The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[DemonArchangel]

Maybe Eleanor doesn't keep track of Trempwick well enough to know when he trains.

[scooter_the_shooter]

well i didnt read it for a month i missed all updates so i recently did much reading. and you have gotten me addicted AGAIN froggy great story keep it up.
also i wasnt expecting the whole marriage thing good twist froggy.

i was looking at all the old stories and i saw red hand was about to scroll passed but i couldnt i began to read it again and will probably read all again over the next few weeks one of your best froggy. (didnt get far though cause i got addicted last time .) sense i live in the states froggy if its published i probibaly wont be able to get it. please do send the new version to me on email when its done.

[scooter_the_shooter]

also to all the people who read the first one i have been tempted to read it so i can see what happens cuase just as red hand i cant wait for up dates for this either . but would it spoil it and make me less intereseted in this. is it a good idea

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor stood where Fulk had left her, too shell shocked to do anything other than gaze into the empty space where he had been. He hatred her. He was all she had and she had lost him. A hand touched hers and Anne said, “He will come back.”

“Go away,” Eleanor told her woodenly.

Anne bit her lip. “William wants to know if you will be alright,” she said hesitantly. “But I am not supposed to tell you that.”

Eleanor laughed; it was unpleasant and tinted with madness. “Does he indeed?” she said harshly. “He beats me senseless, forces me to marry against my will and executes my brother, and then wonders if I am going to be happy? Tell my dear, dear father from me that if he cannot work out the answer for himself he should prod his brain into action with a crossbow bolt launched through his ear.”

“I will not tell him that because it will just upset him,” Anne said sensibly. “He really is concerned.”

“Oh yes, and I am concerned about him too,” She stopped staring after Fulk and turned on Anne, her blue eyes burning with hate. “Concerned that he may die peacefully instead of in the anguish he deserves. I do not know how you can stomach being married to him now you know what he is.”

“He is kind to me-”

“He executed his son.”

“And he wept bitter tears because of it,” said Anne heatedly, “and because of you too.”

“That monster is not capable of anything so human as tears. Now go away and leave me alone.”





The sentry marched along his assigned section of the wall towards Fulk, his hands warily shifting to a fighting grip on his billhook. Fulk told him loudly, “I’m harmless; I only want some air and a view.” He was sat with his back against the stone parapets of the inner curtain wall looking down at the inner bailey, the early evening chill of the icy stone seeping through his clothes and into his bones. He didn’t much care; he had left the hall before he had been able to get even slightly drunk, feeling worse than when he had arrived.

The sentry halted a few feet away from Fulk. He grounded his billhook’s butt and leaned on the weapon’s long wooden shaft. “Rather you than me mate, it’s bloody freezing out here. Could freeze the balls off God himself if he stopped out for long enough.” The man’s breath came out as plumes of white steam. He grinned, pale teeth in stark contrast to his dark beard. “Course I hope to be inside and warm long afore my own drop off.”

“Don’t we all?” returned Fulk. Back inside in the warm; eventually he’d have to go back and play bodyguard and he’d be willing to bet the atmosphere would be far frostier than the air out here.

“I’ll leave you be then, but if you try anything funny I’ll have your bloody guts cut out and your soul off to hell faster than you can wink.” He began walking his rounds again, his boots clomping on the paved wall walk.

That man was a good example of why Fulk was here. The sentry was a member of the king’s own household, dressed in royal livery with the king’s badge on his arm and breast, and yet he still talked in a far cruder manner than Fulk. His sword was of poorer quality than Fulk’s, as was the man’s knife. His royal livery had been of an inferior cloth to Fulk’s. His training and equipment was that of an infantry man, not a knight, and he certainly hadn’t been a knight of any variety. In short Fulk was quite some distance above him. He no longer fitted amongst the common orders, if he had ever truly fitted at all.

He was a bastard in nature as well as birth; part noble, part common. He didn’t belong anywhere.

At first he hadn’t seen it, too occupied with his own anger and sense of betrayal. As that wore off he had insisted to himself he was where he belonged, far away from Eleanor and happier for it. But then he’d started to notice how people moved away from him and he saw that he had gained one of the best places in the hall because of his rich appearance, not his charm. Conversation became stilted and falsely polite when he tried to join in; a few had even my lorded him – him, of all men.

From there it had only grown worse. While the blonde has been appealing there had been one glaring problem; she wasn’t Eleanor and so he wasn’t really interested even as he tried to tell himself he didn’t care any more. The fact she’d tried to steal his purse had only clinched the deal. Like it or not his predilection for a certain princess was not so easily disposed of. It was not fair; he had never asked to fall for her, quite the opposite, in fact.

Still worse had been the conversation, or more accurately the overheard gossip. It seemed as if everybody had been talking of the last few day’s events. Talk of the execution was bad enough. Talk of the wedding was dull. Talk of the betrothal only served to remind him of why he was in the hall.

Worst of all was the story a guardsman was telling to a rapt audience, a tale of chilling screams and angry shouting. He had been put on duty outside Eleanor’s window for a couple of hours. His story had to be embellished but if just half of it was true then Fulk had reason to feel guilty. He didn’t really believe it - Eleanor never screamed; she was very good at suffering in silence. She might make a big deal out of the one and only time she had made a sound while her father pummelled her but she blew it out of all proportion – no one outside the room had heard. To hear her from outside a building …

They had needed to patch her together with bandages. No, actually he didn’t know that, not for certain. He knew Aveline had bandaged Eleanor’s back, but not how necessary it had been. It could be the equivalent of bandaging an entire arm for a small cut on the forearm. Aveline clearly had no idea of how to handle Eleanor’s injuries so she might overreact.

Least of all did he want to hear about Eleanor begging for help. The guardsman had recounted that bit in a hushed voice, causing his listeners to lean forward to hear better, hanging off his every word. A beautiful princess – ha! – locked away and begging for a brave hero to rescue her. Her pleas would have melted all but the hardest of hearts but, like in every good story, they had no effect on her father. The guardsman revealed that he had been about to chance his luck and rescue her when he had been relieved by another guard. Fulk knew he was lying for the sake of his audience – it would have been suicide to intervene.

He didn’t believe it – the story just did not tally with reality. The parts which did tally were enough to make him doubt slightly, but not enough to change his mind. But still he could not entirely believe she was only playing with him, or that she wanted to marry Trempwick. None of this fit the Eleanor he knew. There was so much he didn’t know; being out of the picture for over a day had left him lagging behind.

Oh damn it, he didn’t want to believe she had dumped him so easily, but nor did he want to believe he had been so wrong. What he could see did not fit with what he knew, and what he heard fit with neither. But … proof of how much she had been hurt would be right there on her back, waiting for inspection. All he needed to do was go and see. That would resolve one part of this, and perhaps shed light on the rest too.





He hurried back to Eleanor’s guest house, almost running in his haste. Everyone would in the main hall now, Eleanor included, but there was no harm in checking. If she wasn’t there he could wait; hopefully he would get an opportunity to see her before Trempwick removed him again. If he arrived while the spymaster or his mother were there he was unlikely to get past the front door, but if Eleanor saw him then he was less likely to be removed. He would then have time to suggest taking over his usual role as royal cut tender. From there it would be in her hands.

He pounded in through the entrance hall and into the nursery. There he skidded to a halt. A large chest had been dragged over in front of the door to Eleanor’s bed chamber. How odd; the chest had not even been part of this room before. As the door opened outwards the chest effectively locked the door from the outside. From behind the door he heard Eleanor say, “If you have come back here expecting me to be contrite you shall be sorely disappointed.”

Despite himself he grinned. That was the Eleanor he knew, the one who fought instead of giving up, even when giving up was the wiser option. “Will I?”

“Fulk?” Her voice was full of relief. “Get me out of here.”

His resentment returned. “Oh yes, you want me to rescue you now? What happened to your darling Trempwick?”

There was a pause, then she said in a low voice, “He is not now, nor ever has been, nor ever will be, my Trempwick.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Pity I cannot fool myself then; I would have a blissful future ahead of me if only I could.”

It sounded sincere but he had seen her delighting in Trempwick’s company. Contradictory evidence. There was no time for this; he had no idea how long he would have before someone returned. He tried to push the chest of the way with a foot but it didn’t budge; something inside it weighted it down. He bent down, grabbed the iron handle fixed on the side and began to drag it back out of the way. It was slow, laborious work; he strongly suspected it had taken two men to put this in place. By the time the door was clear he was panting for breath and his muscles ached as much as if he’d just come out of a hard fight.

On opening the door he was once again presented with a sight he had never expected. Eleanor was sat on her bed with her hands bound together in front of her by a bit of rope. One end of the rope was fastened securely to a bedpost, tethering her in place and giving her less then three feet of line to play with. Her hands rested in her lap and one hand’s worth of fingers was drumming impatiently on her knee cap. She looked more than a little exasperated. Someone had thoughtfully placed a tray of food, including a chunk of cheese, just out of her reach.

“Trempwick was not happy with my remark about being treated like his prisoner; he is teaching me the difference, or so he insists.” The fingers stopped drumming and she fidgeted slightly, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankles. She made an attempt at an open handed gesture with her hands. “So, have you come to shout some more before storming out again? If you have I would be grateful if you would get on with it so I can return to feeling sorry for myself.”

He drew his dagger and cut her free. Guilt prickled at his conscience; she had made that comment so she could talk to him, and she had known Trempwick would do something like this. You don’t make sacrifices like this for a pet; you don’t do anything for a pet. He watched as she rubbed her wrists where the rope had hampered circulation, trying to restore life to her hands. “I’m here to do something with those bandages.” The sooner he saw the sooner his mind would be at ease.

“Somehow I did not think you had come to see me. Very well, go collect whatever you need and I shall get ready. Make sure you lock the doors on your way back.”

“You’ll upset your Trempwick again if we lock him out.”

“Yes,” she sighed and wilted. “I have no reason to do that now.” The words taken alone sounded as if she wanted to appease the spymaster but the sheer hopelessness of her posture and tone indicated otherwise. She thought she had nothing left to fight for. Before she had been fighting for him, and for her independence. Fulk’s heart twisted and he nearly told her that she still had reason, if she wanted it but he steeled himself and said nothing. He would untangle the conflicting stories here first, then go from there. He would not keep changing his mind; he would come to a solid conclusion before saying anything.






It did not take him long to find the necessary items; Aveline had left plenty of linen scraps, a bowl, the salve and enough wine to fuel a good party in the nursery outside Eleanor’s room. Fulk couldn’t be bothered to brave the cold outdoors to fetch some water; he’d use the wine to soak the bandages off instead. If Aveline had done as poor a job as he expected then wine would be better suited to the task, as it combated infection. He was left waiting while she finished undressing with the door firmly shut.

“Alright,” she called resignedly, “let’s get this over with.”

She had repeated the usual arrangement, lying on her front with a sheet obscuring all those bits Fulk would rather like to look at. Also as per the usual arrangement he left the door slightly ajar and placed his assortment of items in clear view. If anyone entered the room it would be immediately apparent that there was nothing improper going on. Really they should have had a chaperone; the only person Fulk wouldn’t have minded filling that capacity was Anne, and she would be sat in the middle of the high table queening it over dinner.

Right from the off things didn’t meet Fulk’s expectations. Aveline knew how to do good bandaging even if she did not know when it was appropriate. The bandages themselves were liberally spotted with blood in many places. The stains ranged from a long dried near black to a still fresh bright crimson. Some of the cuts had not sealed firmly, or Eleanor had been doing something to keep tearing the wounds open.

He drew his dagger and began to decide where it would be best to cut the linen strips so they would be easier to remove, idly tapping the flat of the blade against the palm of his other hand. His favourite would have been a single cut right down the front; it would not only take advantage of the slight gap between linen and skin provided by her cleavage but it would also have afforded him a very nice view. Hastily squashing the distracting image that called to mind he started working on her left side instead.

His knife was just parting the last few strips when she said, “I want to be awake when Trempwick arrives; someone had best explain why I am no longer tied up, and that someone will have to be me.”

“You sound like you’re expecting to pass out.” He didn’t believe for a moment that she would.

“I am.”

“You didn’t pass out with that first set of wounds I treated; this is only more of the same.” Well it was; she had no broken bones, she was not covered from head to toe in bruises and she was up and about already, therefore it could not possibly be anywhere near as bad as last time.

“More of the same? Wait until you see and then tell me that,” she said acidly.

She had never made a fuss out of her injuries before, tending to underplay them rather than overstate. A tiny new strand of doubt joined those tendrils already present. Fulk carefully pulled away the few strips of linen bandage that had no blood at all on them, folding them open like the pages of a book. Next he started to soak the blood clots on the remaining mass of bandages, trying to loosen them so they would not rip the wounds open as he removed them.

As he began work on the next phase Fulk’s doubts began to grow; as he slowly worked down towards her skin he found more and more old blood, bonding the linen to Eleanor’s skin. He was not at all comforted to notice she was biting one corner of the bed’s bolster in an effort not to scream and she wasn’t managing to hold still, flinching away from his touch. The poultice had prevented too much sticking but all the same as he removed the layers closest to her skin he was more often than not taking parts of the scabs off with the linen.

Then he got down to skin and the last lingering traces of his doubt died. One day when he’d been in Aidney’s service Fulk and a few other men at arms had been sat around a table sharing a drink and talking, as soldiers tend to do, of their worst wounds and how horrible the pain had been. Each story had been aimed to make the others seem like nothing and all of them had been of large and spectacular wounds, such as his own crossbow bolt right through the thigh.

The contest had been ended by the youngest of their company, a youth who’d only seen a half year’s service with Aidney. He had been a quiet type but he had managed to silence the louder, older men. “If you wanna hurt someone bad,” he’d said with calm authority, “you go small. Breaking arms is for amateurs; break fingers. Loads’a small hurts are far worse than one big’un.” Everyone had stared at him, not believing it. The youth had grinned, a chilling expression that showed his two missing front teeth. “Me pa were a torturer and I learned his craft a bit afore deciding it weren’t for me. The one wound only hurts in one place and in one throb, see. Loads’a small ‘uns hurt all over and in different time, see. You feel em all.”

