The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[Peasant Phill]

Happy ending for whom?

[Quintus.JC]

Happy ending for whom?

Everyone really, it seems to be heading that way. The only person I really dislike is Prince Hugh, but he can keep his crown, I suppose.

[Quintus.JC]

Ever wondered what Princess Eleanor would look like in animation, what about this picture.

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

I find that that picture fits the description almost perfectly, except the blue eyes.

[Peasant Phill]

I fear that animation is a bit to much Disney/pixar/...
Princess Eleanor isn't exactly the pinacle of beauty. And a bowtie in her hair?

Lady Frog once posted a painting of how she imagined Her gooseberryness would look like. It's somewhere in these pages.

Oh, and with those close fitting sleeves, where do you imagine she puts her knifes?

[Quintus.JC]

I fear that animation is a bit to much Disney/pixar/...
Princess Eleanor isn't exactly the pinacle of beauty. And a bowtie in her hair?

Lady Frog once posted a painting of how she imagined Her gooseberryness would look like. It's somewhere in these pages.

Oh, and with those close fitting sleeves, where do you imagine she puts her knifes?

To be honest I think that picture was hardly the pinacle of beauty. There's nothing I can do about the bowtie and the tight-sleve, lets just imagine this is one of the occasions where she has to look formal and princessish and all. She is described in numerous accound as being 'almost pretty' when required to look the part. The thing is that when I watched Shrek 3 she instantly reminded me of her, at least some of descriptions fits anyway.

There's a painting? I want to see it!

[frogbeastegg]

Here's the picture I found while searching for something else on the internet, about halfway into this story. It's shockingly similar to how I see Nell. The picture's face is somewhat too fat, and those silly little curls at her temples need to go. Nell tends to wear a single braid instead of a pair. Otherwise that's very close to her when she's wearing everyday clothes and trying to look studious. The colours for the clothes should be altered though; these colours are expensive to make, and if Nell were wearing them she'd be in full on princess mode complete with inches thick embroidery on her hems, jewelled girdle, the works.



I found an portrait which reminds me strongly of Fulk while browsing through a book of Titian's paintings at work last year. I haven't found any good versions of it on the net; here's the best:


He needs clothes from the correct period, hair a darker shade of brown and the famous crooked nose, otherwise it's him, haircut and all. I nearly dropped the book when I first opened it to that page! You can't see it so well in this small version, but in the A4 sized image in the book (which I brought solely for that page!) the man is very arresting, yet in a very different way to the (IMO) boring 'handsome' stars of today.

[Ciaran]

Now there´s only Trempwick missing from the three main characters.

[frogbeastegg]

In death, as in life, Edward sneered at Eleanor. In death, as never in life, he provoked an emotion other than abhorrence from her. She’d lived near this man for much of her life, watched him serve Trempwick with devotion bordering upon slavish. Devotion that had seen him at the head of Woburn’s efforts to keep her floating without attachments or comfort other than Trempwick.

Slavish devotion, and look at where he had ended up: sacrificed by Trempwick as part of the effort to win back her trust. Would Edward have approved, have gone willingly to this death to aid his master? Or would it have been the request which asked too much?

Swallowing her gorge Eleanor indicated the agent should return the grizzly trophy to the wicker basket he’d delivered it in.

“He was not where the spymaster said he would be, your Highness.”

Eleanor looked up sharply. “Trempwick lied?” Her gut twisted; would she soon be viewing Trempwick’s corpse to reassure herself she was safe?

The agent bowed. “No, leastways it didn’t look like it to us. More like this one had taken it into his head to do some work of his own to rescue his master.”

Eleanor let the man sweat under her regard as she considered his words. This man, Mark, has been one of Miles’ best, one whom the old knight had been certain Trempwick had not corrupted. Trempwick himself had objected to his name being on the list of his agents, said he shouldn’t be killed because he was innocent. How far did one trust? “Show me the others,” she commanded.

The other heads she viewed a touch more dispassionately; she hadn’t lived with any of these people. Truthfully she had met only one of them in life. Henry, who had served as Trempwick’s lieutenant in the North. The other two were known by name and function only, a fact best hidden lest the real men escape the cull.

“Take them away and bury them,” Eleanor said once the display was complete. It was with considerably more difficulty that she said, “The hunt must continue. Send word when there is more for me to see and I shall make arrangements to view them.”

Mark bowed deeply. “As your Highness commands.”

Eleanor battled her queasiness valiantly, a battle lost midway back to Alnwick when she kept her escort waiting while she vomited into a bush. The men at arms averted their eyes and said not a word. They had been with her through far worse and seen her keep her stomach; that shamed her more than the revealed weakness.

When she was done Alfred offered her his costrel of water. “It’s a different thing, to be ordering deaths and seeing the results. Different to killing yourself, different to seeing a battle.”

Eleanor spat out a mouthful of water “I expect I shall become accustomed,” she said wretchedly.







Fulk resisted the urge to fidget as he waited for the man kneeling before the dais to finish his meandering plea. Hours had already been filled with similar pleas, or cases begging him for justice. Midday approached and the crowd of petitioners waiting at the back of Alnwick’s great hall had barely thinned. It wasn’t unexpected; this was the first time he’d held court as earl, and his lands has suffered badly.

“And so, we humbly beg your lordship, for the sake of Christian charity, to look kindly on us, your poor subjects.”

Fulk waited a moment to be sure the man was done. There’d been an embarrassing muddle at the start of the morning when he’d thought a plaintiff finished and the man had started talking again at the same moment as he. “I will say to you the same as I have to those others come here to represent their village in similar pleas. I will send a trustworthy man to your village and he will inspect the damage done, see what stores you have, and take inventory. Then I will make a decision as to whether to permit you to give a lower amount to me this year.” Fulk touched his fingers to the hilt of his sword, same as he had each time he’d made this speech. “If you attempt to hide goods or animals from my investigator your village will forfeit everything you hid and be fined ten marks. Be warned.”

The representative bowed, bowed again, and bowed yet again. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you, and may God bless you.”

Fulk clamped his jaw on a yawn and carefully shifted his posture so his back wasn’t in contact with the carved wood of the throne-like chair. What on earth had possessed the previous lord to have a mounted saint brandishing a sword carved slap across the high back? The chair would have to be changed or he’d end up with a damaged spine.

The next petitioner knelt before the dais and launched into his speech. It was remarkably similar to the previous one. Fulk knew he could interrupt at any time; it seemed ill-bred, and a poor return for the trouble taken to reach Alnwick and gain audience.

Once upon a time Fulk had watched in awe as his father performed his duty as lord and dreamed of the day when he too would sit in the high chair and nod gravely as people brought him their woes for judgement.

The plea wound to a close, and Fulk repeated yet again the bit about an inspector being sent to see what state the village was in. This time he added something to the close, “And let this stand for all others who have come to make such a plea. Let them go to my clerk and register their village’s request with him, and the necessary arrangements to send someone be made.” That thinned the crowd considerably.

The next petitioner reported brigands had taken up residence near his home and were extorting resources from the villagers. That one was simply solved; a party of twenty men at arms were to leave at once to hunt them down.

After that came a long-winded plea from a merchant for restitution for goods seized by Trempwick’s army. As the man worked through flowery phrases, claiming utter ruin suffered out of loyal service to Hugh, Eleanor slipped into the hall. She and Hawise worked their way along the outermost edge of the room, doing their best not to attract attention. Fulk lent most of his attention to admiring her progress; he already knew he would deny this plea. He’d have liked to have her at his side, taking her place as Lady of Alnwick and acknowledged as someone whose judgement he trusted. Eleanor had been less enthusiastic, arguing that, at least in the beginning, he should not been seen playing lord with her close by else people would consider him her puppet.

The merchant was still going some minutes after Eleanor disappeared up the stairs. Enough was enough. “Your request is denied,” Fulk interrupted. “You chose to take your train out of the city when the rebel army was know to be in the area. You cannot blame lord Hugh for that; the decision – and the blame – rests solely with you.”

