The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

:froggy lets out a sigh of relief: Good, very good. Thank you, everyone.

So, from all this it does seem like everything is going as it should be. Certainly no one here has said anything I don’t want them to about characters and plot. :another sigh of relief!:

I was seriously worried, because if (to pull one example from the hundreds, the safest example spoiler wise) Hugh’s believing Trempy over Nell is not believable then this whole thing turns into a bit of a farce. Worse, the way the plot goes it would just implode with mistakes like that.

The problem is … I don’t know how to explain it, not properly. I suppose if I say I’ve read hundreds of thousands of books, across several genres, by names ranging from highly respected to virtually unknown, and of various types of plots and focuses. But I’ve never seen anything like this cast. The closest I’ve seen is a series with one very human protagonist, but surrounded by characters varying from very good to atrociously clichéd and cardboard. That was Robin Hobb, with her Farseer trilogy.

What do many readers say of Fitz? Over and over I’ve seen him misunderstood, bashed, hated, misinterpreted because he’s too human. Heroes are not supposed to fail, or doubt, or worry, or misunderstand other’s good intentions, or make mistakes. They are not supposed to grumble or complain, or be hurt by petty things. They should never rage at the bitterness of being very sick and weak when young and previously very healthy, and they shouldn’t be so pathetic as to take months to recover from that. Boys are not supposed to act as boys, and young men should be immune to the many pitfalls and problems of being young men. Some people do understand him, and many love him, but far more just don’t get it. Fitz is very well written, and there is no excuse IMO for not understanding he is as he is because he’s a member of homo sapiens.

Hobb is a very talented author with many books published under her two pen names. I’m just a frog. (who, for the record, thinks that Hobb’s villains all stink, with the exception of Kennit, and many of her supporting characters lack the humanity of her leads.)

Thanks to the hundreds of thousands of books I’ve read I know that Hugh should be becoming a great king, despite not having the aptitude to be truly great. Nell should be 19 going on 60, and mostly invulnerable to thinks like mistakes, emotion, and being a 19 year old gooseberry. Fulk should be proving himself worthy, rising above his humble birth to publicly claim his princess, gently re-ordering society as he goes. And so on. But they aren’t, and damned well never will depart so far from their human selves, not if the frog has a thing to do with it. They are, dare I say it, more real than Fitz. He was rather too talented to be 100% true: strong in the Wit, extraordinarily gifted with the Skill, a great fighter, a skilled assassin, a swift learner, doggedly loyal, self sacrificing, very intelligent, incredibly resilient …

So when a frog is always very wary, very paranoid about her characters falling to the same fate as poor Fitz. The same fate as many of the other human characters I’ve seen, and all of them were less human than Fitz, who in turn …

If you try to view Nell and co through a simpler lens, they make no sense. If you forget they are human, they make no sense.

If they make no sense, the whole story is gone.

And if so many professional, proven authors fail in this endeavour, why should a mere frog succeed?

Hobb only had one Fitz. I’ve got … seven, if you limit the count to POV characters and ignore the others. Seven chances for failure. That’s suicidal!

So if Hugh is a dolt, then the source seems obvious to a frog’s eyes. It’s because he believes Trempy over Nell, and other such human mistakes. If he’s dislikeable it’s because he is afraid and not supremely talented, and other such human weaknesses. If Trempy is rash then it’s because there should be some other plan which screams obvious cunning right from the very first second, and explains itself to the reader while escaping the notice of all the other characters, making said plan as cunning as a badly educated cucumber.

Because they shouldn’t be so human. Perhaps I’m writing what should not really be, and finding out why it shouldn’t be. Or because somewhere, somehow, I have failed to make their actions understandable. Which seems likely, as I’m only a frog. Perhaps it is both at the same time. Either way, it is Not Good At All.

That’s why I was so worried. I’m just about confident enough now to let one doubt-pricking factor slide, but toss in more than one and that’s me worrying badly.

But everything seems to be working. I’m still doing what seems like the near-impossible.



:looks at the sudden appearance of a two-member unofficial Jocelyn fanclub: Hmm, is that a subtle request I open one up?

