The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[frogbeastegg]

Three weeks, four days, and with some work Trempwick could tell the hours too. Since he had arrived in Repton.

Three weeks, four days, and some hours – probably eleven, as he’d arrived late in the afternoon and now it was early morning.

Three weeks, four days and eleven hours. He knew the layout of the buildings to perfection. He was acquainted with the name, face and routine of each individual. The daily schedule held no secrets from him on any day of the week. At any given time he had a reasonable idea of where to find any person. He could tell anyone who enquired that his room was precisely sixteen and one fifth flagstones long and eight and two thirds wide. He knew the cook liked to add three cloves of garlic for every hand-sized piece of beef, or two for a similar amount of mutton or chicken. A light conversational relationship had been struck up with certain of his guards; they would permit him simple liberties cheerfully enough yet thought nothing of rendering him near-unconscious with a single blow if they felt the merest shade of threat.

His broken fingers had healed. They still ached.

Naturally, he had completed studies on more relevant issues first. Trempwick knew which way to run, where to hide, for best chance of success. He knew where to find makeshift weapons, and how to access real ones. A patrol from the castle came to check all was well twice each day, at times which were supposedly random but may yet prove to hold a pattern. The time between William’s departure for Normandy and the present had been submitted to meticulous examination, to the degree that he felt himself enlightened. The true intellectual embraced the revelation of their own flaws as joyfully as all other sources of learning.

The bastard had headed to Wales. He had been able to gain no newer information. Had gained none about Nell.

Three weeks, four days, eleven hours, and by the blessed torments of Jesus he was bored! What was there left to do? Other than await the call back into service?

Time stretched out before him, filled with the same selection of events as the time which rolled out behind him. A lesser man might find contentment in it. A lesser man might go mad. Trempwick rejected both: a man of his capabilities would fall into odd little things to keep himself going. Things which staved off the madness. Things which distinguished the days. Odd little things? A man of his training did not pass his days whittling bits of wood. No. A man of Trempwick’s ability passed his time by … was it not sufficient to say that over the first meal of this day he had worked out numerous ways to poison the wine supply?

Three weeks, four days, eleven hours – he needed a purpose. A true purpose. A true hope. Something better than the one Nell had given him.

Trempwick stepped into the abbot’s room, giving thanks to the monk who had announced him. “I need to send a message,” he said bluntly once the door closed.

“That is not possible.”

“To Nel- to Eleanor.”

“And what would be the contents?”

“I must have something to do. She can give me a purpose, one which will discomfort no one.”

Roger laid down the roll of accounts he was perusing. “I see no need to bother her.”

Trempwick set his hands on the desk and leaned down to Roger’s level. “Then tell her that I made the request. Tell her I said I was bored, against my better efforts. She will understand. It is … important. More than you would understand.”

The abbot regarded him thoughtfully for a space. “You may assist in the garden. Turn your hand to nurturing life; you may find it makes a pleasant chance from ending it.”

“Gardening!” Control. Control. Don’t let this maggot of a man gain. Calm. Trempwick pushed away from the desk. “Why not. Perhaps I might examine the rudiments of cookery while I am at it. The two combine, do they not? Just-” Calm! “Send my message.”

“I might. There again, I might not. I do not work at the bidding of a traitor.” Roger pointedly turned back to his accounting.

Perhaps Nell would forgive him for killing this fool? Just a tiny hint of poison? A small accident? No one would miss him. It would alert her to the problem. Then she could do something. Yes, it would not be so bad.

NO! He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, ergo he would be killed.

Trempwick crushed the notion from his mind, applied every bit of control he had. “As I said, it is of the utmost importance, and a message she will want to receive.” Now, take the control so far it presses into the flesh like needles, brand it home to make it stick. “Thank you for your time, and for your suggestion about the garden. I shall begin tomorrow.” Sounded most courteous; perfect. A most minor fraying at the edges did not damage the fabric of the whole.

He bowed slightly. He left. He walked another seven circuits of the walls with two guards in tow.

Three weeks, four days, twelve hours.









I am engaged in a battle with Hugh. It’s one of those rare occasions where I am attempting to shift the story a little. He wants to say some dialogue. I refuse to let him say it in the form he wants to. Nothing inherently wrong with it, and it’s not revealing too much. The problem is each and every time I see the words in the form they are in it brings to mind absolutely, abjectly, hideously cringe-inducing mental comparisons with a story which I hated in so many ways it’d take me a gargantuan post to scratch the surface. I cannot have it in the story in the form he wants it because that connection is overpowering, and instantly kills any connection I have to what I am writing. It’s like having a powercut in the middle of the film. We’ve been fighting for days. So far neither side has budged. I will win in the end; he wants the rest told, as does Nell and co, and so eventually he will have to give in.

So in the meantime you get Trempy to entertain you. The next part will appear as soon as I get Hugh to alter or drop the offending dialogue. All it will take is a slightly different choice of words, you stubborn lump! :gnashes teeth at the frustration of being stuck for days because one man will not change a couple of words!:



Olaf, I doubt I could do justice to a lengthier story featuring the Welsh. I would need to do a lot more research. There were many differences between them and their Anglo-Norman neighbours, differences in law, society, custom, everything. I don’t understand them fully enough to produce something with much authenticity, so I can’t see it being very satisfying. The knowledge I have is just about sufficient to write them from the other side of the border, provided the view is from a person who does not live in the marches.

Vuk, hehe, read on and you will find it changes a heck of a lot. Fulk is hiding things behind his idiot veneer. There are plenty of point of view characters waiting further in; Nell is the only female one and the rest are rather more … ah, oomph than Fulk. Especially Jocelyn. Oh boy. He’d rip the off anyone calling him feminist.

Furball, It’s all so exciting! So many things I will have to change, so much more I will have to learn – it’s going to be a great experience for me as a writer. I’m very comfortable with the world and characters now; there are some scenes which make me burst with writing energy each time I think about them.

I don’t think it will quite be goodbye yet. There’s Silent’s tale, and the Trempy one which needs a middle.

Wasp, about 10 scenes left. Not long at all. (Disclaimer: we could end up with fewer or more than 10 scenes depending on how things fall out. Some scenes might join together, others might split, and I could stumble across another Ranulf* hiding in the mists and end up with a bit more than expected. But yes, really close)

*I’m going to call all unexpected discoveries which appear as I am writing a Ranulf from now on. The name … fits.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

Honestly there are always way to deal with sure idiotic men in this world. If Hugh will not budge just threaten him with an upset of his precious order. For instance, whos to say he may not meet with an "accident" in Wales. This "accident" being lethal, his newborn son is elevated to the throne with the "Great and Noble Sir Fulk as Crown Regent". This of course frees our Gooseberry up from any deals she made with Hugh, since he told no one and they are all under the table. Having massive influence over her husband and therefore the throne. Just as Trempy trained her to do.
I think the though of his son being a slave to his half-sister for the rest of his life is enough to persuade him.
(Insert supremely evil laugh here.)

[furball]

"NO! He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, ergo he would be killed."

If we agree on the meaning of "ergo," should that last phrase be, "ergo he would not be killed." ?

I hate to nitpick such fine writing, but that edit makes quite a difference. :)

[Olaf Blackeyes]

As long as ur not a ****** GR4MM4R N4Z1u can nitpick. Its cool.

[Vuk]

So Frogbeast, are you gonna be writing anything to get published? You seem to certainly have to knack for creating entertaining and captivating bits of reading, but did you ever consider getting them published? I think that you probably could.

[frogbeastegg]

In the early dawn light the banners were muted, armour did not gleam. The army Hugh watched advance was a grey mass mottled by darker patches which in daylight would have proved to be a riot of colours.

The ramparts on the keep filled with men; Hugh strained his eyes but could not manage a count. It mattered little; it was too late for the defenders. On the outer wall the gates were wide open; of the towers only two remained in Welsh hands.

As a paltry scattering of arrows rained down at the advancing army the lead banner was thrust high in the air, and the soldiers around it started to sing. It was a crude piece, all about what the men would do once they had won, a verse dedicated to each activity. It served its purpose: it kept the men marching in time, kept their morale up, and intimidated the enemy.

“Don’t you wish you were down there?” asked Malcolm.

The first verse of the song reached its end, and the men roared and beat their weapons on their shields as they advanced. Hugh’s answer was curt. “Not particularly.”

Suffolk looked sidelong at the young prince. “What my lord is too good to say is that only disposable men should lead an assault, however foregone the conclusion.”

Malcolm looked thoroughly baffled. “But an earl is leading.” A light dawned. “You hope he dies?”

“No!” snapped Hugh. “God’s teeth, no!”

The boy choked back his first, instinctive answer, and gave thought to producing something other than a torrent of venom. “It would be good if your Earl of York died. He’s got a bee in his tunic about his slowness to join you, and a whole damned swarm of them about earl Fulk. There’s going to be nothing but trouble there.”

Somewhere in the mire of venom filling this youth there was a sound politician; Hugh had to acknowledge that even as he recoiled from the suicidal folly it suggested. “Suffolk. Explain to him.”

The older man gave the young prince a smile that was at once friendly and faintly patronising. “Only a blind man would fail to smell treachery should my lord do as you say. Betrayed by our lord, what should we do? Tell me that, Nefastus.”

Malcolm’s mouth tightened, the gleam died in his eyes. “You’d rebel.”

“Some might. Others would not go so far; they would take their followers and leave the army.”

“And that would put them in defiance!” Malcolm interrupted hotly. “They would be traitors and rebels!”

Hugh said, “And I would have them for open enemies, along with those I was fighting at the start. My army would be smaller. I would lose the trust of those who remained. My position would be far weaker.”

“Oh.”

The advancing army was pouring through the open gates, half the men setting up a cover with their shields as others rushed forward with sacks filled with earth. The keep was in the old style with the entrance on the second floor. The wooden staircase leading up to it had been burned by the defenders during the night’s fighting. The sacks would make an improvised hill leading to the door, and then battering rams could be brought to bear.

William of Suffolk prodded Malcolm’s shoulder. “You should have known better than to suggest it. York requested permission to lead the assault – you were pouring wine for us at the very meeting!”

The prince rubbed his shoulder and glared at the old man. “You think I listen to what’s got nothing to do with me?”

“I think you should! Might learn something.”

“Damn you!” Malcolm balled his fists up. “Since I put myself in service all I’ve heard is that I must be more mannered, and now you’d bloody well telling me that I shouldn’t be! Make up your fucking minds!”

Hugh held up a hand to forestall the earl’s response. “Peace.” To his squire he said, “I have warned you to mind your language and speak to others with respect.” He slapped the prince across the mouth, hard. “Nor am I pleased to see you acting the idiot. If you cannot tell me the difference between ill-manners and paying attention where you aught now, then you had best put your mind to it. I expect an answer before nightfall.”

For a heartbeat Hugh thought the boy might fly at him. Then the boy swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, cleaning away the dribble of blood from a split lip. Through clenched teeth he answered, “Very well. My lord.”

Amazing. The Nefastus was definitely – gradually - growing tame.

