The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[Axeknight]

I'm still here, Froggy. And now I have a mental picture of a naked king with a middle-aged paunch (I've always imagined William as being on the chubby side, sort of a not quite so fat Henry VIII) and... erm... well, stood to attention, so to speak. Thanks for that.

[frogbeastegg]

As she shot out of the bottom of the staircase back into the main hall a hand grabbed her arm, using her momentum to swing her around to face them. Fulk surveyed her and said wryly, “Good thing you’re not wearing red or you’d blend right in with your dress!”

Eleanor tried to regain her poise. “I think I have seen enough of the celebrations; I wish to return to my room.”

Fulk took her hand and placed it on his arm. “Then I’d best go with you; people forget how to behave when the drink’s flowing. You might not be recognised until it’s a bit late and you’re already sticking hairpins in eye watering places.”

Eleanor remembered the man who had obviously mistaken her for a generic noble instead of the groom’s daughter upstairs and didn’t argue. Besides, she was rather glad of his company.

They were about half way across the hall when someone else grabbed Eleanor’s arm and leered, “You wanna dump him and try a real man, precious.” Eleanor didn’t waste time; her hand was moving before the man even began to speak. She drew a hairpin and stabbed him in the wrist to encourage him to let go. At roughly the same time Fulk’s fist buried itself in the man’s stomach. The man collapsed to the floor and was violently sick at their feet. Eleanor stepped back, pulling her skirts out of the way before they got spattered. Fulk started towing her towards the exit once again, this time moving faster with more purpose in his step.

“You know,” he said as they stepped out into the cold evening air, “I was only using the need to escort you as an excuse to tag along; honestly you nobles are worse than my father’s peasants on May Day!”

Impulsively he stopped walking and looked at her in the weak moonlight. He took in the now listing hair, the bloodied hairpin she still clutched in one hand, the defiant set of her chin, the dangerous gleam in her eyes, the remnants of the blush and he smiled in a way Eleanor had never seen before. “Good thing no one else can see you now or there’d be a riot.” He excluded himself from that solely because one man cannot be a riot.

Eleanor looked groundwards and struggled to find a reply. First she had been pawed by two drunken idiots who must have been so inebriated they could no longer see straight, and now she was being mocked by Fulk again.

“Come on, oh surprisingly lethal one, we’d best get inside before someone else takes a liking to you.” Fulk began to walk again. “Did you enjoy the revels?” he asked as they walked.

Eleanor’s blush deepened once again. “I do not think most of the advice I heard is even possible.”

Fulk looked thoughtful; he could guess what she had heard since much of the revelry tended to repeat from wedding to wedding, even when one wedding was royal and one that of the meanest peasant. “Depends on how athletic you are,” he said finally.

Eleanor’s eyes bulged. “Really? How on earth …?!” She pulled a face. “No, on second thoughts do not answer that.”

Fulk grinned. “Good choice, oh dear.”

Eleanor frowned gracefully. “Oh dear what?”

“Nothing, just oh dear, you know as in ‘oh no’.” “Or oh beloved,”, added Fulk mentally.




The guest house was empty; Anne would no longer be needing the room and her two maids would naturally follow her into the keep. Aveline and Juliana were both still enjoying themselves with the festivities. No one else had been given rooms in this building; Eleanor suspected Trempwick had bent a few ears to make it easier for him to talk business with her without needing to dodge past other people or concern himself with eavesdroppers. They went straight into what was now Eleanor’s room, even if she did have to share with Aveline and Juliana it was hers because she outranked them. She was looking forward to having a nice, posh four poster bed with curtains to herself for a few nights.

Fulk moved to poke up the fire and add some fresh logs to it. With a sigh of relief Eleanor sat down on the bed, placed the bloodstained hairpin down at her side and pulled her shoes off. She glared at them with loathing, they had been rubbing her feet all night, then dropped them on the floor and kicked them under the bed.

Eleanor removed the last few pins holding her braids in place at the nape of her neck and began undoing the plaits. Her hair had been escaping of its own accord well before she had worsened matters by removing the pin. The style had now collapsed to the point where it was uncomfortable, tugging at her roots and tickling the right side of her neck.

Fulk left the fire to its own devices and collected her hairpin; he pulled out the handkerchief he used to clean his dagger and began wiping the blood off. It was of a faintly different design to the average hairpin; it was slightly longer and of sturdier build so it could stab without bending, and carefully balanced for throwing. Fulk believed it was made of iron for extra strength with a gold coating to make it appear harmless. Decoratively it was quite simple, with only a small chip of garnet set in a small knot work design on the blunt end.

Fulk held out her cleaned pin. On impulse she told him, “Keep it, in exchange for the necklace.” After a bit of consideration he tucked the pin behind his dagger’s sheath. He would visit one of the leatherworkers in town tomorrow and get a couple of loops added to the back of the scabbard so the pin could be kept there, safe and out of sight but still close to hand.

She waved vaguely at her comb where it lay on the room’s table. “Can you pass me that?” she requested. Fulk fetched the comb and watched with mild fascination as she gathered her hair, brought it forward over one shoulder and set to work trying to remove the tangles.

As she worked at her hair Eleanor said, “I should thank you for your tip about codpieces.”

Fulk deliberately played dumb for the sake of repartee. “I don’t recall giving you fashion advice, nor do you need it unless you’re branching out into cross-dressing.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I think I prefer you in a dress.”

“Idiot,” Eleanor told him loftily. She teased a particularly stubborn tangle out with her fingers. “I meant your tip about hitting below the belt.”

Fulk looked alarmed. “You needed to discourage someone else?”

She nodded. “I know; ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“So, you punched one chap in the codpiece and stabbed another in the arm?” said Fulk weakly. He took a step back. “Please notice how I am standing a good way back and being very non-threatening and nice, also harmless.” He gave her a big, goofy smile and said nicely, “Please don’t hurt me?”

Eleanor laughed and stopped combing. “Thanks fumbletoes, you just reminded me I still owe you for that song, and for Judith too, for that matter.”

“Oh damn!” groaned Fulk, snapping his fingers in faked aggravation. He sighed and held his arms out to the sides showing he was defenceless aside from the dagger and hairpin, both of which would now take precious moments to draw. “Well, here I am. I’ll act like a man and take what’s coming to me without trying to run.”

Eleanor started combing her hair again. “For that kind of thing you need my beloved regal ancestor, and as of this moment he is otherwise engaged. I keep telling you I prefer to wait for the perfect moment to exact the perfect revenge.”

Fulk’s arms dropped back to his sides and he told her boldly, “And I keep telling you you’re nothing but a warm, fuzzy thing and mostly harmless.”

“I shall argue the warm and fuzzy,” she replied serenely, “but you can have the mostly harmless – I miss my wrist knives.”

“Since you’re mostly harmless,” Fulk began humming his gooseberry song. A few notes in he had to duck as the comb flew overhead. He looked pointedly at the comb where it had landed on the floor near the wall behind him. “You can fetch that yourself, oh acidic one.”

Eleanor rose and went to collect her comb, rather mortified that she had allowed him to goad her into a reaction. “Do not mock me,” she ordered.

With a slightly strained smile Fulk pointed out, “Eleanor, I spend half my time mocking you and you like it.”

“That is different,” she replied stiffly.

“Why?” he demanded, sounding harsher than he had intended. The song was half in earnest, the only way he could say what he felt; surely she knew that? A gooseberry was his delight, and when she did that dangerous glare she truly was a wondrous sight. She was doing a version of that same glare now, but it was more a hurt and defensive kind of dangerous than the playful, alert dangerous he loved. Perhaps she didn’t want to hear; perhaps she too was trying to keep at a distance? He had not thought of that until now, but then he had been given no reason to.

Eleanor refused to be drawn. “It is blindingly obvious.” She threw the comb onto the bed but remained standing to fight on equal footing.

“Not to me.”

Eleanor fairly growled; so he wanted to force her to say it herself, did he? Fine, she knew what she was; she could admit to it. She could. If she was the one making the accusations this time it would rob them of their power and prove she was not bothered by them. They were only words, after all, and they only hurt if you let them.

“If you cannot see the difference between humour and ramming the truth into someone’s face and expecting them to laugh along then you are more of an idiot than I ever thought possible. I do not need reminding how …” For a moment she flinched away from the words but she steeled herself and pushed on with a steady voice, “how horrible I am – cold, ugly, wilful, disobedient, unlovable, eminently hateable. No one wants me because there is not enough money in all of England to make it worthwhile. I already know; you do not need to tell me again.” There, she had done it. She didn’t hide from the truth; she could confront it head on. She glared defiantly at him, her head held high, daring him to find something more.

“I wasn’t-”

She cut his worthless protest off, “I have to put up with it from many people but not you.”

He stepped in and grasped her by the shoulders, needing to get her to listen. He looked down at her, his eyes boring into hers and he said intensely, “Someone had been filling your head with rubbish!” He thought he could guess who but it was best not to let loose unfounded accusations.

“Rubbish? You have heard Aveline ever since she arrived, you probably heard Aidney’s many complaints, you must have heard Trempwick’s servants talking, you certainly know my father’s opinion, you heard a condensed version of Matilda’s letter-”

Unable to listen to the growing list he interrupted, “And you value their opinion more than mine?” Some of the names were as he’d suspected, some were not and it seemed as though there were plenty more. He was surprised that Trempwick’s name was not on the list, but then, Fulk allowed, the spymaster had been rather ruthless in his attempts to keep control over her but he had not ventured into petty putdowns.

All of these people telling her such nonsense. Yes, she was undeniably wilful but that was not exactly a bad thing unless you were looking for slavish deference. To some people she really was some of those things; she could hardly be accused of being obedient to her father. But the rest? The rest he could easily see being said in spite. If you wanted to hurt someone you aimed for their weak point and Eleanor’s was rather glaring if you looked for it; he had not looked and so he had not spotted it but many others would take delight in finding a way to get the better of her.

He paused for a second to give her time to think on that, then explained, “Aveline is a sour old cow, Aidney was a pompous fool who blamed others for his own lacks, Trempwick’s servants hate you because you dare defy their beloved master occasionally, your father expects a deal too much, Matilda would know what she has been told by others – need I go on? It’s rubbish,” he repeated again for emphasis.

Eleanor’s head went down; she had nothing to say to that. She had not intended to start down this line at all. She didn’t know what to believe; he sounded earnest enough but he must be trying to placate her, to gloss over his mistake. He was most likely rather discomfited by the fact his joke had backfired so spectacularly; she was supposed to be a good victim.

Looking down at her Fulk’s resolve to keep his distance vanished as if it had never been. His hands slid down from her shoulders as he stepped forward and pulled her against him in a tender embrace. Just like last time she didn’t resist. As she leaned against him slightly Fulk remembered Aidney’s verdict, mostly because Eleanor had mentioned it earlier; he had called her statuesque. Back then Fulk had suspected his ex-employer was doing something wrong, now he knew for certain. Lacking in confidence and rather endearingly innocent, yes. Cold and unresponsive, no.

He ran his fingers through her hair, twining a tress between his first two fingers. His other hand went to her waist. “I hate you,” he said softly but it was obvious he meant something quite different. Startled Eleanor pulled back a little, looked up and searched his face for meaning. And it was there in his eyes, his smile, the tender expression on his face, the way he was looking at her. Even she could not deny it or mistake it for something else. He loved her.

Stupidly she felt like crying. Not quite sure of herself she placed the palm of her right hand against his chest, on his breast bone, a tentative response because she didn’t know what else to do. His right hand stopped playing with her hair and caressed the side of her face, resting so his thumb could trace the scar under her left eye. She leaned her head into his hand slightly and continued to look up at him; as long as she could see the truth she could not stop believing.

Her lips were parted slightly, an invitation Fulk took. He started to lean down to kiss her. At the last second Eleanor found herself pushed away and Fulk leapt back as if he’d been stung.

Eleanor’s immediate thought was that Walter, Trempwick’s stable boy, had been right when he’d said that the only way anyone could stand to kiss her without a pile of cash at stake would be in the dark, and in the dark you wouldn’t be able to find her because she was so short and that would be a definite improvement.

It was painful to watch Eleanor revert back to the defensive posture she’d had earlier, even though Fulk started talking almost immediately after he pushed her away he was not fast enough. “I don’t trust myself,” he explained huskily. How damning that sounded, and how idiotic. He owed her an explanation, he needed to give her one before she decided on her own but the whole story was very long. If he told it then she would know exactly what he was and he couldn’t abide the possibility that she might reject him, disgusted by the hero of Fauville, as Trempwick had called him. Yes, Trempwick knew, at least a part of it. How long before it was divulged as part of the spymaster’s attempt to push him away from Eleanor?

An explanation was owing and he would have to provide one, and better that she should hear it from him. He would tell the truth and knew the whole story; he was not sure the same could be said of the spymaster. “It is a long story, tomorrow …” he took a breath and gathered his courage, “tomorrow I will tell you, I swear on my honour, such as it is.” He added the last more for his own benefit; in his time with her he had managed to find that sense of honour he had always wanted but never quite possessed before. He would keep his word for her; he was committed and would not ‘forget’ this time.

“For now suffice it to say that I did something like this with the only other person I have loved, and it went a deal too far. It was disastrous then; now it would-”

“Get you killed and me caged in a convent for the rest of my life, unless they decide to kill me as well,” Eleanor finished for him.

Trempwick’s threat echoed through Fulk’s mind as it did on a daily basis, “So much as a single hair…” “We are stuck as we are now; if anything alters, even the slightest bit, your Trempwick will find out sooner or later.” Most of the risk fell on him but he was far more concerned about what Trempwick would do with Eleanor; he knew the spymaster’s relationship with Eleanor well enough to say beyond a doubt that his retribution would be swift, brutal and very long lasting. Trempwick would insist it was for her own good, to stop her from doing the same thing again.

“I know; I have managed to fool him only once.” Her hand went to the crystal teardrop pendant. “Suspicion alone is enough for him to remove you; he will remove you before I am placed in danger, and then he will turn his attention to me.” Trempwick’s displeasure would be spectacular and highly unpleasant but she was only anxious about Fulk. He would not survive.

There was a long pause before Fulk drew a shaky breath, let it out and said, “I am the most loyal servant you could ever get.” To say he would do anything for her was only a minor exaggeration.

“I do not want a servant,” replied Eleanor softly. She was painfully aware of the gap between them; they were still looking at each other in the same way, unable to break their gazes away but now there was a gap so they were not touching. A few inches, as good as a few miles. She had discovered she liked being in his arms; a gap was the last thing she wanted.

“Then what do you want?” He thought he knew; he was expecting her to say “You.” He prayed she would not; the more he knew he was letting slip through his fingers the harder it got to prevent himself from closing his fist and holding tight to what was there.

She was not sure, so much had happened, so much had changed in these few minutes; she was still struggling to grasp even the simplest element – he loved her! – even as her mind worked out what was possible and what was not. So far this had all been very pleasant but that did not mean it would remain so, and some fears were too deep to be removed in the space of a minute. He could change his mind, there could still be some other motive to this, his excuse for dropping her like a hot coal could be nothing more than a convenient lie made to play to their situation, she might not be suited to this romance business.

Eventually she said, “Whatever you have been until now.” She didn’t want him to change; that much was certain.

Fulk dipped his head in agreement. They couldn’t stand here all night, and other people could arrive at any time. He could not bear to leave her, not yet. They needed to do something innocent looking. “Game of knucklebones?” he asked, forcing a bit of chirpiness into his tone.

Eleanor twigged what he was doing right away; she matched her tone to his, “Yes, I do believe that might be a good idea.”

Fulk finally managed to break the gaze they had held since he had pushed her away; he went into the nursery to collect his knucklebones from his pack. As he knelt next to his pallet near the door to Eleanor’s room and dug around in his bag he wondered if he was angry with himself because he had nearly kissed her, or because he had let the opportunity slip.




Trempwick returned as the candle clock burned down to slightly past ten o’clock. He entered the room without bothering to knock, something which infuriated Eleanor – it made it look as if he owned the place, and her too. He paused in the doorway, his eyes riveted on Fulk. Princess and bodyguard sat on the floor opposite each other, a game of knucklebones in progress. It looked harmless enough, Eleanor was sure.

Eleanor dropped her knucklebones and scrambled to her feet, shaking her skirts to dislodge the rushes clinging to the heavy wool. “Fulk saved me,” she explained, thinking rapidly and using the truth to explain his presence here. “A drunken fool did not realise who I was.”

“Another one?” Trempwick inclined his head in a very grudging bow towards Fulk. “Then you have my thanks, bodyguard. However you can leave now; I shall look after Nell now.”

Fulk left without argument or show of reluctance, reasoning it was best not to cause a scene. Trempwick pulled a small purse from his belt, crossed the room and gave it to Eleanor. “Here, compensation from the count of Lyon. I had a very polite word with him about watching where he places his hands.” Trempwick smiled ferociously and said with relish, “I do believe he considers himself lucky to still be alive. By the way I was rather gratified by the efficiency with which you rescued yourself; I was on my way but it would have taken time to get through the mob. You were lucky I saw what happened.”

Eleanor opened the purse and took a cursory look at the contents. There had to be the best part of two pounds in silver in the palm of her hand.