The merchant straightened up indignantly. “It is the king’s duty to keep the peace and suppress rebels!”

“And suppress the rebels he did.” Fulk rested a clenched fist on the arm of his seat and advised the man, “Check the mounds outside my castle as you leave if you doubt.”






Jocelyn removed his tunic with care, lifting it over his head and then dragging the left sleeve off his arm. Damned crossbows and damn that idiot crossbowman who’d bloody well shot him!

“Does my lord need some help?”

Jocelyn squinted at the maid, considering. She was quite pretty, in a peasant sort of way, and it had been a damned long time since he last got to play … He started to say yes, changed his mind. She looked acceptable and it had been a damned long time – how bloody humbling was that?! Throwing himself at the first offer of contact with the first half decent woman to come near him?! And she wasn’t even offering help of that sort, damn it, though admittedly she certainly would if he smiled and turned his charm in her direction. Irresistible, wounded or not. But yes, saying he couldn’t manage just so she’d come close and maybe possibly brush against him once or twice while he enjoyed being at eye level with her breasts was too damned desperate. “I’ll manage.”

The stupid maid didn’t listen – see? Irresistible – and came to help him. The view was about as good as he’d expected. He’d got the shirt half-way off when the room’s door opened. A woman stood there, neatly framed. Stood staring. Frozen. The expression on her face …

Then she was gone, whirling around and slamming the door behind her. Footsteps could be heard running down the inn’s wooden staircase.

Christ’s sweet wounds! Jocelyn fought to disentangle himself from shirt and maid, stumbling to his feet. It couldn’t have been. He was hallucinating. It was an evil vision conjured up by his injuries. Bugger that – it was some kind of divine judgement on him for allowing himself to get excited by this woman! Her expression!

He staggered out of the room, still battling to get his right arm back into its sleeve and pull the garment over his head so he wasn’t running about bare-chested like some barbarian. “Richildis!”

It couldn’t have been.

He ran.

“Richildis!” He skidded out into the inn’s courtyard in time to see his wife hurl herself onto her horse and apply her boot to its ribs in such a wise it left no doubts as to her current state of mind. Damned cow was upset, but why?! “Richildis! Damn it, stop!”

She didn’t. The four men at arms accompanying her goggled at him, and one by one reined about to ride after her. Bloody traitors! Still, what else could he expect from the sods? They wore her colours, were her own hand-picked escort raised from her own lands. Bloody traitors! He was her husband; she belonged to him and so did they!

“Tildis!” Jocelyn roared.

Jocelyn became aware of the fact he stood in the yard of a common inn in his shirt and hose, having been abandoned by his wife. Everyone was staring. A lot. Everyone being peasants. Norman peasants. He was being gawped at by yokels. Making a scene. He, a count, humiliated in front of riffraff. It was all her fault!

Alain emerged from the main inn building at a run. “My lord? What’s going on?”

It was still possible to see the escaping riders. Jocelyn felt calm wash over him. Perfect calm. Like a tide of ice. So angry he’d come out the other side of rage. Humiliated. By his wife. Unreasonably. Unfairly. Unforgivably. He was going to kill her.

Jocelyn brushed a hand over his shirt, smoothing a crease from the linen. “Fetch my sword and my horse.” The squire didn’t move. “NOW!” Alain sped off, white as a sheet.

He’d done so much. How could she do this to him? He’d written those God-damned idiotic pointless effeminate letters like some bloody celibate clerk. He’d refused the maid’s offer of help even though he was really, really bloody tempted and actually rather in need of some help, thank you very much. He’d made a damned fool out of himself asking that widow the princess/queen/whatever sheltered for advice on how best to approach his wife. He’d learned some of the local lingo while in England. He’d brought that God-cursed bloody damned ring!

Jocelyn started to march. Across the courtyard. Out through the gate. Along the road. Each step swift and sure. Fatigue was gone. Pain was gone. The light-headedness that head plagued him since he took this wound was gone. Justice. That powered him now. He was going to give that evil bitch some justice. Following them before they got out of sight. Before they escaped. Justice.

Alain caught up with him, running at full pelt with the palfrey trotting gracefully at his side. He hadn’t brought the sword.

Jocelyn snatched the reins from his squire’s hand. “Where is my sword?” He demanded.

“My lord …” The youth shook his head.

Jocelyn backhanded him across the face. “I am your lord. Your place is to obey.”

Alain raised his head, cheek already reddening. “My lord, you are not yourself-”

“Then who the fuck else am I?”

“I beg you-”

Jocelyn grabbed his squire and snarled into his face, “Get back to the inn and bloody wait! If you try to follow me I will knock your damned head off, I swear it!” He cast Alain away from him and mounted up. He didn’t need a sword. Bare hands would suffice.

The squire ran after him as he galloped away. Soon left behind. The dust cloud in the distance drew closer. Resolved into a small dot. Into a larger dot. Into five visible riders. Sweat droplets spattered in the horse’s wake, keeping Jocelyn’s tears company.

Women rode side-saddle. It slowed them. Inferior creatures and their inferior means – no match for a man like him! Once within haling distance Jocelyn bellowed, “Stop! I command it!” Did they begin to slow? “I am your lord! I command it!”

Spurring his horse ruthlessly Jocelyn managed to catch up with the tail of the party. The men at arms didn’t dare block him; they shifted their own mounts from his path as he steadily gained on Richildis. When close enough he leaned and grabbed the reins.

She fought him. The damned ungrateful cow had the audacity to batter at him with one hand while dragging at the reins with the other. They struggled for a short space. The edge of her hand bashed into his temple. That was it! Jocelyn bared his teeth in a grin of he knew not what variety. “Damned bitch!”

He was a knight. A master horseman trained to ride using his knees to guide his mount while his hands were engaged in other tasks, to keep his seat when under stressful circumstances. So he grabbed Richildis by the waist and dragged her off her horse, slinging her over his saddlebow. His shoulder tore, blood began to run.

The gasping palfrey shambled to a stop; Jocelyn threw his struggling wife to the ground. A handful of moments saw her back on her feet; Jocelyn dismounted then. She stood facing him, breathing heavily, for all the world like an animal brought to bay. Wasn’t that what she was?

Only when the men at arms closed in a semi-circle loose enough to be non-threatening did Jocelyn take his eyes off her. “Return to the inn,” he ordered.

They shuffled their feet and looked uneasy, and damned well didn’t leave.

“I am your lord. If you harm me you will all die. If you get in my way I will kill you. Leave.”

The leader said hesitantly, “She is our lady …”

“She is my wife. Will you interfere?”

The man bowed his head. “We cannot,” he acknowledged in a whisper.

“Then go.”

They did.

When he turned back Richildis seemed to have calmed herself. It was she who spoke first. “I’m returning to my dower lands. I never want to see you again.”

Jocelyn inhaled long and deep; the air might steady his spinning head. He’d have some answers before he wrung her wretched bloody neck. “You cannot leave me.”

Richildis raised her chin. “I can and will.”

“See how easily I have fetched you back?” They stared at one another for a time. Yes, he’d show her how easily, since the stupid cow didn’t already see it. He seized her ear and yanked her towards him, took a step back along the way he had come, and another, and another, pulling her with him. “How are you leaving?” One last brutal twist and he released her. “You’re not,” he sneered.

She spun on her heel and walked away.

Jocelyn wasted a heartbeat gaping before diving after her and grabbing her shoulder. “You’re my wife! You cannot leave me! It is not possible!” Leave him?! Christ on a sway-backed donkey with diarrhoea! How could she possibly even think about it!? why?! It was not right – not fair! “We are one flesh, joined in the eyes of man and God. We cannot be parted; there is no grounds.”

“I will not stay with you. I cannot stand the sight of you. There is that ground.” Entirely too bloody calm; unnatural!

