The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[Peasant Phill]

As always, this bit of liturature made the waiting for it all worth it.

I'm going to have to find something else to look forward to once this book of yours is finished.

[shinderhizzle84]

glad to see you made another update.

i was beginning to fear that the last update before this one was really the end, and that i missed something incredibly important.

also, while everyone seems to be offering their final compliments, i must offer one, as well:

i love how everyone seems to be more realistic. The depth of each character is astounding, and I can feel Hugh's pain when he was in the garden in this last post. I also like how each character has different moods, and isn't always either really happy, or really dark, or whatever their archetype claims they are. Eleanor, although she is the protagonist, is often very angry, and I especially like that, because in most novels today, the protagonist is usually some "Golden boy/girl" who is nice to everyone, and is always the epitome of goodness. This has more balance, and it is refreshing to see it done so well.

i, too, will be missing this when it comes to an end. Hopefully one day I'll be able to buy it in the nearest Barnes & Noble, though!

[frogbeastegg]

Say one thing for having bodyguards, say they made getting through crowds easier. Edric took the lead, shouting for people to make way for the princess Eleanor. Hubert and Edward flanked Eleanor, encouraging people to keep their distance with a combination of glares and hands on sword hilts.

Say one thing for a coronation, say it brought half the country together into Waltham. Even with her honour guard it took Eleanor a ridiculously long time to make the trip from garden to inner bailey. The palace had never been so busy in her lifetime. Every notable in the realm was here, including quite a few from across the Narrow Sea. Roughly half those men had brought family with them; an eldest son, favoured younger sons, more than a few wives, sisters and daughters. The making of a new king was the single most important occasion which could occur in any person’s life. Men needed to witness it done, to see with their own eyes that all had been done correctly and that thus there was no grounds to question. They needed to give their homage. Heirs should be introduced, both to mark them clearly in that status and to ensure that they, too, understood that the man they would one day serve was God’s own chosen. As for the female relations, well what better chance for them to deploy their social skills on behalf of their men?

With the exception of a few honoured cases – Eleanor being one - Hugh had declined to relax the arse in the crown’s ruling that each man might bring only three retainers to Waltham. Even so Waltham palace and the nearby town fairly teemed with servants. Three multiplied by several hundred came to a literal army, and that army filled the streets and buildings, rushing to and fro in a bid to settle their masters in to whatever cramped quarters they had managed to arrange.

Well over a thousand people. Four times that number of horses. Hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of finery. Weeks of preparation. A timetable of festivities more rigorously planned than the campaign which brought down Trempwick. Eleanor bit back a grin – all of this for her brother, a man most found difficult to imagine as the source of any good party.

Eleanor and Fulk had been assigned the same quarters she had occupied during her previous visit to Waltham, and whether that was Hugh’s own idea or a simple continuance of her father’s she had to approve. The building best known as the royal nursery: what better way to honour someone and mock them in the same breath? In practicality she had more space than any but the royal couple, and the rooms had proven themselves defensible.

When she finally made it back Eleanor was relieved to see that servants no longer hurried in and out of the doorway, and dared to hope that all had been set up in her short absence. Organising which objects went where was all part of a wife’s duty and could not be neglected were she present, whatever more important things she had to consider.

That hope was dashed the instant she set foot across the threshold. A liveried man tugged his forelock. “Your Highness, we were wondering where we should put-”

Eleanor held up her hand, listening to something other than him. “Is that my sister-by-law I hear?”

“Yes, your Highness. Her ladyship – that is, her Majesty, arrived some short time ago. She’s speaking to lord Fulk at present.”

Saved! “Then I had best go through. Continue to ask Hawise about where things should go; she knows my preferences.”

Eleanor turned into the first ground floor room which had, once again, been set up to act as an improvised man hall. Constance’s voice grew louder, sufficient to pick out a word here and there above the clamour of unpacking. As she crossed to the far end of the room she heard Fulk’s voice saying, “I am sensible to the honour, please don’t misunderstand. It’s only that … it’s not my place.”

“Your place is where your lord and king wishes you to be.”

“With all respect, I am not my lord’s squire.”

The conversation cut off as Constance noticed Eleanor in the solar’s doorway. “Ah. Eleanor, at last. I had expected you sooner.”

Eleanor stood by Fulk. “It is very busy out there. One can scarce move faster than a cripple’s shuffle even with guards.”

Constance stood, easing her back with one hand. “I wish to speak with you. Without all of this.” She indicated her maids, Fulk and the servants with a wave of a hand.

“As you wish.”

The rooms other occupants silently filed out with the exception of Fulk. He started to leave, changed his mind and turned back.

Constance’s eyes narrowed. “You have been requested to serve your lord in a capacity and so you shall, unless your loyalty is lacking.”

“He knows it is not.”

“Then I see no need for you to linger here. Report to the master of ceremonies before the end of the day and have him educate you as to what is required.” She turned her face away from him, signalling a definite end to the matter.

Yet still Fulk didn’t withdraw. Eleanor looked at him in askance; he ignored her. With the utmost care he said to Constance, “I am not a boy.”

Constance’s head snapped back around and she marched right up to Fulk. A inch or two shorter than he, she was able to stand toe to toe with him and make him appear faintly preposterous - somehow uncertain of how he should stand or react. With razor-edged enunciation Constance said, “I am sensible of the loyalty you have shown my husband, and of how hard you have fought for him. That gives you a modicum of license. Do not let that make you overbold or encourage you to forget what you are and on what sufferance you are permitted to be here! Must I remind you that Hugh would have been entirely within his rights to make of you an exile within your own homeland, in reality if not in name? Or to cut his sister off without a word or coin to her name?”

Through gritted teeth Fulk ground out, “I am aware of that my every waking moment.”

“Then be grateful that you are to be more than a spectator, whatever the capacity. It is an honour you would not get close to sniffing if Hugh did not think it unjust to leave you out where all others who came to his side are recognised. Now get out and if you say but a single word more I shall have the honour withdrawn and your invitation to attend here at Waltham revoked.”

Fulk bowed very stiffly and marched out.

Constance said to Eleanor, “Now for the love of God, shut that door!” Once Eleanor had done so the elder woman relaxed with an expelled breath. “Next, for Christ’s sweet love, teach that husband of yours some sense. He should never have questioned me where others could hear. Had he not I would not have needed to crush him in front of those same itchy ears.”

Eleanor’s feet ached from the slow walk out to the garden and back; she sat down in one of the window seats and eased her new shoes off. Flexing her toes and enjoying the freedom from leather that, while soft, still managed to rub at her heels, she asked, “What was that about?”

Constance slumped down into cushions. “He is to be included in the procession to and from the coronation. Hugh desires the lords who fought for him to occupy the traditional roles in that procession, as a mark of his gratitude to them.”

“And what is Fulk to carry?”

Constance had the grace to look embarrassed as she answered, “Hugh’s banner.”

“Ah.” That task traditionally fell to the soon-to-be king’s squire. To assign it to a grown man … “I have to admit to a degree of respect for the mind behind that.”

“It is no more than expediency on our part. To grant him a more prestigious role would have provoked an outcry. To leave him out entirely would encourage the wolves to circle closer in the hopes he will become prey.” Constance smoothed a tendril of hair out of her eyes. “There is a need for someone to take the place; Malcolm will be attending as a prince not a squire.”

“It is not the easiest thing for Fulk, this balance between rejected and accepted.”

“Then he should not have married you,” Constance replied simply.

That delicate point blunted, Eleanor tried a stronger approach. “You shamed him before his own servants. Before your nobly born companions. Word will spread throughout Waltham within the hour, and within the day there will not be a soul within five miles who has not heard. A man hated by the queen is halfway to finished.”

“He should have displayed more sense. I am under the impression he usually does; it is a part of why Hugh chose not destroy him after your marriage.”

“You know how much pride and honour matter to men of rank. To accept a boy’s place without objection would have made him seem weak-”

“Yes, yes,” Constance interrupted. “I have a great many other things to do today, and I do not wish to waste further time on this. You have some small point, though it pales when stood next to my larger one. I shall say something pleasant to the man as I leave. My current state has made me famously ill-tempered.” She caressed her swollen stomach, all signs of temper gone and her face glowing with love. “I confess that I use the poor little darling as an excuse. It is astonishing how much more one can do with a few hard words and a show of irritation.”

Despite herself Eleanor laughed. “One may only hope that the child does not absorb the trick for itself. I am not sure another bad-tempered William is needed.”

Constance’s hand fell still. “Not William. No more of mine shall be William.”

Eleanor felt her face burn; she should have remembered that the son murdered within minutes of his birth had been christened William.

Constance smiled sadly. “So few remember him. There are those who think I have never carried a child longer than a few months.”

“It is not uncommon to use a name again if the child bearing it died.”

“No, it is not. When a family wishes its names to live on.” She placed slight stress on the ‘when’.

Eleanor blinked slowly. “William is the family name; the eldest son is always William. With the exception of my own eldest brother.” The arse in the crown had wanted to break from tradition and establish his own: Stephan after his favoured saint.

