The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

The atmosphere in the solar was thick and heavy, ripe with promised trouble. Seated beside Trempwick and opposite Aveline at the small table Eleanor kept her head down and pretended to find the platter of food before her fascinating.

Trempwick sliced another strip off the lump of cold bacon on a serving platter in the centre of the table, hacking more than carving with his dagger. With one final savage stab he severed the smaller bit of meat from the larger and speared it on the tip of his knife, holding it up ready to serve. “Mother?” He spoke deliberately, showing off the very tips of his fangs as he formed the word.

Aveline replied stiffly, “No. Thank you.”

Far more pleasantly he enquired, “Nell?”

Eleanor didn’t lift her eyes from the mound of picked at but uneaten food already present on her platter. “No, thanks.”

“Ha!” muttered Aveline beneath her breath.

Trempwick dumped the meat on his own platter and jerked his knife free. He glared at his mother before drawing the edge of his knife across the hapless bacon in one swift, hard stroke which scored deeply into the stale bread of the trencher.

Aveline set her own eating knife down on the table with a clunk. “Well you did ask.”

“Did I indeed?” he replied.

“Yes, and then you do nothing but complain and act the ingrate when I do as you requested.” In a much lower voice, her lips not even moving, she added, “And I can guess where that came from.”

Eleanor picked up her cup and forced down a few mouthfuls of the weak ale while she fought back the urge to respond in kind to her soon to be mother-in-law.

Trempwick’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his knife’s hilt. “Asked for what?”

“Sort her out, you said. Make her a fitting bride, teach her what she does not know, turn her into something useful.”

“Yes, I asked for you to educate her. We were all in agreement about that.”

“Exactly.”

“Yes, mother dear, exactly. Just that. I did not ask for you to sit across the table and ruin my first meal with company in nearly a week by muttering to yourself like a senile old crone!”

“Senile, is it? Ha! You are the one with the memory problems – you ask me to sort her out and then make such a fuss each time I try my efforts are entirely wasted. If I am reduced to muttering to broach a point it is because of you.”

Trempwick’s knife thudded down onto the tabletop and he grabbed hold of the edge of the table in both hands, finger nails straining against the wooden surface as if he could claw marks into the grain. “You are malicious, and I will not have you insulting or belittling my princess.”

“You want her to act like the lady she reportedly is-”

“Not reportedly,” snarled Trempwick. “IS!”

“Is, but does not act. Play about with words however you like, Raoul. We both know the truth.”

“Do we now? Go on, remind me of this truth we both know.”

“Born but does not act, therefore she is not. She is not a lady, nor even a noble, and certainly not royalty. She is a hellion.”

Eleanor bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood.

Trempwick’s nails drew a loud scraping sound from the woodwork as they attempted to bite into the solid planking but slid off harmlessly, too soft and blunt to harm the polished oak. Softly he said, “She is my princess.”

“She does not even have the good manners to look up and talk clearly, instead choosing to mumble into her lap.”

“I believe my dearly beloved Nell is fighting very hard to keep her temper under control. Is that not so, sweet Nell?”

Eleanor looked up and said clearly, “No, that is not right. It is my father who loses his temper so easily, not I. I am trying to keep from asking how one with so poor a set of manners feels qualified to judge others in that regard.”

Aveline’s eyes narrowed and she looked down her nose at the princess. “Snippy, very snippy. Rude too. You miss the point, hellion. I have licence to speak as I do; you do not.” She dismissed Eleanor from her attention and turned back to her son. “You want her manners fixing, and then look at all this fuss caused when I attempt to raise one very small point – attempt now on request, but did not bother when it was more pertinent because I knew this would be the outcome. Your princess is a wilful, stubborn, rude, arrogant, disrespectful, ignorant, selfish little brat. I am sure it is not your fault, Raoul. She must have come to you flawed; sometimes such … degeneracy is in the blood.”

Trempwick went very pale and then flushed red. He pushed away from the table so violently the objects on it shook and jostled. “You are leaving tomorrow, mother dear. I am glad.” He turned on his heel and marched from the room, leaving the door swinging freely to do as it pleased.

Aveline turned on Eleanor, her face contorted with anger. “I hope you are happy – this is your doing!”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Eleanor got up to leave.

She did not get far; Aveline flung herself after the younger woman and her hand fastened about Eleanor’s upper arm, fingers gripping tight enough to leave bruises. “Oh yes, as innocent and cheery as a daisy, aren’t you? Daisies get plucked, or trodden on, or pulled to pieces by some idle person.”

Eleanor jerked to a halt, unable to keep moving with another person’s weight dragging her back. She half turned, aiming her best regal glare at Aveline. “Is that a threat?” It was at times like this a few extra inches of height would be wonderful.

Aveline’s face evened out and she said seriously, “I do not play games of threats, princess, and if you think my warning to be otherwise than it is then it is your own loss. Another warning; Raoul has changed because of you, though you deny it. My son was always calm and self composed; look at him now. If you cannot see the significance there then you do not deserve any of the praise he has lavished on your intellect.”

“He claims to love me; that is known to change people. Now unhand me.”

Aveline’s grip didn’t waver. “Be that as it may or may not it does indeed appear Raoul overestimated you.”

“I shall go and cry my eyes out immediately.”

The old woman’s fingers spasmed and her grip tightened; Eleanor could feel nails digging into sensitive flesh even through the layers of her clothes. “I promised to educate you and I will, though partly from charity than any real hope or liking for you. Think, and think well. He was self controlled but is not so now.”

“It means you manage to punch through his armour and wound him. Satisfied?”

Aveline closed her eyes for a moment and visibly collected herself. “More than that, much more than that and relevant to you.” She sighed in immense irritation. “Very well, if I must spell it out – he is losing control of himself, because of you. Now think on what that might mean for you; let us see if you can get this part right.”

“Why does it have to be me? The French situation-”

“Is something he has been dealing with for much of his adult life, that and similar. Think! I do not like wasting my time, even if the Lord does approve and look kindly on charity and acts of mercy. Firstly it makes him more volatile; you have a gift for angering people because of your stupidities and now Raoul is far more likely to react harshly. You might be behaving in a more fitting manner towards him now, but if you begin your foolishness again it is likely to have very unfortunate consequences. Secondly you are sharing a bed with my son before your marriage and allowing him all kinds of liberties.”

Eleanor tried to prise the talon like fingers free but the older woman’s grip was surprisingly strong. “I do not recall you complaining when your son barged his way into my bed uninvited very shortly after our betrothal, nor do I recall you grumbling on our trip home when he continued to do so. It is none of your business what Raoul and I do.”

Aveline sighed again and said testily, “Oh, do try to think! You are playing a very dangerous game, in effect waving a very juicy bone before a starving dog and hoping it does not leap to bite your fingers off. I see the way he looks at you – hungry. You keep fending him off, I trust? Despite these disgraceful arrangements of yours?”

Eleanor’s eyes blazed. “Of course, and I will thank you not to imply otherwise.”

“There you are, you see. You have worked yourself into a neat little trap; either you
continue fending him off and hope that Raoul’s patience lasts, knowing that if it does not he will go elsewhere or get forceful, or you can surrender with a bit of dignity.” Aveline studied Eleanor hawkishly, and with a glimmer of triumph said, “You look mildly sick. Now I wonder which upsets you; the thought of him going elsewhere or you surrendering?”

“Neither, I assure you. He promised to honour me, and we both know he will keep that promise.”

“So …” said Aveline thoughtfully, finally loosing her hold on Eleanor’s arm a little. “What I do not quite see … you claim to be learning to love him, the pair of you certainly act like lovers, and yet you refuse him, quite frequently, I think. I do wonder why.” When Eleanor would have spoken Aveline tightened her grip once more. “Spare me the lies about honour; if you were concerned about honour you would still be in your old room at the very least. Also spare me the lies about that very necessary bloodstain; even stupid peasant girls can manage to blob a bit of chicken’s blood on a sheet and fool the outside world, and they do not often have the complicity of their new husband. So you see I am very curious; if you are what you claim then one would expect …” She smiled wolfishly and hitched a shoulder.

“I pity you. If this is all you have to fill your life you are a sad creature indeed.”

