The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[zelda12]

583!

Wow! When you get round to sending this off to the publisher they will probaly ask you to seperate it into two books. Which is a good thing as it doubles profits if the first one is successful.


Everything is lookig good so far, except I had to restart from the beggining to remind myslef with the story. Enjoying it immensely!

[frogbeastegg]

William bent his head to listen with careful graveness to the pretty young lady perched on his lap.

“And I’m going to be a beautiful lady with a big castle, and dresses, and servants, and a husband who loves me ever so much, and I’ll watch tournaments and stuff, and everyone will write poetry in my honour.”

“Really?” he replied, still suitably serious.

The little girl – who had introduced herself as Mahaut, practically lady of this castle and the only one not panicking like a silly chicken – nodded and stuffed her thumb in her mouth. She removed it a little later with a popping sound. “And I won’t have silly people who panic every time the king comes to visit, because that’s just silly.”

He lowered his head, and said just for her hearing, “I rather like it when people panic. It means I am doing my job correctly.”

She giggled with delight. “My silly old papa is panicking worse than everyone else! He was running about giving orders, and now I think my mother has him trapped in the solar. She’s probably making him put on nice clothes and stuff, so he doesn’t look all scruffy. She’ll be saying,” She pulled herself up straight-backed and planted her little fists on her hips, and affected a scolding tone, “You should cut off that dreadful beard. It’s all hairy and nasty.” And then he’ll be saying, “No, stop pestering me, damn your eyes!” She returned to sitting peacefully on his lap, feet swinging. “When they’ve finished all that then he’ll be here.”

William filed this rather bizarre information away in case of future need, though he couldn’t imagine what possible use it could be. “Do you know why he is panicking?”

“Oh yes!” she exclaimed, as if he was asking something unbelievably dense. “It’s because you want to cut his head off.” She clutched at his mailed arm, eyes filling with pleading tears. “Please don’t do that! He might be silly, but I like him. He’s the best papa I ever had!” Her brows knotted in concentration. “And the only one I ever had too, but he’s really good, honest!”

William ruffled her hair, something his own children had usually liked. Mahaut obviously didn’t; she immediately set about smoothing her hair back with a scowl. “I am not going to execute him; why does he think I am?”

“Because he swears too much, I think. And because of that nasty Yves. My brother was at his castle for a while, and he says Yves was really silly. You should cut his head off, not my papa’s. Yves’ head, I mean. Thierry is annoying and all, but I suppose I like him. He’s only a boy, so I suppose he can’t help it.”

“Oh,” said William, rather weakly.

“Yes; boys don’t get to wear nice dresses, so they’re always a bit sulky and mean out of jealousy.”






Jocelyn entered his main hall to be treated to a rear view of the king sat on the dais, in the chair that was usually his. Many of the knights, men at arms, and assorted household members who had arrived with the king lined the sides of the hall, and members of Jocelyn’s own household mingled with the newcomers.

Jocelyn worked his way around the dais to wait to one side until he caught the king’s eye. The first thing he noticed, aside from the fact the king was still in his armour but with bare head, was the presence of a certain familiar little girl sat on the king’s knee, talking enthusiastically. Jocelyn groaned, and shuffled a little closer to the king’s eyeline in the hopes of being noticed sooner.

One of the men stood close to the king coughed politely, then leaned down to mutter something in the royal ear. The king turned to Jocelyn’s part of the gathering, eyes seeking something. They fixed on him; in all his splendid raiment he was easy to single out. “Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes,” said the king loudly, “I am pleased to see you have finally joined us.”

Recognised, Jocelyn advanced to the space before the dais, and sank to one knee. “Sire.”

The king indicated he should stand. Jocelyn did so, and took the opportunity to pass scrutiny over his king. The famous William of England was short, some three fingerbreadths shorter than most men, Jocelyn estimated. His lifeless sandy hair was both greying and thinning. The face was on the whole unremarkable, aside from a pair of piercing blue eyes which called to mind the sapphires used for his lions’ eyes on his banner. Unremarkable features did not, however, leave the king looking bland; his features had been moulded long ago into a haughty confidence and superiority, a display which had settled into bone, indelible. His armour concealed the body beneath, but he wore it well and proudly, like a man still fit and hale. He didn’t really fit the image of kingship as spouted by minstrels, but then minstrels were bloody clueless anyway. He at least passed well enough as a warrior and a noble.

Mahaut, Jocelyn was extremely relieved to see, still looked as presentable as she had several hours ago, at the start of the morning. Seeing his little girl perched contentedly on the knee of a man who had killed his own son made Jocelyn’s blood run cold. He wanted her as far out of the king’s reach as possible; same for the rest of his family.

The king gave him a second or so to judge, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a trace of sardonic amusement which said he knew exactly what Jocelyn thought, and had seen the same many times over. He smoothed a hand over Mahaut’s hair in a paternal gesture which would have ended with Jocelyn’s fist bursting through the teeth of any lesser man who tried it. “Your daughter has been kind enough to amuse me in my waiting; she has the makings of a fine hostess.”

On the king’s lap Mahaut pouted, no doubt thinking she already was a fine hostess.

“Sire,” repeated Jocelyn, unable to think of anything else to say.

“But I think we should let her go now; no need to bore her with the stuffy business of men, is there?”

Mahaut wiggled free of the king, and dropped to the floor. “Yes, I suppose I should go and look after Thierry. He’s nearly two times older than me, and he’s just really hopeless.” She did an imitation of her nurse’s oft used ‘well, what can you do’ gesture. “He thinks he’s a knight, but really he’s just a little boy, and he fell off the stables roof today into a pile of muck, and now he stinks. I don’t know what he’d do if I wasn’t there to sort his life out for him and stuff.” She scampered off, disappearing into the crowd filling the hall.

Jocelyn tracked her through the crowd until she was barred from his sight; she had been headed towards the solar, so hopefully Richildis would find her and keep her securely tied to her skirts and out of trouble. “I do hope she wasn’t bothering you, Sire.” Or saying anything unfortunate …

“No, no, not at all. Your daughter is very vivacious.”

“Yes, she is.” And she was bloody well going to stay that way, if he had anything to say about it!

“But, remarkable as her knowledge of dresses and psychology is, it is the father I am more interested in. You answered the call of a man who broke his oath to me, and fought for him.”

He had been expecting this, but the pronouncement still made Jocelyn’s hands go slick with sweat, his mouth dry, his heart race. Bloody hell; this was it. “But not against you, Sire. Only against others who had sworn oaths to Yves and not kept them.”

The king placed one hand on each arm of the chair, and leaned forward. “Men who refused to rise against their king.”

“Men who broke their word, making them as honourless as Yves himself.” Movement in the crowd near the staircase leading down from the solar alerted Jocelyn to Richildis’ arrival. She had both Thierry and Mahaut firmly in tow. She worked her way forward to watch, but kept her presence unobtrusive. They were a very pertinent reminder of why he had to get this right. Jocelyn drew a steadying breath, reminding himself God was on his side.

“Men who refused to aid a rebellion against me,” repeated the king. He sat back, head held high, as though supporting the weight of the crown he did not wear.

“No, Sire. Men who didn’t want to risk their necks for their word.”

“And you have no objections to risking your neck for your word. More than your neck – your family, your holdings. Going against your king is treason.”

“I am not a traitor. I admit I did not like Yves’ ends, and if I’d been left free choice I’d have stayed at home, but I always keep my word.”

“So why are you here now? Why not with him, in Saint Maur, waiting to defend him from me?”

“Because that would be treason, Sire. I am no traitor.” Jocelyn’s uneasiness disappeared, leaving quiet assurance behind. He took this as indication of the Lord’s continued favour, the divine hand reaching down and calming his heart. More boldly he said, “Nowhere is it said a man must become a traitor because he paid homage to a fool, but also nowhere is it said homage to a fool can be ignored as soon as it becomes inconvenient.”

“It seems you have a very interesting set of scruples, de Ardentes. Scruples which allow you to hop from side to side as desired, to your best gain and to keep the wolf from your own door.” The king’s tone indicated he knew a good many men were precisely that practical, but without the fancy trappings for their excuses.

“No, Sire. I follow my lord as is fitting, in all things, until he goes against my king or my God. At that point he is my lord no more, and I renounce my homage. I gave my word; I kept it, as always.” The minor lie flowed from his tongue with sufficient grace he nearly believed it himself. It didn’t seem prudent to bring in the Thierry as a hostage part of his tale; it seemed best to emphasise his loyalty and the value of his word.

“And if your word had called for you to follow Yves against me?”

“It would not,” stated Jocelyn bluntly. “I would never make such an oath. Never. I will not raise my sword against my king.”

The king received this with raised eyebrows. He looked around his closest men, saying nothing but making his scepticism quite plain. The men responded as required, returning their own doubtful looks. “I hear interesting stories, Sir Jocelyn. Very interesting ones. It seems you protested laying waste to Ardon, and yet surely that is precisely what your scruples would demand – harsh retribution for oath breakers.”

“Sire, I objected to pointless waste, not the removal of the oath breaker. Where’s the point in taking back land granted, only to turn it to a smouldering ruin that’ll cost yet more money to mend after costing to be broken? Ardon used to be good land; it won’t be that for years now. It’s little good to grant to a new man, more a curse than a reward.”

“Oh?” The king’s eyebrows raised. “So an honourable, pious man like yourself has no issue with killing innocents? I had felt certain that was the cause of your qualms there.”

Jocelyn knew he was being mocked for his previous high-handed speeches. “Sire, you know the principles of war as well as I.”

“And yet it also seems you were a veritable angle of mercy!” exclaimed the king loudly, leaning forward on his left arm and letting his other hand fall slack across his knees. “You rescued Elianora de Ardon and her tutor from rape and murder, and refused to hand them over to Yves.”

“Yes, Sire,” he replied simply.

“She is, of course, now her father’s sole heir, since I am reversing Yves’ damnation of her family. More so; I will wring compensation from him.” The right hand clenched into a fist. “So you have possession of the heiress to a good piece of land, though I grant it is in need of much time and work, a girl of suitably marriageable age who will soon also be in possession of a tidy sum of money.”

“No, Sire, I do not. She is a ward of the crown. I only shelter her, until you wish otherwise. I’d not dream of using her to my own ends.”

The king accepted this amicably enough. He returned to sitting regally, and said, “It has been much on my mind that I need a new Count of Tourraine.”

Jocelyn held his breath; a trickle of sweat ran down his back. He began to pray; God could not desert him now, not after all this, not so close!

“Your name is one I had considered, and certainly you are one of the logical men to use, being one of the more important local lords. But now I do wonder about your loyalty to me, and perhaps it seems to me that I would do better with Raymond de Issoudun, who is equally well placed.”

“Sire, my loyalty is absolute, without question.”

The king’s eyes gleamed. “Then you will have no objections to my taking your eldest son home with me to England, as a guarantee.”

“No!” screamed Richildis. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but the damage was already more than done. Jocelyn groaned. He was not the least bit happy, but he had more sense! They were only outlining the initial positions, no more. There was space to negotiate.

William turned to Richildis, and favoured her with a gracious smile that – Jocelyn thought – held a good portion of wolfish menace. “The boy will be quite safe, as his father is so devoted to me. He will receive a fine education, you may be assured of that, my lady. There are many such boys at court; he will have plenty of companionship.”

Jocelyn interjected, “De Issoudun is a honourless bastard - he tried to seize this castle by underhand means while I was fighting for the lord he’d betrayed. If that’s not proof enough of his nature then you only need to look back a little while, and you’ll find more. If you put him in as count he’ll betray you as soon as he thinks it’s convenient. He’ll go to the King of France.”

The king examined his fingernails. “And yet it I find myself wondering if he might indeed be better than you; he is at least open and honest in his changing sides. He does not claim it to be honourable, only practical. Practicality is so much easier to predict and harness.”

“Sire,” said Jocelyn smoothly, falling back to that well known, well trusted necessity of dealing with kings – bribery. “I’ll gladly give two-hundred pounds as recompense for the worry I’ve caused you.” He’d need to arrange to pay in instalments, that or take a loan from the Jews, and it would put a pinch on his coffers for a bit but it was manageable.

“Thank you, your generosity is most welcome.”

“I would also like to purchase the wardship of Elianora de Ardon. I can’t help but feel I’ve some duty to the girl, after all this.” One girl half mad with grief and already of an age to marry; one set of ruined lands that needed a lot of work - it added up to one wardship which was very likely to result in a loss of money, not a gain. But that wasn’t why he’d made the offer; it was a second bribe for royal favour, since it appeared the first wasn’t quite enough.

“Very well; this suits me. The wardship is valued at sixty pounds, a lowered sum in recognition of the damage done by Yves.”

A lowered sum, but still ludicrous. Jocelyn bowed his head again. “You do me honour, Sire. Thank you.”

“Having been reassured of your loyalty it is in my mind you will make a suitable Count of Tourraine. Saint Maur, the miscellaneous holdings, and the title are yours, along with the privileges which go with it. There remains only, then, the question of the relief …”

More extortion. Jocelyn’s joy was drowned out by the imaginary sound of silver pennies flowing away to the royal coffers.

“I think five hundred pounds a suitable amount. You will pay a sum now, and then two instalments each year until the full amount is discharged.”

The debt gave the king one extra threat; a legal and acceptable reason - with a little twisting of truth to make Jocelyn seem a bad debtor - to confiscate everything Jocelyn had if he ever had doubts. Combined with having Jocelyn’s son and heir as a hostage it gave the king a very solid position. He didn’t have any choice but to accept. “Yes, Sire. Thank you for the honour you do me.”

The king waved to one of his household clerks. “Draw up the appropriate documents.” The king held out his hands to Jocelyn. “You will do homage now, and you will, of course, accompany me in force tomorrow when I go to reclaim Saint Maur.”

Jocelyn mounted the dais, knelt at the king’s feet and clasped his hands. “I promise on my faith that I will in the future be faithful to you, and will observe my homage to you completely against all persons in good faith and without deceit.” He kissed the king’s ring, rose, and retreated to his former position. The enormity of it all finally sank in, and Jocelyn felt giddy. He was Count of Tourraine! God had favoured him, a poor and miserable sinner! He would have to do something suitably grand in recognition of his divine debt. The answer there was quite apparent - he would give his bastard son, young Jocelyn, to the church. The lad was five now; old enough to make a start on his education. But first he must see about his firstborn son. Hesitantly Jocelyn suggested, “Sire, it may be beneficial for Thierry to remain here and learn his business firsthand, make himself known and get to know the men he’ll be dealing with one day.”

The king smiled politely. “I think not.”






Hugh knelt at his midday prayers, one of several such sets he said during each day, pleading with the Almighty for the safe birth of a son. He completed his usual litany, but remained as he was. He had more to pray for, this day. His conscience was worse than uneasy; it was flagellating his soul.

He began to beg pardon for his pride and vanity in coming between his sister and her chosen husband. Was it not said, “Those who the Lord hath joined together, let no man split asunder.”? Married they might not be, but betrothed in such a way to be as good as. His intrusion was worse because it came from such worldly reasons: power, and the pursuit thereof. Correspondingly he craved exculpation for going against his father’s wishes, instead of obeying them like a good and dutiful son, and for daring to presume he knew better.

But … he found it so exigent to believe he was not doing right. Such a small thing, to thwart a very great iniquity.

If he was correct. He might not be – others with greater judgement, greater wisdom trusted the spymaster. He was only young, a youth, barely tried, never before granted such fearful responsibility. He could be wrong, indeed to assume he was not was to place himself above those he must be deferential to.

But … but he was right … he believed … felt quite sure.

He admitted his sin in very briefly, for the shortest of instants, wishing another man dead, simply for going against him and bringing up a matter he did not wish to be revisited. When Trempwick had, before the court, mentioned the matter of his marriage again it had almost been too much. He had foiled the spymaster’s attempt, but the cost – the cost! His soul felt lacerated. Once again going against God, once again going against father, his own judgement called into question, made to look something of a fool before the court as the spymaster once again deliberately misinterpreted his words and forced him to stumble from one position to another in his need to be the devoted and reverent son he knew he should be, lying, deceiving, using power to gain and keep power, using his rank to crush the man’s reasonable request, acting in ways no good man ever should!

And then … and then he had looked at the spymaster’s carefully respectful face and wished him struck down in great agony. Hugh’s head sunk lower, and his prayers became more frantic. Requests for absolution, for strength to fight this inner evil.

Many would understand his hatred. His children, murdered, so much wrong, so much injustice, the perversion of the natural order and the ruination of a great many lives to suit the will of one man …

But Hugh knew he should be above such base emotions. Worse; Trempwick distorted all for his whims, but was Hugh not now doing the same?

Was it enough to say, “I do this for good, and with just cause.”? Could it ever be? It was his reason, his belief to the core of his soul, his explanation. He did this because he thought it right and just, for the best of those placed into his trust. But perhaps Hugh did not have the right of it? Acting on suspicion, no proof, no real evidence …

He had cursed his sister, cursed her for bringing him to this, for placing him in this situation, for dropping this burden on him. But he should not, should not. Instead he should thank her, for forcing him to confront the weakness in his spirit which had enabled him to shy away time and again from acting on what he suspected. But he had been dutiful, obeying his father, meekly and fittingly bowing to his wisdom and superior judgement – exactly as he should. That had been appropriate, dignified, pious … wrong? But to call it wrong was to place himself above others, to say that honoured and aged ideas did not apply to him. He was trapped, in a quandary. Whichever way he turned he could do little right. Every path seemed to lead to the very things he strove to be above. He must be a good man, a good prince, one day a good king. But that seemed always to require actions he knew to be wrong in some way.

The worst sin, the one which had toppled him over the edge and reduced him to this. He wrung his rosary between tormented hands. His last sin was the greatest, the one which drove him to the very depths of despair, and then beyond.

He had harmed innocents.

First two women imbibing poison by accident, but with no great harm done. Then a maid arrested – by his order! His, though he knew it to be unjust – and imprisoned, questioned, then terrified, and finally harassed by his own guards. Now potentially war with France, and the slander of innocent people with perfidious deeds he was himself responsible for. War. His mind filled with images of dead men, dead civilians, homes burned, goods looted, families broken and destroyed, children left orphan, women abused, people maimed, livelihoods lost, crops ruined and starvation following. The many evils of war, wreaked on those undeserving of such, and all because of him.

He should have been better, braver, stronger, smarter – something. If he had been then he would have found a better way.

Hugh forced calm upon himself, and recalled the words his father had taught him, shouting them in his mind to drown out all else. Sometimes a few must die to spare the many. Better a few suffer than all. Louder, he shouted to himself the reminder that while the maid had suffered in some small measure it had enabled him to cauterise a wound, and bring wrongdoers to justice, preventing future abuse. From small evil came greater good!

More words came forward, ones he had shunned, believing – knowing – them to be dangerous. A king must make his own rules. What applies to normal men does not necessarily apply to a king. Good men and good kings were … different. Hugh remembered most specifically his father’s pause there; the way he had looked distant during the pause, then snapped back to focus intently on his son as he said the last word with quiet conviction, reverence almost, in his voice. God knew of how kings stood slightly apart, had different responsibilities, different needs, different dilemmas, and so he understood. A normal man should never assume himself wiser than others; a king, by his very nature, had to. And so on through a great inventory of deeds and potentials, William had explained, taking much of the day to be sure his son understood.

“But I am not a king,” whispered Hugh. “I am not a king …”

His father’s words had been eloquent, alluring, attractive … and so very wrong, for they opened up a path he knew would lead him to places he did not wish to go.

And now … he could see no other way to stay sane and do what he believed he must. He must embrace those words, or step back, or go mad.

Looking along that path Hugh screwed his eyes shut against visions of himself as he knew he could be, ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets when the visions persisted. Even that did not dislodge them. He fell back to sit on the floor, and hugged his arms around his body, his rosary still clutched forgotten in one hand. Sacrificed on the altar of power, he could be … The image defied words, description, any form but the pictures seared across his mind’s eye. Too wonderful, too terrible, too seductive, too repellent, to be anything other than what they were. Better to be dead than that. He was already dead, compared to what could be …

In the lament of a lost little boy Hugh begged his absent father, “Come home …”






Eleanor watched as the last of the tableware was cleared from the space she shared with Trempwick. The spymaster had been distracted throughout the evening meal, but still an exemplary partner. She had been happy enough to let him lead the conversation, and he had kept them to safe, boring subjects. He had just asked how her morning with the queen had been.

“Well enough,” she answered. “It was pleasant to be out and away from the palace.” They had been accompanied by four armed guards drawn from Anne’s contingent and placed under Fulk’s command, plus Hawise and Godit. Hugh had been given them strict instructions to remain in the sight of the palace’s sentries. She had felt like a prisoner being let out for exercise.

Well enough, thought Eleanor sourly. Godit had flirted with Fulk endlessly, always remaining inside the bounds of decency so no one could complain. Not that Eleanor could complain even if the maid had been completely shameless. Fulk had played along, careful to walk the line between brushing the maid off and responding with too much interest; an uncommitted man who wanted to remain that way. The rest hadn’t been much better; stilted conversation, typical gloomy February weather, and always the awareness that there were at least two potential spies in their midst.

She noticed Trempwick was gazing past the servants clearing the tables, to the collection of people gathering in the large empty space in the middle of the hall. He turned to her with a smile, the first all evening which did not have an air of distraction to it. “We will join the dancing tonight, sweetest Nell.”

“Do we have to?”

For an answer he stood, and extended his hand to her. “Come.”

Reluctantly she allowed him to tow her down to join the rest, already with some good idea of what he intended.

Her suspicions were born out. Together they were at the centre of attention, seen by many eyes. Dance after dance, performed with matched grace. After the first few caroles people ceased seeking them as partners, recognising that they would pair with each other or not at all. At his whispered command she laughed, smiled, and played her part as best she could, though it ran counter to both heart and interests. What choice did she have?

And he was the very essence of courtly love. Attentive, always gazing at her, missing no opportunity to touch, even if it was only the brush of fingertips, often whispering sweet words to her, finding any chance and excuse to kiss her, hold her. He showered her in nonsense until she blushed. Again she saw flashes of things stolen from Fulk in him; things cheapened by the theft and carefully warped to fit the new owner. Again she let him believe he had fooled her with them, as he once would have if she had not mistrusted him so much, if she had not become so attuned to everything about her beloved.

Together they breathed life into the myth of two in the beginnings of love, two well matched and content in that match, despite the beginning. Two who had been joined together by a king who had been right after all. Two who should marry on the morrow, but would not thanks to Prince Hugh. They put meaning to the abstract of the betrothal; where before people had known of it in dry terms written to a legal and binding pact, they came to know it in the form of two real people.

A contract is often easy to have forgotten, to brush away from the minds of those not personally involved.

Two people such as they were pretending to be tonight were not.

With each step she damned herself a little more.





“When Saint Maur’s in my hands and all’s safe I’ll send for you,” Jocelyn told his wife.

She stared stonily at him. “Yes.”

Jocelyn sighed. Evidently he still wasn’t forgiven for yesterday’s loud, vicious argument. But that was just damned fine – he hadn’t forgiven her either. Thierry was going with the king when he turned back for England, and that was that. Yes, he’d be a hostage, but it was a perfectly normal arrangement, and Jocelyn had no intention of being fool enough to bring the wrath of his new liege down upon himself. It was advantageous, even – Thierry would be growing up alongside those who he’d need as friends and allies when the boys become men and stepped into their fathers’ shoes. He’d have a good education and be well cared for. He’d miss the boy, but it was unavoidable, necessary, and for the best. Shame Richildis couldn’t quite bring her little mind to understand that. Still, he didn’t much like leaving like this, less still when he was off to battle. With effort he managed to remove some of the edge from his voice, “I’ll send enough men to escort you and the household safely.”

“Fine.”

“That includes Thierry; a deal’s been made and it will be kept. Oh – and Tildis?”

“What?” she snarled.

“I expect Joss to be brought up too.”

“No. He is staying in his nicely distant home along with the slut who bore him.”

Jocelyn rolled his eyes and didn’t quite manage to transmute his growl of frustration into another sigh. “Tildis, you know I’m giving him to the church-”

“No!” she snapped. “I’m not going to fetch any of your bastards. I’m not going to see, speak to, or have anything to do with any of the harlots. I’m not sending someone to fetch any of them. I’m not going to tolerate any of them in any number being anywhere near my home. Their existence is bad enough without rubbing the insult in my face.”

“Fine; I’ll sort it out myself later, and send the poor lad off without even chance to catch his breath after being told. I do hope that makes you happy.” He picked up his cloak and draped it around his shoulders over his armour. That was it; ready to leave.

He tried to kiss her goodbye, mostly because he knew it would infuriate her, but also in the admittedly pathetic and forlorn hope it might do some good. When she turned her face away he lost patience, caught hold of her jaw in an unkind grip and forced her head back. He dragged the wretched kiss on for long enough to pass on some measure of his frustration. He pulled his mouth away, but kept his grip on her. “We did well enough when I came home, even you admitted it wasn’t too bad. It was nice.” Jesú! How bloody pathetic that sounded! The words had no effect on her, and Jocelyn had more than enough of trying for peace. “Until next morning, when you went back to being an icy bitch again with no warning, no reason.”

She looked him dead in the eye, and said clearly, “Pity seldom lasts long.”

“Thing is, Tildis, you’re incapable of pity.” Jocelyn let her go with a jerk. “You’ve no bloody heart.” He snatched up his helmet and stalked away.







5,312

You know, I rather like little Mahaut. Four years old, and so ... something

From what (little) I know selling big books is a lot more difficult, just like selling series. Longer books cost more to print, and more books require a larger publisher investment, and so are a larger risk. I've seen advice to keep the length of a long story secret until the publisher or agent is hooked and actively asking for plenty more.

Manuscript pages are deceptive; depending on format, typeface, text size etc used in the final printed book it rarely works out at a 1=1 page ratio. I think Eleanor, once completed and edited to my satisfaction, would be at least 1,000 pages in paperback form. Based on some of the books on my shelves this could be done as a single volume, either in hardback or in paperback. It seems to be past 1,100 pages where publishers sometimes start splitting paperbacks into two parts.

[frogbeastegg]

Hugh waited in the throne room, standing on the rim of the pool of midmorning light which bathed the great chair. Carved in the triangular space at the very top of the throne’s back was a scene of an ancient king on his own throne, tidal water lapping at his feet, and it was this Hugh gazed at with eyes that barely saw. King Canute, trying to turn back the tides. Kingly arrogance and folly, described with exquisite skill on the part of the craftsman.

The throne had been made to replace the old throne during the second year of his father’s rule, after an assassination attempt had spoilt the generations old throne beyond neat repair. King Canute had been his specific request, or so one of Hugh’s tutors had said when the young prince had enquired. He had never found the courage to ask his father why Canute. Over the years he had found his own reasons, and discovered those reasons changed as he grew and learned. A pretty picture from a story, changed to an invocation of an otherwise great king whom William wished to emulate and outdo, changed to a salutary admonition of how susceptible a king was if he overestimated himself, changed to a reminder of the dangers of power, changed to … something that had been lost across the years, burned from the older man by time.

At last his expected company arrived, exasperatingly accompanied by the last person he wished to see. His sister; her spymaster. Thwarted in his purpose before he had even begun. Hugh knew despair. Defeat after defeat, following defeat, and all seeming so fluently dealt out.

That was why he had summoned Nell here, in part. Too many defeats, too great a need to know if she fared better, too much harm being done to them and their cause by this man their father trusted. It gathered momentum too; this morning the spymaster had carefully reminded people he should be getting married today, but would not be because Hugh had turned his father’s plans upside down. It had all been done so well; subtly, in such a way as to make the spymaster seem a self-sacrificing, loyal man while listeners were left with threads of reservation on Hugh’s motives, uncertainties formed from the spymaster’s words instead of placed in minds openly. There had been no counterattack to any of it; Hugh had not been present at the time. He had learned of it from one of his squires, and gathered more by sending trusted ears to speak to the right people. This must end; very soon, before it was too late.

Trempwick said, “An interesting choice of location, your Highness.”

“It is quiet here,” Hugh replied.

“Indeed, but the seating is so limited.”

“We shall stand together.”

“Please, as you said to me in our previous meeting, no need to stand on ceremony. Sit down, if you prefer.”

“I do not want this seat.”

The spymaster’s head quirked to one side. “Really? A worrying state of affairs – an heir who does not wish to be king.”

Hugh’s desolation rose and threatened to devour him whole; the familiar pattern was beginning over again. “That is not what I meant, be assured. I prefer to stand on this occasion. In any case, the throne is not mine, yet, and so I have no right to sit in it.”

The spymaster laughed politely, but in his current mood of self-flagellation Hugh could very easily imagine utter contempt running loudly through it. “Peace! I jest; ask your sister if you do not believe me.”

Hugh felt his face grow hot. If this were a tournament he would be lying on his back in the dirt, unhorsed. Again.

Eleanor enquired, everything about her expressing stiff ennui, “Why did you summon me, brother dear? Not for this, I hope.”

Before Hugh could speak Trempwick dealt another small defeat, by blocking Hugh from taking advantage of what she had offered unless he wished to look entirely unreasonable. “That was hardly polite, dear Nell. I taught you manners; I would be very happy if you would prove it.”

“Sorry, master.”

Seeing his sister reduced to being so meek and contrite made Hugh’s resolution blaze – he would have an ending, here and now, and pull them both out from the spymaster’s poisonous sway. It had to be him; no other could do this. Collected again thanks to her distraction Hugh hurled himself into his attack before he had time to talk himself out of it. “Quite right; that is not why you are here. Your display last night was reprehensible, repulsive, even. It will not happen again.”

Trempwick said, “I do not see why you are so upset; we were only dancing. Quite harmless.”

“It was quite apparent there was considerable mutual attachment there-”

“I should hope so! We were supposed to be married today.”

“You know how people will construe it, what they will say-”

The spymaster waved a dismissive hand, and interrupted, “Fools always talk nonsense; it is why they are fools.”

“And so you can see how it was detrimental to my sister’s repute-”

“No, I cannot,” interrupted Trempwick again. “Not unless I had no approved attachment to Nell beyond that of tutor.”

“I will not let you turn my sister into a whore.” Hugh got the words out in a low voice, after an infinitesimal delay. Uttered, the words tasted like ash, matching the sentiment in his heart. Slander …

Eleanor gasped, but quickly brought her reaction under control. Hugh saw in her the same affronted hurt he had seen the last time he had made comparable accusations, only this time she seemed almost guilty. While she acted for the spymaster’s benefit he had some faith there was little acting needed. All well and good; he would never wish there to be even a grain of truth in his accusation.

Something changed in the spymaster, some tiny thing. The easiness was gone, replaced by an iron coldness. “I am afraid I do not follow,” he said deliberately.

“You follow.”

“Oh, I can see some reasoning, but I thought you far above it. I thought your mind far more capable, more flexible, more sensible than that. I never took you for one who would see things in such limited, restricting terms. You see two people who are close, and assume that they must be lovers.”

Hugh almost quailed, nearly took the well worn path towards defeat again. But he drove himself on; he could not conceive of a good man doing otherwise. Nor could he envisage a good man stooping to such evil methods. “No,” he replied, faintly amazed by how steady his voice was, “I do not think that. But half the court does.”

“So you worry yourself about a collection of fools-”

“She will remain entirely above reproach, above even passing suspicion in the eyes of the meanest peasant. Thanks to your antics half the court is looking at you both sideways and questioning her virtue!” Hugh advanced a step on the spymaster, using his marginally superior height and bulk to try and browbeat the man. “Why was there a two month gap between betrothal and wedding? To limit scandal. Why was I granted control over my sister during the king’s absence? To limit scandal. Why do so few know of how closely connected you have both been over the years? To limit scandal. What is our king’s greatest wish here? To limit scandal!”

“I did not think you the kind to make such a mistake. People will find scandal wherever they wish to see it-”

“And far more so when you give them such easy and ready material to work with!” cried Hugh.

“Easy and ready material is the fact the match exists at all, that you well know.” Trempwick conceded Hugh a hollow victory in the battle of presences, and retired to stand behind Eleanor. He placed his hands on her shoulders; restraining, comforting, claiming. “If you look for sources of disaster then look to your own work – if we were being proclaimed husband and wife right this moment – as we should be! – then there would be nothing for silly minds to work with here.”

Hugh felt a burst of sweet euphoria; now chance for him to turn the spymaster’s usual trick back on him. “And so it is my fault neither of you can conduct yourself with fitting decorum? I had thought you both very capable of that; I did not think you so prey to your baser instincts.”

“Hugh!” exclaimed Eleanor.

Her outrage punched through his glee and started to bring back realisation of what he was doing. He steeled himself, and managed to lash at her with, “I speak as I find.” Feeling himself slipping Hugh knew he must force an ending, before he lost what ground he had won. “You will leave the palace, spymaster. Now. At once. Gather your things and go. You will do your work better at Woburn in any case, now the localised details have been attended to.”

If the spymaster was taken aback then Hugh could not tell. Unflappable, he pointed out, “Then you play into the gossipers’ hands – it will seem as if you believe something untoward has taken place.”

“So I should marry you off hastily? An action which would scream urgent and pressing reason, such as, for example, a pre-empting of the ceremony? Is that what you would have me do, spymaster? You are singularly intent on that one goal.”

“Is it so surprising, so distasteful? You would prefer I was entirely indifferent towards her, or the honour being done me?”

“It seems that care and gratitude does not extend nearly far enough to guard my sister’s good name, or bring obedience our king’s wish for a decent and reputable match without any taint of shame to it.”

Trempwick dropped his hands from Eleanor’s shoulders and stepped back around to confront Hugh close up. “I find it very fine that you speak of filling William’s wishes, your Highness, when you yourself have undermined and ignored them repeatedly in this. You asked for my council whenever I had something to give; I give it now. You are making a very grave mistake, and when William hears of it he will be furious. You disobey him; worse you go directly against him. That is treason, my prince.”

“He will hear when he returns; I shall explain myself, and he will judge whether I did rightly or not. No more could I ask for, or desire.”

Eleanor moved as if to place herself between the two men. “Hugh-”

“Stand as you are, and keep your mouth shut! I grow more than weary of trying to save you from yourself.” Even to his own ears Hugh sounded unbearably haughty. To his relief she obeyed.

“Your Highness, I say it again – think of what you do. Think of the harm you will do your credibility and ability to command! All will know of your mistake and what it brought you!”

Hugh’s heart was pounding, literally pounding, so he could feel his body vibrate with each beat. “I gave you a command; obey it, or I will have you thrown from the palace by force.”

The two men locked eyes and wills. Hugh’s certainty began to escape, so he recalled instead all his dead children, the one slain shortly after birth and the others who had not even made it so far. He remembered too why he so desperately needed to end this, what was at stake and why it was worth libel, false accusations, lies, drawing on his power and using it to bludgeon into submission opposition which had the right of it and spoke fairly. Small evils; greater good, and he would atone for this. He held.

The spymaster ended it, dipping a bow which was nothing if not sarcastic. “Very well; it is your mistake.” He extended a hand to Eleanor. “Come, dear Nell. We can say goodbye while I pack.”

Hugh said, “I think not. Given the circumstances I find it by far best to take a less lax approach now, having found neither of you to be so trustworthy as I had believed. We shall adopt the principles which would have been in place from the very start, if not for your … unique history.”

Trempwick spoke quietly, and it lent his words a certain menace, “I see. So be it. For whatever it is worth I do not hold a grudge for this; it would be indescribably petty when I know all men make mistakes, and it is better make those mistakes when the cost is still relatively cheap. Learn from this, and it may be that one day I am proud to serve you.” He bowed over Eleanor’s hand, kissed it, and said softly, “If you have need of me, send word, and I will come.” He straightened. “Goodbye, my beloved Nell.”

“Goodbye,” she answered. Hugh thought he could see unshed tears shining in her eyes.

Trempwick left the room. Incongruously Hugh noticed that even when in a poor temper the spymaster padded on near silent feet.

It was over, and he had won. Hugh walked on trembling legs to the wall, where he leaned back and left much of the business of remaining on his feet to the stonework, not trusting his drained body to stand on its own. He had won. There had been no decency or righteousness in what he had done, none except his acting to safeguard the kingdom, rather than to promote his own position. “Forgive me,” he said, in a low voice.

A delay, then she asked, “Are people really doubting my honour?”

“Not to the extent that I claimed, but people are wondering.” Apologetically he explained, “It is partly due to your age; you are rather …”

“Old,” she filled.

“Yes, rather too old to be single, and more so considering who you are. They think to themselves, surely you must have loved, having been out in the world so long …” He looked up to see what she would make of this.

He found nothing but an opaque expression he could not read. “This could be problematic in the future.”

“I am most uncomfortably aware of that,” he sighed. “Equally, I am only too aware of what I have done now. If he was not my enemy before he is now, and aside from him there is still great opportunity for this to return and ruin me, or do me grievous harm. I have perhaps destroyed myself. We had better be right.”

“We are,” she replied, sounding so sad.

“You will not see him again until this is resolved.”

“I had thought I had said my final goodbyes, then he came here unexpectedly. Now … I do not expect to see him again. He will be condemned to death. How could I visit him before that, knowing I betrayed him to it?”

“It matters to you?” His words contained surprise he had not known to be there. It appeared he had been entertaining the ill-fitting belief that she could not and did not care, even about the man who had raised her. His despicable folly revealed Hugh branded it into his mind, alongside many other such reminders of his various mistakes and shameful actions.

She did not answer at once, and began to play with a gold band on her right hand, worn above another, cheap looking gold twist ring. “He is my second father, and has been my place in life for fourteen years. So never question my loyalty to you, or what I will do to keep you where you belong.”

His body feeling less shaky, Hugh pushed away from the wall, turned from her to regard once again the throne. “You will not marry him.”

“We have not convinced our father yet.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “We will; I am confident of it.”

“You know he will not listen to me, at all. He would not even if I told him the sky was blue.” It was a simple statement of fact, uncoloured by emotion. Previously he would have understood that as a lack of caring, but in light of his so recent error, he wondered …

“But he will hear me,” he assured her, without a shadow of a doubt. His father would listen, then consider his words with care; he always did. That was why he was a good king, and a good parent, to those who did not earn his ire to the extent his sister had. When considered their father could surely only come to the same conclusion his children had, painful for him though it may be. On a separate matter, an inspiration had come to him. To offer or not? He would not be promising anything beyond his powers, or daring to presume too much. It could be potentially useful; the finding of a match to replace this current one, one which she would not fight, and so bring disrepute down on their heads once more. She would be happy; they all would be happy. “I make no promise, only offer to bring the named person to our father’s ears and expound his merits as I see them, mark you, but have you found someone suitable you would like to marry?”

Her reaction was to step back as though afraid of attack, her eyes blazing with outrage while her face set into stubborn, determined outrage. “Hugh! You promised me-”

“I did, and I remember it still. I ask only if there is someone suitable you would like.”

“There is not, no.”

“Perhaps men you would be most unhappy with, then?”

“Hugh,” she said softly, “I will accept only someone I can respect and trust. No one else. I decided that long ago, and not a single suitable person has come close to being that. I made the mistake of straying from that decision once, and you know what a blunder that has proven to be. Now I will hear no more on the subject.”

“As you wish, but our father will require you marry another.”

“That is a battle for another time.”

Hugh decided it was best to allow her to think the matter closed for now, and then open it again in a different manner in the near future. She would marry; that much was certain, no matter what she thought. Hugh would not interfere beyond what was respectable, and he would not take her side against their father. But he would do all he could to bring a peaceful conclusion to the matter, and that was a Christian, dutiful thing to do.

She spoke again, now restored to her normal tone and inflection, “I have nothing to do, and weeks of it. There must be something for me, Hugh. I cannot spend the next month or more only sewing, reading and playing games, with the occasional brief excursion to break the monotony. I already feel my mind atrophying. Too much more tedium and I shall begin baying at the moon.”

Hugh began to pace, testing his previously wobbly legs and thinking. In a while here too he saw a way to meet several ends in one motion. “Am I correct in thinking that Trempwick only taught you nothing of … shall we say the arts of war?”

“Barely a thing.”

“I think it would be quite suitable for you to learn something of tactics, logistics, weaponry, leadership, how to defend a castle from assault and siege, and so on.”

“Including how to shoot a crossbow?” she asked cheekily.

“Such foolishness makes me wonder if perhaps I have made an error, and should send you back to your sewing.”

She snorted. “Hardly – I could do more damage with a needle and thread than with several crossbows.”

“Such subjects are very seldom taught formally to women, instead the expectation being that they will learn what little is needful from experience and the advice of their husbands and the commander of their garrison. But your … unusual upbringing, and coming so late to marriage has severely hampered some select parts of your education. Addressing this ignorance seems to me a worthy usage of your time.” It was also something she was apt to enjoy, and he owed her that much. Miles could be trusted not to allow her to stray too far beyond what was fitting for a lady. There was the hope, also, that this may help to ground her, and so implant an acceptance of what she was and should be. Carrot and stick, Constance had said of his plans for the reform of his sister. This would be a part of the carrot. A carrot which would keep her handily in place and easy to locate, out of meddling reach, and under trusted supervision in the event of something else unexpected happening.