“William is a declaration of continuity. That would leave Hugh as a hiccough in the otherwise smooth procession. Something other than William is an announcement of a break with that past, with all the varied interpretations people will place on that. We could have another Hugh.” Constance pursed her lips. “I do not want another William. Nor does Hugh feel it right. We had that time – child, idea, vision of the future - and it was murdered.”

“It could be a girl,” Eleanor suggested, coming at the matter from a different angle.

“A girl would be Constance, after myself and my own mother. Hugh will not countenance Joanna.”

“He could come to change his mind. Perhaps for a second daughter?”

Constance had been tapping her fingers on her leg; now she pressed her hands flat to still them. “Let us save the pleasantries for another day, when we can appreciate them.”

Eleanor shrugged. “As you like.”

“I came here to speak with you about Trempwick.” That relaxed, motherly glow died a swift death; Constance leaned awkwardly forward and said in a low, matter of fact voice, “I understand the reason why he is still alive. I understand the prison you have made for him, and can almost reconcile myself to his living because it must be a special kind of hell for him. If that man sets a single toe outside of that prison I will have him torn to shreds, and those shreds will be burned, and the ashes scattered into the sea. The only thing keeping me from doing that is the fact that it would place Hugh and myself in the most perilous of positions. All I need is for him to give me an excuse and I will avenge the murder of my children.” She paused a moment for that to sink in. “So make sure he stays in Repton or get out of my way when the time comes.”

Eleanor considered a moment. Trempwick’s standing was as low as it could get, he had no lands, no status, no friends. Hugh’s position was growing slowly stronger. Should he be fool enough to attempt treason a second time it might be possible to hustle him onto the scaffold for a traitor’s death without causing uproar. “If he breaks faith I shall sit beside you as they burn his entrails.”

“Then we have an understanding.” Constance struggled back to her feet.

“A moment?”

“If you are quick. As I have told you, I have much to do.”

Eleanor said bluntly, “Hugh is falling to pieces.”

“Is that surprising?” Constance pressed both her hands to her stomach, one stationary and one working to soothe the child within. “Hugh has long worked to follow the pattern laid out for him; to be dutiful, righteous and follow the best of examples. He built his life on foundations based on an understanding of who and what he was, and built towards those ideals. Now his foundations are gone and his ideals in conflict, and he is hurt, deeply and badly hurt and betrayed.”

“I know-”

“A dutiful son honours his mother. A righteous man abhors an adulteress. Go on, resolve the conflict between the two in such a way that you remain both dutiful and righteous.” Eleanor barely had chance to take a breath before Constance snapped, “That is right – you cannot. It is an impossibility. Instead choose which is more important out of the two virtues.”

Again Eleanor had no chance to speak.

“Impossible. Now think how many such conflicts he is suffering under. What he knows points in one direction, what he wishes to be in another, no way to find a settlement and no way to chose one direction. You might say it is a simple matter of turning away form the ideal and dealing with the reality. That would be a disaster for Hugh – the ideal is what makes him move forwards. He knows it is seldom possible and yet as long as he thinks there is a chance, no matter how slender, he will keep working towards it. To admit that there is no chance is to give up.”

That confirmed Eleanor’s worst fears; Hugh would never pick his way free of his demons. “The conflict will destroy him.”

“No. The conflict is one he has lived with for all the years I have known him. It will settle itself eventually. Where others failed he will not, and where he has failed he will do better. And so on.” Constance rubbed her brow and sighed. “No. The difficulty comes from the heart. How hard and for how long did Hugh strive to be a good son? A son his father could be proud of? Out of all William’s children, Hugh was the only one who cared something for him. The rest of you were – at very best – indifferent to him. Hugh loved him.” After a moment Constance qualified, “In a way. Not the foul-tempered bully, the kinder parts. To be rejected … Do I need to tell you that it tore out his heart?”

“He hates our mother for placing him in this position, and he hates my father for setting him up for this disappointment.”

Constance corrected softly, “‘Our’ father. Whatever he claimed at the end, William was Hugh’s father. There is more to the matter than blood. And if I am honest, I believe the blood is William’s. Why else did he spend twenty-six years calling Hugh his son and raise him as heir? The tune only changed when he was on his death bed and it looked as though Trempwick would succeed in setting you on the throne. I believe William was motivated by the belief Hugh was a complete failure; we both know he had no tolerance for that.”

“I tried telling Hugh that, more than once. He would not listen.”

“One minute he is filled with anger, the next he is close to weeping. It is not something which will resolve quickly. Or easily, though heaven knows if I could make it easier for him I would. “ Constance sighed again. “He does not really know who or what he is any more. Many of the ways he used to define himself he will not use now. Even the most basic: Hugh, son of William.”

“Hugh, husband of Constance, father of as yet unnamed, king of England?” Eleanor suggested.

“With time, I think so. It will be a little easier once he is anointed; it is harder to doubt one’s worthiness when one is a member of God’s own chosen elite. And easier again once he is a father. A healthy child will do much to repair the holes torn in him by Trempwick.” Constance squared her shoulders and let her hands drop to her sides. “But you are wrong in one thing: he is not falling to pieces. No. He is letting his true feelings show on those limited occasions where it is safe for him to do so. No one can maintain a façade so opposed to what he in truth feels every moment of every day. Should he attempt it, then he would crumble under the weight of it. No, no person alive could keep such turmoil contained every moment of every day for weeks at an end.”

That was well and good – and not entirely what Eleanor meant. “He refused to attend my father’s-” At a glare from her sister-by-law Eleanor amended, “Our father’s reinterment.”

Constance tilted her head to one side. “Did you honestly doubt he would refuse to go once the arrangements were made? Whatever protests he made, it was always obvious Hugh would be there to play his role.”

“I all but had to twist his arm to get him to agree.”

“But his agreement was inevitable.”

“Which makes the whole matter a waste of my time – and a risky one at that. If a whisper of it had escaped-”

Constance raised her eyebrows. “You think a few minutes of Hugh uttering some heartfelt curses so he does not go insane is a waste of your time?”

“That is a cruel way to twist my words,” Eleanor said quietly.

“Hugh will do his part. He will find a way to recover his harmony, with time. He will maintain whatever act is necessary – do whatever is necessary – to safeguard his family. You and I will do whatever we can to aid him in that, whether it means ‘wasting’ time as he expels some anger or shouldering a part of the load so he has less to carry. And that is all there is to be said.”

Eleanor gave up the battle; she would have to trust Constance to prevent Hugh from making any more potentially dangerous moves. “He is my brother. And I do worry. And so much depends upon him that it cannot but make matters worse.”

Constance touched the crucifix she wore at her neck. “May I be forgive for thinking it so often, but you could have prevented this had you only killed that messenger. Then no one but yourself would have known of a dying man’s cracked wits.”

“And would that not make me that much closer to becoming a second Trempwick, ready to kill any who get in my way?” Eleanor spread her hands. “How small is the step from removing inconvenient adults to removing inopportune children?”

Constance blanched, and snapped, “Quite a large one.”

“I would prefer not to find out.”

“What is done is done. The situation before us is the one we must live with. And now, I must go.” In the doorway Constance halted, and said over her shoulder. “We currently favour the name Arthur.”







Fulk returned from his trip to the master of ceremonies, pensive, his fingers absently stroking the braided leather grip of his sword.

“What is it?” Eleanor enquired. This was not the state of mind she’d expected him to be in after hearing the fine details of his humiliating honour. Fit to murder people, yes. Thoughtful, no.

He wandered across the solar to the fireplace and bent to throw another log onto the flames. “There is to be a small tourney the day after the coronation.”

Eleanor’s breath caught. “You are thinking of entering?”

“I rather think I must.”

“Everyone will be out to crack your head-”

He turned to give her a faint smirk. “It’s team based. Only half of them will be after me.”

As if that helped! “They could kill you and claim it to be an accident!”

“I don’t think so.” Fulk against the wall next to her window seat, one foot raised to rest on the stonework. “Your brother has made it clear he won’t look kindly on any such mishaps, in tourney or out. It’s all going to be quite peaceful. Whalebone swords, blunted lances, full armour – even ransoms are to be friendly. Half a mark, no more. No one will be indebted because of capture.”

Eleanor knew that if she made this a matter of courage or ability she would have the reverse of the effect she wanted, and encourage him into it. “If you are fighting, who will I have for company? I am less popular than I was at my father’s wedding, if you can believe such a low exists.”

“You have Hawise and Aveis, and Constance won’t shun you. If she lets you into her circle then others must accept you.” Fulk flashed a grin and raised his sword arm in a pose to show off his biceps. Not that you could see them through his loose tunic sleeve. “And you’ll be the lady of the dashing knight sweeping the field with his prowess, which’ll make you the envy of every woman there.”

His silly pose had left his ribs exposed so Eleanor poked them. “Clod-brain, you have too high an opinion of yourself.”

“Dearest gooseberry, I know you’re fond of me, but to the point where you can’t survive an afternoon without me?”