A many-throated cheer from the battle drew Hugh’s attention. The battering ram had been brought up and had delivered it’s first blow. Owing to the difficulty of bringing a ram to bear on the raised door, this one was smaller and wielded by hand by eight men. It would take time to do its work. As it thudded into the reinforced timber for the third time one of the crew went down clawing at an arrow protruding from his throat.

Hugh offered a salve to Malcolm’s wounded pride and continued his lesson at the same time. “You had some part of this right. York cannot abide my brother-by-law and there will be nothing but trouble between them. That is why he volunteered to lead here, and in such a way I could not refuse without implying doubt of his courage. He desires to build glory of his own to rival that gained by Fulk.”

“He can’t.” Malcolm gave his lip a final dab and lowered his hand. “Not here. There’s not going to be a battle. There’s not even going to be any skirmishes like the one where Fulk forced that crossing.”

“Victory here gives him something to hold up. Previously he had no other experience on campaign save the battle at Alnwick, and there many won more renown than he.”

Another man working the ram fell, hit by a rock dropped from a window. Immediately another took his place.

“Maybe.” Malcolm licked his clotting cut, and dabbed it again with his hand. “But wouldn’t he do better to join the Marcher lords? They’re the ones heading into enemy lands and doing most of the fighting.”

The Earl of Suffolk laughed. “That would mean placing himself under one of them, and dear George’s ego would explode at the thought. He will follow a king, none other.”

Hugh tuned out the conversation which continued from that. He had a decision to make, and soon.

By the time he spoke the door had splintered from its hinges and royal troops had poured into the keep. “I am thinking it must be Cadfan.”

“My lord?” Suffolk enquired.

Hugh smiled faintly. “Wait and see, my friend. Wait and see.” Best that none knew what he intended before it was too late. Chance was small that any would try to stop him; small chance was too great.





On the Welsh side there was but a single survivor of the siege. Every other person had been slaughtered without pause for age or sex. Hugh waited in the bailey for this last man, watching as men at arms dragged the bodies into rough piles. They would be counted, stripped and buried. It was a relief to see that logic had been correct: there were very few women here and no children. The heads of this garrison would be shot over the walls of Chester castle, which was already pinned down by siege lines. That fortress would prove much too costly to assault and Hugh knew he could not take the time to starve it into submission.

The last man crossed the bailey, eyes fixed rigidly on the sky so he would not see the corpses of his comrades. He stumbled; his guards let him go down into the gore which puddle on the dirt. After cursing him and delivering a few kicks they hauled him back up. When they reached Hugh they sent the prisoner to his knees with a shove.

Hugh stared down at the man kneeling before him. “One would suppose it is too much to hope that he speaks a civilised tongue?” Getting no answer he called forward the translator, and addressed the prisoner again. “You will be the sole survivor and thus you will serve my purpose. You will return to your people and we will not hinder you. I do not care which lord you scamper to. I care only that you tell all you meet about this. Any who stand against me will die. Only those who submit will be spared.”

Hugh paused to give the translator time to catch up. When the flow of Welsh ceased he continued, “You will tell this to your lord. The King of England will not be insulted. He will not be defied. He will have what is his. He does not care how many he must slay to get it. He will not pause, will not waver, and will show no mercy. I will have the submission of your lords if I have to turn your lands into a graveyard to do it.”

Lastly he delivered the pronouncement which had taken so much thought. “And above all I will have the one who harmed my man. There can and will be no peace while Cadfan lives.” Hugh was aware of his lords sucking in a breath and murmuring – he had just pronounced death for one who could be considered on equal standing to them. The question was, would they permit it?

The objection came from the least expected quarter – the prisoner. In clear French he stated, “You have not been anointed. You are no king.”

Hugh said, “Should I come again in my regalia having been anointed, and say the same again? Or does this,” he gestured at the corpses, the broken doors, “hold more power?” Not waiting for an answer, he commanded the guards, “Untie him and throw him out.”

The bailey was eerily quiet after the prisoner was removed. All eyes were on Hugh; the noble ones weighed most heavily. “It will cause division amongst them,” Hugh rasped. “The other princes will begin to see Cadfan as a liability and think about bringing him down to save themselves.” Cadfan was the strongest individual prince, and the one who had behaved most offensively at the meeting. By far and away he was the best target.

Earl Wymar of Derby said, “We see the wisdom in it, lord.”

“Chester must be avenged,” agreed York.

The space which followed was heavy with the unspoken qualification. A droplet of sweat trickled down Hugh’s back.

“Welsh are barely civilised.” Serle, earl of nothing and baron of a most unspectacular fief, idly rested his hand on his sword. “Amongst more honourable men this would never be possible.”

Immediately all others of rank voiced agreement, whether a simple affirmation or a lengthier speech. So there it was, couched in terms which made it sound like an assessment of the plan’s chance of success. They would allow him the death of a prince but refuted any possibility of his having the same right over them. It was enough; one did not reach Jerusalem in a single step.

“Of course,” Hugh agreed, adopting a humble attitude. “Any reasonable foe would held Chester in honourable captivity. They did not, and it is that I use against them and that I strive to avenge.”

The moment passed; movement resumed.

Hugh publicly granted the entirety of the plunder to the men who had stormed the castle, giving his own share to George, Earl of York in recognition of his service.








Furball, as I understand it ergo means therefore. “He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, therefore he would be killed.” What do you think?

Vuk, I have been considering taking a shot at publication for a few years. For an assortment of reasons I haven’t tried. I’ve now got the idea for a story which is perfect for attempting it – it’s on a smaller, more contained scale than my previous two works, more tightly focused. It contains many elements which I know sell, but all with my own twist on them so it’s not derivative. It’s currently code named ‘Ancel’, the name of the main character.

I have written a bit down, and have found that it has shifted and redefined itself a bit compared to the story I had before I wrote anything. The changes are good – they narrow the focus and sprawl even more, and build up the remaining material to a high degree.

[furball]

The relevant sentences:

"Perhaps Nell would forgive him for killing this fool? Just a tiny hint of poison? A small accident? No one would miss him. It would alert her to the problem. Then she could do something. Yes, it would not be so bad.

NO! He would lose the last shreds of Nell’s trust, ergo he would be killed."

The first paragraph argues in favor of killing him, ending with, "Yes it would not be so bad."

The second paragraph refutes the first, because he would lose Nell's trust, therefore he would *not* be killed.

If the first paragraph means, "yes, it would not be so bad to kill him," and the second paragraph means, "NO, therefore he would be killed," the argument makes no sense.

EDIT: Froggy, I assume, "He would lose the last shreds of Nell's trust," because he would have killed the guy Nell set up as his keeper. Is that assumption incorrect?

[frogbeastegg]

In outline form Trempy's chain of thought runs:

I'm bored and very tired of having my dignity bruised - I want to kill that guy!

Yes, surely I could get away with it. He's an idiot and won't take my warning seriously. It would alert Nell to my difficulty in keeping the agreement I made with her.

No, wait, get a grip on yourself man and stop daydreaming! If I kill anyone that will break the terms I agreed to and Nell will have me killed.

He's arguing with himself like a dieter debating an ice cream. He knows he shouldn't but he wants to. One gets the feeling it is an argument he has been through a few times already.

Yes, the abbot/Roger is the man Nell designated as his jailor.

By the terms of the agreement he made with Nell, Trempy is not supposed to be killing anyone, or otherwise doing anything which might draw on his skills. He is supposed to be sitting in Repton doing nothing. Anything else will be taken as an effort to escape and/or regain some of his lost power.

[furball]

I hate to belabor the point, but given what Frog has described, does anyone else thing it should be, "ergo he would not be killed" ?? Or have I gone whacko and am missing the obvious?

[Ludens]

I hate to belabor the point, but given what Frog has described, does anyone else thing it should be, "ergo he would not be killed" ?? Or have I gone whacko and am missing the obvious?

That fragment did jar me when I first read it, but the "he" is Trempwick referring to himself, not Roger.

[Molbo]

Hello, esteemed readers, and our glorious writer, frogbeastegg.

I started reading this novel about 3 years ago or so, but i fell out of it a year later. Now i see the incredible amounts of text, so i wondered if there were some kind of index somewhere. If there isn't i guess i have to go through the whole damn thing, cos i want to see what happens!

[frogbeastegg]

“And I assure you he is not here under duress,” Hugh concluded. How many times had he stated that in varying forms this past hour? To think, he’d halted his day’s march to speak with this man.

The emissary bowed yet again. “Most assuredly my lord, the King of Scots, would never accuse his most esteemed ally, the King of England, of such a thing.”

His lord, the King of Scots, had by proxy accused his most esteemed ally, whom he finally granted the title of king after using every possible alternative, of precisely that repeatedly during this interview. Hugh tried not to let his irritation show. “Then I am afraid I still do not see what troubles my ally, the King of Scots.”

“My lord, the King of Scots, has but the concerns common to every father.”

Hugh smiled thinly. “I have taken his son and heir into a place of honour in my household. I train him myself, in all that befits a prince. Prince Malcolm’s position here strengthens our alliance, I believe. It fosters understanding and goodwill between our families.”

“Yes, yes, this is true,” the man hastened to agree. “However my lord, the King of Scots, has those concerns natural to a father.”

It was an effort not to cover his face with his hands and groan. The man would not speak plainly. Hugh could not answer plainly without appearing to consider the very things he denied. Polite answers failed to satisfy the man. They would be here until dark! Mustering his patience Hugh tried once more. “It was the prince’s own request.”

The emissary dipped into a shallow bow, hands clasped before his chest. “Yes, yes, truly we understand that, myself and my great lord, the King of Scots, and place no blame whatsoever upon you. The prince is, well, he is what he is, and let that be all that needs to be said.”

Which said precisely nothing. Hugh rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and propped his chin on his fist. “I still fail to see the cause of my noble ally’s concern.”

Prince Malcolm shifted restively at his place in the background, perhaps contemplating braining this plague in fancy clothes with the pitcher he held. Hugh stilled him with a single glance.

An exquisite fluttering of hands made up half of the man’s reply. “I am most distressed at my inability to make my lord, the King of Scot’s, thoughts clear to you. The failing is mine alone, and I take full responsibility.”

No, the failing was in the instruction not to accuse Hugh of anything while simultaneously accusing him of everything. Very nearly he permitted himself to sigh. “There is no need to apologise, please. Be at ease. Perhaps some more wine?” He waved to Malcolm, and the prince stepped forward to refill the man’s goblet.

Malcolm had made considerable progress in this simple art which, by rights, he should have mastered before the age of seven and had not been introduced to until last month. He managed to pour the wine in a graceful arc, and did not get so much as a droplet on the emissary, purposely or otherwise. That, too, was a kind of progress.

The emissary sipped at his drink. “If I might be so bold as to offer a suggestion of my own?”

Hugh indicated that he should.

“Perhaps all would be smoothed if the prince were returned home, and then the arrangements made in the traditional manner?”

Malcolm caught his breath, and he didn’t retreat back to his place near the wall, instead lingering of the edge of Hugh’s vision.

Traditionally meaning that Hugh would approach Malcolm the Elder and offer to train his son. A face-saving measure, allowing the King of Scots to give his blessing to something which had been arranged without him. “I can see some merit in this,” Hugh said carefully.