And speaking of fanclubs, seeing how it looks as if Hugh is disliked for the right reasons:
Fanclub updates:
Trempy: 3 members
Anne: 2 members
Fulk: 5 members (worrying about his gooseberry)
Nell: 6 members (Wanting a holiday somewhere nice, without spymasters and brothers, but with a knight …)
Godit: 5 members (sulking, badly)
Constance: 1 member
Hugh: 1 member
Jocelyn: ???
Anti-Trempy: 2 members
Anti-Aveline: 1 member
Anti-Hugh: 1 member

I don’t have long, and I’m only recently home form a very long day at work, so I’ll have to fly through this. Sorry, but thanks for the continued very useful snippets and encouragement and all

Just write:
I do, that’s how I got this far The whole idea looked almost identical to the frog 644 pages ago, before I even began writing. I don’t mind trying the ridiculously difficult, so long as I see something enjoyable and worthwhile in it. Which I very much do see in Eleanor.

I just don’t like tackling something so incredibly daunting and seemingly doomed from the start and making a mess of it so much of what I learn is bad. I want to learn and improve, not pick up bad habits. I’m giving this my very best effort, and I can’t let ruinous flaws seep into my work. If any of those issues I’ve been worrying about appear and aren’t fixed (assuming by the point I’m made aware of them they can actually be fixed) then all my work, past, present and future on this story will be for nothing. Who knows, if I do manage to get enough right I might actually succeed. But not if this implodes thanks to structural flaws.

I’m thinking one major revision of what I’ve already got, and it may just get close to succeeding, so long as it all continues to work.

Right now, he is mostly coming off as Constance's rather disobedient puppet.

Click to expand...

That is Not Good. It’s not what I want, and it’s not what I need. Although on the general scale of things it’s relatively minor. It’s things like this I worry about, and for good reason.

Fortunately, a few tweaks, a slight adjustment of focus in already planned scenes, a wave of a frog’s hand, and it should mend …

The William appreciation society:
But Nell doesn’t want to be queen, so it’s hardly ideal. What do you mean, “So what?” Have you any idea how much noise, fuss and damage an outraged gooseberry can do?!

William says, if you’re bored, think how he feels. Then he glowered quite nastily.

Personally, the frog is rather sorry for poor William; for what he was, what he now is, what lies in store for him, and so many other things that cannot really appear in Eleanor.

Godit:
She only dates single knights with at least one fief and 70 marks a year income. If you have that, you may buy her a gift and tell her how much you like her. Otherwise, push off. No timewasters, please, especially not ones with no intention of marrying her.

Nell wondered how anyone can prefer Godit to her. Then she sniffed, and said that you are male, so that explains everything. It didn’t sound terribly complimentary, coz.

Jocelyn:
I know what I think of him, but I’ve always had incredibly little idea of what readers think of him, as he hasn’t attracted much comment, beyond “What’s he there for!?” By now I hope that question is very answered, even if I doubt readers can see more than the single very obvious reason out of the bunch I have for letting him run amok. He could very quite easy to dislike, or hate, depending on how you stomach the medieval parts of his personality. Then again, if you think medieval he’s very interesting because of said personality. Then there’s his comedy value …

Fanclub updates:
Trempy: 3 members
Anne: 2 members
Fulk: 5 members (stewing in his own juices)
Nell: 6 members (bothering Fulk behind the scenes where readers and bothersome brothers can’t see)
Godit: 5 members (cherishing her minor victory over Nell in the coz1 stakes, but utterly jealous of Nell’s current ability to bother Fulk)
Constance: 1 member
Hugh: 1 member
Jocelyn: 3 members (smug, not that he cares about fanclubs or readers anyway, honest)
Anti-Trempy: 2 members
Anti-Aveline: 1 member
Anti-Hugh: 1 member


Anyway, I’m back to writing tomorrow, since I’m not at work. Hurrah!

Trempwick reined in his horse and swung down from the saddle. He threw the reins to his nearest companion, and began towards the inn.

The innkeeper came running out from his building, wiping his hands on the shabby apron tied at his waist. “My lord?”

Trempwick didn’t break his stride. “Have you done as I ordered?” He halted in the doorway, closing his eyes and reopening them several times to help accustom them to the gloom.

“My lord, yes.”

“Excellent. Then be about your work.”

The innkeeper bowed, and scurried off, calling instructions Trempwick paid no heed to. Simple orders to simpler underlings, all as he had directed beforehand. Trempwick hooked the bench out from the table opposite the doorway with a foot, and sat. His arms he rested on the rough wood surface of the table, crossed at the wrist with his hands dangling off the edge.

A cup of ale appeared before him, and a fist-sized pasty which exuded a meaty scent. His sword was returned from where it had been stored these last couple of hours, his gambeson and hauberk following only a little behind. Trempwick ate, watching a boy and an adolescent run to and fro carrying armfuls of gear out to his party: swords, the odd spear, helmets, armour, the general clutter of fighting men who knew their work.