“I need someone to rest my feet on; we neglected to bring a foot stool.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I shall have paraded before all in a place that belongs to a boy. I will have been derided and mocked a thousand times behind my back, and a hundred times politely to my face. Folk will be busy hashing over that greatest knight business, assuring themselves that I don’t deserve it. People will suggest its cowardice that keeps me from entering, or a lack of skill.” He set his hand on her shoulder and said without looking down, “I cannot have that. My reputation for skill at arms is most of what I have to defend us with. I need to be too dangerous to risk challenging in combat – we can’t rely on your kinship to the king alone. People will bite at us if they think Hugh will not notice, but not if they know I shall challenge them to combat and likely win.”

Eleanor bowed her head. “And you want to enter.”

“And I want to enter,” he confirmed. “I am a fighting man, for better or worse. I enjoy it.”





“Eleanor!”

She had, of course, been warned that Anne would be waiting in London. Given the distance the girl had to travel, and the timescale, there had been no point in her coming on to Waltham only to turn around and plod back to Westminster with the coronation party. The simple message had failed to do justice to the gale of words and energy that was the dowager queen. Eleanor extended her arms to receive the girl’s embrace. “You shall have to tell me how you escaped Scotland.”

“It was easy. Well, mostly easy. Well, not that hard, anyway. I just reminded my father that he needed a representative here and that Malcolm cannot count now they have fallen out, and that as the last king’s wife I’m perfectly suited to the job. I already know most of the people, and the places, and everything, and I hinted that I might be able to spy a bit and get him some information and maybe wring some concessions out of Hugh, since he is my son in the eyes of the law and such a nice, good man as well. And since William is being moved to join his first wife at the cathedral I should be here to witness that, since he was my husband too. I do miss him, even though it has been a quarter of a year since I last saw him. Oh, it is impossible to believe it has been so long! ”

“Breathe!” Eleanor implored.

Anne laughed. “You always say that.”

Eleanor unfastened the brooch pinning her cloak, and folded the garment a few times so it could hang comfortably over her arm. “You always talk too much and too quickly. I swear I do not know how your lungs cope.” She stepped to one side in order to permit two men bearing her clothing chest to rush by. Giving Anne a wry look she said, “This is the second time in four days I have arrived somewhere, so one would hope that this time they have practice enough to set our chambers up without putting Fulk’s armour by the bed and his clothes in the solar.”

Anne laughed again. “Did they really do that?”

“Sadly, yes. They got the chests mixed up.” Eleanor felt a pang of guilt; if she’d been doing her duty instead of talking then the mistake would not have happened. “My second best shoes were lost as well.”

“Oh dear.” Anne hooked her arm through Eleanor’s and started to walk her down the colonnaded passage. “Well, my rooms are all nicely set up and calm, so you must join me there until yours have been settled, unless you want to oversee the servants, but then we would not have chance to talk and that would be such a dreadful shame. You can recover from your journey, and tell me all the news and everything, and I can tell you more about how I got away from home.” She craned her neck to look about the teeming mass of humanity that had descended on the palace. “Where is Fulk?”

“Seeing that the horses are given proper stabling.”

“But shouldn’t his grooms be able to do that?”

Eleanor grimaced. “How many people do you think there are, fighting for the best? Fulk can use his rank to gain what is our due. Alone, our grooms would be pressed out of the way by those belonging to better known lords.”

“It is not really what an earl should be doing.”

“No,” Eleanor agreed curtly, “he should not have to do it.” Having been negligent once Eleanor was not about to allow Anne to tempt her into repeating the mistake. “I will oversee my servants. Come with me,” she urged. “We can talk at the same time.”

Anne stared. “Gosh, how very normal and proper of you! It is something of a shock to think of you doing something so mundane and unimportant, and I know you did not used to like to bother with such boring things. I suppose it is true what they say: marriage does change people and make them grow up.” Anne clamped a hand to her mouth. “I did not mean it like that!”

Eleanor rolled her eyes and said with exaggerated seriousness, “It is hardly unimportant; I only have so many shoes.”

“Well, you will have to tell me all about everything, and about Alnwick, and I hear you have Carlisle as well now. Do you have them nicely furnished or are you still finding the right items? What are the people there like? I want to hear about the battle; was it as dreadful as it all sounds? And about Trempwick’s capture, and about when he was brought before Hugh and confessed his crimes, and all of that. How I wish I had been there to see it!”

“Truly, you do not.”

“And you absolutely have to tell me about your marriage. How is it? Are you both still happy? Have you managed to settle together or are you still a bit awkward about being seen together and settling disagreements and stuff? Do you disagree, for that matter? I do hope not! Is Fulk still all kind and charming and gentle and everything? What does he do with his days? Is he managing to find his way with his new title and powers and stuff? Is he treating you considerately? And is that actually fun? Because I remember the day after your wedding …”

Eleanor kept walking and let the chatter flow over her like water over a stone. It was good to see Anne again.









That’s 8 pages. There’s around 12 pages left, still in need of work here and there.

I admit that the banner bearer bit is entirely my own invention. Much searching of historical accounts of English medieval coronations didn’t turn up a position which offered the required potential for (dis)honour; it’s not too much of a stretch to believe there would have been someone carrying the king’s personal banner somewhere in the procession. That’s the known anachronism in the event.

That first scene is possibly the single most revised in this entire story. I wrote and rewrote, tweaked, adjusted, fiddled, honed and played with it, and hated it each time. Then I deleted close to 5 pages of content and rewrote it so the conversation about Hugh took its present form. Much better! Far less of the “wah wah sob!” air that the other attempts had. I played delete with Anne too. Paragraph by paragraph that scene got hacked back to 1/3 of its original length, and I told her that if she did not cooperate then I would bin the entire thing. It’s nice to have in there; it’s not vital. 4 pages of Anne chattering on about everything she has been doing and interrogating Eleanor is not tolerable at this point in the day. Or perhaps any point in any day.

Conversely, the scene after this needs a bit more wordage. It’s too light, and it is important. So that one you shall have to wait for. A few of the others need some polish too; can’t have a coronation sequence which sits badly on my writer’s sense. Hopefully that one won’t take as long. :glares out of window at morons having a noisy barbeque less than 12 feet away under her open window: I hate summer. It’s too hot to keep the window closed, and too noisy to think it with open.



Furball, I shall miss posting them. No reason to write commentaries without an audience

Olaf, thank you

I recently read a trilogy which took the fantasy clichés and turned them upside down quite nicely. Joe Abercrombie’s ‘The First Law’, comprising of ‘The blade itself’, ‘Before they are hanged’ and ‘Last argument of kings’. It starts out amusing, lightweight and typical of the genre. Book 2 is mostly harmless but shows clear flashes of upturned clichés. Book 3 is something of a bomb. Pretty good, if not amazing.

Peasant Phill, if we’re talking about waiting for reading material then there are two famous examples you could join in order to preserve that “When will I have something to read? When? And will this part be good, or will it be another lump of text which does little to advance the story?!” feeling.

There’s the last book of The Wheel of Time. What’s supposed to be 1 book has now become 3, what was supposed to end this year will now end in 2011 at the soonest, but will probably take a couple of years longer than that. Added fun comes from the death of the author, and the fact that the guy chosen to take the notes and complete the series is working himself to death and is a popular author in his own right and thus has contracted material of his own he needs to write and submit while working on this series.

Or the next book in the ‘A Song of Ice and Fire’ series. Book 4 got split into 2 after a long wait, then there was a long wait for the first half to be published, and now there’s a long wait for the second half to be completed and published. Then there are several more volumes to wait for, any of which could be split further.

I’m waiting for both

[/light froggy humour]

Shinderhizzle,

I hate Goldenboys/girls. They are no fun to read about because they are not human. Worse are the ones who are clearly meant to be golden but behave like selfish idiots or scum. Nothing wrong with selfish idiots or scum, provided you don’t claim and/or have the world behave as though they are otherwise.

[Death is yonder]

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

No reason to write commentaries without an audience

An audience you still have milady frog, albeit a silent and respectful one, who stays in the shadows peeping out of the bushes to witness the bards telling of the amazing tale.

It is sad that there are no more Trempwick scenes, I really loved his character, at first a spymaster who is the epitome of deception, then a man who is akin to the loving father the Eleanor never had, following that, a man who believed in what he fought for, not easily swayed, yet honorable in the end, with how mundane his life had become portrayed very nicely.

With your story soon drawing to a close, I wish it wouldn't end. I have loved the plot outlines and all the plot development in this story, along with how the characters have progressed, from being a figment of an imagination with some historical backing blossoming into real personalities of their own.

[furball]

After several re-reads, this chapter isn't as "hurried" as my initial reading led me to believe. Maybe it seems rushed because the writing's tighter than I'm used to? I can't put my finger on it.

I neglected to say that it's still a pleasure to read.

[HopAlongBunny]

I started reading this some years ago.

RL and a grueling schedule got in the way; haven't laid eyes on it since at least 06 I would think.