William had learned a type of finesse. From waist to shoulders Eleanor was covered in hundreds of cuts. There was the usual attendant bruising but no broken bones or anything crude. The cuts were not deep, only going about half way through the skin, but they were evenly applied all over in both distribution and severity, unlike previously where it had been a mishmash with some parts far worse than others. She had said, “reopened the wounds on my back”; reopening a cut was every bit as painful as getting it in the first place, frequently more so because the already ravaged flesh tore instead of being parted cleanly. It was small wonder the guard had heard screaming.

“You were right, dear gooseberry,” he told her softly.

She mumbled something in reply but the pillow stifled it and she apparently didn’t have the strength to lift her head up clear. He leaned over and pressed the pillow down so her mouth was clear. “Whatever that means,” she repeated weakly.

Warily he checked the doorway was still clear and wished he did not need to worry about them being overheard. “It means that I’m convinced you didn’t give up that easily. You do a good job of looking fitter than you are.”

“Of course I did not give up easily,” said Eleanor with tired exasperation. “As I have been repeatedly telling you I do not want to marry Trempwick; the man did murder my brother, if nothing else.”

“And yet you’ve loved the way he’s been pouring attention on you.”

“Friendly I like; when he is being friendly he is not being vindictive,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Now he is far too friendly, and still prone to being cruel.”

He wanted to hear her say it plainly, but first he glanced once more to the door. “So you don’t have a thing for him, you don’t want to marry him and you did try to avoid this.”

“Got it in a nutshell, flatnose.” She was trying hard to sound normal but there was no hiding the pain she was in, and that hopelessness was still present.

Fulk shot a quick look at the door, making sure it was still safe. “I thought otherwise. Forgive me?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” she said graciously. “But you are an idiot.” That sounded a bit more like it; no bleakness and a bit more of her usual zest.

Fulk checked the door again and then planted a quick kiss on her temple. “You could sound more enthusiastic.”

“Hmmm,” she agreed. “But I prefer to watch you wriggle. I would drag this out and get you to grovel but it is not safe.”

He grinned, the dead weight cleared from his heart and mind. “You’re so kind to me.”

“I am far too generous for my own good,” she agreed pleasantly.

Fulk surveyed her back again; many of the cuts were slowly oozing blood and some were showing signs of infection. He fetched the jug of wine from where he had left it. He kept up the conversation so Eleanor wouldn’t pay much attention to what he was doing; sometimes being warned only made things worse. “I know; it’s the soft, fuzzy thing at work, your true nature.” He returned with the jug, keeping out of her sight.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a trace of anxiety under the pain in her voice.

“Eleanor, I do love you, remember that.”

She started to look over her shoulder, suspecting something was going on. “Why would I-” The rest of that was cut off by a howl of unbridled pain as he briskly started pouring the wine over her back. The howl itself died when she mercifully passed out.





Who wouldn't buff up, Axeknight? Although he does admit to intending to skip the part where everyone sees him naked.

That is .... obliquely it, Demon. Right and yet not right. :looks mysterious:

Weclome back, caesar. :hands over some eye drops: According to some other readers you will be needing these. I really can't recommend reading the original Eleanor; basically it stinks in comparison to this and is a totally different story and plot anyway. The two versions perminantly parted company when this story was on page 2 of the topic.

[DemonArchangel]

Ouch!
Alcohol on a couple hundred open cuts isn't a good idea.

[zelda12]

*sigh*
I would think that Trempwick would of seen fit to teach Eleanor that when you're at the mercy of a strong man you go for their weakest spot.
Or in the words of a random troll, "Kick 'im inna rocks."

If I was Trempwicks boss I'd sack him on the grounds of incompitence.

[scooter_the_shooter]

good add on froggy i have a guess of what happens next but wont say

[frogbeastegg]

William removed the decorative feather from the little pie shaped like a jaunty cap and bit into it. He chewed absently, his mind occupied with more important matters than the pie’s filling. His attention was sharply recalled as a piece of walnut dug into his gum. One missing tooth had been more than enough to convince him never to lose another; he’d rather have a finger cut off than another tooth wrenched out, and the gap at the back of his jaw was a persistent nuisance. He slapped the pie back down on his shared trencher.

“Is something wrong?” enquired Anne.

“Never lose teeth,” he told her sourly.

“Would you like some pottage instead?”

A reminder of just how old he must seem to her. “I am not so ancient or gap-toothed I can only eat soft food.” To prove his point he took another large bite of his pasty, this time being careful to chew only on one side of his mouth. The stuffing turned out to be veal, pork, bone marrow, dates, currents, walnuts and assorted spices; a dish fit for a king, if said king was paying attention.

“It is not kingly to display your foul humour before all and sundry,” Anne told him in a hushed voice, carefully maintaining her mask of polite, neutral happiness.

William nearly choked. They were at the high table in the main hall, surrounded by people and watched by the most important in the land and she was complaining of his manners. A surreptitious check revealed none but him had heard her. Equally stealthily he told her, “You are getting better at this.” She was; he was slowly crushing back the spectre of Anne’s grandmother. Queens worked; they did not sit around idly doing nothing other than popping out the occasional child. Now William had a queen again he expected her to do her job, including the parts which prevented him making an ass out of himself. Especially those parts.

“Thank you, my lord.” This she said louder so those closest to them could hear. That took care of her other prime function at this feast; making sure everyone knew of the harmonious relationship of the royal couple. Anne was beginning to prove she had plenty of diplomatic potential.

“Call me William, please,” he reminded her in matching volume and tone. She already knew but they had agreed to spend a few days repeating this rigmarole to prove how polite and well bred she was, and how warm he was towards her. A stage show, but indispensable.

Dropping back to his quietest voice William said, “What do you want to do tonight?”

“I thought perhaps I might read, if you do not mind.”

He nodded his approval and returned to his thoughts. Around a quarter of an hour later William put his latest pie down; he wanted to be out of public view so he could brood in peace. “Have you finished eating?”

She caught the hint with admirable speed. “Yes, my l-William.” A very neat touch, that sudden change of direction.

He pitched his voice at that falsely private level, the one which made it seem as if he intended none to hear but was marginally too loud to truly remain private. “Then let us withdraw, my lady.”

Together they stood and hand in hand they left the hall. When they were out of sight at the foot of the stairwell William halted and listened to the hall’s reaction for a while. He smiled at his wife and began to climb up the stairs with her. “Their jokes begin to repeat.”

“They were repeating on our wedding day,” she pointed out bashfully.

“In theme, yes, but there were minute differences in the phrasing.”

In their solar William left Anne to her own devices; she was reading Guigemar, a tale of a beautiful young woman locked away in an enclosure guarded by a castrated priest because her aged husband was rampantly jealous and paranoid. Predictably a handsome young man by the name of Guigemar managed to reach her. Also predictably Guigemar was under a curse to suffer from an old wound until a woman suffers greatly because of her love for him. Even more predictably from their first meeting the usual, boring true love combined with plenty of escapades involving near death befell the lovers. It was a very fashionable story.

For nearly half an hour the only sounds were the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the sound of pages being turned. “Repeat again what Eleanor said,” William asked.

Anne frowned slightly and looked up. “But I already told you several times.”

“I want to hear it again.”

She sighed and closed her book, leaving one finger between the pages to mark her place. “She said she did not think she could be happy with Trempwick, and she is upset about her brother.”

William knew Eleanor’s real words had to have been more … explosive, unless he had worked a miracle and finally turned the brat into a civilised human. He scowled. “It is not her place to be happy; it is her place do marry as I tell her.” He returned to his brooding for a while, then burst out, “And anyway I do not see why she is so intent on being miserable. She knows Trempwick, she has lived with him for years, and he is not a bad sort.” But he was unsuitable, as she had said. That got no reply. “Well?” he asked crossly. “Do you have any ideas?”

Anne put her book down again. “You have been fretting about this ever since she agreed; if the marriage bothers you so much maybe you should cancel it?”

William slumped lower in his chair. “Oh, I can’t do that,” he groused. “I would be a laughing stock and it cost everyone involved quite a bit to get the damned thing arranged in the first place. It is expedient, it is for the good of the realm and the stability of the succession, it neatly solves a whole set of otherwise dangerous problems, and I think both bride and groom have something to gain. The marriage will take place and that is final.”

It was all entirely true; Eleanor would marry Trempwick even if he had to repeat the gruelling process that had got her to agree to the betrothal. Anyway it was his right, and duty, to find Eleanor a husband. All the same Joanna would have hated him for what he had done to their children; William was not certain his first wife would have seen that he really did have no option to do anything other than what he had done. He supposed he would find out when he saw her again in the next life.

After another long pause he asked, “Did you see the bodyguard?”

“Yes.”

“Did he seem content with his compensation?” He had not been happy with imprisoning an innocent man for no reason other than convenience but this Fulk had proven persistently loyal to Eleanor. Breaking Eleanor’s will required carefully controlled conditions; she had to have no hope of rescue or support, to see that she had no option except to give way. Trempwick had argued Fulk’s imprisonment unnecessary but William had known otherwise; he did not want to kill yet another person, assuming the bodyguard did intervene. William sighed; he had turned from king to torturer, and found himself lacking. Those screams …

He realised Anne had answered. “Pardon?”

“I said he seemed to have no complaints.”

William nodded slowly. His mind began to wander towards John; what an accursed mess that had been. He had thought it kindest to get it over with quickly so the boy wasn’t waiting in dread for days but in hindsight William wondered if instead it may have been more merciful to wait until a professional headsman had been available. He shut his eyes, only to see again the crimson fountain of blood spurting from his son’s neck, and to hear once again his angry denunciation of William as both king and father.

His eyes shot open; it was too much, too much. Better to focus on the here and now; what’s done is done and as king he did not have the liberty, or indeed right, to disappear off into the shadowy depths of his own mind. Or as husband. He sat up properly and said to Anne, “Let’s have a look at this book of yours. It must be good; you have been reading it avidly.”

Anne began to hold out the book for him. She stopped and chewed her lip uncertainly. Shyly she stood and brought the book over to him, something unnecessary as she had been well within arm’s reach before. She offered the book to him but remained hovering at his side when he took it from her. Carefully William opened the book and leafed thorough the first few pages, passing several detailed illustrations and admiring the neat and of the clerk who had copied the book. He looked up again; she was still there. He gave the book back to her. “Very nice.”

“It was a gift from my uncle Robert.” She was still there.

Nearly four decades of experience gave William an idea of what she might have in mind. “Why not sit down?” She looked crestfallen and started back towards her own chair. “No, here … if you like.” He left ‘here’ deliberately ambiguous. Just as he’d thought she hopped onto his lap and settled back against his chest quite happily. He tucked one arm around her. “You surprise me,” he told her.

Anne blushed as red as her hair. In a mortified whisper she confided, “It was the only part of out wedding night I liked, the being held.”

Some men would have found that offensive but William laughed. He opened her book to the page she had marked and held it open with his spare hand while she read.

Whatever the problems with his children, William mused, he was exceptionally lucky in his wives. He liked them both, well had loved one and was growing quite fond of the other too. Considering both were entirely political matches that was extraordinary. He hadn’t expected to be happy either time; he had been wrong. The same would happen to Eleanor once she accepted the way things were, he was sure. That would go some small way to settling the encumbrance on his conscience.








I did watered down disinfectant on the palms of my hands after I had fallen over and taken massive chunks out of them once. There is no way to describe how much that hurt. Just thinking about wine over an entire back covered in cuts makes me feel ill.

In my view the two men who need kicking most are William and Trempwick. William would batter her until she passed out and/or died. Trempwick would get horrifically creative. William is also Trempwick's boss. Hmm, interesting situation there.

And I bet that wasn't what you predicted for the next part, caesar We'll get back to the gooseberry in the next part.

[zelda12]

"Have you finished easting?”

Easting? Sorry is this a typo?


Another good piece I always like it when you focus a little on the secondary chracters like William or anne.

[frogbeastegg]

Indeed, a typo. Fixed, thanks. I also fixed up an illogical not-exactly-an-error; it took William over 15 minutes to eat a pie slightly smaller than his clenched fist. I don't think anyone eats that slowly.

[scooter_the_shooter]

lol it wasnt but i was dead wrong about one thig. i thought william would start beating anne too.

[DemonArchangel]

Hell, I thought he beat his first wife to death

[scooter_the_shooter]

more froggy more more more http://webpages.charter.net/connectingzone/happy/33.gif

[frogbeastegg]

“… wanted to leave tomorrow!”

“It couldn’t wait.”

“One day, bodyguard, it could have waited one more day.”

“Another day would only have made matters worse; better to act now before the infection became too severe.”

Eleanor fought her way towards the voices, emerging from the black fug into a blaze of agony. Taking stock of her surroundings could wait until later. “If you do not mind,” she mumbled, “I am trying to be unconscious here.”

The arguing stopped and footsteps headed her way. Trempwick appeared in her view. “You should have got my mother to do this,” he told her sternly.

“No thanks,” she replied with a hazy kind of cheerfulness. The world had a certain dreamlike quality to it and talking was a lot of work. “She’s crap at this.” Hmmm, that did not sound very regal; no doubt Trempwick would complain copiously. If he did she would just go back to sleep.

Trempwick looked disgruntled. “I shall blame that on your being only half awake; consider yourself fortunate.” That was really quite nice of him, now she didn’t have to listen to yet more moaning. A cool hand rested itself on her forehead. “She is slightly feverish.”

“See,” came Fulk’s voice, “I told you it couldn’t wait. Your mother might do well enough with simple hurts but this is far beyond her. You should have got me in the first place, if you didn’t want to get a proper healer.”

The hand left her forehead and Trempwick altered his stance so he could glare at Fulk. “You had vanished, bodyguard.”

“I was thrown in a prison cell; our king was concerned I may try to help her.” Fulk’s voice became nonchalant. “I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

Trempwick’s reply sounded bored, like a teacher explaining something to a particularly dense student. “I am the king’s spymaster; if he chooses to keep something from me that is his prerogative. I do not spy on him. You will leave now; I shall sit with her.”