The winter sunlight was blocked by the mailed bulk of a man, sending the inn’s single room into deeper murkiness. Mauger crossed the space to his lord in several jingling strides. “Nearly done.”

“Good.” Trempwick took a deep, slow breath, and held it in. Time to shed the few women and old men he’d brought. From here, only fighting men. No need to look harmless now. “Lose the baggage.”

Mauger nodded, and left.

Go again over what had happened. Trempwick quenched his thirst with the ale. Simple steps. Simple points. Nell was now his. None would touch her now, none but the most desperate. Bigamy. Too dangerous. Too hated by the church. Loathed by all but heathens and their harems. Trempwick’s own enmity another price. Nell’s bad feeling another. The disapproval of society damning for one who moves in to break another’s agreement in such a way, bigamy or no. The desperate? Even they would think twice, and twice again.

The bastard was thrown from balance. He would flail about like a landed fish, destroying his own cause. So satisfying. Why crush a man when you can let him crush himself? Thus you were kept free of the blame …

The bastard’s valuable playing piece lost. Hard to promise away a sister who was already gone. Promise her as a widow? To give away a widow one must first kill her husband. A promise for the uncertain future is less value than a solid marriage now. Notwithstanding the tainted, vastly diminished value Nell would have. Widow of a failed traitor. Failed rival of her brother. A threat, always, until her death. A gift that would bring suspicion down on the receiver. A source of trouble. At that point, best to seal her away in honourable imprisonment, not marry her off.

Cause for open disharmony present, with blame on the bastard. Such a man to hold his own sister prisoner? To deny her marriage? And how dare he -it was for none to interfere between a man and his wife, no matter the man, his wife, the cause, or the interferer. The stalwart friend of the father driven away by the son whom he tried to serve, forced away by such poor treatment none could stand it and still consider himself a man. Only the most craven wretch would stand for such handling. Trempwick smiled cynically. Honour, decency, all had left him no choice but to do as he had done. It was quite entertaining.

Cause for others to desert the bastard now openly given. One wife stolen and held away; what would prevent more? Or sons, or daughters – what limits to the royal depravity? Stolen, not honest imprisonment or the place of an honourable hostage. A bastard, unable to inherit legally. A bastard, with no royal blood. So failure in two of the most major tests for kingship. Two, before you consider the aptitude of the man. A hint, a crude hint, of William’s other intentions, not wanting this bastard to follow him. Now there was a banner for the discontent to rally to. A banner raised in the glorious misdirection that he, and Nell in turn, had been forced to this by the bastard himself. A legitimate reason was required before one could part with one’s lord and expect anything other than disgust from one’s peers. Legitimate reasons he had supplied in plenty for all and any who cared to use them. Hastier than he had ever desired, yes. None so elegant as he had hoped. But it had worked well enough. More than well enough?

The bastard shown to be a man not of his word, to break lightly even agreements so solid that the breaking was unthinkable. Proven not to care not for his supposed father. Or the for church. Or tradition. Or for those who had rendered long and good service. Or his sister, and her wants, honour and deeds. Such a callous, wanton, man. Previously believed honourable. But did he now act it? No, not at all. The mask was off, the true colours shown. Who wants such a man as king? Not even a fool. Such a man would have to be dragged back into line again and again by the armed might of his barons. He would do so much harm each time. The kingdom would not prosper. It would falter, stumble, lurch from one problem to the next

Suspicion over William’s accident, raised. Badly, yes. Clumsily, yes. But only voicing what some must already wonder. But … a man speaking from emotion, from bitterest disappointment and a broken heart? No, Trempwick owned he had not been overly blunt for that.

Mauger returned. Trempwick unfurled his limbs and stood again, brushing pastry crumbs from his hands and tunic. With his trainer’s help he donned his armour and sword. Only partial armour, not full knightly regalia. Lighter, easier, enough protection for the work he had to do. But not the hindrance, less of the noise, less of the sparkle of light on metal to give all away. As he settled his coif back on his shoulders, Trempwick asked, “It is done?”

“Aye, all done.”

When in a hurry, don’t move slowly. That was wisdom. Trempwick stalked from the building. He paused in the doorway to survey his troop. The scattering of non-combatants had been sent safely away, their part done. All others had transformed, no longer a variety of minor nobles and household knights in their best, trotted out before their betters to swear to what they had seen. Now, warriors, proud and deadly in well cared for yet battered equipment which testified to each man’s repeated survival of combat.

