The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
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She definitely has William wrapped around her finger.Avernite said:Anne just became my favourite character
I am sure there have to be a few more of us running around here somewhere.
Nice update and that last guy following them has me thinking of all kinds of theories as to who he is and what he wants.
Not to belabor a point but a dastardly individual would not need a successful pregnancy, although that would be easiest. A suitable male infant of about the right age, a birth or labor in relative isolation, and a well paid midwife and a couple of well paid witnesses who could conveniently disappear later and it doesn't matter how the pregnancy turns out. The right people would have to know of the pregnancy, that would suffice. If necessary, one could substitute a male child for a female at birth with the aid of the well paid midwife. If Nell dies <sob> no one's the wiser. Might be a bit harder to pull off if she survives but keeping her separated from the infant for the first few of days with a wet nurse might help. Infant mortality could be a problem but the child only really has to survive until Tremp becomes regent. After that I am sure he could find ways to consolidate power so he could continue to rule.
I think I should feel ashamed of myself.
Foeslayer
would not need a successful pregnancy, although that would be easiest. A suitable male infant of about the right age, a birth or labor in relative isolation, and a well paid midwife and a couple of well paid witnesses who could conveniently disappear later and it doesn't matter how the pregnancy turns out. The right people would have to know of the pregnancy, that would suffice. If necessary, one could substitute a male child for a female at birth with the aid of the well paid midwife. If Nell dies <sob> no one's the wiser. Might be a bit harder to pull off if she survives but keeping her separated from the infant for the first few of days with a wet nurse might help. Infant mortality could be a problem but the child only really has to survive until Tremp becomes regent. After that I am sure he could find ways to consolidate power so he could continue to rule. I think I should feel ashamed of myself.
Foeslayer
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Hmm, theyguy following them might be the outcast servant, he stole a horse, could probably come up with a sword, and would be good enough to follow the pair (but bad enough to be seen). If Trempy was following them, one assumes he wouldn't be seen... I would guess his intentions are to get rid of Fulk, which would imply that he would make his move when the pair is as close to home as possible, to reduce the risk to Eleanor.
I like the way you think, Foeslayer. You would have fit in perfectly in the world of CK.
*shakes head* Fulk and Eleanor are tempting fate there... If I may say so, they're walking a thin and dangerous line. They'd better slow down before they get hurt... I'm with William in that little discussion there.
Jocelyn was aware by the sudden, meaningful gap in his wife’s prattling that he was finally expected to say something. He hadn’t been paying attention for … oh, minutes now. He seldom did; Richildis could bore the hind leg off a warhorse with all her gossip and talk of the household. The gap drew out. He grunted something noncommittal and hoped that would suffice.
“You’ve not been listening to a word I have been saying!” she accused stridently.
“I have, and you know it.”
“Go on then – give me the benefit of your advice.”
“You know I always let you handle your own problems.”
“Pah! I knew it, not listening at all. I was saying something needs to be done about Mahaut; she was chasing one of your pages about today using her spindle like a sword, insisting she was a Valkyrie from legend.”
“She’s your daughter.”
“Yours too.” Almost defensively she added, “She has your stubborn chin and fair colouring; anyone can see she’s yours.”
“Yes, yes, I don’t doubt that,” replied Jocelyn crossly. If he did the girl would have found herself in a convent, closely followed by her mother. “You know our arrangement; you deal with her and I handle our sons.”
“You sent Thierry away and Jean is still in his crib; you have nothing to do. You might as well take an interest in your daughter, as I take an interest in my sons.”
Jocelyn stiffed a groan; so she was still in high dudgeon over Thierry? Amazing; the woman could do nothing if not hold a grudge. It had been over two weeks now. “The boy is seven, it is high time he began his training in earnest. It might be unusual to foster the heir out, but a place with our liege – the count of Tourraine no less - is nothing to be sneezed at, woman.”
“If you say so. I am after all only his mother, and as such don’t need to be consulted before the boy leaves, or even warned until the evening before he goes.”
“Exactly.” He left time for his barb to be recognised and sink in and then continued, “I leave Mahaut in your capable hands. And now, unless there’s something else we can be doing,” he rested a hand suggestively on her thigh, “I shall go to sleep.”
Richildis said frostily, “I have a headache.”
Jocelyn smiled into his beard and said with saccharine false concern, “You should see a physician, dear. All these headaches, night after night. You must be ill.” Miserable cow. He could press his rights but it really wasn’t worth the pouting, glowering, fuming and general resentment he’d have to put up with for days afterwards. He rolled over with his back to her. Pity Ardentes was only a small castle; if there’d been space Jocelyn would have dumped Richildis in her own bedroom. They’d been married for eight years, since she was fifteen and he twenty, and the best they’d ever managed was a kind of tolerant dislike.
This evening’s battle was not yet done. “Yves has summoned me to Saint Maur. I depart tomorrow.” The expected complaining never came; she must be privately celebrating that she would have a few days without him. Perhaps if he brought her back enough material for a new dress she would finally stop sulking about Thierry? Anything to buy a bit of peace!
The weather at last began to change; the new day dawned clear and bright with no new snow or frost. The air was a touch warmer. Fulk and Eleanor set out early, declining the priest’s offer of another night’s shelter, knowing he made it out of politeness only. They walked much as they had done on their way into the village; each leading a horse, Fulk in full armour and trying to hide his limp, and Eleanor looking generic and harmless.
They would make it back into the spymaster’s territory tonight, by Eleanor’s calculations. Back to safety, plentiful food, decent lodgings, warmth, clean clothes, and, if she had any say in the matter, a hot bath. The food would be terrible, the bath would take such effort to organise that the prospect wearied her, and safety would be from marauding bandits but not spymasters and servants.
God alone knew what precisely Trempwick would say when he saw them, but Eleanor could guess and that guess was bad enough. His diatribe would run along the lines of, “Bah! Nearly dead! Blah, blah, blah, no more risks like this. Blah, blah, too important to let die, blah. You could have been killed! Shock horror, whinge, blah, blah.” Cue unpleasant method of teaching her to be more cautious in future, even though this had not been her fault. His concern should probably be flattering … or something.
One last day, just one more day minus the evening and night, to be alone with Fulk, and not another chance until she was sent off to do something else. A day of fear, waiting and watching for another attack, either from bandits or from the treasury’s keepers. A day of hurried travel, racing against those who must surely be hunting them. A day of hiding in fake personalities that had such potential but little opportunity to utilise the most appealing aspects. A day of wading through mud, snow, ice and slush. A day filled with the protests and aches of the many minor injuries they had both picked up in yesterday’s fight.
A month and nine days until her father’s two month limit ran out.
A tiny bit; I had hoped to introduce Jocelyn with two scenes instead of one but the second scene still needs a little tweak here and there. I'm horrifically busy so I haven't had much time to write. I don't see that being any better tomorrow, but past then it might pick up ... as long as I can mostly ignore Chirstmas.
Anne isn't doing so badly, is she? Still not convinced she's a convincing 13 year old; she switches repeatedly between too young and too old. :thinks: Ok, maybe not necessarily too old - I have been 'old' most of my life.
The male/female audience ratio doesn't bother me; it's the only audience I have ever worked to. It does sometimes feel a little odd posting a story like this for a mostly male audience, but that's only when I stop to think about the so called 'rules' of who likes what.
Now you're getting sneaky, Foeslayer. Yes, that is an improved theory and more viable than before Again, I won't comment much on whether it has even a grain of truth in it because I don't want to spoil things for anyone.
Crusher Neko, also cunning. I do love to see how people are getting steadily more suspicous now.
Hehe! I love the diversity of viewpoints this story gets. Judas, on my other forum I have cheering because Fulk and Nell finally got a bit closer. Far from agreeing with William they are wishing unpleasant happenings on him. Mmmm, diveristy, mmmmm.
“You’ve not been listening to a word I have been saying!” she accused stridently.
“I have, and you know it.”
“Go on then – give me the benefit of your advice.”
“You know I always let you handle your own problems.”
“Pah! I knew it, not listening at all. I was saying something needs to be done about Mahaut; she was chasing one of your pages about today using her spindle like a sword, insisting she was a Valkyrie from legend.”
“She’s your daughter.”
“Yours too.” Almost defensively she added, “She has your stubborn chin and fair colouring; anyone can see she’s yours.”
“Yes, yes, I don’t doubt that,” replied Jocelyn crossly. If he did the girl would have found herself in a convent, closely followed by her mother. “You know our arrangement; you deal with her and I handle our sons.”