Now I'm back up to pg. 9 and loving it. I like how you pay attn. to details of class, economics and to some extent culture. The way your characters weave out their skeins amid the conflicting demands of the above, and their own personal frailties has me hooked all over again.

I bow to thee WonderFrog and thank you for this gift.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

To Her Majesty Frog:

As ever awesome work. You will always be a far better writer than i am. While it is sad to see this masterpiece of a story go, i am happy at the same time that you shall have more to work on.
I would also like to thank you for the mention of the WoT series, for truly Robert Jordan was a master author and he was taken from us far too soon.

I can only hope to see more of your work in the future.

Your servant,
Olaf

[frogbeastegg]

Hugh crossed himself and genuflected to the altar, and knelt on the cushion placed in readiness for his vigil. Hands clasped before his breast he closed his eyes, cleared his mind and began to pray.

Once he had completed the prescribed prayers Hugh opened his eyes and let his thoughts empty, waiting to see what would emerge of its own accord. Thus as a youth he had kept his vigil on the eve of knighthood and so thus would he pass his vigil on the eve of his coronation. Attempting to guide his contemplation to specific subjects had felt wrong back then, and would feel wrong now.

A thought formed, more of a concept and a recognition than words, something grander and deeper than could be captured with a label for communication. It was … posterity, legacy, history, what he would seek to shape with the divine rights granted to him. As if someone not in this room, not in this mundane world, asked him what he had it in him to be. What end would he use his authority for.

It was on his lips to utter the ambition he had clung to for much of his life, and say righteous. The prayer did not form, and Hugh realised that his soul did not resound with it. Not this time. Not for a while now.

What else might he seek to attain above all else if granted the honour of kingship? Strength. Wisdom. Intelligence. Cunning. Success. Conquest. Wealth. Piety. These words and more passed through his mind, and he knew all came from his own speculation of what kings before him had mediated on being. They were not him.

He waited.

After a time he saw that there was something else, something as large and solid as a vein of granite within the earth. Strong like the stone, and like the stone a bedrock which gave foundation for all built above.

“Blessed Lord,” he prayed, lips moving silently, “Help me to be just. Guide me to bring justice to all under my hand. Aid me to destroy injustice in all its forms within my lands, and to stand against wrongdoers everywhere. Lend me your strength that I might be tireless in the pursuit of justice, and the wisdom that I might judge well and fairly in all matters for all people whenever I am called on. Clear my eyes so I might see inequity and corruption, and stand with me as I strive to purge them from my rule and reform for the good of all. Grant me the courage to stand by what is right always, in the darkest hour and in the most difficult case.”

Hugh bowed to the altar, so deeply his forehead touched the flagstones. “That is the virtue I would guide my rule by, Lord. It is what I understand to be the cardinal obligation of a king. From justice comes peace, and from peace prosperity. Justice brings forth the best in we sinful men: compassion, wisdom, fairness, discipline. It drives back our weaknesses and checks our excesses.”

He straightened to sit on his heels. There was no feeling of answer, only of complete peace. Tears pricked at the corners of Hugh’s eyes and he bowed his head in gratitude; peace was blessing enough for a man who had felt none in weeks.






The doorway of Westminster loomed before Hugh like a mouth eager to swallow him. As he advanced to the abbey door he lowered his eyes to the red cloth which formed a lengthy pathway from his chambers to the stage where the throne awaited.

Crossing the threshold a sensation of sheer panic struck Hugh, and it was all he could do to continue his stately pace as though his mind was filled with the serenity of God’s own chosen. The entrance lay several paces behind now, and one more with each heartbeat. Close, and as unreachable as the sun. Hugh knew the man he was would never leave this place; each measured step took him closer to the end.

A choir sang, beautiful enough to break the heart. They sang for God and for him – a mere mortal placed close to the Almighty! Hugh’s heart pounded fit to shatter his ribs; he continued to advance with majesty to the fate which awaited him.

To the sides of the vast abbey hundreds – many hundreds – of people filed into place. Lords, ladies, notables, near-nobodies, shoulder to shoulder and in their finest and with their eyes fixed upon him. Upon his every move. Expectant. Hungry, almost.

Abruptly Hugh remembered a section from one of the histories he had read as a youth. Certain pagan tribes had ritually sacrificed their kings. Crowned them, robed them, cherished them, and slaughtered them. Was that so different to what was to be done to him? A hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of his throat; Hugh sank his teeth into the soft inside of his lip and let the jolt of pain wash the madness away.

All too soon the procession reached the foot of the stage. Those ahead of Hugh split to the left and right to clear his path, and stood holding their glittering burdens in readiness for the ceremony.

Then the stairs were behind him, and Hugh stood before the throne. With a sweep of his arm he swung his mantle to the side and seated himself in a manoeuvre he had practiced rigorously, careful that the fabric fell across his knees in such a way that it formed pleasing folds with his robe.

The Archbishop of Canterbury moved to stand at Hugh’s right side. He voice rang out clearly, addressing the gathering to the right. “Is it your will that this man, Hugh, son of William, who was our former lord, be consecrated as our king? Do you give this man your consent?”

Hugh stood and faced the people the Archbishop had spoken to, letting them scrutinize him and see that he was sound of body and indeed the man they knew and not a substitute.

Hundreds of voices called, “So be it!” and “God bless King Hugh!”

As one Hugh and the Archbishop turned to the left and repeated the process, and again Hugh was acclaimed. Hugh moved to stand behind the throne, facing the half of the crowd that had been forced to stand behind the stage due to the lack of space. Once more the Archbishop’s ritual query rang through the building; Hugh realised that the fear was gone. In its place was acceptance. Part of him would die here, today. The sacrifice was necessary. He would not flinch from his obligation.

The firmetur manus tua filled the building, soaring to heaven on the pure voices of the choir. As the hymn concluded the bishops of Durham and Bath took Hugh’s arms and guided him down from the stage, through the abbey to the high altar for his blessing and a sermon.






Hugh knelt before the altar, one hand on the bible and the other on a relic of Saint Edward the Confessor. He took a deep breath and prayed his voice would come without catch or tremble. “I, Hugh, swear by these relics and by my immortal soul that I will keep peace, honour and duty towards God and the holy church and all her customs, all the days of my life. I swear by those same powers to exercise fair justice and equality amongst all the people of the realm, all the days of my life. I swear by those same powers to abolish any evil laws and customs that have been introduced to this realm, and to make good laws, and to keep those laws without fraud or evil intent, all the days of my life.”

Now it was time. He regained his feet and allowed himself to be stripped to his shirt and breeches. The fear had returned. His noble attendants seized the collar of his shirt, one on either side, and tore the linen so it fell from his body in rags. Hugh paid little attention. Just a man, just an ordinary man, nothing more and nothing less, now and never again, not in this life and not in the next. Minutes left. Only minutes, slipping by like sand rushing through the gaps in his fingers. Would the world be the same afterwards? Would he be the same? His life would not – could not be. Shoes covered in gold work decoration were placed on his feet and time ran out.

Hugh swallowed hard, took a slow breath and knelt beneath the canopy set up close to the altar. Waiting was agony; like the condemned prisoner wishing the axe would never fall and wishing it would so the wait was over. Oh God, was he worthy?! How could he possibly be worthy!? Hugh’s stomach clenched, and the prayers still murmured on.

Then he felt warmth on his scalp and perfume filled the air about him. The chrism trickled down his forehead; Hugh clenched his eyes shut to keep from being blinded. It was done. He was no longer simply human: he was more, and ever would be. One of God’s chosen on earth, selected to rule over men and lands, elevated by God through mortal hands, closer to the Lord than any save the highest of the church.

Hugh risked opening his eyes; the oil had spread sufficiently that it no longer threatened to drip from his brow. The Archbishop drew a cross with the chrism on Hugh’s breast, and on each of his biceps. The linen cap which Suffolk had borne in the procession was placed on Hugh’s head lest anything remove the holy oil before seven days had passed.

As he pushed himself up from the cushion where he’d knelt Hugh thought a brief prayer for the part of his being which did not rise with him; the ordinary man he had been lay, in his imagination, sprawled like a corpse at his feet. But … he was anointed. Anointed! He had not been struck dead by God for daring to take what was not his. He was King of England and it was heaven’s will. King, and no earthly power could undo it.











Only one scene left to write now. The noise and interruptions continue unabated, and have in fact grown worse. Hurray for idiots doing noisy DIY, road works, thunder storms, and sundry other loud nuisances. And here I am, trying to write a nice touching funeral bit and touch up a few other scenes. Is it evil to hope that certain offenders drill through a live power cable?

You may recall me mentioning sitting an exam as part of a job interview. I was successful and got the job. Now I have to wait goodness knows how long for them to complete background checks so I can start. Froggy: civil servant for the Department of Work and Pensions. From bookshop manager to this – talk about going down in prestige ;) Ok, it’s far better pay, hours and benefits, and realistically is far better in every way except for the sad lack of books and the fact that bookshop manager is a far sight cooler

I’ve been fascinated by the human implications of the medieval theory of sacred kingship since I discovered it last century (sounds neater than saying “when I was very young” :D). A drop of perfumed oil which took a normal person and turned them into a +1 human, to steal an RPG convention for the purposes of short illustration. Different personalities would react to that upgrade in different ways. The average personality would produce a fairly dull reaction, the pious one a little more interesting, the megalomaniac a far better one, and the one with self worth issues has the most potential of all. The same principle can be seen at work in some sci-fi. That cybernetic eyeball is one man’s cool upgrade and another’s loss of some tiny fragment of humanity.