“Even if you did get to your dower lands everyone would say you must return to me. You wouldn’t be permitted to stay away, whatever I damned well said about it.” A prime weapon dropped into his hands; Jocelyn said triumphantly, “And you’d never see the children again. Leave me, Richildis, and you’ll never see them again, or hear from them. They’ll be as good as dead to you.”

She flinched, looked away. “It shouldn’t surprise me that you would be so cruel. To them as well as me.”

“I would never be cruel to them!” Anger, oh yes now he was right bloody angry! “I would never harm them, you evil-minded bitch!”

“You said you would not let them see me again. That is cruel. They need their mother.”

“You’re the one who wants to abandon them – they don’t need a mother like that.”

Richildis touched a hand to her sore ear. “Jean speaks a few new words since you left. Damn. Bloody. Bitch. And others. Where might he have learned them?”

Like the blow to the stomach that left Jocelyn gasping.

“Thierry asked why we fight so much. Mahaut asks as well. Asks if her marriage will be the same.”

“But …” But …. But …!

“Better that they remain with me. Away from you.”

“NO!” The cry was wrung right from Jocelyn’s heart. “No! They need me – I love them!”

Richildis said wearily, “You’ve taught our baby to swear.”

But! And how had she managed to turn this about on him in any bloody case! This was about her, turning up from nowhere and running away, humiliating him so badly he would never, ever in a hundred years be free of the shame. “I love them. I brought them back gifts. I brought you gifts.” Why in the name of a miraculous plum had he added that last bit?! “I love them. I cherish them. I do everything I can for them.” In an anguished cry, “I went to bloody war for them, suffered things you’ll never damned well understand, placed myself in danger, got hurt, nearly damned well died, was homesick, got travelsick, felt like a right bloody twat, and a whole lot damned well bloody more, and all to see that they have something to set them up in life! Something to inherit! Something to dower them! Something to bloody well feed them, clothe them, shelter them while they grow, damn it!” He filled his lungs again. “And, God damn it, I did it for you as well!”

“So I believed.” Richildis’ lip trembled; she put her back to him and started walking again.

Swift strides saw Jocelyn ahead of her; he planted himself in her path. “What the damned hell do you mean? What the bloody hell is all this about? What are you doing here, in the name of the Pope’s blessed underwear!?”

Richildis started laughing, choked, and burst into tears, still laughing like a madwoman.

“I don’t!” Bloody women! Entirely incomprehensible, and that was when they were making sense!

So long passed that Jocelyn began to shiver; it wasn’t a warm day. The blood-soaked patch of his shirt caught the breeze and amplified it, chilling him to the very bone. A man could drop dead waiting for an answer to perfectly reasonable questions.

Richildis’ mouth twisted into a shape he didn’t like, all derisive. “You asked me to come and meet you on your way home.”

“What!?” he exploded. “I did no such thing!” And why the hell would he!?

“You sent me a letter.”

“I did not!”

She reached into the purse she wore on her girdle. “I have it here.”

“I didn’t write to you, damn it!”

“This letter is from you. It asks me to come and meet you. It tells me your planned route.” The sneer grew, and he wondered if there wasn’t a trace of self-derision in it. A teardrop dripped off her chin. “It says you miss me.”

“I didn’t bloody well write it!” Jocelyn snatched the letter from her hand and squinted at it, muttering under his breath about the delusions of women. The handwriting was quite distinctive: it looked as though a drunken spider with three badly broken legs had crossed the page while having a fit of some sort. “Alright, perhaps I did write it,” he admitted. “I must have been drunk.”

“Of course,” she spat. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “And what did I find when I arrived? You about to bed your latest whore.”

Christ! “You’re wrong. She was there to treat my wound.” He gestured at his bleeding shoulder.

“Ha!”

Hold on a minute here – he was missing something. Something important. Jocelyn wracked his brains, realised what it was. “There’s still something in your purse. Empty it out.” Was it? Could it be? Or was he being a prat? Had his eyes deceived him?

“No.”

“Empty it out, or I’ll do it for you.” Christ, pleased, please, please, please!

“Burn in hell!”

Jocelyn shrugged. “So be it.” Once he moved towards her Richildis pulled out that which she’d kept hidden and hurled it at him. Jocelyn retrieved the letters from the dirt. Not a prat after all. By God, it was a miracle, and truly his heart flooded with light. With a gentle hand he brushed dust from the folded bits of parchment. “You kept my letters. Love of God, you kept them close to you.” He cradled the letters in a cup made from the palms of his hands, and offered them back to her with reverence. Unbelievable. Voice filled with wonder he said, “That’s the real reason you came. Because I asked, and you wanted to. Because of these.” Blood was soaking his shirt, the waist of his braes and she didn’t care at all.

Richildis started to reach for the letters, stopped and then dashed them back into the dirt. “I will be a fool no longer.”

A fiery angel descended from on High and informed him that he’d been given this one last absolutely final chance to sort things and that if he screwed up now he’d lose everything. Or at least one would have if God didn’t know Jocelyn was smart enough to catch on without wasting Gabriel’s precious time. Buggering hell, what should he do? Jocelyn sent up a prayer, and collected up his letters again. “I wrote that letter while so drunk I don’t remember it.” Damn, she was turning away again! Couldn’t she give him chance!? “Why don’t you ask yourself what that means?” he called after her. “Think about it.” The stakes were so high his voice cracked like an adolescent’s, and damn it she wasn’t stopping!

“Tildis!” She was getting so far away that he’d have to bellow to be heard. Christ, why couldn’t someone send her a fiery angel too? Jocelyn started to jog after her. “Tildis! Ask why, damn it! Please, think about it! Please!”

“I no longer care.”

Jocelyn got ahead of her and turned so he was walking backwards, not attempting to block her and praying for all he was worth he wouldn’t fall down a pothole. “I was so drunk all my guards were down, and I was asking for you, damn it!” Bugger it – there was a pothole and down he went, landing hard on his arse. “I wanted nothing but you!”

Richildis gathered her skirts and stepped around him as though he were a pile of filth.

Jocelyn scrambled after her on his hands and knees, struggling to get back up without losing time. “I wrote to you all those times because I thought you’d like it. Tildis, please! I learned a lot of Anglo-French! I learned some poetry, almost! I wrote myself, with my own hands and no help!” Was she slowing down? No, not a chance, just wishful thinking. “I asked for advice, even! I brought you presents everywhere I stopped! I learned some courtly manners!”

If his words had any effect on her Jocelyn couldn’t see it.

“Tildis, it’s dangerous out here. You can’t just walk off alone! Tildis!” Damn, the world was so wobbly, black specks nibbling away at the edges of his vision. Stupid crossbow wound. That fiery angel must be leaning on his giant two-handed sword shaking his head in disgust. Jocelyn stumbled to a halt and fell to his knees. He’d said everything he could think of.

Except one thing. One final burst of effort brought him back to her side, he gasped the bitter words, “Come back to the inn with me to collect your escort and then I’ll let you go.”

That stopped her, so suddenly he collided with her. “You’re lying.”

Jocelyn shook his head and wished he hadn’t as the world spun crazily. “I can’t stop you going, not without locking you away under guard. You can have a week with the children every second month.” The dark patches were increasing and his ears rang so loudly that he could barely hear; damn, how bloody humiliating. He didn’t even hear himself say, “I brought a wedding ring for myself …”, just felt the shape of the words in his mouth as he collapsed.








Jocelyn would be mortified if he knew most of his scene was written to the sounds of Ever ever after from the film Disney’s Enchanted. It’s hideously appropriate on metaphorical, literal (“your head feels it’s spinning” :p) and ironic levels. He wants ever after, he’s been pretending he has it for years even though he blatantly doesn’t, and now …? Good film BTW, about the only Disney one I’ve liked since I was 11. It’s very Disney meets Princess Bride.

Fiery angels. Lol.