The emissary visibly relaxed. “I am pleased to have been able to be of this most very slight service to you, and to my lord, the King of Scots. Perhaps, then, the prince might accompany me as I return?”

“No!” Malcolm dumped his pitcher onto the cloth-covered floor of the tent and hastened forward. “No.”

The emissary regarded him from under hooded eyes. “I do not recall you being a named participant of this meeting, prince Nefastus.”

A muscle in Malcolm’s cheek spasmed. “I will speak where I will, by virtue of my rank. I know you, Duncan FitzDuncan. I know where your lands are, I know who your family is, and I know you’re a bloody sight more than a glorified messenger who can’t get his point home because he’s too busy spewing pretty words!”

Hugh bolted to his feet. “Malcolm!”

The boy dipped a curt bow. “With all respect, my lord, this is a matter more than this fucking flowery-boy would tell you. It’s a matter of home, of politics. It’s more between us than you and he.”

This much Hugh had known since the opening minutes of this most private meeting. Why else had he fetched the prince here to wait upon them? Still, appearances must be met, and now they had been. After a show of hesitation he resumed his seat. “Very well. I see this is so.”

Duncan blazed, “You will allow him to threaten me?”

Malcolm bared his teeth in answer. “That wasn’t a threat. A threat’s when I say I’ll fucking gut you and hang you with your own entrails, you lanky stream of piss!”

This time Hugh did allow himself to sigh. “Language. Please. Perhaps all business in Scotland is conducted in such terms, however here we are in my dominion and a more civilised mode is the norm.”

Malcolm strode up to Duncan, one hand resting carelessly on his dagger. “I’m not going back now, not with you and not with anyone else. I know I’ll never leave again if I do. I’m a smart lad, see.”

“Scotland is your home.”

“And it’s currently occupied by a bearded old coward who’s terrified I’ll take his place. So he’ll keep me stuffed away again, making sure I don’t learn what I need to. I’m not having it.” Malcolm raised his voice, “I’m not fucking well having it! I will not get fucking killed because that old shit lost his balls along with his beauty in his first fucking battle!” He leaned in closer and shouted in the other man’s face, “Do you understand?”

Duncan turned his face away deliberately. “Your breath is as foul as your words.”

Nefastus nodded slowly, one lip curved ever so slightly. Right next to the man’s ear he said with utmost gentleness, “Mint does not make a man’s breath foul.”

Now it was Hugh’s turn, and he played it to the best of his ability. “This is news to me,” he exclaimed. He fixed the prince with a glare. “You said nothing of this!”

Malcolm abandoned the emissary and dropped to his knees before Hugh, head bowed. “Forgive me my lord. I didn’t want to deceive you but I knew you’d never take me if you knew the truth.” He raised his head, wretched with hope. “I’m in fear of my life. I came to your aid for the honour of my blood and realised too late that it’d make my father see me as a threat.”

Not bad, not bad at all. He’d given the youth an guideline for what to say but hadn’t expected anything so convincing. “You deceived me – you could have caused bad feeling between your family and mine.” Hugh gripped the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles shone white. “You could have caused a war!”

Malcolm’s head went back down. “Forgive me.”

Hugh turned to the emissary. “I had no idea. Of course he must return home immediately.”

“They’ll kill me!” Malcolm threw himself forward and clutched at Hugh’s feet. “They will kill me.”

“That is a serious charge.” Hugh said, at the same time as Duncan exclaimed, “Nonsense!”

“They will kill me. I won notice at Alnwick and now he fears me even more – he’s bloody well said I raised an army without his permission, even though I went to your aid and for the honour of our family.” Still clutching at Hugh like the most desperate of supplicants, Malcolm said, “I’ll disappear into the background and one day fall from my horse or some other such shit. Doesn’t matter how – I’ll be dead, and they’ll have arranged it.”

Hugh addressed the emissary, “Is there any truth in this? I demand a fair answer – should I return the prince and find myself to have been deceived there also there shall be no limit to my fury.”

To his credit Duncan hesitated before answering. “Through his own nature the Nefastus is not popular.”

That said far more than it did not; Hugh’s estimation of the man increased mightily.

At Hugh’s feet the prince cried, “I claim sanctuary!”

Hugh laughed. “I am not a church!”

“A man might claim protection from his liege lord. You’re by rights my father’s lord, and so mine.” Nefastus raised his chin.

Duncan leapt in instantly, “With regards to that, the lordship, I mean-”

Hugh interrupted softly, “In the time of William the Bastard Scotland’s king did homage for his lands, and thus it has continued until our own day with but the most minor break here and there. The right of the King of England still stands.” He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the chair to appear nonchalant. “Do you deny my right?”

That gave the emissary pause. Here, scant miles from where men fought with merciless fury in pursuit of Hugh’s rights it would take a foolhardy man indeed to deny them. Duncan dipped his head. “No. Of course not. Neither I nor my lord, the King of Scots, denies your right.”

It was all Hugh could do not to sag in relief and let out his pent breath. He waited a time, as though giving the matter considerable thought. “I have a right, and with it a duty. I shall mediate between the prince and his lord father. It will be my greatest pleasure to restore harmony.”

Malcolm kissed Hugh’s shoe. “Thank you.”

The emissary said very carefully, “While your offer is most generous, my lord, the King of Scots, would be distressed to have you bothered by such a triviality. Especially at such a time, when you have a great many more pressing matters to attend to.”

Hugh held up a hand. “Not another word. My beloved ally, the King of Scots, is close to my heart, and I owe him a debt for the aid he has given me. It would be to my lasting shame if I did not lend my attention to this matter, and do my all to restore his relationship with his son.” He set his palm over his heart. “It will be my pleasure to return a small part of what I have been given.”

Seeing he would make no headway there, Duncan turned to the prince. “We have no liking between us, there is no point in pretending otherwise. But please, heed my words. If you insist on staying here - however right or wrong it is – your father will consider you to be in rebellion.”

Malcolm scrambled to his feet, flushing. “He has no bloody reason!”

“He has asked you to come home and you have refused, claiming he threatens your life.” Duncan spread his hands. “He may even express a desire that you no longer be considered his heir.”

“I will fight for my crown if I have to – I’m not a fucking coward like him.”

“Fight with what? My prince, you will have no lands, no money, no followers.” Duncan raised his eyebrows. “Unless you mean English aid? But I think the King of England too honourable to lend his support to an effort to overturn the rightful succession.”

“Rightful?” Malcolm pounded his chest with a fist. “I am the firstborn! I am the rightful heir! No other can be while I live!”

“Whatever my lord, the King of Scots, wills is rightful.”

Malcolm spat on the floor. “Stop repeating his fucking title like that – we all know who the fuck he is and that he’s important. We don’t need fucking reminding every fucking five words! Makes the conversation take for-fucking-ever.”

This was getting out of hand; Hugh rubbed at his scarred forehead. “Peace. Please. The more words spoken between you the greater the harm grows, or so I see it.” He lowered his hand and resumed his most regal posture. “Thus is my will. The prince will remain with me for the time being as I cannot with honour send him away if there is but the slightest chance his words have truth in them. If there is not, well then it gives both time to reflect and cool from their present temper. It will be my pleasure to mediate, as I have said, and thus I invite his father, my beloved ally, the King of Scots, to meet with him on ground neutral to them both, to discuss their complaints and settle in peace. I offer myself as guarantor of the harmony of this meeting, and suggest that the meeting be held on church land some days before my coronation, which of course my ally, the King of Scots, shall attend.”

The emissary said regretfully, “Ah, with that there is a problem. My lord, the King of Scots, cannot possibly leave his realm for any prolonged period. There is much there which demands his presence, and an absence would overtip all to the detriment of his people, to whom he has a sworn duty, as my lord, the King of England, will understand.”

In short: they recognised he had gathered enough power to make him dangerous, but did not fear him sufficiently to accord him the full dignity that had been granted to many of his ancestors. It would have been unrealistic to expect anything else. Hugh inclined his head graciously. “I understand, though I grieve that my beloved ally will not stand at my side on my great day. I had suggested this as it brought us together sooner. However, recognising that this is not possible, I suggest instead that the meeting be held on the border. I intend to tour the north once again in the second week after my coronation. Lord Fulk is known and trusted by both of us, and thus I propose we meet on his lands, and that there peace be restored between the prince and his father.”

Duncan bowed. “I expect this will be acceptable. I shall indeed mention it to my lord, the King of Scots, with all haste on my return.”

Good. “At this time also it would be my pleasure to receive the homage owed to me.”

“Yes,” he replied after a moment, bowing once again and with obvious reluctance. “Yes, I expect this shall also be so.”






After many more pleasantries the Scottish emissary departed, quoting a need to relay Hugh’s words to his lord with all speed.

“That didn’t go too badly, did it?” Malcolm asked, faintly smug.

Hugh agreed, “Not so badly.” Another step along the way completed, countless thousand steps left to go. “Who was this man? From your first words there was something more to him than one might assume.”

Malcolm sloshed some wine into an abandoned goblet and drank it down. “He’s in thick with my father’s spymaster. Apprentice, right hand, best friend, something like that – I can’t get the details.”

Hugh found that he needed a large dose of wine himself. And Nell had let the man walk on in, uncommented! He would have words with her about this at a later date.

Malcolm refilled Hugh’s goblet, and then his own. “I am grateful. For what you’ve done.” He swirled the liquid around in his cup, watching it flow and eddy intently. “I mean, I know it plays to your benefit too. But it’s not like you had to do any of this.”

“It is the things a man does not need to undertake but chooses to which indicate his quality.” Hugh took a mouthful of wine. “And also the way in which a man grasps the opportunities presented.”

Malcolm set down his drink, and stood before Hugh. “They say I’m demon’s spawn. They see what they want no matter what I do, so that’s what I’ve been and become. Maybe it’s what I really am. My father’s done his best to keep me ignorant. He fears me because he knows I will replace him unless I die first, and the damned fool makes so many mistakes-” Malcolm caught his breath, held it for the count of four, and let it out slowly. More calmly he continued, “I’ve the passion for it. The talent. I appeal to those who want a proper king, not a coward who stabs with words and hides behind ceremony.” He grimaced. “Or I’d appeal if I weren’t the Nefastus. And now I’ve proven my valour. Faced the same trial which broke my father, and I’ve passed. If the lords won’t accept me they’ll kill me, and right now they’d gut me happily. I’ve a much younger brother to fill my place, to the cheer of many.” Malcolm gave Hugh a bleak smile and perched on the edge of the small table. “Even my own sister thinks I’m evil. She heard the legend and never looked further. I’ve always tried to be nice to her. So I’m pretty much fucked, and not by a pretty girl, more’s the pity. My only hope is to stay away for a few years, learn everything I can, and gain a reputation for changing.” He snorted, half in amusement. “Saintly king Hugh making a decent man out of the Nefastus, eh? Should do wonders for your own reputation. Then I’ll head home and start gathering support.”

In the time he had known him, Malcolm had said very little about his position at home, his reputation, or any of this. Hugh took it as a sign he had gained some of the prince’s trust. “I will not help you overthrow your father,” he warned.

Malcolm Nefastus downed another few swallows of his wine. “I don’t ask it. The opposite, really. I’ll do it myself. If I don’t then I’m still royally fucked; I’ll just die later instead of sooner.”