For those wondering why we get to see the anointing but not the crowning, the oil made the king, not the crown and not the rest of the fancy ornaments. The anointing elevated you, the rest reminded the world you had been elevated.

Hugh entered this story proclaiming he wished to be a righteous king. Now the day has come he finds he would rather be a just king. That’s a good change; righteousness is at its heart of hearts a very selfish thing.


I’m going to use quotes; it’s been so long and the board has had so many problems recently that it seems awkward to reply the usual way.

An audience you still have milady frog, albeit a silent and respectful one, who stays in the shadows peeping out of the bushes to witness the bards telling of the amazing tale.

Never fear, I know you're all here I was referring to when the story is completed; if I'm not posting anything for readers then I have no audience to prompt and read commentaries and so won't write them. I shall miss that.

I have loved the plot outlines and all the plot development in this story, along with how the characters have progressed, from being a figment of an imagination with some historical backing blossoming into real personalities of their own.

After several re-reads, this chapter isn't as "hurried" as my initial reading led me to believe. Maybe it seems rushed because the writing's tighter than I'm used to? I can't put my finger on it.

I neglected to say that it's still a pleasure to read.

I kept the email copy of the original as it's a good set of thoughts to keep in the back of my mind, regardless of what I'm writing. So thanks.

I think the reason the last post (and this one, if I'm honest) feel different is because everything is clearly winding down. There's less to happen, less to say, less which leads forwards, more tidying up. We know our characters and know what they will do, and know the course events will take from here on; there's no space left for surprises, or nice observations, or those other little prompts which have kept the story flowing. While the story is winding down, I suspect we're not. We want another little twist, another nice observation, another good joke. Hence my tendency to write a lot and then delete a lot, and your feeling that there should have been more.

Now I'm back up to pg. 9 and loving it. I like how you pay attn. to details of class, economics and to some extent culture. The way your characters weave out their skeins amid the conflicting demands of the above, and their own personal frailties has me hooked all over again.

Thanks. I do try

I would also like to thank you for the mention of the WoT series, for truly Robert Jordan was a master author and he was taken from us far too soon.

If you're interested, I wrote a series of brief comments on the Wheel of Time back when I read it. One of the readers on the other forum had read the series. According to my diary I finished reading the series on 19/03/06(!) so it shouldn't be hard for me to find. Let me see ...

Found it. post 978 contains books 10 and 11. Work backwards from there to find the others; they are always at the bottom of my posts. The first books are several pages back; it looks like I took a short break midway thriough the series. I suspect my opinion would be different now; a greater appreciation for the things he does well, such as battles as viewed from the grand scale, and a greater hatred of the childish characters and bloat.

Wow, looking that up brought back memories. I used to post a lot more about the books I read while writing. It's a trifle odd to see my comments about my job, knowing where that went in the next 3 years.

[frogbeastegg]

The unbelievable has happened. My computer's primary hard drive failed on Tuesday evening. I've lost everything. Everything. Unless somehow I can access the data on a drive which the computer doesn't recognise any more, it's all gone. All of my writing, everything. The backups I had on my memory stick have vanished. I'd hoped to post the final part yesterday.

I can still finish the story - I'll have to reconstruct the last scenes in a new word document. But ... it's all gone. The two work in progress short stories, the notes, my manuscript, all of my other writing, everything. Years of work, gone. Backups, gone. Everything, from my hand-made background to my music.

I've installed a new hard drive and am searching for a way to dredge files from my old drive. I don't know if there's any hope or not; it's beyond my tech know-how.

Damn it! It was a Western Digital server grade hard disc with well over half of its stupidly long expected lifespan left! It should not have failed! I'd done drive maintenance on it mere hours beforehand! And my backups shouldn't have vanished either!

I don't know when I'll be writing again. Right now I still want to cry. The priority is trying to get that data salvaged.

I just can't believe it.

[Death is yonder]

Wish you luck in salvaging the situation, had a similar situation a few years back, now I've learned to keep actual hard copies whether printed or handwritten as well as soft copies for really important/ treasured data.

External hard disks as back ups help too

Try consulting the tech savvy experts at IT shops or the mechanical equivalent. With some luck and money, it is possible

Best wishes in recovering all your hard work (not just novels) from all these years.

Try consulting with the people in the hardware and software forum, hopefully they have a solution.



Take all the time you want to recuperate and relax. A boggled and stressed mind does little to help in the creativity department.

[woad&fangs]

That is truly terrible news, Lady Frog

I hope you find some way to recover your lost work.

[HopAlongBunny]

Ack!

Very sorry to hear that

I know there are companies that specialize in data recovery; generally focused on a business clientele. I have no idea how pricey their services are, but I'm willing to bet they aren't cheap.

I wish you a speedy and complete recovery (data and emotional)

[frogbeastegg]

Some good news. I hooked up my old C: drive this afternoon and, while there's damaged data and missing files, my writing has survived. I've transferred it over to the new drive, and am in the process of opening each document up to check everything's as it should be. Most of my other important stuff looks intact too.

It will take me a while to transfer everything to safety, check it all over, and get it put in the correct locations on my new setup. Plus I start my new job tomorrow. I'm hoping to get the final part of Eleanor posted at the end of this week.

[furball]

THANK GOODNESS! And good luck!

[HopAlongBunny]

Yippeee!

Data transfer, error-checking, new job, ...

Your readers will be patient

[Death is yonder]

Hurrah! Huzzah!

Lets hope it never happens again

Good luck in your job

Take as long as you want, we can wait

[Ludens]

Great news. Still no ideas about how it happened?

[The Brave Sir Robin]

Good morning your Frogginess!

This story has been great! I really hate that it is coming to an end.

I am estatic to see that I have actually caught up with the postings for the story. I had only just started reading this story a month ago and frankly when I saw the date of the first posting I figured that by the time I finished reading the story the thread would have been long ended.

It is interesting how since I was able to read the thread straight through it seems that I have actually been following two stories in the thread, the primary one of the Gooseberry and then the other showing the Lady Frogs crafting of the story and her valiant struggles with the real world interferring with the creative process. I am so thankful that you allowed us to be a part of your process. It was very enlightening to me as an artist to see a fellow artist having very similar struggles in the production of their craft and how they coped with their personal tribulations.

I am very sorry to hear about your most recent computer woes. Have you been able to salvage all of your data? If you are still having issues with the old drive, I have a computer application that I have used several times at work to extract data off of damaged HDs, it may be helpful to you as well.

Thanks again and good luck.

PS. Congrats on the new job!

[frogbeastegg]

I'm not dead.

Long story cut short, I've taken the drastic step of buying a macbook pro with the intent of making it my sole platform for writing. My desktop will remain in service as a gaming, internet and everything else platform. The macbook gets a dedicated writing program - current favourite looks to be scrivener - and nothing else. A totally closed system. That way there is reduced scope for problems, and I'm using a more suitable programme than Word. The desktop is back to normal, and has been behaving itself nicely (fingers crossed). A macbook will be less vulnerable to two of the problems which hampered my desktop in the time after that windows reinstall - heat and thunder. The temperature here was so hot that nothing could keep my desktop cool enough, despite it having a good cooling setup. Then it started thundering a lot and I will not use my PC during a thunder storm - I had one melted by a power surge during a storm in the early years of Eleanor. I had it plugged in to a surge protector and all -_-

MS Word and I have fallen out. Years and years we have worked together, and I've tolerated its increasing short comings cheerfully enough. Until now. I have been fighting since before that last post to get the programme to set itself back up how I want it, and to get on with writing without it whinging at me. I'm still trying. It usually takes a long time to get everything just so, and this time I'm out of patience. When I do finally get it all right I shall still have problems navigating my massive manuscript, and the shortcomings of the toolset are really digging in. Did I mention it ate Silent's short story? Total loss, right down to the last character. Don't ask me how or why, I have no idea what Word did.

By contrast scrivener and most of the other mac specific writing programs offer a whole host of features I could make good use of. Imagine being able to reference research and notes in the same window as your manuscript! Currently I have to swap between an entire folder full of separate documents and doing that too often makes Word throw a tantrum. Then imagine having a full overview of the work, scene by scene, easy editing, automatic backups of save files, the ability to resurrect old versions of scenes, a clipboard where I can stash bits I like but don't want to use yet, and so many other things!

Anyway. The macbook arrived today, I'm learning my way around it now and doing scrivener's tutorial. Once I have found my feet I will import my writing, set it up, and pick up where I left off. I hope to have a good old writing binge over this weekend.