“Just answer the question, indulge an old woman’s curiosity. The obvious answer is that you really don’t have an attraction to him, despite your nice little shows. That, my dear, means you are lying. I wonder about that too; why? What do you gain?”

“The attraction is there and real; I would not know how to fake it.”

“Then why?”

Eleanor gave up on the fingers and tried squeezing Aveline’s writ hard at the joint; she felt the one woman’s bones shift slightly, ready to pop out of joint with more pressure, but still she could not win free of Aveline’s grasp. “Not that it is any business of yours I am frightened; simple, honest, dignified nerves.”

“Very easily mended, and waiting only makes the worrying worse. I know; I have been there and worried on it in the past. No need to torture yourself any more; I would wager my life Raoul will tear himself away from his work for you. With this mutual attraction of yours the experience should prove quite agreeable. Happy memories are so much better than imagined horrors, don’t you think?”

Eleanor spoke through clenched teeth, “You are disgusting.”

“And you are lying once again. You know what I think? You know my best answer to this little riddle you pose? I don’t think you are quite so innocent as you claim.”

Eleanor’s hand began to travel towards Aveline’s face in an open handed slap; about half way there she regained control and diverted her aim to chop the side of her hand into the pit of Aveline’s elbow. She hit with sufficient force to partly numb Aveline’s lower arm, and twisted free of her grip. Eleanor forced herself to laugh, not caring the end result sounded strange even to her own ears. “Look at me; it has been years since I have seen my reflection but I am familiar with the comments so I know what you must see. Who on earth would ever want me? Aside from Raoul? He is something of a miracle.”

Aveline cradled her injured arm close to her body and mused, “That bodyguard of yours was quite handsome, and he is mysteriously gone thanks to a small bit of very cautious speculation.”

“I send my bodyguard away myself to put an end to those rumours.” Eleanor headed for the door.

Aveline hurried after her, talking rapidly. “So, not a lack of attraction, not honour, not really fear, not a case of trying to hide lost virginity for as long as possible to delay the inevitable storm, certainly not lack of opportunity, and undoubtedly the problem rests with you because he is very eager. Interesting little problem I have found.”

Eleanor halted so abruptly Aveline nearly crashed into her back. “I am nervous. I am not suited to this and it is not something I ever saw myself doing. For once in my life I would like something to be honest instead of a fraud, and I would rather not start my marriage off on one big lie. I really do not care for the assorted risks, especially when they are mostly negated by waiting just a few more days.” She began walking again.

“Risks: there are none, not for a spymaster and his agent; at least not any you will not face anyway. Nerves: easily fixed. Shock of an unexpected change of direction: should have worn off long ago, and again easily fixed. Honesty: considering you are lying yet again now I wonder that you dare try that excuse on me, and in a strange way it would be rather fitting for this marriage to start on a lie which requires a partnership between you and him to work.”

“Speculate away; I do not care. Raoul has more sense than to listen to your nonsense, and he is so busy now he should not be disturbed.” Eleanor rushed down the staircase as quickly as she could.

Aveline could not keep pace so she raised her voice and let it echo exultantly through the stairwell, “He is already wondering!”





Eleanor sat on the ground, knees drawn up to her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs. The chill of the ground and air was seeping into her bones now; she had not stopped to grab a cloak before leaving the manor building in considerable haste. She regretted that now; not only was it a cold day but she had come perilously, humiliatingly close to losing her temper completely. She had fled in a kind of mindless fear, proving her weakness and inviting more attacks in the future along a similar vein.

Her arm stung and throbbed on the imprints of Aveline’s fingers. For a second she focused on the pain, then with the ease of long practise she mentally shunted it to one side so it became no more than a background irritation.

The space between her shoulder blades itched; Eleanor glanced back over her shoulder, towards the manor. She could not tell if anyone was watching her through one of the windows; she would not be surprised to find Trempwick’s mother lurking at one like a sentry watching for a besieging army’s moves. Eleanor shivered; this exposed position right in full view of fully half the manor was not comfortable, not when she wanted to be alone without even the suspicion of other people. But she had to stay where Trempwick could find her easily; he had made it quite clear at the palace two months ago, and in the time since then, that he was no longer inclined to be tolerant of her vanishing.

She said quietly, “He is already wondering.”







Scary yet mildly cool fact: I recently picked up a new (to me, actually 5 books with a few more to come) series of books by someone called Diana Gabaldon. According to a post I saw by the author on her forum the last book in the series is 500,000 words, though whether that is rounded up or down I don't know. My paperback copy of that book weighs in at 1412 pages. Eleanor is currently 252, 525 words long, making it about 700 pages long if published in the same format, text size etc. I've written a normal sized novel and still have plenty left to add ...

Trempy: 2 members
Anne: 2 members
Fulk: 4 members
Nell: 3 members (feeling better but still sulking)
Godit: 5 members
Anti-Trempy: 2 members

Nell is jealous; she is the main character and this is her story, yet Godit, a minor character only recently introduced, has a much bigger fanclub than her.

coz1, Godit just flounced off muttering something about cowards.

Actually there are plenty of records in history of 12 year old mothers; it's just not terribly common and many of them died in labour.

The identity of the second Trempy fanclub member is :drumroll:

Avernite said:

Where do I sign up for the fanclub?

Click to expand...

:fanfare:

Eleanor’s nose, feet, ears and hands had just gone comfortably numb with cold when she heard someone walking up behind her, quiet but making just enough noise for her to catch. She turned her head a little and said, “How kind of you not to ruin my peace with a lot of shouting and hollering, master.”

A pair of legs clad in dark green hose appeared in her view as Trempwick looped about to stand in front of her. “My mother was being most insistent I chase after you and drag you back home right now, so here I am. She is also insisting I beat you for nearly breaking her arm, and is making a lot of noise about your general behaviour, lies and lack of good manners. She came barging into my study presumably shortly after you left, and has been most adamant ever since.”

“Really? Well then I complain loudly and generally, supply the details yourself, about her manners, behaviour and insist you beat her for attacking and insulting me.”

Trempwick sighed and massaged his temples. “Quite frankly this is giving me a headache. Do get up, beloved Nell. I find speaking at the ground most undignified.” He took her hand to help her to her feet. “Nell, dearest, your hands are freezing!” He touched the back of one hand against her cheek, then checked her other hand. “Freezing indeed.” Quickly he pulled his cloak off and bundled her up snugly. “If you really must go gallivanting around in light clothes you could have done so yesterday when the weather was warm! Are you trying to make yourself ill?”

“I am perfectly alright.”

“Like a block of ice, almost as if you wanted to catch a chill. Come on.” With one arm wound about her back and holding onto her far elbow he began to escort her back towards the manor. “I shall stick you next to a fire and get you something warming to drink, and heaven help you if you move before you are suitably toasty.”

“Really, I am fine.”

“Until tomorrow when you have a nasty cough, you mean? Nell, you cannot afford to take chances with your health; journeys, weddings, your family, my mother – quite enough trouble when you are hale. I have great faith in you, sweetest Nell, but I will not lie and say your days at the palace before I arrive are going to be easy or safe. You will only have my mother for support, and unlike I she will not risk stepping in between you and your family. You must keep your head down, play your part to perfection, stay out of trouble, and above all be alert.”

“I am very resilient; you know that.” Eleanor leaned into Trempwick a little, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Yes, but that is no reason to tempt fate.”

“Tempting fate is stuffing me back in the same room as your mother. There is a reason I left, why I prefer to freeze out here. Much more of her and one of us is going to die, and I am the one with the agent’s training.”

“Sweet Nell, while I might actually be very grateful if you killed my delightful mother I would much prefer you not to. You would feel very guilty, and those nightmares would return; I do hate to see you suffer, and I like being able to sleep soundly too. You will apologise to her-“

Eleanor stiffed. “But-”

Trempwick raised his voice substantially to drown her out, “Don’t interrupt, darling Nell. There will be no more fighting; you will learn from her and tolerate her as necessary. She is a part of your cover act while you are at the palace, just as she was before. You will not damage that cover, or draw undue attention to yourself during your little trip to play with the queen.”

“She should be apologising to me. She said-”

“I know what she said. I have dealt with it; she will not meddle like that again. Really you should not have risen to her bait.”

