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im not the brightest star on the sky... and i have not found out what it is exactly... though i DO have some suspecions... :p

the options of what tempwick is hinting at is limited but still... keep it up... im hooked :D
 
“Nell…” Trempwick called after her. She started to run. He stared after her, worried. “What to do? Two evils, but which is the lesser?”

I have a few ideas on what he might do but I'm not to sure so won't voice my thoughts :)
 
frogbeastegg said:
“You like him,” accused Trempwick the instant they were out of earshot. Eleanor looked up at him. “No, more than that, dear Nell, more than that.”

“You are wrong.”

“No I’m not,” he said it so quietly she had to lean in to hear, so quietly it was more a sigh than real words. “To any who knows you, really knows you, it is clearly evident.”

Eleanor could have kicked herself; in a flash she understood the pet jibes, the choices he’d forced, the squabbles he’d created. All a way of seeing how she’d react, a way of testing her as much as of testing Fulk. A neat trap and she’d walked blindly into it, once again out-manoeuvred by Trempwick. “There is a small spark,” she admitted, “and it will be stamped out.”

Trempwick stopped, looked up at the sky, at the grey winter clouds. He seemed older somehow, his face more lined, more haggard. Finally his gaze returned to earth; the sparkle, the keen life in his eyes that was always present no matter the disguise was gone. “I think I am becoming an old man, dear Nell. It is a rather disturbing thought. Even a year ago I would never have…” his shoulder rose and fell, “Ah, forget it. It is no matter.”

Eleanor stood, knowing she wasn’t dismissed and that leaving of her own accord was generally only a good idea if she felt like a few interesting days of being subjected to Trempwick’s creative and uncomfortable ideas. The last time she had done that Trempwick had kept summoning her at all hours, day and night, day after day for no purpose at all except to keep her standing around on increasingly sore feet until he got bored and sent her away.

“Let me send him away.”

“No,” she replied instantly.

The fact she didn’t even consider the request was not lost on Trempwick; his head bowed, “You do not know what you are getting into,” he looked at her with a kind of desperation, “Yes, that spark might die away, but if it does not? You will be spending your life right next to someone who does not share your feelings, you will be left looking at what you cannot have,” his voice cracked just perceptibly, “It’s hard, you have no idea how hard.”

“It will die out,” her hope, her fervent belief. She focused on it, not paying too much attention to her mentor.

“And it only gets worse, when you see them fall for another. You do not stop caring then; it only hurts all the more.”
Right, now I have time I shall clarify. That quoted section is the part where he says/implies two very important things; what are they? Should be pretty obvious, this is unsubtle subtle.

The four faceted subtle Trempwick thing is his endless use of the 'dear Nell, sweet Nell, etc'. There are four things contained in that, four things and each one you spot clues you in a little more, leaves you wondering and searching for more clues.

Finally there are many other minor subtleties, such as her fear of being crushed. I think I shall have to be more blatant with those and the things linking to them. :sighs: I really do feel that some things work best as understated, leaving the reader to wonder and then make the link themselves later.

Ah yes, since one person has already made a link between the fear of being crushed and 'dear Nell' I shall state now that no, Trempy hasn't been abusing our dear heroine.

PB-DK, Zeno, your suspicions are exactly what I need to know. If you are seeing what I want you to then this is working; if you aren't then it isn't. PM them to me if you don't want to post them, please, it would really help :) The same applies to anyone else with a suspicion or two.
 
OK, so I 'll hazard a first (public) guess, maybe that 'll stir some things up.
Mind you, reading this over the span of several weeks doesn't help putting the pieces together.

- Eleanor's brother Stephan called her Nell, he 'trained' her, playing games with her (swordfighting and stuff, not lady-like)
- Stephan was killed by Trempy on orders of the king because of his limp
- Trempy takes Nell on as his pupil, knowing very well what a trouble-child this brat is (simply killing her would have been bloody efficient in comparison, even with Nell being a master spy/assasin)

So , I would guess that Trempy definately cares for Nell, possibly tries to replace the dead brother, if only to apeace his concience. It is even possible the Trempy is actually her biological father. In any case he tries to protect Nell from as much pain as possible (yes, a broken heart is far worse getting physically whipped).
OK, not much of an answer, but I no good at puzzles. I 'll have to read it again from the beginning, as soon as I can spare the time.