“No one bothers my princess,” said Trempwick fiercely. “I do hate the bedding down revels; such witlessness. Believe it or not they were comparatively tame; no one wants to upset a king.”

“Tame?!” squeaked Eleanor. Her mind reeled as she tried to imagine how it could have been worse. She couldn’t.

Trempwick laughed. “Yes, tame. If I ever get married I plan on standing up and declaring loudly that I am not willing to wait any longer, then grabbing my bride and running for it before the shock wears off. I think I should just have time to bar the bedroom door before the crowd reached it.”

“I doubt your bride would appreciate being torn away from her feast.”

“Oh, I think she might enjoy the havoc,” he said mysteriously, as if he had a specific person in mind. A pause, then he ventured, “The last two days have been pleasurable, even if there have been some less than agreeable events.”

Eleanor remembered the touch of Fulk’s hand on her face, the way he had looked at her, the feel of his arms around her, the way he had said he hated her, and her face lit up with a gentle, dreamy expression. “Yes,” she agreed languorously.

Trempwick seemed very relieved. He stepped a bit closer, placed one hand under her chin and raised it while simultaneously leaning down. He planted a chaste, lingering kiss on her lips then let her go. “You should have someone to love you,” he commented quietly. “Goodnight, sweet Nell.” He left without so much as a backwards glance, leaving her stood frozen to the spot, staring after him.

Her first coherent thought was that she did have someone - Fulk.

Her second was that that had been an utterly disappointing experience; it had not been unpleasant but nor had it been enjoyable. Was that what she had so narrowly missed out on with Fulk? Even the lightest brush of Fulk’s fingers had set her skin tingling; Trempwick’s touch had done nothing. Something … unknown had been there with Fulk, whatever it was had been lacking with Trempwick

Bringing up the rear in third place came what would usually have been her first thought; what was Trempwick’s motive?






And that should keep the mush addicts happy :p

Am I the only one hearing that awful, horrifically catchy song from Disney’s The Little Mermaid, ‘Kiss the Girl’ or whatever it’s called, when Fulk nearly kisses her? I saw that film the year it came out, it was the first film I ever saw at the cinema and I still remember that song. :starts singing: my oh my, looks like the boy too shy ain’t gonna kiss de girl :D

Speaking of songs and this story I had a mildly spooky experience when doing a bit of shopping this morning. As I looked at books with half my mind on how I was going to write Fulk’s side of the Fulk/Eleanor mush scene I noticed that Britney Spears (urk! So sayth the mostly orchestral froggy) song, Sometimes, was playing. More accurately I didn’t manage to tune out the chorus despite a valiant effort. For those who don’t know it goes:
Sometimes I run.
Sometimes I hide.
Sometimes I'm scared of you.
But all I really want is to hold you tight.
Treat you right, be with you day and night.

Fulk’s thoughts exactly. Odd; I now have that song playing on endless loop having picked up a copy on a freakish whim. After it repeats the first 7 times it starts to sound ok, after an hour I’m beginning to like it :starts worrying about degrading musical taste: Well, part of this scene was written to it and I don't think it turned out so badly.


Poor Axeknight. I always picture William as being in quite good shape for his age; he is very active and still in fighting trim. All the same I admit it's not the kind of mental image a frog wants; a muscled 51 year old king with a bit of a paunch and erm ... stood to attention, so to speak The thing we writers have to suffer for the sake of plot

[zelda12]

I know the feeling milady frog.

Two weeks ago I picked up a cheap copy of one of Queens greatest hits cd's on a whim. (Being the rock fan that I am + my parents old vinyl ablbums will never be played again as the record players gone the way of the dodo.) So I was revising for a maths exam listening to the cd and after listening to it once I had the vague outlines of a couple of characters and plot. After seven or so more play throughs the idea was almost soldified. The problem is I'm lacking the will and the time to write it. (Not to mention the question of what time period to place it in.)

[Axeknight]

Interesting. I think the Alice Cooper song Poison suits this part.

I wanna love you but I better not touch (don't touch)
I wanna hold you but my senses tell me to stop
I wanna kiss you my I want it too much (too much)
I wanna taste you but your lips are venomous poison

The Coop is actually singing about a cold hard heartbreaker type of girl, but Fulk knows he's dead if he gets too close just as surely, so this song is a reflection on Fulk's feelings, just like yours was Eleanor's feelings Froggy.

“Oh, I think she might enjoy the havoc,” he said mysteriously, as if he had a specific person in mind

I liked this. Perhaps it's not the most subtle of hints, and there have been many others alluding to the same thing, but don't take that as criticism. Its very easy to make your subtle hints too subtle, so you, being the one writing the story and knowing what is going to happen later on in the story, are the only one who can see it. Casting pearls before swine and all . Heh, far be it from me to give you writing tips though. Great part.

[zelda12]

Quote:
“Oh, I think she might enjoy the havoc,” he said mysteriously, as if he had a specific person in mind


Ah the penny drops. Very spectacularly as it seems it was drooped from several miles up and by the time it hit it had reached a velocity so intense that when it finally drooped it left quite a large smoking crater in the ground.



By the way milady, the last couple of posts were brilliant. If this is half as good as your publishing work then I'll be eagerly camping outside the bookshop once I find out red hands being published... who cares that it will be a six month wait.

[frogbeastegg]

The spymaster was up bright and early, dressed and his usual dapper self before most of the other nobles had even crawled out of bed. He had requested an audience with the king first thing in the morning, even going so far as to wait impatiently outside in the solar while the hung-over William struggled to dress with the aid of his equally hung-over squires.

Trempwick’s urgency had alarmed him, but William insisted on being careful not to wake Anne up. He thought it a minor mercy to leave her sleeping; kings never had much in the way of privacy and as soon as she emerged from their room Anne would be subjected to speculation. People would look from the displayed bed sheet with its small patch of blood to her and wonder exactly what had passed last night. The outline was never enough for some people; they wanted to know everything. It may not be as much of an ordeal as the revels but he doubted she would like it.

Trempwick was admitted as William made his way to one of the fireside chairs with the intention of sitting and nursing his headache. The two squires made themselves scarce once the spymaster was admitted, shuffling off to fetch food to settle their lord’s stomach, and more than likely to get something for themselves.

Trempwick refused the offer of a seat, standing before his liege instead. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously; he played his tongue over his dry lips. “Sire,” he said with as much formality as he would have used if they had been down in the main hall, “I wanted to bring a matter to your attention, one which has been bothering me for some time now.”
“It had better be important, Raoul, important like the discovery of the Holy Grail.” William winced and massaged his temples with both hands in an effort to relieve the pounding. He wished he had kept Trempwick waiting long enough for him to clean his teeth with sage tooth rub, a mixture of sage and salt, and swill his mouth out with some mint mouthwash as he did every morning. Foul tasting as both substances might be they left his teeth clean and, more importantly just now, removed any foul tastes and bad breath caused by excessive drinking. If the king of France had been handy William would have tested his hypothesis that currently his breath could kill.

The reply was respectful, “Sire, it is not, except perhaps to me.”

William prised his head out of his hands and sat up as if he were not feeling mostly dead; the room spun a little but steadied before his stomach could take issue. “Oh, get on with it so I can go back to feeling sorry for myself,” he instructed queasily.

“As you know these fourteen years past Eleanor has been my wife in all but name and a few details. I think it may be advantageous to … formalise things.”

William sat up properly in earnest, his headache forgotten. “Are you asking for my permission to marry her?” he asked incredulously.

Trempwick bent his head in assent. “Sire, for the sake of her reputation, and therefore that of your family, it seems best to me to formalise things before people get the wrong idea.”

“Has she given you any encouragement?” William demanded.

Trempwick’s reply was instant and forceful, “Never. I am only aware of how people may interpret this to your disadvantage; I have always worked to your benefit, you know that.”

William was willing to admit that his spymaster spoke the truth about his loyalty. He was also willing to admit that Trempwick did have a good point concerning Eleanor and rumour. He owned it was unlikely his daughter had been encouraging the spymaster; one of the problems with Eleanor had been that she was always intent on discouraging rather than encouraging potential suitors. He owed Trempwick enough that he would have gladly agreed to nearly any request that he had, even if he had come here asking for personal reasons instead of political ones. But one issue remained.

“You are entirely unsuitable,” he said bluntly. Since Trempwick didn’t want the brat for himself he didn’t need to tiptoe around feelings, only rebuff the political reasoning with more of the same. Regardless of Trempwick’s motivation the answer would have been the same. “Your rank is too low, and you may have risen high but your roots are still humble; the son of an earl does not marry the daughter of a king with an empire at his feet. There would be speculation over why I gave her to such as you, speculation which would get every bit as bad as what may arise from the present situation. Nothing would be gained, indeed it would potentially make matters worse – as of yet, even after all these years, there has not been a whiff of scandal. You do good work, Raoul.”

Trempwick took the refusal well. He bowed his head in acknowledgement, his face impassive. “As you say; I do good work. If you think it needless then so do I. With your permission I shall withdraw?”

William nodded as much as he dared, not much, his mind already going to the bottle of mouthwash. The spymaster let himself out and William half walked, half staggered back into his room to clean his teeth. He started with the sage tooth rub, smearing the mixture over his teeth with a finger, gagging reflexively at the mouth puckering salt.

He had never thought to see someone asking him for Eleanor, someone other than an ambitious upstart in need of a sharp lesson in his place. While Trempwick was unsuitable he had not been motivated by ambition. Marrying Eleanor off was an interesting idea, now it had been brought back to the front of his mind he could not resist probing it once again. If he found her a husband he would not have failed her quite so badly.

William swilled his mouth out with some small ale left in the room overnight for that purpose and spat into a bowl. Despite the unavoidable lingering salty taste he felt better already. He reached for the mint and vinegar mixture, took a mouthful and started swilling it around his mouth.

While William was certain he could get Eleanor to say her vows no matter how recalcitrant she insisted on being finding someone suitable willing to take her was another matter. She lacked a dowry but he could fix that easily enough if he saw reason to, even if he would need to add a bit extra to it to compensate for her age. Anyway that was of little consequence - it was quite impossible now; no matter who offered for her they would be unsuitable. She knew too much about things he wished kept quiet, she had too many unorthodox skills and lacked many of the abilities a woman of her rank was expected to have. It was one thing to force her to marry; it was another entirely to get her to let her new husband live.

He also had a selfish reason, one he did not like to admit to even to himself. Whoever married her would see the mess he had made out of her, both figuratively in terms of upbringing and literally in terms of scars.

No, she would remain as she was, keeping this colossal mess secret. William spat the mouthwash into the bowl and sighed. Finally he felt better. The salt and vinegar taste might linger for a good quarter of an hour but his mouth felt clean and his teeth weren’t covered in gunk. A bit of freshly baked bread to settle his stomach and a few cups of small ale to quench his thirst and he’d feel human again.

Anne stirred in the bed behind him; he’d woken her up. “Feeling alright?” inquired William kindly. She nodded dutifully. “The room next door is now yours; you may alter and furnish it as you see fit. Speak to my steward for whatever you need.” The room had been Joanna’s; unlike the crown he could not have a new version made. It would be unreasonable to insist that the girl kept everything as it was.

William looked at his wife, sat in the middle of his great bed with the covers gathered up in front of her and her hair falling in disarray around her. Despite her youth it was an appealing sight. None the less he told her, “You will be pleased to hear I do not plan on sharing your bed again until you are older, a lot older.” To William’s immense surprise, and gratification, she looked disappointed. He had expected her to be happy, ecstatic even.

“Will you ask my maids to come and help me dress?” she asked eventually.

William tried a smile, not sure if he could manage the expression without his head splitting in two. He managed with startling ease. “You want to stay where you are for a bit, pretend you are still asleep. You will be subjected to everyone’s curiosity, stay here and avoid it for a time.”

Anne bit her lip and looked unsure. “But that would be indecent, and my grandmother said I should do nothing that might bring shame on the family or you.”

William refrained from rolling his eyes; he had heard plenty about this grandmother of hers. The hag appeared to possess an opinion about everything, opinions she had firmly transplanted into Anne’s mind. He was going to have to encourage the girl to think for herself a bit more or he’d be hearing her grandmother’s outlook on everything. Worse still Anne got upset if she was forced to go against granny’s advice. “I shall indulge you one small scandal, if you wish to stay.”

The pattern held true. “That is very kind of you, but I really should not.”

William sighed; he would begin to tackle granny on another day. He granted her permission to do whatever she wanted with a shrug of his shoulders and turned to go.

“William?” called Anne’s voice from behind him, anxious as if she was not sure she should be saying whatever it was she was about to.

“Yes?”

The anxiety increased; he could tell it took real effort for her to say this and she was expecting to get in trouble for it. “You will remember to do as you promised, won’t you?”

He laughed. Young though she might be Anne had proven to possess very good timing when asking for things, along with the wit to follow up and remind him so he couldn’t claim he had forgotten. He had to admit he was beginning to like her, if only granny could be exorcised he might even get fond of her. “I remember; I will see about it this morning.”

“Thank you.” She sounded genuinely happy for the first time

William left his bedchamber, crossed the solar and opened the door to the staircase. He called for a messenger. When one arrived William instructed him, “Tell my daughter I wish to see her at her earliest convenience.” Which meant, of course, immediately.






Rush, rush, not got much time...

Nice choice, Axeknight. It does suit quite well. At this rate there'll be an Eleanor soundtrack The song I had inflicted on me could suit either of them, certain lines apply to one and not the other but much of it would work for either of them. The "treat you right" bit is Fulk, the "give me time" bit is her, and so on. Blergh.

Both penny drops: Yes, subtle but also very bold; this time it is there to be seen. Trempwick's been hinting the same thing ever since the beginning, well the beginning of the bit where Nell is grown up. If you look back now you know you will spot it running through their scenes, growing steadily stronger and more obvious with time. It's one of those subtle things I was talking about a long time ago. Eleanor is a story that really should shine when you re-read it after finishing it.

:doorbell: gotta go, finish the rest later...

EDIT: back, fixed typos etc.

[frogbeastegg]

When Eleanor received her father’s summons she felt sick with fear. She had to be in trouble again, otherwise he never would have sent for her. Incensed with herself she crushed that fear away, not gone but contained. She replaced it with anger, feeble anger still tainted by dread. She had done nothing to upset her father; someone else must have upset him again, someone she would take the fall for. Her fury at the injustice of it all wavered then crumpled before a fresh onset of trepidation. She was still healing from last time, nearly better but not quite.

Trempwick. She had to get Trempwick; he would protect her, as far as he ever could. Trempwick, a sudden flash of inspiration hit her – maybe that was why the king was upset. No, no, couldn’t be. No one spied on the spymaster; no one ever got the drop on him - if he didn’t want people to know what he was doing no one ever found out. He wouldn’t want anyone to know what had happened last night, and there had been no one to see.

Another spike of panic hit her; what was she supposed to do about Trempwick now anyway? She had spent a restless night trying to figure out what his motivation was and she had drawn a blank. Only one thing had she decided for certain; she did not want him to kiss her again. Her feelings towards the spymaster were so mixed she doubted she could ever unravel them, but she unquestionably did not want anything to do with him in a romantic light. Trempwick, however, would be difficult to refuse.

And then there was Fulk.

Suddenly the idea of going back to bed, pulling the covers over her head and pretending the world didn’t exist seemed highly attractive. That had not worked when she was five; it would not work now.

“Well don’t just stand there,” snapped Aveline, “get going. You cannot leave your lord father waiting.”

“If I could I would leave him to wait for an eternity,” returned Eleanor caustically.

“You are a foolish girl, more than foolish. I do not understand what my son sees in you; he should leave you to your well deserved fate and be done with it.”

“Well deserved?” demanded Eleanor incredulously. “You are very quick to talk about that which you do not understand.”

“All I need to understand is my son keeps risking his life and position for you, and he has never had so much as a word of gratitude for his pains.”

That was too true for Eleanor’s comfort. She seized her irritation at Aveline and used it to squelch her fear, then set out in search of Trempwick before her nerve failed again.





In the end she went alone having decided that she was not so craven she would hide behind the spymaster. She never had in the past and she would not do so now. Her pride had always been an essential strength to draw on when fighting with her father; it was in tatters now, and had been ever since she had cried out as his boot drove into her ribs, but it would never heal if she allowed herself to go running to Trempwick for help. She did not want his help, not now, not ever. If she began relying on others to fight her battles she would lose far sooner and more surely than if she fought herself.

She presented herself at the solar door immaculately turned out with her hair pinned up after dawdling on her way up. She didn’t take long enough to exacerbate matters, just enough to make it clear she did not spend her days sat around waiting to be called by him.

William was sat at the solar’s table, a drink in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other. When she appeared he swallowed his mouthful of bread with a grimace, placed his mug down with enough force to slosh some of the contents onto the wooden surface. “You took your sweet time,” he complained. After a bit of consideration he threw the remains of his bread onto the table and pushed himself to his feet.

Now she was here, alone and irrevocably locked into battle her fear was forgotten. There simply wasn’t time to notice it; she was too occupied watching his every movement for warning of an attack, examining his every word and tone for something she could use, thinking of the best way to respond with a tiny hint of bite without overdoing it and getting into more trouble. “I do not spend my life waiting for you to call me; it would not be useful.”