“You sent Thierry away and Jean is still in his crib; you have nothing to do. You might as well take an interest in your daughter, as I take an interest in my sons.”
Jocelyn stiffed a groan; so she was still in high dudgeon over Thierry? Amazing; the woman could do nothing if not hold a grudge. It had been over two weeks now. “The boy is seven, it is high time he began his training in earnest. It might be unusual to foster the heir out, but a place with our liege – the count of Tourraine no less - is nothing to be sneezed at, woman.”
“If you say so. I am after all only his mother, and as such don’t need to be consulted before the boy leaves, or even warned until the evening before he goes.”
“Exactly.” He left time for his barb to be recognised and sink in and then continued, “I leave Mahaut in your capable hands. And now, unless there’s something else we can be doing,” he rested a hand suggestively on her thigh, “I shall go to sleep.”
Richildis said frostily, “I have a headache.”
Jocelyn smiled into his beard and said with saccharine false concern, “You should see a physician, dear. All these headaches, night after night. You must be ill.” Miserable cow. He could press his rights but it really wasn’t worth the pouting, glowering, fuming and general resentment he’d have to put up with for days afterwards. He rolled over with his back to her. Pity Ardentes was only a small castle; if there’d been space Jocelyn would have dumped Richildis in her own bedroom. They’d been married for eight years, since she was fifteen and he twenty, and the best they’d ever managed was a kind of tolerant dislike.
This evening’s battle was not yet done. “Yves has summoned me to Saint Maur. I depart tomorrow.” The expected complaining never came; she must be privately celebrating that she would have a few days without him. Perhaps if he brought her back enough material for a new dress she would finally stop sulking about Thierry? Anything to buy a bit of peace!
The weather at last began to change; the new day dawned clear and bright with no new snow or frost. The air was a touch warmer. Fulk and Eleanor set out early, declining the priest’s offer of another night’s shelter, knowing he made it out of politeness only. They walked much as they had done on their way into the village; each leading a horse, Fulk in full armour and trying to hide his limp, and Eleanor looking generic and harmless.
They would make it back into the spymaster’s territory tonight, by Eleanor’s calculations. Back to safety, plentiful food, decent lodgings, warmth, clean clothes, and, if she had any say in the matter, a hot bath. The food would be terrible, the bath would take such effort to organise that the prospect wearied her, and safety would be from marauding bandits but not spymasters and servants.
God alone knew what precisely Trempwick would say when he saw them, but Eleanor could guess and that guess was bad enough. His diatribe would run along the lines of, “Bah! Nearly dead! Blah, blah, blah, no more risks like this. Blah, blah, too important to let die, blah. You could have been killed! Shock horror, whinge, blah, blah.” Cue unpleasant method of teaching her to be more cautious in future, even though this had not been her fault. His concern should probably be flattering … or something.
One last day, just one more day minus the evening and night, to be alone with Fulk, and not another chance until she was sent off to do something else. A day of fear, waiting and watching for another attack, either from bandits or from the treasury’s keepers. A day of hurried travel, racing against those who must surely be hunting them. A day of hiding in fake personalities that had such potential but little opportunity to utilise the most appealing aspects. A day of wading through mud, snow, ice and slush. A day filled with the protests and aches of the many minor injuries they had both picked up in yesterday’s fight.
A month and nine days until her father’s two month limit ran out.
A tiny bit; I had hoped to introduce Jocelyn with two scenes instead of one but the second scene still needs a little tweak here and there. I'm horrifically busy so I haven't had much time to write. I don't see that being any better tomorrow, but past then it might pick up ... as long as I can mostly ignore Chirstmas.
Anne isn't doing so badly, is she? Still not convinced she's a convincing 13 year old; she switches repeatedly between too young and too old. :thinks: Ok, maybe not necessarily too old - I have been 'old' most of my life.
The male/female audience ratio doesn't bother me; it's the only audience I have ever worked to. It does sometimes feel a little odd posting a story like this for a mostly male audience, but that's only when I stop to think about the so called 'rules' of who likes what.
Now you're getting sneaky, Foeslayer. Yes, that is an improved theory and more viable than before
Again, I won't comment much on whether it has even a grain of truth in it because I don't want to spoil things for anyone. Crusher Neko, also cunning. I do love to see how people are getting steadily more suspicous now.
Hehe! I love the diversity of viewpoints this story gets. Judas, on my other forum I have cheering because Fulk and Nell finally got a bit closer. Far from agreeing with William they are wishing unpleasant happenings on him. Mmmm, diveristy, mmmmm.
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Interesting, new characters. The daughter sounds like a young Eleanor.
Have a nice holiday everyone.
Have a nice holiday everyone.
The plot thickens....
I would like to know who Joscelyn and family are, but I'm sure we'll find out soon enough
I would like to know who Joscelyn and family are, but I'm sure we'll find out soon enough
Who isn't busy this time of year, eh? Deliver what you can of this marvellous story, frogbeastegg, anything is better than nothing, which I fear is what I will deliver in mine…
A new family of characters at this stage? Without any… apparent… reference to the rest of the story. Hmmm! I wonder what you are up to now…
A new family of characters at this stage? Without any… apparent… reference to the rest of the story. Hmmm! I wonder what you are up to now…
Jocelyn watched as his son and heir poured wine. The boy did well, the ruby liquid falling in a graceful arc from a good height above the cup, but his nerves betrayed him and a few tiny droplets spilled onto his father’s hand and wrist. Thierry stepped back to his place behind his lord and his father, standing to attention with the jug still in hand.
“Your family is well?” inquired Yves de Tourraine.
“Yes, my liege.” Jocelyn took a swallow of his drink so as not to snub his lord’s hospitality. “My wife is in good health, although missing our eldest boy. Mahaut is energetic and … assured for her four years, and the baby begins to talk and walk in some decent manner.” The son his wife missed so much stood behind them, and to Jocelyn’s enormous pride did not make his presence known even during a conversation staged mostly for his benefit, to give him news of home without taking him away from his studies. Still as a statue, blending in to the background, forgettable, like a good page should be. Thierry was doing his old man proud.
The count waved a hand. “Boy.” Thierry stepped forward, attent and straight-backed. “You will go and join the others in the armoury now. Polish my shield boss; I expect to see my face in it. Leave the care of the facing to the older boys.”
Thierry bowed, still holding his wine jug before his chest, and silently filed out. When the door closed Yves remarked, “A fine lad.”
“I am glad you think it, my lord. He is fast with his hands, and a good horseman already. He shows great promise, although I say it myself.” Just a pity that the great boost from being in a count’s household was tempered by the personality of the count himself. Most fortuitous, and Jocelyn thanked God for it each day, that Yves would have little to do with the boy’s training, instead delegating it to others more able.
De Tourraine held up his hands to stem the flow or parental pride and said jokingly, “Enough; you have already sold him to me, he has his place in my house.” More seriously, “It is his father I have need of.”
“My sword is yours, as always.”
“Good; I have need of it.” Yves paused, checking about his small solar as if expecting someone to have snuck in to listen in on the two men. In a hushed voice he said, “The King of England is a crazed, blood hungry fool bent on destruction. I bowed to him because it suited me; now it suits me to break away.”
“My lord, the King of England is merciless - he executed his own son for treason.”
“That is, in part, why I feel I must risk much and break away.” Yves suddenly laughed. “He forbids all to speak French, instead using English for everything. But look at us, Jocelyn, we are speaking langue d’oil, French as he so calls it. What is he to do about it? Nothing!” A contemptuous flap of a hand dismissed William’s power. Yves always spoke with his hands, sometimes making more sense with their flapping than with the words flowing from his mouth. “He is old, weakening, growing ever more unpopular. His heir is a bastard, and he would foist that on us as king and have us pay homage to it on bended knee. I think not. There is no other son. Out here this William is but a distant spectre. Can the same be said of Henri, King of France? Our lands border on those owing allegiance to him. He is young; there is plenty of hope for the future there. I have been given assurances by a certain party that I will be well supported in my attempt; I shall have powerful allies, powerful.”
Jocelyn could not believe his ears. What folly, sheer, unredeemable, complete folly. He did not care to hear more; he could see little to improve this from base foolishness. It was humiliating, being beholden to such a man. Yves had never shown ability for intrigue, never. Jocelyn had once joked that his lord could not out-scheme a rock, and, as God was his witness, it was true. Bowing to the English king upon inheriting his father’s position was the best move Yves had ever made on the political front. The English king could crush Yves like a flea.