He said, “One of my old tutors remains in my household as a chosen advisor; I shall send him to your rooms presently.”





Eleanor returned to her guest rooms when Hugh dismissed her. By that time Trempwick, his escort and baggage had left. Hawise and Fulk awaited her in the outer of her two rooms, and the very unwanted presence of Aveline lurked malevolently near the fire.

The old woman stood as soon as she saw Eleanor. “Come; I have a message for you, to be delivered in private.” With that she disappeared back into Eleanor’s bedchamber.

Alone and with the door closed Aveline latched on to Eleanor, and imparted in a hushed voice, “My son sends these words for you. You may trust your maid; she is no more than she appears to be. Fear not; your brother has made his damning mistake. Raoul sent word yesterday to the king about the delay and the attempt on you – careful word, he says I must tell you, so do not concern yourself with any potential danger arising from it – and so he will return as soon as this Yves is removed, with haste, instead of taking the time to tour more of his French lands. You need only endure the time between now and then; once the king returns all will be set to rights, and your brother will find his wings clipped and mind broadened. He says also you must do whatever you find necessary to keep yourself safe, and to work towards beneficial goals. If you need him he will come, the instant he receives your message. But he bids you to keep out of harm’s way as far as is possible. The queen will protect you, if you use her correctly. Finally he apologises, and says it tears his heart to leave you behind, but you know he cannot battle a prince on equal footing where rank is concerned. If he does not go he risks arrest, or being thrown out by force. That would help neither of you. He will continue to do what he can from Woburn.”

“I see,” said Eleanor, after a pause. “Thank you.”





The weather was foul; unrelenting, steady rain. He had been thrown out of the palace. He still was not married. He had been forced to leave his Nell behind. But it was a good day. Trempwick lifted his face heavenwards and let the rain patter on his closed eyelids.

The princeling bastard had just made a critical error.

A little time, a little work, and this would become another great advantage to him. His life had become easier with this unlooked for boon …





Jocelyn settled his grip on the shaft of his lance, looked up to be sure that the white banner was flying properly, and spurred his horse towards the main gatehouse of Saint Maur’s castle.

As the safe distance retreated before him Jocelyn muttered, “Your chief holding, now go win it, huh! Damned kings!”

Travelling at an idle canter it didn’t take long before he crossed the imaginary threshold between safety and the inaccurate maximum range of the defender’s crossbows. He checked the white pennant was clearly visible again. It’d be bloody embarrassing to ride up as emissary and get shot to death, or – worse – survive so Richildis could laugh at him. Damned woman; even when he was away from her miserable presence she plagued him! Without his mail chausses, or helm or even his coif to protect his head and neck he felt so naked, but at least he still had his body armour to protect the rest of him. That was due more to formality and image than anything, or he’d have been told to leave them behind as well. As he rode Jocelyn cursed fluently with the word ‘kings!’ appearing several times.

Trouble wasn’t expected – Yves would have to be even more of a complete idiot than he normally was to attack the king’s messenger when there was a very sizeable army camped just outside his castle. The town of Chateauroux had already surrendered without ado, leaving the castle even more vulnerable, as the king now focused his full strength on it. Around a thousand men, give or take, a pair of trebuchets and the requisite engineers, control of the countryside, many allies, complete mastery of the situation, excellent supply lines: the king had everything in his favour. Yves had a very good castle, whatever stores he had laid by, a hundred to a hundred and fifty men, and that was that.

Jocelyn slowed his horse as he approached shouting distance. He become increasingly, uncomfortably, aware of soldiers lining the ramparts above him. There a crossbow, another crossbow, a spearman, a crossbow, a pair of crossbow men swapping jokes, one with a billhook, yet more God cursed crossbows! If he hadn’t been worrying about ending resembling a hedgehog he’d have spat to remove the sour taste of fear from his mouth.

He halted his horse a few steps later. “I come from William, King of England, to parley.”

One of several men on the gatehouse came forward, bracing his hands on the stonework as he shouted, “We’ve sent for his lordship.”

Yves appeared with some considerable haste, collected and eloquent as ever. “You!” he accused, puffing for air from what must have been a very fast sprint.

Again, if it wouldn’t have invited death Jocelyn would have spat, this time from sheer contempt. “I’m here to speak for the king. Throw down your arms, open your gates, and surrender your person to his justice. Do that and your men and family will have his mercy.”

“But what about me?!” whined Yves plaintively.

“That’s for him to say.”

“No! No! I won’t! I’ll hold this castle until he grants me honourable terms – honourable.”

“Oh aye?” Jocelyn grinned up at his former liege. “And I suppose you’ll want to keep your titles and lands without penalty?”

“I’ll pay for them,” Yves wheedled, “tell him that. I’ll pay well, very well, I swear it!”

“He won’t allow that. For some strange reason our king’s not too keen on letting rebellious vassals escape with only a small fine.”

“Talk to him – I demand it! You’re my vassal; obey!”

“Open your gates and surrender, Yves. You’ll save your men and your family, and might do better for yourself that way. It’s the best you can do; if you refuse he’ll starve you out, or storm you out, and you know what happens then. No mercy, for anyone.”

“Never!” Yves bellowed. “This castle is mine by birthright, and my son’s after me!”

“Your son’s going to have nothing to inherit unless you start being reasonable-”

Yves laughed; the damned tosspot actually laughed! “The King of France is coming! I sent for him, and he’ll come! I know it! So I’ll hold, thank you, and wait for his aid. Tell your new master to go slink back across the Narrow Sea while he’s still got time!” There was madness in Yves’ voice, the desperate madness of a failed gambler who knows he’s lost it all but refuses to believe he’s run out of tricks. The King of France was but a boy, and more interested in books than battles.

“Yves, think man, damn it! Your wife’s in there, your son! Think on all the others – how many are there? Not all fighting men either-” Jocelyn saw Yves lunge to one side and wrestle a crossbow free of a guard’s hands. He sawed on his horse’s reins and dug his spurs in, desperately trying to get away.

Something slammed into his side, nearly knocking him from the saddle before he could catch his balance and recover. His horse danced about in confusion, head flung back and whites of its eyes showing, keeping him in range instead of carrying him away to safety. This was his palfrey, not his destrier, and in the midst of everything Jocelyn still found the time to curse that fact.

He heard a man shout, “Get him!”

Jocelyn wrenched his horse about and racked his spurs along the beast’s flanks over and over until it took the hint and started to gallop away. Over the drumming hooves he could still heard shouts, but strangely also the sounds of fighting. He didn’t stop until he reached the safety of the king’s camp.

He turned his horse so he could look back towards the castle as he pulled it to a halt. He was just in time to see a figure bundled struggling off the impressive gatehouse, and impact, screaming and kicking in a desperate attempt at flight, on the hard ground beneath.

“Christ,” he managed.

Someone took hold of his mount’s bridle and held the animal.

Alain appeared at his side, from nowhere. “You’re hurt, lord,” he said.

Not believing Jocelyn followed his squire’s eyes and looked down. The white feathers of a crossbow quarrel protruded from his side, just above the hip, and red was slowly beginning to stain his surcoat. Awareness of the wound summoned up the pain; his side became a white hot flare of agony.

Alain whistled. “Gone right through your shield, that.”

And coat of plates, and mail, and padding, and clothing, and skin, and God be merciful nothing else! “Oh …” Jocelyn’s mouth worked soundlessly for a bit before he finished lamely, “Damn.”

Hands helped him down from his horse, and a pair of shoulders supported him as he lurched over to his tent.





William looked sat the corpse with distaste, his stomach performing unwelcome acrobatics despite a lifetime of gory sights. Yves had … spread out on hitting the ground. “Bury it,” he ordered curtly. This was one head he wouldn’t be putting on a spike; it was too squishy.

One of his men bowed. “Sire.”

William turned to the castle’s new spokesman, previously commander of the garrison, and the man responsible for Yves’ flying lesson. “Why?”

“He wouldn’t surrender,” the man replied, with drained honesty. “Then he shot your emissary. He’d have doomed us all.” He dropped to his knees and extended his hands, begging. “Sire, mercy, please. We none of us wanted this, but we’d little choice. Where he led he dragged us after, or tossed us out to starve, or worse.”

William reserved judgement for a beat, to build tension and make his verdict all the more profound. “I promised clemency if the castle surrendered; it did. None will be harmed, in any way.”

He would take Yves’ family into his custody. The wife could keep her dower lands, and the son could inherit them from her. They would have nothing of Yves’. He would have to sort out the boy’s wardship; it would be good to throw the widow in to make one single lot. Unless she bought her way out of marriage, and then purchased her own son. But it would probably not be wise to allow that; better to reward a trusted man, and set up watch over them in the same motion. People got so many daft notions about vengeance; it really was most exasperating.

His ruminations were interrupted by a low mumbling coming from his new count. “Yves, you’re the God damned stupidest, lack-witted, simple-brained, complete and utter tosspot I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet! A turd has more sense, and more charm! Sweet Jesú and His blessed torments – you’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to tell you that, you rancid streak of piss!”

“A good eulogy,” said William dryly.

De Ardentes started, and turned from the body. He hunched to his left a little, arm instinctively drawn up protectively over his wound. William was amused to notice again how much the man fitted the poetical ideal of knighthood - until he opened his mouth. “Well, he was. How he died says it all, really.”

“Yes. It is so unfortunate when the heir is less than capable; worse yet if there is some insanity or weak-mindedness there. There is nothing to be done, except wait for the inevitable trouble.” William beckoned his count into place beside him as he rode into the castle. “And how does the wound? I admit that was very unexpected.”

“For all his other losses Yves was a damned good shot, worse luck.” Jocelyn wiped his forehead with his tunic sleeve, then his upper lip. “There’s a hole I can stick my finger in, right up to the first knuckle. Miraculously he didn’t hit anything useful, so as long as fever or rot doesn’t hit I’m sound enough.”

William considered the pasty, sweat soaked man swaying in his saddle, mouth clamped into a tight line. “Do not kill yourself; having just replaced one Count of Tourraine I do not wish to find a third quite so soon. Rest and heal; consider that a royal command.” He leaned down to pat his horse’s neck. “Well, good work, I would say. We took this place just in time for dinner.”






The feasting had continued for much of the evening, and now it was late. His wound was hurting abdominally, and Jocelyn recognised a few small signs of fever in himself: dry and aching eyes, clammy skin, a high temperate to the touch combined with a feeling that he was very cold. It didn’t worry him too much; it was inevitable. It’d be time to worry if his mind started to go and he slid into delirium, but by that point someone else’d have to worry on his behalf.

The climb to the top of his new keep had been slow, and he probably shouldn’t have insisted on it, but he still had his feet and so nothing would stop him. He limped over to the parapet, exchanging a few pleasantries with the sentries as he passed. Yves’ men were his now; sworn in and setting about making copies of his badge to wear on their clothes until proper livery could be arranged.

At last, at long last, he surveyed his new domain.

He had never taken in the view from up here; he hadn’t wanted to. It’d been some daft delusion of his, some little thing to promise himself. When he became count he’d look, but not otherwise. It was dark, but the moon was good, as was his night vision.

Spread below him lay the castle, enfolded in two concentric stone walls, both of impressive height. Inner and outer bailey housed all the buildings this place could need, and provided housing space for more men, and their families, than Yves had had. He’d see about filling them all. Most of his original men would remain at Ardentes, and he only intended on keeping the good soldiers leftover from Yves. He’d not be at all surprised if the deceased prat had hired slovenly cowards, or fools who didn’t known one end of a spear from another. Jocelyn knew he’d also need to set in place capable proxies, to rule each part of his new demesne in his absence. He’d have to refine his household a bit too; he needed to fit the part of count, but now he also had need to travel about from home to home.

On the other side of the river, to the east and about a mile away, lay Chateauroux. A proper town, with its own stone walls, garrison, guilds, charter, and everything. The little settlement at Ardentes was feeble in comparison, but then it’d only been built to serve the castle. Chateauroux was a town in the truest sense. He’d have to win the townspeople over so he could take advantage of the pair of strong, defensive sites the construction offered. To threaten one was to risk being struck by the other, so a dual siege would be required – as long as the two sites cooperated.

He moved to the south-eastern part of the keep, and gazed homewards. Before he’d even ridden through the gates he’d sent a man riding like the furies back to tell Richildis of his success. “Bloody ironic,” he muttered to himself. At long last he was away from her again, and what did he do? Send for her with all haste. She’d probably be here tomorrow, late afternoon. A count needed his countess; sad fact of life. Well, she’d soon set about making this place fit for inhabitation – Yves had had bloody awful taste! All fancy, bright, cluttered, and oppressively expensive. The advantage was that he could sell most of the rubbish for a good sum.

The wind picked up, blowing back in his face the strong odour of garlic. It reminded him the damned poultice would need changing before he could go to bed for the night. Thinking sourly that it wasn’t bloody fair, Jocelyn started to limp back down to his new bedchamber. How in God’s name was he supposed to take celebrate his new status and success with a hole punched in his side!? The feasting had been a trial, and he’d barely been able to force a bite down thanks to pain related nausea. He wouldn’t be fit to join the king in his hunting tomorrow morning, and that was both a big opportunity lost and some good entertainment missed. Worst of all he’d seen this very nice girl, and was in no fit condition to do anything about it!

“Damn Yves, damn crossbows, and damn it all!”






The morning had dawned clear and cool, ideal for the hunt. William led a party of local nobles and favourites from his own men. He had brought his huntsman, hounds and weapons over with him from England, and had already indulged in a couple of short hunts on his idle way up here. It was a good way to prove he still had his prowess and health, and it enabled to him get to know men as men, not fawning figures in a hall. It had been a great pity Jocelyn had been wounded; William would have liked to see what the man made of a good chase and kill.

The dogs had found their first prey quickly; a stag. It had been flushed from cover, and now the dogs chased it towards William, as he rode out to intercept, his party lagging a little behind as the honour of the first kill was his.

William bent low over the neck of his mount, spear held close in to his side, loving the feeling of speed he got as the ground was eaten up before him, and his hair and clothes flew out behind like wings. Sometimes he no longer felt old; at this very moment he could be twenty again.

Closer, he was able to count the tines on the stag’s antlers. Twelve, precisely. Very good quarry indeed!

William rode in parallel with the stag, balancing his heavy hunting spear in his hand. He stood in his stirrups and thrust down, the leaf-shaped blade entering the stag’s neck, piercing right through and quickly withdrawn. A good, fast kill.

Then he was going down to the sound of an equine scream of enraged pain. Reflexively he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped from his falling horse. He landed, heard his bones break above the ringing of his ears as his vision exploded into falling, rushing blackness studded with red and white sparks. He clawed after consciousness, embracing the agony and trying to clear his vision to find the cause. Then his ribs imploded. William tumbled into the dark.






After the emotional filth of the previous few days Hugh had felt the need to spend this new day in something clean and active; he had elected to go hunting. Responsibility could not be neglected for the entire day, but the morning he could easily claim for this most noble of pastimes. So with a party of companion nobles, his huntsmen and dogs he had ridden out to the royal forest several miles from Waltham to see what could be stirred up.

They had taken some small game, and a wolf. After the obligatory first kill Hugh had left much of it to his companions, watching to see how they handled themselves, their horses and their weapons, to see if they killed well, or bungled, or disliked the sight of blood, to see if they showed courage, indifference, or bravery. He shared in the camaraderie, did his best to be liked, and to appear as a prince should. He felt he was having some good success in it. For a time his life washed back to how it had been before his sister had arrived again at court and laid a horrifying burden at his feet.

A spate of barking and howling indicated new prey found, and soon an animal burst from cover, running out across the clear ground with the pack at its heels. A horn rang out, reporting the status of the hunt.

Hearing what the prey was Hugh brandished his spear. “This one is mine,” he shouted, and clapped his spurs to his horse. He crouched low for extra speed, and in a practised, showy move flipped his spear so he clasped it point down ready to stab. In the heat of the moment he forgot to feel remorse for his pride in himself, and his conceit in showing off.

The hounds drove his quarry to him, and it was not long before he was able to bring his horse alongside it to ride in a death-locked escort. At the first good opportunity Hugh stabbed down with his spear, taking the stag right through the neck. He turned his horse away as he did so. Sometimes, rarely, the stricken animal could tangle in the horse’s hooves, or spend its last strength in a final attack against its killer. Boars were always far worse for that, but a stag was a noble animal also, and as such could seldom accept its death tamely. Most often the fight against the end took place as a refusal to drop and die, but infrequently the animal would stand and wait, watching its killer as its lifeblood flowed. Equally rare would be that last attempt to take another with it into the dark.

Though he moved away Hugh turned so he could watch the end he had caused; it was a matter of respect between hunter and prey. His stag stared back with baleful eyes, and kept running with blood fountaining from its ruined throat. A few steps, then it collapsed, twitched once, and went still.

He slowed his horse to a walk and circled back around to inspect his kill. The stag’s antlers were twelve-tined: a king stag. Hugh saluted the carcass with his bloodied spear. “Bravely done,” he murmured.

The rest of Hugh’s party surrounded him, offering compliments on his kill. He dismounted, drew his long hunting knife, and began the field dressing of his kill; skinning and jointing with the looked-for skill, so not even a drop of blood stained his clothes, though he had not recoursed to rolling up his sleeves. As was traditional he cut out the stag’s heart and gave it to the dogs as their remuneration, along with some chopped intestines and bread saturated in the blood.






5, 353

[frogbeastegg]

William stepped into the sunlit garden, flooded with a sense of peace and fulfilment. It was the same garden he had always known, blooming and bursting with life. He had built it for his wife, and so it only seemed right that the lone woman sat on the stone bench under the apple trees would be Joanna, even though she had her back to him.

He walked along the plant lined path towards her. Sounds, colours, the air itself – everything seemed richer than before, more real. His eyesight had been restored to its original perfection; for that alone he could have wept with gratitude. But more; his hearing was sharp, his body young and relieved from a multitude of pains, aches and stiffnesses. His hair, he felt sure without consulting his reflection or reaching up to feel, would be full and thick, the colour of desert sand brought back from the Holy Land by pilgrims.

William stopped just behind the woman on her bench. “I have come back,” he said.

She turned to check over her shoulder, a faint smile playing on her lips. Joanna; once more the willowy girl with the sparkling eyes he had married. “You always do, eventually. Then you leave again.”

William held out his hand to her. “Not this time.”

Merry amusement played on Joanna’s face - how he had missed seeing that! She said nothing, and that surprised him. Her amusement ran its course swiftly; she stood and stepped around the bench to take his hands in hers. “It is lonely being left behind.”

She sounded so poignant and forlorn William found he could weep all too easily. “Never again.” He looked her straight in the eyes as he said it, and let her see his tears and sincerity. It was not difficult; Joanna was nearly of a height to him.

“You never did take my advice and adopt that as your motto,” she teased.

“I missed you-”

She reached out and pinched his lips shut between thumb and forefinger. “You still have not learned that sometimes words are quite insufficient, have you? Some things are best said in other ways.”

He had just set about proving how much he had missed her when he heard the din of children playing behind him. Startled, he turned to look. Six children, all so familiar to him. Three boys, three girls, playing tag on the grass. “They are here?” he asked.

“Where else would they be?”

“But where is-”

“Your favourite?” Joanna was suddenly holding a baby, set free from its swaddling clothes and wrapped loosely in a fine blue blanket, with only a head feathered in dark hair emerging from the wrapping. She presented the little bundle to him. “Here she is; where else would she be?”

William cradled his daughter in the crook of his arm; she accepted the transfer without fuss. Beautiful blue eyes gazed steadily back up at him; a tentative baby smile was offered up. William’s throat felt thick and congested, the emotion of all this overwhelming him. “I told you Emlin would not suit her.”

Joanna was sitting back down on her bench, watching her children and their play. She retorted good-naturedly, “I remember being too tired to argue.”

William brushed Eleanor’s cheek with the tip of a finger; she smiled again. “Such a pity that …” But he could not remember what precisely was a pity.

Joanna tugged on the skirt of his tunic until he came and sat by her. “Tell me,” she commanded. “Tell me how it all will be. What happens from this point?”

He looked towards the playing group, briefly considering each child and bathing in the glory of seeing them all again. As ever he gave the time honoured reply, “Well, the boys will all become superb princes; skilled knights, well educated, wise, noble, honourable and outstanding. They will stand together always, and their enemies will tremble before them, because so long as they stand united very little can harm them. Stephan will be king, and Hugh and John will not resent him for it. They will support him. In turn he will remember them, and reward them well and treat them kindly. The three girls will all become incredibly pretty, and sensible, and wise, and gentle, and be everything a princess ever should. They will marry well, and steal the hearts of Christendom’s kings, and guide their new realms towards peace with England. Together they will all bring about a golden age.”

“You missed one out,” said Joanna.

William smiled; the one who had snatched away his heart at the first sight always came separately in this list. “My little Eleanor will be …” Something bothered him there, jabbed at his mind like the first warning pang of a headache. But looking down at his little baby William’s heart filled with love and the nagging vanished. He resumed his traditional foretelling, “She will be special. She will be everything her sisters will, and much more. She will make her father so proud.”

Little Eleanor yawned.









5,402

A short part, but I’ve been having computer troubles. Hopefully all sorted out now.

That scene … :sigh: the frog is just ever so slightly crying yet again. Humph; I’m beginning to resemble some kind of amphibian fountain! I could write a prequel about those two; William and his first wife. I could do one about Fulk’s parents too, but that would be rather more the love story.

[Monk]

It may be short, lady froggy, but tis a nice part nonetheless. I always find reading your story a nice counter-balance to mine, that with the solid characters and all. Seeing as mine is full of gore and bloodshed and all i ever seem to be writing is battle scenes. Though i guess there's no way around it in my current theme.


I Hope the computer troubles are all but solved by now. *covers up the fact I had to double check the spelling of computer* As always, I eagerly await the next part.

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick swallowed his mouthful of bread, and asked, “Well?”

Edward bowed. “Done, master.”

“Excellent.” Trempwick dismissed his second and returned his attention to his breakfast.

Yesterday he had been sent away from the palace; today it would be the choice topic of gossip for anywhere within a day’s travel of Waltham. From there it would spread. Distant towns and villages no doubt celebrated his marriage yesterday, not knowing better. He sipped his ale. In the eyes of most of the country he was married to Her Royal Highness, Princess Eleanor of England.

But as his gossip spread that opinion would recede. Sad. But inevitable. Necessary, very much so. People needed to know the truth. They needed to hear of how he had been wronged. How the prince had maltreated his sister. Disobeyed the king. How he feared Eleanor, hated her, wished to destroy or control her to extreme levels. Because he was a bastard, and knew he waited for a throne that was not his.

Hugh’s wife was still breeding; not surprising. He hadn’t intervened this time. It had been too late for convenience when he’d found out. But it was of so little import. Babies died so frequently. So did women in labour, for that matter. He might not even need to do anything this time. All God’s judgement. Judgement on a bastard who claimed falsely what was not his. Proof of his unfitness. He had no divine approval; crowned he would bring the wrath of God on his realm. But then … if Constance died the bastard would marry again. Forge a new alliance. Gain new, extra resources. Trempwick frowned. That would not be useful. Well, such was the risk he had to take.

It was all most merciful that William had scruples. The same methods used on Constance could not be applied to Anne without drawing suspicion. Not that he didn’t have plans to deal with any unfortunate conceptions - William simply could not be allowed more children at this late phase. It was kinder for the girl too, this way. Trempwick put aside the heel of bread he’d been eating, appetite killed. Thirteen-year-old brides were distasteful in all regards. More so when handed to an ordeal such as this little queen’s. But on the other hand, an older bride could have caused him more difficulty.

He sipped more of his ale. It was now time to strengthen the guard on John’s widow and brat. They were safely imprisoned – by royal command, no less – in one of his northern castles. No threat to him. But fools may get ideas of rescue, to use the bratling to their own gain. It had royal blood to weakly counter Nell’s …

Trempwick pushed away from the table and began to make his way slowly towards his study to begin the day’s work. On his arrival he found the documents he had intended to go over did not appeal to him; nor did sitting down, even to think.
He stood at the window, looking out over the dawn-lit country. Something else bothered him. Something elusive. Something … intangible. Something with no solid basis. No evidence. No grounds to begin work. No reason. But something none the less. A familiar something.

Nell.

There was something about her … Something so very elusive.

One step at a time, he reminded himself. First marry her. Then bring her home. Then regain whatever had been lost, while bringing into play new advantages and controls. And in all this continue to weaken the bastard stealthily. The bastard was the threat here. Nell had been wayward before; he had compensated, disarmed and then rectified the situation every time. This would be no different. Needs must he wait, as he had on occasion before. But he was patient.





When the last of the hanging was unrolled - with Fulk supporting one end and Hawise the other - and she saw what her brother had given her Eleanor took a sharp intake of breath.

Hugh asked, “Something wrong?”

“No,” she replied. “Only I did not expect … this.”

Fulk leaned forward to look awkwardly at the picture, and Eleanor could all but hear him thinking, “Interesting choice for a man to send his sister …”

The hanging showed a scene that was really nothing extraordinary; one found illuminating many manuscripts, and hanging in various forms on walls throughout the realm. A handsome youth teasingly pulled his ladylove towards a forest, letters near his head making him proclaim “For our love …” The lady was proving stubborn, and was saying “I dare not.”

“It was my mother’s,” Eleanor explained to her two curious aides, “from her bedchamber. I remember it better than her, I think.” A preoccupied woman who hadn’t really cared for her daughter’s company; that much Eleanor remembered far better than face or voice. The hanging perhaps remained memorable because it centred in a visit that had been different to the normal awkward questions and stiff silences. For reasons she didn’t remember she had asked about the hanging, and had received an answer she hadn’t really understood. “She said it showed damnation, whichever way things went.” Then she had been sent away back to her nurse, visit curtailed with none of the usual warning and half the enquiries into her education omitted.

Hugh clasped his hands at the small of his back, and explained, “Until recently it still hung as it did in her lifetime, but our new queen did not find it to her taste, and replaced it with an embroidery of Tristan and Iseult. I thought you might appreciate it; to the best of my knowledge you have nothing of hers.”

“No, you are right. Thank you, Hugh.” Behind her properly grateful facade Eleanor was busy wondering what other motives her brother could have. The most glaring was not at all welcome – that Hugh was foisting a reminder of correct behaviour on her. As if she needed it! Thanks to Hawise, and the various visits by Anne and her maids, Constance and her maids, Hugh, Hugh’s old tutor, and Aveline’s now thankfully limited manifestations Eleanor was in no danger of ever managing to even wave at a man from the opposite side of the inner bailey without it becoming known. ‘I dare not’ didn’t suit her anyway; ‘I cannot’, ‘I will not’, and ‘Let go before I skewer you!’ all felt more appropriate, depending on whether it was Fulk, Trempwick, or some fool with delusions.

Hugh indicated another, far smaller furled hanging on the table where his squire had set it before being dismissed. “There is the other you asked me for. You are quite fortunate; we only have one with this particular theme in our inventory here. It is not a theme which finds much favour in our family, understandably. Still, I did promise whatever reasonable aid and goods you required in furnishing your new home.”

“Thank you, Hugh,” repeated Eleanor. Again, his apparent kindness was twofaced. She had been given the right wing of the nursery come guest house; the two ground floor rooms she had occupied previously and the two above that Aveline had formerly occupied, plus control over the staircase and building’s outer door. She had taken up residence at the palace, as simple as that, and whether she liked it or not. She did not like. At least Aveline and Juliana had been moved over to a tower room in the outer bailey; that was some small bonus.

The room which had originally been the main nursery room, and had acted as her improvised solar, was now being converted to her own very pale imitation of a main hall. As it lacked any hall like properties it had been dubbed the main room instead; a decidedly under whelming label that fitted the atmosphere of the room well. A sizeable trestle table and two benches had been moved in to fill the centre of the room. Given the lack of a high table she had been given a chair to place at the head of the common trestle. This did not mean she had escaped the nightly chore of dining with ceremony over in the main hall, and she was expected to take her lunch there most days too. Hugh had taken advantage of the occasion, and now placed her with a different dining partner each meal. His choices worried Eleanor without exception – they were all suitable, eligible men.

Her original bedchamber was now her solar. The bed had been dismantled and moved to her new bedchamber. A second chair had been sent to join the existing one, and a pair of small tables now displayed her tafl set and the chess set Constance had gifted her. A couple of stools provided extra seating. In truth she had been glad to leave this room; it held too many unpleasant memories. Only partially obscured by the rushes were several clumps of dark stains on the floorboards; her blood, soaked in and indelible, a testament to what she had suffered to try and escape being given to Trempwick.

The two upstairs rooms were very simple. The smaller outer room, leading off from the passageway at the top of the stairs, was currently empty aside from a narrow bed for Fulk. Fulk’s squire was supposed to be moving all of his armour and belongings over to this new room sometime today. Once the move was complete Fulk would lose his original room at the palace, though he hadn’t used it since being transferred to her household.

The second upstairs room was her new bedchamber, and it was currently rather bare. She had the usual large curtained bed, and a pallet rested in one corner near the door for Hawise. There were a few chests for clothes and the like, but they were mostly empty thanks to Eleanor’s small wardrobe. A small table and low-backed chair were pushed into the corner next to the lone window with its dismal view of the inner curtain wall.

In all four rooms Eleanor had been busy ordering items she did not like removed. That included the all too common hangings of hunting scenes. Hugh had promised her whatever she wanted, within reason, and that had been no small source of grim amusement for her. It was not many who were given such licence to decorate their prisons.

She had also been given a pair of guards to stand just inside the door to watch the stairs and admit visitors, and to provide protection in Fulk’s absence, giving him chance to resume his weapons practice on two mornings each week. They came ready equipped with arms and livery; and been given a gooseberry badge to wear. At Hugh’s request they had sworn allegiance to her, and been officially transferred to her. Eleanor had briskly placed them under Fulk’s command, and left him to sort out details like who was supposed to be on guard when. Fulk’s squire would move over also; he would sleep down in the main hall along with the off duty door guard. Fortunately the boy would only be present when Fulk needed him, or at night time, and the guards would be elsewhere when off duty during the day. The last thing Eleanor wanted was extra pairs of suspect eyes.

Before he had left Trempwick had cancelled the agreement between Eleanor and her brother regarding pay for her servants, and now she had two extra men to pay. Hugh had, without prompting, offered her new terms. Until their father returned he would grant her an allowance of four pounds monthly, to be paid in weekly instalments from his own purse, again subject to her doing as he wished. It was a very generous offer, so long as Eleanor did not allow herself to remember how much she should be worth. He had given her this week’s funds right away, and the locked ironbound chest was stashed safely under her bed. Eleanor was almost alarmed to find that now she had a tangible income at long last she did not know what to do with it, aside from paying owed wages.

Eleanor dispatched Fulk and Hawise to hang the embroidery in her bedchamber. To Hugh she said, “I was thinking of going for a ride this afternoon.”

“I regret that is quite impossible,” he replied, without hesitation.

“Why? The weather is reasonable, and I have little else to do.”

“It is not possible this afternoon. Another day, perhaps.”

“Hugh, you owe me a little honesty, given what we do.” He kept a very stony silence. “Then let me be honest for you. You do not trust me. You want to keep me safely by, with much less chance to do anything undesired.”

Hugh’s nose wrinkled; he reached up and scratched it, more to cover his reaction than out of any real itch, Eleanor believed. “You are my sister, my flesh and blood. It is perfectly good and fitting that I trust you.”

“Then you are quite the fool – in your shoes I would not trust me either.”

Hugh ducked his head, but not before she saw him biting at his lower lip. Almost immediately he looked back up again. “Is it always going to be so?” he demanded, sounding more overwrought than truly angry. “Can I never find the right path? Ever since you arrived I cannot; every possibility leads to that which I strive to avoid.”

“It is the same for me.” Eleanor perched on the bench before the trestle table, and was alarmed to feel it bend a little under her slight weight. “Here I am, resuming the life I struggled so hard to avoid, having betrayed my mentor. A prisoner in a gilded cage, shut away in this overly busy palace with nothing useful to do, playing proper princess, and waiting for others to decide the bulk of my fate. And the alternative was worse.” She noticed her skirt was hooked on a splinter; she freed it, and plucked the sliver of wood free of the bench, placing it on the table for disposal later. “Incidentally, this bench is rotten and needs attention.”

Hugh sat himself down next to her so heavily Eleanor feared the planking would split and dump them both on the floor. Hugh sank his head into his hands, all his customary imperiousness gone. “No, I do not trust you, which makes me an undutiful brother and makes adverse assertions about the condition of our family, and so that does indeed mean I lied previously, which in turn makes me less than commendable. Either I lie and do my utmost to be as I should, or I am honest and do harm that way instead. I am contemptible. I should be above this, far better than this. All the more so because of who and what I am.”

Eleanor placed a hand on her brother’s hunched shoulder. “There is nothing for me to say that you do not already know, I think.”

“You are right; there is not.” He raised his head again and let his hands drop noisily to his lap. “It only seems to me that a king needs far more to be a good man than any other. I struggle even to be a good prince. It appears the two are mutually exclusive. But if you change how you measure then …” He faltered, then after a time continued, “Good is good. You cannot measure it in other ways, and to make allowances and pass petty evils as acceptable is to defeat yourself just as surely as when you try to reconcile the two.”

Hawise and Fulk returned before Eleanor could find a suitable reply.

Hugh rose as soon as they appeared. “I must go; I have much which requires my attention. Please do notify me if you require anything more.”

“I shall,” said Eleanor, also getting to her feet. “Thank you, brother dear.”

A short while after Hugh left Hawise excused herself quietly and slipped off to the privy.

The opportunity was not to be missed; it was the first such in a couple of days. Eleanor instructed Fulk, “Come and use your height to put that other embroidery up. I pay you; I do not see why I should not wring every bit of practical use out of you.”

Fulk collected the rolled up hanging and followed her through to the solar.

Eleanor wandered slowly about the room, working her way around to the blind spot behind the door. She pointed at the wall just to the right of the fireplace where there was already a set of hooks in place from an old tapestry she had removed. “Hang it there.”

Fulk stood on tiptoe and worked the embroidery’s loops over the hooks. As the hanging unrolled he found himself nose to nose with a man holding an axe. He finished struggling to hang the picture, then stepped back to get a better look, joining her in the blind spot. He gave a low whistle. “Saint Jude; patron of lost and impossible causes, and desperate situations.” Far quieter he added, “Sounds like he was sainted just for you, dear gooseberry.”

Eleanor grinned. “Oh, I doubt I am quite that important. But I did think it very fitting, and if it invokes a little assistance …”

Fulk swiftly pulled something out of his scrip; he pressed a little square of folded parchment into her hand. Eleanor smoothly tucked it into the tight fitting sleeve of her underdress. The entire exchange took only seconds.

Eleanor was trying to decide how exactly to proceed with phase 2 of her plan when Fulk helpfully solved the problem for her. “Very nice, Sir Lancelot,” she murmured when the kiss ended, before leading the second foray herself.

“Does that make you Guinevere?”

She laughed quietly. “Why not? I am wearing a suitable dress.”

An all together too short time later Eleanor broke away. “We had best go back, before someone comes.” She ran a hand over her hair, checking his light touch hadn’t disrupted the braid. “What do you think of Hawise,” she asked abruptly.

“Seems decent enough; I’ve not seen anything that makes me doubtful. But that probably means little.”

Eleanor returned to the main room, hoping she looked suitably serene. Hawise re-emerged a minute or so afterwards, by which time Eleanor had made her choice. “Come with me,” she requested of them both, going out the door the maid had just come in by, and heading up to her new bedchamber.

Once they had all arrived Eleanor said, “Shut the door.” Hawise did so. Fulk sat himself down on the only chair and leaned back with his elbows resting on the small table. Eleanor settled on her bed, leaving only Hawise standing. The maid clasped her hands in front of herself and waited quietly.

“Trempwick says I should trust you; what do you make of that?” Eleanor watched Hawise closely to glean every drip of information from this she could. If Trempwick said Hawise was trustworthy than she could not be working for anyone but him, if she spied at all.

The maid cocked her head to one side. “What should I?”

“That is what I am interested in.”

“I should be pleased,” replied Hawise eventually.

“But you are not?”

Another pause. “No.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Your future husband; the Earl of Northumberland.”

“And the king’s spymaster.”

Even surprised Hawise was quiet and inconspicuous. “That does explain a bit …”

“But it does not alter the value you place on his judgement of you?” enquired Eleanor mildly.

“No.” The maid’s downcast eyes rose to meet Eleanor’s. “Forgive me, but I don’t like him.”

“Really?” Eleanor cocked an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“I don’t like the way he looked at me when you weren’t watching; it made me feel like he was weighing me up to see if I was what he wanted. I have no intention of being anyone’s mistress.” Hawise shrugged. “But from what you say I must have misunderstood his reasons.”

Eleanor could already guess at several different answers to that Trempwick might come up with; all plausible, and probably even honest. Trempwick would never be so daft as to cast longing looks at other women while she was present. He would have been assessing the maid, bolstering reported opinion with his own. So the importance – and dilemma - lay in Hawise telling her this. It could be a ploy to win trust, or to distance Hawise from Trempwick, if she was indeed in his employ. Or it could be simple honesty, and Eleanor found she was leaning towards believing that. “He is gone now, but if this happens again, tell me.”

Hawise inclined her head.

The second part of her choice made, Eleanor hopped off the bed and rummaged around in the bottom of one of her clothing chests. She produced her two wrist knives from their hiding place, and held them up so the maid could see them. “Noticed these before?”

Hawise’s earlier surprised returned, bringing shock and a kind of ill horror with it. “No.”

Eleanor passed one blade to the maid, who gingerly accepted it when the princess continued to hold it out insistently. “That particular blade gutted a bandit,” she said cheerfully.

Hawise nearly dropped the knife but fortunately didn’t, displaying again the self-possession and presence of mind Eleanor was beginning to hold a healthy appreciation for. She held onto it loosely, with as little of her in contact with the hilt as possible, as if it were still sticky with blood. This provoked a grin from Fulk, who continued to watch the scene with inconspicuous interest.

“The other one did not do much in that particular fight,” continued Eleanor. “I threw it and the target inconsiderately dodged.”

“But ... but how!?” exclaimed Hawise, managing to be softly spoken even in that. “How any of this? Why? Another attempt on your life, like the poison?”

“Not exactly; it was a mission, and things got unexpectedly exciting.” Eleanor sat back down on her bed, enjoying her maid’s reaction to all this. It was the first time Hawise had been anything other than gravely composed. “Trempwick is the king’s spymaster; I am his student. That requires some field experience.”

Hawise’s eyes fairly popped out. “But you’re a princess!”

“It is quite a long story, but suffice it to say my family are not best pleased about it, and it is the main reason I am so poverty stricken, and so on. I annoyed my beloved regal ancestor entirely too much, and this is the result. Trempwick saw talent, he asked for me, and in a fit of pique the crowned one agreed to hand me over. It is also the reason I am marrying Trempwick instead of someone more suitable. Well, a part of the reason, the rest mostly being to do with my rather …worn condition, and very famous refusal to accept the more suitable candidates pushed at me.”

Hawise blinked a few times. “Beloved regal … who?”

“Beloved regal ancestor: my father.” Eleanor waved a hand airily. “Also known as the arse in the crown, or that damned man, or whatever else I find fitting.” Her mood became a good deal more serious. “Having you in my company so often blocks me from doing much of anything, unless you are complicit. I cannot be rid of you, so my choice is rather limited. Complicit you will have to be.”

Hawise processed all this, and proved Eleanor’s increasing confidence well founded when she did not waste time asking silly questions or protesting disbelief. She instead drew a conclusion with admirable speed and logic, and acted upon it. “Then Fulk’s period as your bodyguard …?”

Fulk sat up and rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword. “It was a busy half year.”

Eleanor smiled at her maid. “By the way, this means you know something others never should, so if you look suspect I am afraid you will end up more than a little dead. I do hope you took that oath seriously.”

Hawise nodded dumbly.

“Well, it seems best it we get right to the core of the matter.” Eleanor took hold of Hawise’s wrist and adjusted her grip on the knife’s hilt. “Hold it like that, unless you want it knocked from your hand before you can do anything.” She took the knife back and returned it to its twin. “First thing is first; we shall have to get you a blade or two and teach you to use them.”

“Me? Weapons!? But-”

“Better to have and not need than to need and not have,” said Eleanor sternly. She turned to Fulk. “You will find something suitable. I think we shall have to forego the wrist sheathes; they are too unusual, and having them made here will attract notice.”

Fulk ran an appraising eye over Hawise. “An ordinary ballock should do nicely, one with a very slender blade and hilt. They usually come with a belt loop that’d be easy to use to fasten the dagger to a limb, so long as a second strap was added to the bottom of the case to stop it flapping about. Or something smaller, which could go in a pocket sewn into her skirts?”

“Whichever you think best. You will also teach her to use it, and I shall resume my unarmed combat. We never did get beyond the basics.”

“As you like.”