William’s right hand went to his belt, clasping about the band of leather near the buckle in a pose that was both faintly threatening and dominant. “The sooner we conclude the matter I called you here for the sooner you can get out of my sight. I will not be lectured by my spymaster on the import of keeping a truce, nor will I suffer your company longer than required. I am giving you a badge; I am also going to settle a manor on you. I have chosen one near Derby, Allestree.”

The ensuring silence was strained; neither of them really knew what to do next. For nearly two decades they had hardly exchanged a civil word. “Thank you,” said Eleanor eventually, deciding that the king had finished speaking and she would be safe from accusations of interrupting.

“Do not think I am going soft,” protested William so quickly it was obvious he thought he was. “The manor is payment for services rendered; the badge you can thank Anne for. She said a gooseberry would fit you, so that is what you will use.”

He paused, evidently waiting for her to say something. “Thank you,” she ventured again. A gooseberry? Not again! That fruit was beginning to dominate her life. She was not sure what else she could have chosen; a bloodied hairpin with the word ‘surprise’ written under it was out of the question. She was going to go through life, and death too as the badge would appear on her tomb, with a symbol born from a joke about her being short, unpopular and sour.

William cleared his throat then moved the conversation to the safe territory of business, his manner brusque and businesslike, “The manor is already fully staffed and in possession of an experienced steward. You will change nothing; the revenues will be paid to you but otherwise things will continue as they always have.” He glared at her and said balefully, “You do not know how to run a manor and I will not sit idly by while you ruin a good bit of land.”

That was unfair; she should have learned years ago by dealing with the necessary aspects of running her land with the assistance of someone more knowledgeable. It was not her fault she had never been given any land, well not entirely her fault. She would have to see if she could get a crash course from Trempwick; she did not want to be entirely dependant on stewards for the rest of her life, as they would rob her blind if they knew she could not check their accounting and decisions.

But perhaps it was best not to tell her father that she intended to learn. It would start a potential fight; she would appear to be playing into his hands by learning something he wanted her to.

The king’s eyes flicked to the bedroom door; it was closed. “I will give you another manor if you find out how Anne really is; my inquires run into dutiful answers I do not believe.” He hated asking her for help, he hated admitting to being less than omniscient and he hated looking weak – it was obvious in his posture, his tone, even though his words were innocuous enough.

Today was proving to be her lucky day; another manor for doing something she would have done anyway. “I shall do what I can.”

The conversation, if it could be called one, petered out. Away from business they had nothing to talk about and they had been at war for too long to slip easily into the polite nothings that strangers exchanged. In the end William escaped the uncomfortable scene with an excuse about going hawking, leaving Eleanor to wait alone for Anne to finish dressing and emerge into the solar.

When Anne materialized her face lit up as soon as she saw Eleanor. She turned to her two maids and told them, “I shall stay here and talk for a bit, you may leave us.” As the two other girls filed out Anne glanced around, then asked Eleanor, “Where is William?”

“Hawking, or so he said.”

Anne’s face fell. “Oh.”

And that was amazing; Eleanor had not expected Anne to want William’s presence. In an effort to cheer her up Eleanor said, “Thank you for my badge.”

“I thought you might like it, and I did promise. I thought a gooseberry to remind you of him.”

It did; she was not sure what Fulk would think of walking around with a gooseberry sewn on his tunic breast. “Thank you,” she repeated. She seemed to be saying that a lot recently, always filling a gap because she could think of no better. “How are you?”

Anne’s mood immediately became downcast. “It has all gone so wrong. I thought it was going so well and now it is not.” Most people aged when weighted down by worries and unhappiness but Anne did not; she looked even younger, lost.

Not knowing what to do Eleanor stood there uselessly, feeling like a prize ass. She was torn between two conflicting needs; to comfort Anne and to avoid finding out exactly what had caused this reaction. “I know my father can be rather … dislikeable sometimes …” she ventured hesitantly.

“No, it is all my fault.” She blinked rapidly as a couple of tears ran down her face. Her precise dictation broke down as her voice wobbled under the flood of tears, “I didn’t please him and now he hates me. Now I have no one at all because you will leave soon and he’s going to ignore me. Everyone will know he hates me and laugh at me, and I’m going to be here all alone with nothing to do but listen. My grandmother said I’d be cherished but I’m just going to be ignored and hated and laughed at.”

It was on days like this that being an agent didn’t seem such a bad thing to Eleanor, even if she did still have nightmares about her first, and only, murder. But for the grace of God and her own stubbornness she would once have been in the same situation Anne was in now. Somehow the cost of avoiding such a fate didn’t seem so excessive any more.

Reality had finally caught up with Anne. She was in a court full of strangers with only two people from home, occupying a position that attracted attention and gossip like a rotting corpse attracted flies, married to a man who may not be as wonderful as she had hoped, shackled to a new burden of duties and responsibilities that may be too much for her growing shoulders to bear. She was in her own way every bit as lonely as Eleanor.

Eleanor cut across the girl’s sobs and asked, “What exactly did he say?” Since William had asked her to find out if something was wrong with Anne she doubted he would have said anything cruel to the girl. This was probably a misunderstanding, combined with a large dose of shattered illusions.

Anne hiccoughed and sniffed again. “He said he would leave me alone until I am older.”

“Well there you go; that is precisely what he meant. If our king hates someone he is not shy about telling them clearly, take it from someone who knows.”

“But he will still be ignoring me and everyone will know and laugh at me, and I’ll still have no friends. Last night was really horrible, but being laughed at everywhere I go will be worse - I don’t want to be like queen Elise.” More noisy sobs ensued.

Eleanor sighed. What a mess this was, a mess she didn’t really want to be involved in at all. A part of this, the main part Eleanor surmised, was the quintessential problem faced by political wives and there was no real solution; ignored or not either way you lost. Either you were forced to submit to the sexual whims of your husband or you watched as he chased after other women; one was horribly invasive and carried the threat of pregnancy, the other was humiliating to varying degrees. Only a few were unfortunate enough to end up a laughing stock because of their husband’s antics, just as only a handful ended up totally ignored. Queen Elise was something of a legend, precisely because her fate had been unusual.

Queen Elise was famous for being married to king Sven of Denmark, a man who had fathered somewhere in the region of thirty bastards that he cared to acknowledge while never getting around to obtaining a legitimate heir, instead letting the throne pass to his younger brother’s son. He had claimed his wife resembled the back end of a cow. Sven was notorious during his time for his excessive lust; he would chase any woman who caught his eye, regardless of who she was. He had made no effort whatsoever to keep his countless affairs discreet, and just about the whole world had known what he had thought of his unfortunate wife. Even now, nearly a hundred years later, people were still sniggering. The royal family tree of Denmark was still a complex mess today because of Sven’s energetic hobby.

Eleanor searched furiously for something likely to cheer Anne up, anything. The sooner Anne stopped crying the sooner Eleanor could make a run for it without feeling too guilty, leaving someone more qualified to handle the rest. She had to say something to fill the gap; still wracking her brains she began to speak as slowly as she dared, “Um, well … you see … my father is …” Inspiration struck; the honest truth. “ He has no bastards.” Well, there had been a few rumours here and there but nothing much, more the kind of thing people invented to fill a gap. The only persistent tale had centred on a little boy who had died before his third birthday.

On a roll Eleanor found something else to offer. “How many of his past mistresses have you heard of?”

Anne frowned, still sniffling slightly. “None.”

“Exactly.” All that meant was her father was very good at keeping things quiet, but Eleanor was willing to leave Anne to interpret it how she wanted. Even if Anne saw past the surface it was still good news, in a way. People had to have a reason to laugh; the king never gave them one.

Anne pulled herself together and wiped her face on the sleeve of her dress. “So no one will laugh at me, then?” She looked at Eleanor with big, hopeful eyes that reminded Eleanor of a puppy begging for scraps.

“Yes, that is right. You will soon settle in, and then you will feel much better.”

“Can you get my maids back, please? I cannot go down looking like this.” She gestured at her tearstained face.

That was the invitation Eleanor had been hoping for.





Once the maids had been located and sent back up Eleanor started to head back to her guest house, thinking to find Fulk and hear that story of his. A few paces short of her front door a man in royal livery jogged up to her, bowed respectfully and said, “Your highness, the king your father requested to see you if you returned before he left. He will be in the stables, if he has not left yet.”

Left with no choice Eleanor thanked the man and let him escort her to the stables for her second royal audience of the morning.

William was just about to leave, mounted up on his favourite horse with his falcon on his fist. A cluster of hung-over looking noblemen were also mounted up and ready to accompany him. He kneed his horse away from the group so he could speak to Eleanor privately. “Well?” he demanded.

Eleanor made her report succinctly in a tone pitched so it would not carry beyond their ears, “She thinks you hate her; she is homesick and lonely.”

“Hate her? Why does she think that?”

Eleanor’s eyes moved to the audience, although they could not easily hear and they looked innocent enough she knew their ears were straining to overhear. “It has something to do with the time you promised her,” she said circumspectly.

William frowned. “I see. That explains a bit.” He stroked his falcon with the tip of an index finger, smoothing down the feathers where the breeze ruffled them. After a while he looked to the group of men and called, “Falconer, take my bird for me. The hunt is cancelled; I have business to attend to.”

The king’s personal falconer came forward and reached up a gloved hand to take the jesses and encourage the bird to move over. Freed from the need to provide a perch for his bird William dismounted, handing his horse over to his groom. He directed Eleanor to walk with him back towards the keep. “You are surprised,” he stated. “If left this will fester; that would be … a pity.”

As they neared the royal nursery he stopped walking and said, “You need not follow past here. I shall have the details of your new manors sent down along with the design for your badge. Remember, the manors are dependant on your good behaviour; disappoint me and you lose them.” He gave her no chance to reply; without a backwards glance he walked off, slightly faster than was his usual pace, Eleanor thought.

[zelda12]

Well now we get an insight into Williams inner shell. The way he's treating anne almost makes him seem nice... almost. Well at least Eleanor gets to have a little manor where she can cavort with Fulk away from Trempwick.

[frogbeastegg]

The badge proved every bit as odd as Eleanor had expected. A single green berry banded with the characteristic yellow stripes with a gold crown about its middle, probably intended to make it look less like a boring green blob. Well, there was nothing she could do and now her father had decided on it she had to use it.

Fulk was going to be ecstatic.





It took most of the day for Fulk and Eleanor to get chance to talk alone. In the end Eleanor had to resort to a family favourite; the garden. She declared she wanted a bit of air. Because it was a cool day Aveline wanted to stay inside and Juliana was trapped with her. Fulk ‘escorted’ her over to the garden and left her at the gate before looping around and making his way unseen to the back wall where he could climb over.

They would not be disturbed because Eleanor had told the guards she wished to be alone. As long as they kept their voices down no one could hear them talking, so the guards would swear she had been alone if anyone asked. They made their way to a bench near the middle of the garden and sat down. As they were side by side Fulk speculated about risking putting an arm around her but he decided against it. It might be safe in every meaning of the word but with the story he was going to tell it would not be a good idea.

He began his story with a question. “You remember how I told you about Cicely?” Eleanor confirmed she did with a nod. “Well, as I said that ended when I left for France with my father. After we crossed the narrow sea we made our way to a friend of my father’s in Evrout. He had a small fief at Tancarville, near the coast where we landed. Visiting him was one of the reasons my father had been eager to make the trip; the itch to do a bit of fighting and make some money was only a secondary reason.”

“Mathieu de Tancarville and my father had fought side by side in their youth, in one of the previous wars. They had become fast friends. On my second day in his castle I heard someone crying; I investigated, reasoning I’d nothing better to do. I found a girl sat in the small garden, crying because her pet cat had been run over by a cart and killed. Her name was Maude.” It had been years since he had said that name aloud, and now it felt unfamiliar on his lips. “She was de Tancarville’s only child. He doted on her; poor chap had lost all his other children in infancy. Being the gallant type I am I couldn’t just leave her so I went over and talked to her.”

“Was she beautiful?” asked Eleanor. It was clear she thought she could see why Fulk had remained; in light of his Cicely story he couldn’t blame her.

Fulk remembered golden hair, delicate blue eyes set in an oval face, a mouth that, as the troubadours said, just begged to be kissed. “Yes, she was,” he agreed. Eleanor looked worried, as if she thought he preferred Maude to her. He reassured her, “There’s no comparison between the two of you. She was cute and mild tempered, whereas you’re…” He shrugged.

Eleanor produced her graceful frown, just as he’d hoped. “What? I am what?”

“Annoying,” he said with a disarming grin.

“Thank you, turbot face,” grumbled Eleanor.

“My pleasure, oh dewdrop of delight. Now, back to Maude. I kept talking away, using my nice noble’s manners and all. She barely said a word, even when she did it was no more than two or three strung together. I think the longest thing she said was, ‘My name is Maude.’ I did get a few smiles, and because of that I kept going. She had a nice smile, and I could see she was cheering up a bit. Eventually I took her back inside.”

“That’s when we both found out who the other was; you can imagine the scene – her father thought I was some dreck chasing after his pretty daughter and mine wondered what I’d picked up this time.” Fulk winced slightly. “Ah yes, that was fun.” Maude’s father had threatened to geld him with a blunt knife while his own had complained that one day Fulk was going to get himself killed by a wronged husband.

Eleanor laughed. “I see you come out as the villain in both parent’s eyes.”

“I know – it was so unfair,” whined Fulk overemotionally. His face set into an unconsciously hard expression as the story began in earnest. “Things calmed down when they found out what had happened. We stayed at Tancarville for just over a week. I spent most of my time with Maude, partly because she sought me out, partly because I liked trying to get her to smile. By the time I rode out with my father’s few soldiers and de Tancarville’s levy Maude and I had become quite close.”

“We joined up with one of the local count’s armies, patrolling for French raiders and doing a bit of raiding ourselves. I was disgusted; there was no real fighting and no chances for glory. We were out for the best part of three weeks, finally returning to Tancarville when the army broke up with it’s job done.”

“We’d been back for a few weeks when de Tancarville took me to one side and told me he’d been trying to find Maude a good match; she was fifteen and of an age to marry even to his protective eyes. He had promised that he would give her a say in matters, I told you he was soppy for her, and that she’d kept refusing everyone. Then he stunned me; he said she’d asked him to consider me. He said he’d never heard her string so many words together at once in all her life. He liked what he’d seen of me and he was willing to overlook my bastard’s status because of his friendship with my father. All I had to do was earn a knighthood so Maude wouldn’t be disgraced by the match; nobles don’t marry bastard nothings. A bit of status combined with the promise of my future and my skills would be enough just enough to enable to me to marry into the minor mobility.”

“So, we were betrothed. She loved me and I …” he sighed, some of the hard set of his face easing as he thought back to the boy he had been, “and I loved her with all the fervour of a seventeen year old boy.” He glanced sidelong at Eleanor, uncertain as to how she would react to that. Nothing. Her face was well schooled into neutrality. Already he was losing her. His heart ached and in that moment he was not sure what he would do if she discarded him.

He resolutely fixed his gaze back at the garden ahead of him and continued, his earlier briskness of speech augmented now by a touch of defensiveness. “I wasn’t too happy with waiting; any knight can make another and I was surrounded with them. I’d always assumed I’d be knighted, and I’d always craved the extra status to counter my parentage somewhat. Suddenly that knighthood became an obstacle; it was all that stood between me and what I wanted – Maude, land that would undoubtedly be mine, respectability, the kind of future I’d have had if I’d been legitimate.”

“I kept asking my father to knight me or recommend me to another who would but he always refused, counselling prudence. I was too young, he said, another year and he’d be happy to speak to someone on my behalf. A year would give me time to grow and mature, to make a bit of a name for myself and for the details of my roundabout inheritance to be settled. Maude was a heiress but I should bring something to the match myself, he said. He was still negotiating with his liege to let his land pass to me as a new tenant, with a bit more time I would be his heir in all but name. I didn’t want to hear about time, or prudence or patience. I wanted it all now. We quarrelled; I remember my exact words.” Fulk stopped. When he continued his voice was low, “I told him ‘I will be a knight, with or without your help, faithless bastard.’”

“That was too much; when they left to join the next army they left me behind to cool my heels. I was too arrogant to see anything other than a slight to my skills, to see anything other than them holding me back and denying me my chance. The castle was fairly empty; most of the men were gone.”

Here it came, the bit which still reverberated in his life now, the indirect reason he was telling Eleanor his story instead of continuing to leave it to rot in a dark corner. He spoke dispassionately, as if he were telling of events that had happened to someone else, “One day Maude and I found ourselves alone in the solar; her maid was sympathetic to young love and all that so she vanished for a bit. Aside from that day in the garden we had never been left alone, there was always someone watching from a discreet distance. We’d exchanged a few chaste kisses and the like but being watched is very off-putting. That was the first time there had ever been any real passion involved and it was like throwing a lit torch on a bonfire of oil soaked wood.”