Ah, and yet did not Jocelyn pray nightly for someone worthy to serve? For someone worthy to take the title of count? If he followed his lord to war he would be doing so only for the sake of his oath, proving to all he was a loyal and trustworthy vassal. That much he must do; to hold back when his liege called was to shame himself before all, and to ensure that none would ever trust him again until the day of his death.
A loyal vassal, one who showed he was torn between loyalty to his lord and to his king, would be worth treating with when the foolish count was inevitably removed. With careful manoeuvring he could emerge from this enriched, more powerful, more important, more prestigious. Yes … a loyal man would be needed to take up the title of count of Tourraine when Yves lost it, either dead or stripped of his title.
Had he not prayed daily for a worthy man to take the title of Count of Tourraine? Yes! Had he also spent many hours pleading with the Almighty for a sign of favour? Yes! This was his sign! Tourraine would soon have a new count, and Jocelyn could profit handsomely from it, maybe even rising to count himself. He knew the land, the people, the requirements, he was able, skilled, pious and loyal.
Jocelyn had to work to hold back a smile. Thierry’s position would prove more useful than he had previously thought. His claim that his son and heir had been held hostage in the guise of serving as a page would prove most … heartrending.
“My lord,” he said solemnly, “my sword is yours.” Yves would not take long to lose, and Jocelyn would ensure he got to the English king the instant that happened. He could even be responsible for ending the rebellion; if he ordered men to put down their weapons many would listen.
By boat it had only taken him a few hours to get here from his own holdings; he had time aplenty to stop in Chateauroux on his return trip this afternoon to offer a generous donation at the cathedral. God favoured him and in His wisdom had seen fit to answer Jocelyn’s prayers.
The second Jocelyn scene, explaining a bit more about who he is and why he is here.
Queen Lor, what nice young girl hasn't tried to bash someone with a imitation toy sword at some point?
Sooner than perhaps you thought, Avernite.
Thanks, Thames. One day, one happy, happy day I will have time to read more than a couple of AARs, and to write without being interrupted by questions about food. :sigh: Or maybe that is just a dream ....
“Your family is well?” inquired Yves de Tourraine.
“Yes, my liege.” Jocelyn took a swallow of his drink so as not to snub his lord’s hospitality. “My wife is in good health, although missing our eldest boy. Mahaut is energetic and … assured for her four years, and the baby begins to talk and walk in some decent manner.” The son his wife missed so much stood behind them, and to Jocelyn’s enormous pride did not make his presence known even during a conversation staged mostly for his benefit, to give him news of home without taking him away from his studies. Still as a statue, blending in to the background, forgettable, like a good page should be. Thierry was doing his old man proud.
The count waved a hand. “Boy.” Thierry stepped forward, attent and straight-backed. “You will go and join the others in the armoury now. Polish my shield boss; I expect to see my face in it. Leave the care of the facing to the older boys.”
Thierry bowed, still holding his wine jug before his chest, and silently filed out. When the door closed Yves remarked, “A fine lad.”
“I am glad you think it, my lord. He is fast with his hands, and a good horseman already. He shows great promise, although I say it myself.” Just a pity that the great boost from being in a count’s household was tempered by the personality of the count himself. Most fortuitous, and Jocelyn thanked God for it each day, that Yves would have little to do with the boy’s training, instead delegating it to others more able.
De Tourraine held up his hands to stem the flow or parental pride and said jokingly, “Enough; you have already sold him to me, he has his place in my house.” More seriously, “It is his father I have need of.”
“My sword is yours, as always.”
“Good; I have need of it.” Yves paused, checking about his small solar as if expecting someone to have snuck in to listen in on the two men. In a hushed voice he said, “The King of England is a crazed, blood hungry fool bent on destruction. I bowed to him because it suited me; now it suits me to break away.”
“My lord, the King of England is merciless - he executed his own son for treason.”
“That is, in part, why I feel I must risk much and break away.” Yves suddenly laughed. “He forbids all to speak French, instead using English for everything. But look at us, Jocelyn, we are speaking langue d’oil, French as he so calls it. What is he to do about it? Nothing!” A contemptuous flap of a hand dismissed William’s power. Yves always spoke with his hands, sometimes making more sense with their flapping than with the words flowing from his mouth. “He is old, weakening, growing ever more unpopular. His heir is a bastard, and he would foist that on us as king and have us pay homage to it on bended knee. I think not. There is no other son. Out here this William is but a distant spectre. Can the same be said of Henri, King of France? Our lands border on those owing allegiance to him. He is young; there is plenty of hope for the future there. I have been given assurances by a certain party that I will be well supported in my attempt; I shall have powerful allies, powerful.”
Jocelyn could not believe his ears. What folly, sheer, unredeemable, complete folly. He did not care to hear more; he could see little to improve this from base foolishness. It was humiliating, being beholden to such a man. Yves had never shown ability for intrigue, never. Jocelyn had once joked that his lord could not out-scheme a rock, and, as God was his witness, it was true. Bowing to the English king upon inheriting his father’s position was the best move Yves had ever made on the political front. The English king could crush Yves like a flea.
Ah, and yet did not Jocelyn pray nightly for someone worthy to serve? For someone worthy to take the title of count? If he followed his lord to war he would be doing so only for the sake of his oath, proving to all he was a loyal and trustworthy vassal. That much he must do; to hold back when his liege called was to shame himself before all, and to ensure that none would ever trust him again until the day of his death.
A loyal vassal, one who showed he was torn between loyalty to his lord and to his king, would be worth treating with when the foolish count was inevitably removed. With careful manoeuvring he could emerge from this enriched, more powerful, more important, more prestigious. Yes … a loyal man would be needed to take up the title of count of Tourraine when Yves lost it, either dead or stripped of his title.
Had he not prayed daily for a worthy man to take the title of Count of Tourraine? Yes! Had he also spent many hours pleading with the Almighty for a sign of favour? Yes! This was his sign! Tourraine would soon have a new count, and Jocelyn could profit handsomely from it, maybe even rising to count himself. He knew the land, the people, the requirements, he was able, skilled, pious and loyal.
Jocelyn had to work to hold back a smile. Thierry’s position would prove more useful than he had previously thought. His claim that his son and heir had been held hostage in the guise of serving as a page would prove most … heartrending.
“My lord,” he said solemnly, “my sword is yours.” Yves would not take long to lose, and Jocelyn would ensure he got to the English king the instant that happened. He could even be responsible for ending the rebellion; if he ordered men to put down their weapons many would listen.
By boat it had only taken him a few hours to get here from his own holdings; he had time aplenty to stop in Chateauroux on his return trip this afternoon to offer a generous donation at the cathedral. God favoured him and in His wisdom had seen fit to answer Jocelyn’s prayers.
The second Jocelyn scene, explaining a bit more about who he is and why he is here.
Queen Lor, what nice young girl hasn't tried to bash someone with a imitation toy sword at some point?
Sooner than perhaps you thought, Avernite.
Thanks, Thames.
One day, one happy, happy day I will have time to read more than a couple of AARs, and to write without being interrupted by questions about food. :sigh: Or maybe that is just a dream ....
Mmm, dreams about food...
I don't remember there being anything irregular about Hugh's (that's the third son's name, isn't it?) parentage...
I would guess this is a simple ploy to try to weaken the English position on the continent, William is old, and may not survive a hard campaign, especially if it happens in the winter. If Hugh were to be bumped off or discredited, and Eleanor married to a handy Frenchman...
This would explain the bandits as well.
I don't remember there being anything irregular about Hugh's (that's the third son's name, isn't it?) parentage...
I would guess this is a simple ploy to try to weaken the English position on the continent, William is old, and may not survive a hard campaign, especially if it happens in the winter. If Hugh were to be bumped off or discredited, and Eleanor married to a handy Frenchman...
This would explain the bandits as well.
Hmm, now this part definitely adds intrigue to what will happen next.
I am starting to wonder if the horseman following Eleanor and Fulk was sent by Hugh. Only a few people know about what Eleanor is doing and we haven't seen much from him in this story yet. He has the possibility for motives if people question his parentage.
LOL. I was more partial to guns when I was growing up but I am sure a sword or two probably made it into my arsenal.
I am starting to wonder if the horseman following Eleanor and Fulk was sent by Hugh. Only a few people know about what Eleanor is doing and we haven't seen much from him in this story yet. He has the possibility for motives if people question his parentage.