Eleanor stopped walking and pulled free of him. “If I did not then many would claim it proved her right,” she said hotly.

“Equally, many could claim your reaction was a tad guilty. There is no single response which looks more innocent than others, so best choose dignity instead.” He raised his eyebrows to enquire if she had anything to add to that but Eleanor kept her jaw firmly clenched on the threatening explosion, fighting once again for control. “Speaking of dignity, and please note that this is just me covering all potential possibilities, if there is anything you need to tell me I will forgive you so long as you do not let me find out for myself, and be assured I would know, you could not hope to hide any .. well, that is … um, … prior experience.” He began to colour.

Eleanor flailed her arms free of the enshrouding woollen cloth of the cloak and planted her fists on her hips. “There really is no way I can win, is there? You know, this is why I liked being single and forgotten – much easier.”

“Nell-”

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t, and everyone has their own ideas of what I should be doing with my life and they persist in telling me them over and over and then insult me if I do not match up with them!” She waved an arm in the air energetically; not held in place by the heavy brooch Trempwick’s cloak began to slip off. “No one will believe me when I say I am not some slut; really I am beginning to wonder what exactly it is about me which makes people say these things!”

“Nell-”

“Demands, endless demands! If I don’t meet them then people start wondering, and people have very unpleasant imaginations! I can’t possibly be worried or have a sense of honour or propriety, no, such things are entirely beyond me and I am a liar to even suggest I might posses such traits, and that only makes me all the more despicable!”

“Nell-”

The cloak slipped some more, and now the dangling weight of the clasp began to tug the rest of the material inexorably groundward. With a growl Eleanor tore it free of her body and began to cramp the heavy woollen folds together into a more wieldy bundle with the brooch in the centre, twisting and thumping the material as if she could somehow wring its neck. “All the expectations are even worse; I am supposed to have done all kinds of things, really most of them quite insulting! Everyone has decided what I should be doing and not a one cares what I might want. I am far too old for this, and not suited to all this mushiness at all, but I do the best I can and that is obviously not good enough for anybody!” By now she had screwed the cloak up into a tight, misshapen ball. Finding nothing better to do with it she hurled it at Trempwick.

Trempwick caught the speeding bundle of cloth adroitly and began to shake it back out ready for wear again. “Nell-”

“To add the final annoyance to it all I am always left worrying; what if, what if, what does this mean, where might this go, now what am I supposed to be doing?! And in the end no matter how you look at it I am failing somehow – I cannot win! And who will get the blame regardless of how this turns out? Me, that is who! I am a lack moraled, untrustworthy, weak, sinful whore if I do sleep with you now and any but the two of us know about it, and a cold, lying, whore with a great deal to hide if I do not. Have you any idea what my family would do in that first case? Disowned, cast out without a penny to my name, battered close to death, hated, reviled – that would just be the beginning, and I would only be lucky enough to escape being dumped in a remote, unpleasant, strict convent because we are contracted, and I presume you might complain about losing me and press your claim on me. In the second instance? You hate me, your mother insults me, and both of you are wondering away, tagging me with all kinds of foul labels and accusations, and doubtless so is everyone else who see us! And in all this no one cares that, honestly, I find the idea quite disgusting and terrifying. No, go on and get it over with now, they say, or stop being stupid, or whatever. Same logic as having all your teeth pulled because one might go rotten and you are afraid of having it pull-”

Trempwick put an end to her outburst by clamping hand over her mouth; her words emerged muffled into his palm for a while and she struggled unsuccessfully to pull his hand away before she gave up and fell into smouldering silence.

“Dear Nell, I think I get the idea; I think most of the shire gets the idea.” He removed his hand, placing it on her shoulder instead. “My mother’s poison is quite effective, I think. If I am honest, yes I do wonder, but who would not in like circumstances? I do not ask because I do not wish to be pushy, and I do not really believe you capable of any of the … erm, well … unpleasant options.” He took a slow, deep breath. “Frightened. Well, you had not really said, and, you never struck me as the kind to be bothered by something so mundane.” He cleared his throat noisily a few times. “I take it from a part of your little outburst that someone,” his tone left no doubt as to whom he believed to be the guilty party, “has told you that the best way to … erm, suggested that … experience and all that?”

Eleanor admitted miserably, “Yes. But really that does not help at all – I am still damned petrified, and will continue to be so. Same problem, just moved forward a bit in time.”

“True, but I suppose less pressure and no waiting guests might help?”

“I do not think so; it is generally the same er, events.” She felt her face burn as she went a nice scarlet.

“Um … well, I suppose I had also really better say …” The blood rushed to his face and he addressed his shoes in a mumble, “Stop thinking and worrying and leave it all to me. You see, it will … that is to say … physically speaking it … um, it will just … it will make things worse. For you. Um, mentally too …”

Eleanor’s eye ticked. “Er …?”

“It … well, it …” He coughed and cleared his throat a couple of times. “Just ask my mother to explain or something. Trust me, stop worrying, and above all relax.” He coughed a little more and swapped to staring up at the sky. “Erm … as much as I would like to set your mind at rest, well if I am equally honest, that is … look, I am no good at talking about these things, only doing, and um, well this really is not the place, not that I meant we should here, no, no far from it!” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down a few times like an empty barrel in a turbulent river, and he went a deep crimson. “Ahem. Yes, well, all in all this little trip to the palace might be a good thing. More knowledgeable people, and stuff. Useful. I just … well, that is you are kind of a daughter to me, and, well, really this just is not the type of thing …”

Eleanor nodded in perfect understanding. “Yes, it feels like incest to me too.”

“Erm, that was not what I meant. Um … incest?”

“I always saw you as something of a second father. Our present situation does begin to get … um, weird, at certain points.”

“Oh. Damn. Now there is an unforeseen downside to raising your future wife. Incest, well, well. Damn. Er, I imagine that feeling will go away?”

“Hmmmm, no idea. You see me as a daughter, partly.”

“Well, yes … that is, no … well, not quite, certainly not in that way! No incest feeling anyway, just a nagging feeling I should really pass you off to your mother right about now and run for it.”

“Pity she is dead.”

“Quite,” agreed Trempwick quickly. “Inconvenient.”

“Yes.”

“Very.”

“She never had much time for me anyway.”

“No.”

“So that does not help at all, does it?”

“No, quite right.” Trempwick forced a silly looking bright smile. “Well, I imagine we will manage somehow. Incest – Nell, you really do know how to put a damper on things!”

“Sorry.”

“You know I shall forget any ideas of suggesting a nice traditional private farewell tonight; we can play chess instead. Er, well, that is unless you want …?”

“Not really.”

“Ah … um … yes. Look, I shall tell you what, sweet Nell. When we get inside I shall sit you down next to a nice fire and go see about some food for a private dinner, just the two of us. We can spend the rest of the day doing whatever we end up doing, whatever that might be. Whatever we do find to do will definitely lack my mother, and that is a very great advantage.”

“But what about your work?”

“France can spy on itself for the rest of the day.” He replaced his cloak about her shoulders, this time pinning it in place, and risked a very tentative kiss.

Eleanor declared faintly, “I think I need a drink.”

Trempwick nodded sagely. “Me too. Something strong. Very strong. And in a large cup.”






The next morning Eleanor’s, Aveline’s and Juliana’s horses were saddled and ready to go, along with a singular pack horse loaded with everything Aveline had brought to the manor and a bag with the few items and changes of clothes Eleanor was taking to the palace.

The servants rushed about, finishing their preparations and helping Aveline and her maid onto their mounts.

Trempwick had drawn Eleanor to one side, safely out of the chaos. He had decided not to accompany them to the village where the rest of Aveline’s escort waited to join them, claiming that dragging out a separation only ever made it worse.

“I thought you might like this,” he said, pulling a small square parcel of plum coloured silk from the scrip at his belt. “A parting gift. I have had it for a while; I have been holding onto it for a suitable occasion and now, especially in light of yesterday, seems like the right time.”

Eleanor carefully unwrapped the gift, revealing the glitter of a simple gold ring. She picked it up by one edge and examined it closely. It was a slender band with one face flattened and widened very slightly. A gooseberry exactly like the one in her badge had been engraved lightly there, rather like a seal ring; the design had not been reversed or cut deep enough for the ring to be used for that purpose. A leaves and stem design chased around the middle of the band, again not cut very deep into the metal.