He paused, not needing to say more. He wondered if Eleanor now feared him and what he might do, just as he feared himself. He hoped not. He did not want to see her keeping him at arms length, always afraid the same thing might happen with her.

He couldn’t leave the story there, but to continue was only to get more damning. Regardless he had to go on. “Afterwards we panicked, her more than me but that was understandable. We worked through things; it wouldn’t matter – we would fake the bloodstain when we did marry so no one would be any the wiser that we’d … pre-empted things. Thanks to my plentiful experience with Cicely the whole coitus interruptus thing was nearly second nature to me so I had remembered that at least. It was unlikely there would be any inconveniently timed babies to complicate matters, but just to be sure I would get her some of the herbal tea my mother swore by. So, you see in the end it didn’t matter – no one but us would know.”

It was obvious Eleanor had no idea what half of what he’d just said meant. He wasn’t going to explain; there are some things you don’t talk about with princesses you have an inappropriate love for. At least Eleanor was never likely to get religious on him and point out it was a sin to impede conception, unlike Maude. Her poor confessor would have had to sit through her telling a story he had heard many times before from many people.

“Yes, well I think that maid knew – she damn well vanished the next day too, and the same thing happened again even though I had sworn to myself it would not.” Fulk flushed a deep red. “I was not very well acquainted with the concept of self-control. She was nervous and rather reluctant at being left with me but that soon wore off; a single kiss can spark things off if you get it right, though it honestly was not my intent.” No, this was how he had learned. “The third day-”

“I can guess,” interrupted Eleanor. She had gone slightly pink.

Fulk shook his head. She may as well have the full, unflattering truth. “No, there was one minor difference from the third day on – I stopped trying to control myself and started planning ahead. On the third day I showed up with a bit of fleece and some vinegar and the intention of seducing her.” Explaining to Maude exactly what they were for had been an unforgettable experience; they had both nearly died of embarrassment. “The maid was on our side, I was enjoying myself and I was finally getting somewhere with the idea of pleasing my partner too because I had a reason to care. Besides, we were to be married so it didn’t really matter what we were doing. The only reason we weren’t married already was because everyone was holding me back. That made it their fault, not mine. I had tried to be honourable and they had prevented me; any guilt or blame was theirs, or so I believed.”

“Our fathers were gone for about a week and a half before they sent a man back to fetch me; a sizeable French raiding party had been sighted heading towards Fauville. I was to go out and join them so I could experience a proper fight. Maude was not too happy, but I told her I would return a knight and then we could marry. She gave me a sword that had belonged to her grandfather, the blade I still carry, and told me to use it to win my spurs. I armed up and rode off with high hopes and great dreams.” His tone alone told that those dreams had turned to ashes.

“Our force caught up with the French one just outside Fauville. Since there were only a couple of hundred per side it was more a skirmish than a real battle. I was with the tiny contingent of knights and other heavy cavalry, mounted up and praying devoutly for the glory of a cavalry charge, to sweep down on the French and crush them beneath my horse’s hooves in a wave of glory that could win my spurs and make me famous. The archers skirmished a bit, and the cavalry waited. The infantry lines joined and still the cavalry waited. It was too much; I thought we were never going to see action. I could see my dreams fading away with each Frenchman someone else killed.”

Oh Jesú, the further he got into this the worse it grew. Time to tell her he had lied to her, and to explain why the spymaster had called him the hero of Fauville. “Remember how I told you the story of this battle before? I said a reckless young fool seeking glory started the charge alone. That fool was me. I knew the others would follow me, not wanting to be left out of the glory themselves, and I thought I would get the glory of being the man to lead the charge. I believed the charge would win the battle, and so I would have the glory of being responsible for our victory too. I targeted a group of infantry just in front of us; they were being held in reserve and protecting the right flank.”

“I was shot down by a crossbowman some twenty odd yards from the enemy line, my horse dead and a bolt stuck clean through my thigh. The others had begun to follow me but they too rode into crossbow bolts. There were not many archers in support of our target infantry but then there were mayhap thirty horsemen, so even a few bolts made a big difference. It had been a poor and disorganised charge to begin with and the ground was so muddy the horses had difficulty keeping their feet. It did not take much to put an end to the charge I had begun. That is why our leader had not ordered us forward himself.”

“As the enemy infantry rushed to destroy our beleaguered cavalry my father appeared to protect me. I didn’t know it until someone told me afterwards but he had instantly detached and followed me with the aim of bringing me back. Cavalry don’t do well when they are stopped and mobbed by infantry; I watched as my father was pulled from his saddle and hacked to pieces.”

Fulk smiled bitterly. “The remaining cavalry regrouped and managed a proper charge; the infantry broke and ran. Someone hauled me from the field to the surgeon’s tent for treatment but no one would have anything to do with me after my stupidity. All I had left was my armour and the few bits and pieces in our tent; my father’s corpse was picked clean by looters. I didn’t even go to his funeral – I was in a deep fever because of my own wound. I nearly died.” Miserably he admitted, “Sometimes I wish I had.” Eleanor didn’t say anything; he glanced at her again and found she was looking at him with what might be sympathy.

From that he drew the nerve to finish, to recount the worst part. “Maude’s father was the first person I saw once the fever broke. He told me I was no longer welcome in his lands, the betrothal was cancelled and I was lucky he didn’t wring my neck. I knew then my future had died along with my father. I was just the penniless bastard of a minor knight with some outdated armour, no employment, no friends and a leg wound. The agreement with my father’s liege had not been finalised, and in any case I had proved myself to be undesirable as a vassal, so his fief would go to someone else. I couldn’t go home; it would mean telling everyone what I had done. I couldn’t bring myself to send a message to my mother, not even to tell her I was alive. She must believe me dead.”

“I decided I would go and earn my fortune, get my knighthood and then return for Maude. Once I had restored my fortunes I could contact my mother and she would be overjoyed to see how well I had done for myself. Everything would be alright as long as I could call myself Sir Fulk. Maude and I were betrothed; despite what he said her father would not break that contract. He would never force her to marry against her will, and she would wait for me. With my skills as a warrior and with my education it would be easy for me to find a place with a lord who had not heard of me, then I could soon prove myself to be a desirable vassal. Nothing could go wrong.”

“About two and a half weeks after the battle Maude turned up in my tent; she had come out to find me even though her father had forbidden it. She had heard about the battle, she was not happy but she needed me. Her father had arranged a marriage for her to one of the local landowners; her own judgment had proven so poor her father felt obliged to rescue the situation. Between the known fool and the unknown quantity she chose me. She begged me to save her, to stand on my rights and marry her before she was forced to marry this landowner.” Fulk swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. If he hadn’t lost Eleanor by now then this would be the proving point. It got no worse.

“I refused,” he admitted hoarsely. “I would not let her marry a penniless bastard. I said it was for the sake of her name,” Fulk’s head bowed, “It was for the sake of my own pride. I didn’t want to be overshadowed by her. Before I had not cared, but now I had nothing except my armour while she was the same.”

He looked up again and said urgently, “I truly did not believe she would marry, if I had things would have been different. I was too stuck in my own dream, too stubborn, too insistent on saving my pride. She did not ask again, if she had maybe I would have believed this new match was something other than a bluff.” He remembered the way she had crumpled, the way she had been so hopeless as she had left. He remembered his insistence that everything would be fine; she would not marry and he would be a knight, then he would come back for her. She had known he would not. She must have thought he didn’t want her any more, perhaps even going so far as to think he had been using her all along.

“I heard about the wedding four days later. I never had the courage to find out what had happened to her. She was supposed to be a virgin bride. I did not hear of any scandal surrounding the marriage, but ...” He let himself trail off, not needing to say more. The one person most likely to take exception to her unexpected experience would be the one best placed to make her life a living hell, the only one nearly guaranteed to find out. Her husband. Some women would have had found a credible excuse, but not Maude. Deception was out of the question too; she had never had a deceptive bone in her body. Maude would never think to get her husband so drunk he could barely remember getting married, let alone the fine detail, then splotch a bit of blood from a cut on the sheet.

“When I had healed enough I left in search of an employer; I ended up with Aidney. I have spent most of my life since then trying to become something worth the cost of saving, since the price has already been paid.” Until recently he’d not had much success.

There was a long silence; Fulk waited tensely for her to say something, anything. Eventually she spoke up, “All of this was eight years ago, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you still expect to behave like the boy you were?”

“I don’t want to risk repeating the same mistakes again.”

“If you never test yourself how can you know if you have learned control or not? Or would you rather always live in fear based on the suspicion that you might not have? Currently loving someone does rather appear to be the death knell of the relationship, assuming there is one there in the first place.” Eleanor cocked her head slightly, looking at him curiously. “So what do you plan to do now?”

That could be understood as an invitation; it certainly was not the disgust, abhorrence or rejection he had expected. Fulk was so relieved his worst fears had proven groundless that he felt giddy. He knew what he wanted to do - the same thing he had wanted to do the night before, and too many times to count before that. They would not get many opportunities like this, alone and safe even from Trempwick’s spying eyes. Oh sod it - why not? She was right; if he never tried he would never know and now she was warned. Surely one kiss couldn’t hurt, not if he watched himself, and Eleanor would be watching too. She was not Maude to stand there almost helplessly, not realising what was happening until it was already too late and they were both swept away by desire. No, she’d probably knee him in the groin if he so much as tweaked any part of her clothing.

He slid up on the bench and shifted the angle he was sitting at slightly so he was facing her. His left hand took hers and clasped it lightly. He sat looking at her for a bit, trying to decide on the best way to approach this. They had so little time every instant had to be special. He hopped to his feet, pulling her up as well. “Now, where were we?” he murmured. “Ah yes.” He stepped closer to her, one had on her waist and the other on the side of her face repeating their pose from the night before.

Once again he leaned down but this time he didn’t change his mind at the last instant; he kissed her delicately on the lips, testing at first but then with increasing confidence and passion. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her head while the other went round to the small of her back, pulling her closer still. After a small delay Eleanor’s arms went around his neck and she leaned into his embrace.

Finally they broke for air. They stared at each other, rather stunned. Eleanor chewed her lower lip slightly, thinking. “Are you supposed to do that with your tongue?”

“Not according to the Pope. Didn’t you like it?”

“I am not quite sure … perhaps we could try again?” A pretext. She liked it; he was sure.

Fulk was only too happy to oblige.

A few minutes later he pushed Eleanor away from him slightly. “We should get back.” As much as he was enjoying himself Fulk was skating on the edge of seeing if she really would knee him in the groin if he tried something a bit more advanced. Better to err on the side of caution and stop now.

They returned separately, Eleanor by the garden gate, Fulk by the back wall and a long, circular walk back. He returned to the guest house fully half an hour after Eleanor. As far as the world was concerned they had parted ways as Eleanor entered the garden.







So there you go, Fulk’s story … or should I say the main part of it? He does have eight years of missing time, and seventeen years before this. If you’ve been gathering your hints and clues you will probably have guessed much of this already. It’s one of those subtle things, but less subtle than the rest.

Fulk's POV there is one of those very rare occasions where I'm painfully aware of being female and writing a male POV with not real clue of what I'm doing. Yes, well I suppose it is safe enough to assume that at least one man out there is like that ...

Page 187 and they finally kissed :p

Nice theory, zelda, but she'd never manage to get away from Trempwick to investigate her new manors, let alone cavort with Fulk. Even when she's off on a mission he's spying on her.

[Ludens]

How many people are still reading this? On paradox forum I'm getting something like 6 replies per part and people are tied in knots with suspense, but here things have dropped off. You know frogs, always curious especially when it comes to readerships.

I still read it, even when I do not visit the Org. In fact I read every part twice. It makes wonderful reading for when you are halfway through a boring computer practical waiting for the computer to come up with the results of the umpteenth genome-scan. I do wonder why there are so little people reading this, but perhaps it's not the quality. It's the quantity. I've just worked my way through five days worth of instalments and my eyes are starting to hurt. I guess that if you have left the forum for a while, the sheer size of the text you need to read is discouraging.

Anyway, things are looking well. I didn't spot any typos and the characters are getting more interesting with every new post. I didn't like the love scene in the nursery though. I guess it's the swinging perspective. It is so hard to identify yourself with a character when the character keeps changing ~:D .

[zelda12]

I've been reading it avidly. Even though the daunting task of reading a week and halfs worth did make my eyes and head hurt. I don't often reply now as theres only so many ways I can say Brilliant I really liked so and so, and what happened here and here were really good plot twists etc. Plus I leave all the critiquing buisness to Ludens and Axeknight as they're a lot better at it than me.

[Monk]

...i'm going to make a note, never stop reading this for two weeks then come back to catch up...my eyes hurt so much... must sleep

But dispite having a lot of posts i had to go through this is still a pretty good read. the only problem is...i'm too tired to think of any comments worth while...(another note: don't start reading late at night and expect to be done anytime soon ) but, maybe a simple "good job" or "keep up the great work" will do? i hope so...cuz that's all i got

now...sleep...

[Axeknight]

“Are you supposed to do that with your tongue?”

“Not according to the Pope.

Fantastic, loved that bit

Zelda, thanks for the compliment, but I'm rubbish at critiquing. I'm just trying to add my thoughts, and trying to be funny but ending up just irritating.

[zelda12]

Well you do it better than I can, and that is a fact.

Anyway at least Froggy can't complain about not enough posts here anymore.

[Kommodus]

Yes, I've been reading it consistently as well - and I think there are probably quite a few others here who, like me, read but don't offer comments. The Org in general, and in particular the Mead Hall, seems to have quieted down somewhat, since PBM dropped off. Still, this is a good story, and it's kept my interest. I'm just not often predisposed to offer literary critique.

You'd probably get more feedback if you also posted it on sites where literature is the primary focus (like fanfiction.net). A lot of people here will enjoy the stories, but stick to talking about the games.

[frogbeastegg]

I wasn't exactly complaining about a lack of posts; I was more curious to see if some of the 'old' readers who hadn't posted in a while were still here. None the less this has been fascinating.

People actually get eyestrain while reading this? Believe it or not I write it, then read each bit about 3 times consecutively before I post it and once after posting it. Before I wrote that last part I read the whole thing from start to finish in one sitting. I must be lucky. :is glad:

The issue of the story being hard to keep up with is one that I have pondered several times. Simply there's nothing I can do. My current estimate is 400 pages; at the current rate that is about another 3 months worth, making about half a year total. I can't really slow it down or it will take forever to finish. Also there is the problem of being forgetting things if the story drags on for too long.

Ludens, the swinging perspective was the only way the scene could ever be done. I've known that for a long time; that's the scene I was talking about way back when they were in John's castle, the scene where I said I had to do dual POVs and get it working. Working it like most of the other scenes where you only get the odd thought from both characters wouldn't work; it had to be the in-depth version of both characters. I didn't find it to be a problem, reading or writing, but then I'm in a unique position here. I've seen some books I enjoyed do the same thing; I guess it depends on how you identify with the characters. I think we said before that we tend to work a bit differently as readers, didn’t we? You tend to latch on to one or two characters in great detail whereas I prefer to swing between several characters in slightly less detail, if I recall correctly.

A literary forum, Kommodus? I've never found one; I did a few searches but I think I must have used the wrong term. :checks fanfiction.net: Hmm, this doesn't fit anywhere as it's not really fanfic of any variety.

:yawns: I'm off before I go to sleep on my keyboard. To quickly reply to the assorted other comments even the occasional 'neat, keep going' is a good thing - it shows there is an interest. If the topic starts to resemble a graveyard I start thinking I scared my readers off. Maybe you can arrange to comment in shifts?

[DemonArchangel]

Froggy, please bundle all the chapters into a biiig book once you're done.

[Kommodus]

A literary forum, Kommodus? I've never found one; I did a few searches but I think I must have used the wrong term. :checks fanfiction.net: Hmm, this doesn't fit anywhere as it's not really fanfic of any variety.

Yes, but the good folks over at fanfiction.net thought of that and created a section for original fiction. I can't remember where it is but I know I've seen it.

Of course, there may be sites that fit the "original fiction" category better than fanfiction.net, but that one is pretty popular.

Correction: I just remembered, the original fiction in fanfiction.net was split out to a different website some time ago. I think it's originalfiction.net.

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick had been looking for Eleanor that morning but had not been able to locate her. His afternoon had been taken up with business so by the time he found her it was time for them to join the crowds in the main hall. He didn’t seem concerned with time keeping; as soon as he met Eleanor in her guest house he threw his mother out of the room, shut the door and demanded, “Where were you?” Eleanor hadn’t seem him this angry since she brought Fulk back to the manor.

Carefully she replied, “I have been here all day, except for a brief time when I went to get some air.”

“Where?” he demanded again.

“In the garden.”

He said flatly, “You will not go there again.”

“I do not-”

“We will not repeat this exercise again, dear Nell,” once again he twisted the ‘dear Nell’ into a sarcastic, wounding barb, “you will stay where I can find you easily.” When he used that tone of voice there was no arguing, not if you had any interest in your personal comfort for a few weeks. He glared at her for a moment to be sure his point had sunk in. “And now we shall go to dinner, come.” As they made the trip over to the main hall she reflected that she much preferred the more relaxed version of the spymaster, the one she had only seen these last few days.