Let's get some discussion going ..
 
"thinks very loudly "IM ON VACATION, I SHOULD NOT KEEP CHECKING ON THIS THREAD!"

to add a bit of toppings to the last poster...

...well tempy, could have a crush or a father daugther thing going with nell...

...probably also a guilt trip for killing her brother...


...now i should be lying on a breach somewhere in hellas, instead im sitting in this semi dark room reading this story... *Sigh*

okay... IM ON VACATION, PB IS OUT THE DOOR... after reading a bit more...
 
I have not been able to keep up with this tale as often as I like, but I've caught up now and the last section especially was very, very good. I must confess, I am a little unsure what subtle things you are referring to. I get the sense that Trempwick's "Nell's" are a way for him to keep her under foot, torn down or belittled. It makes him feel superior, or at least makes her feel inferior. But as for anything specific - no idea.

I also got the feeling that Trempwick is trying to get rid of Fulk in another way. He has tried puting him down and tried making Eleanor choose. Lost one and won another, at least of the times you have showcased. But I get the feeling now he is trying to express to Eleanor that he needs her - a bit passive-aggressive. The truthfulness, the side of him that she has never seen - perhaps done to draw her to him more so that the notion of Fulk will seem impossible for her (much as it was when she first met Fulk.)

There was a hint that Trempwick knows a bit about unrequited love or at least lost love. But who knows who that's for - Eleanor, her mother or someone we've never been introduced to. And I have little idea what the "two evils" might be though I might venture a guess or two.

I know it can be hard when your audience doesn't pick up each clue you provide, but that's really always going to be there even as a published author. Certainly it helps you if you are trying to create a mood or accomplish something specific with your story, but I would not worry too much at how dense the audience may be. ;) Unfortunately, I know I will not become much brighter tomorrow so other things might float right over my head as well. It certainly has not lessoned my enjoyment of the story in any way. Great work. Keep it up.
 
Since other people were posting what they thought, what the heck I'll give it a shot.

He calls her Nell to remind her that her life is in his hands just as her brother's was. To me it seems of course that Trempwick (sp?) dosn't like a thing about Fulk and feels Nell is slipping away from him because of Fulk. I'm sensing Trempy dosn't like that so is trying to force Nell to get rid of him. I'm also kind of getting the feeling that Nell and maybe Stephon(That was the name of the murdered brother right?) were his offspring. That one isn't as strong as the first two feelings though. Unfortunily, I read these things late at night so I'm not at peek mental awarness (Heck I typed 9 pages of homework tonight I don't want to think straight anymore) and so I will not understand/pick up on all the clues you have provided.
 
A huge thanks to everyone who replied with their ideas; this has been literally invaluable. :)

I know that this web and installment based format is very far from ideal for spotting subtlties but, as coz1 said, even published authors don't get to find out what their readers do and do not spot. In this the web does have an advantage over the printed book.

I know know what people spotted, what they didn't, what the most commonly spotted items were, what no one ever mentioned, how people think about the clues I have laid ... yes, now I have a much better idea of how to do subtle if I want it seen, and how to lay clues that will only become significant when the truth is revealed.

I shall say that you are all spotting things I am implying, so in those theories you are correct. Whether those implications are true or misleading you will have to read on to find out.

Now, I shall get on with the next part. Subtle should be a lot easier to write, and more successful from this point on.
 
For lack of anything better to do Fulk decided to wait where they’d left him; if he went back to the manor he would only end up polishing his helmet yet again while being studiously and maliciously ignored by the servants. “We seldom get what we want, instead we get what we need.”, how many times had he heard his mother say that? It had been her reason for everything, “We don’t want a bad harvest, but God has decided we need one.” Well, by that token some saint, angel, demon, or perhaps even God Himself had decided that Fulk really needed an eccentric, peevish princess in his life. He didn’t know whether to sit down and cry or to start hunting for the entity responsible so he could give them a piece of his mind along with several sharp kicks up the backside. He would point out between kicks that princesses and men at arms just did not happen, at least not without a hideous and gruesome end for the poor old man at arms, and frankly no one was worth that even if they did do a very nice line in adorable yet menacing glares.

