The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[Axeknight]

Nice title!

One question - Why, on your map, does my beloved island look like a chewed dog treat?

[frogbeastegg]

Ask Paradox; the map's a screenshot from Crusader Kings. I included it so I could post this on their forums where I have a following. The story is hardly game related, is it?

:returns to dual POV scene, happy in the knowledge that the next part returns to the more enjoyable stuff instead of all this mind examining boring stuff:

[Axeknight]

Bah. Whichever way you throw me, I stand, and that includes complicated game developers.

[Ludens]

Ludens, of course I have email subscription on this thread :grins evilly: Actually your original wasn't too bad.

Apparently, you have not noted the opening line. Which is a good thing.

The duo can squabble in any mood, although it does pick up different layers and overtones sometimes if their moods are particularly powerful.

The problem is: I can't spot these overtones. To me it sounds just like they make a mental switch from whatever mood they were in to 'squabbling'. It might just be me though, perhaps you should ask others what they think.

About the recent scene, I liked it and I like the moments inside Fulk's mind better than those inside Eleanor's mind. Perhaps that is because I like Fulk more than Eleanor . Anyway, I hope to see more of John and his motivations soon.

Just out of interest: what is the internet adress of the Paradox forum?

[frogbeastegg]

Er, well I have been having a lot mof PC troubles recently and it's hard to read emails when ther PC is crashing. Actually that's why I'm here; to note that the next update is going to take a while becasue my PC is so beggared up I can't do a thing with it. Can't fix it, not even after a load of traumatic stuff like reinstalling windows. It's gone to thr shop. I've borrowed my dad's laptop (horrible keyboard, excuse typos please ... too damned hard to fix them) but I've no manuscripts on this and the keyboard stinks.

Overtones working for anyone else? :waits impatientlky for answers: It shoukld become more apparant as time goes on, so more visible now than at the beginning and more visible still in the future.Honestly I don't see how they can't be working.

I don't like Fulk's mind is a less comfortable one to look into than Eleanor's, and that's only partly becasue I am more familiar with her. His mind can get pretty ... urgh. Like being stuck in a hall of mirrors.

crusader kings part of the paradox forum is here you can get to the rest from there.

[zelda12]

Funny really that at Paradox you get five or six replies whilst here you get one or two guaranteed and another couple if people have popped in.

Over tones are kinda visable, not that I paid attention much this week, dual history, french, maths and geography coursework.

I do think that the lost and confused sheep thing that both Eleanor and Fulk are going through is getting a little annoying. I would think it better if instead of doing the long winded, leave her leave her not, kill him, get him in bed, cuddle him oh I'm so confused. It would be better if you just dropped a few more lines on the smae subject each post. So you gradualy work up to the final, Oh I've always loved you but was so confused etc. scene.
But what do I know your the maestro.
meh

[frogbeastegg]

Ah, my beloved desktop is back. Finally I can return the POS laptop.

Right, squabbling. It isn't arguing really, more banter. You know I can't actually explain it; it's simply there and if you can't see it I don't know how to point it out. I don't understand how you can't see it. From a frog's POV it is like pointing out the sun. Perpetual one-up-manship, a desire to make the other one speechless, an enjoyment in witty comebacks and stupid remarks, a contest to find the most ridiculous yet relevant thing to say - it's not the kind of thing you can academically explain.

It's just plain obvious when they insist they hate each other that they don't, and when they say they hate each other in the middle of a mushy scene in a tone labelled as soft or some other mushyish type that they mean something more mushy. Damn it, later they say "I hate you" and it had better be plainly obvious what they mean is "I love you". This is the simplest example to work through, but it works for all the other things they say - context, mood, tone; all outlined in the scene to lend the appropriate overtone to the words.

:sighs: Ok, that's a mess and probably makes little sense. Yeah, I simply can't explain it; it is there and it explains itself, in my eyes.

The lost sheep thing bugged me right from the start, zelda. I still maintain that mush isn't really my thing; I enjoy the banter and so on between the duo, not the actual mush. Fortunately it will be clearing up very soon :froggy cheers:

Your outline for an alternative is a good one, but sadly not at all suitable. I think I picked the only way for this new version of the duo. It's ... not a case of confusion in the end, more opportunity.

And now back to work ...

[Axeknight]

Erm.. Little I can say, really. I like this new part (IIRC, this wasn't in the original), and Fulk's 'Do I stay or do I go?' is a clever new addition. I'm assuming the 'window scene' happens earlier now?

Oh, and Froggy, thanks for recommending Simon Scarrow to me. Just started The Eagle's Conquest - great series. The description of Bestia's funeral was classic

*looks at post* And the award for worst critique ever in the history of critiquery goes to, drumroll please...

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk made his way back to the guest room feeling absurdly weary. He pushed the door open, forgetting to knock, then headed single-mindedly towards the window seat. He collapsed into it in a clatter of armour and swept the coif back from his head so it rested on his shoulders leaving his head and neck clear.

It had taken several minutes to convince John he was serious, turning down offer after offer until he felt his heart would break. When he had finally convinced him the prince had cursed and railed at him, proving he too had the family temper. Unlike Eleanor’s explosion, and what he knew of the king’s explosions, it was more pathetic than impressive. Poor John didn’t have the flare to pelt bystanders with oranges or send his audience away badly injured. No, instead he had stamped his feet and torn at his hair and clothes, spittle flying as he raved, not even making sense. The prince had eventually collapsed into a breathless lump and he had allowed the two squires to lead him away.

There had been no one around to help Fulk out of his armour so he had done the only thing he could; bundled the extra items into a strong bag and carted them up here for safe storage. He unlaced the arming cap and pulled it from his head, then ran his fingers through his hair, separating it out from its flattened, sweat soaked state so it would dry quicker. Someone coughed off to his left; Eleanor.

“So you finally deigned to notice me?” she asked acerbically. She watched dispassionately as she scrambled to his feet and mumbled an apology. He got a new employer and he thought he could barge in like he owned the place. Typical. She scrutinized the new armour; combined with the broken nose and the tousled hair it looked very fetching. She realised what she had just thought and felt her face go warm as she blushed. Wonderful, now her mind had gone. At the ripe old age of nineteen she was in danger of turning into a giggling idiot who braided flowers in her hair and skipped instead of walked. The prospect was nothing if not terrifying.

Fulk watched with private amusement as she went slightly pink, and wondered if she knew she was staring at him. What was it about women and him in armour? One of these days he’d have to ask, but not this particular admirer. “I was looking for someone to play squire,” he explained lightly.

He came barging in here and expected her to play squire with armour he’d gotten by defecting to her brother? “John did not provide you with one? How careless. I suggest you go raise the matter with him.”

“Why would be give me a squire?” asked Fulk shortly. She didn’t know about his recruitment offer and if he had his way she would never know; she had enough troubles without finding out what a weasel her brother was.

“He gave you the armour.”

“For rescuing you.”

“I see.”

She had gone tight lipped and pale again. “Is something wrong?” he asked, genuinely concerned. Surely she couldn’t know? Well, she was an agent and she did have eyes, ears and a keen mind … but she would have flayed him alive hours ago if she suspected he was going to join John. She couldn’t know.

She isolated the pain she felt and seared into her memory. He looked so fetching and sounded so concerned while he lied through his teeth and stabbed her in the back; this was what came from attachments, Trempwick had been right. She would not make the same mistake again. Ever. “I am fine,” she ground out.

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

Fulk crossed his arms, each hand enclosed tightly about the bicep of the opposing arm, fighting the impulse to hold her. Once again she was upset, once again he wanted to comfort her, once again he could do nothing, not even offer some trite words. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

She watched as his posture went defensive and stiff, and waited for him to say something. Nothing. This was just like the night before; he had gone distant. He must think her liable to go off into a temper at the slightest provocation, even though he had only seen her lose control once in four months. “Oh, just go away,” she said wearily. He gave a stiff nod, turned on his heel and marched off without a word.




Small and experimental; dual POVs, not that likely to be used again except on a handful of very specific scenes.

Chronologicially speaking in the original Eleanor the window scene happened a few weeks ago. In this new version there are several upcoming scenes that could act as minor replacements ... sort of.

Forgot to answer your other question, Axeknight. No, this wasn't in the original, to be honest things left the original ages ago, the final threads of resemblence were severed when they robbed the abbey. This is so different it is probably best to stop thinking of the original (I know I don't). It has departed and will never return to those lines. A couple of brief Eleanor/Fulk exchanges I particualrly liked from the original will make it in, but that is all.

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk sat in the main hall at one of the trestle tables, still in his new armour because he had been unable to find anyone to help him remove it. He was the only one at this particular end of the long table; the handful of others in the hall had chosen spots closer to the fire. He didn’t really mind the solitude; mourning a lost fortune or three was a private task.

A woman in expensive blue plonked herself down on the bench opposite him, winked and asked, “What’s a chap with a nose like yours doing on his own?” Her hand flew to her mouth and she swore, “Oh bugger!” She arranged herself into a more ladylike pose, and then spoke in a careful voice, consciously trying to sound cultured, “May I enquire as to what you are doing, handsome sir?”

Fulk folded his arms loosely and rested them on the tabletop, “And you are … ?”

“Judith.”

Ah, the ex-merchant mistress. Minor merchant too, by the sounds of it; very minor. “Well, Judith, you can drop the accent.”

She wrinkled her nose gracefully and looked loveably uncertain, “I don’t know; John always says … oh stuff it; John’s not the one who has to sit about trying to impersonate a statue!” Her shoulders dropped, she crossed her legs and leaned forward in a pose matching his, “So, what’re you doing?”

“Talking to you, or so it seems,” he returned flippantly. It really was not hard to see how she had snagged John; the whole castle was probably full of broken hearted, jealous men, men who would now envy him this conversation. Oh joy, let there be happiness, feasting and celebratory dancing; people would be forming a queue to whack him, and a certain princess would probably be busy selling tickets and souvenirs.

She laughed prettily, “Oh, how very droll.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing?”

“I’m flirting with the chap with the neat nose and fetching armour I saw brooding handsomely. I’ve snared a prince but I like to keep in practise.”

An idea was forming in Fulk’s head; the perfect revenge for that stinking perfume had just presented itself with a cheeky grin, as well as a way to be rid of this walking death-trap without offending her and getting himself smacked about by a horde of chivalrous hopefuls wanting to gain her favour. “Then I’ll endeavour to play along without catching the eye of a prince who’ll only be jealous, him and every other man within fifty miles.”

“Now that sounds as good as you look, dearie.”

Dearie? Evidently she had decided to rescue the word from being used solely with old crones with warts and black cats. Yup, no doubt about it – this Judith was going to make the perfect revenge. “I’m the princess’s bodyguard; you learn a few fancy words following a royal about.”

“Really?” Her eyes sparkled and she smiled coquettishly, “Do tell.”

“Well, the poor thing’s been kept locked up in desolation much of her life.”

“No!” gasped Judith, playing the attentive audience to perfection.

“Yes, she’s no idea about court protocol, or all those little necessities like how to accept a song proclaiming her beauty or how to behave at a banquet in her honour. I don’t think she even knows how to dance!”

“The poor dear,” said Judith, frowning delicately. It might have been an extraordinarily pretty frown but in Fulk’s eyes it was a distant second to a frowning gooseberry. “John’s going to send her off to court, you know. She’ll never manage.”

“I know, I know. And of course they’ll be finding a husband for her too, and she’s,” Fulk leaned forward and whispered, “well, she could make a nun look wanton. I’m going to be beating suitors off with a stick and all because she smiled at the wrong time.”

“The poor, poor darling!” She was really getting into this now, and what a charming picture of concern she did make. “Someone should have a quiet word with her.”

Yes! Got her; take that Eleanor! Fulk allowed the smile to escape but made it over into a picture of relieved gratitude, “If it’s no trouble…”

“Oh no, not at all. In fact I’ll go now; I know John doesn’t want to see her until mid afternoon, so we’ll have plenty of time.”

“Thanks. She’s very shy; so don’t let her get away until you’ve told her everything. Just one favour? Don’t tell her I sent you.”

She gave her solemn promise that she wouldn’t, then departed on her mission of mercy. Fulk would have given anything to be a fly on the wall, watching Eleanor’s reaction to being waylaid by her brother’s mistress and chatted to for several hours on a collection of subjects she would find highly embarrassing. She was going to have such fun with Judith. He resolved to casually drop by and see how things were going in an hour or two.






An hour proved too long for a curious man at arms to wait. He bribed a page to help him remove his armour and load it up into a couple of sacks which they then hefted up to Eleanor’s guestroom. He had stripped down to his shirt and hose, the only normal clothes he was wearing under all the armour. He could have kept his gambeson on but he wanted an excuse to linger and watch the proceedings for a bit and a lack of clothing was the best he could come up with.

The page left his sack outside the door at Fulk’s insistence that he could manage the rest of the way. With a quiet knock Fulk cracked the door open and tentatively suck his head around.

“… wiggle your hips a bit,” instructed Judith, as she demonstrated how to walk in an eye catching manner. The expression of mortified horror on Eleanor’s face was priceless. Neither of them noticed him, the knock must have gone unheard, and so he got to watch for a few seconds until Judith turned around by chance and spotted him. “What are you doing here?” she asked sternly, “Go away!”