Funny you should mention a pic of Trempy. I started to watch the DVD of series 1 of The Tudors (yes, yes, I know: I’m the last person in England to watch it) a couple of days ago and, while browsing an episode guide to get an idea of who was supposed to be who I saw a good resemblance. I saved the pic to my HD. Make his hair brown and cut it in the correct style, give him a more obviously hooked nose, and age him to his forties and ladies and gentlemen, this is Raoul Trempwick, king’s spymaster and trainer of gooseberries.



That's a pic of him posing and looking handsome. The resemblence would be keener if he were behaving naturally. You could put him in any crowd and he wouldn't stand out; he's nicely average and non-descript in all the ways which matter.

That's 3 characters in as many years; always shocking when I find myself face to face with someone.



Forogt to mention: Edward was one of the servants at Woburn, the steward. Highlights of his time on screen include him introducing Fulk to the Woburn tradition of betting how how long Nell would manage to survive each time William came for a visit.

[furball]

Froggy, my computer has been getting "fixed" since late April. I just got it back and have caught up with the story. Splendid, as usual! And what a wonderful scene with Jocelyn and 'Tildis! (Yes, Trempy and Hugh and Malcolm have good scenes, but I guess I empathize with Jocelyn the most.)

Your story has been the best part of my computer's homecoming and I eagerly look forward to more chapters.

Congrats and be well.

[frogbeastegg]

The road into Waltham was a blaze of bright colours. Banners – his coat of arms, his feather of truth badge repeated over and over – flew on each side of the road for the last quarter of a mile. Well-wishers thronged, held back from the road by soldiers in immaculate liveries. People cheered, called his name, shouted blessings. Pretty young damsels had been stationed on hastily built towers; they threw flower petals over him as he passed.

It dazzled. Hugh rode home blinking his eyes, half believing the spectacle would vanish if he did so a sufficient number of times.

He went through the motions with the grace that came from years of hard practice. Over and over he raised his right hand, saluting his people. He smiled beatifically. He inclined his head at this person and that selected at random from the multitudes. On hearing God’s blessing offered to him Hugh never failed to cross himself.

His personal companions did likewise, many unable to hold back broad grins of pleasure at the welcome waiting for their lord. Pleasure too, Hugh did not doubt, at their own triumph. They had chosen a side, supported it, survived and won. Further back in the marching column, and ahead in the advance party, his soldiers let their discipline crack to wave, to smile, to snatch up the trifling little gifts offered them, to kiss a girl or ruffle the hair of a child.

Malcolm Nefastus seemed more overawed than any of them. Not for him the easy acceptance of the peoples’ adoration. Not for him the small gestures which acknowledged their love and returned it. Each time Hugh glanced at the youth he saw him looking this way and that, face shining with incredulous wonder. Once Hugh saw the boy’s lips move, and thought they formed the words, “One day …”

Before Waltham’s gates a huge party awaited. Constance, Hugh identified her instantly, his heart knowing her before his eyes. The Archbishop of Canterbury and his retinue of clergy. The lords he had left behind to guard his wife and others who had not come to his side by the time he had marched away to the North. The men who formed his administration. Others, many others. A choir of boys sang hymns in the sweetest voices.

All these people, swarming in their hundreds, hailed a great man. A victorious general who had destroyed the rebels and restored peace to the realm. A king about to be made. Hugh wondered what would happen if they knew the truth. They would not cheer for him then.

He dismounted before the reception party. At once they all began to bow and curtsey. Hugh caught Constance’s hands before she got more than halfway down, and raised her back up. “I am heartened to see you well,” he said, pulling her into an embrace. Perhaps this was not the most princely of acts here, now, on such an awesome occasion, yet his caring for that had been burned away on the field of Alnwick. Had he not earned the right to bend protocol a little and hold his wife? Was it not, another part of his mind suggested, the behaviour expected of those of poor birth?

This lapse appeared to be to the approval of the soldiers, as a cry was taken up, “God save lord Hugh!”

Constance stood back a little once he let her go, examining him as he did the same to her. Praise the Lord she brimmed with health – seldom had he seen her look so well. As for their child, he had felt it kick while he held her. Praise God.

Hugh went through the lengthy official welcome with but half his mind on the matter. The remainder focused solely on Constance, on the matter which he had brooded upon for the entire trip south. However was he going to tell her? What would her reaction then be? It was to end that overhanging misery that he had headed to Waltham before Wales, though there were sound strategic reasons too. He could firm his grasp on England, go to collect the surrender of Trempwick’s mother and the castle she held and then march on the Welsh with a peaceful country at his back.

As he led the notables into Waltham for the waiting feast Hugh reviewed the collection of explanations he had carefully worked on during his trip and endeavoured to select the best way to tell his wife that he was nothing more than a bastard, disowned by the man he believed to be his father and occupying a throne at the sufferance of his sister.











I have been struggling a bit with the end of Jocelyn’s scene. It won’t quite come out in a form I like. Then my Granddad died and I haven’t felt much like writing. I tried today and that scene isn’t working at all, I’m not in the right frame of mind. So instead we have Hugh and Hugh alone.

Granddad, this story is now dedicated to you. I thought you were invincible.




Welcome back furball. I wondered if you had picked the wrong spot to watch the battle at Alnwick and had been trampled

[furball]

I'm sorry to hear about your loss, Ms. Frog.

Meanwhile, I thoroughly understand not wanting to write the end to the Jocelyn scene until it comes out "just right."

[Kommodus]

Froggy, I'm sorry to hear about your grandfather. You have my condolences.

This story has been a truly remarkable effort, and I sense it coming to a brilliant end.

[Ciaran]

I am truly sorry to hear of your loss, you have my deepest sympathies.

[frogbeastegg]

When Jocelyn opened his eyes it was to discover he was in a room, and it was dark enough to be late at night. The day’s events came flooding back; he covered his face with his hand. Expelling the air from his lungs he said, simply, “Bugger.”

Tentatively Jocelyn sat up, giving his head time to settle so he didn’t fall over. Something was binding his shoulder up tightly; careful exploration proved it to be some highly competent bandaging. Who’d done it? More to the point who’d fetched his carcass and dragged him back here – wherever here was? Well, there was only one way to answer that, and damn it if he’d lie tamely back down and wait for his captor/benefactor to show up.

Jocelyn stood up - and nearly dropped from shock when a voice remarked, “If you fall down I’m not picking you up.”

One hand pressed to his thumping heart, sagged back against the edge of his bed Jocelyn swore, “Bloody hell!” Then, a half-second later, “Bloody hell!” He looked about the room until he spotted her, a silhouette sitting in the corner near the empty fireplace. “You’re still here.” Quite probably the most inane statement ever made in the history of the world, ever. At least it matched his equally idiotic grin.

“Your men won’t let me depart without your say so.” That tone was usually found hand in hand with that expression which said - faintly and with perfect noble breeding – that someone as crude as Jocelyn shouldn’t be allowed to foil her but, thanks to the world being a bloody unfair place, he had. Good thing it was too dark to see her properly.

“Oh.” Jocelyn gave up on his attempt to stand. Now he’d gathered his wits a bit he recognised the room; he was back at the inn.

“They won’t believe you said you would let me go.”

Nor did she, from that ever so acid tone. Ah, God! Jocelyn fingered the bandages over his wound; this was her work. “Bring my captain up here and I’ll tell him. Then you can go whenever you want. Just … wait until daylight. Please. It’s dangerous out there.” Jesù, could he sound any more like a whipped cur?! Actually, sod that! A spike of energy burned through Jocelyn’s weary veins. “And what the damned hell were you thinking just running off out there anyway!? Anything could have happened!” Jocelyn stabbed a finger towards the shuttered window. “There’s a war out there!”

“There was a whore in here!”

And now his shoulder was aching like some cruel bastard has stuffed a red hot poker into it, damn her! “If there was,” Jocelyn spat, “I wasn’t making use of her, but it will rain frogs before you believe me, so shut up and fetch my captain. If that’s still what you want.”

