The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[frogbeastegg]

“So happy princess run in grass and pick flowers and stuff.” This story was a whole lot easier to tell in a proper language, damn it. Mahaut’s favourite, it made Jocelyn homesick right to the soles of his boots. “She happy. Have happy time doing happy stuff. Not care she lost her knight and be all alone.”

From the room’s corner came a quiet observation. “So much easier to get some peace without armour clanking in the background.” Jocelyn didn’t doubt that the princess was as wrapt as her young namesake. A master storyteller like him could make any old yarn engaging to anyone.

He waved his hand a bit for emphasis on the next point, mimicking something swooping down from above. “Then come a … thing and it grab her, woop!” Now what was the word? “Thing. Big, danger, monster thing. Burp fire. One of them thing.”

“Dragon?”

Ellen’s mother hugged her daughter tightly, tears springing into her eyes. It was the first word the child had uttered since the siege began. That’s how good his storytelling was - nothing short of miraculous! As further proof of his prowess the princess lowered the dreary thing she was reading.

“Yes. Dragon thing. Dragon grab her and off they go.” He repeated the swoop of the dragon. “Woop!”

Ellen clutched her cloth doll to her chest as though she feared a dragon would fly down and seize it. He was so good!

“Her knight be lost, nothing she can do but scream and wave feet and try not be sick.”

The real princess muttered, “Bit of a useless milksop then.”

How rude! Interrupting! Jocelyn took the path of virtue and pretended the stupid girl didn’t exist. “So she wave her feet and scream and try not being sick. But! Is good luck and God not hate her,” unlike certain other princesses hereabouts, “and her knight ride up in time to see dragon thing do grab. So he make horse be fast and chase dragon all way home. He get there and draw his sword, and charging while saying fierce words!” Jocelyn brandished an imaginary sword above his head and raised a really good warcry.

Ellen dipped her face behind the doll’s head. See? He was so good the child was scared for real.

Again that infuriating muttered interruption. “Meanwhile the princess took advantage of the knight’s posturing to kick the dragon in a sensitive spot, stab it with a sword from its hoard, and save the day.”

Jocelyn said over his shoulder in langue d’oc, “Shut up!”

Eleanor sniffed and returned to her book. “How rude.”

Er. Um. Maybe that hadn’t been so smart? She could have had him executed for being offensive. Ellen was waiting for him to resume his telling. On second thoughts, the damned menace had had it coming to her! That one needed telling to shut up a damned sight more often.

“Knight is very brave. He do battle while princess stand out of way. Dragon is scary. Burp fire, try to bite, have claws and stuff.” Jocelyn acted out a wonderful little battle before those wide brown eyes. “Then knight stab dragon, and it go urk!” He clutched his chest and pretended to die. “When dragon is urk princess run to knight. He hurt. Got cut on arm. She tie her head-thing,” he waved a hand at Aveis’ veil to show what he meant, “around the wound. Is very sad he hurt. Also very sorry for being nuisance.” He directed a significant glance at the nuisance in the audience. “She realise she love him, see.”

“Because one is obliged to have a poor sense of timing. It comes with the crown.”

Jocelyn snapped around. “It’s perfectly good bloody timing, thank you very much! Gratitude, and such. It makes for a nice ending.”

“Ending?” One eyebrow was arched in his direction. “Beginning, I would say.”

“Ending,” Jocelyn insisted. “In love and married. That’s the ending.”

“How can it be the ending when they have their entire lives ahead of them?”

“Because it is. That’s how it works.” He fixed her with his best stern scowl. “Now shut up.” Royalty? Pah! Who cares? He’d show her who was the boss!

Eleanor’s jaw set and she took a deep, slow breath. Before she averted her face he saw her blink rapidly. “It is not the same. You are the wrong knight.”

Sod it, he’d made her cry nearly and that was damned unusual for him, what with his being a master of handling women and their fragile feelings. “Wrong knight?”

“Finish your story. The child is waiting.”

And indeed she was, the little darling. Waiting through the unintelligible exchange with wide eyes and arms wrapped around her dolly, seated on her mother’s lap like it was a throne. Which maybe it was. Jocelyn wouldn’t have minded sitting there himself …

“Knight love her too. That why he put up with all this trouble. To be near her, see? When daddy king hears about all this he say the knight can marry her as reward and because they in love. They happy, daddy king happy, everyone in kingdom happy. The end.”

As proof of his stupendous ability he finished his story moments before the solar’s door burst open to reveal a red-faced Sir Gervaise. “They’ve come!” he panted. “They’ve come – the king has come!” See? How’s that for timing?

Eleanor’s book was on the floor and she was halfway out of the door before the others in the room had moved. Jocelyn fell in the middle of the group, ahead of Aveis and behind Hawise and the castellan. Relief, and about bloody time too!

Was it dignified for a princess to run at full pelt along the battlements, skirts held in one hand so you could see her ankles? Not bloody likely. Jocelyn had to admit she did have a good turn of speed, however improper it was. Er, didn’t that imply she’d been practicing this kind of thing? God’s elbow!

When they caught up with the royal hoyden on the south-eastern tower she was gazing at the distant banners as though they were the gates of heaven. “He came.”

Her wonder indicated that she’d been in doubt, whatever she’d been telling them. Hell, and to think he’d been lulled by her sweet little assurances of rescue. “He’s your brother and your king. He’s honour bound.”

Eleanor didn’t move a muscle. “So sayth the man who but days ago wished to throw me to the wolves because he believed us abandoned.”

Jocelyn felt his face flame at the rebuke. “Bitch,” he muttered. Too late he recalled that she’d got sharp hearing.

“Do not pretend your very public doubts did not exist to make my own private ones seem foolish.” It wasn’t right that this slip of a girl could make him feel exactly as he had when the old king had focused his attention on him, damn it! Probably all down to the fact she’d got his eyes and copied that intense ‘I’m angry’ way of looking at you and all that, nothing at all to do with her. Yes, that was it – borrowed glory.

And as quickly as that she lost all interest in him. “There he is!”

Clever girl. Her brother was approaching from about a mile off. Well spotted. No one else could possible have seen that. Oh – wait, they had, and ages ago.

Hawise said, “Yes, it must be Fulk’s banner. Who else uses something which would appear to be nothing but plain blue at this distance?”

Oh. Him.

“Fulk,” Eleanor breathed. He’d been wrong before. She hadn’t looked like she was gazing on heaven’s gates because that would leave nothing sweeter for her to be gazing on now. If Richildis would look like that about him just the once … Jocelyn put his back to the intolerable sight before he puked his heart out right here all over everything. Revolting! Thank God his wife was sane.

What was there to get so excited about anyway? A lot of dust with some tiny blobs of colour bobbing about in it. Armies on the march didn’t make for good viewing unless you were closer than this. I mean, banners didn’t mean much. The bloody upstart could be dead. Hell, the whole damned army didn’t mean much. Battles were as easily lost as won. Buggering hell - the only thing that army meant was that he’d left it too late to get the hell out of here and head home before things took a turn for the violent. Doubtless this was all part of God’s greater plan. He must be destined to save the day, turn the tide of battle or something. Yeah, he could lead a sally and kill Trempwick with his bare hands! Or Hugh. Whichever wasn’t the right one. Jocelyn crossed himself and silently prayed for the Lord’s strength while assuring him his will would be done.

Aveis pointed at the army. “Look, Ellen. The good king has come to help us. No one can hurt us now.”

The child clung mutely to her mother, doll tangled under one arm. The prospect of rescue had changed nothing for her. It wrung Jocelyn’s heart to see how badly the poor little thing had been affected by the siege. Pray God his own little ones were safe. Richildis would see to that. He could trust her. It’d take more than a squabble for power between boy-king and regents to get past her guard.

Aveis ran a hand over her daughter’s hair. “The princess’ knight is there too, like in the story. He will save her.”

“But who will save him?” If Eleanor had been looking on heaven before Jocelyn now thought she was glimpsing hell beneath her feet - rightly so, for she belonged there! – via a growing hole. Made his stomach lurch all over again. So bloody young! Old enough to be married and have a child or two, young in so many other ways and most of them the ones which really damned well counted. A far bloody cry from what he liked in a woman. If Richildis stood in her place and gazed out on a similar situation with him swapped for whatshisname then she’d take charge and set an example, all calm and mature. She wouldn’t be grappling with her own inner self and bleeding vulnerability all over the place. And not just because Richildis didn’t like him – which she damned well did, actually – but because she was a proper woman.

Eleanor closed her eyes. “I do not know where he wishes to be buried or – or anything. We never spoke of it.”

Carelessness, and now it came back to bite. Death was a fact of life. A person prepared for it or faced it with their braes around their ankles, so to speak. The lack was so bloody typical of this fouled up mess of a so-called marriage between royal and peasant! All the fundamentals were missing. Scant regard paid to the proper order of things.

Aveis freed one hand from holding her daughter to touch the princess’ shoulder. “He’ll do well enough. He’s growing quite the reputation for skill, and most importantly he’s not married to me.”

See, now that Jocelyn could respect. Self-mockery for the good of another. That was a woman.

“He is my soul.” If Jocelyn called the wobbly expression on Eleanor’s face a smile he’d have been overly generous. Still, the effort could be recognised without loss of honour. “And as such he had best come here victorious and undamaged, or I shall have some choice words for him, let me tell you.” For a bit she stood with her right hand pressed about her left, grip tightest on her wedding ring. With visible effort she lowered her hands and turned about to face them all. “Spread the word about the castle. My brother is here and we are saved. The men are to be ready to sally at a moment’s notice. As soon as there is chance to engage Trempwick’s army to the aid of my brother we shall do so. Tell them that their revenge is close at hand, if they have the will to take it.”

Alright, so she was growing up. A bit. Give her five or six years and she might be interesting.








So ends part 3 of what should have been a single post.

I don’t know how many of you remember, back in the early parts of the story Fulk spent a lot of time trying to tell Eleanor stories, at first in a silly effort to cheer her up and later because he enjoys the battle of wits, and she spent only marginally less time picking them to bits and heckling because she’s a gooseberry. They haven’t had much occasion to engage in that sort of silliness for a long time. That’s what she means by “It is not the same. You are the wrong knight.”

The writing project is no longer a secret. Frogbeastegg’s Guide to Medieval II: Kingdoms. Part 1 now available.

The new shop looks great. It had better after the hell that was putting it together. 54 hour week, anyone? Surprisingly dangerous work too. I’ve got so many bruises I look like Nell after one of her conversations with her father!


Furball, I find a similar dilemma. Write one scene and work on crafting it as an individual piece and enjoy the fact it can stand alone whilst being part of the wider narrative, or do several at once and enjoy the way it flows on from one to the next. It’s been too long since I sat down and wrote for an entire day.