The brother that was beheaded stated, as he was lead to the axeman, that Hugh didn't look like William or something to that effect. I could see where it could be a seed in the back of people's minds when William dies and his successor is named.Crusher Neko said:
LOL. I was more partial to guns when I was growing up but I am sure a sword or two probably made it into my arsenal.
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A bit late to introduce this plot, no? So far the missions have either been introducing Fulk, family, or very minor. Retcon some forshadowing in? Space these out further in the past (any time after the beheading really?)
Should work.
The first intro in message 347 needs some work. Maybe some description of the country side. In Burgundy in Regio Annum X, the intrigues in the court of King William hath spread great rumour and quarelling in the minds of petty lords. That section just came in really hard. Additionally, more description of the characters! I couldn't tell who was male, who was female, and what fealty and lineage they had!
Confusion abounds!
Should work.
The first intro in message 347 needs some work. Maybe some description of the country side. In Burgundy in Regio Annum X, the intrigues in the court of King William hath spread great rumour and quarelling in the minds of petty lords. That section just came in really hard. Additionally, more description of the characters! I couldn't tell who was male, who was female, and what fealty and lineage they had!
Confusion abounds!
Ah, yeah, I remember the liege now. Strange chap. Now, apart from wondering where you are going with this, it felt strange seeing an entire “chapter” away from Eleanor et al…
Crusher, Hugh is the second son. He does not resemble his parents or siblings so the inevitable rumours are that he is a bastard. William does not think he is. It's been covered in several scenes, including John's execution.
Queen Lor, being a good medieval fanatic I always wanted to be a knight complete with nice shiny armour
Anyone want to add to what li2co3 said? I'm trying to do something here that I have never seen another story or book do, in a style I have never quite seen used before. It might not be entirely obvious at this point, but later it should be. I've seen similar styles and plots, but nothing exactly the same. The plot is mapped out; the execution is not. Um, so I'm kind of making this up as I go along ...
Nothing can be retconned; I'm working to a strict timetable and plot layout here. Everything has its place, and that is the sole point at which it can appear. Is it a bit late? I don't see how, but my mind's eye is full of the many balls I am juggling here.
The story has never been simple; it might have appeared so, but perhaps one day I will be able to talk about it. The complexity is slowly coming to the fore; Nell is beginning to see things, and now I am using other characters to show what she cannot. I'm not sure how well people are keeping up with it all; the slowed down, spaced out serialised posting can't help you keep up.
I thought it was clear who was male and female, but then I created them Anyone else having trouble?
Sometimes I need to show something Nell can't, and that's when I bring out the other character POVs. By that token Jocelyn is here to show something none of the established people can. But what?
You'll see, thames, you'll see.
Queen Lor, being a good medieval fanatic I always wanted to be a knight complete with nice shiny armour
Anyone want to add to what li2co3 said? I'm trying to do something here that I have never seen another story or book do, in a style I have never quite seen used before. It might not be entirely obvious at this point, but later it should be. I've seen similar styles and plots, but nothing exactly the same. The plot is mapped out; the execution is not. Um, so I'm kind of making this up as I go along ...
Nothing can be retconned; I'm working to a strict timetable and plot layout here. Everything has its place, and that is the sole point at which it can appear. Is it a bit late? I don't see how, but my mind's eye is full of the many balls I am juggling here.
The story has never been simple; it might have appeared so, but perhaps one day I will be able to talk about it. The complexity is slowly coming to the fore; Nell is beginning to see things, and now I am using other characters to show what she cannot. I'm not sure how well people are keeping up with it all; the slowed down, spaced out serialised posting can't help you keep up.
I thought it was clear who was male and female, but then I created them
Anyone else having trouble? Sometimes I need to show something Nell can't, and that's when I bring out the other character POVs. By that token Jocelyn is here to show something none of the established people can. But what?
You'll see, thames, you'll see.
Hmmm - a new character to mix around with...interesting. One wonders if this figure has any background with our love-struck knight. Perhaps.
And a nice compromise with the Fulk/Eleanor scene - swapping sex for foreplay - frankly, a much more tender moment between them I would think. Well done, even if mush is not your favorite thing.
And a nice compromise with the Fulk/Eleanor scene - swapping sex for foreplay - frankly, a much more tender moment between them I would think. Well done, even if mush is not your favorite thing.
This is not at all part of the story; it takes place in an alternate universe … or something. It’s just a bit of silliness to fill several reader’s requests, and to provide a bit of stupid fun for Christmas. It also makes handy relief for a frog who is beginning to get strained juggling so many plot related balls at once.
NB: Please don’t kill me for the fanmail. I’m not basing them on anyone’s comments, just typical fanmail stuff.
Fulk and Eleanor walked in through the gate of Woburn manor, leading their two horses. They were footsore and weary, more than a little muddy and the gore produced by their fight against the bandits yesterday had now dried to a deep brownish black. Fulk’s armour was beginning to rust.
Their arrival was greeted in an unexpected manner; William came hurtling out the main door with Anne hanging on to the back of his belt with both hands, dragging along and digging her heels in as she tried to hold him back. “Stop!” she pleaded, nearly losing her grip and balance as William banked into a turn and headed right for Eleanor.
“Brat!” bellowed William, his face turning purple. “Have a nice trip?”
“Not bad,” replied Eleanor mildly.
William stopped just short of his daughter and looked over his shoulder at Anne. “I say, do you mind letting go? It is a bit hard to go into a proper apocalyptic rage with you clinging on back there.”
“That is the idea.” Anne tightened her grip and prepared to be all brave and martyrish.
“Look, sweetheart-”
“Don’t sweetheart me, you great lump. You know I am chairwoman of the Society for the Protection of Eleanor, or SPE as I like to call it.”
“Darling, please let go? Please? I promise I will not break any bones or kill her, please?"
“No!”
Eleanor and Fulk exchanged a meaningful glance, one which said “What in the name of boiled eggs is going on here!?”
The meaningful looks and assorted husband/wife pleading was interrupted by Trempwick, arriving in high dudgeon and asking in a dramatically wounded voice, “Nell, how could you?”
“How could I what, master?”
“You know what I mean, and frankly, dear Nell, I am more than a little annoyed.”
“About what?”
“You know, Nell. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“No, I really do not know.” Eleanor frowned slightly. “Are you going senile, master?”
Trempwick choked. “I am only thirty-four!”
“I always thought you were older …”
“Insult to injury, darling Nell, insult to injury. I shall have to work hard to think of something appropriately sadistic to put you through for this.”
Eleanor snapped her fingers and pulled a wry face. “Oh darn!”
Fulk had had enough. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “SPE? Raging kings? Upset spymasters? Honestly it’s like the world has gone mad overnight!”
William levelled an accusing finger at Eleanor. “You slut! Pain! Much pain! More pain! Yes, pain will follow for this!” His maniacal evil villain style speech was cut off by Anne elbowing him in the back and scowling furiously at him.
Trempwick, Eleanor and Fulk watched the start of a new king/queen bout of squabbling, then looked away feeling totally embarrassed. Trempwick clearly felt the onerous duty of outlining the weak plot of this story had fallen upon his shoulders. He cleared his throat and said balefully, “Your night of ‘fun’ with your pet, dear Nell. We know all about it. In detail.”
Eleanor turned on her ‘so innocent butterflies come out of my nose when I sneeze’ act. “What night of ‘fun’, master?”
“You, him, a priest’s hut, and there is no point in explaining further because the readers only read that bit a few days ago so they should remember it all very well.”
“It is all an evil lie,” insisted Eleanor virtuously.
Fulk nodded vigorously. “Whatever it was we didn’t do it.”
Trempwick brandished a bundle of letters. “Ah ha! But there is no denying it, dear Nell - I have proof! The Fulk hating readers wrote in en masse to tell me about your antics.”
He selected one letter and began to read. “Dear Raoul (can I call you that? I’m your biggest fan! You’re so great, and so not like that annoying Fulk idiot.) I enclose here a copy of the scene where your little Nell (you deserve better, but maybe she will one day see how special you are and fall totally and deeply in love with you. I do hope so!!) starts doing unspeakable things with her stupid pet (kill him! Kill him please! You’re so much cooler than him and he takes up space in the story you could occupy instead!). I couldn’t bear watching them make a fool out of you. Please do something, for the sake of your fans (I’m your biggest fan ever!).”
Eleanor smartly shot back, “It’s a lie, slander. Yes - lies.”