Didn’t take her more than a moment to go, no hesitation or anything. And there it was again, that tugging pain inside his heart, rather like someone had fastened a hook to his vitals and was tenaciously trying to pull them out. Maybe all that wailing and warbling about broken hearts wasn’t all so much pretty-fancy wordage. Maybe they did exist. Damn the woman!

The captain entered the room bowing. “Good to see you recovering, my lord.”

Why prolong the agony? “My wife and her escort are free to leave whenever they like.” Jocelyn dismissed the man with a pained wave before he could ask questions. Answering them was more than he could face. He, the handsome and dashing absolutely courageous and heroic rich and powerful Count of Tourraine, recently from the royal court and known to be a staunch support for the old king’s children, the great lover and awesome father, he, Jocelyn de Ardentes, had been left by his wife. And he’d let her go. Like a wimp. A thousand heroic deaths couldn’t win him enough acclaim to blot out the hideous infamy of it.

She was still here. Lurking. Wanting to revel in her triumph, no doubt. Bitch.

“I hope you’re happy now,” he growled.

Richildis bumped the door shut and didn’t take the polite suggestion to sod off and leave him to his misery. Gloating cow! Taking the single candle she lit a couple of others, bathing the room near his bed in soft light. Still holding that first candle she looked so damned beautiful; her eyes sparkled, her skin the colour of fresh cream, her golden hair shone in the light like – like gold! And if he’d had the pretty words to make those thoughts sound decent then maybe he’d have told her years ago, and maybe they wouldn’t have ended up here.

She set the candle down on the room’s tiny table. “I can’t believe you. Coming chasing after me like that, half-dressed and wounded. How incredibly stupid – and look what you did to yourself.”

Jocelyn lay back down, hand over his eyes. How long was he going to have to listen to this?

“All to stop me leaving. And then – after all of that - you let me go.” A pause.

The hand dropped away; Jocelyn craned his neck to look at her. Something about the way she was talking was making his innards flutter like he’d eaten a moth.

“It’s by far the most romantic thing you have ever done.” She sounded … surprised, more than anything.

Romantic? But wasn’t that all; about flowers, singing, stupid words and dying in agony because the blasted female wouldn’t give you so much as a kiss? “Um ..” What to say? In response to a comment like that? It was kind of like a compliment, sort of, in a backhanded way, if you squinted. Jocelyn didn’t think it would be smart to admit he’d intended to kill her.

If there was a thing where you could look at words as pictures then Richildis right now would make the perfect template for that fancy word ‘inscrutable’. “Why?”

The fiery angel was still lingering, and he gave Jocelyn a nudge. Or he would have if God had actually sent him, but he hadn’t because He knew Jocelyn was smart enough to get by without all the flash fanciness which probably cost heaven quite a bit, if you thought about it. But the problem was Jocelyn’s wound ached, his brain felt like curdled cheese, and last time this damned angel had interfered he’d fallen down a pothole.

Richildis repeated, “Why are you letting me go?” Pah! As if she thought Jocelyn didn’t understand the question or something.

Uh, right. Yeah. There was something about this … something … “Well …” Yes, that was a good start. Now what next? Should he say that if he got rid of her then he could pick a nice amicable young beauty who didn’t hate him, and install her in his castle to keep him company? Yeah, that would show her! “I can-” Uh, actually no, forget that!

“Is it so difficult a question to answer?”

Bloody yes it bloody well bloody was! Jocelyn scowled so hard it made his face ache. Intuition hit him like a punch to the face – maybe his aid Up There had gotten impatient – and this silly idea started jiggling away in his mind. Maybe, just maybe, it was possibly one of those things where you saw a dirty old man lying in the middle of a road and then you either kept on travelling and got killed by divine vengeance or stopped to help him and then discovered that actually he was the only one in the entire world capable of saving your favourite dog from choking to death during that night’s feast? A test. Yeah, one of them things.

Let’s assume it was and proceed accordingly. Well, it wasn’t like he’d got anything left to lose, not after turning himself into Jocelyn-who-couldn’t-even-keep-his-wife. “Well … It’s … That is …” Smooth and eloquent – not! Jocelyn mentally heaved himself up and chucked himself over the parapets, and said in the tiniest, most ashamed voice he’d ever heard coming from his own mouth, “I want you to be happy.”

And watched bewildered as the daft creature burst into tears. This was just embarrassing. Completely, purely, excruciatingly embarrassing. No other word for it. If he could crawl to the window and manage to wedge himself through the narrow gap he’d probably dive out of it just to get away from the humiliation, second storey drop or no. Slapping a hand over his face Jocelyn admitted that people were right – it did take a big strong manly man to admit to stuff like feelings. Christ, a lesser man would have melted into a puddle by now!

Right. Yes, right. Right. Take the blow, roll with it, and come back for another strike. Just like sword fighting, this. Take the pain, push on into it, and make sure you bloody well won so no one could laugh at you for the indignity of getting there! But he left his hand covering his face so he didn’t have to look, because really that would just crumple up his amazingly masculine courage, and that couldn’t be allowed. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Sort of. Kind of. In a way. I mean, that is to say … Bugger!”

Jocelyn levered himself back up into a sitting position. Some things just couldn’t be done lying down. “Look, Tildis, all I’ve ever really wanted is a wife who likes me, maybe even loves me. I just want to go home to someone who’s missed me and is glad to see me. Someone who I’ve missed and am glad to see. Someone who wants to make me happy, and who I want to make happy. Someone who appreciates my efforts. Someone who-” and God, he was blushing like a virgin on her wedding night! “wants to go to bed with me. Because, you know, actually, really that’s all I’ve ever wanted from life, pretty much. Except for children. And a nice castle, and title and lands and such. And wealth. And importance.” Um, but maybe he was straying from the point here? “It was damned obvious I wouldn’t get that with you, right from the start and that’s why I didn’t want to marry you. You didn’t like me, and you made me feel like a crude barbarian, and I bloody hate that! And I hate feeling off-balance, and ignorant, and damn it if you don’t also make me feel like I’ve been castrated and turned into some helpless sod who isn’t a man at all and I damned bloody well hate that too! And I hate the stress of having to prove I am a proper man after all!” And something somewhere here had gone a tad wrong … Too much shouting and accusation, maybe, and not enough of the nice and fluffy stuff?

Jocelyn gathered himself with some effort and stabbed home the final blow on this flurry of … whatever it was. “What I’m trying to say is that I’ve tried my damned hardest since I’ve known what’s what, and I thought that it was working, but no, obviously not. Now you want to leave me, and all because of something which isn’t true. It’s not fair!” And hadn’t he heard his eldest son whine like that when told he couldn’t have a proper sword yet? Jesù! “But no, that’s that and it’s over. You’d rather believe ill of me and end it all then so bloody well be it – go. Because there’s nothing else I can do but lock you up, and I don’t want that. I never have, damn it, whatever you think of me. So go! Leave me alone, and believe the worst of me, but know this – I was trying and it was working otherwise you wouldn’t bloody well be here in the first damned place, and now you’re leaving me because you got the wrong impression!” He gasped for breath, panting slightly. Felt like he’d run a couple of laps of Saint Maur’s training yard.

After a while Richildis said, “I’m not sure if you’re trying to tell me you love me or hate me.”

Jocelyn blinked, thrown entirely. He thought about it. “Both, I think.” A bit more thought and he added, “But I’d rather not hate.”

Well, she’d stopped it with the crying, which was something. What wasn’t something was the fact he couldn’t bloody well even guess what was going through that mind of hers. But then when had he been able to? “Jocelyn …” She shook her head and said no more.

Slowly it occurred to Jocelyn that for the very first time ever he’d managed to knock her off-balance with words, stun her and leave her utterly at a loss. He mentally pumped a fist in the air and yelled, “Yes!” She just sat there like someone had knocked all the wind out of her, like she couldn’t begin to think of where to start. Made a change for someone other than him to have that problem. Struggling to grasp it all.

And you know there was maybe one last thing to add. Like he’d thought earlier, before he’d chucked his pride in the chamber pot. “Tildis?” he said honestly, “I think you’re beautiful. Always have.”