[Peasant Phill]

Just wanted to let you know I'm still reading and to congratulate you on your promotion.

I didn't pick up on the whole 'wrong knight' thing, but then again I had little time to read the last instalment. Thanks for the explanation.

[Ludens]

I didn't pick up on the whole 'wrong knight' thing, but then again I had little time to read the last instalment. Thanks for the explanation.

I didn't spot it either, but that's probably my lack of sensitivity. I am still reading though, and it's nice to see the story progessing like this. I hope the new shop proves to be as good as it looks.

[frogbeastegg]

It was drizzling. If one required a lengthier description then Fulk would have said that the second lion on Hugh’s surcoat was missing one of its cut sapphire eyes, and Trempwick’s armour had tiny specks of rust which betrayed the haste with which it had been cleaned. Either description sufficed. Anything more spent words in their hundreds to say what was already contained in the two brief editions.

Here in the heart of the empty ground between the armies the two men responsible for a war met for the first time since the conflict began. The flag of truce was the only one which flew here, the pair of nine man escorts the only army. The snap of the cloth playing in the wind was the only sound as the two parties drew to a halt.

“Rebels, surrender yourselves now to the crown’s justice and mercy will be shown. Continue in defiance and there shall be none.” Hugh had refused to wear his prince’s crown, standing firm in the face of his advisors’ pressure. He had stated, simply, that he was no longer a prince but not yet a king and thus had no crown, and that had been all he would say on the matter. Personally Fulk felt that his brother-by-law had made the right decision; if he needed a lump of metal on his head to proclaim his position then his cause was lost.

Trempwick’s reply was less formal. “We hold you to be the rebels.” It was strange to see the spymaster wearing armour, stranger still to recognise him as a man accustomed to it.

“I am the sole surviving son of William, sixth of that name, by the Grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Brittany, and Count of Anjou, may he rest in peace.” Hugh placed his hand over the royal coat of arms which he now wore without a label of cadency. “I am his heir, by blood and by his decree.”

“You are not my friend’s son.” A very weary looking Trempwick brushed a hand over his face. “You think I would do this otherwise? William was my friend, my closest friend. We worked together for years. All that he built I helped with, and I was proud to do so. I cannot let his legacy be usurped.”

“Your wish is to usurp his legacy by establishing my sister as your puppet. Neither she nor I shall permit this.”

“You are not my friend’s son. You cannot be his heir.”

“Untruth does not become truth with sufficient repetition.”

“The truth this there for any who but looks at you. You bear no resemblance to William, or to any other in this generation of your family, or in the generation prior.”

The Earl of Suffolk said, “Raoul, Hugh was William’s designated heir for years. If there had been any doubt surely this could not have been so?”

Trempwick gave the man a desolate little smile. “What man is eager to admit he had been betrayed by his wife? To admit so publicly? I find the greatest of respect for William that he was able to do so in the end.”

“But not to us,” Wymar of Derby countered in the quietest of voices. “If he said such words we have not heard them.”

Suffolk agreed. “We may only abide by his known wishes.”

Trempwick spread his hands. “I do not blame you. We served William together. I know your integrity. I hoped you knew mine.”

“We knew you, and knew William held faith in you,” admitted Derby. “There is no proof of what you say. For something of such import there must be proof.”

Trempwick hesitated. Then he stepped towards the two men. “Sirs, in that castle is a man known to have been at William’s death bed. He came to England immediately after, and sought out Eleanor.” The spymaster drew a breath. “It is my belief he bore the ring to her, as token of her father’s blessing.”

Hugh burst out, “Impossible!”

Trempwick’s head came up. “It is speculation only, but the ring is known to have gone missing shortly before William died; I cannot see him parting with it save by will. The timing with which Jocelyn d’Ardantes left most strongly suggests he bore a message of great import. He sought out Eleanor.”

“He paid visit to me first,” Hugh countered swiftly. “He swore allegiance to me. I granted him permission to carry word of our father’s death to my sister. This was witnessed.”

“It is true,” said Thomas. The head of Hugh’s household knights set his hand on the cross he wore about his neck. “I swear on this holy symbol I witnessed this with my own eyes, as did others.”

Varin and Suffolk nodded, the earl adding, “As did others who are not present here.”

Hugh retook control of the situation. “My sister is my most loyal supporter. Your slanders distress her immensely.”

One of Trempwick’s lot spoke up. “Then let our queen come forth and tell us this herself. Stop thrusting words into her mouth! We have had not one word from her that has not been spoken under duress of your men.”

Fulk answered this one. “The men inside Alnwick are mine, and as such hers.”

“Ah.” Trempwick’s lip curled. “The upstart inflicts his noise upon us, much like a belch in polite company.”

Another member of Trempwick’s retinue enquired, “What guarantee do we have of that? None.”

Fulk set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “And what guarantee do we have that if I request my wife to leave the shelter of the walls you will not attempt to carry her off? It has been attempted before.”

Trempwick bared his teeth. “And what guarantee would we have that you would leave her free to speak? She has been a prisoner since the day word of William’s accident arrived at court.”

Varin commented, “Clearly mutual trust can never be attained. Thus to discuss anything based upon it is a waste of time.”

Hugh nodded curtly. “Indeed. I cannot and will not give this traitor the least measure of trust. He has betrayed my father, and now myself. He has used my sister most basely for his own ambitions-”

“Liar,” accused Trempwick. “It would be impossible for me to betray you as I never held faith with you. Never. Not once, not so much as the least promise. As for Eleanor …” The spymaster’s eyes were hot as he looked around the gathering. “Again and again I hear that I am only using her. That I do this to profit by her.” His throat worked and now there was no mistaking it – tears were gathering in his eyes. “Very well. I renounce my claim to her.” The words came out clipped. “Let her say in all freedom that she does not want me and I will let her go. Only let her be in her rightful place when she says it.”

Fulk snorted. “More lies.”

The spymaster drew himself up, eyes locked fixedly – blankly – ahead, hardly blinking as that would dislodge the moisture in his eyes and turn it into tears. “I have said it before noble witnesses. I will say it again before anyone you care to name. I will swear it on whatever you wish. I could not break my word then – it would destroy me. My lords, you would, rightfully, tear me to pieces were that so. Let Nell be crowned and then let her tell me her wishes. If she still repudiates me as a husband I shall leave the country, never to return save by her express request.” He took another breath. “So say no longer I do this for my own gain. I care greatly for her, but if I must lose her in order for her to gain her inheritance then so be it.”

“Raoul …” Suffolk crossed the lines and placed a hand on his old colleague’s shoulder. “Can you not lay down your arms and retake the place which was yours at the side of a new king? For peace?”

Trempwick set his hand above the older man’s, gave it a squeeze and then gently lifted it free. Holding the other man’s hand between his own two he answered softly, “I cannot.”

“Even if the lady Eleanor remained your wife?”

At the very same moment Hugh and Fulk voiced their objections. “You will not barter my wife away!”

“No! I will not countenance this. I will not give my sister to this man, and I will not have him standing at my back waiting for occasion to stab me from the shadows.”

Suffolk spun around to face them. “If a solution is not found this will come to battle! Between men who have served side by side for years. Lives will be lost, the damage which may be done – I shudder to think! Is that your wish?” He focused his outrage on Trempwick. “Is it yours?” Fulk he ignored, totally.

Hugh spoke directly to Trempwick. “For many years I honoured the peace of my father’s court, and his friendship with you. You broke that, and no longer can I return to treating you amicably. Innocent lives demand justice.”

A man on Trempwick’s side whom Fulk recognised by his coat of arms as the Earl of Westmoreland, said, “So you will drag us all to battle so you may have revenge? Because a man spoke the truth of you?”

“What man would I be if I stood by to allow my mother and sister to be slandered as they have been by this man?” Hugh demanded. “If I allowed him to name me bastard? What manner of king would I be if I permitted a man to raise his banner and disrupt the peace of my realm to such a ruinous effect as this man has? Innocent lives have been lost, and they look to me for justice.”

Fulk knew Hugh spoke of his murdered children. Trempwick must surely know it too. None other here would. They would think Hugh afire with the peculiar desire to avenge peasants.

Suffolk said, “Hugh, in the name of God, think of what you set in motion! A true battle between Englishmen, between family and friends who stand on opposing sides.”

“I know, William. I know. It is not my wish, so very far from it.” With the faintest of smiles to reassure his earl Hugh turned once more to Trempwick. “This grievance is between us. Your accusations against me are known, as are mine against you. They are irreconcilable. Let us place judgement in the hands of God.”

“You speak of judicial combat?” asked Trempwick.

The prince nodded once. “To the death, and therein the end.”

The two councils erupted into chaos. Fulk stood alone, cast back to the outskirts of Hugh’s group by the movements of people. Pushed out, ignored – and the only one aside from Hugh who had known something like this was coming. It had been a brief conversation, an odd one.

“Would you kill Trempwick if given chance? For what he has done to my sister?”

“She would not forgive me for it.”

“Would you?”

After a pause he had answered, “Yes.”

“You may have your chance, if you want it. You will understand at the time.”

Now he did. The chaos was resolving into the agreement Hugh could not personally fight his duel, that his council would not let him indulge in such a reckless course.

Fulk stepped forward, thrusting himself back into the attention he had seized and lost once already. “If it pleases the prince, I will act as his champion. Eleanor is my wife; I would stand in her interests as well as my lord’s.”

More uproar. If Hugh were represented by a champion then Trempwick must be too, for why should he risk his life when his accuser did not?

Trempwick’s voice – his first remark since the challenge had been issued – cut across the din. “What pointless playacting is this? The results of such a duel would only be held to if one of we two were dead and so unable to carry our causes further. As the heads of our sides we will not be allowed to risk single combat – as has already been proven. I cannot see the point in this, save as a desperate move by a man at the end of his road.”

Hugh’s answer was calm as could be, “I stand ready to prove my right with my body. I have no need of a champion.”

“It will not be allowed,” retorted the spymaster.

“You doubt the righteousness of your own cause?”

“The time for doubts is long since past.” The spymaster gave his enemy a patronising smile. “I live in the real world, not a dream constructed from a story. Duels before battles? Important men settling important matters in like manner to petty grudges in a court of law?” He laughed.

It had been a brave attempt but Fulk saw Hugh’s effort was doomed, and had been since the beginning. If his lords had not quashed the possibility Trempwick may have been forced into the risk; the chance had been slender but there.

Fulk said, “Then you leave no option but battle. You will not surrender, you will not negotiate, and you will not settle the dispute in person. You – and you alone – force this outcome.”

From the sidelines where he stood as not quite part of either party, Varin stated, “I think this a waste of time. It is agreed that anything based upon trust cannot work. It is certain that neither man here will step down, and neither is losing the support of their followers. Therefore there shall be a battle, and it shall be as God wills it.”