“I had no choice!” Trempwick’s voice, just audible on the wind. Fulk’s head snapped up. He watched the tiny, distant figures as Eleanor and the spymaster talked for a short while longer, then the princess left; it looked as if she was running. The spymaster stood, then began to walk back to the manor house. After a few steps he stopped, paused for long minutes, then changed direction, heading back towards Fulk. Suspecting something was amiss Fulk went out to meet him.

“I will not ask if you saw,” Trempwick greeted him brusquely, “You are the lesser of two evils, the greater being leaving her alone. Find her.” When Fulk would have moved the spymaster grabbed him by the shoulder with a surprisingly strong grip, “So much as a single hair and they will be burying you in pieces, and by that point you will be glad to die.”

Fulk jerked his shoulder free, “Man of honour, remember? Or perhaps you’ve no idea what honour is, spymaster?”

“I serve the crown; I will not be judged by you or any.”

“Versatile excuse, now if you don’t mind…?” He began to walk swiftly away, heading back to the manor to get a horse to speed his search. The cynical voice in the back of his mind had been quiet for days; now it piped up with a simple question – if that’s his excuse what’s yours?





After going back to fetch a horse Fulk was almost disappointed to find her waiting where she’d left him in the field, making his effort a wasted one. There was some sense in that old tip about starting a search in the last place you’d seen the missing person, a pity he hadn’t thought of that before he got the horse – he could have just sat down on the ground and waited. Er, then again perhaps sitting in cold mud wasn’t the nicest idea.

Eleanor was currently engaged in being unconventional again; she was sat in the lower branches of a tree, her legs swinging in the breeze. As Fulk rode up she gave him a cheerful wave and dropped nimbly down to earth. “Took you long enough,” she scolded him, “Where is the point in my disposing of Trempwick for much of the day if you dawdle in getting back?”

“So your running off was staged?”

“Yes,” she lied trimly.

“That makes you a swift thinker, an astute planner, a superior tactician, outstanding actor, and perhaps even a mind reader,” said Fulk extravagantly.

“I cannot help my own brilliance,” returned Eleanor in a deadpan with just enough exaggeration to make it clear it was a joke.

“Modest too,” observed Fulk in a matching deadpan. Yet more lies; she always kept her mouth shut about the most interesting things. “So, plans for today now you have dumped your Trempwick?”

Eleanor growled in exasperation, “He is not my Trempwick. I know you have a thick skull and highly limited capacity for both thought and memory, but do try to keep that in mind.”

“As you command, princess gooseberry.”

“Gooseberry!?”

“Small, green berry, extremely sour and not many people like them. You’re hardly sweet at the best of times; to me you’re anything but sweet.”

“Gooseberry,” repeated Eleanor sceptically. It did have a ring to it, but all the same gooseberry[/]I?

“The small part suits you too,” said Fulk helpfully, “though not the green.”

“Gooseberry?” The more you said it the better it sounded, and if nothing else it was unusual.

Fulk patted his horse’s neck as the animal sidled restlessly, “So, as we were saying before your cruel, unprovoked attack on me, what now? It’s too damned cold to sit about on a horse discussing fruit.”

“We can remain here and continue our practise in peace. I honestly doubt we will get much of that until we leave here again; Trempwick will be … will be himself, and that is at best stifling and at worst extremely hazardous.”





They rode back to the manor aiming to arrive just as dinner was being served. As there was only the one horse Eleanor rode pillion, perched behind Fulk with her hands twisted through his belt. Alerted by the noise of their arrival Trempwick stood at the window in his study, watching them in stony silence with an inscrutable expression on his face. Unseen by either Fulk or Eleanor his hands gripped the windowsill so tightly his knuckles went white. As Fulk helped Eleanor down from the horse, as she dropped into his waiting arms, Trempwick’s finely manicured nails attempted to gouge marks into the solid timber.

He leaned his head out of the window, “Have a nice little day trip, did we, oh sweet Nell?”