“Stop swearing,” Hugh instructed. Then, because this felt poor reward for the boy’s extended trust, “I thank you for your help. This would have been more difficult without your aid.”

Malcolm drained the last of his wine. “I told you they’d be happy to blame me if given chance. So. Now there’s little chance of them accusing you of nasty things, and you don’t need to wage war to get them to recognise you, and I get to stay. Everyone’s happy.”

“Will your father do as his emissary agreed?”

“Oh, he’ll bitch and whine and try to wriggle out of much of it, but he’ll give in. At least on most points. He’s terrified of war, and you’ve made a pretty demonstration here of what will happen if he doesn’t.”

Hugh grunted something akin to an agreement. In the North he would not be able to inspire his lords with the excuse of vengeance. He would be hampered by Fulk’s position as a Scottish lord. Above all he would be facing a larger, richer and more unified enemy than the Welsh. “I need to get across the Narrow Sea. I do not have time to spend on the north.”

“You won’t have to. My father will shit himself at the first sign of an attack.”

“Whatever may be, it will be some weeks from now. Close to victory is not yet victory, and then I must be crowned. The north is some way down in priority.” Hugh stood. “You will help pack this away; I will be outside Chester’s walls before dark.” Hugh strode from the tent, calling orders that his force of knights should prepare to resume the march.







You may or may not remember that the King of Scots has been behaving like Hugh’s superior and then his equal, and generally wringing as much as he could from Hugh’s uncomfortable situation.

Heh, I got a little absorbed in a few things and didn’t realise how long it had been since I’d last written some Eleanor. Then I got a nudge from Hugh.


Molbo, if you remember where you left off I’ll see if I can find it in my manuscript. That should give me a rough ideas of where in the topic it is.

[shinderhizzle84]

i have been reading this story for quite a long time, now. I think it has been since early september. Let me tell you that it is just phenomenal. I am a writer myself, although I focus mainly on screenplays, seeing that my dream job is writing a comedy on television. Either way, i have found this story highly enjoyable, and whenever i am bored (i can't play total war games ALL DAY LONG!) I come here to read your story. It is well written, funny in certain places, and quite enjoyable. all of the characters are so deep, in my opinion, that I feel a very strong attachment to them, especially jocelyn, because of his peculiar position with his amiable wife. sometimes your grammar ruins a sentence or two, but then again, your excellent writing skills easily make up for this, and actually, if anything, it makes the story for me more fun, because it makes me think that i can write a story as good as this!!

I must admit that i am a bit dismayed not to see an ending yet--after four months or so of reading, i found myself getting closer and closer to page 31, and since i hadn't been keeping a close eye on the amount of pages this topic was, i had, for some reason, thought that the topic had been 31 pages for quite a while. because of this, i assumed the story was finished. However, since it is not, I would like to tell you to take your time with the ending--i'd rather have an epic ending to an epic tale than an ok ending to an epic tale. In other words, the ending better be good...or else

but seriously, i cannot tell you how many school days i've slept through because the night before i had stayed up past 4 AM reading this story. It has been so enjoyable, and I don't think I've ever been able to enjoy a book this much!! I hope to oneday see this book, or maybe another of your works, on a display case at the local Barnes and Noble. I honestly think that you, NOT JK Rowling, deserves to be the richest women in England. Thank you so much for writing this incredible story, and I eagerly await the next chapter, and soon, the ending.

I have no idea what I will do for the rest of my life without this book. Without this book, there will be a large, gaping hole in my life!!!

[frogbeastegg]

“Some messengers have arrived,” said Hawise. “Fulk requests you join him. He’s in the armoury.”

“Some.” Eleanor reluctantly rolled over so she could see her maid. “Define ‘some’.”

“Three.”

“Three.” Eleanor pushed herself up; immediately the dull ache in her lower belly intensified. “It is a conspiracy.”

Hawise placed Eleanor’s shoes at the side of the bed ready for her to step straight into. “One is from your brother, one from Repton, and the other is here in response to the message you sent to Wosthorne abbey.”

Eleanor glowered. “Why could they not have arrived yesterday, when I felt fine? Or tomorrow when I might feel better?”

“Consider the bright side,” the maid advised as she sorted through Eleanor’s meagre collection of girdles for one which would go with the dress Eleanor was wearing.

“Bright side.” Eleanor slipped her feet into her shoes and stood. “I know I am not with child. Down side – I have rarely been one to suffer from aches and illness and it would have been a damned sight better if I had ended up feeling rotten in one of the months of my life where I do not have a lot to do.”

Hawise passed over a plain braided silk girdle. “That in and of itself is a blessing. I once knew a girl who spent the entire time she was bleeding queasy and retching with the most dreadful headaches.”

Eleanor wrapped the length of silk loosely around her waist twice and tied it. “That would cheer me up if only I did not currently feel as though I have been kicked by a mule.”

“Go take your wrath out on the messengers. I’ll make something to ease your stomach for when you return.”

“If it is as effective as the last lot you can save your bother.” Eleanor ran a hand over her hair making sure he braid was still neat. “How do I look?”

The maid considered for a bit. “Pale, faintly sick, crotchety.”

“Charming,” Eleanor snarled, and exited the room wishing heartily she could return to lying down in a huddled ball. It was the only thing which eased the ache.

The three messengers awaited in the armoury, where Fulk was inspecting the castle’s stocks and having them recorded by a clerk. Two monks and one man in Hugh’s livery.

Eleanor surveyed them swiftly. “Which of you is here from Repton?”

The shorter of the two monks bowed. “I am, your Highness.”

“Your message?”

The monk replied, “It is verbal. Shall I state it now?”

“Unless it contains something others should not know.”

“It does not, your Highness.” The monk’s eyes fell half closed as he called the words to mind. “These are the words spoken by my abbot. I thought it of import to inform you that Trempwick has made requests to send you a message. I have denied them, as instructed. This denial he countered with the plea I inform you of his request. I have given him no reason to believe I would do this, though having a respect for his intellect I know he will be aware that my failing to do so would be a failure in the duty you have left me. Trempwick claims to be bored, and this I do not doubt. He says this is of such import that you must be made aware; I fail to see the relevance. I have made suggestions for gainful employment to him, and thus far he has taken them.” Recital complete, the monk reopened his eyes. “That was all, your Highness.”

Fulk looked up from counting a sheaf of arrows. “And what would a bored spymaster do?” It was a rhetorical question; Fulk’s appreciation for Trempwick’s abilities was a damned sight keener than the abbot of Repton’s.

Eleanor had been expecting this since she condemned Trempwick to imprisonment and isolation. It was, simply, half of the point. Once bored he would be grateful for any chance to work, however slight or simple. At that point she had his attention, fully and wholly, and he knew what he could be plunged back into if he displeased her. “Tell your abbot that he has done well to bring this to my attention, and to deny Trempwick’s request. He is to watch still more closely, and alert me of anything out of the expected run, no matter how slight it might appear to him. It is my wish that Trempwick be put to work now. This will not be conveyed to him directly; he is to think it is the abbot’s own idea.” Her former master would not be fooled for a second. The implications of her working this way was what mattered, not a successful deception. “I wish him to write a history of my father, recording his deeds and his acts.” Again, Trempwick would see that this request fell into two halves. The first a formal history of the reign, the second an account of a man by his close friend.”

The monk bowed. “It shall be done.”

Eleanor dismissed him to food and rest, and turned to Hugh’s messenger. “Well?”

The man bowed. “Your Highness, this was sent in addition to the message for your husband.” He pulled a small letter out of his belt pouch.

Eleanor took it and inspected the seal; unbroken. As it was Hugh’s private seal the message couldn’t be that important; Eleanor dismissed the messenger.

Fulk set aside the coil of bow string he was checking for damage and dismissed his clerk. “And you are here to solve the mystery of Ranulf,” he said to the third and final messenger.

“I hope so, my lord.” The monk tucked his hands in his dangling sleeves. “I will look at the man to be sure he is whom we believe, if such is your wish.”

Fulk nodded at once. “Yes. It would be best if he did not see you, I think. The prisoners will be brought out for exercise this afternoon; you can observe him then.”

“As my lord wishes,” the monk agreed with a gentle bow. “Would you hear of the Ranulf we did know, or do you wish to be sure it is the same man first?”

“Please tell me.”

“The Ranulf we knew was with us from an early age. A bright child, his parents knew that he could do better than spend his life working the land as they had. They managed to raise the money to fund his acceptance, and the boy took to the life well. When he was some months short of taking his vows, a thief slipped into our church and tried to steal the candlesticks from the altar. Ranulf was one of a small; group who spotted him, and he blocked the thief’s path.” The monk sighed and bowed his head. “It was a good thought, and with tragic consequences. The thief fought, and Ranulf killed him. By accident, of course! During the scuffle he fell backwards and broke his head on the cornerstone of a pillar. God’s judgement on a sinner.” The monk crossed himself. “Some of our number did not share this view; they said Ranulf had blood on his hands, and that he had desecrated holy ground more than any thief could. It tore our peace apart. It tore Ranulf apart, for he was fundamentally a good man.” The monk paused. “Two weeks later, he left. It was a thing of some bitterness. He said he would not stay in a place where people cast doubt on him for acting righteously. He had not taken vows so he was free to go; we have no claim on him. Nor was he charged with murder.”

Fulk said, “I suppose I can see him not wanting to tell this story. It must be painful.”

“He was deeply hurt by the fact some of his brothers rejected him.”

Eleanor did not see any need to be present for more of this discussion, not when she could return to curling up to ease her stomach ache. “If you need me for anything else, send for me. Otherwise …” Otherwise don’t bother, and if Fulk needed her for something it had better be diverting the apocalypse and nothing else!

The message from Hugh she read as she walked back through the keep. It was brief, and instructed her to see to the relocation of her father’s body. Now the country was settling back into peace there was nothing to prevent the arse in the crown from lying in Westminster along with his father and grandfather. Eleanor rolled the bit of parchment up into a tube which she tapped on her thigh as she walked. Hugh was known as a dutiful son; a dutiful son would see to his father’s burial. Hugh had done what was required of him during the original funeral, which would make his passing the job on to her all the more notable. Understandable as his refusal to do more for a man who had disowned him was, it could not be allowed.





Fulk waited as the prisoners were let out into the bailey, waiting to see if the monk would recognise Ranulf without any clues.

“There!” The monk bit back his rapid identification. “At least … I think. He’s shaved his head.” In the bailey Ranulf turned to say something to a comrade and inadvertently gave a better view of his face. “Yes. That is him.” The monk smiled faintly. “He used to have dark hair, all loose curls and unruliness. He looks so different without it.”

“Well, then. Mystery solved.” Fulk decided he would hire Ranulf along with the others he had marked as good soldiers, provided Hugh permitted it.










Boring boringness which is not interested in writing nicely. It’s had as long as I’m willing to give it; I’m moving on because that’s where the better scenes are.



Welcome, shinderhizzle. You will need the famous Eleanor eyedrops :hands them over:

Hehe, you make me think I should do a reading list for recovering Eleanor addicts. Books which I have read, enjoyed and feel have something which would make them enjoyable to Eleanor readers. I could definitely post the historical books I have used for research at various times.