“I’m collecting my tunic and dumping my armour,” he explained as he dragged the sacks in. He stood up, rubbing the small of his back as if he’d cricked it. Over Judith’s shoulder Eleanor mouthed, “Help me!” He pretended he hadn’t understood. He smiled disarmingly at Judith, “Surely you can’t expect me to wander about in shirt and hose in the middle of winter?”

Apparently she could; she bundled him out of the room again in short order. “Bog off, sweetie,” advised Judith merrily as she slammed the door.

Outside Fulk remembered the way Eleanor had been blushing so furiously she looked more like a strawberry than gooseberry. He licked his forefinger and drew an invisible line in the air, “Man at arms: two. Princess: one.” He shivered in the chill of the stone corridor, then set out in search of a nice fire to sit by until he could get his clothes back.






Welcome rescue from Judith came several hours later in the form of a summons from John. Eleanor escaped with all possible haste; she might have asked Edith how to flirt months ago back in Nantes, but being descended on by Judith and her hair raising ability to tell you far more than you ever wanted to know about anything and everything was entirely too much. Much of what Judith’s advice had sailed clean over Eleanor’s head, and now she was devoting energy to forgetting the bits she had understood before she ended up with nightmares. Trempwick would have had a treble heart seizure if he had known what his precious pupil was being told.

On her arrival in the solar Eleanor immediately noticed the bowl of oranges was missing. John sat with his back to her in a fireside chair, the ubiquitous goblet of wine in his hand once again. “That man at arms of yours is quite an interesting fellow,” he said as she seated herself slightly further away from the fire’s fierce then he was.

Here it came, the end. “He is all I have,” she said despondently, not sure whether she meant it as an answer or just an admission of what he’d stolen from her.

He twiddled the goblet about in his hands, rotating it clockwise as he spoke, “Funny, that’s exactly what he said.”

How delightful of Fulk to admit it; did it get him a nice boost to his pay offer? She stopped regretting dowsing him in that perfume and began wishing she had thought of something nastier.

“I offered him a place in my household; he refused, can you actually believe that? I gave him a fortune, I offered him another, but he refused.” John ended his fascination for playing with his goblet, drained his wine and frowned petulantly at his empty vessel. “It’s not fair,” he muttered sulkily. He sloshed more wine into his cup, pouring carelessly so his clothes got splashed. His tolerance for alcohol was astounding; he had done little more than drink since she arrived and not once had he been more than mildly tipsy.

“Refused?” said Eleanor sharply. This had to be another of his jokes.

“He spewed some twaddle about giving you his word, and said he could not leave you because you had not released him.”

“He did?” Why couldn’t he just admit he’d stolen her bodyguard and be done with it? Or did he want her to tell Fulk he could leave if he wanted to, making this easier for them? She was not going to help them save face, thank you very much.

“I gave him a destrier and better armour than most knights have, I promised him far more and he refused! He just spouted on about honour.” John sniffed woefully and gulped at his drink. He apparently expected her sympathy.

“You probably did not offer him enough,” she said acidly. If she couldn’t get John to be honest she would wring the truth out of Fulk later. She had never had serious occasion to try those nice interrogation and torture methods Trempwick had taught her but now seemed as good a time as any.

“On the contrary, little sister, I think I offered him the wrong thing … in a way.” John set his goblet down on the nearby table precisely, arranging it with care and devoting his whole attention to that one task as he spoke, “I should have offered him you, I think. But he is not nearly worth such a bribe; armour is easy to come by, and I only have one free sister. Besides you are already promised to Northumberland.”

“What did you say?” Her? Did John seriously think a common bastard had even thought about a royal connection? Or would want one? It might boost him to the highlife but he would never be accepted, and she was dirt poor so he would gain nothing except her company and the scorn on the nobility. People formed queues and fought over both of those privileges on a daily basis.

John ignored the warning tone of her voice and beamed, then answered the wrong question, “I know, wonderful, isn’t it? Northumberland’s my staunchest supporter, and I shall grant you lands and so on. You will finally have what you were born to.”

Northumberland, married and wonderful were not words Eleanor thought belonged in close vicinity of each other, categorically not when her name was also added to the mix. If nothing else Northumberland the place was cold, rainy and always skirmishing with Scotland. Northumberland the man was just as unappealing; with this scheme he had proven himself ambitious, ruthless and dangerous. Not that John cared about her opinion; he had made this deal and she would be expected to keep it.

So, Northumberland was the puppet master; since he was the most powerful duke in England this was hardly surprising. Give him a royal bride and very soon poor John would find his rear slipping off his throne, until Northumberland claimed the crown by virtue of his wife. Her daft brother had not only been lured to treason but he had also set up his controller with a means to replace him as king. John would stand no chance when his manipulator discarded him.

Seven days Trempwick had said, she had used three and a half. Time was running out if she wanted to get John away before Trempwick set his men to watch the ports, just three and a bit safe days left. It would take most of those three days to reach the nearest port and find a ship willing to sail in the middle of December.

She listened with half an ear as John babbled, outlining his plot to become king. It relied heavily on him getting to see his father alone, then poisoning him so people would think he died of natural causes. When he was dead the whole country was supposedly going to rise up behind him to support him against Hugh, who, John related with horror evident on his features, had murdered his eldest brother so he could become king in his place. Yes, John actually believed, and expected others to believe, that an eleven year old boy had plotted and committed murder to gain a throne.

That was the breaking point; Eleanor could stand no more, and he had finally presented a flaw for her to use to encourage him to leave. “No, that is not true. Our father killed Stephan.” John gaped at her. “Have you ever seen him in one of his rages?” He mutely shook his head. “You are fortunate; I envy you. Between the initial spark and the final, most dangerous cold and cruel fury he has this streak where he talks incessantly, threats mostly. I heard him admit it on the day I got this scar,” she tapped the small scar running along her left cheekbone under her eye, “and he admitted it again a few years later. ‘If I can kill my heir for being flawed I can easy dispatch you for the same reason.’ The words were etched into my mind as surely as the scars on my body.”

“But, but, but …” stuttered John, “if Northumberland lied about that …”

“What else did he lie about?” finished Eleanor.

John wet his lips with his tongue, then scrubbed a hand over his face, “I think he’s set me up.” He suddenly sat bolt upright, his face a picture of horror, “Jesú! There’ll be no army!”

“It certainly looks that way.” No, there would be an army, an army to crush Hugh and plonk John on the throne long enough for him to marry Northumberland and Eleanor off, then remove him and hand the realm over.

He jumped up, dropping his partially empty goblet on the floor in a flood of red wine, and hurried to the door. He began shouting along the corridor for his servants to strip the castle of everything portable and valuable, and then get ready to move out with every single male out under arms with all possible speed. Even lowly kitchen boys were to be given weapons from the stores and pressed into his escort to swell the numbers. Finished, he turned back to Eleanor, “I must flee, now, before it is too late.”

“What about your family? You must warn them.”

“I cannot; I do not have time.”

She rolled her eyes, “Send a messenger.”

“I will need every man I have to reach port and get away safely.”

“You are going to abandon them!” she accused, horrified, “You can spare a couple of men and horses, easily.”

John began to pace restlessly, dismissing his family with barely a thought, “They will be alright; they are nobles-”

“And so are you. If being imprisoned is no hardship why are you leaving?”

He stopped and looked at her as if she were talking nonsense. “Then you go and warn them,” he said in a tone usually reserved for dealing with disobliging, dim-witted children.

She jumped to her feet, feeling her temper growing, and said brusquely, “Oh yes, I shall conjure up an escort and supplies, and go off on a little jaunt to Wales two weeks before Christmas when the roads are unspeakably foul - I cannot even get to the Welsh border! A courier could get through; you must send one.” Without Fulk she couldn’t even get home; travelling alone would be suicide. She would have to wait here in an all but empty castle until Trempwick sent someone to bring her home, hoping her rescue got here before the king’s army.

“There is no one to spare; I need every man I have to get safely to port. You cannot come either; we need to travel fast and-”

He crushed a hope that she did not even know she had; that he would take her away with him and keep her safe from the agents Trempwick would send to hunt her down. “And I would only slow you down because I have to ride side-saddle or pillion.”

“You are a noble, family, you will be safe. He will not know you were involved.”

Since when did being caught up in whatever caused the paroxysm matter? If she was safe it was because of Trempwick, and then only to the extent that she would still be alive. “You go on, run away and leave everyone else behind to clean up your mess. As long as you are safe that is all that really matters.”

Her sarcasm went unnoticed, “Yes, exactly. As long as I am safe I can come back and set things to rights.”

“I am fully confident you will be able to reattach severed heads, heal the scars, and wipe away the memories of the pain you are going to cause, John.”

He thumped himself on the chest with one fist, “I am a prince! I am worth far more than some duke, count or nobody!”

“Heir and a spare, John, and you are the spare - dispensable.” She stormed off to find someone whose arm she could twist into taking a message into Wales.

As she left she heard him bellow, “We’ll see how you feel when I return as king!”





Weeee! Finally I can stop examining the insides of their skulls in fine detail! Hurrah for only skimming the surface!

Has the nasty Judith thing gone away?

[Ludens]

Please disregard my previous comment. I have gone blind.

[frogbeastegg]

Her search for a messenger proved fruitless; word of John’s treachery had spread and everyone was concerned with saving their own skins. Even simple servants would be gleefully seized by a vengeful king, and they knew it; they were in the employ of a traitor, which made them traitors too. It was a measure of how successful king William had been in securing his grip on his expanding realm; a good king needed a reputation, and ability, to exact retribution from disloyal subjects swiftly and without mercy. William was nothing if not a good king. Eleanor suspected that many were taking whatever they could grab, then taking flight on their own instead of collecting things for John and following him to the port and he wanted. She didn’t blame them; John would only abandon most of them to their fates at the port.

She returned to her guest room, thinking to wait out the chaos there, only to find the last person she wanted to see. Fulk. He was sat cross legged on her bed, dressed in his gambeson and warmest pair of hose, his old sword across his lap and a pile of bags containing his new armour and spare clothing on the floor at his side. A quick glance around revealed the room had been ransacked; even the chairs and bedclothes were gone. The only portable items that remained were those Fulk had gathered to him. She hoped he had seen fit to save her own paltry, mostly borrowed, wardrobe, especially the nice, warm cloak she had arrived in.

“If you do not hurry you will be left behind,” she told him cuttingly. There wasn’t even a reason for him to be here now.

“So long as I follow you I can’t be left behind, can I?”

“Now what are you gabbling about?”

“I could ask you the same question, oh sands of the ages.”

“You are going with John.”

Fulk winced; so she did know. That explained quite a lot. “No, I’m sticking with his retiring, placid sister.”

Eleanor couldn’t hide her astonishment, “What? Why?”

Fulk considered his reply carefully; the truth delved into areas that were best described as thorny, as well as informing her about Maud, but he did not want to lie. Maud and the events surrounding her were least uncomfortable when confined to the unspoken past, and dragging them up would do no one any good. “Because I like being able to say, ‘That’s my princess; I just tag along in her wake, cleaning up the mess and dodging the low flying severed heads. I also do a nice line in suffering bravely when she turns her attention to me. It’s a quiet life,’ when someone asks me who the short, dark haired human tempest is.” Yes, that was honest enough while remaining light.

Her brows knitted together sceptically, “Really?”

“Yes, now we’d best get moving – we’ll need two saddle horses, and I’m owed a destrier. If we leave it too long the stables will be empty. Help me on with my hauberk and coat of plates; it’ll be easier to carry them on my body, good protection too.” When she didn’t move immediately he said dryly, “I’d say don’t argue but I’ve more faith in you being able to fly; instead I’ll say argue once we’ve left.”

She did as he said, helping him into first the hauberk, then the coat of plates, adding the surcoat and sword belt without him asking. He left the coif down and refused his arming cap, instead instructing her to put his cloak on over the whole thing, covering the armour and hiding its quality. He slipped his shield’s strap over his head, allowing it to rest comfortably on his left side in easy reach if he needed it. Finally he picked up the kettle helmet and laced it securely under his chin.

He looked over himself, tweaking the folds of his cloak by tucking them through the shield’s guige strap until it naturally hid most of the armour but didn’t hamper his arms too badly. “Man at arms and wife, travelling from one job to another because our old lord died and his son’s an ungrateful oaf who turned us out close to Christmas. That should do us for a cover.” He retrieved her knives and cloak from the bag he’d stored them in, “Here.”

Eleanor pinned her cloak in place, “I have nowhere to put the knives; these sleeves are too tight and we do not have time for me to change.”

“Fish your belt out of that bag and then put the knives on it,” suggested Fulk, collecting as many of the remaining bags as he could carry, “It’ll be a fashion disaster but your cloak will hide them well enough.”

After a brief search she found the slender tooled leather girdle she had worn on her way here. She examined it sceptically, assessing whether it would be strong enough to take the weapon’s weight, then swiftly bound it in place, making the first loop about her waist slightly looser than usual but leaving the second, low slung loop the same as normal in the hopes it would aid the deception. She thrust one knife through each side of the waist loop, and then pulled her cloak about her. “And that is that; let’s go.” She picked up the last couple of bags and headed towards the door, Fulk following close at her heels and trying to take the lead so he could lead their assault. As she opened the door she said, “If anyone gives us trouble you focus on getting our horses; I will handle the rest.”