Trempwick selected another letter. “Dear Trempwick. I feel it is in your best interests to inform you that Eleanor is carrying on with Fulk. I don’t really like Fulk much so please kill him. Thanks, signed a reader who hates Fulk.”
“Erm … more lies?” tried Eleanor.
“‘A chivalrous man never leaves his lady to freeze while he is nice and warm,” said Eleanor insistently as she began to tug at his tunic.’” Trempwick lowered this bit of paper and looked at her reprovingly. “Oh Nell, how could you?” He read another section, “‘“Springy tree branch,” she said in a soft murmur with a shake of her head and a hint of a smile.’” This time his expression was hurt. “Sweet Nell, you never talk to me like that, and you never run your finger down my nose and make mushy jokes based on back story that readers will have probably forgotten.”
Eleanor had the grace to blush. “Yes, well, it is all to do with attraction, master. We don’t have any. At all.” As an afterthought, “Oh yes – that scene is fake, also lies and slander to discredit me!”
William had finally won free of Anne. “Enough of this! I say we batter the brat, kill the knight, and live happily ever after.”
He threw himself at Eleanor, only to find Anne had grabbed him about the waist in a bear hug. “And I say we don’t batter Eleanor and kill Fulk!”
Trempwick glowered. “I am quite happy to settle for killing the pet in a hideous and painful manner and then marrying Nell right away. I would actually prefer it if you did not make a mess out of her for once, William.”
William lurched a few steps closer to Eleanor. She was currently watching him with mild fascination. William balled a hand up into a fist, began to swing, then missed as she stepped back a pace out of range. “Damn it! Hold still when I am trying to thump you,” he complained. “It is hard to hit a moving target at my age.”
Anne began to loudly tell him that the SPE did not approve of this. Trempwick had to shout to be heard over the queen’s diatribe, “Can we just skip to the bit where we hurt Fulk a lot now, please? The readers want it.”
Fulk had something to say about that, “Oh no they don’t! I have letters of my own, spymaster. I also have the gooseberry’s approval, which is more than you’ll ever get.” Fulk produced his own bundle of fanmail, selected one at random and began to read. “Dear Fulk, you are my number 1 hero and I think you are really great. You and Nell are a cute couple. I think you should kick the king and spymaster about a lot, please? I live in hope of this happening, and I know you’re more than capable.”
He gave the assemblage a proud smirk, then moved to another letter. “Dear Fulk, someone needs to kill William and Trempwick; I hope it’s you. I love all your scenes. Can I have your autograph?”
He began to read a third letter, this one on pink scented note paper. “Dear Fulk. You look really cute in that armour. It makes me want to-” Fulk pulled a face and stopped reading very quickly. “Yes, well there’s no need to finish that one.”
Eleanor was incensed. “You get love letters?”
Fulk scratched the back of his neck and suddenly found the ground very interesting and eye-catching. “Well, one or two. I put them on the fire; you’re the only gooseberry in my life.”
Eleanor sniffled. “I don’t even get fanmail.”
Fulk gathered her into a hug and kissed her on the forehead. “Never mind, oh dejected one. I’m sure you have plenty of fans out there.”
William and Trempwick both pointed fingers and yelled in unison, “Ah ha! Proof!” while Anne went all misty-eyed and cooed, “Aaaahhhh, how sweeeeet.”
Trempwick was quick to take back command of the situation. “Right, I have a plan that will hopefully make everybody happy. If you will all calm down and hear me out?” Hush fell. William and Anne’s struggling ceased but they kept on holding on to each other. Fulk and Eleanor, now the game was up, chose to take up that delightful looking pose so often used by doomed loves in films, the one where the woman clings fearfully to the man while he stands there with an arm about her waist looking all brave and determined.
Trempwick began to explain, “I shall play benevolent spymaster and overlook Nell’s little indiscretion. I shall marry her now because I have been waiting years and frankly I am tired of being lonely. The travelling to find someone suitably accommodating is really getting me down, and Nell substitutes are not the same anyway. That makes me happy, and after a while I am sure she will be happy too. She will, yes, happy, it just takes a bit of time, yes – yes.” He sounded almost hysterical in his need to believe that.
Eleanor had but one comment. “Disgusting!”
“Thank you, sweet Nell,” said Trempwick dryly. “Now, the king and queen will then stop arguing because Nell is safely sorted out. That makes the two of you happy. Finally, we have the pet.”
“And I fail to see how I’ll be happy with this plan of yours – the princess is mine,” said Fulk firmly.
Eleanor glared up at him. “I am not property, you know.”
William helpfully said, “Actually, you are. In many respects, anyway.”
Fulk patted Eleanor on the head and said soothingly, “Never mind. I actually meant ‘mine’ as in ‘her heart is mine’. It’s a common thing for the hopelessly besotted to say.”
Eleanor was slightly mollified. “Oh. Well, that is alright, then.” The exceptionally long and passionate kiss from Fulk aided the mollification effort considerably.
Trempwick coughed loudly and importantly, but failed to break up the kiss. “Ahem,” he tried. That too failed. His shout of, “Oi! Put her down!” bounced right off the protective glow of mushiness enveloping the duo. “I’m waiting.” Still nothing. “Why does she never do that with me?” wondered Trempwick plaintively. “Time, yes, a bit more time and she will.”
Several minutes later his patience died. “I will continue without you,” he threatened. Finally they broke the kiss; the secretive, soppy smiles they exchanged immediately afterwards only salted Trempwick’s wounds. “Finally, the pet. He dies. This makes the largest part of the readership happy, makes me happy, makes William happy, Nell will grow to be happy about it, and Anne will get over it too.”
Fulk muttered, “I won’t be happy about it.”
“You will be dead; you will not matter.”
Eleanor was quick on her mental feet, and determined to rescue her broken-nosed follower. “But it appears more of the readership likes Fulk than hates him, so you will upset them. I also swear I will never forgive you if you kill him, ever, no matter what you do.”
Anne eagerly joined in. “Me too! As chairwoman of the SPE I refuse to countenance anything which might upset Eleanor. I also love soppy love stories.”
William sighed. “If only we knew how the readership was split, then the argument would become much easier.”
A small, cute frog no one had noticed until now spoke up, “Actually the split between Trempwick and Fulk is about even.”
“Oh, thanks.” William did a comedy double take and stared at the frog. “Did you just talk?”
“Ribbit,” replied the frog glumly. “Ribbit, also generic frog noises.”
William smiled with relief. “Good, good, talking frogs are the work of the devil. Ok, everybody. We have heard the spymaster’s cunning plan, and it won’t work. Anyone else got an idea?”
Eleanor shot in the gap. “I have, and this one is pure brilliance, if I do say so myself. Here we go: I marry Fulk, making myself, Fulk, Anne and half the readership very happy indeed-”
“No!” interrupted William and Trempwick simultaneously. Eleanor pouted. William alone added, “Has anyone got a good idea?”
The frog shrugged its froggy little shoulders. “I do, but I’m not telling. Oh, er, ribbit, ribbit, I am a froggy frog making frog noises. Nothing to burn at the stake here, ribbit. Barbequed frog tastes nasty anyway, ribbit.”
William took up a decisive, masculine pose with his hands on his belt. “Then it is up to me to solve all this, and as king my word is law. Ha!”
Anne tugged on the nearest tunic sleeve. “Don’t do anything I won’t like or I shall cry.”
William’s pose deflated, then bounced back to its former glory. “If you will just let go of me, dear, so I can think properly …” Anne warily let go. “Thank you,” beamed William, ruffling her hair with one hand. Suddenly he flew at Eleanor, fists flying. He found his path blocked by Fulk. The knight smiled, them punched William in the stomach. William groaned and staggered back. “I’m getting too old for this.”
Anne said seriously, “Bad king. You deserved that.” and kicked his ankle.
William appealed to Trempwick. “And you still want to get married? Even after seeing what I have to live with?”
Trempwick shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what can I say? All those years of quietly stewing while living near the woman I cautiously admit to having a mild fondness for has addled my brains a bit. Can we drop this subject? I really don’t feel comfortable talking about love, sex or my feelings.”
“Sorry, Raoul. I never knew that.”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I understand, old thing.” William patted his spymaster on the shoulder in a companionable, macho male bonding, not even slightly gay way.
Meanwhile Eleanor and Fulk were busy with the whole kissing thing again.