Trempwick urged, “Look inside the band.”

She did so; tiny little letters chased about the inside of the ring. It was written in Trempwick’s code, and the sixth word had been engraved more strongly than the rest. She read it out, “Not a proper princess, and better for it.”

“Now you can carry the truth with you you have no excuse for forgetting it. I trained you; if I am not qualified to judge no one is.”

Eleanor teared up. “Thank you.” She flung her arms around him in a tight, which he returned. Trempwick winced as the hilt of one of her knives caught him on the collarbone and eased away from her a bit before further damage could be inflicted.

“Try it on; it should fit your right ring finger.”

It did, resting comfortably above the slender gold twist that had been her false wedding ring without hampering her finger’s flexibility or promising to harm her ability to grip her dagger firmly.

Trempwick held her hand lightly at the wrist and fingertips, turning it carefully so he could admire the fit and look of his gift. “Perfect; it fits very well, and only when you look right up close can you see that it is anything more than a simple, plain band. You have to be thinking of princess Eleanor to make the gooseberry connection; the writing will be hidden unless the ring is removed and only a very few can read my code, so it will be quite safe for you to wear all the time.”

From the middle of the courtyard Aveline said loudly, “When you have quite finished.”

Trempwick glanced over his shoulder and then back. “Well, I do believe we have our orders.” He kissed her fiercely, crushing her body against his, taking his time with this final goodbye. Eventually he broke the kiss; suddenly deprived of his support Eleanor tottered, breathless and rather giddy. Wordlessly he led her over to her waiting horse and helped her up into her saddle. “Six days,” he said softly.

“Six days,” she agreed. Impulsively she placed one hand on his shoulder for balance, leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

Trempwick grinned and placed one hand at the back of her head so he could kiss her on the mouth again. It was short lived; the angle was too awkward and her seat too precarious. He clasped her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm instead. “An eternity. Now get moving before my mother starts griping.”

Eleanor obediently touched her heel lightly to the flank of her new milk white mare. Trempwick walked along at the side of her horse, out the main gate and some distance along the road, still clasping her hand. He gradually began to slow his pace slightly as he went. His hand began to incrementally slip free of hers. Soon only their fingers remained in contact, and then not even that. Eleanor looked back and raised the same hand in a forlorn wave. Trempwick smiled and raised his own hand, then blew her a kiss.

Eleanor ducked her head, her eyes welling up with unexpected tears. A few moments later she had her control back and proudly raised her head to look straight ahead. She did not look back again.








Wee! 10,000 views reached and topped!

uts up a sign saying ‘Warning! Gooseberry explosion in progress!’: I think she is a trifle upset.

Please excuse me while I giggle at the embarrassed Trempwick I think that has to be one of my favourite Nell/Trempy scenes. He has often been embarrassed when talking about sex with Nell, but this is the first time he has really gone to pieces

What do you think, Thames?

Sorry, Avernite. Perhaps Judas has some Trempy fanclub surivival kits to hand out?

So far the Trempy and anti Trempy groups are level pegging. How exciting!

Well, King, I have some good news for you; by email someone mentioned an anti Aveline club.

Trempy: 2 members
Anne: 2 members
Fulk: 4 members
Nell: 3 members (feeling better but still sulking)
Godit: 5 members
Anti-Trempy: 2 members
Anti-Aveline: 1 member (the email chap; membership is by request)

Aveline!? Truth!? coz1, Nell is now Not A Happy Gooseberry as far as you are concerned.

“So much for not even wanting to see her,” said Godit, her voice rather distorted because she was sat slumped forward at Fulk’s table with her head resting on her crossed arms.

Fulk neither looked away from the narrow window overlooking the inner courtyard nor spoke; he continued to stand with his arms folded and his face impassive, eyes and attention riveted on the scene below. Though the courtyard fairly teemed with people to Fulk one stood out from the rest; a short, slender lady in red seated on a white palfrey. She was flanked by another expensive looking woman in blue, and a third, poorer woman hung back behind them, a maid of some sort, no doubt. There were no men at arms, and no sign of the spymaster. Sunlight caught and bounced off the narrow gold circlet Eleanor wore on her head, holding a simple white veil in place.

“She’s wearing her crown …” Fulk leaned forward slightly, bracing one arm against the stone wall.

The party came to a halt near the entrance to the great keep. Fulk’s lips curved in a faint smile as Eleanor dismounted on her own, dropping to the ground in a quietly showy dismount which left her looking every bit as composed and dignified as if she has been lifted down. She stood, hands clasped in front of her and her head bowed, apparently waiting. The woman in blue and the maid were both aided down, and the one in blue quickly made her way to Eleanor’s side. A quick conversation was held, one ending with Eleanor inclining her head deferentially to the other woman. She accepted without complaint the other woman attaching herself as closely as a guard with a particular untrustworthy prisoner. Eleanor made no move to do anything except continue to wait.

Grooms took the horses away, and servants hurried over to the royal nursery with bags and packs of belongings; someone had set up orders for her lodgings but no one had appeared to greet her. The third member of Eleanor’s party, the presumed maid, held a brief discussion with one of the servants and then departed off towards the rooms Eleanor had occupied during her last visit.

Footsteps crunched on the floor rushes behind him; Fulk did not turn. Godit evidently decided he would not be moved from his window so she could see; she took up station at one of the others giving a similar view. “So,” said Godit slowly, “the one in red; that is the famous Eleanor? The source of all your grief?”

Fulk’s reply was softly spoken, “No.”

“That is not the princess?”

“It is her.”

The woman in blue looked around the courtyard as if searching for something; as she turned to his tower Fulk caught a decent glimpse of her face. Even at a distance she was recognisable, and he pulled away from the window a bit. “Aveline.”

“Who?”

Furious with himself for flinching away Fulk stood so close to the arrow slit that the tips of his leather boots scuffed against the stonework of the wall.

Down in the courtyard Aveline said something to Eleanor; the princess nodded demurely and her head bowed a little lower.

Hugh and Anne finally put in an appearance to greet their guest a short while later. Fulk scowled as Aveline prompted Eleanor into going forward and delivering a curtsey as if she would never have thought of the idea on her own. The curtsey was far deeper than was required and she held it until her brother waved her up; he took longer than was needed in doing so, Fulk thought. Aveline was instantly back at her side, dropping her own, noticeably shallower, curtsey. Hers also ended sooner, following what was required to the letter but not going further.

“What have they done to you?” Fulk asked quietly.

“Nothing,” answered Godit cheerily, “I’m in quite excellent health.”

He ignored her, watching as Eleanor, Hugh, Anne and Aveline disappeared into the keep.






Hugh tamped down his impatience as he politely escorted his sister and her chaperone up to the royal solar, leaving much of the conversational work to Anne. Such banal trivialities suited the queen better than he, and he had other, more important matters to concern himself with. However it would be deeply unchivalrous to say so, or to interfere and bring and end to this too prematurely. Hugh reminded himself that women really could not be expected to understand the necessities of state business, and so how precious his time was at present.

In the solar the facileness continued; enquires about the two day trip – set out yesterday, arrived today; typical female dawdling - questions on health, compliments on appearances and clothes. Hugh smothered a sigh and rigidly set his face so his impatience would not show, settling down to endure the required, very polite boredom for a suitable length of time.

His patience was rewarded with one most interesting observation; Eleanor herself barely said a word, speaking only when spoken to. Perhaps the display outside was not purely acting, perhaps she was finally learning some good manners? This did not sit entirely comfortably; his sister was one of the higher ranking people here, far above the lady Aveline, who carried a good half of the conversation, and so one of those entitled to speak more freely. The potential possibility that Eleanor might not have any interest in the conversation and was therefore equally as bored as he was did cross Hugh’s mind, but was dismissed rather swiftly. Eleanor was female; pointless chatter about clothes and hair was something all women liked, even the remarkably sensible Constance, therefore it was quite inconceivable that she might find this tedious conversation not to her tastes. Nor could her reticence simply be dismissed as her natural character. No, Hugh decided, customary explanations did not suit whatever she was doing. She was being perversely contrary again, and that boded trouble. Trouble could not, and most certainly would not, be permitted.