Ignoring the German Trempwick spoke to Hugh, a hint of urgency in his tone. “Take your wife and your unborn child and go into exile, never to return. Go and live in peace. You are not William’s son. You cannot be the heir. But you can stop the bloodshed, and that would be a worth act for one William raised in his household. Give up your pretence and I have no further business with you.”

Was it Fulk’s imagination or had Hugh gone a bit pale? “You have renounced your claim to my sister. Stand down, and go into exile. That will be a worthy act, and will end this.”

Varin interjected, “The Empress will be displeased if she is passed over in favour of her most inferior sister. She will come for what is hers by right, and with her shall come the might of her husband, the Emperor. Either there is a son and heir here, sirs, or my lady, the Empress, is the heir.”

Trempwick’s words seemed to be for Hugh and Hugh alone. “You are not my friend’s son. For me to stand aside would be the greatest betrayal of William - and of Eleanor – possible.”

Hugh’s reply came after a pause. “I admit I have doubted. Sometimes. In the darkest places of my heart. I doubt no longer, and have not since I raised my own banner. If I had continued to doubt I would not have raised it. My cause is just.”

“It is not. I wish you would believe me.”

Fulk believed. He found he had lost his doubts – he believed a man he knew to be manipulative, a lying ambitious bastard. He couldn’t quite say why. Eleanor did not wish to be queen, in good part because she did not fully believe herself. If she did she may feel otherwise. If she took the throne Fulk knew without a doubt he would lose her. With his whole heart he was glad she was not present to hear this, and would not until it was too late and no choice remained to her, one way or another. His whole heart … there was no space left to be disgusted with himself.

To the rest of Hugh’s council Trempwick said, “Most of you were at court at the same time as Enguerrand. Think back. Remember how our queen looked on him with favour. Remember how long she had been left to hold her court alone. Remember how he left the very day William returned, and remember where he went: to fight in the crusades in Spain. Remember what he looked like, and see the resemblance in his son, a resemblance Hugh bears to none other in his supposed linage.”

Very deliberately Hugh stated, “Old slander.” He walked away. Fulk followed, and on looking back to see why he felt emptiness at his back he saw the remainder of Hugh’s council strung out into a ragged skein that spoke of individuals hesitating before choosing to go with their lord. But they had followed.








:sniffle: That’s the kind of scene which makes me feel like giving characters a nice mug of hot chocolate and a biscuit to cheer them up. It’s written from the POV of Fulk because it’s the only way to get a balanced look at both Hugh and Trempy, and it’s the only way to see Fulk exhibiting his selfish bastard side again. There’s a far greater emotional link to either of the pair if the scene is in their POV but, alas, the other does not fare well and so the scene fails its ultimate purpose. One may hope that I managed to get across enough of each.


It’s been … ages since that Fulk did much storytelling. I’d be surprised if you did remember.

[Peasant Phill]

great scene mylady. You don't come across such scene often anymore where two sides of a conflict meet once more before the all deciding battle. it may have been even better if you wrote it from someone elses PoV as Fulk is also biased (although fairly objectiv in this scene). Varin would've been an interesting character to use for this but maybe he isn't fleshed out enough for it.

[frogbeastegg]

Horns blared; Hugh spun around to see the banners being advanced in Trempwick’s army. The first signal was repeated along the army’s line, rippling outwards from the centre. The body of the army itself seemed to heave and shift as men rose and took up formation ready for combat.

“He’s going to attack!” Wymar exclaimed. “He is abandoning his position.”

So did victory appear; Hugh crossed himself and wondered once more if he had taken the correct course. Too late now to alter it. The battle he had forced Trempwick into stirred into life and men would die in their hundreds. In the midst of that killing lay his best hope of dispatching Trempwick to justice, the only hope permitted him by his lords. If the man could not be executed then needs must he die in battle, and most poetic that the blame for the fighting be laid at the traitor’s feet for his refusal to countenance any of Hugh’s freely offered alternatives.

Hugh resumed his walk to where the attendants waited with their horses. “It is as I said it would be. The man will not settle for less than my complete destruction, and he will exploit the weariness of my army. A good thing, then, that I insisted we lay our plans prior to our arrival here, and my men drawn up in such order that they might be ready to fight within the shortest of times.” He had carried his rebuke overfar, he feared. It was not good to remind these men that they had misjudged Trempwick, and had displayed little enthusiasm when he insisted upon preparing for an attack they believed would not come so hard on the heels of failed negotiations.

Hugh fair near leapt from his skin as Trempwick’s army erupted into a great cheer.

“My lord,” pleaded Thomas, “we should hurry. The horses – we’re vulnerable here!”

I will not have it said of me that I ran. Any danger is but illusionary. They cannot reach us before we collect our mounts, and from there they cannot catch us.”

“My lord-”

“Does Trempwick run?” Hugh demanded. “Or does he walk, as I do, towards his horse, and thence back to his army? Do his councillors flap about him and fuss? Sirs, he walks, and with his group in dignified order. I shall not strike doubt into the hearts of my men by acting so timid.” The horses were perhaps forty paces away now. “Sirs, you will assume your places in the line as discussed last night. As was considered wisest then we shall hold our position and let the enemy expend their energy coming to us. I remain desirous that our plan be followed to the letter despite the move to reposition the enemy makes. Make it so.” He had to recourse to shouting to be clearly heard above the din of men repeating his sister’s name over and over. His own army failed to drown it out with their own battle cry, a disheartening fact considering his superior numbers.

They replied with a dutiful chorus of affirmations.

“Remember what you have undertaken, and do not fail me in doing it.” Being careful to look around the group to include them all in the command, Hugh held Fulk’s eyes for a fraction longer than most for it was he whom they were truly intended for. Understanding sparked in the man, and Hugh felt a weight lift from his heart as his brother-by-law inclined his head. Of the two of them Fulk would be freer to hunt down and slay Trempwick.

He crossed the remainder of the distance deep in his own thoughts. The cost of what he had brought into being made him quail, as did the arrogance which had rooted itself in his heart. All this because he stood and proclaimed himself certain of a truth he had doubted so long as he could recall. Hugh steeled himself using the familiar formulas. To his knowledge William had never doubted his blood. To his knowledge he had not been repudiated or placed to one side. Since Stephan’s death he had been raised as the heir. Trempwick was a murderer, a traitor, a liar. His lady mother had been most noble and honourable, and to consider her capable of adultery stank like a month old midden in the heat of summer. He must have faith. He must not allow Trempwick’s poison to sicken his mind. His family’s survival depended upon his success, and never again would he be found wanting in that regard.




Trempwick’s army was readying itself to attack. Eleanor gripped her hands together so hard she felt her knuckles creaking. “One may presume the negotiations were not successful,” she observed.

Jocelyn checked his sword sat loose in its sheath. “Ruthless bugger, your Trempwick. Attacking so quick off the mark. Sound idea, if you ask me. A smaller number of rested men can tear to shreds a larger group of weary ones.”

“He is not my Trempwick,” Eleanor snapped back in langue d’oil.

“Then that’s not your name I hear then bellowing until it rolls about like bloody thunder – er, begging your pardon, your Highness.”

“Even so.” As she watched the events outside Alnwick’s walls Eleanor had the feeling of pieces coming together, fitting. It was all there – she saw a way. So many long weeks after she had given up hope. Chancy, no - outright risky and with far too much out of her control, yet there it was, and the realisation of it knocked the breath out of her. “Sir Gervaise …” her softly voiced words faded before the question fully formed.

“Your Highness?”

Eleanor watched.

Trempwick’s army had positioned itself to the west of the castle on its arrival so as to present the best blockade. Now it flowed forwards and across to the east in order to draw up with the river - about a mile distant from the castle walls - protecting its left flank. This had the secondary advantage of placing it clear of the potholes and other hazards designed to break up a force coming at the siege camp from the south. A few of Alnwick’s more ambitious sentries took shots at the marching men with crossbows; the bolts fell woefully short.

Outside the castle’s main gates, now being isolated from the main army by the shift to the east, lay a tiny fortification with palisade walls. Estimates at the outpost’s garrison lay between twenty and forty, sufficient to greatly slow any attempt by the castle’s garrison to sally out to the aid of Hugh’s army.

To the south was Hugh’s army, larger than Trempwick’s and not recovered from the march which had brought it to Alnwick’s walls that very morning. It had drawn up into a thick line with two groups of mounted knights behind the infantry wall. One at the centre she expected to be the reserve Hugh would join, the other was placed to aggressively threaten the enemy right flank. A sound, if predictable, placement which gave the chance of bearing down the enemy line until it was forced into the river.

In the centre, the clear ground which rolled flatly enough to offer no advantage to either side, two tiny little groups of men rode away back to their armies. Eleanor could recognise Trempwick by his burned orange surcoat, Hugh by his unusual passion for wearing his coat of arms embroidered over his chest. Fulk would be the man in blue hanging on the edge of the royal group. Having identified the three men in her life she was not about to lose them again.

“Hawise, there is Fulk, the one in blue on the edge of Hugh’s group. Watch him well and tell me how he does.”

The maid nodded.

“Aveis, I wish you to do likewise with Hugh.”

“As you wish, your Highness.”

She would watch Trempwick herself. Later. For now she had the luxury of watching all three, the first time she had seen them united in months.

Would she try? Undertake something where success would bring her – at best – no love.

“Sir Gervaise …”

“Your Highness?”

She could lose everything. Everything.

“Your Highness?” the castellan asked again, a trace of impatience showing in his courteous words.

“I want every last man armed and assembled in the outer bailey ready to sally upon my order, save for yourself and nine others to act as guard here.” A duty had been placed in her hands and she had undertaken to fulfil it; now was not the time to flinch.





Fulk passed Sueta’s reins to his page. “You will wait in my tent. You will not come near the battle line. You will not place yourself at risk. Do you hear me?”

The boy nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“If I find you’ve disobeyed I’ll flay your hide off your back and send you home in disgrace, and after that you’ll have no chance of finding a new lord.” Richard was a good lad, but Fulk knew all too well how boys running off into a battlefield tended to find death, not the glory they expected. “I expect you to have clean clothes and warm water waiting for me when I return, and bandages in case of need.”

“Some food too, my lord?”

Fulk considered the state he’d likely be in by the time he returned. “I’ll eat with my wife,” he replied gently. “Now, off you go.”

Luke handed Fulk his helmet. “Well, time to do what you’re best at.”

“Read a book and debate with my princess?”

The squire struggled to restrain a sneer. “Must you debase her with every breath? I meant fight.”

As he headed for his place in the line Fulk ran over his equipment; shield settled on his left arm, sword and dagger loose and easy to draw, mace securely fastened to his belt, chinstrap knotted and helmet unlikely to come off.