“Secondly,” Eleanor began to fasten her right knife in place, “I can finally arm myself again. You see? Already my situation improves because I no longer need to work around you.” A bit of fiddling with small buckles later and she folded her outer sleeve down to hide the weapon. “There; now you know why I have a penchant for this old fashion.”

“You told me to get most of my new clothes in the same style,” said Hawise, “but I doubt this was why.”

“Yes; I grow rather weary of being the only one dressed like this. Hopefully they will be done soon; you did place heavy emphasis on who was paying for them, as I instructed?”

“Yes. The first set may be done for tomorrow. They promised all possible speed.”

“Good.” Eleanor rubbed her hands together and cracked her knuckles. “I doubt this is what Trempwick had in mind, but I quite like the idea of having a henchmaid.”

And if Hawise had already been trained then it should show in some slight, hard to hide ways. If she only spied then perhaps this could be the key to proving it.





Later, safely alone in her bedchamber thanks to an imaginary headache, Eleanor read Fulk’s note.

Never thought I’d be writing in the middle of the night to my own wife when she’s in the next room …

Don’t erupt into one of your charming spurts of temper. Do read this properly. Please don’t kill me.

Knowing you, you will always be more careful with what’s mine than what’s yours, simply because it’s mine. I’m sure that by now your admirably sharp mind has a good idea of what I am about to say. Your lands, money, and so on – keep them. I don’t care about them. You I’m keeping, and I expect you to look after my property. If this is the only way to get my point home, so be it. I don’t like dented gooseberries, and you risk yourself far too easily.

So consider it an order: take good care of my property. I’m not in the habit of giving orders often – I’m entirely too sensible - but when I do I expect to be obeyed.

Eleanor read it several more times until she had it memorised, then consigned it to the fire. She sat watching it burn. “And to think I accused him of being sensible,” she grumbled.

The note reduced down to ash and a small scrap of a blackened corner. Eleanor used the poker to destroy even that remnant and disperse the ashes.

Several minutes of hard internal battle later, and she fetched writing equipment from the small set intended for use in contacting Trempwick in secret if needed. Quickly she inked her message.

Yes, my lord. Take the lands too, if we ever get chance.

A moment’s thought, and she added a second line.

And stop gaping in surprise! It makes you look like a moonstruck calf!

Marriage had been her idea, and she had known very well what it meant. She had trusted Fulk not to abuse his powers, and trust him she still did. She had never expected, or wanted, him to give up everything which should be his, and she would not baulk at the first instance of his using what she had given him.

Now she only had to find chance to pass the message along.






Jocelyn lay back on his new back, arms crossed behind his head, watching as his wife pasted honey over his flank. He opened his mouth to pass comment on how he’d normally enjoy this, but she pre-empted him. “Don’t even think about it! Keep your foul thoughts to yourself.”

“Tildis, dear, I’ve got a hole shot in my side. I’ve a slight fever. My poor mind aches with all that’s happened and what it means. Really, I’ve no resources left to think up comments just to annoy you!”

She splattered more honey onto his wound with a bad-tempered flick of her spoon. “Idiot!”

“Thank you, Tildis. At this point be thankful I can’t reach to hit you without sitting up and hurting myself.”

“It’s true – if you’d got yourself killed then were would your family be? The children would end up as wards, and you know-”

“Oh, do shut up!” said Jocelyn vociferously. His side twinged at the effort required, then settled back to its usually steadily burning ache. “I was an envoy – I wasn’t supposed to be shot at. I wasn’t even fighting.”

“Supposed is all very well, but there’s a dirty great hole in your side!” Richildis slapped a linen pad over the honey covered wound, drawing an involuntary groan from her husband.

“Saint Valentine on a swaybacked donkey! She moans about my being hurt, then tries to finish me off! It wasn’t my fault - I was nice and polite, and trying to get our new castle handed over without damage, but then the pisspot shot me without warning or reason.”

She picked up the roll of clean bandage. “Sit up,” she ordered briskly. Jocelyn held the pad in place with one hand and struggled into sitting position. Richildis began to swath his midsection in linen.

“Tildis, if I die then you’ll find there’s a bit in my will you’ll like. I’ve set aside enough for you to buy wardship of our children and the right to marry – or not – as you please. So please, stop your damned complaining.”

She froze, but didn’t look up at him. “You never said anything …”

“Of course not.” Jocelyn wheezed out something that was meant to be a laugh. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve no intention of being murdered so my wife can replace me with some damned effeminate troubadour.”

“You know, sometimes you actually manage to be likeable. Almost.” Richildis fastened off the bandaging with a precise knot. “There. It’ll need changing in three hours.”

He started to struggle into his shirt. “Then I’ll expect you to come running, all eager and filled with new found charity to do so.” His voice was muffled by the linen shrouding his face. After watching dispassionately for a short time Richildis gave the material a good yank so he finally got his head through the neck hole. He beamed at her. “Very nice; well done! Now try for two in a row and give me a hand with my tunic.”

She picked up his discarded tunic and stood holding it by the shoulders. “The words you are looking for are, ‘Can you help me, please?’”

“Didn’t I just say that?” he growled. Richildis dangled the tunic just out of his reach, and didn’t make a move to help him. He sighed, and grated out in a very flat tone, “Fine. Can you help me. Please.”

“Now I’m almost impressed.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he warned, as she dumped the woollen garment over his head and upraised arms. He stood up to settle the tunic in place, and reached for his belt.

Richildis immediately objected, “You’re not wearing that.”

“I’m not wandering about like some ninny without a belt!”

“It’ll chafe the wound.”

“Not if you’ve dressed it properly.” He buckled the belt into place and tried not to wince at the first touch of pressure on his side.

Richildis flung up her hands. “Fine - kill yourself. I don’t suppose it matters.”

“You should be happy I’ve such faith in your bandaging skills.”

“You should be happy I’m trying to keep you all in one piece.” They glared at each other. Jocelyn started towards the door. “Where you do think you’re going?” she demanded.

“To see the king, see if anything’s changed.”

She scuttled around in front of him and flung herself against the door to block his path. “He’s as good as dead; forget him. Rest, heal, and concentrate on solidifying our position.”

“Tildis-”

“I only arrived not even half an hour ago, and the first I heard was that the king was dying. The second was that you were wounded. Soon as I heard that I came running to your side, like a fool.” The last part was so bitterly said Jocelyn shivered. “I’ve little idea what’s happened, Jocelyn.”

Jocelyn stepped away from the door and sat back down on his bed. With a scowl he undid his belt and tossed it to one side; damned thing was too uncomfortable. “Don’t even think about crowing about how you were right,” he warned her.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Makes a change.” He lay down, and gave a small sigh of relief as the pain lessened somewhat. “I went to play envoy to Yves at the king’s command; he shot me out of hand. His men didn’t like that; they loved their lives too much to want to die for him, sensible people that they were. So they picked him up and dropped him over the ramparts; the fall killed him, obviously – it’d take a miracle not to.” Jocelyn rubbed his forehead, eyes closed against the memory of Yves’ ruined body. “So that’s how all that bit happened, in a nutshell.” Jocelyn squinted up at his wife, and patted the bed next to his uninjured side. “Come and join me-”

“I’ve got a headache,” she claimed, quick as lightening.

He grimaced. “So have I, and mine’s actually real. But I suppose I should be flattered you think me capable, despite the neat little hole and feverishness and all. Since I’m not going anywhere I’m going to get some sleep, and I sleep better if I’m not alone.”

“Yes; I’d noticed that,” she said witheringly.

Jocelyn raised himself up on his elbows. “Does it bother you?” he demanded. “Because it seems I can’t bloody win! God’s third toe on his left foot! Half the time you even tell me to go bother someone else, and you’ve never given me reason not to.”

“All these years and you finally ask. Yes, it bothers me. It bothers me that the entire county is busy laughing at me for being so useless you’d rather be in any bed but mine, despite my looks-”

“Who says that?” asked Jocelyn indignantly. “I’ll enlighten them as to my views on damaging a lady’s name, and then break their legs.”

Richildis folded her arms. “How is it you manage to be lamentably crude and almost likeable at the same time?”

“Natural talent.” He flopped back down to lie comfortably on his back; he buried a yawn in the back of his hand. “Never say I’m not a generous and reasonable man, Tildis, and I’m more than sick of this constant fighting. Besides, circumstances require a working partnership, if we’re to stand much of a chance of holding what’s ours. How about this: so long as you give me reason I’ll not stray unless I’m away for a week or more, but only if I’m given reason. I’m not fond of frostbite, especially not in such sensitive and delicate regions.”

“So in order to save my name I’ve got to find some way to welcome you forcing yourself on me without any consideration whenever you feel like it? Well, I’m not quite sure how one resigns oneself to something unpleasant, messy and discomforting-”

“Yes, thank you – I’ve heard more than enough complaining on my tried, true and very popular abilities as a lover, thank you very much! But you have to do more than just lie there – it takes two, you know.”

“If we’re bargaining, then you will stop swearing and blaspheming all the time. And stop trying to drag me into perverted practises – I’m not a dog, and if I wanted to ride something I’d get my horse! If I have to confess it in church then I’m not interested.”

Jocelyn felt the blood rush to his face. “Then you can stop acting like a leper every time I get within arm’s reach of you! And no more sneering over my reading and writing, and all that, and no more sighing over some crap poem or other in a broad hint that you want someone to write similar nonsense about you! And don’t keep blaming me for everything that goes wrong or you don’t like!”

“You can stop yelling at me every time something irritates you-”

“Likewise,” interjected Jocelyn.

They glared at each other again.

Jocelyn let his head roll back and closed his eyes, and remarked sourly, “Bloody – er, jolly good start this is.” He was too damned weary for yet more bickering, and perhaps it showed, because the expected retort never came.

“We have a deal; let us abide by it.” Richildis finally bowed to his earlier request, and joined him on the bed. “So, the king?”

Jocelyn slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. As usual she resisted, but before he could remind her of their bargain she acquiesced. “He went hunting yesterday. I wasn’t there, but I heard about it from others. They found a king stag, so naturally he took it. He speared the animal, a good kill by all accounts. But the stag barged sideways; he couldn’t really have avoided it. The horse got gored along its belly, and the stag tangled in its hooves. It went down. The king jumped clear, but landed badly; he broke his collar bone and hit his head. He’s got a gashed scalp and a lump the size of an egg right here,” Jocelyn tapped the side of his head, just above his ear.

He wet his parched lips with the tip of his tongue. “He was unconscious for a few hours, then he woke up, but he was so groggy and disoriented I don’t think he even knew he was awake, if you follow that. He was only awake for a few moments; he went to sleep. Somehow he was kicked in the ribs; there’s a cut a hand span long, right like this,” Jocelyn traced a line running across his ribs from low down on his right flank up to the middle of his front, getting close to his breastbone. “It was so deep you could see bone. He’s broken several ribs under it, but none were driven into his lungs. Now he’s in a raging fever, completely delirious, and that’s what will most likely kill him. Could have happened to anyone, and he wouldn’t be the only king to die this way. Hunting’s a dangerous sport.”

More resigned than relieved Richildis said, “So it looks like Thierry won’t be going to England, after all.”

“No, and somehow I’ve got to hold Tourraine together when I’m wounded myself, and have only been a day in power.” He yawned. “This while the king’s in my new castle, possibly dying.”

“What will happen now?”

“Pretty much as you’d expect.” Jocelyn let his head loll to one side to rest his cheek on the top of her head. He felt very tired now, and his eyes were so hot and aching they felt unbearable unless he closed them. “People are praying for his return to health endlessly, whatever good that might do. If it’s God’s will he dies he’ll die, if not he will live, and no amount of pleading on our part will alter that. We’re doing what we can to keep word quiet to delay the inevitable trouble, and we’ve sent a trusted messenger to England. Castle stocks are being replenished - I need you to take control over that, also to start winning over the town so they’ll stand with me. Yves’ men are being trained until they drop; they weren’t in too good condition, thanks to his usual negligence. I’ve got riders out summoning my new vassals to come and pay homage,” he was interrupted by another yawn, “and I’ve already received some oaths of loyalty. I want you to play countess at them …” Finishing that seemed too much effort for someone as tired as he was, so Jocelyn went to sleep instead.





5, 475

12 pages, and some Happenings.

I found a few computer kinks left to work out with my Big Hammer(TM), but I think I saw off the last of them a couple of days ago.

You always write battle scenes very well, Monk. It works for the tale you are telling too, and that's perhaps harder to do than it sounds. Many stories with a lot of action seem to either lose focus or get repetitive, IMO, but as far as I've read (not completely up to date, but hoping to go on another reading binge soon ...) you have avoided that.

[zelda12]

Aye, battles are always hard to do, you tread a fine line between plain statement and sensory over load. Point in fact.

All around me were falling, tossed aside like leaves in the wind by the enemy fire.

Or.

All around men were being blown to bloody ribbons, their bodies being destroyed as if wet paper, their sickly red blood flying through the air like a macarbe rainbow.

Obviously the first one is a little boring, and after the first 5 fight scenes people would be losing interest. Whilst the second is a little too gory and should be saved for climactic scenes so the audience doesn't just get used to it.

Hehe, sorry about the hijack froggy, pray continue the story...

[frogbeastegg]

“What are you doing?” enquired a familiar voice from behind and above Fulk.

He lifted his head from the floorboards and glanced back to find the sight he’d guessed at confirmed by his eyes. Eleanor stood, head cocked slightly to on side, one eyebrow raised in a graceful arc, a perfect picture of polite enquiry. She was also alone. “I’m worshipping the ground you walk on, oh silent footed one,” he replied.

“As well you should. Do not let me interrupt you; I am only here to collect something.” As she passed by him a small bit of parchment dropped to the floor in front of his nose.

Fulk palmed it, and tucked it safely away. “One of these floorboards squeaks badly, so I thought I’d take a look and see if there’s anything I can do with it.” He looked up again to find she was digging through his armour chest.

“Ah ha!” Eleanor whipped his surcoat out of storage and held it up for examination. “Do keep talking.”

Fulk sat back on his heels. “What are you doing?”

“I noticed you have a rip in your surcoat; as I am a charitable soul with nothing better to do I am going to mend it for you.”

“There is? I’d not noticed.”

Eleanor took hold of the surcoat by the lower hem and drew a knife. She quickly sliced a several inch long cut in the silk. “Yes, there is. See?”

“Oh dear,” said Fulk in a suitable deadpan, “I’ve no idea how I missed seeing that. It must have happened during the move.” Knowing she could lip-read, he mouthed at her, “Vandal!” Quite what her reply was he couldn’t tell; he’d never been much good at lip-reading himself.

Fulk set the point of his own dagger into the larger than usual gap at one end of the floorboard in question and prised. It popped up easily, since it hadn’t been nailed down. He grunted in satisfaction, and returned his knife to his belt. A bit of groping in the hole turned up a cloth wrapped bundle the size of his fist, and nothing else. “Well, well, a secret stash.”

“Typical; the man goes and finds something interesting when I have all of a minute to return to company before people begin conjuring up sordid ideas.” Eleanor came and peered over his shoulder, and when he didn’t immediately spring into action she grumbled, “Which means you should hurry up, you dawdling dollop!”

Fulk set about unwrapping the bundle. “I hear and obey, oh rising of a thousand suns.”

The contents he revealed were much as he’d expected from the feel and weight of the package. Coins, and lots of them.

“The question is,” said Eleanor softly, “which of the previous occupants placed this here?”

“Juliana and Aveline didn’t have time to pack when they were evicted; all their things were sent on to them by palace servants …” Since her hand was in reach Fulk stretched up and clasped it.

“Most likely.” Eleanor squeezed his fingers. “I have to go. Count that lot up and put it somewhere safe; we will keep it. Putting it back will only leave it to moulder; the previous owners will not be able to come back for it now. It will be good to have some resources no one else expects.” She squeezed his fingers again, the slid her hand from his grasp.

Left alone in a room which now seemed much colder without Eleanor’s presence, Fulk quickly counted up the horde. It came to seven shillings, seven pence and a lonesome farthing. He added this money to his own, rather gratified to see that it plumped out his strongbox so there was actually some point in having one.

Next he replaced the floorboard and kicked the rushes around so it didn’t look like they had been disturbed. He also picked off the ones clinging to his clothes, and dropped them back down to join their fellows.

Lastly he did what he’d wanted to do first, and read Eleanor’s very brief message. Aware of what it meant he found himself embarrassingly close to tears. She could have refused, made excuses, argued, or ignored him, or even tried to batter him down with her rank. But she hadn’t. More than that – more than he had asked or expected. At the first opportunity he had granted her as much independence as he could give, knowing that it was important, even though their circumstances would probably never allow it to be more than a gesture. Now she had given it back. That was why he was in danger of weeping like a maid.

If she had been here, and he had been able, he would have enfolded her in his arms, clasped her to the heart she had claimed and … and on that note it really seemed an excellent idea to focus very carefully on something off-putting, like rotting offal, and hope that physicians weren’t right when they said too much pent up desire led to fatal congestions.







The fevered man began to thrash about. The royal physician rushed to his lord’s side, and clasped his wrists to prevent him from damaging his wounds. His lone efforts weren’t enough. “Help me, man!” he shouted.

Jocelyn added his weight to the effort, pinning the king’s good shoulder down to the bed, his other hand on the sound side of his chest to try and immobilise the king’s torso.

The king moaned something, a name Jocelyn didn’t quite catch. He repeated it, then again a second time. “Joanna.” He struggled to sit up, fighting the two men holding him in place with shocking strength. “Forgive me!” he screamed. He uttered the words again, this time in a sob. Then he fell back, slack and once more insensible.

The physician, a man by the name of Lionel, waited to be sure the fit was over and then released his lord. He brushed the king’s sweat-drenched hair back from his face, almost lovingly. “Always the same; his first wife’s name, and pleas for forgiveness.”

“But for what?”

“Fevered men rant and make no sense; pay it all no heed.” The man’s brows drew together thoughtfully. “No, I lie. Not always his wife; there have been a few other names, but rarely. Stephan, John …”

“So he’s talking to the dead?” asked Jocelyn, fascinated despite himself.

“Not always, not unless his youngest has died of late.” Lionel measured out a cup of some herbal infusion or other. He raised the king up, and placed the cup to his parched, cracked lips. Most of whatever it was poured straight back out of the king’s mouth, but some of it went down. The physician set the cup back down still mostly full, and gently laid his patient back. With a cloth he mopped up the spilled drink, and dried his lord’s brow. “Willow bark, and a few other things to bring the fever down. I manage to get a few mouthfuls down him frequently enough that it might help.”

“Will he live?” Jocelyn wondered why he bothered asking the damned question yet again. His liege was reduced to an increasingly gaunt man, so soaked in his own sweat he looked as if he’d been dipped in a river. His head was bandaged so he looked like a God damned heathen Muslim, and between the bandaging on his chest and the sling to support his broken shoulder the man was as good as half dressed, despite being stark naked. He’d been lost in this accursed fever for more than a day, and it showed no signs of breaking; even if it did it was no assurance the man would live, or would have his wits intact.

“He has perhaps two days, if the fever does not break. The wounds are corrupt, but not so far that they spell certain death. I would judge it to be closer to laudable pus than decay, though that can change swiftly. They could heal …” Lionel shrugged. “But then they could not. As one of my colleagues had a passion for saying, it balances on the edge of a knife. And how does your own wound?”

“Well enough. Actually, I’d best get back so my wife can change the dressing again.” It was a pretext; he’d slept three hours straight, only to be wakened by Richildis prodding him and telling him that the honey would have absorbed as many evil humours as it could hold by now, and a fresh lot needed applying. He’d come up here as soon as that was done. Now he wanted a rest before dinner, but pride wouldn’t let him admit it. It would make him sound like a doddering old man.

Because of that he was about as happy as Richildis looked when he returned to his solar, to find Renaud de Valençay sat near the fire, talking loudly and drinking some of what was unfortunately very likely to be Jocelyn’s best wine. Before Jocelyn even had time to close the door Renaud was on his feet. “Jocelyn!” He tossed off the last of his wine, dumped the goblet into Richildis’ hands and shambled over to clap his former squire on the shoulder. “Well done, lad! Well bloody done! Count of Tourraine, and better yet you’ve done it over Yves’ dead poxed body!” Beaming, he pulled Jocelyn into the room and stood with a hand on his shoulder before Richildis. “Bet you’re proud of him, eh? Glad you married him now, I’d say – always told you he’d go far.”

Richildis’ stilted smile could have cut glass. “Yes.” Jocelyn decided she really meant “No! Wrong, you boorish lout, and kindly don’t bother trying to read my mind again, as you’re even worse at it than the idiot I married!”

Renaud rattled Jocelyn’s shoulder again. “Always knew you’d go far, didn’t I always tell everyone that?”

He had, incessantly. “Yes,” agreed Jocelyn, wondering how he could rescue his shoulder before he ended up unwillingly following fashion to the extreme, and breaking it to match the king.

“Anyway, I’m sure I’ve no damned need to tell you that I’m your most faithful vassal, and I’ll happily pay homage to you just before dinner. That’s how things should be, right, lad? Men taking care of a man’s stout business, then food!” He cast a longing look at his empty goblet. “And more of that wine, I hope …” Both Jocelyn and his wife ignored the broad hint, and the hopeful gap ended with Renaud saying, “Well, your hospitality’s always been more than generous in the past, and I can’t see why that’d change.” Jocelyn’s shoulder found itself shaken like a leaf in a storm. “Hey, and what’s all this I hear about you getting shot by Yves? It’s a wonder the arse didn’t hold the bow the wrong way round and shoot himself between the eyes!”

“Yves was always a good shot, you know that.” Jocelyn’s words were mostly lost in his former mentor’s raucous laughter.

“So it’s true? Saints above!” Renaud hauled Jocelyn around so he could examine him carefully from the front, poking and prodding as if he didn’t believe his eyes and expected a limb or two to be missing. “So where’d he get you? No where useful, I hope? Knew a man once who got a crossbow quarrel stuck right through his-”

Loudly, Jocelyn said, “In my side, just above my hip.”

“Then your wife’s no doubt a very relieved woman.” Renaud dug Jocelyn in the ribs several times with an elbow. “Doubt the relief extends to all those husbands you’ve cuckolded though.” More elbow digging, followed by a wink at Richildis. “You’ll have to go easy on him until he heals though, no working him to death!” This was punctuated by even more nudging and winking, and concluded by loud laugher.

Jocelyn said a quick prayer of thanks that his wife was well bred and a stickler for manners, and so would never strangle a guest, no matter the provocation. Given the circumstances pride died a fast death in the face of expediency. “As you might imagine, I’m a bit weary, so I’d like to get some rest-”

“Understandable, lad, understandable. Why I remember back when I lost my hand, I was like a wrung out sheet-”

“So I was hoping to get a bit of sleep before dinner-”

“Only I’ve got this bit of business that’s not for airing in public,” continued Renaud, happily oblivious to the attempts to get rid of him.

Jocelyn sighed. “What do you want?”

“It’s a man’s business.” Belatedly aware that this didn’t go down too well with Richildis, Renaud smiled at her, and added, “Alliances, politics, and all that. You’d find it boring, my dear.”

For an answer Richildis sat down and waited expectantly.

Renaud turned his back on her, acting as if she was no longer present. “Jocelyn, lad, I don’t want to interfere, and you know I’m very fond of your wife, but really she needs a reminder of manners.”

“No, she doesn’t,” returned Jocelyn, not quite but very nearly so blunt it was rude. Complaining about Richildis was his privilege, and others could keep their damned noses out! “I expect her to play a wife’s part, and that means acting as my second in most things. If she doesn’t know she can’t do. She’s staying.”

“Alright, have it your way,” called Renaud blithely. “On your head be it, and all that. Gives us both something to look at anyway.”

“The point?” interjected Jocelyn. His head was beginning to ache again.

“Elianora de Ardon: you’ve got her; I’ve a use for her. One you’ll like.”

“Oh?” Jocelyn joined his wife in the window seat, anything to get him safely out of range of any more shaking, poking, and bruising.

“There’s the Count of Vendome, you see. Poor bastard’s got four surviving sons – four! It’s a problem, as you might see. The eldest’s settled; he’s married, and going to get the patrimony after the count’s death. The second’s also set up, married and set to inherit all his mother brought with her to the marriage. The third’s gone to the church; he’s the current favourite - and like to replace too, mind – of the Bishop of Le Mans. The fourth’s got a problem; there’s nothing left for him. So I think it’d go well if you matched the boy to this Elianora – it’d forge a decent enough alliance between you and Vendome, the boy’d get some suitable lands and future, she’d get a new future and something to pull her out of this bloody gloom I’m always hearing about, and Ardon’d get some deserved attention again. A neighbouring count as your ally, along with three sons fit to fight and a third who can bring the church down on your enemies, and all of it in addition to the usual armies and so on …”

“And this would be welcomed, would it?”

“Oh, come on, lad! Bring your brains back from your groin to your head!” Renaud held up his hand and stump in a placating gesture when he was that had gone down very sourly. “You know the man well enough in a semi-distant way, and I know him better. It’d be welcome, or I’d not mention it. In fact he’d mused out aloud about the girl over a flagon of wine we shared, once he’d heard about your rescue, just on the off chance that she’d fall into your control and events’d play out as they have. Good chap, is Aymar. He’d be a staunch ally, so long as you likewise kept faith with him.”

Richildis said, “But Ardon is a smoking ruin; hardly the likely foundation for such an alliance. It wouldn’t be a blood tie between our families either.”

“But close enough, for now. Ardon can be mended, and the girl’s been given enough money to see good to most of it. It’d take a few years, a bit more money, and there you go, good as new, if not better for being tailored more to the new lord’s tastes.”

Jocelyn needed all the allies he could get, and the Count of Vendome and his family would be powerful allies indeed. It would cost him little too; the price of Elianora’s wardship had been part and parcel of gaining his own county. “Fine; I’ll send someone over to negotiate.” Someone who was not Renaud! “If you go down to the hall I think you’ll find they’re beginning to really think about setting out the things for dinner. Tell my steward I want you to sample my new Rhenish wine.”

Renaud stood up. “Right, then I’ll be off and do that, leaving you to your bed. Sleep though, lad, sleep. It’s a possible use for a bed, no matter what you might think.”

When they were alone Jocelyn rubbed his aching eyes. “Well, Tildis, here’s good news for you. I’m getting refined tastes – I don’t find him funny any more. In fact I wonder how I ever did.”

“So that’s what it’s like,” commented Richildis softly, and mostly to herself.

“What what’s like?”

“Being one of the ones to arrange a marriage, not one of the victims left to carry it out. I had wondered.” She looked at him, very serious. “We are not doing this with our children – we’re putting a lot more thought and care into their matches.”

“Of course we’re going to! Damn it – er, confound it!” He scratched his chin, fingernails rasping on his close-trimmed beard. “Actually, we’re not handling this one so badly as it might seem. I’m going to insist the potential couple meet and see if they can get on with each other, at the least. There’s a need for this match, and a need for it to be settled quickly, but the girl’s under my protection. I’d appreciate your help to ease things along a bit.” Jocelyn unfastened his belt and dropped it to the floor; he’d fastened it very lightly, but still it sat uncomfortably on tender flesh. Richildis gave him an ‘I told you so!’ look, which he ignored. He patted her hand with the same reserved wariness that people had for metal that had recently come off heat. She endured the contact without batting an eyelid, and he supposed this was some slight improvement. “See if you can’t bring her back into this world from wherever her mind’s gone, fill her up with the potential joys of married life, remind her that this would be a chance to regain everything she’d lost and thought she would never have again, and so on.”








The man wore burnt orange and forest green livery, but Hugh knew him to be a harbinger of misfortune just as surely as if he had been a scythe bearing desiccated corpse in a black cowl. He knelt before the dais, the third to do so in this morning’s audience.

“Your Highness,” he said, respectful, pitching his voice to carry throughout the palace’s main hall. “I come with a message from my lord, Raoul Trempwick, Earl of Northumberland. He instructs me to beg permission to speak.”

Unfortunately permission could not be denied. Realising his latest perfidy Hugh dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand as hard as possible, punishing himself, in addition, for his hopeless lack of wit and ability in being able to find no way out from this trap. “Speak.”

“My lord wonders if matters permit his marriage to your sister, the princess Eleanor, to take place yet. He is well aware of the reasons for the delay, and craves your pardon for bothering you with his pleas, like a child demanding that which he was promised over and over until it is given. His conscience is uneasy, and his heart empty, knowing he has been party in disobeying his king, and he would see an end to that. He is also eager to be a husband, and prove himself worthy of the trust both the king your father, and your sister, with her agreement to the match, have placed in him. This is the dawning of the third day since his departure, and so he fervently hopes that circumstances have now changed.”

Hugh had listened to the flowery message with increasing, impotent anger; anger which had not yet managed to drown out the hopeless knowledge of disaster and sure defeat. He could not do this. He had done his best, and still the spymaster had reserves to run about him in rings, so he turned from one assault to the next without occasion even anticipate the blows and lean into them to mitigate their force. He was not equal to the task laid before him.

He became aware that the hall was filled in an expectant hush, waiting for his answer. He had drifted in his own despair too long. Miserable, petulant anger overwhelmed all else. “No, matters have not changed sufficiently, and rest assured that I will inform him when they do. Furthermore I do not welcome his airing certain matters before all! I expected far better from a man of his position and knowledge, and find myself grievously disappointed. All can accept that some matters of state must remain private, from the certainty that if they did not then our enemies would know overmuch! You may tell him that.”

The messenger bowed, rose, and walked away with dignity.

The next supplicant took a while to step forward, and Hugh could not but notice that the hall was filled with whispers, exchanged looks, and blatant curiosity over Trempwick’s petition and his own answer to it. Trempwick’s man could return to his master and report his success. If only he could have told them all the truth, and declared Trempwick for the villain he was!

Hugh’s mood became blacker. None of this was his fault! None of it! He had possessed no part in the making of it, only the smaller parts of rectifying it, and in that he was badly hampered. If he were king -

He stopped himself before he could plunge too far into his iniquity, his anger fizzling out like a candle put under a waterfall. Hugh realised his nails still dug into his palm, though the sensation of pain had settled into numb disassociation. The joints had seized closed, so long and with so much force had he held the pose, and he had some trouble opening his hand again.

The next petitioner waited to be recognised; Hugh did so with a wave of his hand. His listened to the request to marry one of the crown’s many wards with but one ear, the other attentive to an inner voice which accused, “Fiend!” over and over in time with his pulse.





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[frogbeastegg]

“So much for never again,” murmured Trempwick.

Even without seeing Elgiva’s face he knew she smiled at that. “Even the best plans go awry. I’m not complaining.”

The words had the same effect as a bucket of cold water. Trempwick’s contented lassitude evaporated. His hand stopped stroking her arm; he all but froze. Even the best plans go awry …

“What? What did I say?” After so many years she could read him well. Perhaps too well. But then he was demonstrating his mood blatantly. Careless … but harmless, with her. She had been devoted for many years.

He did not answer. He disentangled himself from her embrace and climbed out of the bed. He sat for a while, letting the cool air dry his sweat-dampened flesh, further dispelling his languor. Even the best plans go awry … The spymaster took over full force, banishing the last traces of Raoul.

Could it possibly be?

Unable to go to Salcey he had had Elgiva fetched down to Woburn. He had thought nothing more than an idle day; a spymaster’s holiday. But she had perhaps unwittingly put her finger on it. In doing so she had shattered his holiday.

Could it possibly be? But how? So many years of planning. So much caution. Not one other person in possession of even half his plans. A plan set up so it all but executed itself with very little from him. So many critical elements playing into his hands, perfectly. Years of success. Not one true failure. Never more than slight, rectifiable setbacks, which should be expected in any plan. Checks and guards set in place and proven to work.

Could he have given himself away?

Long, hard thought revealed he could not have. Only three avenues for such disaster existed: Nell, William, the bastard. He could see nothing at all which he might have done to give himself away to any of them. Little things to make them wonder a very little, perhaps. But wonder about a fraction of the whole, and always things easily explained in rational ways. Minds always went for what they considered logical and acceptable. The unexpected remained such because if it could be anticipated then it would be expected.

His plan was not unexpected. It was unexpected. The very refinement of the concept. Unthinkable. Unbelievable. Incomprehensible. Oh, certainly parts were normal enough. But execution? Scope? Scale? Detail? Means? Method? Tools? Encompassing vision? Now they were special.

To be safe, assume the worst: they know. What next?

Trempwick did not pause to consider his king. He was alive to ponder such questions, and that was more than answer enough.

The bastard was indeed moving to block. But so ineptly, in a way which furthered his own downfall. Only a complete fool would identify an enemy so great, and then do next to nothing. Strike hard and fast, gain victory as a priority – that was a sane man’s path. To dither? Dithering here only weakened the bastard further and further. It also risked his child’s life, his wife’s health. The bastard was not his sister’s equal. But he was no complete fool. And he did care for his family. He could not know.

Nell? What possible motive could she have for betraying him? Even if she did know everything. Which she never could, unless he explained it. But assume her knowledge matched his, to work from the extreme. To go to her family was to destroy herself. She hated them, feared them, mistrusted them extensively. All with good reason. She hated the life she would be forced to. He had shaped her so she was unlikely to go against him in anything important. He had always reined her in if she got tiresomely difficult. Had done that so often she barely even considered going against him in small things now. She would lose so much, and gain nothing. Lose her mentor. Her home. Her unusual life. Her refuge. Her very necessary protector. Her one and only chance to use what she had learned from him. Lose someone she was beginning to love, right after losing one she did? At present she might not like the destiny he had in mind for her, if she knew. But she could not hate it so much – a littlethought and she would begin to see … Trempwick smiled; that smile encapsulated what she would see. To put it to words took much too long, and was still inadequate. And if she began to see she would begin to want. Nell was too much a thinker not to stop and think.

Above all Nell would not countenance such a slow, idiotic plan! He had taught her far better. She would press for his immediate capture at the least. She knew well how dangerous he could be.

After all he had put into this how could he fail?

Trempwick returned to his lover’s arms, and let her prise his defences back down again.







“I have it,” announced Eleanor. She advanced the pawn on the third file from the left forward one square. It was entirely bland; a move with no immediate gain, and which set up nothing special. But she was convinced it was the best move, and so the solution to the puzzle.

Sir Miles opened his eyes to slits, and took in the new layout of the chess board. “Such a boring move, but correct, your Highness. Sometimes a little dull groundwork is required before battle can commence with security.” He sat forward and altered the set up, removing some pieces and adding others, setting the two armies in new formations. Done, he slumped back in his chair and shut his eyes again.

Hugh’s old tutor was one of those rare knights who had devoted himself entirely to peaceful arts; teaching, learning, debating, philosophising, and doing the occasional bit of writing. He had not wielded a weapon since being dubbed at nineteen, or so he insisted. Nor did he admit to any wish to, owning instead that the sight of blood made him feel very ill. Now comfortably into his fifties he was getting past his fighting days anyway, and he was sufficiently tubby that Eleanor rather pitied his horse. His mostly grey hair had balded into a natural monk’s tonsure, combining with his affable features - and the cup of ale frequently clasped in his hand - to make him fit very well the commonly imagined image of a cheery if rather ill-behaved monk. All he needed was a cassock, and perhaps a nun.

Having exhausted the original subject of castles and sieges Sir Miles had decided to improve her chess skills. He had been horrified when he had discovered she was such an indifferent player, claiming that the game was of vital importance to all civilised and intelligent minds. That might have some small grain of truth, but Eleanor still found it extremely tedious, even if she was showing some marginal improvement.

Eyes still closed, Sir Miles said, “You asked me if you had overlooked or forgotten any part of your family tree.”

“I did.”

Fulk pricked up his ears, watching the renewed exchange with unconcealed interest. Unlike most of Eleanor’s pre-Trempwick tutors Sir Miles didn’t mind having an audience aside from his designated royal; he seemed to welcome Fulk’s fascination and occasional contributions. Hawise, on the other hand, was bored, and had been so consistently.

“To answer your question, your Highness: you are surely aware that your family has never been particularly abundant, with the exception of the first William and the current one.” He reached out with one hand and fumbled for the drink resting on the floor at his side. He took a generous sip before continuing, “It is most fortunate that most of you seem to possess an iron constitution, and survive very well! Although some kings did have numerous children on the wrong side of the blanket – the first Henry had some twenty-three bastards.”

Both eyes opened fully and Miles sat up, for the first time since yesterday giving the impression he was completely awake. “To advance to your unspoken questions. Remember the third William, Henry’s son. After being the only person to survive the White Ship disaster he reformed from a spoiled wastrel into an extremely pious man, and only replaced the wife he had lost to the sunken ship nearly a year after his coronation, when the Pope himself stepped in to add his voice to those begging him to marry. For a time it was believed he could never be convinced into breaking his self-imposed celibacy. William managed a solitary son with his new wife. His line, and so the Conqueror’s, continues unbroken, father to son, and occasionally brother to brother and then to son, to the present day. I consider that something of a wonder – you have come close to extinction often. Of your father’s generation, he is the only one left. Of yours and the next, you know well.”

Miles coughed into his hand to clear his throat. “Now, let us address the unspoken question I suspect you are most interested in. Before the third William’s son was born his sister was his heir, as there was no other directly and legitimately descended from the old king. Because of this her life was ordered towards that end by her father, when it became apparent there would be no other legitimate children, around the time she was ten. Her brother continued this. Her husband was chosen as a man who could not only rule ably alongside her as king-consort, but also as one who could support her claim, and was liked and respected by the nobility. He was also selected on the basis of needing to support her, not supplant her, and to uphold her brother’s natural place in the order of things. I doubt it was easy to find someone who could be trusted to do that.”

Fulk said, “They chose Count Stephan of Blois; he was famous for being a man of honour, and also had sufficient royal blood he could have tried to oppose Matilda. They were cousins, but Papal dispensation removed that obstacle. It could have worked well, actually, but it was never tested. Perhaps for the better, given that they only had one daughter, and their line died with her.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, abashed – quite adorably, Eleanor found - by venturing his opinion on royal manoeuvrings of more than a century ago in such company.

Miles swapped his attention from Eleanor to Fulk. “The question so many have asked is could it ever have worked? You say it could, and I am inclined to agree with you, although it would have been tough going for the first few years. However, considerations of whether a queen would be accepted aside, Matilda’s personality was not best suited to the role. She possessed innate arrogance and superiority, and a vengeful streak. She would have perhaps been her own worst enemy.”

Sir Miles transferred his focus back to Eleanor with a lecture that made the hair stand up sat the back of her neck. “A king should show mercy and benevolence to his enemies, so men do not fear to throw down their arms and surrender to him. Without such possibility for reconciliation even the smallest dispute becomes a battle to the very end, and as such it becomes costlier and far, far more deadly. Once in a while a king becomes strong enough to survive such to the death struggles with no greater harm done, and so can take a harder line on rebels. It is an exceptional compliment on your father’s ability and hold, your Highness, that he is one such king.”

“And it is going to leave my brother one rather stunning backlash,” Eleanor stated frankly. This particular snippet of instruction was of the type almost always reserved for the heir to the throne, and that was why it made her faintly uneasy. It made her wonder if Hugh’s tutor might also be Trempwick’s creature. “The nobles will demand far more of him before they accept him as king, and they will continue to demand more of him unless he becomes strong enough to resist them. They want back what was once theirs, and with assurance it will not be lost again.”

“There are times when such force is not only justified, but the correct thing to do.”

“Of course,” admitted Eleanor easily. “But even so the nobility do not like seeing even the worst of their order broken completely – they know that they could suffer the same fate one day. Exile and confiscation of all lands, money and chattels used to suffice for the very worst offenders, and was accepted for generations. It replaced the old Saxon laws which called for death. Exile always leaves hope for reconciliation and a return to grace. Far from showing weakness, mercy proves strength. It proves the king is sufficiently secure and confident that he can forgive enemies. Hunting and destroying utterly those who stand against their lord is a sign of weakness, equivalent to a man who will not allow even a tiny rushlight in his house, for fear of a blaze that burns it to the ground. A truly strong king strikes a balance between the two, doing what is necessary even when unpopular, but showing mercy those who demonstrate their disapproval. A select few examples should be made to remind people of what can happen at the worst, so they appreciate the mercy more.”

Eleanor found Miles was watching her with evident fascination, and Fulk was listening to her with his head propped on one fist, his eyes alight with keen interest. She knew why too – she was speaking more like a prince than a princess. Unlike everyone else Trempwick had been only too happy to indulge a young princess and her questions, and had encouraged her to ask about anything which caught her curiosity. He had not always answered, and there were subjects he had forbidden, but subjects such as this one had been received well.

Miles concluded, “So it follows that our current king is not so strong after all.”

“He is, but not as much as he would like to believe. I believe he is afraid of opposition, and I also believe he needs to keep a tighter hold on what is his than most, if he is to be content. He will let nothing and no one go; he will control everything. He is fortunate in that he has had the resources and luck to do so, with some few exceptions.” Eleanor spared a few moments of attention to the current chess puzzle before her. It was an easy one; she solved it by castling. “Hugh will face demands to go back to that, to ‘honour the customs of the land and his ancestors’, just as every king has, and this time it will mean far more than symbolic reassurance. In this case customs will most certainly not mean those established and altered by my father’s time. It will be an effort to return to as things were in my grandfather’s day, and before.”

