a little closer to the fire, the other moved back out of the way as if infrequently used. A small table used for supporting game boards or books sat next to the less favoured chair. The main table had been pushed back against the wall, clearing a larger central space. Several books lay out on it, all closed and arrayed neatly side by side in a row. The window seat had new upholstery, the previous natural greyish hue of undyed wool replaced with a lively orange. The shutters had been removed from the windows, the holes for mounting them still clear in the stonework. They had been pointless anyway; the windows were all glazed and only those capable of flight could spy up here.

Unsure of how much time she would have Eleanor continued her preparations without further investigation; the cursory look gave her what she really needed anyway. She moved the favoured chair a little, turning it so its back was slantwise to the stair door. Then she stood by the door herself, checking the appearance. After making a minor adjustment she was satisfied, and seated herself, tall and proud as if this were a throne before a sizeable audience. Disdaining a suitably docile pose Eleanor rested her hands on the arms of the chair, fingers curling around the ends in a loose grip.

All this was so much empty posturing; she had never had patience for it but she had learned what Trempwick had taught and posturing, as did everything, had its time and place. The spymaster would have been sharp over her dismissal of this as empty; she’d have been in for another lecture on the need to choose and prepare your ground as carefully as any general set to give battle.

Eleanor took a deep, slow breath, filling her lungs to capacity. She began to order her mind, strengthen her control, seek acceptance of what was to come. She had chosen her path, bound herself to it so she could only move forwards, and now all that remained was to do what must be done, good or ill. Fear had no part in this, or cowardice, or doubt. She was going to get hurt, probably badly. Eleanor embraced this knowledge, accepting it so it became nothing more than the rising or setting of the sun: an immutable fact which provoked no sentiment. Controlled, disciplined she began the next part; drawing up and gathering in parts of her mind, placing them safely away.

Trempwick had taught her this; to endure with dignity, endure beyond what could be managed with simple will and pride. You sent your mind away, away to wander through happier memories with no more link to your present and your body than could be helped, separating the now and the you. The two had to come back together in the end, through the control required being taxed too far either by time or by torment. The shock of being fully aware again was terrible and sudden; the denied pain hitting you with all the force of a storm’s wave.

Trempwick had said even some of the best he knew of had failed there, at that precise point; they withstood a bout of torture but then crumpled at the last. He’d laughed then, quite gaily, and said that it was a good thing, for it saved his torturers’ time. He had assured her that she would never fail that like, after all she was naturally stubborn and too damned proud for her own good, trained by the best, young and malleable, and given excellent opportunity to hone her efforts by her father’s regular visits. He had been right; her recent failures had come from control strained much too far.

Eleanor banished the memory of her rib giving way, sending it back into the recesses of her mind, gone and out of the way but not forgotten. Forgotten was impossible. The memory of huddling in a corner, terrified, bleeding, waiting for her father to return once again with his demands for her to marry was also banished. Forgotten was impossible there too. She had almost managed to forget enough though; she still remembered too much of how the last two beatings had hurt, but now the agony was distant, halfway between being a remembered awareness that it had hurt terribly and recollection so raw she felt her stomach revolt with fear whenever she remembered. She had managed before and she would manage again, and both those previous times had been far worse than was typical. For a long time her store of good memories had been limited, and none of them so powerful as those she had now, and she had managed well enough.

This would be different; Hugh was not their father, he was an unknown quantity and she had little idea of what he would do. He would be calm, methodical, controlled. Eleanor was not sure if that would be better or worse. Hugh could not harm her overmuch; she needed to remain presentable. And this time there was much more at stake here; it was not simply a case of paying the price of the path she had chosen. There was no point in dwelling more upon it; what would happen would happen, she would find out then.

There was nothing left to do. Detached, disciplined, calm, Eleanor waited.

The waiting was always the worst part; she did not possess the patience required to wait well. With waiting came thinking, and with that always came doubt. Doubt could be poisonous. It would be all too easy to stop and leave everything to unfold of its own accord, to play the part she had been shaped for. That was, in the end, a large part of why she had married Fulk, pulling him still further into a danger she would rather keep him safely isolated from. She could not go back to Trempwick and allow herself to drown once more in obedience and follow his lead without second thought. She could not bow her head and wait for Trempwick to pick off the rest of her family and wreak whatever other havoc would be needed to place her on the throne he coveted. Fulk was the bit of timber she clung to as she floated adrift and lost; without him she could not do this.

Time dragged onwards. Eleanor had left the meal early on. That was probably just as well; for all her preparation her stomach was uneasy with nerves. Hugh would not do the same; he would be careful to do everything exactly as people would expect, without break in routine.

When the door to the solar finally opened Eleanor did not move, except to force a wry, mocking smile to curve her lips a little.

“What on earth do you think you are doing?” came Anne’s voice. The door shut and the queen hurried over to Eleanor’s side. She shoved a bundle into Eleanor’s lap. “Food, since you left early. You did not even give me time to talk to him!”

Eleanor let the smile go but otherwise did not relax. “I had an opportunity; I used it. I do not have time to waste; I only have a few days before as much as possible must be settled.”

“And now-”

“Yes, I know. Hugh is furious, gossip is spreading, and soon the whole castle will know that once again I am in trouble. Good.”

“Good!? You are insane!”

Trempwick would have understood her plan at once if he had been party to as much as Anne. If the scheme had not been so detrimental to his own goals Trempwick would have been adding to it, reinforcing the weak points, working subtly towards supporting her, and all the time teaching her how to go about this better. Anne continued to look in askance at Eleanor, understanding so little and unable to make the required leaps of thought to see it on her own. No one else here would think in the same way as Trempwick’s prized pupil; they had not been trained to it. Only Trempwick could.

Feeling Anne deserved some explanation as she was unavoidably a part of all this now, and hoping perhaps to reduce the feeling of isolation a little, Eleanor said, “No, it is merely better this way. Trempwick will hear of all this; my meeting with Hugh now looks very innocent. I will be able to grumble about this unfairness to Trempwick later if need be, and it proves my point when I said I would not be safe at the palace. Until things are … safe he must continue to think I am what I appeared to be.”

“You are going to get hurt.”

“All pain is fleeting,” said Eleanor calmly. She was disappointed to see how Anne homed in on the least important part, passing over a great many more areas on which questioning would have been welcome as it would have enabled Eleanor to teach a little. “Alas, not fleeting enough for my liking.” The feeble joke sank like a stone into water. Eleanor emphasised her next words, “It is the larger game which matters. This is a means to an end, a small portion of a whole, a little of the price, if you will, of going my own way instead of being a pawn.”

Anne continued to stare at her with open bafflement, not even asking questions. Eleanor gave up; the queen was intelligent, she had demonstrated a little talent for intrigue, but she clearly was not going to make a good apprentice. As queen Anne would unavoidably have to dabble with subterfuge, but she would do it as most others did, not as an agent with a good portion of spymaster’s skills. Anne would be a piece on the board, not one of the players sat slightly apart from the game.

At last Eleanor unwrapped the napkin, revealing several chewettes of undeterminable filling. Dutifully she began to eat one, recognising also the need to keep her strength up. She could only force down tiny bites; nerves and having a mind engaged elsewhere had never done her appetite any good. “I shall be twenty in August,” she said quietly. “Everyone tells me that is old; old to be marrying for the first time, old to be finally starting to recognise what I am, old to be taking up my inheritance, old to begin playing with the power I should have been using for years. But it is not; it is so young …”

Perplexed, Anne said, “I do not understand.”

“No,” agreed Eleanor regretfully. Slowly she finished off the first chewette. Eleanor dusted her hands off and rolled the napkin back up with the rest of the food untouched. “Lend me some of your hairpins, ones which will not be missed.”

“Why?”

Eleanor smiled tightly. “It is always good to appear far more dangerous than you are.”

Anne fetched a couple of pins from her bedchamber, along with a wooden gaming board and a bag of pieces. Eleanor carefully concealed them both in the folds of her skirt, working them securely through the dove grey material of her underdress near hem level.

As she worked the queen asked, “Did things have to go like this, even though you asked for my help? Was I always going to be useless?”

“I hoped you may have opportunity before I did; I hoped you could repeat your success in bringing me to the palace. You did not, and I had to take things into my own hands. What else was I supposed to do? Sit about praying for help as my best, and possibly only, opportunity passed by? I have tried that in the past; the results have always been less than useful.” Eleanor straightened up to find Anne was now gaping at her in horror. “Oh don’t look at me like that! I only mean it is entirely foolish to expect God to solve everything for me; I am sure He has far better things to do with his time, and there are a great many people far more worthy of His help then I.” People who are not already certain to fry in hell, she added privately. Even so she had politely pointed out in a private prayer this morning that to marry Trempwick, or anyone else, now would be bigamy, and that while she was doing everything she could to stay true to her husband a little divine help …

Anne dragged out the little table so it stood between the two chairs and placed the ornately carved board down on it. She seated herself, emptied a set of playing pieces out of the silk bag and began to set them up. “This was going to be your wedding present, so you may as well have it now. Have you ever played tafl? It is quite popular in Scotland, but not so here. I always preferred it to chess because the two sides play very differently.”

“No, I have not played it.”

“Then I shall give you your first lesson tonight.”

Eleanor was grateful for the offered distraction; it meant less time for doubt to set in. “Thank you.”

“I think you might find the game to your liking.” The white pieces she arranged on squares in the centre of the board marked with a wavy pattern carved into them, little ivory warriors forming a circle about the tall king who resided on the central square. The brownish-red warriors she set along the four edges of the board on the squares marked with a spiral pattern. Brown had no king piece. She explained as she worked. “The rules are very simple and every piece moves in the same way, but there is plenty of strategy involved. The object is for the defenders to save their king by getting him to one of these corner squares.” She tapped one of the four squares marked with a cross pattern. “The attackers must capture him by placing a warrior on each side of the king.”

Eleanor smiled. “I had best play the defence then, to get used to the unfamiliar concept of guarding a king.”






Fulk parted company with Godit after dinner, secretly glad to be away from the temptation she offered. He had no intention of ever betraying Eleanor, but that did not stop Godit from appealing on some base level and she would be very easy to seduce. Tonight of all nights he was not really in the mood to be lonesome. Making a few bland excuses he returned to the solitude of his room; Godit stayed behind to gossip.

Simon had not returned; the boy was probably playing with his friends before bedtime. Fulk settled before his fire with a cup of wine, intending to while away the remainder of the evening in thought.

He was not left in peace for long; someone knocked on his door. Fulk’s heart leapt, remembering how Eleanor had sneaked away to meet him here once before. Sense quickly reasserted itself; it would be far too dangerous for her to come here again, and the castle was still busy. Wishful thinking, in part prompted by what today was.

His visitor turned out to be Godit, flushed with excitement. She barged past him without waiting for him to invite her in. Fulk was highly tempted to tell her to go away, but before he could frame the words politely Godit exploded, “Your princess is in trouble!”

The muscles in Fulk’s legs tensed to propel him out the door at a run. He overrode the instinct just in time. “What?”

Godit sidled up close and began speaking in a rapid, hushed whisper, her breath warm against Fulk’s ear. “It’s the talk of the hall; she insulted that Llwellyn person she was sat with, insulted quite badly. She said he was a pathetic little man! Worse, she said he hadn’t got the wit or intelligence to be a good match for her, and that her choice was a far better man! Then the prince taunted her, reminding her of that charming Welsh law on wife beating and insinuating that her husband was going to spend the rest of their married life flaying her alive. She just replied very confidently that he’d never harm even a hair on her head, can you imagine that? Men who would never hit their wives even when given excellent reason and sorely provoked are incredibly rare!” She placed a hand on his arm, intimating that she thought him just such a man. Well there she would be wrong; given excellent reason and sorely provoked Fulk would indeed discipline his wife, just as he would a child or unruly animal. He would not like it but he had a certain duty to do so. But not with Eleanor; she had been hurt too much already, and she would get very inventive in her revenge. In the six months he’d known her she’d done very little which he would count as cause anyway.

Not noticing his unease with her unwarranted praise Godit continued, “Llwellyn didn’t give up so easily, and said that her betrothed was only being nice because of what he stood to gain. That would soon end, he said, and even he’d be nice to her if he thought it worth his while. Of course she was sat right next to prince Hugh, and he overheard it all. He was furious, they say, as furious as anyone’s ever seen him, not that you can ever really see it with him, so controlled. But they said it was quite plain from the way he ordered her from the hall and promised to see her later, even if he was really polite and concerned and pretended she was unwell. His eyes were gleaming, actually gleaming with anger, and he gripped her arm so tight it’s a wonder the bone didn’t snap. Those closest say that in that moment he really looked like the king, bastard’s looks or no. She’s going to be in for real hell; everyone’s talking about it. Hugh’s so angry he’s avoiding her for now, leaving her to stew while he regains that boring control of his. The queen went off up to the solar, I guess to commiserate and do one of those disappointed lectures she’s go good at. Our queen can fairly make you die of guilt just by looking woeful and saying a few words on how saddened she is.”

Stomach rolling with sickened disgust Fulk heard himself saying calmly, “She never was too diplomatic, and she lashes out if goaded too much. Sounds like that Llwellyn pushed her too far.”

“So you’re not going to mount a daring rescue?”

“I don’t like to disturb my horse’s sleep, and my armour’s neatly put away,” he joked, earning a black glare from Godit. “Why would I? I’m not her bodyguard, or her keeper. It’s nothing to do with me. Even when I was her bodyguard I didn’t interfere; she didn’t like it, and that suited me fine – kept me alive.”

“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Godit. “How can you say that?”

“To interfere between her and her family is to die, and no one is worth dying for, no matter how much you care. I don’t like it, I never did and I doubt I ever will, but there is nothing I can do, nothing I should do, and nothing she would want me to do even if I had an obligation to her, which I don’t – she freed me of it herself. And if I’m blunt, love her or no, this is her own fault. She should learn to control herself better.”

Godit drew back a pace and said coldly, “I’d better go; my queen might need me.” Her distaste for him did not last; more kindly she offered, “I can find out what happens and let you know, if you like?”

“It’s really nothing to do with me.”

“But you will worry anyway. You’re a good person, Fulk, and you do still care for her.”

“And I’m trying to forget, remember?”

“It’ll be easier to forget if you’re not wondering.”

Fulk sighed. “Oh, very well.”

Alone again Fulk sat down before his fire, door safely shut and bolted. He rinsed the foul taste left by the lies he had just spouted away with some wine. So she had got her meeting with Hugh then, but at what price? If even half of what Godit had said was true Eleanor was going to need her official royal cut tender, not that he could even go and see her. Gossip inflated and exaggerated; he prayed it was true here. Eleanor would be a little safer then.

Fulk murmured into his drink, “Oh dear one, you do take winning hard.”





EDIT: forgot to add this:

Tafl is the usual abbreviation for hnefatafl, a Viking board game. The name means 'King's Table'. It gradually faded in popularity as chess took over, but it was still being played in England around 1700. The whole 'played in Scotland but not so much in England' thing is just froggy plot convenience, and based off some logical guesswork type stuff involving bits of research, cultures, invading Normans, and so on. There are several variants of the game; they are playing my favourite one (yes, I've got a board and play it quite often, unlike merrels which I have decided I shall have to get a board for and learn). You can find out a little about the game here. My variation is the left most board illustration out of the two Norse ones pictured.

So now you know Anne grew up in a slightly Norse influenced area

[frogbeastegg]

There was not a single pastime which surpassed sitting quietly and thinking. The subject of the thoughts mattered little. It was the act of exercising logic and mind that mattered. Thought separated men from animals, and then separated men from men. Any idiot could wave a sword and kill people. It took real finesse to think beyond the simple facts which cluttered up most people’s minds.

Of course when he said ‘men’ what he really meant was ‘people’. Trempwick ran a hand over his jaw, skin rasping on the day’s newly grown stubble. People always expected things to be simple. People always wanted you to explain to save them from needing to puzzle out meaning and solution for themselves. People were tiresome. People were little more than human cattle. Men were what counted, men in the biblical sense, as in the family of man. Indeed, some very notable thinkers were female. Scheming noble ladies, a handful of ambitious mistresses, some of those who married above what was expected, some of his better agents.

Nell was not a good thinker, contrary to what people might believe. No, that was akin to comparing a wild rose to a carefully cultivated one. Nell did not think, she thought. Her keen little mind had been honed, focused, carefully set up to channel thoughts, like an irrigation channel taking water. Just like his. Except he had placed careful limits on her, blocking a select few of those channels. It was necessary that she would follow where he led; he did not need her as an equal. Did he want her to be his equal?

Trempwick reached for the goblet of ice wine on the floor beside his worn fireside chair. As a tiny sip of the liquid burned its way down his gullet and made the pit of his stomach glow warmly he considered this question once again. It would be very motivating to have a true equal, someone he needed everything he had to keep up with. It would be dangerous, and in such a contest the winner may live. The loser would not. But if she were not a rival but instead an ally …? That would still be dangerous. In every relationship of any sort there must always be a stronger and a weaker party. A master and a follower. The follower did not need to be blindly obedient, that would truly be detrimental to what could be achieved, but must be loyal, obey when it mattered, and recognise that following was in their best interests.

The goblet was set down again. Still, it would be so fascinating to see what Nell would be if unleashed, to see what he had forged, shaped and honed into being from the raw material. He suspected she had the potential to be very worthy. But he was not a follower. Any way the battle resolved would be a disappointment. If he lost then he lost, though he may be proud of his creation. If he was forced to destroy her then he also lost, and would be gravely saddened into the bargain. If he managed to subdue her and bring her back under his control once more after allowing her to stretch her wings then not only had his teaching failed, his judgement been flawed, his dear Nell lost, but she would not even be worthy of notice any more. Those who have freedom and throw it away could not be respected.

Nell would remain as she was; carefully fettered, so carefully she did not even know she was hampered. There were things it was not safe for her to see. Even so she managed to provide a rather … exhilarating challenge from time to time. He could never sit back and completely relax where she was concerned. This was one of the reasons he was fond of her.

Someone knocked on the door to his bedchamber. “Enter.” The command was softly spoken, cultured in tone. Shouting at doors and at servants was so uncivilised.

Edward, the ‘steward’, entered. He padded across the floor to the fireside chair where Trempwick sat. Standing to attention he offered a small rolled up note to Trempwick. “Master, your mother’s report just arrived.”

Trempwick accepted the message but did not move to open it. “I think it is time for young Walter to move on; there is little left for him to learn here. I wish him placed in the Earl of Warwick’s household. See to it.”

Edward bowed. “Master. And for a replacement …?”

“I shall consult my wife; it is her right to have a say in my household. As long as her decision is fitting I shall go along with it, and you will find me someone suitable. I shall also fill the gap left by Gerbert this way. Speaking of which, you will all now accept and obey orders from Nell once we return. You can be polite to her, but not overly so. You will not, however, follow any order that may compromise our situation. Do keep chipping away at her confidence when given good occasion, but do so more subtly and less to her face.”

“Yes, master. I shall inform the others at once.”

Trempwick cast his gaze towards his bed, and the windows behind it. “When I return with my bride I expect the alterations I requested to be completed.” A couple of new hangings for the walls with pleasant scenes on, glass in the windows, clean rushes on the floor mixed with dried lavender, his finest linens and bedding to accompany the new blanket being embroidered with his badge paired with Nell’s, the new bed curtains made to match the blanket. A room fit for a princess, and a promise kept. Several promises kept.

“It will be done,” assured Edward.

“My wedding gift should be completed by now; have someone collect it.”

“I shall go myself early in the morning.”

Trempwick waved a hand to dismiss his deputy. As Edward left as quietly as he had arrived Trempwick saw another way the battle could end. He could once again subdue Nell, but keeping her as his acknowledged second, his acknowledged follower, his acknowledged partner is his venture. Win her over to his cause. Give her a little more freedom. Work a little harder to win and keep her trust, liking and love. Have her work to his ends knowingly instead of unknowingly. Keep a closer eye on her, always. It would be proven that he was still the master. Surely there was sense in recognising after a long struggle that someone was superior to yourself, and had a vision from which you could benefit greatly? Surrendering then would be … worthy. Not as worthy as victory, but perhaps more so than a wasteful defeat. As long as the fight was a good one, fought with everything one had then becoming an ally-vassal of the victor before total defeat … yes, that could be respected.

Nell would be far better than Edward. The man was competent, cunning, able to think. He would make a decent spymaster, just as he made a decent deputy. He was devotedly loyal, never had and never would consider betrayal. But he lacked … flair. He did not have that final something that Trempwick had so far spotted only in Nell. If the two ever truly fought Trempwick knew Nell would win. She would beat each and every one of the agents in his house. So far she had not recognised then for what they were, not that he knew of. He had been most careful. They had been most careful. They were some of his best. Not the best, the best were out working for him. They had done their work well. Watching, protecting, subtly guiding and shaping the young princes to his needs. They chipped at her; he offered reassurance and comfort. They drove her towards him and blocked her from looking elsewhere, making her an easier target. That was … no longer needful. Nell would be so much better as his second than Edward.

None the less, he would not unleash her. He would be pained to have to harm her, and harm there would have to be to break her sufficiently to be safe for this new role. Nell was to be kept safe, protected, sparred with, tutored, guided, watched, honoured, cherished, controlled. He should add love, but Trempwick had never been fond of deceiving himself. Deception was a tool aimed outwards, never inwards. Alas, ‘to be very fond of, feel affection for, and find a worthy opponent in’ just did not have the same delightful ring as ‘love’, and it did not fit into his ordered thought neatly. He would have to find a fitting word.

Trempwick cracked his knuckles and began to work silently through his vocabulary. Endearment … tenderness … warmth …partiality …kindliness … admiration … fondness … none of them quite worked. All parts, not a one a whole. Trempwick scowled, exasperated. This was quite intolerable. If he could not find a word he would make one. It was all an intelligent man could do when confronted with inadequacy caused by others. No one had created the word he needed; he would make it himself. But not now.

Trempwick unrolled the tiny message his mother had sent by bird. It would be about a day out of date by now, perhaps only half a day if she had managed to get it dispatched soon after writing.

Arrived safe. Girl obedient. Child active, much fuss over girl. No trace of dog.

Trempwick’s lips curved. So, it was all as he had expected, for the most part. He had not expected Nell to be quite so tame, either to his mother or before the queen’s fussing. No sign of the dog; Fulk was routed, removed from the picture, no longer an issue. No. Not quite. Nell still had feeling for the knight, but that would pass in time. Nell was closely chaperoned at the palace; she could not meet her pet even if she wished. Not without him hearing of it. He had already made it very clear he would not be pleased with her meeting Fulk again.

Hearing was not always knowing. Hearing was sometimes a half word, not a whole. Half words and Nell went hand in hand when she was away. He could not have her followed everywhere. No one could read her as he did. Half words were … a challenge. He moved his piece, she moved hers, both players deceptive. Was her trap real or not? Did he overlook something? Did he perhaps suspect when there was nothing to uncover? Truth or bluff? Real or imagined? Harmless or deadly? Trempwick began to tear up the message. Her greatest puzzle so far was the knight. Evidence said she had been fool enough to sleep with him. Evidence said she would not. Half words.

He always won, in their little contests. He planned for all outcomes, and planned many moves ahead. Had or had not; what Nell may have done with Fulk mattered less at this point than what he would do. Had not was simple; he would do the obvious. Be kind, affectionate, try to please her. That was advantageous … also … appealing. Had; that was complex. Had presented several needs. A need to prove his displeasure. A need to show his hurt at her lack of trust in him. A need to prevent her straying again in future. A need to prove himself a far better lover than Fulk. A need to make her entirely his, curbing this new effort to edge away from him. A need to do all this without losing her. So many ways these needs could be met. Broad categories, each filled with many smaller potentials. Forgiving and kind. Rough and vengeful. Hurt and shocked. Disgusted and disappointed. A natural reaction, perhaps. Mostly natural. Anything partly planned and considered in advance could not be entirely natural. Natural would be … all of the above.

Trempwick leaned his head back to rest on the back of his chair, drumming his fingers on his thigh. So many options! To choose poorly would do untold harm. Abruptly he grinned. Nell was a challenge, even if she did not intend it, and surely she must intend. Trempwick considered his potential moves, staring up at the roof beams with uncaring eyes. He could spend hours on this one puzzle alone. He had spent hours on it. He would spend hours more on it. This was only one facet too. The others also needed examination, consideration, deliberation, planning, and finally enactment and outcome.

A long while later Trempwick let this particular puzzle drop. He was leaning towards blending several categories. Forgiving and kind, hurt and shocked, and a little of disappointed. That would be most honest, minus the less … pleasant parts. Trempwick’s lip curled in a sneer. A man should not indulge his less pleasant sides, no matter how much people thought it was manly, suitable, justified or understandable. This blend was most likely to cover all the needs successfully. It would also add an increased hold over her. “I forgave you the unforgivable” he murmured, trying the words out. They sounded well. One part of vengeful appealed brightly. It suited nicely. It was fitting. It spoke eloquently and at length. Someone would have to provide the bloodstain. Let it be her. Let her be the one to slash skin with knife. “Betray me and I will not bleed for you. The consequences of your acts are your own to bear. It is harder to go it alone, without my aid. I am extremely upset with you, more upset than I have ever been. I am merciful to let you do this, but not soft enough to harm myself on your faithless behalf. If you had been honest, though, I would have done this for you.” Yes, this would be used if needed. Now only deciding the smaller details of the other categories remained; a task for another time.

Nell was tame. Trempwick let the thought sit in his mind for a while. He was not sure he trusted this. But … she had misstepped badly, he had asserted his authority, made a very great fuss, allowed his betrayed hurt to show instead of hiding it as he usually did, then carefully been kind to her at the same time as reinforcing his message. “I am the master. I can be kind or not kind. Choose.” The irritant was gone, and he had done his best to turn her mind from Fulk. She believed her brother wished her harm. No doubt the stolid Hugh did. But more still would Hugh wish she would sink into the woollen-headed submission he and his father coveted so much. There was harm and harm. Hugh wanted the former, not the latter. She was on ground she hated and felt uncertain with. He had made her see that his mother offered her some protection. She wanted to come home. She had not wanted to leave. Perhaps, then, this was … acceptable.

Perhaps his mother had it wrong. He had only been able to give her a few short lessons in Nell. She could not read the princess as he could. She could not judge as he could. She could not think as he could. She did not value what he did. But she could chaperone. She could give some reports. Juliana would also see, also spy, also report. All too easy; a little time, a few promises with no intent to keep them, a very little pleasure, and the infatuated girl was his loyal creature. Juliana was very … people. But the risk of playing so dangerous a game, oh now that had been more like it. But if Nell ever found out Trempwick was confident he could turn the situation to his advantage. In a nutshell, “But my love, it is so hard to be patient when full of pent up passion, and I remember my promise to you. It was nothing, scratching an itch, very common, everyone does it. It will never happen again, it never need happen again, because now you are mine and I have no thought of wandering. I only bedded the maid because I could not have you.” It would be stormy for a while, but he would win out because it was true. Except for the omission of gaining a spy to watch over both Nell and his mother, and to ferret for information from Nell harmlessly. And the omission that he had also been putting his mother in her place, reminding her of how powerless she was when he put his mind to it. She could not even keep him away from her maid; all she could do was wait outside.

And then there were his other people. He would wait and see what the others said. But there was no undue cause for concern. As long as Nell was watched over nothing could go wrong before he arrived.

Only days, four days now. In four days he would be married to Nell. Trempwick leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle. From there so very many appealing prospects beckoned …







I bet that was not what you expected to be reading today

Another part which changes a whole lot of what was, revealing more of what is. I kind of like Trempy’s POV; this is the first time I have ever used it but he’s been whispering in my ear throughout.

[master of the puppets]

man frogbeastegg do you have any life AT ALL!? no im just kidding, great stories, i just would not have the patience to do that much writing

... uh oh was i not supposed to write oops

[AntiochusIII]

You tried to kill me, geisha froggy? I've been trying to follow months of work in a few days.

Great! Though I believe you must have some kind of publishing ambition in it (want it to be published - to make it simple.) If yes then good luck, if no then I'm just a useless John.

master of the puppets: your parents don't want you to write or just don't want you to spend time surfing the net? I've been wondering...
1. if the first one then why... then again...my parents never knew I'm even on this site. They believe I've been playing "That Rome Game" all day again. Hehe
2. They are reasonable since I'm near coma now for reading froggy's story all day for many days. Death from lack of sleep. Hey, good title for a new short story!

[frogbeastegg]

By the time Hugh finally put in his appearance Eleanor and Anne had played two swift games in which Eleanor had acquainted herself with all the rules and had just started a slower, more serious game. Eleanor was finding her detached, controlled state left her better able to concentrate on the game, and for once she was taking her time considering her moves. Unsurprisingly this meant she was doing better at tafl than she ever had at chess. She was still losing before Anne’s experience and skill though, steadily but inevitably.

Hugh had changed from the flowing, ankle length tunic he had worn at dinner to a shorter, tailored one more suited to action. His jewel studded belt had been exchanged for a plainer one, much to Eleanor’s relief, and his dagger had been left behind. He closed the door and stood by their game table, stiff backed and waiting. After a very lengthy pause he said to Eleanor, “You do not rise to acknowledge my presence?”

Playing tafl with Anne did not give off the same imperious air as the pose she had intended Hugh to find her in, but Eleanor thought she preferred the casual disdain being found playing a game provided. She moved her piece randomly even though it was not her turn, speaking in a preoccupied tone, “How keenly observant of you, Hugh. I do not, nor shall I.”

“Regrettable; it would demonstrate a little sense, self preservation, and repentance.” Hugh bowed minutely to Anne. “Pray forgive this ugliness, my lady. I am afraid I shall have to ask if I may interrupt your game; I wish to speak to my sister in private. I am most painfully aware that by rights this room is yours, not mine, and that I am asking you to leave where I have no prerogative.”

“Hugh, I do not like this. Eleanor only wants to-”

Eleanor interjected, “Hugh is right, you really should go. This is going to get unpleasant; you do not want to watch.”

“But-”

“Go.”

Anne reluctantly left the solar, retreating not to the stairs as Eleanor had expected but to her own bedchamber. She shut the door audibly, but Eleanor noticed it slowly and silently open a tiny crack so the young queen could watch. With his back to the door Hugh didn’t detect the queen’s subterfuge.

Eleanor suppressed her annoyance at having an audience and focused on the task in hand. “Well, there is no point in delaying, so let us get on with this. The first move is yours; play it.”

“This is not a game,” chided Hugh.

“Pity,” retorted Eleanor trimly, leaning back in her chair and resting each hand just above the opposing wrist. “Well, since you made your move I shall make mine. Tell me about John. Tell me why he died. He was my brother; I have a right to know, and people are reluctant to speak about him.”

“You are already aware of why; his treason caught up with him, and no man is above the law of the land.”

“But surely you spoke up for him? He was our brother.”

“I did indeed speak on his behalf. I spoke for clemency; a swift, merciful end.” He said it without the least trace of shame. “I knew he would not get better than that, and a traitor’s death is seldom so clean.”

“So you argued to kill him?”

“I argued for an honourable, clean death.”

“You encouraged our father to kill our brother.”

A flash of annoyance came and went on Hugh’s face. “Father wavered, but his mind was clearly made up from the start. He would follow the hardest path for the sake of the realm. To spare John would be to invite disaster and make a sham of the king’s law and king’s justice, without which the crown will become powerless. If men do not fear the king’s anger at their wrongdoing and trust implicitly in his righteousness then they will go their own ways, and from there can only come devastation, disharmony, destruction, impiety, fear, unlawfulness, injustice, and every abuse of power and might known to man. It is our duty, as entrusted to us by God, to ensure that never comes to pass.” Hugh’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her. “Though duty is a concept you seem to have great difficulty in comprehending. John should have died a traitor’s death – hung until nearly dead, disembowelled, mutilated, and put on display until the crows pecked his bones clean, just like his co-conspirator, Northumberland”

“But with Trempwick’s help-”

“The spymaster could not have chosen his words better if he had wanted John dead.”

The triumph Eleanor had expected to feel at this did not appear; instead she felt empty, empty and drained. “What do you mean?”

“As I said our father wavered; he did not want to kill his son. Trempwick offered him numerous ways to spare John, often saying that he could easily handle any unrest it may cause, in effect reminding father of why John must die.”

“So he was trying to ensure our brother died?”

“He was offering another path, one which could not be taken but father had visible interest in. He was doing his duty,” Hugh stressed that word, giving Eleanor another meaningful look, “finding a way to give his lord what he wanted. His efforts were misguided, and this was one of very few times I have seen the spymaster misread our father. I do not see the relevance of this to the matter in hand. You will stop stalling; I have little wish to waste all evening on you.”

“Hugh-”

“Stand up.”

Resigned, Eleanor changed tactics. “No.”

“What?” asked Hugh, incredulous.

“I said no. Are you going deaf, brother dear?”

“You are only making this worse for yourself.” Hugh reached out a hand to pull her up; Eleanor batted it to one side. She cocked an eyebrow. Hugh tried again, a more determined effort. Eleanor grabbed one of his wrists with both hands and devoted everything she had to keeping the hand away from her. When Hugh focused on winning the upper battle Eleanor kicked him, missing his groin but catching his thigh. Shocked, Hugh gave ground, pulling his arm free of her grip easily. “I see,” he said grimly. He dropped into a fighter’s crouch as Eleanor came to her feet and assumed a similar pose.

She waited, watching for any hint of his move. Hugh lunged, she twisted to one side skipped to her left. Hugh recovered quickly, sidestepping to follow her and pressing forwards. He grabbed, and as Eleanor dodged he drove forward and seized one of the long trailing ends of her girdle. Swiftly he yanked, hard, pulling her off balance. He relinquished his hold on her girdle to catch her right upper arm in an inflexible grip.

“Oh bugger!” cursed Eleanor. With her free hand she chopped at his wrist, trying to free herself. She tried to drive her knee into her brother’s groin, but he twisted so she only hit solid thigh muscle. With her free hand Eleanor shot a punch at Hugh’s throat; he caught that hand in his. “I’m too short for this!” she grumbled, as he wrestled to get a better grip on her hand while maintaining his hold on her arm. She stamped on Hugh’s foot, immediately trying to follow up with a second stomp. Hugh anticipated the attack and pulled his foot back. As he transferred his weight Eleanor flung herself to that side, dragging him off balance, and at the same time working frantically to free her arms. She managed to get one hand free. It did her no good, only freeing up Hugh’s right hand so he could slap her in the face hard enough to set her ears ringing. She attempted to rake his face with her nails, but he jerked his head back so she did little damage. Hugh delivered an expert blow to her upper stomach, winding her. As Eleanor fought to get her breath back he manhandled her over into a corner and dumped her down, blocking her escape while he began to unbuckle his belt.

Still working to get air back into her lungs Eleanor drew both her knives, and said, “I have an offer for you, brother dear. We sit down cordially, you listen to what I have to say, you think about it and give me fair hearing, and then I shall peacefully let you do whatever you want to my poor hide. The alternative; we keep on fighting and you never find out why I arranged all this.”

Hugh’s hands had ceased their movement the instant he had seen her weapons. Outraged he exclaimed, “You have knives?!”

“Knives and more; I came here dressed to kill, to defend myself, not to dispatch you. I don’t doubt that you would win in the end, but it will be a messy victory. So there is my offer; take it or leave it.”

Hugh tapped one finger against the solid gold buckle of his belt as he considered. “Put up your weapons – all of them – and I will listen.”

“Promise,” insisted Eleanor. “Promise no trickery and a fair hearing.”

“You have my word on it. I would likewise ask for your own solemn oath but I fear I could not trust it. It will not matter; as you say I can subdue you again easily.” He stepped out of the way, eyeing her guardedly. With a shallow, sardonic bow Eleanor made her way past him to freedom. Hugh said, “I shall add that to the list of grievances as well. You really do lack self preservation and sense.”

Eleanor flipped her knives so the blades hung below her hands and stabbed them both down into the surface of the table. “Brother dear, self preservation sometimes comes second.” She gave him a copy of his earlier meaningful looks. “Duty to family and realm, and all that.” Eleanor started to remove the pins holding up her now muddled hairstyle.

“I did not hit you hard enough to scramble your brains.” He gestured towards one side of her face, which was now beginning to show a red hand mark. “That will not even bruise; I was very careful. So I must conclude that this is more of your foolishness, and that this too must be added to my increasingly long list.”

Eleanor laid the collection of hairpins out in a neat row in front of the two standing daggers. She began to untie the two ribbons holding her braids together; strictly they were not weapons, but Hugh did not know that and she could easily improvise with them if she wanted. Every little bit helped the illusion of strength. “People always believe the worst of me. Hugh is it so hard to believe that for once I might be doing as I say? If I wanted you dead or harmed I could do it easily, just not in a fair fight. Do you think I actually like getting hurt? I provoked this so I could speak to you without certain eyes growing suspicious. You already know how much I hate being at court. If I did not see cause to be here I would still be at Woburn, peacefully trying to appease Trempwick so he does not stomp on me.”

“You would not - you were summoned here and your opinion on the matter was not requested.”

“Brother dear, I arranged that. All so easy; one very careful yet simple deception to get past Trempwick, a quick message to our queen, she drips a few careful words in our father’s ear, and here I am, and all without my visibly wanting to be here. In fact much the opposite – I protested loudly and refused to come until I let Trempwick persuade me.” Eleanor coiled the ribbons up neatly and placed them beside the hairpins. Next she rolled up her outer sleeve and began to unwind the garrotte from her arm. Hugh’s face had remained carefully blank, but now a flicker of surprise escaped. Seeing it Eleanor forced herself to grin. “I did say dressed to kill, brother dear. I left my poisons and drugs behind though, along with several other choice items like lockpicks.”

The length of waxed cord was also carefully coiled and set down next to the other items. Eleanor knelt and began to retrieve the borrowed hairpins she had worked into the skirt of her underdress. Once collected up she set them in an orderly row above her own pins. She dusted her hands off and made sure her clothing hung neatly once again, indicating she was done.

Hugh stared at the pile with ill-concealed distaste. “Now stand away from the table and start talking. My patience will not last forever.”

Eleanor crossed back to the chair she had been seated in previously. “I take it you know someone is trying to keep you heirless?” She sat down, hands folded in her lap and once more apparently at ease. The truth was her heart was hammering fit to burst, her cheek throbbing in time with her pulse, and the faint feeling of nausea was not solely caused by the blow to her stomach. She reached once more for her control, pushing awareness of these pains away until they were more background bother than a distraction.

“Constance is pregnant; the child will be born in five months.”

Eleanor applauded him, smiling broadly with delight at his skilled dodge and change of subject. “Oh very well done, brother dear! Perhaps we do have a little in common after all. Did you find out who was murdering your children?”

Hugh remained calm and unflappable. “My children were not murdered.”

“Hugh, I know, you know, there is no need to lie, not here and not know. Do not worry about Anne overhearing – she can be trusted, believe me. Your silence here will not protect your family, quite the opposite.”

Hugh wandered a slow circuit of the room, not speaking. Eleanor left him, knowing he was thinking and weighing risk against potential gain. “They were not murdered; a baby only receives a soul forty days after conception. Things without souls cannot be murdered.” He sat down heavily in the chair opposite her. “But it is impossible to tell exactly when those forty days have passed. It pains my heart, this not knowing quite what was lost.”

“Did you find out who?”

“I have my suspicions.”

“Who?” Hugh kept his peace, staring back at her impassively. “Let me venture a guess: Trempwick.”

Evenly he said, “Trempwick is our father’s most trusted friend and confidant, his spymaster also, and that is a position of great trust. He is my future brother-in-law. There is no reason to mistrust him.”

“And yet you do.” Eleanor sat up, intent, focused and no longer bothering to hide it.

“I have not said that.”

“No, you have been very careful not to. Why do you suspect him?”

“I will not indulge in idle speculation. Those with greater experience and better judgement than myself find him to be reliable, even admirable.”

“But you do not,” surmised Eleanor. “Why?”

Hugh answered mildly, “Your betrothed will have his place secure when I assume the throne; I have no reason to remove him, and I acknowledge his competence, experience and skill. I also acknowledge that he is well looked upon, favoured even, because of his abilities and achievements.”

Eleanor spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully and not quite managing to keep all trace of irritation from her voice, “But what do you think of him?”

“Let us instead speak of you,” countered Hugh smoothly. “What do you think of him?”

Eleanor frowned and sat back once again. “He is like a second father to me.”

“And you love him.”

“No.”

He made a gesture with the first two fingers of his right hand, acknowledging and also dismissing her denial. “Like him then, and are attracted to him.”

Eleanor’s frown deepened. “It is not as simple as that,” she said charily.

“It looks very simple to me; I have seen with my own eyes, I have heard the reports, I have read his messages.”

“What are you implying?”

“You know he had the audacity to come asking for your hand at Christmas, before John returned? A relative nothing compared to us, and he thought himself a fitting match for you. He thought this match would make you happy, and that you would accept it despite your wilful refusal to marry more suitable candidates.”

“I didn’t know …”

Hugh recognised her claim with another twitch of his first two fingers. “He swore you had not encouraged him.” He paused, then added with a flourish, “But why else would he ask?”

Eleanor bolted forward in her chair, planting her hands on the arms with twin thumps of bad tempered flesh on wood. “I did not encourage him! Remember how hard I fought to keep from marrying him? Would I do that if I wanted the match?”

“Perhaps you panicked. Perhaps you at last thought of your reputation and wished to settle this in such a way as to preserve your status; ‘forced’ to marry so far beneath you, not choice. But most likely of all perhaps you wished to protect yourself.”

“Oh Hugh! You cannot think-”

“You wished to cover up your little affair. To consent too quickly would be to invite father to wonder why after all this time you changed your mind, and for a man you have been living with unchaperoned for years. His anger would be terrible indeed.”

Eleanor felt the blood drain for her face, and the feeling of nausea returned with new force. “You do, you actually believe that,” she whispered. The shock soon wore off, and she raised her chin proudly. “Choose your respectable matrons and have them examine me; they will find my maidenhead is still intact.” Hugh continued to sit as he had been, face unreadable, posture unreadable, no reaction at all. Eleanor’s temper grew; she held up one hand and said brusquely, “I swear on my immortal soul that nothing improper happened between myself and Trempwick before we were betrothed, not even a brush of hands. If I lie may I be struck down his instant and damned to hell for all eternity.” She looked about the four corners of the ceiling exaggeratedly, as if searching for signs of God’s fury. Once she felt she had given sufficient time for lightening to rain down on her for lying Eleanor enquired self-righteously, “Satisfied? Even I would not dare lie under oath like that.”

Grudgingly Hugh nodded. “Very well; I believe you. Although now I am left wondering why he asked.”

“Ambition, what else? As you have so delightfully pointed out love does not require marriage, and all and sundry know my dowry is an insulting pittance given my rank; that leaves only the assorted benefits my blood and family can bring, and they are only of interest and use to an ambitious man. Asking for my hand would have been a big risk; if refused his position may have become perilous, so whatever he expected to gain must have been worth this risk.” She sat back again, rubbing thoughtfully at her tender cheek. “He must have been so certain …”

Hugh considered, his face still a blank mask. “That is … believable, but I do not see how he could hope to profit from your bloodlines.”

“Yes you do,” said Eleanor tiredly. “You see it now; you had parts of a suspicion before and now you have enough to make it a whole. You just do not want to say it. He wants to make me queen, with himself as king-consort. That is why he has been murdering your children. That is why his eloquence achieved the opposite of what he appeared to want. That is why he asked for me, and why he worked so carefully to win me over even though I wanted nothing to do with him.”

“There is no evidence, only vague suspicion and tenuous connections.”

“Why did you never tell our father you suspected Trempwick was behind these miscarriages?”

Hugh shrugged. “I had no evidence, Trempwick has no motive and nothing to gain, for a long time both Constance and I believed it to be the will of God with no aid from man, and unlike you I do not question the judgement of those older and wiser than myself. Father trusts Trempwick.”

“Because he does not know what we do! How can he possibly make a judgement if you keep information hidden from him?”