Hugh had commanded most of his knights fight on foot to stiffen the main line. The presence of hardened warriors steadied those less used to fighting. York’s militia was not the only contingent in the army whom the prince doubted. Fulk’s own Scotsmen had less stake in this battle than any other present, and so would feel less inclined to remain if matters appeared to be going badly. For this reason both had been positioned in the line’s centre, mixed with more stalwart men at arms and supported on both flanks by more of the battle-proven contingents.

The loss of the Scots from his command had left Fulk with Eleanor’s men and the handful who wore his own colours, a bare thirty-one. A further hundred men from various sources had been added to this. Together with William of Suffolk, and his three hundred, Fulk made up the tip of the right flank.

On reaching the front of the line Fulk said loudly, “Noisy lot, aren’t they? Waste of breath – by the time they get here they’ll have nothing left to fight with.” That got him a few laughs, the anxious kind which came from nerves.





Droplets of sweat flew out in the wake of Hugh’s exhausted horse, and the poor beast drew in breath and breath with desperate need. “I place my cause in God’s hands! It is righteous! Have no fear! It will be as God wills it! The Lord will judge, and he will find in my favour!” Hugh’s throat was on fire, his voice worn down to harshness. “God’s will be done!”

“God’s will!” came back the still too quiet response.

“My cause is righteous! I am the old king’s son! I place my faith in God and trust he will aid!” Over and over he repeated variations on the same few themes as he rode from one end of his battle line to the other doing what he could to encourage. At the end he swapped his horse for a fresh one, gulped down some watered wine, and rode back doing it all again.

The chant of his sister’s name had a simplicity, a certain rhythm which made it almost hypnotic. It rolled back and forth like the waves in the sea. Hugh hated it with every fibre of his being.

Then, as though the Lord himself saw his plight and granted him the answer, acoustic confusion reigned as the cry of Eleanor’s name was exchanged for Trempwick’s old Saxon chant of “Ut! Ut! Ut!” accompanied by the drumming of weapons on shields.

“Hear that?” Hugh roared. “The old chant of a defeated people – defeated by my forefather! He who was rightful king after the Sainted Confessor, and usurped by a traitor! William, first of his name to rule over this land, won his battle! I shall win mine!” He brandished his sword above his head and raised William the Bastard’s famous warcry from Hastings, “God aid us! God aid us!”

It caught, and took, and began to spread.






Here we are. Hugh has forced Trempwick to battle because he sees it as the best chance of getting rid of him. Trempwick is grasping the chance to fight a wearied foe with unstated aid from Malcolm Nefastus, whose presence no one has yet reported. Nell has a plan of some sort, something which scares her. Fulk is intending to do something which he knows his gooseberry will find near impossible to forgive – kill Trempwick. Jocelyn … is Jocelyn as usual. Convergence.

A battle of this scale takes more planning than I’d expected. I’ve known about this battle for years, and it’s one of the rare occasions where knowing alone is not sufficient. There’s too much going on. There are so many things I had to check from the story: names, liveries, colours, banners, numbers, descriptions, and more. Things to extrapolate, things to work out, a battle plan for each side to resolve in detail, an overall plan of the thing to build including the timings and POV breaks …

Then I have to make the overall work as a serial. Picking break points is not easy.



Too late for another POV now, and only major characters get them.

[furball]

I was pondering serialization as I read this part. Once the battle starts, it'll be tough to break it nicely, and if your ultimate goal is a book, it may not be necessary to do so.

But as a reader, I've been avidly awaiting each morsel. Bon chance, Lady Frog!

[Death is yonder]

Hi all fellow readers .Love the story you write froggy.Im a bit amazed at the ease you keep readers or at least me captivated.It is quite easy to relate to most of the characters in this "book" of yours,and also your stamina in writing this story over a grand period of 3 years,4months and 5days.I managed to finish this story in 3weeks.Where are the free eyedrops and headache remedies? .Anyway great story! .

Random note:I apologise for any thing I said that sounds stupid.

[frogbeastegg]

From his vantage point Hugh judged that the distance between the two lines had now thinned close to the correct distance to begin his counter charge. On both sides men had begun to loose arrows and crossbow bolts, a trifle early and influenced by the insidious fear which drowned sense with its whispers that a man killed at range now could not come and slay close up. At such distance arrows arrived spent and worthless, and even crossbow bolts lost much of their lethality. A waste, in short.

“Order the advance to contact, for all groups.” Above the blaring of the horns Hugh asked Thomas, “How do you like our chances?”

“Better than if we hadn’t rested for half of yesterday,” the head of Hugh’s household knights replied immediately. A little more slowly, “Better than if we – you - hadn’t predicted an immediate attack.” Pause. “I am glad to see his army hasn’t swelled much, so we still have the advantage in numbers.” Another pause. “If only our centre holds. I mistrust their courage.”

“I have assigned trustworthy men to act as the leaders, and sprinkled solid men throughout their ranks. That should do much to make them stand.”

“Oh yes, my lord.” The knight seemed mildly amused. “You should be familiar with my pessimism by now, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

Varin’s eyebrows had raised a touch during this conversation. “My lord would never enter a battle he doubted to win.”

“Then,” Hugh replied, “he misleads you as to the degree of his confidence. There is no such thing as a certain outcome to a battle.” It was in Hugh’s mind that it was equally possible his imperial brother-by-law was an overly arrogant fool; it would not be politic to voice such a suspicion.

“To the contrary, it is very possible for a gifted general.”

Hugh let the jibe slide off as him he had with so many others. “No. You are quite wrong.”

A final, louder roar of battle cries indicated the two lines had begun the final charge.

The German sighed and indicated the two armies with a hand. “Let us say that, for the sake of our argument, you arrived in such numbers and position to surround your foe. Victory would then be assured.”

“My horse might trip or otherwise throw me, and I might break my neck. That would be a loss. I might be struck by as stray shot. I might sicken and die from a disease gained on the march. There are a variety of ways that battle you described could be lost, even did I remain safely away from the fighting. Let us not forget, without me there is no victory for us – my life is integral to it. It is thus in near every battle; there are those whose survival counts for all.”

The horses fidgeted at the crash of the two battle lines meeting. Even at this distance the shrieks of the first wounded reached their ears.

Hugh crossed himself. “God aid us.”

He was copied by each man in his personal guard.

Hugh resumed his flattening of his sister’s crony as though there had been no interruption. “What if, in your example, my exhausted army met with well-rested men in the highest of morale? If such men held a staunch defence they would inflict disproportionate damage upon my force, and thus sap further the will of my soldiers.”

“Then you would have made an unwise decision in engaging in battle.”

“And if that were my only chance to catch my enemy before he joined with another, far larger force?”

The German smiled his courtier’s smile. “Then your cause is lost beyond all redemption, and flight not battle should be foremost in your mind.”

Hugh shocked his company by laughing outright at the man. “My dear fellow, had I not done that at the very start I should have been dead some weeks ago, my wife and unborn child with me, and my sister foisted onto the throne by the traitor who would rule through her.”

Varin looked down his nose at the Englishmen. “I would hardly think that compares.”

“I grant you throwing that man from the palace gates it is a trifle different to an open battle, yet the point stands. That man had his supporters in my palace, and had corrupted how many more of my own I knew not. The relative numbers of each side may be judged from how many came to my side at the beginning – and by how many more sat idle or worse yet joined him in his treachery.”

“In my homeland-”

“Yes, you will be back there soon, and no more distressed by our crude ways.” Hugh made a show of returning his attention to the forming battle, wishing the man would take the hint and end the wearisome conversation.

Trempwick had deployed with his right flank strengthened to face the expected pressure. His left flank was not reinforced in this way. Now the lines were joined it was time to follow through with his plan. Hugh called to his signaller, “The Earl of Derby’s contingent is to move to support the right flank and all contingents there are to begin pushing forward.”

As the horns carried the commands across the field Hugh watched the situation evolve. Derby’s banner began to head to the right along the back of the battle line. It would take longer before he could tell if the efforts to press forward were meeting with success.

To prevent Trempwick transferring men from his right to his left Hugh commanded, “Have the cavalry on the left begin harassing the enemy’s flank now.”



Three short blasts on a horn followed by one long and a final short: time to begin the real work. Fulk yanked his blade free of a dying man’s stomach and roared, “A FitzWilliam! FitzWilliam’s men forward!” He pushed into the enemy, ramming with his shield to force his way precious inches onwards. A chop with his blade sent a man reeling to the ground with his head half severed, and Fulk pressed on into the space this created in the enemy line. “A FitzWilliam for the gooseberry!”

His men repeated his cry and battered at the enemy to keep place at his side. Outright terror welded each man to his fellows’ sides, the shelter of their sword arms and shields blessed salvation in the chaos. To become isolated was to die, and so as long as morale held all it took was a handful of brave men steadily pressing forward to pull the others with them.

The man behind Fulk and to his left was stammering a constant litany of curses and entreaties to every saint on Rome’s list to keep him safe as he fought, voice high and wavering. His fear didn’t cause him to miss the opportunity to thrust his blade home into an exposed armpit as Fulk blocked an incoming attack with his shield.

At Fulk’s right Waltheof screamed, “For the gooseberry!” and again the cry was echoed by the others to keep spirits high and intimidate the men they fought.

A spray of blood caught Fulk’s helmet and he felt stickiness on his face as it came through the ventilation slits on the right side of his helmet’s faceguard.




There could now be no doubt, the reinforced right flank was pressing the opposing enemy line back. If this continued the enemy centre would be left with severely reduced support and vulnerable to Hugh’s reserves. All things being at their best, the right flank would be able to commit a slow turn and press their foe back into the enemy line, creating chaos and attacking the line from behind.

Serle said, “Whatever else must be said of the man, your unfortunate brother-by-law is a fine fighter.”

Fulk’s banner flew further forward than any other, for all that he led a smaller number of men.

Hugh replied, “He has more cause than any man here save me to desire victory.”

“That may prove his end – God willing.” Thomas shrugged his shoulders at his lord’s searching look. “Better to be shed of the embarrassment in a useful fashion. That is why you placed him there, is it not?”

“I placed him thus in the full knowledge he will fight as he does to win the safety of my sister. What his fate may be is not in my hands, and I would not so presume as to believe otherwise.”

“As I said, my lord.”

The marshal agreed. “No man could possibly think badly of you if he dies. More truthfully, you are thought well of for your restraint in not throttling the upstart with your bare hands for his audacity.”





Observing. Seeing the bastard’s plan clearly now. Played slight of hand – intended to do force the left, not the right. Trempwick held up a hand to summon one of his messengers. “Have Giles and his group commit to the left flank – I want it secured.”