“Then why,” she said, voice gone all screwy because of crying and shock and stuff, “didn’t you say so?”

Because he just did say so? Once he’d have snapped that back as an answer and delighted in maddening her. Now he kept it to himself. “Because you want fancy words and that’s plain. Boring. The sort of thing any idiot could say. You’d have laughed.”

For the first time in ages she looked directly at him instead of past him or around him. “If you had said it like that I would not have laughed.”

Calling her a liar would be rude, so Jocelyn just shrugged with his one sound shoulder. “Tildis, the thing is all those things I’ve done recently which you liked, well I did do them. They were real. I did them. You liked them. So I don’t see what the problem is.”

“You and that maid-”

Jocelyn placed his hand on his heart. “I swear on the lives and souls of our children that I didn’t touch that damned girl, didn’t intend to, and wouldn’t have even if you hadn’t turned up!”

Slowly Richildis said, “You wouldn’t lie … Not with such stakes.”

“Doesn’t that mean you owe me an apology?” Jocelyn asked smugly. Ah – something altogether more important occurred to him. “And doesn’t that mean you’re not leaving me now?” Finally, a question which had plagued his bemused brain for years, “And anyway, why do you care? You don’t like me coming after you, damn it, so you should be glad I turn elsewhere half the time.”

Oddly he had the impression she was about to go pop like a bubble, only without any of that nice jolliness. A bubble of anger, or hate, or something like that, exploding into a wave of anger or whatever it was made out of.

No answer was offered so Jocelyn poked a bit more. “I mean, it’s true. You won’t come to me willingly, you try to make excuses most of the time, you complain and make me feel guilty when I force you, and then you go all sulky every time I so much as look at anyone else!” He threw up his hands. “Damn it, Tildis, what am I meant to do?! I’m not made out of bloody stone!”

She still didn’t answer, and Jocelyn had a feeling that somehow he’d gotten onto the high ground in this battle. He was running about naked, so to speak, with all his bits on show and flapping about while she was still refusing to take her shoes off. Who’d have thought he’d manage to do so well with just words, only words, and nothing but words, and mostly honest ones at that? Not her, that’s for sure. He should do his duty as a husband and set an example and make sure she damned well followed it. “Come on, Tildis. Whatever you’ve got to say can’t be any more God damned embarrassing than any one part of what I’ve managed to get out.” He tried to sound encouraging, and did his best to smile nicely.

Tildis jerked her chin up and spat, “Because I hate being reminded I’m the only woman in Christendom who doesn’t enjoy being mauled by you!”

Ok, some answer was better than none, and while that wasn’t the one he’d been looking for it was better than silence. Mostly. And anyway, it wasn’t entirely unexpected, if he were honest. She’d mentioned something similar once or twice in the past. Ok, dozens of times. And it was kind of sort of slightly his fault, in a way.

It turned out she wasn’t finished with the angry-word-spitting. “Or that I’m defective because I don’t like it!”

God, Christ, and all the saints, the dratted creature thought she was broken. He could have wept. Jocelyn nervously wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Tildis … I never knew.”

She made a harsh sound that accused him of lying. He noticed she was still crying, and thought it might be nice if she’d do so on his shoulder. His good shoulder, not the wounded one. If only.

“I mean, I didn’t know you thought that.” Damn, but it was bloody obvious when you thought about it. What else was she going to think, being a sheltered type who’d had nothing but lousy treatment from the same man others swooned over? Jocelyn buried his face in his hands. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine. Well, mostly.” He dragged his head back up and attempted to meet her eyes – suddenly it was very important that she understand and believe. “No one bothered to tell me! They just got me drunk, and let despair that you hated me and told me it didn’t matter because you were mine, and told me that it would be the best night of my life because you’re so beautiful and a proper noble girl instead of the lowly sorts I’d had. They didn’t warn me you wouldn’t know what you were doing, or that I’d have to do everything, or that you would be hurt, or-” He choked on the lump in his throat. “And I didn’t know how to win you over after that. You hated me. And I hated you for making me feel like I wasn’t any good.”

Richildis had gone as white as a fresh linen shirt. “What are you saying?”

“I thought you knew I’d made a botch of things and didn’t want me because you thought I was rubbish in bed. And because you hated me,” he added, because he was an upstanding honest type. “Damn!” The more he thought about it the more bloody stupid he felt for not thinking of it himself. Jocelyn d’Ardentes: a man who couldn’t even keep his wife and who was as thick as frozen mud. What a complete tosser! “But then how were you supposed to know it can be different?”

She pressed her lips together and said through clenched teeth, “You make me sound foolish as well as defective.”

Foolish? Her? “Tildis? For once in your life trust me, damn it. There’s nothing wrong with you. Or at least …nothing which started that way.” Jocelyn scratched at his earlobe, foundering. “Look, woman, I got something beautiful and I broke it and I didn’t even know I was doing it, and maybe – maybe I can prove that some day. Given chance.” Uh, yeah, could even a lover as amazing as he was undo the damage he’d done to her? Um, and did he even know how? Right, whatever and so what. Time to hammer at the iron while it was hot and hope he didn’t burn his fingers or whack the hammer into his eye-watering spot. “Look, you’re leaving me over something which didn’t happen. We’ve got that bargain we made before I left for England, and it was damned well-” She hated cursing! “ Er, that is it was jolly well working. You liked my letters and stuff, and I’m glad you cared enough to come out here, even if I don’t remember asking it. We’ve … I guess we understand each other a bit more now, too.”

Jocelyn groaned his way to his feet, tried not to fall down as he crossed the ground between them, and dropped gratefully onto his knees at her feet. He took her left hand tenderly in both of his. “I don’t want you to leave me, Tildis. Please stay. And note that I’m being all nice and stuff, and I’m kneeling so it’s probably romantic.” Bugger, if only he’d thought to get that stupid ring out of his bags. That would have shoved the romance stakes through the bloody roof! “Look, maybe it won’t work. Maybe we’re so dam- er very messed up that there’s no fixing it, or maybe we’re just destined to hate each other, but I swear if it doesn’t work I’ll let you go if that’s what you want. But we should try. Please?”

Richildis gazed down at him, traces of tears still damp on her cheeks. For the longest time she didn’t say anything. Then her head dipped into the shallowest of nods.












It’s time to bid Jocelyn goodbye – and good luck. That’s his final scene. Turns out that the big solution was cutting off all the stuff which followed Richildis nodding. Even a single line more was too much; the thread departs the tapestry here, and here it must depart.

Now you will begin to understand what I have said about loose endings which will probably make people want to hurt me. What’s going to happen from here? He could fail, he could win her over, they could manage to rub along in many varying shades of tolerant (un)happiness. … The seeds for all of these possibilities are scattered throughout the story. I know what happens; you will have to decide for yourselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of you decide they manage to struggle through and end up in Happily Ever After

Remember how occasionally I have said that the story writes itself and that I have very little influence? Also that occasionally a small chance here will have huge consequences there? Originally Jocelyn died. He was supposed to die. He was created purely to be a view on the other side of the channel, to view William’s accident and death, and to carry the news to England. His secondary mandate was to provide an alternative to all the happier couples and the courtly men. We should have seen him for the final time lying on the littered field at Alnwick with a lance snapped off in his guts, lying propped up against his dead warhorse, slowly dying in agony and alternately cursing his fate and mourning his lost chances.

That fate changed long, long ago, as he attended the wounded, then recovering, then dying William. All those things he began to realise about himself, his family, and the very problematic royal family of England subtly changed his path to one where he walked and lived. The cumulative effect of the many microscopic changes added up to him not being a hot-headed idiot and leading a mounted charge out of Alnwick’s gates in search of glory. He went on foot with the shaky faith that following Nell’s instructions was the right thing to do.

Jocelyn d’Ardentes, hail and farewell!



Thank you.

[Prince Cobra]

So that's it. The end. I will beg for some time to relax and to order the rambling thoughts in my mind. Excellent story!!!!