“Impossible!” snapped Hugh. He flushed at his brief bust of temper and composed himself with effort. He was not quite successful; the corners of his mouth remained downturned and his usual articulation was missing as he defended himself tersely. “So I was to go to him and report that my wife noticed this strange, bitter taste in all her food and drink shortly before she miscarried each time? The midwives said it was a sign, like feeling nauseous a brief while before you vomit. An effect, not a cause. Likewise those very things which could be side effects of abortants she had been given could equally be innocent – women tend to be very ill after miscarrying anyway. It does not mean she ended up with a little too much of whatever had been scattered throughout her food. Was I supposed to say that Constance has always believed that the one child born to us was healthy and strong, though she never got to see him before he died suddenly within minutes of his birth? I suppose my exhausted, grief stricken wife’s opinion on the health of a child she did not see is solid, credible evidence. Even if this were so babies die abruptly and without warning; it does not necessarily mean someone included poison in the honey and salt used to purify my son’s gums. My suspicion came from knowing Trempwick out of very, very few had the ability to do this, and any other would – should – need to get past his own guards and counterspies. I trust my wife, and to a lesser extent I trust those of my mistresses who also mentioned similarly strange yet innocent details. I trust because of who they are to me and what I know of them; that counts for nothing as evidence, and evidence is sorely needed here.” With quiet pride Hugh stated, “We do not condemn on hearsay, rumour and wild speculation in England.”

“But if he wishes to rule through me then he does have both motive and gain,” persevered Eleanor, sensing victory was both possible and coming steadily closer. “Your lack of heirs would make it easier to place me on the throne. He arranged for John to die, both ensuring he was executed and probably leading him into treason in the first place, working through the influence of an agent of an agent of an agent, or something equally convoluted. I wonder if he slandered Adela to remove her from the competition, after all her husband is a very old man, past seventy now, and he has been tacitly expected to die for years, leaving her a very eligible widow. He has disposed of all your children, not only limiting the competition but also weakening your own position because people look to you and fear for the future. Also remember those bastard rumours; who better than a spymaster to spread them?”

“My parentage is quite evident if you but look beyond the surface, or even if you think a little of the past. Our grandfather’s two younger brothers were fair in colour, though both died quite young. The darker coloured line is the more prominent and more recent, and so far clearer in people’s minds. I have my own people working subtly to rectify this.” Hugh smiled minutely at her surprise. “I am heir to the throne, it is only logical that I have resources of my own.” The smile twisted sourly. “Although they are never quite so effective as I might hope.”

“Trempwick would know, and he would move to block you.”

“That is perhaps so; the spymaster will surely know, and he is in position to hamper me if he so chooses. But that would be treasonable.”

“Once you find one dubious aspect it leads on to others, and they in turn lead onwards. After just under a month’s thought I could sit here all night listing tiny thing after tiny thing, all of them connecting in with other facets, most of them entirely harmless alone but far more worrying when combined with other facets. But we do not have all night; Trempwick has packed this court with spies, and if he knew I was speaking to you alone he may begin to get suspicious, hence my little diplomatic gaff to get you alone for a bit. What are we going to do?”

Hugh countered her question with one of his own. “Why should I believe you? You have no evidence, only your word and your interpretation of events.”

“Exactly the same as what you have to support your own misgivings, brother dear.”

Hugh scratched the back of one hand idly, thinking once more. “Why are you doing this?” he asked at last.

“Because I do not want to be queen,” said Eleanor vehemently. “I hate attention, ritual, fuss, expectations, ceremony, needing to dress up in fancy clothes and play royalty before a crowd. I could not stand the thought of everyone eagerly prying into my life, wanting to know every detail of every little thing I did, and then gossiping about it. Then there is the succession – I could not secure it. I have heard more than often enough how children do not feature in my future, not unless I care to die as the first is born. I would have to pass the throne to a relative outsider, a nephew or something, and that very seldom goes smoothly. I will not be a pawn; I have fought all my life against that. I have no wish to make major decisions, I am not a leader – even interfering this much terrifies me. What if I make a mistake? Or if I am wrong? Looking at how badly this could go makes me feel faint with terror, as does looking at what could happen if I do nothing.” Eleanor paused for breath. She decided on a piece of honesty she had not shared with Fulk and Anne. “I am not sure I could do it even if I wanted to; I am not certain I am up to the task. Given time and guidance maybe I could hope for competence, but every mistake I made while learning or later… think of the cost. I know I could not hold this empire together, maybe the English lands but not the French and Welsh.”

“I … understand, far better than you may believe.”

“The burden must fall to one of us, and I fear you are far better suited, Hugh.”

Hugh rose and began wandering circuits about the room again, a mobile thinker. “Four legitimate children and three bastards dead because of you; only one of all of them was born, a son, dead within minutes. And all so you can be placed on the throne in my stead. All because of your stubborn stupidity making this possible! You should have done as you were told!”

In a small voice Eleanor admitted, “It is worse than that; there is no telling what damage he has done to set this up. People killed, slandered, families disinherited, wars maybe both big and small, rifts in our family, and probably others, started and exaggerated, our king manipulated …”

“This is why women are supposed to be dutiful and obedient, and the younger open to the guidance of the elder, as laid out in the bible. Know your place, sister, and keep to it, and perhaps we may avoid further disasters!”

Eleanor found herself blinking back tears. “But what else could I do? Married or a convent – neither suits me and no one would listen.”

“Does your alternative suit you?”

“I should have taken vows and rotted my life away miserably, praying and playing with religious politics.” The scary thing was Eleanor found she actually meant it.

Hugh softened, once again reining in his temper. “Jesú! Our father tries for years to do what I have done in a night, and by accident at that. Nell, you are a more unnerving sight when cowed than when spiting fire. Not a thing happens in this world that is not God’s will, though we cannot always hope to understand His workings and often His methods seem strange and convoluted.”

“And if that reason is to destroy our family?”

“Then it is God’s will, and will happen regardless.”

“What are we going to do?” asked Eleanor again.

Hugh resumed his pacing and took his time before answering. “I do not see what we can do; we have no evidence, no witnesses, I am not king, and you are betrothed to Trempwick with the marriage imminent. Once father returns we could speak to him, without the spymaster’s knowledge, but still we have no evidence.”

“It will be too late by then!” cried Eleanor. “I would be married to him, from there he only needs to bide his time.”

“Who are we to question our father’s judgement? Or to meddle? Look where that has got you, sister!”

“Into a mess,” she admitted. “But also in a position to see and work to rectify that mess. We cannot do nothing, we cannot. Too much is at stake. Once tied to Trempwick I cannot be freed except by his death, and think of how much worse the scandal will be if my husband is discovered to be as traitor, not my betrothed. He would be in a better position to resist; I know he could potentially turn the situation to his advantage if he managed to rouse support or flee, dragging me along with him. Look at how he turned his rejected proposal around to his favour, and other setbacks I do not have time to detail. I will not marry him; I cannot marry him! Not with this doubt, not knowing what I do, not seeing where it could lead. If once informed father still wishes me to marry Trempwick then I shall, but not now. Hugh, you are the heir, one day you will be king. You must act like it, truly act like it. You lectured me on duty and doing the right thing even when it is hard, now I repeat it back to you.”

Hugh’s pacing speeded up; he hunkered his head down and clasped his hands behind his back. “The wedding cannot be halted, not without alerting him and letting others know something is wrong. That too will be harmful.”

“We can think of something. We still have a short time, although as I said his spies must not suspect why we are talking like this. Hugh, if necessary I will throw self preservation out of the window to talk to you again, but our time is limited. We cannot waste even a second of it.”

A few moments later Hugh stopped. “Do you have any requests as to how I go about this?”

Eleanor swallowed and tried not to betray how much this request mattered to her or why. “I want my bodyguard back; I know I can trust him completely, trust him with my life no matter the circumstances. He would die to save me, and already nearly has. He takes his oaths very seriously; once sworn to me he will never betray me. That is why Trempwick forced me to send him away; Fulk kept intervening between us, protecting me. I will need someone to rely on, someone to watch my back. Trempwick will not let me go easily. He could also play messenger as a last resort.”

Hugh wandered a little more, straight lines back and forth instead of circuits of the room. “It is true he was recommended to us as a man of honour, and father does seem to have some regard for him in this aspect.” A little more hard thinking, without any clue as to what was on his mind. Eleanor continued to watch in trepidation, the palms of her hands damp with sweat. Finally Hugh stopped again. “I will arrange it. Certain events will happen; do not do anything … freakish. Act as would be expected. You will come to no harm. This will also make the wedding quite impossible for some time, until father is home and we have spoke with him if I handle matters correctly. I will not, however, allow myself to play entirely into your hands if you have treachery in mind. You will sign a certain document, admitting you have knowledge of what I am going to arrange and stating that you gave your consent. I will keep it, safe and close to hand.”

“What are you going to do?”

Hugh’s face split with a grin of pure delight that Eleanor hadn’t seen since he was a young boy. “I am going to have you assassinated, Nell. Incompetently. Do not be concerned; you will be quite safe, although it will not appear so. But you will need a bodyguard, and I can hold up the wedding while I investigate.”

Eleanor started to smile herself, but gave up when it made her face ache. It seemed there would be a bruise of some sort after all. “How very apt; Trempwick has already accused you of trying to remove me once. But you will not fool him for long. I shall do what I can to keep things going our way.”

“It will be dealt with; I have my resources, and I shall cover my tracks very well.”

“One thing remains; my cover must be complete, and I did give you a promise. See, brother dear, I do keep my word.” Hugh raised his eyebrows in query. Eleanor stood up. “Just one request - no more scars.”

Hugh nodded briefly in assent. Eleanor crossed to the table and began to shift her collection of weapons out of the way. As she did so she cast a quick glance to the door where Anne was hiding and watching. She was still there, hidden behind the tiny gap. At least the girl had had the sense to keep back out of the way, not interfere, and not betray her presence. Eleanor looked away and checked Hugh. He stood waiting, his belt doubled over and hanging loosely from his right hand. Eleanor braced her hands on the table, each arm thrust out stiffly, forward and out to the side so she leaned forward to present a good target. Scars; what vanity. As if there was anything left to ruin. Her clothes would protect her; brute force made leather cut flesh and the cloth would both blunt the force and keep the edge of the slender leather strap away from her skin. It was the edge which did the most damage, the edge and any metalwork decoration. “Have done with it,” she ordered, at the same time slipping off into memory.

Hugh began to methodically work his way over her back, each blow falling next to where the previous one had landed, driving the breath from her body and leaving an inch wide, long burning line, the force knocking her forwards so she had to straighten up a little each time. Aside from this unavoidable, dimmed awareness Eleanor ignored it, once again sat with Fulk in her room, listening as he told of how he had broken his nose.

It grew harder to hold onto the more complicated memories; stories gave way to fragments of conversations. Hugh began to work the other way, landing blows from left to right instead of right to left. Her grip on those fragments faltered, and she slid back to sentences. Finally she was left with that smile, the touch of a hand, the sound of a laugh, the way his eyes shone with ardent passion when he looked at her unguardedly, the grim determination as he entered combat, the feel of a kiss, the endless patience, the gentleness of his hands …

It stopped. Hugh said, “I think that is enough; it will match what people will expect, and probably exceed it.”

Eleanor slowly, carefully released her grip and returned to reality. She promptly bit through her lip at the shock. Stiffly she straightened up and turned around, dabbing at her bleeding lip with the back of her hand. “For what it is worth I offer you whatever aid I can provide, both now and when you are king. I will not marry for you, and I will not enter a convent at your order, but otherwise I am at your command.” The significant, short speech was ruined by the slight clumsiness of speech her lip forced and the tight, stiff tone which came from pain.

Hugh nodded graciously as if neither of those impediments had been noticed. “And what of our father?”

“That is up to him when we next meet; if he is willing to accept those two caveats and stop exploding every time I breathe then my offer stands for him also.”

“Then I think we are concluded. If I wish to see you I shall send for you. You already know how to attract my attention if required.” He glanced over at the door to Anne’s bedchamber. “And now our queen can stop skulking and see to your hurts.”

The door opened sheepishly and Anne emerged. “Well, I was curious,” she mumbled, blushing at being caught. “And I already am part of this anyway. And I am queen here. And this is my room. And … er … sorry.” Recovering her poise Anne inspected Eleanor from a safe distance, then said to Hugh, “Send my maids up, now. I shall create a bit of a fuss; that will spread word nicely.”

Hugh bowed to his queen and left.

“I can manage,” slurred Eleanor.

Anne ignored her, producing a scrap of clean linen and handing it to Eleanor so she could dab at her lip with something a little more effective. “We will soon have you sorted out,” she assured Eleanor cheerfully. She set to work busily hiding all of Eleanor’s weapons except the hairpins and ribbons in the room’s locked book chest.

“I do not need sorting out.”

“A nice balm on those bruises … I have this really good one made with comfrey and hyssop. Another balm for the lip, though, one with honey in.”

“I am fine,” growled Eleanor. “I am going back to my guest rooms.”

“But-”

“I need Aveline to see this and hear my grumbling about how right I was.”

Anne planted her fists on her hips and struck a pose of regal sternness which may have been intimidating had she been older. “She can hear tonight; there is plenty of time for seeing and grumbling tomorrow. You can stay up here overnight; once we get you settled it would be best for you to stay still. You can have my room; I will move over into William’s.”

“Thank you, but no.”

“It is no bother.”

“That is not what I meant,” protested Eleanor helplessly. “I am leaving now; I can manage on my own, but thank you anyway.”

Followed by a protesting Anne she managed to make her escape through the door, only to find her path blocked by Anne’s trio of maids half way down the stairs. Anne ordered, “Help me get her back upstairs; she is determined to escape!”

Eleanor’s instance of, “I am fine!” went completely ignored, and she found herself shepherded back up to the solar. Immediately after the door closed Eleanor was shooed to stand in the best light while everyone looked at her, most with some variation on sympathetic purpose.

“Well,” started Mariot, “that’s going to bruise for a start.” She pointed at the side of Eleanor’s face. “But not badly, I’m thinking. We can cover it tomorrow with face power, then no one’ll be any the wiser.”

“That is not necessary,” declared Eleanor firmly.

Everyone else was nodding in agreement – with Mariot. Godit was the only one who gave hint she had heard Eleanor; she asked, “You want everyone to see the bruise? How odd.”

“I have nothing to hide,” claimed Eleanor icily. “Let everyone see what he has done.”

The gathering assortedly expressed polite, unbelieving disapproval.

Anne took command. “Godit, fetch the required balms, that one with comfrey and hyssop and something with honey for her lip. Adela, you go and inform those in Eleanor’s guest house that she will be staying here tonight; be sure to tell lady Aveline personally. Mariot, you go and get some nice broth and a bit of bread for her supper; she did not eat much before she left the hall.”

“I am perfectly alright,” wailed Eleanor, once again to unheeding ears.

The room emptied out. Anne told Eleanor, “Give me the sheaths for your knives so I can hide them, and anything else which no one else should see.” When Eleanor didn’t hurry to remove the sheaths Anne scurried over and started undoing the straps for her, assuming somehow she was incapable. “How did you do that?” she asked Eleanor, sotto voce as she worked.

“Do what?”

“Not even a whimper! It was really quite amazing.”

“Oh … er … thank you.”

“So, how did you do it?”

Eleanor couldn’t hold back the sardonic answer which sprang to mind. “I stood there and pretended to be a tree.”

“Really?” Anne blinked a few times. She started work on the second sheath. “I shall remember that, not that I think I will ever need it, but really it could be quite handy some day.”

“I wish Fulk were here,” groaned Eleanor, not actually meaning to say it out aloud. He at least had the sense to keep quiet and not chatter, and very occasionally he even followed orders too. Anne started to giggle, evidently thinking of different reasons for Eleanor to want her knight. Eleanor glowered at the wall, fighting the temptation to swat at her stepmother with the bloodied bit of linen.

By the time the three maids had reassembled Eleanor had been bullied into undressing and getting into bed. She had stubbornly refused to part with her shift, and that was the only part of her protests Anne had even given hint of hearing. Eleanor had to admit that the queen was very good at getting cooperation, even when the subject was determined to resist. This was a useful skill, one Eleanor could potentially use to the advantage of their newly forged cause. It was just a pain how she had discovered this unexpected talent. Trapped, she sat up in bed, arms folded and a dangerous gleam in her eyes; a sight which would have made Fulk take a bit of notice. Anne, however, blissfully ignored the fact her prisoner was becoming murderous.

The bread and broth were set in front of the fireplace to keep warm, the balms laid out on the unoccupied half of the bed, and the quartet of dogged healers assembled at Eleanor’s bedside looking faintly ominous.

Godit offered her a cup. Eleanor raised it partway to her lips without more than a cursory glance at the contents. “Dwale?” Eleanor couldn’t hide her disbelief as she caught scent of the contents. She set it down on the floor, wincing safely into the bedclothes as the movement upset her stiffening back. “What do you think you are doing here? Extracting arrows?”

“It will help with the pain,” explained Godit.

“It will also send me to sleep. I do not need it in any case – I am perfectly alright, as I have been saying all evening if anyone cared to listen!”

“You should drink it,” chivvied Anne, picking up the cup and holding it out to Eleanor again.

Eleanor refused it. “I shall endure, thank you very much. I am not so weak, and, as you may have heard me say a few times already, I am fine!”

“Drink it; I am queen and I get to order people around.”
“
No.”

Anne pouted and whirled away from Eleanor to be rid of the cup. “You are so stubborn!”

Mariot crossed her arms and took charge in light of the queen’s dereliction of duty. “Well someone get her out of her shift then.”

The two younger maids sprang to comply; Eleanor swatted them away. “None of this is at all necessary!” she insisted plaintively. The quartet stared resolutely back. Eleanor sighed; she was outnumbered four to one, disarmed, trapped, really not in the best of moods, and in quite a bit of pain, despite her frequent claims otherwise. It would be far faster to submit – within reasonable limits - than try to shoo these people away. It was clear she was not going to escape anyway. “Oh, all right! If it will get me some peace I will play along to your little game of healers.”

With another heavy sigh Eleanor shifted onto her knees facing the wall, pulled off her shift and quickly lay down, reaching blindly with one hand for the covers. Eleanor heard the predictable series of gasps as everyone caught sight of her back; she clonked her chin down on her folded arms and scowled at the headboard as if it had mortally offended her. An unknown hand helped arrange the blankets so she was covered from the waist down.

“So that is the king of England’s handiwork,” said Mariot inscrutably. “Look at that, sweeting, and remember to stay on his good side.”

“Oh, he would never hurt me like that, not unless I did something really stupid or horrible, like set fire to his bed.” Anne coloured, remembering her audience. “Sorry, Eleanor. I did not mean that you were stupid or horrible, honest.”

“It really isn’t that bad,” offered Godit kindly. “Just a load of lines really.”

“An awful lot of lines,” said Adela dubiously. “Scars, all of them, permanent. Hundreds, probably, and then all covered in these new bruises and welts.”

Eleanor head the impact of shoe on ankle. “But some almost faded, some pinkish and liable to fade, and the bruises’ll go in two weeks or so, so really it’s not that bad,” added Godit cheerily.

Adela leaned forwards to peer at Eleanor’s right shoulder. “There’s one complete outline of a buckle here.” Another kick, followed by a squeak from the English maid.

With great authority God declared, “Well, scars always fade anyway, so in a year or so there’ll be nothing here but a bunch of pale white lines that you’ll have to look closely at to see.”

“Unless more get added,” muttered Adela, moving out of range of Godit’s foot.

Mariot sternly said, “Do stop squabbling. Now, someone pass me that ointment.” Jar in hand Mariot began pasting pleasant smelling ointment all over Eleanor’s back, from the curve of her shoulders down to the small of her back.

“It is a neat lattice pattern,” commented Anne, “almost pretty in a way.”

Acidly Eleanor added, “Oh yes, my brother is a real artist.”

Everyone shut up, and Mariot kept working, rubbing the ointment in gently. She was better than Aveline, but that was not too hard, and obviously at home with what she was doing, but Fulk’s job as royal cut tender was in no danger. Cut tenders who had a thing for their subjects were so much more … caring, and they had a real interest in your health. They also never tried to pour dwale down your throat, or poppy juice, or any other sleep inducing drug, because they knew you well enough not to bother.

“I really should have brought a bigger jar of that balm; this one’s emptying out so quickly. You never really think of just how big your back is,” yattered Godit, quite inanely, Eleanor thought.

“I do,” chuntered Eleanor darkly, her voice muffled safely by her arms.

The rest of the treatment proceeded in silence, for which Eleanor was grateful.

Not to be left out entirely Adela advised solemnly, “You will have to sleep on your side, but not the side where your face’s bruised.”

“I think I had worked that one out, but thank you anyway,” replied Eleanor, saccharine sweet.

Anne said, “Well, we should get going and leave you to sleep. Sleep is the best healer. Unless you need help with the broth?”

“No!”

“If you want the dwale now-”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, I will leave it just in case. If there is anything else you want …?”

Yes, thought Eleanor, I’ll take one Fulk promoted to prince and brought up here for a spot of intelligent conversation, one Trempwick plot disarmed, one Trempwick safely removed into an exile from which he will never return because he has given up on ambition and so does not need executing, one nice set of manors to flesh out my demesne of land to a suitable level for my rank, one of those wretched public weddings involving me and the broken nosed idiot, followed by a life of peace and quiet on our joint lands, and finally something to do to prevent me from becoming bored once I have all of the above. Instead she said, “No, nothing, thank you.”

She rolled onto her side, twitched the blankets up to her nose, and ignored everyone until they went away. Once alone Eleanor hopped out of bed and settled down to eat her supper, but only after pointedly ejecting the cup of dwale from the room. The damned stuff, and the temporary senseless oblivion it offered, was getting too tempting.








No, I’m not dead! :grins: I’ve been very busy, mostly updating my RTW guide, and I was actually ill for a couple of days with one of those generic, mild spring colds. Nothing bad, but my eyes were a bit too tired for me to look at a monitor for more than a few minutes. Also this scene is very long; twice the usual size of an episode, so it took longer to write. Also it was strange to write; it kept changing as I worked. I would write a few pages from the start, then suddenly I would find myself deleting it all and starting over because the scene had shifted. Sometimes Anne left, sometimes she did not, and she did not always stay to watch in secret. Sometimes Nell picked a fight with Hugh, others they did not fight at all. The only constants were those which had to be included in the scene. Finally it all settled and I wrote all 13 pages in one sitting. The end result is … well, I don’t quite know. It’s a bit of everything, almost a summery of what exactly makes up this story. Character, dialogue, action, emotion, drama, mush, comedy, twists, scheming, and Nell being stubborn. I think I quite like it, certainly parts of this set me smiling for assorted, not always comedy related reasons. ‘Queen Anne hospital’ was entirely unplanned, but somehow it balances out the less airy 10 pages preceding it. “It is a neat lattice pattern.” leaves me laughing; it’s the mental picture I have of the characters and scene, and the way I hear Anne saying it.

Chuntered is possibly a bit of a very regional English word, so I’ll play dictionary just to be safe. Chunter: to grumble, mutter under your breath.

Master of puppets, there’s no reason not to post if you want to. It’s nice to see that people are actually reading this still. Alas, I do have a life. If I didn’t I would have more time to write.

:hands out the new standard eyedrops to AntiochusIII: A bit late with those, but better late than never, right? Anything to help the eyestrain.

I do indeed have publishing ambition, though that is mostly residing in a different story. This one however … it could make a very good backup if I am asked if I have anything other than my planned book, and it could also be easier to sell because it is a single story rather than a part of a series.

[frogbeastegg]

It was more than two hours after she left that Godit returned; Fulk had given up on her returning tonight, deciding she could not get away and so would have to give him her news tomorrow. But when someone knocked on his door that night he knew it would be Godit before he even pulled back the bolt.

She slipped past him into the room, brushing against him ever so slightly because she didn’t give him chance to get out of the way fully.

“You should stop doing that,” Fulk scolded, trying to be both light and serious at the same time.

Godit spun a neat pirouette, turning back to him with a coquettish smile. “Why? It’s such fun. I don’t do that with anyone else, if that’s what you’re worried about. Anyway, don’t you want to know about your princess?”

“She’s not my princess.”

“Dear, dear, hardhearted, aren’t we?”

Fulk said decisively, “Yes.”

“Liar! I know you’re a big softie. If I’m ever hurt I’ll count on you to come rushing to my side with flowers, gifts and tender, tender concern. In fact I may well twist my ankle and end up bedridden tomorrow, or maybe I’ll just swoon in a few minutes when I’ve passed along my news. Yes, I like that one more – you’d have to catch me, and it’s a lot easier to do too.” Godit pressed the back of one hand to her forehead and pretended to stagger a bit. “Oh yes, swooning is much better than twisted ankles. But anyway, this princess of yours has certainly been in the wars, what a mess! I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, well maybe a little similar once, years ago when one of my father’s squires was unfortunate enough to be caught romancing one of my mother’s maids. Alright, so that was more a resemblance to the bruising, not at all the scars and stuff, but I think between the two of them, maid and squire, they could just about match your princess stripe for stripe … but only if you added the two together, if you do it individually it doesn’t come close. Certainly casts a new light on prince Hugh; I thought he was a quiet type! Must take after his father a bit after all, but then as I’ve told you before the king’s got two sides, nice and nasty, and your princess is beginning to look like an expert at infuriating people, if you ask me. She’s alright, though it must hurt like hell. Not that she’ll admit that; I tried to give her some dwale and she acted like it was poison!”

“Dwale is poison,” pointed out Fulk. He wasn’t pleased to hear that a sleeping draught had been thought needful; it didn’t bode too well, even if Godit did claim only bruising.

“Yes, but only if you take too much or mix it up badly. I was careful, and I only measured out the right amount. Oh well, I tried and you can’t expect more than that.”

“She hates to look weak.”

“Well, if it were me I’d be wailing like a newborn and I’d drink the dwale faster than you could blink, appearances be damned.”

“Yes, but that’s you. She’s used to it, that and worse - you saw the scars.”

“Aren’t you going to ask for my opinion on your princess then? I’m sure you’re dying to hear.”

“She is not my princess.” Fulk was rapidly getting fed up of saying that; the “They are not my whatever” line belonged to Eleanor and he’d prefer it stayed that way. At least she wasn’t lying when she said the same of Trempwick.

Godit made a somewhat rude dismissive noise. “Anyway, my worshipful opinion on her royal highness, princess Eleanor of England, for the delight and edification of Sir Fulk FitzWilliam.” She cleared her throat. “She’s not bad, but not what I expected. I was expecting someone a bit more … well, a bit more like a princess is supposed to be, really. She’s got some guts, I’ll admit that, and endurance too, but maybe not sense. She’s grumpy, but then I suppose anyone’d be if their back was one big bruise and all. She’s stubborn, you know it took three maids and one queen to get her to sit down and behave even like a grudging, bad tempered patient?” She giggled. “We ran into her on the stairs being chased by the queen, with the queen yelling, ‘Stop her! She’s trying to escape!’.”

Fulk smiled fondly. “That’s Eleanor for you.”





Constance yawned. “Put out that candle and go to sleep. Stop fretting over the day and your sister.”

Mindful that it was ill-advised to subject pregnant women to any form of distress or irritation as it may harm the baby Hugh complied, snuffing out the solitary candle at his side of the bed and plunging the room into darkness. He pulled the curtain of the bed closed; a draft would not do his wife, or the baby, or even himself any good. He settled back into holding Constance, the two of them fitted together her back to his front, his hand resting protectively over her belly and the child therein, the faint camomile scent of the perfume on her hair lulling him. The day’s worth of tension finally began to leave his muscles.

Long minutes later she said, “What is troubling you?”

“I am uncertain it would be advisable to tell you.”

“Hugh, we share everything.” She set her hand above his, stroking his calloused knuckles with her thumb. “You say telling me things helps you to set them straight in your mind.”

“Indeed it does, dear one. But I do not wish to trouble you, and this … I do not believe anything could clarify this tangle in my mind. It is a Gordian knot, and there is no Alexander to cut through it.”

Constance rolled over. “I am troubled already,” she said softly.

In the dark he could see nothing of her face, but his mind’s eye supplied the detail. She was indeed concerned; her already serious face more so than usual, and her eyes fixed on him steadily with her clear, sure intelligence shining imperturbably in them. “I had an interesting evening; I learned much.”

“While fighting with your sister?”

“I would not consider fighting to be a fitting word; attempting to rein in would be a more suitable choice of phraseology. To answer your question, we are not alone in considering Trempwick’s loyalty to be potentially suspect.”

“Ah.”

“Quite. I find myself forced to act while still unprepared, to make a decision based on the insubstantial, knowing if I am wrong or if I make a mistake … civil war, perhaps, at worst. If she is playing me false the folly is hers; father will take my side and believe my word when I explain, likewise she cannot make me appear a fool in public without destroying herself also. I do not believe she is deceiving me, or perhaps best said I do not believe she is deceiving me on the larger matters, only the smaller and less significant ones. It is probably best to say little more for now. I do not trust her; I wish you to keep a close watch on Nell, but without her knowing. Her information does tally with ours and adds to it considerably, but I question her motives and sudden discovery of family loyalty.”

“Anything in particular I should look for?”

“Just watch her closely for anything which may betray her true motivation, if indeed it does differ from those she espoused. Also …while she claims innocence of any inappropriate behaviour with Trempwick before their betrothal I am perhaps not entirely convinced. It is for the most part unimportant, however certain complications may arise and it would be advisable to be alert for them.”

He felt Constance nod, her hair tickling his bare skin. “I shall watch,” she promised.

“She requested her bodyguard back; I am going to oblige. However … watch them closely also. I have nothing much to go on, but I cannot help but wonder … she requested him specifically, and from the way she described him, and from what has already been said by multiple sources of his loyalty to her … and perhaps also from his departure from her service at Trempwick’s command …”

“You think they are lovers?”

“In the physical sense of the word it is exceptionally unlikely, but even in the other sense of the word it would go a long way to explaining why she has confidence enough to say things such as ‘he would die for me’ with complete, staunch faith that it is true. That was one of very few times I could tell beyond all doubt that she was being entirely honest. It would answer why Trempwick felt the need to send the bodyguard away; I do not quite find it believable that the spymaster would do so because a simple knight kept trying to protect Nell, and again why would Fulk undertake such a substantial risk for Eleanor unless he cared for her? The spymaster does not brook insubordination, except perhaps in small amounts from my sister, and I strongly feel that forbearance comes from who she is.”

“This bodyguard would be the one you brought back to the palace nearly a month ago?” There was a pause as Constance searched her memory for his name. “Fulk?”

“Yes.”

“The one with the broken nose …”

Into the dark Hugh smiled, shyly, uncertainly joking, his rarest expression. “You remembered the face far easier than the name, and from the tone I wonder if I ought be vexed.”

Constance wound a strand of Hugh’s golden hair around her finger. “I prefer fair colouring; sadly he is brown in both hair and eyes. I shall not be going to watch him train, although I hear it is a sight well worth seeing.” She smoothed his hair back down, brushing stray strands back from his face. “You think this will be a problem?”

“I considered the matter at some length and found it best to wait and ascertain more; currently I have but the vaguest of understandings. If indeed they do have feelings for each other it is not necessarily a complete disaster; it could even prove to be an advantage. He is entirely unworthy of her, baron or not, and they cannot help but know it, so to act upon their feelings or give themselves away is to end the man’s life and ruin hers. I think neither will want to destroy the other. There are many who love another and follow them entirely loyally to the end of their days because of this, without crossing the line because they know that for whatever reason to act would be to lose that which they love. Every care will be taken with her reputation anyway, I shall ensure that, so nothing … unfortunate can happen. With a little more information I shall be in a better position to take the correct steps, whatever they should prove to be.”

In the ensuing silence Hugh’s confidence slowly began to fade away and again he found himself wondering if he was wrong. Nell could destroy herself and do her family great harm. She could get the bodyguard killed. Or perhaps she was entirely innocent and he was doing her – and the knight - a grave misjustice? What of his duty to protect her, her virtue, and her good name, safeguard the family, set an example, and uphold the trust placed in him by their father? He had promised he would see Nell married to Trempwick; he had given his sworn oath, and now he was breaking it. Was he doing the right thing? What would others do in his position? He had no guidance now, none, only himself and his own reserves, his own feeble, flawed, limited reserves. After hours of thinking he could not find one single example to follow, not one single case similar to this worrying position he now found himself in. No other prince or king he knew of had a sister who was an agent and possibly in love, and loved by, with a simple knight. Never before in his knowledge had a spymaster tried to seize the throne in such a way as this. He was alone, so alone, and on his shoulders everything rested. Himself, alone. Constance could only be limited help, hampered by pregnancy, a child to protect from a persistent and dangerous foe, barred from parts of his life by the fact she was female, and lacking in much of the knowledge and expertise he so desperately needed to consult.

Himself, alone. Hugh could feel the weight on his shoulders, pressing him down, threatening to crush him. He had no example. He had no advice. He could ask for no help. By the time his father returned it would be too late. Everything depended on now. Everything depended on him. The family name. The realm. His child. His wife. His sister. Justice. Truth. Honour. Duty. Peace. All for him to guard. Him. Alone.

Constance kissed him lightly on the lips. “You must try to stop doubting yourself; it undermines everything you do, everything you could achieve. You devote too much time to worrying about what if you make a mistake, and so it becomes more likely you will make one. If you devoted that time and energy to more confident thinking you could do much. Remember how pleased your father was with the muster you raised for his campaign, and with how you dealt with the news while he was away. You did well then, because you acted without doubt or fear.”

“I know, but I cannot help it, I am ashamed to say. I look at the task set before me and it is so big … I am not my brother; Stephan was born to be king. I was not.”

“No, you are not your brother. You are not your father either, or your grandfather, or any other king or prince. You are yourself.”

Hugh said nothing, holding his wife closer and letting her drift off to sleep believing she had reassured him, as she often managed to. He was himself; he already knew that. And that was where the problem lay. He was himself; blemished, ill suited to his task, a pale shadow of the father and the elder brother. And now it all depended upon him.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor was up bright and early the next day. After dressing herself, a talent which was nothing if not an advantage, one which most of the upper nobility lack to some extent or other, and hiding her weapons about her person so she could smuggle them back out Eleanor emerged into the solar before Anne.

Mariot was the only other occupant of the room; the other two maids were with Anne in the king’s room. The senior maid looked up from setting out a simple breakfast; she pulled a face. “The queen won’t be happy.”

Eleanor poured herself a cup of small ale, wanting to wash away the lingering, acrid taste of tooth powder. “The world does not stop because I am a little worse for wear.”

Mariot began to slice a loaf of yesterday’s bread into generous pieces. “Her concern annoys you. She’s a good girl; she means it only in the best possible way.”

Eleanor made a noncommittal noise and drained the rest of her cup. It didn’t do much to shift the sage and salt flavour; very little but time did.

“My little one likes to care for things, is all.”

As if awaiting her cue Anne emerged from her room, trailed by Godit and Adela. She stopped dead when she caught sight of Eleanor, folded her arms and scowled. “You should be in bed!”

“No, I should not.”

The queen waved an admonishing finger. “You are hurt; you should be resting or you will only make yourself worse.”

“Nonsense. I am as stiff as a board but it will wear off faster if I move.”

“But the more you move about the more pain you will be in; now go back to bed!”

“After spending all that effort getting up in the first place? No, thank you. I cannot laze about idle all day.”

“You did not even give us chance to put more of that balm on.” Anne disappeared into the queen’s bedchamber; her voice drifted back, “At least we can put some of that lipsalve on you …”

Someone knocked on the stair door. Godit commented wryly, “It’s all go this morning.” and went to see who it was. Eleanor collected a bit of bread from the table and pricked her ears up to listen in to the quiet conversation Godit was holding with the visitor, an armed man in royal livery. Godit thanked the man and closed the door again. “Prince Hugh requests the delight of his sister’s company as soon as is convenient.”

Eleanor swallowed hastily, careful to pretend she had not expected - or overheard, for that matter - this. “Which means now, if not sooner. Why do people never say what they mean?” She ran a hand through her loose hair, wondering if she could escape with it still unconfined.

“Diplomacy,” answered Adela. She too quickly began eating, cramming food away as if half starved while still somehow managing to look genteel.

Godit looked at her breakfasting colleagues and sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll do the princess’s hair then, since I’m the only one not eating. Do try to leave me at least something to eat. Oh, and the guard also said lady Aveline came trying to visit last night, but the man on duty turned her away like his job says because it was past the accepted time for visitors. She said she will return this morning, before mass.”

Anne emerged, pot of balm in hand and advanced purposefully on Eleanor. The princess generously stood still while Anne applied the salve to her lower lip. “If Aveline comes while I am gone tell her I will be returning to my guest rooms this morning and will see her then.” That said Eleanor decamped to her borrowed room and sat ready for Godit to begin. Since this was unavoidable she may as well use it to her advantage a little. “I have a specific style in mind …”





Eleanor arrived at her brother’s room quarter of an hour later with her hair split into two braids and twined around her head in a simple, slanted imitation of a crown, or perhaps a halo. She was shown in immediately.

Hugh was sat at a small table in the corner of the room, eating and looking over a document. Constance had already left, along with her maids and Hugh’s squire. Hugh stood up and gestured at his vacated seat. “This is the document we spoke of last night; you will sign now.”

Eleanor took his place and scanned the writing. The document stated in brief terms that Hugh had undertaken a false assassination attempt on his sister with her knowledge for the purpose of drawing out from cover traitors in the realm. “Good enough.” She signed her name at the bottom; neat letters and a follow-up she seldom bothered with: Eleanor filia regis.

Leaning over her shoulder Hugh scrutinised her signature. “Felia regis - princess. You do not usually sign as such.”

“No, I do not.” Hugh did not even try to hide his suspicion. “Brother dear, it is not an attempt to make it look as if you forged my signature, nor I am pointlessly showing off my Latin. It is what I am.”

Hugh studied her for a long spell, unblinking, his brow furrowed. “So you finally recognise that fact, and accept it,” he said gravely. “Good.”

Eleanor was not really interested in discussing the delicate and intricate subject of what exactly a princess Eleanor was and did, and explaining how the fragile and still forming composite of royal, agent, spymaster and gooseberry worked, especially not to a brother who would still disapprove. Hugh could find out as they went; at least that would spread out his complaining to a, hopefully, bearable span of time. “Is that all? I have work to do, with Aveline especially.”

“You will apologise to Llwellyn, humbly.” Hugh dropped his voice to a murmur. “I presume this ‘work’ of yours in part involves complaining about myself to allay the spymaster’s mother’s doubts?”

“Of course,” said Eleanor, equally quiet.

“Be certain that your words find the correct ears and only those; I will not have all of Christendom believing there is a rift between us. That has potential to be dangerous and problematic in both the near and distant futures. So far as the world is concerned you erred, have been punished, and now all is well with no hard feeling remaining on either side apart from the inevitable embarrassment on your part.”

Eleanor nearly shrugged her shoulders, but remembered just in time not to. “So be it. The fewer people I have to feed information to the easier it is for me anyway.”

“Good. You will remain in the company of your future mother-in-law and her maid today in your guest rooms, aside from joining morning mass and attending dinner tonight in the main hall. You will take lunch in your rooms, you will amuse yourself in your rooms, you will speak to anyone you wish to in your rooms – am I making myself quite clear?” He waited until she nodded. “Ostensibly you are in disgrace, or perhaps only in discomfort and too ashamed to show your face until gossip has had a time to die down. You may complain you are a prisoner in all but name if you judge it useful, but complain only to those who need to hear it, mark. Matters have been arranged; a jug of poisoned wine will be delivered to you along with your midday meal. I trust from there you can act as is needed without further instruction from me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You may go. Remember; act as befits you, no more of your unconventional behaviour unless you wish to capture my attention.”

Eleanor dropped a very precise, shallow curtsey. “As you say, brother dear.”






“You are a disgrace!”

Eleanor ducked her head so her smile would go unseen, and stepped into the first of her two guest rooms. “Good morning to you too, Aveline.”

“Don’t give me that! You are gone all night and you return in such a state – you should be ashamed!” Trempwick’s mother was waiting in the improvised solar near the door to the passage like a cat at a mouse hole. She had left the door open a bit so she could see anyone entering the building through the main door; she hadn’t even waited for Eleanor to shut the outer door before launching her attack.

“State?” Eleanor looked upwards as if trying to see if her hair was still tidy, then downwards at her clothes.

“You know very well what I mean, you brazen hellion!” Aveline pounced, taking Eleanor’s jaw in an ungentle grip and twisting her face to the light. “No swelling, and it is only a yellow bruise, so harder to see and faster to mend. With luck it should be gone before Raoul arrives.” She released Eleanor as abruptly as she’d grabbed hold of her.

“Gone or not; I do not see how it matters. Raoul will be hearing about this – I told him I would not be safe here!” Her lip was beginning to tickle; Eleanor dabbed at it with a finger, it came away with a thin line of blood imprinted on it. She must have reopened the cut a little when she had smiled.

“From what I hear this is your own fault again. You cannot blame my son if people take exception to your unruliness.”

“From what you hear,” repeated Eleanor scornfully. “Did you not think that Hugh is the one who decided what people hear? He would not tell the truth; it is not too good for his reputation. He sat there while that Welsh crony of his insulted me, ignoring it.”

“You should have kept your mouth shut.”

“I did, until he started insulting Raoul. Hugh jumped in right away, before I even said much, and what I did say was quite reasonable. I think they arranged it; Llwellyn goading me and Hugh waiting to jump in and attack me. Neither cares for me, so both benefited from their safe little game.”

“Still and all you should have bitten your tongue; it would have done you a damn sight more good than biting through your lip later on.”

“What would I be if I let my betrothed be slandered?” Eleanor dabbed at her lip again; it was still bleeding lazily. “I was duty and honour bound to speak up, and if I had not Hugh would have seized on my silence as an excuse instead. My brother does not wish me well; one way or another he would have had his entertainment.”

“As your brother he does not even have the right-”

“I know,” agreed Eleanor. “I am marrying in three days; rights regardless they should not be doing this to me. It will only reflect badly on all involved, and it is an affront to Raoul. My father signed over his parental rights to Hugh while he is away; he showed me the written agreement. The arse in the crown wants me married with as little mess as possible but still subordinate to the family I am leaving, Raoul wants me safe from my family, and Hugh seems intent on causing as much harm as possible without damning himself instead of me.”

“Raoul will be arriving the day before the wedding; that only leaves today and tomorrow before he can protect you. Your face should be healed by then, your lip will not be, and heaven alone knows what the rest of you is like.”

“Bruised, stiff, sore, and doubtless quite colourful.”

Aveline sank down into the window seat. “Oh, what are we to do? This is a disaster. Raoul will be furious.”

“Good question. I suppose there is nothing we can do; I cannot be healed overnight and delay is unfavourable. I shall keep to my rooms as far as I can; I am required at mass and at dinner, but with luck I may escape the latter. Staying out of Hugh’s path will make it harder for him to attack me again. Speaking of mass, we had best get ready. I shall remain close to you; that will give me a little protection.”






Jocelyn dunked his clerk’s head into the horse trough and held him under for a few seconds. He hauled the man out and submerged him again. Several more repetitions and the clerk’s struggles became a deal more lively. Jocelyn fished him back out, spun him around and examined his pockmarked face. A pair of watery blue eyes tried to stare back. In disgust Jocelyn dropped his clerk back into the horse trough and left him to find his own way out.

He kicked the man’s leg and roared, “Bloody useless! Drunk! God damned drunk! I have work for you and you can’t even sit on your damned stool without falling off, you addled-pated son of a whore! Jesú, but you’re useless! It’s not even ten o’clock yet! And it’s Sunday, for Christ’s sake! If I ever see you even mildly tipsy again I’ll throw you out on your scrawny arse! And if you think I’m paying you for today’s ‘work’ you can go to hell! I’m not paying you for the next week either!”

He delivered a final kick to the hapless man’s backside and stalked off, leaving the clerk to the tender mercies of the laughing crowd which had gathered.

Jocelyn’s feet carried him in the right direction even though he had made no conscious decision on what to do next. He needed a letter written, a good letter, one which looked impressive and used all the right words. He couldn’t do it himself, his clerk currently couldn’t even hold a quill, and that only left Richildis.

Jocelyn paused outside the solar door, working up his courage and trying not to turn tail and go in search of a drink or two himself to ease this ordeal along. Through the door he could hear his wife’s voice along with his son’s. Jocelyn opened the door and flung himself in before he could take that tempting prospect and try some of his new cask of malmsey.

Thierry stood by his mother’s side, book in his hand and reading out aloud in a clear, smooth voice. “The seneschal ought, on his coming to the manors, to inquire how the bailiff bears himself within and without, what care he takes, what imp … impro…”

“Improvement,” supplied Richildis. She leaned over and pointed at the word, “See, im-prove-ment.”