The rider dragged at the reins to turn his mount and galloped off before his obeisance was completed.

The next order could be carried by sound, simpler as it was. “The centre is to increase pressure on the enemy centre. I want it broken.”

The command was carried across the field in the form: centre, attack, forward. Three distinct sounds, easily recognisable.

Smaller numbers laboured against larger – overall. In the centre stronger battled weaker. On the flanks he must hold, could hold. With the bastard’s army cut into two the day would be won. Broken battle lines were defeated battle lines. Prince Malcolm’s aid would make victory certain, cleaner. It was not essential. Well rested veterans fighting tired militia – his centre would win. With time. His task, then, to ensure they had time.






Turns out it’s hard to write when the unremittingly awful Christmas music you are subjected to at work is burned so deeply into your mind that you can hear it 24 hours a day. “Right, and then Trempwick spots what Hugh is doing and I’m going to be lonesome this Chris-AGHHH!!! SHUT UP!!! Hugh. Battle. Right. No – Trempwick. Someday at Christmas there’ll be no tears – no, battle! Argh!!” :has nervous break down. The CD is 51 minutes long. I work a minimum of 8 hours a day. It’s so infectious we were all humming and singing bits of it by the third playthrough two weeks, though the general opinion of it is that the disc needs grinding into dust and sealing in concrete.

I can’t concentrate, and have grudgingly resigned myself to writing a lousy battle start in the knowledge that the later bits are strong enough to blot out the sad little Christmas tree which no one cares about because it is only a tree, and a dead one at that, so will the twee woman kindly shut the heck up and fall off a 100 foot cliff onto some very sharp rocks, thank you very much!





Furball, as you can tell from the above splits have become the least of my concerns while writing this. I had it all nicely planned, and then the music struck. Now I can’t write. Gah!

Death is yonder … what an apt name for this point in the tale Welcome. :hands over the famous eyedrops:

[Ciaran]

You know, occasionally I envied you for working in a book store . But around Chrismas I certainly don´t. Even though it´s been actually quite civilized around here this year, only yesterday they started playing "Last Chrismas". But once they do, they play it ad nauseam.

There are new songs for carnival (something like Halloween in Germany, what with the costumes and such), why, for god´s sake not for chrismas as well?

I wonder, should I wish that you lose you sense of hearing temporarily? Helps with obnoxius customers as well...

[frogbeastegg]

It's too late. I'm long since infected. I hear the music when the CD has stopped, I hear it when I'm not in the shop, I hear it while I'm trying to read or think, and I hear it while I am asleep. It only stops when I focus on it and scream "Argh! Shutupshutupshutup!!" over and over inside my head. A minute later and I can hear it again.

Another reason not to envy my job presently is the deliveries. Where we had 2 per week in this new shop we are now having upwards of 4. Yesterday we had 3 on the same day. I'm not talking about a couple of boxes of books, I'm talking about a couple of pallets worth minimum per delivery. All of which has to be unloaded and carried into the shop by hand, unpacked, priced, put out. It never ends.

Third reason, if you needed one, is the hours. In the old location the shop was open 9-5:30, meaning I worked 9-6. Now it's 9-7 4 days a week, 9-9 2 days a week, and 10:30-4:30 on Sunday. That leaves me working a variety of shifts like 7-4, 9-6, 10:30-7:30, 12:30-9:30. The latter two of those give me no chance to write, which is why my gaming has picked up recently. These hours are so successful the centre is keeping them as standard trading hours next year. Successful? Our shop is very quiet after 5:30 most days. If there is one thing worse than being required to work crappy hours it is working crappy hours for no real point.

[Death is yonder]

Death is yonder … what an apt name for this point in the tale Welcome. :hands over the famous eyedrops:

Thanks for the welcome and the eyedrops froggy .Indeed "death is yonder" is quite an apt name for the current part of your "book".I've been caught up with christmas coming and the organisation of my life in preparation for the next year to look out for updates constantly .Hope you cope with your job .I'm not at that stage yet in my life.I shudder to think what will be of me next time .Maybe my relationship with the boss will be something like this. .

[frogbeastegg]

The fighting had been going on for well over an hour now. The noise, the carnage, Eleanor had become numb to it. Observing it all from her tower, impatient for it to be over and yet wanting it to continue forever if the outcome would bring the certainty of loss.

Fulk’s banner flew at the forefront, thrust proudly into Trempwick’s line. Hawise had been unable to keep sight of him, and so knowledge that he still lived was limited to occasional cries of “There! I see him!” Hugh and Trempwick remained clear of the fighting, hatefully safe. They who had brought this about faced no risk to life or limb – a safety, and responsibility, she keenly shared. Her beloved had little part in this, yet it was he who stood in the thick of danger.

Aware of footsteps approaching from behind her Eleanor looked away from the battle. A pair of servants approached, one bearing a brazier and the other a tray with a flagon and cups. Finding the promise of mulled wine somewhat insulting given the situation she returned her attention to the field. There was something about the shape of this seething mob of struggling humanity with nagged at her, something not linked to guilt or dread.

Eleanor pulled her the thick wool of her cloak tighter about herself and shivered. The afternoon was not especially cold for the time of year; the tower attracted a relentless wind and inactivity sapped warmth from her bones. When a cup of hot wine was offered her with a bow she accepted it without demur. A few seconds wrapped around the bowl of the goblet and her fingers regained sufficient life to report that she was burning them.

It was not yet time to begin the sally. With a bare fifty men to send to the field she needs must wait until Trempwick were most vulnerable. Fifty men could not cut their way through the four hundred odd who surrounded Trempwick now. Waiting to make her decision final was, in its own way, as bad as waiting for all to be done so she could discover what her life was going to look like after today. Was it worth the loss of living men – and Fulk in particular – to achieve something foisted on her by a dead man she held no kind feelings for? A responsibility accepted grudgingly and for reasons she could not fully explain. Reasons locked around contemptible things like pity for a most unsympathetic man, or a worming desire to believe the nonsense people had been pushing at her for months now. The arse in the crown hadn’t cared about her, hadn’t liked her, had never held a the least warm feeling for her. He’d sent the ring and its burdens to her out of spite knowing the turmoil it would bring her. So why risk so much, lose so much in the name of unwanted duty?

A deferential cough at her side snapped Eleanor back to the here and now. A servant held a platter laden with hot food. With the tone of someone repeating themselves for the umpteenth time she asked, “Would your Highness like something?”

She took one of the hot stuffed rolls and ate it without ado.

A muttered comment in langue d’oil caught her ear and nearly made her grin. Jocelyn thought watching a battle over mulled wine and finger food was “A bit buggered in the head!” That did not prevent him from eating with the appetite of the half starved. It was good to know she was not the only one to find it surreal.

Eleanor asked Sir Gervaise, “How much longer do you think it will be before conditions are right for us to sally?”

“A good while, your Highness.”

“The light will begin to fade in several hours. Surely they cannot continue to fight then?”

“It has been known.” The castellan busied himself with a marrow tart.

Eleanor did not enquire further.





Fulk let his helmet drop to the ground, rejoiced as air hit his face, and collapsed bonelessly onto the grass, chest heaving as his lungs desperately sucked in air. His pulse hammered through his aching body; pain spiked in matching rhythm in his wounded leg. Not to be left out his shoulder also made its agony known, protesting at his allowing the half-healed wound to be smacked by a sword.

His view of the sky was spoiled by the appearance of a flagon supported by two hands, one heavily bandaged and doing little more than resting gingerly on the side of the pottery. Fulk dragged himself into a sitting position, seized the vessel and emptied half its contents down his gullet, halting only when he choked as his need to gasp for air became irrepressible.

“Careful, my lord,” the attendant chided.

A few minutes later Fulk’s breathing had slowed to something approaching normal speed, and he took another good dose of the watered wine. Between sweat and the inevitable effect of terror on his bladder he felt like there wasn’t a drop of moisture left in his body. He handed the empty vessel back. “More,” he croaked.

By the time he’d drained half of the second drink and wolfed down two fist-sized chunks of bread stuffed with meat and onions he felt able to think of something other than his body’s needs again. A glance about told him that the other men were finding likewise.

Fulk beckoned to the attendant. “John.”

The man came over. “My lord?” He’d lost two fingers on his right hand in the fighting at the river crossing, and was now fit for nothing but fetching and carrying.

“My spare sword.” Fulk gestured to the blade lying forgotten at his side, sticky with congealing blood. “That one’s blunted. Have it sharpened and seen to ready for my next rest. A new shield too, my other’s had it.”

“Which spare, my lord?”

“Doesn’t matter.” They were both quality blades, both gifts from Eleanor’s brothers. One from Hugh for foiling Trempwick’s attempt at kidnap, one from John given alongside his armour in an effort to bribe him away from Eleanor’s side. “The one from prince Hugh,” Fulk shouted after the crippled man at arms. It took a rare kind of man not to surrender to superstition when life, limb and love hung in the balance of combat, and Fulk would take no chances. It could be that this swap had hidden benefits, being as it involved exchanging the blade given by his first love – a love he’d betrayed and abandoned – for one given in good faith. Maybe.

Inactivity was allowing his overworked muscles to stiffen, and that couldn’t be allowed. Fulk dragged himself to his feet and forced himself through some simple stretches, feeling every last damned sinew and cord in his body protest the action. One flex caused him to groan as it caught at his shoulder.

Waltheof began the painful process of regaining his own feet. “Got to see if it’s as bad as you make it look.” A bit later, “Damn, yes!”

Most of the other men who’d formed the front rank and led the brunt of the fighting in Fulk’s company remained on the ground. “Get up, you idle bastards, and get moving.” Fulk’s command lacked a certain something due to hoarseness but it proved effective enough; men dragged themselves up and began to limber up ready for to return to battle.

As Fulk groaned again Luke made an expression which began as a grin and ended as a grimace. “Think of the militia, my lord. When they get tired they get cut up. Haven’t got what it takes to swap tired men for fresh like us.”

Fulk’s leg twinged again and he bit back an oath. “Brings new meaning to dead tired. Poor sods.”

All too soon the half hour rest break was over, and Fulk announced his return to the forefront of the battle with the loudest battle cry he’d managed in more than an hour. “A FitzWilliam! A FitzWilliam for the gooseberry!”








There was a brass band playing Christmas carols in the centre yesterday. That was nice. They were loud enough to drown out the instore music. :happy froggy:

Death is Yonder, thanks.

[Peasant Phill]

Poor sods indeed.

Loud enough maybe, but it's still christmas music. I think I would go nuts listening to that CD twice let alone day in day out. Being replaced by some other but similar music would not be a relief.

But then you probably become accustomed to such things.

A good description of the 'ambiance'. The surrealism of a battle.