“You are correct,” Miles said sadly. “Hugh will inherit decades worth of frustration and grudges. Every wrong, every slight, every tiny unpopular act your father committed will return to haunt your brother tenfold. I am afraid there are rather a lot of them.” Sir Miles refilled his cup with more small ale. He took a healthy gulp. “So, your Highness, I think your many unasked questions are answered, and the answers are – and can only ever be - ones you are already familiar with.”






Spending a few hours like this was balm to Hugh’s soul. Sitting in his room playing chess with Miles and Constance, discussing whatever interested any of them. His time for such pursuits had been severely curtailed of late. A goblet of wine, a chessboard, and fine company – it was easy at such times to forget he had concerns beyond giving a good game and providing his own share of intelligent conversation. He did not even need to mind his actions; his natural behaviour here suited every possible demand propriety, duty, manners and all else could lay upon him.

But, alas, this time there was something that was not carefree to bring to the table. He delayed until the first game ended. “Well played,” he congratulated his old tutor, as he toppled his king to admit defeat.

“Not so bad.” Miles consumed more of his wine, or put forth the appearance of doing so. He was capable of two linked deceptions: the first being drinking more than he really did; the second being an aptitude for pretending convincing drunkenness while as sober as the day.

Hugh invited his wife to take his place at the board. “See if you can defeat him, dearest.”

The swap took place, and the new game began.

Able to conscience delaying no longer, Hugh asked, “You have formed your opinion on my sister?”

“I have.” Miles contemplated his next move, made it, and then looked up to meet Hugh’s eyes earnestly. “I see what Trempwick must have.”

Hugh nodded slowly, and said nothing. There was nothing in need of saying.






5, 529

For the next 2 weeks I’m not going to have much chance to write. I’m being ‘invited’ (read: forced with absolutely no way out at all) to go on a very stupid course. Obviously I’m not a happy froggy at being forced to waste huge chunks of my time. Even less so when most of it is related to telling us things that are simply common sense and should be obvious to anyone with an IQ above that of a melon. The final frog upsetting straw is that at least one day is dedicated to The Horrific Crap That Should Be Banished To Some Hell Or Other™ that is team building exercises. :winces:

I think I might manage to post a bit; the next few scenes are looking reasonably short by a frog’s standards. If I post one scene at a time it should be more timely than saving up for a usual frog sized chapter.

[frogbeastegg]

There. A starting place. A beginning to unravel this snarl. Instinct provided it. Trempwick always trusted the instinct built up by decades of experience.

He finished scribing the coded symbols comprising his short message and inserted it into the little leather case, ready to affix to the leg of his chosen carrier bird.

Instinct said he was wrong in his judgement of at least one person. Judgement built carefully on observation, knowledge, research, experimental manipulation. Almost certainly sound. But perhaps not. And if not …

Trempwick let his chosen bird transfer from perch to his wrist. He ran a fingertip lightly over downy breast feathers ruffled by the wind coming in through the window. He kept a steady stream of gentling words going, smiling wryly as it crossed his mind he had been saying much the same things to Elgiva when he leapt from bed with no warning or explanation for a second time. Unnecessary; she had always been tolerant of him. One of the reasons why he liked her: no questions. Ever.

Trempwick attached the note to his messenger. He paused at the window, bird clasped lightly between his two hands, ready to be let fly. One tiny, all but insignificant little starting place. If he were wrong here, then it may lead to something fractionally larger. Then larger still. On and on until he found something the size of a grain of sand. From there he could go to work, collecting more grains. In a time he might have enough to fill the palm of his hand. At that point he should have much to begin to work with. If he got anything.

Trempwick gave the bird a little throw, offering it up to the winds. He watched until it was out of sight, winging towards Waltham. Leaving the window he began to wander back to his chamber, and Elgiva.






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:sigh: This course is not as bad as I thought. It's worse. I'm stuck playing children's party games half the time. Or doing 'tasks' of such simplicity and stupidity a three year old would be insulted. Or drawing pictures. Like a shield which 'represents' me, my past, present and future. In a baking hot room. On the 6th floor. For hours. My intelligence is not just insulted, it's looking for revenge with a gun and no mercy.

I'll see if I can manage more tomorrow; I'm anticipating using my one allowed sick day. I'm roasted and dizzy from this ungodly British heatwave, and sitting down being inactive for so long has left me with terrible cramp in my legs which has been near perminant for two days. Plus frogs do not absail! Or do army style assault courses. Or spend time working out how to get across a room (unless the floor is covered in landmines; then we tend to go a different route) as some kind of exercise in illogical (non-exisitant if you have a bit of sense) problem solving. They do not possess clothing they do not mind ruining.They most certainly do not want to cook in a coach for heaven knows how long getting to the site of this foul torture.

But enough about the joys of my course. I haven't even gotten into the company, or the other tasks, or the fact we have nothing to do half the tiome but are not allowed to leave, or the plan for next week, or ...

[frogbeastegg]

As dinner ended Eleanor politely thanked her latest partner for his fine company, and showily focused her attention on her brother before he could find a way to continue to claim her time.

As Hugh and Constance stepped away from the table Eleanor fell into step at her brother’s empty side. “Hugh, I wish to speak with you.”

“Then you had best join us on our way up, but mind I do not have an abundance of time at present, so pray keep matters brief and to the point.”

Anne joined the group also, and the four began to ascend the staircase towards the solar. Constance led, then Anne, with Hugh and Eleanor bringing up the rear.

“What do you think of the Earl of Chester?” enquired Hugh, as the passed the door into the second floor.

Eleanor’s answer was both brief and understated. “Not much.”

“He is one of our staunchest men, and an excellent general.”

“He has the imagination of a carrot.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Hugh, “but he has many other qualities.”

“Yes. The sense of humour of a schoolboy, the keen wit of a village idiot, and the fine and gentle temperament of a destrier. He is known for being cruel. He spent most of the time talking about his hunting hounds.” As an afterthought Eleanor added, “And he really is not interested in me.”

“He liked you.” Hugh managed to make this sound like a miracle.

As they passed the third floor Constance drew Anne off towards the room she shared with Hugh, leaving the siblings alone to talk.

“No,” corrected Eleanor painstakingly. “He liked having a captive audience.”

“He appreciated your abilities as a listener,” countered Hugh, glancing over his shoulder at her. “He found you able to support conversation in an agreeable manner, complimenting his own contributions in a way he admires, thus producing a harmonious result.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and entered the solar. Hugh went to stand before the fire. “I will state now that I am most pleased with your behaviour with him. You have been everything you should; modest, demure, courteous, and impeccably mannered.”

Eleanor also stood, not wanting her brother to tower over her any more than he already did. “This is the second time in as many evenings you have placed me with him, and you invited him to take me for a short walk today in such a way I could hardly refuse.”

“Yes.” Hugh held his hands out closer to the flames to warm. “He is a very suitable choice, and as a couple you get along most well. I saw this quickly, before the second course of last night’s meal.”

Eleanor scowled. “To be frank I pity whoever and whatever ever has to spend time in close proximity to him, be it human, animal, or lifeless object.”

Hugh glanced at her over his shoulder again. “Nell, you exaggerate-”

“No, listen to me,” she interrupted firmly. “I do not like him, not one bit. I will not marry him, so you can cease pushing us together. I want nothing to do with the man – nothing. No more of your matchmaking! You gave me your word.”

If any of this made an impression on Hugh it didn’t show; he remained unconcerned and facing away from her as if he did not even find this important enough to grant her his attention. “There is no harm in introducing you to the possibilities, as you may find someone to your liking.”

Nettled by his dismissive demeanour Eleanor permitted herself one very pertinent and true jab at him. “You forget yourself. It shall not be your decision to make. It will be for our worshipful father will decide, and then I shall start refusing. You have no place in any of it.”

At last Hugh turned away from the fire. “As I previously stated, if you find a preference for a person than I shall do my utmost to support that cause, bringing this sorry state of affairs to a happy conclusion for all involved. I do not purport to make any decision what so ever. Again, I repeat myself when I say that no harm is done.”

“Harm is done! I find your belief that I do not know my own mind insulting in the extreme, likewise the assumption I will tamely fall for whatever dolt you push at me.”

Hugh dropped a hand to his belt. “I will overlook the insinuation about myself in those words, but calling respected members of our highest nobility dolts is hardly worthy of someone of your rank.”

Mindful of Fulk’s order that she stay out of harm’s way she didn’t bother to respond to that; a certain amount of Hugh-upsetting was inevitable, but she would keep to the bare minimum, even if it meant passing up a few potential opportunities to try and win a little more ground. Eleanor met her brother’s eyes, and said very clearly, “I do not like him. I do not want him. I will not have him. The same goes for any other. No more matchmaking.” That last she spelled out even more distinctly than the rest.

Hugh continued to look down at her. Then he shrugged, and went to add another log to the fire. “So be it, if as so you desire it. At dinner I shall have the chaplain seated with you; there can be no considerations of marriage or any such entanglements there. I shall not again send you a companion out of compassion for your loneliness, and I shall not let any others bother you. Nor shall I again trouble you by giving in to your many pleas to be allowed outside of these walls. When our father returns he will choose for you, and now you have no chance to influence that decision so it becomes favourable to you.” Hugh stepped away from the fire, and said deliberately, “Goodnight, Nell. I am sure you wish to return to your rooms, as you are so weary.”

Having achieved what she had set out to do Eleanor simply wished him a good night and left, without reacting in the slightest to the intensified imprisonment he had just laid on her.






“Waterskins?” repeated Jocelyn, very much in disbelief.

The king’s physician bobbed his head. “Yes. It is something I heard of but never tried. I have been presented with no other suitable call to try the technique. You fill them up with cold water from the well and put them around the king, much as you do with heated stones to warm a bed. The coolness draws the fevered heat from the body far better than damp cloths.”

“And you pack them all around the king?”

Lionel didn’t even blink, plainly not seeing what Jocelyn did. “Yes.”

“Like a fragile object being ported in a crate stuffed with hay?”

Now Lionel blinked. “I suppose that is a good enough analogy,” he allowed reluctantly.

“It’s absurd! He’s a king, not a gilded statue! You admit yourself you’ve little idea that it’ll work; we can’t afford to take chances. What if it makes him worse? What if he hurts himself on one of the damned bags next time he starts lashing out? What if it’s too cold and he freezes to death?”

“I have done all I can with more usual methods.” Lionel doffed his hat and scratched his head. Instead of putting the hat back on he dropped it to the table set at the king’s bedside. He mopped his patient’s brow, but the simple chore now reeked of a hopeless need to do something. The speed with which the king’s muscular frame was melting away to gaunt old bones was terrifying. His wounds were slowly beginning to improve, the inflammation reducing and the traumatised skin beginning to be replaced with healthy flesh, but that wasn’t the happy sign it should have been. “He is dying,” sighed Lionel. “All I have done, and he is dying. We have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Either we break the fever, or we bury him.”

“Waterskins.” Jocelyn experimented with a sigh; his own wound didn’t protest at it. “Fine, fine, Waterskins it is. I’ll leave the detail to you; you take whoever you want and tell them what you need.”

A short while later Jocelyn left the sick room and started his early morning rounds of the castle’s walls, speaking to his new soldiers and inspecting their general turnout. Yves’ old men were shaping up rapidly – the threat of being thrown out in favour of better men had acted like a red hot branding iron jammed on the rump of an ox. He’d made a few examples, getting rid of the worst, and ordering a few fines and floggings for the lazy, while at the same time rewarding those who had cared for their equipment and did their work well. A few alterations to the command structure had gone down well, bringing more competent men to the fore and culling the more corrupt or abusive sergeants.

His own health was the stark opposite of the king’s. The low fever had cleared, and the wound continued to heal very well. With a bit of care Jocelyn was now back to life as usual.

Nearing the end of his circuit of the inner curtain wall Jocelyn climbed to the top of the eastern tower. The guard turned, changing his grip on his spear so it was ready for use if needed. When he saw Jocelyn he dropped the spearbutt to the floor and saluted. “Lordship.”

Jocelyn acknowledged with a curt nod. “Chill morning.”

“Foggy too, but it’ll clear soon, I’m thinking.”

Jocelyn was halfway through the door leading back to the stairs when the sentry shouted, “Lordship!” Jocelyn turned back, and the soldier pointed off into the distance. “Over there.”

Jocelyn stood beside the man and gazed in the direction indicated. For a time he saw nothing, then the blowing fog revealed for an instant the figure of a single horseman, riding at some speed towards the castle. “Sharp eyes there,” he said to the sentry, gaining a pleased, shy shrug.

Jocelyn met the messenger at the outer gatehouse. He recognised the man immediately as one of the garrison from Ardentes, an Osmond by name. He must have set out before dawn, and his lathered horse spoke of how fast he’d ridden.

Osmond bowed to his lord. “Lord, message from Sir Gautier.” He held out a battered letter.

Gautier was the man he’d installed as castellan in his other castle, a man he’d known and trusted for many years. “He expects a reply?”

“Yes, lord.”

Jocelyn took the letter. “Go wait in the hall, get yourself a drink and food. I’ll send for you when I need you.” He stood slightly apart from the others clustered about the gatehouse, broke the seal on the letter and began the laborious process of reading the damned thing.

On getting the gist of the message Jocelyn swore some of his choicer oaths. He sent one of the gatehouse guards running for the castle’s marshal.

As soon as the man arrived Jocelyn snapped out his orders, “Assemble me a troop of fifty, all mounted and armed. I want the best men, and I want them ready for a few days in enemy territory. Now! I want the sentries doubled, and I want the patrols strengthened. Send someone around the outlying villages, warning them that they might be attacked.”

Leaving the flurry of activity his command caused Jocelyn returned to the keep, and from there to the solar, shouting general demands for his wife, squire and new messengers to be sent up to him.

Richildis was the first to appear. “What’s happening?” she asked, before she had even got through the door.

“Raymond de Issoudun, that’s what!” exploded Jocelyn at the top of his voice. The effort made his side hurt abominably, but that only acted as a goad to his temper. “Well, I’ve had enough of him – I’m going to chop him up into so many bits he’ll be going to hell in a basket! God’s teeth, he’s going to regret this!”

Richildis’ lip curled. “Which is not an explanation, and you promised you would stop cursing all the time.”

Jocelyn gnashed his teeth, fists clenched at his sides. Thumping his wife wouldn’t help, no matter how satisfying it might be to wipe that sneer off her face. “Oh hurrah,” he grated, “that extremely unpleasant man, Raymond de Issoudun, has burned and looted two of my darned villages in Ardentes. And a church. And killed some of the locals. What a nasty man he is. I’m going to go and have a nice talk with the basta- er, with him, and show him how upset I am. With a mace.”

Richildis stared at him. “Oh, good grief! It’s pathetic. Alright, explode. I’ll forgive it this once, given the reason.”

“Thank you so very bloody much!” roared Jocelyn. “The day I need your permission to do anything will be a damned dark day indeed! I was trying to keep my word, and that’s got sod all to do with needing your permission for anything! I’m honourable, despite what you might think, damn you!” He sucked in another lungful of air. “By Mary’s favourite dress, I’ll slaughter the bastard! If he thinks he’s going to catch me weak or preoccupied he’s damned wrong!”

Richildis eased her fingers out of her ears. “I’m assuming you’ve got a better, more refined plan than the one you’ve told me about so far?”

“What do you think I’m going to do?” he snarled. “I’d have thought your so refined and educated mind could see the obvious!”

“War, then.”

Jocelyn mangled a smile, and a show of sarcastic applause. “Yes, clever girl. War.” Far more seriously he added, “He’s called my authority into question, and by God’s hip I’ll not sit still for that. He’s only daring to creep out of his damned castle because the king’s dying. I’m going to remind folks that king or no, I’m here, I’m alive, I’m the count, and I’m pissed off!”





I’ve got a Fulk scene absolutely flying down, but I doubt I’ll have time to finish and post that tonight.

[Aetius the Last Roman]

:Clap, Clap, Aetius Salutes You:

Work has kept my from reading for the last month but it appears that things have gotten quite gripping. Nice to know training is going so well for you :)

Anyways,
This is great! It seems that the end is near and everything is coming full-fold on all the characters. I love how much momentum has gathered with William's death, it is a situation waiting to explode. However, how come trempy hasn't heard of it by now?

It's interesting seeing how much Trempy is actually missing now and he is underestimating greatly. I wonder though, will we see a froggy battle scene towards the final end or will it just be a quite dagger in the back Geisha-style?

Enough of my ranting, the new additions are great and good luck with the continuation of this novel (is something bigger than 600 pages called something bigger), a Novelisk perhaps?. I look forward to seeing this published.

[frogbeastegg]

Someone sneezed. The sound cut through the dreamlike unreality, dragging him back. William opened his eyes; for some reason it took a lot of effort. He became aware his head pounded like a blacksmith’s anvil, and his body felt like he had been stepped on by … something with a foot larger than his entire body.

He remembered burning – hell fire, surely, from its fierce heat. And other things, sometimes people. But even now those half memories were shredding away like cobwebs before a gale.

One remained, and came back to him with some sharp clarity. It brought with it fear of a kind he hadn’t known existed. William moved to sit up, but found he couldn’t move at all. “Joanna …” The words came in a hoarse, low croak, and it took a time for him to recognise the voice as his own.

Then someone was there, raising him up on an arm and pressing a cup to his lips so the rim jolted against his teeth. Unable to resist he allowed some of the acrid liquid to run down his throat, realising as he did so that he was incredibly thirsty.

“Welcome back, Sire,” came a voice. William supposed it belonged to the arm and the cup. He should know it … “Now, you must rest. Sleep, Sire.”

It was not a difficult request to oblige.







“If I say I want to get you alone for a half hour will you start running?” asked Godit, a cheeky smile pasted liberally on her face.

Not for the first time Fulk wished Godit would talk to him like a normal person, instead of wrapping everything up in blatant and meaningless flirtation. “What? And lose my reputation as a fearless knight?”

“Oh, good!” Godit leaned forward and grabbed his hand in both of hers. She tried to tug him to his feet. “Come on then.”

Fulk jerked his head to the door leading into Eleanor’s solar. “I’m guarding. Sorry.”

Godit dropped his hand and planted her hands on her hips. She sighed in frustration. “There is another guard around – he can take over. You go ask your princess for an hour or so to take care of some urgent business. She won’t miss you; she won’t even know you’re gone. She’s busy nattering away with Anne and Constance while we poor servants languish here in this grotty hall, dying of boredom.”

Mariot, Adele, and Constance’s maid all laughed at Godit’s antics, and Hawise contributed a tentative smile.

Frowning, Fulk asked, “What urgent business?”

“Business which is urgent,” declared Godit, winning another lot of laughter. She pressed the back of one hand to her forehead. “Hark unto his cruelty! A fair maid – that’s me, by the way – languishing of boredom and unable to set forth to buy her much needed cloth.” The hand dropped away, and she resumed a more normal mode of speech, “I do actually need some, by the way. Linen, boring white linen; enough for a new shift.” Godit swapped back to her languishing maiden role, “Ahem, cloth, for want of a suitable escort to protect her gentle virtue and oh so desirable person.” She winked at her audience and confided from behind a hand in a stage whisper, “And not too empty purse.” Again, back to the fair damsel. “And lo, she hath found a brave and handsome knight to undertake this quest,” she sniffed, and abruptly the fair maid turned into a fed up girl, “and he wants to sit about on his backside, doing nothing! Some preux chevalier!”

Fulk laughed along with the others. He moulded his features into confusion, and held up his empty hands to either side. “I only want to know if I should get my armour.”

Godit grabbed his hand again and put her back into trying to yank him to his feet, or at least drag him forward off the bench to the floor. “Armour would only get in the way; you’ll do nicely as you are. Come on!”

Mariot looked about the little gathering. “Well, Godit, I’ve often told you that your approach to men scares them. Look at him – just like a sheep waiting to be slaughtered. Eyes wide in terror, heels dug in, and looking for an escape while refusing to budge!”

Fulk allowed himself to be hauled up; he couldn’t see any way to avoid playing along without it proving memorable, and setting minds to wondering why. He straightened his belt with showy dignity. “I will have you know, madam, that I am not a sheep. I am a-”

“An ox!” cheered Godit. “A big, slow, trusting ox with lovely liquid brown eyes. If you’re a good ox I’ll find you a lump of salt to lick later.”

Fulk sniffed. “I was going to say horse, actually. More specifically a stallion with a very good,” he paused for effect, “temperament.”

The room erupted into laughter again.

Fulk rapped on the door into the solar. He went through when called. He bowed correctly to Eleanor, noticing she looked decidedly bored with the game of tafl she was playing with Anne “Permission to go out for a half hour or so?”

“Would this be related to the very loud laughter that we have been hearing?” enquired Eleanor.

“Yes.”

Anne asked, “What is happening?”

Fulk shuffled his feet. “Just assorted stupidity. Godit wants to go and buy some cloth for a shift, but she won’t go without an escort.”

“So she is stealing my bodyguard,” finished Eleanor. While she seemed suitably uncaring Fulk knew that inwardly she must be more than a little irked. “Then you can buy me some new ribbons for my hair; I am tired of these blue ones.”

“Any preference for colour and so on?”

“Not blue,” replied Eleanor helpfully. “Run along.”

Fulk wondered if he should ask for some money, but decided against it. He had visions of coins being rammed down his throat by a bored and jealous gooseberry who wished she could escape from her prison and take Godit’s place. Besides, even if asking for money might be very proper and expected he’d much rather get the ribbons as a gift. People would simply believe she would pay him later, or had already done so, so it would do no harm. He bowed again and returned to the outer room.

Godit immediately seized his hand and started to drag him towards the outer door. “If we’re not back in a few hours don’t worry,” she advised the others, “but if we’re not back in a few days assume we got kidnapped.” Godit patted the hand she held captive. “Come along.”

“Let me go get my cloak,” pleaded Fulk. “It’s cold out there!”

“Cloak. Hmmm, yes, that could be useful. I’ll get mine.” She vanished back into the main room.

Fulk collected his cloak from his room and counted out a couple of pennies into his scrip, then after a little reflection added a few more. He might be able to use this occasion to get a proper gift for her without drawing notice.







When Fulk’s interruption ended Eleanor quickly returned the little gathering to the topic they had been discussing. “Will he change his mind?”

Anne’s reply was quick and brightly optimistic. “Yes! Hugh is really quite a big nice softy, so I am sure he will see that he is being really unreasonable and be sorry for it.”

Since Anne considered the arse in the crown to be a kind person her reassurance had the opposite effect to the intended – it made Eleanor’s heart sink. She looked to Constance for a more authoritive verdict.

Hugh’s wife placed a few more stitches in her embroidery before answering. “I will speak to him. He is a good and honourable man, and when he sees clearly what he is doing he will repent.” She worked her needle into a patch of empty material, and laid her embroidery to one side. “I shall go now. The longer this is left the worse he will feel when he sees his mistake.”

“Thank you.”

Constance smiled. “Just do not complain to me if he runs over here and launches into a lengthy apology.”

“If so I shall savour the unique experience,” Eleanor assured her, not entirely joking.

When Constance left Eleanor had only Anne for company. They played through a few more moves of their game. Eleanor was losing once again in the face of Anne’s greater experience, but she was now familiar with all the rules and basics, plus a good many of the more intermediate and advanced facets of the game. This, combined with some actual thought and effort, meant she was not losing too badly. She was quite confident that a few more games would see her battling on an even footing with Anne, and from there the giddy heights of victory beckoned.

Abruptly Anne said, “Go on, say it.”

“Say what?”

“When one is in possession of all the facts it is quite easy to see a Godit related thunderstorm brewing.” The queen grinned wickedly. “Let me make a starting place for you. It is so unfair! There you go, you can continue it from there.”

Eleanor scowled. “Spending time in my company is doing you no good – you used to be such a nice, innocent little thing. Your family would be appalled, and I am certain the moment my father sees you copying my own particular evil grin he will flay me alive for corrupting you.”

Anne’s grin grew into a more natural one that was entirely her own. “I am sure that my grandmother will be calling for your head on a platter when she reads my reply to that letter of hers.”

Eleanor heaved a very martyred sigh. “Wonderful; as if I did not have problems enough. I think I shall forbid you from visiting me, for my own safety and your own good.”

“Your opportunity is slipping away, and who can say when you will get another. Godit really is a very nice person-”

Eleanor’s scowl deepened. “Oh yes, just lovely. She only flirts endlessly with my husband whenever she gets near him, knowing – and I am really not at all happy about that! – how we feel about each other.”

“Actually, she thinks you have gone off Fulk, and is trying to wean him off you so he stops …” Anne searched her memory for the exact words, “looking like a wilted plant. Or something. She … um, she wants to marry him.”

Eleanor showed admirable restraint, and didn’t yell, “Over her dead body!” as loud as she could. She began a very terse list, “Who gets to flirt with him? Godit. Who gets to talk to him? Godit. Who gets to spend time with him? Godit. Who gets to go out with him? Godit. Who gets him as dining partner? Godit. Who can get to see him at will? Godit. Who can get his help in whatever form required whenever it is needed? Godit. Who can he go to whenever he feels like company? Godit. Who is it easier for him to be alone with? Godit. Who is not likely to get him killed? Godit. Who could he have some future with? Godit. Everything that should be mine she gets.”

“Except his heart.”

“And she is doing her best to take that too. All I can do is watch.”

“She can try, but she will not succeed. True love never dies.”

“How very idyllic and romantic,” mocked Eleanor, knowing she was being unkind and not particularly caring.

“But it is true … is it not?”

“All we get is chaperoned conversation, and the odd stolen and very wary minute, and that takes a lot of arranging and cannot be done too often or people will begin to wonder. How long can anyone tolerate that for? It is driving me quite insane, and I do not have a very good alternative flinging its pretty little self at me morning, noon and night. All I have is a lying, deceptive, murderous, manipulative so-and-so who wants to use me for his own gain with not a jot of thought for me or what I want, and in any case my brother has disposed of him.” Eleanor rested an elbow none too gently on the little gaming table and planted her chin on her fist. “He is my knight and I do not even get to annoy him.”

Anne looked down, then back up. “Why would you want to annoy him?” she asked curiously.

Eleanor’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and she felt herself go crimson. “Because it is fun,” she answered eventually.

“Oh.” Pause. “Really?” Another pause. “Why?”

“I am not thinking annoy as in making him want to break my neck. I am thinking annoy as in … annoy.” Eleanor smiled dreamily; blush, Godit, frustration, and all else forgotten as she recalled many happy hours of Fulk-bothering. “It really is most enjoyable.”

Anne’s sceptical voice encroached Eleanor’s daydreaming. “And he likes being annoyed?”

If anything Eleanor’s daft smile grew. “The adorable bastard matches me every step and turn, and gives as good as he gets.”







Out in the bailey Godit gave up her grip on Fulk’s hand and settled very close in at his side, her arm hooked through his. The familiar flood of chatter closed over Fulk, and as usual he listened with one ear and made the correct noises in the right places.

Godit managed to drag out her cloth buying long enough that Fulk’s feet began to ache standing and waiting. She kept asking his opinion, holding up bolts of material of every kind next to herself and demanding to know what he thought of everything from colour to how it would hang when made up into clothing.

Eventually he lost patience, and pointed out that she had come for plain white linen, not silk, not brocade, and not anything else. That had started her sulking, and she had left without buying anything at all.

As soon as it became clear he was blithely unconcerned by her sulking she grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him close to her side again. “You are heartless,” she accused.

“Hmmm,” agreed Fulk.

She jostled sideways into him. “You! Well, you can act all you like; I shall not believe it. I know much better. You’re kind, caring, brave, handsome, honest, decent, reliable, respectable, noble-”

“And made of solid gold,” interjected Fulk, hoping to put an end to the unwarranted, and frankly irritating, praise. Godit’s thumb was running up and down the curve of his bicep; Fulk tucked the arm in question in tight to his body so she had to stop.

“Spoil sport.”

“You changed your tune quick enough.”

“When you go out of your way to be entirely unreasonable, and almost insulting, actually, in a way, if you think about it, what can I do? I’m an honest person; I say what I think. No overdone praise from me, and no mincing of words either. How long have we known each other now?” She didn’t give him time to answer. “Something like two months? Yes, two months sounds about right. No, then again, more like a month and a half. Yes, that’s better. Or is it? A few days under a month without your princess here, then about two weeks with her here, though it’s getting on for three weeks now. Oh, we’ll just say seven weeks then. Yes, so, seven weeks, that’s how long we’ve known each other; every single day of that time, too.”

“It seems much longer …”

Godit beamed, and misinterpreted his remark. “Yes, sometimes I find that with people I really get on with – it’s like you’ve always known each other. It’s just proof of how we’re quite suited to each other; more divine hints on why we met and what we should be doing that you’ll ignore, so I won’t even bother pointing them out to you! Anyway, to return to my main point. In all that time how many times have I dragged you into a bush, or something?”

“Erm,” managed Fulk, before her tidal wave of words crashed back over him.

“Not once. That’s because I’m very respectable, as I keep on telling you! Flirtatious, yes; slut, no. And so on. Where was I? Oh yes, my point. So you can stop trying to escape from my grasp, and dodge my least move, and no more eying me with suspicion whenever I do anything, and by the way having my hand crushing against your ribs like that damned well hurts, so kindly stop it!”

Fulk unpinned her hand with a guilty start; he hadn’t noticed he was hurting her, thinking only of stopping the distraction. “Sorry.”

“I should hope so, both for the crushing of my dainty hand and for the yet another slight aimed at my spotless honour.” Godit halted, yanking him to a stop. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him chastely on the cheek. “I forgive you.” She began walking again. “Did I tell you about the letter I got from my family yesterday? No, I’m sure I didn’t. Remember your bright idea about asking the queen to protect me from unwanted marriage? Well, I went and did that, as I’m sure you’ll remember, and messengers have finally made the trip out and the trip back to my home, so everyone’s all up to date. Anyway, it turns out it was in a nick of time – they’d only gone and arranged something with this minor lord I know slightly. Angus, he’s called, and he’s got a nose like a turnip.” Godit glanced up at him from under her eyelashes and smiled slightly. “Now there’s a crime you could never be accused of; you’ve got a very nice nose, even if it is slightly crooked. Honestly, what incompetent idiot set it for you, or was it so badly broken there was no chance of getting it straight again?”

Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose self-consciously. “No, it wasn’t a bad break, and the man who set it was competent enough. It just healed as it did.”

“Few others agree with me when I say it’s a flaw; most find it adds character, and I suppose I can agree, although I think it’d look better straight, since it’d go nicely with your bone structure and all. But then it’s certainly better than a turnip shaped blob positioned above a beard and moustache that could comfortably hide a small army, like Angus has. Dear Lord, and they wanted to wed me to that!” Godit pulled a face and shivered. “Not if I’ve anything to say about it! Worse yet he’s got these thick eyebrows – like hairy caterpillars. Yuck!” She giggled. “He doesn’t even seem to have a face, just that nose, some watery eyes and a load of hair. And all this hair’s bright red, typically, so it looks even sillier than you might ever believe. I’d bet that he’s just as bad under his clothes. More hair than man. Or even hairier than a bear, maybe. Well I can assure you I’ve no intention of ever finding out! Which is why the queen’s letter was so well timed – it forced them to drop negotiations just before they were completed and I was called home.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Yes, isn’t it? Although maybe it means I missed another opportunity to try and get you to marry me – if you ever change your mind there, just call. I won’t even demand a fancy ceremony or anything; we could have it all sorted within an hour of your call. I really couldn’t have stood poor old Angus, not unless I took a razor to him, and then he’d end up as bald as an egg, and that’d be just as bad.” She started laughing, drawing glances from the others wandering about the shop stalls. “I didn’t say, but his hair isn’t anything but frizzy.” She pantomimed great clouds of hair standing out to either side of her head in a messy cloud. “Poof! Just like that. Forget a razor; I’d need a pair of sheers to make any headway.”

She continued to describe the unfortunate Angus as they visited several other cloth merchants. Godit didn’t find any material that took her fancy, but she certainly didn’t skimp on time spent searching.

Fulk lightened his purse by several pennies on a pair of obscenely expensive ribbons. Plain white with a running vine pattern woven cleverly into them; they were well worth the frightful cost. Godit cooed over them, and made a greatly appreciative fuss of pattern, workmanship, and colour which could easily have provided him reason to give her a similar ribbon as a gift, if he were so inclined. Unluckily for both her and the seller, he wasn’t.

Godit eventually lost interest in towing him about the various shops and stalls, and instead began to lead him out of the town, off towards the quiet, empty ground off the main road. When Fulk protested she would only say that she wasn’t taking him into an ambush, and that he should stop worrying for once in his life.

As they walked she chattered on and on about various subjects, including how much work must have gone into clearing the trees and large shrubs from all this land around both castle and road, making a covert approach or preying on travellers all but impossible. Fulk disregarded most of it, senses alert and free hand hovering near his sword hilt. This outing was feeling more and more bothersome as time passed, and by now a little nagging warning had set up residence in the back of his mind.

They climbed up a hill. A third of the way down the other side Godit stopped, removed her cloak and spread it on the ground. She sat down, and patted the space at her side. “Sit down; craning my neck to look up at you will give me a crick.”

Reluctantly he did so, keeping his sword clear so he could draw it easily. Good manners dictated he offer to give her his cloak; she refused with a shake of her head.

Amazingly enough Godit seemed to be struck dumb. If it hadn’t been so disconcerting Fulk would have been grateful for the chance to rest his ears. After a long while she said, “I can guess what you’re thinking. Yes, even I can be stuck for words sometimes. Well, not really stuck, more like not sure where to start, or which particular way to go. See, I can see several different ways, and I can only go for one, and obviously I don’t want to pick the wrong one. I want the most effective. Except now I’m gabbling away, and that’s not going to help me one bit.” She shifted to sit opposite him, feet tucked under her body and hands clasped in her lap. “Alright, got it. People are beginning to wonder about you.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, they are. How shall I put it? You’re young, you’re fetching, and you’re entirely alone. You don’t even visit brothels. People are beginning to wonder why. Not just one or two, but a lot.” In the silence that greeted her rushed announcement you could have heard a pin drop. “People don’t buy for one second that you’re overly religious, or even chaste. They wonder if you prefer boys or other men-”

“What!?” roared Fulk.

“Oh yes,” Godit assured him. “Or if you’re incapable, or missing a few bits thanks to an accident.”

Fulk began to feel distinctly ill.

“Some very few whisper that you must love someone who has left no room in your heart for any other.” Godit raised her eyebrows. “But so far someone has always pointed out that has nothing to do with the price of fish, and there’s nothing to stop you from scratching your itches elsewhere. Rosalind - that’s Constance’s second maid - is convinced that you’re so deeply in love and so romantic you can’t even stand the thought of doing that.” Godit paused, then said airily, “I think that’s a lucky guess, don’t you? The general disbelief – and you’ve got to admit that hardly anyone would be so, well restrained even if they were going to marry their love - doesn’t stop people from speculating as to who your ladylove might be. Eleanor is cropping up with steadily increasing frequency; people love the idea of a princess and her knight.” She waited expectantly for a bit, then prompted, “Anything to say?”

“I really don’t like whores.”

Godit clapped her hands in delight. “How very straightforward. You might want to drop that in a conversation or two sometime. You don’t have to explain yourself to me; I can already guess. But as I said, people are wondering.”

Fulk hitched a shoulder, pretending indifference. “And I’d say it’s none of their business.”

“Whether that’s true or not has nothing to do with it. So, what are you going to do?”

“Nothing; nothing much I can do. I’m not much bothered anyway.”

Godit tisked. “All men hate having their honour, prowess, and tastes slandered; admit it. All you need to do is stop giving people cause to wonder, and you can do that in many ways.”

“I’ll do as I am; I’m not changing my habits to suit others.”

“We could always put it about – in a suitably subtle way, of course – that you are paying court to me. Or we could simply become lovers.”

Fulk very carefully did not groan. “As subtle as a warhammer to the face; not at all like your usual tact.” He was, of course, being sarcastic.

Unfortunately Godit missed that. “Mariot said that sometimes being very straightforward worked far better than all the delicate stuff.”

“She put you up to this?”

“No, good grief, no! It was just one of those general conversation things you men never bother with, because you think all you need to do is ride up to a girl on your most expensive horse, grab her, sling her across your saddlebow, and ride off.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “However once in a while that can be fun, and you do have a very nice horse, so if you want to go back and get it I’ll wait here patiently …”

Fulk’s sides nearly split under the effort required to quell this latest urge to groan. He drew his cloak tighter about himself. “I thought you wanted to get married?”

“Is that an offer? If so, YES, I accept!”

“It was a question, as well you know.”

“As I said, conversation and so on; it gave me a few ideas, knocked a few daft notions from my head. I held myself much too high; I’m cured of that now. Because of who, what and where I am the whole virgin bride thing really doesn’t matter all that much. I’m not important, or an heiress, I won’t have a big wedding, or one with some alliance or other depending on it, and since I’m going to be the one choosing I’m not going to end up with someone who will kick up a fuss, make judgements about my character, or refuse to open a vain for me.” Fulk opened his mouth to speak, but she forestalled him. “Unless you’re about to agree, shut up and hear me out.” She smiled hopefully. “Were you about to agree?”

Fulk said somewhat loudly, “No.”

“Damn.” Godit snapped her fingers and pouted with a practised cuteness Fulk realised he found increasingly grating each time he saw it. “Oh well, shut up and listen then. I’m not aiming for the sun now; I’m looking at what’s right here in front of me, and what can be done. So perhaps I can’t have you in matrimony, but some part is better than no part. All else discounted and ignored, it would be safer for you too.”

“Er, I’m flattered, but you are undervaluing yourself -”

Confronted with his refusal and desperate to change it, Godit interrupted, “I told you people are wondering, and I told you people are slowly getting nearer the truth. Think of what that might mean.”

“Many knights fall in love with the lady they serve; it’s only a problem if they act on that love. She’s gone off me, she’s well chaperoned, and I would never do anything to harm her or put her in danger-”

“But does her family know that? Her future husband? A little rumour wouldn’t go down too well with them.”

“How likely are they to hear it? Or believe it? Princes and high lords don’t pay us all that much mind, and it still doesn’t change the fact she is well chaperoned and obviously increasingly taken with Trempwick.” Impatience lent his words a clipped brevity that fitted very well with the image of a man talking of his lost love.

“Perhaps. It’s a gamble though, and if you’re wrong …” Godit trailed off suggestively, and made a little shrugging gesture with her clasped hands.

“It’s unlikely, and my conscience is by far quieter this way.”

“But-”

“No,” said Fulk flatly. “I’ve told you often enough I don’t do substitutes – it’s unsatisfying, and inconsiderate to whoever I end up with, which then makes me feel guilty. I spent years looking for someone to match my first love and didn’t come close, and a boy’s love is nothing compared to a man’s.”

Godit reared back, mouth set into a tight line. “If you stop wallowing in your dream you might find it fades! Excuse after stupid excuse – as soon as you see reality peaking at you you run and hide behind yet another excuse!”

“It won’t work. I won’t fall for you, it doesn’t matter what you do that won’t change. You won’t manage to get me to marry you out of guilt when you ‘realise’ what you’ve done, or shockingly turn out to be pregnant and miscarry after we’re married but before I can find out the lie, and if your family turned up to discuss points of honour with me they would get no success – I know all the usual tricks.” Fulk had to raise his voice to remain audible above her protests that he was wrong. “What’s more I’m tired of repeating myself and telling you this.”

“You say one thing and do another – you play along with me half the time! One minute you tell me to leave you alone, the next you’re laughing and smiling and playing along, encouraging me!”

Now the groan escaped. “This from someone who keeps on complaining I read too much into her flirting, and who gets insulted because I keep on putting a stop to it. I would have thought by now my complete lack of interest would be quite obvious.”

Godit surged to her feet. “The only obvious is your … your obsession with that damned princess of yours! You’re pathetic! Pining and mooning after the impossible, refusing to see what’s right before your eyes, and living in some stupid, stupid dream!”

Fulk stood up and bent to pick her cloak up off the ground. “I’m doing a better job of seeing what’s in front of my crooked nose than you are.” He brushed a few dead leaves and bits of grass off the heavy wool, folded it down the middle and offered it back to her.

Godit snatched the cloak back and flung it about her shoulders. “I don’t know what you see in her – she’s not beautiful. It’s very generous to even call her pretty with that nasty black hair. She’s not lovable either; she’s so joyless, grumpy, and utterly thankless and rude. Then there’s those ugly scars; it’s well known how she earned them with her wilfulness, and irrational rebelliousness. You know I’d die of shame if I had even one such mark.”

