Washed and dressed in royal livery, with John’s badge of a standing deer removed, that was a tolerable fit Fulk rejoined John in the solar. He was surprised when he was not asked to surrender his sword at the door this time. John had evidently expected this because he explained as he handed Fulk a goblet of wine and ushered him to a seat, “I will not indulge my ego and assume that you have any reason to do away with me, anyhow you look more than capable of dispatching me without a sword.”
Fulk understood what Eleanor had meant when she said her brother was likeable; here he was being waited on by a prince, flattered and joked with, and trusted immediately.
John dropped into his own chair and sipped his wine, “I doubt we shall have to wait too long; if Eleanor is the same as she always was she will refuse much of the pampering that the ladies will try to inflict on her. The clothes will take longer, but there is nothing like having my sister stood by tapping her foot impatiently and glaring at you to lend speed.”
Fulk only made a perfunctory reply and drank his wine; while the prince was spot on with his description gossiping about Eleanor was hardly chivalrous. That made him smile into his wine as he drank; the chivalrous had added itself with no whinging little voice. A rare and pleasant happening; perhaps this forging of lead into gold could work after all.
Ever so subtly John turned the conversation, continuing along the same line but changing direction to end Fulk’s discomfort, “You know she was always my favourite sister? The others were always entirely too proper, though it appears Adele changed her habits once she left these shores. Nasty foreign influence leading her astray, or so our father would claim. So, you are Eleanor’s bodyguard? Given the life she just described I would be interested in hearing how you met.”
Fortunately they had discussed this one beforehand. Fulk deployed his ready-made explanation, careful to make it sound natural rather than rehearsed, “It wasn’t long ago, not even half a year. I was hired by Trempwick but I swore my oath to her; I’m a man of my word. They might have called me her bodyguard but I think they really wanted someone to gain her trust then report what she said. We planned a bit, I lulled them into a false sense of security, then off we went at the first available opportunity.”
“Career before then?” asked John
“Squire to my father till his death, man at arms in the French war, I was in a few skirmishes but nothing too much, a spot of body guarding out in France, then finally back here.”
“Mind if I ask for a demonstration against one of my people tomorrow?” John laughed dryly, “I am curious and a little bored. My dear sister once told me a dead mule could outfight me, and as ever she was right, but I do appreciate a good display of skill.”
Fulk shrugged, “If you like.” This conversation was beginning to sound like the lead-in to a subtle recruitment offer. John refilled Fulk’s goblet; the prince seemed to take his responsibilities as a host very seriously when it came to wine. Fulk gazed into the deep red depths; more unwatered, strong wine, and the goblets were quite large. John might be serious but he had very little clue on what was suitable; at this rate he’d end up drunk before Eleanor even arrived.
“It’s good stuff, no?” asked John, knocking back his own refill and reaching for a third. The wine had blunted the edge on his clear-cut accent, “I import from all over at great expense, this particular one’s from southern France.”
So, while Eleanor was penniless, working as an agent in exchange for her survival this prince was living in the lap of luxury. This prince had everything Fulk had expected Eleanor to possess when he first encountered her in Nantes. He was irate on her behalf; if he had ever doubted that her father didn’t care the slightest bit about her the proof was being paraded before his face in the form of wine, jewels, fancy furnishings – the solar even had
carpets on the walls! This was the life he had been expecting to come to! Internally Fulk flinched, scrambling away from those thoughts. He hadn’t wanted riches, not at all; he hadn’t followed her because of a life of pampered comfort. Honour, his mind wailed desperately,
honour. He gulped at his wine, trying to drown the tru-the
lie, the mocking voice of his conscience and its insidious suggestion that honour had nothing to do with it.
He noticed John was peering at him. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
Fulk shook his head and replied weakly, “I was thinking of the contrast, what you’ve got to what she had.”
“Yes,” agreed John darkly, “this is the life she should have had. She will have her due when I …” he laughed and made a dismissive gesture with his hand, “But don’t pay attention to my ramblings, and let’s not sink into gloom. Today is a good day; I got my little sister back and that’ll only help me.” More wine vanished down his gullet, immediately he was refilling his goblet and topping up Fulk’s.
This prince was an incompetent plotter, Fulk decided with mild disgust. Twice in but one brief conversation with a near total stranger he’d nearly given his aims away. What kind of a king would this indulgent man make? John had started talking genially about how sumptuous their meal was going to be; Fulk listened with only one ear. Unless he was hiding his light under a bushel John didn’t possess even a tenth of Eleanor’s intelligence or flare for intrigue, he would be useless on the battlefield, and Fulk had serious doubts as to this man’s ability to keep powerful vassals in line.