“As you like,” came Fulk’s casual answer. He was doing a very good job of making his interest in her sound professional with a hint of friendship, just what they needed to convince Trempwick there was nothing between them. It was obvious they got on well enough to consider themselves friends, so there was no point in trying to sound purely professional. “But you may want to lift her out of that puddle of wine, and there’s still a few areas that need salving.”

Trempwick said sardonically, “Yes, thank you; I think I can manage.”

Fulk’s footsteps retreated, leaving her alone with Trempwick. She felt at a distinct disadvantage here, lying face down on the bed with her back bare and only a carefully arranged sheet and her loincloth to cover the rest of her. She heard the door close and Trempwick moving about out of her range of vision. “Well, dear Nell,” he told her, trying to sound at ease. “It is a good thing we are to be married.” She didn’t see why until he returned to her field of view and picked her up.

She flailed an arm and managed to catch the sheet before it fell off, keeping it in place over her lower half but she could feel a draft on her legs. Oh Christ, he could see everything from mid thigh down! Even peasants with their skirts kilted up to work never showed anywhere near that much off. The less said about where his other arm, the one under her torso, was the better. This was a nightmare. Given a choice she would have by far preferred to wriggle her own slow, painful way over to the other half of the bed, or even remained where she was.

Trempwick deposited her face down on the dry side of the bed; he had moved the covers back out of the way on this side. If he was chivalrous, Eleanor told herself as she extracted her face from the bolster before she suffocated, he wouldn’t say a thing.

“You have nice legs,” he commented. Eleanor began contemplating how best to cause him a lot of pain without leaving herself open to reprisal. Sadly she couldn’t see a way to so much as scratch him without inviting disaster. She began rearranging the sheet as best she could, noticing a distinct lack of assistance from him. She got the distinct impression he was enjoying the view; her flesh crawled.

Pot of salve in hand Trempwick began smearing ointment over her back, working from top to bottom and redoing all of Fulk’s work. He was not ungentle, that at least was some improvement over his mother. When he finished he wiped his hands on a rag. “We will still leave tomorrow; we can travel at a slower pace.”

Trempwick cleared all the debris away then inspected the other half of the bed. Turning her head to look at where she had moved from she could see an Eleanor-shaped outline in wine mixed with blood on the fancy bedspread. “Servants are going to be happy,” she slurred.

Trempwick agreed. “Your pet could have made less of a mess with a bit more thought,” he griped. Trempwick peeled back the bedspread and dumped it in a pile at the bottom of the large bed. He felt the covers underneath where the wine had sloshed. “Dry enough; good.” He unlatched his belt and dropped it on the floor next to the bed, then sat down and began pulling his boots off.

“What the hell are you doing?” squeaked Eleanor, suddenly feeling a lot more awake. She had been forced to leave her wrist knives at Woburn; she would have felt significantly better if she had one tucked under her pillow in easy reach right now.

One boot dropped to the floor with a thud. Trempwick glanced over his shoulder at her. “I said I would stay here overnight, and I do not see the point in sitting up while I can lie down comfortably.”

“This really is not necessary,” she tried.

He smiled, then began to prise off his other boot. “Perhaps not,” he agreed. The second boot landed on the floor. “But when your back has finally clotted properly I can tuck you in.”

Would it be churlish to begin shouting for Fulk at this point? “I always manage that myself.”

“Yes, but you do not have to now.”

Couldn’t he take a hint!? “People may get the wrong idea …”

He swung his legs up onto the bed and flopped backwards, still fully dressed. “My mother will swear she was in here with us; only the three of us and your pet will know any different.”

Perhaps if she tried “Get lost!!” he might go? No, more than likely not. Trempwick was not so dense as to overlook her not entirely subtle attempts to get rid of him; he intended to stay.

Trempwick sat up again and punched the bolster several times, softening it up. He lay back again. “Ah yes, much better.” He turned his head, mussing up his straight brown hair, and grinned at her. It was a slightly … feral grin. “And as I am here,” he said with distinguishable menace, “we can discuss why exactly you thought it a good idea to get your pet to patch you back together without so much as a single chaperone.”

“It is only the same arrangement we used many times at Woburn.”

“We are not at Woburn now,” he snapped. “You are my betrothed and you will not gamble with your reputation like this.”

“But it is acceptable for you to gamble with my reputation?”

Trempwick’s face darkened still further. “I told you my mother will vouch for us – there is no gamble.”

Agree, apologise, be approved of – the three ‘a’s Eleanor had patched together and planned to live by from now on where Trempwick was concerned. Fighting was futile and would only make things worse, except in certain very select cases. Those she would exploit to the full, but if Trempwick thought he had managed to tame her he would be more likely to overlook her real resistance. She had already done enough for today, and for quite some time to come, with her comment about being a prisoner. “Yes master,” she said contritely. “I am sorry; it will not happen again.” It wouldn’t –Fulk wouldn’t need to treat her wounds again before they left court. However back at Woburn …

“It had better not.” The hard lines of his face eased minutely. “Get some sleep,” he commanded her brusquely.

Eleanor didn’t think it would be possible to sleep with the spymaster in the same room, especially not when he was lying at her side less then two feet away. For the sake of avoiding further trouble she shut her eyes. After a few minutes the pretence became real.





Next morning Eleanor felt tired and wretched. Her neck ached from spending so long lying on her front with her head twisted to one side and her back, unsurprisingly, hurt like blazes. The slight fever was still there, adding onto a sleepless night. She had managed to get maybe a half hour’s rest before Trempwick had decided her back had clotted enough to cover her up. Waking up to find the spymaster leaning over her had nearly given her a heart seizure, and from there it had proven impossible to get back to sleep. Once she had been tucked in Trempwick had drawn the bed’s curtains, then promoted another outraged “What the hell are you doing!?” when he stripped down to shirt and braies and joined her. He did not want to rumple his clothes, he said. The curtains would keep them warmer, he said. This was far more comfortable, he said.

Safely buried under the blankets she had painfully shifted onto her side to relieve the strain on her neck and be more comfortable, turning her back on the spymaster. She had also taken advantage of this motion to inch over until she was as far away from Trempwick as she could get without falling out of the bed. That had, in another near seizure provoking event, prompted him to take advantage of the gap between body and mattress afforded by her shoulder and neck and stick an arm around her.

After another round of “What the hell are you doing!?” he had nicely explained that he intended to take things slowly, working up to their wedding night. This was supposedly for her own benefit. “You will soon get used to being held,” he had informed her, making her wish once again she had a knife handy. “In time you will even like it. Relax, dearest Nell; it is something of a prerequisite to enjoying yourself.” In an effort to put an end to this ordeal she had pointed out that they were not married, so he had absolutely no right to do any of this. Maddeningly he had just smiled benignly and told her that, once again, no one would ever know and it was for her benefit anyway.

She had spent much of the night with Trempwick lying on his side behind her in an echo of her own pose, a slight gap between them so he did not aggravate her back and his arm around her. She had been painstakingly aware of his every move, and as he woke up every time she moved even slightly it appeared he was equally paranoid. Two agents did not make a good pairing, it appeared. The nice, posh bed which had seemed so attractive just days before suddenly had no appeal when compared to her own small bed back home – it would be far too cramped for this kind of thing. Alleluia.






Hugh found he could no longer delay his mandatory visit to his sister; she was leaving today. Resignedly he made his way down to her guest house first thing in the morning. Servants bustled about, carrying out saddle bags and other items for transport. Most of the men wore a burnt orange and forest green livery with a fox’s head badge affixed to the breast, the spymaster’s men.

One man wore the royal red and white with a gooseberry and crown badge on his breast; Eleanor’s man, the one father had imprisoned out of fear for his loyalty. Hugh had seen this bodyguard several times but always from a distance; now he took advantage of their proximity to give him a proper look over. His conclusion was favourable; the man clearly was a competent fighter, healthy, well turned out and quite impressive looking. The brat, as their father called her, may be lamentable in many respects but she could choose her servants well.

As he threaded his way through the busy servants Hugh rebuked himself. Calling his little sister brat was clearly unchivalrous, and it showed he was allowing emotion and memory to cloud his judgement, grave flaws in a future king. In an effort to be even handed Hugh reminded himself that he had delayed this visit and ignored Eleanor because of a certain incident when she had been seven and he fifteen. He still quailed to recall that day, her last visit to court where he had been present. That too was an emotional action and he was gravely at fault. This error would not be allowed to happen again.

Content that he had schooled himself to the logical, kingly assessment he had always strove for since becoming the heir Hugh continued on his way at a slightly speedier pace. He could identify his flaws, and so he would eliminate them. He would be king; he had not been born to it but he was shaping himself to rule. There were those who doubted his ability as well as his lineage but Hugh was determined to prove himself every bit as able as his deceased elder brother.

Once inside the building Hugh had no difficulty in getting to see his sister; even when you are busy packing to leave you do not refuse the crown prince. He was reverently ushered into the bedchamber where Eleanor was passing time while waiting to depart. She was wearing deep red and while she looked quite noble and neat her clothing was of a lower quality to what she had been wearing since she had arrived. Hugh observed his formalities flawlessly; he kissed his sister on one cheek and politely asked how she was. They exchanged the usual banalities about being in good health and happy to see one another. Then conversation died, instead of transferring smoothly to the more personal topics as it should have.

Hugh was certain he looked resplendent in his finely tailored clothes, all in yellows and oranges chosen to compliment his golden colouring. He may be graceless, as his detractors frequently accused, but his presence had been carefully cultivated to demonstrate his better points; his strength, height, noble bearing, and to possess a certain male dominance. As was his habit he wore a golden version of his own badge on his clothes somewhere for decoration, today a golden pin badge of his feather. He wore his sword and dagger, a subtle statement that he was always ready for action. The weapons were as fine as his clothes, and he was skilled with them. He was an anointed prince, the heir to the throne of an empire, a proven warrior, an educated and refined man.


Now, scrutinised by his sister’s blue eyes he felt once again like the uncertain fifteen year old youth interrupted just as he gathered his confidence to try and seduce his first girl. He hoped Eleanor was not remembering that too. He felt heat flooding to his face; even after all these years he was still mortified to recall her catching him cautiously moving to kiss the vaguely pretty young daughter of some noble or other that he had taken a liking to. Hugh was an immensely private person, and that day he had learned even the vaunted royal garden was not safe.

Eleanor asked, “Is something wrong, Hugh?”

“No,” he replied hurriedly. He should do what he had come for and then leave; she had a journey to begin and he had work to do, so it would not be solely for his own comfort to conclude this swiftly. “I know what you are,” he stated with his usual decisive bluntness. “I do not approve, but father has made his decision and it has reaped some rewards. I do not and will not question his judgment. When I am king I shall expect to use you in the same capacity. It is a discredit to our family and an abomination before God, but for the good of the realm I will allow you to remain as you are.” His eyes narrowed. “A murderer and petty agent.”

“How very kind of you,” she replied with icy sarcasm. She never did have any idea of what was proper.

Again heat flooded his cheeks; speaking of proper he was breaching etiquette himself and mis-saying himself in his attempt to be neutral towards both her and father. He tried again. “I mean that I do not approve of my little sister being put to such appalling usage, but I see why father has made this decision and I shall continue it.”

“You do not approve?” She raised an eyebrow. Somewhere in the years since he had last seen her she had learned to do a very elegant version of a raised eyebrow. With his usual scrupulous honesty Hugh admitted that she had changed quite a bit from the rather wild young girl he had known; she had … poise, and the grace he so devastatingly lacked.

“I see why father has made these decisions,” he repeated once again. He would not allow personal feelings to enter this; feelings were to be locked away and kept private.

“Am I to presume you do not approve of my … employment, or my marriage, or perhaps our dear father’s treatment of me?”

Hugh frowned. “You may presume all three. However all three are expedient and necessary, and so I will continue them on my accession, with the exception of the last if you prove it needless.” That was closer than he liked to get to revealing his own view and placing it as more important than logic. Disliking that his sister was covered in scars from past beatings was pure emotion, and scarcely logical. What was logical was that her behaviour was dreadful and in dire need of correcting. Logic versus emotion, and emotion would lead him astray. He could not afford that.

He bowed his head stiffly, “I shall take my leave now, dear sister. Have a pleasant journey, and I shall see you at your wedding.” He thought she looked a touch ill when he mentioned the wedding; it was apparent she had still not seen that the match was logical and her resistance purely emotional. A pity, but then many scholars did say that women were emotional, fickle creatures with scant sense.






:Twilight zone music: The number of replies for this topic matches the page count of the story exactly; 223.

Yes, that's what Nell thinks too. She thinks her mother spent much of her married life being battered and that Anne will eventually end up the same. She's wrong, at least about the past. The future, well frogs shouldn't say too much as the future is always in motion to a certain extent. It seems very unlikely; Anne just doesn't meet any of the criteria for triggering that reaction. As much of the story is told through Eleanor's eyes the reader can end up misled, only to find out the truth later. I could actually do this story from several different viewpoints and it would be quite different for each character.

[scooter_the_shooter]

an other great update.

[Ludens]

Good job, Froggy. I think I am going to like Hugh very much.

Gah! I am too tired to argue why I think a switch in perspective is amateurish. Just keep the story coming and I'll comment on it another time .

[scooter_the_shooter]

hay froggy this isnt complaining just a question. on redhand we would get 2 sometimes 3 updates a day. but now we get one or none are you to busy to post or just not as interested in this.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor rode along in the middle of the column, at Trempwick’s side, ahead of Aveline and Juliana but behind four of Trempwick’s soldiers. The remaining soldier and Fulk brought up the rear. It was snowing lightly and had been all day. Everyone was coated in a dusting of snow, Eleanor more so than most. Brushing the accumulated snow off seemed like such an effort and she was so tired.

Looking at everyone else Eleanor knew it must be cold, her companions were wrapped up in their thick cloaks and still shivering, their faces pinched and reddened by the icy edge of the air, and yet she was baking. She was warmer then if it had been a summer’s day. The heat had even reached her eyes; they felt as though they were burning. Blinking did little to ease the unpleasant sensation, if anything it only made it worse.

Her mare had a good, even gait but she was still being jogged and jolted enough for her wounds to protest very loudly. Periodically throughout the day’s travelling she had felt blood trickling down her back, at least she assumed it was blood, not sweat. So hot.