The lesson halted when he made his entrance. Jocelyn indicated that they should continue, and stood listening as his son read the rest of the section on the requirements and duties of a seneschal without any further problems. Seven years old, and already so far ahead of his father. Jocelyn comforted himself with a reminder that he had a seneschal, and had worked with the man for years without ever needing advice from some book.

“Well done, son,” said Jocelyn, wishing he could find a comment which sounded less generic. “Now run along and find Father Errard and tell him I sent you for a Latin lesson.”

Thierry returned the book to his mother and made a quick exit.

“What do you want?” inquired Richildis, her disapproving tone indicating she thought she knew already.

“Quite a lot actually.” Jocelyn produced the obligatory leer to annoy her. Richildis’ thaw had proven to be momentary; she had soon frosted back up, with several new icicles as a dubious bonus. A blend of pity, fear, relief, gratitude for a son returned, and a close brush with disaster – at least he’d finally found something that warmed her up a little where he was concerned. Shame it was too awkward to arrange on a permanent basis. “But what I had in mind needs you.”

“No.”

“Come on Tildis, where’s your spirit of charity?”

“No!”

“‘Let the husband render to his wife what is her due, and likewise the wife to her husband.’ – St Paul.”

“‘Not on Sundays’ – too many authorities to list.”

“But you like it.”

“I most certainly do not!”

Jocelyn stretched indolently, a few stiff tendons cracking. “Tildis, you like writing. You like reading. You like showing off. I’m offering you a chance to do all three. I can guess what you were thinking, but dearest I’m really not in the mood just now. Sorry, you know how I hate to disappoint.”

“Oh.” Jocelyn enjoyed the sight of his normally composed wife blushing wretchedly at her mistake. “Good.”

“I need a letter written.” Jocelyn paced a few steps, idly making his way closer while trying to make it seem accidental. “My clerk is drunk.”

Richildis continued to watch him suspiciously. “So that’s what all the noise was about.”

“You have a very nice hand – your due, dear wife; it’s called credit – and you have a way with words when you don’t aim them at me. So you’ll get to work on my behalf – that’s my due. King William’s about four days march away; I finally got word this morning. He’s sounding out the local lords as he goes, doubtless taking notes of exactly who’s doing and saying what, and not doing or saying, more than like. I need to send a message to him now; I’ll ride out myself when he’s one day away. I’m not going to give Raymond another chance to play sneaky buggers, not that I don’t have faith in your ability to slam the gates in his face if he comes calling a second time. Get whatever materials you need and get writing; I’ll leave the wording up to you but make sure you explain it all as I told you last night.”

“Explained, pah!” she grumbled as she fetched her writing equipment from the small decorative chest where it was stored and began to lay it out on the solar table. “I had to drag details out of you, and you kept trying to go to sleep so you wouldn’t have to say anything.”

Jocelyn rolled his eyes but said nothing. He stood behind his wife as she worked, a few steps away and out of her line of sight, arms folded and a small frown of concentration as he thought. If he could read her mind like a bit of parchment what would he find? Probably a few familiar lines deploring him as an uneducated barbarian, a few long passages on how much she loved the children, plenty of miscellaneous and tedious rubbish, some bits in some foreign language or other, and a frightening collection of large words he couldn’t quite decipher. It would all be on fine grade parchment, written in an elegant hand with illuminated letters and border illustrations.

Finally Richildis laid down her quill. “Do you wish to sign it?”

“Might as well.” Jocelyn strode over with a swaggering, easy confidence he didn’t feel.

“You should read it first, make sure you know what you’re putting your name to.”

“I was going to!” lied Jocelyn. “Give me chance, woman!” He checked the ink was completely dry and then began to read, running one finger along under the beautifully formed words, lips moving silently as he stumbled his way along the document. He skipped the biggest words, and several smaller ones he couldn’t make sense of.

“Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes to his king, this day the fifteenth of February, the year of Our Lord thirteen-thirty-eight, this letter as dictated to my wife.

Sire, I await your call to arms with eager heart, having discharged faithfully my duties to my liege lord and rescued my son, previously hostage to my good conduct. Know that I have not taken part in treason against you, only aided my lawful liege against those who broke allegiance with him, thereby breaking their sacred oaths as sworn before God and acting in disharmony with all laws recognised by good and honest men. When asked to aid Yves against you our paths split.

I have custody of de Ardon’s daughter, now his sole heir, and also her tutor, a nun, and have protected them as best I am able where others sought to do them great and grievous harm. I stand ready to transfer the them into your own custody, howsoever and whenever your majesty wishes.

I plan to join your army when it is one day from my position, unless your majesty desires otherwise. In the few days since I parted ways with Yves my castle has already been subject to one underhand attack; an effort at reprisal for my loyalty to my king, and a manifestation of Raymond de Issoudun’s ambition and foul treachery to both other men and to you, sire, his king. Because of this it is not prudent for me to come now in person; I would be unworthy of faith if I let this stronghold I guard for you to be taken by your enemies, thus allowing this treason to spread and infect Tourraine further.

“It’s fine,” declared Jocelyn, not really sure it was. He hadn’t spotted anything wrong or liable to arrange his head parting company with the rest of him. The main thing was it said what he wanted to say, but with the benefit of nice lettering and loads of really impressive words. He wasn’t going to ask what half of it meant; showing off his clumsy reading was embarrassment enough. He picked up the quill, dipped it indelicately into the ink and signed his name in his chaotic, splotchy script. Richildis’ wince as the quill screeched in protest at his ineptitude did not go unnoticed; it fed the burning humiliation already threatening to consume him. At least with all his fancy teaching from his mother and the castle priest Thierry would never have to endure this. “I’ll set my seal to it and get the messenger underway now.”






Sunday mass in the castle’s small private church was a simple, short affair, or as simple and short as anything involving royalty and religion ever was. Due to the building’s small size only the royal family and their closest followers attended here, with all others going to one of the churches in the castle town or simply not bothering.

Eleanor passed the time kneeling on a cushion at Aveline’s side, not really paying attention, going through the motions automatically. The sermon on the importance of caring for guests could have, and quite probably had, been chosen especially for her benefit, and she was uncomfortably aware of people glancing at her during it. Eleanor demurely kept her face down while letting her eyes rove and identify these people as best as she could without moving. There was nothing useful likely to be gleamed from this; it was simply trained habit.

The only mildly noteworthy part of the whole service was confession. Lacking a safe priest Eleanor had to leave out what Trempwick called the good bits; the assorted bits and pieces anyone in their line of work ended up weighing their soul with. The village priest at Woburn knew exactly what she and Trempwick were, and the poor man was balding rapidly in the knowledge the king’s spymaster was keeping a close eye on him in case he thought it advisable to break the sanctity of confession and pass the information along. Quite what the royal chaplain’s reaction to the disgraced princess confessing to several secret meetings with a knight whom she had now married without family permission while contracted, in the world’s opinion, to another man, whom she was now betraying to his probable death would be Eleanor didn’t know, but guessing was fun.

Together with Aveline Eleanor left the church, emerging into the pleasantly sunny morning air and the castle’s inner bailey. The servants all ended up in the back of the church, and so were the first out. Now they were hanging around in clusters, waiting for their assorted masters and gossiping. Pacing along tamely at Aveline’s side Eleanor navigated through the throng towards her guestrooms. As she passed people stared, most covertly but some dared to be overt. A ripple of quiet chatter ran along at her sides like water displaced by the prow of a ship; much she couldn’t catch but what she did was generally speculation on what exactly her brother had done to her. Sprinklings of sympathy floated in the sea of general hilarity and approval at her fate. Eleanor lifted her head up high, giving everyone a good view of her injured face as if she did not care in the least.

A few steps on Eleanor’s heart lurched as she noticed Fulk, unexpected because he was not one of those allowed into the royal church. The lurch was swiftly followed by a painful stumble; he was talking to Godit. He was standing there, left hand on his hip where his sword hilt would rest if he was wearing it, head inclined slightly towards her, posture easy and open while Godit kept on smiling at him, looking at him from under her eyelashes and mimicking his posture and gestures. Neither had noticed her.

Eleanor’s reflexive desire to go over and inform Godit that no one was going to steal her knight, and certainly not with such cheap and tacky tricks died as soon as it formed, although the part involving dragging Fulk off by his ear stubbornly refused to leave peaceably.

Fulk looked up and spotted her; shocked turned swiftly to concern, then equally quickly to careful neutrality. But his eyes remained on her, and they spoke powerfully.

Eleanor looked away before she could betray herself and kept on walking. The unexpected sight remained unnerving. Godit was pretty, far more available than Eleanor and, quite importantly, not likely to end up with one angry royal family trying to kill Fulk for his attention. Although perhaps one furious princess could be as bad as a set of miscellaneous royals in that aspect. Fulk was loyal; even though his very tricky position and choice of wife gave him better reason than most for turning elsewhere, an accepted thing for men even without good reason, if he chose to he probably wouldn’t. Or so Eleanor hoped; it might be beneath her to notice or care if he had an affair but theory and practise didn’t want to combine.

Far more importantly they obviously knew each other; Godit had wormed her way into Fulk’s trust enough for him to relax around the maid, enough for her to visit him as a friend and talk inoffensively on a great many subjects. Eleanor had no way of knowing what Anne had told her maids about herself and Fulk; she had had little option but to trust the queen to help get her to the palace and prevent Fulk from leaving in the meantime. As one of Anne’s maids Godit was one of the most likely people in the castle to know there was something between princess and knight, and she was one of three potential spies for Trempwick. Close to Fulk in addition to the queen Godit was very well positioned to spy. This was not even close to enough to identify Godit as a spy, but it was enough to arose Eleanor’s suspicion and make her the leading candidate. Godit would have to be investigated.







Felia Regis, literally king’s daughter. It’s the best term for princess I could find in my Latin dictionary.

[frogbeastegg]

Midday found Eleanor sat in the improvised solar of her guest rooms, sewing. She was not working on part of her trousseau, but mending a few rents and tears in her overdress caused by her scuffle with Hugh last night. She was not the only one stitching away; Aveline and Juliana were busy with their designated parts of Eleanor’s wedding clothes. They had been working ceaselessly since the party arrived back from church, several hours now. Eleanor herself hadn’t been working nearly that long, but she had run out of alternate things to do, and the dress did need repairing.

Adela had arrived early in the day with the part of Eleanor’s trousseau she was working on in cooperation with Juliana. She also brought a friend; a quiet noble girl politely introduced as Hawise. She was, Eleanor was assured, excellent with a needle, and the queen had agreed to her becoming one of the ever-growing collection of people helping out with the mass of work needing doing in preparation for the wedding. The two had also delivered Eleanor’s new tafl set, which she had put safely aside in the other room on her bed until she could find somewhere better to store it, or until she needed to go to sleep; whichever happened first.

Eleanor placed several stitches into the same spot at the end of a small rip to finish the seam off. Work secured she snipped the thread with some scissors and began working on the next hole. Trying for the almost automatic labour the others were demonstrating Eleanor didn’t pay complete attention to her work, studying the newcomer as closely as she could without giving herself away.

Hawise was another in the sizeable collection of young lesser noble girls playing lady’s maid to a social superior at court awaiting a suitable marriage. Reasonably tall with a good figure, warm brown eyes, fair skin and hair several shades closer to gold than brown she was certainly pretty, but probably not more than that. Her face was entirely too serious for that, and it made her hard to age. She could be anywhere between fifteen and twenty, but Eleanor was favouring the older end of the scale. Her manner was equally serious, again placing her closer to older than younger. If Adela was quiet then Hawise was practically mute. Even when she did speak her voice was so soft it was easily lost in background noise, soft but certainly well-spoken. She joined in with very little of the conversation, and her contributions were always brief. The tales of her needlework had not been exaggerated; she was very gifted, and a good worker too. All of which made Eleanor wonder why exactly Hawise was not already married, given that she appeared to be several years past the age when most parents began searching in earnest for a suitable match. A lacking dowry, picky parents, a dislike for the suitors put forth combined with parents who listened to her, some aspect of her not immediately obvious which put people off once known about – it could be any of them. A small dowry seemed the most likely, perhaps. Hawise was neatly turned out, but her clothes were not highly decorated or of costly cloth, and a plain gold chain necklace with a simple, small crucifix pendant was her only jewellery. She fitted the same ‘minor noble at home’ pattern that Eleanor herself occupied when at Woburn. However people always wore their best at court.

Not an accomplished seamstress at the best of times Eleanor’s lack of attention cost her; she pricked her finger. She muttered, “Damn!” and sucked at the bead of blood building on her fingertip. Whoever said sewing was good for ordering your mind and thinking had obviously never tried it. Eleanor worked the silver needle safely into the woollen fabric and set her dress aside. “Surely it is time for lunch?” Waiting was proving, as ever, insufferable. The sooner she was ‘poisoned’ the sooner events could continue to move onwards.

To support her the church bell conveniently tolled Sext. Perhaps someone up there was lending a helping hand after all.

“I’ll go get us a tray of something from the kitchens.” Juliana tidied her work up and left. Everyone else kept sewing, and Eleanor picked up her mending once again so as to not be the odd one out.

Some time later Juliana struggled back through the door with a large tray containing a big pitcher of wine, five goblets, a stack of bowls, one cooked chicken, some chewettes, a selection of pastries, and a big bowl of pottage filled with bacon and assorted vegetables. She set it down on the table with a grunt. “Whew! That was heavy.”

The five congregated around the table with varying degrees of anticipation. Eleanor’s main concern was to be the first – and only – one to touch the wine; she could identify it as poisoned before something unfortunate happened. But she had to maintain her cover. To that end she picked a chewette and nibbled at it with false enthusiasm. It, at least, tasted alright.

Adela poured out the wine while Juliana set out the bowls. Hawise set to jointing the chicken without a word, moving the serving dish over to benefit from better light and quietly getting on with it. Aveline did nothing, like a queen expecting to be waited upon.

Three people ended up grabbing drinks as soon as Adela set her jug down: Eleanor, Aveline and Adela herself. To Eleanor’s private horror she didn’t get chance to put her careful plan into action; Adela took a good gulp of her drink.

Aveline also took one swallow, then stared medatively into her cup. “This wine is off.”

“Is it?” asked Adela. “I drank mine so quickly I didn’t notice.”

“It has a bitter undertaste. Faint, but there.”

Eleanor took a tiny sip of her own drink, which she immediately spat back out. It was a clairet, mild flavoured wine with a decided bitterness underlying its more usual sweetness. Poisoned; there was no doubt if you knew to look for it. “I think it might be best if no one drinks any more of this. It is certainly tainted.” She didn’t want to provoke a panic, especially not since two people were now in need of treatment, but not in danger of more than unpleasant sickness if they did not receive it. Panic would help no one; slow and orderly could still win the day, minimalising the damage and maintaining her own cover. With grim humour Eleanor admitted that the two had certainly helped the fake assassination attempt look real, even if she had not wanted anyone but herself to touch the wine.

Aveline nodded, her suspicions confirmed.

“Tainted or not I’m thirsty,” said Adela. “It didn’t taste that bad anyway.” She raised her cup to her lips; Eleanor grabbed her arm, yanking it down at the same time Aveline wrenched the goblet from the maid’s grip, sloshing the remaining contents over the three of them. There was alarmingly little left.

“By tainted I meant possibly poisoned!” snapped Eleanor, giving up on subtly. She now had no idea how much Adela had now drunk, possibly enough to kill herself.

Adela wailed, “I’m going to die!” She clasped one hand to her mouth, eyes flooding with tears.

“I said possibly,” shouted Eleanor. This was why Trempwick often said if you wanted something done right you should remove everyone in a six mile radius of anything required by or linked to your plan before you began. Also why hastily put together plans made by someone of unknown skill with scarcely a minute’s discussion between those involved should never be used. Nice theory; pity circumstances hadn’t allowed for it to become practise. “It needs testing! Wait here, no one move, and for God’s sake no one touch any more of that food or wine!”

Eleanor marched outside. She pointed at a servant in royal livery. “You!” The man looked about himself to check she did indeed mean him. “Yes, you,” she said impatiently. “Find me a dog or cat no one cares about, and quickly.” The man sped off, puzzled but obviously deciding it best to indulge the mad princess in her strange whims. Eleanor picked another victim from the bailey full of people who had stopped to gawp. “You! Fetch the royal physician to my rooms, and hurry up about it. Tell him two cases of suspected poisoning.” It was only on her way back inside Eleanor realised she was still wandering about in her underdress, the light grey now soaked with splotches of pink wine.

Back in her room little had changed. Aveline was seated once again, pale but composed. Adela was moaning and hugging her stomach tightly with both arms, sick with fear rather than the wine, Eleanor thought. Juliana was doing her best to calm the other girl down; if she was having any effect it wasn’t too impressive.

Closing the door Eleanor announced, “The physician is on the way; it will be best to assume there was poison and act accordingly. I have also made arrangements to test the wine. All we can do is remain calm and wait; it will take a good while before the poison, if indeed there is any, begins to work, so you are quite safe.” A slight overstatement, but at this rate Adela was more likely to expire from terror than anything else.

Eleanor resumed her mending, finishing the rent she had been working on previously. As soon as she completed that little repair she gave up on the rest and donned the dress once again. Hawise assisted, unbidden, helping to settle the material in place and lacing up the sides to gather the fabric in to the correct figure hugging arrangement. Girdle fastened in place once again Eleanor settled down to wait in a corner, keeping everyone in view and watching everything.

Hawise picked up her sewing again. Seeing Eleanor’s questioning gaze on her the quietly explained, “No point in wasting time, and what else can I do?”

“Quite,” declared Aveline. She too returned to her work. She was working a little slower than before, each stitch a little more deliberate, but if her hand shook or she was agitated Eleanor couldn’t see it.

Juliana followed their example after a short delay. Adela didn’t break from her frantic praying, interspaced with requests for her funeral and last messages to give to various people.

The dog arrived first; a stubby-legged, patchwork mongrel caught near the kitchens. Eleanor had the man carrying the animal hold it steady with its jaws open while she emptied the jug down the poor creature’s gullet. A larger dose would begin to work sooner. The small size of the dog would also help; it would take less time for the poison to begin to take effect. Sure enough, shortly before the physician appeared the animal began frothing at the mouth and spasming, curling up into a miserable ball on the floor as it tried unsuccessfully to vomit. Adela’s wailing grew louder.

“Oh, be quiet, girl!” ordered Aveline, still industriously sewing, “Have you never heard of dignity?”

“I don’t want to die!”

“Nor do I.”

The physician arrived at a trot, tailed by an assistant with a selection of medicines and an unexpected guest: Hugh. “Your messenger had to pass me in the great hall; he told me of your request for the physician and why,” he explained.

The physician cast one glance to the poor dog and proclaimed solemnly, “Aconite. This substance is known to me, and I can treat it.” He gestured to his assistant, and the young man selected a small bottle and two earthenware cups from the large bag he had carried in. He began to pour out two draughts of a nasty looking dark coloured liquid. The physician continued to talk, “An emetic of mulberry bark boiled in vinegar to induce vomiting, followed by fresh milk once the stomach is emptied, then another dose of the emetic, followed this time by cream mixed with butter, a final dose of the emetic, and more milk, this time to be kept in the stomach. By this process the substance will be purged from the body entirely.”

Adela’s moans increased in volume at the unpleasant remedy. Aveline set aside her sewing and calmly rose to collect her dose from the assistant. “I do so hate doing this,” she groused, before steeling herself and downing the mess in one go. She could not quite suppress a shudder as she finished. “But I always find it infinitely preferable to the alternative.” She returned the cup to the assistant, collected a large, empty bowl and resumed her seat.

Adela had considerably more trouble; she took one small sip, wrinkled her face up and tearfully proclaimed, “I can’t drink this!”

“Then you will die,” stated the physician blandly. “You must hurry; the longer the toxin is left in the body the more danger. Already much time has been lost.”

“It won’t even work!” None the less Adela continued to clutch the cup as if it were a lifeline.

“Nonsense,” said Aveline. “If it did not work I would not have been alive to get poisoned today.”

Hawise somehow managed to get her friend to drink her dose, and settled her down next to Aveline with a bowl in her hands, waiting for it to work. Hawise then retired to a safe distance.

The initial bout of activity over Hugh at last stepped forward from the spot near the door where he had been keeping out of the way. “Only the two are affected? No one else took anything suspect?”

Eleanor said, “I tested a sip of the wine but spat it back out. The food is untouched.”

“Who fetched the tray?”

Juliana raised a nervous hand. “I did, your highness.”

“Where did the food come from?”

“The kitchens.”

“Nothing from an outside source?”

“No, your highness.”

“Did you say it was for the princess?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“Did you see anyone tamper with the tray?”

“No, your highness.”

“Did you see anyone do anything suspicious with the wine while measuring it out for you?”

“No, your highness. But I could not really see.”

“So you watched the contents at all time?” When Juliana did not reply immediately Hugh sternly enjoined, “Answer me!”

“Well, yes, mostly. While I was waiting for the chicken to be taken off the spit a man started talking to me. He was trying to flirt with me, but I wasn’t interested and told him to go away; after a bit he did. We were right next to the tray.”

“But you did not see him add anything to the wine?”

“No, your highness.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well …” Juliana hesitated. “forgettable, really. Mid height, blondish hair, average build, no noticeable scars, dressed in royal livery like any other kitchen servant.”

Hugh said to the man who had fetched the dog, “Escort her to the cells in the inner gatehouse and see she is kept there for questioning. She is not to be harmed; treat her with dignity.”

“I didn’t do this!” squealed Juliana, looking to her mistress for aid. Aveline had gone very pasty, and was concentrating closely on her bowl.

“Perhaps not, but I will not give you chance to abscond before the matter can be investigated.” The dog convulsed again, making a piteous noise. “Someone put that creature out of its misery and remove the body. Have the wine and food destroyed.”

The servant drew his dagger and thrust it point first into the dog’s heart. He wiped the blade clean on the animal’s scrappy fur and replaced it in its sheath. He indicated Juliana should proceed him from the room; she stood rooted to the spot.

Aveline said, “Oh, just go with him.” She quickly refocused on the bowl as the emetic began to work. Sight and sound soon combined with smell, and Eleanor felt her gorge rise at the back of her throat. She swallowed hastily several times and looked away, noticing others in the room doing likewise. Adela also began to vomit.

Hugh’s face crinkled with distaste and a fine sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His throat worked a few times before he felt sufficiently sure of himself to speak. “Sister, let us leave. Arrangements must be made for your safety, and we will only be in the way here.” He asked Hawise, “Who are you?”

She dipped a curtsey. “Hawise FitaClement, your highness.”

“You will attend my sister; the patients will be well cared for by the physician and his man, or I will know why.” He swept from the room, plainly expected Eleanor and Hawise to follow.

Eleanor cast a distressed look at the mess the dog had left on her floor, then another at the two vomiting patients. She hurried after her brother. “Can you arrange to have the room cleaned and aired?” she asked pitifully. Back in fresh air Eleanor felt much better.

Hugh nodded, but kept on walking towards the keep. “Indeed I was planning upon it, Nell. Even a peasant would baulk at a house filled with vomit, blood and the by-products of an expired mongrel.”

The main hall had already been set for business. The throne had been moved in front of the high table on the dais, along with the queen’s chair, which Anne was occupying with a earnestness which sat at odds with the fact her feet swung a good half inch above the ground. A throng of important people waited before the dais, with more arriving in dribs and drabs. The usual collection of people passing time with games or fine work had been moved down to the far end of the hall; at Hugh’s entrance many of them had stopped what they were doing and begun to watch what was unfolding. The servants were still clearing the far ends of the two low tables after dinner, and they worked in larger teams than usual to get the job done sooner. There was a distinct air of excited anticipation; people swapped suggestions as to what the big fuss could be, some already repeating the story of a half dressed princess pleading piteously for help and the castle physician as her two friends had been poisoned.

Hugh headed straight for the dais. He mounted it and stood before the throne. “Where is Richard de Clare? I summoned him before I left.” He looked about the hall; no one moved. “I presume he is still being located then.” Hugh sat down on the throne and beckoned Eleanor and Hawise closer; Eleanor took up station at her brother’s side while Hawise waited nervously in front of the gathering of royals. Hugh dropped his voice from the public pitch, but those at the front of the audience could still easily overhear. “Hawise FitaClement, you said.”

Hawise curtseyed once again. “Yes, your highness,” she said softly.

“I have heard a little of you, and all of it agreeable. You are seeking position as a lady’s maid, are you not?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“My sister is in dire need of a suitable maid.”

Eleanor leaned down and hissed, “Hugh! No!”

Hugh murmured, “You find her disagreeable or dislikeable?”

“No,” admitted Eleanor reluctantly.

“You have … other reasons not to take her? I am quite certain that she is indeed just what she appears to be, no more.”

“No.”

“Then I fail to see your objection.”

“I do not need a maid!” Eleanor looked to Anne in appeal, but the little queen only shrugged apologetically and continued to keep her own council.

Hugh raised his voice sufficiently to carry to those nearest. “You do; you should have several. It is entirely unbecoming that you do not, and reprehensibly negligent on the part of those who have had custody and care of you. I am determined to amend this.” Panicked guilt flitted across Hugh’s face as he realised how that could be taken. “I mean no disparagement or condemnation to our father; I know well the burdens he has been labouring under. Rather I fear your tutor has shamefully mislead our father, misrepresenting precisely what he has provided you with, for it is only too clear that despite his insisting otherwise you have not been supplied with all fitting and necessary to your rank. I aim to make good this lapse.”

Eleanor dropped her voice back down low. “If you think to plant a spy on me-”

“Dear sister, you are quite unreasonable. My own choice of spies is always far more subtle than such obvious candidates, by necessity of that limitation which we discussed previously. You suspect her from the start, thus she could glean very little of worth and is easily countered by other … influences equally wary. I meant what I said; there is a lapse and I will amend it.” Hugh ended their private conversation without giving Eleanor time to object further. “Hawise, you will serve princess Eleanor from this moment forth. You will receive two shillings a day, two new outfits in winter and two in summer, one outfit in royal colours with my sister’s badge each year, and the sustenance and shelter as would be expected under any such contract.

“Hugh,” whispered Eleanor urgently, “I cannot afford a maid! I do not have even two shillings!”

Hugh ignored her. “I require you to take an oath of fealty to my sister, sworn upon your immortal soul. Is this acceptable?”

“Yes, your highness.”

A richly dressed man Eleanor recognised as Richard de Clare, chief of those parts of palace security not under the spymaster’s jurisdiction, pushed to the front of the gathering before the dais and waited on bent knee to be acknowledged.

“Hugh!” protested Eleanor. She was uncomfortably aware that Hawise was looking at her with a kind of quiet, resigned hurt.

“Then there can be little space for doubt, sweet sister,” said Hugh simply, for all to hear.

Eleanor saw little choice but to accept. Hawise knelt before the princess, placed her hands in Eleanor’s and said, “I swear upon my immortal soul to serve you loyally in all things, now and forever.”

“Good,” said Hugh. “Now take up your place with your mistress; you will be provided with opportunity to assemble your belongings and move them to the princess’s lodgings, and inform your family of this news later.”

Hawise curtseyed and moved to stand behind Eleanor.

Hugh finally turned his attention to the kneeling man. “Ah, Richard, at last.” Hugh indicated the thick candle clock burning on its special table in the corner of the high end of the hall. “I fear I must wonder what exactly you were about which delayed your response to my summons so greatly that you were the last to arrive, despite being the first summoned.”

“Your highness, I came as soon as your messenger found me. Blame him if I am tardy.”

“I may, or then perhaps I may not. It will become clear in future, I think. If you are sluggish again it will be obvious the fault lies with you, if speedy then with the messenger selected for today’s charge.”

De Clare bowed his head. “Yes, your highness.” Eleanor thought she detected a hint of resentfulness in the man.

“Someone tried to poison my sister; two of her companions are undergoing treatment for the aconite they ingested even as we sit here wasting precious time.” A murmuring broke out in the throng of listeners at this. “You are in charge of security here - investigate; find who was responsible. The maid who fetched the food is confined in the cells; she is to be treated fairly and not harmed unless evidence is discovered to justify such handling. She made mention of a man who talked to her while the food was prepared; get the description from her once more to be sure it is consistent. Her account to me was of a man of average height and build, no distinguishing marks or scars, blondish hair, dressed like a kitchen servant.”

“Highness.”

“One more matter. I require a bodyguard for my sister, someone competent and experienced, known to be loyal.”

For the sake of appearances Eleanor objected, “That is not necessary! Raoul made arrangements; he will be insulted by this.”

Anne said, “Whoever organised this may try again; you need security and those arrangements have already failed spectacularly once. A second time may be fatal.”

“Precisely,” agreed Hugh.

“It is quite shameful that you were parted from your bodyguard in the first place; he was proven capable several times over.”

Eleanor had already prepared and practised her excuse; she deployed it slickly. “I thought him unnecessary, and knew he could be put to better use here as a knight.”

“With you it will always be necessary, Nell. You upset too many people.” Hugh pointed at one of the messenger boys clad in royal red and white waiting at the side of the dais. “You! My sister’s previous bodyguard is currently in palace employ; Sir Fulk FitzWilliam. Fetch him.” The boy shot off at a run, skipping and weaving through the people towards the exit.

“Hugh-”

Hugh cut her off sharply, and with sufficient volume to carry to the back of the hall. “Be silent; my decision is made!” Eleanor’s cheeks burned as some in the hall laughed.

Fulk appeared before ten minutes had passed. Unlike the boy he didn’t run, but he didn’t amble as de Clare had done. As he walked briskly down the hall he looked neither left nor right, and demonstrated none of the nervousness that might be expected from a minor baron summoned by the heir to the throne. Well groomed, dressed simply in fawn brown, light blue and white with his plain old sword belted at his waist he visibly claimed no ambition or rivalry with his superiors, but at the same time looked fit for a baron in the king’s personal service. The sizeable audience in the hall watched the latest player in this unanticipated drama mostly with ambivalence. Before the dais Fulk dropped smoothly to one knee and waited with bowed head.

“You are required to resume your service as bodyguard to my sister. Her life is your life, what happens to her happens to you tenfold if you do not prevent it; if she is even scratched and you yet live I will wish to know why, and you will pay dearly for your ineptitude. Your wage will now be four shillings per day; otherwise your existing contract still stands. Take your oath now, upon your soul.”

Fulk drew his sword slowly, so none could take it as a threat, and offered it hilt first to Eleanor. She held the weapon out before her with the flat of the blade resting on her palms. Fulk knelt at her feet and put his right hand on the sword in the middle of the space defined by Eleanor’s hands; he looked into her eyes with a solemnity which made Eleanor’s heart ache and at the same time made her want to laugh. “Your life is my life, your path is my path, my sword to guard you, my shield to shelter you, now and always, come what may, this I do swear upon my soul, so help me God.” It was a very powerful oath, also a very old one, perhaps even pagan in origin and adapted to Christian usage.

A wave of chatter flowed around the hall; Eleanor could catch not a word of it, but the tone was generally a favourable one. Amongst all but the highest nobility a bit of drama and some pretty words well spoken often met a good reception, in many parts of the higher nobility too. This was the embellishment which turned some remarkable events into a good story in the eyes of the general public. A knight swearing poetical allegiance and protection to a princess who had narrowly escaped death thanks to two of her faithful companions was splendidly close to a troubadour’s tale; the dream of life instead of the reality. Tales to this day’s work would spread throughout the kingdom, becoming more and more embellished with each telling. Eleanor could not have hoped for much better. From this day on people would expect to see Fulk following her at all times, and Trempwick would have numerous matching accounts of how she had been ‘forced’ by her brother’s concern for her life to take back her bodyguard.

Fulk stood up and took his sword back. He slid the weapon into its sheath at his hip, then bowed and kissed the ring he had given her months ago, a customary pledge of fealty with their own private meaning. Ceremony complete he joined Hawise in standing behind Eleanor. Eleanor glanced sidelong at her brother; his face was inscrutable.

“Good,” said Hugh. “Retire to the solar, dear sister. You must be wearied and disheartened; I shall send word to you the very instant something happens. I shall arrange for a safe meal to be sent up to you, and arrange for your rooms to be cleaned as soon as may be.”

“Thank you, Hugh.”

Her brand new retinue following a few paces behind Eleanor left the dais and began to climb the long staircase leading to the private rooms at the top of the keep.







Well, we’ve had a few songs (gah! Bad ones!) mentioned that suited the characters so far, mostly Fulk. Now I’ve found another one, again by accident (No, I don’t look for these things on purpose! After the horrors ‘Sometimes’ I’m still hiding from new music as far as possible!), this time thanks to a John Denver CD someone gave me insisting that it was really great. Yes, well poor froggy was forced to listen to one track (forced as in trapped with no escape and subjected to one entire song despite my numerous, uncreative excuses not to) and it … well, it was decent background music type stuff for writing quiet scenes (‘Two different directions’, if anyone cares). After some 458 pages of Eleanor alone I’m getting a wee bit sick of most of the music I usually write to. :sigh: Silly me; I made the mistake of trying the other tracks when left alone by my benefactor. Most of the tracks were not compatible with frogs, but then I hit upon this:

Follow Me

It’s by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done
To be so in love with you and so alone

Follow me where I go what I do and who I know
Make it part of you to be a part of me
Follow me up and down all the way and all around
Take my hand and say you’ll follow me

It’s long been on my mind
You know it’s been a long, long time
I’ve tried to find the way that I can make you understand
The way I feel about you and just how much I need you
To be there where I can talk to you
When there’s no one else around

Follow me where I go what I do and who I know
Make it part of you to be a part of me
Follow me up and down all the way and all around
Take my hand and say you’ll follow me

You see I’d like to share my life with you
And show you things I’ve seen
Places that I’m going to places where I’ve been
To have you there beside me and never be alone
And all the time that you’re with me
We will be at home

Follow me where I go what I do and who I know
Make it part of you to be a part of me
Follow me up and down all the way
Take my hand and I will follow you

That’s Nell, at virtually any point in the story. If you need to know who the ‘you’ is then go stand in the corner

Mmm, I need new medieval, medievalesque and renaissance music, yesyes. Nice music, good music, pleasant music, good for writing music. :sticks ‘There is no rose of such virtue’ in media player for the eight-thousandth time:

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor collapsed down into one of the fireside chairs in the solar. “Well that was fun,” she declared petulantly. She crossed her arms and leaned back, caught her breath as her back came into contact with the solid wood, and swiftly sat upright once again.

Fulk came to rest in the space between the two bedroom doors, propped up against the wall, one thumb tucked jauntily in his sword belt. He watched Hawise with mild fascination. The maid sank back into the corner nearest the door, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed, seemingly trying to melt into the floor.

Eleanor asked Fulk, “Have you got a mace yet?”

“A mace? No, just a pair of swords, same as before, and a lance.”

“Pity; I was hoping to borrow it so I could knock some sense into my delightful brother.”

“In that case it’s probably a good thing I’ve not got one!”

Eleanor scowled at her unwanted maid. “Oh, do stop skulking like that.”

Hawise inched out of her corner towards the edge of the middle of the room, apparently deciding to be redundant there instead. “Sorry, your highness.”

“And do not call me that. If I have to be anything Eleanor will do.”

The maid mumbled another apology and, shuffling forward finished, resuming standing wretchedly.

Fulk shifted to studying the robust toes of his ankle boots, unable to tell Eleanor to play nicely with her new friend. Kindliness to an unwanted follower who had been foisted on her as a chaperone or spy was probably a bit much to expect of a gooseberry, and she’d been much the same with him at first.

“I didn’t ask for this,” said Hawise suddenly. She was anxiously working at the knuckle of her right index finger, squeezing the joint and chafing at the skin with such force Fulk feared she may dislocate the finger. “I’m sorry.”

Eleanor regarded her maid curiously. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t want me; I understand. I’d go if I could, but I can’t.”

“You’re in good company,” said Fulk kindly, “she wasn’t over keen to have me back either. Isn’t that right, your highness?”

Eleanor frowned elegantly at her husband. “Oh, just marvellous. I get rid of you for a whole month and you come back with amnesia, also deaf, I think. ‘Your highness’ makes me feel as if I should wear my crown and be all gracious, and start playing patron to writers. I shall fine you a shilling each time you call me that.”

Fulk whistled in awe at the exorbitant sum. “A whole shilling! Still experiencing money troubles then?”

“Yes,” said Eleanor succinctly. “I cannot afford either of you. I have all of fifty-two pounds, nine shillings and tuppence a year, according to the stewards’ reports on my two measly little manors. I do not see a clipped penny of it; the quarterly rents and so on had already been collected before I was given the lands, and by the time they are due again they will belong to my husband, not me. So as you can imagine I am simply delighted to have two servants with generous wages forced upon me by my dear brother.”

“But surely your husband will also give you funds?” suggested Hawise timidly.

Eleanor’s smile did nothing to calm Fulk’s sudden nerves. “Now there is an idea; if he wants my pitiful lands he can have my bills also.”

“The way you said that I think the poor chap needs to put a new lock on his strongbox!” joked Fulk.

“Oh, I should not think quite that bad.” Eleanor’s impish smile grew fractionally, as did Fulk’s anxiety. The smile receded, and Eleanor gingerly explored the cut on her lip with a tip of a finger. Fulk averted his eyes; if he couldn’t see then he was less likely to betray the churning mix of feelings that little action created to their undesired spectator. “Raoul paid for you before, and he has assured me that he will pay for whatever I need or want, within reason. But I will not ask him to pay for anything more until we are married. It would be … unfair.”

There lay the crux of the problem; she wasn’t going to marry the spymaster, and from what Fulk had gathered Trempwick controlled her lands already. Unless her family did something on her behalf Eleanor was as impoverished with no hope of gaining either income or money reserves. With his manor generating an average of sixty pounds a year surplus and his wages from the crown, if he ever received them, Fulk was considerably richer than Eleanor, even assuming she had control of her lands herself. If he counted everything he should receive by right of marriage Eleanor was a good prospect – for a minor baron. Her blood was the only thing to make her special, from a businesslike point of view. He would be able to hand Eleanor the occasional small handful of coins, but any more would risk arousing suspicion, as she’d be getting money from nowhere and he’d be poorer than expected.

“Perhaps your family will help until then?” he suggested, knowing she would get his true meaning.

“My family. They decided what lands I should have. They are the reason I am in this position. My dowry is three thousand pounds flat; it should be at least four thousand, with another thousand paid yearly for the duration of the match – if that is not proof of their tight-fisted nature towards me then I do not know what is. Even for the sake of appearances while very publicly disposing of me they will not give me what should be mine.” She sighed. “I suppose I have little choice; I shall have to humble myself and beg for their aid, which I shall receive in some small quantity if I finally bow to their demands. I will not marry with a debt, and I will not be reliant upon Raoul. Damn Hugh! He must have known I would be forced to this when he contracted you both.” She muttered something Fulk thought to be, “More cunning than our father, for all his apparent stupidity; he is too calm for my own good.” A little more distinctly she said, “Well, we shall see how this works out. I am not a tame lamb to the slaughter.”

Fulk said, “I already have my old livery and so on, so you don’t need to get me anything now. Things may be better come the time when you’re supposed to outfit your servants again, so if you’re really determined to honour the contract your brother made without your agreement you can do so then.”

“Good enough.” Hawise she told, “Arrange for your livery and so on to be made as soon as possible. You do know what you need as livery?”

“One red dress, one white underdress, one gooseberry badge, one girdle in white, the other items are as normal.”

“Yes.” As an afterthought Eleanor added, “Have your clothes cut in the same way as mine; old style. No badges; I do not follow the fashion for marking my people even in normal clothes.”

Hawise smiled shyly. “I’m afraid red ill suits me.”

“Then it is to both our benefits that you do not wear it. Livery is reserved for when I wish to show off my status a little; I never did like my family’s mania for dressing as many people as possible in livery all the time.” Eleanor chuckled grimly. “Status, ha! With just two servants it is more pathetic than impressive.” Hawise continued to stand uselessly, but a little less like a frightened rabbit given over to the gentle care of a ravenous carnivore. Eleanor stood up and began to unfasten her girdle. “Well, since you are here you may as well finish mending my dress, and while you work you can tell me about yourself.”

Hawise began unlacing the sides of Eleanor’s outer dress. “There is little of interest to tell.”

“You can start by giving me your full name; Hawise FitaClement, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“Clement who?” Eleanor dragged the overdress off and handed it to her maid.

Hawise carefully draped it over her arm, running a finger over the fabric and looking closely at the colour. “Sir Clement Nostell.” She deposited the dress in the window seat with the best lighting and began to rummage about in the sewing kit someone had left lying about in the solar.

“One of the northern lords?”

“Yes. An old family, but they adopted the name of their favourite castle in England a few generations ago.”

“Then why not Hawise Nostell?” The answer dawned on Eleanor as soon as the words left her mouth. “Oh.” Hawise was a bastard. Fulk had already guessed when she had given her father’s name differently to her own.

“My mother died when I was born, so he took me into his household. The lady Eleanora wouldn’t allow me to be called ‘of Nostell’, saying it was too close to the legitimate name. She insisted if I had to be named anything connected to my father it would have to be ‘FitaClement’ or nothing. She hated me at first and didn’t want me in her household, but I don’t remember that. I only know her as kindly.” She seemed to retreat into herself, and mumbled into the assortment of threads she was looking through, “So I’m not worthy to serve you. I thought you knew. I’m sorry.”

Eleanor said wryly, “I am noticing a definite theme amongst my servants here. Really I do not care what you are, so long as you are useful, intelligent and completely loyal.”

“I can be the last; I’ll try to be the others.” She selected one bit of silk thread as a good match for the colour of the dress, took a needle suited to the fine woollen material and went to her work.

“How old are you?” asked Eleanor eventually.

“Seventeen, your High- … Eleanor.”

“Seventeen?” exclaimed Fulk and Eleanor together. Fulk had been thinking at least twenty, more likely twenty-one or twenty-two.

Hawise gave them a knowing, rather sad smile. “Someone once told me bastards have to grow up faster than everyone else.” After a pause to see if further questions were forthcoming Hawise bent her head to her sewing.

Eleanor asked the maid, “Future plans?”

She looked up, intently serious. “I’ll serve you until you no longer want me. I know what you mean, though; my employer has a right to know my history. I have no family aside from my father, no children, have never been married, am not contracted to anyone, and am not seeing anyone. I’ll ask for permission before doing anything that could affect my service to you, or your own reputation. My previous service has all been with the lady Eleanora; if you wish to ask her about me I’m sure she’ll be happy to give indication of my character. I can do anything that can be reasonably requested of a lady’s maid. I’ve never been before a court of law, never been accused of a crime, and don’t have a dubious reputation in any way.” With that Hawise resumed her edgy silence and her mending.

Fulk said to Eleanor, “Game of chess to pass the time?”

Eleanor pulled a face, and said very unenthusiastically, “I suppose there is little else I can be doing; I cannot send either of you to see how Aveline and Adela are faring, and I cannot leave this room myself.”

They pulled out the little table from the wall and set it between the two chairs, then swiftly set out the exquisite chess set on its ebony and ivory inlaid board. Shortly after play commenced it became obvious that Eleanor had changed her approach to the game; she now took her time a little more with her moves, and she did a little better for it. Fulk would have asked why, but he did not think it safe while others were around.

Still it was not enough of a change. As Fulk smashed the centre of one of her pawn chains he said, “You’re doing better, but you always did play too fast; slow down even more, think several moves ahead all the time. There’s no penalty if you take more than a few minutes per move. I’ve heard some of the best players sometimes take hours to decide their moves, and games can last for days.”

“How profoundly tedious,” replied Eleanor dryly. She shunted her leftmost rook forward several squares without considering the move at all.

Fulk heard a funny choking noise behind him; he glanced to the window seat to find Hawise stitching conscientiously, but now crimson at her failure to completely stifle her outburst of mirth and once again looking abject. He turned back to Eleanor and raised his eyebrows. She shrugged, unwilling to do anything more with her new maid. Fulk turned his attention back to their game, and removed Eleanor’s newly vulnerable white bishop from the board with a cheery smirk.





Around an hour later Fulk and Eleanor were nearing the end of their second game, another promising victory for Fulk. Hawise had finished her mending, and Eleanor was once again properly dressed. Now the maid sat bashfully watching their game, but from the safe distance of her window seat. In the entire time she had not made any effort to initiate any conversation, except to tell Eleanor her dress was finished. She did answer when spoken to, but otherwise her presence was regrettably easy to forget.