Finally, Eleanor appeared; she breezed into the room and sat down without comment. John placed his goblet on the ground, rose and pulled her to her feet, “Come on then, let’s see what my people managed to do.” He carefully arranged her, pushing her to stand where the light was best, then placing her arms at her sides, and tutting at her if she tried to move to break the pose. After a brief scuffle she gave up and stood awkwardly for their examination. John’s face split into a big smile, “Much better, now give us a twirl.”
She complied, obviously unhappy with the fuss. She was dressed in the height of fashion, wearing a green sleeveless surcoat over a dress in pale green with buttons on the lower arm to bring the sleeves tight. A pale blue linen shift was just visible peeking out at the neckline. Her hair had been sorted into a fairly simple style by some maid. It was already trying to escape, with some good success too. Fulk supposed she had allowed them to play with her hair so she would have somewhere to stash hairpins, since the clothes didn’t permit her usual knives. The seamstresses had known their work well; it suited her. A pity, then, that she didn’t quite look herself. The animation, the life was missing, the gooseberry replaced by a subdued stranger whose body language spoke of … he wasn’t sure, but the fight was missing from her, the defiance too. What had happened since he last saw her?
“Gooseberry green,” commented Fulk apparently innocently, “nice.” That won him a small frown; now that was more like it.
“Eleanor, you do look quite beautiful,” said John with a courtier’s practised gallantry, only partly ruined by his wine induced slur.
That won John a far bigger frown than Fulk had got, one without the affable feeling of a shared joke that was going to get someone kicked later. “You do!” he insisted. He turned to Fulk, “Perhaps a second opinion?”
“He’s right,” lied Fulk. They wouldn’t have liked the honest answer; that the word was ‘pretty’ and the pinned up hair and her lack of animation ruined it.
She looked no happier, if anything his compliment only made her shrink further into herself. She didn’t protest his opinion; carefully keeping her face neutral as she returned to the seat she had been prised from. As she walked past Fulk caught a waft of perfume, rose with something elusive. Quite subtle, most nobles would turn their noses up at it; the fashion ran to something that smelt both expensive and noticeable. He found it pleasant; it was much better than being stunned at fifty paces by some eye watering concoction. If he’d ever said that to Maud she’d have tried to brain him with a skillet then lectured him on the importance of trying to improve oneself; Eleanor, on the other hand, would probably laugh and agree with him.
John finished his current drink – his fourth – and wandered off to find a servant to tell the kitchens to begin sending the food up. Fulk took advantage of his absence to lean across and quietly ask Eleanor, “What’s wrong?”
“Why would anything be wrong?” she replied evasively, her tone as spiritless as the rest of her. He had no opportunity to chase the matter; John was on his way back.
What was wrong? Was the man dense or just particularly heedless? Ah yes, she told herself acrimoniously, she was supposed to swallow their lies and laugh along at their joke because otherwise she spoiled their fun and cast a cloud over the occasion. She should be a good victim and rejoice that they were having fun at her expense. She had endured the maid’s giggling as they dished out their pretty little compliments, she had pretended to be deaf to their snide comments when they thought her out of earshot, and now she had the privilege of John and Fulk sniping away. Her brother and her bodyguard; she had suffered to keep one alive and was going to suffer for the other, and this was their gratitude. Where was the bloody point?
“Eleanor?” inquired John’s voice. She looked up, “Don’t look so sad, little sister, it spoils your looks.”
Beneath the table she clenched her fists as she battled the wave of icy fury. How could she spoil what did not exist? She forced a smile that was part snarl.
“Is something wrong?” asked John, his voice heavy with concern.
Wrong? Jesú, but John was a moron! Of course, she was supposed to laugh and produce a pretty smile – well sod that! She could feel her temper fraying away, getting dangerously close to breaking point. She forced herself to take a deep breath; she would not demonstrate her most dubious family trait. The rage receded, settling into ice. She needed to get in on John’s stupid little plot so she could dispatch him off to his safe haven, leaving her behind to take the brunt of the fall out. In that cold moment of clarity she saw how. She lost her temper.
“Wrong?” she snarled, “Wrong? You sit here like a bloated arse in your luxurious castle, one of your many castles you fat bastard, and you ask me what’s wrong?! You clueless, idiotic, self-indulgent, blind fool! You have been sat here in the lap of luxury while I rot in a backwater nothing, tormented and forgotten with no life, no future, no
nothing! I have had nothing!” She leapt up from her chair and kicked it viciously. Dimly she was aware of hurting her foot but she didn’t care. When it didn’t fall over she booted it again and again in a frenzy until it toppled. The tiny sane part of her mind still left observed
“Like father, like daughter.” She didn’t appreciate that much; it was far too accurate. She was even beginning to swear like him.