Ireland. The thought loomed large in Fulk’s mind; Ireland. Whenever someone fled England they always went west and south, towards France and the other continental countries, seldom eastwards and across the sea to Ireland. Trempwick would have eyes in France or any of the other usual destinations, but maybe not Ireland. Even if he did have agents in Ireland it would be harder for him to act. In Ireland a runaway princess and her knight might be harder to find. They might be safe.

Would Eleanor want to leave, though? Granted she might not like this marriage but that did not mean she wanted to spend the rest of her life on the run, always fearing her past might catch up with her. It did not mean she wanted to tag along with some penniless knight travelling from place to place looking for a lord to serve. She might not be royal in the expensive, luxury consuming meaning of the word but that did not mean she would be content with such a hard life. It did not mean that he liked the idea either.

With a sigh Fulk put the idea from his mind; they would not be safe and the life they would have together would only have one merit amongst many downsides. They would be together. They would be homeless, penniless, starving, in danger, friendless, in a strange land …

Alright, forget that idea. Let’s go over the facts once again.

Eleanor had been forced into this betrothal and it was common knowledge. Forced betrothals, even forced marriages, were not binding. All it took was a trial before a court to prove that the contract had been made under duress and then it would be dissolved. Problem: Eleanor could not prosecute the case herself, she had to have a husband or male relative do it for her. Her father and brother were in favour of this match and Fulk couldn’t see Trempwick helping her.

Another angle: the contract was already null and void precisely because it was made under duress; Eleanor was free to enter a contract with someone else. That new husband could then push for the old contract to be torn up, arguing that it had never been binding. The problem there was twofold. Firstly Fulk wanted to marry Eleanor himself and he was not nearly powerful enough to take the king and his spymaster to court and win, assuming they bothered with the niceties and didn’t remove his head right at the beginning. That led to the second issue; namely that those in a position to pull the scheme off were every bit as problematic as Trempwick so nothing at all would be gained for a significant risk.

All the legal wrangling in the world meant nothing when someone kicked you around a room and told you to say your vows now or else; once the wedding had taken place it was notoriously tricky to get it dissolved, and that’s assuming your family is on your side. Heiresses and widows were frequently abducted and forced to marry their captors for this very reason. Fulk grinned down at his saddlebow; of course many enterprising ladies had arranged for someone they liked to abduct and marry them, a kind of elopement. Abduction allowed marriages between two people who would normally be considered too far apart on the social scale; it also allowed marriages unapproved of by the family. If Eleanor wasn’t enterprising then no one was.

They could elope and marry, either a simple church ceremony with only first names and no family mentioned, or a secret wedding. Two people who agreed that they were married, and then clung consistently to that statement were considered man and wife even if the marriage had not been witnessed by anyone, blessed by the church or consummated. If they picked their moment with extraordinary care they would even have a day or two lead on the spymaster. No, the only problem arose afterwards – royalty did not like bastard knights from the lowest part of the nobility swiping their daughters. His head would be on a spike faster than he cared to imagine. They wouldn’t even have to be subtle about it; Fulk had no family or friends to come to his aid. It would be unprecedented; a gap in rank so large had never been crossed in this way.

If he managed to marry Eleanor legally and without impending death to spoil things they’d be able to take advantage of those nice new manors she had been given. In this scenario they would not be sleeping under a hedge. Ah yes, if they did the impossible they could have quite a nice life. Wasn’t that always the case?

Fulk looked up and along the column so he could catch a glimpse of Eleanor. She was slumped in her saddle and swaying slightly. They should not be on the road; she was ill and anyone with eyes could see it. For a spymaster Trempwick was amazingly blind sometimes. Fulk battled his exasperation; he wanted nothing more than to ride up to her side and see how she was doing but he could not. Propriety. She had Trempwick to care for her, in addition to Aveline and Juliana. A posh wall of steel keeping them apart. Bodyguards are only allowed to be concerned if there is no one better suited present.

Still watching Eleanor Fulk turned his thoughts to a new tack. What if Trempwick died, either before or after the wedding? Before, well the king wanted his daughter married off but it appeared he also acknowledged that Trempwick was the only man likely to survive the experience, although Fulk liked to think he himself had a much better chance. William was not the kind to give up once his mind was settled; if Trempwick died either before or after the wedding William would find someone new for Eleanor. He wanted the claim to his throne tied up so none could use to against him or his heir, or so everybody had been saying. Trempwick was only his best bet; there was nothing much to be lost by trying a few other prospective husbands to see if they could handle being married to a grumpy assassin who hated their guts.

Fulk sobered, the wry smile vanishing from his lips. As funny as that sounded it was true, and as long as you were forewarned Eleanor would actually be quite easy to handle. You would just lock her away in a room under trusted guard, only visiting occasionally and for a few minutes at a time. You would never allow her anything that might be used as a weapon, nor would you ever give her even a hint of freedom. From time to time you’d trot her out in public, but with careful arrangements and guard that would not be so problematic. Trempwick had a head start and an existing knowledge of one of the king’s best kept secrets, nothing more.

Also there was one matter Fulk did not like to think about; Eleanor needed Trempwick. He hated that; his princess should not be dependant on the spymaster, but she was and that was that. Trempwick protected her, and without the spymaster to make use of her Eleanor’s agent skills became worthless, in turn making her next to worthless. Without Trempwick Eleanor had two small manors, a bodyguard and a very little bit of money. She had no friends, and her family would not truly help her. Someone would snatch her up for her stake on the throne, or she would be forced into a new marriage to suit her family’s needs, or they might simply kill her. That last was certainly believable to Fulk now; William had killed two of his sons already.

And so, for what must be the hundredth time, Fulk concluded there was nothing he could do except sit and watch as his love married someone else, someone she did not want. If he ever had the chance to have a word with whichever entity had decided this whole forbidden romance thing between him and Eleanor was a good idea he would have to have some very stiff words with them.






Small but I've been unexpectedly busy today.

I'll wait until you're awake then, Ludens.

Caesar, Red Hand was ... different to this. Each chapter of Red Hand was actually shorter than the average Eleanor chapter, something like 4 pages instead of the 5, 6 or even 7 that Eleanor usually totals. The writing was also of a far lower quality and I was restraining myself to keep to that very narrow, game based focus. Eleanor is written to book standards (well, as close as I can get without an editor to prod me along) and it has a book worthy plot - it is *much* more complicated in every possible way. That slows things down, but not nearly as much as it used to as I'm now far more at home and practised with this kind of writing. I'm also working on my book, the new Red Hand, and on the RTW beginner's guide. It's definitely not a lack of interest.

[DemonArchangel]

Eleanor wanted to kill fulk for seeing her legs?
sheesh, wait until she sees a modern day beach.

[scooter_the_shooter]

aha froggy my prediction are right so far

[frogbeastegg]

Because of the poor weather it took six days to return to Woburn. To Eleanor’s joy they dropped Aveline, Juliana and three of Trempwick’s men at arms off in St Albans and made the rest of the trip with just the two remaining men at arms. She had been lumbered with Aveline’s carping for so long now she had forgotten just how sweet it was to be able to live her life without an endless commentary on how disgraceful, disrespectful, evil, insubordinate, plain, boring, reckless, wild, unsuitable, unchristian, undignified, ignorant, and improper she was. That was the short listing; Aveline had managed to use nearly every negative word in the English language at least once.

Without Juliana to battle with her hair Eleanor reverted to leaving it loose. This lasted all of twenty minutes; Trempwick complained profusely as soon as he saw. With some careful manoeuvring to take advantage of the spymaster’s sudden mania for braided and pinned up hair Eleanor managed to negotiate him into letting Fulk play lady’s maid, at least in this one aspect. The spymaster had made much of how Fulk must have learned his hairdressing skills but Eleanor didn’t much care; she had avoiding being given a maid of her own, or more accurately being assigned a permanent spy for Trempwick. She also thought that while the source of Fulk’s skills was not terribly agreeable it showed he had consideration, if nothing else. Not many men helped their lady love fix their damaged hairstyle after a tryst. Trempwick, Eleanor was beginning to suspect, was the type who would smile blithely and tell you it was your own problem before disappearing and leaving you to sink or swim on your own.

Her fever lasted for a couple of days before burning out as the last traces of infection cleared up and her back finally began to heal correctly. True to her word she had made certain Aveline acted as chaperone while Fulk doused her cuts in wine and applied a salve to them twice each day, but when Aveline left there was no one suitable to play chaperone. Trempwick had grumbled for a bit and tried to insist she returned to treating her own wounds as she had done before Fulk had been acquired, but in the end he had given way and let them resume their old arrangement.

Once they were back at Woburn everything settled back down and normality resumed. The cook’s food was still foul. The servants were still sullen and resentful, although they did seem highly pleased to learn that their master was betrothed to the despised princess. Eleanor was very aware that was because of the social boost she would be giving Trempwick, not because they thought her worthy of their precious master. Eleanor returned to her out of fashion clothes, Fulk swapped his royal livery for his usual plain clothes, and Trempwick returned to his dapper yet unremarkable look.

In many ways it was as if they had never left.





The morning of their second day at Woburn Eleanor opened her room’s shutters to find even more snow had fallen overnight and the world was shining clean and white. Judging from the foot prints in the snow in the courtyard it was quite deep. She grinned mischievously; this was perfect.





Roughly half an hour later she sat in the shelter of the open-fronted outbuilding used for storing hay and other such resources near the manor house’s main door, warmly dressed and waiting in ambush. Her prey put in an appearance just as she was beginning to wonder if he had changed his morning habit; he always checked his horse early each morning. Scooping up a handful of snow Eleanor leapt out of cover and hurled her missile, hitting her target with her usual accuracy.

The snowball exploded across the side of Trempwick’s face, leaving a reddened mark. Wiping snow from his face Trempwick stood stock-still, searching with hawk-like intensity for his assailant. Careless; he left himself open to another attack by not taking cover. It was an invitation Eleanor was happy to accept. Her second missile crashed into his neck with all the force she could manage. She was aiming to hurt as much as she could while disguising this as something harmless. Snow showered about the spymaster, some even going inside his clothes, and another red patch appeared on his flesh but he didn’t utter a sound.

He began to stalk in the direction the snowball had come from, heading towards her with furious intensity. She made it easy for him, standing in plain sight before the timber building, another snowball in her hand ready to throw. Her arm began to go back and she took aim. Trempwick was livid; one finger pointed like a loaded crossbow at her handful of snow and he snarled, “If you throw that I shall leave you out here to freeze until nightfall!” She aborted the throw midway through.

There were two ways this could work out; well if she was honest Eleanor could see several other, less likely ways in addition to the two most likely ways. Either Trempwick would accept her challenge and she would be able to pelt him with snow until she worked off a little of her frustration or he would tell her to go bother someone else, in which case she would be able to pelt Fulk instead. It was a win/win situation, though she favoured the chance to play with Fulk over the chance to get a little revenge.

Eleanor carelessly tossed her snowball over her shoulder. “I need some exercise,” she proclaimed. “I have been sat about idle for weeks now.” He glared and she added politely, “Master.” For all his earlier talk about not playing the mentor so much he was most insistent about that honorific.

“Then perhaps I can arrange for you to go on a run, dear Nell. A few miles will soon give you the exercise you crave.”

She smiled and dipped her head slightly so she was looking at him from under her eyelashes. Playing coy, a new addition to her arsenal, added on the basis that she now needed every weapon available to her including ones she had previously classed as distasteful, unlikely to work and liable to have unwanted side effects. This was the first time she had used it and it was still very much in the experimental phase. “But not the exercise for my wits, nor for my agility.”

“Bursting with energy, I see,” said the spymaster a touch more nicely.

“Yes!” agreed Eleanor exuberantly. She did not need to fain that emotion, only make what was already there seem much larger than it was. “I am young, remember?”

“Young perhaps, but much too old to play in the snow.”

She flashed him a smile she hoped classed as appealing. “Whoever said anything about playing?”

Trempwick closed the few paces left between them. Damn, she had hoped to avoid more of his endless attempts at affection. “Dear Nell, I can read you like a book.” He could, but he was not always able to read between the lines.

Just as he gathered her in close and moved to kiss her she averted her face slightly and started talking, foiling his attempt. “You are only partially right, master; I have been playing proper princess for days now, weeks even. It is quite taxing. A little bit of fun and something which allows me to play agent even slightly will return me to a more usual frame of mind.”

“Then you shall have to bother someone else, sweet Nell. Do stay within sight of the manor.” This time she couldn’t evade the kiss. When he had finally finished Trempwick said, “I am going out; I expect to be gone all day and perhaps overnight. Spymaster’s holiday.”

“You are usually gone for several days,” she said, digging for information. Approximately two of every eight trips he made only lasted for such a short time. She thought the longer trips ended in London. The shorter trips had to end in one of the several nearby settlements.

“Yes, but the weather is poor and I do not wish to be on the road for too long. And now I shall be off,” he proclaimed. He kissed her again; as usual she stood there passively and let him do whatever he wanted. He was getting exasperated with her lack of response or enthusiasm but for now at least it worked. Eleanor doubted it would work for much longer, especially as he had decided her back was now healed enough to tolerate a tight hug or whatever else he wanted to throw at her. It wasn’t, but the one time she had said as much he had got snippy and once again repeated his speech about her growing to like his attention. She tried to do as he said, and she tried to wring some enjoyment out of things but it never worked.

He let her go and gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Your goodbye matches the weather,” he informed her, his frustration plain to see. “Freezing.” Not for the first time Eleanor wondered if the spymaster could read minds. Up to this point he had not really complained, limiting himself to trying to cajole her into doing as he wanted. He turned and crunched his way through the freshly fallen snow towards the stables.






For the second time that day Eleanor went hunting with specific prey in mind. A quick check of the main hall revealed it was empty. She knew Fulk was not in the stables or outside, so that left one location as the most likely place to find him. She hurried up the stairs to her room, knowing speed was of the essence and even a few seconds could make a significant difference. Sure enough there he was, checking over his new mail hauberk for signs of rust.