Heh. I was actually pondering doing this in the weeks before I was told my shop would close and I would lose my job. Now I'm back in work it has become possible again, and due to circumstances it's far more appealing than it was half a year ago.

Well I have managed to type all of this without any problems, so I guess I am adapting to the new keyboard. That's a good sign.

[Death is yonder]

Best of luck in your new computer froggy.

Good Quality Work takes a Good Quantity of Time.

We can wait

[furball]

Yes, best of luck. Hope the new machine helps lots!

[frogbeastegg]

“They look so - so regal!” enthused Anne.

“Yes,” Eleanor replied slowly without looking away from her brother and his wife enthroned in state on the dais, “I suppose they do.”

“Suppose?! But they do!”

Both crowned, both dressed in their coronation finery, both seated on gilded wood thrones, both endeavouring to be prime specimens of noble deportment, both in the prime of their lives - those responsible for organising the homage ceremony hadn’t needed to work hard to create the aura of God-given regal authority that hung about the couple. There was something about being young, healthy and garbed in the wealth of a nation which could make anyone seem special. That Hugh naturally looked regal was a happy bonus. Eleanor conceded, “Very well. They do. That is, after all, the entire point.”

Anne scowled. “If you are going to be so tiresome then I will leave to find more cheerful company and then you will be all alone for the rest of the homage taking, and it’s going to last for hours so you cannot want that. At least try to enter the spirit of the occasion! After all, how many times do you expect to see your own brother crowned?”

It was too tempting to pass up. “Only once. Should he require more than that he can do it without me.”

“You are entirely impossible!”

“So people say.”

“I meant it - I will leave.”

Eleanor smiled at her companion. “No, you will not. You would not leave me to the humiliation of being entirely shut out. You are much too kind.”

Anne’s scowl reappeared, deeper this time. “Now that is purely manipulative!”

“And true.” Eleanor grinned impishly, something she hadn’t noticed herself do in much too long. “Now if I were aiming for manipulative I would point out that it is partly your fault that I am shunned. After all, it was thanks to you that I was able to marry Fulk.”

“I agree,” Anne muttered, “That is devious.”

Eleanor patted her on the shoulder. “Never fear, I shall not say it. I shall rely on your good nature instead.”

Anne gave her a look promised to grow into something mildly scary in another five years and pointedly shifted conversation back to her preferred subject. “They are a handsome couple, are they not? I never realised before how well they look together - properly matched in height and everything, and so glorious! And there is the baby too, you can see it will not be all that much longer and then there will be a prince - or a princess, I guess - and there will be no more of this talk about Hugh being cursed or whatever because he does not have a living child.”

“So we pray.” In truth the topic suited Eleanor as well as Anne; simple and in need of little aside from occasional murmurs of agreement during the lulls, it left her attention free to monitor the crush of notables. Much was revealed during gatherings such as this: alliances, enmities, and all of the shades in-between. Watching who people chose to talk to, even who they stood near, could be educational.

Her own status was clearly apparent; no one was willing to talk to her unless approached first, many regarded her with concealed curiosity when they thought she would not notice and quickly looked away if she happened to meet their gaze. They talked behind their hands or with their heads close together betraying hushed voices.

Over in the queue of nobles soon to perform homage, Fulk was receiving similar treatment. Those close to him positioned themselves a pace further away than was strictly normal, as though he carried a disease, and all formed up into knots which shut him out with shoulders and turned backs.

Further afield, now that was where matters became interesting. Hands waved in gestures, laughter was frequent, heads nodded or shook in emphasis. There was an energy, a freeness, to the hundreds of individual gatherings filling the cavernous hall.

“Hope.”

Eleanor said, “Pardon?”

“Hope.” Anne indicated the hall with a wave of her hand. “I know you are doing your spymaster thing of hiding in a corner and watching everyone else while they forget you are there, so I thought I would ask and see if you agree with me. I think you can almost feel the hope in the air.”

No, hope was not the word Eleanor would have chosen. Confidence would have been closer. These people had been freed of the threat of drawn out civil war and from a king with the power to trim their heads. New power was in their hands and they scented the possibilities. In and of itself this was no bad thing; Hugh would steadily build his power and, for the time being at least, it was unlikely that anyone would get drunk on their boldness and do something … regrettable.

Anne didn’t wait for an answer. “You have a handsome young king and his lovely wife, and they obviously love each other, and there is the baby too, and the war is over, and Hugh is a decent sort and turning out better than anyone expected - of course it must be hope. It is all so glorious!”

Something about the words made the hair on the back of Eleanor’s neck stand up, she could not say what.

Anne tapped her on the arm to gain her attention. “Look - it is Fulk’s turn.”

The last with an earl’s rank to swear, Fulk was stepping up onto the dais to kneel at Hugh’s feet. He placed his hand’s between his king’s and recited his oath in a clear voice which, like all the others Eleanor had paid no heed to, carried above the hum of soft conversation. Ceremony completed Fulk rose, bowed, and stepped off the dais without turning his back to the royal couple as the others had done before him. Unlike the preceding four earls, Fulk stopped there, five steps from the foot of the dais, and waited. Those who had fought for Hugh were being granted their rewards as part of the homage ceremony, to reinforce the links between fealty and reward in the minds of a nobility which had been found lacking when it came to the trial.

A page came forward bearing a charter on a red velvet cushion. Hugh said, “In recognition of your services to me and mine during the recent difficulties, I grant you the castle and environs of Carlisle, to hold from me in my name, and the revenues from said lands, on the condition that you service me henceforth with the same loyalty that you displayed during the campaign against the rebels.”

Fulk bowed deeply and picked up the charter. “My gratitude, sire.”

As Fulk made to leave Hugh spoke again, “In all else matters shall be as I previously decreed. Your means have increased; I expect to see a matching rise in the payments against your fines.”

Anne hissed, “Tactless!”

“Necessary,” Eleanor corrected.

The first of the barons without an earl’s title was moving forward ready to perform his own homage when Hugh called, “My sister next.”

When a couple of thousand people turned in one scattered motion to stare at you, it was quite something. As was the death of general conversation. Eleanor wound her way through the throng, away from the wall where she had been lurking and out into the full glare of attention. By rights she should not have featured in this ceremony, her lands had been stripped from her after her marriage and she did not feature on the list of persons to be rewarded. Expecting the summons, and the stir it caused, did little to help with the feeling that all the eyes were burning holes in her skin with the intensity of their curiosity.

She reached the dais and started to kneel; Hugh was supposed to catch her before the motion was completed and raise her back to her feet. The damned double-crossing bastard didn’t! As her knees touched wooden planking Eleanor glared daggers at her half brother.

“My dear sister,” he pontificated according to the script, “your loyalty to me has been, I think, the greatest out of any on this green earth. Many would have succumbed to the temptation to usurp this throne should the crown be offered to them, yet you stood faithfully at my side from the very first.” At long last he seemed to remember she should not be kneeling to him, and he raised her up with his own hands in one of those displays of magnanimity he was getting so good at. “I will not permit you to give your oath to me as you did following our lord father’s sad demise. Your faithfulness is implicit, and,” he swapped to the tone which informed everyone a royal joke was following and polite laughter was expected, “in any case you have no holdings for which you owe service.”

A polite titter ran around the hall on queue.

Hugh pressed Eleanor’s hand between his own. “Recognition is owed. Rewards are more than due.”

“Nonsense,” Eleanor protested as per the script, while thinking quite differently. “We are family.”

“I confess I have some difficulty in deciding what to bestow upon you. That which you truly desired you obtained for yourself.” He gave a pointed look to Fulk. “It is clear you judge all else to be secondary in value or you should not have made that decision, and thus it seems mean to bestow upon you lands and material wealth knowing that you do not prize them.” This time the public amusement owed less to politeness, excepting those who preferred to be disapproving of the mere mention of the scandalous match.

Eleanor’s smile was becoming so false it could be lifted from her face like a mask. Whatever the occasion, whoever the person behind it, regardless of the intent, the jabs and pokes over her choice of husband burned like bile in the back of her throat.

Hugh gave his audience time to settle before resuming his little speech. “This being said, much is due. I am aware you have a fondness for the manor where you grew up, and so shall grant it to you in its entirety, and in your own right.” He was enjoying this more than he had a right to, that much was plain. “Indeed, I shall stipulate in the charter that all pertaining to, and stemming from, the manor is to be yours, and that your husband cannot touch or influence any of it.” He did a good impression of a benevolent monarch, all smiles and open expressions and welcoming body language. “Is that not unheard of in this realm? No other lady might say the same of whatever such lands as she holds, and many would envy the freedom.” He said to Constance, “Is that not right, my dear?”

Constance lowered her eyes demurely. “There is some truth in that, however content we are to be guide by our husbands.”

Eleanor managed to thank her half brother, and bent to kiss the ring made to replace the one concealed in her girdle. As she beat a retreat she was aware of carrying a bubble of silence about her, the whispering cut off as she approached and resumed as she passed by.

“That was not nice either,” Anne declared as Eleanor rejoined her. “He does it over and over to both you and Fulk - reward paired with insult.”