“If I may speak with my sister alone for a moment?” he said politely, interrupting a while later at a suitable point where the conversation naturally paused to swap to a new topic.

The other two ladies filed out. Eleanor stayed seated; she clasped her hands in her lap and, miracle of miracles, continued to avert her gaze very properly at the floor instead of staring defiantly back at the world as she usually did. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I thought it best, and most honourable, to be entirely honest with you.” Hugh opened his scrip and removed the folded piece of parchment set with the royal seal that his father had given him prior to marching out. “You should read this; it concerns you.”

Eleanor accepted the letter from him, untied the thongs holding it closed and read in silence. “How delightful.” Hugh thought he detected a touch of dry sarcasm in her tone.

Hugh’s back stiffened. “Delightful is hardly a fitting term to describe a royal decree.”

“I find it most touching that our dear father is thinking of me and making arrangements for my … betterment.”

Hugh suspected that too was not the seemly reply it appeared to be on the surface, but he could find no one thing to take issue with. Not wanting to appear foolish and overly sensitive he did not deliver the firm rebuke he suspected he really should, telling himself it was not cowardice to give his sister the benefit of the doubt in light of her recent good conduct. “Indeed. It gladdens my heart considerably that you see it in that way. I shall take this to mean I do not need to dispense a long lecture on how I expect you to comport yourself while here; I am pleased.”

“So, he has transferred parental authority to you for as long as he is away.” She smiled and said warmly, “Congratulations; that is an unusual honour and a mark of his faith in you.”

Hugh found he had to pause again before he could answer, once again trying to discern any solid traces of mockery in her tone. “Thank you.” He took the letter back and replaced it in his belt pouch. “I was pleased to see you behaving in a dignified manner upon your arrival, in particular I am most pleased with the way you immediately and neatly removed any chance of public strife and contention between us by paying me such a deep homage. I do most sincerely hope your very public and fitting acknowledgement of me as your superior is not just an act; as my new responsibilities dictate I will not tolerate any of your … troublesome conduct.”

“I have no particular wish to marry as a mass of cuts and broken bones, so yes you may say that it is not an act.”

“The sentiment is fitting; the way it is expressed is not. I will overlook your implied mockery no longer.”

Eleanor’s eyes went wide and she looked up from the floor to meet his eyes. “Mockery? Dear brother, that is the truth; do remember how I got betrothed in the first place.”

Hugh dithered; at last he said sternly, “It is only fair, I believe, to warn you that you will probably find me far stricter than our father; I take my responsibilities very seriously at all times.”

“Are you implying our beloved father does not?”

“No, never,” he replied with alacrity. A wave of wretchedness swept through him, and he drowned in it. Caught so easily in behaviour which would be undignified and unacceptable in the lowest heathen beggar; this could never happen again. It would not, he privately swore, burning the terrible feeling of shame and his disastrous words into his memory so he would never, ever forget.

A moment of deliberation and the solution to his predicament concerning her potential mockery presented itself. He placed one hand on the hilt of his dagger and struck a pose he fancied to be imposing and masterful, fitting airs for this situation. “I also consider it most fair to warn you that from now on I shall no longer give you the benefit of the doubt; if I suspect there is room for mockery in your words I will assume it is so and act accordingly.”

Her face tiled back towards the floor, demure attitude restored. “Thank you for the warning.”

Stood as he was, with her seated and her face angled downwards Hugh abruptly realised she could be smiling – laughing at him! - and he would never see. “Look at me,” he commanded. Instantly she did so; blue eyes as clear as a summer sky, face open and easy to read, and mouth straight and serious. Still, something bothered Hugh.

Eleanor asked, “Is something wrong?”

Anger burned through Hugh; she could toy with him and make a fool of him in her own mind, leaving him with only these vague suspicions she was mocking him! His earlier solution now looked more harmful than it had first appeared; he could end up reacting to something no one but he thought was there, making a fool of himself again, or not reacting at all and still looking the fool. Hugh recognised and then banished the emotion; he would not walk that path. Peace, and calm clarity. “No. That is all for now; you may go.”





Eleanor sat in her room doing her best to keep her tenuous hold on her patience. Several hairs nearly departed her scalp as Juliana did something inept while braiding her hair; Eleanor did not bother to hide her wince.

Aveline, sat so she could scrutinise the princess, spotted it. “Watch what you are doing,” she snapped at her maid.

Juliana mumbled an appropriately contrite sounding apology and kept on braiding, no more careful now than she had been before.

Aveline was turning one of Eleanor’s hairpins about in her hands, seemingly fascinated by the way the steel core lent the pin the same springy flexibility that could be found in the best blades. “Why can’t you use proper hairpins?” she demanded.

“Because those are the only hairpins I have. They were a gift from Raoul, just like my knives.”

Aveline grunted. “We shall find you some proper ones.”

“They were a gift from Raoul,” Eleanor repeated. “I will not be parted from them.”

“They are weapons!”

“Yes.”

“So they are entirely unsuitable.”

“But only a very few people know this; to everyone else they look normal. Raoul gave me them; he told me to wear them whenever I had need of hairpins. This way I shall not be defenceless when I cannot take my knives. I believe you have been impressing upon me the importance of obedience to my future husband?”


Juliana finished tying off the end of Eleanor’s long plait with a ribbon and began pinning the braid up into a coil at the nape of her neck, a style much simpler than Aveline considered fitting but one of the few Eleanor would allow.

Aveline returned the pin she was looking at to the small pile on the table next to Eleanor. “I was delighted to see you heeding my advice when we arrived. I presume your brother was most pleased?”

“With Hugh one can seldom tell. He claimed to be pleased.”

“I told you as much; be dutiful and well mannered, let him know you accept that he is in charge and show this to all, then abide by it, and then there is no space for threats, bickering or violence. Know your place; all works better if you do.”

“My place? I really do not have one; agent-princesses do not feature in the lists of protocol.”

“Fool girl! Whatever else you may be you are royal first and foremost; blood is not discounted because of a dubious profession or attitude such as yours. You were born a princess, you will live, although you may claim otherwise, a princess and finally you will die a princess. You may play at being something else, and granted your life is not at all fitting to your rank, but in the end you are, and always will be, inescapably royal. It is who you are. The blood of three kings flows in your veins; you are sister to our next king, and even before your great grandfather donned the crown your family had ties to the throne.”

“I do know my family history, thank you.”

“Then start paying attention to it.”

Juliana finished working on Eleanor’s hair and offered her a polished bronze mirror; Eleanor waved it away without even glancing at her reflection. She felt over her hair, memorising where the blunt ends of her hairpins lay in case she needed to draw one swiftly.

Aveline said, “You are seated with a Welsh prince at dinner tonight; I do hope you mind your manners.”

“Almost prince,” corrected Eleanor. “His father would have become Prince of Wales, and his son royalty, if not for a slight diplomatic disappointment some years ago. Now he is merely the firstborn son of the Duke of Gwynedd, a hostage to his father’s good behaviour and our chosen pawn to inherit the dukedom, though we call him guest.”

Aveline waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. I expect you to be on your best behaviour – polite, courteous, pleasant, but beware not to be too flirtatious. I will not see you damage your name and nor will your brother, mark my words. If you misbehave your will answer for it.”

Eleanor laughed quietly. “Oh, I do think it a little late for that. Llwellyn ap Marfyn ap Tewdwr is one of the many suitors I scorned before my sixth birthday; if I wished to flirt with him I would have done so years ago. I only knew a little Welsh back then; Raoul taught me to be fluent. I was instructed to greet Llwellyn in his own language, since we would spend the rest of the time speaking French and English. I did; I told him ‘Rwyt ti'n esgys fach pathetic am dyn’.”

Eleanor smiled faintly, remembering the scene as she told her suitor he was a pathetic little excuse for a man, then winced at the memory of how much trouble she had gotten in as a result. Insisting that she was not trying to be very crude and had only wanted to say Llwellyn was very short, which he had been – several years older than her but only a finger’s breadth taller, had not had quite the disarming affect on her father’s wrath that she had hoped for. Still, she had been very young and her plan had worked out well enough, unpleasant ending or no.