[Death is yonder]

Christmas Shopping... Can be described as continuously willing for the queue to move faster due to the fact your head is going to implode after listening to that ridiculously annoying music .Still wondering how many more gifts to buy...

[wasabi_ko]

Hey FrogBeastEgg,

Just wanted to tell you that this is an amazing story you've written. It boggles my mind how you've been able to go at it for so long!

[Ludens]

As well-written as always.


Merry Christmas, BTW.

[woad&fangs]

I just finished the last post on page 4 of this topic.

Bah, I'll just say it. So far this year I've Read Harry Potter #7 and Wicked. The Gooseberry is, so far, better than either of them.

Edit: on page 7 now. Wonderful, now I can't get the King and Anne out of my head. Thanks a lot Frogzilla. Never the less, it continues to be a wonderful story.

[Peasant Phill]

Another innocent fly caught by lady Frog. Only 19 more pages to go.

[frogbeastegg]

That particular melee had gone on long enough to be convincing. Trempwick ordered, “Have the cavalry begin their fained rout.”

The signal passed. So did time. The horsemen to reacting too close to the signal would invite suspicion.

Then. The formation started to fray. One by one men dragged their horses about and dug in their spurs. The few became the many. The many became the all. Riding at full speed away from the battle.

And their foes laid chase. Bloodlust. The thrill of victory. Predictable and useful.

One mile away along that course waited the Scottish brat. He’d cut the bastard’s men to pieces. Trempwick’s returning cavalry would come bolstered by near two hundred Scots.




His cavalry was pursuing the broken enemy from the field. Against all of his orders, against his dire threats, against his great need for them to turn on the enemy line. Hugh cried, “I shall have them walk the entire way back to London with their saddles about their necks! Every last one of them!”

He flushed at his loss of decorum. What was the use? The situation could still be salvaged, and his first thoughts should have been in that direction. Battles had setbacks, and all never went according to plan. He knew this. He had prepared for it. That this, the first stumble, came so far into the day was, overall, a promising sign. In all other aspects the plan proceeded at the level he had expected, or better.

“All of the reserves save for my guard and hundred are to attend to the left flank,” he commanded. “The position is to be re-established and held without hesitation to the cost.”

Within minutes Hugh remained alone at his vantage point, alone save for his personal bodyguard and the hundred veterans selected to fight alongside him.






His council was gone, only Thomas remained. Hugh felt the weight of sole responsibility crushing down upon his shoulders. The moment was here – or so he thought. Could he be incorrect? Waiting as little longer would make it clear, yet equally it may allow his chance to slip. He may be seeing through wishful eyes something which was not there.

Or he may be correct.

He believed he was.

If his judgement were flawed he would forfeit the engagement with his error.

Hugh’s heart pounded as though he had been in the thick of the conflict for the past hour, his palms slick with sweat.

He reviewed the situation once again. His left flank had stabilised and now held station relative to the original positions of the battle line. His centre had bowed backwards under the pressure, and it still held. His right flank had advanced sufficiently far forward that if it began to turn to the left it would bundle the enemy up on themselves. Of his cavalry there remained no trace. Of his reserves only himself and those under his direct command remained.

Sweat ran down Hugh’s back under his armour. The moment had arrived, he was certain.

If he were mistaken …

His fingers brushed the lions embroidered over his heart. The gold thread felt rough to his fingertips. The blood of capable generals ran in his veins; how disgusted they would be if they could witness his squirming thoughts. They would reject him.

Trust. Belief. If he could not muster these things in himself how may he expect them of others?

“The right flank is to begin pressing sideways.”





Three short blasts followed by two long ones – the signal! Fulk shouted, “Press left! FitzWilliam’s men, press left!”

Matching deed to word he advanced a diagonal step forward where before he’d have taken a straight one.





Sir Gervaise stepped forward to Eleanor’s elbow. In a gentle, gentle voice he said, “Your Highness, I think it may be prudent to consider our course of action in the event of your brother’s defeat.”

Eleanor whirled around. “Defeat!?”

“His cavalry is mostly gone, his centre is like to give before dusk, the bulk of his reserves are committed.”

“But – but Trempwick’s army is almost half encircled!” That was supposed to be important! Over and over she had seen it mentioned in the texts she had read. If one army encircled the other then the odds swung heavily in their favour. Still something nagged at her about the shape of the battle. “Trempwick has used most of his reserves too.”

“That will not matter if your brother’s army is cut into two. I feel that is a very real danger, your Highness.” Again that gentle request, “In that event, what will you do, your Highness?”

Defeat. It seemed impossible. How could Hugh lose? Everything depended upon his victory – how could he be so useless as to lose!? It made her want to scream. The one thing she desperately need her brother to do, something he had been trained for since he could toddle, the most important moment of his life so far, and he was going to fail?! How perfectly bloody Hugh!

“Do?” she spat. “Do? What is there to do? Wait, then pick up whatever is left and attempt to make something functional of it.”

The castellan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ah … that is not quite as specific as I had hoped, your Highness.”

“You wished me to send for my crown so I could start polishing it?” To full of pent up anger to remain still Eleanor began to stomp up and down along the tower’s rampart. “Perhaps I should begin choosing a dress to receive Trempwick in? Is that what you would have me do? Fuss about preparing myself like a bride for a man who is going to-” She couldn’t say it. He was her tutor, her mentor, he was like a father to her, for Christ’s sake!

Sir Gervaise stood unflinching. “That might be a start.” Her glare must have been positively molten because he shrank back a trifle. “He could kill everyone in this castle. He’s promised to do so. You are the only one with a chance of stopping him, and you’ll only have that chance if you appease him.”

“Damn you,” Eleanor whispered. “That was underhand.”

“I am but reminding you of what you already know.”

“I am aware of that.” Under her cloak her fingers touched her hidden knives. “I do not need to choose dresses. I shall do as I am.” Who was the knife for? Herself? Trempwick? Would she break her sworn word to Fulk and send his soul howling to the torments of hell? In the face of defeat that is what it would mean. Fulk would not survive a victory by Trempwick, and so her oath to return to her master for protection would require fulfilment. With circumstances so changed Fulk should have released her from the resentful promise!

Then it came to her. “Cannae!” Eleanor exclaimed.

Sir Gervaise looked most alarmed. “Can you what, your Highness?”

“Cannae, the battle of Cannae.” The clarification did nothing to reduce the blank looks directed at her by all on her tower. “Hannibal. The destruction of a Roman army.”

The castellan shrugged. “My master taught me from more recent examples, your Highness. I’m no scholar.”

Eleanor scowled. She’d suffered through those dreary old books in the belief her misery had been shared by those with more military knowledge than her. Evidently not. “I have been reading works of history, and of strategy.”

“Yes, your Highness. It is most … unusual for a lady.”

It was all Sir Miles’ fault. He’d managed what Trempwick never had, and made her think it may be useful. “Look.” She pointed at the field. “See the shape the armies have taken?” Hugh’s centre had bowed backwards, his right flank advanced, his left flank still held position. Trempwick’s army had poured forward as it pressed its advantage. The overall resembled a hand cupping a ball. “Hannibal knew much of his infantry could not stand up to the Roman’s. He took advantage of this. When his centre bowed back and his more solid troops kept position he ended up half-encircling the Roman army. He played to his weakness, and made it his strength.” She said nothing of Hannibal’s superior cavalry and how they had driven off their weaker Roman counterparts, enabling a greater degree of encirclement than Hugh could manage.

Jocelyn scratched his cheek. “You say your brother plan this? To have such big risk?”

It would be a very Hugh thing to do. Eleanor knew her brother sought to model himself after those considered to be great, and grasped after examples of how he should act in every situation from the mundane to the extraordinary. Anything other than be his own self. “His education was very thorough, and I know he studied ancient battles along with more modern ones. He would be delusional if he thought he could have a solid battle line with the army he has brought.”

Hawise said, “But his knights have gone, chasing after Trempwick’s. Doesn’t that mean he is in trouble if he’s trying to do what you suggest?”

“Yes.” After a pause Eleanor added, “Possibly.” Another pause. “I have no idea – I am no strategist. I have read a few histories, that is all.”

The castellan was the one to break the weighty silence. “If your brother did indeed plan for this he may have some chance yet. If his centre doesn’t break.”





Fulk cursed and twisted his sword again. It wouldn’t budge. The blade had lodged in his enemy’s spine. It had been a mistake to swing with such force, even if the weapon’s edge were so dulled it now did much of its damage through blunt force. Another tug and finally it came free, the shock of it sending him teetering backwards. Before he recovered his balance a body hit him and threw him to the ground.

He heaved at the body lying across him with all the urgency his exhausted body could muster; those who fell and didn’t rise swiftly tended not to rise again. Waltheof and another he didn’t recognise filled the gap left by his fall, protecting him as he struggled.

The body shifted and he managed to half free himself. Fulk got one foot under himself and froze. His squire’s jaw was a mess of pulped flesh, splintered bone and shattered teeth floating haphazardly in it. His left eye reduced to a splash of jelly in a crumpled socket. Amazingly Luke still breathed, mercifully unconscious and undeniably dying.

Retching, though his stomach was long since emptied, Fulk drew his dagger and did the only thing he could. In the crush he was jostled, a knee catching him in the back with bruising force, and the cut across Luke’s throat was not clean.

Back on his feet Fulk didn’t search the enemy line for the man who’d killed Luke. There was no point. If he wasn’t directly in front of him then they wouldn’t meet, simple as that.

As he returned his sword to ready position after a slash Fulk noticed the tip of the blade had snapped clean off.




Hugh drew his sword. “God aid us!”

His men returned the cry.

“God aid us!” He started forward, the terrified militia peeling back to make way for his hardened veterans. “Stand and fight!” he bellowed. “Victory is at hand! Your lord fights with you as token of this!”

The words were not hollow. Prior to leaving his vantage point both right and left flanks had cut their way across, bagging the enemy up. If the cavalry returned they could cut right into the vulnerable rear, if not then his infantry would grind their way onwards. Trempwick could not pull back, he had nothing left to threaten the envelopment, his only chance lay in shattering Hugh’s militia before his own men panicked. Hence Hugh’s presence, and with him more than a hundred heavily armed men who lived and breathed for combat. His own guard would die to a man so long as he himself stood – it was their sworn duty, their very purpose in life.

“God aid us!” Hugh’s first victim tumbled to the ground. To his left and right he could see others achieving the same success – the impact of fresh men on the exhausted enemy was devastating.




He recognised the tactic. Of course he did. Grind his teeth or laugh? The bastard thought he was Hannibal! Whatever. Annoying. Punch through his line and the bastard was done. Hold out until Malcolm arrived and the bastard was done. If not Malcolm, then his own returning cavalry. The first highly likely. The latter only necessary for a neater finish. And to that end …

Trempwick drew his sword and charged into the fray in support of his left flank.