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

The end I read in one breath. I'll await the "end" of the other character's story

[furball]

THANK YOU!

(Truly, I was beaming as as I read that. Anything else I say would be superfluous.)

[Ludens]

Jocelyn d’Ardentes, hail and farewell!

Hail and farewell, indeed.

I don't agree this is a loose end, though. Not unless someone expects a happily-ever-after ending for everyone apart from Trempwick.

Did you intend for Jocelin and Tildis' arc to have a moral?

[frogbeastegg]

Stephen, you made it at last! You've been patiently chipping away at this mass of words for what feels like most of its lifetime. My PM box is as open as always; I look forward to the next to add to my collection.

Furball, I thought you would like it.

I don't agree this is a loose end, though. Not unless someone expects a happily-ever-after ending for everyone apart from Trempwick.

It depends on your tolerance, at least somewhat. Some people class a story which doesn't have every last "what happens for the rest of the characters' lives" pinned down in detail as having a loose ending. Others do so when the entire ending is so open that it's as if the book got cut into two and one part left out.

I've heard of people throwing books at walls for endings less open than Jocelyn's. Scary.

Did you intend for Jocelin and Tildis' arc to have a moral?

I don't intend for anything to have a moral. Writers who set out to include morals and educate their audiences should go write pamphlets instead IMO. I have never read a work of fiction which sets out to contain morals which worked to my full satisfaction. The common mistake is making the story, characters and world secondary to the message. Hence the tendency to end up with less than lifelike characters, convenient happenings, a preachy tone, and other things a frog terms to be disastrous.

IMO if an author does their job well then people will naturally take bits away and think about them. How many and which parts are up to the reader and will be very personal. You can increase the likelihood that a certain bit is taken away for thought by writing it well; make people care about what's happening and why. People wanted Jocelyn to make peace with his wife because they like him, not because I'm telling a story about how men should try to stop swearing and write love poetry. Because they like him then at least some will have been thinking about the various things he has done, how, why. If you're thinking about something then ... well, you're thinking. Next time you're riding through a battle you might recall Jocelyn and his tendency to get shot, and head in the opposite direction when you see a man with a crossbow.

Writing with a moral in mind also suggests to me a certain sense of fear and uncertainty on the author’s part. A distrust of the readers. Certainly a sense of superiority and condescension.

There are some groups which would condemn me for condoning domestic violence and rape via Jocelyn. He's a popular, likeable character. The wife he has treated so poorly agrees to stay with him of her own will. Worse, the overall tone is that she’s equally responsible for the difficulties they have. There's no punishment of him for engaging in such behaviour. He's not viewed as a scumbag by his peers. The scenes where he commits these acts are frequently written in a humorous way. So on and so forth.

I have long found that fiction which sets out to be nothing more than the best fiction it can be is better than fiction which sets out to be anything else, and tends to have a better rate of success at being more than ‘just’ a story. Want to explore the causes behind the fall of the Roman Empire? Go write a history book; I’ll read it and be happy. Want to tell me about the holiday taken by this fascinating clerk who happens to live during the last years of the empire? Let’s go.

(Your mileage may vary. I’m a heavily character oriented writer, and that influences a lot. An event or theme oriented writer would be spitting up blood at the above.)

[Peasant Phill]

And so the curtain falls over one of my favourite characters.
Jocelyn, I bid you a fair adieu.

And thank you Lady frog for not including a happy ending.
To many stories are squandered because the writer felt the need end everything nicely and to explain everything.

[Ludens]

It depends on your tolerance, at least somewhat. Some people class a story which doesn't have every last "what happens for the rest of the characters' lives" pinned down in detail as having a loose ending. Others do so when the entire ending is so open that it's as if the book got cut into two and one part left out.

I've heard of people throwing books at walls for endings less open than Jocelyn's. Scary.

I'd say that anybody who has gotten this far will realize your narrative is too complex for clear-cut endings.

IMO if an author does their job well then people will naturally take bits away and think about them. How many and which parts are up to the reader and will be very personal. You can increase the likelihood that a certain bit is taken away for thought by writing it well; make people care about what's happening and why. People wanted Jocelyn to make peace with his wife because they like him, not because I'm telling a story about how men should try to stop swearing and write love poetry. If you're thinking about something then ... well, you're thinking.

I didn't mean moral as in moralizing. That obviously does not apply to your story. I rather meant that you could draw certain observation about, say, male-female relations from your story. I was wondering how much of that was intentional. Thank you for the explanation.

[frogbeastegg]

I didn't mean moral as in moralizing. That obviously does not apply to your story. I rather meant that you could draw certain observation about, say, male-female relations from your story. I was wondering how much of that was intentional. Thank you for the explanation.

IMO moralising is stronger version of making observations. From my own writer's perspective the process of purposely engaging in either is very similar. The difference is that the moralising tends to be crass, less subtle, more heavyhanded.

I write about the people, who they are and what they do during a period I identify as particularly interesting. I write about Jocelyn's relationship because it's an important part of his character and his journey through this story. Doing that sets up a lot of food for thought without me having to pay it any mind, and with what I feel to be far, far better results. Letting the characters be their natural selves is what makes them rich and realistic, whereas if I tried to encourage the reader to make certain observations via Jocelyn it would impede his flow onto the page. He wouldn't be quite himself. The focus would have subtly altered; you would be looking through a differently shaped lense.

[woad&fangs]

Fare thee well, Jocelyn

[Ludens]

IMO moralising is stronger version of making observations. From my own writer's perspective the process of purposely engaging in either is very similar. The difference is that the moralising tends to be crass, less subtle, more heavyhanded.

Then I guess moral was simply a bad translation on my part.

[furball]

<deleted, redundant>

[Wasp]

I still have to catch up!

[frogbeastegg]

Constance eased the small of her back with her hand and sat down on the edge of the bed. “You do not need to tell me about the other child.”

“I am sorry,” Hugh murmured. Jesù! Logic, duty, the demands of his position – they had all seemed adequate motivations at the time. Here, now, they paled. His faithlessness was such poor payback for his wonderful, pregnant wife. “I am so sorry.”

Constance waved a hand dismissively. “If I am going to be jealous of her I might as well be jealous of your chamber pot. You had a need, you used her to fill it – as people expect you to do. She will not take my place in your heart, or your life.”

“No one could.” Hugh fidgeted with the hem of his tunic; if it mattered little to her then why had she brought it up the very instant they were alone together?

“Regarding it logically, it was a wise enough course for you to take.” The twitch of Constance’s shoulders as she inhaled suggested she might not be as sanguine as she endeavoured to appear. “People would find it odd if you did not have another woman while away from me so long, especially now.” She laid a hand on her swollen stomach. “That murdering bastard planted doubts enough about your ability to father children – they must be laid to rest once and for all. Two children will achieve that, where one might not. The timing was good also; it can be seen as God’s blessing on your reign.”

Hugh pressed his hands flat against his legs and attempted to match her rational manner. “This child can be trained as a support for our own heir. Should it be a boy, naturally. A girl would be of less use. He will be taught from birth that his purpose, his duty, is to aid his legitimately born brother. Having a faithful, stalwart aid of close blood can be invaluable for a man of power.”

“The idea has considerable merit,” Constance agreed. “Great care must be taken. The two boys should be run together from an early age. The bastard must not be allowed to develop a sense of ambition, or to consider a future where he does not stand at our son’s side.” She spread her hands and made an effort to smile. “There. You have seen I am not angry with you. Perhaps now you will relax? You have been on edge all day.”

So she thought he struggled to find a way to confess his adultery to her, and sought to spare him the struggle. Such things as this ensured that no other could ever take her place in his heart. Hugh ran a hand through his hair. The moment was here. Cowardly delay must not be entertained. “Alas, my heart is greatly pained that I have other, worse, news to impart.” Then, all in one great rush, “I am not the heir. The old king disowned me on his deathbed, and named me bastard. I have no right to the throne, none! I am nothing, son of nobody, not a prince, merely the bastard of a harlot and her traitor of a lover. I am not worthy of you – there is not a drop of royal blood in my veins!”