Fulk regarded her evenly, and when he spoke his tone was measured and smooth. “She’s pretty, and that’s not generous. A deal too much fuss is made over blonde hair; it makes no difference to her features and expressions. Anyway, I happen to like black hair. The scars? She got some of those saving my life. She barely even knew me at the time, and I don’t think she liked me much. She could easily have left me to die, and lost nothing. She knew very well what would happen; that was damned obvious later. It got her no small amount of trouble from Trempwick as well. So yes, think of what it says. How many others would even have tried? As for the rest, you are wrong - you don’t know her, and you know next to nothing about her.”

“She doesn’t even care about you!” screamed Godit, her face contorted with rage. “She went off you as soon as she realised what she stood to gain with her marriage, and she sent you away like some thieving servant!”

“She tried to put an end to the trap we were caught in; if I stopped loving her for that then I never did.”

“You keep on wasting your life; I’m going to find someone else, someone better. A real man, not some pathetic monk-boy with an obsession!”

Fulk couldn’t help himself; he started to laugh. Godit went purple with rage, and tried to slap him. He blocked easily with his forearm. He guarded against her second blow the same way, and backed down to avoid the third. She subsided, seeing that she was not going to get the better of him.

Breathing heavily she said, “I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

“Roughly sixty pounds a year from land plus more as pay, a baron who is rising rapidly in the world and gaining royal favour from several parties, and all wrapped up in a tolerable body. I’d be a very good match for you, far better than what you might otherwise get. Oh, and you made the mistake of thinking I’m soft, both in head and in spirit.” Fulk grinned slowly and flexed his fingers, forming a fist and letting it go several times. “This seems a good time to remind you I’m sworn to protect Eleanor and her honour, and I take that very seriously.”

Godit spat at his feet, turned, and flounced off.

Fulk gave her a head start, and then followed at a distance to make sure she got back to the town safely. Ruefully he reflected that at least this time she was not likely to go back on her word and start flirting with him again. He only hoped she would not disregard his threat and start being malicious, as some women did when flouted.







Pregnant women, Hugh knew, were prone to peculiar whims, frequently at inopportune times. Thus far Constance had limited herself to minor things, such as a desire to eat strawberries in the middle of the night, an urge even more irrational due to it presently being late winter. All a good husband could do was endure, and remain forbearing throughout the ever-changing moods, even if that did on occasion involve being blamed for the lack of strawberries at a time of year when it was quite impossible to possess any.

This latest whim, however, he did find more problematic than any of the others, and hoped it did not mark the beginning of a general scaling up of caprices. Having his wife march in and interrupt his business, demanding he took her for a walk in the garden was not going to allow him time to get much done. Worse, it gifted him with another of those decisions with no solidly correct choice. Pregnant women were supposed to be indulged, pampered, and generally fussed over. One simply did not tell them to go away and come back later, because the stress might adversely affect the child, or even cause it to be lost. No chances could be taken with this baby, of that Hugh was adamant. Conversely, he had duties and responsibilities had had to meet, and that required time. That his removal had been witnessed by men whose respect he desired and required only worsened the situation; too much indulgence shown towards a wife or children meant a man was weak. Really he should have directed her to leave and await his convenience. As to why she wished to visit the miserable spectacle that was the garden in winter, that was anyone’s guess, and a complete mystery to him.

He did his duty by her, as he hoped could always be said to be true, and walked with her to the walled garden, all the while making pleasant conversation and enquiries about her health.

Constance sat down on the stone bench under some winter-bare apple trees. She smiled up at him, a certain glint shining in her eye that always accompanied exhibitions of her intellect, perhaps in defiance of his shameful private thoughts that her mind was adversely affected by whatever it was which turned women into lunatics during pregnancy. “You are cross.”

“No, I assure you I am not, dearest.”

“A brave effort, but I can see through it. Sit down and hold me, please.”

Hugh sat and tucked half his cloak about her along with his arm. With a sigh she settled into the curve of his body and rested the side of her face against his head. “No, I am not cross,” he assured her. “However you must not make a habit of this.”

“I hope never to need to! I am supposed to be lying about doing very little, biding my time and taking no chances at all. But that is dull, and really unnecessary – most women are far more active.”

“We cannot lose this child.”

“I know, which is why I am only going for a walk tomorrow. I wanted to go for a ride, but the midwives started shrieking that I would jar the poor mite loose.” She rolled her eyes. “I am safely past the time when that might happen, but the noise was intolerable.”

“Constance, are you certain that is a good idea? You have been advised to remain at rest-”

She turned his face towards her with a gentle hand on his jaw. “And I am sick of it. A small walk will not hurt, trust me. You know I will not do anything rash.” The kiss did not leave him much room to argue further. “Now, I dragged you out here because of something that cannot wait. You promised your sister you would not force her to marry.”

Hugh replied, “I have kept that vow.”

“She finds not.”

“That is not so; I have kept my vow, I promise you.”

“But Hugh, you have been playing matchmaker-”

“There is no evil in that,” he interjected. “I merely acquaint her with the potentialities, and I have offered to support any preference she might have, provided the man is suitable. I will not do more than mention the name and put in some goods words on his behalf, but that could in the end make the difference between a happy match and a less happy one. Or between quiet acceptance, or more … unseemliness.”

“Yes, and that is good. But when she objected you stripped away more of the few freedoms she has remaining.”

“I put an end to the activities she found so objectionable, nothing more.”

“Hugh, you all but ordered her to stay in her rooms and banned visitors aside from myself and Anne. Placing her with the chaplain at dinner suggests she cannot be trusted with more worldly partners.”

A troubled frown came to Hugh. “I did not intend such an impression be given.”

“Worse, Hugh. You did this because she did not go your way, because she objected to what she saw as the breach of your word.”

“No, she cannot think …” Conviction struck. “She does; she believes I mean to skirt about my word and force her with less obvious means. Oh mea culpa!” he cried. “I spoke from anger, with less thought than I ought, and see what disarray emerges from that? My promise as good as broken, my honour destroyed, my sister dishonoured, and I appear as a cruel man who will bring down whatever unkindnesses he can when thwarted.”

“You need her solidly on your side.”

“I am strongly aware of this, and therein you find a main part of the origins of the promise in question.”

Constance stroked his cheek, turning back the tides of self-loathing closing over his head and blocking out the sun. “You see your error, now I know you will mend it. You will not repeat it. All people make errors; it is human. Few have the courage to face that, or to make amends.”

“I will mend it, as soon as we leave here,” he vowed. “I shall restore her to her previous state, and beg her pardon and understanding. More, I shall consult her on what is to be done for dining partners from this point onward.” Emotion welled in him, and he discovered a wish to share it, finding it most beautiful and insistent. Hugh set his own hand over hers. “Never leave me. I … I need you. Without you …I am … I am lost.”

Her handsome eyes sparkled again. “Death is the only thing to part me from you.” She laughed, a low chuckle which made Hugh think he would not be calling upon Eleanor for a while, after all. “Good men are too hard to find to think about replacing them.” As he blushed under her praise she leaned in to kiss him again.






Hugh was practising his foot combat when the messenger arrived. The gravity of the man’s burden was indicated in part by his appearance; travel stained, worn, almost ragged. He did not walk; he staggered, and could manage no more than a couple of hoarse words as he collapsed to his knees before his prince, “Five days hence.”

Hugh called for someone to take care of the man, and stepped aside to read the message. It could only be word from France, but he found it mystifying and disquieting that while the messenger had worn royal colours the seal was not his father’s. Hugh took the time to examine it in detail, reading the legend around the charging knight with the unfamiliar coat of arms. It belonged to a Jocelyn de Ardentes, someone he knew very little of. Something was greatly wrong.

Hugh freed his hands of his mail mittens, and began to work the leather thong lacing the letter closed with shaking hands. In his haste and clumsiness he broke the cord, and the seal fell away into the dirt at his feet. This went ignored; Hugh unrolled the letter.

His hands began to shake so violently that he could not finish the letter. “Dear merciful God!” he whispered.

“Your Highness?” asked his training partner – his shield bearer and trusted second, another William, though usually abbreviated to Will - from a respectful distance. “You have gone whiter than milk …”

Hugh tried to answer, but all that came was a humiliating stammering. His teeth began to chatter, and the trembling spread to his whole body.

Will advanced to his side, and placed a hand on his prince’s elbow. “Hugh? God, man, you look terrible – are you ill?”

“Fine,” Hugh managed to get out. “I need …” What did he need? The king was dying, is not already dead. His destiny had finally caught him fully. He did not know what to do. He heard a sound midway between a sob and maniacal laughter, and after a time realised it came from him.

Will said, “I can send for your wife, or a physician.” When Hugh didn’t manage an answer Will called to a waiting squire, “Find lady Constance; tell her to come at once.”

The king was dying or dead. What now? The two thoughts danced and whirled about in Hugh’s head. A third joined them, and chased the others away, such was its magnitude. A few brief days ago he had wished he was king, and now … From his mind to the devil’s ear? A wordless cry tore itself from Hugh’s throat; he dropped to his knees and began to pray in a hysterical jumble of thoughts and sobbed words for forgiveness, and for his father’s life.





5, 738

12 pages; a proper frog sized episode. The product of a couple of hours spent writing like a fiend, and then a little touching up and a few completing bits and bobs tonight. Not sure how things will fall out for the next part; I’ve still got 4 days of that [insert the nastiest descriptive you know here] course to endure. I’m also not sure how long the next scenes are likely to be … longish, I think.

Let's see; in today's 'training' I did ... nothing. Oh, I lie - I did a quiz. A quiz of idiot trick questions, like "If there are 3 apples and you take 2 how many do you have?". The doing nothing at all was the other 5 1/2 hours. By nothing I do literally mean nothing. But we weren't allowed to leave. The rest of the week is set to be pretty well identical

Will there be a froggy battle? If there is a froggy war, froggy battles will follow in due course. Froggy assassinations, well they can happen if any number of circumstances are met. We could even have both. :looks infuriatingly mysterious:

This being medieval Europe it takes time for messages to get about. As the messenger gasped above, it's taken him 5 days to make the trip and he's been travelling as fast as possible. He's only made the trip so quickly because he has been able to swap to a fresh horse several times each day. He also got lucky on the channel crossing; bad crossings can take days to complete, and sometimes a wait for several weeks is required before a favourable wind is there.

[Monk]

12 pages!! *gasps for air, trying to rest mind* so...much...reading

nah, j/k froggy . I admire you for putting so much into your installments, mine pale in comparison at an average of 3.5 to 4 pages each . In any case

Will there be a froggy battle? If there is a froggy war, froggy battles will follow in due course. Froggy assassinations, well they can happen if any number of circumstances are met. We could even have both. :looks infuriatingly mysterious:

...

I don't think anyone can say so little with so many words my good frog (a strange compliment i admit, but hey, i thought it sounded nice to me! )

[frogbeastegg]

The spit roast chicken looked appetising. The pottage was filled to bursting with vegetables and chunks of bacon. The bread was newly baked, fresh from the ovens only hours ago. A selection of pastries, some sweet and some savoury, had been prettily arranged on a gold plate. However Eleanor was of the mind something was most definitely missing from the lunch that had been delivered to her rooms. “I have a quest for you, Sir Knight,” she proclaimed extravagantly, as Fulk lopped a leg off the chicken and transferred it to her platter. “Go find me some cheese.”

“Sweet Jesú!” muttered Fulk, removing the other leg with a few quick cuts. “Other knights get dragons, but I get dairy products.”

“I do try to keep your tasks within your limits.”

“I think I was just insulted.”

“Poor dear,” cooed Eleanor. “You were.” Already her spirits were soaring – bothering Fulk was good for the soul, even if she did have an audience consisting of Anne, Anne’s maids minus Godit, and Hawise.

“Somehow I’m now inclined to wander around several countries in my quest, dawdling and taking my time.”

“Meanie.” Eleanor pointed imperiously at the door. “Go quest, Sir Knight, and come back victorious! Your lady doth command it.”

Fulk turned around with exaggerated reluctance and started to plod towards the door, shoulders slumped. “Some days I dream of running away from all this, going somewhere where I’ll be appreciated instead of belittled. I’ll become a minstrel and take to the road with a lute.”

“I would not bother if I were you - a donkey slowly being minced hindquarters first by a giant quern sounds better!”

“I can sing quite nicely.” Fulk trilled a few lines of a popular song to prove his point. “And for that, your royal unkindness, I’m going to think of how best to use that reward you’ll owe me when I return victorious.” He grinned rakishly and waggled his eyebrows. “There’s plenty of room for creativity in that traditional ‘one request’ reward.”

Entirely unconcerned Eleanor chose a chewette she believed to be filled with minced venison. “Then I shall hope the Cyclops guarding the cheese treads on you and squashes you quite flat.”

“For example I could request titles and wealth beyond my wildest dreams.”

“And jumps up and down on your head.” She saluted him with her pastry and bit into it. It was indeed venison, with a herby, lightly spiced gravy.

“Or perhaps I’ll ask for half the kingdom.”

“Then kicks you in the groin. Repeatedly.”

“I might simply decree that you remain cheeseless for the rest of your life, in penance for your cruelty towards me.”

“You evil bastard!” exclaimed Eleanor. Anne giggled.

At which point proceedings were interrupted by a very sick looking Hugh, wearing his full armour and shooed along by Constance. He collapsed onto the nearest bench with such a thump Eleanor was glad she had recently had the woodwork seen to. Constance placed his helmet on the table, and began to unlace Hugh’s ventail.

Eleanor waited a bit to see if any explanation for this highly inconvenient interruption was forthcoming. When not a word was offered she said dryly, “I doubt I should offer you something to eat, brother dear, lest you return it to my floor.”

If she could only have turned the words into an ointment Eleanor could have sold them as a miracle cure; Hugh got heavily to his feet, turned to face her and snapped, “Disrespect, even at such a time as this! It is intolerable!” He brandished a fist, only for Constance to catch his wrist and push his hand back down. She whispered something at him, and Hugh inclined his head and made no effort to resume hostilities.

“Lord save me from your sense of humour, or lack thereof.” Eleanor dumped her venison patty on her platter and dusted crumbs off her fingers. “So, tell me, at a time like what?”

Hugh looked about the gathering. “Out; all but my sister and the queen.” He squinted at Fulk. “You had best remain also; this will touch upon your duties.” Very notably he did not apologise for interrupting their meal, or for trampling over other’s authority by ordering their servants. Something was definitely wrong.

As the assortment of maids made themselves suitably scarce Hugh finished his wife’s work, and cleared his coif from his head. His arming cap he dropped onto the bench. Bareheaded, it became apparent he was paler than Eleanor had thought – fresh milk had more colour.

Beginning to feel alarmed Eleanor rose. “Hugh, what has happened? Has Trempwick done something?”

“Oh God!” Hugh folded up on the bench again, and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders shook, and Eleanor thought she heard a muffled sob. His words were indistinct and hard to make out, “If so I have killed him! Oh, God forgive me, surely if that were so it is my own doing!” Constance sat next to Hugh and held him, heedless of the mail and armour digging into flesh through the layers of her clothes.

“Is Trempwick dead?” ventured Eleanor. She thought that unlikely, something drastic had certainly occurred – Hugh would not be in such a state otherwise.

Anne settled on Hugh’s other side, and took hold of his nearest hand, pulling it insistently but gently away from his face. “If you had a part in anyone’s death then they deserved it, else you would not have done it.”

For some reason that caused Hugh to cry out as if in pain, tear his hand free of Anne’s, and hide his face once again.

“Hugh, what has happened?” tried Eleanor again. She got no response. The two other women were so engaged in trying to calm him that Eleanor felt it safe to exchange a quick look with Fulk.

He formed a fist and made a little punching gesture, then nodded.

Heartened by his support of her plan Eleanor marched over to her brother. She pulled his hands away from his face and dealt him a backhand slap that could not be described as kindly. It was, though, immensely satisfying, and put a sharp end to his dramatics. She clamped a hand on each of his armoured shoulders and leaned down to glare at him, nose to nose. “Explain. Now.”

Hugh stared blankly back at her. Then his eyes picked up a bit more life, and he said in a low voice, “Our father is dying, if not already dead.”

The words sent a shock through Eleanor; it was the last thing she had expected. The arse in the crown had seemed one of life’s permanences; always there, always going to be there, lurking on the fringe of her life like an exceedingly black thundercloud. Immediately she wondered if Trempwick could have been responsible, but she dismissed the thought almost as quickly. As her own plan was centred about his existence, so too was Trempwick’s … for now.

“Not William!” cried Anne.

Eleanor sighed, suddenly feeling immensely old and mature, at least in comparison to her fellow royals. “Of course him, unless our mother was rather less than what she aught to have been. You had best explain considerably more, Hugh. If this is so we do not have a moment to waste.”

After her initial outburst Anne was mercifully more sensible; she set her jaw and waited for more information.

“He … he went hunting,” stammered Hugh. He took a deep breath, and managed to go on with a steadier voice. “His horse fell. He hit his head, broke ribs and his shoulder. He has a long, deep cut over his chest, more than a handspan long. He was out of this world by the time help got to him, and he had not returned to it by the time of the message. This was five days ago. The message is real, there is no doubt.”

“He could survive that,” said Anne. She looked to Eleanor for confirmation, eyes pleading.

As gently as possible Eleanor broke Anne’s heart. “He is old, and age does not make for good healing.”

“He is not dead!” screamed Anne. “I will not believe he is dead until you bring me home his body! He is not dead!”

“Given the severity of the injuries -”

Anne shot to her feet and tried to stare Eleanor down, a ridiculous spectacle since she was the shorter of the two by a good few inches. “What does it matter to you? What difference does it make to you? You hate him! You are glad he is dead! You do not care, not at all! I will not believe it!” She stamped her foot. “I will not!”

Eleanor’s heart was filled with a heavy, jagged dead weight that under other circumstances she would have identified as sorrow and loss, and it was that which motivated her careless, bitter words. “We need him, and going from that it would be just typical of the man if he were dead. My father has always been inconvenient.”

Hugh proved he had recovered sufficiently to slap her; Eleanor blocked with an up-flung arm, but his hand still caught her face with sufficient force to snap her head around.

As she recovered Eleanor saw Fulk had taken a step forward, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles shone bright white. She glared at him and he forced his features back into a neutral set, hiding his fists behind his back. His eyes still burned with anger, and Eleanor wasn’t sure if it was entirely directed at Hugh or if a part share of it was her own, thanks to her unwitting provocation.

Turning her attention, and eyes, away from Fulk Eleanor noticed that Constance had seen also, as she had scrambled up and to one side when her husband had erupted, and so now faced side on with a view of both Fulk and Eleanor. With stomach-churning conviction Eleanor knew Constance had figured out the what and the why. She held Constance’s gaze, now pleading wordlessly herself. After a pause which seemed to stretch forever Constance gave a curt nod and turned back to her husband.

Hugh said slowly, “He might not be dead.”

“That matters little,” declared Eleanor, gratified to find that she didn’t sound - and wasn’t behaving as if - her wits had been scattered. “What matters is that he is dead, dying, or possibly going to survive and come home to prove it – in a month or so. You must be crowned, as soon as possible.”

Hugh placed one hand on the pommel of his sword and flung his head up proudly. “I will not usurp my father’s throne.”

Of all the pointless, obtuse things to say! Eleanor could have screamed with frustration. With effort she kept much of that frustration from her voice; it would do no good. “It would be nothing of the sort. If he lives then he will still be the king, and you will only have been crowned early. At one time that was in fact the custom, to ensure the desired heir had the best chance of gaining the throne when the time actually came. The tradition died out in just two generations, but there is precedent, and that is what is most important.” Eleanor pinned Hugh with an unwavering stare, trying to impart some of her own steeliness and sense to him, and to make him understand how the previously precarious situation had just been unsettled still further. “You must be crowned, and you must set about taking control of the treasury and all else. At once.”

“We can wait until we know more.”

Constance touched Hugh’s arm, and when he looked to her she shook her head minutely. “Every day you delay will make your task harder, and England will suffer for it. It will be every man for himself, aiming to seize whatever they can. You will give time to rivals to build up their readiness to challenge you.”

“Rivals …” Hugh paced a few steps, then turned back to Eleanor. “I wonder, could it have been Trempwick’s doing? An assassination.” The little colour he had regained fled. “If so then it is my own fault for not warning our father of what I suspected; I as good as killed him.”

“No.” Having dismissed the idea herself within a heartbeat of it forming Eleanor was mildly aggravated to find Hugh incapable of doing the same – it was quite obvious, if you only applied a little thought. In the space of minutes Hugh was undoing all the good he had done for her opinion of him over the last few weeks, and for the first time she found herself wondering if Trempwick had motives other than personal gain for plotting to place her on the throne. John had been a complete idiot … “It runs counter to his interests at present; he must be married to - and in control of - me before he can capitalise on my blood, and you have proven unwilling to hand me over. Also, it would look very suspicious if he had cause to press my claim too soon after the wedding.”

Hugh thought this over, and was apparently satisfied. To Fulk he said, “You will guard my sister night and day; do not stray from her even for an instant. If you require more men, only tell me and I will see that they are transferred. Be wary of all her visitors; some may be fool enough to attempt an abduction, even here, and they may enlist the help of previously trustworthy people, such as servants. I fear Trempwick himself may attempt such.” He turned to Eleanor. “I am certain you understand why I feel this necessary.”

Eleanor smiled weakly. “If I see anyone hailing me as queen I shall throw something at them, and I take a dim view of kidnapping as a means to romance.”

Hugh scowled. “Such levity-”

“Hugh, I understand my position only too well.” Eleanor laughed, and it was not a happy sound. “I find if I think on it too much I am tempted to fake my death, pack my bags and run for it, to live out my life in obscurity under a false name in Constantinople.”

“It would be best if you married -”

“No, Hugh. You promised me, and I am holding you to it.”

“I can find you someone honourable and suitable; it would solve a great many of your dilemmas in one fell swoop, and some of mine also.”

Eleanor spoke in a level, calm voice, imbuing each word with the absolute certainty of an unalterable truth, “I will accept no one, and if you try to foist someone on me I shall scream my denial all the way to the altar, all the way back, and keep on screaming for the rest of my days. Whoever you picked would die the second I saw opportunity. Needless to say, dear brother, I would also cease to support your cause the very instant you set this in motion.”

Hugh’s frown deepened. “You make our situation impossible,” he complained.

“Not in the least. I make it somewhat tricky, but no more than that, and it is part of the price of my support. Or do you expect me to aid you for nothing, despite great personal risk and loss?”

“I shall not neglect you, but nor have you as of yet given any indication of what you would consider to be an adequate reward. I find myself dubious as to what you would want; money, lands, power – I doubt you truly desire any of these, except to the extent necessary to support life.”

“You already know, or should if you have been paying attention. I want to live decently, and away from court. I want something to do with myself, something not involving sewing or similar, but instead using my talents and intellect. I want to choose my own husband, and the freedom to not choose if I so desire. I shall probably think of more in time, and shall refine these items as I go, but I shall not ask for anything that will pose a difficulty for you. If anything I expect I shall be a rather cheap ally, especially considering what I am offering you.”

Silence fell on the room. Eleanor waited for Hugh to decide a course of action. She was sadly disappointed; he seemed paralysed now, sunk deep into his own emotion rather than labouring on his this world.

Anne stopped chewing her thumbnail long enough to ask, “What will we do? And … what will become of me?”

Eleanor gave Hugh a space to reply, but he did not. Constance kept up her comforting, and prompted him, “Hugh?”

Nothing. Then he blinked heavily, and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I do not know,” he admitted.

“You do,” encouraged Constance. “You only need to find your confidence and recognise that.”

Hugh bowed his head and pulled away from her. He went to stand separately from everyone, in the corner of the room, hiding everything more expressive than his armoured back from them. “I should, but I do not, and so I prove at this beginning I am unsuited and unworthy.” He rested his forehead against the stonework with an audible thud.

Eleanor’s temper blazed. “You are pathetic! I spent more than a month giving everything I had to fool Trempwick, I risked everything, I destroyed my life, I allowed myself to be made a fool of and humiliated again and again, I suffered no small amount of unnecessary pain, and for this!?”

Hugh’s shoulders heaved, wracked by a hoarse sob. “I should have died instead.”

“A fat lot of good that would have been!” said Eleanor scornfully. “If you do not pull yourself together and stop lurking in that corner like a kicked dog I shall drag you out and slap you until you start showing some sense! You have given up before you have even started – small wonder you are not doing well.”

Hugh turned around slowly, then leaned back against his corner. “I cannot usurp-”

Constance insisted, “You are doing nothing of the sort.”

“But we do not know he is dead.”

“We do not,” allowed Eleanor, “but then nor does Trempwick, and rest assured he will not waste time waiting to be sure. He will begin to move the very second he hears, and if you do not start now you may never catch up. He will not give you time to be crowned, settle in, and become harder to remove. An anointed king is an anointed king, and people are seldom happy with trying to take that from him – he has been set apart forever as something more than his fellow men. Tell me, if our dear father does return who would he prefer to find ruling in his stead? You are his sole surviving son, and his designated heir.”

Constance supported Eleanor’s line of reasoning. “He would approve of your initiative.”

A little late, Anne joined in. “I know he would not be angry. He would understand that you were stopping anarchy, and would like that and find it really admirable. William would be really angry if you did nothing and let everything go to chaos.”

“But still …”

Eleanor selected proverbial red hot poker number four and delicately applied it to Hugh’s backside with a pleasing sizzle. “Very well; do nothing. Only have the decency to let me pack and leave for Woburn right away; since it appears I shall be Trempwick’s queen after all I see no point in wasting time and angering him by siding with you until you are completely doomed and he ‘rescues’ me from you.”

Hugh’s nostrils flared and bolted upright, his previously pasty face going red. “If you think I shall suffer such an abomination to come to pass you are lackwitted!”

“I was going on present behaviour, brother dear. You are doing a very nice job of sending England towards its first reigning queen.”

Hugh calmed down, but not quite so down as to return to his previous depressed slump. “I cannot help but feel it is wrong.” He sighed heavily, bowed his head. A short while later he looked back up. With a shrugging motion he pushed himself away from his supporting wall and stepped forward, left hand coming up to rest on the hilt of his sword. With a jerk he straightened his shoulders, and pulled his head up in an imitation of his earlier pride. “However it appears I have no practical alternative. Very well.”

Anne repeated her earlier question. “What will we do?”

Hugh looked to Eleanor. After a moment so too did Anne, then Constance. Fulk had been doing so from the very start.

With all the eyes of the room upon her Eleanor experienced a moment of nerves. It passed swiftly; she had known what to do before she had begun to work on her brother, and someone had to take control. “This must be announced; formally and soon. It would have been better to keep it as quiet as possible for as long as possible, but Hugh’s reaction has made that impossible. By now half the palace will be talking of the message which reduced him to a jabbering ruin, curious as to what it contained.” She focused on her brother. “You will summon all notable personages present here to the hall, and there tell them. You will offer to let any who wish to see the message do so, so it will be harder for any to accuse you of falsifying its contents, or whatever else twisted minds may come up with. You will then set about the necessary steps to begin the transfer of power, and give orders for the preparation of your coronation. You must remember to act the dutiful son, something I do not feel will be difficult for you. Pray often and obviously for our father’s recovery and fast return. Promise gifts to churches, buy prayers, and so on.”

To Constance she said, “You will play the dutiful and devoted wife, but also remind people that you are an expectant mother, and that all is proceeding perfectly. You must do whatever you can to reassure people about the future.”

Anne she saved for last. “You need not worry; until he is confirmed dead you are still queen, not widow. Even if the worst does come to pass you will not be left to the mercy of your family, or forced into retirement or another marriage. We will provide for you, and protect you.” Eleanor shot a significant look at Hugh; he inclined his head in silent agreement. Eleanor continued, “There is little for you to do at present, but that little is important. Be seen to be praying for your husband, and to support Hugh.”

She addressed the group collectively again. “Whatever happens, and above all else, we must be seen to be above suspicion of a coup or involvement in his accident.” Eleanor cocked an eyebrow at Hugh. “I suppose your reaction went a good way to clearing you of that.”

Hugh asked, “And Trempwick? I should give orders for his arrest?”

“No!” Shaking Hugh until his teeth rattled was a pretty inviting prospect. It might also start his mind working. Possibly. “Think of how it would look – you blocked his marriage to me, our father dies, you take power and your very first act is to remove him. People will ask why, and they will use it as excuse to reject you. It would be proof you have little inclination towards justice, and perhaps all is not as it seems about your succession. Do not underestimate him; he will have set matters up well to give me a claim over and above yours. You would be as good as admitting it was true. For the same reason you will, sadly, not be annulling our betrothal just yet. If I suspect rightly he may reveal himself, and so give you excuse to be rid of him.” Eleanor didn’t mention that in doing so Trempwick would probably cause enough trouble to make Hugh’s hair grey overnight. They did have one major advantage though – Trempwick did not know she had betrayed him, and so would work assuming she would support him.

There was a pause. Anne enquired, “What will you be doing?”

“I shall be keeping out of the way, for the most part. Best not to parade temptation before everyone’s eyes too often. I shall publicly support Hugh, and like everyone else I shall make a show of begging divine aid like a good daughter.” After speaking so much Eleanor’s throat was sore. “This will do for now; we must make a start. The rest can wait until later.”









5, 777

:grins: I had been waiting to use that little bit of cheese related Nell/Fulk dialogue for ages! It needed a few tweaks to suit the scene, but it’s been on ice so long it has freezer burns.

They really are such an interesting family … the sister who wants to strangle the brother, the brother who wants to clobber the sister, the wife who keeps on getting in the way and seems to support everyone all at the same time, the mother-in-law who is years younger than her stepchildren, and the brother-in-law no one knows about. And that’s before you add in the volcanic father, the dead idiot brother, the dead brother who no one can agree about, the snooty eldest sister, the bland and boring middle sister, the reportedly adulterous younger sister, and the dead mother who might or might not have been a little bored.

Hurrah! Yay! Hurray! Yippee! Etcetera. My course is over, and not a moment too soon! The atmosphere really took a dive in the last few days, and the background froggy terror had escalated into real fear. It all went wrong when, in answer to one of those general queries that seem to have no weight attached at all, especially since it came from another female, I said I had a boyfriend of nearly three years, and was happy with him. At which point the males (technically men, but more like really scary boys with criminal convictions …) stopped asking about my books and started calling me a bitch and mouthing abuse at my back, and some of the women went mardy. Heh, well I suppose they had just admitted that they tended to get dumped within weeks …




Perhaps I missed my true calling - politics. :begins to wonder if she can take even more words to say even less ....:

[Lothair]

Long time now since you have updated. :/

[frogbeastegg]

just a flying visit. myt pc has been fried, 2 weeks ago actually. lost nearly everything on it, and still not got it back repaired. Should have it again soion, maybe tomorrow. will then have to settle it all to my liking, and see what little i managed to save. Think I saved Eleanor and my historical notes, but not much else; it died while I was trying to back things up. had to 'borrow' my dad's lap[top to type this; not something i'm able to do often at all. as you can p[ropably tell I don't get along with it too well ;p low resolution+crap screen+crap parts+crap keybo0ard=froggy hell.

will resume business as usual when my pc is returned.

[frogbeastegg]

There should have been something. But there was not, not a thing, only a stolid, dull silence that gripped the whole hall. In the tense waiting Eleanor felt time slow to a crawl, as though only tiny moments passed instead of large ones.

As each large moment slipped away like sand in a time-glass the truth became increasingly evident. A truth she had, in all honesty, already known. There was no enthusiasm for Hugh, not even one man to start the cheering for him. Just silence. Nor was there mourning for her father.

Enough time had passed now that there could be no cheering for the new king, or mourning for the old one. It would be insulting, coming much too late to be anything other than an attempt to stave off displeasure. A formality, taken up too late because no one cared.

At her side Eleanor could tell without looking that Hugh’s confidence was dying in a welter of arterial blood. If only someone had taken up the call of “Fiat!” - or anything! – her work would have been shored up, and Hugh settled enough to resume command of himself.

Certain members of the audience were looking to her, not her brother. She did not like what she saw there: speculation in many, a burning loyalty in a rare few, almost mocking consideration in more than one. If she had stepped forward and announced her accession at least a few would have begun to shout “Fiat! Let it be so!” Eleanor began to pray that they would keep their stony peace.

Eleanor stepped forward from her station slightly behind and to her brother’s left, moving out to stand facing him at arm’s length. “Let me be the first to pay homage.” It was a deal too early for that, but it might prod a little life into the noble audience, and it would state clearly and early that she was in her brother’s support.

Hugh managed the simple, oft-repeated ceremony automatically and without mistake, for which Eleanor was grateful. The damage that would have done …

As she freed her hands from his and stood up again, Eleanor heard movement in the audience. The Earl of Chester stood at the very front now, apart from all others. “Let me be the next,” he said loudly.

That broke the stillness. Others began to step forward, calling that they too would swear now. Only a few were anything like enthusiastic, and many were only following the crowd so as not to be remembered later by their king as hesitant, but came they did, and that was most important.

Some, however, Eleanor saw did not come forward. Many of those who had looked to her walked out of the hall, and some few previously neutral followed them. The Earl of Hereford was the most notable of those who departed, and he was only present at the palace to secure for his eldest son the newly vacant position of sheriff for the shire. They would be gone from the palace with all speed, and Eleanor doubted they would be as easy to bring to heel as such reluctant vassals usually were. Promises, assurances, gifts – Trempwick would have set things up better than to allow petty things to tear away the followers he would desperately need. He would have promised more than Hugh could give, such as titles and lands already possessed by those likely to be Hugh’s allies. A more heavy-handed approach would only lose Hugh more support, and it would require might and security in his position he didn’t have at present.

The first hurdle was passed, not with aplomb, or even so well as to be average, but it was passed. Only a few of the highest nobles were present at court, those with positions in the household or business that required their being here. The church had no good representatives either, aside from the royal chaplain. Winning over those remaining many would be the next obstacle, and a major one to be tackled while dealing with the many other bars to Hugh’s safe rule.

Eleanor watched her brother’s confidence slowly stabilise, and begin to return.






William eyed the steaming bowl of broth with a detached curiosity. Eating, such as he could manage, no longer seemed anything but a trivial interruption to the stifling life of the invalid.

The woman carrying the broth attracted only a fraction more interest on his part. It was the smallest things which made this non-life intolerable, and the woman was one of those small things. His memory of the few days before his accident was hazy in places, but she he recalled well enough. Jocelyn’s wife; the name forgotten. The one who had screamed in horror when he had said he would take her son away. Now she nursed him, she and Lionel.

“I have forgotten your name,” said William, not really aiming the words at her, or caring about her presence. “It is there, but still not quite there … I cannot reach to grasp it.” Frustrated, he tried to form a fist and pound the mattress at his side. He managed no more than a loosely curled hand and a weak movement little more than a feeble swat.

She walked across the room to him with a sinuous grace that, along with her beauty, somehow only ever increased his sense of despair. “My lord king shouldn’t allow himself to become upset over such a trivial thing; my name is of little import.”

“If your mind was riddled with holes and hazy parts would you be happy?” demanded William petulantly.

She set the bowl down and began to check the bandage on his head, not dignifying his question with a response.

He sourced a little strength for his voice from his anger, and the result came close enough to his old imperious snap that William didn’t feel too badly. “Am I king, or am I not? You dare ignore my questions?”

Their position gave him an excellent view of her face. It remained as it had always been … or as he always now remembered it: blank, with what lay behind the eyes veiled so he could read nothing even there. “Richildis; my name is Richildis.”

When she had checked the thick bandaging over his chest she placed one arm behind him and raised him up sufficiently to drink his broth. He caught the scent of the soup before he could see into the bowl. “Not beef again. I want something else. I am sick of beef broth!”

She placed the bowl to his lips and began to pour it down him, giving him the choice of drinking or drowning. “Beef will give you strength.”

When the bowl was empty William drew breath and tried again for something with authority in it. “I said I did not want it.” This time he had been less successful; his voice sounded weak. He turned his face to the wall, and ordered, “Get out.”

Richildis tucked his blankets back around him before leaving.

Something wet ran down William’s cheek, another something, then another on the other side. It took a while for him to realise what it was; he had not wept since he was a boy.

With all his heart he wished Anne were here. In the next moment he was wholly glad she was not; he could never have born seeing her pity. He wanted her company desperately, and if anyone could do something for his sick spirit she could. But he couldn’t face another way of seeing what he had become.

As if it was not clear enough already, ground into his face time after time, and becoming starkly clearer day by day. It would have been better if he had died. His logic told him that without flinching, but his soul and heart rejected it powerfully. He did not want to die. Only wait, his heart cried, wait and heal and then everything will be well. He may never fight again, and perhaps would always be weaker, and he might not in the end remember everything, but he would be alive, and not in this non-life either. Living he could not find out what awaited him in the next life. Hell, he was increasingly certain.

“But I tried,” he whispered through his tears, “I tried. Surely you cannot condemn me for that?” No heavenly answer came. “I gave money to the church, lands, gifts; I protected it. I confessed often, did penance and was absolved, and I cannot go to hell for that, the clerics say. I did good. I minded my charge as king. And I tried so hard …”

Lying here in his sickbed gave ample time for reflection. Too much time. It was all he could do, that and sleep, but despite his injuries, despite his weakness, sleep did not come as easily and intensely as it should. It was not only because of the grinding, aching, throbbing, burning pain that had been his ever-present companion since he first woke. Reflection showed him too much to allow him peace, and convinced him he would not receive eternal peace when he passed on. Long years of his life lived, and all with a sense of purpose, a sense of knowledge and righteousness. Even when he had not liked his own work he had been able to justify it, and to see why it was necessary. But now it all looked so different; he wondered if there had been other ways, other options, and how everything would have been if only, if only he had altered whatever in whichever way. Regrets, so many regrets …

William dragged a trembling hand up to swipe ineffectively at his eyes, wanting gone this latest sign of his complete weakness. It was only with supreme will and concentration that he managed to fumble his way through the simple motion, and his face still felt damp when fatigue forced him to allow his arm to drop back down.

If he died Hugh would become king, to be consumed in turn by that attractive, loathsome crown and all it stood for. He would have failed, finally, to protect his last son. The longer he held on the longer the boy had some freedom, and perhaps he might find a way to resist the parasite when it inevitably did become his. It wasn’t solely a case of clinging to continued existence; William knew he needed to return as king in fact, not only in name as he was now. The boy would be ruling in his stead.

If he died now he would never see his grandson, or granddaughter, this child of Hugh’s. He wanted that badly, even if it would be so bittersweet to see the crown’s future victim and know some part of what the future held for the child.

He would have liked to see Matilda and Adele again, their children too. The grandchildren he had never seen, the daughters he had not set eyes on since they left for their marriages.

He would not be able to shelter and guide Anne as she grew, giving her whatever he could to make a life of her choosing when he did pass on. He would not leave her at the mercy of the father who plainly cared nothing for her beyond her value as a pawn. Age would give her much of what she needed to stand on her own feet, if she was provided for sufficiently and taught correctly.

And the brat; love turned hate which preyed upon him relentlessly as he lay here. Such a fine case of ‘should have been …’ But ‘should have been …’ had no place or part in what was, and so the best he could hope for was to see her married, settled and content; a final victory for him in their long war. He was still uncertain if being glad of missing her wedding was dismal or not





Some hours later Eleanor burst into the main hall from the stairs leading down from the royal solar, Fulk trailing several correct steps behind her. As public business was now over for the day, and there were still a couple of hours remaining until dinner, the hall was mostly empty. Not nearly empty enough for Eleanor’s tastes though, as the Earl of Chester was waiting, and as soon as he saw her he headed over.

“Your Highness,” he murmured. Unfortunately she couldn’t think of an excuse to keep her hands well out of reach; he secured one, bowed over it and kissed her fingers. “My condolences on such tragic, tragic news.”

“Thank you.” Eleanor surreptitiously wiped her hand on her skirt.

“Still, start of a new era, is it not?”

“My father might yet live.”

“True, true,” he agreed smoothly, “we all pray that is so. I feel obliged to say that you bear up well under the strain of events, far better than I expect from a woman. It does you great credit.”

Eleanor quashed her irritated sigh and let him ramble on uninterrupted.

“A rather sad display earlier, I must say.” He smiled patronisingly at her. “I thought you played your part nicely, and it is admirable your brother had the foresight to tell you to do such if matters proved tricky.”

Eleanor tightened her hold on her temper; it was already simmering after finding precisely what the arse in the crown had left her in his will: nothing. Nothing. Even for the sake of appearances he could not bring himself to give her so much as a worn out tunic, preferring to leave her a beggar and pauper, dependant on other’s charity and Trempwick’s goodwill. As if to add further proof of his hatred for her he had, as was traditional, distributed items and money generously to all who had served him, right down to the second stable boy. Anne had been excellently provided for, well beyond what Eleanor had expected her to receive. For some reason that ground salt into the raw and bleeding wound, despite her anticipating, and being glad of, Anne’s fortune.

“Have no fear,” continued the Earl, unaware that his audience was beginning to wish she could set Fulk on him. “Your brother will soon whip everyone into line. It all works like dogs, do you see? Got to make it clear you are leader of the pack.”

