The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

Eleanor spent the day trapped with Aveline and Juliana, sewing. She was not left alone except when she went to the privy. All her efforts to get away met with flat refusal and dire threats that the spymaster would be informed and he would be most displeased if she left without permission. She didn’t see Fulk at all.





Dinner proved to be the same as all the previous feasts. While she still enjoyed all the attention Trempwick lavished on her she was getting more than a little bored. Floating around in this protected little bubble with nothing much to do and no real need to think much of the time was numbing her mind and leaving her feeling sluggish and dull witted.

After the first hour things livened up unexpectedly. A noble and his escort of four men were ushered into the hall. The noble was well dressed in the latest French fashions and all four of his men wore spotless armour, polished until it reflected the torchlight and people in an ever shifting pattern of fire reds and deep blacks. All five of them had been completely disarmed. In the centre of the four soldiers stood a fifth man, but Eleanor couldn’t see his face or any identifying detail, so closely was he guarded.

The party made their way up the central space until they were just short of the high table; there they stopped. The nobleman stepped forward a few paces, then dropped to one knee before the king. He spoke in French, educated and refined. “My lord king, permit me to introduce myself. I am count Guillaume de Guines.” He waited for a reaction.

William sat up straight and raised his chin, shifting from relaxed diner to attentive king. “Then you had best speak up and explain why you are here. You have counted yourself amongst my enemies before now.” He answered in French, assuming the count would have demonstrated an ability to speak English if he understood the tongue.

Still kneeling Guillaume bowed his head again. “Sire, forgive my tardiness; I did intend to bring my gift and loyalty both on your wedding day. I am here to offer you my services, along with the loyalty and resources of Guines.” He looked to William for permission to rise; after a pause he received it.

He stood and continued in his elegant French, “Sire, in the hopes of proving my good intentions to you I bring not only my own person, but also a gift of sorts, a show of loyalty.”

He stepped to one side and indicated to his escort to do the same. The men rippled outwards like a flower opening its petals, revealing a man with bound hands in their midst. The man’s clothing had once been splendid but now it was torn and dirty, and he was rather ill-kempt. To her horror Eleanor found she recognised the prisoner instantly.

It was John.

De Guines identified his prisoner with a flourish; “I bring your grace’s traitor, the duke of York.”

A ripple ran around the hall, sharp intakes of breath followed by murmurings of surprise and speculation. William’s hand dropped to the tabletop with a thump and he stared with his mouth partly open, the blood draining from his face. His lips moved in an expression of disbelief, but no sound came out.

Beneath the table Eleanor clenched both her hands into fists, crushing handfuls of her dress, unable to tear her eyes away from her returned brother. Ice filled the pit of her stomach, numbing her emotionally in a different way to the earlier tedium but every bit as effectively. He was going to die, and once again she would find herself the target for her father’s rage. They were doomed.

It was John who reacted first, flinging himself to his knees and stretching his hands out in entreaty. “Father, please forgive me. I was misled, I-”

“Silence!” commanded William, his voice hard. “Clear the hall, everybody out – now! You,” he jabbed one finger at Hugh, “and you,” this time Trempwick, “and you,” the count, “stay. Everybody else out! Now! Put the prisoner in one of the gatehouse cells and mind he is guarded well.”

People began to file out, many of them taking whatever food they could easily carry. Trempwick said quietly to Eleanor, “Go back to your guest house and stay there; I will do what I can for your hopeless brother.”

She didn’t argue, but nor did she get very far. Anne hurried to her side and said, “This way.” She started towards the stairs leading up to the royal solar; when she noticed Eleanor wasn’t following she stopped and beckoned. This was not a good idea, it was walking right into the lion’s den but, Eleanor reasoned, this lion would come looking for her if she tried to hide. He would find her again, pulverise her again, they would be carrying her away again, and it would take her weeks to recover again. But not while Anne was around. William was a stickler for manners, and Eleanor doubted he wanted to scare his new wife witless by showing her what he was capable of. When Anne beckoned again Eleanor followed.





William waited until the hall was empty except for those he had specified. They congregated in small cluster near the high table. William schooled his features and demeanour into as close to calm as he could manage. Outwardly he was sure he looked dignified. Inwardly he was raging; anger, pain, fear, panic, self loathing and many more emotions, all boiling together in a seething mass that he thought would sear him to the very bone.