Constance took all of this very calmly. “Then who is the heir?”

It took Hugh a painful amount of time to relay all that had happened. Constance pressed him on multiple points, questioned him, made him repeat parts, and all the while Hugh burned anew with the humiliation – the injustice! – of his rejection.

When the account was rendered to her satisfaction Constance held out her hand to him. Hugh took it, and allowed her to pull him down to sit next to her. “Hugh,” she said, gently grasping his chin and making him look at her, “I am going to say two things, two things I believe with all my heart. Firstly, a lifetime’s belief counts for far more than a last minute doubt. William owned you as his son for a quarter of a decade. Secondly, you will be – are – England’s king because you deserve it. You have laboured for it, bled for it, given up much for it, and done your all to be worthy of it. That is more than most would consider, let alone do.” When he would have spoken she laid a finger on his lips. “The whole country knows the battle cry you used at Alnwick. ‘God aid us.’ Do you not think your appeal heard favourably?”

Hugh’s answer was as velvet-soft as her own words, “Victory could have been granted me in order that I might rescue my half-sister, the true heir.”

“If such were so, then you might have died in the final stages of the battle, once Trempwick had been captured. That would fill your function and clear the way for her. You did not die; you lived.”

“It does not do to second guess God,” he chided.

The corner of her mouth twitched. “No, it does not. So cease attempting to.”

“I do not attempt to!” The tug of the scab on his eyebrow reminded him not to scowl. “And, whatever you might believe, my course is set. I will take the throne, with the blessing of the rightful heir. I am not the rightful heir, and will not suffer you to name me as such. Not here, not in private. I can stomach the fiction where I must; I will not have it inflicted upon me where it may be avoided.” Once more he looked her in the eye, with, he suspected, a trace of desperation, willing her to understand. “It hurts. It hurts, Constance. You might as well brand me with irons each time, for surely it would pain me less than being reminded again and yet again of what I am.”

At last she relented, bowed her head. “You must not allow Eleanor to control you. Hugh, you must not! For our own safety. For the good of your mind – knowing you are little more than her slave would destroy you.”

“We have our agreement,” Hugh stated stiffly. Aware of the unfairness of leaving her in the dark on a matter which touched her almost as deeply as it did him, Hugh detailed the settlement he had made with his half-sister. All of it, down to the downright unflattering part where he had promised to kill her children so they could be no threat to his.

Constance let out a breath. “All very well and good, but will she keep to it?” She tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowing. “Will you keep to it? All of it?”

Hugh felt his face go hard. “My half-sister and I will do as we must.”







Got loads more after this. Every scene but 2 requires a tweak, an addition, a revision, something, before I feel them passable. Didn’t like this one until I got rid of the pair of dialogue recaps and replaced them with a simple ‘so Hugh explained’ deal instead.

You’ll have to excuse me; I should have headed to bed 20 minutes ago. I stayed to finish and post this. Delay much longer and I will be like a zombie tomorrow.

[Peasant Phill]

Thanks for those 20 extra minutes of dedication then.

[Numerius]

Add one more to the list of people who became a member just to comment on your story. I have been following this for months, and do hope there will be more. You have a very entertaining style and an immagination that I truely envy. Your occassional POV style only serves to move the story along, and certainly intruduces a change in cadence. Thank you for hours of pure entertainment. When you publish, I will be standing in the line at the bookstore.

[Prince Cobra]

Ahem, an intrigue between Constance and Eleanor has been forming for a very long time. Yet it is now when it becomes a focus of the story... Inquisitive how this will develop in the very end of the story...

P.S. I have not forgotten about my letter. It is half typed but I've had busy weeks recently.

[frogbeastegg]

The armoured man clipped bow in his saddle. “We’re in pursuit of rebels. My lord.” The last was added with a certain emphasis. “Pray clear our path and leave us to it.”

Fulk let these slights slide, intent on the meat of the matter. “You entered my lands with neither warning nor permission.”

“Are we not on the same side, my lord?”

“Nonetheless.”

York’s knight put his spurs to his horse; the animal sidled forward, hooves churning up the earth. “We’re pursuing rebels. My lord commanded me to hunt them down wherever we found them, out of obedience to our king. Do you obstruct us?”

Sueta stood his ground before the display, as unperturbed as Fulk himself tried to appear. “It is impolite to enter a man’s lands without first notifying him and asking leave.”

“What has politeness to do with hunting rebels?” scoffed the knight. “Now let us pass.”

“It might be taken as a declaration of hostility.” Fulk let his voice drift closer to hardness. “Or a failed attempt at a sneak attack.” Fulk surreptitiously attempted to ease his left shoulder; the weight of his shield was beginning to tell on his healing flesh.

The man slapped his hand to his sword’s hilt. “What do you accuse me of?” he demanded. “Any accusation you point at me carries to my lord, and he will answer it in full!”

With close to thirty men at his back – his entire contingent of mounted men – Fulk didn’t feel threatened. He outnumbered this provocative band by five. “I accuse you of being overzealous in following your lord’s commands, and of bringing disrepute to his name – something your attitude now is compounding.”

“And I, sir, accuse you of obstructing our hunt for the king’s enemies! Are you a traitor, sir?”

Behind his helmet’s face plate Fulk almost smiled, wearily amused at the thought this man believed he could be goaded into foolhardiness by failure to accord him his title. “I have scouts all over the land for miles. They have not reported any trouble in this area.”

“Then they missed something. I tell you, we came in pursuit.” The man’s horse snorted and danced forward a few more steps.

Too close; Sueta’s ears went up and he displayed his teeth in warning. Fulk ran a hand over the destrier’s neck, playing his show of dispassion to the full. There were no rebels, of that he was certain. York’s party had been spotted and report of their intrusion had been running to Alnwick before they reached Fulk’s lands proper. If they had been chasing stragglers from Trempwick’s army then the alarm would have been sparked by the fleeing party. No, this was deliberate, no doubt at York’s own order. Should trouble flare as a result the earl could claim innocence as he rode at Hugh’s side at the opposite end of the realm.

Fulk offered the man a chance to climb down with honour intact. “Then let us search together. Twice as many men will make it a faster job.”

He could see the knight thinking, quickly weighing his options. He could continue to press in the hopes of causing an incident; he’d come off worse in any fight so it didn’t recommend. He could turn and ride back and report Fulk for obstructing him; the accusation of protecting the king’s enemies wouldn’t stick if the offer of a dual search were refused. He could back down and leave; that would as good as admit they’d been attempting to cause him trouble. He could accept, waste a few hours in a pointless search and leave with appearances mostly intact.

“Very well,” the knight said. “But they’ve probably got away thanks to your interference.”

Fulk gave his men a pre-arranged signal and they fell in around York’s party, ostensibly to escort them. “You should have sent a messenger on ahead. Then we could have scrambled to meet them and caught them between our two parties.”

“You wouldn’t have arrived in time,” was the sulky reply.

This time Fulk did smile in the privacy of his helmet. “Oh, I don’t know. We managed to meet you before you’d gotten seven miles past my border.”








I had a persistent scene which takes place between the previous one and this one. I had to write it in order to get some peace and quiet from it. Being as it was entirely superfluous, I then deleted it. We don’t need a scene as long as this one simply because it has one neat line from Malcolm and a notification about something Hugh is doing which can easily fit into any of his next scenes. Without that scene barging its way into my mind as I try to work on material more useful I can progress. Too late to be much good; the scene which should have gone with this one and the prior one to make a single update is still a work in progress.


Peasant Phill, the 20 minutes gained me safety. Nell would have been glaring at me if I'd let the story sit around any longer

Welcome, Numerius. Here's the traditional eyedrops to help you recover.

Stephan, I'm busy too, so it's no problem. Christmas. :shudders: Worst period to work in retail.