He looked up as she entered the room but said nothing until she reached his side. He took in the warm clothes including a cloak, the way she was stood with her hands behind her back and the impish smile, and said suspiciously, “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” replied Eleanor innocently. Fulk grunted and returned to his armour. Seizing her chance before it was too late Eleanor’s left hand shot out and seized the necks of his tunic and shirt while her right brought around the melting snowball and shoved it down the gap. His defence was hampered by the mail on his lap and she had the element of surprise to her aid.

Fulk yelped in shock as snow met skin and jumped up, his armour falling onto the floor and his feet in a resounding clatter mingled with the waterfall roar of thousands of tiny iron rings brushing against each other. He leaned forward slightly and pulled his tunic away from his body so the snow was in contact with less of him, then yanked his belt off with his other hand and let the snow fall out the bottom of his shirt. “Jesú!” he exclaimed. That had been an unwelcome surprise, and his shirt now had a sizeable cold, damp patch to torment him further unless he cared to change it.

Eleanor stopped laughing just long enough to say, “Revenge for Judith, delayed but not forgotten.”

“I feel so abused and deceived,” sighed Fulk. He let his clothes go, grimacing as his damp shirt touched his skin.

Eleanor replied merrily, “Good!”

“I doubt your Trempwick would approve.”

“He is not my Trempwick, and anyway he has gone on one of his spymaster’s holidays.”

Fulk snorted in disgust. “If I had a gooseberry to play with you wouldn’t find me in a brothel.” It was little more than a whisper; the servants did not need to be visible for their presence to be felt. As long as they were somewhere in the manor it had to be assumed they could overhear. He started to strip his tunic off, intending to swap his shirt for a dry one.

“Leave it,” Eleanor told him, a certain glint in her eye. “As Trempwick is away I have permission to entertain myself with someone else; we are going out in the snow and we are going to have a snowball fight.”

Fulk let his tunic hem drop back down and looked at her. She cocked an eyebrow and produced a smile to match that glint; the hairs stood up on the back of Fulk’s neck. He stooped and retrieved his belt quickly, then fastened it in place. “Well then, what are we waiting for?” He snatched up his cloak with equal speed and started swiftly towards the door.





They trooped out of the manor building and into the clear ground outside the manor’s walls. Eleanor was the first to act once again, scooping up a handful of snow and throwing it at Fulk. It caught him on the chest; she was not going to aim at his face or anywhere else she might do damage. That was reserved for Trempwick. She evaded his return shots, and Fulk quickly took the hint and did likewise.

From there the battle took the form of an elaborate dance, with both parties trying to dodge while attempting to turn their opponent into a human snowman. All the ducking and dodging only furthered Eleanor’s deception that this was serious exercise rather than an excuse to fool about with Fulk. Her earlier conversation with the spymaster had only been the preliminaries; Trempwick would bring this up again at some point in the future and she had better be able to allay his suspicion then too.

Just as she had expected they were being watched, subtly but just barely visibly. As she skipped several steps to one side and pivoted to face both Fulk and the manor house Eleanor noticed someone observing their game through the window of Trempwick’s room. He probably thought they would not spot him if he lurked there; he had nearly been right – Eleanor’s eye had only been drawn to him because he had moved while she chanced to be looking.

Her distraction cost her dear; a missile impacted on the edge of her collarbone and she shrieked as a load of snow went down into her clothes. “Got you!” crowed Fulk, “Got you right and proper! Revenge for your rev-” He twisted his upper body to one side, only just avoiding getting a mouthful of powdery snow. She had aimed to distract, not to hit; by the time he began to turn his view back to Eleanor she had already begun her charge and built up considerable speed. She barrelled into him and send him flying. Fulk grabbed her as he fell, dragging her down after him.

He didn’t quite manage to shift her to one side so she landed next to him; Eleanor crashed full force down on top of him. Fulk’s wind was knocked out of him and he lay on the snow, stunned for a few milliseconds. Those instants were just enough for her to grab a head start in the rush to continue the battle; she righted herself and sat on his stomach. She grinned down at him, that dangerous glimmer he loved so much in her eyes.

He gave up his half-hearted resistance and lay still, his stomach muscles tensed and easily taking her slight weight without causing him discomfort. Being sat on by a gooseberry, not quite the stuff of his dreams but close enough - this was actually rather enjoyable. He said affectionately, “I love it when you look at me like that, your eyes gleaming as you wonder how to kill me.” Truth be told he was rather tempted to kiss her. A lot.

She must have guessed his intent because he informed him, “There is someone watching from Trempwick’s room.”

“No fair,” he grumbled with good nature he did not feel. “Where’s the point in frolicking in the snow with your love if you can’t even exchange the odd kiss?”

For the benefit of their observer, and for her own reasons, Eleanor grabbed a handful of snow and reached for the neck of Fulk’s clothes again. He grappled with her, fending off her hands but eventually she managed to dump part of the handful down his neck. “Revenge for your revenge for my revenge for Judith.”

“She was only revenge for your perfume!” protested Fulk as he tried to prevent more snow joining the last handful.

“That was revenge for your crack about us being married!” she retorted. She was struggling to get past his defences this time, and most of her snow was scattering onto Fulk’s torso and the ground.

He stopped fighting at that. “I wish we were,” he said seriously.

She too stopped fighting and looked away, fixing her gaze on the bleak January horizon. “That is impossible,” she told him, her voice trembling just perceptibly.

Fulk laughed harshly. “I know - I’ve been wracking my brains day and night and I always draw a blank.” The mood was gone; Eleanor stood up, freeing him. Stiffly he pushed himself to his feet and began brushing snow off his cloak. “All I see is something …” He sighed. “It is scant comfort, but another case of better than nothing, maybe.”

“What?” The hope in her voice was painful.

He looked her in the eye and said sadly, “I said I would not place you in the same situation as Maude, well once you’re married that will be impossible. Adultery is so much easier; no one can tell the difference.” Easier but still dangerous and tricky in this situation, and costly to the soul. “I hate it; the idea of you and him is …” He pulled a face as though he were about to be sick. “I know you like it no better. He’s going to ruin you; he’s going to teach you most of the bad and none of the good, and if we ever get the chance it will be spoiled because he will have taught you … distaste, fear, disgust, disinterest.” He was dancing around speaking plainly; one part seemed unreal and distant if left unsaid and was far more palatable that way, the other a wish that seemed too fragile to put into blunt words. There was some protection in allusions.

“Why do you say that?” asked Eleanor, but she already knew. He was echoing her own thoughts; that this match could never work and she was going to be condemned to a married life of enduring in tedium while being rebuked for not having the least bit of passion.

“Because you and Trempwick have as much spark as a wet kipper; attraction matched to revulsion. It’s not going to work, and I severely doubt you will grow to care for him; you’ve known him for too long for things to change much now.”

Eleanor looked away, to the Fulk shaped imprint in the snow. “Our observer will be growing curious; we should probably go back now.”

They did, walking along in unhappy silence and very aware of the eyes following them.




They headed to the solar, in search of a warm fire and what little privacy they could get. Fulk draped both their cloaks near the fire to dry. He shifted his shoulders and dabbed at his tunic. “Get me a dry shirt and tunic?” he asked hopefully.

Eleanor rolled her eyes and said with a hint of amusement, “Some big tough man thing you are.”

“Well someone,” he glared at her, “filled my clothes with snow so they’re all wet.” His hose were soaked too, the pale blue wool gone temporarily to a middle hue. He’d have to leave them; generally people started fussing and getting the wrong idea when men took their hose off. Eleanor was unlikely to scream the manor down – she preferred to do her own maiming when someone offended her - but if a servant should wander in …

“You poor thing,” she commiserated cheerfully.

“Yes, exactly.” He hunched down next to the fire and ruffled his long hair, trying to shake any remaining snow out of it and encourage it to dry. He looked up through a curtain of tousled chestnut brown to find her standing in exactly the same place. “Do I need to start sneezing and looking pathetic before you take sympathy?”

“You are already pathetic,” she informed him loftily. She raised her chin and said magnanimously, “I suppose I can be prevailed on to descend from on high and show charity to lesser creatures this once.” She exited in an elegant swish of her skirts. Fulk grinned and began combing his hair back into some semblance of order with his fingers; her fake snootiness was half the fun.

She returned a short while later with a fresh white linen shirt and his fawn brown tunic. Trempwick had paid for Fulk’s clothes but he had left the choice of colours to Fulk, and he’d taken advantage of the occasion and selected only shades which suited him well. He didn’t think the spymaster had been very pleased. As he stripped off his damp clothes Eleanor stood near the fire and held his fresh ones out to warm. “I should make you my squire,” he told her as he dragged his shirt off, his voice muffled by the material.

“I already am, I think.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, only to blush and quickly look away because he was bare-chested. She reverted to proper noble at the oddest of times. Eleanor tried to sound normal as she continued, “I help you with your armour and now I am playing body servant. Good Lord, my family would have a fit.”

“It’s only good manners.”

“If you were a guest and I had a mob of maids at my back to protect me from your … your …” She struggled to find a suitable threat, one which would not cause panic if overheard. “Chest hair,” she finished gamely. “It is a corrupting influence … or something.”

He chuckled and joined her near the fire, wanting his skin to warm and dry before he dressed again. “Probably,” he agreed. “But not nearly as dangerous as my roguish smile and dashing good looks.”

Eleanor glanced at him from the corner of her eye and this time didn’t look away quite so quickly. Fulk got the distinct feeling she liked the view. “You look far better when you wear that big, face covering helm of yours.”

“Thanks for the tip, oh blushing beacon of embarrassment.”

She tried to regain a little of her usual dignity and banish the blush. “Anyway, guest or not I would be expected to keep my eyes firmly on the ground so your point is invalid.”

“Yes, but you’re looking at the ceiling!” He added with overdone concern, “You’ll trip over something if you’re not careful; you might get hurt.”

Eleanor draped his tunic over her arm and held out his shirt, plucking up her courage and dumping propriety as she turned to face him. She glanced at the door, then back at his torso. When he didn’t take his shirt she draped it over her arm along with the tunic. “Is that scar from what I think it is from?” she asked in a hushed voice, lightly tracing the scar on the lowest part of his ribcage on his right flank with one finger.

He replied in kind; when they kept their voices low there was no chance for their words to carry beyond the thick wooden door. “Your Trempwick’s attempt to kill me when we left for that abbey, yes.”

She scowled and said in a incensed whisper, “He dented the finish on my knight! How rude.” She traced another scar, this one curving along the edge of his right shoulder. “And you acquired this one doing ….?”

Fulk felt his blood rushing south for the winter again; oh Christ. “One of my first training fights with live steel; my opponent wasn’t good as he thought and he sliced right through my padding and gashed me.”

Her eyebrows raised. “Most interesting,” she declared. “And this one?” This time she selected the scar twisting around the top of his left arm.

Fulk swallowed with difficulty. He’d always laughed when people had said innocence could be dangerous; now he understood – she really had no idea what she was doing to him otherwise she wouldn’t be doing it. “My enemy’s blade went in over my shield rim.” He caught her hand before she could find any more scars to investigate. “My shirt,” he requested, his voice not quite sounding even. Her proximity was both intoxicating and highly tempting. He had to get dressed and get to a safe distance before he did something stupid, or before someone caught them - they had been watched earlier; they had no reason to assume they were safe now.

He took the shirt from her; great, step one in progress. That was as far as it got; before they knew what they were doing they were in each other’s arms and kissing passionately. Eleanor’s arm went around his neck; her hand burying itself in his damp hair and dragging his head down, crushing his mouth against hers. Her other arm, the one with his tunic draped over it, went around his waist, crumpling the wool but neither of them noticed or cared. Fulk slid one arm down her back until it gripped her rear, pulling her even closer, almost crushing her against his body. Absently his other hand began removing her hairpins, pulling them out and gathering them in a bunch.

Because his hand was full he fumbled with the final pin, dropping it; it fell to the floor with a small clatter. The sound brought them back to their senses and they sprang apart. With a shaking hand Fulk retrieved the pin from the floor. Eleanor immediately checked the door, then began to unbraid her hair. “My hair is soaked; it will dry much faster if loose,” she said in a loud, somewhat wobbly voice for the benefit of their potential listener. It would be faster to completely ruin the style than to fix it.

Fulk placed the handful of pins down on the table and dragged his shirt on. He took his tunic from her and examined the new creases. Pulling a wry face he tugged the tunic on over the shirt and tried to smooth the worst of the creases away. If Eleanor and Trempwick had as much chance of catching fire as a puddle of water, Fulk thought, then he and Eleanor were a lake of oil.

The door burst open without so much as a knock. Gerbert, one of the two general servants, stood there with a closed expression on his face. “You want some mulled wine?” he asked, rude as only Trempwick’s darling servants dared. His eyes scanned the room, lingering on Fulk still fastening his belt, Eleanor’s dishevelled hair and the blush staining her face.

Eleanor’s reply strove for calm normality, and succeeded, all those years of training paying off. “Yes, that would be pleasant.”

Gerbert stumped away, making the noise he had not made on his approach. He must have been lingering out in the corridor, listening. When they had stopped talking audibly he must have begun to get suspicious. They waited until they were sure he was out of earshot. Fulk was the first to speak. “Oh Jesú!” he cursed under his breath. His ardour was well and truly dead now; shocks like that were not good.

Eleanor whispered, “Survivable, I think. All he really has is suspicion.”

Fulk pulled a face and rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “All we can do is wait and see. Best take to wearing your knives again.”








Seven pages; one long update. I have to say I love that last scene, right up until they kiss.

Stupid, puerile joke of the day: A certain part of Fulk's anatomy is beginning to resemble a yoyo; up, down, up, down, :p Ahem, sorry, dunno what came over me.

Trempwick, not Fulk, Demon. If it had been Fulk I somehow doubt she would have made quite so much fuss Remember this is before the invention of the mini skirt; even showing a few inches of your leg above your ankle was considered rather racy. The modern equivolent to that situation would be Trempwick wandering in while Eleanor was naked and stood so he could see everything.

Good for you, caesar. Let me know if that changes.

[scooter_the_shooter]

they just did with this new update.