He fixed his gaze on the count and said, “Explain.”

De Guines bowed. “Sire. A few short weeks ago your son and those traitors aiding him landed in one of my ports. They came to me seeking aid, asking that I equipped them suitably to make their way to Paris to plead for the aid of the king. I have long been growing anxious about the intentions of the French king’s council of regents intentions towards me – I have enemies amongst them, men who remember and hold grudges for a disagreement long gone. These men would see me fall and my dynasty stripped of the land we have held for generations. When your son and his party turned up it seemed an omen from the Good Lord himself, bidding me to cast my lot in with yours. I had long been trying to find a way to approach you while being sure I could prove my honest intentions and this was a God given opportunity.”

William said, “We shall speak of your becoming my vassal later. You must be weary after your trip and it grows late; speak to the men guarding the main door and they will see you are taken care of.” The count bowed once again and left to do as he was told.

When the door clanged shut behind the count William slumped back down into his chair. “I executed Northumberland,” he said bleakly. It was the thing foremost on his mind; Northumberland was dead and because of that John’s fate was sealed.

"Sire,” began Trempwick, “he is your son.”

Prince Hugh raised an eyebrow and enquired, “And because of that he is above the law?”

Hugh resembled none of his siblings; he was tall, more golden than the usual sandy or dark, sturdily built with little grace but considerable strength. His eyes were hazel, the only one of William’s children not to inherit his blue. As was ever the case this made Hugh the subject of rumour, suggesting he was a bastard instead of the king’s trueborn son. William was probably the only man in England who had never wondered; in temperament Hugh reminded William of himself in his younger days, just calmer and better able to judge a situation by what the crown needed rather than by sentiment. Hugh was governed strongly by his head, never by his heart.

Trempwick turned his attention to the prince. “All I am saying is that if John’s life is spared people will understand.”

“They will understand the law only does as the king wishes, surely you can see the effect that would have?” returned Hugh hotly. “The king’s justice applies to all, no one is above it and because of that it works – even the highest in the land know they will not get off if called to account for their crimes. Without the law we have nothing; if treachery is pardoned the other lords will grow bold and next time the revolt will be both larger and more dangerous.”

“And if John’s head does fly what then? One potential heir less, and there are few enough of them as it is. You have not yet managed a son-”

Hugh’s face clenched. “I had a son.”

Trempwick snorted derisively. “Born a month early and dead within the hour; he shall make a fine king, I do not think.”

“It proves capability – and that puts me a good stretch ahead of you.”

“Capability? I suppose an assortment miscarriages and a dead baby scattered across a wife and several other women might count as capability, though for what I shudder to think.”

“Enough!” ordered William. This petty bickering did little to aid the situation and hit rather too close to home. William’s succession was painfully fragile. What hurt worse was that it was partly of his own making; if Stephan were alive there would be one more heir, and one more potential source of children … and a cripple on England’s throne. That could never be allowed; a cripple could not rule effectively and the vultures would soon take advantage. As hard as it was to face he had made the right decision for the sake of the realm. That did not make it any easier for the father who still mourned his son’s passing.

“The law of the land is simple; John has been accused of high treason, stripped of all he owns, stricken from the succession and declared outlaw, and I …” William sighed, “and I executed Northumberland when he was captured after the same, for being a ringleader in the same plot.” He did not want to do this but he was trapped. He was a just man and his vassals expected even handed treatment, as was their right. If John was spared where Northumberland was not it would only be because of his blood; unrest would grow and rebellion could ferment. On one side of the scales lay John’s life, on the other the security and stability of the realm and the balance was clear. He had known it would come to this; he had weighed his decisions over and over, plotted and planned carefully, searching for a loophole or way out if John ever returned and he had found none.

He had found none, but perhaps someone else’s eyes would prove clearer. “Maybe if he were exiled …?”

Trempwick instantly said, “Sire, I am confident that we could handle any unrest it might cause.”

“Handle,” repeated William dully, his hope ebbing away back into the morass of feelings tearing his heart apart.