Trempwick remained cool throughout the first part of dinner; he was sparing with his attention, he barely spoke and tension hung in the air. Eleanor felt wretched; she wanted him to return to the affable person he had proved to be these last few days. She liked it when he was kind to her, she almost craved his benevolence. It was so rare, addictive; it filled a gap she had not even known existed.

She barely touched the lamprey pie Trempwick had placed on their platter, instead watching it cool and congeal. She was not used to all this rich food, and the same could be said of much of court life. It had been a pleasant change at first but now she only wanted to leave. Too much rich food, too much pageantry, too much show, too much wasted time, too many people, the need to play proper princess much of the time, the ever present threat of the king, the way her brother steadfastly ignored her – the list went on and on.

She addressed the silent, ominous figure next to her. “When will we return home, master?”

“Home?”

She clarified, “To Woburn.”

Trempwick’s face lit up with a genuine smile, one which made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Many would say this is your home, dear Nell. I am … flattered you think otherwise.” This ‘Dear Nell’ had regained the gentle hint of liking. “I thought you were enjoying yourself?”

“It is all …” she groped for the right words, “too much. I do not belong here.”

“But you do belong at Woburn?” He seemed immensely pleased by this.

“More than I do here,” she hedged. She didn’t exactly fit there either, but the sense of being out of place was much less.

“We shall leave soon, Wednesday at the latest. We shall not attend the coronation unless you wish to, or if we cannot avoid it. Four more days, sweet Nell, four more at the most.” Trempwick prodded the cold pie with his spoon; he wrinkled his nose in distaste. “You have barely eaten, not hungry?”

Eleanor shook her head, “Not really.”

Further along the table William stood up; the hall dropped into an expectant hush, thinking he was about to speak. Instead he extended his hand to Anne and then together they disappeared up the stairs leading to the royal suite without so much as a word of explanation. The tranquillity broke, replaced by much nudging and winking, and the more daring made quips about newlyweds and their insatiable passions.

Trempwick leaned to Eleanor and said softly, “Tell me, beloved Nell, truth or deception?”

Eleanor cast her mind back to her morning’s work, factoring in what she knew of both parties, but mostly what she knew of her father. “Deception, I think,” she answered doubtfully. “It is hard to say for certain. I would not be surprised if they were playing chess up there but there is room for doubt.”

Trempwick considered this carefully. “Find out for me, sweet Nell.” His teeth flashed in a quick grin and he became more light-hearted again. “Remember my hobby; looking after beleaguered princesses. Since you do not require saving at this point in time I shall have to turn my attention elsewhere or I shall get bored. You are, as ever, my rescuee of choice, so scream if you need me and I shall drop Anne and come running.”

“Nonsense.”

“Ah, but is it, dear Nell? I have been rescuing you for years now and it has never quite lost its appeal.” He smiled at her in a somewhat odd way before sobering and saying, “I hear you got a badge today, and about time too.”

She still hadn’t broken the news to Fulk. Crossly she told herself that if he didn’t like having a gooseberry stuck on his tunic then it was entirely his own fault – he had started the gooseberry thing, and he had passed it on to Anne. “Yes, it is a little … unusual.”

“It matches the owner, then. I cannot wait to see it.” He looked away from her, at the hall full of people and the trio of jesters capering on stilts in the middle of the hall. His scorn was apparent. “Let us go now, dear Nell. There is no point in remaining; we can amuse ourselves back at your guesthouse with none of this … inanity.”





From his usual place at one of the lower tables Fulk watched as Eleanor and the spymaster slipped out, pausing only to collect Aveline to act as chaperone. Even the spymaster had to be cautious, but Fulk would have changed places with him in a heartbeat. Trempwick would simply tell his mother to go away once they were safely behind closed doors, leaving him alone with the princess but respectable in the eyes of the world. It mattered little that the spymaster would behave as he always did; the opportunity was what Fulk hungered for.

Whatever they were doing it should be him with Eleanor, not Trempwick. Him talking, him playing games, him making her laugh, him spending time with her.

Looking forward Fulk could see no certain way to repeat their earlier opportunity, no way to be sure they would be safe. Behind every closed door there could be listening ears, in every empty stretch of ground there were spying eyes. Even silence could be damning; people generally didn’t sit in the same room saying and doing nothing. Their only real hope lay in whatever missions they were sent on, and even then nothing was assured. Any time Trempwick knew they were alone together he would be extra vigilant. It would only take the faintest of doubts for the spymaster to act; they must always be above suspicion.

Until their arrival at court it had not mattered much if Trempwick was spying on them; the only thing that had needed to remain secret had been their solitary fencing lesson. Now they had to hide two conversations, one gift of a necklace, one gift of a hairpin and a garden interlude which promised great things assuming they ever got the chance to do it again, and all of this from just three days.

Opportunity was not the only issue; there was also the fear of Trempwick seeing a smile at the wrong time, an unguarded look exchanged between them or any one of those thousands of telltale signs. Things always change when feelings are clearly expressed, it was a part of why he had kept silent for so long. Their behaviour to each other was forever altered, if only because now they were trying to seem as if nothing was different.

All he had done in that garden was briefly glimpse what he longed for, a glimpse that would now torture him while he searched for a way to do it again. He would do anything to have her in his arms again, but, perhaps because of that, he still didn’t entirely trust himself. There was far too much at stake; one tiny falter and they would both die. He might not be the boy any more, and Eleanor was no Maude, but still …

“My, you are maudlin tonight,” commented Juliana, a bite of capon halfway to her mouth.

Fulk said nothing, lost in remembering the feel of Eleanor’s lips beneath his own.

He would find a way.





Trempwick stared at the gooseberry and crown design illustrated on the bit of parchment Eleanor had handed to him when they arrived back at her room. “I shall get it changed for you,” he said finally. After some deliberation he suggested, “A unicorn; I think you will find the unexpected joke pleasing. Maidens catching their unicorns are always supposed to be demure, whereas you are decidedly not. So, you shall be declaring what you are and misleading people with what you are not, your cover personality displayed to the world and not a one shall understand it. I do love the irony there.” He chuckled. “Yes, most fitting.”

Eleanor was not entirely happy with Trempwick’s idea but she knew better than to say so. A unicorn would represent a significant improvement over a gooseberry, if nothing else. A stab of inspiration caused her to add acrimoniously, “Make sure it has a crown around its neck, hampering and choking the poor beast even as the world clucks admiringly at how impressive it looks.” At his enquiring look she explained, “The proper princess, strangling the real person.”

“Very nice,” said Trempwick approvingly. “I shall speak to the king, if not tonight then tomorrow.” His face brightened as another meaning to the badge occurred to him. “Unicorn horn is supposed to guard against any poison because the beast is so pure, most amusing. Now, what say you to a game of chess?”

Eleanor’s reply was less than wholehearted. “If you wish, master.” Oh God, not that accursed game again!

“I shall have to see if I can get your game to a better standard, sweet Nell,” said Trempwick. He apparently thought he was doing her some huge favour, even though he knew she hated the game.

Eleanor started to unpin her hair; she may as well lose in comfort. Before she had pulled the second pin lose Trempwick said, “No, leave it.” He stood and picked up the removed pin, then stood behind her and delicately replaced it. “I prefer your hair like this.” And that was a small unexpected thunderbolt from above; he had never complained before, and he was partly responsible for her always having her hair loose anyway. He had never provided a maid to help her with it. Prefer it how? As a weapons cache yes, her hair did work nicely like this but that made little sense, as they were not going back to the hall. It almost sounded as if the spymaster liked the way it looked, as in honestly liked it. Call her suspicious but something was going on here; Trempwick was after something.

Pin replaced Trempwick stepped back. “I shall go find us a chess set.”





“Here you go, bodyguard,” sneered Trempwick as he dangled a bit of parchment in front of Fulk the next morning. “Dear Nell’s new badge. Go on, take a look.”

Fulk did as the spymaster ordered. It was a unicorn, stood still with one foot lifted in the pose called ‘passant’ by the heralds. Unlike the usual design for unicorns this one looked more like a white horse with a horn stuck to its forehead; it had none of the curled, long hair at its knees and its tail was not that of a lion. Around the beast’s neck was a gold crown, worn like a collar.

“I trust you know the legends?” asked Trempwick archly.

“Of course.”

Trempwick laughed. “Remember them well, bodyguard; I might need Nell to catch a unicorn one day. So much as a dream of a single hair, bodyguard, so much as a dream.”

“Do you have reason for this latest threat or are you just keeping in practise?” inquired Fulk with a calmness he didn’t feel.

“I know what you are, bodyguard. Little more than a beast, I do think. I will not let you use Nell like you used so many others.” Fulk would argue the used; as far as he was concerned only Cicely fell into that category.

Fulk forced himself to smile sardonically. “Since you’ve been so busy poking about in my past I’m shocked you’ve not noticed I’ve an eye for beauty. Dear Nell might be amusing but,” he shrugged carelessly, “I’ve never been one for romancing in the dark.” He wasn’t sure if the was misleading the spymaster or not; for good measure he added, “I like her in the same way I’d like a sister, and just like a sister the idea of seducing her makes me feel ill.”

Trempwick backhanded Fulk across the face, splitting his lip. “You will speak of her with more respect, bodyguard.”

Fulk dabbed blood away with the back of his hand; the spymaster hit hard, harder than Fulk would have thought possible. Beneath that dapper exterior lurked the trained muscles of a fighter. Fulk had never seen the spymaster practise, and from what he had gathered nor had Eleanor. Interesting. “I thought it best to make it clear you’re barking up the wrong tree – I’ve a liking for being alive.”

“Good.” Trempwick’s smile was nothing if not wolfish. “Dear Nell would get rather upset if I had to kill her pet; for reasons I cannot understand she likes you.”

“Like a brother, making us a happy little family.”

“Just so,” agreed Trempwick. “Go get your badge made, bodyguard.”








Not a bad idea, Demon. I shall try to remember.

Originalfiction.net ... :searches: found it. Thanks; I shall take a look around.

[zelda12]

“Let us go now, dear Nell. There is no point in remaining; we can amuse ourselves back at your guesthouse with none of this … inanity.”

inanity?


Sorry but its a shame to leave a great piece of writing with a simple typo.


About giving eyestrain it might be that Monk and myself read over a weeks worth of posts. Plus I have a dodgy screen.

[frogbeastegg]

:checks dictionary to see if she accidentally wrote a word which sounds similar but has a different meaning, aka the discrete/discreet, breeches/breaches thing all over again: Nope, I got it right. Inanity: senselessness; mental vacuity; emptiness; an insipid frivolous utterance.

It sounded posher than yet another repeat of 'stupidity'

Thanks anyway; with my track record of typos and mixed up words you can never be too careful

I have a nice flatscreen monitor now; I used to have a crap CRT but it kind of did a very mini explosion ... Ahem, yes, well flatscreen is supposed to be better for your eyes so maybe that's it?

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor spent the day trapped with Aveline and Juliana, sewing. She was not left alone except when she went to the privy. All her efforts to get away met with flat refusal and dire threats that the spymaster would be informed and he would be most displeased if she left without permission. She didn’t see Fulk at all.





Dinner proved to be the same as all the previous feasts. While she still enjoyed all the attention Trempwick lavished on her she was getting more than a little bored. Floating around in this protected little bubble with nothing much to do and no real need to think much of the time was numbing her mind and leaving her feeling sluggish and dull witted.

After the first hour things livened up unexpectedly. A noble and his escort of four men were ushered into the hall. The noble was well dressed in the latest French fashions and all four of his men wore spotless armour, polished until it reflected the torchlight and people in an ever shifting pattern of fire reds and deep blacks. All five of them had been completely disarmed. In the centre of the four soldiers stood a fifth man, but Eleanor couldn’t see his face or any identifying detail, so closely was he guarded.

The party made their way up the central space until they were just short of the high table; there they stopped. The nobleman stepped forward a few paces, then dropped to one knee before the king. He spoke in French, educated and refined. “My lord king, permit me to introduce myself. I am count Guillaume de Guines.” He waited for a reaction.

William sat up straight and raised his chin, shifting from relaxed diner to attentive king. “Then you had best speak up and explain why you are here. You have counted yourself amongst my enemies before now.” He answered in French, assuming the count would have demonstrated an ability to speak English if he understood the tongue.

Still kneeling Guillaume bowed his head again. “Sire, forgive my tardiness; I did intend to bring my gift and loyalty both on your wedding day. I am here to offer you my services, along with the loyalty and resources of Guines.” He looked to William for permission to rise; after a pause he received it.

He stood and continued in his elegant French, “Sire, in the hopes of proving my good intentions to you I bring not only my own person, but also a gift of sorts, a show of loyalty.”

He stepped to one side and indicated to his escort to do the same. The men rippled outwards like a flower opening its petals, revealing a man with bound hands in their midst. The man’s clothing had once been splendid but now it was torn and dirty, and he was rather ill-kempt. To her horror Eleanor found she recognised the prisoner instantly.

It was John.

De Guines identified his prisoner with a flourish; “I bring your grace’s traitor, the duke of York.”

A ripple ran around the hall, sharp intakes of breath followed by murmurings of surprise and speculation. William’s hand dropped to the tabletop with a thump and he stared with his mouth partly open, the blood draining from his face. His lips moved in an expression of disbelief, but no sound came out.

Beneath the table Eleanor clenched both her hands into fists, crushing handfuls of her dress, unable to tear her eyes away from her returned brother. Ice filled the pit of her stomach, numbing her emotionally in a different way to the earlier tedium but every bit as effectively. He was going to die, and once again she would find herself the target for her father’s rage. They were doomed.

It was John who reacted first, flinging himself to his knees and stretching his hands out in entreaty. “Father, please forgive me. I was misled, I-”

“Silence!” commanded William, his voice hard. “Clear the hall, everybody out – now! You,” he jabbed one finger at Hugh, “and you,” this time Trempwick, “and you,” the count, “stay. Everybody else out! Now! Put the prisoner in one of the gatehouse cells and mind he is guarded well.”

People began to file out, many of them taking whatever food they could easily carry. Trempwick said quietly to Eleanor, “Go back to your guest house and stay there; I will do what I can for your hopeless brother.”

She didn’t argue, but nor did she get very far. Anne hurried to her side and said, “This way.” She started towards the stairs leading up to the royal solar; when she noticed Eleanor wasn’t following she stopped and beckoned. This was not a good idea, it was walking right into the lion’s den but, Eleanor reasoned, this lion would come looking for her if she tried to hide. He would find her again, pulverise her again, they would be carrying her away again, and it would take her weeks to recover again. But not while Anne was around. William was a stickler for manners, and Eleanor doubted he wanted to scare his new wife witless by showing her what he was capable of. When Anne beckoned again Eleanor followed.





William waited until the hall was empty except for those he had specified. They congregated in small cluster near the high table. William schooled his features and demeanour into as close to calm as he could manage. Outwardly he was sure he looked dignified. Inwardly he was raging; anger, pain, fear, panic, self loathing and many more emotions, all boiling together in a seething mass that he thought would sear him to the very bone.

He fixed his gaze on the count and said, “Explain.”

De Guines bowed. “Sire. A few short weeks ago your son and those traitors aiding him landed in one of my ports. They came to me seeking aid, asking that I equipped them suitably to make their way to Paris to plead for the aid of the king. I have long been growing anxious about the intentions of the French king’s council of regents intentions towards me – I have enemies amongst them, men who remember and hold grudges for a disagreement long gone. These men would see me fall and my dynasty stripped of the land we have held for generations. When your son and his party turned up it seemed an omen from the Good Lord himself, bidding me to cast my lot in with yours. I had long been trying to find a way to approach you while being sure I could prove my honest intentions and this was a God given opportunity.”

William said, “We shall speak of your becoming my vassal later. You must be weary after your trip and it grows late; speak to the men guarding the main door and they will see you are taken care of.” The count bowed once again and left to do as he was told.

When the door clanged shut behind the count William slumped back down into his chair. “I executed Northumberland,” he said bleakly. It was the thing foremost on his mind; Northumberland was dead and because of that John’s fate was sealed.

"Sire,” began Trempwick, “he is your son.”

Prince Hugh raised an eyebrow and enquired, “And because of that he is above the law?”

Hugh resembled none of his siblings; he was tall, more golden than the usual sandy or dark, sturdily built with little grace but considerable strength. His eyes were hazel, the only one of William’s children not to inherit his blue. As was ever the case this made Hugh the subject of rumour, suggesting he was a bastard instead of the king’s trueborn son. William was probably the only man in England who had never wondered; in temperament Hugh reminded William of himself in his younger days, just calmer and better able to judge a situation by what the crown needed rather than by sentiment. Hugh was governed strongly by his head, never by his heart.

Trempwick turned his attention to the prince. “All I am saying is that if John’s life is spared people will understand.”

“They will understand the law only does as the king wishes, surely you can see the effect that would have?” returned Hugh hotly. “The king’s justice applies to all, no one is above it and because of that it works – even the highest in the land know they will not get off if called to account for their crimes. Without the law we have nothing; if treachery is pardoned the other lords will grow bold and next time the revolt will be both larger and more dangerous.”