When the door to the solar opened Fulk thought it must be the food Hugh had promised, arrived at long last. It wasn’t; it was Anne, followed by her two remaining maids. On seeing Fulk Godit covertly nudged Mariot in the ribs; neither the gesture nor the meaningful glance both women exchanged was missed by Fulk. Judging from the way Eleanor’s blue eyes picked up a decided icy coldness she’d seen it too, but other than that slight detail, which only someone familiar with her would pick up on, the princess didn’t give a thing away. The two maids filed away to join Hawise in her window seat without any more silliness.

The queen came over and appraised their game, the large collection of pieces Fulk had captured, the small collection of hostages Eleanor had taken, and said, “I will not ask who is winning then.”

“The broken-nosed annoyance, that is who,” grumbled Eleanor. “If he were chivalrous he would let me win.”

“I’m very chivalrous!” protested Fulk. “It’s the height of chivalry not to patronise a lady by letting her win.”

Anne applauded daintily. “Very neat escape, Sir Fulk.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” Fulk bowed awkwardly in his seat.

Eleanor cleared her throat noisily. “If I may interrupt this small gathering of learned folks discussing the finer points of chivalry? Hawise, you may go and order your clothes now. Gather your things and move them over to my guesthouse, and tell your former mistress what has happened. Take as long as you want.” The maid bobbed a curtsey and disappeared out the door. To Anne Eleanor said, “Can we send someone to discover how Aveline and Adela are faring? I cannot go myself; Hugh was rather … resolute on my staying here until told I may leave.”

“Mariot? Would you mind …?”

“Not at all; I’ll go at once,” the oldest maid assured her charge. “Poor Adela; I was so shocked to hear, the poor dear. It really is quite terrible, the whole thing. Simply dreadful; I don’t know what the world is coming to.”

Eleanor told Mariot, “Adela was in some considerable distress; she will feel far better for a friendly face. If you can make sure she is alright I would feel much better.”

“Don’t blame yourself, dear. It’s not as if this is your doing now, is it?”

“Still and all, the poison was intended for me. I cannot help but feel responsible. Aveline is not exactly young, and for all her composure … well, I would feel far better if you made certain they were both safe, recovering, and as happy as is possible.”

“Yes,” chimed in Anne, “stay with them for a bit if you think it a good idea; I can spare you for the rest of the day, I still have Godit. Poor Adela; tell her I am … well, you know. I will visit her when I can, and if there is anything she needs or wants she should let me know.”

Mariot exited, leaving Godit as the only one outside their little conspiracy.

“I am so glad that is all over, for today anyway.” Anne picked up the little ebony queen, a woman in fancy robes and crown perched on her decoratively carved throne looking bored to tears. She ran a finger over the fine carving, manicured nail catching on the queen’s prominent nose. “Now I know why the poor queen so often looks fed up; I used to think it quite silly, because she is the best piece. I feel so useless, sat there in the queen’s chair with nothing really to contribute. Hugh does consult me where it is appropriate, and I am learning a lot, but I feel more like a decoration than a real queen. I just cannot offer good advice, even though he gives me plenty of opportunity to do so. I am so glad I managed to escape today’s more private council; if I feel useless in the great hall I feel utterly inept in the council chamber.”

“You do very well,” Godit assured her. “No one expects miracles, and general gossip has a high opinion of you because you try, and because you’re learning quickly.”

“Maybe … but where is Bodmin?”

Fulk supplied, “Cornwell.”

“Oh,” said Anne blandly. She nodded vacantly, and the perplexed expression eased a very little. “We are sending an inquiry there. Something about confusion on how many knights some landholders there owe; scutage, and so forth. I suggested it … I think.”

Fulk caught the corner of his mouth in his teeth, fighting not to grin at the thought of a load of nobles having their doings investigated by the crown because of a child who wasn’t even entirely certain as to what she had done.

Anne snapped out of her daze and enquired, “Did you get the food Hugh promised?”

“No,” answered Eleanor. “Not so much as a crumb.”

“Oh dear! You must be famished, and it is my hospitality at fault … well, in a way, anyway. Godit, would you mind? Actually, I am rather hungry myself after that long audience, so get something for me too. Oh – just bring enough for everyone; simplest, that way.”

“And bring cheese,” ordered Eleanor imperiously. “Hard cheese, and plenty of it.”

Godit dipped a curtsey and left, somehow managing to toss a wink at Fulk on her way out. That set Eleanor fuming again, as subtly as before.

Once they were safely alone Anne bounced down onto the plump cushions in the window seat nearest Fulk and Eleanor, glowing with pride. “It was really rather difficult, but I made sure Hugh never got around to giving any specific orders about your food. I thought it might be useful.”

Eleanor sat bolt upright again, suddenly all alert. “Yes; thank you. Right, we do not have long and there is a lot to cover. Hawise is not to be trusted; she must know nothing, unless I choose to inform her myself. Fulk, I do not need to tell you the obvious, so consider yourself reminded but without us wasting time on it.” She turned to Anne. “Your maids; any suspicions as to who is the spy? Surely you must have some idea, and the sooner we identify …”

“I do not like to think any of them are,” confessed Anne miserably. “I do not think any could betray me. But … if one has to be … I suppose Adela. Godit and Mariot have been with me for years, Mariot nearly all my life. Adela is English, she only joined me when I arrived at court for my wedding. She was chosen for me by William, actually. I trust his judgement; she must be trustworthy or he would not have selected her.”

“My father has been fooled before, most notably by his spymaster.”

“She is one of the De La Hayes, the second daughter of the current earl of Leister. She is going to marry William FitzGilbert; it has been arranged for years, they are only waiting on William and his father returning from their pilgrimage to Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Now there is a story behind that, alright.”

Eleanor inquired quickly, “Is it relevant?”

“Not really. You see when William was three he was really ill; they thought he would die, so his father promised that if his son lived-”

“What about Mariot?” interrupted Eleanor.

“Her children all died young, and her husband died shortly after the last babe. She will not talk about that; she says the pain is too much to think on. They were very close, you see. The rest of her family was already gone, aside from a few aunts here and there, a doddering uncle who had never quite recovered from a head wound, a sister who was an abbess, and another who had married a lord out on the Orkney Isles. She was actually quite young then, only twenty-two, but she refused to marry again so soon. Her mother had been lady’s maid to my own mother, so my mother asked her to look after me, and later be my maid when I was old enough to need one. I was perhaps two at the time. She taught me my letters, sewing, dancing, manners, etiquette, almost everything except Latin and English. Those my grandmother taught me, as my own mother died when I was three. I know Mariot looks on me as a kind of daughter, and she is my oldest and most trusted servant. I will not believe she could deceive me.”

“Tell me about Godit.”

“She comes from a good family, although a little poor and not the usual choice for a royal companion. I chose her myself, nearly six years ago. We met one summer when I followed my father on his progress and we stopped at her family’s castle. I really liked her, so I insisted on her coming with me. Her family’s trying to make her marry, but I will not let her unless it is a match she wants. She owes much to me, and she is a good person. She would never betray me.”

Eleanor cocked an eyebrow in Fulk’s direction.

“She never stops talking,” he answered at last.

“Oh. Good. Thank you; that was just what I needed to know.”

“You’re very acidic today, oh sour one.”

“That too is very useful; now I know everything I need to defeat Trempwick single-handedly. Oh happy day. Tell me about Godit – how do you know her, how long have you known her, what have you told her, what does she want from you. Tell me useful things.”

“Anne introduced us on my first day here, she’s been tagging after me ever since, I haven’t told her anything much that she didn’t already know, and she wants to marry me.”

Predictably enough that last produced one of Eleanor’s murderous glares, a particularly fine specimen. “Detail; I need detail. And what are you smiling at, you aggravating object?”

“That glare; I find it quite endearing.” Fulk winked at Eleanor as the glare transformed into miffed surprise, accompanied by a pleased blush. “Godit was there when I arrived; the queen asked me some questions and I had to answer them.” Fulk glanced guiltily at Anne; he hated to drop her in harm’s way but Eleanor needed to know. “I’m afraid a good deal was given away before I even opened my mouth, though I admit I didn’t help matters much myself. Because of that she – and the other two maids – know of our attraction and think that I was sent away because you had chosen Trempwick over me in an effort to make the unavoidable marriage work. Making the best of a bad job, Mariot called it.”

Eleanor’s eyes flicked from knight to queen and back again. “You told people?” she gritted out.

“I had to have their help,” explained Anne unhappily, “and I could not see Fulk without them around. I had been hearing all kinds of things; I was worried for you. I tried to see you but you were gone from the manor, and that only made me worry all the more. Really, if you had heard how your family and the spymaster were talking about you then you would have been worried too; it was all so very cold, much of it around forcing you to cooperate. I trust my maids, and I cannot do much without them.”

“One of them must be a spy, or Trempwick is getting very lax.”

Fulk could see an eruption of royal temper was brewing, with some good reason. He began to pull the focus onto himself so Anne could escape mostly unscathed. If he couldn’t prevent the outburst he’d have to keep it short and reasonably quiet, to limit the chances of someone stumbling in midway through the tirade. “I’ve been working to keep up appearances of a dumped, heartbroken knight who knows his lady love’s fallen for another man.”

“Oh yes?”

“Godit knows I still love you, but she thinks I’m out to recover and move on. She’s determined to help pull me out of my gloom.”

Eleanor nodded pleasantly and made an agreeing noise. Fulk could guess what she was thinking; that was another private argument pending, and the sooner the better.

“I’ve been carefully feeding her bits and pieces that will work to our advantage; if she’s spying then she’s not getting anything harmful to us and is leading Trempwick up the wrong path.”

“Oh, good, good.”

“She’s been acting as my link to the queen; without her I’d never have been able to deliver your gift, or message, or whatever it was, and without her I’d have no good idea of what had happened to you. To hear gossip I’d expect you to be hurt far worse than you are, but she went out of her way to tell me how you really were.”

“Well, that is very good then.”

“I’m glad you think so,” replied Fulk in the same falsely cheery tone of voice, teeth bared in a matching fake smile. He looked pointedly at Anne, who was following the back and forth with increasing apprehension. When she didn’t get the message he jerked his head towards the doors to the other private rooms.

The queen hopped to her feet. “Oh dear! Silly me! I do appear to have … forgotten something. In my room. I should get it, now.” She scurried away, closing the door to her bedchamber noisily behind herself. Fulk wasn’t fooled; she’d left the door open a crack.

Nor was Eleanor; her eyes flicked to the door and then back to Fulk, her face a picture of amusement. “She rather reminds me of myself – when I was five,” she murmured. “Leave her; at least she will know to return if someone comes back.”

“Alone at last, even if we need to watch for the stair door.” Fulk leaned across the chess board and patted Eleanor on the head, just like a favoured hound. “I’d kiss you, but I doubt you’d enjoy it much with that lip. Equally I doubt you’d appreciate a nice, tight hug.”

Eleanor glowered at him from under her eyebrows. “You are angry.”

“And you’re feeling guilty, and angry.”

“I am not.”

“I know you too well to fall for that, and we don’t have time to waste.” Eleanor reclined in her chair, face set rigidly against pain and expression, silent. Fulk decided to start unpicking the tangle in the easiest part and slowly work his way around to the central point. Somehow simply exclaiming “I didn’t sleep with Godit!” lacked style, and it called to mind trying to douse a fire by pouring oil on it. “Let me guess why you’re uneasy. Defacement of my property, dear gooseberry.” Fulk’s mouth twitched as he said that, but he didn’t need to try very hard to reset his features into seriousness. “Insult to my honour too; by rights I should be setting out to avenge you by clobbering your brother, which of course I can’t do, so the insult’s permanent. We won’t mention the complete lack of consultation with me; I suppose it’d be a bit much to expect my wife to warn me before she tries to kill herself, even though she was planning it when I last had chance to talk with her. We’ll also ignore the fact - although it’s one which would drive most into a righteous fury - you’re such a mess I don’t see how you’re supposed to pay your half of the marriage debt, assuming we get chance. However we won’t ignore the fact it’s a husband’s duty to protect his wife from everyone and everything, but you deliberately went and made me helpless.” With difficulty Fulk repressed his exasperation again; if he let it show she’d only start running.

“I did what I needed to.”

“And you realised there was a bit of a problem when exactly?”

“As I sat in the solar waiting for Hugh to arrive,” she admitted ruefully.

“Took as long as that?” Fulk tutted, attempting to convert his pique into humour. “Bad princess.” She kicked him under the table, missing her aim so her foot glanced harmlessly off his ankle. “Very bad princess,” scolded Fulk, waggling a finger at her. Eleanor scooped up one of the exquisitely carved ivory chessmen and threw it at Fulk, giving him just enough warning to snatch the piece out of the air before it hit him. “Exceedingly bad princess!” Fulk set the stumpy little knight with his cross eyed, fat bellied horse back in its correct position on the board. “Behave, you horror!”

“Yes, oh lord and master.”

Oh dear, thought Fulk. That was going to smart later.

“You are angry,” she said again. “Underneath all the silliness.”

“I never denied it, oh abuser of little ivory people. Why wouldn’t I be? You’ve no idea how worried I was. If it hadn’t been for Godit I’d have only known the gossip, and believe me it’s fit to give nightmares. Even so hearing is not the same as seeing for yourself, and then seeing is pretty damn bad too. You’re tearing me in two, telling me to do one thing and then making it impossible, expecting me to sit and do nothing. I’m supposed to be happy you went and got that?” One expansive gesture took in face, lip and back. “I hate seeing you hurt, and I hate being useless, and that you did this on purpose only makes it worse.”

“I am sorry, but what else was I to do?”

“Give others a chance to do what you’d asked of them, wait a little longer, think a little harder of another way. Even if this was the only way I doubt you needed to get slapped in the face, or to end up fighting your brother so you’re peppered in bruises which aren’t proof of anything but the fact you struggled pointlessly.”

“It was necessary-”

“There are many things people talk to their brothers about, many of them innocent, quite a few of them requiring privacy.”

“But none which provide such proof of what happened, or fit my plan so well. Hugh forced things; I had to fight or I would have had less chance of getting him to listen to me.”

Fulk could tell she wasn’t going to listen; she had decided she was right and that was that, and lacking good knowledge of what had happened it was hard for him to object in any way she couldn’t counter easily. “Forget it; it’s in the past and we don’t have time to waste on it. But in the future don’t be so quick to play martyr.”

“Well I hardly enjoy playing martyr, as you call it,” rejoined Eleanor tersely. Fulk held her gaze squarely, saying nothing. Eventually her guilt won out and she looked away. “I am sorry … I forgot my actions are not solely my own any more.”

Fulk glanced to the door, acutely conscious of the fact three people were likely to be returning here at some unknown point in the near future with very little warning. He picked up Eleanor’s hand and pressed a kiss into the palm. “You will be the lady of my heart, without question, completely, until death consumes me.”

“It is a good thing you do not have to pay the writers each time you steal one of their lines, you thieving poetical would-be.”

Fulk wasn’t sure if he was delighted or disappointed she hadn’t taken the opening and started to complain about Godit with typical Eleanorish vigour. “You are wondering about Godit. I just told you the answer. I’ve given you my word, implicitly, not overtly, but still given it, and really the actual promise doesn’t matter because it’s there even without the words. You, and no other.” He thought it best to confine things to the present; she’d only get upset and find new reason to doubt if he told her what he’d done in their time apart, and as much as he was curious he didn’t want to hear what she’d done with Trempwick in that not quite a month. He could guess.

“Your father swore the same to his wife,” said Eleanor pointedly, “so did my father, and both of my brothers who lived to marry; none of them kept it. Both of my servants are noble’s bastards. The court is awash with gossip about affairs and adultery, always has been and always will be. Plenty of stories are written about adultery, songs too – it is a popular theme. Men are unfaithful; it is a simple fact of life, and to be expected, and is beneath my dignity to notice or care unless you go out of your way to embarrass me.”

Given more time and better circumstances Fulk would have reminded her that a great many of those stories, songs and scandals involved erring wives. “I’m not interested in anyone else.”

“We may never get chance-”

“Well, I didn’t say it would be easy, did I? But I can think of more difficult things, such as wrestling with my own conscience afterwards, or persuading you not to carve me into tiny bits with a blunt spoon and feed me to a pack of rabid wolves.”

“Unlikely; it is entirely beneath me to even care.”

“But, oh stricken one, you do care. Playing good noble lady doesn’t suit you in this.”

The carefully constructed dispassionate act lasted a bit longer before breaking down into something a good deal more believable. “I would not chop you up with a blunt spoon; that is entirely too much effort, and rather cruel. Considering I love you I would show you mercy; I would toss you to the wolves while still alive and intact … mostly intact.”

Fulk grinned. “That’s better.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “I should never have involved you in this. I have placed you in danger, trapped you in a miserable dead end, and-”

Fulk leaned across the table and placed one finger over her lips. “Because I let you.”

Eleanor clasped his hand in her own. “You do not understand; I did not marry you for love.”

“No, I didn’t think it was just that. If it was you’d have married me a while ago, before I left – our situation’s no better now than before. More likely you wouldn’t have married me at all if that was your only motive; it’s not really needed.”

Eleanor looked towards the stair door and regretfully let his hand drop. In a rush she began, “I am using you to keep myself true to my purpose-”

“To be a comfort, to provide support, to protect you as best I may, to be there when you need someone, to be trusted completely, to follow you wherever you end up going, to help however I can. You bound me to you so I’d be less likely to leave you or betray you. I know. If I minded I’d never have agreed; I didn’t even hesitate, if you remember.” He smiled. “Dear heart, you’re remarkably blind sometimes.”

After a pause she said seriously, “I suppose I needed to hear you say it, to be sure. You must think me terrible.”

“No, not unless you think me terrible. I married you because I need you, to keep me … whole, to force me to be someone worth the cost of my father’s life. I’ve tied up my sense of honour with you, my bravery, my decency, all that’s good in me, and without you I go back to being nothing because I’ve no real reason to be better.”

“You underestimate yourself.”

“No,” said Fulk adamantly, thinking back on what he’d done in the not quite month he’d been away from her. His stupidity alone in not watching his words would have had his father flinging up his hands in disgust and declaring that Fulk must have been dropped on his head at birth. Frankly Fulk admitted to himself that his father would have been quite right. “I don’t want to spoil Godit’s future; I will not betray you – see the difference? It’s all like that. I needed money so I kept on working for Aidney though I hated the man and what he was doing, using honour and a given oath as an excuse; with you it’s the oath that matters. I don’t care about money, except as something to use to help us. I wanted to be a knight for pride’s sake; so long as I’ve got you I don’t care what I am. I know you need help, so here I am, regardless of danger. There’s not another person or cause I care about enough to do that for. But underneath our more practical reasons there’s love; that’s why those reasons are there.” Fulk bowed his head. “That’s partly why this hurt me so much; you forced me to break my word when I’m relying on you to make me keep it. If you view my vow as disposable then why shouldn’t I? It’s our wedding vow, and if that’s meaningless then so is everything else.”

“Mea culpa,” she whispered contritely, this time entirely sincere.

“I forgive you.”

They sat a moment in silence. “Why is it,” said Eleanor thoughtfully, pausing for effect, “that since I met you my life has been considerably more … drastic than usual? It appears I have my very own bad luck charm, complete with a broken nose.”

Fulk chuckled. “Why is it I’ve finally got a very nice room complete with a lovely big, soft bed and now I’m back to sleeping on the floor outside your door?” He checked the stair door again. “Everything that was yours before, lands and chattels, I return to you, if you want them, even though with a bit of cunning I could control them without anyone being any the wiser. I’m keeping-” He caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs just in time, and abruptly changed topic just as Anne came hurtling out of her room, a book tucked under her arm. “I found out what happened to my mother-” The stair door opened, revealing Godit and a palace servant helping her carry up the lunch Eleanor had been promised. “She died,” finished Fulk curtly.

“My condolences,” said Eleanor gently, at the same time as Anne’s, “Oh, how terrible!” Godit already knew; he’d told her shortly after he had received the news himself. Still, she gave him a consolatory look as she passed him on her way to set her full tray down on the large table. The other servant dropped his own heavily laden tray off and left.

“The message was a bit odd though, didn’t quite sit with what I know. I was going to go back and investigate, but I can’t now.” He forced his manner to be cool, praying Eleanor would understand what he was doing in seeming resentful of her interrupting his plans. “I can’t leave your side.”

“When Raoul arrives he will sort this mess out; you will be free then. The moment that happens you can go, on my authority, if anyone tries to stop you.”

Fulk nodded jerkily. “Thank you.”





11 pages; nearly double the usual size. Hence the delay.

4,475

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick blocked a scything chop at his shoulder with the rim of his shield. He flung his opponent’s blade wide and stepped in with a quick lunge. The man snapped his own shield over and down to guard in time. “Nice,” he grunted.

Trempwick didn’t waste his breath replying. He returned to the ready stance and slowly edged to his right, seeking his opponent’s less guarded side. The other man matched his move, and for a while they prowled in circles around each other. Trempwick fainted right and stepped sharply to his left, bringing his sword back in and around to hack at his opponent’s flank. The man was fast; the point of his shield caught and deflected much of the blow. As his blade skittered off the painted leather facing Trempwick twisted his wrist and just managed to give his foe a light rap just above the knee.

“Close,” the man said derisively. “Sloppy.”

“You or me?”

His opponent’s reply was to begin attacking in a controlled frenzy, forcing Trempwick onto the defensive. Blocking as much as possible with his shield, dodging and parrying what he could not, Trempwick slowly gave ground. His breath rasped harshly in the confines of his helmet. Sweat poured down his face into his eyes, making them sting. More sweat was running down his torso beneath mail and gambeson, soaking through his shirt and making the linen stick to his body. Still he gave ground, mindful of his surroundings, working to keep from being trapped and aiming to tire his enemy.

In exasperation his foe told him, “Men fight; girls run away.”

Trempwick grinned behind his face plate. “Not my Nell.”

“So she’s more of a man than you; great. Pity I trained you, not her.”

“Mauger!” protested Trempwick, still grinning. He guarded against yet another cut at his leg and hopped back out of range again.

Mauger changed tactics, now taking a defensive attitude to conserve his energy. Again the two circled warily.

Protected by distance Trempwick began to hammer the pommel of his sword against the inside of his shield. In time to the blows he began to chant, “Ut! Ut! Ut!”

Mauger dived to attack, thinking to take advantage of Trempwick’s distraction. Trempwick broke from his taunting and parried the vicious downswing. In almost the same movement he rammed his shield into his enemy’s side, putting his bodyweight behind it. Mauger staggered, found his feet swiftly and began to heave back. Trempwick used the hilt of his sword like a club, hammering away at his foe, keeping him busy and landing several respectable hits on his right shoulder and upper back. The few return attacks were blunted by awkwardness or by Trempwick hunching away from them.

Mauger dropped his sword and grabbed Trempwick’s sword arm. The hail of blows halted, and slowly Trempwick began to lose the contest of strength, his sword arm prised backwards and away from Mauger.

Trempwick head-butted his enemy, the collision setting both men’s helmets ringing. Quickly Trempwick flung his weight at the other man again. Mauger wavered again before finding his balance, and Trempwick used this space to wrench his sword arm free. He smashed the pommel of his sword into the side of his foe’s helm near the top, knocking the faceguard partially out of alignment. As Mauger cursed Trempwick clubbed the other man hard on the right shoulder and retreated several quick steps to stand between the man and his discarded sword.

As Mauger sorted his helmet out Trempwick rattled his sword hilt on the inside of his shield again. “Ut! Ut! Ut! Ut! Ut!”

Vision restored Mauger drew his dagger, crouching behind his shield. “Will you shut the fuck up?!” he shouted. “What’ve I told you, year after year? Waste of God damned breath!”

The advantage well and truly his, as evidenced by Mauger’s deteriorating language, Trempwick gave his foe time to surrender. When he didn’t Trempwick closed the gap and began showering attacks on the other man, always taking advantage of the superior range offered him by his sword. Finally his edge of his sword contacted with Mauger’s wrist, and the dagger dropped from nerveless fingers.

Trempwick levelled the point of his sword at his opponent. “Yield.”

“Oh, alright!” grumbled Mauger, massaging his right hand to regain some feeling.

Trempwick transferred his training blade into his left hand and removed his helmet; after the stuffy, hot confines of the helmet the cool air felt wonderful on his bare face. He moved over to the trestle table and bench that had been dragged into the courtyard from Woburn’s main hall and set his helm down, noting with displeasure a small set of scuff marks on the round iron skull just above the face guard. He swapped the sword back to his right hand so he could set it down, and then began to work his left hand and arm free from the shield’s loops.

“Not bad.” Mauger joined him at the table, divesting himself of his own helmet, shield and recovered sword. Once his breathing had settled a bit the older man offered, “But not great. Took you a while to settle to it.”

“That was my first fight in a month, as well you know.” Trempwick slipped his hands out of the slits in the leather palms of his hauberk’s mail mittens and unlaced his mail aventail, then pushed his coif back from his head. His arming cap followed swiftly. He snatched up the trailing hem of his long surcoat and mopped his face and neck.

“You’re slower than before, just a hair, but it’s a problem.”

“I will go far towards gaining much of my speed and footwork back today; that is why you are here, after all. To correct the small faults I have gained in my solitary training, to point out where I need to alter my patterns, and to give me chance to knock someone else’s’ brains about. You bring it to my attention, I work on it relentlessly until I see you again.”

“If you’re planning on fighting seriously you need more practise against live opponents. You’ll have trouble against anyone who’s training dedicated like. Not that I’m saying you’d lose, but you’d not win easy neither, get me drift? It’s winning easy that sensible men want; anything else risks life and limb a wee bit much, in my mind.”

“The day I plan upon fighting is the day I grow wings, Mauger. I am a spymaster; I fight as such, when I have need. Brains over brawn, although competence with brawn seldom harms. Besides, a face like mine gains no handsome character from a broken nose or scars, so you will forgive me if I keep it from harm’s way.” The words could apply very well to Mauger’s own battered face, if you ignored ‘handsome’. Trempwick was thinking of another man.

“You always were a cocky little wretch,” said the master at arms affectionately. “Right from the very beginning when you’d no clue as to which end of a damned sword to hold.”

“I prefer to think of it as being confident in my own abilities.”

“Aye – cocky.”

“An aura of confidence in oneself achieves much with very little expenditure. It makes one less of a target, plants a little fear and mistrust in other’s minds, makes others more inclined to follow you. It makes you look stronger. I consider that to be very useful; I always make a point of seeming confident, regardless of how I truly feel.” The master at arms snorted derisively but did not argue, and Trempwick knew he had won the point. Trempwick sat down on the bench and reached for the jug of small ale. He poured himself a cup and one for his trainer. Thirsty, Trempwick emptied the whole cup without pausing for breath.

Mauger drained his own drink and smacked his lips in appreciation. “Nice stuff, this. Touch lighter in flavour than my usual, but far from tasteless. Prefer it, I think; it’s refreshing.”

“If Elgiva hears you said that you may count your remaining days on one hand! She is very proud of her own ale.”

“Aye, but Elgiva’s still fifteen miles away at Salcey. What she don’t know won’t hurt, and her brew’s still good.” Mauger gulped down more ale with relish. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and set his cup back down with a thump. “Oh aye, speaking of Elgiva; she asks after the princess, and sends you her compliments.”

“Tell her that her advice with regards to wooing Nell was good, and that I maintain the difficulty was caused by the manner in which we became betrothed.” It was a gallant half-truth; he did not consider it wise or appropriate to discuss the other reasons. Trempwick regretted going to Elgiva that last time. He had been motivated by uncharacteristic panic and frustration at his first spectacular failure with a female. The only one he had to win, and had seemed set to lose. The solution had been obvious, if he had just detached a little and thought clearly. Which he was doing now, and had been ever since that visit. Nell was Nell; remember that and always treat her as Nell. More usual methods did not work on her … yet. He rather hoped they never would. Nell was Nell, and should remain Nell.

“You know …” said Mauger slowly. “You could visit after the wedding, bring your princess along. Elgiva’s dying of curiosity to see what she’s been advising you on and hearing about all these years. Says she feels a bit like an aunt to the girl, if that’s not too presumptuous. A visit quiet like; Elgiva’s just the housekeeper and I’m only the steward, and all’s peace and boring normality.”

Trempwick considered the proposition with his usual rapidity. His hunting lodge at Salcey was one of his favourite properties. He had passed nearly a full half of his spymaster’s holidays there. Keeping his fighting skills in acceptable shape with his old master at arms. Drinking and talking with him too, though not to the point of drunkenness or too much given away. Relaxing and ignoring his spymaster’s duties and cares. Really relaxing. Elgiva: a few years younger than himself, pretty not beautiful, not gently born. Delightfully experienced, supremely undemanding in all the best ways yet challenging where it counted, a wellspring of knowledge and advice on women and girls. Not exactly a mistress, and not quite a love. An exceptional cook. The lodge itself; a compact, light and airy building with all modern comforts. It offered privacy, real privacy. Quiet also. Actual, honest peace and quiet. No messages, no work, nothing connected to his spymaster’s life. Only himself, his dreams, and the little space he had carved out to suit his wants to perfection. Nell would almost certainly love it. Just two servants, both unknown to her and apt to be gracious. Beautiful surroundings. Plenty to do: hunting, riding, walking, fishing, hawking if they took birds. The usual indoor pursuits. Freedom from the … pressing, necessary issues of Woburn and all. Chance for her to settle into her new role as wife a little easier, if they went soon enough.

The deliberations took but a moment, and left only one issue unresolved. “I have confidence in Elgiva’s abilities, but it may not be particularly easy for her to see me with my wife. Nell will be … occupying the space Elgiva has had for years,” finished Trempwick tactfully.

“I’ll clean your ears out for you later when I batter your helm into a shapeless lump. I told you – it’s her idea. She wants to see you both, and not with an eye to gazing at what she’s freshly lost. She expects nothing of you, aye, and will betray nothing either. She’s just the cook and housekeeper, so she says. Always has been. Never been your mistress, never advised you on your princess, not spent the best years of her life waiting for you whenever you have a care or need to visit her either for that matter. She bid me say that if she’d got something more passionate in mind she wouldn’t ask you to bring your wife, and that if you’ve ever a mind to resume things it’ll be plainly obvious the moment you walk through the door, again alone.” The old warrior scrubbed the back of his neck with one blunt fingered hand, plainly embarrassed. “Well, you know what women’re like, lad. Anyhow, she promises to be boringly domestic, like a good housekeeper. She also promises a bowl of her mutton stew and dumplings the evening you arrive, if you but give her warning to cook it.”

Trempwick needed to consider little more. Formally he said, “You may tell her that my wife and I will be passing a few days at my hunting lodge in Salcey shortly after the wedding. I shall send word in my usual manner, and I expect all to be ready and suitable.”

“Right enough.” Mauger tried to be casual, but Trempwick knew the man was positively glowing with delight at his success. He also knew Mauger would soon change the subject to a more ‘manly’ one. Sure enough the other man ran a hand through his iron-grey hair and said gruffly, “I see you’ve kept your affection for that old Saxon warcry.”

Trempwick hitched a shoulder. “I never felt right yelling ‘A Trempwick!’ or any of the other, more usual ones. You will admit the Saxon one has a certain style to it.”

“Only you’d find some silly attraction in the monotonous chant of a defeated people. ‘Out! Out! Out!’ – it’s a mite daft if you think on it. Sounds like a bloody dog barking too.”

“It is less ludicrous then yelling one’s own name, especially when that name is Trempwick.”

“Could always go with ‘A Raoul!’ lad, as I’ve frequently told you.”

“I have never decided if Raoul is less detestable to my ears than Trempwick. I fear they are about equal.”

“Daft bugger’s got two good names and he hates ‘um both!” proclaimed Mauger in mock disgust.

Trempwick observed lightly, “Mauger is equally unpleasant.”

“Too bloody right! Raoul’s a damned sight better; you’ve no idea how fortunate you are, whelp.”

Seeing a distant trio of men on horseback approaching through the open manor gate Trempwick sat up, his cup of ale abandoned. It took a few seconds before he recognised the men sufficiently to tell which of the particular parties he was expecting this was. “Edward, Bertram and Gerbert, back from the town with my wedding gifts.”

Trempwick settled back to a more comfortable pose, mind busy. He would have to decide on where to place Gerbert before he left tomorrow afternoon. Gerbert was supposed to be thrown out in disgrace; small reward for one who had been so loyal, but necessary for Nell’s sake. Quickly Trempwick decided Gerbert could go to one of the French duke’s households. The duke of Brittany, perhaps. He already had people in place there, but more would not harm. Least of all a skilled, trusted extra man. The orders would be given by daybreak. Trempwick pondered giving Nell her old horse back, now Gerbert no longer required it. He liked the idea; Nell had been fond of the sweet tempered creature. It would also serve as proof of his devotion to her, tracking the animal down and regaining it. For her. Just for her. To make her happy. To have returned it earlier would perhaps have been suspicious. But now it was a wedding present to his treasured princess, for which he had scoured the surrounding countryside.

Situation analysed and decisions made in the space of a heartbeat Trempwick resumed conversation with his master at arms. Generously he offered, “Be a part of my wedding escort. I am allowed five men; be one of them. You will be able to take back a firsthand account to Elgiva. My people can continue to protect her for a few more days while you are gone.” Mauger, along with Trempwick’s armour and warhorse, had been summoned out here so he could spend a half day in a pale shadow of a spymaster’s holiday. That was all he could do at present as he lacked both time and Nell; two necessary resources for a, as yet untried, new style spymaster’s holiday. This new idea was an unexpected bonus, one he much liked. A way of paying a small part of the debt he had to these two old friends. A way, perhaps, to link cautiously the two favoured parts of his life; Nell’s Trempwick and plain Trempwick.

“Aye, I’d like that, lad. But what of the armour and so on? You’ll not be wanting that still here when your bride returns, that’s for sure. You’ll not be keen on having it out at the lodge either.”

It would only be a minor bother if Nell discovered his arms training now. It may work to his advantage a little; like most young women Nell seemed to appreciate a warrior. That was why he had let her find his sword. Why he had told her about his private practise here at Woburn. Not having to avoid her made his life simpler also. But … for now there was perhaps too much here. He would not tell her. It simply would not do to get ahead of himself. “I can order a few men to deal with it in ample time; pay it little mind. She will be none the wiser.”

“Aye, if you say so. I’ll be glad to join your escort then, lad.”

Trempwick stood up again, working his hands back into the mail mittens dangling from the wrists of his hauberk. “Caught your breath yet, old man? If not I’ve five of my household knights set to arrive in an hour or two; I can go a few bouts with them.”

Mauger shot to his feet and snatched up his wooden sword. “I’ll make you eat those words, insolent whelp! I might not have your stamina but I’ve more experience in my left little finger than a thousand green whelps who think themselves warriors! Oh aye - you’ll be fighting those knights of yours too, if I’ve got any damned say. I’m going to work you till you drop! See if they’re any match for your young energy and silliness, and I’ll sit on my aged arse on this here bench and shout at you all until you show traces of being real knights!”

“Do try not to spoil my hide; I doubt Nell would thank you if her groom arrives with a limp and an arm in a sling.”

“Aye, and more to the point you’ll be angry if you have to get explaining to her why you’ve been fighting.” Mauger grinned, revealing a few missing teeth. “Well then lad, you’ll have to stay sharp, won’t you? It’s not training if everyone’s being nice and careful with you.”






To refer to this strip of water as a river was truly a misnomer; it was in truth a stream. There were no rivers near Waltham. A simple stream, albeit one of respectable depth and breadth, gently snaking back and forth across the land in imitation of its more noble kin. Still, river the locals insisted on calling it. The sound of the water was comforting; a continuous, ceaseless sound, part restrained roar and strength, part murmur and inviting. Woven into that background were smaller, less constant sounds; water bubbling past large stones in the shallows, the distant chatter of the washerwomen just outside the town, the noise of their work carrying the half mile through the air. There had been children near this spot, swimming, shouting, fighting in the water, but they had fled when he arrived. His bodyguard would have sent them on in any case, and Hugh would have agreed. It was not dignified for a prince to intermingle with town brats. Although there had been one king who had fraternised with the lowest of the low …

Hugh took another step closer to the grassy overhanging edge of the bank. He heard the rattle of armour as one of his bodyguard also took a step forward. Did they fear he was going to jump? Hugh took another step, his toes now resting on the very edge of the riverbank. To jump. Here, upstream of the town and palace, the water was still clean and clear, inviting even, though he knew that in February it would still be bitterly cold. The surface was tranquil, the sound pleasing, the promise of a peaceful … ceasing to be was undeniably present. To jump, step off over the bank and fall the few feet down into the water.

Hugh smiled sardonically down at the clump of weeds just visible under the glassy surface at his feet. If he stepped off here he would splashily end up knee deep in water, ruin his long silk tunic, scare a few fish, and set five armoured men hastening to jump in after him, consequentially causing their iron mail to rust at an increased rate to usual and their gambesons to be unwearable for a few weeks while they dried. The loss of dignity would be substantial. What, in any case, did five men coated from head to toe in armour think to do if he did indeed end up in the water, drowning? They wore so much metal they could never hope even to float. A bizarre vision effervesced into Hugh’s mind; a series of knights in full armour walking along the bottom of the river bed, holding their breaths, and carrying him to safety above their heads.

Hugh rubbed his temples; such fanciful folly, most inappropriate, and doubtless brought on by a lack of sleep and an excess of worry. He must endeavour to rest better tonight. A steady hand matched with a sound head was what duty required of him. Given this place, and their prince’s anomalous frame of mind, it was perhaps comprehensible that his guard were over-sensitive.

Hugh examined his surroundings keenly. This was not the correct location. Close, but not quite it. He began to walk, not dawdling, but not hurrying either. He knew his bodyguard would follow, leading their horses, his horse too. Spurred by the same demon which had set him travelling out here in the first place Hugh spun around and shouted, “Stay here! I order it!” The men were not happy, but they would obey. It was their duty to him, and his bodyguard always did their duty, always would, even to the cost of their own lives. Hugh knew that fact, trusted it, just like the rising and setting of the sun. Now he abused that duty, using their obedience to prevent them from obeying to perfection their mandate.

Hugh felt shame, immense shame. Such abuse was what might be expected from the lowest blackguard, not from a prince who would one day be king. But even a king requires seclusion on occasion; that his father had taught him, so surely it was not so dreadful to leave his bodyguard just a slight distance further away than usual? But his life was not his own, Hugh reminded himself sombrely. His life belonged to the realm. Live for it, work for it, one day die for it, always strive to be worthy of it. It needed him, and so long as that need was present he had a duty not to place himself in jeopardy except when strictly obligatory. That too his father had taught him. Someone had to steer the ship of state, and if no clear leader stood ready at all times then men would fight amongst themselves to seize the supreme honour. Civil war. Anarchy. Everything that was abhorrent to God and to civilized mankind. That was always the way.

This was the location, just here. The bank had now dipped to meet the water, no longer a small scale cliff but instead a miniature shore. Hugh stepped closer to the water, so close the tips of his short boots were lapped by the water. His reflection sprawled out in front of him, the legs below the mid-thigh missing as the water nearest the land was too shallow to provide a good mirror, but the rest all there as it should be. He saw a tall, study man in his prime, a warrior, no doubt there, a leader also, for there was an assured, dominant aspect to his bearing. He was golden, even in this slate grey water. Gold hair falling in gentle waves to a little past the nape of his neck, a yellowish-orange tunic and other clothes to compliment his fair colouring, gold trim and decoration worked into his garments, gold on his belt, sword belt, dagger and sword, and gold on both weapons’ sheathes. The detail, including his face, was lost in the shivering surface of the water, but he knew himself well enough that he could supply that detail from imagination. Hazel eyes, clean-shaven, not ill-favoured but not handsome either, regal. It was not the sin of vanity to say that of himself, Hugh consoled himself, but the truth. Candour was very fitting in every possible way. False modesty was a sin also, and most tiresome to those subjected to it.

Hugh the Golden; that was what Stephan had dubbed him. His brother had always had a pet name for everyone; he had possessed a knack for finding an appellation that suited the possessor and also delighted them. Hugh the Golden; it took his appearance and made it into something flaunted, something which had a hint of potential about it, something grand sounding and glorious. Not Hugh the Odd-One-Out. Not Hugh the Bastard.

It had been Stephan who first called Eleanor Nell. Of course it had been – Stephan had always thought of everything first, done everything first. Hugh let the fragile thread of anger go; he forced his habitual calm back upon himself. Such resentment for his elder brother was sordid, as was his envy. Stephan had been a boy of huge promise. That promise had ended here.

Hugh’s focus subtly changed from reflection to water without outward motion. Here his brother’s limp corpse had come to rest, face down in the gravel, naked, twisted leg clear for all to see. There had been no dignity then, no charm, no smiles, no quick wits, no promise. Just a dead boy with a twisted leg without even a stitch of clothing to mark him out as other than a common boy. He had been found by a party of searching knights, riding the countryside adjacent to the palace, searching frenetically for the absent prince.

“You selfish bastard!” whispered Hugh vehemently. His eyes filled with tears, and he blinked them back. It was unfitting for a prince to cry, or a man, except in a time of terrible loss and tragedy. Talking to oneself was a sign of lunacy, and entirely indecorous.

Instead he spoke the words in the shelter of his mind; that was dignified, that was not madness, that was fitting. It was as if a dam had broken; he could no longer hold the words back. He had to vent them somehow. You knew you could not swim properly with that leg, but still you ran away, still you abandoned responsibility, still you discarded wisdom, still you neglected all that we had been taught of our duty and came alone because it suited your caprice. You could not admit you were no longer able-bodied; you would not acknowledge that what you once were you could never be again, by your own miscalculation. You died; your own fault. Your fault. And you left me this. I was to be your right hand, not your replacement. How did you shatter your leg anyway? Your own foolhardiness and conceit again! Your own fool’s insistence on trying to ride a ferocious, ill-tempered brute of a stallion no one with an iota of sagacity would consider mounting! Because you always had to show off.

Hugh knew it was an appalling thing to think ill of the dead, but he could not find even a shred of remorse inside himself. If Stephan had lived – if he had not been so selfish – so much would be different. Hugh became aware that he had clenched his jaw so hard the lower half of his face ached; once again he asserted his self-mastery and felt himself quieten.

Stephan had been magnificent, intelligent, skilled, amiable, affable, talented - egocentric, conceited, intractable, a daredevil with very little consideration or care for what consequence his deeds may have on others. The inventory of condemnations came suddenly and wholly unbidden, adding themselves to the list every bit as easily as the ingenuous tribute for the good. Did anyone but he ever care to recall that side of his brother, or had even perceived it? Hugh doubted it; Stephan was the perfect prince, a flower tragically cut before its time. Once more Hugh sought within himself some trace, some tiny little hint, of compunction at this most grievous, disgusting rot now bursting forth from where it had lain hidden for so long. He found only a fierce joy, the evil joy a man got when his temper finally snapped and he let loose with everything he had on the ill-fated font of his predicament.

“I hate you.” It was true, Hugh realised as the words escaped his lips without intent on his behalf. “I hate you, Stephan!” Saying it again felt even better. It was true, so true! So long denied, so long buried, so long unrealised, but God help him it was true. How long had he hated his elder brother? From the very start, always, always and forever. Everyone had adored Stephan; no one had seen what Hugh had. Hugh was always second best, inferior, a shadow, unnoticed, obscured by his brother’s bright light, left alone to pick up his brother’s leavings, left alone to see the danger and flaws in the perfect prince. Perfect prince; Hugh snorted. Everyone called Stephan that, when he was alive but more so now he was dead. If he had been perfect he would not have broken his leg, would not have pushed himself too far, would not have died, would not have set in motion this disaster. A disaster Hugh must now disarm, ill-equipped as he was. More knowledge burned like bile in the pit of his stomach: few would thank him for his efforts, or say he had done right or well even if that were correct. Some would vastly prefer to see his sister and her spymaster on the throne instead of him. That abominable catastrophe would never come to pass while he was yet living, Hugh swore.

Everyone wanted the perfect prince, not the golden one. Hugh was aware some wished he had died instead of Stephan. Why him, he thought angrily? Why not John? Why not bloody useless John, the brainless, ambitious, senseless extravagance of a waste of space? John had never done a day’s useful work in his life, he had no sense of duty, no care or concern for realm or family, no real talent except his charm. Money had flowed through his fingers like water. He had achieved nothing, except a pathetic rebellion which lost him his head. He had not even managed to die like a man, instead exiting this life like a craven child, still expecting someone to save him from his own doing and not even recognising the great mercy he had been granted.