[frogbeastegg]

“His lordship wants to see you,” Gerbert informed Eleanor with a smirk that left nothing to the imagination. He had told Trempwick, Trempwick was furious, and she was in deep trouble. The spymaster had only been back for a quarter hour; Gerbert had lost no time in scurrying off to report. “I told him what a slut you are, and he won’t stand for it.”

“I do hope you enjoyed relaying your tales,” she told him with polite venom as she followed him from her room. He insisted on leading her as if she had no idea of where the solar was. Exasperated Eleanor walked so swiftly she kept treading on his heels.

Gerbert had the bearing and insufferable attitude of an over important noble; it was totally out of place in a servant. “It pains my heart to bring such bad tidings to such a good man.”

“Dear, dear,” she said sweetly, “then perhaps you should not carry tales.”

“He’s a right to know what you’re up to.” They reached the solar door. When Eleanor stooped to open it Gerbert kept walking. “Wrong place,” he sneered. Without being given further hint Eleanor knew at once where they were going; Trempwick’s bedchamber. She had never set foot in there before and the fact Trempwick had decided to have her brought to him there now was not comforting.

Eleanor increased her speed, scraping Gerbert’s heel with the sturdy toe of her shoe and making him stumble. The spymaster wanted her off balance and she was not inclined to give him that satisfaction. She was as safe now as she ever was; Trempwick was not, as he himself admitted, a violent man. “But you do not have a right,” she told Gerbert nicely, “to slander me.”

“Your sister’s been claiming innocence all these years, aye and for the same thing. Must run in the family, tainted blood.”

They reached the door to Trempwick’s room and stopped. Eleanor called on the calm, icy confidence every good noblewoman should have, noting that the door was open so Trempwick would be able to overhear. “As everybody keeps reminding me I am betrothed to your dear lord and master. I think you may find yourself short of a job; I will not tolerate servants like you in my household. You had best begin praying the wedding never takes place.” It would certainly be her right as Trempwick’s wife to have some say in his servants; in truth she suspected he would stubbornly continue to cling to them but if he insisted on claiming his rights she would damn well have hers. Gerbert would be gone, one way or another.

Gerbert was unfazed. “He’ll never sack me, not for your whims and certainly not for informing him of what he’s lumbered with.”

“We shall see.” Leaving him to chew that over Eleanor ducked through into Trempwick’s room, shutting the door in Gerbert’s face.

Trempwick was seated at his fire, a goblet in one hand. He had taken the time to shed his cloak but not to have the mud cleaned off his ankle boots. As she appeared he put the goblet on the ground near the hearth and stood. “Ah, Nell.” He sounded more amicable than irate. He gestured about him at the room. “What do you think?” So he wanted to play first? Fine, but she would not be lulled into a false sense of ease.

Eleanor turned slowly, taking in the whitewashed walls, the big bed, the single chair, the lone tapestry of a king on his throne and the wolf skin on the floor. “It is very …” Very what? She was not entirely sure. Cosy, in an unspymaster-like way.

“I shall have a matching chair made for you, and I am having the bedspread and curtains redone with our fox and gooseberry design.” He still was not happy with the gooseberry; it showed in the way he said it. “I realise it is traditional for the woman to do the embroidery between betrothal and wedding day but you have never been one for needlework and you have no one to help you.” He waited for a reaction and got none. Almost anxiously he said, “If there is anything you want to add or change ….?”

As it seemed required Eleanor took another look about. Her eyes settled on the picture of the enthroned king. “That will have to go,” she said, as firmly as she dared. There was a spot next to the king where the wall was marginally cleaner than the surrounding paintwork; another image had hung there until recently.

“Yes, I did not think you would appreciate it. I shall have it removed; you can choose something to replace it.” A shocking development – she was actually being given a real say here.

Her gaze lighted on the sword hanging from a peg on the wall by its belt. It seemed a rather foolish way to store the weapon; the belt was a waist belt so it was getting twisted out of shape by the sword’s weight. “You have a sword.”

He seemed highly amused. “Dearest Nell, I am a knight of the realm – of course I have a sword.”

“I have never seen you with one, not in all these years.”

“No, and for good reason. You have always been attracted to the blasted things; I had visions of finding you playing with the weapon and losing a few fingers.”

Curiosity got the better of her. “Can you use it?” If he still kept in practise it would go some way to explaining those muscles.

He laughed again. “Of course! Beloved Nell, I served my years as page and squire like any other nobleman.”

She risked that hopefully appealing smile of hers for the second time that day. “Past ability means little; only present skill counts.”

He stood for a while, his face blank as he thought. After a long wait he took the sword down and drew the blade, casting the belt and sheath onto his bed. Without pause he began to work through a never-ending dance of cuts, parries, slashes, stabs and dodges, a practise workout for a man without a competent partner. He was fluid and sure, and possessed the same quickness she had witnessed on the few occasions he had done combat of any kind. He was good, better than she had expected.

Eleanor had seen Fulk work the same routines many times; her knight was better, though only by a shade. The real test came in combat against a foe, and there Trempwick’s lack of a training partner would show. She thought Fulk would win if the two men ever had occasion to cross swords. Fulk had more experience, even if he now lacked a partner to spar with. He also had more recent combat experience; Trempwick must not have faced another human for years.

What Eleanor could not see was a motive. Why did a spymaster who abhorred the crudity of violence and proclaimed that when one needed to fight one had already lost feel the need to remain a competent swordsman?

Trempwick did not keep his demonstration going for long enough to speed his breathing or cause him to sweat, only enough to prove his capability. He replaced the blade in its case and returned it to the wall hook.

Eleanor made the correct admiring noises, and for the most part they were sincere. So he had been practising in private with a sword all these years and she had had no idea; what else had he been doing? At this moment in time she would not be too shocked to find a warhorse and quintain stashed under his bed.

“Dear Nell, I do think if I borrow a horse and armour you will swoon at my feet! The troubadours have it right, or so it seems, when they say ladies love a heroic knight. What, pray, is wrong with spymasters?”

He was trying to revive the banter they had been exchanging before the storm of the betrothal hit. Eleanor looked at him, eyes slightly narrowed, suspicious as to his motives. After a pause she took the bait and said with a glint, “You do not rust if left outside; it makes it harder to dispose of unwanted spymaster followers. Knights are easy to handle, and thus more appealing.”

“So you always pick your suitors with an eye to disposal?”

“But of course! Any toy gets boring after time, or becomes broken.”

“Do you always break your toys?”

“Only sometimes.”

“My sweet little Nell has learned to flirt; like any good mentor I am both proud and horrified. I now fully expect to spend the rest of my days chasing after you, scaring off the love struck twits following you around with great big, hopeful eyes.”

Ha! Hell would freeze over before she obtained more than the one love struck twit she had now. But still, the game must go on. She smiled, revealing her fangs. “Oh I do hope not; I prefer to handle my own scaring off.”

“Everyone knows the poor old husband is supposed to be the one doing the scaring; it is his lot in life, according to the ballads. That and dying horribly so the lovers can get married.”

A very topical joke; did this signal the beginning of the real game? “For old time’s sake I shall kill you painlessly.” She doubted she would ever kill him; it would be incredibly tricky, she needed him, she would immediately attract the blame, and she was not altogether sure she wanted him dead anyway.

“That warms my heart, darling Nell, it really does.” Eleanor could think of no suitable reply to that. Trempwick collected his goblet from the fireside and sauntered over to her side. He sipped his drink, then offered the goblet to her, holding it out casually in a loose grip. “Here, try some of this.” When she did not take the proffered cup he shrugged and drank another sip himself. “I taught you mistrust well,” he observed ruefully. “Or perhaps it is all your own and I only honed what was already present? The drink is not tampered with, as you can see I am still hale and hearty.” The second time he held out the goblet she took it. As she raised the vessel to her lips Trempwick cautioned her, “Not too much; it is very heady.”

He was correct; the wine was stronger than anything she had encountered and it burned her throat and tongue on its way down. Involuntarily she gagged and choked, nearly bringing the liquid straight back up. She thrust the cup back at Trempwick. “That stuff is foul!”

He laughed and accepted the goblet again, his fingers brushing lightly against hers as the vessel changed hands. “Ice wine, made from freezing ordinary wine and then throwing the ice away. The ice is mostly water, and the remnant is concentrated wine. It imparts a certain warm glow; perfect after a trip in the snow.” She was expecting him to kiss her; he always did now when he got close enough to touch her. He did not; with a slightly ironic smile he backed off and went to sit down. He turned his chair about so it was sideways to the fire in the hearth and facing her instead of the flames, his actions careless of Eleanor’s scrutiny.

This was all most puzzling; ever since their betrothal he had been persistent in his pursuit of her, predatory even. It crossed Eleanor’s mind that he may have given up, repelled by her obvious indifference. No, more than likely he was repelled by her; the endless jibes from Aveline and others came flooding back to her, paired with a quote she’d once heard a knight say, “Even the bravest man’s courage fails if tested beyond its limits once too often.”

She told herself she should be happy; she had never wanted or welcomed his attention. Now she would be left in peace. She should be relieved, delighted, not … dismayed. For a brief while it had been pleasant to believe there was more to his decision to marry her then politics and necessity. Eleanor halted that line of thought, hauling on the reins and dragging it around like a recalcitrant horse. He would not invite her to redo this room if he did not intend for her to spend time here, and he was unlikely to invite her up here to do nothing but talk.

Trempwick sipped his drink. “Sit down, Nell.” It was a request, not an order. He was still being nice; when was he going to tire of this and get around to the real reason he had called her up here? Since the chair was taken only the bed remained; Eleanor perched herself on the edge near the head end, facing Trempwick and continuing to watch his every movement. Trempwick tucked a hand under his chair, stood slightly and realigned it to continue watching her, the wooden legs scraping on the rush strewn floorboards and raising a pained screech that set Eleanor’s teeth on edge.

“Did you have fun in the snow, dear Nell?” Mildly said.

Here we are; the game began in earnest. “Yes, master. It was pleasant to get some exercise.”

“Good, good.” He took another swallow of his drink.” And you had a pleasant afternoon?”

“Not really; I spent it playing chess with Fulk.” It had been a very safe afternoon; chess, chess and more chess, played at the fireside in the solar with the door ajar.

“Did you win at all?” he inquired indolently.

She pursed her lips. “No.”

He smiled sympathetically. “Poor Nell. Was dinner tolerable, at least?”

“No. Your cook, and I use that term loosely, managed to burn both the partridge and its accompanying wine sauce. His ideas have grown but not his skill.” Time to go on the attack. “Did you have a pleasurable day, master?”

Trempwick sucked his teeth and frowned. “Yes,” he said at length. “It was quite educational.”

“So you were counting how many angels can fit on the head of a pin?”

He chuckled. “No, my adored Nell.”

“Learning of strange new lands and beasts lying beyond the borders of Christendom?”

“No.”

“Ah, then you were studying new methods of waging war.”

“No, not even close, sweet Nell. I was talking with an old friend, one who I have learned much from over the years.” So much for Fulk’s theory. Trempwick stood up and came to sit next to her, saying as he moved, “My manners are uneasy; it does not seem right to sit there in a chair while you make do with perching on the bed.” He sighed as he sat down at her side and gave her a weary, disarming smile. “People do insist on attaching such status to chairs because of the extra labour that goes into them. I find it only makes them feel uncomfortable when I have guests not seated similarly.”

He was in range once again, and once again she was surprised to find he did not embark on his usual decisive affection. He really must have gone off her; his asking for her opinion was a pretext for bringing her up here, and an attempt to get her off guard. She asked, “So, what did you learn today then, master?”

He said lightly, “That is for me to know and you to find out.”

She cocked an eyebrow and instantly returned, “I know; it is why I ask – to find out.”

Trempwick raised one index finger from his goblet in acknowledgement of her parry and counter. “Touché, dearest Nell. You shall not find out by asking; you can consider it more exercise for that wit of yours.” Trempwick rubbed his forehead with one hand as if he had a headache. “Gerbert had a rather bothersome tale for me today.” Her protest died under his cold brown stare before it had fully formed on her lips. “I do not need to hear your explanation; I can guess.”

Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn! “Master-”

He cut across her, his tone flat and controlled; it stung like a whip. “The blush came from your very proper and dignified innocence, your hair was loose because it was wet and in need of drying, your pet had just changed his tunic because you stuffed snow down it, and you certainly did not do that simply so you could get a good look at what lies under said tunic. That is all; there nothing more to it. A good thing; if there was more to it your pet would need to die in a manner that will serve as an object lesson, and I would need to do something outstandingly harsh with you. It would also bode ill for our marriage, and it would mean you lied to me when you said you would crush this spark.” He swallowed, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords as he clenched his jaw. “It would also mean you are stupid, reckless, cruel, lacking in self control and sense, focused on the short term rather than the larger picture. Gambling with a man’s life because of your attraction, a man who cannot even refuse you and who has no return attraction. I do not think you that type, Nell.” He looked back at her, his light brown eyes boring into her blue ones. “Am I correct in my interpretation?”

For whatever reason he was offering her a lifeline, a chance to label this as a misunderstanding and forget it. He must believe that if anything else had happened it had been at her instigation with Fulk as a very reluctant victim, one who would keep well out of it if given a choice. “Yes,” she agreed quietly.

He held their locked gaze for a moment longer, then looked to the floor. He spoke cautiously, choosing both his words and intonation with care. “I shall remind you of what I told you before, Nell. You are setting yourself up to be hurt, badly. Even if he did match your feelings – and he does not, make no mistake about it – even if this were one of those epic loves that storytellers delight in it has no hope.” It was the spymaster who was mistaken, and this is probably why he had not reacted as she had expected. He still believed it was a one sided spark, not even one sided love. She sagged with relief; let him think it was relief at his clemency towards her. She knew it was relief that in this most vital thing they had deceived the spymaster.

He did not need to tell her she and Fulk were doomed; she knew it only too well. They would not get another reprieve if more stories worked their way to Trempwick’s ears. “I know.”

“Then focus on what you do have. I shall remind you of something else I said; there is no reason we cannot be happy together. We do not have a choice about our marriage, but we do have some choice in how it works out.”