“And if John’s head does fly what then? One potential heir less, and there are few enough of them as it is. You have not yet managed a son-”

Hugh’s face clenched. “I had a son.”

Trempwick snorted derisively. “Born a month early and dead within the hour; he shall make a fine king, I do not think.”

“It proves capability – and that puts me a good stretch ahead of you.”

“Capability? I suppose an assortment miscarriages and a dead baby scattered across a wife and several other women might count as capability, though for what I shudder to think.”

“Enough!” ordered William. This petty bickering did little to aid the situation and hit rather too close to home. William’s succession was painfully fragile. What hurt worse was that it was partly of his own making; if Stephan were alive there would be one more heir, and one more potential source of children … and a cripple on England’s throne. That could never be allowed; a cripple could not rule effectively and the vultures would soon take advantage. As hard as it was to face he had made the right decision for the sake of the realm. That did not make it any easier for the father who still mourned his son’s passing.

“The law of the land is simple; John has been accused of high treason, stripped of all he owns, stricken from the succession and declared outlaw, and I …” William sighed, “and I executed Northumberland when he was captured after the same, for being a ringleader in the same plot.” He did not want to do this but he was trapped. He was a just man and his vassals expected even handed treatment, as was their right. If John was spared where Northumberland was not it would only be because of his blood; unrest would grow and rebellion could ferment. On one side of the scales lay John’s life, on the other the security and stability of the realm and the balance was clear. He had known it would come to this; he had weighed his decisions over and over, plotted and planned carefully, searching for a loophole or way out if John ever returned and he had found none.

He had found none, but perhaps someone else’s eyes would prove clearer. “Maybe if he were exiled …?”

Trempwick instantly said, “Sire, I am confident that we could handle any unrest it might cause.”

“Handle,” repeated William dully, his hope ebbing away back into the morass of feelings tearing his heart apart.

“Yes, sire. A few judicious assassinations, mayhap a siege or two if the lords rise, perhaps a skirmish-”

William held up his hand to cut off the flow. He had heard enough; Trempwick could not have chosen his words better if he had wanted John dead. The scales tilted so John’s life was but a featherweight to the heavy boulder that was the good of England. “What you speak of is anarchy, and all from lowest peasant to highest lord would be adversely affected.” His next words seemed to come from far away, as if someone else spoke and he was observing. There was no point in hiding from what would happen any longer. “My son is back and now I have to have him castrated, hung, gutted, and then beheaded, just as Northumberland was.” Such small words, so harmless sounding and yet so important.

Hugh laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “It is just, and justice is often hard.” Jesú, the boy was so like him; William could hear his own voice echo in those words. “But I think a little mercy may be possible without undue trouble.” Hope burst to life in William’s heart; his son had found a way to save his brother! It was dashed, shattering agonisingly into smithereens when Hugh finished, “We could have him beheaded, a clean, honourable death. None could fault us that.” A small mercy but in the end all one of Christendom’s most powerful men could do. What a fine man he was, thought William bitterly, so powerful and so God damned helpless.

William stood, causing his son’s hand to fall away. “I would be alone; leave me.” Despite his command he was the one to go, shuffling away to the stairs leading upwards like an old man, drowning under the weight of self-loathing and futile anger at being trapped like a serpent between a forked stick. If he spared John he would had been unjust; if he was just then he lost his youngest boy. The king needed John’s head on a spike; the father wanted the son safe.





William did not get his wish for solitude; when he arrived in the solar he found his wife and his daughter talking. Eleanor had been explaining the background to tonight’s unexpected events but she froze the instant she saw him. For a brief instant William noted she could not hide her fear; after a brief struggle it was mastered and as if it had never been. He compared that to John, the son who had not bothered to hide his fright before an audience, shaming himself with his begging. Not for the first time William thought Eleanor should have been a son.

He managed a small, shabby smile for his wife. “Anne, could you go to the church to light a few candles and offer up some prayers?” With a neat curtsey Anne disappeared on her errand without question. He was glad; his temper was boiling, mixed with the other emotions and liable to go off at the slightest provocation. He didn’t want Anne involved.

“Candles and prayers for John or for you?” asked Eleanor quietly.

Both. His self-hatred boiled over, mixing with his pain and rage at his impotence, his being trapped. With a snarl of naked fury he sent her flying with a back swipe of one arm. “So it is all my fault? You blame me, you hate me – you accuse me and I will not have it!”

He drove a boot into her prone form, catching her near the top of one thigh. “Get up!” he roared. He didn’t give her chance to move, reaching down immediately and seizing one arm. He hauled her to her feet screaming, “Up, damn you!”

Hairpins. She had hairpins. William’s long standing fear that she might try to use them on him came back full force and he began tearing the pins out, casting them carelessly across the room. “I will not give you chance to kill me, you conniving bitch!”

The tiny spark of reason left beneath the fury reminded him that last time he had broken bones, both his and hers. Not this time. He knotted one hand in her long hair so she couldn’t escape or fight back effectively. He seized the back of her dress in one hand and tried to rip it away; the material was strong and resisted at first but he flung all his considerable strength and anger at it until it gave way. He released her hair and with one hard shove he sent her sprawling, then began to get the only suitable weapon he had to hand; his belt. His rage made his fingers clumsy; by the time he had it free Eleanor had scrambled to her feet and was headed for the door, trying to escape. She had never run before and he was not pleased she had done so now.

He launched himself after her even as he was wrenching the dagger sheath off his belt. He caught her a few steps short of the door, dragging her back. He kicked her legs out from under her and flung her groundwards again. He began laying into her with the end of his belt, transferring his rage and pain onto her, overwriting the old marks on her skin with new ones. Blood began to bead on fresh cuts, then flow, then splatter on the floor and on William as each blow landed. In a frenzy he barely even noticed, only caring about exorcising the pain gripping his heart. Let someone else hurt, let them feel powerless, let them have the futile rage against circumstances they could not control, let them suffer, not him.

Eventually his fury burned down to ashes and he stood gasping for breath, his arm aching and half numb with exertion, his sense returning. He looked down at his daughter, curled up into a ball at his feet with her hands protecting her head, not moving and once again a blood covered mess with barely a square inch of unharmed flesh on her back. He saw that he had missed his aim once and caught her hands, leaving bloodied welt running across the backs of them. He felt an irrational pang of guilt for just a brief heartbeat, then it vanished. He had done nothing wrong, and it was for her own good, after all. She had been rude; he had corrected it. He felt better now; his anger had burned out and the other feelings had lessened somewhat.

He wanted the brat gone but she couldn’t leave like this or everyone would see what he had done. William stalked into Anne’s room and retrieved a long, hooded cloak. Returning to the solar he threw it at Eleanor. “Get out,” he said coldly. He wanted her gone before Anne returned; he wanted to be alone to brood on his son’s end.





Wrapped in the long cloak to hide her dishevelled hair and ruined, bloody clothes Eleanor somehow managed to make her way down the spiral staircase, leaning much of her weight against the outer wall for support. As she went she catalogued her injuries; no broken bones and few bruises but her back and hands were a mess. It didn’t hurt much now but once the numbness and shock wore off she knew it would be agony. The side of her face had also been cut when William had missed his aim. She felt giddy and light-headed, and the high pitched ringing in her ears combined with darkness nibbling away at the edges of her vision she remembered from last time was here again, indicating she was in danger of fainting.

The flat floor of the main hall was worse than the stairs; it bobbed and swayed like the deck of a ship as she stumbled across it and there was nothing to lean on. She was not quite sure how she kept her feet and her legs seemed to be in possession of a kind of their own. The ringing grew worse and her vision gradually faded but she reached the main door. She sagged against it for a while, resting and trying to stave off the beckoning blackness and its invitation of escape from the growing pain of her back.

The cold night air out in the bailey helped, bringing her back from the brink but the effect was very short lived. By the time she reached the door of her guest house, barely twenty feet away, she could hardly see through the speckled blackness filling her vision.

She managed to get the door open and stumble inside the entrance hall. That was as far as she got; her legs buckled and she gave up fighting to remain conscious.





Told you he'd be back.

[zelda12]

Ouch!

I jus kept on willing Fulk to walk in and give William a taste of his own medicine.

[frogbeastegg]

The next morning William called all his lords to a field outside the palace to bear witness to John’s execution. After an agonising night he had decided swiftness would be a boon for all involved. A thick log provided the block and the executioner was the captain of William’s guard, a man not normally given that task but skilled with an axe and battle hardened. Beside the executioner stood a priest, black clad and with a copy of the bible clasped in his hands.

John was brought out with his hands bound behind his back. An armed soldier marched at either side of him, preventing his escape. At first John walked calmly, almost contemptuously. Then he saw the block and the sunlight glistening on the edge of the axe and his stride faltered. He spat on the ground and said loudly, “So be it father, play your little game – you would not kill me and I will not squeal for your satisfaction.”

One of the guards roughly pushed him forwards and they began to walk again. As he got closer John picked up on the mood of the audience and he stopped again. “Oh sweet Jesú, tell me this is a game,” he whispered in disbelief. The two guards seized him by either arm and bundled him forward. John began to struggle, screaming, “You can’t kill me – I’m your son, I am your son. For pity’s sake!”

John had never been much of a fighter but his struggles halted his progress and kept the two guards busy. At a wave from the captain of the guard another two men at arms detached from their places keeping order amongst the crowd and went to aid their comrades. All the while John pleaded, begged and sobbed.

William forced himself to watch, just as he had forced himself to attend when strictly speaking he did not need to. He had believed the agony gripping his heart could grow no worse but he had been wrong; it could and did, expanding until it filled his world and his eyes misted over with held back tears.

John was moving again, more carried than walking. His shouts changed tune, fear and disbelief giving way to what revenge he could get. “Look at him,” he harangued the crowd, “Look at him, our brave king having his dear son killed to salve his poxy conscience. Our king is a fine man; he is quick to believe rumour and the worst of everyone – if he does this to me then think well on what he might do to you! He acts on the faintest suspicion – he is nothing more than a tyrant, a madman!”

He stood before the block, still struggling to get away. He saw Hugh, stood at their father’s side, his face grim. John resumed shouting at the top of his lungs. “My glorious brother - look at him too, and look well. Is he not the very spitting image of our king? No! He is false – the throne should be mine. I am the trueborn son!”

One of the guards clamped his hand over John’s mouth, trying to stem the flow. He leaped back with a yell, his hand pouring blood where John had bitten a chunk away. The prince spat blood and flesh and filled his lungs for another outburst. “Remember Adele? Probably not for our wondrous king abandoned her to a foreign prison! What kind of man would leave his own daughter to rot under false accusations of adultery? NO REAL MAN! Ask yourselves what he has done to my sister, how often do you see Eleanor? How much land and wealth does she have? Where is her future? Is she convent bound or married? NO!” A fist hammered into the back of John’s skull and he staggered, shaking his head to clear it. “My lords, any who wants the throne has but to find and rescue my sister – marry her and she gives you a claim to the throne!”

He was forced to his knees. “Depose that devil in human form and replace him before it is too late! Do not -” The executioner slammed the butt of the axe into Jon’s temple, stunning him.

Taking advantage of that the guards shoved him down so his neck was on the log and stepped back. The axe swung down, biting deep into John’s shoulder as the unnerved executioner missed. John shrieked and blood began to spurt, soaking everything nearby. The axe came down again, this time taking John squarely in the middle of the neck but without sufficient force to sever the head. The executioner swore ferociously and swung again, catching the neck in a different place and again not severing the head. A fourth blow finally removed John’s head. The executioner let the axe slip to the ground from his numbed, sweaty grasp and crossed himself. The priest began to pray. One of the soldiers from John’s guard turned and threw up into the grass, not caring that all could see his weakness.

And William wept, not caring who could see his tears.





William closeted himself away for the remainder of the morning. He occupied himself by going over and over what had happened, not just that morning but during the whole of John’s life and wondering just where things had gone wrong. William knew it was his own fault; it had to be. Somehow he had failed his youngest son. He had not even managed to teach him courage, that most essential manly virtue.

Over and above all else his mind returned to one thing John had said, and it was because of this he broke his solitude, summoning his spymaster. For a long while after Trempwick arrived William said nothing, not even acknowledging his spymaster’s presence as he stood at a window, looking out with his hands clasped behind his back.

When he did speak his voice was low and emotionless. “Do you still want the brat?”

Behind him he heard Trempwick’s sharp intake of breath. “Sire?” he asked, something akin to nervous tension in his voice. Odd that; the spymaster was usually so guarded and in control.

William looked upwards, towards the sky. “She is a loose end, dangerous, and now the whole court knows. Before it was only there if you thought on it but now everyone has had it pointed out as clear as day. She has a claim on my throne and people do not accept Hugh. It will become a contest between Hugh and those who think a crown would suit them well, and Eleanor is … she is the only one with a good claim still in England. Whoever gets her gets the best chance to beat Hugh; she will be used against her brother whether she wills it or no. It seems best to tie that loose end up, publicly. You say over and over that you will keep her safe; I say it is safer still to remove other people’s hope of using her to their own advantage.”

He turned away from the window and leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed in front of him. “You are beneath her but you are also the only one who knows her for what she is. You alone might have some chance of surviving. You alone provide the opportunity to continue using her as an agent. You alone know everything and will not be shocked. You alone I trust. Better the small shame of giving her to my most loyal servant than the greater shame that would result if she married someone who did not know. What say you, Raoul?”

Trempwick’s reply was instant and firm. “You honour me, and I will give you no cause to regret it.”

William nodded slowly. “The detail is all that remains then. I will not give up my rights on her; it may be unusual but we both know she is … I always rectify my mistakes, and she will be no different. She will continue to act as an agent; I will not lose her most valuable capacity. I will give her a dowry of three thousand pounds. You will not set aside a third of your lands for her to provide for her in widowhood; it would only encourage her to kill you and I am wary of allowing the brat too much power. You will instead say before witnesses that you will allow her to keep all that is already hers to that end. It will look impressive, few know how poor she is. Is that agreeable?”

Trempwick bent his head and said gravely, “It is.”

William continued to set his terms in a brisk manner. “The betrothal will be today and the wedding two months hence; I shall not make the mistake of marrying you in haste as it would only fuel the rumour which is going to grow from this. I shall make this betrothal nearly as binding as marriage, so it will still serve my purposes during that time.”

“Two months is a little long,” said Trempwick tentatively, “a month would more than suffice.”

“No; I will leave no room for scandal. Similarly I would prefer it if there were no children for a good few months after the marriage.”

Trempwick didn’t seem unduly bothered. “As you wish, William. Two months so all can see there is no curly headed accident prompting this match, and no screaming brats. Motherhood would only make her useless as an agent, and I have doubts as to her ability to survive labour. Better to take the lesser gamble with hyssop and pennyroyal tea in the event of an accident than take the greater risk in the hopes she survives. She is no good to us dead.”

“Whatever you wish; I do not much care what you do with her.” The king hesitated; wanting to ask how Eleanor would fare but fearing how weak he would look.

Trempwick seemed to guess, because he said, “I believe she will become reconciled.”

Reconciled; it was not much but a good deal better than nothing. He had not found her a good match and he had not found her one where she would be happy, but he could have done a lot worse. “Then all that remains is to persuade her,” he said grimly.






Eleanor’s day had not been a good one. She had heard of John’s execution but not exactly what had happened. All she knew was her brother was dead and he had disgraced himself with his cowardice. Aveline had not let her find out more, claiming she needed to rest and recuperate. That was true enough, although this time she was not bruised and broken so it was more a case of remaining still enough for her back to knit. The mark on her face would not scar, according to Aveline.

Once again she barely saw Fulk; he had not been allowed to play his usual role of royal cut tender thanks to Aveline’s instance on doing it herself. Eleanor was not pleased; Aveline had clumsy, ungentle hands and a liking for pouring strong wine on anything which might possibly get infected. Fulk had used honey; it was about as effective and it didn’t burn like fire when applied.

It was early afternoon when her father and Trempwick arrived. Aveline and Juliana shot to their feet and curtseyed immediately. Painfully Eleanor followed their example; if this was what she had to do to avoid being hit again then so be it. Her courage had failed entirely, tested beyond its limits again before it had been able to heal from its first failing.

William said, “We would speak with my daughter alone; leave us.” Aveline and Juliana filed out and Eleanor wished she could go with them. William wasted no time; as soon as the door closed he told her, “I have found you a husband; Trempwick has agreed to put up with you. The betrothal ceremony will take place in an hour. Get ready; you will look your best and God help you if you do not play your part to perfection.”

Everything past the word husband was lost on Eleanor; she had spent much of her life having nightmares about this moment and now it was here. Rudely kicked out of her near dreamlike state she hit reality running. “No,” she returned firmly, knowing this was going to hurt. It was not a matter of courage, more finding she was cornered with no way out. Like a wild animal brought to bay she didn’t need valour to fight now. It was desperation, despair, the knowledge that if she did not fight then she would be saying her vows with Trempwick before the day was out.

William took a step forward, his right hand clenching to a fist. “What did you say?” Each word was separated from its companions, deliberately phrased and menacing.

She grabbed the best reason she could find. “He is beneath me.” She didn’t care, but her father would never accept “I do not want him.”