Hugh seized a pebble from the ground next to him and dashed it into his reflection, showering water everywhere. Immediately the contrition he had found lacking hit him, dousing his mounting temper before it had time to develop further. Remorse, but for conduct which did not befit him, not at what he had finally allowed to crawl out of its dark hiding place. He would not give in to his rage, and he would not shame himself. He had slipped far enough; no more. Hugh burned this fact into his mind, searing it in place so he could not forget again.

Why did people want him dead, love him least out of the three brothers? Because they wondered if he was a bastard. Because he did not have the gift of making friends easily. Because he was not Stephan and never would be, but had been pressed into his brother’s place. That was why. He could rule justly, fairly and wisely, secure the succession, enrich the treasury, act as a pious man and endow the church, be faithful and loyal, honourable, brave, a paragon of every virtue known to man, and still he would not be recognised as having done well. Whatever he did would never be good enough, and his every slip and lack would be seen as great, compared to the wonders of the perfect prince. Hugh the Golden - yes it could be taken well, but so to could it be a vicious, cruel jibe at Hugh’s inability to fit with his family on the most basic of levels. He had never decided exactly which his brother had intended.

And then there was Nell, and the multitude of problems attendant.

What would you have done with her? Your adoring little sister who worshiped the ground you walked upon? What would you have done? You would have declaimed some marvellous speeches, made her joyful and had her eager to please, as she always was with you. Then you would have used her to your own ends without even a second’s deliberation for her own happiness or security. I know it. You selfish bastard! Hugh ended his dialogue with his dead brother, spinning on a mental heel and stalking away in disgust.

Stephan had ruined Eleanor. None but Hugh saw it; all dropped the blame on other sources, mostly upon Eleanor’s own slender shoulders. Stephan had led her astray. He had used her because it amused him; turning her into a hellion, planting foolish notions in her head, getting her into trouble time and again. Stephan had always been cautious to appear safely innocent himself, and he had delighted in playing big brother by doling out comfort to those who gave him occasion. He had accepted Nell’s worship because it suited his pride. The influence had been early, pervasive, complete, and her compliance had been willing. The damage was lasting because of this, and could never be completely repaired.

What would Stephan have done if he had suspected his little sister loved a lowly knight, who perhaps loved her in turn? The answer was so readily discernable it made Hugh ill. Stephan would have found it fantastically ludicrous. He would have carefully pushed them together, provided opportunity and encouraged them to act upon those feelings, played staunch ally to ‘true love’. Then when the sport ceased to be exhilarating he would drop them without further deliberation, abandoning them to whatever fortune had ready.

What would their father do? That too was simple, and the answer again not favourable to Hugh. Their father would fly into one of his lamentable rages. The knight would expire in a most acrimonious manner. Nell would be … chastised, and the remainder of her life would prove to be unequivocally harrowing. The mess would be covered up as efficiently as possible, but the very fact the king would fly into a rage while still in the palace would ensure all Christendom knew of Eleanor’s ignominy in short order. He would not wait for verification of misconduct before moving; the mere notion that there might be something would be sufficient. He would act now, would have acted last night.

Was his own approach any better, Hugh wondered. He had taken a middle path between the two; leaving space for disaster, leaving space for hope. He would not move without evidence, and if he did indeed act then it would be calm, controlled, decisive. The knight would die quietly in an ostensible accident in distant parts; Nell would be dispatched into isolated exile so that when, as was inevitable, their father vented his displeasure none but a carefully chosen few would know of it. From there her unhappy future could begin without a murmur. He could have created another calamity. He may have given her the opportunity to destroy herself, taking the knight down with her, damaging the family name, and thus shaking the realm to its very core. Hugh recalled his proud words from what felt like weeks ago, though in truth it had only been the previous evening: we do not condemn on hearsay, rumour and wild speculation in England. The words were a benediction, and as he recalled them his turmoil receded. He had no evidence, and so he had not condemned. It had been the right decision, it must be. How could it not be, when the singular alternative went against a core principle? Eleanor was vigilantly guarded now, and he would manage her most cautiously. Nothing adverse could happen.

One matter troubled his conscience unduly; he had mislead Nell, deliberately. That was vile, unchivalrous, unbrotherly. Married or a convent - if the spymaster was removed it would inevitably have to be one or the other, and if Trempwick remained then it would inexorably be the former. Neither he nor their father would allow Eleanor to dictate terms to them. Regardless of the veracity of her claims she would be bent to their will. Married to the spymaster or no. Their faithful ally or no. He had promised their father, and so he had begun work. She would finally be broken into being useful. He earnestly prayed very little would prove necessary. At this moment only that hope, and the fact he had her best interests at heart, saved him from being wholly despicable.

Knowing how close he was at this moment to complete surrender to his darkness Hugh shivered. He would do his duty, first and foremost. He would be a good and Christian man, abide by all rules of impeccable conduct, strive always to be the best he could even though he knew that best to be inadequate, endeavour never to fail those who relied upon him, keep himself to the highest of standards. He would not fall. He would go to an extra Mass today, and pray for both forgiveness and guidance.

Hugh crossed himself and gazed heavenwards.





It was only on his way back to the palace that Hugh found the final aspect of this putrefaction within him. It appeared with as little warning as the rest, and revolted him far more than anything thus far. Stephan would have made a terrible king; perhaps his loss was not quite so unfortunate as it appeared.








10 pages. I’m noticing a definite theme here; chapters are getting longer. It’s also taking what seems like ages to cover even a single day; Sunday is currently 35 pages and still going. That’s what happens when you have a lot of events going on across a set of characters and a variety of locations :D

4,511

[frogbeastegg]

After Godit’s return the other people slowly reconvened. Mariot reported that both Adela and Aveline were safe, though weak and drained from their thorough purging. The physician had stated that both must now rest until their strength returned sufficiently for them to be moved. Aveline had insisted upon returning to her own room in the empty building where Eleanor was staying, and Adela had taken Juliana’s pallet in the same room. Around two o’clock they were joined unexpectedly by Constance and her favoured maid, though the maid was soon sent away to prevent the solar from becoming too crowded.

Eleanor continued to play chess with Fulk, taking as little part in the unexciting general chatter as possible. That the tedious conversation came with a group of people who prevented her from taking up more interesting matters with Fulk only ground salt into the wound. She wanted to know how his interrupted declaration about his gains by marriage should have ended; by her reckoning the only thing left for him to keep after he had returned her lands and chattels was her. That idea was plainly ludicrous; Fulk had far more sense than to try and claim her as property, regardless of what the law said. She was equally confident he would never try handing out orders, or any of those other husbandly prerogatives she would take exception to. Because of this the ending to his little speech was deeply intriguing, and Eleanor devoted much of her idle time between moves to trying to find a way to resolve that mystery.

Time dragged by; hour after mind-numbingly wasted hour. Eleanor once tried to leave the solar, only to find a guard tucked unnoticed behind the door. He had swiftly blocked her path and refused to let her by; her brother’s orders and for her own safety, he had explained. The man had been scrupulously deferential and yet the encounter had still left Eleanor burning with rage and humiliation.

She was not allowed to leave, she had nothing to do, and she could not very well stay here forever. Eleanor took some comfort from that last; eventually Hugh would come, or he would send word of his intent towards her. That would have to happen before dinner, unless he cared to let her starve. She just had to wait.

Hugh’s appearance came in the middle of the tenth game of chess, and it finally stilled the discussion on the new betrothal between the Earl of Shrewsbury and the eldest daughter of the Earl of Gwent. The first thing her brother did, aside from closing the solar door behind himself, was to take in her hair with an air of pained disapproval. She had loosed during the third game, combed it back into smooth neatness, and evaded Hawise’s quiet offer to style it again with an ambiguous “Later.”

Stiffly Hugh announced, “The search for the poisoner has made little headway thus far. We have reason to believe the maid’s account of a suspicious man is less than accurate, wilfully vague, even. She thinks to save herself by casting such a broad net; it will avail her not at all.”

“So what now?” asked Eleanor.

“She will be questioned more closely.”

“Tortured?” asked Anne, her tone leaving no doubt whatsoever as to what she thought of that idea.

“Torture is best reserved as a last resort; its results can be unreliable at best, and it seldom produces a person motivated to aid one’s cause once the thumbscrews are removed. However it makes an admirable threat; let her think on what will happen if she does not lend us her full assistance this time. It will loosen her tongue, almost certainly. Other kitchen staff are being interrogated; I fear they have little of real use to offer. Poison is such an insidious weapon, so complicated to trace to its source if the poisoner is cunning.” Hugh crossed to Eleanor’s side and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Dear sister, it grieves me, but I fear I must postpone your wedding. I require your betrothed’s services, require unfortunately to the detriment of all else. He is very occupied with France, and now matters necessitate he must also become occupied with discovering who tried to murder you. You deserve considerably better than a hasty and preoccupied feast, one curtailed night and then an absent, distracted husband for weeks to come. Perhaps more significantly I know the man would be most sorely distracted, and his heart would not be in his labour. It would be with you, and I am sure your heart would reside within his own breast, precisely as it should be with newly wed affection.”

“But Lent …” said Eleanor, with a hint of unfeigned panic, though the cause was not what most of the listeners would expect. This was another small yet significant step away from the familiar comfort of home, out onto unknown and treacherous ground. Another unretractable step towards loneliness.

“I am very much aware of the delay I force upon you, sweet sister, and I am sincerely repentant for it. There is no help; a delay there must be. We have time yet a while, and if time does indeed run out it may be possible to gain special dispensation for a marriage during Lent. I swear to you that if events have it that the marriage can go ahead once the fast has begun I will do all in my power to secure just such a dispensation from the Archbishop of Canterbury himself.”

Eleanor felt sure that last comfort was more a threat; if her marriage was still approved she would find herself bundled together with Trempwick as soon as was possible, even if it required the effort of tackling the church, a prospect either tolerably easy or ruinously difficult. Feeling almost hollow Eleanor inquired, “And in the meantime?” She knew the answer.

“You will remain here, our honoured guest.”

“I could retire to one of my manors-”

Hugh cut her off sharply, “No. I regret that is not possible; it simply would not be safe.” The hand on her shoulder patted her distractedly in what must be an effort to be reassuring. “Just think; by remaining here you may marry as soon as your betrothed is sufficiently free of his duties. If you left you would have to waste several days travelling back, and several more for the message to reach you.”

“Hugh, there is a guard at the door. He refused to let me out, even to go to the roof.”

“I will not let you place yourself in jeopardy, Nell, unwitting though it surely must be. Someone wants you dead; there is no telling when, where or how they may strike again.”

“Am I your prisoner, Hugh?”

“Dearest sister!” exclaimed Hugh, with a passable effort at indulgent humour. “You exaggerate wildly, and I must express my clear displeasure at it. I will allow it to pass unchecked this once, knowing it is prompted by your sorrow at my delaying your wedding.”

Eleanor said wearily, “If you say so, Hugh.” Prisoner in all but name and barred window then. Not that she blamed her brother; in his place she would be just as cautious.

Constance moved up to make space for Hugh next to her in the window seat. “I am sure Hugh does not mean you must keep to your rooms all of the time, do you, Hugh?”

“I certainly do not mean to create the impression you are a captive, Nell. I cannot in good conscience allow you to do anything which may place you at risk. I insist I am consulted before you leave the inner bailey, no matter what your company, intent and destination. I also insist on your taking suitable escort. If you satisfy those conditions I can see little problem with your leaving the palace for an hour or so at a time.”

“Yes, Hugh. I shall bear that in mind.” Eleanor could picture it now; a quiet country ride, herself, Fulk, a basket of food, and thirty fully armoured knights.

“There you are; not quite so bad, after all. If you need some assistance in escaping your guardian dragon do let me know; I would be happy to help.” Constance leaned her head on her husband’s shoulder and closed her eyes. “Her future mother-in-law. Dragon indeed, but alas, we cannot slay her out of hand,” she explained for his benefit, interrupted by a yawn.

“Are you alright, dearest?” inquired Hugh.

“Perfectly, just wishing the tiredness would wear off and this famously boundless mother-to-be energy would start.”

“Boundless is an understatement – while pregnant with me my mother had the living areas of three of her favourite castles redecorated entirely, right down to the furniture, and she oversaw much of the work herself. My father always said all that was more costly then my dowry, although I think he exaggerated. It was the same with my brother, but she was always really tired with my elder sister, who died very young …” Anne’s chatter lapsed into a very heavy silence, filled with three people’s raw pain.

If the queen’s blunder upset Constance then she managed to hide it well, her face already turned away from everyone and half hidden in Hugh’s chest. Hugh was not quite so successful; his calm façade became strained, and the arm resting about her waist tightened, inching his hand closer to her belly. Anne snatched up her book and buried herself in it.

Although it was not the best time for her request Eleanor asked anyway, knowing it would put an end to the mood. “It appears that I have little choice but to request your aid. I need money, Hugh.”

“Your finances are not a subject fit for general ears; if you have imprudently worked your way into difficulty you had best explain to me, in private.” He made no move to extricate himself from Constance.

“I have not worked my way into difficulty! Rather I have been worked into difficulty by your forcing extra servants upon me, and then I am only unable to meet the expense because I scrape by on a pittance.”

Constance sat up so Hugh could rise. Reluctantly he did so. “You have been adequately provided for by our father; do not think to gain sympathy for your cause by exaggeration. Know also that my tolerance is now expired; I shall excuse no more wild claims attempting to cast dishonour upon myself or our father.” Hugh bowed to Anne. “Your majesty will not mind if my sister and I adjourn to the king’s bedchamber to discuss this matter? The room is also in part yours, but it is less objectionable than our invading your personal chamber in your own presence.”

“I do not mind.” Anne looked as if she was going to say something else, but thought better of it and returned to her reading.

Hugh bowed, one hand extended in the direction of the bedchamber door. “After you, sweet sister.”

They moved through to the king’s bedchamber, a room Eleanor hadn’t been inside before. She glanced about with some interest, which perhaps the room didn’t merit. It looked much as any other bedchamber, except the furnishings were more expensive. The only really unusual feature was the door leading through into the queen’s bedchamber. There were few personal touches, and they came from details like the polished metal mirror left lying next to the royal barber’s tools on the little table. Disappointed Eleanor swiftly lost interest.

“I will not grant you more lands,” stated Hugh flatly. “I have been given authority to strip your existing lands from you, not to add to them.”

“How cheerful. Land would not help much at present anyway; I need coin.”

“For what?”

“To pay and outfit my two servants. You fixed wages I cannot meet.”

“You lie, and I warned you that my tolerance is expired. That will cost you.”

“So long as you do not hope to extract a fine from me, brother dear.”

“Again I am left with the persistent suspicion your use of ‘brother dear’ is mocking, though it is not overtly so; I also warned you about that.”

“If it is mocking then so is your ‘sweet sister’,” countered Eleanor hotly.

Hugh blinked slowly once, and coloured just perceptibly. “I mean it most seriously; if perhaps it does not sound so then it is more than likely because you suffer from some measure of guilt over your manner, which can, on occasion, be decidedly sour.”

“Then perhaps you mistake my ‘brother dear’ because you fear you are not a particularly dear brother?”

Hugh raised his chin a little and stared down his nose at her. “Your bill grows, sister. I demand fitting conduct from you; lies and mockery are not fitting to any but petty villains. If you cannot determine for yourself what fitting conduct is then you should look to Anne, or Constance, since you known them considerably better than any other I may point you at. In the hopes of limiting the unfortunate unpleasantness you have now forced upon us I shall give you this advice: state your case clearly, concisely, and without exaggeration, slander or any other such nonsense.”

Eleanor answered immediately, making it clear she had prepared her case in such terms and so was not doing so simply to suit him, “I have not even sixty pounds a year; the wages you set for the new servants will consume over half that. Moreover my lands are in Trempwick’s control anyway. Even if returned to my own control I cannot expect my rents and so on until Hocktide, nearly two months from now.”

“The servants will consume half; so you freely admit you have sufficient funds to pay them. I would not have fixed an amount you could not meet. However, for the sake of fairness, now you are comporting yourself well, I shall hear you out. What sum do you require?”

“I will not ask for what I am worth; I am not greedy and I know it will not be granted in any case as I am too far from our father’s favour. I will ask for just two hundred pounds a year total, so an increase of a little over one hundred and forty pounds. I want that in coin, and sufficient now to pay my servants and equip them as contracted. The rest can come in instalments on the usual payment days.”

“It seems most unnecessary to me; you will either marry Trempwick and thus there is no problem, or he will fall and thus you will have your lands returned to your direct control. In the first case there is clearly no issue; in the second you still have adequate income to meet the expenditure with surplus.”

“In the meantime I will be in debt to my servants, and we have no idea how long this situation will take to resolve,” countered Eleanor calmly. “I cannot make do. I will have to pawn my crown to pay them.”

Hugh’s eyes gleamed with a fury that was familiar, despite them being hazel instead of the usual deep blue. He spun around and stalked away from her. A moment later he turned back, still holding his distance and once more self-possessed, though his body was taut with repressed emotion. “That crown is your birthright. It was made especially for you, and it will be buried with you when you die. No one else will ever wear it. It embodies who you are, what you are, your duties, your responsibilities, your privileges. To even propose debasing it in such a manner is disgusting! This too you will pay for, at length.”

“I cannot pay my servants, I cannot outfit them, the whole court will see I cannot and everyone will soon hear of my financial woes. I will be a laughing stock, and the family along with me, and before you accuse me of not caring about that last let me remind you why I came to Waltham in the first place.”

“What do you mean, you cannot outfit them? You have some money. More lies, I fear.”

“I do not – try listening to what I say!” snapped Eleanor, her patience now severely frayed. “I do not even have a single penny! If I want money I shall have to sell or pawn something, and my crown is the closest thing I have to a suitable item. I do not have piles of jewellery or gold plate! I have nothing but a rather small wardrobe for my rank, three rings, none of which I can part with, an assortment of tools I cannot part with, and two paltry manors which I have never seen or had benefit from. ”

Hugh simply shrugged his shoulders. “This is no one’s fault but your own; your own behaviour has severely curtailed the resources settled on you. But a little more relevant to this discussion, you have squandered the fourth quarter’s income from your lands.”

“I never received it! The lands were granted to me just after the final of last year’s rents and dues had been collected. The first I will see from them is this Hocktide, and that will be too late.”

“This I was not informed of.”

“So you think I am lying.” Eleanor dropped to her knees before her brother, doing her best not to think of the degrading spectacle she was making of herself. Her earlier suspicions were now confirmed; Hugh had set this up so she would be forced into giving him one extra hold over her. Like it or not she really had no choice but to play along. “I need your help. Please. If not enough for me to live on then just enough to cover those wages you so generously promised. If my begging is not proof enough I can never hope to convince you of how desperate my situation is.”

Hugh placed a hand on the top of her head in a motion of benevolence that had Eleanor longing to spit on his help and storm out while she still had some pride left. The thought of being a virtual prisoner for an unknown amount of time in a palace full of people laughing at her, constantly attended by one servant who may resent her mistress’s lack of wealth was enough to hold her in place. “Very well,” he pronounced, “perhaps something can be arranged. I cannot authorise treasury funds for this, but I shall pay your servants’ wages and outfitting costs from my own purse until father returns home and some decision regarding you has been made. I do this out of my own goodwill; displease me too greatly and that goodwill will evaporate.”

“Thank you.”

Hugh lifted her to her feet. “Then there remains but the matter of your own debt to me.”

“You can consider that paid with my self-sacrificing good deed last night.” Eleanor turned to leave.

She didn’t even get close to the door before Hugh caught hold of her upper arm and pulled her back. “I think not.”

“Hugh, you need me. You need my support, skills and knowledge.”

“You would betray me over something so inconsequential as discovering you cannot have everything your own way? Dear sister, I had thought far better of you than that. I give you the choice; submit with dignity and we shall call the debt paid at twenty strokes. Resist and I shall whip you until you scream.”

“Dear brother, how magnanimous of you.”

“Twenty-two.”

Eleanor forced a falsely bright smile. “Well, when you plead your case so eloquently I find myself quite unable to argue.”

Hugh gestured at the little table. “If you would be so kind as to stand there as you did last night …”

Feeling decidedly ill Eleanor reluctantly did so, mentally hunkering down to endure as she went. She did not have time to completely separate mind from already aching body.

“And move your hair out of the way,” instructed Hugh as he undid his belt, a decorated affair with gold stitching and a few gemstones. As Eleanor pulled the mass of dark hair over her shoulder Hugh continued, “You will no longer wear it in such a manner; it is unseemly. If you must keep your hair loose then turn it into a proper style, not simple negligence.”

She did not count the blows, all her resources spent on keeping silent. She re-opened the cut in her lip early on, and to her exasperation she couldn’t manage to hold back her tears this time.

When it was over Hugh said, “I fear your maid will have to mend your dress again.” He sounded very embarrassed about it.

Eleanor replied through clenched teeth, “An easier task than removing the bloodstains.” She wiped her face on her sleeve and battled to stop crying, too drained to care that her hands were trembling.

“Blood?”

“You cut me. Even though my clothes. The decoration.”

“I am sorry. Truly. It was not my intent to draw blood.”

Eleanor didn’t reply, still trying to master herself. Finally she turned around. “Now if that is all I shall slink away to run the gauntlet back to my rooms, dodging sympathy, contempt, curiosity and stares as I go.”

Hugh produced a small drawstring purse from the scrip he had just finished threading back onto his belt. “There is enough in here to cover this week’s wages; I shall give you sufficient to cover each week’s wages on every Friday. Inform me when you know the final total for the livery and clothing and I shall pay you that then.”

Entertaining dark visions of cramming the purse down Hugh’s throat Eleanor accepted it, somehow managing to force a polite thank you. Steeling herself, she opened the door into the solar and walked out. She headed straight for the stair door, ignoring everyone, still clutching the purse tightly in one hand.

“Are you alright?” enquired Anne, moving to intercept.

Eleanor evaded her and kept walking. “Perfectly.”

“Only we heard … and you look terrible … all ashen and upset, and your lip is bleeding again.”

Eleanor paused at the stair door and turned back to favour the queen with a smile. “Thank you.” She pulled the door open and stepped out; Fulk and Godit fell into place behind her.

The hall was being prepared for dinner, liveried servants laying out tableware joined the usual timewasters to form a sizeable audience. Passing the dais Eleanor missed her footing slightly and stumbled. Those who had been looking in her direction started to exchange speculative comments; the snatches Eleanor overheard were mostly based around her being overcome by distress at her close brush with death and the poisoning of her two friends. Sensing an opportunity Eleanor threw the ragged leftovers of her pride to the wind, wobbled, then let her knees go weak. Before she could complete her fall Fulk was there, supporting her. He scooped her up and began to carry her back towards the guest house. “Not so fast,” Eleanor instructed, adding false weakness to her voice, “you are jarring me something chronic, you clumsy great ox.”

Fulk slowed his pace to a crawl. “Better, your highness?”

“Much.” Eleanor settled back to enjoy the ride.






There are times when I really don’t know what to make of dear Nell. This is one of them.


4,589

[frogbeastegg]

“You seem more confident,” observed Constance, as she passed through the door into their own room on the third level of the great keep.

“Do I?”

“Yes, with your sister.”

Hugh closed the door he had been holding open for her, sealing them in alone together. “I am gratified that it appears so; if she scents weakness she exploits it, and presently that will do untold harm to our cause.”

“But …?”

Hugh cringed inwardly; his reservation was so readily apparent then? No, no – only to his lady wife; she knew him far better than most others and so it was only logical that she might notice it. It was an indication that they were close, and as such it should be welcomed, even if on occasion it required he share some of his more untoward thoughts. “But I am not truly convinced that it is quite reasonable to think of one’s youngest sister in terms of a problematical, semi-broken horse, and thus use the same approach one might with such an animal.” Constance laughed briefly. Hugh defended his reasoning once again, both from his wife and to himself, “It is hardly a typical precedent, but it is thus far most successful, more so than any other approach ever has been.”

She plumped up the feather filled cushions in her favourite chair. “Carrot and stick, but from what I overheard in the solar less carrot and more stick.” Smothering a yawn Constance sat down and told him, “You will not win her over with pain, Hugh. Quite the opposite.”

“I know, dearest, and I assure you that is not my intent. I am doing what I can to curb her more unpredictable or damaging aspects, and establishing this relationship correctly from the very start, or so I very earnestly hope and pray. As I stated previously if she senses weakness she will take advantage of it, and at present it is absolutely vital she recognises that of the two of us I am the master. I cannot have her taking certain issues into her own hands, nor can I afford to worry that she may not do as I need. I lead; she must follow, close at my side and working in harmony with me to precisely the same ends. I cannot and will not follow her, and we must stand united in this venture or all will come to naught, or worse than naught – destruction.”

“And …?”

Hugh tapped his fingers restlessly on the hilt of his dagger. “I do not need, or even want, her completely submissive,” he admitted in the end. “Nell reduced to a sheep would be equally as ineffectual as Nell acting as a wild horse.”

“But ..?”

Hugh delayed even longer, his answer even more reluctant. “I fear that is not what our father wants; he desires her completely broken as his sights are fixed firmly on this long war between them. He wants complete victory, but I think pays little real heed to what such victory would produce, or what cost it would be achieved at.”

“Better to marry a shrew than a sheep.”

Hugh nodded. “Yes; though the question is not marriage the old proverb suits well. I would say the end result I seek is someone very much like yourself, dearest. Someone who works for the same ends as myself, whom I can trust and rely upon, but who has a keen mind and independence sufficient to take matters into her own hands in a way which compliments my own works whenever such action is needful.”

“Well matched plough oxen,” suggested Constance, with a slight sparkle to prove she knew how silly the suggestion sounded.

“It is hardly a glamorous analogy, but I find it does suit admirably.”

Someone knocked on the door. Frowning at being interrupted Hugh opened it, coming face to face with a liveried servant. The man bowed. “Your highness, your sister was taken ill in the hall just a few moments ago. She nearly swooned; she’s been carried back to her own rooms now, highness, and she’s being well looked after by her servants.”

To his enormous shame Hugh found that he had lost his tongue; he could neither find a word to say nor produce a sound. He had done this; it was his fault. His alone. He had been too harsh, much too harsh. He had gone beyond what was reasonable without even knowing or caring, all the while congratulating himself. Without even noticing he’d unleashed that inner darkness a little more. It was the fault of that rot he had discovered inside himself just hours ago, that sickening hatred for his dead brothers, that unworthy criticism of his father who he had again criticised but minutes ago. Honour thy father and thy mother; he had failed dramatically in one of the foremost of all God’s commandments. Today he had proven time and again that he was such a wretch he did not deserve to live; he should have died in Stephan’s place.

The servant waited uneasily for a few moments, then confided, “It’s probably nothing to worry about, beggin’ your pardon, highness. It’s simply the stresses getting to her, that’s all, or so everyone’s saying. I mean she was nearly murdered and two of her companions nearly died too, and they’re sick right now because they got the poison meant for her. Then there’s the wedding delay and all, highness, I mean that’d hit any maid hard, if she cared for her groom and all, all the more so with it coming from such tragic circumstances.”

Constance appeared at Hugh’s elbow and snapped to the servant, “Do you always gossip about your betters to your betters?”

The man tugged his forelock. “Beggin’ your pardons, of course, but I meant only to reassure.”

“There is a fine line between reassurance and gossip; do not cross it again. You may go.” She imperiously closed the door in the servant’s face. Placing a hand on each of Hugh’s shoulders she turned him around and propelled him towards their bed. “Sit,” she commanded. He obeyed mechanically.

“It is my fault,” Hugh finally managed to say. “Mine. Oh, sweet Jesú, what have I done? And all this time I have been stood here gloating and congratulating myself - I am a monster!”

“Oh, do talk sense!”

“I let myself be blinded by an illusion, and consequentially let go of much I should have retained.” Hugh scrubbed his hands roughly over his face, hiding his consternation and causing himself some small measure of deserved pain. Then he realised hiding thus was a coward’s way; he snatched his hands away. “Nell is so small, so delicate - I could snap her bones or kill her with my bare hands and scant effort. What is more she is my sister, under my own protection, and a lady, and by all codes of good conduct I should protect her, not even harm a hair on her head-”

Constance interrupted loudly, “Carrot and stick. For all that I like your sister I found your earlier words far wiser than those now. Sometimes harming a hair or two is the only way; more so when much is at stake.”

Hugh knotted his hands up in the skirt of his tunic, torturing the fine material to match his conscience. “Yes, yes, but there is reasonable and then there is excess, and … and …” He sighed and bowed his head, letting his hands fall slack. “I forgot that her toughness is an illusion, founded upon pride and stubbornness. I acted as though it was a reality, twice. Twenty-two strokes today, on top of God alone knows how many from last night, and I did not hold my hand. That is penalty sufficient for a hardened man guilty of some serious crime, but far too much for a lady. Either set was far too much. I thought to put an end to the issue sooner by making my message stronger, but I went much too far.”

“Nonsense!” declared Constance. “You forget who Nell is – add to pride and stubbornness unusual endurance and plenty of practise at using it. She is no wailing milksop or feeble weakling; that is one of the reasons why I like her. Right now that fine mind of hers will be busily working, and she will be deriving much of what you wished her to from this. That is another reason I like her; she has brains and chooses to use them. I rather doubt you will need to repeat this again, and that actually spares her far more in the long term - she is stubborn in a bad way also, and seemingly bent on self-destruction sometimes out of some stupid belief that it is the only way to get what she thinks she wants. Think on this: what would your father have done?” Hugh was unable to repress a shudder. “Exactly,” said Constance quietly. “And he would never have listened to her in the first place, about anything, no matter how trivial or important. She could try and tell him his clothes were on fire and he would not listen.”

“But then why did she faint?”

“Faint? The man said nearly swooned; you are making things a deal worse than they actually are, Hugh. I would say she is simply in pain, stiff, sore, perhaps a little dizzy and very slightly in shock – precisely what you would expect.”

“I did not mean-”

“To hurt her? To put her in any discomfort? Surely that was much of the point? If it was not you would never have laid a finger on her.”

“You are right,” admitted Hugh.

Constance seated herself beside him on the bed and gently turned his face so he was looking her in the eye. “I know why you do this, Hugh. You must stop it, and stop fearing yourself. You need confidence, now more than ever. What you are being called on to do is unusual, vitally important, something you have not been prepared for and must tackle with everything you have without holding back. You cannot do that if you doubt. You are not anyone but yourself. If you cannot be your dead brother than nor can you turn into your own father.”

“He would be a worthy man to emulate,” replied Hugh dutifully, but his heart was not in it.

“As a king, perhaps, in some ways but not all. As a man? Forgive me, but I can find little good to say there. You will not become like him because you are inherently a good man.”

“I know I could be … I have his temper, like a blight within me.”

“But you control it so well I hardly even know it is there.”

Pained, he insisted, “But it is there.”

“And you control it,” she repeated, emphasising the words. “Therein lies the main difference. He does not; he revels in his lapses like a spoiled child. Even when angry you still control yourself, even when goaded, even when justified. You are nothing like him, and I am glad of it.” Hugh searched her face, and saw her conviction clearly. She believed everything she had said, believed it completely. She saw him searching and smiled slightly. “You trust my judgment in everything else; why not here?”

“Because … because you cannot see inside me the way I can.” If she could she would turn from him in horror. He looked away.

“I see more than you think, my love.” Once again she insistently tilted his face back to meet her eye. “I am not blinded my proximity either, or crippled by expectations; I am not searching frantically for traces of something which is not there and so finding proof where there is none. Either you trust me completely or you trust me not at all. Which is it?”

Hugh placed his hand over hers, holding it in place at his cheek. “I trust you.”

“Then believe me.”

“I will try.”

“No, not try, do. Try is an excuse for you to do nothing of the sort and continue as usual.”

Hugh assessed whether what she requested was even possible. “I am not sure I can, not completely. You do not know me as I know myself; you do not see how I struggle against my baser aspects-”

“I do – I know you do. All men have less pleasant sides, bad traits, weaknesses. It is what makes us human. You fight your bad more than most do, and with more success than most. But there is one flaw you not only give into but feed and encourage: a lack of confidence.” She laughed quietly, face lighting up as the seriousness melted away. “Would you believe I am fighting my own baser aspects right now? I am sorely tempted to pummel you until you start seeing sense, and then to skip dinner in favour of a quiet evening for two. So you are hardly alone in being tragically human.”

Hugh’s lips quirked into a shy smile. “And you always appear such an angel too.”

“I should hope so! So you will try?”

“I suppose I must.”

“That is rather pathetic, Hugh. No - both brave and pathetic in one. Complete the bravery; promise me. I know you will do all you can to keep your word.”

“I promise, then.”

She kissed him tenderly. “Alas, now I must confess my halo has slipped some more and a public dinner is even less appealing than it was before. But to revert to a more possible plan for the remainder of the day, I shall visit Eleanor in a while, see how she is.”

“Please, I would be greatly eased to have a reliable report of her health. Did you perchance observe the bodyguard’s reaction?”

“Yes.” Constance hesitated, taking in inordinate amount of time. “Think of a hound when it hears something unexpected and disliked; head coming up swiftly, ears pricked, tensed and ready to move. Then think again when the same dog decides the sound is not so bad but not yet to be trusted; relaxing superficially but still tensed and alert. He was unhappy and uneasy, but so were we all. Although … I do not wish to make this sound different to what it was, not knowing what is at stake if I exaggerate or underplay matters. We were all unhappy, but he and Anne were the most unsettled of all. There was nothing there to indicate anything more than liking for our princess, honest liking, as between friends, or perhaps simply distress at being caught in a quandary. You did order him to protect Nell from everything and anything, if my second maid reported it correctly to me.”

“Indeed that was so; it would have placed him in a most uncomfortable situation, one with no correct course of action. We shall continue to watch, then.”






“What happened?” asked Fulk, his voice hushed so the others in the large bailey would not overhear.

“Oh … we managed to thrash out an understanding.” In his arms Eleanor winced at the word thrash. “Aggressive negotiations.”

Fulk sighed. “We’ll need bandages then.” His attempt at levity went badly awry, mostly because he was too worried to strike the right tone. For all his care he knew the way he was holding her was hurting. She might be joking in a very cautious manner but she wouldn’t have shown weakness before a large audience if she could help it. Then there was what he’d overheard while waiting in the solar; the crack of leather on flesh had seemed to go on forever. He hadn’t counted; he’d been too busy trying to appear indifferent.

She brandished the purse she clutched tightly like a trophy. “Successful negotiations.”

Fulk ignored her, addressing Hawise instead. “We’ll need the usual medical stuff – balm, something to wash cuts with, scraps of clean linen, some bandages for safe measure. Unless you can carry her royal batteredness you’ll have to go, not me.”

Hawise silently peeled off from the tiny group, returning to the keep they had only just left.

At the door into the guesthouse Fulk ran into trouble, unable to lift the latch with his hands full. One of the many curious onlookers got daring enough to risk a closer look under the guise of helping him; Eleanor played dead as the woman worked the latch. Fulk thanked the woman, then kicked the door shut in her face as soon as he was through.

Eleanor effected a miraculous recovery as he carried her slowly down the passage. “It really was not my fault; Hugh started it. I tried to smooth matters over but he was not interested.”

“I feel like a beleaguered father,” groused Fulk good naturedly. “‘It wasn’t me; it was all his fault!’ If you start pulling your brother’s hair I’ll send you to bed without supper.”

“So long as you join me.”

“I’m scandalised, simply scandalised.” Fulk struggled to work the latch on the door into the outer of Eleanor’s two rooms. “Such a nice young gooseberry saying such things, quite shocking.” A bit more fiddling and the door crept open. Fulk booted it the rest of the way, then again to close it.

“I really have no idea what is so shocking; I only wanted you to tell me a story to pass the time.”

“Don’t think you’re getting off the hook so easily, oh affectionate apple. No change of subject’s going to make me forget that I’m carrying you because you’re once again a bit the worse for wear.”

“Apple? We have a case of mistaken identify; I am insulted. Anyway, if we are speaking of hooks and extricating ourselves from them, you really owe me the rest of your little speech about property before I owe you anything at all.”

“Not now,” replied Fulk curtly, still working at the door into her bedchamber. “Suddenly I understand why they only make the poor groom carry his bride over the threshold! It’s too damned tricky with all these doors.”

“Yes, now, and if you are hinting I should walk I refuse; I abandoned what was left of my pride right before everyone just to get a ride from a knight.”

“So you faked the faintness?” inquired Fulk sceptically.

“Of course.”

The very buoyancy of her assertion made Fulk more suspicious. “Yes,” he agreed, not bothering to hide his scepticism. His latest attempt at the latch failed. He altered his stance and aimed Eleanor at the solid wooden planking. “Right, you want a ride, you work for it a bit. Open the door, your laziness.”

Eleanor reached out and unlatched the door easily. “What was so difficult about that?”

“You’re not carrying a princess.” Once through into the bedchamber Fulk booted the troublesome door shut with hearty satisfaction, satisfaction which lasted until the temporary numbness wore off and his toes started throbbing.

“Now you have vanquished the fearsome door finish the speech, oh brave and fearsome broken-nosed buffoon.”

“No. It’s not a speech to finish in a short time, and it’s not one I want you to misunderstand. You’ll have to remain curious, your royal shortness.”

“You,” Eleanor informed him tetchily, “are annoying.”

Fulk placed her down in a sitting position on the edge of the bed; he beamed brightly at her. “I try.” Fulk glanced over at the door; coast clear he kissed the corner of her mouth.

Before he could pull away she looped an arm about his neck and kissed him rather more passionately. Abruptly she pulled back. “Ouch,” she grumbled.

“I warned you.”

Rather shamefacedly she pointed out, “You have blood on your mouth.”

“I’m not surprised.” Fulk scrubbed the back of his hand over his lips a few times. “Gone?”

“Yes.” Eleanor unfastened the leather drawstrings holding the purse closed and spilled the contents into her lap. She counted the collection of coins rapidly. “That is the exact money, and he was carrying it about ready for whenever I asked. He did plan it. If it did not hurt so much I would say I am proud of him.”

Not for the first time Fulk was thankful he came from a more boring family than Eleanor’s.

The quiet bang of the front door heralded the return of Hawise. The maid was bearing the collection of items Fulk had requested, precisely those items and not a thing more or less, and all of them in sensible quantities. She said nothing at all, spreading the items on the opposite side of the bed to that which Eleanor sat on. “Wine,” she explained softly, seeing both Fulk and Eleanor watching her as she placed a stoppered canteen down.

“You know what you’re doing?” Fulk asked her. It wouldn’t be too prudent for him to stay or to treat Eleanor himself.

“I have some basic skills but little practise with them.”

“I’ll leave you to it then. Give me a shout if you want anything; I’ll be stood outside the door like an ideal bodyguard.”

“This really is not at all necessary,” began Eleanor hopefully. “I am quite fit, and really there is nothing much to do with bruises.”

Hawise said, “But your back is cut too; blood’s soaking through your clothes a bit.”

“Really, I am fine-”

Fulk shut the door on her protests, grinning to himself. He felt rather sorry for poor Hawise; dealing with a wounded gooseberry on your first day, talk about initiation by fire.






Freshly scrubbed after his afternoon’s heavy training Trempwick settled back in his favourite chair before his bedchamber’s fire and slipped into his thoughts with the same keenness of a swimmer dipping into the water on a hot day. The latest messages from the palace were … not troubling. Certainly not. More unexpected. Yes, unexpected. Yet somehow also expected. Lagging a day behind events, as usual. Nell had let her tongue run away with her once again; unsurprising. Hugh had reacted intolerantly; again unsurprising. The whole palace was talking about it; inevitable.

Nothing from his mother. Nothing from Juliana. Expected; one had just communicated and could not do so easily or safely again for a while. The other was a mere peon, a nothing, disposable, expendable, not worth involving in anything beyond the rudimentary. He would collect her report in person. This would also allow him to strengthen the chains binding the maid to him.

Nell had let her tongue run away from her. Rashness. One of her less likeable traits. All his careful teaching had failed to remove it, only reduce it to a generally manageable degree. It was perhaps her greatest flaw. It was … truly a pity. Nell without those reckless impulses would be … Trempwick closed his eyes and smiled, slowly, savouring the idea. She was worthy now, in possession of something special, a thinker. Temper her, purge that fault. That would leave her cool, calm, truly able to manipulate and navigate any situation. As he did. Head over heart; mind over impulse and flesh. His apprentice, perfected.

But for now this was besides the point. Nell had acted impulsively. This was not unusual. But. There was always a but. She must have known what would happen. So why insult the Welsh prince? He had no report from close by; he did not know what had been said. Rumour insisted she had insulted the Welshman for little reason. This was not true. Nell would not do that. What would she gain? Wounds. Pain. Humiliation. Time with Hugh. Gain or loss, that? The prince did not like his sister. Nell knew that. Many knew that; Trempwick had seen to it. She also believed he had tried to abduct her. She knew he would hurt her. What possible reason could she have for wanting to see Hugh?

Trempwick sat still, thinking. His right leg began to cramp; he shifted his pose a little. The pins and needles feeling of returning circulation came and went. Still he thought, mind working with rapid, fluid efficiency.

He could not see why. Nell hated Hugh, feared him also. She no more wanted to see him than to see her father; years of their training her to hate and fear bearing fruit. All without his intervention too. William’s own folly. Blessing and disappointment. Useful, undoubtedly, and a free gift Trempwick could use in many ways. His friend’s failing; painful to witness. A shrewd man, brought low by simple anger. Still, she had not wanted to go to the palace. Waltham was not where Nell wanted to be, now or ever. It was everything she disliked, filled with what she feared, holding nothing good for her. Woburn, and he, were her home. Had she not said as much? Indeed, she had. She had meant it, too. That he had clearly seen. Seen many times over, even when she did not say the words. Nell would rather be here than at the palace. This could prove problematic in the future.

But. Ah, once again that little word. But, at the palace was her knight. As much as she might protest otherwise she was not over Fulk. She still loved him. She did not fool him; she never had. She cared for the knight still. That was actually … gratifying. Once won Nell was loyal. He would have to make that loyalty solely his. And … as unfortunate as this whole Fulk mess had been … it was … Trempwick paused, carefully selecting a word which suited this occasion. The feeling was extraordinary, unanticipated. If he had to put a word to it he would choose … delightful. A change of pace for both of them. A little challenge for him. Educational; he had learned a little more, a little new about his princess and how to handle her. Nell’s first love. It had been fascinating to watch, and good to see her happy. Just such a pity he had not been the target, as he should have been. All would have been well then; no pain of loss for her, his own position stronger also.

She did not love him. Cared, yes. Was defrosting towards, yes. Was slowly being won over by, yes. Would eventually love, yes. But now? No. Nell did not love her betrothed. She had never claimed to do so. Not once. Never. She had claimed numerous times to be growing to love him. Truth or bluff? Truth; she cared and would in time love if he continued his careful pursuit without outside interference. She was wise not to claim love – it would be entirely unbelievable. He knew her heart was taken - for now - and she could not bring herself to offer him that final bit of proof. A feeling of incest, and a great many other excuses. Some believable, some not. Indeed, she was very wise not to claim love. He could never have believed her, and so it would inevitably complicate matters. As it was matters were clear and simple. She was behaving much as he would expect of a person about to marry someone she did not love. Tentative, testing, wary, learning. She … exaggerated a little. She did not enjoy his attention as much as she said. Her response was not always natural. But it was simple – she loved another. She was very probably still quite innocent. A mere beginner. Nervous. Slowly, so slowly, he was winning her over. Rather like dealing with a skittish horse.

Trempwick refocused from this tangent. Going to the palace to see her knight again? He had her closely watched and guarded. He had the knight watched. Hugh would be watching her. The palace was packed with people. A princess could find scant excuse to even talk to a minor baron. Unchaperoned it would be … next to impossible. There were simply too many people. While he respected Nell’s abilities he could not see how she could speak to the knight without people knowing. To sneak away at night offered the most likely chance. Which was why he had ordered his mother and Juliana to be sure she could not.

Anyway, what could Nell possibly hope to gain? Seeing what could not be hers? And with such risk. She knew he would be watching her; he had promised as much. Protection, you see. She knew what his reaction was likely to be. He would have no choice but to be very harsh. Nell was not so stupid as to provoke that for such minor gain. Besides, he would have to have the knight killed. Matter of form. Nell wouldn’t risk that. As of last night she still had not seen the knight or been presented opportunity to do so; this was reported well. Although … she had been in that confounded garden, where he was as blind as a beggar. But accompanied by the queen. The queen Nell seemed slightly contemptuous of. The queen Nell had been demonstrating scant patience for before she left Woburn. The queen Nell had sent a gift to, with his knowledge and permission, in return for that necklace. The queen who loved romantic stories. The queen who was demonstrating a level head, for one so young. The queen would be a powerfully ally. A dubious one, also. Dangerous, childish, foreign, subject to torn loyalties too, mayhap. Proving to be politically sound. Not liable to harm her new family, not liable to aid anything which may harm her new family’s name. The queen he had carefully watched, as would be obvious to Nell. To trust Anne would be … nothing short of a sheer, desperate gamble with no certain outcome or use. Much at stake, much at risk, little to gain, no true indication of how the venture would go. The only gain would be a very short time together in dismal, cold surroundings watched by an audience. Maybe enough for a lovesick fool. But Nell was no fool. Anyway, her being in that garden had not been arranged. So the knight could not have been there. Unless … but then how could Nell have got a message to the knight?