“I try-”

“No you do not,” he said sharply. He looked back at her, his gaze cool and his face immobile, set in an unreadable expression. “You are struggling like a child told to go to bed instead of staying up late to see a grand feast. If you think there is the slightest chance you can get away with something that will upset me you do it. You do your best to make it known my attempts at affection are ineffective, even though it is primarily your own fault.”

“But I try to do as you say -”

“No, you do not,” he repeated, his tone sharper than the edge on his sword. “You just stand there, limp as a corpse, doing nothing. That, Nell, is cold, bloody cold. If you tried to claw my eyes out you would be less cold – you would at least be showing something other than studied indifference.” He closed his eyes and Eleanor could tell he was having difficulty keeping his calm façade. It was not often the spymaster lost his vaunted control; he was perilously close now. “I think you focus solely on the bad to the neglect of the good. I could have chosen to interpret Gerbert’s news badly but I did not out of faith in you. Most people would punish you for getting into a situation where scandal could arise, but I am not going to because I have some measure of understanding. This too I think will be forgotten, if you even bothered to see it first place. I am always the man who murdered your brother; never the man who saved your life many times over, isn’t that right, Nell?”

Eleanor said nothing, her face turned away towards the wall as she fought her own battle for control, desperate not to give even the slightest thing away. He was right, and she did not much care for this truth. Trempwick was the man who had murdered Stephan, and he was not Fulk; damned on two counts before he even started, then blamed for his inability to overcome the insurmountable obstacle.

Her silence said it all. “I am right,” he declared softly. He drained his goblet, tossing the ice wine in one go. Deliberately he placed the empty vessel on the floor, placing it just under the bed. “So, Nell, this makes you happy, does it? Being tied to the man who murdered your brother and pining for the impossible.”

“Not at all,” she answered wretchedly. It was tearing her apart.

“Then perhaps you should let go of the impossible and marry the man who …” He tripped over his tongue and flushed slightly. “Who is fond of you,” he mumbled at last, almost defensive in his obvious embarrassment.

Eleanor’s battle for self control switched direction; if she started to laugh now she was really going to break this situation beyond repair. It must be her lucky month; two people professing to love her, well wasn’t she suddenly oh so popular? A few score more and she would begin to catch all the other princesses up. “If your mother had heard that she would probably have a heart seizure!”

Trempwick muttered something which could have been, “Good.”

Like it or not she was going to have to marry Trempwick. Fulk could never be anything other than what he was now. That was reality; time she faced up to it, properly instead of knowing and behaving as if matters were otherwise. She was stuck with this; she may as well do her best to make it tolerable. She had told herself that before but how could it ever have worked when she always privately felt like a traitor, both to Fulk and to Stephan, every time she began to enjoy the spymaster’s company or viewed him with anything other than hate?

Fulk had no claim on her; Trempwick did. Stephan … after John’s miserable end Eleanor was now willing to place the blame for Stephan’s murder squarely on her father’s shoulders. She was related to an inhuman monster; there was no point in denying it any longer. She had inherited the very demon that drove him; the family temper. She was a potential monster too.

She knew she should let Fulk go; she also knew she could not. The best protection she could give him now was one he would not welcome or perhaps even understand. A devoted wife was above suspicion. Things could not continue as they were; unless something changed Fulk’s prediction on her future with Trempwick was frighteningly likely to come true. In just two short weeks she and Fulk had alerted suspicion no fewer than three times, and they were hiding a perilous amount of secrets from a man who made his living sniffing out the hidden. They had been exceptionally lucky thus far; eventually that luck would desert them. It would be better for them both if they stopped playing with fire; feeling but not acting.

Dump the emotional baggage, focus on what was most important, stop acting like … like Adele. Grow up – Anne was some six years younger and she had handled her considerably more daunting wedding with far more maturity. She took a deep, steadying breath and said resolutely, “I shall try.”

Trempwick put his arm about her shoulders, pulling her over so she leant against him. “A fresh start then.”

There was a gap of several inches between them; her spine was quick to protest at the angle. Try. Eleanor steeled herself and shuffled over, closing the gap. Ok, not difficult, not instinctive as it had been with Fulk but a little thought and deduction and it had worked. Alright, relax, he was always going on about relax. She willed her muscles to lose tension; it worked slightly. She had been more relaxed when they had been talking earlier; now she was acutely focused on what they were doing and who she was doing it with.

Illumination dawned – she had had the wrong interpretation of relax. Oh yes, now she felt like a real idiot. That was the result of an agent’s mind for you; concerned with appearances instead of mental states. ‘Relax, look relaxed, ergo alter your body language to seem relaxed but keep your mind very active and wary’, as opposed to ‘relax, be relaxed, ergo stop worrying’. So astoundingly obvious if you were not trained to remain vigilant and shrewd much of the time while seeming to be in the same unaware fug that near permanently clouded the minds of most other people.

After a long pause for thought Trempwick said, “I heard what you said to Gerbert; I shall support you in this. He will be gone by tomorrow afternoon. Do not make a habit out of this; I will not be dragged into private disputes.”

“Thank you.” The gratitude was real; Gerbert would be gone and the remaining servants may gain a healthy bit of fear. Reinforcements had arrived and she could sally forth from her defensive position to crack a few skulls. As they talked a miniscule amount of tension seeped away from her, gratitude playing no small part.

He dropped his arm a bit lower, resting his hand on the crook of her elbow. “It has occurred to me, with credit to another for confirming it, that I may have been a little too zealous, for all my talk of going slowly. The fault has not been entirely yours.”

No, he could have remembered who he was talking to and made his definitions clear! His candidness was appreciated though. Moving swiftly on, a tantalising hint into his spymaster’s holidays. “Another?”

“My acquaintance.” He laughed. “You do not think I managed purely on my own resources for all these years? I have no idea what to do with children, girls even less so.”

“So that is what a spymaster’s holiday entails – a trip for advice on dealing with me.” What a cop out. For years she had expected him to be off doing something incredibly spymasterish and all the time he had been talking to an agony aunt. She could see it now, Trempwick asking, “So, what do you do when your little princess wants to play with swords? I don’t want her to lose fingers…”

“Not all of them, no. Even you are not so problematic as to warrant that. Only a few trips were in search of such arcane knowledge.”

“Now you are just trying to keep your mystique,” she told him authoritatively.

He grinned as he agreed with her, “Yes; a spymaster must have a certain air of mystery, dear Nell.”

“Mystery …” She returned to something he had said before. “Some measure of understanding? You cannot leave that as a mystery.”

“So sharp; I can say nothing without having it analysed!” he said teasingly. His tone became almost melancholy, “Nell, I would have married you years ago if I could, but not like this. I got what I wanted in a backhanded way; you have been forced into this and I cannot decline to wait until you are more favourable to the idea, so I too have been forced.” He smiled shakily. “Your dear father has made a real mess out of my dream for me.”

“He makes a mess out of everything,” she said blackly.

Trempwick apparently decided it would be prudent to cease talking, before the king’s shadow could cast itself too boldly on them. Not given further chance to grumble Eleanor subsided.

Much later Trempwick asked, “If I request you sleep here tonight will you start dropping unsubtle hints for me to go away?” Quickly he clarified, “Note I did say sleep; if I meant something else I would say so.”

He left her space to think. It would be very unorthodox but then they were an unorthodox pairing. She could not plead scandal and run for it; only the news Trempwick wanted left Woburn. In light of her new resolution she should accept. If she did not go back Fulk would wor- no, forget about that. He had no place here. “I suppose I can,” she said in the end.






Eleanor woke to find dawn’s feeble light peeping through a slit in the bed’s curtains. It had not been as bad as last time; Trempwick had been content just to have her lie next to him with his arm about her, and for her part she had not kept trying to escape. Due to the altered circumstances she had been able to keep her shift on, and somehow that worked wonders for making her feel less vulnerable. Once the comfort of the bed, lateness of hour and warmth of the blankets started to work on her Eleanor had begun to slowly relax; by the time she had dozed off she might even have described the situation as somewhat pleasant.

Trempwick was already awake, lying on his back gazing up at the canopy above them. “I have a mission for you, Nell.” Eleanor raised herself up on one elbow to look down at him. “I shall tell you the detail after I deal with Gerbert. More cleaning up after John.” He claimed his arm back from around her waist and sat up. “But for now we should get up; I shall search you out when I have finished with Gerbert.”






That was a miniaturised migraine to write!

[scooter_the_shooter]

another great update. and froggy i will not post here for a month. i am doing that so when i come back to this thread i will have a bunch to read.

[zelda12]

Ok ceaser I'll take over on the reply front then.

Well that was a very long section. Lots of speech and though in it also, I liked it. ~)

[DemonArchangel]

Why didn't Trempwick "exercise his "rights" already?

[frogbeastegg]

Gerbert was closeted away with Trempwick for a good long while. He emerged with the sudden expected violence of a thunderstorm, blasting through the corridor away from Trempwick’s room shouting about the injustice of it all. The noise drew Fulk and Eleanor from her room, Eleanor’s hair still only halfway towards the pair of pinned up braids Fulk had been industriously working on. Trempwick followed out after his ex-servant with a fearsome scowl and threatening purpose in his step.

Gerbert hurled himself towards Eleanor, waving an angry finger like a bishop in mid sermon. “You arranged this! You! This is your doing!” Eleanor fell back under his furious assault; Fulk stepped in and seized the arm Gerbert was waving; Gerbert threw himself forward, grappling with Fulk. “You bewitched him!” he shrieked.

The struggle continued but was brief; Fulk soon had Gerbert’s arms pinned behind his back. He looked to Trempwick for instruction. The spymaster waved a hand. “Get him out, now.”

Gerbert was bundled off towards the stairs. His manner became pleading. “I am your loyal servant; you can’t do this.”

Trempwick rolled his eyes skyward and asked plaintively, “Why do they always say that? I can and I have. You have until nightfall to be a good ten miles away, or you shall vanish into the fairylands.” He repeated his instruction to Fulk, “Put him out.”

Gerbert’s fury echoed through the enclosed staircase but became mercifully quieter once he was dragged from the steps to the main hall. Trempwick planted a fist on his hip. “Now I shall have to get someone suitable to replace him, and that is easier said than done. I do hope you are happy, Nell.”

Eleanor replied dutifully, “Yes master. Thank you.” Hesitantly she said, “I do have an idea …”

“Really? Then we’d best go somewhere more suited to conversation than this corridor.” He led the way into the solar and slumped heavily down into his favourite chair. He steepled his hands and looked at Eleanor over the touching fingertips. “Well?”

“We could demote the cook to general servant and hire a new cook instead.”

“Dearest Nell, do you think I like listening to my servants complaining?”

“No, but think of the benefits.” She flicked several locks of hair from the side of her hair which was still loose over her shoulder and out the way, tutting in annoyance. With one half of her hair confined in a tight, heavy braid and the other floating loose she felt very off balance. Awkwardly she attempted to braid the remaining half herself, trying to restore some equilibrium to her crowning glory, and lose the insistent feeling that she must look stupid.

“Benefits,” he repeated. He tapped his fingertips together several times and considered. “You would stop complaining about the food, but any such gain would be countered by the cook’s complaining on his lost status.”

She was tempted to point out that Trempwick did not sleep with the cook, in either sense of the words, while with her he qualified for one interpretation currently and would collect the other far sooner than she would like. She passed over the opportunity; it would only encourage him to try for that second meaning. While he didn’t have any right to her body, not until after the actual wedding, he was always fiendishly difficult to dissuade if he got a notion of some sort in his head. “We would also have edible food-”

She broke off, hearing shouting coming from outside. Ever curious she hurried over to the window and peered through the narrow slit, resting her hands on the window sill and leaning forward for a better view. Trempwick was not long in following her, craning his neck and peering over the top of her head. In the yard Fulk was brawling with two other men while young Walter ran around kicking his shins. Gerbert was no where to be seen. Trempwick cursed and strode off to intervene.

Eleanor remained where she was, watching. Fulk sent the steward reeling back with a bloody nose, then aimed a sharp kick at Walter. The boy ducked back out of the way, nimble and extra wary as his broken arm had only recently had the splints removed. Edward dabbed at his nose and flung himself back into the fray just as Bertram took hold of Fulk’s right wrist in a two-handed grip. Edward had his revenge, a one-two punch to Fulk’s midsection that the knight could only half block. Fulk allowed himself to be driven back into Bertram, then scraped his boot down the other man’s shin, ending in a crushing stomp to an unwary foot. At the same time he wrenched and twisted his arm, attempting to free it.

Disparate to maintain his grip Bertram wrapped his other arm about Fulk, catching him in a clumsy bear hug. Bad idea; Fulk whipped his head backwards and head butted the servant, ignoring Edward’s insistent pummelling at his lower abdomen. Bertram lost his grip and Fulk burst free of his hold, launching himself forward at Edward, blocking the other’s latest punch as he moved in. Fulk applied his boot to the back of Edward’s knee while simultaneously shoving Bertram backwards, sending the servant sprawling as he lost his balance. Suddenly finding himself with space to breathe Fulk’s hand shot to his dagger, drawing it as he moved to keep his three now ragged and vengeful assailants in front of him.

The fight was interrupted by Gerbert, bursting out of the stables mounted on a grey palfrey. At a canter he tore out into the yard, putting the animal through a near disastrously tight turn, and out through the main gate, breaking into a gallop as soon as he had a straight course available. Moments later Trempwick arrived on the scene, shouting for the combatants to stop acting like apprentice boys on a holiday.

“He stole my horse!” Eleanor muttered indignantly, launching herself at the door to go and join the crowd. As she walked she began undoing the little work she had achieved with her hair; it had been crooked and untidy anyway. The completed braid followed suit to even things out.

As she arrived in the yard everything was over; the servants stood nursing their hurts while Trempwick berated them at length for turning his home into a battlefield. Eleanor announced her presence with an incensed, “He stole my horse!”

Trempwick diverted his attention from the bloodied and bruised men in front of him to her. “Never a dull moment,” he said glumly. Returning to his servants, “Now what in the devil’s name where you doing?”

“Sir,” ventured Edward contritely, one hand pressed to his nose to staunch the blood flow. “He was attacking Gerbert; we were only helping.”