“There is no one else who will have you,” retorted the king. “You could have had a prince if you had wanted one but no, you scorned them all.”

“I refuse.”

“You do not.”

“I do.”

“No, I think you do not. You do not leave this room until you agree; no one will bring you food or drink so you will slowly starve. Every other hour I shall return for your answer and if you refuse I shall thrash you. A test of endurance brat, and one I shall win. So, your answer?”

She met his eyes and said clearly, “No.” This was going to hurt, oh dear God this would hurt, in all probability more than she could stand. Even thinking about it made her sick and feel like breaking down and crying like a child. If William hadn’t been blocking the door she would have tried to break out; as it was there was nowhere to go. She had to fight; she could not give up. Everything was at stake.

William’s eyes hardened. “Raoul, go and buy your ring.”

Trempwick looked most unhappy. “Sire, perhaps I could speak to her?”

The king did not look away from his daughter. “Not now, Raoul,” he said decisively. “Go buy your ring; you shall have need of it soon enough.”

Trempwick left sorrowfully and William was as good as his word. He didn’t have to do much to reopen all the wounds from last night and leave her in fresh torment. “Two hours, brat,” he said as he left, “Two hours until we do this again. Think hard.”






When Eleanor gathered her battered wits enough to stand and try to find a way to escape she found the door, which opened out from the room, blocked by something too heavy for her to move. The window with all its fancy, breakable glass was guarded by a man in steel and mail wearing the king’s lion badge. The simple chimney was too small and narrow for her to climb up, even assuming she had the strength left to try. No matter how much she hammered on the door and yelled for help no one answered.






The king’s second visit was brief and if anyone had been in the room outside they would have heard her bitten off cries of pain.





The third visit was much the same, except anyone nearby could have heard her screaming.





When the door opened the fourth time Eleanor cowered in a corner, too defeated to even give a pretence of bravery. She was having a hard time keeping her will strong; the idea of surrender was becoming increasingly tempting. Her right hand was clenched around the pendant of Fulk’s necklace for comfort, and Fulk’s ring was pressing into her flesh. She would have bartered her soul away to have him here now.

This visitor was not her father; it was Trempwick. He looked at her with obvious pity. “What can I do to you that is so bad you feel you must put yourself through this?”

She did not care to answer that. “Is this how you keep your promises?” she asked resentfully, her voice thick with pain and hoarse from all her shouting and screaming. He had promised no one would marry her and she had almost trusted him.

“It seemed the only way I could keep it, sweet Nell.” He came and knelt at her side. He did nothing, just remained still and calm, radiating sympathy. “He is determined to see you married now; our king wants you publicly removed from the marriage market so none can use you to oppose your brother. You can thank John for placing the idea in his head.”

“You said you would save him.”

“I tried but I could not.”

“No, you could not,” she agreed wearily.

“Nell, if you do not give up soon he will kill you. He may not intend to but he will.” She said nothing; she already knew and that was partly why her will was ebbing away. She did not want to die. “Nell, I would honour you,” said Trempwick emotionally.

“Honour,” she repeated wretchedly. She did not want honouring; she wanted freedom.

“I would care for you, treat you with nothing but affection unless you gave me cause to do otherwise.”

“Just like these past fourteen years?” she inquired listlessly.

He corrected her gently, “Just like these past few days. What can I do to you that is so bad?” he asked again. She still did not care to answer. “I would not suddenly change overnight, Nell. You know I am not violent, I do not keep mistresses or act in a way which might shame you, I do not get drunk, I am not old or foul to look on, you do not care much about rank. What else is left?”

Quite a lot.

“Let me guess,” he said softly. “You will not be free until both I and your father die? Nell, married or not it makes no difference – I still have control over much of your life.”

It was true; she always known it was true. Now that would be formalised, giving him the undeniable right to meddle in her life. It only gave him permission to do what he already did, leaving her with no room even for indignation.

“As a widow you would have a better chance at that independence you crave. Yes, people would target you again for your blood and your resources but you would be better placed to protect yourself from them.” Trempwick thought for a while. “I suppose you may have been upset by the horror stories my mother and others keep telling you, about how you will die in childbirth because your hips are so narrow and you are so small. As a wife as a duty to provide children that is an understandable concern. You do not need to worry; I prize your life far more than some mewling brat who will probably die anyway. It is not a situation you will end up in.”

Great, she was going to end up a neglected wife. She could not decide if that was good or bad. It seemed so very … sad. Given a choice she would rather Trempwick remained several paces away, but it was one thing to reject someone and another entirely to have them reject you.

“Perhaps you think I will keep you shut away with nothing much to do? Nothing would change,” he promised, “you would still be my agent when I have need of you.”

This was why she had never wanted him to gain more insight into her mind than she could help; he was too good at unpicking her thoughts. He was missing some but he had not been wrong yet. He was unravelling her mind, eating away at the last of her resolve and there was nothing she could do.

He continued to crouch there, still and quiet almost like a man dealing with an injured animal he did not want to startle. “Nothing would change; that sums it all up very well. Life would continue much the same, except I will no longer need to play mentor quite so much. So will you agree, Nell? It stands as a choice between me and death; I would be gratified if you preferred me.”

She did not want to die; she did not want Trempwick either but it was the least loathsome choice. People would finally stop asking her why she was not married; that would be … nice. Her father would be unable to touch her, that too would be good. She would theoretically have real access to Trempwick’s money and the right to manage his household and do something about those servants of his; whether either of those potentials would transfer over to reality she could not say. In the end who else was there? Fulk was impossible and no other nobles would have her on any grounds except her royal blood. They would probably not treat her too well. Fulk. It was not Fulk who had come to save her. It was Trempwick.

The last of her resistance crumbled away and her head bowed. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to; Trempwick sensed his victory. He stood and extended a hand to her; she took it and let him help her to her feet. “Put your arm around my waist and lean on me,” he directed, “or you will fall down.” She did as he said; it was better than falling flat on her face again. Trempwick said encouragingly, “That’s the idea, now let’s get you away from here and looked after.”






Several hours later Eleanor stood in the church before a gathering of lords. She was cleaned up and her ravaged back had been plastered in a honey and comfrey poultice and swathed with bandages. She was unsure as to how she managed to remain on her feet and put on a reasonable show of strength. She was dressed in her best clothes and Aveline had fussed until she looked as good as she ever could. She stood before the altar one hand clasped in Trempwick’s as tradition dictated, feeling dizzy and weak as she listened to the terms of the marriage being read out and agreed to. Predictably the king had opted for a formal church betrothal; unlike the more informal agreements this type was as binding as marriage and, just like marriage, could only be ended by church dispensation or death.

Finally it was time for the vows. Trempwick went first, his voice steady and pitched to carry. “I, Raoul, plight thee, Eleanor, my troth, as God is my witness.”

Eleanor hesitated, clinging to her last true moments of freedom. When she could safely delay no more she said in a quiet, hopeless voice, “I, Eleanor, plight thee, Raoul, my troth, as God is my witness.” It was done, the rest was just window dressing.

The bishop bound their clasped hands together with his silk stole and held them up for all to see. He then unbound them and Trempwick gave her the ring. It was a band of gold set with a piece of sapphire. “To match your eyes,” Trempwick told her quietly as he slipped it on the third finger of her left hand. It hung loosely and was rather too gaudy for her taste. She remembered another ring, the one Fulk had got her, the one she still wore on her right hand. That ring had fitted perfectly and she liked the design. This new one would have to be adjusted to fit.

Ring in place that really was that. She was tied for life to the man who had murdered her brother.






Fulk sat on the cold stone floor of his cell, his knees drawn up to his body for warmth, wondering how much longer it would be before someone released him. A group of guardsmen in royal livery had approached him around midday, ordering him to surrender his sword and come along peacefully. They had not accused him of anything nor given a reason, only told him that if he resisted he would be taken by force.

Eleanor would come for him, he never doubted it, but how long before she found out he was in the gatehouse cells?







I know, zelda, me too. It would be nice if Fulk had chance to kick rear for once .... and sweap her off on his fiery charger to a blissful life somewhere nice. :sigh: I'm going soft.

[zelda12]

Man, I mean... man that was unexpected.

I really, really, really want Fulk to do the whole one man army thing and ingeniously break his way out from the cell using a small herring bone a piece of cloth and the chamber pot.

[Kommodus]

Hm, this is indeed an interesting reversal of roles. What I mean is that Trempwick now appears to be more of a villian than William himself.

In the beginning, Trempwick appeared to have Eleanor's interests in mind, although only so long as it served him. He also appeared to be fairly loyal to the king, and even to show some concern for Eleanor's brothers. He did always have a sadistic streak though, and one always got the feeling he was up to something bigger.

Now Trempwick's plans appear to be rather clear (to the reader). He aims to usurp the crown for himself. I originally thought he had an attraction to Eleanor (and he still may), but forcing Eleanor to marry him against her will exposes his true motives for what they are. Having Fulk imprisoned was an essential part of the plan, since Trempwick would have known that Fulk could come between him and Eleanor. I wouldn't be surprised if Trempwick had something to do with John's reappearance, and one wonders how long it will be till he makes his move against Hugh, leaving himself the only reasonable successor.

As for William, he certainly came off as a terrible tyrant in the beginning. Recent chapters, however, have portrayed him as a man trying his best to be a good king, in the face of dreadful circumstances and some debilitating character flaws. He feels forced into a lot of the decisions he makes (one wonders how much of this is Trempwick's doing), and regrets a great deal of them. Even when Trempwick appears to be arguing for the "moral" decision, he is disingenuous. He only tried to prevent the king from sleeping with Anne because he didn't want to risk more potential heirs, and he argued for sparing John in such a way as to ensure he would be killed.

Thus, William was never the real villian; it was Trempwick all along. What a crafty fellow...

[Ludens]

Plus I leave all the critiquing buisness to Ludens and Axeknight as they're a lot better at it than me.

Thanks for the compliment, but it is not true. I haven't seen you criticize often, but when you do you always have a good point.

Ludens, the swinging perspective was the only way the scene could ever be done. I've known that for a long time; that's the scene I was talking about way back when they were in John's castle, the scene where I said I had to do dual POVs and get it working. Working it like most of the other scenes where you only get the odd thought from both characters wouldn't work; it had to be the in-depth version of both characters. I didn't find it to be a problem, reading or writing, but then I'm in a unique position here. I've seen some books I enjoyed do the same thing; I guess it depends on how you identify with the characters. I think we said before that we tend to work a bit differently as readers, didn’t we? You tend to latch on to one or two characters in great detail whereas I prefer to swing between several characters in slightly less detail, if I recall correctly.

I am still not convinced that either that scene or the one in the abbey couldn't be done otherwise. I've actually been trying to redo them in my mind .

Point is: I don't necessarily need few characters to enjoy a story, but I want to have them thoroughly separated. And the swinging perspective does not help that. It is also a standard thing literary nit-picks will complain about .

Ugh, I am too tired to do any decent commenting. I will just say that I really liked the last part.

:starts dreaming about a alternative version of the story where Fulk is locked up for ten years before he escapes and plots his bloody revenge on Trempwick:

[frogbeastegg]

As it was late in the evening by the time the betrothal ceremony ended many of the witnesses filed into the great hall for dinner. Eleanor and Trempwick separated from the crowd, returning with Aveline to the guest house. Aveline could not contain her glee; she almost exploded as they entered the nursery outside Eleanor’s chamber. “Well done, my son, well done,” she enthused warmly. “Such a fine match.” Evidently all was forgiven now Eleanor was going to be part of the family. “Who would ever have thought it, my son and a princess. I am sure you can soon mould her into shape.” Or not forgiven.

Trempwick’s dutiful answer was tinged with tolerance, “Thank you, mother dear.” He began to scoot her towards the door. “Why don’t you go and see what people are saying over in the hall?”

“Yes, I shall bring you back a full report.” With that Aveline disappeared purposefully.

The silence she left behind was uncomfortable; Eleanor only wanted Trempwick to go away but he seemed intent on remaining. “It is a good thing I had your badge changed,” he said eventually with strained lightness. “Your unicorn will wed with my fox quite nicely.” So he was planning to display her badge alongside his own everywhere? Not surprising; when you married above what was normal you boasted of it to the world, and any noblewoman worth her salt would refuse to allow her badge to be entire eclipsed. She could see Trempwick using the fox and unicorn badge on everything and everyone possible. Eleanor resolved to change hers back to a gooseberry tomorrow. That should kill a portion of his joy quite nicely.

“We can go across to the hall ourselves, if you like,” he offered. “Or we can remain here and I shall have someone send a tray over.”

He didn’t know what to do, Eleanor noted with secret delight. She was not about to give him any assistance but she used the opportunity to ask a question she wanted to in the guise of another. “Where is Fulk? We can send him to get some food.”

“I have not seen him since this morning. He is probably in the hall now.”

“It is not like him to disappear.”

“Dear Nell, your pet is keeping to form. Today he has vanished; yesterday he was involved in a fight. If you think on it you have barely seen him since we arrived here.”

“A fight?” asked Eleanor in disbelief.

“Oh yes, his face is a mess because of it. Now, shall I go and get some food?”

Mutely she nodded, anything to get rid of him. Trempwick continued to surprise Eleanor; he dithered as if trying to make up his mind what to do. He took one halting step towards her, froze, then beat a rapid retreat.

Wondering what that had been in aid of Eleanor moved through into her room and sat down on the bed. What was she going to do now? As far as she could see she had two main options: make the best she could out of the situation, or try and delay the wedding. Having seen what his last promises had turned out like Eleanor was not in a great hurry to believe that he would keep his word and treat her well but her chances of being locked into a never ending war with a husband who hated her grew significantly if she antagonised him now. Unless she cared to live in wretchedness for the rest of her married life she had no choice at all.

Furious at being so helpless Eleanor ripped the betrothal ring off her ringer and hurled it across the room. It hit the stone wall and ricocheted off, bouncing and skipping along the floor, then rolling off into the rushes.

She looked at the glimmer of gold partly obscured by the carpet of fragrant herbs and rushes. Reluctantly, more because she was conscious of the ring being one of her few expensive possessions and therefore likely to incur Trempwick’s wrath if mistreated, she started to get up to retrieve it. She didn’t move far before she stopped. No, after the day she had had surely even Trempwick could not complain if she did not instantly give up and play along to whatever tune he called, and expensive or not she did not want the cursed thing. This, and her going back to her gooseberry badge, would be her last real, overt acts of defiance. She may as well relish them while they lasted; Trempwick always won in the end.

But only if he knew if counter her. Eleanor allowed herself a grim smile; she would keep fighting covertly using every means available to her.

The smiled faded; but where was the point? If she set her heart on this marriage being a miserable disaster then that is what it surely would become. A more optimistic approach may yield a tolerable result.

She would play it by ear, trying to make this tolerable while still retaining the most valuable aspects of her old life. If she found a way out then so much the better, but that was so unlikely it was best not to even think of it.





Trempwick returned with two big bowls of beef stew, a jug of good red wine and a pair of cups. “I thought you might like some plainer food,” he said as he pushed the door shut with his elbow. He advanced towards the bed until he stepped on something which crunched. Eleanor winced; she had not expected him to trample her ring. Slowly he looked down, moving his foot out of the way. He looked back up, his face a mask of cold anger. “That ring cost me a small fortune.”

“I did not ask for it.” Out aloud that sounded very petulant and stupid; Eleanor wished she had bitten her tongue.

He placed the tray down on the bed next to her, then recovered the ring. It had hit the wall with sufficient force to flatten one side but his stepping on it had done no harm. “I will indulge you this one fit of childish pique, but only this one. The king decided on this match; neither of us really had a choice. I do not mind; you have some unique qualities I am rather fond of. I am determined to make the best of this; I suggest you decide similarly because like it or not there is no way out for either of us.” Not unkindly he added, “There really is no reason why we cannot be happy together.”

Eleanor remained silent, feeling wretchedly similar to a small child told off for insisting they did not want to eat their vegetables. Trempwick sat himself down, picked up one stew bowl and took her hand with his free one. He pressed the bowl into it and ordered, “Eat, if you wanted to starve yourself to death you wasted a good opportunity earlier today.”

She did not need ordering and she certainly did not like it. “Will you stop treating me like a child?” she asked with a trace of anger that sounded nothing if not sullen. It seemed that she could not say anything without it coming out wrong.

“If you stop behaving like one I shall be happy to do so, now eat up.”

Discretion being the better half of valour Eleanor started to eat her stew; she was starving anyway. At least he was being nicer than he usually was when she upset him, nicer, but still unpleasant. Looking forward she could foresee a lifetime of this, of having to do exactly as he wanted. It was the same situation she was in before but made worse by the removal of hope. She could never get away from him now.

They finished their meal in wretched silence; Eleanor eating unthinkingly while her mind wandered that new future, Trempwick watching her from the corner of his eye. When he took her empty bowl from her and placed it with his own on the tray Trempwick said kindly, “Nell, you may find you like our new status, given time. It is understandable that you are resentful now but that will pass unless you keep prodding the wound and not giving it chance to heal.”

He placed one hand under her chin in a gesture she remembered from last time, tilted her face up and then kissed her on the lips. Despite his subtle prompting to do otherwise she kept her mouth firmly clamped shut. When he pulled away he seemed rather amused. “Nell, dearest, you are supposed to open your mouth.”

