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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


“And this treasure is hidden where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am. No one would know but us.”

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

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

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

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

“In any case I am leaving tomorrow-”

“Precisely.”

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

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

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









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

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

See you when you return, caesar.

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

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

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

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