Painfully slowly they fought their way through the milling crowds in the castle, down to the stables. Only a bare handful of horses were left, including a downtrodden packhorse and a few half decent palfreys. All the good horses were long gone, including Fulk’s promised warhorse. Fulk started forcing his way towards the best of the remaining saddle horses, Eleanor following in his wake.

“Get the packhorse too,” she told him, having to shout to be heard about the racket. The man fastening the packhorse’s bridle had different ideas and he tried to rebuff Fulk. Eleanor struck her most regal pose and announced loudly, “I am princess Eleanor of England, daughter of William, fourth of that name since the conquest of William the Bastard, king of England by grace of God, rightful king of France, lord of the Welsh, and beloved of his people.”

She paused for breath; she had learned to recite her lineage while still in the cradle and the endless barrage of glorious relatives usually stunned audiences as they struggled to keep track of everything. She was pleased to note Fulk loading up the packhorse swiftly and without resistance. Father down, time for brothers, “Sister to lord Hugh, duke of Normandy, count of Arques, and Bedford, heir to the aforementioned king William, and to lord John, Duke of York, and count of Anjou.”

Fulk was diplomatically persuading another man at arms he didn’t really want the best palfrey by prising his fingers of the animal’s reins and bending them backwards until they nearly broke. Time for sisters, “And to Matilda, Holy Roman Empress by the grace of God, and to Adele, queen of Spain by the grace of God.” So far, so good. She decided to wrap it up there; once you got into grandparents, cousins, nieces and the like it got very long winded indeed; she would save them for an emergency. “I command you to render aid.” Her audience gaped at her; excellent, Fulk had got the palfrey and the packhorse and was leading them out without too much opposition. “I require a man to go to Wales and deliver a verbal message. Any volunteers to serve the crown?”

Predictably everyone looked away and tried to seem less obvious than everybody else. Fulk stuck his head around the stable door and gave her a wave. Time to go. “It is good to see my brother is served by men of courage equal to his own; cowards. I shall look elsewhere.” She strode regally away, out into the courtyard where Fulk waited.

He was already mounted on the palfrey with the packhorse’s reins in the same hand that held the reins for his own mount. He extended a hand to her, “There’re no side-saddles; you’ll have to ride pillion, either that or learn to ride like a man.”

“I doubt I would ever hear the end of it if I did that,” she said dryly as she took his hand, put one foot on top of his, then scrambled up behind him. Once in place she wrapped her hands in the folds of his cloak to secure her seat somewhat.

Fulk kicked the horse into motion, and they clattered towards the first of the two gatehouses, struggling to get through the press of people. “You’d better hold on tight,” he said as he drew his sword, “really tight.” She wrapped her arms around his waist; just managing to lock her fingers together as he started bellowing, “Make way! Make way for the princess!” When that didn’t have the desired effect he started laying about him with the flat of his sword, still bellowing. The crowd began to part.

They picked up speed, and Fulk ceased clubbing people, needing only to shout and brandish his sword to part the human sea. Even so it still took almost quarter of an hour to force their way out of the castle and away from the press on the road outside. They began to retrace the journey they had made just a day ago, heading back to Woburn. No others took their road as it lead towards the king’s army and danger.

As they rode along Fulk noted with a wry grin that Eleanor was still riding along with her arms around his waist and, presumably based on his experience, much of her upper body and one side of her face leaning against his back. How to get a hug from a princess that no one could ever criticise; get her to ride pillion and then drag her into a near riot so she had to cling on or fall off. It was just a pity that he couldn’t really feel anything because of all the padding and armour.







Ok, so this is kind of rough and I was going to include another scene, the Fulk/Eleanor confrontation, but I picked up this obscure game on Friday, Rome: Total War.

Comment disregarded, Ludens.

[zelda12]

Hope you enjoy Rome.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor sat on a pile of straw with her skirts carefully arranged around herself. “Trempwick is not going to like this,” she declared.

Fulk made a show of looking about the stable, not that he could see much by the weak moonlight, “I don’t like it much either, too damned dark.” In the stall next to them one of their horses whickered an agreement.

They had only managed a few hours of riding before the sun started to set. They had been able to find an inn they had not used on the trip up before it got too dark to travel, but they only had enough money to convince the innkeeper to let them stay in the stable along with their horses. They hadn’t managed to stretch the budget to even a space in the common room, and food was out of the question. They had been refused a lantern, ostensibly because of the fire hazard but more likely because they couldn’t pay for it.

“I think the dark is the aspect which will bother him the least,” she said lightly, “If he complains I shall point out it is hardly our fault we did not have sufficient funds; it is his. I shall also point out we are the ones starving with no food.”

“That’s the idea – you princess him about a bit,” replied Fulk with enthusiasm. He lay back on a pile of straw on the opposite side of the stall to Eleanor, pillowing his head on his arms. “I’ve got to admit that you’re getting better at the wife act, no wifelette act – you’re too short to warrant the full title when I can botch together a diminutive form to suit. Telling any who would listen how useless I am was a good touch; it really won over the innkeeper, protective instincts towards beleaguered gooseberries, I guess. ”

“I just tried to be honest,” she replied modestly, playing with the ring she had now swapped to her left hand. The metal chaffed slightly and pressed on the neighbouring fingers unless she splayed her fingers out. Conversely her right hand noted the lack of the ring and felt equally wrong.

She chewed her lip thoughtfully, trying to decide the best strategy to broach a tricky subject and to … well, she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to do. She wanted to know why he was still here, a deceptively simple sounding thing. Fulk had proven resistant to light questioning before and anything obvious would result in answers that could not be trusted, as well as a sulking bodyguard. That was assuming he did more than flat out refuse to answer, leaving her looking stupid and him in a huff. She didn’t want to reveal her lack of insight into his motives, nor did she want to give him ideas for possible uses for her that he may not already have spotted himself. Something needed saying; he was still here, whatever his motive.

Hesitant she took the plunge, “Thank you … for staying.” It seemed very lacking. She grabbed her courage with both hands and started to talk before she let it slip through her fingers, “Um, don’t know why I am saying this, I mean it will go straight to your head and all, and you will probably get completely the wrong idea, but …” she looked up from studying her feet, towards his outline, “You are all I have,” she said gently.

There was a long pause, so long she feared she had made a terrible mistake. Finally Fulk spoke, his tone grave, “I gave you my word and I think it is worth the keeping.” He sat up, one arm braced across his knees. “If I have been piecing my clues together correctly you’re going to be in poor favour when you get home and in need of your royal cut tender. I can’t vanish off to France leaving you to bleed all over the floor, can I?”

“You could very easily.”

There was another long pause, followed by a sigh. “If I left I would miss you. I’ve rather enjoyed these last few months of excitement, danger, daring, intrigue, spymasters and gooseberries.”

Such nonsense, and yet it sounded quite sincere. With a little more thought she decided she was willing to entertain the idea he might enjoy his job; he didn’t have to like her to do that. Even so his motive for staying was not clear; once again she ran thorough the usual options. A connection to the royal family: no, not unless he was an idiot, and she had never thought him that. Money: no, she was penniless and likely to remain so. Status: no, she had no lands to grant away. Her: not a chance in hell, she was no Guinevere. Security: possibly, he did get fed and would remain looked after in a neglected kind of way, and that put him on an even footing with her. His life: possibly, but with John he might have stood some chance of escaping. That one was worth testing, “You have missed what might have been your only chance to leave safely; John could have protected you from Trempwick. You would have been less important; you would still know too much but people would think you mad if you ever said anything. John is the kind of person to collect loonies with strange tales about his sisters.”

“I’d have got seasick on the channel crossing again,” said Fulk with false levity. This was beginning to get dangerous; she evidently wasn’t convinced by the half answers he had offered. Time to change the subject, “Anyway if I left I’d never have got to see your face when I told you I set Judith on you.”

Eleanor growled, “You are the reason I had to listen to that baggage for hours?”

“Revenge for the perfume, my fair blossom.”

“You started it back at that abbey; I was merely exacting retribution, with fair warning too I might add.”

“I always win my battles, dear gooseberry, and this one will be no different.”

“We shall see about that, turfwit.”

“Yes, we will,” said Fulk with a smile, “So, learn anything interesting from her?” He heard the furious intake of breath and wished he could see the look on her face.

“I shut my ears in the first few minutes; there are some things in life I do not want to know, and a great many of those things are contained in her extraordinary mind.” That was quite honest; she had stopped listening right when Judith had started on about the pleasures of kissing someone, something which warred with Eleanor’s rather limited experience. It was better not to know what you’re missing and never likely to experience, and if all you are missing is unpleasantness then so much the better.

A jolt of panic hit her when she realised how open that answer left her. If he asked why she didn’t want to benefit from the years of experience of a highly successful mistress what could she say? He knew her too well to fall for any religious argument, and the truth was humiliating to say the least. Being the one to bring up the fact you know you are so ugly no one could ever be interested in you might remove the sting very slightly, but from there things got no better. An honest agreement still hurt; a polite lie was even worse. All these years and she still wasn’t able to shrug it off completely.

Just as Fulk began to talk she rushed in her second observation about Judith, drowning him out, “I think she was one of Trempwick’s agents. She was very well placed to keep an eye on him, if you think about it. She also said a few things which could indicate she was a spy.” Things such as how men tend to talk when they are in bed. Now there was another odd thing; based on what she did know if you were busy talking somewhere along the line you have taken a wrong turn. It’s not as if he’d hang around to chat afterwards.

“A spy?” repeated Fulk thoughtfully, “Yes, could well be. Tell you what, you ask your Trempwick when we get back.”

“He is not my Trempwick,” she snapped. “And that is assuming we ever get back; we have no money left at all and we are still at least two days away from home. If we try to sleep outside we will freeze, and we have no food.”

“Don’t worry, oh spirit of joy; I’ll think of something. You can scrub pots or something at the next inn while I chop firewood.”

That was so galling she didn’t even bother to dignify it with a response. She lay back and pretended to go to sleep, mulling over the many motives Fulk might have for remaining.






Trivia: the story is now 103 pages long.

This is rather short at just barely 3 pages, but it proves the itch to write is even stronger than the itch to conquer the world. The game has actually been taking a back seat to this all the time; I was just playing with a few potential scenarios and I decided this one was the best. The urge to write has conclusively conquered all; there is nothing I would rather do.

You may notice Eleanor's view of herself doesn't exactly agree with what has been said about her so far; that was carefully planned before I get hate mail for ruining the story with my stupid errors. And before you all start sending hate mail because I'm using that old cliche of a heroine who needs a hero to tell her how beautiful she is etc, no I'm not! This is far more ... :looks mysterious:

Thanks, zelda. RTW is a fine game; compared to many people here I haven't played much, but by my standards I have been playing quite a lot.

[frogbeastegg]

It took them nearly four days to get back to Woburn, delayed by the worsening weather and overburdened, elderly horse. Fulk’s prediction of pot washing princesses, or more accurately as it turned out, sewing princesses, and men at arms taking on vicious hordes of firewood armed only with an axe turned out to be remarkably accurate. Trempwick’s reaction to that would be nothing if not interesting. They arrived about half an hour before sunset in the midst of a load of sleet. As could only be expected everywhere looked deserted.

As they rode through the gate into the manor’s courtyard Trempwick was already waiting in the shelter of the doorway, his hands clasped behind his back and a face like thunder. When their palfrey halted Trempwick stepped forward to help Eleanor down. He caught her as she slid down and immediately put her to one side with a falsely cheerful smile, “Dear Nell, I presume I have you to thank for my early Christmas present of four men with vicious weapons trying to kill me?” He was speaking English; something which surprised Eleanor as the spymaster usually preferred French.

She replied in the same language, secretly proud to note that she had a far better accent then he did, “Sorry, master.”

“Yes, probably,” replied Trempwick darkly, implying she most certainly would be. He shifted to his irksome chirpy personality. “I see you are amused by the fact you speak English flawlessly, whereas I have an excellent vocabulary coupled with an atrocious accent, dear Nell. We shall see if you are still amused when I spend more time with you in an effort to improve. And now, sweetest Nell, I do fear I shall have to utilise that pet of yours.”

“Really?” asked Fulk neutrally, in the suddenly favoured English, as he dismounted and looked about for the stable boy; he was no where to be seen. Yet more evidence of how lack lustre the servants were.

Trempwick smiled patronisingly at Fulk and carefully enunciated his words as he spoke, as if to someone whose grasp of the tongue was rudimentary at best, “Yes, really, bodyguard. My stable boy has broken his arm so you can play groom today, understood?” When Fulk didn’t reply immediately Trempwick nodded emphatically at him and pulled a huge, fake smile, “Understoody? Yes, yes? Speaky you English?”

Fulk regarded the gurning spymaster coolly and answered in his best court French, “Yes, I speak English, but your accent is so poor you are obviously not at home with the language. We should stick to French.”