“Yes, sire. A few judicious assassinations, mayhap a siege or two if the lords rise, perhaps a skirmish-”

William held up his hand to cut off the flow. He had heard enough; Trempwick could not have chosen his words better if he had wanted John dead. The scales tilted so John’s life was but a featherweight to the heavy boulder that was the good of England. “What you speak of is anarchy, and all from lowest peasant to highest lord would be adversely affected.” His next words seemed to come from far away, as if someone else spoke and he was observing. There was no point in hiding from what would happen any longer. “My son is back and now I have to have him castrated, hung, gutted, and then beheaded, just as Northumberland was.” Such small words, so harmless sounding and yet so important.

Hugh laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “It is just, and justice is often hard.” Jesú, the boy was so like him; William could hear his own voice echo in those words. “But I think a little mercy may be possible without undue trouble.” Hope burst to life in William’s heart; his son had found a way to save his brother! It was dashed, shattering agonisingly into smithereens when Hugh finished, “We could have him beheaded, a clean, honourable death. None could fault us that.” A small mercy but in the end all one of Christendom’s most powerful men could do. What a fine man he was, thought William bitterly, so powerful and so God damned helpless.

William stood, causing his son’s hand to fall away. “I would be alone; leave me.” Despite his command he was the one to go, shuffling away to the stairs leading upwards like an old man, drowning under the weight of self-loathing and futile anger at being trapped like a serpent between a forked stick. If he spared John he would had been unjust; if he was just then he lost his youngest boy. The king needed John’s head on a spike; the father wanted the son safe.





William did not get his wish for solitude; when he arrived in the solar he found his wife and his daughter talking. Eleanor had been explaining the background to tonight’s unexpected events but she froze the instant she saw him. For a brief instant William noted she could not hide her fear; after a brief struggle it was mastered and as if it had never been. He compared that to John, the son who had not bothered to hide his fright before an audience, shaming himself with his begging. Not for the first time William thought Eleanor should have been a son.

He managed a small, shabby smile for his wife. “Anne, could you go to the church to light a few candles and offer up some prayers?” With a neat curtsey Anne disappeared on her errand without question. He was glad; his temper was boiling, mixed with the other emotions and liable to go off at the slightest provocation. He didn’t want Anne involved.

“Candles and prayers for John or for you?” asked Eleanor quietly.

Both. His self-hatred boiled over, mixing with his pain and rage at his impotence, his being trapped. With a snarl of naked fury he sent her flying with a back swipe of one arm. “So it is all my fault? You blame me, you hate me – you accuse me and I will not have it!”

He drove a boot into her prone form, catching her near the top of one thigh. “Get up!” he roared. He didn’t give her chance to move, reaching down immediately and seizing one arm. He hauled her to her feet screaming, “Up, damn you!”

Hairpins. She had hairpins. William’s long standing fear that she might try to use them on him came back full force and he began tearing the pins out, casting them carelessly across the room. “I will not give you chance to kill me, you conniving bitch!”

The tiny spark of reason left beneath the fury reminded him that last time he had broken bones, both his and hers. Not this time. He knotted one hand in her long hair so she couldn’t escape or fight back effectively. He seized the back of her dress in one hand and tried to rip it away; the material was strong and resisted at first but he flung all his considerable strength and anger at it until it gave way. He released her hair and with one hard shove he sent her sprawling, then began to get the only suitable weapon he had to hand; his belt. His rage made his fingers clumsy; by the time he had it free Eleanor had scrambled to her feet and was headed for the door, trying to escape. She had never run before and he was not pleased she had done so now.

He launched himself after her even as he was wrenching the dagger sheath off his belt. He caught her a few steps short of the door, dragging her back. He kicked her legs out from under her and flung her groundwards again. He began laying into her with the end of his belt, transferring his rage and pain onto her, overwriting the old marks on her skin with new ones. Blood began to bead on fresh cuts, then flow, then splatter on the floor and on William as each blow landed. In a frenzy he barely even noticed, only caring about exorcising the pain gripping his heart. Let someone else hurt, let them feel powerless, let them have the futile rage against circumstances they could not control, let them suffer, not him.

Eventually his fury burned down to ashes and he stood gasping for breath, his arm aching and half numb with exertion, his sense returning. He looked down at his daughter, curled up into a ball at his feet with her hands protecting her head, not moving and once again a blood covered mess with barely a square inch of unharmed flesh on her back. He saw that he had missed his aim once and caught her hands, leaving bloodied welt running across the backs of them. He felt an irrational pang of guilt for just a brief heartbeat, then it vanished. He had done nothing wrong, and it was for her own good, after all. She had been rude; he had corrected it. He felt better now; his anger had burned out and the other feelings had lessened somewhat.