Trempwick climbed into his saddle, and put his spurs to his horse. When in a hurry, don’t hurry. That was also wisdom. Tripping as one ran slowed one down. Insufficient care or thought would hamper, slow, destroy, perhaps. While his every movement now must be swift, sure and confident, he could not afford to hurry. Would never want to either.






Hugh finished his prayers, crossed himself, and pushed up from his kneeling position. His joints cracked, the cold of the church’s stones soaked deep into them during his lengthy vigil.

He gazed meditatively at the spot he had recently occupied, contemplating perhaps dropping back down and completing another set for the good of his rotten soul. Guidance he had begged for, and the granting of the sign he had come here to seek at the behest of Anselm, the royal chaplain. Forgiveness he had also requested, and the strength to better himself. Hugh stepped back from the altar, crossing himself again. He had done a half of what he came here for, and anything other must await another time.

Anselm said, “Ready?”

“Yes, Father. I am ready.”

The old man nodded gravely. He brushed the decorated front of the great bible resting on the lectern with a loving hand. “Then we shall see what is said.” He heaved the solid weight of the bible up so it stood on its leather spine. “Oh Lord, grant us now your wisdom. Give this man your advice and comfort, and help him find his path.” Prayer completed, Anselm let the bible go. Balanced as it was the book did not tumble; the gold-studded back and front covers slammed down onto the woodwork with a portentous boom which made the hairs at the back of Hugh’s neck stand up. The pages slithered and were dragged by their fellows, one after another in a rustling cascade until, at last, the great book lay open at a random page.

Father Anselm had closed his eyes as he let the book go. Now, still blinding himself, he plunged a finger down to choose a passage. He opened his eyes, and read out, “His speech is as smooth as butter, yet war is in his heart; his words are more soothing than oil, yet they are drawn swords. Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fall.”

Hugh crossed himself, and murmured a quick prayer of thanks. There was no there was no mistaking the meaning of God’s word, as sometimes happened when a passage bore no immediate relevance. He had been blessed, truly blessed. Hugh could almost believe that this had been penned those many lifetimes ago specifically so he could find it now, the description of Trempwick so fine that Hugh could not better it if he were given a day to select his words, and the relevance to his dilemma so penetrating it reduced him to awe.

Then he recalled the haste with which Father Anselm had closed the bible again, giving him no chance to look upon the words for himself.

Some change must have come over his face, for Anselm said, “Would you doubt the word of a man of God, and of the Lord himself, and wonder if I had instead quoted the passage I found best fitting instead of reading what was truly there?”

“No, indeed I would not,” denied Hugh quickly. He crossed himself yet again, the thought of his scepticism unbearable in the face of the gift he had been granted. Moreover, he had known Anselm all his life, and trusted his integrity and council, on the rare occasions it was gifted to him.

“Then accept his message.”

“I will. I do.”





Only a short part, I know, but for some reason I am extremely tired.

And another general thanks for the 'Handy To Frogs' tidbits.

Hehe! Avernite, It's primarily a weekend job, and whenever I am in I am there all day, from half an hour before the shop opens to half an hour after it closes. So I get most of the week off instead, which is not so bad. The 20% off books really doesn't hurt either - I've brought 10 books since I started! Weee!

Ok, Crusher, I think I see what you mean. Although he has taken Nell's advice on important things too. It's not the impression I want, so I'll keep looking for those minor, tiny little tweaky-things I can do to ease the situation a little.

Sorry, folks, but there's going to be another delay in proceedings. My primary hard drive is failing, most likely due to delayed damage from that accursed storm, so I'm going to be minus my PC for a few days again. This time it shouldn't take nearly as long, just a few days. But then there's work too; although I'm contracted primarily for weekends I was called in a lot this week, and may be again next week.

I will try to give you at least one small update within the next week, and more if I can manage it. If all goes as I hope it will I should be back with my PC about Monday, and writing by Tuesday.



Hehe! When you said stubborn, Avernite, you meant it. You make Nell look positively flexible

aussieboy, Scrooge is right. Trempy would be the dead traitor.

coz1, Godit says you said you loved her, whereas you said you were only fond of Nell. She is now sulking even more, because you obviously didn't mean it, and are trying to curry favour with a princess who doesn't care about anyone but herself. Nell is taking the whole thing with dignity - she's gone off to grumble to Fulk about how infuriating men are in general, and how Godit would be much more likeable if she were back in Scotland. She also insists she doesn't care if people like her or not, but I don't think anyone believes her :wacko:

Welcome, Mettermrck. Thanks, and I think Hugh will be glad to hear he has a bit more support. Might do him some good.