She felt herself blush, remembering Fulk had not needed to tell her. Well, better to act the innocent and make Trempwick play her own game for a little. She would only have this particular chance to claim ignorance once and she did not want him wondering where she had picked up her admittedly limited experience. Trempwick tried again, only to jerk back as she nearly bit his tongue off. “You startled me,” she explained innocently. This might be fun after all …

Trempwick sighed and scratched his head. “You know this promises to be very interesting, sweet Nell. Very interesting.”

“It does?” she asked sceptically.

“Oh yes, enjoyable too, although it will more than likely take you a while before you agree. I think by a couple of weeks after our wedding you will be more than happy to share my bed, dear Nell.” So he was not going to leave her alone after all. She supposed she should be surprised but somehow she was not; maybe she had known he never would, choosing instead to delude herself.

He planted a quick kiss on her forehead then rose. “I shall take this ring to the goldsmith and get it repaired and altered to fit. He can work through the night if I provide enough candles. You rest and heal, sweetest Nell. We leave the day after tomorrow as long as you are fit to travel.” He took the tray with him when he left.

Eleanor was not confident she would be fit to travel any time this week but if it meant getting away from here she would gladly leave draped over her saddle like a corpse.






I've been busier than usual with real life recently, much of it very tedious ... no, all of it very tedious. The enjoyable bits were all part of my regular schedule. The next part should appear in a more timely manner.

Well, if Fulk was that well equipped he could break out, Zelda. Pity he doesn’t have the herring bone

You have obviously put a lot of thought into your theory, Kommodus. As you might imagine for plot purposes I can’t really comment. I will say you have found clues and worked with them well, finding one of several possible hinted subtexts.

“It is also a standard thing literary nit-picks will complain about” It is? I’ve seen it praised … It’s also something I like to read.

I say it has to be from both POVs because there are things in both character’s minds that you have to know for certain, things that cannot be left to inferring or added in retrospect. Doing the scene from just one POV, no matter which one, left some “What the?!” moments.

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick brought her ring back about eight o’clock the next morning. “Try this for a fit,” he said. He took her left hand and slipped the ring on; this time it fitted perfectly. He kept hold of her hand, a light grip that avoided irritating the welt that snaked across the back and onto her wrist. “It took the goldsmith much of the night. I filled his workshop with so many candles it looked like daytime and threatened him with dire consequences if his work was anything less than faultless.”

“Impressive,” mumbled Eleanor neutrally. She thought it anything but; she came from a family that excelled in extravagance when need arose, and to her own tastes such profligacy was nothing but wasteful. Being a pauper princess for so long had left its mark on her.

“Tyrannical,” corrected Trempwick. He seemed in good humour. “But I appreciate your effort at polite flattery, dearly beloved Nell.” His thumb was stroking the palm of her hand. This was not boding well for a quick departure involving absolutely no more attempted romance. Eleanor began thinking of an excuse to get away before he kissed her again. Too late. “This would be a damn sight easier if you were taller,” he told her, gently mocking as he once again repeated his hand under her chin trick until she was looking up at him instead of his collar bone. His humour was harmless and intended as familiar but it still stung.

This time there was nothing much to do as Trempwick kissed her except stand there feeling mildly stupid. Even in her current mood she couldn’t honestly say it was bad, it was just no matter how generous she might want to be she could not call it good either. Boring, now there was the word, with perhaps company from nothing, as in ‘feeling nothing’.

“Relax a bit, Nell,” he encouraged her. She tried; if she had to go along with this she may as well try to get something more than boredom from the experience. This exact same thing had been rather pleasant with Fulk. Obviously the slight loss of tension from her body wasn’t enough because Trempwick gave up quite quickly. “If that is relaxed I would truly hate to see tense.” He tried to keep his tone nonchalant but she could tell he was not happy. “Nell, sweetheart, relax. Honestly I have seen statues with more give than you.” Now he was echoing Aidney; this was hopeless, really hopeless. She had no idea what she was doing and the one time in her life this had worked – or at least the one time no one had complained – she had not been conscious of doing anything, so she couldn’t even aim to repeat that.

Trempwick placed the hand he was holding behind his back, then took her other hand and did the same with it so her arms were around his waist. He linked her hands together then let them go. “Try that,” he instructed, placing one of his own hands at her waist while the other returned to her chin and tiled her face back up again. That done he let go of her head and placed his arm around her in a light grip that just barely brushed her ruined back. “Now try leaning on me, and doing something other than standing there.” He kissed her again.

Eleanor leaned into him minutely, resting rather rigidly against his chest. She could just feel his chest and arm muscles; they were built up, the kind of build you would expect on an active warrior. That was both unexpected and remarkable; Trempwick had never done heavy weapons practise, relying instead on the lighter, speed oriented fighting style he had instructed her in. Even lessons and practise in that style were rare; he had always insisted that if you had to fight you were as good as dead anyway. She had never seen him use a sword or lance. Nor had she ever seen him bare-chested, unlike some other men in the heat of summer, and with his clothes on he looked stocky, not muscled. She remembered back to the one time he had hit her, when she was leaving to warn John his plot had been discovered, and recalled that she had noted back then he could hit harder than expected. What had Trempwick been doing, and why did he feel the need to train in secret?

She would have to see what she could find out … or perhaps she was reading far too much into this; she only found it remarkable because she was comparing Trempwick with Fulk. How much difference could there be? Trempwick was fairly active, maybe that would be enough to provide matching muscles? For the first, and probably only, time in her life Eleanor cursed her lack of knowledge when it came to men and muscles.

Trempwick let her go with a sigh. “Well, you are getting somewhere with the relaxed, although not with the doing something. Suddenly two months seems an inordinately long time, dear Nell, also a short time.” He let her go and stepped back. “I have to leave, we can resume this later. Goodbye, darling Nell, and do spend the day resting so you heal.”

Later. Oh joy, thought Eleanor, more boredom. This had worked so much better with Fulk. Speaking of which. “Master,” she called, hastening after Trempwick. She caught him near the doorway out to the bailey.

His face lit up, perhaps thinking that she wanted to say goodbye or something. “Yes, dear Nell?”

“Fulk still has not returned.”

Trempwick’s face fell. “He probably spent the night with company; I would not worry unduly. If he has not shown his face by afternoon I shall start a search for you.”

Company. She hadn’t thought of that, and she didn’t want to either.






It was mid morning when Fulk was finally let out of his cell. He was escorted towards the keep by two men in the king’s livery. His hands were not bound but his weapons were not returned either. Once again he was given no explanation; the men at arms only spoke to roughly order him to come with them. His time in the cell had left his legs cramped and half numb; the guards suited their pace to his instead of hurrying him along. This suggested to Fulk that he was not due for execution or anything else drastic. That was reassuring.

He found himself whisked up the staircase to the king’s rooms and then shown into the solar. William sat at his table with Fulk’s sword and dagger before him. A cold sweat broke out on Fulk’s forehead – Eleanor’s hairpin had been with his dagger sheath and it was easily identifiable as hers if you knew what to look for. There could only be two explanations for him having one of her pins, the truth and that he had stolen it. Neither option offered much hope for his future, and the truth would finish Eleanor off as well. He would lie if asked, and hang as a thief.

The guards bowed and left. Belatedly Fulk bowed too. The king spoke, “My apologies for your recent inconvenience; it was … necessary.” William sighed; his mind appeared to wander for a moment before returning. “I could not take the chance on you rescuing her; it would only have made matters worse.” William pulled a ring off his right hand and placed it on the table next to Fulk’s weapons with a deliberate click. “Compensation,” he explained. “You may take your weapons back; I had them brought up here so none could steal them. Then you can go.”

“Thank you, sire.” Fulk picked up the ring and slipped it on his left hand where it could not spoil his grip on his sword hilt; it was quite a good fit for his second finger. He picked up the dagger first, his fingers finding that the pin was missing, then the sword. He would not ask what had happened to the pin; it was far too risky. He bowed again and left, wanting to get to Eleanor and find out what exactly he might have rescued her from.

As he made his way down the stairs past the second floor Anne stepped out of the stairwell door. “I would be grateful if you could accompany me to Eleanor’s guest house,” she said in a tone which left little space for argument. She was beginning to learn how to command like a queen.

Already anxious to get there Fulk didn’t waste time wondering why the queen wanted to visit Eleanor. “I would be honoured, your highness.”

Anne endeared herself to Fulk forever by saying, “Then let us hurry, I do not have all day and I wanted to return her hairpins.”

Further conversation was limited by their descent of the stairs. As soon as they emerged at the bottom Fulk asked, “Hairpins, your highness?” There was something about the way she had said that.

“Yes,” replied Anne inscrutably as they made rapid progress through the hall. “I found them scattered all over the solar floor on the day before John was executed. William said I could return them.”

Fulk wanted to ask many things but he would ask none; he hoped to find out much of what had happened from Eleanor later, and it was none of his business what Anne thought of her husband now. The hairpins would reveal themselves soon enough.

They found Eleanor in her guest room with Aveline for company. A small, joyous smile lit up Eleanor’s face when she saw him but she quickly got it under control. It was a good thing the spymaster was not here; he would not have missed either the smile or the significance as his mother did. Eleanor seemed alright; she looked exhausted and run down, and from the way she was sat stiffly her back was troubling her. She had a cut on her face, a welt on the back of her right hand and her left hand was out of view, but otherwise she was alright. Fulk suspected most of that came from her fight with her father the day before John died; he did not know for certain because they had not allowed him near her since before then. He was none the wiser as to why he had spent over a day in a prison.

Eleanor said to Aveline, “You may go, and do not come back for a while.”

“My son said-”

Eleanor was going from strength to strength before Fulk’s eyes, recovering some of her spirit and energy. “I do not give two figs for what your son said; I am not his prisoner and you are not my jailor. You may tell, him that if you wish.”

“I shall, you may be assured of that.” Aveline stood and shook her skirts out to remove the creases caused by sitting down. She curtseyed to the queen and stalked out haughtily, like a cat with its tail stuck in the air.

Anne gave a cluster of hairpins to Eleanor. “Your pins. William said I could bring them.”

“Thank you,” replied Eleanor politely. Fulk knew she wanted Anne to leave so she could speak to him, well probably more than speak, but she hid it well. Good, she back to her old self.

Anne knelt in the straw and began feeling the hem of her dress. “It is here somewhere,” she muttered absently to herself. With an exclamation she found what she was looking for and pulled it free of the material. She stood and offered her prize to Fulk. “And your pin.” Anne had the hairpin Eleanor had gifted to him. Anne looked back to Eleanor and said shyly, “I had thought you meant Trempwick, until I found this. It was because of the way he commented on your necklace, and you seemed to like him and he was unsuitable to win your hand too, but when I found this I knew otherwise. It makes a lot more sense.” She turned back to Fulk, “I found it before William did and I recognised it, so I stole it and hid it away.”

Fulk took the pin and replaced it in the special loops on his dagger sheath. “Thank you,” he said solemnly.

Anne demonstrated that she had matured in these last few days. “I do not think this story can have a happy ending,” she said sorrowfully. “I can give you a few moments alone, it is not much but …”

“It is all we will ever get,” Eleanor finished for her. She hesitated, then asked, “Could you persuade my father into restoring my gooseberry badge? Tell him I did not wish to change it; it was Trempwick’s doing.”

Anne nodded. “I shall wait outside to make sure no one comes in. A few minutes is all I can do,” she warned.

The instant they were alone they were locked in each other’s arms. After a passionate, long lived kiss she asked him breathlessly, “Where were you?”

“Your father had me tossed in a prison cell,” he replied, before kissing her again.

At their next opportunity to speak she said reproachfully, “You have been fighting.”

He grinned wryly. “No, if I’d been fighting your Trempwick would be a mess.”

“Trempwick?” she repeated. “But he said …”

“He’s hardly going to tell you he thumped me for being extremely rude about you.” Fulk kissed the tip of her nose, then her eyelids, then finally her mouth again. “I had to convince him I’d no interest in doing this.” He kissed her ardently. “But as you can see I do have an interest.” Which he demonstrated by kissing her again.

“I see you have gotten over your qualms about self-control,” she told him dryly.

“You try being locked in a cell for over a day with nothing but dreams of a gooseberry to keep you company; it works wonders.”

“I believe it is traditional to dream about revenge,” she chided him mock seriously.

“Maybe, but there’s only so many ways to imagine killing someone. Gooseberries have a lot more potential.” He paused, then listed them gravely, “Stewed gooseberries, gooseberry pie, gooseberry sauce, meat with gooseberry stuffing, plain freshly picked gooseberries, gooseberries with honey, gooseberries with cream … it made me very hungry.” One of his fingers had been tickling the back of her neck and slowing working down her spine. Just below shoulder level he encountered bandages. “What idiot covered you in bandages?” he asked. “It’s going to make a hell of a mess when we remove them. Far better to have left your back to seal up on its own.”

“Aveline.”

“You should have refused that hag’s help; she’s obviously never dealt with more than small injuries before.”

“I kept asking for you but you were nowhere to be found.” That sounded so sad Fulk’s heart twisted. His mind rocketed back from gooseberries and honey to the king’s words, I could not take the chance on you rescuing her, a change of direction the church would have approved of. ‘Nowhere to be found’ – that implied she had been hurt again while he was imprisoned. “And anyway they were more concerned about rushing me off to the church before I could change my mind again.”

“Change your mind on what?” Church; this did not sound good, not at all. Why would they need her in the church if not … no, no, Eleanor would never agree to marry; they had an agreement of sorts. They could never marry each other but they could remain faithful and not take anyone else instead. Ok, they had never put that in words but he thought it was so obvious it did not need saying, and he knew she wasn’t interesting in being anyone’s wife. He was just jumping to silly conclusions.

“You do not know?” She seemed amazed. “The whole castle knows.”

“Know what?” She would not marry, it would be something else, but what?

“They have forced me to marry Trempwick; we betrothed now and the wedding is around two months away.” And so much for that.

“You agreed?” He could not believe it – why in hell’s name had she agreed?! She was not Maude to tamely go along with her family’s whims and she had proven herself more than capable of standing her ground. Oh yes, she liked the spymaster’s attention, remember? She’d been lapping up Trempwick’s not quite flirting for days now. Evidently Fulk was nothing more than a … a pet to her, despite appearances otherwise. He shoved her roughly away from him. “How could you?” he demanded, anguish and incredulity mixed together.

“How could I not?” she shot back. “They had me locked up to starve until I agreed, and every two hours that … that fiend who calls himself my father,” her face contorted with hate as she spat those words, “came along and reopened the wounds on my back. After half a day it was more than I could bear.” And this was the same Eleanor who was covered in scars as testament to her ability to survive whatever her father could throw at her? It looked like this time she had put in a token resistance, nothing more. Half a day, not long then. Fulk hoped she hadn’t been inconvenienced too badly.

Once again he’d have to stand by and watch as his love was handed off to someone else, only this time he had not thrown his own chance away. If he had been offered a chance, no matter how slender, he would have grabbed it with both hands. Now he would remain in Eleanor’s household, forced to watch Trempwick and Eleanor … his stomach revolted at that and he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. He’d leave if he could, but the only way out was death, and so he’d have to watch and pretend he didn’t care.

Even assuming he had been there and she had wanted his help there was nothing he could have done. Trempwick could take on the king; he couldn’t. Oh yes, Trempwick the human wonder, everything Fulk was not – rich, powerful, a true noble, in good favour with the king, sadistic, a murderer, honourless. What an appealing man.

He was useless and she hadn’t seen fit to resist for very long, and on that note he would leave, thank you very much. This whole damned thing had been a disaster waiting to happen; it had happened and now it was time to bail out before he went down with the ship. He started towards the door. Eleanor threw herself after him and managed to grab his arm just before he opened the door and effectively ended their discussion, if it could be called that. “Where you going?” she asked. She looked distressed but he really didn’t care; she’d made her choice and now she could deal with the consequences. He was no one’s pet.

“Back where I belong.” He pulled her hand from his arm and flung it back down at her side. “Have a nice time with your Trempwick.” She would; she’d been playing along to his courtship for days.

“He is not my Trempwick!” she insisted loudly.

“He is,” he said viciously, “and you’re his little Nell.” She flinched; somehow that was satisfying.

She didn’t stop him when he tried to leave again, though part of him wished she had. He blasted right past Anne, ignoring her, and out the door into the bailey. He made his way to the second hall, the one for common soldiers, worthless knights and ordinary servants, anger lending his legs a powerful, fluid speed.

Within minutes he had found himself a place at the high end one of the tables. He had a tankard of strong ale in one hand and a lithe blonde sat on his lap. Back where he belonged.






There's some good lines in that part, even if I do say so myself.

[Axeknight]

What had Trempwick been doing, and why did he feel the need to train in secret?

Trempwick the chiselled Greek god... Heh, maybe buffing up so his mates don't laugh at him when they take his clothes on the wedding night?

Sorry, stressful days make me want to be puerile. I didn't expect Fulk to walk off like that, that bit was nicely done. And yes, some excellent lines in there.