He wanted the brat gone but she couldn’t leave like this or everyone would see what he had done. William stalked into Anne’s room and retrieved a long, hooded cloak. Returning to the solar he threw it at Eleanor. “Get out,” he said coldly. He wanted her gone before Anne returned; he wanted to be alone to brood on his son’s end.





Wrapped in the long cloak to hide her dishevelled hair and ruined, bloody clothes Eleanor somehow managed to make her way down the spiral staircase, leaning much of her weight against the outer wall for support. As she went she catalogued her injuries; no broken bones and few bruises but her back and hands were a mess. It didn’t hurt much now but once the numbness and shock wore off she knew it would be agony. The side of her face had also been cut when William had missed his aim. She felt giddy and light-headed, and the high pitched ringing in her ears combined with darkness nibbling away at the edges of her vision she remembered from last time was here again, indicating she was in danger of fainting.

The flat floor of the main hall was worse than the stairs; it bobbed and swayed like the deck of a ship as she stumbled across it and there was nothing to lean on. She was not quite sure how she kept her feet and her legs seemed to be in possession of a kind of their own. The ringing grew worse and her vision gradually faded but she reached the main door. She sagged against it for a while, resting and trying to stave off the beckoning blackness and its invitation of escape from the growing pain of her back.

The cold night air out in the bailey helped, bringing her back from the brink but the effect was very short lived. By the time she reached the door of her guest house, barely twenty feet away, she could hardly see through the speckled blackness filling her vision.

She managed to get the door open and stumble inside the entrance hall. That was as far as she got; her legs buckled and she gave up fighting to remain conscious.








Told you he'd be back.

I think I just added a bit more fuel to the fire, King. It's getting hotter ...

Correct, Avernite. Trempwick's boot maker is happy though; he's getting a lot of extra custom replacing the old, out grown ones.

igaworker. Well, Nell is kind of on a working holiday here, spying on the queen and making sure she plays along as desired. She has also only been at court for less than a week, even though it seems like forever due to the large page count. She has not forgotten, in fact she was wanting to get back to normality in the part before this one. They will be leaving court soon.

Your Trempwick insight is nice; he always thinks he knows what is going on and on those rare occasions where someone outwits him he gets very nasty. Nell has actually doen this a couple of times, she just doesn't know it. Once briefly with that sword (ages ago. She managed to smuggle it back to Wobrun without him knowing; it's why he was so peed off) once with the necklace and once with her garden interlude. She has only really identified the necklace as a victory, silly gooseberry. That's one of those things I can't say in the story becasue Nell doesn't realise it and we don't see Trempwick's POV. It's there if you infer it for yourself, yet another subtle thing.

David Warner, I had no idea who you meant, Judas, until King mentioned Irenicus. Uncannily the voice I imagine for Trempwick is quite close to what I remember of Warner's.

A busy egg? Not sure if that sounds better or worse than a busy frog. Nell's new lands are quite small, two manors with reasonable income but nothing to bother a duke. Her blood, on the other hand, is very much worth bothering with. Love has nothing to do with it; a princess for a wife would be a huge advantage.

As for the rest, Mr. coz1, I shall just say again. I like the way you are thinking here.


EDIT: oh yes, alternate version that I only just resisted including:
Willaim: “My son is back and now I have to have him castrated, hung, gutted, and then beheaded."
Trempwick (sardonically): "Will that be before or after you welcome him home?"
That tickles the frog's humour for some reason.

The next morning William called all his lords to a field outside the palace to bear witness to John’s execution. After an agonising night he had decided swiftness would be a boon for all involved. A thick log provided the block and the executioner was the captain of William’s guard, a man not normally given that task but skilled with an axe and battle hardened. Beside the executioner stood a priest, black clad and with a copy of the bible clasped in his hands.

John was brought out with his hands bound behind his back. An armed soldier marched at either side of him, preventing his escape. At first John walked calmly, almost contemptuously. Then he saw the block and the sunlight glistening on the edge of the axe and his stride faltered. He spat on the ground and said loudly, “So be it father, play your little game – you would not kill me and I will not squeal for your satisfaction.”