Ah, you see. It all ran about in confusion. Nell was doing things which, for some reason, made him uneasy. But he could not find why. No motive. No gain. No opportunity. Such risk. Such stupidity. Against everything he had taught her. Against what he knew of her. This he put down to the imperfect understanding he had of her recent movements. Also his mistrust, still strong after the Fulk mess. If he were there himself this would be solved, simply. It would make sense.

He needed more information. For now it must be assumed that this Llwellyn had upset Nell somehow, provoking one of her characteristic examples of imprudence. This Hugh overheard, and he acted. It fitted well enough. It worked. But he would feel better if the foundations were stronger. Sloppiness had been the end of many. It would not be the end of him. The wedding was on Wednesday, afternoon. He would leave early, arriving Tuesday afternoon instead of early Wednesday morning as planned. Even with the extra time he would still make the trip at punishing speed; not to waste a second. He would investigate Nell himself. He could check she was well. He could attempt to protect her if this was indeed Hugh’s doing. He would insist on returning to Woburn with her early on the Thursday. A day and a half absence, total. Not enough to harm his duty to his king.

His message from the other spy had been quite … amusing. Godit continued her pursuit of Fulk. She had got some results. Persistence, and so the knight would topple. The knight was now diverted, soon to be removed entirely from the game. Trempwick loved the simple brilliance of it all. No need to kill when one could simply lead an enemy by the least intelligent part of his anatomy.

Dual advantage: if Nell ever found out she would be so terribly hurt. And angry. In need of comfort. Worse, if she also found out about the knight’s trip to a brothel. So disappointing; the knight who had caused so many little troubles had put himself from the race with less than an hour’s dismal enjoyment. Little more than a beast indeed. Allowing his baser motivations rule him with no care for the greater game. Sad. But for the better. Undoubtedly so. And more useful this way.

Nell would be so terribly hurt. This weapon needed careful usage. A last resort. He would not hurt his princess unless left no other suitable course. Wasn’t that always the way?






William groaned as a thumb dug sharply into the cluster of knotted muscles in his right shoulder.

“Better, sire?” asked the masseuse.

His reply was emphatic, “Oh yes! Much.” William tried to return his attention to his plans as the girl, his host’s bastard daughter, began to work on the long muscles running from neck to shoulder joint. He’d been travelling through his French lands at a pace he would describe as almost idle, though it was not truly such. He had been covering nearly twenty miles per day most days; an astonishing amount for an army containing infantry and laden with baggage animals carrying some of his treasury and his pertinent records.

He was getting close to his main target now; Yves’s stronghold at Saint Maur was only four days conventional march away, three and a bit at his rapid clip. Soon it would be time to put a little more spring in his step and remind everyone just what he was capable of. Once he had proven himself and tidied up Yves he would return home, paying visits to different lords than those he had stopped with on his way out. He would also be delivering a good, sharp, crown wearing shock those of suspect loyalty; those who had not sent their respects to him as he travelled, and those whose respects had felt wrong.

As the massage moved to his back William let his mind turn homewards, towards Anne and Hugh, and sadly towards the brat too. She spoiled the happy picture; she always did. William reminded himself he had little cause for gloom; she was finally being tamed, and Hugh would keep her firmly in hand. In just three days time from this exact moment she would be married and that marriage recently consummated, or in the process of being consummated. William’s face crinkled with distaste at the thought; he really did not want to think about that particular aspect of the marriage at all, especially if the brat revived her useless protests. In a way he was very glad to be absent and only to return once the dust had settled, even if it did mean he endlessly worried about what might have gone wrong.

His squeamishness disregarded, three days and the brat would be a reduced problem. Once married she presented less opportunity to would be rebels and would be easier to control. Once consummated she was trapped in that marriage; she could never claim consanguinity with Trempwick. Therefore in three days time the brat would be firmly pegged into place; she would have lost and would know it, completely. From there his work would be relatively minor, compared to the battle he had been fighting for years now. That was something to welcome. She might even be happy, in the end.

How about Hugh? How would the boy be coping? William knew his son was competent, also knew he knew his business from years of helping to run the kingdom. But the boy did suffer from a certain lack of imagination, and that limited his flair for doing the right but unexpected thing, a talent a good king needed. He also suffered from a lack of confidence, and that could prove crippling. Hugh would probably be doing perfectly fine, carrying out his father’s wishes towards his sister and stepmother, holding everything together with his calm competency, and so he’d have no reason to doubt and no need for flair. As he saw with his own eyes that he could rule successfully without his father at his side Hugh’s confidence would grow. This trip of his would do the boy good. Until now he’d always been in the same country as Hugh, taking the boy along when he went to France instead of leaving him behind, and consequentially always in easy reach if council was needed. Boy? William chortled; man, and had been for years now. It would probably do Hugh just as much good if his own father finally fully recognised the fact he’d grown up and was a man in his own right now.

What of his little grandchild to be, and his daughter-in-law? Surely both must be fine and hale, surely they must be. He had prayed for them three times each day; morning, noon and night. All England was praying for them. Yes, William decided firmly, both would be in the peak of health, and nothing would be wrong. He would not allow himself to think of them otherwise; pessimism might jinx them.

And Anne? Last perhaps, but never least. William found himself smiling at the thought of his little wife. She would be alright too. Right this moment she would be asleep, after spending part of the evening reading. During the day she would have applied herself to learning and to shouldering as much of the burden as she could, just as she would have every day since he left. Hugh would not let her overextend herself, or drive herself to exhaustion. Would she miss him at all? Still smiling William found that he believed she would, at least a little. He certainly missed her, usually in the evening hours he had become accustomed to spending with her. He wondered what particular book she would be reading now, and how many stories she would have devoured by now.

The girl’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “How is that, sire?”

William sat up from his prone position on his borrowed bed and flexed his muscles experimentally. “I feel years younger.” Years younger, and as if he’d not spent day after day in the saddle from shortly after sunrise to a few hours before sunset. “Thank you.”

“Will there be anything else, sire?” she asked very bashfully, stammering slightly.

Abruptly homesick and lonely, body reinvigorated and tingling from a good massage William considered. She knew what she was asking, doubtless had been told to ask it by a father who hoped to get some gain from a daughter in the king’s bed. She was young, probably only around fifteen, and very pretty, freshly washed and perfumed before being sent up in her best clothes. From her age and the timid awkwardness she was probably a virgin; conscience would demand he gave her something to bulk up her dowry to compensate if that was the case, but that would be a very minor expense for him. Very importantly she had been dropped in here after much of the rest of the castle had gone to bed for the night, so word was not likely to spread, so long as he sent her packing good and early tomorrow. Anne would not find herself humiliated.

“If you do not mind; that is not a rhetorical question. If you do not want to stay you can go.”

She blushed a very pretty pink. “I don’t mind.”








11 pages, and every single POV character strutting their stuff except Nell and Jocelyn. I think that is a record, at least since the early days when only Fulk and Nell were revealed as POVs.

4,623

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor turned the page in the neatly scribed copy of Herodotus’ ‘The Histories’ and continued to skim the work. A few pages later she lowered the book. “What kind of person,” she asked, “thinks of slitting open a hare, hiding a message inside the gut cavity, then sending it off with a messenger disguised as a huntsman? Because it is not such a bad idea, if one does not mind the message arriving covered in gore.”

Fulk looked up from putting a new edge of his dagger. “It provides dinner too; hare makes a nice stew.”

“With the message as seasoning,” added Hawise timidly. Finding both of her companion’s eyes on her the maid blushed. “If they forgot to remove the message, or if the wrong person got the hare …” Her voice grew softer and softer as she went, until eventually Eleanor was straining to hear. Trailing off, the maid’s blush deepened, and she returned to her sewing. She was once again mending Eleanor’s russet gown, now yesterday’s small bloodstains had been washed away and the material dried. She had not been asked to do this; she had simply set about the task on her own initiative. Hawise had proven remarkably adept at blending into Eleanor’s life as if she had always been there, quietly smoothing her princess’ path without fuss or noise, and more often than not managing to do so in a way Eleanor appreciated rather than was infuriated by. In just a single day she had learned far more than many of the others Eleanor had been encumbered with at various points in her life. Eleanor was not certain if this was good, or if it was new cause to be suspicious.

Eleanor clapped her borrowed book shut. “One day I shall have to try sending a message concealed in food. It would make a change from the usual waterproof packets fastened inside barrels of wine. Well, well, a useful idea from a book; wonders never cease.”

“Books have lots of good ideas!” protested Fulk.

“Mmm, examples of ways to kidnap the damsel of your choice, the collected musings of long dead people who never really did more than sit and think up nice little phrases to write down, advice on how to remove a stubborn dragon, the lives of important people who never really did anything interesting – yes, I can see the attraction.”

Fulk tested the edge on his blade with his thumb; unsatisfied he returned to applying the whetstone. “You’ve obviously never read the life of Caesar; you couldn’t say he never did anything interesting.”

“Yes, I could,” claimed Eleanor tartly. “He marched about conquering people, went home and killed people, then got killed. Quite a tedious man.”

“Alexander the Great?”

“Again, he marched about conquering people and getting drunk, then died rather pathetically.”

“Queen Emma?”

“If being married to two different kings one after the other, having a pack of children, and fleeing your country for refuge abroad at least once is your definition of an interesting life then I most profoundly hope mine is entirely boring.”

Fulk shook his head in bewilderment. “I really don’t understand how you can’t like reading and history! You have the mind for it.”

“It is quite effortless, I assure you.”

“At least you appreciate stories and the like; you’re not a complete philistine.” Eleanor was quite convinced he was saying it for his own benefit, reassuring himself. Fulk tested the dagger again, and this time moved on to sharpening the other side of the blade.

“So long as I do not have to read it generally I do not mind it; one cannot ask questions of a book, or tell it to skip ahead to the good part.” Eleanor opened the book again to a random page and began reading. A few seconds later she shut the book again and dumped it to one side; she had landed right in the middle of Herodotus’ version of the Trojan war. “Although if I have to suffer through one more love story I swear I shall scream! They are so predictable; the couple meet, fall instantly in love, then after many trials either end up together or die unpleasantly, and not a single part of it is interesting, except perhaps the bit where the tedious pair expire. They seem to exist solely to make people feel quite inadequate, unless they are one of the rare few who do indeed have one of those burning loves. They remind people of what they do not have, and are never likely to, and that is cruel.” They were also entirely too close to home for comfort, and that was now the chief complaint. “Honestly I do not see the attraction; even normally intelligent people like Anne like -” Eleanor broke off as the door to her room opened. It was Hugh, and he had not bothered to knock. She favoured her brother with a polite yet mildly reproving look as she waited expectantly for him to explain.

Hugh saw his copy of Herodotus lying carelessly on the window seat; his hand twitched as though he would reclaim the book. He clasped his hands behind his back, and turned his eyes to his sister instead. “I do hope that this morning finds your health much improved from yesterday’s sad trials, dear sister?”

“I am rather ragged about the edges, but quite functional.”

“Excellent; I am most relieved to hear it. I thought you may wish to be informed that the sentries have spotted a small party in what appears to be Trempwick’s colours approaching the palace from the direction of Woburn. They are at present perhaps a mile away, and making good time. I found it best to bring this fortuitous news to you myself, as part compensation for delivering more unpleasant news regarding your wedding yesterday.”

“He will be with them,” said Eleanor confidently. It was a confidence which extended no further than that statement. Trempwick was a day early. She was not ready for this, not at all. Unconsciously her hand went to the teardrop of her necklace, her resolve faltering before this proof of both Trempwick’s concern and reach. She had to carry on as best she could; if she could not keep thinking and acting correctly now then what hope did she have later? “He must have heard of the attempt on my life, and come rushing out to my side, concerned for my safety.”

“Just as I thought; he is very dedicated to you, dear sister. You are most fortunate in having such a man.”

Eleanor put her book aside and stood up. “Well then, I had best look my best.” At this Hawise put up her sewing and also rose, ready to aid. “Thank you for the warning, brother dear. He will, of course, resume the same room he occupied in this building on our previous visit.”

Hugh paused. “Indeed. It will require preparation; my thanks for your timely reminder. It would not do for our hospitality to be lacking.”

“He will also replace Llwellyn as my partner at dinner, praise be.”

“As you say. At least this alteration of the seating order will dispel the aura of tension that Llwellyn and yourself manage to create even when being scrupulously polite to one another. You will inform your betrothed I desire to speak with him as soon as he arrives.” Hugh turned to leave. He paused, one hand on the latch. “Perhaps you have finished with my book? Although I am in no particular hurry to reclaim it, and I would not snatch it away from under your very nose as you still read. But, as I am present, and if you have indeed finished with it …”

Fulk’s face had fallen very slightly when Hugh had first announced his intent to reclaim the volume; he had quickly recovered, but not quickly enough for it to escape Eleanor’s notice. “I am still reading, thank you. I am taking a small break to rest my eyes.”

“Oh.” Hugh gave her a stiff approximation of a friendly smile. “Good. I shall depart, then. Please do inform me if there is anything I might do for you, Nell.”

Once Hugh had left Eleanor handed Herodotus to Fulk. “Here; read it quickly.”

He accepted the book with both hands, reverently running one palm over the decorated cover and quickly inspecting it front, back, edges of the pages and then a few random excerpts. Fulk’s lips curved in a faint, wondering smile as he saw the beautiful handwriting, the gold leaf, the bright and artistically done illustrations, the immaculate condition. He looked back up, eyes sparkling. “Thank you, oh benefactor mine.”

“Just give me a good summery of the important parts so I do not have to suffer through any more of it. Do not let anyone else see you with it; Hugh would probably kill me if he knew his precious book was in your common little hands. He is nervous enough about it being in mine.”

He was not paying attention, already zealously devouring the first page.

Eleanor heaved a martyr’s sigh. “Well, I do hope I am not murdered, or something else which might distract you.”

“You said read quickly,” he told her, turning to the next page and not pausing, “and I’m never likely to get another opportunity like this.”

Eleanor gave up and moved through to her bedchamber, where Hawise was waiting.






With five men in full armour and his colours behind him, his banner flying proudly, Trempwick rode in through Waltham’s outer gate. He slowed his horse from a canter to a walk, guiding the animal in the direction of the stables.

He knew he made a very impressive sight; the bridegroom here in full splendour for his princess. Every last detail had been meticulously considered. His men wore matching armour, identical in every single respect. The solid metal polished, cleaned, oiled to a blinding shine. The mail free of rust. Their livery new and clean, the colours freshly and deeply dyed. The badges so well done the fox’s eyes seemed to watch everything before them. Everyone mounted on the best horseflesh. Tack and saddles well cared for, decorated in a restrained, functional manner. The sheathed swords splendid weapons, but also plainly well used and not mere toys. The men themselves immaculate, barbered, healthy, of good age; prime examples of knighthood and civilised nobility. Except Mauger; a prime example of a battled veteran. He had the honour of bearing his lord’s banner. He brought up the front of the small escort.

And then there was himself. Not armoured, but every inch a duke. Not ostentatious, nor showy, nor eye-hurting in his splendour. Instead restrained, his every garment fitting and suiting him to perfection. The decoration always used to best effect, never seeking to impress with quantity over quality. The fashions current, but only so far as suited him. Not blind apery. He wore his sword for once, its diagonal waist belt studded with little gilded fox masks. Freshly shaved. His hair newly trimmed. Bearing confident, seat in the saddle easy, restrained of manner but not coldly distant. In many aspects he was as usual, but more so.

No one would tell he had been roused from his bed in the middle of the night, told a story which set him scrambling to get here with all haste as soon as dawn broke. None could tell he was afraid, deep down and behind his emotional armour. Afraid. Anxious. Worried for his Nell. Sharply alert also; something unexpected had happened, and nearly cost him so much …

He had been wrong. He had thought Nell would be safe here. Complacent. An unknown factor had entered play here, announcing itself in spectacular style. His security had held, but only just. His eyes and ears had worked for him, but not told him enough. Here he needed to know, see, understand everything.

From his procession none would know of the frantic scramble to finish the last of the preparations. Or of the missing parts. None would know he had intended to pass the final mile at a more stately pace, not arriving on tired horses and flecked with horse sweat. None would know the two packhorses were missing a few bundles amongst the gifts for his bride, his own effects, the assorted items he had thought useful for these few days.

None would know of his sense of disappointment at not quite being the best he could. Of not managing to be fabulously worthy of Nell. He had intended every single tiny detail to be used to do her honour, to remove some of that inevitable stain that she married beneath herself. For her benefit … and for his. Their interests in this so closely intertwined separation was impossible. If she were mocked people laughed at him also; if at him she would be hurt. If he were nothing she was disgraced; if he were admired then she was to be envied.

Angry. Furious. Someone had had the audacity to try and harm his Nell! Trempwick’s horse pranced, sensing his temper. Swiftly he brought himself, and the animal, back under control. That someone would bleed for this. Bleed to a slow, agonising end.

Tired of this, of waiting, of not knowing, of playing a lesser aspect of a more minor game. Trempwick reined his horse in and swung down from the saddle. “I am going to find Nell,” he told Mauger as he handed the animal over, “take care of the detail.”

He swung away and marched relentlessly on, boots pounding on the cobbles, hair and clothes flowing out behind him in the wind of his passing. If he must pose then let it be the concerned lover, not the suitable bridegroom. Some element of truth. No; both had truth. Just one truer to this moment, the other truer to another. More than an element of truth; vulnerable, almost complete, honesty. Suitor, lover, tutor, guardian, mentor, noble, lord, spymaster, king’s friend, Raoul, Trempwick – for once all combined and for once all agreed. His pace picked up, just short of a jog now.

He stormed through the inner gatehouse, acknowledging the guards’ respects as he swept past. Nell was lodged in the same rooms as previously; he knew thanks to his people. He would begin there.

No one stopped him at the outer door of the guest house. Not a soul was present as he passed down the small entrance corridor. He entered the outer of Nell’s two rooms.

Instantly he saw, a figure in loose-sleeved cerulean, paired with an underdress in the palest of blues. Relief. Shattering relief. A familiar man sat in the window, a book newly discarded at his side, placed so as to distance himself from it. Relief now tempered by suspicion and irritation. An unfamiliar girl, sewing in the other window seat, working on a dress Trempwick knew to belong to Nell. Curiosity, more misgivings.

She was hesitant, not quite shy, but also pleased. A tentative smile, but no more, no words, no movements. This was that rarest of sights – Nell at a complete loss. Trempwick quickly diverted his focus to Fulk. The man simply stared back, impassive, but still that loathing hidden well behind his eyes. The handsome face he had hoped never to see again. Fulk met his gaze and held it as an equal, not deferring as he should to a superior.

“Out,” ordered Trempwick, his tone cultured and civil in sharp contrast to the gaze.

The knight turned to Nell. “Eleanor?” Predictable. Foolish. Hopeless.

From Nell, exasperation, threaded with pain at being forced to deal thus with one she loved. “Oh, just go away!”

The knight’s tail stopped wagging and drooped between his legs; a kicked dog in every way … to those who very few who could read people as a spymaster could. What else had the fool expected? Once may have been different, but this was now.

The two unwanted bodies filed from the room. Right away – at last! - Trempwick caught Nell up in a tight embrace. Flesh and blood; warm and real, and safe. Sweet relief.

Almost instantaneously relief died. She had stiffened as soon as he embraced her, almost tried to pull away. The hurt deflected off his armour. Trempwick loosed his hold and stepped back, withdrawing until he only clasped each of her hands in his. Then, as he saw her face, he understood. Little relief. More fury. The faded bruise had escaped notice from afar; the split lip sealed neatly and no longer swollen. The end to the story of that dinner? “What happened?”

Simply she said, “Hugh.”

More anger; condensing, freezing over. An icy lump burning under his heart. “He has no right.”

“He does; he has a letter from the arse in the crown, sealed and proper in all aspects.” Trempwick heard bitterness there, saw it reflected on her face too. Also shame. Pain, crushed back with now wearying pride. Reluctance … to discuss the matter, or to think on it? A certain uneasiness, unbalanced somehow, distant from him in some intangible way. Slight traces, tiny little notes written all over her for the literate to find and decipher. Lost on those with less knowledge.

“Tell me, what happened?”

A measuring look. A decision made; she would be reckless. “Hugh wants to see you immediately, someone tried to kill me, your mother is sick and feverish thanks to her consuming poison meant for me, the wedding is delayed, Fulk has been forced back into my service, I have been lumbered with a maid, Juliana is still locked up and being questioned, I have been insulted by some piddling Welshman, Hugh has made a habit of flaying my poor hide whenever he can find excuse and so far has managed that twice in as many days, and I have been humiliated both before court and in private more times than I care to count.” That challenging, rather angry ‘Well, what a mess this is!’ smile of hers. “It has been a busy few days.”

The flow of information was digested rapidly. Calculations made. A great many calculations. “I will handle this; do not worry, sweetest Nell. I am here, and no one will harm you again. I will set things to rights, only give me time and a little more information.

What he called her harsh scepticism, flowing very quickly and near completely into frightened vulnerability. “I am not sure you can, not everything. I am not sure it would be wise, either. We must be cautious; to upset Hugh …” Her grip on his hands tightened, her uncertainty grew. “He is dangerous. Very. You must be careful-”

“I know; I always am. I will not be fool enough to seek total victory; I shall choose my battles – and words – with care, win what I can. I will do nothing to place you in any danger, you must believe that.”

“He wants to see you now.”

“Your brother can wait a while.” He stopped her outburst with one gentle finger set across her lips. “I will not charge blindly into battle; I will know what I fight, and for what, and I would see that you are alright before doing anything.”

“I have survived worse.” Shame, again.

Trempwick ignored her words; they could be trusted so little when it came to matters of her well-being. An important matter. He tilted her face to the light pouring in through the window, studying bruise and cut. The split looked more as if she had bitten through her lip, rather than had it done by a blow. Evidence added to previous. Trempwick released her, and stepped around behind her. When she moved he ordered, “Stay still, since you will not tell me.” He turned her so the light would hit her back best, then carefully pulled away and down the neck of her clothes. He peered down. His view might be badly hampered by light and the broad linen stripe of her breastband, but he could tell enough. Many bruises, some cuts, welts crossing over each other, all placed with a certain dedication.

Once again he released her. Quickly she turned around, avoiding his eye, mortification writ large all over her. He drew her into a very light hug, reassuring. This time she relaxed a bit, holding on to him in turn. “Oh, my poor, dear Nell. He will not being doing this again, I assure you.” He heard anger in his own voice, heard it and loved it for being true, no matter how imprudent it may be. “He will be hearing about this, at length.”

“It is not worth it.”

“And I say it is.” He drew her over to the window seat, settled her down, himself at her side but at a slight angle so he could watch her face, her hands caught in his. “Now, tell me of this poison.”

“It was in some wine collected for my midday meal. Juliana collected the food herself from the kitchens; she is now imprisoned and being questioned. Your mother and Adela drank the wine first; your mother noted the slightly off flavour and subtly warned me. I tasted a small sample and agreed with her, but by then Adela had drunk a significant quantity of the wine. Hugh insists he is investigating, and he also insists he needs your help to such an extent we cannot marry now. Fulk was forced back into my service, publicly, along with the maid. I protested, but Hugh would hear nothing of it; he humiliated me in front of the entire hall.”

“Do you have any suspicions as to who did this?” Rhetorical; of course she did.

Hesitation. Uncertainty. A look he remembered well from when she was a child – an eagerness, a need to please and impress with her insight. And yet … once again – no, still – that distantness, that very faint feeling something was not quite right with her. “I do, but … none good. Every single one has its flaws, significant enough to cast real doubt on each. After the bandit attack, Hugh seems likely, but he would have to be reckless in the extreme to try this. Besides, for now he seems content to crush me underfoot unless I dance to his tune, and I suspect in the end that is more useful for him than my corpse.”

“If he stops the wedding he can try to dispose of you elsewhere to his advantage. William would never allow his plans to be thwarted so.”

“But if Hugh could propose better candidates, all suitable, willing, and my compliance battered into place beforehand the arse in the crown might change his mind. He would expect his friend – who is marrying me out of duty, nothing more, or so you said he believes – to genially bow before this change in needs. He would see it as you serving his ends, released from one burden you did not perhaps want. Publicly you would be compensated handsomely, so loss of face could be transformed into demonstration of largess, perhaps.”

“In that case Hugh is playing for time.” Rapid calculation. “Playing a game of faces; making me look the incompetent fool, unable to protect even my own bride; himself playing the dutiful, concerned brother.” Another thought. “And I the neglectful, uncaring man who does not show due respect and reverence for the astounding gift he has been given.” Possibilities, all of them. Them and a great many more, not yet for sharing. Consideration, on this limited selection spoken. “William might be twisted into doing as Hugh wishes, if matters were set up and played out in the right way. This does not take into account my own fight to block Hugh, but he will do whatever he can to hamper and weaken my case. In the end perhaps it might be enough … probably not, but the perhaps is such that a desperate man might take the gamble.”

Was Hugh such a man? Before he would not have hesitated; the answer would be no. But now? Hugh was not the kind of man to make such a mess of his sister without just cause. But for that mess? From a reasonable man, a fair and chivalrous man? Cause would have to be incredible. To have such cause twice? To go against his father’s wishes, blatantly, with what seems like little cause? He had misjudged, or something more was at work here.

More errors?

This could not be tolerated. Complacent is dead – his creed. He could recover, handle this. He would. Investigate. Learn. Understand. See anew. Begin to mend. Rectify. Pull events back on course.

And first one must begin with the priorities.

He pulled Nell to him, wrapping her in his arms, careful not to hurt. He breathed out, letting the emotions and turmoil bleed away. Simple peace now. “I was so worried, beloved Nell, you cannot know how worried.”

“I have hardly been much happier myself,” she replied dryly. He heard much truth in that.

“You look quite pretty, sweet Nell.”

“Oh yes, the bruise on my face brings out the colour of my eyes and highlights my cheekbones.”

“I mean it.” He did, strangely. He saw people more in an academic way. Beauty, or lack thereof, or gradients in-between, was immaterial and almost always overlooked. Except when it suited his ends. Or caught him unawares, as now.

“Yes, master.”

The legacy of his painstaking work, this? More than likely. Those who believed they were ugly seldom accepted opinions to the contrary. Such a pity. “You do not believe me. That mark is honestly hardly noticeable, unless you search for it. It is the clothes, the colours, the way your hair has been done – it suits you – and …” He considered. To describe, but in a good way. A touch of almost sadness, a dose of wistfulness, a shade of vulnerability, the loss of the more brazen defiance … and one last part, perhaps the one which made the difference. “You have this air of … calm, quiet, collected; one you do not usually have.” And it tugged at his heart somehow.

“I would not have thought so; quite the opposite, really.” And again that ever so small feeling that something was not quite right between them. Was this new air of hers a part of that? A consequence of it? Unrelated?

“No, it is there, definitely.”

“If you say so, master. Perhaps I am simply burned out; too much all at once, leaving me somewhat immune.” Trempwick read the subtle language. Embarrassment, but in a very different way to before. Now more someone receiving a compliment she might like, if only she could believe it. And yet … and yet at the same time some discomfort, a little panic, almost as if she did not want to hear anything like this. Those born out by her use of ‘master’ again. Her hand ran over the start of the single, thick braid hanging freely down her back, fingers lingering on the ribbon, blue to match her eyes and threaded with fine gold strands. “You can blame my hair on my new maid. She did not consult me at all, but actually I do not mind it. The ribbon she intertwined with the braid helps to keep it all together, and it is not uncomfortable, unlike some damnable styles which tug at my poor roots. The only problem is the complete lack of hairpins; I am reduced to helplessness.”

“Somehow, my dear Nell, I very much doubt that.” Time, running by. Refocus. “Shall I attempt to shed you of this maid, as much as we appreciate her work? And your pet?”

“Hugh will not allow it; I tried, twice, once overtly and once more deviously.”

“But is it your wish that I try? Or would you prefer to keep them?”

A miniscule pause. He could all but hear her mind working. “Try, but keep it as a very low priority. He will not agree, and there are many more important matters.”

Trempwick nodded. “I should go to your brother now; to delay longer adds unnecessary, if minor, risk, and gives him some very slight advantage. I shall see you again when I can.”

“At dinner; we are paired together again.”

“Hopefully before then. My men will be bringing my baggage over to my rooms in this building; if you feel the need to ransack my saddlebags then do indulge yourself, just not the large satchel with the fastening in the shape of my badge. That one has a few surprises in it.”

“Surprise as in ‘oh dear’, or something less spymasterish?”

He laughed. “How I missed your strange humour, darling Nell! No, nothing dubious, just a few gifts for a certain lady of my acquaintance.”





This time the cause for the delay’s a bit different to the usual. :everyone gasps, shocked: I’ve been very absorbed in R. Scott Bakker’s very good ‘The Darkness That Comes Before’. “Very good” being high praise from this picky frog.

“He marched about conquering people, went home and killed people, then got killed. Quite a tedious man.” – I’ve never looked at Caesar that way until I found myself writing that line. When everything is boiled down Nell’s quite right, though somehow I think Caesar would have preferred the more glamorous versions.

4, 728

[frogbeastegg]

A distant pair of shepherds gawped at the royal army as it marched past their pastures, jostling and nudging each other, pointing to men, horses and banners and presumably arguing what was the greater sight. From his place in the column, just behind the vanguard, William watched them in their turn.

Another bout of nudging and pointing ended with the two men dropping to their knees and bowing their heads; they had spotted him. When he saw one of the heads curiously return upright William raised a hand in a blessing. The shepherd began nudging his companion again, and this time William could guess exactly what they were saying: “The king blessed us! Us!” Some lords disdained even such simple gestures, but William knew well that the love of the people could be turned to his advantage. A beloved lord appealing to his subjects for aid got more in the way of funds and bodies than a hated one, as Yves was now discovering, according to William’s scouts.

A few miles further down the road one of the messengers from the vanguard rode down to William. “Sire, one of our scouts encountered a messenger from Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes. You wish to see him?”

De Ardentes; at last! One of the more troublesome entries on his list of men. “Send him down.”

The messenger galloped back to the head of the column, and William’s closest two bodyguards spurred their mounts to ride close at his side instead of behind. One could never be too careful.

Jocelyn’s messenger appeared after some delay, a filthy man on a nearly done in horse. He fell into loose place some distance from the right hand guard, and bowed in his saddle. “Sire.”

“Speak, if that is what you are here for.”

“My lord send this.” He offered a sealed letter to the intervening knight. “He bid me to say it comes with all haste, and apologises for the delay in its sending. He prays for your understanding and mercy.”

“Does he indeed.” William received the letter from his guard and examined the seal for signs it had been tampered with. There were none. “You will join the main body of my army; if I require you again I will send word. Otherwise rest your horse overnight and return to your lord tomorrow.”

The messenger bowed again and dropped back.

William broke the leather cords holding the parchment rolled up and began to read, having to hold the letter out to one side at arm’s length to bring the words into focus.

He read the letter twice before lowering it, rolling it back up and fastening it with the broken thong. “Does he indeed,” he repeated, this time to himself. Thoughtfully he examined the little knight on his charging horse, sword brandished above his head and coat of arms proudly displayed, stamped onto the wax disc of the seal. This would not quite do as planned, but was close enough.

William thrust the hand with the letter up into the air, summoning one of his own curriers. “Ride to FitzOsborn; tell him I require his presence, at once.”






“I am most pleased you have arrived.” Hugh seated himself in his accustomed place at the council chamber’s large table, to the right of the high chair. He gestured at Trempwick’s designated place. “Please, do take your ease. I see little reason to stand on ceremony where there is but the two of us.”

“Thank you.” Trempwick’s place was at what would be the king’s left, directly opposite Hugh. He watched, waited, for the other man to begin. Let him show his hand first. This contained little princeling, hard to read, so intent on binding up all personal feeling. Always wearing a mask. What lay under it? A terrified little boy, caught playing with his elder brother’s toys. A man petrified of failure. Bound by expectation. Hampered by tradition. A need to be thought of kindly. Lacking creativity. Straightforward. Not his sister’s match, in anything. Potential, surely. But squandered. He would not embrace it; turned from it, and so became less than he might have been if he were indeed talentless. A man who would try his best, but always hold a part of himself back, then mourn because he was not better.

Or so Trempwick had always thought. Now he was not so sure.

The contrast of siblings seldom failed to amuse him. As with every child each had things purely their own, distinct from relatives. Those were less interesting in the comparison. In many respects Nell was her father’s daughter. Temper, those eyes, the stubbornness, many other little unconscious echoes which called William to mind when witnessed. She had a trace of her mother. Little things. The curve of her eyebrows, the way she hid her unhappiness. Parts that were a blend of both parents. Her mind, chiefly, but then taken to a higher degree. She had been shaped by Trempwick; perhaps the most telling influence, perhaps a little behind William’s legacy.

Hugh was rather more his mother’s son. She had been an undemonstrative woman. Quite controlled. Not happy with noise, mess, fuss, crowds. But he had taken it to a fine art. His father’s son? Not much. Enguerrand had been a personable man, quick to amusement, subject to his emotions. It was impossible to imagine Hugh burning with a love as his father had done. Or risking his life for it. Or retiring to die fighting in Spain when the end inevitably came. Foolish melodrama, that man had been, feeling everything too deeply. Such resemblance as there was came mostly from physical attributes. But not enough to clearly mark him as another man’s son. Joanna had been so fortunate there. Fortunate also that her husband had been blind as well as inattentive. Fortunate her wit had been sufficient to keep the affair almost entirely secret. Fortunate another young man at court had loved her with all his boyish heart, had not betrayed her when he should have.

That did not mean he would wish her forgiveness for what he was doing now. Puppy love, and for the unobtainable. For a dream that he had believed she fitted. Wondrous at a distance. Less so close up.

The bastard finally got around to beginning. “Let us also dispense with fancy words and speak plainly. I presume from your early presence you have received word of the attempt on my sister’s life? My message was sent to you this morning.”

Bland little smile. “Yes. I came with all haste and a troubled mind, and I fear I have only become more troubled since my arrival.” He’d left before it had even arrived. Not that he would betray it. Not that the fact was important. One should never give clues for free.

“Forgive me; much has happened of late, much affecting your good self. I scarcely know where to begin.”

“You can begin by telling me why you have delayed my wedding.”

Nothing; as much effect as aiming his words to stone. “Nell has informed you of that so swiftly? I suppose I should have expected as much.”

“Why would she not? You will agree it is important to both of us.”

Hugh paused, marshalling his thoughts. Telling; he had not already prepared this speech. “You are already occupied with your usual work, burdened even more heavily by matters in France. In addition to that you must now undertake the investigation of the attempt on my sister’s life. The first takes up much of your time, but no more than any occupation. The second has you working late into the night and up early each morn, eating as you labour and seldom resting. I know; Nell told me when I enquired as to your health. This neglect, I am afraid to say, saddened her considerably.” The bastard held up his hands, placating. “I know it was not your choice, and I am strongly aware that you must have been little happier with the situation yourself. Now I must add a third burden, and at this point you will have no time at all for her. I will not have my sister a neglected new wife; at the start of a marriage the couple should spend much time together if they hope to adjust to one another and settle happily.”

“Nell and I already know one another.”

“As master and apprentice, not as husband and wife. If you cannot see the difference then my heart bleeds for her.”

Trempwick held his eyes closed for longer than a blink needed, mouth set into a line. “You need not resort to petty slights, your highness.”

Minor distress on the bastard’s part as the dart went home. Followed by guilt. Discomfort. A mental scourge was being applied to that princely back. “I apologise; it was unworthy of me.” The bastard knocked off-balance a little. Trempwick re-established as a man requiring respect in return. Excellent.

He accepted this with a slight nod, continued his speech, “You miss my point; Nell and I are not strangers, we have little adjusting to do, little to learn about each other’s basic personalities, and great understanding for the situation we are in. We do not need time to establish a basic friendship, like most couples.”

“And you miss my point.” Hugh interlocked his fingers and placed his joined hands on the polished tabletop. Leaned forward slightly. Face intent, yet in the same controlled way as ever. “You care for her, yes? And she for you? It is no longer a question of duty and forced compliance?”

“You have seen it is not.”

“Indeed; matters have altered in the two months since the arrangement was made. That is why I chose to delay; if you were both indifferent it would not matter. Come morning the two of you will be closer than ever, wanting every moment you can get and lamenting every lost second. You cannot afford to be distracted.”

“I would not be,” replied Trempwick flatly.

Now the bastard leaned back, hands still bound together. “Then you plan to neglect my sister, and thus the delay can mean nothing to you.”

Calculation. Countermove: indignation. “Highness, I most strongly protest! I would never neglect Nell.”

“And so you see? You would be distracted.” Under the mask an effort to be reasonable. To be understood. Liked for this. The hands at last unlinked; one extended towards Trempwick minutely. “If you can compartmentalise your heart then you do not care for her, as you assert – and demonstrate – you do. Consider her also; neglect hurts when it comes from a friend, but from a lover it tears your heart. When you did meet you would be exhausted and she fraught, and no good could come of that. As each day passed the hurt would begin to purge the good. Ultimately you would grow apart; her heart sealed off to prevent further anguish, and her put from your mind except when she is in your presence.” The proffered hand stretched a little closer. An offer of a lifeline? Or a speech-giver’s gesture for understanding? The latter, Trempwick decided. “I will not do that to my sister. Though you may not believe me when I say it, I find she has suffered more than enough; I would see her happy now, happy and settled.” Lies. A point to be tackled later.

This would go nowhere. Circular arguments. Some truth. A part of his own thoughts reflected back at him: once bedded Nell would grow attached to him in a way he could not achieve otherwise. Closer. Linked. Always the case, to some degree, unless there was loathing there. Even if a disaster physically a bond was created, albeit a weak one. From small seeds did great trees grow. Why else had he carefully combined truth and lie, revealing a hint of his vulnerable core, humiliating himself a little, working to that end? Carefully planned forays; win if she was persuaded, slightly lesser win if she was not. An end to his wondering about the pet also; dividend. Reluctantly Trempwick also owned he would grow a little more attached too; personal honesty even where sore. He cared enough for her that it was inevitable, if not likely to be spectacular. Not a distraction for him, no. But there.

Besides the point. Truth regardless, what did the bastard care? Nell had been right. His initial and lasting suspicion had been right. For whatever reason the bastard had called a halt to the wedding; he would not be moved. To press further would be risky. Retreat with good grace. Appear a sheep. Remain a wolf. “I see your meaning, and I am rather pleased you see us in such a light, especially given the inauspicious start.”

Pleased. An offering of a rewarding smile; insulting, actually, considering it all. “I shall confide an extra motive to you, one which is to go no further than this room. I say extra because that is the truth; I have already told you my primary concern. My father once told me that a king should find wider advantage even in the most personal of things. If someone can strike at my sister in this very palace, strike and nearly succeed, mark you, then confidence in our security is damaged. Royal hospitality needs to be trusted by all.” The bastard ran a hand through his long hair, brushing it back from his face. More a gesture of tiredness than of bother due to stray strands. “That confidence must be restored, or people will fear to come here, and our reputation will suffer in all places. It will become a matter for common jest that we cannot protect our guests. It matters less that security is a problem at present than that people know it to be so. I need not tell you the import of such fragile illusions in maintaining the power of the crown. The delay will make a statement.”

A more honest motive than the first? No. More half truths. “That we are afraid.”

The bastard once again leaned forward, one forearm planted on the table for support. Again, that need to be understood. Recognised. Praised. “That we are alerted, on guard and devoting ourselves to plugging the gap; raising our shield from rest to guard. When the wedding is held it will also serve as an announcement that we have dealt with the problem. An initial, small loss of face perhaps, but for greater dividends later.”

“That can be so, but you must be aware that both opinions will be prevalent.”

“Of course. It is up to us to ensure the view we desire is the more common one.”

Up to Trempwick, he meant. “Your faith honours me.”

“I am aware we have little liking for one another on a personal level, but I am very respectful of your skills and loyalties.”

“I would not say I had little liking for you, your highness.” No; he detested the bastard.

“My own dislike is foundered in what you are, by necessity of your station. I value honour as the foremost virtue a man should have. You lie, deceive, consort with spies.”

Trempwick greeted that with a sardonic smile. “Lead an interesting life, you mean?”

“Rest assured that you will always have your place upon my council, just as under my father. A man should not be counselled alone by those who like him; knowledge and a will to council, not mouth what is believed to be wanted. I know you capable of that.” The bastard was more enthusiastic now; mask slipping. The point he had wanted to make for a while, obviously. How pleasant. How very in need of further analysis.

“Correct,” he agreed pleasantly. “Speaking of William, he will not be pleased when he returns to find Nell unmarried still.”

“I am aware of that, and willing to answer for my actions and face whatever consequences may arise.”

Casually threaten, “Rather you than me; William in high dudgeon is difficult to deal with.”

Hugh flushed. Jaw muscles tightened, eyes narrowed. “Your king will have your respect, spymaster!”

Be as stone. Unmoved. “My friend demands honesty from me, at all times, even when it favours his character not at all. If you cannot explain yourself to his satisfaction you will be in very hot water.”

“I am aware of that, and am willing to answer for my actions and face whatever consequences may arise.” Repeated; more conviction … born of emotion. So, there was an element of fear there. Fear his father would not approve. That shed little light on his motive. But it would help to narrow possibilities down. He could immediately rule out a covert order from William. Bastard’s calm reasserted, slipped mask straightened. “I believe we are done, now. You will begin your investigation at once, and report to me any significant advances. You will find the maid who collected the poison in the calls in the inner gatehouse; I suggest you begin there.”

Not done. Trempwick did not move even a muscle. “Who had led the investigation until now?”

“Richard de Clare; it falls within his jurisdiction.”

Richard de Clare. Trempwick delicately dug his thumbnail into the side of his index finger, hard. A former coroner. An idle, lazy one who had delegated everything he could. Like many he had taken the post for corrupt profit and more honest prestige. Yes, he could make sure walls were patrolled, gates guarded, watches kept, men trained, measures put in place. He was good at that; very good. It was why he had this position. But de Clare was not one to do well at the fine, subtle art of investigation. Not unusual; few were. Few even cared.

Trempwick relaxed his hand, feeling the mark his nail had left on his skin tingle. “There is one remaining matter, your highness.”

“Yes?”

“Forgive me if I phrase this one very bluntly. Nell is mine; my pupil, my betrothed, contracted to me. You will not touch her again. If you have a complaint, bring it to me and I will deal with it.”

The bastard’s brow creased angrily. “You are too soft, spymaster. If you were not then this problem would not exist.”

“Soft?” Trempwick steepled his hands, resting his chin on the tips of his longest fingers. “Then how is it she only exhibits her worse traits to you and her father? I shall tell you why; it is because she knows I am anything but soft, and she dislikes my methods far more than yours.” He sat back, folding his hands in his lap. “In some ways you play into her hands. Given a choice Nell would prefer a beating; over and done with sooner, less humiliating, and I am sure we all know there is a certain … honour to be wrung out of suffering with fortitude. I understand her, how she works. Leave her to me. Better for all concerned, and far more efficient.”

“We shall see how matters fall if the need arises again,” said the bastard coolly.

Yes, we shall see, Trempwick silently vowed. As he had very much expected a more direct approach on even a few of the matters he wished to raise had failed. No matter. He would revert to more subtle means.






Trempwick appropriated a spacious room in the top of one of the inner wall’s towers, the one just behind Nell’s guest house. Unwanted furniture was carried out, required items moved in, and within the hour the room was just as he wanted it.

While servants worked at that he had sought out Richard de Clare, finding the man inspecting a new batch of crossbows. One brief discussion - involving a bit of friendly camaraderie to ensure the man maintained his friendly opinion of him - had revealed the investigation had gone as they so often did. Badly. Nothing much found. Evidence disposed of as “No longer needed.” The entire palace and town alerted to the search. An effort to control those who left, to be relented next Monday. The town watch called in to assist with inquiries outside of the palace itself, and to lend muscle; a bunch of fools blundering about in his path. Guilt all but fixed on the first, easiest suspect: Juliana. Plans already forming to torture her to find who she worked for. It was a typical investigation. He had seen hundreds, thousands, like it.