As she blinked Eleanor rolled her eyes; she might have known he would find a way to bring dogs into the conversation yet again. “Yes.”

“Dog refuses to take orders or accept you as leader? Beat it, then it follows you with its tail wagging happily. Damn, it even loves you for it. Same with people, no matter how high or low or all that. People like having strong guidance, and being sure of their place.”

“Your grasp of politics is stunning,” said Eleanor, with a touch of sarcasm. “You make it sound so simple.”

The Earl preened, and unfortunately chose to elaborate. “Well, it is not always so simple. Often you have to beat the creature several times at least for varying mistakes and so on, though some weak – or wise, maybe? – creatures never challenge you, and then there are always a stubborn few who go feral or will not learn. Those you have to kill.”

“Marvellous.”

“They see you are stronger, then they scramble to please. You have to show no weakness or mercy; instead consistency!” One meaty fist drove into the palm of the other hand with a smack.

“Wonderful.”

“Why, I have my dogs so well trained that you can place a bowl of best meat next to them and they will not touch it until I give them leave!” He beamed, seemingly expecting her to be awed. He leaned forward a little, and confided with glowing pride, “I expect – and get – just the same from all my people, right from my son and heir to my meanest serf. They do whatever I see fit to demand.”

“They must consider themselves so lucky.”

“As I said, they love me for it.”

Loved just as she loved her dear, departed parent, thought Eleanor. Diplomacy called for a more tactful exit than simply hitching up her skirts and running for it, so she produced a smile from somewhere and said, “Thank you for aiding my brother earlier. Now, please excuse me; I wish to pray for my father.” Since praying that he ended up in hell suffering the most exquisite agonies possible was sinful, Eleanor resolved to ask that he got what he deserved, which amounted to much the same thing.

“Oh! Of course.” He distinctly did not move out of her way. “If I might ask something …?”

“Yes?”

“As you will be aware, I am the Earl of Chester, and have all that should fit that title, be it lands, wealth, honours, men-”

Believing that this was going to be a not so subtle request for more honours Eleanor interrupted, “I think my brother would perhaps be best for this.”

The man only smiled and patted her hand. “I shall speak to him next, but it seems prudent to come to you first. I am, as you can no doubt tell, assuring you that as my wife will have a suitable life.”

“Wife?” yelped Eleanor, pulling her hand free of his grasp. “Never!”

“I do not see why your brother should refuse me, especially given my little intervention for him.”

“I am already spoken for,” she said frostily.

The Earl flattened his eyebrows and looked at her down his nose. “It is obvious to me that your brother will not let you go to Trempwick, not now it is his place to choose for you.”

“Ask if you must, but he will refuse.”

“I shall ask,” he assured her. He bowed; Eleanor kept her hands safely hidden behind her back. “I shall go now. Good day, your Highness.”

As she left the hall Fulk moved up a little closer, walking just behind her elbow. “I think I’d better put my armour on,” he said cheerfully. “I’ll get a nice quarterstaff too, so I can beat your eager suitors off if they get bothersome.”

He didn’t manage to raise a laugh or a smile, but Eleanor’s depression lifted fractionally. “You can get me a staff as well; I do not see why you should have all the fun, and they are my suitors.”





Fulk let the gap between himself and Eleanor increase once more to the correct distance, and made no effort to keep their brief conversation going on the way back to her rooms. He had to find some way to speak to her alone, speak properly, something they had not done since before he left Woburn. Even another rushed, wary, partially overheard conversation marred by either an audience or the perpetual fear that someone would interrupt would be better than nothing.

He was worried, and growing more worried by the hour. Eleanor’s position had been unenviable before he met her: insecure, precarious, unpredictable, and lacking much hope for the future. Now it was worse, far worse. Her past had partly been a lie, and Trempwick had added treason to his other abuses of her – that must leave deep scars, surely? He knew she hated her father, but even so his loss must have some effect on her. Eleanor being Eleanor she would never admit that, just as she would never admit that she must be terrified right now. As if all this wasn’t enough, she was left to prop up her brother.

What really made Fulk’s blood boil was the simple fact that no one else had even considered any of this, or if they had they didn’t care. No one but him, and he was the only one close to her unable to do anything.

As he crossed the threshold into the old nursery building Fulk decided there was some small part he could do, and just one thing he could say without suspicion landing on them.

They entered the solar. Because he was behind Eleanor he didn’t see what Hawise had been doing when the door opened, but he did see her stand up and hesitantly bite the inside of her lip. “I … I heard, after you left ….”She hesitated again, checking Eleanor’s reaction to see if her words were unwelcome. Encouraged, she finished softly, “My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Eleanor moved to the table to sit down, but stood staring at the only chair, the one at the head of the table that was hers by right. She shivered, and settled in the window seat instead.

Fulk said to her, “As long as I’m with you no one will harm you, and as long as I’m alive and wanted I’ll be at your side. I gave you my word.”

Eleanor averted her face, hiding it from both him and Hawise. “If someone wants me badly enough to risk force then they will happily cut their way past you if you linger in the way, and that will help me not at all. It only makes the horrendous worse.”

Fulk stood up straighter, confident, knowing he was doing the right thing and for the right reasons. “That’s why I’m going to raise you an army; I can’t protect you with just two other men, not if you ever hope to leave these walls. Twenty men should be enough, twenty skilled veterans. I can select them, make sure they train and work as a unit, lead them, and I can teach you to handle them so they’ll obey you. You need your own force, and you’ll have one.”

The slight downward tilt of the corners of her mouth that was becoming too familiar didn’t ease, and misery continued to rob the blue of her eyes of their usual lively sparkle. “I cannot afford such a force. I was left nothing by my father, and Trempwick controls my lands. The money from Hugh might just pay their wages if you hire cheaply, but I could never equip, feed or house them. I might manage one more man, perhaps two, but no more.”

Left nothing at all? Now he understood the slight increase in desolation after she’d exited the little meeting with a clerk he’d been left standing outside the door for. “Then it seems you’d best go speak to your brother and demand your due. He can’t tell you it’s not his decision to make now.”

Unexpectedly Hawise spoke up, “Yes, he’s right. You need your own force; there’s no avoiding it or edging about it anymore. And I can’t believe you were left nothing; that must be a mistake.”

“It is not a mistake,” Eleanor answered. She met Fulk’s eyes. “It would likely not be so simple as requesting nicely.”

“You’ll manage.”

The tiny change in Eleanor’s posture was reversed; her shoulders set level and her back straightened out the barely visible slump. “Someone had better go and request an audience with my brother for me.”





It never rained but it poured. Trempwick had always found that saying to be inane. He still did. It rained, it poured, it drizzled, it sleeted, water could pour from the sky in great sheets or in such tiny and scarce droplets it did not even seem to be rain at all. This before you began to examine the many different weights and sizes of water droplets involved in what was generically termed ‘rain’ because it was not enough to be any of the other grades. Human cattle and their idiotic simplification. Missing the detail, as usual. The devil was in the details. Now there was a saying a spymaster could agree with.

He held one message in each hand. Hence the musing of that idiotic adage. In his left a message from the agent in the queen’s maids. In his right one from France. Left; the results of his searching for fraction of a grain of sand. Right; something urgent.

Which first?

Trempwick laid down the message in his right and began to unfasten the left. The devil was in the details. Small impacted large. To act solely on large was to be thoughtless. He could never be accused of that.

Trempwick read the few brief lines. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting his mind begin to absorb and work. He opened them again and read the message a second time. He committed it to the flames of his study’s small fire. So, Godit had failed. Ergo, the knight was … Trempwick let the thought stew, testing different words to see which fitted best. The knight was … changed. He had his fraction of a grain of sand.

From here; easy. Objectives; obvious. Define the change. Find how far it stretches. Find the cause. Piece all these answers together. Then he would have a whole grain.

Ideas were brewing already. Trempwick considered the flames burning about the tiny, destroyed note. He thought. Considered. Tested various potentialities. He found one which seemed to fit. It was not love; it was love. The knight loved Nell, not just loved her. Love was rare in this world. It was dangerous. It made fools of people … and made them more than they were. It tended to … shatter(?) certain parts of life and order. Love would answer all the posed questions, form a half of a whole grain.

So. Could the knight stand to watch Nell marry another? Knowing she too had loved? Would he believe she had transferred her affections to her betrothed instead? Believe deep down, in bone and blood, not the weaker belief of a resigned mind?

Trempwick’s face hardened. No. He would not. Love made fools like that. Even if it were true he would not believe. This was significant, in some way he did not yet know.

If.

If …

The word dropped heavily and ponderously; the first rock in a mental landslide.

He had already known, just not worded it. Nell loved the knight. That he had known. Too much undertaken on the knight’s behalf for it to be otherwise.

Now, add the new …

Two such loves, matching.

Placed in such circumstances.

One admirable mind, that thought.

One at least willing to risk all. But not for the previously assumed reasons. It was love. Nothing else. That motivated the knight. It had for a long time, Trempwick saw now.

Trempwick’s heartbeat sped up. He heard each beat clearly in his own ears. He felt his pulse hammering at his body.

And Nell?

Reckless Nell. Wilful Nell. Nell who had so often acted to preserve the knight. Nell who was in love. Nell who had already proven over and over she would risk, and hurt, and bleed for the knight.

Nell who had just got her bodyguard back.

The bodyguard who would(?) not stand by and watch. Who would know her act for what it was(?) Regardless, he not be dissuaded by it as previously believed. Not the impotent fury of watching his love walk away for another … but a seeing through of illusions to almost match Trempwick’s own? The message had been clear on one thing: he had lost nothing of his feelings for Nell. They eclipsed all else? Certainly eclipsed most.

Nell who had just got her bodyguard back. From the bastard. Because he had tried to kill her, and needed to play with appearances. That was very certain; there could be no mistake there. Returned, after she had sent the knight away. Ah, but that after he gave proof she could not fool him. And a laying out of what he would do. She did so to protect him, as Trempwick had always known. Send the knight away to remove any cause for Trempwick to act.

But.

But.

Trempwick froze, even his mind. He made no effort to think, to breathe, to blink, to anything. He became a living statue. All the better to let the mind run its natural course, and instinct be heard.

He found he was left with two main questions. On those everything hung … everything in this regard, this particular part grain of sand.

What could they ever hope to accomplish?

Would Nell be so utterly stupid?

It could not last. It could not remain hidden. It could not end well. They could not hope to gain much in their short time.

No, he decided. Very likely not. They might risk themselves but never each other. They would do anything to protect the other, not caring for themselves. He had made sure they knew there was doom, if even suspicion was there again. He had made it clear he would know. He had proven he would know. He had proven there could be, never would be, hope for them.

He relaxed a little. They would do nothing foolish. But he now believed there was something. Even something so small as spending ‘harmless’ time together – harmless in every way but the fact it strengthened what was already there. That was harmful, and suited him not at all. And to love even such woeful time was precious and wonderful … and so the something? Taking advantage of what was there, forced to be there, unavoidable, not their doing or fault and so not for him to act upon so long as all remained suitable? The something …? Likely so.

His fraction of a grain of sand had turned to a complete grain. From here he could plan. Work. Find more. Begin to unravel more of what troubled him. He had his beginning.

And Nell would be removed from the knight as soon as possible!

Then arrangements would be made for the knight. Something final. But without Nell ever knowing; no chance she ever could.

Trempwick opened and read the second message. It was in his favoured code. He read it once.

He sat, tranquil inside.

The storm broke. An outwardly calm storm, as his always were unless he chose to let them be otherwise. His jaw tightened, his teeth clenched. His hands balled up into fists, crumpling the little message, his nails digging half-moon cuts into his palms. He held his breath, lungs mostly full and burning with his anger. He closed his eyes, breathed in a little. He let his breath out, saying softly one word that contained all his emotion, “Damn!” If such things were possible that one word would have charred entire forests with its intensity and heat.

Trempwick took a moment to mourn his friend. For all his flaws, shortcomings, a man worthy of his service. He had managed to surprise his spymaster on occasion, and that was good.

Next he recognised and indulged the sour part of him screaming that years of work were imperilled because some animal could not die efficiently. Once allowed to vent its fury across his mind that part fell quiet.

Trempwick brought his control to bear. To be even this unrestrained now was to invite disaster. He smoothed out the crumpled message and read it twice more, absorbing every nuance. He memorised it. He burned it.

He had not been wrong in opening the minor before the major. Smaller may indeed have bearing, use, on greater. In a small, slight way. But still a way. The devil was in the details.

First. Main choice: continue or concede?

Easy – continue. He would not abandon his work so readily. He reminded himself that he had wished for something to stretch him a little. This would.

The situation was poorer than planned, poorer than he might hope. But it was not nearly impossible. He could adapt. Recover. Work around. Use. Oh yes, he could use. He could no longer simply sit back, hold position, wait for William to return. That was all, really.

Trempwick shut his eyes and devoted everything he had to planning; rapid and detailed planning. Mistakes now would cost, ruin, later. Existing stratagems could be altered for this. He made a comprehensive inventory of what was required. What was desired. What would be helpful. What must not be.

He opened his eyes again, stood up. Time to begin.

The first was always to tidy the table. The message had stated alive but grievously wounded and not likely to live. He would regret William’s death, and felt a pang of guilt that it was to be his hand responsible. There was no help for it – his time was over. If he lived on then it was only as an inconvenience. William’s grasp had now slipped, would slip more, and it could never be re-established completely. In the time he was helpless the world would move on. It could never move back. He hoped his friend had expired on his own, as he deserved. But if not he would be tidied.

When Edward answered his master’s summons he was not ordered to set the death in motion. That was Trempwick’s right … responsibility. Both. His friend, his lord, his plan, and so his death to detail and to bear in full. No, Trempwick had a set of different tasks for his underling.





Trempwick sipped his mulled wine, and watched his late-arrived guest begin to eat the cold food laid before him. The man had been given little chance to speak, arriving several hours after dinner. He had been captured by Trempwick’s quiet guards as he entered the ten mile radius about Woburn. Word had been sent to Trempwick, who had given permission for him to be delivered to the manor itself. The man had done little but complain since arrival, though he had been here for but long enough to remove his cloak and for food to be fetched.
The Earl of Hereford chewed a mouthful of pie vigorously. “I was not followed; my party set out as if to head home, then diverted to here when we were out of sight and certain we were not watched.”

Trempwick smiled blandly. That could be interpreted in so many ways. Saved him the bother of finding an answer – the man would find his own. The one he wanted.

Hereford had advantages. He was a talented solider, liberally blooded in decades of fighting against the Welsh. He was powerful, yet still ambitious. He was convinced that the bastard was indeed a bastard. He saw nothing to like in the bastard, had hated him for years. He was too proud to follow one of such tainted birth, even if he did not take a crown that was not his. He was married to Trempwick’s cousin, making him family. Family counted for much. Family stood together, supported the same cause. He was amiable to the idea of a queen; convinced of Eleanor’s merits by certain promises of a certain new position created for him as Lord of the Welsh Marches. A queen could hardly be expected to keep the border quiet with her own sword …

“I thought you would want to know at once. Today prince,” he sneered the title, “Hugh announced our king is dead, and he is taking the throne.”

Trempwick said, “I am aware of this.” Simple inference, combined with the knowledge provided by his network. It seldom failed to amaze others when demonstrated. Or to remind of his reach.

“But perhaps you are not aware that the princess was present throughout, and was the one to break the uncomfortable silence that greeted the announcement?”

Fascinating. “Go on.”

“You should have seen him – stammering and useless, struck dumb. He did not get his way at once, and had no idea of what to do. It was pathetic in every possible way. The man is entirely unable, unworthy, unfit and ill-suited – his lack of royal blood shows. As well to put a sheep on the throne! But the princess showed her mettle and breeding, I would say, and I think others would agree easily enough. It was quite plain to me why she did that – her half-brother’s hand had left a rather distasteful red mark on her face.” The Earl speared a mouthful of cold roast pork on the end of his eating knife. He waggled the meat at Trempwick as he spoke, “The whole hall went still as anything when he finished speaking, and I was not the only one looking to the princess. She saw it, and at that said she would be the first to pay homage to her brother, and so she did. That started that ambitious crawler Chester off, and others followed him.” He snapped the meat off his knife and swallowed without chewing properly. “But to balance, others followed me when I walked out, others who were not looking to her at first. Even those who did go were mostly unenthusiastic; saving their own skins and currying favour. But they will not stand by him, not if they can help it. They will be off home, to sit out of the way and let events take their course without their involvement, unless forced, or given something to put fire in the blood and fight for.”

“This mark, it was clearly visible?”

“Oh yes – recent, red, not a bruise and not like to bruise that much, but clear enough at the time.”

So everyone would have seen it. Trempwick set his goblet down and moved to stand before the hall’s large fire. Nell had been forced by violence to aid her brother. It was clear for all to see. How very useful. “He will pay in full,” Trempwick assured his guest.

“I should bloody well hope so!” Hereford pounded his fist on the table, making the dishes rattle. “That muck-blooded, whoreson bastard dares too much!”

“You will return to your castles; garrison and garnish them in case of siege, then have your army ready. You may be needed to fight for your queen.”





Lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Barrowden and Ketton. Eleanor basked in the glow of her new titles, although considering who she was they were so low as to be offensive. Three manors and two small castles, the main at Towcester and another at Warmington; an income totalling around £145 per year, assuming an average year. She sighed happily and snuggled down deeper into her blankets. Lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Barrowden and Ketton, combining to make an income that would do well enough for a member of the lowest edge of the mid-level nobility. The arse in the crown would have been so disappointed.

She had been striped of her previous two manors, but she cared little for that. There was no point mourning that which you had never seen and were not likely to get. The money from Hugh would also come to a stop as soon as she began to gain some of her due from the land, around Hocktide.

From this she would have her army. Fulk would begin selecting men tomorrow morning, recruiting locally with an eye to replacing and possibly expanding from other regions as and when they travelled. Eleanor looped an arm up under her pillow, raising it up slightly and hugging it to her cheek. She worked to keep focused on this bit of goodness, hoping for once she could get to sleep before the worrying set in.







5, 944

There you go; 11 pages. I’ve a further 9 almost complete, but I want to tweak them further. From this you may infer that finally everything is back to normal. Damn, it’s so good to write again!

:Edges nervously away from Trempwick’s italicised thinking and “Damn!”, and puts up a sign reading “Danger! Spymaster at work!”:

If he wouldn’t have me beheaded for saying it I’d admit I pity poor William more than ever.

[frogbeastegg]

When his squire at last completed the final stage of his lord’s bedtime preparations and departed, Hugh did not lay down, instead remaining sat upright in bed. Alone at last with his wife after what was, he could say without fear of being womanishly melodramatic, the worst day of his life, Hugh had much to speak of. “I desire to speak my mind, to make clear to myself my thoughts. I would also appreciate your council, above all on a collection of matters that cannot be raised with any other.”

Constance folded her hands above her chest on top of the blankets. “If you like.”

“The Earl of Chester approached me today, requesting the hand of my sister in marriage. When refused he said she found the match favourable.”

She suppressed a smile. “After hearing your second hand edition of Eleanor’s verdict on the man I find that unlikely.”

“I also. However, once turned down, he said most resolutely that she had encouraged his suit.”

“Equally unlikely.”

“Be that so or not, it is not the crux of the issue. He believes he was encouraged, and so what my own actions must be in reaction are most clearly dictated by all. Conscious encouragement or not, her behaviour was not what it should have been, and therefore was at fault, a fault which has caused me much trouble and can do harm to her reputation.”

“Alternatively Chester said that in the hopes it would sway you,” suggested Constance, so quickly her words attached onto Hugh’s without a gap.

Hugh frowned. “In all sincerity that possibility had not occurred to me; I own my omission. Sadly I must say that it helps very little, assuming it is true. What troubles me here is not the simple fact of what I should do, but other aspects. Chester may be the first but he will by no means be the last, and each such man turned away will lose me a little more support, a little more love in the hearts of those I need as staunch allies.” He allowed himself one of his very rare fidgeting habits, and rubbed the space between his eyebrows with the knuckle of his first finger, feeling the deep crease there which accompanied his down-drawn brows. “Moreover, what of Trempwick? The betrothal cannot be broken without explanation, and I fear none of us will ever care to voice the truth. There is no other good reason, and out of duty alone I should honour the contract drawn up by my father. I cannot allow Nell to marry that man, but nor can I openly provoke him, or the ensuing outcome will be blamed upon myself.”

“To be honest, Hugh, I do not know what is best.”

“I cannot breach the contract. I cannot honour that contract. I cannot wed her to another. I cannot leave her as she is. None the less, something must be found, and soon.” Hugh lay down, unconsciously mimicking his wife’s thoughtful pose. “There is a second, separate issue tied to this one, namely that the alterations to all have made our positions quite different. I am no longer so clearly and solidly placed to insist upon being the master of our relationship; I need her, now very much so, and this gives her power, such power it makes me frightened. If she withdrew her support I do not know where I would be, except that I foresee a variety of most unpleasant and untenable futures as a result of it. With that threat she can force whatever she wishes from me, I fear. I am now beholden to her; she is the master of the two of us.”

“Not so,” stated Constance. “She needs you as much as you need her, and remember that your goals are the same, at least in the main. Her path is limited from this point: either she places you on the throne and keeps your goodwill, knowing she will need it, or she opposes you, and so either ends up as queen or destroyed.”

Hugh found the matter illustrated itself best in the simplest of examples, which he now provided for Constance’s meditation. “She can threaten to leave me; I cannot threaten to abandon her.”

“No, but you can make it clear when something threatens your goodwill towards her. Once you are securely on the throne you will need her far less, and she is too intelligent not to recognise that. Stand your ground; give as you must, but stand where possible and battle where necessary.”

“I wonder if perhaps you are right,” allowed Hugh. “Though I find it appears much like dancing between closely scattered hot coals, barefoot, while onlookers throw knifes and try to press me off-balance.”

Constance gurgled with laugher, which she quickly quashed. “Sorry. Only, the mental picture of that …” She shook with silent hilarity. A funny snorting noise indicated her failure even restrain herself that far.

Hugh warred to keep his horror from showing, and he began to ponder the wisdom of consulting her on this. Pregnancy rapidly appeared to be diminishing her resistance to those feminine foibles that only rarely cast their giggling, dull-witted shadow over her. He very fervently hoped she would return to rationality soon.

He cleared his throat, hoping to restore her attention without recourse to strong words. “Certainly the present course cannot be allowed to run for much longer. Only today did I find myself required to grant her new lands and permission to begin raising a small force for her protection – she scorned my offer to allow her to borrow my own men whenever need arises. I also felt it quite impossible to pursue the matter of Chester; it seems most unfeasible to apply correct discipline there without causing a ruction, truly it does. I fear … I find myself …” Hugh let his words come to a halt, unsure of whether to voice this particular one, even to his wife. Doubting his sister’s loyalty and integrity was such a grave fault it would harm his image in Constance’s eyes, and despite the sinful pride he knew that was he was certain he could not do that. He needed her to think well of him; to see her shrink from him or turn away would destroy him. He was also deeply concerned for the child; the worry this would cause if his suspicions were not instantly and comprehensively dismissed could be so detrimental to the malleable temperament of the forming baby.

That simple fact was that if Nell were in fact in league with Trempwick she could arrange for him put himself from her path without a speck of mud coming to stain her own public character. Oh, he did not believe that, he hurriedly assured himself. To believe it at this point would be to wilfully believe the bad of someone, his own kin at that, despite more plentiful evidence to the contrary. As the notion had only declared itself to him fully during the long homage ceremony that afternoon, Hugh suspected himself of some jealousy, and thus found it likely that if the emotion existed it was the motivation behind this suspicion. When it had been his moment to act, to lead, to prove his mettle, to do what he had been trained towards for years, he had failed. She had not. She had been all that he should have, excepting only grief for the departed and humble respect in attitude. He had been outdone and shown to be inferior by his youngest sister, and at the task that was the centre of his existence and had no place appearing in hers. To recognise his inferiority was humble, and that in its turn was most fitting. To envy those greater blessed was human, but in the most disgusting sense of the word; he fought hard against even the shadow of the possibility of its existence.

But still, she was his little sister! She was supposed to look up to him with awed respect, while he sheltered and guided her. That was how it was laid out, based upon God’s own proclamation of man’s superiority. It was so hard to reconcile the extremes, and therein, he believed, lay the root of his discomfort.

Worse than the suspected jealousy was the tiny flowering of something very ugly towards Nell in his heart, something unique in its way, something he could not put a name to. He did not need a precise name for it to see that it was best stamped out and banished along with the rest of his internal rot.

Constance still waited expectantly. Hugh found his tongue, and diverted away from the troublesome subject he had nearly broached, “Then I find I must now put to you a question to which I can find no satisfactory answer, no matter how hard I search my heart, no matter how many authorities I consult. When one clearly sees the path of right leading ahead, should one turn from it when it is very likely pursuing that right will do untold harm?”

“That depends on the right, the subject, the why, and the harm.”

“It is quite the thorny dilemma, I admit. Alas, I find it topical at present, and in more ways than one.”

Showing remarkable understanding Constance punched to the heart of his deepest affair with this question, supplying new material, “Your sister and her Fulk. The more time I spend in their company the more I find I believe that they seem happiest when the other is nearby, even if they are in a room full of people and unable to even look at each other. If you watch closely you can see that they are rather attuned to each other’s presence and moods. Indeed, if you watch very closely, and know what to watch for, it is quite apparent at present. As Eleanor becomes more downcast and worried, Fulk becomes …” She caught the corner of her lip between her teeth as she considered carefully. “Edgier,” she chose, in the end. “I do not think they know they are doing it, so they cannot really guard against it as effectively as with the more conscious things.” She subsided, but Hugh could tell that there was still more, so, despite having heard more than enough for his peace of mind, he waited.

Constance sighed. “Really I feel I should not tell you this, as I entered something of an undefined agreement, but I trust you to honour the agreement I made at least in appearance; she must think I said nothing. Earlier, when you hit your sister, the bodyguard looked ready to kill you with his bare hands. She stopped him with nothing more than a look, and so I am convinced they are one of those pairings who can communicate quite well without the need for words. There was far more to it than a simple ‘Don’t!’, more on both sides.”

“Then there remains not even the flimsiest shred of doubt,” said Hugh heavily.

“He will do whatever is necessary to protect her without thought to himself, and she will not allow him to come to harm if she can prevent it. They understand each other. As guard and guarded that is … almost ideal, in that he will keep her safe and she will do nothing reckless.”

The soothing tone and flow of reassuring words had no effect on Hugh. “She is a harlot,” he growled.

“Hugh!”

“An utter disgrace!”

“Hugh-”

“Again and again I turned a blind eye, desiring to believe better of her, and so it turns out she is every bit the slut I feared-”

“At least she has good taste,” interjected Constance, her calm voice such a contrast Hugh spluttered into stunned silence. “He is handsome.” Hugh’s spluttering turned into outright choking, and he had to sit up. Constance thumped his back for him until the fit passed. “I knew that would put a stop to your silliness. Do stop slinging about such inappropriate words. It is not like you, and it does not suit you; leave such behaviour to those too foolish to know better.”

“They are highly appropriate,” gasped Hugh through a raw throat, “and I wish they were not.”

“As I doubt she has even slept with him, let alone charged him for the privilege, she cannot be a harlot, and there would have to be a few more men hidden about before she could be a slut; the plural there is very important.”

Hugh accused, “You are on her side.”

Constance gave him a withering look. “I told you what I had seen. I am simply disappointed to see you turn into another thoughtless, shouting fool of a man!”

Hugh’s jaw dropped, and it took him a moment to re-gather himself sufficient to reply. “I am no such thing.”

“Usually, no. But now? I am tempted to ask who you are, what you have done with my husband, and how you have taken his form so convincingly.”

Hugh reviewed his latest words, and flushed. “Very well; I admit you have some slight truth in what you say. But you cannot blame me – it is difficult for a man to find his sister is a … a …” A something that he did not appear to have a word for that his wife would not object to.

“An adult?”

“That is not at all the line I was thinking in,” he muttered. Louder he asked, “What do you think will happen, if I part her from him? I find it doubtful she would gladly support me from then on. But such a – a perversion of the natural order of society cannot be condoned!” Hugh’s frown was now so deep his own eyebrows obscured the top range of his vision. “He is, by all accounts, a baseborn bastard got on some peasant slut by a knight of little import.”

Constance smiled. “I would not be surprised if that is a part of why she likes him.”

“Yes; she seems to take great delight in disgracing our family, and shaming herself.”

“Oh, Hugh!” chided Constance amiably. “That is not what I meant. Being what he is, and from their history … well, I think that he must perhaps be one of very few to see Eleanor and not the princess. He does not look at her and see a prize he could use, as most others do, including, to an extent, you.” More sternly she added, “Do not argue that is not so, because it is.”

“It is revolting. She could hardly sink lower if she tried.”

“I doubt either of them wanted this, but love strikes where it will. It is unfortunate for them, and I do pity them, even – and because – I see how impossible it is.”

“She should never have been allowed to mix so comprehensively with such riffraff.”

“You sister has led a very unusual life-”

Hugh interrupted, “Which she should not have!” He froze as he realised what he had done, and in a panic scrambled to right his wrong. “I did not mean to criticise my father’s wisdom; I am certain he must have known much touching upon this that I do not. I do, however, criticise Trempwick’s judgement and methods; he is the one who allowed this to come to pass. He is to blame.”

“That is unimportant now; we must deal with what is, not how it came to be.”

Hugh did not need to consider, not really. However he still took a moment to do so. When he realised he delayed not to think, but to simply delay, he crushed his cowardice while compelling himself to look it squarely in the eye and know it for what it was. Then he spoke. “To give indication that we are aware of anything is to force ourselves to either condone it in some form, or to act to separate them. It seems to me that both are undesirable, as painful as it is to me to admit it. I know that all that is right and good demands I intervene. I yearn to do so, and in so doing put an end to this disgusting situation. If I do indeed maintain my position as her master I have some hope that in the future, when circumstances are calmer, I will be able to do so. Rest assured that as soon as I see safe opportunity I shall act as I should.”

“I agree; for now you can do nothing that you have not already.” To Hugh’s amazement Constance chuckled. “It is a great shame he is not suitable; I dare say she would wed him gladly enough.”

Hugh shuddered. “Do not mention such an atrocity even in jest.”

She raised her eyebrows, and her smile picked up a distinctly devious air. “Ah, but if he were suitable it would not be an atrocity.”

Hugh did not know what to say to that particular piece of absurdity.






It was the same as the other two settlements, and Jocelyn’s men set to with practised efficiency. Those peasants who had not fled before the army prevented it were herded together away from the buildings, all unharmed except if they resisted. He’d been very specific about that, but then he had more sense than a rock, and recognised that he couldn’t get fines, fees, aids and labour from a collection of corpses.

As half the soldiers began systematically looting the houses Jocelyn began his little speech. He stood before the peasants in full armour, feet apart, hand on his sword belt near the hilt of the weapon, his squire at his shoulder holding his helmet and shield for him. “If you don’t already know who I am, I’m Sir Jocelyn de Ardentes, Count of Tourraine. That makes me your lord. That makes Raymond de Issoudun a rebel. You’re supporting him. Behold my mercy!” He flung an arm to gesture at the men moving from building to building. “I’m not killing, I’m not taking your tools and I’m not taking all your food and animals. Mercy,” he repeated, emphasising the word.

The first few buildings had been emptied; their contents had been split into two piles, one for him to take, one for the peasants to dig through and argue over when they’d gone. The sergeant took a break from overseeing the work to glance to his lord, recognising the pause from the other times they’d done this. Jocelyn nodded towards him, and the man disappeared back inside the nearest house. A short while later he exited carrying a burning brand, and began touching it to the thatch to speed the fire he’d set inside.

Jocelyn resumed his speech, cutting across the shouts of dismay. “Mercy – because I’m damned inclined to toss the whole stinking lot of you in there to roast like the treacherous scum you are! Next time I will; be bloody sure of it! This land is mine, you are all mine. I’m taking what’s mine back, and by God’s teeth you can be sure I’ll not have this happen again.”

Finished, he stood back to watch as the looting continued and more buildings were set to burn. All things going to plan they’d be leaving before the fires became unstoppable, so there’d be something left, though a something in need of a lot of repair. The smoke, which was beginning to bloom up into the sky, would be a beacon seen for miles though …

One man at arms struggled out a house with an armful of feather pillows nearly as large as he was. “Jesus’ favourite pair of sandals!” swore Jocelyn. He gave a low whistle of admiration at the sheer cheek of it; bloody peasants had no sense of their place. He’d have to get his bailiff to keep an extra close eye on this lot, to make sure as much as possible was wrung from them. Money was wasted on peasants.

Eventually he grew bored of watching the parade of household objects. He surveyed the gaggle of mutinous looking peasants held at weapon-point in a pen of armed men. His eye passed over them easily enough, taking stock and finding nothing worth the time, but then he found one that made him pause. He weighed up her merits with practised speed. If you washed her hair Jocelyn felt quite sure it’d turn out a nice dark honey colour, and she was pretty enough in a partly scrawny peasant way. Since there was no man hovering protectively it seemed unlikely she had a husband, or one of those bothersome fathers who through they could take on an army with nothing but their onion breath. Or if she did they were both away. Not that it really mattered. What mattered was time, but with a bit of ingenuity he wouldn’t join one poor sod he’d captured once, and end up in a battle with his chausses around his ankles and his hauberk stuffed under a bed. That was assuming his second dose of entertainment appeared this time where it hadn’t before. His oath to Richildis he negotiated in seconds: she wasn’t here and he had an itch, and anyway war was different to being about at home, and, whatever the occasion, peasants barely even mattered. Besides, a few minutes without finesse, delicacy, or anything much aside from the most basic of engagements really couldn’t count.

“Bring that one to me,” he commanded, pointing her out to the guards.

Close up it turned out she had bloody freckles. Jocelyn sighed; damned pity, but he supposed it didn’t matter much since he’d only have to put up with them for ten minutes at most. He caught one of her hands and held it up so he could examine it, finding the usual collection of calluses. “Well, you can keep those to yourself,” he grunted. He fished a penny out of the purse he wore at his belt and held the silver disc up; that was one of the few advantages of peasants – no need to pick your way through charming them. Or was that a disadvantage? He’d never been able to make his mind up.

The miserable resignation Jocelyn loathed receded a little at the sight of the money.

He was just settling his sword belt back into place a short while later when he heard one of the sentries give the alarm. About damned time, and just when he was back at risk of becoming bored. Jocelyn tossed the coin to the girl, and ducked out of the house. Outside men at arms hurried about, forming up into battle order.

Alain caught up with him quickly. “My lord, it’s de Issoudun, and it seems like he’s brought most of his men. They’re coming from the north, right from his castle.”

“Any estimate on numbers?” Jocelyn asked his squire.

“It’s rough, but the guess is at maybe eighty to a hundred.”

“Bloody perfect; means he’s left only a skeleton force in his castle, and he’s dragged along nearly every man he’s got. Took him long enough, damn him.” Jocelyn called held out his hands in a wordless demand for his helmet. Before he crammed it onto his head he bellowed to the huddle of terrified peasants, “Get on with you; go! Out of the way and don’t bloody come back till later!”

In a world reduced to what he could see through the two eye-slits of the helm’s face guard Jocelyn watched the peasants stream away in the opposite direction to the oncoming army.

As he walked briskly to his place in the centre of the infantry line, Jocelyn settled his shield on his arm. To Alain he snapped, “Get my horse and hold it ready behind the line. Keep your damned head down; if you or the beast die I’ll be so pissed off you’ll be glad to be dead!”

Standing shoulder to shoulder with his men at arms Jocelyn drew his sword. “Forward!” he shouted. The line began to march, men still running into place at the flanks. They had to get clear of the village.

In front of him he could see de Issoudun’s force quite well now; they were also assuming battle formation and closing rapidly. Their infantry line was supported by a conroi of cavalry in the rear, and de Issoudun’s banner flew over them. It was obvious, and becoming much more so, that Jocelyn’s force was the smaller, substantially smaller. He had no cavalry, excepting himself. All in all it was a recipe for defeat. Unless you knew about the eighteen mounted men at arms and three knights hidden where they could come up on the enemy’s rear with scant warning …

Jocelyn drew a lungful of the now dusty air. “Halt!” The line did so with good discipline. “Missiles, shoot their damned cavalry where you can.”

As the other army advanced the left flank trailed behind a little, and was in more ragged order than the rest of the line. Jocelyn bared his teeth. “Daft bastard; brought peasants to battle to bulk up his line.”

The lines closed enough for Jocelyn’s few archers and crossbows to open fire; the pitiful number of missiles skimmed overhead individually, numbers being too few for volleys to be effective. If they made any impact on the enemy Jocelyn didn’t see it.

A score or so of men jogged out of the enemy line and began to skirmish using plain bows. The occasional scream of pain indicated that targets were being found on both sides, but not many, judging from the far more common sounds of arrows hitting shields or armour.

“Pick off those damned skirmishers,” yelled Jocelyn. The order wasn’t necessary; before it was half complete he saw one of the enemy archers fall, an arrow protruding from his chest. The half healed crossbow wound in Jocelyn’s side ached in sympathy.

He let the missile duel continue for a bit, and de Issoudun’s line continued to come at them.

Deciding he’d delayed enough Jocelyn ordered, “Forward! Keep order!”

Both side’s missile units moved off to the sides as the two lines closed near to charging point and continued to pick off whatever targets they saw.

Jocelyn raised his shield so the rim brushed his chin and brandished his sword. “Charge!” He broke into a jog, the men at his sides doing likewise, and he trusted the same all along the line.

He covered the final few paces at a run, shield thrust out. “De Ardentes!” He collided with the men opposite him, flinging all his mailed weight and momentum behind the hide covered planking, trying to knock a hole in the line those following him could use. He slashed at one man, and kept pushing forward, using his shield more than his sword to bash and barge a path. The enemy centre was made up of trained men at arms, not conscripted peasants, and so he made little headway.

One man went down with a thrust to the face, and Jocelyn advanced over his body. As the ranks behind each line crashed into place Jocelyn found the crush became so intense it was hard to wield his sword effectively. He began to bludgeon with the weapon’s hilt and pommel, punching out, and using his shield offensively to clear more room. Where he could he slashed and stabbed.

Men at his side fell and killed; he hardly noticed. His world had narrowed to the man in front of him and the two men to either side of his target. Whenever one disappeared another took his place, racing Jocelyn for the suddenly empty space. He heard nothing except the clash of weapons, men shouting, grunting and screaming, and the roar of his own blood in his own ears, his own ragged breathing.

Something dinged off his helmet; reflexively Jocelyn heaved forward with his battered shield. He felt the man stumble, and a cut to the shoulder put him from the fight. Another small step forward, another helmeted face glaring back at him over a bloodied spear point.

Keep moving forward. If you’re going back you’re losing.

He stumbled on a body, and a blade came over the rim of his shield. It failed to pierce his mail, but the force numbed his left arm. Jocelyn saw the sword begin to descend again, then it fell away to one side as someone cut down the man using it.

The first he knew of his cavalry’s arrival was when the enemy started to give ground. As soon as it became easier to advance, as soon as it seemed fewer bodies took the place of those he had felled, he knew what was happening: the rear of the enemy line was no longer pressing forward.

Jocelyn buried his blade in the thigh of one man and jerked it free in a gush of blood. He advanced a step, guarded a wild cut from an axe, and nearly found his shield wrenched from his arm. In the struggle to free his weapon the enemy left himself vulnerable; Jocelyn spilled his guts onto the ground.

Then that was it; there was no one else, just retreating backs. Men flung down their weapons and shields to run faster. Some tugged off helmets and other easy bits of armour; anything to lighten their feet.

Jocelyn halted, gasping for breath. He let his shield drop from guard so his arm hung limp, and stabbed his sword point into the ground, resting part of his weight on it. “My horse,” he shouted.

The ranks of his infantry line were ragged now, but still solid, proving he was the victor here. The men were bloodied, many leaning on their own gore-soaked weapons as they panted for air. Not a few nursed wounds. Already men were sifting through the groaning, tangled wreckage for wounded to send back for treatment.

Alain arrived, leading Jocelyn’s destrier. Jocelyn climbed up into the saddle. He had to fight briefly to control the animal; the scent and sight of blood had fired up its spirit and it was eager to do what it was trained for. One slow soldier nearly got kicked by a flying hoof.

Jocelyn dug his heels in and the horse leapt forward. He didn’t follow the rout; there was no glory in cutting down fleeing common soldiers and there was none worth capturing there. He had specific prey in mind, but first he needed to join the unit of cavalry so recently arrived. He’d sprung his trap successfully, but he’d be thrice damned if he’d settle for second best!

His mount was fresh and his destination clear; Jocelyn covered the ground in no time at all. He slowed on the final approach; his prey was already found. He reined in before the disarmed man held between two men at arms. Removing his helmet Jocelyn beamed down at his prisoner. “It’s so nice to meet you again; words just can’t do it justice.”

Raymond de Issoudun didn’t answer.

“You’d better hope your wife likes you enough to want to buy you back even when you’ve lost your lands.” Jocelyn made a show of looking the man up and down. “I reckon she’ll cut her losses and be grateful for it.”