Fulk lay abed staring up towards the ceiling of his room, only able to see it thanks to the pair of still lit candles burning on wall prickets near his bed. He could not sleep; once again he could not sleep.

The door to his room opened silently and a figure in a long, hooded cloak slipped in. Fulk’s hand closed on the hilt of his sword and he was out of bed with the blade drawn before his unexpected guest told him quietly, “I would say I can come back when it is more convenient, but I cannot.” Eleanor pushed the hood of her cloak back; her face was pale in the dim lighting, pale and apprehensive. Fulk’s heart leapt and twisted, both pain and joy at seeing her again, and he wanted very much to catch her up in a tight embrace and soothe away that anxiety, to fill that empty hole in his soul.

Fulk returned his sword to its sheath and leaned it up against the wall by his bed once again. He took his time carefully arranging the weapon, keeping his back to her.

“How is your leg?” she asked softly as he worked. “Did it heal well?”

“Just another scar now.” He stood up and turned to face her but moved no closer.

“I do not have long. I drugged Aveline and Juliana’s evening drink; one small dose of poppy juice split between two, all I could smuggle into the palace. I doubt they will think to check my room this late but I cannot be sure. We must be careful to be quiet; if I am found here I am ruined, and you along with me.” She was playing with her betrothal ring, spinning it around on her ringer. Fulk saw the corner of her lip crinkle as she bit the inside of it.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “Somehow I don’t think you’re risking so much just to ask about my leg.”

She took her time in answering. “Why is it everything seems so simple when you plan, but when the time comes it is hard to know where to begin?”

Fulk grabbed his tunic and pulled it on over his shirt. He reached for his hose; by the time he had one leg tied in place she still had not said anything else. “Start at the beginning,” he suggested briskly, pulling on the other leg.

“He knew, all along he knew but pretended otherwise.”

“‘He’ being your Trempwick, of course.”

“He is not my Trempwick; he never was and never will be. If he was I would not be here. If he knew I was here, and he has many spies in this place, he would be,” she grimaced, “extremely pissed off, as the peasants say.” She paused.

Fulk waited, giving her the time she needed to say what she wanted. His heart beat quicker; he was beginning to suspect he was about to be proved a complete idiot. He had seldom wanted something so much in his life.

“My feelings towards Trempwick have always been so mixed I could not unravel them no matter how hard I tried. Since our betrothal he has been kind, generous, forgiving, considerate, patient. He has bent himself to my wishes. He says he loves me.” She quietly admitted, “I hate him. He is a lying, manipulative bastard.” She stopped playing with her ring and took a deep breath. “I will not marry him; I am going to run away, although I prefer the term ‘escape’.”

Fulk finished buckling his belt on with trembling hands. “When do we leave?”

She smiled, her face lighting up and her nervousness disappearing. She came a half step closer, almost within his reach if he stretched out. “I had rather hoped you might say that. He knew, right from the start he knew – he was never fooled. He was trying to kill you, quietly, with the blame going elsewhere. I had to get you away to safety; I much prefer you alive to dead. I hoped to join you, just as I have done.”

“You could have told me,” said Fulk softly.

“I did my best – I said you should trust me no matter what.”

“Then you told me all my oaths were cancelled!”

In a shouted whisper Eleanor snapped, “Well I could hardly specify that you should keep the one which would have given it all away, you lackadaisical rust heap! And you are the one who brought up the whole question of oaths in front of Trempwick in the first place!”

Fulk found himself laughing. “I have missed you, oh joyously sweet tempered one, missed you more than I can say. Your plan was terrible though, no offence.”

“It worked. Anyway, I only had one rather disturbed night to plan things. Can we leave the complex, lengthy assigning blame and explaining until a more fitting date? I only have minutes. Tomorrow; be in the royal garden at ten o’clock in the morning. Do not tell anywhere where you are going; no one must know.”

“As you command, your royal shortness.”

Eleanor pulled the hood of her cloak back up, tugging it well forward to conceal her face. “I should go.”

Only a few short steps apart anyway they met without being sure of who made the first move. Fulk wrapped his arms lightly around her and pushed the hood back off her head; he ran a hand over her loose hair, smoothing it back down. He could smell very faint perfume, the lingering traces of some light, floral scent she had been wearing in the day. Fulk breathed deeply, slowly filling his lungs with the elusive, pleasant fragrance. Eleanor leaned against him, arms entwined around his chest and head pillowed on one shoulder, relaxed and peaceful. Tension, worry, concern, tiredness, everything flowed away from Fulk, leaving only serenity and a knowledge that this was perfectly right, and that for now, here, all was very well in the world.

Eleanor sighed happily. “I am promoting you to … husband, I should think. Unless you have any objection?”

“None at all.”

“A secret marriage, unfortunately, and I suspect it will have to remain unconsummated for quite a while, but I can at least provide us a witness no one would dare accuse of lying. Tomorrow.”

Fulk caught up her right hand in his, still cradling her close. “I, Fulk, plight thee, Eleanor, my troth, as God is my witness.”

“I, Eleanor, plight thee, Fulk, my troth, as God is my witness.”

They sealed the betrothal with one very lengthy kiss.

Eleanor’s hand touched the side of Fulk’s face lovingly. “Do not worry about a ring; I have one from you and I do not need another.”

“I can get you one if you want.”

Eleanor chuckled. “I all but heard your heart skip a few beats there! You cannot afford one, and I could not wear it in public anyway, so we shall do without.” When he would have protested she silenced him with a kiss. “Rings and expensive gifts did Trempwick no good. I will not be brought.”

Fulk gently traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “I never thought that.”

“I know.” Without moving she said, “I should go.”

“Will you be alright going back alone?” Reluctantly Fulk let her go.

She touched the heavy folds of her cloak with one hand. “This breaks up my outline and makes it easier for me to hide. Even if I am spotted no one will know it is me unless they get close enough to see my face. If that happens …” She pulled a waxed cord out of her left sleeve. “Strangulation is easy so long as it is unexpected, and I doubt anyone expects to be murdered by me.”

Fulk drew her back for one final, tender kiss. “Be careful.”

“I will.” As Fulk walked over to the door with her Eleanor suddenly grinned. “You half expected me tonight, I think.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your door; you left it unbolted.”

“I hoped.”









A note for those who can’t remember little things said months ago: Nell’s betrothal to Trempy was (obviously) done under duress, and therefore according to medieval secular and church law it is not legally binding. That leaves her free to get betrothed or married to someone else. Obviously this creates all kinds of tangles, and general running around of characters yelling “Gah!”.

That would be one of very few mush scenes I actually want to write. I think it turned out … not exactly great. Well, whatever it is, it is substantially better than the plain horrible early drafts. For once I have a very, very clear mental picture of what they are doing for the entire scene; usually I can half hear the characters’ voices in my imagination. It has proven very hard to describe what I see, very hard. I just don’t know how to; I don’t have the words or knowledge.

It’s a rather beautiful scene in my mind; one of those major scenes which make me want to tell this story. A princess and her knight (or perhaps a knight and his gooseberry?), about to shove a lit rocket up the arse of their world

This is another ending but still not the ending. This marks the end of the slow part, aka ‘building but not quite there’.

Yes, this does leave a lot unexplained, and I know I also promise realism in what happens. As Nell says, “Tomorrow.” However it will not be tomorrow for you poor, addicted readers; I suspect the next part is going to take me quite a while to write.

Thanks, bigdan.

Avernite, that will be news to Judas' ears. I think the poor chap might need something to pick him up after this part. :sends Judas a strong drink:

coz1, I think maybe just ...

If Godit married Trempy she would be a duchess ...

392 pages of book format text, 257,902 words, 6 months, God knows how many hours - I've come much too far to simply throw everything away with an unrealistic, forced, unbelievable ending.

No sooner had she dressed Eleanor found herself whipped off to the royal solar by Aveline and Juliana, stripped down to her shift and stood up on a stool in the middle of the room surrounded by breakfasting ladies with designs on outfitting her for her wedding. Anne took some mercy on her and handed her a cup of small ale and some of yesterday’s bread with strict instructions to eat without dropping crumbs.