Trempwick’s chirpy personality died. He bared his fangs in a wolfish smile, “We can speak French if you like, bodyguard, and then we will be fined for breaking the king’s new law. We cannot afford to pay the fine, and so we shall hang. Well, you shall hang; Nell and I will be beheaded since we are of gentle birth, unlike your grubby self. Sound like fun, bodyguard?”

“New law?” inquired Eleanor.

“Yes, his royal highness, king William, sixth of that name, king of England, blah blah, you know the rest, has decreed that his lands will no longer use English and French equally. English is now the official language of the realm and any found speaking French will be assumed to be sympathetic to the, how did our sovereign put it? Ah yes, ‘that beardless whelp of a boy king who can’t even drag himself away from his mother’s skirts to do battle!’”

Eleanor pulled a face, “So, his latest peace treaty was refused?”

“However did you guess, Nell?” said Trempwick brightly, “He is on his way back from Wales to muster new forces to prove to the French that they do want him as their king. I have seldom seen such a flurry of messengers, both bird and human, travelling the realm. According to my eyes and ears he is making twenty-five miles a day, even in this sleet.” Trempwick glanced sidelong at Fulk, “But this is hardly talk for the ears of anybody, dear Nell. Let us adjourn to the solar, and leave your pet to sort out the horses.” The spymaster sneezed and shivered, “At least let us get out of this damnable sleet!”





In the solar Trempwick ushered Eleanor next to the fire, taking her damp cloak himself, since there were no servants present, and hanging it up to dry. He picked up the room’s only stool and placed it to one side of the fireplace with a gap of only a few feet. “Do sit down, dear Nell,” he said with overbearing concern, “I would not want you to catch cold. You sit nice and close to the fire and warm up.”

They had been back all of ten minutes, if that, and already he was making her life uncomfortable. He must be really upset about those goons John had sent, and that made it too dangerous to try and play his game, matching him move for move. When Trempwick was upset you always lost, and when you finally did the stakes were far higher. Reluctantly she sat down on the edge of the stool, trying to nudge it over surreptitiously. Even a few inches would reduce the blazing heat.

Trempwick seated himself in his favourite chair a comfortable distance from the flames. He stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles, linking his hands idly in his lap. “Now, dear Nell, do tell me about your delightful visit with your brother.” His face and voice hardened, “I am especially interested in the parts which explain why you left with two good horses and came home with one nag and a packhorse, and why you have been dawdling your way back.”

The heat of the fire was making Eleanor’s skin feel tight and her eyes dry. She squinted slightly, trying to reduce the burning feeling. She could smell her clothes scorching. “Our horses were taken in the rush of rats fleeing the sinking ship. We have been dawdling, as you put it, because we ran out of money days ago and had to work in exchange for shelter.”

“Work?” Trempwick’s mouth twisted sourly, “That man at arms has a new set of armour, or so I hear. He dares make my princess mend clothes so he can avoid selling his helmet?”

“It is good quality equipment, far too valuable to part with. I might hate sewing but it is preferable to killing people.”

Trempwick laughed, “I cannot believe my own Nell just said that! Soon you shall be happily married with nine children, as ordinary and boring as your frightful sister Matilda. Sewing!” he repeated, as if she had just said something hilarious. Perhaps she had; sewing was entirely respectable and therefore not usually found in her vicinity.

“I think not,” she said firmly. Mere minutes ago she had been so cold her ears were numb and her feet blocks of ice. Now she could feel sweat running down her back. She leaned away from the fire, vainly trying to reduce the feeling of being a spit roast.


“No, the only person who would stand a chance of survival would be …” Trempwick looked thoughtful, then said more quietly, “would be me.” He took in the horrified expression on her face and laughed almost sadly, “You need not look so revolted, dearest Nell. I prefer blondes; preferably tame, obedient ones who only use knives for cutting food.” The spymaster sniffed the air, frowned slightly, then looked at Eleanor in a surprised manner, “I know it is a cold day, Nell, but you had best sit further back from the fire. I do believe you are beginning to singe and you have gone a rather unhealthy red.”

Feeling almost pathetically grateful Eleanor shot away from the fire before he changed his mind. Even the warm air filling the room seemed chilly by comparison; she shivered as she settled in her usual chair opposite Trempwick.

“Your brother is safely away,” Trempwick informed her gravely, “My birds brought me word this very morning.”

“What of his family?”

“I sent word of John’s treason to our king two days ago; I expect word of their arrest to arrive soon. They will be kept in some draughty castle somewhere under close guard, probably until the king dies. They may be released if our new monarch decides to show mercy. They may remain prisoners for the rest of their lives.”

Eleanor worded her next question carefully, “So they are unlikely to catch a winter fever on the trip?”

Trempwick’s eyes sparkled with amusement, “Dear, dear, how neatly phrased, sweet Nell. No, I have not been asked to kill them.”

“Do you think it likely?”

“Why the sudden interest in some sister in law you have never met? Let me guess; there but for the grace of God, and your own stubbornness if you had married someone with ambition?” She confirmed his suspicion with a tiny nod. Trempwick sighed and stroked his chin, “And they thought to pass you on to Northumberland,” he gave a short bark of laughter; almost completely at odds with his very brief burst of melancholy “You would have dispatched him in the blink of an eye, unravelling their entire plot.” He became more serious, “I would not be so concerned about Sophie, dearest Nell. If I were you I would be more concerned with myself. I shall have no choice but to paint you as an incompetent agent whose failed spying tipped the ringleader off, enabling him to escape.”

“I know.”

“I would claim you had never left, but John … we cannot be assured of his silence.”

“We both know that would make little difference.”

After a weighty silence Trempwick seemed to grow tired of her, and dismissed her with a vague wave, “I am sure you want a bath and something to eat. You should probably take care of the pet of yours too.”





In a remarkable feat, one which Eleanor was not inclined to celebrate, the king arrived in Woburn just three days later. Trempwick’s agent in the outlaying village the king passed through sent his usual warning by carrier bird, giving them just enough warning for Eleanor to hide safely in her room while Trempwick waited to meet the king. Fulk barred the door then joined her at the window, watching the scene through a narrow slit in the shutters.

The king rode in alone, his escort left far behind. They were probably in the nearest village, as was his usual custom. William did not like having an audience for his less noble moments and he considered Eleanor an embarrassment, a double motive for travelling the last mile alone. He didn’t wait for his horse to stop moving before hurling himself from the saddle and advancing on the spymaster. “Where is she?” he demanded loudly, “Where is the treacherous bitch?”

“Sire, treacherous may not be-”

The king’s sword sang from its sheath and flew to Trempwick’s throat. Even at this distance Eleanor could see blood beginning to flow, soaking into the decorative neck braid of spymaster’s neat green tunic. “Where?” repeated the king.

“If you will come inside, sire …?” offered Trempwick. The king held his pose for a second, then slowly removed the sword and put it away. He returned and pulled something from his horse’s saddle, then stalked into the manor, Trempwick trailing behind him, one hand on his neck to staunch the bleeding.

“He’s going to kill me,” whispered Eleanor numbly, “He has never attacked Trempwick before.”

“Then run away,” said Fulk, more pleading than suggesting, “even for a few hours-”

Eleanor was already shaking her head, “They find me and bring me back; there is nowhere to hide. Hours is all I would gain, and he would still be here.”

“You can’t mean to just tamely wait here …”

“What else can I do?” asked Eleanor, finally closing the shutters and coming away from the window. “Tell me what else I can do,” she begged, her composure cracking. Fulk closed his eyes and looked away, hooking his thumbs through his belt and clenching his fists around the leather. Eleanor laughed, almost hysterically, “You know he has a standing edict that I am never to appear in his presence armed? He will complain my hair is loose, but hairpins are potential weapons – I cannot win.”

“Command me,” said Fulk hoarsely. He would leave this in her hands, hardly fair but this time he could not – would not – simply hide with the other servants and wait.

With visible effort she pulled herself together and replied shakily, “I will not die; Trempwick would not allow it. I will not die,” she repeated again, not sure if it was for her benefit or Fulk’s. “I will not die.” She started chewing her thumbnail.

With a muttered oath Fulk’s resolve cracked and he crossed the room in several swift strides, pulled her into his arms and crushed her against him. After a brief pause due to shock Eleanor wrapped both her hands in his tunic, clinging on as if her life depended on it. Several tears escaped, and she buried her face in his chest. Fulk eased his grip slightly and smoothed her hair with one hand. He discovered that she was just tall enough for his chin to rest naturally, and comfortably, on the top of her head. There was nothing to say; she would survive thanks to the spymaster, if he thought for a minute she was going to her death he would have picked her up and run for it, but they both knew the mess the king had made of her last time was going to pale in comparison to the mess he was going to cause now. Somehow focusing on what would not happen made what would seem less awful.

A long while later someone knocked quietly on the door. “Nell?” called Trempwick, “I have managed to calm him down but we do not want to give him time to dwell; I have never seen a temper as bad as this, never.”

Reluctantly they eased apart. “I will be requiring the services of my royal cut tender,” Eleanor said, her voice steady, “you can do nothing more. If you die I will have no one to salve my wounds; I cannot do that myself.” Fulk smiled sadly, remembering how long she had spent insisting she did not need his help. She took a deep, steady breath and started towards the door. “I am not afraid,” she said resolutely. She had always been a good liar.

“Course not,” replied Fulk softly, seeing right through her act.

Eleanor unbarred the door and silently fell into step with Trempwick, clinging to one small, newly discovered fact that made her step surprisingly light.

Fulk cared.




All together now, Aaaaaahhhh

There you go, Axeknight, one of several mini window scenish bits.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor studied the woodwork of the table closely; it was nice oak, well sanded and polished. The planks of wood making up the surface had been fitted together so well you struggled to see the joins. Pity about the blood slowly staining it. Maybe the servants would be able to clean it before it soaked in and became permanent? It smelled of beeswax polish; that was nice. She decided lying here, half across the table, half standing, without someone holding her in place was difficult, uncomfortable too. It might be a good idea to move. Her knees gave way and she slid to the floor, landing in a crumpled heap and drawing a cacophony of complaints from her many injuries.

With nothing better to do she took a good look at the rushes on the floor, trying to force her eyes to focus so she could see the one tickling her nose. Yes, there it was, waggling slightly each time she exhaled. She began to drag her hand up to brush it away but gave up immediately; her hand felt oddly heavy and it hurt too much to move.

Dimly she knew lying here was not a good idea; she had to get up and walk out, back to her room. That was important because … ah yes, because it was important. She frowned slightly; that didn’t make sense. She gave up chasing that thought; it was such hard work. She drifted into blackness.





As Fulk passed the solar on his way back to Eleanor’s room with an armful of linen scraps, and a bowl and ewer of warm water he nearly ran into a man exiting the room. He took in the expensive but travel worn clothes, now splattered with blood, the deep blue eyes that looked familiar, the imperious air, and knew at once who this was. The king. Somehow he forced himself to bow respectfully. As he dipped down he noticed a riding crop grasped loosely in the king’s left hand.

William’s eyes flicked over the medical supplies, “Ah, good, You will bring those to the main bedchamber at once. I doubt you are qualified but you will have to do.”

“Sire?”

The king held his right hand out for inspection. The knuckles were split and bloody, and the little finger hung at an odd angle, obviously broken. “I am hardly proud,” he said, his manner an incongruous mixture between discomfiture and humour, “This is the second time I have broken fingers. It appears being a slow learner runs in the family. You will tend this; setting fingers is none too hard.” He turned back to the solar and threw the whip into the room, then set off for Trempwick’s room, expecting Fulk to follow.

Fulk hesitated, then did the only thing he could. He followed after the king, telling himself that with her touchy pride it was probably a good idea to leave Eleanor to find him, rather than the other way around, so even peeking into the solar probably wasn’t a good idea. The sooner he fixed the king up, as painfully as possible, the sooner he could get back to waiting for her.

The king had appropriated Trempwick’s room and was apparently planning to stay overnight, pressing towards London in the morning. It was the first time Fulk had seen inside Trempwick’s room, and he was rather surprised to find it looked like any other noble’s bedroom. Somehow he had expected either Spartan plainness or rich extravagance, not this cosy little sanctuary. As with all rooms in the manor the floor was covered with a scattering of rushes mixed with fragrant herbs. A single wolf skin lay on the floor on the side of the bed nearest the door. The walls had been plastered and whitewashed; the monotony broke only by a pair of small tapestries, both rather unusual. One showed a king enthroned, orb in one hand and sceptre in the other with his sword across his knees. The other was rather more intriguing; it depicted a girl with dark hair riding a horse, a unicorn by the long horn protruding from the creature’s forehead. The girl was not very detailed, the image was too small for that, but somehow she reminded Fulk of Eleanor. He couldn’t put his finger on why exactly, but she did.

The single, high backed chair before the fireplace was well worn, as if the spymaster spend considerable time sat there, thinking and watching the flames. The bed, well, Fulk was envious. The wooden frame was neatly carved with a loop and knot pattern and hung about with nice, thick curtains in a slightly faded Burgundy. It was piled high with blankets and topped by a fur lined bedspread with a coat of arms embroidered on it. Presumably the arms belonged to Trempwick. While he froze in a draughty corridor sleeping on a lumpy pallet the spymaster was be snug and warm in what must be a family heirloom. A couple of chests near the window must contain all his clothing and personal effects. A sword hung by its belt from a peg on the wall above the chests; it was a fine, workmanlike weapon intended for use rather than show. Fulk was surprised to note the absence of a table; he had thought Trempwick the kind to sit in his room working, but apparently work was something which never reached this room.