One of the guards roughly pushed him forwards and they began to walk again. As he got closer John picked up on the mood of the audience and he stopped again. “Oh sweet Jesú, tell me this is a game,” he whispered in disbelief. The two guards seized him by either arm and bundled him forward. John began to struggle, screaming, “You can’t kill me – I’m your son, I am your son. For pity’s sake!”

John had never been much of a fighter but his struggles halted his progress and kept the two guards busy. At a wave from the captain of the guard another two men at arms detached from their places keeping order amongst the crowd and went to aid their comrades. All the while John pleaded, begged and sobbed.

William forced himself to watch, just as he had forced himself to attend when strictly speaking he did not need to. He had believed the agony gripping his heart could grow no worse but he had been wrong; it could and did, expanding until it filled his world and his eyes misted over with held back tears.

John was moving again, more carried than walking. His shouts changed tune, fear and disbelief giving way to what revenge he could get. “Look at him,” he harangued the crowd, “Look at him, our brave king having his dear son killed to salve his poxy conscience. Our king is a fine man; he is quick to believe rumour and the worst of everyone – if he does this to me then think well on what he might do to you! He acts on the faintest suspicion – he is nothing more than a tyrant, a madman!”

He stood before the block, still struggling to get away. He saw Hugh, stood at their father’s side, his face grim. John resumed shouting at the top of his lungs. “My glorious brother - look at him too, and look well. Is he not the very spitting image of our king? No! He is false – the throne should be mine. I am the trueborn son!”

One of the guards clamped his hand over John’s mouth, trying to stem the flow. He leaped back with a yell, his hand pouring blood where John had bitten a chunk away. The prince spat blood and flesh and filled his lungs for another outburst. “Remember Adele? Probably not for our wondrous king abandoned her to a foreign prison! What kind of man would leave his own daughter to rot under false accusations of adultery? NO REAL MAN! Ask yourselves what he has done to my sister, how often do you see Eleanor? How much land and wealth does she have? Where is her future? Is she convent bound or married? NO!” A fist hammered into the back of John’s skull and he staggered, shaking his head to clear it. “My lords, any who wants the throne has but to find and rescue my sister – marry her and she gives you a claim to the throne!”

He was forced to his knees. “Depose that devil in human form and replace him before it is too late! Do not -” The executioner slammed the butt of the axe into Jon’s temple, stunning him.

Taking advantage of that the guards shoved him down so his neck was on the log and stepped back. The axe swung down, biting deep into John’s shoulder as the unnerved executioner missed. John shrieked and blood began to spurt, soaking everything nearby. The axe came down again, this time taking John squarely in the middle of the neck but without sufficient force to sever the head. The executioner swore ferociously and swung again, catching the neck in a different place and again not severing the head. A fourth blow finally removed John’s head. The executioner let the axe slip to the ground from his numbed, sweaty grasp and crossed himself. The priest began to pray. One of the soldiers from John’s guard turned and threw up into the grass, not caring that all could see his weakness.

And William wept, not caring who could see his tears.





William closeted himself away for the remainder of the morning. He occupied himself by going over and over what had happened, not just that morning but during the whole of John’s life and wondering just where things had gone wrong. William knew it was his own fault; it had to be. Somehow he had failed his youngest son. He had not even managed to teach him courage, that most essential manly virtue.

Over and above all else his mind returned to one thing John had said, and it was because of this he broke his solitude, summoning his spymaster. For a long while after Trempwick arrived William said nothing, not even acknowledging his spymaster’s presence as he stood at a window, looking out with his hands clasped behind his back.

When he did speak his voice was low and emotionless. “Do you still want the brat?”

Behind him he heard Trempwick’s sharp intake of breath. “Sire?” he asked, something akin to nervous tension in his voice. Odd that; the spymaster was usually so guarded and in control.

William looked upwards, towards the sky. “She is a loose end, dangerous, and now the whole court knows. Before it was only there if you thought on it but now everyone has had it pointed out as clear as day. She has a claim on my throne and people do not accept Hugh. It will become a contest between Hugh and those who think a crown would suit them well, and Eleanor is … she is the only one with a good claim still in England. Whoever gets her gets the best chance to beat Hugh; she will be used against her brother whether she wills it or no. It seems best to tie that loose end up, publicly. You say over and over that you will keep her safe; I say it is safer still to remove other people’s hope of using her to their own advantage.”