[shinderhizzle84]

thanks for the eye drops. i've always wanted eyedrops as a birthday present from my parents, but now that you have given them to me, i have no idea what i will ask for come august...hmm....maybe a car, now that i'm going off to university....*begins plotting evil, greedy ways to bankrupt his parents while cackling maniacally*


thanks for the chapter. i had come back to check up on this story every day since i made my post, and when i saw that you still hadn't posted a reply, i began to worry that i said something stupid, or ignorant. but then again, my forum name is something that a 10 or 11 year old would make, so i shouldn't have been shocked if i DID say something stupid or ignorant. Shinderhizzle.....don't ask....i was 11.


either way, i've been home from school all day today, i'm sick....now that i've read this new installment, i already feel much better. *jumps out of bed, puts on jogging clothes and goes for a 5 and a half mile jog around town*

I wish there was a smiley face for THAT!! Anyways, i must say, it's probably me being stupid again, but something about ranulf doesn't sit right with me....i can't quite place it....maybe, before he died, the thief convinced him to join "the dark side" and become his apprentice....and he faked the thiefs death all along!!

Sorry...i just finished my fifteenth game of Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. i'm not too big on the series, but it's a great game.

now, this is going to come off kinda weird, but from my perspective, i think it would be kinda cool if eleanor actually had a child with fulk...and survived. it's your story, of course, but to me, it would just be another check on the list of things where people said that Eleanor CAN'T do it, and she ends up beating expectations yet again. Or it could go the other way, where she would die in childbirth, and everyone was right about her, and the story can end off really depressing and sorrowful. or...she may just not be pregnant. if she is pregnant, the story, at least to me, would have to continue on for another 9 months. and while i, personally, would love to see more of eleanor's adventures (or rather, lack thereof, once she starts getting REALLY pregnant), i'm not sure how you would feel about that, especially since you've previously stated that you don't like kids. eh, but just ignore me, i'm rambling. i'm just a poor poor 18 year old with a severely immature, yet still smart, mind.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

As always 1337 chapter.
This is the best drug i have ever taken, i wish there was more.

[frogbeastegg]

i had come back to check up on this story every day since i made my post, and when i saw that you still hadn't posted a reply, i began to worry that i said something stupid, or ignorant.

Heh, the answer is much more mundane. I try not to post in the topic unless I have a new story update. I don't want people to see a post by me, come rushing in expecting a new chapter, and end up disappointed. Sometimes I make exceptions, usually if my reply can be posted within a very short space of the last story chapter ...

Sorry...i just finished my fifteenth game of Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. i'm not too big on the series, but it's a great game.

... or when I can offer something readers might like, such as now. Jedi Therapy, a very old short story of mine. It's a comedy based on KOTOR. The writing is very rough; it shows how far I have come in the last 5 years.

now, this is going to come off kinda weird, but from my perspective, i think it would be kinda cool if eleanor actually had a child with fulk...and survived. it's your story, of course, but to me, it would just be another check on the list of things where people said that Eleanor CAN'T do it, and she ends up beating expectations yet again. Or it could go the other way, where she would die in childbirth, and everyone was right about her, and the story can end off really depressing and sorrowful. or...she may just not be pregnant. if she is pregnant, the story, at least to me, would have to continue on for another 9 months. and while i, personally, would love to see more of eleanor's adventures (or rather, lack thereof, once she starts getting REALLY pregnant), i'm not sure how you would feel about that, especially since you've previously stated that you don't like kids. eh, but just ignore me, i'm rambling. i'm just a poor poor 18 year old with a severely immature, yet still smart, mind.

The answer to that one lies off in the realm of things which won't be seen in the story proper. There's an answer of a sort to be found in the short story I speculate about posting after the main story is complete, and it's one of the reasons why I consider not posting it. Without 'Silent' people will be able to make up their own minds.

I don't mind writing children, I just don't like being subjected to them in real life. Noisy, messy, illogical, boring - even when I was a child I didn't like them. The work I consider to be my best bit of short fiction is based around a child. It's the one I posted a while back, about Nell's first meeting with her father since Trempwick accepted her as his apprentice.

As always 1337 chapter.
This is the best drug i have ever taken, i wish there was more.

You could always head back to the beginning and start reading again.

[frogbeastegg]

Cadfan was not sneering this time. Much care had been lavished on his appearance; his hair was freshly washed and combed, his skin flawlessly clean, his features composed. Fashionable clothes and a body to wear them upon were his only lack.

Hugh waved the casket away after giving the severed head inside a showily prolonged inspection. “Where is his body?”

Two Welshmen had come under flag of truce to deliver the grisly prize, one to represent each of the surviving princes. Each waited for the other to answer, and when the silence drew out to an uncomfortable length each started to speak. A look between them settled the matter, and the older of the two was the one to continue. “Sire, it lies in our princes’ camp. It can be brought here within the day, should you require it.”

Now that the rebel alliance had broken and its remaining leaders were willing to submit Hugh saw no need to press Cadfan’s destruction further. He was not a vengeful man, at least he prayed so. “No. Let him be buried wherever it is traditional for his family.” Not vengeful, and not weak either; Hugh directed his marshal, “Boil the head in tar and mount it on a spike above the main gate of Chester so that all who come and go may see for themselves he price of harming one who swears allegiance to me.”

The younger emissary spoke, “Our lords hope you might find forgiveness for them in your heart now they have purged themselves of the ill-council which led them astray.”

Naturally Hugh would find forgiveness – it was part of the endless cycle of border politics. He was as incapable of conquering Wales as the locals were of fully throwing off English influence. That prevented neither party from trying their hand when opportunity was perceived; it was such a long-standing state of affairs as to be traditional. “If your lords will submit themselves before me tomorrow, give me fifty hostages to guarantee the peace, and attend my coronation to pay homage along with the rest of my lords then there shall be forgiveness.” Hugh raised a hand to still the murmur than ran through the chamber. “It is my decree that all that my lords have taken while fighting in defence of my rights shall remain in their hands. The Welsh must forfeit all claim to those lands and goods.”

The younger man nearly rose from his abject position on the floor. “That is unjust!”

Hugh slapped his palm on the arm of his great chair. “It is just! The word you seek is harsh. Which, given the numerous offences your lords have given me, is none so applicable as it might be. Am I to fund the struggle to regain what is rightfully mine? Or shall the cost fall to those who began the war, maintained it, and wrought the devastation?”

The man made the mistake of countering, “The very lords you now reward gave many of the same offences-” His remaining words were cut off in uproar; the marcher lords were most displeased at this reminder of their sins.

Finally Hugh came to his feet, stilling the shouted abuse with a roar of, “Silence!” He got it. Seated once more he said, “The difference is thus: when presented with my person my marcher lords knelt before me and asked my forgiveness. Your princes scorned me, and heaped further insult on me as they made a show of their defiance. My lords have proven themselves to me in this war, and have avenged the slights your princes visited upon me.”

The elder of the pair stilled his companion with a hand on his shoulder. “We will take your words to our lords. We cannot say what the reply will be.”

The reply would be acceptance. There would, inevitably, be some haggling over which lands were lost and, equally inevitably, some would be returned to sweeten the deal. Hugh had faith that an accommodation satisfactory to all would arise from this. He would have his rights restored and his strength proven; his lords would have forgiveness and a reward to encourage; the Welsh would have an end to a conflict they could no longer gain from.

Time to turn his mind to setting a date for his coronation.






Two works had been requested of him. An official life of William, a mere trifle to fill his days. Perhaps a scattering of people would read it. A means to get some use from a fallen man, to rehabilitate him to a small degree. Trempwick felt no zest for this one.

A private work on the man, for the eyes of his daughter and no others. A means for Nell to find familiarity – and possibly peace – with the man. A means also, he dared hope, to hold a variety of conversation with her former master. Were it not presently impossible, he could have spent long hours telling her of William and answering the inevitable questions. This one did spark something inside Trempwick’s heart, and he had faithfully occupied the last few days with its beginning.

The thought that the second, private work might be a form of conversation had done more than spark that something in his heart; it had sparked something in his mind. A third work, more private yet. This one had awakened in him a kind of burning, a need to put words down in ink and as soon and perfectly as he could manage. While his jailors believed him working on his assigned histories, much of his time would be devoted to this work. The subterfuge necessary to achieve this gave a kind of hope: he would not rot here until he went mad. He would think.

Trempwick selected a quill from the sheaf on his desk, dipped it in the inkpot and addressed the blank parchment before him. A hesitation. The beginning? Why not this.

Those who wish to win favour frequently gift that which they themselves value. Riches, horses, fine arms and armour. What of a man such as myself? I value that which you have commanded me to labour at, and so hope that my additional, unrequested work may be taken as a gift by you, my most magnificent Lady.

Yes, that felt a worthy beginning for the work which would be the sum of his career.

Trempwick dipped the quill again, and inscribed in the space he had left above his opening paragraph

Sir Raoul Trempwick to Her Highness, the Princess Eleanor, daughter to William, sixth of that name, by the grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Brittany, Count of Anjou, Lord of the Welsh.

Trempwick regarded what he had written. Title was dictated by the nature of the work, a personal address from himself to Nell with the pure intent to instruct her in everything he had not yet passed along, mainly rulership. It was … too wrong. Too grand. Too lengthy. It was, in short, entirely out of character for their relationship.

Some minutes later another title occurred to him, and he wrote it at the very top, squeezing it in where there was not quite space.

The Princess.











Raoul Trempwick, hail and farewell. That’s his last scene. I wrote that more than 3 years ago; today I finally brought it out from storage and gave it a brush and polish to bring it inline with my current style. See, told you I had planned the ending long in advance ;)

I like that scene a lot. Trempwick, secluded in Repton trying to find a meaning for his life and a way back from his fall. Trempwick, starting work as a historian and writer and finding something in the prospect which appeals to him. Trempwick, trying to bridge the gap between William and Nell when it is both much too late and the perfect time. Trempwick, meditating on his life and that of the friend he came to murder, and on the rule he helped to shape and on what the one he views as the successor to that reign needs to know.

I contemplated adding some more scenes to this part; ending with Trempy’s final scene felt better. It took a while to decide on that.

Trempy’s writing has two loose parallels with real historical works. One was been spotted in the previous part, and named on the other forum: the Alexiad by Anna Comnena. This part contains the second, easier parallel; can anyone spot it?

[Moros]

Seems I have some cathing up to do. It's middle of the night again anyway.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

So sad to see him go.

[Ludens]

Trempy’s writing has two loose parallels with real historical works. One was been spotted in the previous part, and named on the other forum: the Alexiad by Anna Comnena. This part contains the second, easier parallel; can anyone spot it?

I missed the Alexiad, but this one I did spot.

[Peasant Phill]

Would it be by any chance 'the prince'?

I know, I know, ... It's so obvious that no one else found it necesarry yet to blatently name the work, but still.

All in all a worthy ending for a man like Trempwick.

[SSJPabs]

So I was checking to see if FBG had updated her Kingdoms guides (I find your specific advice in them unhelpful to me but still find them worth reading for a good overview). As you can tell I'm not someone who posts here and prefers the company boards and TWCenter and ended up stumbling across this story and caught up with it today at last after about 2 weeks of heavy heavy reading.