The king moved to the chair, and picked up the book which lay open on it. He inspected the cover, grunted, then put it on the bed, still open at the correct place. He seated himself and held his right hand out for Fulk to work on. Fulk did so, first sponging the blood from the lacerated knuckles as roughly and clumsily as he dared.

“You are not one of Trempwick’s usual people,” said the king as he watched Fulk work.

“No, sire,” replied Fulk neutrally. He was painfully aware he was next to a human volcano, one which could erupt in Eleanor’s direction if he said the wrong thing.

“Then what in God’s name are you?” snapped the king impatiently.

“I am your daughter’s bodyguard, sire.”

“Are you indeed?” said William thoughtfully, looking sharply at Fulk. His brows knitted together. “You are the one she brought back from Nantes?”

“Sire,” confirmed Fulk. He felt he was on thin ice and edging out onto thinner still.

“Trempwick says you have proven yourself both useful and able.” His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace, “Loyal too, more loyal than my own children. Never have children, …?”

“Fulk,” he supplied. Trempwick had been praising him? Now there was news. Fulk supposed that the spymaster had been aiming to take the heat off Eleanor last time by making it sound like she had done something he approved of. Whether it had worked or not was anyone’s guess.

“Never have children, Fulk. They tear you to shreds while you yet live, no matter how much you love them.” For a split second Fulk saw an aging man, one deeply wounded by the betrayal of his son. Then the regal facade came back up and Fulk remembered who he was dealing with. The king watched balefully as Fulk finished cleaning the cuts on the right hand and moved to the left. He heaved a weary sigh, “Misguided loyalty; it is a dangerous thing.”

“Sire?”

“Oh, I know all about her warning John and helping him escape; it was easy to guess. Trempwick was wrong to send her there; he should have known she would aid John. Misguided loyalty to her brother.” He clenched his left hand into a tight fist, a few of the cuts split open and began to ooze blood. His mouth set into a hard line, “She will not dare go against me again; if I cannot have her loyalty I will have her fear. I will allow no one to threaten my kingdom.”

Fulk grasped the broken finger and yanked it as hard as he dared. The king grunted, and Fulk pulled it again, as if perfecting the alignment. He probed the swollen, delicate flesh above the break with ungentle fingers, seeing if the bones were correct. Deciding they weren’t he tweaked the finger again. Sweat broke out on the king’s forehead, but otherwise he gave no sign of the pain Fulk knew he was causing. To do more under the guise of setting the bone would be dangerous, although Fulk did feel that those bones could use a lot more work before they were correct. He picked up a strip of linen bandage, folded it in two to make it narrower and began to fasten the finger to the one next to it, pulling hard on the material each time he completed a circuit about the fingers to tighten it and hold the finger in place. Each time he jerked the bandage the tendons in the king’s hand tensed minutely.

Job done he stood back. The king gave his hand a cursory inspection, then stood and unfastened the dagger and sheath from his belt. He held it out to Fulk, “Here, largesse from your king in return for your loyal service.” Fulk took the dagger but William held onto it, “Daggers work two ways, Fulk. It can be a reward, or it can not. Remember that.” He let go of the weapon and returned to his seat. “You may go. Carry a message to my daughter; tell her I expect to see her at dinner. I will not have her sulking.”

When Fulk had left and the door was closed William remained still, watching the flames in the fireplace and brooding.






She regained consciousness several minutes later. Something was tickling her nose, ah yes, the rush. She battled to grasp the wits which had apparently been scattered somehow. She had to get up and leave; that was a fact she knew and she held onto it, working to find the thoughts which linked to it. She had to leave because … otherwise he had won? Who? Won what? She nearly gave up again but somehow this was important. He was … he was … her father? That realisation set off a chain reaction, bringing to the fore thoughts that she had ingrained deep into her mind over the years. She had to get up and walk out, had to prove this was nothing. She had to prove she could not be crushed into submission so easily, she had to, somehow a lot depended on that. Everyone would be waiting ... everyone would be waiting to laugh at her for being weak if she didn’t. She couldn’t let them, him, win.

She started to bring her right hand down so she could push herself up, dragging it slowly and painfully across the floor. She braced herself, then tried to raise herself. She collapsed back immediately, barely having moved. Alright, walking might be tricky; she would crawl. She laboriously dragged herself towards the door, moving less than a finger’s breadth each time. Something was tickling her nose. The same damned floor rush as before! Eleanor let her head sag the inch onto the floor again with a painful thud. She had barely moved at all.

Something was niggling away at the edge of her attention, what? Something somehow related to all this … She swallowed painfully, noting her throat hurt. The niggling got stronger. She frowned, focusing, trying to remember. It was there, just out of reach … it was …she had … screamed. For the first time she had screamed. He had won; he knew how much he had hurt her. It was over.

The floor rushes made good company, and the floorboards were reassuringly solid. She would stay here. Walking out, even crawling out, made no difference now. She had lost.





Fulk was surprised not to find Eleanor waiting impatiently for him when he arrived back at her room. He bit down the disquiet as soon as it began to rise; she must have decided to do something before getting back here, or perhaps she was talking to Trempwick. It did not mean that she was incapable of getting back here. Eleanor being Eleanor she was probably striding about being obvious, proving to all and sundry that she was perfectly alright, working off and for that stubborn pride of hers.

After several minutes of increasingly anxious pacing Fulk decided enough was enough; he would go and find her. His first port of call was the most obvious, and the closest; the solar. As soon as he opened the door past the crack the king had left it open at he saw her lying on the floor near the table. He swore and rushed to her side, taking quick stock of the damage. Someone had ripped the back of her dress away and from shoulder to waist she was one mass of bleeding lines, crossing over each other and so numerous it was hard to tell where one line started and another ended. Under the blood, which was still flowing lazily, it was possible to see flesh beginning to discolour with bruises. There had to be more he couldn’t see or she would have returned on her own.

Her head lifted slightly as she noticed his presence, “My Christmas present,” she mumbled in a weak attempt at humour.

“If you lean on me can you walk?”

“No idea.” Probably not; the ground was sending out an irresistible attraction.

“I could carry you, but it’ll aggravate your back.”

“Doubt I will notice, can’t get worse, surely.”

From experience Fulk could have told her it could definitely get worse; he had thought having a crossbow bolt stuck in his thigh was as bad as it got, until they removed it. Deciding he had no other choice, and that it was better not to warn her it would get worse beforehand, Fulk lifted her into his arms, trying to ignore the sharp intake of breath as he jolted her. He stood up and settled her back against his chest in an effort to take the pressure of her back. The instant her side touched his chest she groaned. “Think my ribs are broken,” she explained feebly.

Fulk held her slightly away from his body; if she had broken ribs he didn’t want to drive one into her lung. That would probably kill her. “He broke his finger,” Fulk told her as he carried her back to her room, hoping to both distract her and get her focusing on something with a bit more of her usual self.

“Good,” she said with quietly vicious satisfaction.

“I set it for him. Pity I’m not good at setting bones, I think I hurt him quite a bit.”

“Better still.”

Fulk put his back against the door to her room and pushed it open, then went in and carefully placed her face down on the bed. “Broken ribs, one hell of a mess on your back, what else?”

The pain of being moved had jolted her memory into action. Eleanor remembered being hit until she collapsed, then kicked and dragged to her feet, only to be knocked down again, over and over until he grew tired of it and slung her over the table. That explained why it was so much effort to move. She didn’t want to talk about it. “Think maybe my toes are not bruised, makes them the exception to the rule. Fix my back, the rest I will do later.”

Fulk couldn’t see how she was going to manage that, and if her ribs were broken they needed a more expert opinion than he could provide. Well, at least he could try and do something with her back while he thought of a way to conjure a surgeon from thin air. “You know he expects to see you at dinner?” he said, as he poured some water into a bowl and began soaking bits of cloth in it.

“Damn,” she groaned, then, “Got to go.”

“Pigs will fly first,” he told her sternly as he looked at the ruin of her back and wondered where to start. He brushed the bloodstained lengths of her hair out of the way, then started at the top, cleaning the still bleeding wounds as best he could.

It was astonishing how you could drown in pain until it filled your whole world and think it could get no worse, only to find that it could. This was the second time she had been proved wrong. Nausea hit her along with the fresh waves of agony, and she battled both to keep her stomach contents down, and to keep from shying away from Fulk’s delicate touch and screaming the manor down. “There’ll be pork in the treetops by morning,” returned Eleanor, concentrating on forming a proper sentence in an effort to sound stronger and muster her wits. It lacked polish but it would do for now. She had lost the main battle; there was still a fighting retreat and rearguard action available to her and she would fight those with everything she could throw at them.

Fulk stopped dabbing and frowned disapprovingly at her, “Oh rising sun, unless you are carried down and tied to your chair to stop you falling off it I can’t see you managing dinner.”

“I have to … I have to,” she said wearily. Blackness was nibbling way at the edges of her vision again and her ears were ringing; she was in danger of fainting again. How humiliating. She focused on the words she needed to say, forcing them out, “Give him an inch and he’ll take several miles and then all these years of fighting are wasted.”

Fulk surveyed his progress; there was none. As fast as he cleaned blood away from the few areas of untouched skin more replaced it. He would have to leave it until the bleeding ceased. In the interim he could try and talk her out of trying to kill herself, “Eleanor-”

The hand nearest Fulk flailed weakly towards him and grasped the hem of his tunic, “He will see he has won, he will see he can bend me to his will. I must prove I can bear this, that I am not going to give up. I can’t let him know … I would let John rot rather than do this again. He’s won. He can’t know that.”

Fulk said nothing; he didn’t think it worth the effort to argue when he knew she was going nowhere. Freed of the need to focus, and somehow uncaring of how pathetic fainting had always seemed to her, Eleanor collapsed gratefully back into the darkness.




“Nell?” said Trempwick’s voice insistently, “Nell?” Something tapped her cheek, “Nell, come on Nell.” She dragged one eye open and saw the spymaster looking down at her, worried. “Nell,” he said, relieved. This conversation wasn’t very interesting; Eleanor let her eye drift closed again.





Trempwick straightened up, “She is a mite groggy, no?” he said to Fulk. Fulk opened his mouth for an angry retort but Trempwick got in first, “Oh do lighten up, bodyguard. It simply seems preferable to saying she is all but half dead.”

“Yes, now what are we going to do about it?” demanded Fulk tersely.

“Us? Nothing. Nothing we can do, and we cannot even look at half her injuries,” the spymaster pulled a wry face, “well, not unless we want to get ourselves killed. We do have to stick to royal protocol, you know. There’s a midwife in the village, I will send someone to fetch her. They are always unofficial doctors with more varied knowledge than the name would imply.”

“And in the meantime?”

“Someone needs to entertain the king, and someone should keep an eye on her. Since someone,” he shot a malevolent glare at Fulk, “was stupid enough to tell her she was expected at dinner it is likely she will try to do something foolish. As much as I would like to remain here sending you to look after the king would likely prove a disaster.” With one final look at Eleanor Trempwick left.






"There'll be pork in the treetops by morning" is a quote from another Eleanor, Eleanor of Aquitaine in the film The Lion in Winter. I love that line, and it seemed very suitable for my Eleanor at this particular moment.

Ah, the Fulk/king scene, so deep. I wonder if you spotted him say that ... and Trempwick's furnishings are very ... and there are several tiny details which are ... Oh, damn! That scene is a semi masterpeice and I can't even say why!

[Ludens]

Very good! It may not be the heigh of originality, but this is miles ahead of the window scene.

One comment: the story is getting rather poor on description. There is hardly any, except for the last part you posted. This is most obvious when Fulk and Eleanor are fleeing from John's castle. Everyone is trying to flee, yet you only mention the crowd because they are impeding our heroes' progress. Dito for the noise they must create. Let there be fights, let there be screaming women, let there be someone ineffectually bellowing orders! That goes a tremendous way to creating the right atmosphere, and without it, I think the scene only so-so. In the other scenes the dialogue makes up for it, but if you could combine it...

On the other hand, in the last part you did the description well: the bit about the straw at Eleanor's nose is very inventive and very good.

A reader's request: could we get to know more about King William IV? I am really interested in the motivation of the bad guy.

[frogbeastegg]

William waited with increasing impatience; he knew his spymaster would come to report, but he was certainly taking his sweet time about it. The throb of his broken finger did little to aid his disposition. Restlessly he abandoned his fireside chair and prowled about the room, not touching anything but glaring at everything as if somehow the furnishings had personally offended him. Having completed one circuit of the room he returned to the two hangings and scowled at them. The girl on the unicorn continued on her sedate way, carefree and unconcerned by his enmity. The embroidered king stared back defiantly, his eyes following William’s every move with cold disdain.

It was while he was stood there that Trempwick finally put in his appearance. “You took your merry time,” grumbled William. He was not used to being kept waiting.

“Forgive me, but I was delayed cleaning up a small mess in the solar,” said Trempwick as he closed the door. He did not bother to bow or keep any of the other formalities due to his king and liege lord; they had known each other too long for that.