He turned away from the window and leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed in front of him. “You are beneath her but you are also the only one who knows her for what she is. You alone might have some chance of surviving. You alone provide the opportunity to continue using her as an agent. You alone know everything and will not be shocked. You alone I trust. Better the small shame of giving her to my most loyal servant than the greater shame that would result if she married someone who did not know. What say you, Raoul?”

Trempwick’s reply was instant and firm. “You honour me, and I will give you no cause to regret it.”

William nodded slowly. “The detail is all that remains then. I will not give up my rights on her; it may be unusual but we both know she is … I always rectify my mistakes, and she will be no different. She will continue to act as an agent; I will not lose her most valuable capacity. I will give her a dowry of three thousand pounds. You will not set aside a third of your lands for her to provide for her in widowhood; it would only encourage her to kill you and I am wary of allowing the brat too much power. You will instead say before witnesses that you will allow her to keep all that is already hers to that end. It will look impressive, few know how poor she is. Is that agreeable?”

Trempwick bent his head and said gravely, “It is.”

William continued to set his terms in a brisk manner. “The betrothal will be today and the wedding two months hence; I shall not make the mistake of marrying you in haste as it would only fuel the rumour which is going to grow from this. I shall make this betrothal nearly as binding as marriage, so it will still serve my purposes during that time.”

“Two months is a little long,” said Trempwick tentatively, “a month would more than suffice.”

“No; I will leave no room for scandal. Similarly I would prefer it if there were no children for a good few months after the marriage.”

Trempwick didn’t seem unduly bothered. “As you wish, William. Two months so all can see there is no curly headed accident prompting this match, and no screaming brats. Motherhood would only make her useless as an agent, and I have doubts as to her ability to survive labour. Better to take the lesser gamble with hyssop and pennyroyal tea in the event of an accident than take the greater risk in the hopes she survives. She is no good to us dead.”

“Whatever you wish; I do not much care what you do with her.” The king hesitated; wanting to ask how Eleanor would fare but fearing how weak he would look.

Trempwick seemed to guess, because he said, “I believe she will become reconciled.”

Reconciled; it was not much but a good deal better than nothing. He had not found her a good match and he had not found her one where she would be happy, but he could have done a lot worse. “Then all that remains is to persuade her,” he said grimly.






Eleanor’s day had not been a good one. She had heard of John’s execution but not exactly what had happened. All she knew was her brother was dead and he had disgraced himself with his cowardice. Aveline had not let her find out more, claiming she needed to rest and recuperate. That was true enough, although this time she was not bruised and broken so it was more a case of remaining still enough for her back to knit. The mark on her face would not scar, according to Aveline.

Once again she barely saw Fulk; he had not been allowed to play his usual role of royal cut tender thanks to Aveline’s instance on doing it herself. Eleanor was not pleased; Aveline had clumsy, ungentle hands and a liking for pouring strong wine on anything which might possibly get infected. Fulk had used honey; it was about as effective and it didn’t burn like fire when applied.

It was early afternoon when her father and Trempwick arrived. Aveline and Juliana shot to their feet and curtseyed immediately. Painfully Eleanor followed their example; if this was what she had to do to avoid being hit again then so be it. Her courage had failed entirely, tested beyond its limits again before it had been able to heal from its first failing.

William said, “We would speak with my daughter alone; leave us.” Aveline and Juliana filed out and Eleanor wished she could go with them. William wasted no time; as soon as the door closed he told her, “I have found you a husband; Trempwick has agreed to put up with you. The betrothal ceremony will take place in an hour. Get ready; you will look your best and God help you if you do not play your part to perfection.”

Everything past the word husband was lost on Eleanor; she had spent much of her life having nightmares about this moment and now it was here. Rudely kicked out of her near dreamlike state she hit reality running. “No,” she returned firmly, knowing this was going to hurt. It was not a matter of courage, more finding she was cornered with no way out. Like a wild animal brought to bay she didn’t need valour to fight now. It was desperation, despair, the knowledge that if she did not fight then she would be saying her vows with Trempwick before the day was out.

William took a step forward, his right hand clenching to a fist. “What did you say?” Each word was separated from its companions, deliberately phrased and menacing.

She grabbed the best reason she could find. “He is beneath me.” She didn’t care, but her father would never accept “I do not want him.”