“Yes. He is becoming quite skilled at it. ” Eleanor resumed crowd watching. “It is a necessary price, one we agreed to pay. Had Hugh less talent for it, we would be paying in larger, cruder forms. Subtle mockery is less arduous than many of the alternatives.”

“Maybe it will not be necessary for all that much longer?” Anne suggested hopefully. “It is already better than it was right after you married, so perhaps in a year or two-”

“No,” Eleanor interrupted softly. “Some prices are paid for life. This is one such.”

“It is not fair! If only people knew what the two of you have done-”

“We would stand condemned still.” Eleanor diverted her attention from the gathering to her companion. “The important thing - the only thing which matters - is whether the price buys something of equal worth.” She looked at Fulk, handsome and dignified in his best clothes, talking - a dredge of acceptance at last! - to the third bastard son of the Earl of Derby. “It does.”









No, not the end. Not yet - I wanted to test my ability to transfer text out of scrivener and onto the internet. It's all quite different to my old Word/firefox setup. Heh, I feel like cvi4 , tempting with "Just one more turn ..." only with "Just one more post ..."

It took me a week to get Eleanor set up in scrivener. Dividing it up into chapters too a very long time, and gave me chance to re-read the entire thing start to finish. That combined with the new tools and overviews scrivener provides, and I felt I could do a better version of the ending than the one I had written. It was all dry and dusty, like the scene above. All of the best parts of this story thrum with gentle humour and life, and I want it to end in the same way. I'm doing a complete re-write, everything excepting this one scene. I didn't want to redo pages of work and then find myself with no way to post it.

I shall leave it there. I'm not entirely sure my plan to copy/paste text from scrivener to TextEdit, space it out for posting, and then copy/paste it onto the forum will work. There's scope for formatting problems and characters turning into garbage during one of the transitions.

:tries to post, crosses fingers:

Gah! Took several efforts before it would allow me to paste into the forum. I don't know why. This may cause trouble :(

[furball]

Glad to have another post to read. Perhaps you should consider writing another story for us so you can get more practice with your new tools? :)

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Completely awesome as ever.

[frogbeastegg]

Perhaps you should consider writing another story for us so you can get more practice with your new tools? :)

Such as? Genuine curiosity; from time to time I do wonder if there's anything people would like to see me write about.



Olaf

[edyzmedieval]

Froggy, one simple question - do you plan on publishing your book?

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Such as? Genuine curiosity; from time to time I do wonder if there's anything people would like to see me write about.

Can you do high fantasy? Or sci-fi?

[furball]

Froggy, as an admirer of your style and ability to put words into interesting sentences, I'd be happy to read just about anything. If I had to make a suggestion, it would be to write about something that truly interests you - or maybe something you'd like to learn more about so you get the added pleasure of doing the research.

You excel at conversation and points of view. Perhaps a novella-length quest or travel piece. To break the mold a bit, two women on the journey instead of a male and female. Perhaps one is the novice and the other a teacher or elder helping to channel knowledge on the trek. They meet "others" on the way, of course. We could get contrasting POVs of the novice meeting them for the first time while the elder may have interacted with the "others" in several different ways in the past. Though a common goal or story line would interconnect them, each chapter could be a different meeting, allowing you to focus on the interplay of the characters without having to spend a lot of time on exposition. This would also allow you to explore novel ways for how the meetings occur or are conducted; that is, the narrative style could change for some of the meetings, etc.

Ideally, once you had come up with the general theme, arc and goal of the story, you could then concentrate on each chapter as a separate entity. This would allow you freedom to concentrate on each in turn and, if RL needs dictate, you could allow yourself as much time as you need between chapters without the need to worry quite so much with a binding narrative thread. Each chapter thus becomes its own mini-story - some happy, some romantic, tragic or what have you. You could write it at your own leisure and explore different styles as you let ideas percolate between chapters.

Depending on your own personal ambitions, the "trek" would not have to be culturally or even chronologically linear. Some of the meetings could be medieval, some epic, some ancient, etc. This would also allow you an excuse to research any milieu you desire.

Of course, feel free to ignore this completely if there's some other idea that you'd rather write to us about. I just want to have more Froggy stories to look forward to! :)

Most of all, best of luck to you in whatever endeavors you choose,
Furball

[The Brave Sir Robin]

I personally would love to see you write about the adventures that Eleanor and Fulk have later down the road. I have come to love these characters so much that I hate to see them go.

Your writing style works very well with intrigue, maybe a fast paced medieval spy novel.

But I guess as long as you are writing it, it doesn't really matter what the specifics of story is, I'll still be reading it.

[frogbeastegg]

Wymar - named for his lord father - ushered Fulk to one side, away from the main gathering of lords, saying, “You shall forgive me and accompany me, I am sure. You shall find it to your gain.”

“Really,” murmured Fulk. He followed the other man easily enough, alert all the while for the barb which might strike.

“I shall be brief.” Wymar chose a spot near the wall and made himself comfortable by slouching against the stonework. “Let’s be honest - I do not wish to be seen taking overmuch of an interest in you. Nor do any of those I represent. That is the advantage of bastard sons, you know.” He snapped his fingers in Fulk’s face. “We are so much less weighty than true bloods. We are almost expected to associate with the wrong types and such like. Thus I can speak to you without beginning rumour that my lord father seeks friendship with you.”

“And does he?” Fulk enquired.

The reply was as blunt as could be, flippant enough to make Fulk flush with anger. “No. Why the devil would he?”

“Then one wonders why you are wasting my time.” Fulk stepped away.

“I said brief. Evidently you want briefer.”

“Quite.” Fulk nodded towards the hundreds of nobles. “I have a whole host of people I can be belittled by, near all of them of better standing than you.”

The young man snorted a laugh. “Well enough. The point, then. You are going to be the target of half the field in our gracious king’s tournament. Everyone not on your team will be after you, wanting to beat you into the mud for the insult of your existence. And,” he said, a wry tilt to his brows indicating the words to be a compliment, “for your reputation, oh greatest knight. You have no friends - no one to stand shoulder to shoulder with. You shall be felled in the opening minutes however good you are.”

It was a problem which Fulk had identified within a day of entering his name for the event. In hindsight it had been a mistake to put his name on the entry list; losing would crush the budding reputation he had laboured to build, and as his companion said none would stand by him from choice. Had he not entered he’d have been called a coward, a true case of being damned whatever he did.

“However,” Wymar the younger continued, “while none want to associate with you, some would like to see those most like to target you take a fall, shall we say? Call it an alliance of mutual interest. You need allies. Those I represent want to see certain folk take a thump on the helm. Those folk will be coming straight after you - it’s all but certain.”

Fulk crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall himself. It was important not to seem too eager. “Names, or leave me be.”

“As for those who would fight with you, well recall my earlier words. We bastard sons are so suited to dirty tasks, and there are already some of us enlisted on your team. As for the remainder, there’s a fourth son and a disfavoured second son. In short, men of an age and status where we are expected to be tasteless, to the vast distress and embarrassment of our families, who can, nonetheless, decry our deeds and claim complete innocence. For noble relatives, let us say names like my lord father, my lord of Suffolk, and many of their affinity.”

Fulk acknowledged the point with a slow nod. “And for the other?”

Derby’s son leaned forward conspiratorially. “Our dear earl of York is a bird which flies too high and makes overmuch noise in the mistake of its own import. And, let us merely say, certain others of his close alliance.”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose and wondered what to do with this latest mess. “I do not seek to get involved in existing feuds between families.”

“Have you not heard the expression ‘the enemy of your enemy is your friend’? York wants you ruined; he has set himself against you and you must decide if you wish to stand or if you’re happy to be slowly ground down.”

“That is true,” Fulk said carefully. “But it does not mean I must place myself in the centre of anything.”

“We don’t want you in the centre,” Wymar interrupted scornfully. “Blessed Christ! Do not get over an high opinion of yourself! We seek to make a simple arrangement that lasts all of an afternoon. York and his will come after you. I and mine will stand at your side. Together we will beat them into the mud. You gain by not getting your head staved in. We gain by their minor humiliation. Neither of us have to listen to them crowing about defeating the greatest knight and hero of Alnwick. They lose. Or,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “we can wait until after they have you on the ground, and then we can attack them while they are distracted by your unconscious carcass!”

Fulk decided upon the lesser of the two evils. “I do not appear to have much choice. Very well.”

Derby’s bastard son gave a curt nod. “Good. Now I am also instructed to say this: mutually beneficial agreements do not need to be all show and intermarriage and so on. Quieter arrangements might be forthcoming. The enemy of my enemy, after all.”

“You may tell them that I will listen to any honourable proposal. But I shall be no man’s dog or front to hide behind.”

Wymar raised his brows. “I wonder how long you shall last. You do not have the delicate touch for weaving through court life.”

“I do not intend to be much at court. That would suit everyone, I believe.”

“Yes, it would.” Wymar touched two fingers to his forehead in a casual salute and sauntered off.

Fulk breathed out, long and low, and decided it was time to reunite with his wife.