“You have servants,” William pointed out, “let them bother about sweeping up rubbish. You bother about your king.” It sounded far harsher than he had intended.

“Indeed, but the day I allow a servant to sweep my pet princess out with the old floor rushes is the day I take to claiming I am a duck and walking on my hands.” Trempwick’s answer was light hearted and said with a hint of a smile, but somehow the king still felt it censorious, though he could not say why.

The king rounded on Trempwick, his temper building, “That has never bothered you before, Raoul.”

“I have never needed to bother before,” replied the spymaster calmly.

“You exaggerate, and the fault was hers.” William held Trempwick’s gaze for a moment, but he found his eyes were attracted to the long cut snaking parallel to Trempwick’s jaw line, and the shame of drawing his sword on his most loyal servant doused his stirring temper. He changed the subject, gesturing at the hangings, “Interesting choices, particularly the girl.”

“Yes, perhaps more than you think. I feel they represent what drives me rather aptly. Care to take a guess, William?”

“This one,” he pointed at the king, “to remind you of whom you serve, and this one,” he gestured at the girl on the unicorn, “to remind you of what I have entrusted you with?”

One corner of Trempwick’s mouth rose into a lopsided half smile, “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out thoughtfully, “Yes, that is one way of putting it.” The thoughtfulness dropped from his tone and he assumed a pose and intonation more suited to telling war stories, “You remember my last field mission some thirteen years ago, the one to the duke of Anjou’s court to assassinate the old duke? The picture of the girl is my trophy, if you will. I took it from the dead man’s solar. When he took me on a tour he showed me that picture and began talking at great length about the various themes and symbologies, there are many but one or two are stronger than the rest. The resemblance to your daughter is uncanny; I thought it a good reminder of why I was giving up field work. Because of a very young girl with a proclivity for deception and a grand plan many years away from fruition. Some of the symbology only makes it all the more appealing to my sense of humour.”

The spymaster crossed to the fire and held out his hands to the blaze, turning them back and forth between palm and back ever few seconds to warm them evenly. “So, what will you do with Northumberland?”

“The man will lose his head as a warning to others. The earls and other lesser members of his plot will lose titles and lands; my exchequer will swell with the fines and confiscated wealth, much to my joy. One can never have too much money, Raoul, and armies do drain the treasury frightfully.” William joined his spymaster at the fire and spoke quietly, “I have though on a little and I see now what you did. Thank you, for my son’s life. Forgive me for thinking you a blunderer.”

Trempwick took a moment before replying, “You and your accursed sense of justice are easy to predict. You must behead Northumberland, and if you remove one ringleader your conscience will decree you must deal the same to the other. Eleanor is also easy to predict, and I think you will agree the end result is satisfactory to all involved.”

William let the silence hang for a moment, then seated himself in the chair and his head dropped into his hands and he asked, “Christ God, why? He is my son, I gave him lands, titles and honour. Why did he do this?” He looked up from his hands at Trempwick, his body still hunched over, “Why?”

“His head had been filled with nonsense. I blame myself; I found out too late to put an end to it before the damage was done.”

“But why was he so easy to poison?” Trempwick had no answer and William buried his head in his hands again. He spoke, his voice muffled and low, “I pray each morning I never see him again, just as I pray for Stephan’s soul and forgiveness. I tell myself better a clean end, for him and England both, than a life dragged out and marred by disability. He would have had no life; he could not even ride a horse. And now I tell myself that I hope never to see John again, knowing if I set eyes on him again I will have no choice but to … How did it ever come to this, Raoul? One son dead by my own order, one turned against me, one loyal for now, one daughter who writes dutifully twice a year but otherwise ignores me, one who is dead, one imprisoned and cut off from the world so I cannot help her, and one …”

“You need not worry about her, I have her well in hand. You have seen how I can use her to your advantage, and she is well guarded. Very few even know she is here, so you need not fear on that account.”

“Well guarded? You have but five servants.”

“Five servants, four of whom are some of my best agents. The fifth is but a boy; he shows plenty of promise and is an able scout. This is in addition to my network. Ten miles, coming or going; if I do not want you within ten miles of Woburn you do not get within ten miles of Woburn, or vice versa. I could expand my household but then I would become more noticeable, countering any gains I might make.”

“I want her kept under house arrest.”

“William, she already is. She has been ever since you handed her over to me; did you not listen just now? Ten miles; she has only managed eight and did well to get so far.” Trempwick recited a maxim he had memorised decades ago, in his boyhood, “Love, fear, control of something or someone they care about; those are the three main ways to gain control over a person. Pick a person apart to see how they work, then apply that proverb and they are yours.”

William was sure he did not need fancy sayings to handle Eleanor, only time. Time was the one thing he never had. He always got off to a reasonable start and then had to leave; when he finally saw her again they were back to the beginning. It had always been like that; months of neglect then a half hour’s attention, then months more neglect in the care of people plainly not suited to the task. “Then I will, as ever, leave the matter in your hands.” What other choice did he have, even if Trempwick had proven himself incapable of quashing many of her defects? He did far better than the multitude of tutors, and that would have to be enough. Tired of discussing the perennial problem of Eleanor he moved to the most important matter he wanted to discuss before he left, “I am making you my new duke of Northumberland.”

The sudden grant of the title did not seem to surprise Trempwick, but then so little did. He considered for a while, then spoke slowly, “I would have to assign much of it to underlings, and rule in name only for the most part. My other responsibilities keep me busy.”

“You have had no issues ruling Kent in this manner for decades.”

“True, it depends on finding worthy men to govern in my stead.”

“I do not doubt you will find them; bringing people to your side and making them yours is a talent of yours, Raoul.”

Trempwick seemed very amused by this; he laughed quietly, “Yes, that is so.”

“I believe that is our business concluded for now, Raoul. I will leave tomorrow; I have trials to attend.” William rubbed his eyes and yawned, “It is almost Christmas and I am arranging treason trials. I just spent several weeks in Wales in the depths of winter to receive their duke’s homage and make them officially vassals of England, and as soon as the weather is good enough I leave to fight yet another war in France. I am fifty-one, Raoul. I have been travelling from place to place fighting, treating, judging, and ruling since I was fifteen. Where does it end?”

“When you are dead, my friend, just as my work ends when I am dead.”

“When I am dead,” repeated William wearily, “What will happen then? Have I built a realm, and a family, which will endure and thrive? There is so much left to do before it is ready for Hugh. I worry about my children; Abel, Cain, a brat and a prisoner, only Matilda survives with a solid future.”

Trempwick smiled knowingly, “I am thirty-four; I have no family and I too fear I shall run out of time with much left undone.” He clapped the king on the shoulder, “We sound like a pair of old men, which we are decidedly not. Let me acquaint you with the work of my cook; he is an excellent spy and few can match his infiltration abilities. Sadly the same cannot be said of his cuisine.”





Finally the secret of those dire servants revealed! I've been waiting to state that clearly for some 80 pages!!

I had that scene planned anyway; it tells you quite a lot, both overtly and covertly.

The lack of description was hopefully a temporary hiccough which is now fixed. Er, well maybe not in this part .... hard to decide. I would not call William a bad guy, but then I don't think any of the characters in Eleanor are. They are more grey, but only some characters get to display this. :sigh: Poor William has so little screen time; scenes without one of the duo in are rare by necessity - the reader cannot know too much that they do not. The number of times that gooseberry overlooks things makes me want to scream. Fulk is just as bad. Ok, I'll allow myself to highlight one example of this. From the last part, William says, “She will not dare go against me again; if I cannot have her loyalty I will have her fear. I will allow no one to threaten my kingdom.” What did Fulk overlook? The king just implied he thinks Eleanor is dangerous. It's there for the reader to spot, or not as the case might be.

Willima is going to get more time shortly. I will do my best to heap the detail and insight in, and he should get at least one more scene from his POV, just like this one.

[Axeknight]

It says alot indeed (even to a philistine like myself). I think my suspicion about Trempwick has been confirmed; but I shall have to wait.

I especially like how William isn't 'the bad guy' anymore. Its nice to have him fleshed out a bit more.

[frogbeastegg]

I just posted a mini essay about Eleanor and the king in response to a comment over at Paradox. I thought I might as well put a copy here.

The king does have control, pretty good control, but his temper is as bad as rumour suggested. Just look at what he did to Trempwick when he arrived, and how he felt about it later. That was not planned, just pure rage so out of control he did something terrible. Usually he will control it, just as he controlled his pain, but with Eleanor it is safe to go into a rage. Not only is it impossible for her to defend herself but it will not harm his vassal's loyalty, nor is it considered anything other than his right as her father. It is prudent to make sure no one else is around to witness his less regal moments, as was commented in the story when he arrived, simply because others might worry that one day he will loose his temper on them. If he were to do the same thing to a vassal or servant it would be excessive, insulting and the victim would be almost required by the rules of society to do something to avenge their honour.

Also Eleanor has a worse effect on his temper than anyone else; she absolutely refuses to bend even slightly. Remember waaaay back around page 20 when the servants were eager to overhear what she would come up with this time, before he battered her into silence? What he wants is a victim who will scream and cry and beg for mercy; what he gets is Eleanor. That just makes him all the more furious.

Against that already potent backdrop there are other factors in play. They are both stubborn; Eleanor refuses to back down and do as he wants in anything, because she knows he is stubborn and he will take that as a cue to force her into the life she has been fighting to avoid. Neither of them will give up. The king thinks he can bend her to his will; she refuses to give ground.

He considers her to be a mistake, mostly so unconventional because of his neglect and failures as a parent, because he did not provide proper education and so on for her when she was still young enough to be shaped. He only really took an interest when she was six, that day in the throne room, and by then it was far too late. He does believe that he can sort her out if he just has enough time, time to correct her every ‘mistake’ instantly and consistently. Give him a month and he would insist she would be a model daughter at the end of it. Aside from the scars and burning but hidden hatred she probably would be.

For all his talk about killing her he does worry about her future, and he knows that, because of him, she does not really have one. Of course he sees her future as marriage or a nunnery with no other options. If she cannot have that then perhaps she is better off dead, at peace at last and no longer bringing shame on herself and her family? Even with a tolerant family Eleanor is a bit too unconventional, and that is assuming you remove the agent skills. He firmly and honestly believes it is in her best interests to reform her into a typical, obedient princess. Don’t misunderstand; if he gets mad enough or thinks there is no other option she will die, just as Stephan did, just as John will if he sees him again.

More than all this she is a waste – she should have made a marriage to her family’s advantage, bringing in more allies and power. She is am embarrassment on the political stage; the king of England has a daughter so bad that no one will have her. What a failure as a parent and weak man he must be.

He is, as he hinted in the story, slightly frightened of her. I won’t say why, but there are very many reasons and only one has some relation to the obvious fact that she is so atypical. She is, though she would never admit it, terrified of him. The closest she has ever got to acknowledging that, even to herself, is what she said to Fulk in that bit about the king winning.

That's a very quick overview of the aspects of this which have been mentioned in some form thus far; there are others I shall leave for the story. They have a very complex relationship, considering they barely see each other. It is premeditated to the point where he goes to visit her, knowing he is furious and knowing he will end up beating her again, but thinking perhaps this time she will start to bend.

Hehe, that’s a page-and-a-third essay on one aspect in simple and partial detail. This story has so many more aspects deserving long, in-depth essays, and so much I cannot even hint at for now. This really does have plenty of depth bubbling away under the surface.





Ah, so someone might have done a little research on the legend of the unicorn :grins: Course that produces an idea which could have several interpretations ...

[Axeknight]

Actually, no - but I'm going to now...

Google, do your thing!

EDIT - Well, not exactly a thorough search, but I found this:

The Lady of the Unicorn was a predominant part of the European Myth. It was said that only the purest of maidens could tame this beast. When a Unicorn saw a maid sitting in the wood, he would came forward and docilely lay his head in her lap, as innocent as a child. This was the Unicorn's one weakness. Some tales tell of a Lady residing in a cave with the Unicorn. These tales portray the Virgin which loved the Unicorn. However there are more....

[zelda12]

I'm gone for a week on Work experience and I find froggy has been sitting at her P.C and Deliberately typing away to give me a huge reading assignment when I get back.

I'm sure I'll love it but... why just why.

[zelda12]

Brilliant as usual. Ludens mentioned a lack of description. I would like to say I believe this is because, in my humble opinion, Miladies work is mainly character and speech driven in this story. Hence it is not the backround that illuminates a story but the characters that inhabit the stage.

I also get the feeling that Trempwick is the kind of man who holds a grudge and is not a little insane in his own special way.

[frogbeastegg]

The midwife came. A vaguely pretty woman in her mid thirties she was, in a bizarre advert for her trade, just beginning to swell with a pregnancy of her own. She very carefully asked no questions, looked at no faces, and nothing was said about names or how Eleanor had ended up in such a mess. Fulk thought the poor woman looked as if she thought she had been dragged into something deeply shady and dangerous and expected to be murdered to ensure her silence. Her poor baby was likely to find itself named for whatever saint the midwife favoured in gratitude for her life when she made it home, if the baby survived long enough to be named, of course.