Juliana had lugged up all of Eleanor’s clothing and, as the least important person present, held up each item one by one for inspection by the others as they ate. The jury passed verdict on each item, deciding if it should be placed on the accepted pile or the rejected pile.

By the time the food had vanished the sorting was complete; the accepted pile consisted of one pair of soft leather shoes with a decorative band running from ankle to toe tip. The reject pile held everything else.

The older Scottish woman, apparently one of Anne’s maids with the ridiculous name of Mariot, began clucking about the princess catching her death of cold while stood on her stool in nothing more than her shift. A fire was quickly laid out and lit in the hearth.

Ignored up on her stool Eleanor took a look about her. Constance sat in one of the high backed chairs, dozing with one hand draped protectively over her lower stomach. She had refused all offered food, claiming her digestion was still tender even if the morning sickness was slowly fading. Hugh’s wife looked surprisingly well; she smiled as she slept.

Aveline had taken the other seat near the fire in a cacophony of creaking joints; the journey to Woburn and then on to the palace had taken its toll on her aging bones, she had declared primly when everyone had collectively winced on her behalf. Juliana hovered near her mistress when she did not have reason to be away.

Anne had chosen one of the window seats; seated properly her feet hung an inch off the ground, and the tip of one shoe could be seen swinging carelessly beneath the dangling hem of her skirts. Anne’s three maids dispersed themselves about the room; Mariot sat with Anne. The other two, introduced as Godit and Adela, claimed the second window seat.

Surrounded, isolated, singled out and put on display – Eleanor felt like a murderess at her trial.

Aside from the two piles of her belongings a third enormous pile took up most of the solar table; bolts of different fabrics in all sorts of materials and colours. A few wicker sewing boxes littered the floor ready to break someone’s ankle.

Godit snatched up a knotted cord and advanced on Eleanor. “Right, to work.” She quickly whipped the cord around Eleanor at several critical points, calling out her measurements for someone else to note down. Done, she cast the measuring cord back where it came from and declared, “Good figure, except for those hips. Suggestions, ladies?”

Predictably Eleanor felt herself blush. She did her best to close her ears and not react to the following conversation; she had far better things to occupy her mind than another recitation of her lacks and the problems they caused. Suggestions ranged from dressing her in baggy clothing to hide her lack of hips to padding them out with extra material. Such simple, petty worries and with such simple, petty solutions, and yet the whole room acted as if this minor nothing of a crisis was deeply significant. Eleanor envied them such straightforward cares.

In the end Constance provided the answer; she didn’t even open her eyes as she suggested sleepily, “A girdle, clinch it tight at her waist and no one will take any notice of her hips. Her clothes will naturally flare out a bit too then, and the contrast between waist and rest will make her hips seem larger.”

Adela clutched one hand to her heart, scandalised. “Girdles aren’t in fashion; hardly anyone wears them with a cyclas!”

Anne countered, “Eleanor is a princess; she sets fashion, not follows it.”

“Indeed,” proclaimed Aveline somewhat ominously. “It is up to us to make best use of what is there, princess and clothing both. As long as we can make it look good then it is acceptable.”

Godit giggled. “I always wanted to be a fashion starter!”

Up on her stool Eleanor rolled her eyes.

More debate ensued on the choice of colour. The group swiftly split into two main parties and one stubborn outsider. Anne, Aveline and Adela favoured blue. Constance, Godit and Mariot went for a shade that was a mix between deep red and plum purple. Juliana stubbornly, and friendlessly, insisted on a similar red to the clothes Eleanor had arrived in yesterday.

Mariot grabbed a scrap of the reddish purple and held it up against Eleanor’s breastbone. “Look, see? It brings colour and warmth to her skin, goes with her hair, looks well enough and is undoubtedly expensive.”

Anne snatched up a few bits of the assorted shades of blue and held them up on the other side of Eleanor’s breastbone; she had to stand on tiptoe to reach. “Blue does all that and goes with her eyes.”

“She wears blue frequently; her wedding is supposed to be special.”

“She often wears blue at court because it suits her.”

“Only deeper blues are expensive enough for royalty; lighter hues even peasants can wear.”

“So? Everyone knows who she is – no one can mistake the bride at her own wedding.”

“Believe me they can.”

The bits of blue were pressed against Eleanor’s chest firmly. “Blue. This is a royal wedding, not some yokel affair where the bride is wearing only her Sunday best and her drunken groom is off making free with the bridesmaids!”

The plum equally increased in firm pressure. “Murray. As you say, this is a royal wedding.”

Aveline was not at all happy with the maid’s familiarity with her queen. She interrupted, “My son likes her in blue.”

Godit went to her friend’s aid immediately, saying, “But we are not dressing her for you son, are we?”

“Unless she is going to swap the groom with no warning or permission, yes we most certainly are!”

Anne heatedly retorted, “No – we are dressing her to do credit to herself and her family!”

Up on her stool Eleanor said, “I was thinking russet …” Then everybody would be happy – Fulk liked russet on her, she rather liked russet, Trempwick tolerated russet, no one had never complained specifically about russet.

She was completely ignored as the war between blue and purplish red went on.

The sun had moved around so it shone directly on Constance’s face, forcing her to move her chair over, by the time the group had reached a sullen consensus on blue, but only if a deep blue brocade featured prominently somewhere.

Eleanor was beginning to worry; it was already about half past nine and she looked likely to be trapped here for hours longer. She had given Anne some rushed, secretive orders yesterday evening, but she was not entirely sure she could rely on the young queen to remember and enact them in the midst of something which was clearly supposed to be exciting. Unnoticed by everyone else she smiled wryly; either she laughed about her allies or she would start weeping. A child, a baseborn bastard and herself; with this she had to stop a spymaster. Saints did easier tasks daily. Two allies, only one of whom was in this room. Eleanor quickly glanced about her again; there was at least one Judas here, possibly more, and Aveline did not count because she would betray Eleanor without the traditional forty pieces of silver. Involuntarily Eleanor shivered and the hairs at the back of her neck stood up; a combination of events usually attributed to someone walking over your future grave. Lonely panic welled up; frantically Eleanor battled to repress it.

“Cold, dear?” enquired a voice with a Scottish lilt at her elbow. Eleanor fairly jumped out of her skin. It was the older maid, Mariot. “I’ll put another log on the fire. You’re lucky there’s window glass here or you would truly catch your death.”

Eleanor managed a weak smile. “Thank you.” She began to take notice of the conversation again, taking more careful note of everyone, what they said and how they acted.

Anne said, “The shift has to be fine white linen, of course, but we can add a heavy border to the neck and hem in several shades of blue stitching.”

Godit was nodding enthusiastically. “Perhaps we can make use of her gooseberry badge for the motif?”

Adela suggested, “And we could work in her father’s lion too?”

Eleanor scowled and insisted loudly, “No. No gooseberries, and no lions or anything else designed to tell everyone who I am. If they do not know by the time I am stuck in bed with Raoul then they are fools beyond all aid.”

A rather awkward silence held until Mariot suggested, “I saw this very simple design used once before; a cross shaped emblem contained in the diamonds formed by a pair of crossing zigzag lines. The empty spaces are filled with half versions of the cross.” She sketched out a quick demonstration on the bit of cheap parchment with Eleanor’s measurements jotted down on it and passed it around the company. “Simple, but quite stunning to the eye; perhaps this will do?”

Juliana gave one of her rare contributions as she pulled out a bolt of very fine white linen from the mass on the table and set it to one side ready for use. “We could do the thinner borders like that, and use some kind of animal motif for the thicker borders? Roosting birds in branches?”

Aveline said, “Combine the two; we can use the bird pattern for the main, and the cross pattern for the edging, all done as small as may be. Three or more solid inches of good embroidery at hem and collar; it will look most impressive without introducing a clash of theme.”

Godit leaned forward to confide in a scandalous raised whisper, “Why do we need to use linen? Why not white silk?”

Aveline sniffed and glared reprovingly at the maid. “Because we do not want her to look like a harlot, that is why.”

Godit raised her eyebrows and muttered, “Well, my eldest sister would argue there; she wore silk and she is so virtuous she could bore a nun to tears.”