It met the most important criteria for a story: it made me willing to keep reading to the end!

But I have to agree with Vuk, it strikes me as very obviously written from a female perspective. There's nothing wrong with that of course, authors I enjoy (like Melanie Rawn) do the same thing, but you can never quite get away from the hmm, genderness, of the work in male POV scenes. Other than that, there were parts I thought were well written, and parts that were definitely less well written and I think with a good editor the story could really go into sharp focus.

I'm sure you might be a little annoyed when I say (I think how I would be if some yahoo whose sole interaction with you thus far consisted of criticism suddenly popped up) that my fingers were twitching with a desire to re-arrange and hack stuff out in certain posts. Mostly towards the end of the early parts and the middle part but there are a few places later.

Finally, something I always struggle to avoid in any of my own original fiction, is anachronistic terms. Basically a reference in to something the characters cannot possibly relate to due to temporal differences, like describing a charging knight like a freight train (bear with me on the simile). This struck me whenever you used the term 'git' as at this time the character would almost surely use the full version 'beget.' So every single time I came across I thought "20th century term!" it and broke the spell of the writing. A similar thing happened with words like "prat" (though as an American I have no idea what that means) and on a few other occasions with other words.

Look temper some of this with the knowledge that this is not my particular genre, (romantic historical fiction is probably how I'd class it) so perhaps there are things that I am not getting or missing due to a non-positive beginning.

Well thanks for listening.

[SSJPabs]

PS: Apologies for the spelling errors and other minors errors (i.e. FBE and characters using "get" not "beget). I was (and still am) quite tired when I wrote this and I cannot seem to find the edit post button.

[frogbeastegg]

Eleanor said, “You asked to speak with me?”

Edrik doffed his hat and bowed. “Ah … With your husband, in truth, your Highness.”

“He is not available. I take it you have come to make your recommendations with regard to the land clearance?”

“Yes, your Highness. It needs only his lordship’s decision and then work can begin.”

“Well then.” Eleanor settled herself in the nearby window seat and indicated the reeve should stand at her side. “Tell me your thoughts and a decision shall be made.”

Edrik’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Ah … his lordship …”

“My lord husband has gone hunting. This is the first day he has taken entirely to himself in more than a month – he will not be disturbed for anything less than full scale invasion. I am authorised to deal with things here in his absence.”

“No doubt, your Highness.” The man tortured his hat between his hands. “Only, I was not instructed … That is …”

Hawise stepped in before Eleanor could say something pithy. “You fear to get into trouble.”

Edrik’s shoulders eased, and he nodded. “I would not wish to upset my lord.”

It was not the reeve’s fault. He meant no slight. If she believed otherwise Eleanor would have unleashed a smidgeon of royal wrath on him, a touch sufficient to send him scuttling back from whence he came with his ears on fire. “If you prefer to wait until tomorrow to present your findings to my lord husband, that is acceptable. However, I say again that he has all matters here in my hands.”

“Ah …” The poor man’s hat had lost all dignity; its jaunty trio of feathers were now bent and the velvet was sadly creased. “Well …”

“Allow me to place it bluntly. You may delay and possibly incur my lord husband’s displeasure for that delay, for refusing to deal with me, and for increasing his workload. Or you may speak now, and possibly incur my lord husband’s displeasure for not waiting for him.” Eleanor caught Hawise’s slight frown and knew she had sounded sterner than intended. More gently she added, “Whichever you choose, be assured my lord husband is a most reasonable man. You will not suffer or find your decision held against you in the future.”

Edrik went down on one knee. “I am a humble man, your Highness. I’m reeve of my village and consider that an honour, though it’s nothing to any of good birth. I confess I am overwhelmed. I …” He scratched at his scrawny neck, as though in his mind he could already feel a noose fitted about it. “I am not sure which way to turn.”

Eleanor twisted her wedding ring about on her finger as she thought rapidly. The problem was a common one. A princess on the one hand, a newly raised lord of dubious origins on the other, and the age old question of who controlled whom and which dignity would be trodden on by what. “Come back tomorrow,” she advised in the end. This way she was seen to defer to Fulk, which protected his dignity, and in turn Fulk could assure the man he was not having his power stolen by his wife.

Edrik bowed, and stood. “Thank you, your Highness. I’m sorry. It’s just … Well, normally it’d be clear.”

“Your conscientiousness does you credit.” Eleanor waved him out of the solar before she said something altogether ruder. When he’d gone she slumped back against the wall and massaged her temples. “You know what is most infuriating about this?”

Hawise suggested, “The fact you and Fulk together run into this several times each day?”

“No. Well, nearly.” Eleanor leaned to look out of the slitted window at the bustle down in the bailey. A wagon was making its way through the main gates, piled with sacks and with two youths walking at its flanks. “Were I somewhat lower in rank, or Fulk somewhat higher, there would be no problem. Narrow the chasm but a little – and it would still be wide indeed – and people would not baulk.”

“Your marriage works the same as any other; people are slowly coming to see that. Each person you convince is one less.”

Eleanor scowled. “Easy for you to say. People are not afraid to speak to you in case you are using your husband like a puppet!”

“That,” Hawise said with an infuriating amount of seriousness, “is because I do not have a husband.”

A cushion was at hand and really it was too tempting; as the maid ducked Eleanor sweetly informed her, “I shall find you one!”

Hawise bent to retrieve the cushion and hugged it to her chest. “Thank you, but I should prefer to find my own.”

“That sounds suspiciously as though you have someone in mind.” Eleanor suddenly remembered Hawise asking after Waltheof after Alnwick, and a hundred other such tiny signs which had gone unremarked during the stresses of the past months. Serious maid and serious knight; what a perfect match. “Well, I am sure you will tell me should you find someone,” she said, mindful of her friend’s feelings. What if Waltheof showed no matching interest? This demanded further investigation …

At that moment Aveis burst in, shutting the door behind herself and leaning on it to catch her breath. “I believe this is what you were waiting for.” She hurried across the room, still breathing heavily, and held out a section of cloth with a sample pattern embroidered on it.

Eleanor inspected the pattern, deciphered it, and couldn’t hold back her beam of triumph. “The Welsh are suing for peace. Dated five days ago. Not bad, not bad – but it can be better. It must be better.” She was on her feet, pacing from one end of the room to the other, unable to keep still in her excitement. This was the first proper result from the network she was working so hard to forge out of the remnants of Miles’ and Trempwick’s old systems. “Now, we must see how long it takes for official word to reach us, and we must check the veracity of this.”

Aveis took over the seat Eleanor had left vacant and fanned herself with one hand. “It came with a chapman. At first I thought he was bothering me to buy his rubbish.”

“We hardly want him to stroll up to the gates and announce he has a secret message for me,” Eleanor said absently. Word from Wales to Carlisle in five days! And carried across a network patched together out of two shattered halves. It was a start. A good start. Three days had been the usual time for such a run under Trempwick, two if the people passing word pushed themselves remorselessly. Eleanor ran the cloth through her hands. “You will go back to him and say I am interested in buying sufficient of this border to edge the hem, collar and cuffs of a dress.” As Aveis opened the door Eleanor called, “And Aveis? Be more circumspect, please. I am not so interested in a sample from a mere trader that you need to come running.”

The older woman blushed. “I shall take my purse down with me and buy some things myself. Let people think that’s why I became over-excited.”

“Success.” Eleanor stopped, staring sightlessly at a wall hanging. “The main difference is in birds. We have not as many …”

Hawise looked at her blankly. “Pardon?”

“Messenger birds. Trempwick had many of them. In most instances word flew from one part of the realm to another, literally.” Eleanor broke away from the hanging and from her thoughts to smile at her friend. “At the moment there are large gaps in that coverage; this message here was carried more by horse than wing. It will take money to breed and train more, but it must be done. Hugh will have to fund it; heaven knows I could not afford it myself. And, perhaps, if he will fund certain other things I shall be able to spare enough to give you a dowry so you may pursue your mystery man.”






Eleanor covertly inspected Fulk for damage as he dismounted. He was very muddy and a large splash of blood soaked his left leg, but he was not obvious damaged. He did stink to high heaven, so she kept a tactful distance. “Welcome home, my lord. Was your hunting a success?”

“I took a deer myself. A single spear blow.” He thrust an imaginary spear down at a target, doubtless a faithful recreation of his feat. “And between us we took several more, and a wolf.” He waved at one of the huntsmen. “Hoi! Show my lady the wolf.” Fulk ran a hand over his chaotic hair as if he now realised he looked as though he had been through a hedge backwards. “You may have the skin of that one for whatever you will.”

Eleanor made appreciative noises over the carcass trussed up on a spear shaft, and added a few more in praise of his heroic deeds. Once that was out of the way she was able to ask, “The blood is not yours then?” without appearing to smother him.

“The deer’s,” he replied. He stretched his arms and worked his left shoulder, which Eleanor knew was still prone to stiffness after its wound. “I should do this more often – it’s been an age since I last had chance to hunt. When money permits I shall get a hawk.” He gave his horse a final pat and started towards the keep. “Perhaps you’d like one too, my best beloved?”

“I have been hawking but once in my life-”

“I remember,” he answered, with a sidelong glance. “You were afraid the bird would eat your fingers. It’s part of what you should have had and weren’t allowed by Trempwick. It’s yours if you want it now. Well,” he amended, “ in some months when we can afford it.”

“If it will be in some months then I hardly need make a decision now.” Eleanor softened her words with a smile. “I thank you. I will give it some thought, I promise you. But I have not had chance to give you my own news.”

That got his attention. “Oh?”

Eleanor raised her voice so she could be heard by many of those in the bailey. “We are cordially invited to my brother’s coronation. Those who threatened the peace of the realm have been vanquished and God’s favour for Hugh is now clear for all to see. He shall be crowned two weeks from this Wednesday.” Hugh’s messenger had brought the good news half a day behind her network.

“Two weeks?” Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose. “We had best sort ourselves to leave the day after tomorrow, or we’ll be hard pressed to make it in good time.”

Eleanor laughed. “See? I told you that if you did not take your chance to relax today you would not get another soon!”

“Victory.” Fulk turned to face the people gathering in the courtyard as the news spread. “Victory!” he roared, raising his fist in the air. “God save the king! God save lord Hugh!” The response was of satisfactory enthusiasm and volume. When it died away Fulk declared, “A feast tonight to celebrate! Food and drink for all who come, right down to the humblest dog boy!” That gathered a louder cheer. Resuming his walk to the keep Fulk asked quietly, “We do have enough for that, don’t we?”

Eleanor gave him an exasperated look. “If we feed the bog boy the wolf and let him drink the worst ale, yes.” Relenting she kissed him on the cheek. “It was well done. A fine gesture which will win hearts for yourself and for Hugh.”










Gah! I had a bunch of unexpected calls on my time, including a lengthy and crappy exam resulting from that job application. Still waiting to find out if I passed …

On the positive side, I think I may have found a way to get the time between the awesome beginning and the equally awesome ending of that Trempwick short story to work. Shall have to see once Eleanor is complete and I try to write it.