When the gathering regained some semblance of order again Anne suggested, “We could always do what they do in the stories. We could let Fulk and Trempwick fight in a duel, and the winner gets Eleanor’s hand in marriage.”
“Great!” said Fulk.
“Bad!” said Trempwick, at exactly the same time. He scuffled the toe of his boot on the cobblestones of the courtyard. “I mean why is it always fighting?” he demanded. “What about the slightly less belligerent man? Why do we never have contests of brains? Why does the idiot in armour who is more talented at hitting people always get the girl?”
William considered. “I know you have a good point, Raoul, but a fight is traditional. Perhaps we can compromise? A test of brains, and a test of swordsmanship? A game of chess too?”
Eleanor said, “But Fulk will win the swordfight and Trempwick will win the chess game.”
"Hey!” protested Fulk.
Eleanor smiled apologetically at him. “Sorry, but I am trying to be realistic here.”
William sighed heavily. “So that is no good either. You do cause trouble, brat. I hope you know that.”
“Sorry, father.”
“I should hope so – my hair has begun to fall out and go grey because of you.”
“And I am covered in scars because of you.”
“Your fault, brat.”
“Yours, baldy.”
“Yours!”
“Yours!”
“Yours times ten!”
“Yours times one hundred million!”
“Yours times infinity! Ha! Take that, brat! Schooled by your old man.” William started doing a very stupid dance and chanted, “I win, I win, I win, I win, go me, go me, go me, yo!”
Eleanor muttered something nasty and wriggled deeper into Fulk’s embrace. “I am not related to him,” she declared, her voice muffled by the fact she had her face buried in Fulk’s tunic. “He is too embarrassing;. I don’t even know him. Never seen him before in my life.”
The little frog sighed and said in a saintly manner, “To think, right back at the beginning people wished Fulk would fall for Nell. Well he did, and now look at the mess. Mush, love, feelings, romance and all that crap are just trouble!” Everyone ignored the amphibian.
Trempwick said very innocently, “I have an idea; how about we both learn to share? Fulk has Nell as his wife for one half of the year, and I for the other. I shall even let him choose; he can have her while the trees have no leaves, or while the leaves are out.”
Eleanor dissented, “I do not want to be a time share!” She was ignored, just like the poor frog.
Fulk looked at the bare winter trees and grinned. “Ok, I choose-”
Eleanor slapped a hand over his mouth. “No! Not that old trick.”
Trempwick spread his hands and continued his not at all overdone innocent act. “Nell, Nell, you wound me. What old trick?”
“Hold on.” Eleanor removed her hand from Fulk’s mouth and asked urgently, “What were you going to say? While there were leaves or no leaves?”
“No leaves, as in right now.”
“Twit.” She raised her voice again, “The old trick where the eager moron,” she glared witheringly at Fulk, “chooses when there are no leaves, thinking it means winter, conveniently when the question is always asked. As there are some plants with leaves all year around his time never comes.”
There was a long pause as everyone wracked their brains. Fulk was the one to speak in the end. “This whole interlude was a reader request thing, right?” The gathering nodded, for once all able to agree. “So, two of the readers requested that I beat the crap out of you two,” he waved at the king and Trempwick. “Seems obvious to me.”
“But that is not fair!” complained Trempwick vociferously. “I do not like pain, and I have just as many fans as you!”
Fulk held up a finger. “Ah, but think. Two against one, and I am wounded. By the terms of the request Eleanor is not allowed to get involved. The reader can request but there is nothing to stop you overpowering me; reality can’t be bent.”
Oh no?” muttered the frog. “Take a good look around, rusty.”
William and Trempwick exchanged a few covert words then began to smile. William said, “Is this agreeable to everyone?” Again the gathering nodded. “Right, then let us begin.”
Before the king had finished talking Trempwick threw himself at Fulk, pummelling away. The knight blocked and defended himself, searching for a chance to lay the spymaster out in one go as painfully as possible. William dodged around to behind Fulk and wrapped his hands around his throat. Fulk began to choke, clawing at the hands while Trempwick very carefully began landing blows all over Fulk, avoiding his armour to catch him in unprotected areas.
Fulk rolled his eyes and gasped, “Cute.” He pushed off from the ground, springing backwards so William lost his balance and got crushed under one armour coated knight. The king said something akin to, “Oahshgdge!!!!” and lay still. Fulk rolled, then sprang back onto his feet. Cockily he beckoned to the spymaster. “Come on, I have been waiting 229 pages to get you.”
Trempwick began to move backwards, keeping his distance from the advancing knight. Eleanor called, “Come on master. If you are really that bothered about marrying me you could at least fight with a bit more enthusiasm. If not you can just let me go.”
Trempwick sighed and began to exchange blows with Fulk, each attacking and blocking at a blur in a cheap imitation of a martial arts film. This was clearly an anachronism because oriental martial arts had not made their way to medieval England at this time. “Why does she have to have a thing for fighting men?” he asked mournfully.
“No idea,” replied Fulk, jumping over a kick. “But it comes in handy for me.”
From the sidelines Eleanor instructed sternly, “Less talking; more fighting.”
Fulk’s fist slammed into the side of Trempwick’s head and the spymaster dropped like a pole axed ox. Fulk rested one foot on his foe’s chest and raised both fists in a triumphant celebration. “I win!”
At this point a horse magically appeared in the courtyard, saddled up and ready to go. Fulk lifted Eleanor up onto the horse’s withers and swung into the saddle. They began to ride away. Trempwick scraped himself off the ground and waved a fist after them. “This isn’t over, you’ll see! We still have the real story to get on with! I will-” He conveniently fainted away before he could give out any spoilers.
Together Eleanor and Fulk rode away. “Now what?” asked Eleanor.
“Quick stop at the nearest church, I think.”
“Then what?” Fulk answered with a grin. Eleanor sighed. “Typical male.”
“How would you know, oh innocent one?”
“I have heard stories.”
“Really? And you’re also a mind reader?”
“I don’t need to mind read – I was enquiring as to what we are going to do with the rest of our lives now we are homeless, jobless, friendless and penniless. You do not answer a question like that with a grin that drips … intent.”
“Intent for what?”
“You know what.”
The bickering continued as they rode off into the sunset.
finis
Remember: none of this actually happened.
:stretches lazily: That was fun; it has been far too long since I indulged my mad comedy streak. Less than an hour’s work, and 6 ½ pages long.
The real story will resume soon.
The mush was good, coz1? Relieved to hear it!
NB: Please don’t kill me for the fanmail. I’m not basing them on anyone’s comments, just typical fanmail stuff.
Fulk and Eleanor walked in through the gate of Woburn manor, leading their two horses. They were footsore and weary, more than a little muddy and the gore produced by their fight against the bandits yesterday had now dried to a deep brownish black. Fulk’s armour was beginning to rust.
Their arrival was greeted in an unexpected manner; William came hurtling out the main door with Anne hanging on to the back of his belt with both hands, dragging along and digging her heels in as she tried to hold him back. “Stop!” she pleaded, nearly losing her grip and balance as William banked into a turn and headed right for Eleanor.
“Brat!” bellowed William, his face turning purple. “Have a nice trip?”
“Not bad,” replied Eleanor mildly.
William stopped just short of his daughter and looked over his shoulder at Anne. “I say, do you mind letting go? It is a bit hard to go into a proper apocalyptic rage with you clinging on back there.”
“That is the idea.” Anne tightened her grip and prepared to be all brave and martyrish.
“Look, sweetheart-”
“Don’t sweetheart me, you great lump. You know I am chairwoman of the Society for the Protection of Eleanor, or SPE as I like to call it.”
“Darling, please let go? Please? I promise I will not break any bones or kill her, please?"
“No!”
Eleanor and Fulk exchanged a meaningful glance, one which said “What in the name of boiled eggs is going on here!?”
The meaningful looks and assorted husband/wife pleading was interrupted by Trempwick, arriving in high dudgeon and asking in a dramatically wounded voice, “Nell, how could you?”
“How could I what, master?”
“You know what I mean, and frankly, dear Nell, I am more than a little annoyed.”
“About what?”
“You know, Nell. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
“No, I really do not know.” Eleanor frowned slightly. “Are you going senile, master?”
Trempwick choked. “I am only thirty-four!”
“I always thought you were older …”
“Insult to injury, darling Nell, insult to injury. I shall have to work hard to think of something appropriately sadistic to put you through for this.”
Eleanor snapped her fingers and pulled a wry face. “Oh darn!”