Her eyes lit on a bowl of fruit, oranges imported from abroad at enormous expense. She stormed over, grabbed one and brandished it at her astonished audience, “Look at this – oranges! You have bloody oranges!? This one damned fruit is worth more than me!” She hurled it at John with all her strength; it exploded across his chest, spattering his fancy clothes with its sticky juice. “You have money to waste on bloody oranges while I’ve had to beg for every little scrap from a jumped up nothing who has made my life a living hell!”
“It’s not my fault!” protested John, “Father-”
“Don’t mention that prick to me – given the chance I would gladly kill him for what he’s done to me!” Would she? Probably not, but by God it felt good to say it. She hurled another orange at her brother, hitting him again. “The only thing he’s ever given me are scars – I’ve more scars than I’ll ever be able to count, I’m covered in the damned things! He farted away everything I owned on his God damned war and he couldn’t even hold the lands he took with my money – my future!”
“You know half the castle can hear this?” observed the sane part of her mind. She paused; embarrassed that she had lost control so badly.
John took advantage of his unexpected lull to plead, “Calm down, Eleanor, please? I’ve got a plan; I think you are well suited to be part of it but you must calm down. I can’t have it shouted across half the country.”
Mission accomplished; she could stop now. But why? This was so … fun, speaking her mind for once, being the cause of the storm instead of on the receiving end. Now she understood what her father saw in … the words went cold through her, dimming the fire. He wouldn’t stop now, no, he would keep going until he had drained every last drop of bile. Did she want to end up like him? Never; she was mortified she had gone this far. Her fury fled, leaving her feeling weak and empty. Suddenly she was aware that her foot felt broken and her arm and shoulder muscles were pulled because she had thrown those oranges with so much ill-considered force. Her throat was sore too, from all that shouting.
Fulk was staring at her, tight jawed, his expression unfathomable. The instant their eyes met he looked away. She felt herself blush and sank deeper into her shame; now he must think her some kind of lunatic. One little joke and she exploded, railing away about a life that was still better than the average peasant’s. No, it wasn’t one little joke. Yes it was. No, from anyone else it would have been little, but from him? No, not little, it should be but for some reason it wasn’t. She realised she was still stood near the fruit bowl with an orange in her hand, ready to throw. She put it down gently then returned to her chair, righted it and sank down into it.
John seemed to think it best to act as if nothing had happened. He said genteelly, “I have sent a few chaps to seek out this Raoul Trempwick and have a short word with him about decency.”
Eleanor mumbled some bland thanks. So, he had got someone else to do his dirty work; nothing new there. Trempwick was going to be so happy when a bunch of goons turned up on his doorstep with cudgels to batter him at John’s behest on her behalf. She didn’t think for a second the hired men would even get within spitting distance of the manor before they were intercepted and dispatched, but she was not looking forward to explaining this when she got back.
“I do not believe in fighting myself,” John was saying as it were all some great lark, “Why risk a bloody nose when I can let another much better able to handle it take my part? Fighting is so passé.”
“If you were ever to become king then you would have to lead your armies,” said Eleanor neutrally, probing for information and letting him know she could see him as a king. She couldn’t really; sticking John on the throne would be a disaster.
John made a dismissive noise, “I will let some other lead; battle is wearisome and boring, also a waste of money better spent on the finer aspects of life.”
I will? The daft fool! Lured into stating his attentions so easily without even noticing! The more time she spent with her brother the more apparent his inabilities became; this man would only make a king if he had a strong puppet master at his shoulder. Someone had out him up to this, but whom? Perhaps there was a way to find out, if she could find whom he had bartered her off to then she would have the name of his most influential supporter.
A parade of servants appeared, bearing trays with their food on it. Eleanor took a cursory glance, catalogued the display as ‘expensive and rich’ then turned her attention away. She would let John babble away, carrying much of the conversation; she was too drained, too humiliated to put much effort in.
John scooped up the last of his spiced jugged hare and started regaling the party with memories of Eleanor as a little girl. He was the only one showing any enthusiasm for either food or chatter, but that didn’t limit him. “I recall when she could barely say her own name; you always got confused by Nell and Eleanor, didn’t you, Nelleanor.”
Eleanor gazed sightlessly at her barely touched portion of hare, studying Fulk from beneath her lashes as she put all her remaining energy into her answer. “I also remember that I called you bother instead of brother; how right I was.” More right than John would ever know. Fulk didn’t look up, didn’t laugh, didn’t attempt to put in a shot of his own. He just poked at a bit of monkfish with his knife. It was the liveliest thing he had done all evening.
John paused, looking from her to Fulk and back again. He seemed to come to a decision; he took a sip of wine and asked Fulk, “So, care to give us a tale from your time in France?”
Fulk looked up, once again ignoring her as if he and John were alone in the room. “I’ve not got any good ones.”