The next part will be very long and will be the final part. After 4 years the prospect is quite similar to peering over a cliff edge and knowing you must jump.



Peasant Phill, it is indeed ‘The Prince’.

SSJPabs, let’s tackle the easier bits first.

So I was checking to see if FBG had updated her Kingdoms guides

Ah. Those.

Basically, my boss got addicted to dumping the crappy shifts on me at work so I barely had any time to use for the project. Then I got promoted to manager of my own store, and by the time travel was included I was doing 12+ hour days. Now I finally have time it’s much too late.

This struck me whenever you used the term 'git' as at this time the character would almost surely use the full version 'beget.'

Get is northern English. Git is midland and southern English, i.e. the more prevalent. This kind of variance isn’t uncommon in British English.

A similar thing happened with words like "prat" (though as an American I have no idea what that means)

Brace yourself. Prat is a venerable old word, it’s in written documents over 500 years old and would have been in use long before that. It referred, originally, to the buttocks. Nowadays it’s more often taken to mean idiot. It’s like a medieval version of calling someone an arse.

Finally, something I always struggle to avoid in any of my own original fiction, is anachronistic terms.

I take the view that, as long as there are no freight trains, it doesn’t matter. It’s in modern English therefore it’s anachronistic whatever I write. To be fully correct it needs to be in Anglo-French, middle English, Latin, Langue d’oc, and Langue d’oil. Anything else is a compromise. If I start hurling around words like waltrot no one will know what I mean; context only does so much. As the above shows, accuracy can be present and still considered out of place.

I use the correct words as far as there’s a decent chance of people understanding the meaning. We’ve got braes instead of underpants, a guige strap instead of a shield’s shoulder strap, and so on.

my fingers were twitching with a desire to re-arrange and hack stuff out in certain posts. Mostly towards the end of the early parts and the middle part but there are a few places later.

Your fingers can’t twitch more than mine do. It’s a 4 year long collection of quickly produced, minimally edited scenes designed to tell a novel’s story in an episodic form. The constant need to remind people of things alone accounts for a couple of hundred pages which could be cut right out if the work was to be read in a shorter time. I shall indulge myself after those final scenes go up. :rubs hands gleefully:

romantic historical fiction is probably how I'd class it

Lucky you added the disclaimer about not being familiar with these kinds of stories or I’d have had some kind of breakdown there. A historical romance is a bodice ripper repackaged so the name doesn’t sound so tawdry. Cardboard characters, ultra-basic plot which serves no purpose other than shunting romance and sex scenes about, predictable, usually badly written, often filled with nonsense like people eating potatoes, and just downright bad.

Historical fiction is the term you’re looking for.

But I have to agree with Vuk, it strikes me as very obviously written from a female perspective. There's nothing wrong with that of course, authors I enjoy (like Melanie Rawn) do the same thing, but you can never quite get away from the hmm, genderness, of the work in male POV scenes.

Here’s the tricky one. When Vuk made the same comment he was reading work from an eon ago and the part of the story which is mainly told via Nell’s perspective, so I attributed it to that. You say you have finished the whole thing. Bang goes that idea.

I’m going to have to say I don’t understand what you mean. I can think of a few possible meanings; I don’t want to pick one at random. Especially since one happens to be my second most hated literacy ‘concept’ (and I use that term very loosely) after the idea that fiction has absolutely no value.

So I shall ask you to explain. Give examples if possible.

[SSJPabs]

Will reply more later, but in terms of romance, I was thinking more along the lines of this crossed with this in contemporary language. That said, it actually can't be historical fiction, but it can be alternate historical fiction.

[Prince Cobra]

Welcome SSJPabs. This is a nice alternate fiction indeed.

Wow, I have to catch up again.

[frogbeastegg]

Should she climb over the wall? Eleanor’s course strayed several steps from the path leading to the garden’s only gate. In those several steps the yearning was mastered; such behaviour was beneath her now, and seemed infantile. There were better ways to gain surprise, to throw off the shackles of expectation.

And so Eleanor presented herself at the front gate of Waltham’s walled garden. “My brother wished me to attend him,” she told the liveried men standing guard.

The wooden gate creaked as Hugh’s men pulled it open, its iron hinges in need of attention. The men at arms did not bow to her, or show deference greater than the holding open of the door. Eleanor raised an eyebrow at this. “You forget your manners.”

“Highness,” murmured one of the guards, dipping his head fractionally.

Hugh would hear of this, at whatever length it was necessary. Leaving her own bodyguards outside, Eleanor stepped through. The door was closed behind her, the world shut out from a space where it had no place. The scent of late spring enfolded her; she took a moment to breathe deeply the promise of summer.

She followed the narrow gravel path which led to the garden’s heart. It was as though she had stepped into the past. An unescorted, uncared for princess seeking refuge from a court she did not belong in, going to meet a man. That thought raised a smile, wistful. It seemed a lifetime ago that she voiced her suspicions about Trempwick to Anne and Fulk here, and another lifetime since she had exchanged that second - and third and more - kiss with Fulk here, thrilling in the discovery that he cared for her. Today’s purpose was not pleasant dalliance.

Hugh sat on the stone bench under a clump of trees sporting tender new leaves. At her approach he rose.

Eleanor made certain she got the first word in. “You will remind your men that discourtesy to me is discourtesy to all of our blood.”

Hugh stepped to one side and indicated the empty bench with a graceful sweep of his arm. “I am mindful of such things, I assure you. What has caused this distress?”

“I had to rebuke your men outside to wring so much as a nod from them.”

“That was not at my order. It will not happen again.”

“Good.” Eleanor settled herself in the middle of the bench, meaning there was no space left for Hugh to sit without him being uncomfortably close. Let him stand. “You summoned me, brother dear?” Summoned, acceptable. Summoned within hours of her arrival after riding from one end of England to the other, less acceptable. “I barely had time to change to fresh clothes.”

He accepted her denying him a seat by clasping his hands at the small of his back and shifting into a balanced stance, as though it were his preference to remain on his feet. It did enable him to look down on her, and heaven knew well his love of that! “For some of us it is a way of life. Some of us must even go so far as to consider business while travelling.”

Eleanor snorted. “Brother dear, kindly do not be asinine. My meaning was that this had better be important. It was not an invitation for you to bewail your lot.”

“I see you are in a sweet temper today, Nell.”

She bared her teeth at his usage of the pet version of her name, the version which she was increasingly coming to believe no longer fit. “Not half as sweet as you.”

“I have cause!”

Eleanor deliberately rolled her eyes. “And sometime perhaps you might enlighten me, since I presume that is the point of this. Or do you intend to dither on until I expire of age?”

Hugh’s nostrils flared. “You let an important Scottish agent past the borders. Worse, you sent him straight to me to skulk about! He could have been an assassin!”

Well, that was indeed news, and it was important that he not know it lest he think to use the weakness to his advantage. Eleanor quickly added one and one together, and come to the conclusion he must refer to the Scottish messenger she had referred on to speak to him about Nefastus. “Brother dear, one does not – one cannot – turn away a messenger sent to see if his king’s son and heir is being held hostage.”

Hugh ticked off points on his fingers. “You could have warned me. You could have sent him with an escort to limit his scope for mischief. You could have-”

Eleanor slapped a hand on the stone beside her. “Could is all well and good! But could with what? I have the tatters of Trempwick’s network and of Sir Miles’, both of which have been heavily purged, neither of which is designed to work in harmony with the other, and both of which are riddled with gaps which will take me months, if not years, to completely fill.” She slapped the bench again. “Who should I send as escort, Hugh? The boy who empties the chamber pots?”

He snapped his hand back to his side, tightly formed into a fist. “You should have warned me. That at the very least!”

“How?” Eleanor folded her hands in her lap, trying to ease the tingling pain in her palm without being too obvious about it. “Hugh, your messenger was only a few hours slower in bringing me word of your victory than my people were. That is how bad the situation is. What was possible under Trempwick is no longer so.” She stressed, “For now.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is so. As you must slowly build your position to stand where your forerunner did, so too must I build to stand equal with mine.”

Hugh breathed out heavily, and his anger left him. “I expect you will now request more money.”

Eleanor had to smile at that; was she so transparent? “Trempwick had an income of hundreds from his estates, and hundreds more from our father. I have … Well, I do not have the first hundred, let alone any of the others. I must have resources if I am to be of use. And then next time I should be able to send warning to you, at the least.”

“You are always asking me for money.”

“And you know I do not do so without reason.”

The corner of his mouth turned down. “I know that once you were barely able to get the words out through choking on your pride. A difficulty you no longer seem to feel.”

Eleanor gave him a level look. “I am not begging for charity now. I am requesting a portion of what is mine, out of the whole I allow you to husband for me. I do so for our mutual benefit. Why, Hugh, should I be ashamed?”

“You should not,” he allowed eventually. “I will get you what can be managed without causing remark. Even have you changed your mind about being thought of no great import, I have not. Your being known as Trempwick’s successor would cause all manner of harm.”

“I have not changed my mind, never fear.”

“I must balance your needs against many others,” he warned. “The rebellion has proven costly; repairing the damage will be moreso.”

“Give me five hundred, and soon. That will make a good start.”

“Five hundred marks?”

Eleanor corrected her half-brother’s wishful thinking, “Five hundred pounds.”

Hugh’s mouth thinned into a line. “I shall be leaving for Normandy at the end of next week. This will go to Constance. I am certain she will do what she can in my absence.”

“Speaking of absence …” Eleanor plucked a flower from the grass at her feet. The petals were recently opened, the bloom delicate with the freshness of late spring. She twirled it about in her fingers as she considered the best way to broach this. “I have made the requested arrangements for our father’s reinterment. All that remains is for you to take your place at the head of them and see it done.”

Hugh flinched as though she had slapped him. “No.”

“Hugh, you must. It will be remarked upon if you do not.”

“I have no right to be there, nor any wish.”

Eleanor laid her flower down on the grass, tenderly. Then she stood and set her hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I understand. Others would too, which is why you must be there.” When he did not reply she took it for acquiescence. “It can be done several days after the coronation. One of the first acts of your reign, laying your father to the dignified rest which was denied him by the rebels. It would be taken well, I think.”

“How many times,” Hugh said slowly, “did we hear the story of this garden? Near to a legend in our family and those close to us, a gentle story of the harmony between William, sixth of his name, and his queen. An example of the lengths a man should go to in order to please his wife. That our mother asked for it to be planted and walled, that she even detailed the section of wall where it is easy to climb over. So she could meet our father in peace and pretend at romance in a marriage where she was more often than not alone.” Battling to keep his face blank, Hugh stepped back and away from her. “There it was, in front of us all the time. You had but to alter a single word. Not our father, but my father. She merely misled one man in order to meet the other.” He held is arms out to the sides and slowly turned a circle. “This place might very well be my beginning.”

Eleanor pulled a face. “Now you are trying to be unpleasant.”

“Am I? You do not spawn bastards in a bed, after all.”

“You would have far better knowledge of that than I,” Eleanor snapped, revolted. It was hard to believe that her stuffy brother had just made such a suggestion. “Christ’s wounds, our mother was civilised!”

Hugh snapped around. “She was a whore and capable of any wickedness! And think, she would have needed secrecy or I would never have been made.”