They could not have done a much better job of obstructing his own search if they had tried.

Sending away the last of the servants Trempwick sat at the table. He laid out a sheet of parchment, smoothed it flat with his hands. He picked up a quill, lowered the nib into in the ink. Delicately he pressed the side of the tip to the rim of the pot, draining excess ink. He began to write. Write nothing much, just a copy of a song. As he wrote he waited. And thought.

The initial work had been bungled. The waters muddied. But there were many avenues he could take. Many people he could speak to again. He had Nell’s own testimony to collect. His mother’s also. He should visit her soon; he had not done so yet.

He completed one verse and began the second. Still waiting. So much preying on his mind at present. This poisoning felt very wrong; who would gain by it? Almost always the potential source was apparent, even if that source was the wrong one. But to strike at Nell? When no one really gains? Or gains in a way he could not yet see. Both equally troubling. The bastard princeling himself; another puzzle. The delayed wedding; a puzzle. Beating Nell so badly; a puzzle. Fulk and Hawise being dumped on Nell; a puzzle. Nell herself; a puzzle. So many puzzles; some but minor itches, some so much more significant.

A wry chuckle, safe in the privacy of his own mind. Well, he had wanted something to stretch him a little. Now he had it, and he wished he did not.

He began the third verse. The words themselves were not important. It was only something to occupy his body while his mind roved. Few people were understanding of a man who stared blankly ahead, or thought too deeply or in excess. As if such a thing were possible. The bastard had sense. He had not believed the easy answer; that Juliana was responsible. That said many things. It spoke highly of the bastard’s interest in justice. His desire to find the true culprit, not a scapegoat. Matched the view Trempwick had of him, to perfection. But only made certain recent events more puzzling. Perhaps Nell lied, understating her misdeeds? Possible; she had done so many times previously. So … if she had done something to deserve those beatings … where then did that leave his view of the bastard?

The door opened. A man at arms dragged Juliana in, hit her when she didn’t curtsey fast enough, then bowed to Trempwick himself. “The prisoner, my lord.”

Trempwick set down his quill, a study of dispassionate calm. “Thank you. In future you will knock before barging in here; any who does not will be shovelling shit in the stables, if they are fortunate. Tell your comrades. You will explain why you did not knock this time.”

“My hands were full with the prisoner, lordship.”

A significant glance at the weeping maid. Raise eyebrows, say with a hint of mockery, “Yes, I can see how she could be a problem for a big, strapping man like yourself.” The guard’s ears went bright red. “You may go.”

“Lordship.” The man marched stiffly from the room.

Trempwick stood up and stepped out from behind his table. Juliana flung herself at his feet, clutching the hem of his tunic. “I knew you would save me!”

Unseen Trempwick rolled his eyes. Pathetic. He dropped to his knees beside her. “Yes, I shall save you, never fear. But you must help me; you must answer my questions truthfully.”

“I wouldn’t lie, not to you.” More noisy tears. “They were going to torture me!” she wailed. “They wouldn’t believe a word I said; one even accused me of being an accomplice! They said I was going to hang! I’m innocent, I swear it! On my soul!” A shaking hand drew a frantic cross over her chest. “I had nothing to do with any of it, I wouldn’t!”

He kissed her just to shut her up; he had gathered the general idea long ago. At the same time he amended his opinion; not so pathetic. She had some cause. “You will not hang,” he promised.

“Don’t send me back to the cells, I beg you! Please! The guards …” The snivelling dropped in pitch to a murmur, “I had to bring up your name to protect myself.” Added panic. She clutched at him, painfully tight. “You won’t send me back there, will you? Oh, you can’t, please, no!”

“Peace! Peace! No, you will not go back to the cells either.” His knees were uncomfortable on the hard floor. He stood, pulling her up with him. “Tell me about this man, the one who talked to you while you waited for the food to be assembled.”

“I don’t know him, and I’ve only seen him that once.”

“What did he look like?”

“I didn’t take much notice. He was in the royal livery, average height and build, blondish hair. He had a slight beard. I don’t think he was one of the better servants, just some kitchen hand or other menial type.” The often present disgust of one servant for another, lesser one. He had always found that intriguing. Already his work on her was paying off; she had said a few new things.

“That is all you remember?”

“I wasn’t looking closely. Why would I?”

He shook his head, all disappointed and lost hope. “I hoped you might have more for me; I was so sure your sharp wits and eyes could provide what I need.”

He saw consternation. Her need to help him, to be approved, to reward his love. “There’s more,” she blurted. “It’s so uncertain, that’s why I’ve not said it before. A name. Aldwin, I think someone called him Aldwin.”

“Excellent!” He kissed her deeply. “Now, wipe your face and I will return you to my mother.” A second’s thought. “If I take you to the cells can you show me which guards … bothered you?” A small, sharp reminder of the king’s wishes towards his prisoners would not go astray. His wishes also; maltreated prisoners were often harder to deal with. Besides, she was his mother’s maid; in some vague way under his protection.





“There is ever such a commotion out there,” said Anne, pressing her face to the cloudy window glass.

“Is there?” Eleanor looked up briefly, then turned back to the game of tafl she was playing with Fulk.

“Yes; come see.”

“Do I have to? For once I am not losing; I do not want to lose my concentration.”

“Go on,” encouraged Fulk, “if you lose later then you’ll have a good excuse. That’ll be a first.”

Eleanor sighed. “Oh, all right. Once I make my move.” They were roughly in the middle of the game, and were still tied. Playing the defence she had lost three warriors; Fulk four of his attackers. She might not have a clear route to victory, but she was not penned in or under too much threat either.

Just as she began to settle back into her game plan Anne’s voice jolted her back out again. “Oh, how terrible!” There was definite consternation in her tone.

Eleanor hurried over to the window, Fulk not far behind. Even Hawise dropped her mending and went to the other window. Out on the sward, perhaps two-hundred paces from her guest house, a man was tied by his wrists to the sideboards of a wagon which had been rolled up especially. He wore royal livery, but was stripped to the waist. Two other men similarly attired waited behind him, guarded at weapon point by men at arms. The final liveried man was wielding a whip, with quite some effect. Blood poured down the first man’s back.

Fulk was the first to leave the window, apparently unaffected. “Wonder what they did?”

Eleanor recognised two figures stood to witness the flogging. “Hugh is there, and Trempwick.”

“Juliana too,” said Hawise softly, at the same moment Eleanor spotted the maid huddling in Trempwick’s protective shadow. “Maybe this means she is free now?”

Eleanor didn’t answer. She watched as the first man was cut down, to stumble away to help, and the next pushed forward to take his place. Her own back throbbed in sympathy. “It looks a deal worse from the outside.”

“What do you mean?” Anne glanced from window to Eleanor and back again. She shuddered and turned to sit properly again, picking up her book with a resolute hand.

“One can never see one’s own back.”






4,838

[Monk]

froggy, each time i read this I am never disappointed. Either I get sucked in and can't stop reading it or I get so busy that I don't read it for two weeks; then when i get back I read the early morning away. Either way I go at it, I find a very satisfying story with interesting and well shaped characters.

Well done once more lady frog!

[frogbeastegg]

Anne sucked in a deep breath. “I want your help replying to a letter.” She said it so quickly it sounded like one big word, instead of a series of distinct ones.

Judging from the fact it had taken several hours for Anne to even manage that much Eleanor guessed that she wouldn’t really want anything to do with this letter. “Yes?” Nothing; Anne just continued to stare studiously at her book. “You will have to at least tell me what you are replying to if you want my help.”

“Oh. Well … it is from my grandmother and it … well, it is …” A nice beetroot red she gave up trying to explain and pulled a letter out of the back of her book. She held it very slightly out, as if the contents could be understood by anyone seeing even a glimpse of the blank outside.

Eleanor reluctantly abandoned her current game of tafl with Fulk; she was winning, and she doubted that she’d be able to continue her good streak with this interruption. When she was finally allowed to return she would not remember all the traps she had set and seen, and parts of her plans would be forgotten. Fulk, who had not been dragged around and forced to think about other things, would still remember. Just like had happened with the previous game.

She accepted the letter – with some difficulty, as Anne’s fingers didn’t seem to want to let go – and settled down beside the queen to read it.

Before she even got past the lengthy introduction Anne started speaking again, words pouring out in a torrent. “I mean, I did know to expect this kind of thing, and really I understand why it is a matter of semi public knowledge and everything, and she is my grandmother and practically raised me and all, well, she left the messy or boring parts to Mariot and stuck to the neat bits like lessons, especially the bits about being royalty and so on, but well, it is only, well, I would much rather tell her to mind her own business, but this is her own business in a way, and she is family and that makes it all the more her business-”

“Breathe,” ordered Eleanor. “I would hate to explain how you talked yourself into suffocation.”

Still at her mending in the other window seat Hawise laughed, a soft sound very quickly suppressed.

Anne sucked in a new breath. “I left my maids behind because I just could not manage to say any of this if I had an even larger audience, and again I know it is partly their business and all, and they would be happy to help if I asked, and I am sure they could help, but not as much as you. You are really good at this sort of thing, being firm and standing up for yourself a bit, I mean, whereas I am really quite hopeless because I am too nice, or so Godit says, but Mariot says it is because I am well mannered and decently brought up, and I suppose really she should know, not to say you are not those things yourself, you understand, and I am sure you can strike just the right tone, the right balance between polite and ‘mind your own business!’, and you will find all the right words-”

“Breathe!”

The queen obeyed, but her headlong explanation barely even faltered. “You have plenty of practise at this sort of thing, and success, and I probably really only have one go at getting this right, and if I do not get the right tone then either she will go berserk or she will write again, and then I will be stuck in purgatory or forced to try and answer another letter like this. Now I know it really is partly her business and all, but I really do not want to ever have to do this again. I could just not bother answering, but then she would write again, and this time rather more sternly, and then it will be even harder to reply, and I would have to explain why I ignored the first letter, and the longer it takes for me to reply the harder it will get-”

“I think I begin to get the idea.”

“Oh. Good.” Anne subsided, breathing heavily.

Peace restored, Eleanor tried the letter again. She skipped past the lines detailing who was sending to whom, when and where it was written, and that it was in the grandmother’s own hand. The contents were an eye-opening, very educational experience. She had been right earlier – she didn’t want anything to do with this. At all.

“Well,” began Eleanor bravely. She stalled, then tried again. “Well …”

From over at the table Fulk piped up, “Well? I do know you’ve gone a delightful pink, oh royal one.”

“You keep your crooked nose out of other people’s business, you collop-witted dowdlepad.”

Fulk sketched an elaborate bow. “I hear and obey, your royal shortness.” He snatched up the copy of Herodotus again, quickly losing himself in whatever foolishness the author was recounting.

More quiet, short-lived laughter from Hawise, this time joined by a smile from Anne.

“Well,” tried Eleanor again, “I presume you want to tell your grandmother to stop worrying her sweet head over such … matters?”

Going red again Anne nodded.

Eleanor contemplated sending Anne over to Constance instead. Alas, it simply was not possible, not without upsetting Anne, and poor Constance had done nothing to deserve a mortified queen with an embarrassing letter anyway. For that matter, Eleanor decided, neither had she. With a bit of furious thinking she found the next best thing. “We cannot discuss potential replies without everyone in this room finding out what we are replying to, and I am not allowed to send Hawise and Fulk away.”

“But I need your help!” wailed Anne. “No one else is quite suitable! I would die of embarrassment showing that to Constance, and my maids are used to deferring to my grandmother and being polite and everything, and there is no one else I even like a little bit here, and William is away, and although he told me to take any troubles to Hugh I definitely cannot show that to him without melting into a small puddle of embarrassment, and he would be all earnest about it as well, and that would kill me again, and he would not even get the right kind of answer anyway because he is always so serious and everything, and I know I cannot find the right kind of answer on my own, and I never, ever want a letter like that ever again, so I suppose in comparison to what could be having Fulk and Hawise here is really not so bad, at least when you compare it to most of the things my grandmother says -”

“Alright, alright!” interrupted Eleanor. “I shall help.”

“Thank you.”

And so Eleanor found herself committed to trying to think up a suitable reply to a letter from a woman she had never met, a letter enquiring in some very great detail about royal conjugal relations, and, in-between short lectures on duty and family expectations, giving helpful advice and dire orders to help things along so an heir was produced immediately, if not sooner.

“Eleanor …” began Anne hesitantly. Eleanor nearly winced, sensing more awkwardness speeding her way. “You know … well, I am not sure how best to put this, and I do not want to pry or be bothersome or anything. I suppose … you know I am here if you need me, for whatever reason.”

From a lack of anything else to say Eleanor ventured, “Thank you.”

Gathering confidence, and away from her own troubles, Anne perked up a bit. “So if something is bothering you, you can at least talk to me, whatever it is.”

Eleanor imagined telling Anne about the pervasive temptation to fling herself at Trempwick’s feet and tell him everything, renouncing the loneliness, returning once again to a life of following him and obeying his orders, not needing to deal with the … spymastering herself. The mere thought of it was ridiculous, and this was but one tree in a whole forest. “Thank you; I will do that,” she lied. Carrying most of your own problems, fears, doubts alone came with the territory she was slowly inching into, and was itself another tree.






Trempwick sat at his mother’s bedside, mulling over what she had told him. He gave her hand a reflexive squeeze. “You did well. You have given me much to think on.” She had. Adding to the much he already had. So many little, little things …

“Let me retire to Saint Mary’s.”

Her common request. Always he refused it, but they both knew one day he would not. He did not refuse instantly, as he had the last few times. She looked old to his eyes; the first time ever. Her loose hair – how long since he’d last seen her like that? Not since he was a little boy – was filled with silver; it showed far more than when pinned up. Her face made haggard by recent trials. Clothed only in her shift it was obvious how thin she was. Bones draped in skin. All more from the rigours of purging poison than anything other. He hoped. “A little longer, just a little longer. I need you to watch Nell, but only until we are married. Leaving her to run about the palace unwatched is not good; she might get into mischief, or worse.”

This time she did not accept as easily. “You promised before I died-”

“You are in no danger of dying, not for a good while yet,” interrupted Trempwick. He was right. Barring strange acts of God she would not expire. Her health was robust. She had a purpose in life. Both would keep her soul firmly rooted here. Although the fire had dimmed. Worrying. “I have little doubt you will see your Biblical three score and ten years, if not more. You are doing far better than that maid who also drank the poison, and she is decades younger.” That maid had been moved out of here on his orders. All the better to let his mother recover. And to allow them to talk.

“She drank more, and made a terrible fuss.”

“But still you are doing far better; she reminds me of a nearly drowned kitten. Tomorrow you will be up and about.” Stern frown, unload the necessary truth to help, “You would be today if you put your mind to it. Instead you lie here pitying yourself, imagining your own death, and making requests you know I cannot allow. It is entirely pathetic.”

Success. She opened her eyes fully. Moved her head sharply to glare at him. “You dare-”

“I dare plenty, mother. If I did not then I would not be where I am. You are being a foolish old woman. I really thought better of you; you may imagine my disappointment.”

She made an effort to sit up. Trempwick caught her arm and assisted. Once upright she backhanded his ear and ordered, “Show a little respect! Honesty is all very well, but you are supposed to be bit more diplomatic about it, Raoul!”

Relief; her fire was burning properly again. He rubbed his ear ruefully. “That is considerably more like it, mother dear.”

She sniffed. “I hear you got my maid out of prison.” When he didn’t immediately comprehend her meaning and run for the door she snapped, “Well go and fetch the stupid girl, then! I can hardly be expected to dress myself.” She held up a knobbly, warning finger. “But do not expect much of me; up and about I might be, but I am in no condition to battle your bride, or anything else strenuous.”

“I shall be a model son, then. Under the circumstances I do not think we need to argue for Nell’s sake at present, but if you can put in the occasional comment …?”





“What if you say a bit about how you like your husband?” suggested Hawise.

Anne chewed her lower lip. “That could be suitable …”

Eleanor began to scribble words to that effect down on the latest bit of parchment. “Alright, I have ‘As to your enquires about my relationship with my new husband-”

“No,” said Fulk, very firmly. “Unless you answer in the same kind of explicit detail she wrote her questions in she’ll think you a complete barnpot. She doesn’t care about a mutual liking for reading, only activities that are likely to result in screaming new entries on the family tree to fill up the nursery so it’s not used as a guest house by a certain waspish princess.”

“He is right,” agreed Anne.

“Make up your mind!” grumbled Eleanor, as she drew a series of thick lines through the words. It was the ninth such abandoned beginning on this particular sheet. “Why not simply tell the truth?” She chucked the quill down onto the table in disgust; an ink splat appeared, and began to sink into the polished oak surface. Hoping no one else had noticed Eleanor decided to leave it; she had nothing to clean it up with anyway, except her sleeve, and she was not going to ruin yet another dress.

Anne resumed her resemblance to a strawberry. “Remember paragraph fifteen?”

Not off-hand, no, Eleanor did not remember which particular example of dreadfulness paragraph fifteen was.

Fulk very helpfully supplied, “The one with advice for luring reluctant kings.”

Eleanor scratched her head with the feathered end of her quill. “But he is not reluctant, only considerate of her age.”

“Same thing,” he assured her. “He isn’t there, so he needs getting there.”

“And anyway she would only repeat paragraph two at me.” Anne found the ceiling simply fascinating as she added in a mumble, “That would be the part where she reminds me duty has nothing to do with personal feelings or wants …”

“Alright.” Eleanor’s quill worked industriously. “How about this?” She held up her finished work for all to see. In larger than usual letters the parchment declared, “None of your business!” As Anne laughed Eleanor tossed the page on the floor with all the other rejects. She reached for another sheet. “We need to make some progress; we have used up nearly an entire flock of sheep in wasted parchment, and all we have so far is,” she looked to the page with the beginnings of what would be the final message, “‘Anne, Queen of England, by the Grace of God, to her most beloved grandmother, this in her own hand, from the palace at Waltham, this day the sixteenth of February.’ New line, then, ‘Greetings, I hope this missive finds you in excellent health.’” Eleanor set her quill down in the inkpot and pursed her lips. “I do not care if I wrote most of that lot,” she flicked a finger at the pile of waste letters, “but I am not going to be the one scraping the parchment clean to be re-used!”

The room went quiet as people wracked their brains.

Fulk clicked his fingers and leaned forward eagerly. “Why not, ‘I obey and am dutiful to my lord husband in all things in this regard’? Nice and vague, very dutiful and proper, it answers most of that lot in one go, and dumps the blame elsewhere for anything which might be wrong. It doesn’t invite much in the way of reply or conversation-”

Anne interrupted, “But she would think that something perverse or amoral is going on because I avoided answering properly, and that will get me a much longer version of paragraph twenty-nine delivered by courier with all possible speed.”

“Right then,” returned Fulk, “in that case you want to say, ‘Dear Granny, where and how did you learn such things!? Frankly I am horrified! I always thought you such a respectable type!’”

Anne began to giggle again. She pulled her feet up onto the seat and flung her arms around her up-drawn knees. “Sadly everything she said is very suitable and respectable, as she says several times. She would only send back that she knows stealing is wrong without ever having tried it herself, or knowing exactly how one goes about doing such things.”

Eleanor drew a little picture of her gooseberry and crown badge in the corner of the sheet, and let her mind wander from the not at all engaging problem she was supposed to be working on to other, more useful ones. Chiefly, Hawise. If she asked for Trempwick’s verdict on her could she trust it? Would he try to subvert her? If the maid spied for someone other than Trempwick then he would probably tell her honestly … unless he decided to claim Hawise was a spy for someone else simply to prevent Eleanor from trusting, liking or wanting to keep her. It went without saying that if Hawise was one of Trempwick’s people then he would not tell her, but it could at least narrow the field.

“How about ‘Thank you for the advice and recommendations, but it is really rather too early to wonder if I am barren; it has only been a little over two months, and anyway once is not …’” Anne petered out; her blush was once again renewed. “No. She would be very displeased with the truth.” It was the eleventh time in less than half an hour Anne had reached that conclusion.

Hawise’s quiet voice declaimed very seriously, “‘Dear grandmother, I am happy to report that everything is just fine, in all possible ways. Your concern and advice is touching, but not needed. I am having such a wonderful time here in England you really would not believe it! All the men are very handsome, and very friendly to me, and I am never left wanting for company, even while William is away.’” The maid winked at her stunned audience, then began sewing again.

The delayed effect set in, and everyone except Anne started laughing. The queen exclaimed, “But she would kill me! She would get on her fastest horse, charge down here, and then strangle me with her bare hands while repeating paragraphs nine and ten at me!”

Someone knocked on the door. Trempwick let himself in, after waiting a couple of seconds. As soon as she saw who it was Eleanor’s heart sank.

“I do hope I am not interrupting?” he asked.

Eleanor found a smile from somewhere and gestured at the mound of parchment on the floor. “We were just helping Anne write a letter.”

Trempwick raised his eyebrows. “I will not ask how it is going, then. I have some questions I must ask, beloved Nell. Might we move to your room? It will not take long.”

She set aside her writing implements and got up. To the others she said, “If you can replace me as scribe you can continue working while I am gone.”

Anne also stood up, putting on her most regal front. “One moment. Spymaster, I require an explanation of that flogging earlier.”

Trempwick made a meticulously correct bow to her. “Nothing to worry yourself over, your majesty. Three men had been harassing the king’s prisoners, against his standing orders, and against the prince’s also. The matter is concluded now, and the problem at an end.”

“Prisoners?” Eleanor felt sure she already knew.

“Juliana, and probably others.”

Just as she’d thought, and her spirits managed to sink even lower. In a way it was her fault, like so many things. She followed Trempwick though into the other room, and once the door was shut asked, “What exactly happened to her?” She owed the maid that much; specific guilt to bear, not vague.

Trempwick sat down on the bed and patted the space at his side. “Nothing too bad; she brought up my name to protect herself. Do not worry yourself, sweet Nell.” When she sat he placed his arm around her; obediently she leaned against him and let her muscles go slack. “I do have questions I must ask, but they can wait a minute or two. I spoke to Hugh; he refused me.” He halted, and Eleanor got the impression he was calculating something. That only lasted a few seconds. He kissed the top of her head, but something in his voice was harder as he continued, “But that was only a preliminary skirmish; the true war is not yet begun, and its battles are still there for the winning. Win them I shall, on my terms. I cannot outrank him, but that only matters if I choose to fight in a lack-wittedly straightforward manner.”

“What will you do, master?”

He looked down at her, and asked, “‘Master’?”

Eleanor covered her slip with smoothness born of long practise, “You are scheming, and that makes you the spymaster.”

His eyes continued to search her, as if he could see into her soul and heart. As a child she had believed he could, until she had discovered it was a kind of trickery, and then had learned a little of that trickery herself. She tried to remain transparently open, but still opaque enough to hide what she wanted. Finally he looked away, satisfied. “I have the beginnings of one victory with your brother, though. Also the foundations of a few plans, and a few other, more complete plans.”

“Anything interesting?”

“You know I do not like to brag, so pardon me if I say nothing.”

“As you wish; it only means I do not need to admire your cunning.” He laughed at that. “But you can at least tell me what you plan for Fulk and Hawise.”

“That depends rather on what you wish me to do with them, beloved Nell.”

“I made my decision on Fulk long ago, and you know it.” She waited, seeing if he would reply to that. He didn’t. “Hawise … I am not sure what she is. As a maid she is tolerable, and perhaps even useful enough to take home with me, but if she is a spy then obviously we do not want her.”

“She is not a name known to me, but by no means I do personally know the names and identities of all the opposing pawns here at the palace. I have already started making inquiries amongst my usual sources; I shall let you know what I discover.”

“You still have not exactly answered my question; what if we do not want them?”

He pulled her plait forward across her shoulder and made a great show of inspecting the way the single interwoven ribbon held it all together. “If I told you then you would have to admire my cunning. No harm will come to them, I shall say that much. I promised you that for your pet before, and how could I possibly harm a maid capable of taming your hair?” He transferred his grip to the bottom of the braid, and started toying with the stub of loose hair left below the binding ribbon. “Very good work, though honestly I prefer your hair loose.”

Eleanor snatched her plait back from him and tossed it back over her shoulder. “You are the one who insisted I wear it up all the time now!”

“Of course; I also like you to wear clothes in public, sweetest Nell. Same principle. Now, my questions. Was it arranged in advance that you would send Juliana for a tray of food?”

“No.”

“Did you request anything specific, or leave her and the kitchen staff to choose?”

Eleanor took a moment to remember. “No.”

“And the same for drinks? You did not-” he broke off as the door to the room opened without warning.

Eleanor greeted her brother with a frosty smile. “This is getting to be a real bad habit of yours, Hugh.”

Hugh shut the door and stood before it, one hand resting on his belt, just next to his dagger. “I knocked.”

“Then you must have done so very quietly, because we did not hear it.”

“I shall endeavour to make a deal more noise next time.”

“See that you do.”

“Be cautious of what you say, dear sister. One might get the impression my interruption was very unwelcome.” His eyes deliberately raked over her, then the spymaster, then their choice of seat.

Before Eleanor could muster a fitting response Trempwick was there. “You did not, and I fail to see why you would think so.”

“I doubt that, spymaster.”

“The only reason I can see is one I put from my mind immediately, knowing it to be something you are above. You would not distrust your sister’s honour so, and with so very little reason.”

Hugh bridled. “I trust my sister’s honour completely, without question.”

Eleanor very graciously didn’t mention the fact he had cast very significant doubts on said honour several times recently.

Trempwick gave off the impression he was smirking, even though his face – his entire body – was carefully moulded into polite engagement. “Then it would be my honour you doubt. I find that unsurprising, but sad none the less.”

Hugh shook his head so suddenly it was more a jerk than a planned movement. “I have not said that, and I express regret that you took that impression.”

“Good, good, because that would imply that either I am going to rape my dearest Nell, or that she is so foolish she would fall for my advances despite being above reproach. I would be very disappointed to find you thought that.”

“I certainly do not,” said Hugh, very quickly. He shifted his feet, and lowered his gaze to meet the floor several paces ahead of himself rather than continue to look at the accused pair. “It distresses me no end that the possibility occurred to you, and I am most happy that I may tell you it is false, and so put an end to any unfortunate dissonance the erroneous belief may have caused between us.”

“Then,” said Trempwick softly, “I do indeed fail to see why someone might believe Nell and I were caught at a less than convenient moment.”

Silence. Eleanor felt Trempwick’s muscles relax beneath his clothes; she hadn’t realised they had tensed until that tension was gone. She watched her brother with something approaching sympathy, despite the fact it was obvious he had been insinuating the very things he had just denied. Being caught out by Trempwick was seldom a comfortable experience, but she did think Hugh a fool for creating the opening in the first place. She could see why he had tried, she could see what he had planed to do, and she even approved – a gambit which reduced still further the amount of time she spent with Trempwick would ease her life considerably, even if it arose out of something decidedly insulting. But all the same, he was a fool for letting the weapon slip out of his hands and be turned back against him.

When Hugh finally scraped an answer only a few heartbeats had gone by, but it was already too late. “Pray forgive me for my most unfortunate wording. Perhaps it would have been better if instead I had said I felt as though I had interrupted a very intimate conversation, which is honestly how I do feel.”

Eleanor shrugged before she could remember not to; she worked not to let the sudden pain show. “We were only talking of the attempt on my life.”

Hugh seemed rather relived. “Good; I should feel most discomforted if I had indeed interrupted something of greater worth.”

Trempwick’s muscles tensed very slightly again, like a fighter readying himself for action. “Nell’s information has been of great worth indeed; it gives me some new ideas to consider.”

Hugh’s face flamed. If Eleanor had been a safe spectator, out of the eyes and ears of both men, she would have groaned. Hugh was going to pieces; that one small mistake had cost him more than a few uncomfortable moments, it had damaged his confidence. “The investigation is of great worth, as is my sister’s life-”

Trempwick appeared very puzzled, but Eleanor knew it to be one of his acts. “But whoever said otherwise, your highness?”

“No one, of course.” He swallowed hard, then took a slightly deeper breath than usual. “I was only attempting to voice my gratitude for your work, and delight that you feel you are making progress. Previously, when I first mentioned ‘great worth’, I believed you might have been soothing my sister’s distress over the very sad events these past few days. I know she has been very sorely beset by cares, and feels some guilt for what has happened, though clearly and certainly she has no reason to.” Hugh frowned, then looked Trempwick in the eye, all trace of his nervousness gone. “What I am making a complete pig’s ear of expressing is my acknowledgement of the bond you and my sister share, and the fact that you, and only you, can truly comfort her. She needs it. She is long past the time when a brother is sufficient. Forgive me for making such a mess of expressing it; it is a sentiment not easy to place into words.” He transferred his gaze to Eleanor. “Especially when one almost does not wish to admit it as fully true to oneself.” It was a good recovery, and it closed up the vulnerability.

Trempwick said, “A very fine sentiment, your highness, and it does you credit.”

Hugh nodded curtly. “Thank you. I came here in part to pass the latest news of our king to Anne, but also to impart the same news to my dear sister, as I am certain she will have an interest in it. He continues his trip through France; travel is easy and the weather good for the time of year. He is making rapid progress, but is moving at a slower pace than he might so as to take full advantage of the journey to sound out the local lords. Most flock to his side, and those who do not come in person send messages, and so he surmises that thus far all is well enough in his domains. There are, as almost always, a few lords trying their luck, and he plans a few demonstrations to prove age has not dulled his edge. He is having little trouble in extracting sets of four men from each lord to bolster his army without exposing himself to the potential for treachery that larger numbers from each lord might bring. At the time of writing he was due to reach Saint Maur in another ten days.”

There was not a single thing in there that required Hugh to come dashing over here to tell her, or so she believed. Eleanor smiled dutifully. “How wonderful.”

“Good news indeed,” said Trempwick.

Hugh turned back to the door. “Now I shall depart, and allow you to resume your work.” He turned back, and bowed to Eleanor. “Forgive me, I neglect my manners in a most egregious way. How are you today, sister? Everything is well, I trust?”

That was his real reason for coming, Eleanor knew at once. “Yes, thank you, Hugh.”

“Good, good.” And on that note Hugh left.

Trempwick continued to gaze at the spot where Hugh had been, mind miles away. After a while he blinked and returned to the present. “I shall have to go; I have certain pressing matters which must be seen to, and I can delay them no longer. We will have to continue this over dinner, beloved Nell. I am sorry.”

“I understand. At dinner, then. It will help pass the time between dishes.”

He kissed her very delicately, perhaps an effort to make up for his momentary and forthcoming desertion. Despite his care it was far from comfortable, but she endured without complaint. “That cut lip of yours is a real menace, Nell dear.”

The door was part way open when Eleanor asked, “Raoul?”

“Yes?” His irritation at being held back was so evident she wished she had not spoken.

“I wanted to ask something.”

He shut the door again. “Then ask, instead of wasting my time. Away for a couple of days and years of my training are immediately forgotten.” His face eased. “My apologies; I am … distracted.”

Eleanor acted as if she had not heard the last part; she clasped her hands in front of her, raised her chin and spoke clearly, as he had taught her to do, “I have been hearing stories, from Anne, but originally from my father, which differ from reality as I have always known it. I want to know how much truth they contain.”

She said nothing, and waited. Trempwick invited, “Tell me these stories, dearest Nell.” She could tell it was a reluctant offer; he wanted to be gone, and his mind was partly engaged elsewhere.

“He claims to have loved my mother. He supposedly wrote a song for her, the one beginning ‘Though I wander far, you are always in my heart’. The notches on the back of the garden wall were supposedly cut for him, so he could see her without people bothering them.”

Now she had his full attention. “And?” he asked, demanding her analysis.

“And the last cannot be true; to be free of people all he needs to do is order them away, and he has been doing this much of his life. No one would dare bother him in his bedchamber anyway, or in hers, so the garden is redundant. The second story part is possibly true, but as an empty and expected gesture, I believe. The song remains mildly popular today, and is generally considered to be good; I doubt it is entirely his own work, if he did have any part in it at all besides claiming credit. The first, that is not how I remember things, but I saw little and was very young. Until now I have encountered nothing to make me doubt my own view of them, but I admit I have not looked very hard because I never wished to know.”

Trempwick let his hand drop from the door latch and wandered a few steps away, both from the door and from her. “Nell, beloved Nell, dear little Nell, you have always had such a gift for asking difficult questions.”

“Sorry, master.” Again she waited patiently.

He turned back to her. “Nell, you ask me an impossible question. I can only give you my thoughts, and they could be wrong. They are more than I could tell you easily, and very lengthy.” Still she waited, expectant. She knew he would say more, so long as she did not disrupt the process. His gaze turned inwards, and again she knew he was only partly here, but despite his understatedly grand show of thinking she knew it was more a test of her patience; a tutor’s affectation of his. “He is getting to be an old man; old men often look back on their past with kindly eyes. Does he think he loved her? Yes. Did he? Probably not, at least not until after she died and he realised the gap she left behind.”

Relief coursed through her; Anne had been deceived. She had been right. “Then it is all lies.”

“Nell, I did not say that.” The words contained sufficient disapproval to make her cringe inwardly. “I warned you my answer was difficult and lengthy; this is what comes of condensing it.”

“So what is the rest of that answer?”

“As I said it is lengthy and complex, dearest Nell. You ask for their life story.” He brushed a spec of dust off the skirt of his tunic. “To sum up very, very briefly, and quite unsatisfactorily, they were much as you might expect from any couple pushed together by expediency and in their position. He was not cruel to her, although neglect is a kind of cruelty and I suppose in the early years he was somewhat guilty of that. They grew closer after a few years had passed, and spent more time together after that. I would say they became fond of each other. The song he wrote in their first year; quite what his motivations I could not say, as I was but a boy myself at the time. I suspect it was partly because it was expected, and partly because the young king hoped to impress his new wife and win her over. Will that do for now?” he inquired, his tone stating that it would have to. “I really must go. I can tell you more later, if you want.”

“I suppose so. Thank you.”

It was only after he had gone Eleanor realised he had avoided answering her question about the wall.





4,939.

A person! One of the 100ish readers has commented! :faints clean away from the shock:

Thanks, Monk. It's very reassuring to hear that people here still like the way this story is going; I know the twist and the things it introduced will not be to everyone's taste. Viewcounts don't help much in that respect.

[zelda12]

I'm still here playing catchup!

I'm currently trying to read a post a day. I'll jump it up once my exams are over but you know how it is. What I've read so far is as amazing as ever!

[AntiochusIII]

Oh, lady Frog, do not despair if somebody doesn't comment. Somebody, like me, really, really likes your story... but... got nothing good to say.

You see, I am too inexperienced to actually make a constructive literary criticism. (Now, a person who did not speak English as his mother language and only speaks it primarily for a year could not be expected to do so... ) However, I come here to say that your story is simply amazing!

The main reason is that I, and most likely many others, wouldn't like to clutter your thread with every joyful glee everytime you post (kinda like EB's weekly preview...)

So enjoy your writing, it is well appreciated.

[Aetius the Last Roman]

Brilliant Story,
will look forward to the further entries.
don't have time to comment on much as I have exams and obsessive reading really does not help my revision schedule.

The characters, wow!
I hardly read anything which possesses such real characters anymore, everyone seems contented with the inane scribblings of Dan Brown and other trash.

[Lothair]

It seems like ... Monk's comment was the one comment which started the comment ... rush?

Heh. I like the recent twist the story has taken, life at court, intrigues and things, for me it make the story both better, more beliveable (the one point which annoys me most thus far in the story are were Fulky and Nell kills the thugs sent by Trempy. Not overly believeable. (is "believeable" a word at all? )) and everything. And Anne. Loved the scene in your last post when she asked Nell for help with the letter.

But, uh, the one thing which made me post this, was that when I listened to N.E.R.D.'s "Maybe" now, the lyrics, well, described the recent relationship between Trempy and Nell (You wouldn't think that they were spymaster and princess by their pet names, surely. ) frightfullingly well:

"(...)
Well they say,
If something's yours,
And you let it go,
If it comes back to you,
It was yours all along.
Well I let you go,
Along with those lies from you.
I wonder what else lies in you,
Or did the lies just eat it gone?

I know you thought your life was gonna be easy,
When you didn't call.
You found that you were wrong, haha.
See I know you thought your life was gonna be easy.
You thought you had it all,
But you found that you were wrong.
(...)"

I can see for me a godlike being (frog, maybe?) saying that to poor old Trempy (now I make him sound like a donkey..).

[frogbeastegg]

Nell trailed after him. Subdued. guarded. Apprehensive. But so carefully hidden only he was likely to pick up on it. He was displeased, and she knew it. Given … everything it was good to see he could still inspire that. Not that he had ever doubted.

They entered the guest house first; the miscellany of servants and his mother further behind. Trempwick wrenched open the door to Nell’s borrowed bedchamber. “Wait,” he ordered. He closed the door behind her – quietly, but so quickly it still gave the impression of being slammed – and went to his own room to fetch something from his bags. Then he went back, and joined her, hiding his item behind his back under the harmless guise of clasping his hands at the small of his back.

Quite fascinating; she had chosen to sit at the window, though the shutters were closed against the evening’s encroaching gloom. The point furthest from the door.

For a heartbeat or so he stood just in front of the closed door, eyebrows raised in a mild, undefined question. She didn’t do anything. So predictable. She always left the first move to him. To prevent herself from betraying anything extra to him. So … cute. Learned the hard way, after once starting to defend herself from an offence different to the one he intended to raise. That had been most amusing.

Trempwick crooked a finger at her. She came, grudgingly. “Hand.” She extended her left hand. Revealing. Mistrustful enough that she took no risk with her favoured hand. He dumped his prize in her outstretched hand; a fine girdle of small silver plates linked together, set with pearls and finely engraved with a spiralling pattern. Part of the girdle spilled over the edge of her palm, and the rest began to pour after it. She captured the gift between both hands with a speed he found admirable. “How much do you think that is worth, beloved Nell?”

Guarded. “I could not say.” She hadn’t even looked at it, much. Too busy watching him.

“Guess.”

She examined the girdle properly. Checking workmanship, the items gone into its construction, the amount of metal used. “A lot.”

“So you will see on my accounts ‘Item: one silver girdle set with pearls. Cost: A lot, to be paid in two instalments.’?”

“No, master.”

Again, master. “Let me illuminate for you, sweet Nell. That exquisite little trinket cost me fifty-six pounds, eight shillings. Made at my request, by a master craftsman. It took him, he says, and I do not doubt, twelve days from start to finish. Twelve days where he did no other work at all.” He made it clear he expected some comment.

Hesitation, not entirely hidden. A brief calculation of what response was most likely to keep him happy. “It is very pretty, master.” She did mean it; the way she continued to gaze at the girdle, the slight tinge of gratitude in her voice, a certain limited mitigation of her visible nerves.

“Yes,” he agreed. Be breezy now, light, cheerful. “Put it on; I had it made to be worn, not carried.” He waited while she swapped her existing girdle for the new one. Contemplated helping her arrange the two loops. Decided, before the question even fully formed, not to. Distance. Keep her guessing. Suspense. A hint of forgiveness, but not overdone. That was best.

Once the exchange was complete he requested, “Do a turn.” She did. He assessed his gift. Length was good; the two ends hung correctly to just below her knees. He had the slenderness of the oblong plates correct also; just suited to her dainty frame. The pearls and etchings were understated, but sufficiently decorative. Silver would go well with any of the colours she usually wore. It was rich enough to suit her status, and to compare favourably with most others at court. But still not ostentatious, gaudy, or wastefully extravagant. In a sea of peacocks Nell would have quiet style. Taste too. He knew she would like that as much as he.

He let his ill-temper be forgotten. Looked openly admiring, but not to the point of excess. True sentiment. “Walk to the far side of the room and back again; I want to see how it looks from a distance.”

She did so. She was not fooled by his sudden change in mood. She was not meant to be. She did like the gift though. Just doubted its meaning, and him.

Honesty. “Very handsome,” he assured her. He gathered her into his arms. Let it stand for a moment as simple affection and appreciation. Trempwick leaned down, and asked quietly, just next to her ear, “So why, when I can fling away money on baubles like this, why did you go grovelling to your brother for a few paltry shillings instead of coming to me?”

Her reply; smooth, prepared, “You were not here, and not supposed to be here until tomorrow. I could not wait; the need was very pressing, and this was the lesser of two evils. I could not allow myself to be shown as penniless; I would be a laughingstock.”

He drew back, away from her. Resumed the measuring teacher’s appearance. “Explain to me, sweet Nell, why precisely I am so exasperated with this arrangement.”

“I did not warn you of it. I am in his debt now, very slightly. He has a new hold over me, though a minor one.”

“Neither is something to be allowed lightly, dearest Nell, and I always appreciate being warned of anything which might affect either of us.”

“No, master. I am aware of that.”

“And he humiliated you when you asked, and will do so again and again whenever he can using this arrangement until it is severed. That gives him still more power, and weakens your own position still further.”

“I know, master.” A touch of annoyance. She didn’t like being reminded of the obvious in this way. “It matters little in the end – let him think he has some small mastery of me. It is not the case, and the belief keeps me that little bit safer from him.”

Be inscrutable. “Is that all?” Now expectant, testing. Has she learned well, or will she fail to win his approval. Such an old game, but always exhilarating to play.

“No, master, it is not. If any of this becomes public it will be quite obvious my brother is treating me poorly. He must pick his moments, and his acts, with care, and that gives me some … potential leeway.”

“Elaborate,” he commanded. A formality only; he knew her likely answer.

“If I can but keep out of his reach in private then I am mostly safe. You saw he had to make his ‘gift’ of money tonight quietly and courteously, instead of taking the opportunity to pick at me again. Even if not I can turn things to my own advantage a little, give him a rough ride. He is currently suffering from an uneasy conscience, thanks to my pretending to faint before the hall. The belief is that my weakness was real, and that it was caused by distress at recent events, but he knows otherwise. But if they knew what he had done …”

“Nothing else? No more to add, no other reasons?”

“No, master.”

Assess. Take a moment to weigh her words with fitting consideration. Pronounce judgement, “You are overconfident, dear little Nell. Your brother will do what he will do, and if he is resolute then you will not stop him with such small tricks.”

“But he will have no reason to do anything I might wish to stop.”

“Sure of that, are you?”

She nodded. Seeming confident. Sure of herself, and her notions. “Yes, master. He needs excuse, to keep his own appearance blemish free, otherwise he will only appear cruel or vindictive.”

“That is true, but he has had little difficulty in finding cause, has he?”

“That was before this arrangement was set in place.”

Consider. Calculate. Be seen to do so. “Very well; it all becomes rather futile now I am here, anyway. As I find myself saying with alarming frequency, I shall protect you. The deal will be broken off; I will provide you with sufficient funds. You will not see Hugh unless I, or others, are present, with the preference being firmly on myself. You will keep out of his way. You categorically will not give him even a fraction more control over you, illusionary or otherwise, without my express permission.” No hint of negotiability. Instead an outline for what would be.

“Yes, master.”

“And Nell? Dearest Nell?”

“Yes, master?”

“You can stop calling me that now.” Let it go; extend forgiveness. Give her absolution. Retribution would have to be postponed to a more fitting time, irksome as that may be. Return to a more friendly footing. Allowing indulgent humour to enter his voice Trempwick said, “No more surprises, sweet Nell. My old heart cannot take them so well as it used to.”

A hint of a smile from her. “You are not old … not that old.”

Trempwick clutched one hand to his heart. “One clean shot; oh, the agony!”

Her mouth twitched in a tentative smile. “I shall check you over for grey hairs later; that will settle the question well enough.”

“If you find any, beloved Nell, I shall blame you for each and every one.”

“Credit where it is due.”

He laughed. “A game of chess seems just the thing to while away the remainder of the evening, beloved Nell. I hear you have been practising your game a little. I think I shall request some wine along with a chess set; have you any preference?”

“Clairet would be pleasant.”

Trempwick exited to the outer room. The knight was playing knucklebones near the fire, and talking to the maid. They both stopped what they were doing; the knight catching his knucklebones one last time to make it clear he did not hurry to the spymaster’s beck and call. So pathetic. Trempwick ordered, “We require some clairet and a chess set; someone fetch them.” The knight looked up. Again, that well hidden hatred, now intensified. Trempwick met the man’s eye, then casually dismissed him in a deliberate move intended to annoy – he went back to Nell’s room with a spring in his step. He now knew who would deliver the items to them. The knight. All eager to see that his worst fears were not real. Wanting the reassurance of seeing them only acting as friends. Fearing to see someone doing as he himself wanted to do, to see again how he had lost. Ah, revenge. Not something to be indulged often, or to any extent beyond minor. But irrefutably sweet. Returning the favour; he’d spent long enough worrying about the knight and Nell.