Fulk had had enough. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “SPE? Raging kings? Upset spymasters? Honestly it’s like the world has gone mad overnight!”
William levelled an accusing finger at Eleanor. “You slut! Pain! Much pain! More pain! Yes, pain will follow for this!” His maniacal evil villain style speech was cut off by Anne elbowing him in the back and scowling furiously at him.
Trempwick, Eleanor and Fulk watched the start of a new king/queen bout of squabbling, then looked away feeling totally embarrassed. Trempwick clearly felt the onerous duty of outlining the weak plot of this story had fallen upon his shoulders. He cleared his throat and said balefully, “Your night of ‘fun’ with your pet, dear Nell. We know all about it. In detail.”
Eleanor turned on her ‘so innocent butterflies come out of my nose when I sneeze’ act. “What night of ‘fun’, master?”
“You, him, a priest’s hut, and there is no point in explaining further because the readers only read that bit a few days ago so they should remember it all very well.”
“It is all an evil lie,” insisted Eleanor virtuously.
Fulk nodded vigorously. “Whatever it was we didn’t do it.”
Trempwick brandished a bundle of letters. “Ah ha! But there is no denying it, dear Nell - I have proof! The Fulk hating readers wrote in en masse to tell me about your antics.”
He selected one letter and began to read. “Dear Raoul (can I call you that? I’m your biggest fan! You’re so great, and so not like that annoying Fulk idiot.) I enclose here a copy of the scene where your little Nell (you deserve better, but maybe she will one day see how special you are and fall totally and deeply in love with you. I do hope so!!) starts doing unspeakable things with her stupid pet (kill him! Kill him please! You’re so much cooler than him and he takes up space in the story you could occupy instead!). I couldn’t bear watching them make a fool out of you. Please do something, for the sake of your fans (I’m your biggest fan ever!).”
Eleanor smartly shot back, “It’s a lie, slander. Yes - lies.”
Trempwick selected another letter. “Dear Trempwick. I feel it is in your best interests to inform you that Eleanor is carrying on with Fulk. I don’t really like Fulk much so please kill him. Thanks, signed a reader who hates Fulk.”
“Erm … more lies?” tried Eleanor.
“‘A chivalrous man never leaves his lady to freeze while he is nice and warm,” said Eleanor insistently as she began to tug at his tunic.’” Trempwick lowered this bit of paper and looked at her reprovingly. “Oh Nell, how could you?” He read another section, “‘“Springy tree branch,” she said in a soft murmur with a shake of her head and a hint of a smile.’” This time his expression was hurt. “Sweet Nell, you never talk to me like that, and you never run your finger down my nose and make mushy jokes based on back story that readers will have probably forgotten.”
Eleanor had the grace to blush. “Yes, well, it is all to do with attraction, master. We don’t have any. At all.” As an afterthought, “Oh yes – that scene is fake, also lies and slander to discredit me!”
William had finally won free of Anne. “Enough of this! I say we batter the brat, kill the knight, and live happily ever after.”
He threw himself at Eleanor, only to find Anne had grabbed him about the waist in a bear hug. “And I say we don’t batter Eleanor and kill Fulk!”
Trempwick glowered. “I am quite happy to settle for killing the pet in a hideous and painful manner and then marrying Nell right away. I would actually prefer it if you did not make a mess out of her for once, William.”
William lurched a few steps closer to Eleanor. She was currently watching him with mild fascination. William balled a hand up into a fist, began to swing, then missed as she stepped back a pace out of range. “Damn it! Hold still when I am trying to thump you,” he complained. “It is hard to hit a moving target at my age.”
Anne began to loudly tell him that the SPE did not approve of this. Trempwick had to shout to be heard over the queen’s diatribe, “Can we just skip to the bit where we hurt Fulk a lot now, please? The readers want it.”
Fulk had something to say about that, “Oh no they don’t! I have letters of my own, spymaster. I also have the gooseberry’s approval, which is more than you’ll ever get.” Fulk produced his own bundle of fanmail, selected one at random and began to read. “Dear Fulk, you are my number 1 hero and I think you are really great. You and Nell are a cute couple. I think you should kick the king and spymaster about a lot, please? I live in hope of this happening, and I know you’re more than capable.”
He gave the assemblage a proud smirk, then moved to another letter. “Dear Fulk, someone needs to kill William and Trempwick; I hope it’s you. I love all your scenes. Can I have your autograph?”
He began to read a third letter, this one on pink scented note paper. “Dear Fulk. You look really cute in that armour. It makes me want to-” Fulk pulled a face and stopped reading very quickly. “Yes, well there’s no need to finish that one.”
Eleanor was incensed. “You get love letters?”
Fulk scratched the back of his neck and suddenly found the ground very interesting and eye-catching. “Well, one or two. I put them on the fire; you’re the only gooseberry in my life.”
Eleanor sniffled. “I don’t even get fanmail.”
Fulk gathered her into a hug and kissed her on the forehead. “Never mind, oh dejected one. I’m sure you have plenty of fans out there.”
William and Trempwick both pointed fingers and yelled in unison, “Ah ha! Proof!” while Anne went all misty-eyed and cooed, “Aaaahhhh, how sweeeeet.”
Trempwick was quick to take back command of the situation. “Right, I have a plan that will hopefully make everybody happy. If you will all calm down and hear me out?” Hush fell. William and Anne’s struggling ceased but they kept on holding on to each other. Fulk and Eleanor, now the game was up, chose to take up that delightful looking pose so often used by doomed loves in films, the one where the woman clings fearfully to the man while he stands there with an arm about her waist looking all brave and determined.
Trempwick began to explain, “I shall play benevolent spymaster and overlook Nell’s little indiscretion. I shall marry her now because I have been waiting years and frankly I am tired of being lonely. The travelling to find someone suitably accommodating is really getting me down, and Nell substitutes are not the same anyway. That makes me happy, and after a while I am sure she will be happy too. She will, yes, happy, it just takes a bit of time, yes – yes.” He sounded almost hysterical in his need to believe that.
Eleanor had but one comment. “Disgusting!”
“Thank you, sweet Nell,” said Trempwick dryly. “Now, the king and queen will then stop arguing because Nell is safely sorted out. That makes the two of you happy. Finally, we have the pet.”
“And I fail to see how I’ll be happy with this plan of yours – the princess is mine,” said Fulk firmly.
Eleanor glared up at him. “I am not property, you know.”
William helpfully said, “Actually, you are. In many respects, anyway.”
Fulk patted Eleanor on the head and said soothingly, “Never mind. I actually meant ‘mine’ as in ‘her heart is mine’. It’s a common thing for the hopelessly besotted to say.”
Eleanor was slightly mollified. “Oh. Well, that is alright, then.” The exceptionally long and passionate kiss from Fulk aided the mollification effort considerably.
Trempwick coughed loudly and importantly, but failed to break up the kiss. “Ahem,” he tried. That too failed. His shout of, “Oi! Put her down!” bounced right off the protective glow of mushiness enveloping the duo. “I’m waiting.” Still nothing. “Why does she never do that with me?” wondered Trempwick plaintively. “Time, yes, a bit more time and she will.”
Several minutes later his patience died. “I will continue without you,” he threatened. Finally they broke the kiss; the secretive, soppy smiles they exchanged immediately afterwards only salted Trempwick’s wounds. “Finally, the pet. He dies. This makes the largest part of the readership happy, makes me happy, makes William happy, Nell will grow to be happy about it, and Anne will get over it too.”
Fulk muttered, “I won’t be happy about it.”
“You will be dead; you will not matter.”
Eleanor was quick on her mental feet, and determined to rescue her broken-nosed follower. “But it appears more of the readership likes Fulk than hates him, so you will upset them. I also swear I will never forgive you if you kill him, ever, no matter what you do.”
Anne eagerly joined in. “Me too! As chairwoman of the SPE I refuse to countenance anything which might upset Eleanor. I also love soppy love stories.”
William sighed. “If only we knew how the readership was split, then the argument would become much easier.”
A small, cute frog no one had noticed until now spoke up, “Actually the split between Trempwick and Fulk is about even.”
“Oh, thanks.” William did a comedy double take and stared at the frog. “Did you just talk?”
“Ribbit,” replied the frog glumly. “Ribbit, also generic frog noises.”
William smiled with relief. “Good, good, talking frogs are the work of the devil. Ok, everybody. We have heard the spymaster’s cunning plan, and it won’t work. Anyone else got an idea?”