De Issoudun clenched his jaw. “She’ll do it.”

“Really? Because as I remember it, loyalty wasn’t one of her best attributes.”

“I taught her a thing or two on the subject since then. If she doesn’t ransom me my brother will, and then I’ll go and repeat the lesson. So she’ll buy me back.”

“Then I’ll look forward to renewing our friendship.” Jocelyn smiled in a certain way.

De Issoudun flung himself forward, only to be restrained bodily by the two men standing at either side. “Touch her again and you’re dead!”

“I’m not dead this time, and it was her doing most of the touching. Not my fault you’re as delightful as a bowl of cold pottage.” Jocelyn flipped his helm about in his hands and began to fiddle with the lacing which adjusted the fit of the padded skullcap. “Well, that’s enough pleasantries. Let’s get to business. I’m the Count; you’re nothing. You’ve broken my peace and the king’s peace-”

“The king’s dead, and I couldn’t give that,” Raymond spat on the ground, “for your peace.”

“Wrong; he’s still alive, and slowly getting better. You attacked me and you lost, so I’m adding your castle and so on to my collection. I’ve a nice room complete with locking door waiting for you; if you’re really lucky you might attract a rat or two you can keep as a pet. You’d get on very well; birds of a feather, and all that. We’ll see if anyone wants to hand over money for you, and actually I’m hoping they do. I don’t want you cluttering up any of my castles, not when I can turn a profit and send you into exile.” He looked up from his helmet and savoured the word, “Mmm, castles. Three, to be precise, thanks to you, and with a lot of divine benevolence.” Jocelyn crossed himself. He leaned down in his saddle and confided, “I don’t think He liked you burning that church.”

“Rot in hell,” snarled de Issoudun.

“I suppose it’s too much to expect you to give me your parole?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Jocelyn made a face, pretending to be innocently baffled. “But only those so pathetic they can’t even manage a whore do that. But I expect you’ll need to do something to while away the hours, unless your friendly rat is a better conversationalist than most. I wouldn’t trust you so far as I could throw you with my hands tied behind my back, uphill, upwind in a gale anyway, so it’s no loss.” To his soldiers Jocelyn said, “Fish him our of that armour and bind his hands. Keep him closely guarded; if he gets away I’ll have your hides. He’ll come with us to the castle; we can store him in his own cells for a bit. Clean and mend his armour, then add it to our stocks.”

Jocelyn rode back to his infantry, humming a very workmanlike rendition of ‘Blooming in Spring’. It had been an excellent day, and it wasn’t even midmorning yet.






5, 963

Pray excuse a frog while she laughs at two of her major male characters. Hugh was being so typically Hughish, and Jocelyn is simply terrible

[frogbeastegg]

“You must stop weeping,” chided Mariot, raising Anne’s face with a finger under her chin. “Your eyes are all red and swollen, and it’s spoiling your looks.” She dabbed at the river of tears with an already sodden scrap of material.

Anne jerked her head free. “As if I care.”

Eleanor was sure she could detect a slur in Anne’s voice, but all the crying made it very hard to be certain. She also thought she could hear some conscious imitation of herself in Anne’s words, and that she liked not at all. Anne was applying none of it correctly; words, tone, timing – it was all wrong, and all sounded sulky and argumentative. There were a great many better responses to Mariot’s simply daft attempt at comfort, and each of them would have carried Anne a little closer to quashing the idea, and others very like it, for good.

“Now, what would your grandmother say to that?”

“I care even less.”

Mariot looked about in mute appeal to the others in Eleanor’s solar.

Godit answered the appeal, and said quite gently, “She would remind you of the need to mind appearances, because of your rank.”

“And what is my rank?” demanded Anne. “Queen? Wife? Widow? Pawn? Prize? Unwanted?” Mariot tried to wipe Anne’s face, but the girl knocked her hand aside. “No one knows, and no one knows what to do with me.”

“You are my father’s widow, and your life is no longer a question of what others want for you. Widows have the right to decide for themselves.” In theory, Eleanor added in the safety of her own mind.

“But what should I do?”

“That depends on what you want.”

“My family will want me to go home again.”

Mariot nodded. “Yes, and it’d be nice to be in Scotland again, wouldn’t it, sweetling?”

“Yes,” said Anne slowly.

Eleanor heard the unspoken reservation, and voiced it for the queen. “But?”

“But I just want William back, and everything to go back to being right again. That is what I want. I do not want to argue with my family, but at the same time I am sure I do not want the same things they will want for me: returning home to live with them and taking up a child’s place in the household again, then another marriage. I liked him and I miss him, and I liked it here, and I liked being useful, and I really liked being in charge and everything, and having some say in everything, and - and everything.” The gabbling, something Anne usually did if exceptionally embarrassed, was also beginning to make Eleanor wonder if the she might be closer to being drunk than not. Anne hiccoughed, sniffled, hiccoughed again. “And anyway I really don’t think William is dead, I mean I doubt he would just go away and then get killed, because it really does not seem like the kind of thing he would do.”

Godit put an arm around Anne’s shoulders and hugged her tightly. “Life goes on. It might look bleak now, and you’ll always remember him, but everything will get better. One day, though you might not want to hear it now, you’ll find someone else you love.”

“I would rather have William back.” Anne clutched her goblet of wine and took another long drink, evidently emptying it for the third time in close succession that morning, as she handed it to Adela for a refill. “He was always really nice, and so kind and gentle, and considerate too. He always brought me books, and we used to read together, and he was always interested to hear what I was doing, even if it was really boring or silly or something. If I needed help or anything he always knew everything. He might have been old but he was not old, not like your granddad or something, so it was like he was really wise, but also really nice and fun instead of being all stern and scary, and he did not have these eyebrows which stick out all over the place like a bird’s wing gone crazy, and that was really better than my own grandfather, because I always hated that. He was really nice, he really was.” Anne stopped to catch her breath, sniffled, then started crying full force again. “I really liked him,” she wailed.

Eleanor intercepted the wine as it was being sent back to Anne, and hid it behind her stool. Hawise collected the cup and removed it from the room, walking out nonchalantly with it concealed from view by her skirts. Eleanor gave a nod of thanks when she returned.

The peon of praise continued to flow, and Eleanor tuned it out. It was making her stomach roil. There was only so much nonsense she could hear before she felt obliged to speak a few home truths about the arse in the crown, and she recognised, after near non-stop king-related provocation since yesterday, she was reaching breaking point. Better to let Anne keep her fond, false memories, and from past experience Eleanor knew she wasn’t likely to take much notice of anything that didn’t fit her cosy ideal of her late husband.

Instead Eleanor once again looked to see what she could do to encourage Hugh. If he regained his confidence he would not need her to play nursemaid, and if he had a good council of trusted advisors then she would be even less needed. She could up and leave him to it. Perhaps she would not be able to go very far or for very long before she was needed again, but she would be away.

That question was by now so familiar she rattled off her answers in no time at all, examined each again for flaws and best implementation, listed again the chief stumbling blocks Hugh was likely to encounter, and searched fruitlessly for anything new.

Eleanor turned her mind to another puzzle, one no less familiar but far from simple. It was one she had found no positive answer to. Was there any way to salvage Trempwick from this? To keep him alive, and bring his formidable resources into line to work for Hugh? Respect and ambition, they seemed to be the main areas. If he respected Hugh’s abilities Trempwick might work for him because he considered him worthy. If his ambition could be curbed somehow he might be content again with the role of advisor. But how? Eleanor could never see Hugh doing anything to gain Trempwick’s admiration, and she was no longer completely confident ambition was the spymaster’s sole motivation in seeking to place her on the throne.

Fulk nudged her in the ribs; Eleanor started and looked up. “Yes?”

Anne apparently hadn’t noticed Eleanor’s lack of attention, because she continued to lean forward eagerly. “Can I? I promise I will not be a bother to you, and I will do whatever you say whenever you ask, truly I will. Please?”

“Er …?”

“Oh!” Anne’s hand shot to her mouth; she missed her aim sufficiently to whack herself on the nose with her longest finger. “Of course, silly me, you want to know why. It just seems like a really good idea, if you do not mind. I would not have to go home, and I could wait and find out everything which happens with everyone and everything, and you have been so helpful ever since I first arrived.” Anne absently reached out for her wine again, and seemed quite surprised when her hand closed on thin air. She blinked a few times, tearstained face crumpling with a frown. “Where is my drink?”

Using Fulk as a screen to stop Anne seeing, Eleanor gestured a firm ‘cease and desist!’ to Adela when she moved to fill another goblet. To distract Anne she prompted, “You were saying?”

“Oh, yes. Please let me stay with you, please. William’s message in his will did say I should stay in England as long as I wanted, and it is just a lot like the kind of arrangement other noble families do, with fostering and everything, and it would be really fun, I think, and I would learn ever so much.”

“Ah.” It was not the most intelligent answer Eleanor had have managed. It was quite diplomatic though, much more so than “Help!” Anne’s proposal was terrible in every possible way. It would bring at least one know spy for Trempwick into her household, and potentially spies for other, unknown parties. All the extra eyes would confine her to a life of perfect, expected, tedious suitability, and Fulk may as well be in Jerusalem for all the likelihood of their getting some time alone together. As much as Eleanor liked Anne she knew the queen was best kept to controlled doses, especially at the moment.

As Anne started asking for more wine, Eleanor allowed herself to be blunt. She didn’t want a lot of people near her. She wanted Fulk, and she wanted to leave the palace. That was all. Nothing and no one more. Well, maybe Hawise. The girl was very talented at making life comfortable in an agreeable, fuss and bother free way. Eleanor did not want more to worry about, more clutter to get in her way, and more strains to add to the too many she already had. People near her were in danger; either Trempwick or another might try to snatch her away by force, and anyone in the way would be disposed of.

As she laboured to find a very tactful way to say the mentionable parts of that, Anne piped up, “I know it is what William would have wanted. He really loved you, you know, and he was always saying how he chose your name because he found it really peaceful sounding and thought it suited you. You were always his favourite-”

“No!” Eleanor cursed herself for her outburst, but, committed, she saw no reason whatsoever to dither and allow matters to become worse, especially not when she could turn her denial of Anne’s persistent, ludicrous belief into something altogether different. Something which did not make the raw spot quite so obvious to others. “No, he would never have wanted that, and you know it.”

Anne smiled blearily, and nodded. “It’s true; always his favourite. He told me, you see. He had all these dreams for you-”

“Stop it,” Eleanor begged. Dignity was forgotten in her need to stop this before she lost control of her temper, and lashed out unforgivably. “He hated me, and he always did. Why must you force me to say it over and over? Perhaps you like hearing it. Or perhaps you want to hurt me. Well you do not - I do not care for his hate, or his love.”

Anne balled up her fists and hammered them down on the cushion either side of her. “But you were his favourite, you were.”

“Enough!” she shouted, clinging desperately to the last fraying shreds of self-possession. “He would not have wanted you anywhere near me; he would have been horrified at the thought of it. If you do not know that then you did not know him as well as you think.”

Anne burst into tears again, making Eleanor feel positively rotten.

Godit spared time to give Eleanor an absolutely vicious look, before joined the rest of the group trying to cheer Anne up. As she patted the girl on the back Godit declared, “Never mind. Some people just don’t understand what love is, they don’t understand the least thing about it.”

There was one very pregnant silence. Everyone in the room except Hawise could guess the meaning of that remark, and if Hawise were as bright as Eleanor believed she might be able to make a good guess.

Anne sniffed, wiped her nose on the bit of cloth Mariot had been mopping her tears with, and said with unintentionally comical gravity, “That is really unfair. It is downright mean, is what that is.”

Eleanor thought it best to brush over the entire matter as soon as possible, before this group became privy to any more secrets she would rather they weren’t. “We will never agree about my father, so I find it best that we do not discuss him wherever possible. Otherwise, for all else, I will do whatever I can to help you, as I have always promised. You need not decide what you are going to do yet awhile, so take your time and make the decision a good one.”

Anne smiled broadly and nodded like her neck was broken. “I’m thirsty.”

“No more wine,” ordered Eleanor. “Someone go fetch some small ale or something.”

Godit took the chance to leave, which was good. Eleanor had no idea what had happened between them, but ever since Fulk had gone on that shopping trip with the maid they had been frosty in each other’s presence. She didn’t particularly care that the maid had taken to ignoring her wherever possible, but she did worry why. It was not good enough to presume that Godit had failed to snare Fulk once again, and now loathed her as a more successful rival who did not even want the prize. Eleanor wanted – needed - to be certain.

Before Godit returned Eleanor’s door guard presented himself. Eleanor recognised him as Sewal, the man who usually took the afternoon and early morning shifts. He tugged his forelock. “Sir Miles to see you, your Highness. Says it’s right urgent.”

“Why are you on duty, and not Walcher?”

“He’s right sick, puking all over and moaning of his head.”

Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “You mean he has a hangover?”

Sewal shuffled his feet, he tugged his forelock again. “Aye, your Highness,” he answered reluctantly. A good deal more enthusiastically he added, “He were taunted into drinking mead, and he don’t know how potent it can be. It weren’t intentional, beggin’ your pardon.”

“How very useful.” Eleanor waggled a finger at Fulk. He stepped forward, left hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword, exuding a comforting air of pain pending for someone other than her. “Walcher’s health would be aided considerably by a bit of air. Find him, and send him on a nice run about the inner ramparts in full armour. Two laps, I think. Be sure to bring him here first, so I can express my disappointment and find a good spot to watch.”

Fulk bowed. “Yes, your Highness.” He departed, and judging from the expression on his face the unfortunate Walcher was going to find himself getting an earful from his commander as well as his princess.

Eleanor returned her attention to the patiently waiting guard. “Send Sir Miles into the hall, please.”

Sewal bowed, and left.

Sir Miles and Eleanor both entered the outer room at almost the same moment.

He wasted no time in saying, “A message from your brother. Trempwick is here. You will remain in your rooms and not set foot outside, and you are not to see him. If you do not show sense and obey things will go hard for you.” He continued to avoid her eye. “I am sorry, if I had a choice I would alter the wording a little. He is at his nerve’s end, and the strain is telling.”

Eleanor clasped her hands in front of her, knotting her fingers together tightly as she found herself battling her temper yet again. “Does he not want my help? I know the man far better than he, and mistakes will cost.”

“I am sorry, your Highness. Those are his orders.”





This time please excuse me as a grin at a drunken queen. :sigh: Suddenly this story has a profusion of drunks. I do hope it doesn’t lower the tone

There should really be at least one more scene to go hand in hand with this one, but it is proving rather intensive to write, and so it will have to follow another time.

Now for the news you have all been dreading: froggy has a new job, in a bookshop. So less time for writing. I should still manage, though maybe not at quite the old pace. It depends, I haven’t had my hours given to me yet.

[edyzmedieval]

My'lady Frog,

Your story is wonderful. I just can't stop.

Oh well, 2 interesting OT aspects:

1. Good job finding a job!!! Now we won't have to worry about you getting our HoF 2005 Best Story award!

2. If you want to release this book(I highly reccomend it!) can I be your manager?!

[Ciaran]

So far, I´ve read the first four pages and all I can say is: Wow, it´s really great. You do this for a living, writing, I mean, don´t you?
It´s truly captivating, I couldn´t stop until my laptop batteries had run out.
What is this "Red Hand" about, anyways, another story of yours? Where do I get it, I´ll need something when I´m through with this one.
The only ting that mars the enjoyment is this nasty ad bar blocking some of the text Is there any way to get rid of that?

[The Shadow One]

Lady Frog:

So, you have a job at a bookshop? Congratulations. I still cling to my job at the library, despite now working a real [sigh] grown-up job.

Yes, jobs wreck havoc with writing and trying to get published. I find that I must get up at five a.m., write frantically for two hours, read during my lunch hours (adds to my anti-social persona), and maybe try and get another hour or two of writing in during the evening some time. I accomplish this by drinking lots and lots of strong tea.

My goal is still 3000 to 5000 words per day. Most days I get the low end; the high end has now become quite difficult.

I'd think a bookshop would be better than a library [as long as it's not one of those horrid Barnes and Nobles or Waldonbooks]. After all, anyone can come to a library and, ha, ha, anyone does. A bookshop requires you PAY for the books. In my mind, I imagine you at a small corner bookshop that smells of cut paper and coffee, with books along every wall and piled on the tables and counters. Perhaps it specializes in rare volumes and first editions. When things are slow, you sit on a comfortable stool, drink tea, and read in the warmth of the afternoon sunlight, with occassional glances at the world as it hurries past your storefront windows.

[Sigh] Nicely done. When you are published, they'll put one of those small brass plaques on the wall outside the shop: "Lady Frog worked here."

The Shadow One

[frogbeastegg]

Hugh strode up onto the dais, swept his mantle to one side with a flourish of his arm, and seated himself on his throne. He draped the rich fabric of the cloak across his knees, secretly delighted by the effortless majesty of the motions he had just performed. He waited, schooled into serious expectance. Taking advantage of what breathing space was offered Hugh worked to impose matching tranquillity on his mind and nerves, and to prepare himself for this most unexpected confrontation.

The hall was busy, and filling still more as people filed in to watch whatever was to be played out. There were too many for simple curiosity, or honest desire to be involved in events. Hugh believed that a person, or persons, must be busily engaged in spreading the word and encouraging others to attend. This boded not so well, as if such persons were in reality busy then it seemed that the likely ultimate source was Trempwick. A desire for witnesses spoke of something which needed to be displayed, or of an anticipated victory.

The spymaster himself was making steady progress across the hall. He could not be said to dawdle, true, but he did not hurry. Behind him, in a column four wide, walked a mixed party of various ages and including both sexes. As they had been permitted to pass each of the guarded points on the route here it seemed all but certain that there was not a weapon amongst them. Hugh could produce no accurate count, but it mattered little; Trempwick had brought far more than the permitted five. They should never have been admitted, and Hugh would have given much to find how the spymaster had bypassed procedure so neatly. This he felt confident he could use, although he felt a certain trepidation, as the spymaster would surely have known he would be challenged on the matter. In challenging him Hugh would have to be cautious not to play right into his slimy hands.

In the time remaining Hugh prayed privately for aid and guidance. Instinctively he knew this would be the last battle between himself and Trempwick. There might be other clashes in the future, but here, now, before witnesses the footing for those meetings would be decided. More, as a long and troubled night had revealed to him, he was losing his grip so badly that he had nearly let go. Then he would be a failure. Such men rarely survived long in the game of politics, and their families also tended to meet unhappy ends. He could not afford to falter again, and that made him feel awake as never before. For Constance and for their child he must do better. If he forgot all else but them it became a little easier to focus and keep panic at bay. For their sake he would do whatever was needful, even if - and he shuddered to think it and prayed earnestly and long this would never be required - he had to sell his soul to the devil himself.

Coming at last to a halt before Hugh, Trempwick did not kneel. He bowed from the waist, going not a fraction deeper than protocol required. “Your Highness.”

This was provocative, but Hugh saw no way to retaliate. As he had not yet been crowned he was still a prince, and Trempwick had treated him as such, but many others had taken to bestowing kingly honours on him. Trempwick’s lack of such stood forth like a Saracen in a parade of Swedes. “I believe I gave you a task to carry out, and orders to focus yourself upon it entirely. Why, then, have you returned?”

Trempwick bowed again, shallow this time. “I crave your pardon, my lord. It is a matter of the heart which brings me here, though I am shamed to admit it.”

“Then let you remove yourself from my presence and return to your duty.”

“Forgive me, but I cannot.” Trempwick paused briefly, letting the murmur of surprise run about the hall. He raised his voice a little when he spoke again so his words could carry across the new background noise. “How can I in good conscience obey one duty and neglect, no – wilfully disobey another?”

Hugh’s mind spun as he struggled to find an apt reply that would not carry detrimental meaning to those not privy to the full story here.

Trempwick gave him no more than a small gap in which to speak. He turned about and held his hands up and out to the side, appealing to the crowd. “You all here know of what I speak, if I name the duty I so shamefully let slide. You are my witnesses. Each and every one of you sees how I fail, and in so doing betray my oldest friend, who is also my lord and master. Did I not undertake the solemn duty, and swear faithfully, to be a good husband to our king’s youngest daughter? Have I not let the appointed date slide by? Have I not failed still to make good on my word?” He turned back to Hugh, his tone beseeching now. “I ask, no, beg,” he dropped to his knee before the throne, one hand stretched out in supplication, “that you allow me at last to make good my oath.”

Nell again. It was always Nell. No one spoke to him but to ask for her, or so it seemed all of a sudden. He was sick of it to the very pit of his stomach. “This is not a matter for public bandying.”

“My duty was laid forth publicly, and my failure to perform that duty has also been public. How, then, should I hide my confession behind closed doors? I have been in error, and I would make amends.”

Hugh braced one hand on his knee and leaned forward. “I wonder that you fall back upon the duty that you find most favourable to yourself as reason to neglect far more important ones laid upon you.”

“I make no secret of the fact this match has come to be very pleasing to me, but it is simple for any to see that this duty predates the other. Nor is it a matter of what pleases. The simple fact is that I can no longer sit still and blot out the pains my disobedience cause me. I have explained myself to Nell many times over, but I am aware of the unhappiness this causes her. I do not know how I can face William again with this on my conscience.”

Hugh surged to his feet. “How dare you! To trample so upon recent grief.”

Trempwick’s face was a picture of polite puzzlement. “I am afraid I do not understand, your Highness. Our king was hurt, yes, but he is alive, well, and recovering.”

His legs felt as if they were made of water; Hugh sank back into his seat. “This is not what we heard.”

“I had assumed this would be the most common of knowledges,” said the spymaster gravely. “I am shocked to find otherwise.”

“It is not so because this is not the message we received. The message was displayed commonly, for all and any to see. It said he was gravely ill and like to die, and so many can attest.”

“I fear you mistook my words. I do not accuse you of hiding anything, your Highness.” Trempwick fidgeted on his knees, subtly suggesting he had been kept there an unreasonable length of time.

Hugh ground his teeth; as if many would have thought that of him if Trempwick had not spoken of it. He did not believe any of it, and struggled to repress the instinctive panic the words had provoked in him. He did no wrong in what he had undertaken, and even if his father did recover – please God! – then he would have done no wrong in assuming, and relinquishing, the throne. The spymaster lied for his own gain. He must believe that, and not allow himself to doubt. A mental image of Constance, her beautiful body broken and marred by gaping wounds which had long since ceased to flow with her life’s blood rose unbidden in Hugh’s mind. The revolting vision proved useful in banishing much of the uncertainty, and in making him heedless of the remaining traces.

Trempwick gave forth a most excellent imitation of relieved solemnity as he said, “This does better explain your recent actions, I admit. I had thought it most shocking that you immediately announced your intention to take the throne, though William still lived.”

Hugh nearly stammered an explanation, but stopped himself in time. To do so would seem as if he had a guilty conscience, and would give the spymaster further material to work with. “I do wonder why you should have heard such news where I have not. I wonder at the reliability of this report; there is great confusion, and many contradicting, false rumours which spread with the speed of fire. Only news that comes with the royal seal affixed may be trusted in this situation.”

Trempwick smiled. “Matching news will be delivered to you very soon, I am sure of it. Then you may join me in my heartfelt relief.”

Even if he attempted to be as optimistic as Anne, Hugh found it hard to believe such a message would arrive, and now there would be people wondering if he repressed good news to further his bid for power. Trempwick was winning. The bald knowledge made Hugh desperate; that he could see no solid countermoves or parries increased his frantic need to win. A king plays by different rules, he reminded himself. He was a king now. He must win, above all else he must win. A lifetime of penance would guard his family better than a flare of goodness soon extinguished. He turned the subject, “We will speak of your men. You will explain why you have flouted the ruling, and brought such numbers with you.”

Trempwick spread his hands. “I wished only to carry my bride home in the style she deserves.” He fidgeted again, swapping the knee which touched the ground with a wince. He massaged the joint which had been resting on the flagstones.

“The ruling was settled in place by my father, he to whom you claim such obedience. It disturbs me that you disregard his word so lightly.”

Trempwick’s head jerked up. “I can assure you that there is nothing light in my actions regarding your sister,” he said. Now there was little enough trace of his earlier deference. “I will do her every due honour and more besides.”

“Even where it means disobedience to your king?” Hugh’s words rang out through the hall with pleasing effect.

“You will notice that not a man amongst them has even an eating knife, and there are women present, so there is no threat involved. I believed you would understand and approve. But perhaps I was mistaken.”

“I could never approve of something which tramples upon one of the foundation rulings of visitors to this court, no matter the cause. It would have been better if you had required them to wait outside the gates, as indeed the ruling demands.”

“They were allowed entry along with myself at no less than three guard points, after being scrupulously checked for anything which may pose a threat to your welfare. I should not have thought, after this, that you would find objection it their presence.” Trempwick fidgeted again, this time drawing sympathetic looks from a few nearby. He bowed from his kneeling position, and said, “Forgive my impatience, but you have not yet given me the answer I came here seeking. Will you allow me at last to do as I swore, and marry your sister? You need not make ceremony of the occasion, only let us stand together before a priest in the presence of this very company. You need not even provide a feast; we shall depart this very day, along with the escort that has troubled you so greatly.”

“No.” Hugh planted his hands on the arms of the throne, consciously imitating the pose he had seen William I using in the picture drawn to commemorate his founding of an abbey. “I have given you my reasons, which are not to be repeated before gatherings, and I will not be harassed into changing them because you ask over and over, and think to place me in a difficult situation where I must bow to save face. In addition to my previous reasons, it would be wrong to expect Nell to marry at such a time. She is waiting for news in the same way as I. In the tragically likely event our father has passed away then it would be improper for her to marry so close to the event.”

Trempwick’s voice was low as he asked, “Is this your final answer?”

Hugh gave everything he had to the illusion that the tacit threat had not affected him in the slightest, and to his own ears it sounded a success. “It is. Now I will thank you to withdraw and return to your designated tasks.”

“May I at least see her, and pass on my best wishes?”

“I regret this is not possible. She is feeling unwell, and has withdrawn to her rooms. I fear that the turmoil of recent days has adversely affected her.” Prudence dictated that the truth of his sister’s position in the game remained hidden from the one it could harm most. If Eleanor could be used to misdirect Trempwick, then so much the better, and if the spymaster were focused more on achieving her perhaps his efforts elsewhere would be hampered. As she was not present she would have no need to declare herself openly for one side or the other. That the seclusion also prevented her from aiding her mentor, if such was any part of her design, was a considerable bonus.

“This also is your final word?”

“It is.”

Trempwick rose to his feet. He held himself stiffly, proudly too, and when he spoke he did not seem to shout, or even to raise his voice, but still his words echoed clearly throughout the massive hall. “Then it seems there is but one way left for me to phrase this. Give me back my wife.”

The hall exploded into excited talk.

Hugh belatedly realised his jaw hung open like a lack-witted yokel; he closed it. “You lie!” he shouted. He was not convinced of his accusation. If it were true then his worst fears were also likely to prove true – Nell was not in fact his ally, but instead his adversary.

“I do not,” returned the spymaster calmly. “And I will prove my claim.” He half turned and indicated his army of followers with one hand. “Behold my witnesses, twenty-three in number, not including my mother and her maid, who acted as Eleanor’s ladies. The priest is to be found there, at present in the centre of the group.”

Trempwick clicked his fingers, and the group of witnesses parted. The priest came forward to stand a step behind Trempwick’s right elbow. One other man stepped out from his place in the middle, bearing a flat, shallow box set with jewels and gold work. He knelt before the group, and two others moved to his side. One opened the box, and together they took out the contents. Even before they finished unfolding the sheet and holding it stretched out between them for display the small, smudged bloodstain was clearly apparent on the snowy white linen.

This time Trempwick did raise his voice, “Give me back my wife!”

It was true, in his heart Hugh knew it had to be true. She had betrayed him, played him for a fool, and he had walked so willingly along to his own ruination like plodding pony in a halter. There but remained one thing to do: fight, and see if he could undo what they had worked. “This is false! You slander my sister, and unless you withdraw this claim of yours immediately I shall have you pay for the insult.”

“Insult? There is no insult here, only what should have been public from the start. Why did we wed in secret? Because I very strongly suspected you would do as you have done. Over and again we were denied permission to do as we were contracted – and desired – to do, and we were blocked by you,” he jabbed a finger at Hugh, “your Highness, against your father’s command. It became ever more obvious that you would stand in our path, though it go against father, law, church, and the wishes of the betrothed couple.”

“Wishes? Why did I block you time and again?” Yes – why did he? Hugh thought faster than he had ever done in his life. “Because my sister came to me and begged my aid in avoiding a match she found repugnant in every possible way-”

Trempwick drowned Hugh out, “Nonsense! You have seen us together, and your words are madness in the face of that. I will admit freely the betrothal was not to her taste, but she agreed to our marriage happily enough. Minds change, hearts change, and once past the initial shock she began to see much she liked. Now she-

Hugh also raised his voice to drown Trempwick out in turn, “The betrothal contract was not lawful; she was forced into it, and so it can never be binding. I will not uphold such a travesty of a match-”

“Your father wished it,” Trempwick all but bellowed. “He holds the right to make such decisions, not you.”

“I intended to speak on her behalf to our father when he returned, to beg him to reconsider giving her to someone so unworthy of her, and so against her preference in a marriage that returns nothing to us and ours. Now the decision is mine to make, and I make it: you will not have her.”

Trempwick whirled away to stand at the forefront of his gathering of followers. “The decision is nothing of yours – we are already married, before witnesses and in the eyes of God.” He drew himself up, glowing with virtuous passion. “We have no need of your yay or nay, only our own consent, and that is freely given and can never be retracted. She is mine, and I hers, body and soul, in this life and the next.”

The thought he should applaud Trempwick’s performance came abruptly into Hugh’s mind from he knew not where, and on a whim born from the adrenaline of the situation he followed it. “Your acting is the best I have seen; you should take to the stage and work miracle plays instead of slander. Your claim is false, I know this to be so. It cannot be otherwise.”

“We married the day before she left to come here, in the hall of Woburn manor, before these witnesses and the village priest. All here will swear upon their immortal souls and whatever relics you choose that this is so.”

“Bribed oaths mean nothing.” Hugh waved a dismissive hand. “Let them perjure themselves if so they desire; they shall pay for it in the next life.”

“Then let Eleanor come here and speak her part. Perhaps you might believe her?”

“I will not rouse her from her grief to face the latest perfidy you have worked against her. I will not slight her by even entertaining that there may be truth in your false claim, knowing what she has told me, and remembering how she begged me to save her from you.”

“Over and again you level that accusation at me, and the only thing keeping me from ramming it back down your throat is my due respect for your rank. I will not even dignify it with a response.”

Hugh felt himself bare his teeth in a grin of pure exhilaration. “Yes, I think that suits well. Your nonsense is such that I will no longer dignify it with a response. Get from my halls and take your false witnesses with you, and do not come back unless expressly summoned.”

“I give you but one final chance. Return to me my wife and let us go in peace.”

“Now you dare threaten me. Get you gone, before I decide not to allow it.”

“You gave me public assurances of safe conduct, would you now break them?”

It was true, and Hugh was as trapped by it now as he had been when Trempwick’s messenger has begged those same assurances from him in public, where he could not deny them. “Safe conduct is the reason you do not now lie in a pool of your own blood for your work this day. It means you will not even be held to answer for your words, but will instead walk out the palace gates with your retinue, to face retribution on another day.”

Trempwick stood, so immaculately poised Hugh hated him for it. At last he gave a curt nod, as if some greater decision had been made. “So be it,” he said, again not raising his voice but still projecting his words clearly to all present. “I have come and I have asked, and I have seen also, and now there is nothing more for me here. If any harm whatsoever befalls Eleanor I will find you responsible. I am not alone in that; there are other, powerful men who stand with me. Our king recruited her guardians well, and we do not care to see her held prisoner and degraded, and very few will look kindly on you when some ill befalls your main rival. There are many loyal to William, who will not see him displaced without a fight. Continue with your usurpation at your peril. I renounce you and any allegiance I have to you. I name you for what you are: Hugh FitzEnguerrand de Saint Brieuc, traitor and usurper.”

The hall went into uproar.

Hugh’s heart twisted, and he felt his grasp on his inheritance tremble. He could not be sure of the mood of the hall, so mixed and strident it was. Shouting and more shouting, questions, accusations, demands for evidence, demands for action of varying sorts, all that and more jumbled together and issuing from a hundred mouths at top volume. Over and again he caught a few words which seemed to label his sister as Trempwick’s wife, and sometimes called for her to be returned for the sake of peace. Others still kept quiet and only watched how the land lay. There were snatched bits of support for Trempwick, words surfacing from the sea of noise to snap at Hugh, before vanishing again before he could do more than note the sting of their passing.

Reacting blindly from the agony of it, Hugh came to his feet so violently that the throne toppled backwards. “Throw him out!” he roared. “Him and all his creatures, and his lies.”

Trempwick flung one final comment at him, “You made a very good shield for the intended heir while she learned; William knew better than to let his pride rule him against the good of all. A queen is hard enough to accept, without her being a child also, and in need of very different training to a future king. You may hold the rightful heir prisoner, and you may have blocked your father’s will for now, but I think you will find that helps very little. Harm her and you as good as kill yourself, and William does not die so easily.” He turned on his heel and stalked away, before the men at arms struggling through the press of the crowd could reach him. His entourage fell into neat ranks behind him, a few of his own unarmed soldiers going before him to force passage.






Sounds of a fight from the hallway had Eleanor coming to her feet, hands ready to draw her knives if needed. “Stay here. All of you,” she snapped to Anne, and the four maids. Thinking to spare them whatever had come for her, and knowing they could be no help, she rushed out into the main room and slammed the solar door shut. Fulk wasn’t here, he was taking the drunken guard for his run, so that was one burden less.

The door to the hall burst open, revealing a somewhat dishevelled Trempwick. “Quiet, Nell!” he ordered. She obeyed, submission long ingrained.

The sounds of bare-handed fighting continued as he ducked in through the door, closed it and shot the bolt across. He began to drag the heavy chair from the head of the table to barricade the door. Abruptly the noise stopped.

“Not much time.” He hugged the wall near one of the windows and leaned cautiously forward to snatch a glimpse of the outside world without showing too much of himself. “Things may look bad, but only trust me. I have arrangements underway. Your brother will not dare harm you now, and you are safe from being given to one of his cronies. Be ready, think, and keep your head down. Let me do all else, and trust.”

The sound of running feet pounding across the courtyard’s cobbles came only seconds before the outer door being kicked open. The racket of booted feet and rattling armour transferred to the hallway, and the fighting began again, this time with the clash of steel against steel.

Trempwick swore, and closed the gap between them, catching Eleanor up in an embrace. “Trust,” he emphasised, looking down at her. “You need do nothing, so pay mind to your safety above all else.”

A man screamed outside the door, ending with a horrible gargling.

Trempwick looked up sharply. “Bastard!” he spat. “Killing my unarmed men.” He backed her into the corner furthest from the door and placed his body between her and the solid wood. “Listen, and pay attention.”

Another agonised scream emphasised his point. The door rattled as someone tried to open it. It rattled again, differently, as someone put his shoulder to it and began to try and force it open.

“Things will be wild for a time. Much unexpected will happen, and doubtless you will feel both lost and shocked, and that is understandable. I only beg that you think, as you always have, and continue to act with the discipline and skill I have taught you. Do not let your surprise show at anything; mask your emotions, take what is offered you and use it so far as is safe.” Trempwick glanced to the door; how it was Eleanor couldn’t see, thanks to his body blocking the view. “This is not how I wished you to find out, but your brother is a bastard, fathered by a man named Enguerrand. He cannot be king.”

“What?” breathed Eleanor, uncertain if she believed sufficiently to begin to wonder if there might possibly be some chance this was true. She had seldom seen the spymaster so disarmed of his habitual guards, self-control, masks and lies, his stillness. She had never seen him in action, using every heartbeat to maximum advantage and planning on the spot as he risked life and limb, as she was now. She could see a distant, vague glimpse of the young man he had been, working in the field and gaining those scars she had been so shocked by. It made him feel marginally more honest.

“That is why all has fallen out as it has-”

Trempwick spun around as the door finally exploded open, the bolt housing ripping free of the doorframe and the chair going flying. Men in Hugh’s livery began to pour in, weapons drawn, some of them bloodied. A sword point came to rest a few inches from Trempwick’s chest.

Still crammed safely behind Trempwick, Eleanor couldn’t see his face. He slowly raised his hands out to the side, palms outward to show they were empty. “I am unarmed, saving my belt knife, though that did little to prevent you butchering my men.” The contemptuous air in his voice thickened as he said, “Are you here to kill me?”

A new man stepped into Eleanor’s view; she recognised him as Will, Hugh’s trusted friend and oftentime chosen second in private military matters. He had no naked weapon, but his hand lingered near the hilt of his fine sword, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. “That game we shall not play; both of us know my lord granted you safe conduct.”

“Then tell your murderous creature to put up his weapon before I grow weary of this.”

Will gestured, and the soldier lowered the point of his weapon. “Throw him out, and any of his party you find still lingering. Including his mother.”

Two empty-handed men at arms advanced and tried to seize Trempwick. He fought them off, swatting their grasping hands away at first, then using stronger blocks and dodges. Outnumbered and unable to fight effectively for blocking the path to Eleanor, he was finally secured. “Do you know who I am?” he asked. Eleanor recognised the tone of his voice as the one she usually considered most dangerous: quiet, silky smooth, deceptively friendly, able to cut like a whip and as treacherous as a river.

“Yes, but it is anyone’s guess as to how long you keep those titles if you continue your current course. Make amends on bended knee, and you might come out of this with something left.”

“I say the same to you.”

A shiver ran down Eleanor’s back. She could guess as to what he spoke, but by God his confidence in his words was terrifying. That more than anything made her aware of how badly out of her depth she was in opposing him, and how much she wanted his support still.

Trempwick cast a significant look in Eleanor’s direction. “This day’s work will not be forgotten,” he warned.

Will hesitated. He waved again to the man with the drawn sword, and the soldier sheathed it. The two holding Trempwick relaxed their grip, and Trempwick shrugged away their restraining hands. Will said, “If it will be remembered, then let it also be remembered that it was not my own decision, and I did my duty by my friend and lord.”

Trempwick held for a second before rotating to face Eleanor once again. He did not look entirely dissatisfied with his exchange. Trempwick’s hand caressed her cheek. “Kiss me, and smile for me, beloved Nell. It seems I must away.”

The smile was hard, so hard, and the best she managed was an unconvincing contortion of her mouth. The kiss she managed, a chaste brush of lips on his cheek as the guards began to pull him away.

Halfway to the door Trempwick dug in his heels and turned back to her. Both guards moved in and secured tighter grips on him, dragging him stumbling along backwards, struggling, fighting for a few more vital seconds. “Hatred is a good mask for love, Nell. Exile allows what ordinary life would not, and gives secrecy.” He was dragged through the door, still struggling for extra time. Hemmed in by several men at arms, Eleanor didn’t follow him.

From the hallway Trempwick’s voice echoed, “You were chosen!”

The outer door slammed and the sounds of wrestling faded away. Eleanor shoved past the human wall and ran to the window in time to see Trempwick strolling away between his two guards. He kept a casual air that made his captivity seem only a foolish, obvious mistake that he indulged out of generosity. It made the entire situation look ridiculous.





Well, that was unique. Everyone stopped following my plan ages ago, so I’m well used to things going their own way. I’ve been seeing flashes of scenes past, present, future, not featuring in the written version, and in alternate versions of the story for even longer. But never before have I had a scene shift and alter and swap while I tried to write it. I had to piece this together from no less than 9 major separate versions and maybe 100 minor variations.

Frequently as I wrote one character’s dialogue the reply came from another version of the scene. Often everything rewound itself and played out differently to what I had just written down only seconds before. Sometimes Eleanor was present instead of not. In one version she tucked Fulk under her arm and sided with Trempwick. In another she declared she was married to Fulk, and so couldn’t be to Trempwick. Hell, in one version she actually died! In another version Hugh and Trempy started a nice little fistfight. Sometimes Trempy accused Hugh of being a bastard, and the other half of the time he didn’t. Occasionally Nell was mentioned as William’s true heir, sometimes she wasn’t. Sometimes Hugh got quite solid support from everyone, sometimes that same support went to Nell, and other times it went into a confused mixture with no clear winners. And so on.

I think this is the ‘true’ version. It seems to be. It has to be. Looking ahead in the more stable parts it all flows and follows on from what I have pieced together here. But then, I see glimpses of the futures following on from the other possibilities too, including the one where Nell died (I try not to allow that one to surface. Ever. I can kill her if I must, but I don’t like to think on it. It’s like contemplating the death of any loved one.) But this one does seem like the right one. If some of it has me frowning slightly, and wondering what they are all up to, well, that’s what happens when your characters break away entirely and decide their own course.