He halted in the doorway as he heard quiet footsteps behind him. The maid, bearing a wooden box. She extended her offering to him with a small curtsey. “There was a chess set in the outer room, lordship.”

“Thank you.” He let her go, and closed the door. The knight would be fetching the wine now, to bring that himself.

Trempwick shuffled the furniture a bit, setting the room’s table between bed and the lone chair, moved over from near the fire. Together he and Nell began to set out the game.

“Your brother,” he said, “seems under the impression I should never take a break, and should never want to see you in those breaks. Quite inane, considering he then tells me – so frequently it begins to tire me – that he knows how fond I am of you.”

She placed her second to last pawn on its square. “I do pity his poor wife.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I like her. The mere thought of being married to a slow, stolid, mostly stupid, lump with no flare, little wit, scant sense, and a sense of duty that forgets people are just that, well, I admit it is enough to make a religious life appealing.”

“I must admit I see your point, and share it.” He shivered exaggeratedly. “You should have met some of the heiresses my mother pushed at me. Dear Nell, honestly they would give you nightmares! They certainly did me – if I drink too much ice wine before retiring to sleep I see hordes of them, blank eyed and polite, descending on me.”

“At which point you wake up screaming.”

“No,” he corrected. “At which point I continue to dream that I can never find anything in my study again, because it has all been tidied.”

Now it was her turn to laugh.

An idea; a good one. Trempwick moved to sit at her side on the bed, and began to unfasten the bow at the end of her braid.

“I do wish you would make your mind up,” she complained. “First my hair is alright loose, then looks better up, then is preferred loose, then up, and now loose again. I shall shear it off level with my shoulders; that will put an end to the problem.”

“And look like a runaway nun, beloved Nell?” His hands deftly undid the braiding, disentangling the long ribbon from equally long locks. “Think of how inconvenient it would be; you would be arrested frequently.”

“Nuns, urgh!” She glanced over her should briefly, grinning. “The haircutting is one excellent reason alone to avoid taking vows. Short hair looks quite hideous.”

“Long hair is very ladylike,” he agreed. “It is entirely superior to short hair in every possible way.” He began to comb out the few tangles with his fingers.

So fortuitous; it was at this point the knight knocked on the door and came in. The concealed hate flared; the knight thinking murder. The jug and goblets were set to one side, and the knight departed. Nell had all but ignored him.

He ran his hand over her hair a few more times, enjoying the privilege which was his alone. No other man should see her with her hair loose. No one else should play with it. One small aspect of their relationship, restored to rights. One of her eccentricities tamed into something reputable. “There; that looks much better.” Trempwick poured two cups of clairet, handed one to Nell, and sat back down opposite her. He sipped his drink, regarded her over the cup’s rim as he did so. She was settled now. Still marginally wary, but that could not be helped. “You want to play black or white?”

“I do not mind,” she replied.

He put his drink down, and turned the chess board through a half circle. “Play white, dear Nell. Take the first move, for once.”

They played. She was the same as ever. Overhasty. Lacking long-term plans, or indeed any plan beyond the next move. He always found it a saddening sight. She could be good at this, or any game of strategy. If only she tried.

A few more moves passed; his own flowing quickly as he needed to do so little to counter her. Boring, tedious, lacking challenge or real need for skill.

Then, very softly he asked, “How much longer do you think you can deceive me, beloved Nell?” He did not move, kept his face turned to the chess board, but rolled up his eyes to watch.

She blanched. That one you could never truly control, just like a blush. “I do not know what you mean.”

Potential moves, flitting across his mind. Appearing, considered, dismissed. An occasion where a touch of violence was constructive and excusable? Yes. He dashed the goblet from her hand with one carefully aimed, feline-swift swipe. “Enough of this! You will stop lying and evading, or I shall get very fed up.”

She almost cringed. Better. The devastating silence was only broken by the goblet rolling to a halt on the floor. He saw her reach for her control. Once grasped, she replied, “Really, I do not know what you mean.”

He sipped his own drink, then emptied the cup in one go. He set the goblet down on the table with precision. Noticing a small driblet of her wine on his hand he wiped it away with his finger. All the time appearing blank to her; not giving even a hint of what he might be thinking or feeling. “All day, so many tiny little things, dear Nell, tiny little things which bother me. Little lies, little half-truths, little bits of information kept back, so very many little things which do not quite fit. So, my beloved Nell, you will explain. Now.”

“You will have to be more specific-”

“I think not, sweet Nell.” Now, a smile that had not a trace of friendliness. Sit back a little, pin her with a baleful glare. “You know precisely what I mean.” See what she brought up, whether it matched his own thoughts. He might find something new this way. Doubtful, but one should never dismiss such possibilities.

Simply, she answered, “Then I have nothing to explain. You are being paranoid.”

Despite being a perfectly rational man there were times when he really wanted to drive his fist through a solid object. This was one of them. Breaking one’s own hand had so few advantages, and the urge was deplorable. But so understandable. “When could you ever fool me, Nell?” He bit each word off, showing his fangs a little as he framed the syllables. He unfurled himself, and began pacing about the room like a caged wolf. “Let me tell you when, dearest Nell. Never. Not once. You might think you have, but only when it suited me to let you believe so. Sometimes it really is easier that way; sometimes it saves me so much fuss and bother. And, believe it or not, oh beloved Nell, sometimes it seems kindest that way!” A very small lie. He did not think himself so perfect, and her so brainless, that she could never keep a secret from him. If that were the case she had no place as his apprentice. But even so there was considerable truth in his pronouncement. If there was not he had no place being the master.

He turned back to study her. She had gone an interesting grey. She looked sick. She was scared. She was thinking quickly; excuses, reasons. It was all very subtle, of course. If it hadn’t have been he would have been so deeply disappointed. The sight was placating, in a very minor way. He was having the desired effect. His hunch was correct. There was something major here.

“I doubt you will believe me, but it is true,” he announced, moderating his tone to purely conversational. Wisely she said nothing. He didn’t much want wisdom. He prompted, “Nothing to say? Not even to express curiosity?”

“If I were to believe you then I find many things now make little sense. If I accuse you of lying I shall find myself spit roasted over an open fire. So no, I do not think I have anything to say.”

“Delightful, dear Nell. Delightful.” He ceased his prowling, assumed his favourite lecturing pose. “I am not fond of ructions, fuss, sulking, arguing, fighting, unsightly noise, pleading, hopeless bids to thwart my purpose, expanding effort over a less than useful cause, or a lot of ultimately pointless bother. You know that. I always act to keep you safe, to teach what I can, to keep you as content as possible considering the many confounding details. You know that also. Think on that, and then you will find everything makes sense.” Very casually, watch her closely as you say it, “It really it is quite depressing to be hated by someone you care deeply for.”

“Think on that.” She came smoothly to her feet, flung herself several steps closer to him, radiating righteous fury. Or a good impression of it. “I have done little else! Since I came here I have nearly been killed, I have been battered, mocked, humiliated, hopping from one disaster to the next with scant time to even catch my breath - just like I said would happen! But you sent me anyway.”

“So you shunt the blame for these things to me. But no, let us disregard that, and return to the question in hand. Why is that, dearest Nell? Why have you been treated so poorly?”

She crossed her arms. Reined in that anger. Said flatly, “Ask Hugh.”

“No, I think not. I prefer to ask you, and ask you I did.”

“Because Hugh hates me.”

“So he acted time and again without excuse or cause, before witnesses? And yet he is still considered well, and you are hardly believed to be an angel.” No reply. Nothing given away, by either side. “Trapped, lying.”

“He created reason.”

Fained surprise. “Did he indeed? How, pray?” He leaned forward minutely, lending added intensity to his words. “Because speaking to servants who overheard your little Llwellyn gaff put the blame firmly on you. Common gossip repeats back the fact you argued in an overly blunt way with your brother when trying to refuse his chosen servants, instead of placing your case a little more tactfully. A little more work, a little more time, and I wonder how much else I will find leading straight back to you?”

Fresh unease. “I was rather desperate to avoid the servants, for reasons you already know. Perhaps I was a little … overzealous, but anything subtler bounces off my brother’s thick skull. He overreacted in any case. Llwellyn had been niggling at me all evening, politely. He was still at it last night.” A furious scowl. “Hoped I was not in any discomfort indeed! He was prying where he was not wanted and had no business.”

“So?” he demanded.

She didn’t want to say it. Her reluctance was plain. But she was well trained. She gritted her teeth. “It was my fault.” Very quickly added, “Partly.”

A big, happy smile, just for her. “And so we begin to make progress! Congratulations, sweet Nell, on finally managing a pinch of honesty. You will admit this alters things considerably.”

“If you say so, master.”

“I do, dear Nell, I do.” Plunge back into unremitting harshness. “Why are you protecting him?”

“Him who?” Asked so innocently. So believably. What a liar she was! He was proud. Even if it was a confounded nuisance at present.

“Hugh, who else. For all your careful scorn and blame you protect him.”

“Master, I-”

“Why?” he shouted. Point made he lowered his voice. “I search, I investigate, I think until my head aches, and it all makes no God damned sense. Unless it was him.” It had been a realisation which had made his blood run cold. Fiction had become truth. Hugh was trying to remove his sister. A gut feeling, of a kind he had long since learned to pay heed to. It made sense if … the bastard had learned of what he was. Or he had known for a time, and had recently accepted it. No right to inherit; clean up the best opposition. Use resources to smother the truth. To buy support. Nell dead, out of his way. Or handed to another, to buy loyalty. Both … semi-amateurish aims, given his position. As likely to ruin him as aid him. The latter required William’s approval. Which could be gained, perhaps. Unless William saw better use in this present arrangement. Or unless Trempwick extended himself, with no guarantee of success. “And you carefully try turn me away from that. Why?”

She set her jaw; defiant to the last. “Because vague suspicion with no proof is not much use. Because it suited my ends, as keeping me ignorant has suited yours often enough.”

“You sound once more like a complete idiot,” he snarled. He advanced one big pace in a lunge, putting her within his reach. “Twisting circumstances to fit a vision that does not work really is doing you no credit. Vague suspicion is the beginning of investigation, and he is the most likely source, both for the act and for the resulting mess.”

“He is my brother. He used to be good-”

“Used to be!” He bellowed the words, as if volume could hammer his point home better. He advanced again, began to circle around her, close enough he was nearly treading on her. “When someone becomes your enemy they are your enemy; sitting around remembering old times fondly only weakens you. People change, motives change, and when they do you had best be living in the present, not the past. It matters little what Hugh was, it matters just as little what you used to be. It is what you both are now which matters, and only that.”

She became rather crumpled. Lost. Hopeless. “We cannot afford to lose him as well. He must be king. There is no one else. He used to be good; we must steer him back to it.”

Except he was a bastard, with no right to inherit even a worn out shoe from William. Informing her of that at present would be of dubious value. No, dangerous. Ignorance served his ends better. For now. Pity ignorance came shackled to folly such as that which she had demonstrated. His circling stopped. “Ah, poor Nell. The problem is, he will continue to strike at you.”

She whirled to face him. “Only so long as he believes me a threat.” She inched a little closer; very close now. Calm again. Intent. Trying to make him understand. But under it all … distress. And hurting. “We discussed this before; once we are married it all becomes easier. Tied to someone who is not in a position to pursue the crown, and who is staunchly loyal, I am put from the contest. What could you do, anyway? Even if we were certain it was him?”

“Nothing.” Plenty; covertly. “As you say, there is no one else.” Until she wanted to step forward. And she would, in time. “William would not believe anyway, and what could he do if he did?” Nothing. Same as if he knew the truth of the bastard. “And who would believe us, if we spoke against the crown prince?” Those with a mind to listen. Or a cause to. Or a need to. “But you lie to me, and that wastes my time. It places you in more danger, because I cannot counter effectively. It gives me reason to distrust you, and that will be ruinous … for you, more than for me. I need your obedience, beloved Nell, and I will have it.”

“You already do, master,” she assured him hastily.

“That is not how it looks to me.” And he would take steps to correct that. Careful steps, spread over the near future.

“I am true to my purpose – the purpose you gave me. Whatever else are we, if not guardians of king, heir, and realm? Everything we do, everything we are, is to that end. No matter personal feelings. No matter the personal cost. Save him or destroy him; I had to choose, and quickly. I dislike Hugh; I despise the arse in the crown completely. It is a sign of how well you taught me that I even try this. I believed that purpose best served by what I did; there can be no hint of the truth, no reprisals, no visible extra security against Hugh, nothing. You must look suitably innocent, or he will try and destroy you as well. I knew you would come to this conclusion yourself eventually, but I bought us time, and time is precious.”

Indeed, the first part was as he had trained her to think. But he’d never thought himself so successful. Interesting. For further thought, later. “You should have told me. I need to throw the investigation, to find a suitable party to blame and ensure that blame rests tightly. You did not buy time – you wasted it. I can always provide a suitable appearance, no matter the occasion. You know that.” Consequences for that, again delayed until a more fitting time.

There was certain element of … heartache mixed with the blue of her eyes. “I do not want you to die, master.” A small pause that seemed mildly at odds with the two declarations being parts of one whole. “As I said, he would try to kill you. It seemed safer this way.”

“What a strange thing to say, dearest Nell!” His face hardened. “I thought you did not care. Something has changed between us – you have gone distant, but try to hide it.”

Her face fell. Softened. Much more quietly she said, “Of course I care. I cannot imagine a life without you.”

Careful; give no reaction. None. She was saying unexpected things. Honest unexpected things. Wait, wait and see what else is revealed.

“If I am not your agent, then whose? No one else would have me, and I would be returned to what I was before – a very undesirable princess, to be sold off to someone chosen by a man who would see me broken. He would not choose someone as reasonable as you next time.” Such despair in those words. Such bleak recognition of the truth. “If you are gone I have no one to protect me from my family; only my own feeble resources. I would have no home, no place to go except this court where I do not fit, no real safety. There is no one who could replace you as a mentor, or give advice and help as you do. Your loss would tear a very big hole in my life.”

“Most interesting that you choose to put it all in practical terms, without even a hint of emotion.”

“Perhaps … because I cannot. I could lie, and say I loved you, or hated you. But I do not. It is both, and more, very muddled and mixed up. More good than bad, far more, but not at all simple.” A tear escaped, and rolled down her bruised cheek. Very telling; she had never been able to cry at will. Much to his exasperation - it was a handy skill for females. She could only create a pretence of tears, one which failed as soon as you saw her face. “You left me so alone, you cannot know how alone. For that I hate you. For that, and only for that.” More truth; truth she didn’t like to share. Plausible too, understandable.

The first time he’d ever heard her describe what he was to her in detail. So many years, so much had happened, and this was what he was. It was … good. Good, as in feeling. “Oh, Nell,” he chided drolly, pulling her close. You do have a gift for trouble. I let you out of my sight for four days – four days! – and look what happens! I should never have let you go.”

“No, you should not have.” Her voice was choked by tears. The same tears which were creating a damp patch on his front. “I am not supposed to be left to make these kinds of decisions; I am supposed to be able to ask you. I counted on you for that. I am not supposed to decide the course of kingdoms alone!” A rather hiccoughy sob escaped.

He kept his embrace as simply comforting. “It took me a long time before I felt comfortable with directing a kingdom from the shadows. Confidence helps tremendously. When you see a success or two the self-doubt eases, and it becomes easier to believe you can do the right thing, and get it right. It is something you will one day be doing more of, inevitably, because of who you are. My student, and one day my replacement.” A small lie, but close enough to the truth.

“Replacement? You never said-”

“No, and for obvious reasons.” Offer truth, from a certain point of view, “I hoped to build you up to it very slowly, since we have the time for it.” These events highlighted a gap in his teaching. No, gap implied it was a mistake or unintentional. A need come early; better expressed. He would take steps to correct the lack. He could combine several lessons into one; more … uncouth than perhaps me might like, but needful. “I had intended to be on hand to give advice as needed the first few times, and I had thought of much more manageable beginnings than this rather unfortunate mess, but you did not do so badly. I admit that this one is going to take even me some work. I thought we would have longer before you needed to start influencing.”

He let her cry herself out. It was so rare she did this. It was supposedly good for the soul and health, so long as not indulged in to excess. You could never accuse Nell of excessive tears. Thank God. Years passed, sometimes, between breakdowns. Or between the ones he saw. Until recently, but recently there had been far more cause. He had always been grateful; if she cried he had to do something to stop it. He was not so good at that. Others might have left her to it, William included, but Trempwick had never approved of that.

The flow nearly stopped, she lifted her face from his chest. She began to laugh, the last remnants of her tears still flowing at the same time. “Oh dear.” She looked pointedly at his tunic front. Trempwick glanced down, to see a messy patch on the wool. “It does rather spoil your elegant look.”

“I shall wait for it to dry before I leave.” He brushed at the soggy material with a thumb. “It should look well enough then. Do not worry about it.” He kissed her, mindful of her hurt lip. And, after a brief hesitation, she kissed him back. But the second time there was no hesitation. Or the third. As he touched and held so did she. For the first time he found matching passion in her; none of the usual holding back, or nervousness, or reluctance. He let his emotional armour slip a little; it was the first time he’d had reason to with her. The spell didn’t break; it intensified.

“Nell …” But to finish that would make himself too vulnerable, lacking other motives, as he was, this time.

Things grew more intense. He let his armour slip a some more. Practicality ebbed. Plans and benefits began to be forgotten. The spymaster part of him left, taking the other parts, until only Raoul was left. None of it was intentional on his part.

“Nell …” He didn’t need to ask; only keep doing, and he would probably get. But it would take a calculated spymaster’s move for him not to, or the lack of a need for words that came with an established partner. So he bared his vulnerable centre. “Nell, I want you.” And he watched the spell die, in a look he was growing increasingly familiar with. Understated dismay, some horror, some alarm.

Pain of rejection knifed in through the chink in his armour, even as he was closing the vulnerability. He let go of her briskly, regained his distance, said coolly, “I shall go then.”

And so he did, before she could manage more than the beginnings of an apology.






Eleanor was still as Trempwick had left her when Hawise tapped on the door and entered. The maid smiled nervously. “Is there anything …?”

“Leave me alone.” Eleanor woke from her daze, and saw her goblet still lying on the floor where it had landed, the nearby rushes a light pinkish colour from the wine. She went to pick it up, and saw Hawise still lingering. Irrationally angry, Eleanor lifted her skirt a little and gave the goblet a good, hefty kick over to the doorway. “And get rid of that.” This time Hawise got the message and retreated, twice dented goblet in hand.

Eleanor filled the remaining cup to the brim, and emptied it quickly. She managed to drain half of a second cup, before she found herself having immense difficulty in forcing even a tiny swallow more down. Such long habit; even by design it appeared getting even slightly drunk was not going to be easy.

She sat on the bed, her head feeling a little light. “What a bloody mess!” She let her head drop to rest in her hands. Ha! Understatement. Oh, everything had been predictable enough, and had gone well enough, but the end … What the hell had come over her? She choked down a little more clairet, and nearly brought it back up. Giving up on drunken oblivion as a bad idea she dumped the cup to one side; ending up with a splitting headache and the loss of whatever self respect she had left was not going to help.

She flopped back onto the bed, ignoring the complaints from her sore back. Point: Trempwick was never supposed, intended, wanted, whatever, to get better than mildly enjoyable, and he was not even supposed to be that. Point: He just had. Enough to make her forget she was married.

Eleanor strongly suspected it was more to do with her current state of mind rather than real attraction. So much of what she had said had been true; things she could not let anyone else know of. If Hugh knew of her conflicted state he would begin to doubt her dedication to their cause; if Fulk knew he would be hurt. For once she had not had the feeling Trempwick had been calculating every move, every detail, to his best advantage. He had not reminded her of a poorer copy of Fulk. He had been different, honest … himself. Fulk was still better, but that was unsurprising, given the depth of feeling involved. But all the same, it had been pleasurable …

Bowing at last to the insistent discomfort, Eleanor rolled onto her side. Married; it didn’t feel like it, not in any way. She would have to keep a tighter hold on that fact from now on, before she did something completely idiotic, something which did more harm than leave her feeling very guilty. She had made her choice, long ago, and she would keep to it. Trempwick wanted to make her queen. She didn’t want to be queen, at all. Less still did she want to be his puppet queen, pushed to power so he could rule. Joining with her family against him was the only way to block that. The price of either option was heavy, but this cost should be a little more bearable than Trempwick’s alternative.





Fulk pulled his blankets up tight to his chin and tucked them in about his body until he resembled a sausage, vainly trying to guard against the fierce draught racing about the floor. From soft, warm bed to a straw stuffed pallet on the floor again; what a drop.

He worked his right hand free, and let it rest against the base of the door. If it wasn’t for Hawise he could slip through to join Eleanor, and no one would be any the wiser. The door leading from this outer room to the passage was bolted for security reasons anyway. If it wasn’t for Hawise, sleeping on her equally miserable pallet at the foot of Eleanor’s bed …

Other ladies had maids – all ladies had maids. Most of those maids worked for their mistress; accomplices in crime, reliable and useful. If Hawise were such a maid then she would simply come out here to take Fulk’s place until just before dawn, and keep the secret. Hawise might be such a maid, but they couldn’t take the risk of sounding her out, no matter how cautiously.

Outside the wind picked up, and a new draught came to keep Fulk company. He whipped his hand back inside his cocoon, and wiggled down until the tops of his blankets came to his nose. A nice feather bed, a gooseberry, most of a night; the possibilities were numerous and very pleasant.

As was so often the case now his own thoughts of Eleanor called up other ones, considerably less happy ones. That prediction he had made - “He will ruin you.” - now being enacted before his eyes. He’d missed the beginning, but he saw the continuation, and he couldn’t do a thing about it. Thanks to the need to keep Trempwick in the dark Eleanor was left playing princess-falling-in-love, and she had to play it convincingly. Which meant she had little choice if that smug, self important, arrogant, nasty bastard wanted to …

To stave off those thoughts, and for some kind of comfort, Fulk reached for warming ideas of vengeance. First … he would geld Trempwick. With a bit of care that could be dragged out to three steps; one testicle, then the other, then finally the rest. The whole lot could be arranged on a skewer and roasted for the spymaster’s last meal. Putting his eyes out; early on, or later? To allow him to watch in horror as he was mutilated beyond recognition, or to let him wonder and imagine in blind terror? He’d compromise, Fulk decided; he’d blind the spymaster about halfway through. Lopping off the ears would be another good bit to do early. Slitting the nostrils was reportedly hideously agonising, so he’d do that too. Being disembowelled was one of the worst ways to die, so that would make very nicely for the beginning of the end. A lot of general kicking and so on definitely needed to be scattered throughout. Breaking all Trempwick’s fingers and toes should go in there somewhere …

It was all mute, he knew. He didn’t have it in him to do anything other than a clean kill. Trempwick would escape with a cut throat if he ever fell into Fulk’s hands and the need to hold back was gone. Fulk was positive he couldn’t say the same for his end if the spymaster got hold of him.

No; Fulk was sure he could at least manage to boot Trempwick in the balls very hard before he killed him. That would not be barbaric; it would be justice.





People!

That old net saying about a joke not being funny until someone posts “rolf!” or similar applies reasonably to stories too. Unless the occasional person says something it is impossible to gauge how the audience is reacting. After a few hundred pages of the story passing in almost total silence the frog gets very curious; who is reading, what do they think, do they like the way things are going, and so on.

So thank you all for coming forward and giving me some answers to those questions.

Good luck with your exams, Zelda and Aetius.

Sometimes, AntiochusIII, that is enough

Lothair: Yup, believable is a word.
See I know you thought your life was gonna be easy. You thought you had it all – Indeed, something a frog could say to a spymaster. Wonder what he would reply … :sums up Trempwick to find out: Well, I'm not posting that!

[Aetius the Last Roman]

thanks for the update,
I love the glimpse of doubt in both characters,
We finally see Trempy as someone who can be human and finally get proof that he trains himself for moments, even if it is subconsciously half the time.

A quick question how long do you plan the book to be (not that I want it to end or anything, just curious how much of my life this will take up in the future)?

Another thing, where's Jocelyn and the other minor characters.

[zelda12]

Thanks you Milady.

As you can tell I am studying very hard.

Only 4 more pages to go!

[frogbeastegg]

“Do sit up properly, beloved Nell,” scolded Trempwick. “You are supposed to be learning more about handling an investigation such as this, or so I told your brother. Somehow I feel you are not paying attention when you loll like that.”

Eleanor dragged her complaining body back to perfect upright, and used the excuse to relocate her clasped hands a little lower down on her neck so more of the weight fell on her shoulders. Quite what she was meant be to learning here was a mystery – Trempwick had said little, aside from directing her to her knees and apologising for the lapse in his creativity, cheerfully explaining their being at the palace was responsible, not old age or exhaustion of his mental faculties. That had been ages ago; not quite half an hour, she reckoned.

Trempwick’s appropriated study was a bare, bland room, and held little with which she could distract herself. To pass the time she began to count the number of rushes touching the first floorboard to her front right that she had a whole view of. He continued to work in silence; reading, writing, thinking, planning.

Some time later she was instructed, “Stop slumping, sweet Nell.”

A short time after that Trempwick abandoned his desk and came to stand in front of her. “So,” he began, “we must place blame for your attempted demise elsewhere. Tell me what constitutes a suitable party, dearest Nell. And do sit up.”

Eleanor willed her protesting muscles into cooperation, and diverted her eyes so she was looking slightly upward, not much caring to gaze directly at the spymaster’s belt buckle. “Any person, or group of people, with considerable resources and contacts. The party must have some believable benefit from my death. Because of the difficulties the accusation will bring, any party we wish to maintain excellent relations with should not be chosen. The party must be believable as the source; not someone, or a faction, with a reputation which will put significant doubt in other’s minds if the accusation is made public. We do not wish to appear incompetent, nor do we wish to be thought to be starting an unjust grudge.”

“Good. Define suitable targets.”

“Anyone we want to have good cause to be angry at. Any of our vassals we wish to knock down a few pegs, or remove entirely. A smaller, separate faction we wish to put pressure on, or go to war with for gain without losing face. France, as reason to start another season of war. The same would apply for Scotland, if not for the new alliance, or Wales, if they had not finally bowed.”

“It could also act as reason to break that alliance honourably, if so desired. But it is not.” He tucked his thumbs through his belt at either side of the golden buckle and curled his fingers around the band of leather, all except his right index finger, which remained free to tap its nail against the metal. “I said you would be directing kingdoms from the shadows, and so you shall. Since you have made a start, without my approval, you may continue, but with the benefit of my guidance. Who do we blame?”

“It is a very weighty decision, master …” It was also one she didn’t want.

Trempwick continued to act in a suitably bland manner, giving her nothing to latch onto for guidance. “And I am interested to see what you will come up with, beloved Nell.”

“France,” she said at last. It was the option which would do the least damage; border fighting between the English possessions and the French was as much a part of spring and summer as growing crops, though it was more frequently labelled as private inter-vassal warfare than two kings taking to the field against one another.

He gave her no clue of what he thought of her choice; still standing there, nail taping meditatively against buckle.

Committed now, Eleanor explained her reasoning, “More specifically the king’s regents; the boy’s mother and paternal uncle. They are generally unpopular, and considered capable of any deed to further their own ends in some way. Common belief is that they are lovers, and murdered the old king to get him out of their way. Nonsense, most likely, but it is widely believed. People dislike the control they have over the king, especially now he is nearly a man. Make it so my death is a continuation of the grudge between our families, or something similar, and it will be believed by many.”

“Good choice.” He returned to his desk. Absently he said, “And do sit up, darling Nell.”

Time dripped past, entirely uneventful aside from Trempwick once complaining about her slumping again.

Someone knocked on the door. Trempwick indicated Eleanor should get up and look regal as he moved to answer it. She scrambled to her feet and half hurried half hobbled on her deadened legs to the blind spot behind the opening door to gain a few seconds more to brush the clinging rushes from her skirts.

She heard a boy’s voice state, “A message for her Highness, Princess Eleanor, my lord. From the queen.”

The messenger was admitted, a pockmarked boy in royal red and white. He made a bow to Eleanor. “Your Highness, the queen requests the pleasure of your company for the remainder of the morning, if you are free and find this agreeable. She plans on taking a ride about the country.”

Eleanor looked across the boy’s head to Trempwick. He inclined his head slightly, giving permission. Even a short time in the saddle was not an appealing prospect, bruised and aching as she was, but it would get her away from Trempwick. “You may tell the queen I accept. I shall meet her in the solar presently.”

The boy performed another elaborate bow and rushed away to deliver the return message.

Trempwick chuckled and shook his head. “The queen wants to know if you can come out and play, adored Nell.” He bent to kiss her goodbye. “Do try not to fall in a puddle, get dirty, or damage your clothes. If you are not home and scrubbed for dinner I shall be out searching, and woe betide you if I find you with anything less than two broken legs in that case.”

“It has been years since you last said any of that,” she said, struck by a pang of nostalgia.

“Yes, it has. Do enjoy yourself, sweetest Nell.”

“I shall try, though somehow I feel it is not likely to be a thrilling morning. One child-queen, an assortment of twittery maids, and a collection of guards does not a fun excursion make.”

He kissed her one final time, and told her reassuringly, “I am sure it will be better than that.” She was nearly at the door when he added, “And Nell?”

“Yes?”

“If you get stuck in a tree I am not going to scour the countryside looking for a ladder to get you back down again!”

Eleanor stood on her royal dignity, and protested, “That only happened once!”






“And love you to be clean and well apparelled, for from our cradles let us abhor uncleanliness, which neither nature or reason can endure,” lectured Jocelyn, quoting from memory one of the many books of etiquette and correct living any noble encountered and consumed during their lifetime. He might have difficulty reading the text, but memorising it was child’s play.

His son’s head remained bowed, and he said contritely, “Yes, father.”

“Do you think you fit that passage now?”

“No, father.”

“Bloody right, boy! I’m having to hold my breath to even get this close. You stink like a peasant. Look at me!” The forlorn head titled up, revealing a face that looked little happier. “You stink of dung, like a peasant. You’re supposed to be my son, so unless you’re a changeling you’ve got two sets of noble blood in you from your parents, four from your grandparents, eight from your great-grandparents, and …” Jocelyn’s maths faltered and he was unable to continue his pattern without needing to pause for a bit; for the sake of appearances he didn’t bother, “and a hell of a lot more noble blood back beyond that!”

The straw and dung speckled head bowed again. “Yes, father.”

“God alone knows what your mother’s going to say.” Thierry winced, and frankly Jocelyn agreed with him. “You’re such a God damned mess I’m stuck yelling at you in the middle of the damned stable yard because I don’t want filth traipsed through my keep all the way up to the solar! Think I’m happy about that?”

“No, father.”

Jocelyn turned to the chief groom waiting patiently at his side; the man was doing his best to emulate Jocelyn’s censorious scowl. “Wash him; get him in some fit state to see his mother without her dying of pure horror and shame then send him up to the solar.”

The groom ushered Thierry off to the main well. Jocelyn waited long enough to see the first bucket of freezing cold water emptied over his son’s grimy head before going back inside. As soon as he was safely out of Thierry’s hearing he let loose the laughter that had been threatening to ruin his stern parent act.






“What was all that fuss about?” asked Richildis, before he even had time to close the solar door.

Jocelyn jerked his head at the door and said to his wife’s maid, “Shoo!” Once they were alone he answered the question, “Thierry was playing castles and sieges on the stable roof; he slipped on the thatch and came down with a bump.” Richildis blanched, dropped her needlework and shot to her feet. “He’s not hurt; he fell into a load of filthy straw and dung that’d been cleaned from the stalls and not yet removed to the fields.”

“He’s not hurt?” she repeated.

“No, a few bruises, damaged clothes, a ripe smell and wounded pride, that’s all.” His temper prodded by his wife’s upset Jocelyn exploded, “Bloody lucky! Cavorting on the stable roof - he could have broken his idiotic little neck!” He was rather proud of his son’s fearlessness and head for heights, and could see the humour in the situation. But there was fearlessness and then there was fearlessness - the difference between courage and risking life and limb unnecessarily. The boy had to learn the difference, preferably before he permanently damaged himself or got someone else killed. Then there was the mild courtesy of not giving your elders a seizure through worry.

“Or arm, or leg, or back, or head, or hip, or shoulder, or ribs,” listed Richildis. Her colour was slowly returning to normal; now the fright was wearing off anger was firmly settling in.

“He’s alright, honestly, Tildis.” He slipped what was supposed to be a comforting arm around her waist and leaned down to kiss her; immediately she stiffened and turned her head so he missed her mouth and caught her cheek instead. Jocelyn was tempted to press his attention a little as revenge; instead he pushed her away and aimed a smile that was anything but friendly at her. “Cold as ever; you’ll have to watch out in summer or you’ll damned well melt into a puddle of ice water. That’d be such a pity. Which reminds me, Tildis dear, you want first dibs on our son’s hide or shall I take the honour?”

She didn’t answer. She gathered up her embroidery, settled in the window seat furthest away from him and resumed her sewing.

“Such a stunning conversationalist, Tildis! I don’t know how I ever get a word in edgeways. We’ll see how things go then; make it up as we go along.” Jocelyn sank back into his favourite chair and picked up his sword. Before he had been fetched to see to his son he had been stripping the sweat-stained old binding from the hilt, intending to replace it with new leather to improve his grip.

About quarter of an hour latter someone hammered on the door. Jocelyn didn’t look up from carefully wrapping the new strip of red-dyed leather about the grip of his sword. “If that Thierry he’s remarkably eager. Answer the door, Tildis – I’ve got my hands full.”

She calmly put down her work and glided over to the door without giving even the slightest sign she’d heard him, giving the impression she’d intended to do this of her own accord.

A voice Jocelyn recognised as one of his guards gabbled, “Oh! Sorry to have bothered you, my lady. I thought my lord was here.”

“I am,” called Jocelyn. “Let the man in, Tildis.”

A man in his yellow and white livery over an aketon strode in, his simple kettle helm clutched in his hands. “Lord, you’d best come see, urgent like.”

“See what?”

“Lord, please. I beg you; see for yourself.”

“Oh, God’s toenails!” Jocelyn set his sword down, watching sourly as his half finished work unravelled itself and the new strip of leather fell away from the wooden grip. He stood up and followed the guard from the solar, down the stairs, through the main hall, out across the bailey, into the gate house, up the gatehouse stairs, all the time cursing fluently under his breath about stupid soldiers who wouldn’t even make a simple report when asked.

Then he reached the ramparts on top of the gatehouse. He stopped dead, struck dumb by the sight. He was not aware of moving, but suddenly he was stood pressed against the front wall, leaning forward in one of the open embrasures for a better view.

He found his tongue again. “Oh shit!”





His namesake - the great William the Bastard, or Conqueror, depending on who you spoke to – had ridden about a hostile England with just twenty-five knights for protection before the battle of Hastings. With sixty of his own men for protection here in his own lands William felt he could be accused of overdoing things. But that was the point; he was the King of England, and he could overdo things effortlessly, and in a way few could match.

William assessed Ardentes castle with a practised eye. One outer wall studded with towers, one square keep, both built in stone. No moat, no second walls, no especially tricky features. If he brought up the remainder of his army, along with the siege engines they ported, he could have this castle within two weeks if he cared to lose a hundred or so men, or he could leave a siege force for a few months and starve the garrison out. This was one of the better castles in the county, falling into shared second place behind the capital of Saint Maur.

Alternatively he could sit here just out of range with his party and wait. Wait with an air of mild, polite expectation. He was the King of England, lord of these lands, and supremely confident in that fact. Even if limited only to his continental holdings he could raise forces far larger than either Jocelyn, or Yves, or any other lordling here. With sixty of his best men – all trained and equipped in the best – and a part of his travelling household he had just travelled three days march in a little under two. It was what he was famous for: being where he should not, sooner than he possibly could be. And now, with those sixty mounted warriors and a few trailing civilians, he would take this castle without a single loss.

His infantry, the other half of his cavalry, the pair of trebuchets, and most of his household and baggage were still working their way to Saint Maur under the command of Geoffrey FitzOsborn. Once they arrived they would settle down for a siege. However William planned to finish his business here and rejoin them on the same day they would arrive – tomorrow, late in the day.

He shifted his seat in the saddle; the resulting creak of leather could just as easily have come from his bones. Well, old he might be, and his body might not take this treatment so kindly, but he had just proved once again that he had lost nothing.

On the ramparts over the gatehouse a man stumbled jerkily forward. He braced himself on the raised parts of the battlements and sagged forward, staring out at William and his force. The pose held in perfect stillness. Then shattered; the men on the gatehouse exploded into action. The flurry rippled outwards, and the sentries on the walls ceased their own staring and set about their new tasks. The sound of shouting, mixed with pounding feet and commotion, travelled on the wind out to William, very faint but so recognisable. The gates began to swing open, ponderously at first but gaining momentum.

William smiled in immense satisfaction, and signalled to his men to move out. He was the King of England, and this was why.






Jocelyn continued to gape at the army waiting outside his gates. His quick estimate was seventy armed men, all mounted, all well equipped, some in livery and others with their own coats of arms. A horde of knights, household knights, and rich men at arms who were knights in all but spurs, pay and title. One set of livery predominated, making up over half of the total display. This dominant livery was worn on flowing surcoats and painted on shields in the same manner as a knight’s coat of arms instead of the more usual coloured tunics or brief, sleeveless jacket worn over whatever armour the man could supply. Red and white. At this distance he couldn’t see the badge, but he didn’t need to; the owner was confirmed by the large banner flying above an armoured man who could simply be summed up as expensive.

Three golden lions on a scarlet background. Real golden lions – worked in gold thread they sparkled and gleamed in the sun as the banner rippled gently in the breeze. The occasional quick blue gleam proved that the animal’s eyes were made from sapphires.

“Oh shit!” repeated Jocelyn again, this time more in awe than anything else. “Great, heaping piles of it complete with flies and a stench to knock a man dead at a thousand paces! Christ on the cross! By the twenty-four balls of the Twelve Apostles, I don’t bloody well believe it! The king of God damned England at my gates! God’s blood!”

The man who’d fetched him coughed. “Orders, my lord?”

“Er … best let him in. Quickly.” Jocelyn pushed away from the wall and began to rush back to the solar. About halfway down the gate house staircase he yelled, “And be courteous!”

In the middle of the bailey he remembered to add, “Get him food, a drink, a woman, Yves’ head on a platter - whatever he wants!” Too far away from the original man for the order to be of use he shouted it for all and sundry to hear. More quietly he whimpered, “Oh God, oh God, Oh God! The king! And a horde of bloody cavalry! Where am I going to put them all!? Oh sweet Jesú! Damn it, damn it, damn it!” He thrust his head down and picked up his knees, breaking into full sprint.

As he flew through the main hall he bellowed, “Clear this damned mess up! I want this place looking pristine in less than a minute, damn your lazy arses!” The hall was actually very neat - it almost always was thanks to Richildis’ sensibilities - but he felt the need to give orders and pass the panic along.

He skidded into the solar to find his son waiting, wearing clean clothes with wet hair and skin that glowed from being scrubbed very hard. He was also sporting a reddened ear where his mother had clouted him. The smell of stables still hung on him, diminished but still all too noticeable.

“Oh shit!” announced Jocelyn. Richildis looked at him with clear distaste, Thierry with the wide-eyed awe reserved for elders behaving badly. Jocelyn forced himself to calm down. “Tildis, best put on your finery, me too, yes – we’d all better don our best. Oh Jesú, what a God damned mess! Play hostess, sort out a large dinner, we’ve got guests and God alone knows how we’re going to feed them and house them, oh damn it all to hell!”

Richildis coolly enquired, “What are you babbling about?”

Jocelyn took a deep breath. “The King of England. At our gates. Now.” New horror hit Jocelyn; he slapped a hand over his eyes and groaned. “Oh damn! The stable muck! It’s going to be the first thing he sees! He’s going to ride through the gates and be greeted by a stinking cart full of dung and old straw! Oh, God damn it all to hell and kick it up the arse – this is a disaster already!”

“The king,” repeated Richildis sceptically.

“Yes – the damned king, God bless his soul.” Jocelyn crossed himself and tore off into their bedchamber, tugging off his belt as he went. He dropped it onto the floor and began to haul off his tunic. “God’s knees, why do these things always happen on the worst possible days?” he moaned, ignoring the fact this was the first time this precise sort of thing had ever happened to him.

His wife joined him, lifting down his long courtly tunic from the pole where it hung. She helped him struggle into the ankle length garment. As his head emerged from the decorated neck hole Jocelyn looked her in the eye and pronounced with great dignity, “Thierry still stinks like a peasant, even if he’s clean.”

“And he’s going to meet the king,” she finished for him.

Jocelyn sobbed, “Oh Jesú!” He spun away, tripped over the trailing hem of his gown and began to hunt through his clothing chest for his best belt. “Do something, Tildis,” he implored. “Get yourself dressed, then do something. I’ll be playing host, so you’ll have a bit of time, not much but hopefully enough to do something about that damned stink.”

Richildis ran to the solar door, screamed for her maid, then hurried back and began gathering her best clothes and jewellery. “Oh Lord - Mahaut! Where’s Mahaut?”

Jocelyn didn’t know either, but odds were his daughter would be doing something suitably childish, complete with scraped knees and torn dress. With awful certainty he said, “Right now she’ll be talking to the man in the expensive armour, telling him how her daddy said the God damned king was here, and that he then said a lot of bad words that mummy would be really cross about. I’m dead, so very dead, devil take all this - I’m doomed!”

Richildis began to tug Jocelyn’s robe into hanging correctly, arranging the material so it fell in pleasing folds about his muscular figure. “Given what we’ve heard of that youngest daughter of his I think he’d be very understanding if that was the case.”

“Pity we didn’t name her Éléonore in honour of that particular princess; that’d go down nicely, maybe. Is it too late to rename her? How about we call Thierry Guillaume? That’d be good too.”

“Too late.” Richildis stood back and examined her work. She snatched up her comb from the little table where it lay and began tugging it through his long hair with scant gentleness.

“There’s always the baby; we can say we picked Jean in favour of prince John instead of your father. That’d only be a small lie, really. Yes – that’s a great idea! But … oh damn, he’ll wonder why we used the French version, not the English. Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn! No – worse; can you imagine ‘We named our adorable little baby after the son you recently executed’.” He shuddered. “Dancing saints - no!”

Richildis yanked at a tangle in his hair with her comb and commanded, “Stop swearing, damn it!”

“Don’t give me orders, woman! And watch what you’re doing – if you make me bald with that blasted comb I’ll not be best pleased!” Jocelyn forced himself to calm down again. This was simply more proof of God’s favour; an opportunity far better than just turning up at another’s castle to have an audience with his king. No, playing host to the king gave him many more options and far more chance to prove his worth.

Now his frenetic activity had ceased Jocelyn noticed his young son was watching them through the open door, his little eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Jocelyn smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “This, son, is what’s known as a catastrophe.”






5, 236

Hehe! I just love the way that slowly builds. It contains some great lines too; I’m particularly fond of “Damn it all to hell and kick it up the arse!”

Length is a difficult question to answer; I've never managed to get a prediction anything close to right. I thought this would definitely be completed in less than 500 pages (with that being the very generous "No way it will actually get that big!" estimate) and now it's at 538 pages. Plot wise we are a good distance past halfway, but the last part is proving to need many more words to cover than the first part. That's the downside to the story finally growing to its full complexity and cast.

With the exception of Jocelyn and William all minor characters are 'invisible' until a POV character happens to see them. Godit could be skydiving with the RAF, and unless someone sees her doing it or she later talks about it you readers won't know about it. In addition to that minor characters also need to be doing something the particular POV character finds worth noting if they are to be described beyond a dismissive "Godit was sewing." They also need to catch the attention of the right POV character; if Fulk is discussing fine literature with Anne it does her no good if another character has more important things to relay than Fulk. Sometimes it takes a long time before a minor character fills these criteria, and they don't appear for many pages. As POV providing minor characters Jocelyn and William have slightly more ... stringent requirements for getting a scene, compared to the other characters. They only appear if something important is happening; we don't often swap to them simply to see their opinion on something, or to see something of lesser importance.