Eleanor checked her first reaction, and then after a moment’s thought surrendered to it anyway. Her palm cracked across Hugh’s cheek and he made no effort to block or dodge. “You insufferable ingrate! I am sick of this! Sickened by it! You owe her respect for your life, and damn you for judging her based on – on nothing but rumours and your filthy imaginings!” Unable to stand the sight of his unrepentant face she turned away.

“Since I more than any other save your father am touched by her failings, I have more right – more reason – to be judgemental. You?” Hugh laughed harshly. “You are blessedly untouched by all of this. You have not lost everything you believed you were. You will not spend the remainder of your days living a lie. You …” He tripped into silence, and Eleanor heard him walking on the gravel behind her. “You come here and see nothing more than a garden. I do not. I see … possibilities which torment me, and from which I shall have no peace.” More softly still, the admission, “I used to like this place.”

Eleanor turned around to find him standing by the bed of fragrant herbs on the far side of the path. “Damning her will not bring you any peace. Nor will damning my father. Or rejecting them. Hate only seems to simplify matters.”

“And you would know?” He made no effort to hide his scepticism.

Eleanor picked her flower back up and gently teased its petals apart so it was fully opened. “Do you think it was easy to be reviled, only to suddenly be accepted as an heir for the very traits which saw you rejected as a daughter? And Trempwick murdered my father and beloved brother, and tried to use me. He saved my life and taught me much of what I know. How should I unravel that?” She looked to see if her words were sinking in at all; Hugh looked a touch less angry. “It is a simpler task to make peace with a lonely woman who was unable to resist temptation than it is to go through life labelling her a whore.”

“If the name fits,” Hugh recited.

Eleanor flung the flower in his face. “I hardly think she would have charged people! The name does not fit – all you do is throw out insulting words to avoid thinking about anything!”

“You inflicted this conversation on me, and you do little but lecture me on that which you do not like. I say again, Nell, you are blessedly untouched by this muck.”

Helplessly Eleanor shook her head. “She was my mother too.”

Hugh said nothing for a long time. A fat bee clumsy after long hibernation took a liking to him and flew drunkenly about his head, returning each time it was brushed away. Eventually Hugh resorted to moving away from the herbs, swatting at the bee as he went. It took the hint and went to bother the rosemary instead. “I will attend the ceremony,” Hugh announced, settling himself at one end of the bench. “Because I must, not out of any desire to do so.”

Eleanor sat next to him, and voiced a thought that had been tickling at the back of her mind for a while now. “Does it not seem sad to you? That he should end up so unloved?”

Hugh raised his head. “He rejected me, not I him.” His eyes slipped away from hers, and his head went down again. “I was the truest son I could be.”

Eleanor thought that was more of a yes than a no.










(Note from the present, all else contained in this post being a couple of days old. I came to post this section only to find the forum broken. It was fine when I visited an hour before hand. That old feeling that someone somewhere said “I hope this story never ends!” and invoked a genie with a bad sense of humour has returned.)

As you might be able to tell, that’s not the end. I split it up – it’s been ages since the last post, I still want to tweak most of the following scenes, I am not quite happy with something in another scene, and the world will not leave me alone to work in peace and quiet! Gah!

Every time I sit down to write it’s the same thing. Interruption after interruption after interruption. There appears to be a stupid belief that I need to be talked at about pointless things I don’t care about every 6 minutes. Hurray, a car 7 streets away has had one tire stolen, thanks for running up here to tell me that. My life is far richer now and I’ve totally lost sight of what I was trying to write, but never mind, now I know some more pointless, useless, tedious information about something I never wanted to hear about in the first place, and that’s far better than wasting my time actually achieving anything or working on something I enjoy. I absolutely cannot write if I know other people are nearby, no exceptions. The interruptions thing is now so bad I get jarred out of my train out thought each and every time I hear the downstairs door open, regardless of whatever I get bothered or not. Considering it takes me a good half hour or more to sink into what I’m writing deeply enough to get a good flow going you might now be able to work out that this whole interruption thing makes it a non-starter. Then there are the useless phone calls. The minute the house is empty of other people the phone starts ringing, and I can’t ignore it in case it’s someone offering me a job interview. Clue: no, this is not a hospital nor a car repair centre, try reading the numbers in the phone book and then pressing the matching ones on your own phone! Then there is the idiot with the broken car alarm. And the idiot neighbour and his hammering at brickwork. And …

It’s taken me 20 minutes to prepare this for posting. I’ve been bothered three times, and the phone has rung once. ARGH!!! :has nervous breakdown:

On the positive news front, the people I did that exam for remembered I exist. It only took them 5 weeks. I had an interview yesterday. I do not hold my breath; the first thing they asked me was to confirm I had received the pack of information to help me prepare for their questions. My reply was, “No, I haven’t received anything at all and this is the first I have heard about it.” So yay, my chances of passing that interview are crippled from the start. I shall hear if I was successful “In around four weeks …”

Hmm, there’s an interesting thought. Once the final part goes up there should be a roll call to see just how many – and who – made it to the end. Possibly with each stating roughly how long they have been reading for.



And now let’s wind time back to some point last week, when I posted the below on the other forum in response to a gentle enquiry as to how the final part was coming along. Just so you know as well.

The difficulty is that this is the end. It's proving far harder than I imagined to let go. Once that final part is posted years of work is done, characters I love will slip into the background, and my writing habits will have to change dramatically. As much as I want to edit, and to write Ancel, I recognise that my writing is going to become a lonely thing. I shall have no readers, no comments, and no one to share with. It will just be me, writing and reading alone. That loneliness is not something I look forward to.

Eleanor is the first 'big' story I wrote - as I've previously mentioned there was a version before this one. Before that I did nothing but individual brief stories. Ending Eleanor is ending an era. It's ... scary. Exciting too, but definitely scary. There's the two short stories left, Silent's and Raoul's. That's not much, and it's not Eleanor.

Plus this final part is very long.

SSJPabs, I always say, half joking and half not, that if Conn Iggulden’s Caesar books are classed as historical fiction then Eleanor has no problems. With its made up cast and altered world history Eleanor actually manages to be more accurate than Iggulden’s monstrosity.

The second of those two links is a variety of literature I devoured as a child, and still love today. I feel unworthy of being compared to those works; they are true classics.

The first of those two links is the argh-awful bodice ripper romance. I admit that there’s resemblance between their canned description of the genre and this story; this is why I didn’t want any romance between Nell and Fulk. It clouds over the thematic links I did want to be seen. I fought them; I lost in very short order. This is the disadvantage to characters who write themselves.

The difference between a trashy romance and Eleanor is that the trashy romance sets up cardboard characters on a generic faux medieval stage and, with a minimal plot, shoves them together for the sole purpose of showing them fall in love and several sex scenes. It doesn’t aim to do anything else. The whole point of them is to present variations on a limited collection of themes which the audience find sexy; it’s pretty much a female equivalent to porn. Each period setting plays to a set collection of desires, for example regency is all dancing, balls and stilted dialogue which wants to be Jane Austen but is a fifth rate imitation. It’s formal, based on the rich and fabulously dressed, and features a male lead who is suave and cultured, and often so 'passionate' (their definion, definitely not mine) that in real life he'd be sat in prison for sexual assault.

While some of the wiki page’s labels fit, the execution and intent behind it is a world apart. Females are in a subordinate position in Eleanor because that’s the historical reality. Trashy romance does it because it plays to themes of wanting to be dominated, or of wanting to battle society and stand out. Because the romance is intended to be light reading and cheering the whole issue is usually watered down, even when it’s supposed to be nasty and shocking it reads like a children’s edition. Marriage has given Nell a lot of good, and it’s given her new limitations – Fulk will not accept being a cipher. Trashy romance marriage sets the woman up in a position to do whatever she wants because her husband is there to agree with her and make her life fluffy. Trashy romance knights save the heroine from everything for ever and ever, (except when the heroine is decided to be spunky and saves herself for giggles) and the whole motivation is to use the protective male concept a lot of women find attractive. Fulk protects Nell because that was his job, and now he’s actually made her life more dangerous than it was at the start by the simple combination of being loathed by the nobility and removing Trempwick’s own protective influence. And so on.

Yes, this means I have read some trashy medieval romance. I’m embarrassed to admit I have slogged my way through something like 20 of the wretched things under the theory that a writer should read absolutely everything, especially the things she would not read by choice, in order to learn more. I learned plenty – about what not to do.




Every POV character here, and most of the story itself, is a twist on the standard that readers are taught by the bulk of books. That’s only going to be noticeable by someone who reads a lot of historical or fantasy type fiction, and only if they decide to think about the story as an overall once it’s completed. It’s in no way a big part of my reason for writing this, more like a neat bonus feature for those who, like me, read so much that they see the same things over and over and over again.

Nell the unexpected heir marked by destiny (scar on her face from the royal ring) who doesn’t become ruler. By convention she should be queen, ruling over a society that’s headed rapidly towards modern equality and acceptance. As the main character the effect is further strengthened; she is practically bound by fictional law to become queen. She’s the wilful heroine who doesn’t manage to turn the world upside down, and who ends up more trapped than before. She should be free to do as she wills, not having to ask more people than before for more things than before. She's much more bound by concepts like duty than before, and the role she has fallen into is one which allows her less freedom in terms of things like choosing what to do with her life and time. There are others which apply to her, lots of minor ones like she’s the assassin spy type who isn’t. She should be a female version of James Bond by now, killing left right and centre in improbably cool ways, usually while dressed in black. I won’t go into them all unless people want me to.

Fulk is the lowly man who rose high and didn’t change the world. Convention would have him accepted, and society would be reconsidering its ideas about the superiority of noble blood. Yet more modern equality being railroaded in where it doesn’t fit.

The romance between them muddies that because it drags in that comparison to trashy romance. Still, it works in some ways. Fulk is the tolerant pushover husband who isn’t really.

Jocelyn is the character who gets the trashy romance convention twist. He’s the rapist and bigoted type who isn’t the villain. The knight of noble birth who isn’t courtly. The devoted father who is a bad husband. And quite a few more. In short, he’s a trait of the hero matched each time with a trait of the villain; he’s a genre paradox.

All of the characters are a lot more than their respective twisted cliches. It's always right near the bottom on their list.

But as I said, that’s all a side theme. The core of the story, as far as it has one single thing that can be called that, is the very historical theme of small, seemingly insignificant things making the most impact in the long run. For all the grand events, such as the death of a king, it's the smaller ones, like a man being seasick, which have the most impact.

[furball]

Your stories and commentaries are always a joy to read, ma'am. I shall miss them terribly.

[Olaf Blackeyes]

High Goddess Frogg:
You should be commended for this epic. It is a masterwork and an eyeopening experience for all that read it and can understand what the **** is actually going on. I love how you have made almost every Archetype into a true bastardization of all fantasy novella characters and at the same by, by the same virtues, a FAR truer and more accurate representation of how those characters would be in a Real and Fleshed-out world, rather than the pages of a comic book and child's story.
I also love how i didnt take you a lot of fancy words, writing, plot twists and character corruptions to make this happen. All that you really did was take our modern conventions and turn them against us.
For You