He waited outside Eleanor’s room while the midwife worked, leaning against the cold stone wall with his arms crossed. Eventually she re-emerged, brushing strands of dark blonde hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. “She’s sleeping,” the midwife announced to Fulk. He took that to mean Eleanor had fainted again, expressed in as uncritical manner as possible. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear, but at least while she was unconscious she couldn’t do anything stupid.

“How is she?”

The midwife pursed her lips and looked unhappy. “About as you might expect,” she said carefully. She really was good at this discretion business; too good for Fulk’s liking.

He gave her his most appealing smile and said engagingly, “A little more detail, if you don’t mind. I’ve never been one for mind reading.” Charm; it rarely failed him.

His efforts glanced right off her, like a spent arrow hitting a solid stone wall. “Two of her ribs are cracked, the rest is obvious,” she replied very grudgingly.

Fulk gave up with a sigh; obviously she was not going to tell him anything helpful in case it was taken as disapproval. He uttered some generic thanks and let her go, then entered Eleanor’s room, closing the door properly behind himself. He reconsidered and opened the door again, leaving it slightly ajar. Only a fool might think there was some impropriety going on but better safe than cruelly executed.

Fulk went to the corner where he kept his belongings and dug around in the chest Trempwick had grudgingly provided for him to store his stuff in. After a bit of digging around he pulled out his battered copy of King Arthur. He dithered for a moment, then tucked the book under his arm and went to the bed where Eleanor lay. The midwife had removed Eleanor’s ruined clothes, and dumped them in a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed, and tucked her in lying on her right side. So, the cracked ribs must be on her left then; good. That meant it was the same injury that had caused difficulty when he picked her up, rather than a new one. He could smell comfrey, but no other herbs, indicating the midwife had done nothing much more than smear a bit of salve on Eleanor’s back. Fulk didn’t know whether to be reassured by that or not; it could be there was nothing much for her to do, or it could be she had been negligent. He would have to wait until Eleanor was awake and then try to drag details of exactly what had happened out of her. Even the smallest of injuries could kill if infection took hold.

A strand of hair had fallen across her face. He tiled his head to one side, debating if he dared do anything about it. Well, she was asleep, or unconscious or whatever, and he had been daft enough earlier, not that that was an excuse to be daft now. Ah, what the hell, why not? He reached out and tucked the strand behind her ear instead. “Sleeping gooseberry; how adorable,” he murmured softly, “Boring too.”

And that was quite enough of that, thank you. He sat himself down on his coffer, since the room lacked a chair or stool. Now he had seen Trempwick’s room Eleanor’s seemed even poorer. Plain floorboards with the ever present rushes on them, whitewashed walls with nothing to add colour or personality, no furniture aside from her bed, and even that was lacking. While Trempwick had that cosy looking family heirloom Eleanor had a simple, rather narrow bed minus curtains and fancy carvings. It did have a comfy feather mattress, making it Fulk’s preferred seat. The only other things in the room were a couple of chests for clothing and personal items, and a small coffer Fulk knew held agent related tools like lock picks.

For all Trempwick’s protestations about poverty Fulk was not convinced; he was the king’s spymaster and a landed noble. The king would need to ensure his spymaster’s loyalty, and you did not do that by leaving the man open to bribes. That meant he kept his household shabby by design; why? What did he gain by keeping so few, so slovenly servants? Why no maidservant for Eleanor? It appeared the king’s two visits while Fulk had been in Eleanor’s service were good representations of the previous ones and, given their earlier difficulties, that only made the absence of a female servant more baffling. Where was the point in keeping Eleanor in a room that might fit the lowest ranking nobles but never a princess? Where was the point in any of it? He had a few ideas, and he resolved to discuss them with Eleanor as soon as he got an opportunity when it would be hard for anyone to overhear. One thing was certain; the servants spied and reported to Trempwick.

He opened his book to a random page and started reading. After the first few words of Arthur’s coronation he stopped, his eyes starting sightlessly at a crudely illustrated Arthur enthroned inked on the page in gaudy, fading colours. Sympathy. Would he ever learn? Once for a crying girl with a dead pet kitten, once for a … gooseberry. The first had ended badly, the second was nudging closer to something which was impossible.





“I know you are awake, brat,” said an insistent voice. Was she awake? Eleanor supposed so; she wouldn’t be hearing him speak otherwise. “You might fool Trempwick but you do not fool me,” continued the voice. She recognised the voice but hoped against hope it was not who she thought.

She cracked an eye open slightly, not wanting the movement to be seen. Her father stood at her bedside. So much for hope. What to do; wake up and fight back, wake up and do nothing much, or just pretend to be asleep? She had to pick up the fight now before it was too late but, to her disgust, cold, paralysing fear settled in the pit of her stomach at the mere thought. Why couldn’t he go away until she had had time to gather her courage once more, time to blot as much of this from her mind as possible?

William began to pick at the bandage on his finger, fraying the edge, “You are not that badly hurt; only your pride is damaged. You are only using this as an excuse to hide. Sulking ill befits you and I will not have it.”

She wasn’t badly hurt? That was good to know, good indeed. Very kind of him to tell her; she’d been under the illusion that she was. Silly her. Right, that sounded very suitable, now to say it. Eleanor tried to form the words but her voice was frozen.

“No snappy retort?” William sounded very pleased. “Excellent; after all this time you have learned the first lesson. Now, to move onto something a little more advanced – answer when spoken to, brat!” he snapped that last as if he were on a battlefield.

Something dropped with a thump. There was a pause then the king muttered an oath. Eleanor opened her eyes properly to see what was happening. Fulk sat on a chest along the wall where the door was, previously hidden from the king’s view. He looked as if he were asleep, propped up on the wall with his head hanging down on his chest and one hand trailing to the floor. The noise had been the book dropping from his limp hand. If she had been in any fit condition, and if it would not have gotten them both killed, Eleanor would have leapt up and hugged him.

The daft fool had found himself caught in the king’s path and stayed put, pretending to be asleep, and now he was distracting William’s attention from her. As absurd as it sounded he was actually far safer than she was, as long as he did not cross the very fine line between ‘innocent’ aid and intentional aid that could be classed as treason.

The king marched over to Fulk and kicked the chest hard with the sturdy sole of his riding boot, leaving a trace of mud on the woodwork. “You! Out!” he bellowed. The entire manor would have heard that; no one could ever accuse William of having a feeble voice.

Fulk nearly fell off his chest and did a very convincing impression of a startled, confused sleeper awoken prematurely. He looked up at the king and his eyes widened, “Sire,” he said, trying to bow, regain his balance and wake up all at the same time.

“Out,” repeated the king more calmly, “I am speaking to my daughter.”

Fulk stood and said wretchedly, “Sire she was given a sleeping draught before I could relay your message-”

“Why?”

“Cracked ribs, sire.”

“Impossible,” said the king adamantly, “Impossible.”

“The healer said-”

“Then they were wrong!” he insisted, his tone indicating he would not be convinced otherwise.

“Sire?” inquired a third voice, Trempwick’s. The noise had attracted him, just as Fulk must have planned. The spymaster stepped into the room, Eleanor noticed he was slightly dishevelled and out of breath as if he had dropped whatever he was doing and come running the moment the uproar started. “Is something wrong, sire?”

“This man is telling me the brat has cracked ribs; that is quite impossible. Cracked ribs are excessive; I am never excessive.”

Trempwick shrugged his shoulders carelessly, “What does it matter? She is alive and there is no permanent damage; I really do not see how any could accuse you of exceeding the bounds of good taste. Now, there are a few matters I wished to discuss with you, if you have a moment?”

William looked towards Eleanor; she managed to shut her eyes just in time, she could tell he hadn’t noticed she was awake by the lack of commotion. The king looked to Trempwick, then back at Eleanor and sighed, “Time, as ever bloody time. So be it, lead on Raoul.”

They left together, leaving Fulk and Eleanor alone in the sudden silence. Fulk’s eyebrows rose and fell, “Well, well, wasn’t that fun?” he said dryly after what he judged to be a safe amount of time had passed.

“I do believe you are quite insane,” Eleanor told him wonderingly.

“Like princess, like bodyguard, oh eternally fragrant blossom. You were going to say something rude; I know it.”

Eleanor thought for a moment, then spoke on a whim, “Do me a favour and kneel just there,” she indicated a spot on the floor right next to her with a twitch of a finger.

Fulk did as she asked, slowly and warily. He did not know what she had in mind but his reflecting on past mistakes had made him all the more determined not to repeat them.

Eleanor looked at him and pulled a slight face, “Um, I have no idea quite what I am supposed to do; I know I can do this but no one ever bothered to explain precisely how … um, oh well, I shall have to muddle along.” She reached out stiffly with her left arm, which was now patterned with freshly appearing contusions, and thumped Fulk on his right shoulder so lightly he barely felt it, “Be thou a knight.”

She watched as a collection of conflicting emotions flitted across Fulk’s face, many of them too fast for her to identify in the poor light. She saw his eyes shining with unshed tears, and blurted out, “I have done something wrong, haven’t I?”

“No,” he replied quickly, “I just … I finally have what I always wanted, eight years after I gave up hope.” He met her speculative gaze and after a moment said, “It’s a long story, one best left for another day. I wish my parents could see this, their boy knighted by a princess, but my father is dead and my mother would never want to see me again.”

Eight years too late, and those years had changed a lot. A man eight years in his tomb. A boy eight years dead too. A dream eight years in ashes. A future eight years deceased. Eight years of learning and growing. Eight years of living with his guilt. It was eight years too late to go back to Maude; she could be dead now, or a mother, or a widow. She would unquestionably be a different person to the girl he had known and loved, a complete stranger with perhaps no more than a slightly familiar face.

He was almost surprised to find that he didn’t wish this had happened eight years ago. If he were going to wish the past changed then he would do better to wish he had possessed a good deal less pride back then, rather than a knighthood which would only have boosted it. As much as he might desire to banish the consequences of his youthful arrogance he could no longer image the different present those changes would make. Those eight years had made him what he was today; all those years ago he would have dumped Eleanor for John in a heartbeat, without thinking twice about it.

Eight years … he would have saved the man’s life but the boy deserved to die. And the rest? The rest was what it was. He might bitterly regret what he had done to Maude, but if he were brutally honest the only reason he had been thinking about her so much recently was the fact he was using his experience there to avoid making the same mistake again. Eight years is plenty of time to forget, to let wounds heal until they are little more than a scar you only notice from time to time.

Eleanor drew breath to speak but Fulk forestalled her, “Another time,” he said softly but firmly. She said nothing but he could tell she still thought she had done something terrible. “I’m just trying not to disgrace myself and cry little a little girl,” he joked. Actually that was not solely a joke; big boys don’t cry and he was a big tough knight now. More seriously, and very honestly, he said, “I wanted to be a knight ever since I was a little boy; I gave up hope when my dream died, but … it seems this part never really died after all. It seems I still craved a knighthood to go with my bastard’s name.”

He stayed kneeling there in silence for some time. Finally he frowned and asked her, “Why do you always manage to say or do something that leaves me looking like an idiot while I frantically scramble for something to say or do in return?”

Eleanor smiled, “Because I would not want to make your life too easy, armour boy. I shall show mercy this once; I am tired, so do shut up so I can get some sleep.”

Fulk stood, brushed bits of rush off the knees of his hose and swept an elaborate bow. “I hear and obey, oh light of my life,” he said dramatically.



I have been putting a bit more thought into this description business, and I think both Ludens and Zelda are correct. In scenes such as the escape from John's castle more description is needed, especially if I am working to publishable standards. I think you've all heard me say several thousand times I am trying to do that. Description is also needed in large doses each time something new is introduced, such as the first time we are in Trempwick's room.

However in scenes like today's two, the more character introspecitive and dialogue heavy types it is not needed in such great quantities unless it serves the plot. The description of Eleanor's room is ok because it is needed to introduce points, otherwise it does not really belong in this segment. Adding loads of detail on how wonderful everywhere looks and so on would only slow down and disjoint the dialogue. The midwife description works nicely and adds flavour, but even a single more line on her was too much and it killed the flow.

[zelda12]

Yep exactly what I meant.

Nice scene, one slight query. I thought that the touching on the shoulder thing with a sword was a victorian romantasism. I though the official act that made a man a knight was a slap round the face. To signify the last blow a knight would not return. Sorry just I heard that somewhere.

[frogbeastegg]

There is quite a lot of controversy over the actual knighting ceremony. By the time this story takes place it is generally accepted that there are two versions of the ceremony. One is the full, fancy version complete with the being dubbed with a sword. The Victorians spiced this up, but when someone important, such as a prince, was knighted off the battlefield there was often a huge fuss made with a lot of fancy rigmarole and pageantry. A poor chap like Fulk would simply be touched with a sword by some other knight, and that would be it. No fancy bit involving belting his sword on, no spurs being attached with pomp and ceremony, no parading about in armour, no reminder of how his sword resembles a cross and should serve the codes of chivalry.

The other is the quick and dirty 'battlefield' version, which simply involves punching the knight and telling him "be thou a knight." Heh, it's not that simple - the wording varies and I just settled on the most common version. Generally I hear about a punch to the shoulder, but I have heard some mention of a slap to the face. The principle is the same, anyway; the last blow the man can take without needing to return it for the sake of his honour.