“Gerbert is moving on,” said Trempwick tersely. The words had an instant effect on the three servants; they exchanged significant looks, eyes wide and expressions guarded. “Now get out of my sight, before I decide to dunk your hot heads in the horse trough!” Given the delightfully bracing temperature today the trough would be iced over; Eleanor secretly prayed he would dunk them anyway. This probably made her evil, but she found it hard to care.

Eleanor slipped over to Fulk’s side. “Are you alright?”

“A few scrapes, a scattering of bruises, nothing to dent my finish. A bunch of clueless amateurs.”

She struggled to squelch the smile prompted by his usage of her earlier words, along with the temptation to answer in kind. Damn it; see the trap they had worked themselves into? Even a harmless conversation could easily turn into something considerably closer to dangerous … but was it her reading more into his comment than he intended, or did he mean for his words to have that effect? “We have a mission; best go over your armour and make sure it is immaculate.” It would be; Fulk lavished care and attention on his arms in the same way others spent it on a favoured hound or horse. She had no more excuse to speak to him; best to depart.

As she returned to Trempwick’s side she could feel Fulk’s eyes following speculatively after her. She had not been able to exchange more than guarded chitchat with him, and she was not about to entertain another risk by trying to secure a few minutes safe from prying ears to tell him what had happened yesterday evening. They would be leaving soon; then she could tell him. In the meantime he would have to watch and wonder, and take heart from the fact they were both still alive.

Trempwick began to walk back inside. “Let us return to our discussion, dear Nell.”

Without so much as a backwards glance Eleanor followed him, her neck uncommonly stiff as she battled the natural urge to look back and reassure Fulk.






“And that has harmed my plans,” said Trempwick sourly as he shut the solar door behind Eleanor. “You needed that horse and we do not have time to replace it. You shall have to take a spare; there is no help for it. A lesser animal will be a hindrance to you but it should not send thing too far out of kilter.” He gnawed on his thumb nail and paced up and down so rapidly Eleanor began to feel dizzy just watching.

He halted and began to talk, quickly, resolutely, entirely focused on business, “You and your pet will leave tomorrow. You will travel to the manor of Sir Edward FitzGilbert near Dunstaple. There you will locate and retrieve the treasury Sir Edward is – was storing for your brother. Sir Edward and his family are presently at the manor; they usually live in his castle near Selby but at present they are staying in Ithingby manor, his wife’s dower lands, after their trip to the royal wedding and coronation. One of my agents has been able to get an approximate location for the treasury as well as an estimate of size and weight. It will be containable in a single set of saddlebags.”

“Why me? Why not the agent who located the treasure?” Not that she was complaining … as such. The idea of yet more winter travel was not appealing. The idea of getting away from Trempwick for any amount of time was appealing, and for that she admonished herself. The idea of people potentially trying to kill her was definitely not appealing. The idea of being alone with Fulk was entirely too appealing.

“She is a spy in their household, a kitchen maid, totally unequipped to deal with this and better used as she is. There is no one else suitable within good range; the treasure must be collected before it can be conveyed elsewhere. Now John is dead FitzGilbert will begin to take alternative measures. An armed party would be safest but it would also alert suspicion; you and your pet will be able to play,” his mouth twisted around the words, “travelling knight and his wife again. With that guise you should be more than able to procure the treasury and leave without arousing suspicion.”

He began his pacing again, hands clasped at the small of his back. “You will remember our pleasant conversation last night, and so I have no cause for concern with this … less than desirable cover act. You will only do the bare minimum to maintain the cover, and there will be no ulterior motivations involved because you are better than that.” He made it a statement, not even a rhetorical question, telling her exactly how things would be. She wished she shared his seemingly unshakable belief. “Even in this weather it should only be two days travel there and two back, so you will be gone less than a week – indeed if you are gone more than six days I shall send out a search and rescue party.”

He strode over to her side and radiated concern. “I do not like this, Nell. The roads are foul, and travelling in such a small party is hazardous, even more so when the bandits are frozen and starving in the snows. If you are spotted or your cover is blown you can expect to end up pursued with no chance of mercy if caught. You are still healing too, and your skills are somewhat rusty. You should be at home, safe.”

“Minding my spinning?” she suggested lightly. He has possessed no qualms about sending her off to do his dirty work before, and she would not risk him developing them now. The absolute, final insult to this new status of theirs would be him deciding to put an end to her agenting, keeping her cooped up at home to play nice noble lady.

He scowled at that. “Don’t be foolish; you know very well what I meant.”

Coolly she retorted, “And you know what I meant. This job is never safe.”

“No, but your previous assignments have been safer.” His concern only grew more cloying as the conversation developed.

Not wishing to give him time to further expand his new found anxiety, and with far more important things to hear about, she asked, “How did this Edward get part of John’s treasury?”

“When John fled the country he split his gold up, taking what he could with him and sending the rest in small portions to those he believed most loyal. Edward is one such recipient.”

“How is it this Edward still lives if he was so deeply involved?”

“He went to court and made his obeisances like a good vassal, repenting most impressively. It suits the king’s needs not to mention the treasury, instead regaining it through stealth. A fine of one thousand five hundred and seventy pounds has been imposed on FitzGilbert; it is my belief he aims to take much of that from John’s treasury. He also had two of his other manors confiscated. This was all in the days after our betrothal, so you would not have known as you were recuperating in your room.” Imprisoned, he meant, and at his behest too.


“And this treasure is hidden where?”

“It is buried at the foot of a tree in the small coppice outside the main manor building. The tree has been marked; a strip of bark has been cut away, according to my source. You should be able to dig it up at night without being seen, then load it up and get some distance between you and potential trouble before dawn.”

“What about horses?” A sore point; she had been fond of her grey. “I shall attract more attention if I travel with a spare, unused horse. An extra animal represents more for bandits to steal, and if it is loaded it represents more still.”

“True; your pet can take his warhorse and you can have the spare. Both animals look drab but are fine creatures; I chose them carefully, just like your grey. You will either have to divide the burden or ride pillion on the return trip.”

He took her left hand in his and ran his thumb over the betrothal ring. “You will have to part with this; it is too expensive for the wife of a landless knight. I perhaps did not opt for the best choice for your needs, but then the ring did have to be fit for royalty.”

“I can wear it on a thong about my neck.” A constant, chafing reminder of her vow to cease gambling with lives.

That pleased him, and his eyes glowed warmly. “I shall not make the same mistake with your wedding ring; I shall get you a plain ring and a fancy one, to swap and wear as appropriate,” he vowed. This kiss was not as aggressive as those previous, and for the first time, very timidly, Eleanor kissed him back. It helped if you shut your eyes, she found, and focused on what you could feel to the exclusion of all else. It was not instinctive, not at all, but the result was … agreeable enough.

“That’s the idea,” he murmured, then had a second go. “You will stay with me again tonight?” She nodded. He celebrated that with another kiss, more demanding. One hand moved to cup her breast; an unexpected move that caused her eyes to snap open and momentarily trampled all over the very fragile, very limited contentment she had achieved. Oh well, it was not as if she was hiding a dagger she didn’t want him to know about down there, and it really wasn’t so bad, all things considered and comparatively speaking. Her eyes flicked shut again. She’d take mildly enjoyable over boring any day, since this activity was compulsory. She tried not to think of the all-consuming, red hot conflagration that this could be; it would be like comparing a simple rushlight to the noonday sun.

Eventually he released her. “Go make your plans.”






That night, in the long gap between them getting into bed and relaxing enough with each other’s presence to begin to feel drowsy, Trempwick asked, “You do not want a fancy wedding, do you, Nell?”

She did not want a wedding at all, thanks. “No, but it is sadly unavoidable. It goes with the rank.”

Trempwick made a thoughtful noise, his hand idly stroking her upper arm. “True.” There was a long pause; all the while his hand continued its motion. “I wonder … if we might disarm the worst part, making it more bearable?”

A prickling feeling of premonition crept up Eleanor’s spine. The worst part in an already foul day, without a doubt, would be the consummation. Well, certainly for her; God only knew how Trempwick’s mind worked. She could only think of one way to disarm that – prior practise. No thank you! This required delicacy; she would not allow him to scent fear, nor would she let him think it was something her mind dwelled on, as that would only encourage him. She recalled something he had said a long time ago. “You mean your plan to run out part way through the feast, proclaiming that you are tired of waiting?” She had been considering that for a few days now, trying to decide which prospect dismayed her the most: having to survive the bedding down revels, or being picked up and carried off in an episode which would become semi-legend.

He laughed; tucked in against his side she felt his body vibrate with mirth. “Yes, that is certainly one very good part of my cunning plan. In this instance, however, I was actually thinking of the consummation.” Oh hurrah.

“Unless you propose to forget it entirely there is nothing you can do.” Forgetting it entirely sounded just wonderful to her, yes indeed.

He ignored that, continuing in a maddeningly rational tone of voice, “It will be considerably easier on us if we do not have people hammering on the door and shouting drunken advice every few minutes, combined with a lot of fuss, scare mongering, crudity, and a very long wait in which to fret.” Of course when he said ‘us’ what he really meant was ‘you’. How … cute of him.

In situations like this there was only one thing a self respecting gooseberry could do. Excuses, plenty of them, and of sufficient quality to baffle pursuit while she ran for her life. She cleared her throat and said, “Yes well, that really is very …” horrifying, “sweet of you, but you forget there will be a hall full of people waiting to see proof of my virginity and I would hate to disappoint.” Not least because she would be condemned as a whore for the rest of her days, and her father would knock her into the next century despite technically not being allowed to do that any more.

He hitched a shoulder. “If a spymaster cannot even fake a simple bloodstain than what use is he?”

Oh crud. Trempwick was so helpful sometimes, such a darling. “Yes, but it is really very risky; if something should go wrong …”

“I am a spymaster, not a country oaf who has consumed too much mead and has scant clue of what subterfuge means even when sober.”

New ammunition, time honoured and traditional ammunition. “What if I fall pregnant?”

“Nell, Nell, I told you before I do not intend risking you for some mewling brat. I shall minimalise the risks, and if the worst should come to the worst a dose or two of herbal tea will soon set things to rights.” Oh, nice – if at first you don’t succeed keep on feeding the princess poison until you do, or until she drops dead.

He had never once asked her how she felt about children. Grudgingly she admitted she would agree with him; the idea of pregnancy was not an appealing one, and childbirth was one big gamble between life and death. People had been extremely vocal on her ability to survive, and not a one of them had predicated anything better than a tremendously difficult birth which she might survive if God willed it. Small stature, slender figure, narrow hips; apparently death was writ large all over her. In the end the child itself often died, making all the effort and pain pointless. Beyond that things got little better; any child of hers would be a pawn, every bit a victim of it’s royal blood as she was. Girls would have to be directed towards the life she had rejected for herself. Sons might not be too bad, but you did not get to pick and choose the baby’s gender, as many frustrated couples would testify.

Saying “Urk!” would be very inelegant, so instead she said, “I thought you planned on going slowly?”

“Yes, but then it struck me that the waiting and not knowing is often the worst part of most things.” Where Trempwick was concerned Eleanor was quite happy to wait forever, if at all possible.

Try yet again. “And anyway I thought you were going to be all protective of my honour.”

“I am. No one would know but us.”

“And everyone else in the building.” Her mind was concerned more with one person above all others.

“They are of no consequence, and will say nothing.”

“What if the wedding is called off?” Please God!

“Your father will not do that; to cancel would be to expose himself as indecisive and fickle.” He was persistent, she’d say that much of him.

“In any case I am leaving tomorrow-”

“Precisely.”

“- and so I need my sleep,” she finished brightly without missing a beat.

“Slippery as an eel,” he commented sourly. “Alright; what if I get permission for us to have a small, quiet wedding here, then the obligatory public wedding will only be a confirmation.”

It would never happen; her father had set a minimum date and he would not change his mind. With that rock solid certainty behind her she answered, “If you like. Goodnight.” And with that it seemed a most excellent idea to pretend to be asleep as soon as it could be believable.









Hands up everyone who wants to see an Eleanor/Trempwick sex scene :sits on hands: Now how about an Eleanor/Fulk one? :still sits on hands: Alright, how about some more assorted mush not including any actual sex? :those hands are quite a comfy seat: Ok, how about a nice scene involving sword fighting and deeds of daring do? :raises both hands and waves them frantically:

Yes! I agree with the frog sat at the back! Less mush, more killing! Less mush, more killing! :takes up chant: Plot is a cruel mistress and all this mush is driving poor froggy crackers

See you when you return, caesar.

That last part was one of the better recent parts for me too, zelda - less mush!

Trempwick’s rights. (good timing)
Nell and Trempwick are only betrothed; he gets most of the husbandly rights but not all of them. The actual wedding gives him the last few. He only gets the right to sex when they are married; before it is off limits and, properly speaking, he shouldn't even be alone with her at any time. He also only gets ownership of all her possessions when they are finally married. Depending on which source you look at he can either beat her now if he likes or has to wait until they are married.

That's just theory, of course, and Trempwick is slippery enough to get around it. Simply he didn't think he had a good chance of achieving it peacefully; he only just decided he had a reasonable chance and look how it turned out. Considering who she is it's not a good idea to piss her off by getting forceful, not when you are going to be stuck with her for the rest of your (potentially much shorter) life.

Now when he gets that wedding ring jammed on her finger he’s home free; he knows even she won’t risk upsetting him by trying to wriggle out of her ‘duty’. Patience is key, and the spymaster has it in abundance.

[scooter_the_shooter]

this stories like nicotine i had to read it

[zelda12]

Can you rewrite the scene when Fulk gets thrown in the cell so he breaks out kills all the guards throws Elly's dad down the privy rams a sword into Trempwicks stomach picks Nell throws her over his shoulder and rides of into the sunset. Now that is a good scene. Ahhh, would be nice... oh yes lots more violence please. Maybe even some obligitory cliched scenes and some comedy thrown in for good measure.

Liked the part with Fulk fighting those three servants. :D

[DemonArchangel]

Eh, I thought Trempwick (being a male) would leap at the chance to sexually exploit eleanor.

And also, wouldn't he have seen her naked at least once before the leg part (i.e: training?)