Eleanor shot in the gap. “I have, and this one is pure brilliance, if I do say so myself. Here we go: I marry Fulk, making myself, Fulk, Anne and half the readership very happy indeed-”
“No!” interrupted William and Trempwick simultaneously. Eleanor pouted. William alone added, “Has anyone got a good idea?”
The frog shrugged its froggy little shoulders. “I do, but I’m not telling. Oh, er, ribbit, ribbit, I am a froggy frog making frog noises. Nothing to burn at the stake here, ribbit. Barbequed frog tastes nasty anyway, ribbit.”
William took up a decisive, masculine pose with his hands on his belt. “Then it is up to me to solve all this, and as king my word is law. Ha!”
Anne tugged on the nearest tunic sleeve. “Don’t do anything I won’t like or I shall cry.”
William’s pose deflated, then bounced back to its former glory. “If you will just let go of me, dear, so I can think properly …” Anne warily let go. “Thank you,” beamed William, ruffling her hair with one hand. Suddenly he flew at Eleanor, fists flying. He found his path blocked by Fulk. The knight smiled, them punched William in the stomach. William groaned and staggered back. “I’m getting too old for this.”
Anne said seriously, “Bad king. You deserved that.” and kicked his ankle.
William appealed to Trempwick. “And you still want to get married? Even after seeing what I have to live with?”
Trempwick shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what can I say? All those years of quietly stewing while living near the woman I cautiously admit to having a mild fondness for has addled my brains a bit. Can we drop this subject? I really don’t feel comfortable talking about love, sex or my feelings.”
“Sorry, Raoul. I never knew that.”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I understand, old thing.” William patted his spymaster on the shoulder in a companionable, macho male bonding, not even slightly gay way.
Meanwhile Eleanor and Fulk were busy with the whole kissing thing again.
When the gathering regained some semblance of order again Anne suggested, “We could always do what they do in the stories. We could let Fulk and Trempwick fight in a duel, and the winner gets Eleanor’s hand in marriage.”
“Great!” said Fulk.
“Bad!” said Trempwick, at exactly the same time. He scuffled the toe of his boot on the cobblestones of the courtyard. “I mean why is it always fighting?” he demanded. “What about the slightly less belligerent man? Why do we never have contests of brains? Why does the idiot in armour who is more talented at hitting people always get the girl?”
William considered. “I know you have a good point, Raoul, but a fight is traditional. Perhaps we can compromise? A test of brains, and a test of swordsmanship? A game of chess too?”
Eleanor said, “But Fulk will win the swordfight and Trempwick will win the chess game.”
"Hey!” protested Fulk.
Eleanor smiled apologetically at him. “Sorry, but I am trying to be realistic here.”
William sighed heavily. “So that is no good either. You do cause trouble, brat. I hope you know that.”
“Sorry, father.”
“I should hope so – my hair has begun to fall out and go grey because of you.”
“And I am covered in scars because of you.”
“Your fault, brat.”
“Yours, baldy.”
“Yours!”
“Yours!”
“Yours times ten!”
“Yours times one hundred million!”
“Yours times infinity! Ha! Take that, brat! Schooled by your old man.” William started doing a very stupid dance and chanted, “I win, I win, I win, I win, go me, go me, go me, yo!”
Eleanor muttered something nasty and wriggled deeper into Fulk’s embrace. “I am not related to him,” she declared, her voice muffled by the fact she had her face buried in Fulk’s tunic. “He is too embarrassing;. I don’t even know him. Never seen him before in my life.”
The little frog sighed and said in a saintly manner, “To think, right back at the beginning people wished Fulk would fall for Nell. Well he did, and now look at the mess. Mush, love, feelings, romance and all that crap are just trouble!” Everyone ignored the amphibian.
Trempwick said very innocently, “I have an idea; how about we both learn to share? Fulk has Nell as his wife for one half of the year, and I for the other. I shall even let him choose; he can have her while the trees have no leaves, or while the leaves are out.”
Eleanor dissented, “I do not want to be a time share!” She was ignored, just like the poor frog.
Fulk looked at the bare winter trees and grinned. “Ok, I choose-”
Eleanor slapped a hand over his mouth. “No! Not that old trick.”
Trempwick spread his hands and continued his not at all overdone innocent act. “Nell, Nell, you wound me. What old trick?”
“Hold on.” Eleanor removed her hand from Fulk’s mouth and asked urgently, “What were you going to say? While there were leaves or no leaves?”
“No leaves, as in right now.”
“Twit.” She raised her voice again, “The old trick where the eager moron,” she glared witheringly at Fulk, “chooses when there are no leaves, thinking it means winter, conveniently when the question is always asked. As there are some plants with leaves all year around his time never comes.”
There was a long pause as everyone wracked their brains. Fulk was the one to speak in the end. “This whole interlude was a reader request thing, right?” The gathering nodded, for once all able to agree. “So, two of the readers requested that I beat the crap out of you two,” he waved at the king and Trempwick. “Seems obvious to me.”
“But that is not fair!” complained Trempwick vociferously. “I do not like pain, and I have just as many fans as you!”
Fulk held up a finger. “Ah, but think. Two against one, and I am wounded. By the terms of the request Eleanor is not allowed to get involved. The reader can request but there is nothing to stop you overpowering me; reality can’t be bent.”
Oh no?” muttered the frog. “Take a good look around, rusty.”
William and Trempwick exchanged a few covert words then began to smile. William said, “Is this agreeable to everyone?” Again the gathering nodded. “Right, then let us begin.”
Before the king had finished talking Trempwick threw himself at Fulk, pummelling away. The knight blocked and defended himself, searching for a chance to lay the spymaster out in one go as painfully as possible. William dodged around to behind Fulk and wrapped his hands around his throat. Fulk began to choke, clawing at the hands while Trempwick very carefully began landing blows all over Fulk, avoiding his armour to catch him in unprotected areas.
Fulk rolled his eyes and gasped, “Cute.” He pushed off from the ground, springing backwards so William lost his balance and got crushed under one armour coated knight. The king said something akin to, “Oahshgdge!!!!” and lay still. Fulk rolled, then sprang back onto his feet. Cockily he beckoned to the spymaster. “Come on, I have been waiting 229 pages to get you.”
Trempwick began to move backwards, keeping his distance from the advancing knight. Eleanor called, “Come on master. If you are really that bothered about marrying me you could at least fight with a bit more enthusiasm. If not you can just let me go.”
Trempwick sighed and began to exchange blows with Fulk, each attacking and blocking at a blur in a cheap imitation of a martial arts film. This was clearly an anachronism because oriental martial arts had not made their way to medieval England at this time. “Why does she have to have a thing for fighting men?” he asked mournfully.
“No idea,” replied Fulk, jumping over a kick. “But it comes in handy for me.”
From the sidelines Eleanor instructed sternly, “Less talking; more fighting.”
Fulk’s fist slammed into the side of Trempwick’s head and the spymaster dropped like a pole axed ox. Fulk rested one foot on his foe’s chest and raised both fists in a triumphant celebration. “I win!”
At this point a horse magically appeared in the courtyard, saddled up and ready to go. Fulk lifted Eleanor up onto the horse’s withers and swung into the saddle. They began to ride away. Trempwick scraped himself off the ground and waved a fist after them. “This isn’t over, you’ll see! We still have the real story to get on with! I will-” He conveniently fainted away before he could give out any spoilers.
Together Eleanor and Fulk rode away. “Now what?” asked Eleanor.
“Quick stop at the nearest church, I think.”
“Then what?” Fulk answered with a grin. Eleanor sighed. “Typical male.”
“How would you know, oh innocent one?”
“I have heard stories.”
“Really? And you’re also a mind reader?”
“I don’t need to mind read – I was enquiring as to what we are going to do with the rest of our lives now we are homeless, jobless, friendless and penniless. You do not answer a question like that with a grin that drips … intent.”
“Intent for what?”
“You know what.”
The bickering continued as they rode off into the sunset.
finis
Remember: none of this actually happened.
:stretches lazily: That was fun; it has been far too long since I indulged my mad comedy streak. Less than an hour’s work, and 6 ½ pages long.
The real story will resume soon.
The mush was good, coz1? Relieved to hear it!
Actually, it was a fighting scene!
I loved the part Anne played here, even if it wasn't very 13-year-old like.
I loved the part Anne played here, even if it wasn't very 13-year-old like.
Great alt. universe scene and quite funny. Sounds like you have an interesting debate going on with another forum.