Nell can't do ceremony so she just uses the quick and dirty version. She can't even muster enough gusto to bash him properly. Any errors are excusable by the fact she says she has no idea what she is doing

[zelda12]

Understand, just though of a funny alternate scene. Ells better and she and Fulk have finished one of their squabbles. Fulk has won again and in desperation Ell knees him in the unmentionables and says, 'Thou art a knight' as Fulk writhes in agony.

Sorry I have a weird mind. Plus I just finished the latest Terry Pratchet, Going Postal, great read lots of laughs I read it in one sitting.

[frogbeastegg]

Lol, with a few alterations I can see that scene working quite well. Got to find somewhere to put it in the story ...

Dear, dear. I forgot to comment on Axeknight's unicorn research, silly froggy. You got it; only the purest of maidens can tame a unicorn, though I can easily imagine Eleanor clubbing the beast over the head with a big stick until it plays nicely. I can think of ... oh, at least 6 different possible ways of how that could apply to the picture.

[Ludens]

I am running out of original phrases to describe your story. I think I shall just use an image:



There, that should do .

Zelda, I am aware that Froggy's story is dialogue-driven. What I meant was that the addition of description would make the story better, especially in the scenes where there isn't much dialogue, like the one where they are escaping from John's castle.

Froggy, The description in the last part is very good, however in the dialogue between Trempwick and William it is somewhat lacking. Not that it was very obvious, but I think that it would be possible to combine description and dialogue when introducing a character (and I don't feel properly introduced to William). You can say a lot about a character between the lines. A common error of amateur writers is to try and give a complete description of a character in one 'introductory paragraph' (which you don't do, by the way). It is often better to slim down the introductory paragraph and spread the information over the dialogue. It doesn't interrupt the flow as long as you don't use it too often, and it allows you to tell more about your characters then when using the 'introductory paragraph'.

[frogbeastegg]

The next morning dawned grey and miserable with a wicked chill in the air. The sky promised that the freezing rain currently falling would last all day, probably growing worse. William stood in the doorway of the manor, pulling his fur lined cloak tightly about himself and looking glumly at the weather. He turned back to Trempwick and said, “You would think a king would be warm indoors on a day like this, and the peasants would be the only ones forced out. Instead we find the opposite; the king is abroad while the peasants huddle by their fires.”

“You could stay a while longer; freezing to death will do none any good, William.”

The king shook his head immediately, “No, I have business to attend to.” He began to walk but halted almost instantaneously. He stood there for a moment, then spoke without moving in the slightest, “I am considering letting Northumberland off; I shall strip him of everything and throw him in the tower to die of old age.”

In several brisk strides Trempwick was at his king’s side, demanding, “Why?”

“Because I have decided I cannot kill my son,” he replied quietly.

Trempwick made an impatient gesture, “He is gone, he will not be back. You are quite safe-”

William interrupted him, his tone still quiet but filled with steel, “There is always a small chance he will come home.” He sounded as if he hoped John would.

“There is a far greater chance you will be seen as soft! Northumberland must die. John is perfectly safe; you will never set eyes on him again. A rebellion now, while you have so many other fronts to fight on, would tear England apart!” When he could see he was getting through Trempwick reiterated slowly and insistently, “John is never coming home. Never.”

William didn’t move, didn’t give any sign he had even heard. Unexpectedly his head bowed, “You are right; he is lost to me. Now, I must go. I have a trial to organise, and a wedding to arrange.” He strode through the door, bracing himself and squinting as the wind blew freezing rain into his face.

Trempwick hurried after him, head down against the weather, “Wedding? Sire, you did not say-”

The king laughed and paused in the middle of the puddle strewn courtyard, “So, I have surprised you at last, Raoul. Yes, a wedding. I got the Scots king’s reply but yesterday after some weeks of talks. If you did not hear then it appears our measures to ensure secrecy worked admirably; France will not know until it is too late to interfere. I need a solid alliance with Scotland to keep my back safe while I turn my attention to France. This is the only way.”

The rain was beginning to soak through the layers of Trempwick’s clothing, sticking them to his skin and making the cruel wind even harsher. He paid it no heed, his mind occupied with this new revelation. “But who … ?”

Edward, Trempwick’s steward, led the king’s horse out, fully saddled and ready to ride. The king let his spymaster hang in suspense for a while, then told him, “Me.” William began to mount his horse; the animal danced restlessly, unhappy to have left its warm stable. He kept talking, “The king has a daughter, just barely thirteen now, she was inconveniently betrothed to some local duke. That arrangement was easily broken; who would favour a duke above a king? I like it not, but I need a solid alliance and so I need the girl.”

Trempwick put on hand on the horse’s neck, “William, sire, think of the effects this might have-” he said urgently.

“It will allow me to focus my resources and attention on France, and alliance by marriage is far harder to break. If the Scots king plays me false he has squandered his daughter to no advantage, losing her to the care of a man who will have a sudden passion for blotting his petty kingdom from the face of God’s green earth.”

“Your succession, think of what this will do to it,” implored Trempwick, “If you should have another child-”

“You worry about your spymastering; leave me to worry about my succession,” said William curtly as he touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks.

Trempwick stepped back out of the horse’s path. He stood for a while, watching the retreating horseman until he was blocked from sight by some trees. “Thirteen,” he said to himself, deep in thought, “Just barely thirteen …just barely …” He began to walk back to the shelter of the manor building, slowly and without heed for the puddles he was sloshing through.





The rest of the day was dull and uneventful. Trempwick shut himself away in his bedchamber, only emerging twice, both times to visit Eleanor.

Eleanor was asleep during his visits, as she was for much of the day. She did not have much else to do; she was too stiff to even think about getting up, and her single attempt led to the room swimming about her until she thought she would be sick.

Fulk set a new record, reading his King Arthur from start to finish three times in a row, boring himself in the process. He also ‘borrowed’ a chair from the solar without asking; sitting on a chest for extended periods was uncomfortable.





The day after that Eleanor was determined to get up, and after a bit of careful planning she managed to dispatch Fulk to get a tray of food in the middle of the morning. That took a lot of doing because Fulk knew she couldn’t so much as stick a foot out of bed while he was in the room because she was naked, so he had been an almost permanent presence.

With him safely removed she dragged herself out of bed and barred the door so she could get dressed. It took an inordinate amount of time to force her stiff, aching body to cooperate but eventually she managed to get all of her clothes on, though not without cracking open scabs and straining protesting muscles. Most of her dressing was accompanied by a nice commentary by Fulk from outside her door on how he was going to make her regret this later.

She opened the door just as Fulk was saying, “And next time I’ll tie you to the damned bed!”

“You are all talk,” she informed him tartly. She looked at the tray he was still holding between them; it contained a mug of small beer, a chunk of yesterday’s bread, several smallish bits of hard cheese and lump of cold bacon, accompanied by an eating knife. Evidently it was still too early for warm, freshly cooked food. She pinched a bit of cheese and bit it in two with a trace of a grin.

Fulk glared at her, “All talk? We’ll see about that soon enough, oh devious minded one.”

“If you say so.” She stood to one side to let him enter, but not before she grabbed another bit of cheese.

He placed the tray down on her bed, then went to the fireplace and poked the small fire vigorously, adding a few more logs. When he turned back he was just in time to watch the last of the cheese vanish with a contented sigh. Eleanor picked up the knife and moved to cut the bread; she paused thoughtfully and tapped the tip of the knife against the stale crust a few times. She aimed a nice smile at Fulk, “I suppose sending you to get more cheese is out of the question? I cannot go myself; more’s the pity. I doubt I would make it halfway to the kitchen.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight, so you can stop looking at me like that.”

“I promise I will behave, please?”

“No, oh silver tongued lady of deception.”

Eleanor stabbed her knife right through the chunk of bread, “Typical; we actually have some real, actual, proper hard cheese in the manor and the broken nosed lump refuses to get me any. Have you any idea how rare it is to have cheddar in this place?” she demanded, “It is exceptionally rare; Trempwick normally avoids it because it is so much more expensive than the goopy spreadable stuff.”

“So? It’ll be there when you’re better.”

“But people will have eaten some of it by then!” exclaimed Eleanor.

“So? It’s a big piece.”

Her eyes lit up, “Big? How big?” Fulk held up his hands, measuring out a space roughly the size of a cannon ball. Eleanor fairly wailed with frustration, “All that cheese, out of my reach and vulnerable to other people’s intentions!”

Fulk laughed, “You’re really bothered about that cheese, aren’t you?”

“I love cheddar,” she told him, a dreamy expression on her face, “I hate the goopy cheese, but hard cheese …”

“Oh, all right, I’ll go get some more,” he held up a warning finger, “but if I find this is a trick, ruse or excuse of some kind-”

“Yes, yes,” said Eleanor impatiently, “Now, the cheese? Bring back the whole piece, all of it. If I find you missed part of it, so much as a crumb, you will not be a happy knight. And do hurry up.”





About twenty minutes later Trempwick paid her a visit. He took in the depleted chunk of cheese on the tray, the small pile of bite sized pieced of cheese within reach of the princess, the cheese sandwich she was currently eating with gusto, and the trio of slices of bread with thin strips of cheese on them melting in front of the fire. “I see you found my cheese then,” he said dryly.

She swallowed hastily and said without a shred of contrition, “Sorry, master.”

“It has been a costly few days, first one set of brand new clothes ruined, then a midwife to pay, bloodstains to remove, and now my cheese is devoured in a heartbeat. I suppose I have you to thank for this, bodyguard?”

Fulk turned the bits of toasting bread and cheese around so the ends furthest away from the heat got chance to melt, “I didn’t know she was a cheese fiend when I brought the first bit up.”

Trempwick seated himself on the bed, on the other wise of the tray to Eleanor. He popped a bit of cheese in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I had been looking forward to this cheese for a long time; it does not disappoint, except perhaps in quantity. You have managed to eat an astonishing amount of it, darling Nell.”

“Sorry, master. I have not eaten in nearly two days.”

“You have always been the same – it is why I refuse to buy hard cheese.” Trempwick finished off another bit of cheese, “Still, I suppose I shall have to humour you this time, sweet Nell. I need you to rest and recover, and if I have to sacrifice my cheese to get that, then so be it.” He looked to Fulk, “Scat, bodyguard. Go take a break; I can sit with her for a while.”

Fulk delivered the bits of cheese on toast to Eleanor and exited the room. Ordinarily he would have argued but he had been swapping shifts with the spymaster yesterday without anything dire happening. Trempwick sat and watched in a kind of morbid fascination as the slices of toast vanished before the cheese had time to congeal.

Eleanor licked a trace of melted cheese off her thumb and took a deep breath, “I need your help,” she announced with quite a large dollop of apprehension. She had known she would have to ask Trempwick for aid when she decided on a whim to knight Fulk; she had also known the spymaster was not likely to be pleased.

Trempwick’s eyebrows shot up, “Really, dear Nell? Ask away,” he looked ruefully at the chunk of cheese which was now half of its original size, “as long as it does not involve cheese.”

“I made Fulk a knight.” She waited for his reaction, wincing slightly.

“You knighted your pet?” repeated Trempwick slowly, “You knighted your pet? May I enquire as to why?”

She had prepared her excuse and felt confident he would accept it fairly well. “A princess should not be attended solely by a common man at arms, and he has proven useful. A reward will keep his loyalty, and encourage him to work harder in the hopes of gaining more.” That sounded much better than ‘I felt I owed him something and this is all I can ever give him.’

Trempwick sighed and ate some more of his cheese, “Nell, beloved Nell, if you wanted a pet knight you should have told me; I would have brought one home for you. I do hope, most sincerely hope, that this has nothing to do with that inappropriate, one sided spark of yours?”

“Of course not.” Why did Trempwick persist in assuming she was some misty eyed drip with a death wish? And anyway Fulk might care but that made her no better than some annoying little sister. One sided spark indeed.

“I do hope so; no matter what you do with the man he will remain completely unsuitable, and I would hate to watch you break your heart. So, what do you want me to do?”

“I can give him the accolade and tell him he is a knight, but … coming from just me it is worthless; I do not have the clout to make it stick and work.”

“Very well, I shall take care of it, just for you, sweetest Nell, out of the very goodness of my heart.” He picked up a cube of cheese and popped it in his mouth, “Now, dear Nell, would you like a game of chess to pass the time?”

No, actually she would not. Eleanor hated chess; she had never been much good at it. Trempwick always insisted she was too impatient and needed to think more than a couple of moves ahead, but she was not really interested in spending hours at a time on a single game. But, when the spymaster asked if she would like a game of chess what he invariably meant was that he wanted to play and so she would have to. “Yes, master. That is very thoughtful of you.”

“Good, I shall fetch the board.”






Ah, today you get to see a glimpse of the author in Eleanor. Cheese, mmmmm, must have cheese. :sigh: It has been over two weeks since I ran out of cheddar and there is still nearly a week to go until I can get more. I need cheddar!!

Ludens, it's all in finding the balance, I think. The John's castle scenes need much more description; the dialogue scenes have demonstrated their best balance, IMO, in the part which is in post 136. Today's scene with the king in the rain is also noteworthy in my eyes, but that is because it captures the same feel as post 136.