When Eleanor spotted Fulk making his way across Westminster’s great hall she couldn’t hold back her smile. “My luflych little knight,” she greeted him, holding out her hand. “Come to keep an outcast company?”

Fulk clasped her hand tightly and bowed over it in best courtly manner, brushing a kiss onto her knuckles. “Oh sour one, I came in search of someone who’s obliged to speak to me and not be condescending.”

Eleanor made a show of looking around. “Oh? Who would that be?”

Fulk turned a winsome smile on Anne and bowed deeply. “My lady.”

Anne giggled. “However do you two manage?”

Eleanor and Fulk’s eyes met; he smirked. “Quite well, I think. I just threaten to beat her and that keeps everything under control.”

“One of these days I shall strangle you, crook-nose.”

“Only if you can reach high enough, oh diminutive little wifelette of mine.”

“Yes, well,” hedged Anne, edging surreptitiously away, “Now you both have company you like I shall leave you to it and go and find some fun.” She clamped a hand to her mouth and turned bright red. “Er not that I am saying I did not have fun talking with you, Eleanor, or anything like that!”

Eleanor assisted in the effort to get the girl’s foot out of her mouth. “Go on. Go and enjoy yourself. You have been more than kind keeping me company, though it meant you shared my exclusion.”

That Anne didn’t remain long enough to make more than a token protest spoke volumes; Eleanor felt slightly wounded. Abandoned so easily by a girl who had once been near-impossible to be rid of.

Fulk said, “You look grim.”

“There are times when I begin to feel old,” Eleanor answered vaguely.

“You’re not yet twenty.”

“Not so far off. A few months, that is all. And that was not what I meant.” Watching the gathering from the background. Considering motivations, noting the comings and goings and the least gestures of the realm’s notables. Marking the activities of the handful of servants who worked for her so that she might be all the better prepared when they made their reports. Eating little, drinking less, socialising not at all - though she might have headed out to impose her presence on people who would have no recourse to be rid of her. All of it, at once familiar and strange. A situation passed through several times before, only this time she had no companion in her watchfulness and she stood in the master’s place. “When did I become Trempwick?”

Fulk’s face fell; he tried to joke the sudden heaviness in the atmosphere away. “Heartling, I hadn’t noticed any such thing. For one you’re a sight more feminine than him. He’d have looked dreadful wearing that dress, whereas you look quite gooseberryish.”

It was true Eleanor’s outer dress was of a rich green. “Thank you for that,” she said dryly. “Now I shall never be able to look at this dress in quite the same way. A pity - I had liked it.”

There was a lengthy silence. Fulk broke it with a question asked in the same tone as her earlier one. “When did I become a man who, if not seeking fights, is not able to walk away as often as he should? When did petty insults begin to reach me again? I thought I had grown out of it all.”

Eleanor settled herself inside his arm and leaned against his body. “I suppose the answer to both is: when we had to.”

“Had to.” Fulk’s arm tightened about her shoulders. “We’d do a damned sight better without other people.”

At which point Eleanor decided that the grander game played over the coronation and following days could be damned. “Tell me, my luflych little knight, do you still rescue damsels in distress?”

“I retired from it. Caused too much trouble with my wife - she didn’t like me bringing all those beautiful young maidens home.”

Eleanor looked up at him, able to see no more of his face than the underside of his chin and lower planes of his jaw. “I think you are a liar, sir.”

“And you, my lady.” He kissed her forehead. “You’re no damsel. Distressing, yes, perhaps more than ever, but damsel, no. Damsels don’t have husbands.”

“If I repudiate him will you rescue me then?”

“Mayhap. Mayhap not. But if you offered a good enough reward I would consider it, husband or no.”

Eleanor affected outrage. “Mercenary!”

He grinned. “I have to pay for repairs to my armour somehow.”

She became more serious. “The request is simple. The reward … well, you may name your price. If it is reasonable I shall pay. Take me away from here, and then tomorrow take me home. I do not think I can stomach any more.”

“The first I can do, if you don’t mind starting a fresh round of gossip.” His fingers tickled the small of her back in a most agreeable manner. “The second … I cannot. I will not have it said that I fled because I knew most in the tournament would be seeking my capture.”

Eleanor wound her arm around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder. “I can handle that. You shall have excuse to leave that none can throw scorn on. Indeed, you shall be commanded to go.”

She felt his body tense. “What mischief are you plotting, oh cunning one?”

“No one will begrudge you being sent back north to deal with a pocket of rebels escaped from the battle and now located, and causing damage to your lands.” She anticipated his protest and headed it off. “Do not worry about being proved misled. There is a small band of outlaws I have been saving for such an occasion.”

He did not say anything. When he did speak the words came ponderously, each like dropping a pebble into a pond. “That is very … Trempwick.”

“I know.”

“Always have an escape route, eh?” Forced nonchalance made the words fragile.

“I shall not be trapped again. Or not easily, at any rate.”

“I confess I want to be gone from here badly enough that I’d walk the distance from here to Carlisle. What must I do?”

Eleanor looked up at him, aiming for coy. “Nothing. Only be ready for a restless night.”

Hi eyebrows shot up and he pretended to be horrified. “Wicked creature! Such propositions!”

“I meant you should expect a messenger to arrive around the middle of the night.”

“Ah. Doubtless I shall find some way to pass the time.” He was playing with the end of her braid now, his hand occasionally brushing against her back.

“Now who has sinful ideas?” she teased.






They paused on the road around a quarter of a mile out from London and looked back on the waking city nestled within its walls. The tournament ground was visible, a collection of stands set in the clear land outside the city. Already people were gathering, claiming the spots with the best view of the melee ground; the tournament was not to begin until the late morning.

“Well?” Fulk asked, impatient at her holding their party up now he was past the point where he could turn back.

Hugh planned to make a minor statement as he opened the tournament; Eleanor was one of the few who knew it. Most would find it a surprise, one akin to being stung by a wasp one had mistaken for a harmless fly. An informal pronouncement which would nevertheless hold weight, nothing important and yet nothing that could honestly be called trivial - a claiming of a traditional crown right some had hoped Hugh would neglect to reinforce. Only the king could lawfully hold a tournament within England. Thus only the king could create a well-loved entertainment rich with occasion to promote one’s prowess at arms and gain wealth; only the king could permit large numbers of armed men to gather for the purpose of combat; only the king could add the entry fees to his coffers. The king’s right and privilege, and Hugh did not intend to let any slip from his grasp which he could safely hold.

She supposed he would do well enough.

Eleanor touched her heels to the flank of her palfrey. “Let us go home.”

Finis.

The end. I feel ... lost. So many years work, completed.

I changed the ending. It took me more than 2 weeks to get it to change, and I wrote all of this in under 3 hours. I had to suggest it to the characters and let them stew on it, see if they would accept it or not. It's not a major change and nothing it altered further on down the timeline. It's just that doing things this way felt more in keeping with the overall tone , and, somehow, it brought back some of that bounce which filled the earlier parts of the work while keeping a faintly melancholy tone. I'm amazed they did accept it; changing anything is incredibly difficult to manage without it crumbling apart because it feels false and won't support weight.

As you can tell from my earlier comments, originally the tournament was shown and Fulk did take part. He fought with the disreputable sons who approached him in the first scene. Predictably enough York came after him, got disarmed and refused to surrender to Fulk. So Fulk smacked him in the balls with his wooden sword and had him carried from the field! Awesome little bit and I do regret its loss. York marched off in a hunched, crab-like manner to complain to Hugh as soon as he could and there was a rather boring bunch of back and forth which ended up with York being told he had asked for it, and Fulk being told that - although acting in correct form for the provocation and insults he had received - he had disturbed the peace and should leave for the north. We then ended up at a mildly different version of that final scene - no bit about Hugh asserting his kingly rights over tournaments because we'd witnessed that for ourselves. Eleanor herself hardly featured which was wrong IMO; it's her story.

No matter how much I worked on the original ending it just would not spark to life. It sat there like a dead, dull thing in my writer's sense and I did not want the story to end on such a low.

So. There you are. The end. Lots left unsaid, lots left open, lots hinted at, lots of things which could go multiple ways - in many ways it is more of a beginning than an ending.

I have 'found' two more Eleanor related short stories I could write. I'm not sure what to do, or if anyone wants to read any of them. I have:

1. Silent's story. Something of a loose epilogue. I'd have to start from scratch as it got destroyed during my recent computer woes. It's about 10 years on from this.

2. Raoul's story. Just a shortish piece that gives some insight into how he became the man he did. It sets up a nice echo of symmetry with the start of this story and with Silent's story.

3. A shortish piece about Eleanor going to retrieve her disgraced sister Adele from Spain. It's several years on from this.

4. Fulk's parents. This one would turn out quite long - though not nearly as long as Eleanor did! - and would be more of a romance type thing. I have certain scenes very vividly and I'm not sure what I'd do about the rest. Discover it as I write, I guess.


I shall return to answer comments tomorrow. It's growing late and I need to be up early for work tomorrow.

I can't believe how lost I feel.