Wished again a simple assassination had been possible. So much cleaner.





Trempwick was engaged in the battle. Eleanor’s mouth went dry. This was it, time for her final decision. It was not as hard she had earlier believed it would be.

“Count Jocelyn.”

“Your Highness?”

“You will begin your sally now. Trempwick is on his left flank.”

The count bowed, his mail chiming softly. “We capture him,” he said confidently.

“No.” Easier than near-impossible was still a long way from child’s play. Eleanor took a breath. “Kill him.” A sense of loss swept over her, and with it a measure of tranquillity.

The Frenchman blinked. “Er?”

“I undertook a certain duty.” This would not make her popular amongst her remaining menfolk.

“But … you sure?” Jocelyn was not the only one with doubt plain to read in his eyes. They all had it. Every last damned one of them. Indeed, this would not make her popular.

Very carefully the castellan ventured, “Better to capture him, to submit him to your brother’s justice. If indeed your brother wins.”

Hugh would be livid at being denied his vengeance, at losing chance to stamp his victory over his tormentor into lasting memory. “When Trempwick falls his army will crumple. He is what holds them together. Strike off the serpent’s head and what is left is harmless. If my brother’s position is as perilous as you say then we must reach for anything which may give him the edge

Would Fulk forgive her? Whether made in jest or in the full grip of her royal temper, Fulk had met each and every suggestion that she do Trempwick some permanent harm with a flat negatory. Could he love someone capable of cold-bloodedly ordering the death of a man who had raised her, saved her life? Her decision would change things between them irrevocably. Then there was that tricky promise. How could she gamble with her beloved’s soul like this? If he died in that battle … She must believe he would survive, and thus the promise would have no cost.

Eleanor had inherited a kingdom. Unlooked for, unwanted, unaccepted though it may be, it was hers and try as she might she couldn’t turn her back on it.

Eleanor said, “There can be no peace while he lives.”

With her whole heart she cursed her father for thrusting this on her.









[wizard of Oz]Ding dong the witch* is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead! :celebration: [/wizard of Oz]
*for witch substitute Christmas season


Death is Yonder, please don’t mention queues. :has flashbacks to trying to shove as many people through the shops pair of tills as possible, with 4 people crammed behind the tiny counter, two manning the tills and the other two packing bags, and all the while that evil CD plays on: There should be some kind of counselling.

Wasabi_ko, hello! :hands over the traditional eye drops: By the time you catch up you will need these for your poor, tired eye balls.

Merry Christmas, Ludens.

Another new reader! :likewise hands out eye drops to woad&fangs: If you survived the cringe worthy Harry Potter romances then Anne and William should be nothing to your hardened soul.

I do plan on releasing my readers, Peasant Phill. One day … Until then, get back in your cages!

[Lord Winter]

Very good read lady frog, both sides are in trouble, hugh may get his calvery annalihated by Malcom, but Trempwick has the sorty party to deal with.

Keep on the good work

[frogbeastegg]

I made a pair of maps. They're rubbish and ugly; I'm not an artist and it's hard to draw with a mouse and Paint. However they may be useful.


This is the position at the start of the battle. It's not to scale at all, and things are only roughly slapped down in the right position.


This is the battle as it presently stands. The bit containing the castle is my rubbish attempt at one of those posh blown up inserts you see on battlefield diagrams. The big black line is to indicate the line of seperation between scales.

Notice how Nell's unit is tagged in gooseberry green?

[furball]

That's the mental image I had of the battle lines, though it took me a couple of readings to form it. For some reason, my initial reading left me 180 degrees off.

I'm assuming that the castle ramparts aren't very high and that there are hills between the castle and Malcolm's army. Hard as it might be to get a rider to Hugh, it would be worth much if the castle could have warned him of the danger.

Meanwhile, wonderful writing from the POV's and giving a sense of the situation, Froggy. I always hope for happy endings, but we've had enough foreshadowing that I'm awfully worried for our favorite characters, whoever they may be. :)

One thing: The following paragraph seems very important, but I'm not sure I really understand it. I'm *assuming* that, "send his soul howling to the torments of hell," could be replaced by "kill Trempwick." That is, "his soul" refers to Trempwick's. Or am I missing something? And isn't it reasonable to believe that Fulk would never have survived a victory by Trempwick, so I don't see how cicumstances are "so changed."

"Who was the knife for? Herself? Trempwick? Would she break her sworn word to Fulk and send his soul howling to the torments of hell? In the face of defeat that is what it would mean. Fulk would not survive a victory by Trempwick, and so her oath to return to her master for protection would require fulfilment. With circumstances so changed Fulk should have released her from the resentful promise!"

[frogbeastegg]

Waaaay back in the dim and distant past (when they were travelling to Scotland) Fulk made Nell swear on his soul that if he died she would go to Trempwick for shelter. He believed she would be better treated by Trempy than Hugh. He has not released her from that, though their situation has changed enormously. If Fulk dies and Trempy is no longer there for her to go to due to her ordering him killed then her promise is broken as surely as if she fled screaming in the opposite direction.

Alnwick's a nice stone castle, good high walls and such like. It's one of the key fortresses on the English/Scottish border.

[furball]

Thank you.

[Ludens]

Thanks for the explanation. I didn't understand that line either.

[woad&fangs]

Just finished topic page eleven. It's the scene where the King arives at Jocelyns castle.

The thoughts, emotions, and motives of the various characters are much more believable than I'm used to reading.

[frogbeastegg]

The portcullis shuddered and began to rise. Jocelyn drew his sword. Behind him came the rasp of forty-nine other swords being freed. The iron-reinforced gate reached the top of its runners with a final clank. Four men began to swing the double doors open.

Jocelyn hefted his shield. “Forward!”

They marched out in a tight, wide column, swung around to hug the walls and broke into a jog. Why waste time and lives overpowering that damned outpost Trempwick had set up outside their gates when they could simply speed on by? The men inside it couldn’t do them a whit of harm, not without coming into range of the castle. There may only be a handful of soldiers left inside there but by God there were quite a few women and clueless men. Damn, that hellion of a princess could probably shoot down half an incoming army all on her own, damned mad woman!

Damn it, the woman was deranged, right bloody mad! All she needed to do was sit there and wait, wait and see who won and then have them disposed of if she didn’t think they’d work nicely with her new reign. That was all. None of this sallying forth and killing some of them and saving others business. If the daft slut had picked the wrong husband to kill then they’d all be in a fine bloody mess! What if they killed off the Trempwick one and her half-brother lost anyway? Where the sodding hell was she then?! In deep shit, that’s where, and him right along with her, thanks very much!

Fifty paces left between them and the back of Trempwick’s personal little mob, give or take a big fat margin of error and all that.

Right. He’d have to trust her. She was a queen and knew what she was doing. Women did that sometimes. They made incomprehensible decisions and then shrieked when you chose to do something a bit more bloody sensible. Richildis did it all the time, damn her miserable hide. It was all part and parcel of being a female. Being mysterious, that is. Shrieking too, come to think of it. That’s how God had designed them – irritate the hell out of men. There were compensations for those able to master the virtues the Lord had wanted to cultivate in the superior sex: patience, understanding, kindliness, and a good strong right fist. Hell yes, there were compensations alright! Jocelyn knew that well, being a veritable saint when it came to dealing with women.

Twenty paces. Jocelyn ordered, “Forming line!” The small band of brave heroes upon whom the entire outcome of this battle – nay, this civil war! – rested tightened up their formation until their shoulders touched, levelled their shields, and began to advance in good battle order.

How could he trust her when she didn’t know what she was doing? Looking at it from an objective point of view, she kept on saying she didn’t want the throne. What kind of bloody lunacy was that?! No, it all had to be a cunning ploy, no other reason for it. What sane person would chuck away the chance at ultimate power? She was sane, wasn’t she?

The soldiers around him shouted, “For the gooseberry!”

He hadn’t given permission for that! Surely it should be his cry they raised, not hers! Jocelyn gave it a hearty go, certain that they’d pick it up. Not only was his cry glorious and that of a count, it was a damned sight less embarrassing than all that fruit nonsense. “A d’Ardantes! A d’Ardantes!”

“The gooseberry! For the gooseberry!” They were giving it some gusto.

Oh, saint Swithen and a stick! If you couldn’t beat them you may as well join them. “A d’Ardantes! A d’Ardantes for the gooseberry!” As they crashed into the hastily formed rear guard Jocelyn discouraged the enemy from laughing at the absurd damned cry by killing anyone within reach.





Dusk was beginning to fall; the light had begun to fade. Returned to the line after his third break Fulk was past caring. If he died then he’d be able to rest. Only the thought of Eleanor, and long training, kept him on his feet, his sword – once again he wielded Maude’s gift - seeking out every opening. It should not be possible to be so exhausted and still on his feet.

Again he took a diagonal step forward. He felled an enemy. Again. Again. His tattered shield shuddered under blows, others made it past and glanced off his armour with bruising impact. A few caught the minute gaps in mail links and stabbed on home to prick his skin, every time his sluggish brain sparked into life and overrode his trained reactions to pull him from danger before the damage could become more than superficial.

The mass of humanity before him wavered for a moment, parting sufficiently to give him a view of what lay ahead. Trempwick’s banner. Fulk felt energy flood back into his limbs. Trempwick’s banner. The man himself would be under it! Through a raw throat he croaked, “FitzWilliam’s men! Press right! Right and forward – forward! Trempwick is here!”






Eleanor’s fingers were so chilled she failed to grip the goblet of hot wine adequately and it fell to the ground, the contents slopping all over the stonework and the hem of her clothes. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Go inside, your Highness,” Sir Gervaise said once again. “There’s nothing for you to do here.”

She shook her head; her teeth were chattering and it was difficult to speak without biting her own tongue off. Whyever did men think waiting was made easier by sitting in comfort oblivious to what was occurring? Here if something happened she would know of it as it unfolded.

The servant pressed a second goblet into her hands, curling her fingers around the warmth and supporting her grip with his own until her fingers had regained sufficient life to retain their grip. Eleanor smiled her thanks at the man, and he blushed.

Sir Gervaise unpinned his cloak and flung it about Eleanor’s shoulders. “Your husband will not thank you if you catch cold out here.”

The cloak was of the same heavy wool as Eleanor’s and lined with bear fur; it was marvellously warm from the castellan’s own body heat. “Thank you.”

“Go inside, your Highness.”

“As you said earlier, sir, if the day goes ill it will be for me to pull whatever is left from the fire. My place is here.”

So she waited and watched, and watched and waited. Trempwick’s line skewed further and further, his left flank was crushed into his main battle line, and the centre itself was pressed into a shapeless blob surrounded on two sides and most of another. Hugh had won, Eleanor was convinced of it.