What does puzzle me is the fact that their language seems ever so slightly different …

Might I recommend everyone goes back and reads posts 47 and 52 again? And if you are really keen, number 49 too. It will be marginally useful to have that fresh in mind soon. I’ll say no more. :sigh: This is where I wish everyone could read the whole thing start to finish in less than a week …



Thanks, edyzmedieval. I’m not sure authors have managers. Agents, quite often, and publishers almost always, but managers I’ve not heard of. If you have your own commercial scale publishing house and about half a million pounds going spare you are welcome to make generous offers to print, distribute and promote an Eleanor book though.

No, Ciaran, I’m just an amateur. Self taught too, with about a year and a half of practise. I’ve never been paid a penny for writing, but then as of yet I haven’t tried to sell my work. It’s all incomplete, and needs finishing first.

Red Hand is another story I had going here, but I stopped because I wanted to do so much more with it than was possible with an internet story. I am slowly reworking it into what I want it to be, and when I am done I shall see if anyone is interested in publishing it. You can find the old version here, but be warned it’s unfinished and never will be here. It’s also not very good in terms of writing quality; I’ve learned a lot since then. I’ve learned an awful lot since the first pages of Eleanor too.

The Shadow One: No, my bookshop isn’t so refined as that, but it also isn’t likely to be a Barnes and Noble type either (not got them where I live). I’m enjoying it, and I’m already finding books I want to buy which I will get an extra 20% off. That’s what counts. Especially the 20% staff discount.

[Ciaran]

Something I didn´t mention in my last post, I like your writing style very much. You have me laughing quite a lot, as a matter of fact, my neighbours must think I´m off my rocker, laughing like mad and reciting passages in English aloud. I´m only about halfway through yet, past prince John´s betrayal and the chess & cheese scene - with only two hours worth in bttery time, there´s only so much you can read and I make a point of not reading more in a piece, lest I run out of story.

[frogbeastegg]

Hugh was standing at the window, his back to the room. He did not turn at her entrance, or when the door closed behind her escort, leaving them alone together. “Sit down.”

Eleanor perched in one of the fireside chairs, the one with the better view of the room. “What did Trempwick want this time? There were two men killed in my entrance hall, my guard was tied up, and a horde of armed men burst into my rooms without warning or invite to drag him away.” She bit her tongue to keep from adding that the whole experience had not been terribly convenient; Hugh’s imperviousness to humour was dangerous to her health, as well as irksome.

“He wanted his wife back.” Hugh turned from the window. “He revealed you are married.”

Eleanor went deathly pale, then flushed to a deep reddish purple. “Married!?” she shrieked.

“That is what he said,” repeated Hugh, his speech clipped and terse. “As did the twenty-three witnesses, and the priest, also his mother and her maid. He even bought the bedsheet.”

“That - that backstabbing, double dealing, lying, murdering, cheating, slanderous, shifty, deceitful, untrustworthy, treacherous, dishonest, ambitious, complete and utter bastard!” The final few words were not as impressive as the rest, owing to a lack of breath to articulate them at the same volume, and ‘bastard’ came out as little more than a hoarse squeak on the very final drop of air she had. Eleanor paused to refill her empty lungs.

Hugh folded his arms and tilted his head ever so slightly to one side. “So you deny it, then?”

“Yes!”

“He claims otherwise, very convincingly.”

“I am not married to him.”

“I suppose it would only be prudent for me to inquire at this point if you have in fact lain with him, or anyone else.”

“No I damn well have not,” exploded Eleanor. She felt blood rush to her face in what promised to be a spectacular blush, and aimed a litany of curses at both of the men responsible for this mortifying situation.

“Then it may in fact be possible to prove his claim invalid, at least within a limited circle of people.” Hugh squinted very dubiously at her. “If the necessary proof can in fact be provided.”

Eleanor’s mouth went dry. She had never heard precisely how these things were checked, beyond the obvious way of marrying the person in question off to a willing victim and being extra vigilant for outside sources of blood, but the little snippets and allusions she had heard here and there did not put her in mind of anything she particularly wanted to do. But when the devil vomits in your kettle all you can do is clean up as best you can. “It can.” She prayed she was right; not every virgin had a maidenhead to prove it.

Hugh’s lip curled ever so slightly. “We shall see.”

“Surely you do not believe him? Surely you cannot think me capable of-”

“God alone knows what you are capable of,” he spat. “He trained you, and it shows. You were warped even before he got to you.”

Eleanor stared in mute horror, struck dumb by his abnormally uncontrolled temper, and his complete lack of faith.

“You lie, you betray, you manipulate, you murder, and you are nothing which you should be. Family means nothing to you. I fear it pains me in the extreme to admit I would not be surprised - though I would be thoroughly horrified - to find you used your body as a tool to gain what you wish; it is what many in your …” his lip curled further, into a fully fledged, unabashed sneer, and he laid heavy emphasis on the next word, “occupation do. You have been scampering around the realm with opportunity to do heaven knows what, in contact with people of the lowest sort, and maintaining disguises of such a sort any abandon you care to indulge could pass unremarked. You are even perverse enough to-” Hugh clamped his jaw shut on his words. Eleanor could see him struggling for control, his lips pressed so tightly together they were drained of much of their colour. “Look what you manage to do to me. No one else, only you. I should not even be contemplating any of this – it is entirely, wholly unworthy of me, and should have no place whatsoever in connection to someone of your station. And it would not, but for your own influences. Your fault, all of it.”

“You will not blame me for your fits of temper,” she protested, but it lacked a great deal of conviction. How could she ever have been stupid enough to believe that things might be different to how they had always been? Now Hugh has seen her for what she was he rejected her, making assumptions and twisting the truth into something all the better for him to turn her away without a glimmer of guilt on his part, as so many had before him, as many had without even waiting to see the full extent of what she was.

“I assign blame where it belongs. You did the same to our father, and Trempwick, and me, and others. You bring out the worst in everyone. You always have. Trempwick would have remained loyal if not for you. Our father would not have become what he did if not for you. I shall not even speak of how Anne begins to be corrupted by your influence. And look what you have done to me. You have dragged me from my path and flung me into this. We are sliding rapidly towards hostilities, and again you are at the very root of it.”

“It is not my fault.” It was little more than a whisper.

“It is. You damage everything you touch.” Hugh grabbed Eleanor by her shoulders and hauled her to her feet, twisting her around so the light fell clearly on her face. “You are so like him. You even have many of his traits. No one could ever doubt you. It is not fair!” He began to shake her, his fingers digging into bone with unrelenting, heedless strength. “I am his son, I am! That is what matters. Nothing else. I do not need to ask who I am – I know. I will be king. It is my right, mine. My right, and I will have it or die in the trying.”

Eleanor wrapped both hands about one of his arms and tried to get him to let go, at the same time clinging on for stability as she was pulled to and fro. Hugh loosed her, then caught her left forearm as she reeled. His hand didn’t even need to finish closing its unforgiving grip before he knew what he’d found, and his face darkened.

“Those damned knives,” he shouted. “I told you not to wear them.”

He ripped her outer sleeve back, wrenched the two buckles undone, and yanked the scabbard from her arm. The leather straps tangled in the little fastenings, and he had to tug hard several times before they finally snapped and the weapon came free. He cast it behind him; it hit the wall and clattered to the ground. He repeated the process on her other arm. She didn’t fight, except to try and win free and get away.

“You have your bodyguard; you need nothing else. I will not tolerate your perversity any further than I must.” He gave her arms a very sharp jerk, nearly pulling her off her feet. “I am the master here, not you. That has not altered because I need your assistance. You owe me your loyalty. You need me to protect you. You need my favour, if you hope for a future you find comfortable. I have given you much, things you have no right to expect, even, and I can and will take it all back again if I must. If you betray me you will regret it for the rest of your days.”

Between Hugh’s shouting and their on-going scuffle, the first awareness Eleanor had of Constance’s arrival was when she heard her shout, “Hugh! No!”

He dropped Eleanor; she staggered and nearly lost her balance. Blindly she stumbled backwards to get away from him, until she tripped over a stool and fell. Eleanor scrambled to her feet and stood, trembling, watching Hugh for any sign he might come after her again. When she saw he was clustered with his wife, head bent down, speaking quietly, her immediate fear ebbed a bit.

Constance was saying, “… knows you well enough to predict this would be your reaction; he is hoping you will damage your cause further. You must put the doubt from your mind, as you always have. This time is only different in that the lie is more detailed, and spoken to your face. Because that man says it so boldly, does that make it true? Would William have kept you close by if he doubted you were his? No, you know he would not have.”

Pause. Then Hugh drew a shuddering breath, and replied, “God will judge; if I have no right to the crown then he will not let me have it.”

“Yes, so do not let Trempwick’s words affect you as they have.” Constance moved back a half pace to stand close in at Hugh’s side, instead of between him and Eleanor. “Are you alright?” she asked Eleanor.

Eleanor nodded, not trusting herself to lie convincingly if she spoke.

“Your hand looks as if it may be bleeding, I can take a look, if you wish.”

Eleanor looked at the hand she had fallen on. A large splinter was embedded in the long muscle at the base of her thumb, and blood was leaking leisurely from the wound. “No.” She marshalled herself against the pain, and pulled the splinter free.

Hugh said, “To return to the matter I had you brought here to discuss; we were speaking of proof before you led me astray. I give you one final opportunity to tell the truth, and I suggest you take it. If you are proven to be lying I shall not be pleased.”

“I am not lying.”

“Very well; you have had your chance. Constance, send for your midwives. They are respectable and knowledgeable, and well able to judge such matters.”







Hawise folded up one of Eleanor’s shifts and set it down in the pile to be taken upstairs. “She’s running herself ragged,” she declared.

Fulk looked up from his calculation of how many man at what wages he could hire from the sum Eleanor had set apart for him. “You’ll mean Eleanor, I presume.”

“Yes. She will say nothing, she lets nothing slip, and any attempt to begin something other than normal conversation is rebuffed. I run out of ideas.”

“Always been the same.” Fulk waggled a finger at her. “You’ve had your ears scorched a few times while trying to play healer. It’s the same principle here.”

Hawise picked up another item from the pile of returned washing, held it up so she could see what it was, then began to fold it. “It’s easier to apply a salve to an obvious injury when she’s slowed down by pain and can’t get away so easily.”

Fulk grinned. “You’re proving to be an apt pupil in princess control.”

“But you’re the master.” She put the folded shirt on the table next to Fulk. “So what are we going to do?”

“Sometimes it’s better to leave be.” And this wasn’t one of them. If only he could get opportunity …

“Not this time,” said Hawise firmly. “I think you know that. We need to-” she broke off as they heard the outer door open and the guard speaking to someone.

By unspoken, guilty agreement they both buried themselves in their work.

Fulk looked up again as Eleanor walked into the room. She was carrying her knives in one hand. Whatever her brother had wanted her for it hadn’t done her any good; her eyes were empty, her face and gaze downcast, her attitude suitably demure, but in a listless, hopeless, almost defeated way, instead of the assured, contained manner she usually had when assuming such a pose. Or perhaps it came from the excitement he’d missed earlier, when Trempwick had come calling. No one he’d spoken to knew what had happened, beyond that there were two dead men, one bruised and shaken guardsman, and one Trempwick thrown out by armed force. Within just minutes of that Eleanor had been summoned to her brother, and that he’d heard all about from Hawise. A demand for her presence which had barely been polite, and armed guards who had marched her away like a untrustworthy ally in need of constant, close guard.

Fulk hid his relief, and his anxiety, pushed his calculations away and stood up. “Just in time, we were about to send for lunch.”

“I am not hungry.” Her voice matched the rest: quiet, dull, bleak.

He clutched his heart and reeled back in dramatic disbelief. “Not even if there’s cheese?”

Apparently not; Eleanor placed her knives on the table, and as she did so Fulk noticed a splotch of dried blood on her hand. “Mend those, please.”

Fulk held one of the knives up before him, hilt uppermost. The little pommel was dented, as was the cross guard, and one of the straps used to fasten the sheath in place had snapped just below the buckle. He looked at her across the weapon’s hilt. “What happened?”

“Ask for a price when you drop them off at the relevant craftsmen, I shall give you the money to pay when you collect them.”

“At least tell me you’re not hurt.”

Eleanor looked about the room, and quickly checked the solar through the open door. “Anne has left?”

Hawise picked up the last item in the laundry pile, a breastband, and laid it on top of the mound of Eleanor’s things. “She went shortly after you did, back to the church.” She hefted the entire collection, and vanished out into the passageway.

“What happened?” asked Fulk again, hoping now they were alone she’d answer.

“Nothing,” she snapped. “Why must it always be assumed I am at the centre of a disaster of some sort?”

“Trouble and you go hand in hand.”

“Like you and stupidity.”

“You’ve been fighting with your brother again.”

She stared him right in the eye, face expressionless but slightly tight, betraying the emotion she almost succeeded in hiding. Very clearly she said, “Stop pestering me.”

Hawise reappeared with a small pot and a scrap of clean linen. “For your hand,” she explained, as she set them down on the table. “There is wine to wash it with in a jug in the solar.”

“My hand is perfectly alright, as am I.”

“Not it’s not,” returned Hawise, at the same time as Fulk said, “No you’re not.”

“Go to hell!” With that Eleanor stormed out.

Fulk waited a few seconds for the dust to settle. “Well,” he said, making his mind up without the need for deliberation. He turned to Hawise in a swift, fluid motion. “You’d better be what we think you are, because I can’t do this alone. Tackled right she will start talking, if it’s done right, but not if there’s an audience. Before we got here that was easy, and people weren’t so stupid as to assume something sordid was going on simply because we weren’t chaperoned. I’ll risk life and limb; you stop outside and make sure no one interrupts.”

Hawise nodded once. “This means we pen her up in her bedchamber?”

“Yes. Unless she jumps out of the window she’s got nowhere to run to.” Fulk rubbed the back of his neck, thinking back to the other times he’d gone Eleanor baiting. “It’ll probably get a bit … noisy. So don’t go running for help. If anyone’s being murdered it’ll be me.”

Hawise smiled and shook her head. “You are terrible, and yet it does capture the essence of her, in an exaggerated way.”





The door to her bedchamber opened slowly, and a cautious foot snuck in. A second foot followed it, along with the attached body. He wasn’t wearing his sword, which was unusual, since he’d taken to wearing it near constantly since officially becoming her bodyguard again.

It took Fulk some time to spot her, hunched down on the floor in the corner, partly hidden by the bulk of her bed. So much for the faint hope he would think she wasn’t here. “If you were any smaller I wouldn’t be able to see you.” He took another step into the room and closed the door softly behind himself.

Eleanor lifted her chin from her up-drawn knees just long enough to say, “Go away.”

“I expended a lot of energy climbing those stairs, and I’d rather not waste it.”

“I am not in the mood to be bothered by your inanities. Go away.”

“Can’t. I’m on a quest.” One hand come to rest on his dagger, fingers curling around to touch the hairpin hidden there.

“Go away,” she shouted. “Leave. Or have you stopped obeying my orders, if you ever did?”

“No, oh solitary one.”

“Please,” she said quietly, not sure if she were asking him to go or stay.

“You’ve not got your knives, so I don’t need to be afraid, not like that first time.”

“You are supposed to be a big brave knight.” He had only been a simple man at arms back then. If she had known what they were starting that night she would have … what? Run away, or run towards? “A few tiny knives should not bother you.”

He flashed a grin. “How about the raging princess throwing them?”


Eleanor raised her chin again, and leaned back against the wall. She felt much too tired for this, but she put in a token effort, if it would make him happy and stop him worrying. “Are knights usually afraid of princesses?” He was obviously staying; she expected to find herself plucked from her corner and safely installed in his arms within moments. After days of wanting just that she was surprised to find she preferred to be alone now.

“This one is, oh aggravated one.”

“You are terrified of me?”

“Quaking in my boots as we speak. Never knew I had a fear of princesses till I ran into you.” He looked thoughtful. “Or maybe you are why I developed it.”

“You should leave.”

“I’ve got Hawise guarding the door; we won’t be disturbed, and no one will know about this, unless she does work for Trempwick. In which case,” he shrugged, “he learns nothing new. Even that cold-hearted bastard wouldn’t expect me to do nothing now.” He came closer, moving deliberately slowly. At arm’s length he stopped and dropped into a crouch. He placed a cloth wrapped package between them. “Gingerbread. We’ve got a tradition, and I couldn’t find any nice looking pastries quickly.”

“No matter how hard I try I have never been able to drive you away.” Her tongue tied up when she tried to say that she was so very glad of it. The fact he was keeping his distance wasn’t lost on her; it worsened her own turmoil of moods.

Very gently he said, “As you tell me to leave I hear you begging me to stay. I always have.”

“I should have told you to clean your ears out.”

“Too late now,” Fulk assured her cheerfully. He unwrapped the slab of gingerbread and broke a corner off. He popped it in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed quickly, half coughing. “Spicy,” he wheezed, fanning his mouth. “Spicy, and just a tad aggressive, in a castle-levelling way.”

Eleanor smiled faintly. “Idiot.”

If you’re so tough, you eat it.” He broke off another piece and held it out to her. “Go on, eat that and then tell me it’s mild. I dare you.”

After a brief pause Eleanor accepted his challenge. “It is very mild,” she claimed, each word scorching her lips as it left her mouth.

Fulk shunted the rest of the slab towards her. “Then you’ll be quite happy to eat the rest, oh deceptive one.”

“I would not want to be greedy.” She pushed it back. “We shall share it. In fact you should get the lion’s share because of all the effort you expanded coming up the stairs after me.”

Fulk returned it. “But you’re the princess.”

“And you are the knight.” The hapless slab went back to Fulk.

And back to Eleanor. “You haven’t been eating properly for days.”

To Fulk. “You have all those new recruits to find and deal with.”

Fulk dropped his voice, “A man really should look after his wife.” He gave the gingerbread another push.

Eleanor couldn’t find anything to say, and the food lay still. Her jaw muscles began to ache and her throat felt tight, a warning of impending tears. She aimed her mind at nothing and hugged her knees tighter. Her bid to retain control worked insofar as she didn’t burst into tears. It didn’t stop her from admitting in a rush, “I want to go home.”

Fulk went very still. “Back to Trempwick.”

“Back to how everything was before. If they had not betrothed me to Trempwick it might all have been alright. Everything as it was before, but with you there, like it was in the very end.”

The tears she was fighting so hard against made her view of Fulk hazy, but she could tell she’d said something wrong. His face was blank, he was still so immobile it must have taken conscious effort. He gazed down at the gingerbread, but she didn’t think he saw it.

“I was happy then.” He looked up, watching her now. “The night you blundered your way into admitting you loved me, I was so happy, and the few days afterwards …” She blinked rapidly, fighting desperately to maintain self-discipline. “Then they betrothed me to him.” She swiped at her eyes. “And I am so sick of crying! It is pathetic.”

“No,” disagreed Fulk quietly.

He shifted to her side, knelt, and picked her up. She intertwined her hands in the front of his tunic without thinking, holding on as if her life depended on it. Fulk sat on the bed, settling her on his knee without disturbing her grip. Curled up in his arms, her head resting on the curve of his neck, it comforted her, as she had known it would during the many long days and nights. It also made her tears flow, try as hard as she might to prevent it.

“I needed him.” Her words were not ones she wished to speak, choked with tears, rather thick and indistinct, and with an emotional edge she didn’t care for, but she couldn’t seem to stop them any more than she could stop crying. “For once I really needed him, and he went and died. Even this time he would not help me.”

“Oh, love,” murmured Fulk.

“I thought at least he would never hurt me again, but I was wrong. He found a way. I shouldn’t care about his damned will, but I do. He hated me so much it was as if I didn’t even exist.” She sniffed; her nose was running, yet another indignity lumped on her by this entirely wretched business. She was not particularly pleased by the way she was lapsing into more common English either.

Fulk flailed about behind him, then handed her a long strip of finely woven linen. “Here.”

Eleanor blew her nose. “Thank you.” There was a gap, then she found herself, for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom, wanting to share a little more. “When I was little I always dreamed that I’d do something to change his mind and make him love me. So stupid of me.”

“And foiling Trempwick should have been that.”

“It’s stupid, I know. I … suppose I hoped for a … a little respect after all this. Stupid, so completely stupid.”

“I don’t think so. It’s like wanting your enemy to respect you, even though you want nothing more than to kill him. Opinions matter, including where we wish they didn’t. Everyone wants to be thought well of by everyone else.”

Eleanor said nothing in response. His idea was palatable enough, but still disgracefully weak. She should not have cared, not in the least, not at all, not in any way. She should have been - as Anne had accused her of being – glad her beloved regal ancestor had removed himself from her life. All the words she had on the subject were dried up, exhausted long in advance of her need. While words were so difficult to come by, tears were plentiful. For a long time that was all there was: tears, tears and Fulk’s consoling bulk.

Fulk delicately took her hand spread it out across his own palm. He kissed the lowest section of her heartfinger, right on top of the band of faintly marked skin left by her betrothal ring. “You’ve taken your ring off.”

Eleanor curled her fingers back up, clasping his hand weakly. She worked her face deeper into the curve of his shoulder. Anything but explain, or let him read the answer for himself in her face or eyes.

The movement must have revealed the improvised necklace she wore, or perhaps it had been peeking out of her neckline before and he had not given indication, because Fulk hooked the ribbon on his finger and drew the cord out from under her clothes. Trempwick’s betrothal ring dangled in the air between them. He looked down at her. “The arrangement’s broken?” Their proximity was such that she could smell ginger and spice on his breath.

At least he hadn’t ask why she’d kept the ring on her person – yet. She couldn’t even answer that question for herself. “It is broken.”

Fulk caught the ring up so it lay in the palm of his hand. “Are you going to wear this for long? If you are then you’d better get it put on something stronger.”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. The tears, which had been slowing, returned again, now caused, a little, by gratitude for his lack of jealousy or probing. “I really don’t.”

Fulk tucked the ring back inside her clothes. “I’ll get you a sturdy leather thong anyway. If you decide not to wear it then it’s no great financial loss. He turned her unresisting left hand palm upwards, and ran a thumb along her palm near the cut. “What happened?”

He would find out sooner or later; the whole palace, the whole of Christendom eventually, would be speaking of it. Better that he hear from her. “He said we were married. Trempwick. Everyone will believe him; Hugh says he put on a good act. We’re not, but no one will believe me if I say so, and I can’t prove it to everyone. Hugh …” she faltered, wanting to speak of that dreadful audience even less so than the broader, blander parts.

Fulk’s lips touched the top of her head. “Go on,” he encouraged.

She could manage, if she kept details to the minimum. She could. “He didn’t believe me when I said we weren’t. He went berserk. He only stopped when Constance arrived.” She tilted her face up, and caught his sleeve with one desperate hand. “It was not my fault, honestly it was not. He just went berserk.”

“I believe you.”

Eleanor relaxed, her hand dropped away from his arm. She picked up from before her distraction, having to work hard to manage even this bland description. “He would not believe me; he demanded proof.”

“He should know better than that. It’s only a good guide to what you are, not how you can to be that.”

“He had three different midwives look at me, one after another, giving their verdicts with no chance for them to consult and organise a lie. I nearly died of embarrassment.” She would nearly die again if she spoke of the probing fingers, the discomfort, the sudden flare of pain in a place she couldn’t even feel normally as they found what they were looking for, the business-like comments imparted to her and other, different, but equally professional exchanges with Hugh that had drifted back into the queen’s bedchamber though the partly open door after each woman left. “He had to believe, in the end.” Hugh had apologised immediately, but what good was that? He was only sorry she now knew what he thought of her.

Fulk’s reaction to the end of her tale had been well controlled, but she had felt the slight relaxation, the slight start of surprise. Eleanor pulled away from him and sat up, eyes blazing. “And you are amazed as well,” she accused. This after she had told him she had managed to keep just out of Trempwick’s reach.

“Dear heart, I’m afraid I’m in the unhappy position of having quite a good idea of what women are like. Even more terrifyingly, I know what men are like.”

“Oh, so now you think I am attracted to the man who tried to kill you?” The allegation was all the worse for having had, very briefly, a tiny bit of truth in it. She struggled free of his arms and stood up, fists planted on hips. “I think you should leave before I am tempted to see if I can strangle you with my bare hands.” Or, more accurately, before she burst into tears again. She would not let him see how deeply he had hurt her, even if he wouldn’t take delight from it.

“As enjoyable as that might prove to be, oh outraged one, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I was referring to such things as delicately guarded reputations, maidenly embarrassment, and considerations for the feelings of the poor dope who loves you and would be plotting murder all the more seriously if you happened to admit that a certain spymaster had forced you.”

“Oh.” Eleanor blushed. She sat back down, wiggled back into the position she had been in before, and rearranged Fulk’s arms so they too were back as they had been. “Right. Do carry on.”

Fulk held up her injured hand and inspected the messy clot. “It looks clean enough, but you’ll let me wash off all this excess blood and put something on to hamper infection.” His tone didn’t invite anything except obedience.

“Yes, my lord,” she said meekly.

Fulk blinked in surprise, and instigated a very thorough search of face and tone for sarcasm or other mockery. He didn’t find any, because there wasn’t any there. He made a false start at an answer, bowed his head for a moment, hiding his face completely. Looking back up, he kissed her with melting tenderness. “I love you.”

“Mmm,” agreed Eleanor. “I really should hope so.”

She leaned in to kiss him again, but Fulk held her gently back with one hand. “Probably not a good idea.” One corner of his mouth lifted into a very lopsided smile. “No, I take that back – it’s a very excellent idea, but sadly impractical. At present I trust myself so well if it were possible I’d stand behind myself with a cudgel, tapping it meaningfully on the palm of my empty hand.”

“Oh. Sorry. I should probably-”

“Stay put,” inserted Fulk, securing her in place with an arm. “But stop wriggling, please! Delicate torture’s all very well in its time and place, but now it’s neither meet nor fitting.”

Eleanor caught up her improvised handkerchief and gave her nose a final, good blow. As she put the cloth back down on the bed, she noticed that there was a bit of embroidery along one edge of the linen. She also noticed that it was very familiar embroidery, and now she looked the long, shapeless strip of material was recognizable too. She brandished the material under Fulk’s nose. “That is my breastband. And it was just washed.” It was only now she realised the pile of newly returned clothes was right behind them on the bed.

“There wasn’t much else to hand,” said Fulk apologetically.

Eleanor threw the soiled item of clothing on the floor. “Thank you very much,” she grumbled.

They sat peacefully for a bit. Fulk’s hand wandered leisurely down her back. When it eventually reached the small of her back he stated, “You’ve not been sleeping well.”

“No.” Eleanor let her attention linger a short while longer on the way his thumb was stroking her spine. Almost wistfully she detailed, “Too many worries, too many plans to make, too many problems to search out and combat.” She paused. “Too many bad dreams, of what was and what one day might be. The dead haunting me.” She paused again, and this admission came out in a very small voice, “I wish you were with me. For all that we only spent two nights together, and one in the midst of an argument, I feel sure I would sleep better with you there.”

“What?” teased Fulk. “I would have expected you to be revelling in the luxury of having this massive bed to yourself.”

“I … got used to the idea of company.” Eleanor held her breath as she waited for his reaction, not daring to look.

A very minor pause preceded his jovial rejoinder. “Well then, I’d best speed up my search for a dragon to slay, if your good rest depends on me. Tired gooseberries are more than any sane man wants to deal with.”

“You are not entirely happy.”

“Dear heart, there’s not a single good way to say it, but I don’t like tripping over evidence of Trempwick’s work. Not because I’m resolute on innocent gooseberries, but because I always wonder what the hell the man did to cause that effect, and I doubt he did anything good. It leaves me wondering what scars he left.”

Eleanor looked that over, but found nothing to say. As tempted as she was to put a cheerful front on the issue and let it die she knew he would never believe, because he had seen too much, and knew too much. But again, as with so many things, it was so much easier to say nothing, or keep to the barest details. “Everyone will think me his wife now, even if I deny it. He brought far more proof than most of the cases which end up in court and last for months and years before any decision is reached. All he needs is my agreement, and he has the same proof that most weddings produce, if not a few witnesses more to make all more solid.”

Fulk laughed sourly. “Damned man has more and better proof you are married to him than I do that you’re mine, even if I do have your support, and the queen’s.”

“If I deny it then many people will think I do so out of fear, or because I have lost my taste for the match. Only a few will accept that I am speaking the truth. Hugh’s midwives will be viewed as bribed accomplices trying to mend the situation to his favour, and I am never going to go through that miserable ordeal again simply for the sake of proving that the blood on the sheet was not mine. It would achieve precious little anyway.”

There was one very glum silence as they both encountered a lack of anything to add to this inventory; no solutions, no suggestions, no hopes.

“Eleanore Regis Anglia e Filia – it is who I am, who I have always been. But I am the King of England’s daughter no longer. So what am I? I cannot define myself in terms of you, and Lady of Towcester is so lowly as to be denied me for that use.” Eleanor sighed. “I do not even know how to sign my letters any more.”

“Eleanore felia regis, the Gooseberry. That’s who you are. Princess and gooseberry, and in need of no more to identify yourself to any with half a brain. Don’t specify the king you’re the daughter of.”

There was a light knock at the door. Hawise’s voice filtered through, “Constance is coming, I can see her from the window.”

Fulk’s hold on Eleanor tightened, and he growled, “Damn that woman, and her impeccable sense of terrible timing!”

“I shall have to go down.”

Fulk kissed her once, then let her go. “I’m certain there’s a lot left unsaid.”

He was right, but Eleanor said, “I must look terrible.” She poured some water from the ewer on the room’s little table into a basin.

“So we shall finish this another time.” That had an air of dependable promise to it.

Eleanor busied herself scrubbing her face. As she groped with eyes shut for the towel she told him tartly, “You should not threaten me; it is not nice.”







6, 157

That’s why you were recommended to re-read those old scenes – so you would get the references in the Nell/Fulk scene.

Hehe! You should see me as I write this, Ciaran! I laught, I cry, I repeat bits out aloud to make sure it sounds right. Then, when I go back and read bits after a gap of a few weeks since writing them, I start doing it all over again. This is probably one of the reasons I prefer to write with the door to my room firmly shut.

[Ciaran]

Talking to yourself, or reading out loud for that matter, might seem strange anywhere, but doing so in English in Germany, well, you get the picture, I´m sure. That´s why I saved this topicto my laptop´s harddrive, if I read while still being at the uiversity I´d find myself in the loony bin within seconds, not to mention being banned from the university network.

And now I´ve got a whole weekend for reading

[frogbeastegg]

Trempwick reined in his horse and swung down from the saddle. He threw the reins to his nearest companion, and began towards the inn.

The innkeeper came running out from his building, wiping his hands on the shabby apron tied at his waist. “My lord?”

Trempwick didn’t break his stride. “Have you done as I ordered?” He halted in the doorway, closing his eyes and reopening them several times to help accustom them to the gloom.

“My lord, yes.”

“Excellent. Then be about your work.”

The innkeeper bowed, and scurried off, calling instructions Trempwick paid no heed to. Simple orders to simpler underlings, all as he had directed beforehand. Trempwick hooked the bench out from the table opposite the doorway with a foot, and sat. His arms he rested on the rough wood surface of the table, crossed at the wrist with his hands dangling off the edge.

A cup of ale appeared before him, and a fist-sized pasty which exuded a meaty scent. His sword was returned from where it had been stored these last couple of hours, his gambeson and hauberk following only a little behind. Trempwick ate, watching a boy and an adolescent run to and fro carrying armfuls of gear out to his party: swords, the odd spear, helmets, armour, the general clutter of fighting men who knew their work.

The winter sunlight was blocked by the mailed bulk of a man, sending the inn’s single room into deeper murkiness. Mauger crossed the space to his lord in several jingling strides. “Nearly done.”

“Good.” Trempwick took a deep, slow breath, and held it in. Time to shed the few women and old men he’d brought. From here, only fighting men. No need to look harmless now. “Lose the baggage.”

Mauger nodded, and left.

Go again over what had happened. Trempwick quenched his thirst with the ale. Simple steps. Simple points. Nell was now his. None would touch her now, none but the most desperate. Bigamy. Too dangerous. Too hated by the church. Loathed by all but heathens and their harems. Trempwick’s own enmity another price. Nell’s bad feeling another. The disapproval of society damning for one who moves in to break another’s agreement in such a way, bigamy or no. The desperate? Even they would think twice, and twice again.

The bastard was thrown from balance. He would flail about like a landed fish, destroying his own cause. So satisfying. Why crush a man when you can let him crush himself? Thus you were kept free of the blame …

The bastard’s valuable playing piece lost. Hard to promise away a sister who was already gone. Promise her as a widow? To give away a widow one must first kill her husband. A promise for the uncertain future is less value than a solid marriage now. Notwithstanding the tainted, vastly diminished value Nell would have. Widow of a failed traitor. Failed rival of her brother. A threat, always, until her death. A gift that would bring suspicion down on the receiver. A source of trouble. At that point, best to seal her away in honourable imprisonment, not marry her off.

Cause for open disharmony present, with blame on the bastard. Such a man to hold his own sister prisoner? To deny her marriage? And how dare he -it was for none to interfere between a man and his wife, no matter the man, his wife, the cause, or the interferer. The stalwart friend of the father driven away by the son whom he tried to serve, forced away by such poor treatment none could stand it and still consider himself a man. Only the most craven wretch would stand for such handling. Trempwick smiled cynically. Honour, decency, all had left him no choice but to do as he had done. It was quite entertaining.

Cause for others to desert the bastard now openly given. One wife stolen and held away; what would prevent more? Or sons, or daughters – what limits to the royal depravity? Stolen, not honest imprisonment or the place of an honourable hostage. A bastard, unable to inherit legally. A bastard, with no royal blood. So failure in two of the most major tests for kingship. Two, before you consider the aptitude of the man. A hint, a crude hint, of William’s other intentions, not wanting this bastard to follow him. Now there was a banner for the discontent to rally to. A banner raised in the glorious misdirection that he, and Nell in turn, had been forced to this by the bastard himself. A legitimate reason was required before one could part with one’s lord and expect anything other than disgust from one’s peers. Legitimate reasons he had supplied in plenty for all and any who cared to use them. Hastier than he had ever desired, yes. None so elegant as he had hoped. But it had worked well enough. More than well enough?

The bastard shown to be a man not of his word, to break lightly even agreements so solid that the breaking was unthinkable. Proven not to care not for his supposed father. Or the for church. Or tradition. Or for those who had rendered long and good service. Or his sister, and her wants, honour and deeds. Such a callous, wanton, man. Previously believed honourable. But did he now act it? No, not at all. The mask was off, the true colours shown. Who wants such a man as king? Not even a fool. Such a man would have to be dragged back into line again and again by the armed might of his barons. He would do so much harm each time. The kingdom would not prosper. It would falter, stumble, lurch from one problem to the next

Suspicion over William’s accident, raised. Badly, yes. Clumsily, yes. But only voicing what some must already wonder. But … a man speaking from emotion, from bitterest disappointment and a broken heart? No, Trempwick owned he had not been overly blunt for that.

Mauger returned. Trempwick unfurled his limbs and stood again, brushing pastry crumbs from his hands and tunic. With his trainer’s help he donned his armour and sword. Only partial armour, not full knightly regalia. Lighter, easier, enough protection for the work he had to do. But not the hindrance, less of the noise, less of the sparkle of light on metal to give all away. As he settled his coif back on his shoulders, Trempwick asked, “It is done?”

“Aye, all done.”

When in a hurry, don’t move slowly. That was wisdom. Trempwick stalked from the building. He paused in the doorway to survey his troop. The scattering of non-combatants had been sent safely away, their part done. All others had transformed, no longer a variety of minor nobles and household knights in their best, trotted out before their betters to swear to what they had seen. Now, warriors, proud and deadly in well cared for yet battered equipment which testified to each man’s repeated survival of combat.

Trempwick climbed into his saddle, and put his spurs to his horse. When in a hurry, don’t hurry. That was also wisdom. Tripping as one ran slowed one down. Insufficient care or thought would hamper, slow, destroy, perhaps. While his every movement now must be swift, sure and confident, he could not afford to hurry. Would never want to either.






Hugh finished his prayers, crossed himself, and pushed up from his kneeling position. His joints cracked, the cold of the church’s stones soaked deep into them during his lengthy vigil.

He gazed meditatively at the spot he had recently occupied, contemplating perhaps dropping back down and completing another set for the good of his rotten soul. Guidance he had begged for, and the granting of the sign he had come here to seek at the behest of Anselm, the royal chaplain. Forgiveness he had also requested, and the strength to better himself. Hugh stepped back from the altar, crossing himself again. He had done a half of what he came here for, and anything other must await another time.

Anselm said, “Ready?”

“Yes, Father. I am ready.”

The old man nodded gravely. He brushed the decorated front of the great bible resting on the lectern with a loving hand. “Then we shall see what is said.” He heaved the solid weight of the bible up so it stood on its leather spine. “Oh Lord, grant us now your wisdom. Give this man your advice and comfort, and help him find his path.” Prayer completed, Anselm let the bible go. Balanced as it was the book did not tumble; the gold-studded back and front covers slammed down onto the woodwork with a portentous boom which made the hairs at the back of Hugh’s neck stand up. The pages slithered and were dragged by their fellows, one after another in a rustling cascade until, at last, the great book lay open at a random page.

Father Anselm had closed his eyes as he let the book go. Now, still blinding himself, he plunged a finger down to choose a passage. He opened his eyes, and read out, “His speech is as smooth as butter, yet war is in his heart; his words are more soothing than oil, yet they are drawn swords. Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fall.”

Hugh crossed himself, and murmured a quick prayer of thanks. There was no there was no mistaking the meaning of God’s word, as sometimes happened when a passage bore no immediate relevance. He had been blessed, truly blessed. Hugh could almost believe that this had been penned those many lifetimes ago specifically so he could find it now, the description of Trempwick so fine that Hugh could not better it if he were given a day to select his words, and the relevance to his dilemma so penetrating it reduced him to awe.

Then he recalled the haste with which Father Anselm had closed the bible again, giving him no chance to look upon the words for himself.

Some change must have come over his face, for Anselm said, “Would you doubt the word of a man of God, and of the Lord himself, and wonder if I had instead quoted the passage I found best fitting instead of reading what was truly there?”

“No, indeed I would not,” denied Hugh quickly. He crossed himself yet again, the thought of his scepticism unbearable in the face of the gift he had been granted. Moreover, he had known Anselm all his life, and trusted his integrity and council, on the rare occasions it was gifted to him.

“Then accept his message.”

“I will. I do.”





Only a short part, I know, but for some reason I am extremely tired.

Mmm, a weekend for reading. Nice. :dreams of how many books she could get through in a weekend with little else to do ...:

[The Shadow One]

Lady Frog:

I have a confession to make.

I am really starting to like Trempwick. Maybe it's the way you've been letting us look into his mind, a window into how it works. Your narrative in this part of the book shines because, unlike other parts of the book where I feel you're telling me what a character is thinking, here the words I read are what I imagine are the actual thoughts going through Trempwick's mind.

It's as if you're not telling the story, you're revealing it.

Very well done. I am looking forward to Trempwick living up to the promise of his character.

[Kommodus]

Aye, battles are always hard to do, you tread a fine line between plain statement and sensory over load.

That's a fact. Has anyone here ever tried to read the Illiad? I did, once, and even made it about half-way through before boredom got the better of me. The battle scenes were numerous, long, and ponderous, and eventually it seemed that they all followed the same basic formula:

1. History and heredity explained for a Greek hero and a Trojan hero.
2. Trojan hero challenges Greek hero, announcing his inevitable victory, proclaiming his own superiority and the inferiority of his opponent.
3. Greek hero answers Trojan hero in kind (steps 2 and 3 may be reversed).
4. Trojan hero throws a spear or fires an arrow at Greek hero.
5. Trojan projectile weapon misses, is dodged, or is stopped by the Greek hero's armor or shield, or does only superficial damage.
6. Greek hero throws spear at Trojan hero or attacks at point-blank range.
7. Greek hero's weapon pierces through the Trojan hero's shield/armor/body and kills him.
8. Greek hero "vaunts" over his fallen opponent, exalting in his victory.
9. Optional: Greek hero strips Trojan hero of his armor.

This is repeated again and again, with minor variations (i.e. background explanation has already been given and isn't needed a second time, number of attacks varies, occasionally the Trojan hero wins). It's mildly interesting at first, then becomes boring and repetitive, and finally is practically unbearable.

I'm not sure why I felt like saying that. Basically, battle scenes are difficult to write, being mostly visual affairs. I think J.R.R. Tolkein was pretty good at it. The most recent battle scene in this story, between Jocelyn and his rival, seems to do well in capturing the brutal, dirty, confused mess that most medieval skirmishes probably were - it comes off as hardly more than a brawl between rival street gangs. Definitely a far cry from Homer's heroics and Tolkein's grand, lush descriptions, but it achieves what it sets out to. War isn't pretty, and there's certainly no need to portray it as such.

P.S. Yes, I'm still following this story, and it's nice to see the pace pick up a little. I'd comment on the continuing character development, but right now I'm too lazy to give it the thorough treatment it deserves, so I'll leave it alone.