“There is no one else who will have you,” retorted the king. “You could have had a prince if you had wanted one but no, you scorned them all.”

“I refuse.”

“You do not.”

“I do.”

“No, I think you do not. You do not leave this room until you agree; no one will bring you food or drink so you will slowly starve. Every other hour I shall return for your answer and if you refuse I shall thrash you. A test of endurance brat, and one I shall win. So, your answer?”

She met his eyes and said clearly, “No.” This was going to hurt, oh dear God this would hurt, in all probability more than she could stand. Even thinking about it made her sick and feel like breaking down and crying like a child. If William hadn’t been blocking the door she would have tried to break out; as it was there was nowhere to go. She had to fight; she could not give up. Everything was at stake.

William’s eyes hardened. “Raoul, go and buy your ring.”

Trempwick looked most unhappy. “Sire, perhaps I could speak to her?”

The king did not look away from his daughter. “Not now, Raoul,” he said decisively. “Go buy your ring; you shall have need of it soon enough.”

Trempwick left sorrowfully and William was as good as his word. He didn’t have to do much to reopen all the wounds from last night and leave her in fresh torment. “Two hours, brat,” he said as he left, “Two hours until we do this again. Think hard.”






When Eleanor gathered her battered wits enough to stand and try to find a way to escape she found the door, which opened out from the room, blocked by something too heavy for her to move. The window with all its fancy, breakable glass was guarded by a man in steel and mail wearing the king’s lion badge. The simple chimney was too small and narrow for her to climb up, even assuming she had the strength left to try. No matter how much she hammered on the door and yelled for help no one answered.






The king’s second visit was brief and if anyone had been in the room outside they would have heard her bitten off cries of pain.





The third visit was much the same, except anyone nearby could have heard her screaming.





When the door opened the fourth time Eleanor cowered in a corner, too defeated to even give a pretence of bravery. She was having a hard time keeping her will strong; the idea of surrender was becoming increasingly tempting. Her right hand was clenched around the pendant of Fulk’s necklace for comfort, and Fulk’s ring was pressing into her flesh. She would have bartered her soul away to have him here now.

This visitor was not her father; it was Trempwick. He looked at her with obvious pity. “What can I do to you that is so bad you feel you must put yourself through this?”

She did not care to answer that. “Is this how you keep your promises?” she asked resentfully, her voice thick with pain and hoarse from all her shouting and screaming. He had promised no one would marry her and she had almost trusted him.

“It seemed the only way I could keep it, sweet Nell.” He came and knelt at her side. He did nothing, just remained still and calm, radiating sympathy. “He is determined to see you married now; our king wants you publicly removed from the marriage market so none can use you to oppose your brother. You can thank John for placing the idea in his head.”

“You said you would save him.”

“I tried but I could not.”

“No, you could not,” she agreed wearily.

“Nell, if you do not give up soon he will kill you. He may not intend to but he will.” She said nothing; she already knew and that was partly why her will was ebbing away. She did not want to die. “Nell, I would honour you,” said Trempwick emotionally.

“Honour,” she repeated wretchedly. She did not want honouring; she wanted freedom.

“I would care for you, treat you with nothing but affection unless you gave me cause to do otherwise.”

“Just like these past fourteen years?” she inquired listlessly.

He corrected her gently, “Just like these past few days. What can I do to you that is so bad?” he asked again. She still did not care to answer. “I would not suddenly change overnight, Nell. You know I am not violent, I do not keep mistresses or act in a way which might shame you, I do not get drunk, I am not old or foul to look on, you do not care much about rank. What else is left?”

Quite a lot.

“Let me guess,” he said softly. “You will not be free until both I and your father die? Nell, married or not it makes no difference – I still have control over much of your life.”

It was true; she always known it was true. Now that would be formalised, giving him the undeniable right to meddle in her life. It only gave him permission to do what he already did, leaving her with no room even for indignation.

“As a widow you would have a better chance at that independence you crave. Yes, people would target you again for your blood and your resources but you would be better placed to protect yourself from them.” Trempwick thought for a while. “I suppose you may have been upset by the horror stories my mother and others keep telling you, about how you will die in childbirth because your hips are so narrow and you are so small. As a wife as a duty to provide children that is an understandable concern. You do not need to worry; I prize your life far more than some mewling brat who will probably die anyway. It is not a situation you will end up in.”