Her attention was drawn to an unwelcome development by Aveis. A cloud of dust gave away the approach of a sizeable body of men from the north-west.

“It is likely the cavalry returning, Hugh’s or Trempwick’s,” Sir Gervaise said.

They came close enough for the banners to be visible. The castellan had been wrong. Neither Hugh’s nor Trempwick’s banners flew above that body of knights.

“Malcolm.” Eleanor spoke the name in such a way it became a curse.

The castellan spat on the floor. “What does that devil’s spawn want here?”

“Nothing good, doubtless.”

No one suggested otherwise. Gervaise and Aveis, northerners born and bred, knew the Nefastus as a distant and unwelcome neighbour. Eleanor and Hawise had met the brat.

Eleanor said, “He is the reason Trempwick was so confident. He must be. Trempwick had a good chance to win alone. With the Nefastus to support him it is all but guaranteed.”

Hawise frowned slightly. “His father is your brother’s ally.”

“An alliance he spat upon, and a father he wishes to overthrow.” Eleanor turned to her castellan in appeal. “What can we do? There must be something!”

Sir Gervaise watched the advance of Malcolm’s cavalry for a time. “Make sure the gates are well bolted, and pray the creature’s horse throws him so he breaks his neck. It is too late to call back your men, and there are no more to send.”

The Scottish cavalry was forming up to attack Hugh’s left flank where it had curled up around Trempwick’s line. It was all hideously clear to Eleanor’s semi-educated eyes. The flank would break, and this would leave the struggling centre exposed and demoralised. They would break. The right flank would collapse too, as it became unsupported. Hugh had some small worth as a prisoner. Fulk had none. Quite the reverse – by marrying her he had insulted those of noble blood, and vengeance would be extracted in full.

Eleanor’s knees went weak. She must have looked faint because Hawise and Sir Gervaise rushed to her side and grabbed hold of her.” I am well,” she assured them. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off.

If Malcolm came near her after the battle she would kill him with her own two hands, consequences be damned. A pair of knives to the belly, two deep thrusts low down so he bled to death over several hours in shrieking agony. If he kept his distance she would arrange his death. Whether she ended back in Trempwick’s hands or not, the Nefastus would die for this, and he would die as horrifically as she could manage. If Trempwick would not aid her then she would do it despite him.

Horns rang out, and Malcolm’s thrice damned cavalry began its charge, advancing at a steady walk towards Hugh’s right flank. The men dug in their spurs, and the horses gained speed. Still they held their course. Eleanor couldn’t look away, couldn’t close her eyes. She feared she may be sick, bile was burning the back of her throat. She’d never see Fulk again. She’d lost him.

The line gathered more speed. Infantrymen scrambled to form a fresh line to defend against the cavalry, and Trempwick’s men harried them mercilessly. They had known the prince was coming. They knew him as an ally.

Eleanor’s vision grew hazy. She didn’t blink the tears away, they were the only respite from what was taking place she could get.

The lances came down, the men bellowed their battle cry, and ploughed into the infantry. The noise was hideous, the shrieks of men and horses standing out from the din of the field.

Now Eleanor blinked. Again, and rubbed at her eyes to clear her tears. “Tell me, surely that is - he is – they are attacking Trempwick’s men!” the last part came out as a semi hysterical screech.

“God’s teeth!” Sir Gervaise leaned as far over the ramparts as he could, hand over his eyes to wring every last drop of use out of his vision. The castle walls were filled with people doing the same, and Eleanor was not too proud to stand aloof.

“He is!” Eleanor staggered back from the icy stonework, beaming like an idiot. “He is! He is attacking Trempwick!”





Betrayed. The brat prince had sided with the bastard. Must have thought Trempwick’s cause lost. Too stupid to see that he could turn it all about!

No matter. Too late. Nothing to be done. Trempwick might be in the thick of the fighting be he knew his men had begun to rout. The line was less dense. The men less willing to press forward. The sounds of the field too confused. The enemy too triumphant.

Kept fighting.

He’d lost. Failed. Like an idiot! Put too much on breaking the centre, he saw now. Should have been more conservative. Not let his line be drawn in and warped.

Should have strangled the prince with his bare hands on meeting him.

Too late for should haves. Far too late.

Break and run? He scorned to do so. Kept fighting. Kept felling men.

He knew who he fought. Knew who controlled these men at arms. There was something he could do. Just a matter of finding him …

Searching, fighting, killing, and searching.

Until … There! His shield’s facing half ripped away, his coat of arms barely distinguishable. So soaked in gore as to be red from head to toe with not a touch of other colour. Battered and cut about. Unmistakable. And headed towards Trempwick.

So. At last they could meet without fetters. No Nell to hold them back. No propriety. No boundaries. No limitations. Just … them.

Trempwick shouted, “Fulk is mine! Mine! None are to touch him! Clear us space!”

Nell’s pet was yelling words of similar effect.

Slowly an island of space formed in the melee. Fulk at one edge. Trempwick opposite. Space for them to deal with each other as they willed. No restraints. At last.

The pet kept his shield up and assumed a balanced stance better suited to individual combat. Did not move otherwise. Waiting. Allowing Trempwick to make the first move.

Trempwick waited. Did not move. Ready.

They did not speak. Did not move. The fighting raged on around them. The clear space grew and contracted, shifted. Men shouted encouragement to them.

Impasse. More boring than expected. No restraints - and no legroom for anything interesting. All they could do was cut each other to shreds. Tedious in the extreme.

“Sir Fulk,” Trempwick said.

“What, spymaster?”

Trempwick made his move with the speed of a viper, thrust his sword into his target, released the hilt and retreated a step. It was well done. Neat. He was almost pleased.

The pet’s eyes widened behind his helmet’s eye slits. The tip of his sword wavered.

“I yield.” Trempwick gestured at the sword dug point first into the slurry that was the ground. “To you, specifically, and only you.”

Priority: survive. Where there was life there was hope. The pet would never harm him unless in his own defence. It would affect his relationship with Nell too much. Freed his arm of his shield and dropped it.

The pet made no more. Kept his sword ready.

Idiots on the pet’s side encouraged him to cut Trempwick down. Avenge what had been done to his wife – his wife. Nell. To hear her referred to as such burned.

Nell’s … husband – say it, accept it – husband advanced a step. Another. Another. Trempwick held still. There was no danger. The sword point pressed closer. Amusing that he knew the knight better than he did himself. Another step. Stopped. Sword levelled.

Slow. Very slowly Trempwick raised his hands to his helmet. More slowly still he unlaced the chin strap and drew it off.

The knight pulled back half a step. Afraid of trickery, how pleasing!

Dropped the helmet to the ground.

Could draw his dagger and throw it. At this range the throat was an easy target. A fatal one. Smiled, knowing this. Freed his fingers from his mail mittens, again with infinite slowness. Unfastened the straps which held the dagger to his belt. Let it drop. Tilted his head slightly. Said, “It is rude to keep a man waiting.”

And finally that sword lowered. The knight had realised for himself he would not harm his foe. In a worn down voice, “It would not be honourable to cut down an unarmed man.”

“Just so,” Trempwick agreed. He knew it was because of Nell. They both did.




The day was won! He was victorious! A kingmaker or a queenmaker or whatever, and all that stuff! He was a hero! The leader of the sally force which had mauled Trempwick’s wing badly enough to make it possible for what’s-his-name that was the second husband to capture the unwanted first husband!

Alright, so there was a minor belch in the happy amazingness that was victory. He hadn’t managed to kill Trempwick as per his instructions. That wasn’t actually his fault, and really he couldn’t be expected to go off and kill another man’s prisoner. Besides, the way Jocelyn looked at it what’s-his-name would have to do all of the explaining. He was the daft idiot who’d gotten in the way and interfered. It was all his fault!

Richildis would be so thrilled when she heard about his exploits! Now she’d have to love him. Not that she didn’t already, of course. She’d love him more. Yes, that was it.

Jocelyn spied a routing man in full armour – rich! He dug his spurs in and caught up in no time, smacked the chap on the back of the neck with the pommel of his sword, and declared him a prisoner. Ransom money made any battle worthwhile, and that armour looked like it would make a good spare set, and all this in addition to the riderless horses they’d managed to round up. Yes, dear Tildis would have to like him now.

He followed the routing enemy for a while longer, letting the men at arms he’d led take charge of the prisoners he gathered.

One of his targets spun around as he heard the hoof beats. He was holding a crossbow. It was levelled at Jocelyn’s heart in a blink. It was cocked. The horse was still cantering along towards the soldier. The evening light glittered on the iron point. Jocelyn wrenched at the reins, brought his shield around in front of himself. The bowman’s trigger finger contracted.

Jocelyn yelled, “Fuck!”

It didn’t help. The bolt sheered through his shield before he’d finished the word, pierced his mail and padding, and drilled a hole through his shoulder.





Trempwick’s army had broken. Eleanor had witnessed the moment where her master’s banner had fallen, and she’d seen that it had been Fulk’s flying in opposition to it at the time. That did not mean Fulk himself had had a hand in the deed. He would not. Surely?

Her master was dead. Fulk was alive, Hugh was alive and victorious. It was over at last.

Trempwick was dead. Unable to stomach the celebrations of the others on her tower Eleanor departed to wait in her bedchamber for Fulk’s return. Alone.

By the fire she defrosted and tried to think of what all this meant for her unwanted kingdom. All that would come to her mind were memories of Trempwick, and tears streamed unchecked down her face.











From here on there are many scenes in close succession which have been burning away in my mind for years. Fulk V Trempy, and Jocelyn and the crossbow bolt (he’s so unlucky with those things, isn’t he?) are both of the lower order of burning scenes, and Nell weeping in front of her fire is another of slightly greater persistence. The rest are yet to come.

Originally there were supposed to be some Hugh and Trempy POVs of them fighting, and a few more of Fulk. I wrote them and removed them. The end result does feel better. It’s less bloated and has the tension in the right places.




Woad&fangs, you’re tempting me to give you some book recommendations. If you think my humble efforts are good then you have some amazing reads waiting out there for you.

[woad&fangs]

I would hardly call 1,000 pages a humble effort but I need to get back into reading more books so I'd love to hear any suggestions you may have.

Currently i'm a few posts down topic page 13. Mahaut's line about boys being grumpy because they can't wear dresses was great I hope that the Jocelyn POV's increase. All of his talk about loyalty makes me think of him as an older more bad*** version of Fulk. I'm starting to find some of the Fulk and Eleanor POV's to be rather dull but the other characters definately pick up the slack.

Happy birthday froggy

[Ludens]

Looking forward to the episode when they have a face-to-face meeting .

Happy birthday, Froggy!