“What fits the lower nobility does not fit royalty,” declared Aveline firmly.

Eleanor ignored much of the following conversation about clothing, instead focusing on surreptitiously watching people, studying their mannerisms and responses, learning what little she could about everyone here. At least one of Anne’s maids would be in Trempwick’s employ; if not he was getting unforgivably lax. Eleanor found that all three made good choices, and all three seemed highly unlikely. Trempwick might choose to approach someone who seemed totally unsuitable, or then he might pick the most obvious one simply because it was never supposed to be the obvious one. If you wanted obvious then you immediately went for the sole English presence, followed by the gossipy, stupid seeming one. If you wanted unlikely then you had a tie between all three; ‘mother’, moron, and meek. Eleanor mentally tagged all three as Trempwick’s people for safety. She could only hope Anne had not let any of them find out too much of the already exceptionally limited information Eleanor had fed her. Looking at how the young queen interacted with her three maids Eleanor had the sinking feeling that the girl trusted them all implicitly. Eleanor also earmarked Juliana for future investigation.

Godit’s confident, “She will wear her hair unbound, of course, so no need to worry about styles.” Captured the edges of Eleanor’s attention and pulled her mind back from her musing. Clothing details had been finalised. Quickly piecing together the things she had overheard without paying attention Eleanor decided they were going to dress her in much the same thing as she had worn at court after Christmas. One unfortunate detail finally dawned on her; with those clothes, the limitations placed on a bride, and her hair loose she would be completely disarmed. This should not be a problem but still it sat uneasily.

Mariot said, “What about a veil? She could or could not; either would work.”

Eleanor raised her voice and said, “No, no veils.” Simple principle; if she was going to be disarmed she would not be hampered by headgear as well.

“What about a circlet of flowers?” suggested Adela. “What blooms in February anyway?”

Anne said, “She will be wearing her own crown.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh golly! We should have taken the gold into account when choosing our colours!” Anne dug Eleanor’s crown out of the chaos and handed it up to her.

Eleanor took the simple circlet, holding it carefully so her fingertips only contacted the narrow edges of the band where no one would see the marks they left, and inspected it. She wiped a thumbprint off the gleaming gold with the sleeve of her shift. Slowly, holding the crown in both hands, she lowered it onto her head with conscious dignity. Because she had insisted on a simple style with the bulk of her hair kept low down on her head the circlet fitted exactly as it had been made to do. She arched one eyebrow at Aveline, silently scoring a victory in her battle against Aveline’s insistence on fancy hairstyles.

Mariot nodded approvingly. “The gold goes so well with her hair. Say what you like in praise of corn coloured blonde; nothing goes so well with gold as proper black.”

An agreeable murmur ran about the room and a few offshoot conversations on hair colours started. Eleanor began to despair; it had to be ten o’clock now, probably later.

Anne clapped her hands. When she got the silence she wanted she said, “We have four days until the wedding; three days to work and one morning to tweak shortly before she goes to the church door. We had best get to work. You two,” she pointed at Juliana and Adela, “work on the shift. You two,” Mariot and Godit, “the cyclas. Aveline, you tackle the underdress; I shall find someone to help you if Constance does not feel up to sewing. I will also enlist competent people to take over our work when we require a break; if we make use of every daylight hour God sends, and burn a few candles, we will have our work done. I will make sure Eleanor knows everything she needs.”

Aveline said cautiously, “It may be best if I were to do that. I have been married twice; that lends me a certain … seniority.”

Constance yawned, stretched and sat up properly. “No need to put yourself out, lady Aveline. I shall assist Anne; family, and all. I think I am senior enough.”

A significant look passed between the two, removing any last lingering traces of hopeful doubt Eleanor had as to what kind of education they were talking about. Aveline inclined her head very slightly. “Then I shall set to work. Make sure she is word perfect on the vows in particular; it is bad luck to hesitate or stumble on the words.”

Anne and Constance quickly helped Eleanor back into the rest of her clothes and made their escape. Eleanor began to search for ways to get to the garden without it seeming remarkable. For a very brief moment Eleanor considered letting Constance tag along; she was highly unlikely to be in Trempwick’s employ and she could make a very valuable ally. Eleanor dismissed the idea rapidly; valuable Constance might be but there was very little chance Eleanor could win her over to her cause just yet. She would have to be dumped along the wayside somewhere; judging from the way the poor woman could barely stay awake they would have no difficulty persuading her to return to her rooms and rest.

They made their way down the staircase and through the main hall in silence. Hugh was holding court in the hall with some important looking men Eleanor didn’t recognise; from what she overheard while stealthily making her way to the exit it appeared to be a discussion of tavern licensing in the castle town, in which case the men would be guild representatives and town aldermen. Hugh occupied the throne stiffly; even kings enthroned on wax seals looked more comfortable and less formal than he did. Eleanor was astonished to see Hugh raise one hand in a salute to his wife as she skulked past, a wave Constance returned. Hugh blushed and his speech fragmented and slowed down as he forgot what he was saying in the distraction; it picked up soon enough, now with a new tone that sounded quite close to embarrassment to Eleanor.

The bailey was also busy; Eleanor managed to direct things in her favour by suggesting they retire to her guest room where they would be assured of peace and quiet. As they closed the front door Constance said to Anne, “You are getting very good at giving commands to those who are not servants.”

“Thank you. I do try my best.”

“Eleanor, your future mother-in-law is a dragon. If you cannot find Saint George to give her battle I suggest you hit her over the head with your crown.” Constance left a beat before adding innocently, “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

Eleanor laughed. “Believe me I have considered it!”

“Rather than delay I shall get the embarrassing bit over and done with now; advice for your wedding night from someone a deal more experienced than our little queen, no offence intended, Anne.” Constance made a dramatic pause and fixed her audience with a stern, motherly gaze. She imparted extremely gravely, “Do your duty and do as your husband says; be guided by his superior knowledge.” She shrugged and reverted to her normal voice. “Well, I am sure that was far less painful than Aveline’s version of the same speech would have been. Now for the bits she would not have told you. Do not listen to other people’s horror stories or tales of wonder; what was theirs will not be yours. Remember who you are; he would be a fool to upset you. Remember who you know, and again he would be a fool to harm you. The spymaster may be a trickier proposition than most husbands but you are a princess, you are friends with the queen and myself, and your father and brother will not stand for any slights to you. Do not antagonise him, but do not let him crush you underfoot either. Now I shall leave you in peace and see about finding myself something to eat which I will not bring right back up again.”

Eleanor watched through the murky, distorting window glass as Constance headed off towards the kitchen building. Eleanor asked, “She is going to eat in the kitchens?”

“Yes, she does that most days now; evenings are the only time she eats like everyone else. It is because of the sickness; she is not able to eat when everyone else is, and she also craves odd foods. She is running the servants off their feet in the evenings, eating anything and everything except what you might expect. Half the time she has gone off whatever food she requested by the time it arrives, instead demanding another dish!” Anne giggled, then hurriedly straightened her face. “It is perfectly normal for a pregnant woman, you know.”

Eleanor made a thoughtful noise and continued to look off towards the kitchens for a moment. She shook herself. “Motherhood really does not sound like much fun. Right, to the garden. We should find sufficient peace to practise those longwinded vows there.”









Well, instead of three parts (starting from the previous post) for this current part of the story to really make sense it has now gone up to four thanks to this scene and the one after growing much longer than I expected. But hey, you either get it in four parts with confusion or one 20+ page lump with eyestrain and a long wait. Yup, thought you might prefer the four parts

Oh, and if anyone is wondering why I keep grinning like a loon while posting the parts of this bit of the story, well that is because I am finally writing a bunch of scenes and lines I have been imagining and working towards for half a year. I doubt the grinning will last; this story is now officially The Hardest Thing I have Ever Written, Ever, In The History Of Everything Ever. The next part is perhaps going to be the single hardest to write scene in this entire story. :self pitying frog:

The frog's comments on the assorted characters' interlects is an essay, one containing a few surprises, possibly. For now I'll just say I can't do it as a neat list because it gets complicated and goes into discussion of what happens in the plot, but in general Trempy files above Nell.

Thanks, Ramo. More addictive than crack ... got to look into some kind of pay distribution model ...