“That does surprise me,” said Eleanor with some of her old bite, “you have a story for everything else, including puce knights and dragons beset by damsels.” He ignored her. Stung Eleanor looked down at her trencher. She didn’t understand it; first he joined her brother in ridiculing her, now she might as well not exist. Until today he’d been friendly. It hurt, a fact that infuriated her. She should have known better; he was following her for money and now perhaps he saw a way to better his lot by switching allegiance to her brother. Even in exile John would be more than she ever would. She knew her small, muddled attraction wasn’t returned; she had resolutely put it from her mind and expected nothing at all. She didn’t even want the damned attraction, so why did she feel so wretched now he confirmed what she had always known? She should have listened to Trempwick; he was always right.
John stepped into the gap, “Tell us of one of your battles.”
“Only one where anything much happened,” hedged Fulk gruffly, “and I’ve not the best of memories of it; I was wounded early on.”
“Tell it anyway,” insisted John congenially, reaching for a potion of fish.
“As your highness wishes,” said Fulk dully, “It was in France some years ago; I was squire to my father, Sir William Destier. I was with the cavalry on the right wing; it was more a skirmish than any other. We charged early, too early, before our infantry had time to engage the enemy centre. You see … a young hothead with dreams of glory decided waiting was going to lose him the chance to win his spurs; he set off alone and without orders. The other knights weren’t going to be left out or have their honour and courage called to doubt, so they set off after him, a ragged, unplanned charge at the wrong time. A short distance from the enemy lines the young fool was shot down, his horse dead under him and a crossbow bolt buried in his leg. My father knew him; he stopped and fought to keep the French off the lad, giving the other squires time to bear him away to the surgeons. His bravery saved the boy’s life but at the cost of his own; he was cut down as I watched, helpless. I saw no more of the battle; I was out of it wounded by then.” His next words seemed to come from far away, as if more for himself than his audience, “I am not sure the boy was worth saving.”
After that not even John could save the meal, and soon the gathering broke up with very little said. John promised to tell her of his plan tomorrow in the afternoon.
Together with Fulk Eleanor found her way back to the guestroom in silence. The man at arms was still avoiding her eye, still refusing to speak to her. As she put her hand on the latch to her door she resolved to take a gamble. “Wait here a moment; I have something for you.” She disappeared into her room then re-emerged with a small vial, the contents of which she upended over Fulk before he could do anything. The pungent smell of some rather foppish perfume blasted through the corridor. She smiled sweetly and took a step back towards cleaner air, “Consider that a part payment on what I owe you for that escapade in the church, oh dear husband thing.”
Fulk choked and frantically waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear the air, “Oh Jesú! That reeks!”
He spoke! Alleluia! Despite herself Eleanor beamed with delight, “It will fade with a change of clothes and a few baths.”
“I suppose it’d be too much to ask for you to go prod the servants into bringing the bathtub back to your room?”
Her eyes went wide with exaggerated innocence, “But I am going to bed now, so I am afraid you will have to go bathe elsewhere. Like the guard room.”
“You vengeful little bitch!” exclaimed Fulk half in admiration for her scheme, half in dismay at the prospect looming. She began to shut the door to her room, acting with speed born of panic Fulk wedged his foot in the door, “Oh come on Eleanor, you can’t make me go off down to the guardroom stinking like this! Please? A bit of mercy, oh brilliantness? They’ll think I have Greek tastes!”
She smirked, “I know, fun isn’t it? Soft, fuzzy thing indeed – I told you I would have my revenge, and this is only part payment. Have a nice bath, stenchflower.”
She threw her weight on the door, forcing him to wiggle his foot free or risk getting it crushed. He immediately began to hammer on the closed door, “Alright, you’re not soft and fuzzy, though right now I wish you were, so a little mercy, please? Eleanor? Your diabolicalness? Please? I’m begging…”
“Take it like a man,” she advised him from behind the door, “and if you do not go soon you will be too late to get a bath before morning.”
He stopped his hammering and kicked the door in frustration, “You know this means war?” Silence. Ok, time to plot damage limitation before he got accused of being a pansy and/or attracted to men. Then time to plot revenge,
careful revenge. He didn’t know what he’d done to help stoke that earlier explosion but he knew he’d done something. He didn’t like to think he’d hurt her, but somehow apparently he had, and that wasn’t gallant; a princess’s bodyguard should always be gallant. Silence. The voice didn’t protest; it had been screaming at him during his war story, but that statement didn’t upset it.
See? It all came back to honour in the end; lead into gold, becoming worthy, and being a man of his word, as he knew he was. Nothing to do with an inappropriate attraction.
I think that could have used one more pass to polish it up, but I've got things to do. it's not so bad as it is, just a few details and words thatcould use tidying.
coz1, yes a shark is about right. A shark can't stop swimming, but it is also in a shark's nature to swim. He can't stop plotting and plotting is an essential part of his nature.
merrick, thanks for unlurking and commenting.