Great, she was going to end up a neglected wife. She could not decide if that was good or bad. It seemed so very … sad. Given a choice she would rather Trempwick remained several paces away, but it was one thing to reject someone and another entirely to have them reject you.

“Perhaps you think I will keep you shut away with nothing much to do? Nothing would change,” he promised, “you would still be my agent when I have need of you.”

This was why she had never wanted him to gain more insight into her mind than she could help; he was too good at unpicking her thoughts. He was missing some but he had not been wrong yet. He was unravelling her mind, eating away at the last of her resolve and there was nothing she could do.

He continued to crouch there, still and quiet almost like a man dealing with an injured animal he did not want to startle. “Nothing would change; that sums it all up very well. Life would continue much the same, except I will no longer need to play mentor quite so much. So will you agree, Nell? It stands as a choice between me and death; I would be gratified if you preferred me.”

She did not want to die; she did not want Trempwick either but it was the least loathsome choice. People would finally stop asking her why she was not married; that would be … nice. Her father would be unable to touch her, that too would be good. She would theoretically have real access to Trempwick’s money and the right to manage his household and do something about those servants of his; whether either of those potentials would transfer over to reality she could not say. In the end who else was there? Fulk was impossible and no other nobles would have her on any grounds except her royal blood. They would probably not treat her too well. Fulk. It was not Fulk who had come to save her. It was Trempwick.

The last of her resistance crumbled away and her head bowed. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to; Trempwick sensed his victory. He stood and extended a hand to her; she took it and let him help her to her feet. “Put your arm around my waist and lean on me,” he directed, “or you will fall down.” She did as he said; it was better than falling flat on her face again. Trempwick said encouragingly, “That’s the idea, now let’s get you away from here and looked after.”






Several hours later Eleanor stood in the church before a gathering of lords. She was cleaned up and her ravaged back had been plastered in a honey and comfrey poultice and swathed with bandages. She was unsure as to how she managed to remain on her feet and put on a reasonable show of strength. She was dressed in her best clothes and Aveline had fussed until she looked as good as she ever could. She stood before the altar one hand clasped in Trempwick’s as tradition dictated, feeling dizzy and weak as she listened to the terms of the marriage being read out and agreed to. Predictably the king had opted for a formal church betrothal; unlike the more informal agreements this type was as binding as marriage and, just like marriage, could only be ended by church dispensation or death.

Finally it was time for the vows. Trempwick went first, his voice steady and pitched to carry. “I, Raoul, plight thee, Eleanor, my troth, as God is my witness.”

Eleanor hesitated, clinging to her last true moments of freedom. When she could safely delay no more she said in a quiet, hopeless voice, “I, Eleanor, plight thee, Raoul, my troth, as God is my witness.” It was done, the rest was just window dressing.

The bishop bound their clasped hands together with his silk stole and held them up for all to see. He then unbound them and Trempwick gave her the ring. It was a band of gold set with a piece of sapphire. “To match your eyes,” Trempwick told her quietly as he slipped it on the third finger of her left hand. It hung loosely and was rather too gaudy for her taste. She remembered another ring, the one Fulk had got her, the one she still wore on her right hand. That ring had fitted perfectly and she liked the design. This new one would have to be adjusted to fit.

Ring in place that really was that. She was tied for life to the man who had murdered her brother.






Fulk sat on the cold stone floor of his cell, his knees drawn up to his body for warmth, wondering how much longer it would be before someone released him. A group of guardsmen in royal livery had approached him around midday, ordering him to surrender his sword and come along peacefully. They had not accused him of anything nor given a reason, only told him that if he resisted he would be taken by force.

Eleanor would come for him, he never doubted it, but how long before she found out he was in the gatehouse cells?







I think John's head is particularly uneasy right now, Judas

You should have seen my first topic on these forums, Amric. I updated on a daily basis for several months.

You know I hadn't thought of that, Zeno. I knew about the serialised books but I had never connected it to the way internet stories tend to work.

Let's hope you never have that pleasure, Avernite.

Aye, poor Nell. She too would say William should get a whipping boy but sadly that will never happen.

Didn't Sarevok have a James Earl Jones type ultra deep voice? That's not really how I hear Willaim; he's more .... deep in a less rumbly way, if that makes sense. Kind of like ... um ... Harrison Ford, I guess, but with an English accent.