Eleanor had been planning carefully for hours now, ever since she had departed the spymaster’s company. Defiance that quickly crumbled into resignation with a touch of crushed spirit would suit the situation best. It was precisely what he’d expect. “Yes, thank you, master.”

“I was concerned, my precious little Nell.”

“About me? You do surprise me.”

“If you had only said you wanted a walk, dear Nell, I would have been happy to take you on one. Perhaps tomorrow we can go for a nice stroll while your pet is with the tailor?”

Here we go, this was where he would begin to bite, “That is very kind of you, master.”

“Yes, I think thirty miles should stretch your legs, sweetest Nell. You will forgive me if I ride, won’t you? I am not as young and … vital as you, after all.”

Bow head, slump shoulders, bite lip slightly, now a touch of weariness to the voice and, “Yes, master. Thank you for your … consideration.” Now, is he fooled?

“Not at all, my dear, sweet Nell, I do enjoy your company. Perhaps we can go for another walk the day after tomorrow as well?”

Damn, he wasn’t fooled a bit. “As you wish, master.” Now that sounded better, but probably because there was less acting involved. She doubted they would end up travelling anywhere near thirty miles in two days, not in the winter mud and cold, but all the same she was going to be dragged along from dawn till dusk. At least Fulk was keeping out of the way as ordered; miracles will never cease.

“And Nell? My beautiful Nell? My cook is not sacked, nor is any of my staff. They remain, understood?”

“Yes, master.”

“I do appreciate your taking an interest in running a household, but not mine. I have mine set up just as I like it, darling Nell, whether the cook can actually cook or no.” He gave Fulk a cheery wave, then pulled the shutters to.

Fulk leaned down and said quietly in her ear, “Happy little fellow, isn’t he?”

“Are you volunteering to go on that nice walk with me?”

“No, no, I wouldn’t dream of butting in between old friends,” said Fulk innocently.

“Bastard,” she said with quiet, but friendly, feeling.

Fulk just grinned and patted her on the shoulder. Together they went to investigate the ‘delights’ the cook had managed to create.




For the best part of three weeks Trempwick kept them apart, keeping Eleanor busy with anything that kept her away from Fulk and on under his supervision. Fulk was kept occupied for a few days by the tailor, measuring fitting and refitting his new clothes and a suit of royal livery.

Then in the beginning of the second week of December he suddenly stopped, all but disappearing into his study and never emerging into daylight. Eleanor and Fulk restarted their hand-to-hand combat training, working in the solar as the weather was terrible.





Finally, after vanishing for just over four days, Trempwick reappeared in the middle of one of their training sessions. The usually dapper spymaster looked dreadful, his eyes sunken with dark smudges beneath them as if he hadn’t slept in days, his clothing rumpled and unkempt, and his manner preoccupied. He watched them silently for around half an hour, before finally speaking, “How do you feel about treason, Nell?”

“I am a loyal servant of the crown,” she replied instantly, with the confidence born of long practise at making that particular line sound heartfelt.

“How do you feel about treason, Nell?” asked Trempwick again.

“I am a loyal servant of the crown,” she returned again exactly the same.

Trempwick scratched his chin, nails rasping over several days’ stubble, “I taught you that line well. The truth; how do you feel about treason, Nell?”

“I am a loyal servant of the crown,” she insisted again. Until she had some idea of why he was asking she would stick to her safe lie. This could be another of his games, or it could be something more sinister, a test of her loyalty by her much beloved regal parent.

“Pity.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” called Eleanor, “What do you mean, ‘pity’?”

Trempwick halted but didn’t turn back, “To know is to become guilty by association; I do not like even mentioning this to you, it places you in a difficult position, and in danger.” He looked back over his shoulder and met her eyes, “I think you will want to know. It concerns your brothers.”

“Tell me,” she said simply. She hadn’t seen either of her brothers in two years, but if it came to family solidarity she knew who she’d rather side with when faced with a choice between them and her father.

“Not here,” he replied with a significant glance at Fulk, “Keep your pet well out of it until you know what you will be dragging him into. Guilt by association is enough to hang a man. My study.” He offered her his arm, with a quick instruction for Fulk to wait in her room Eleanor took it and left with the spymaster.





I feel that part needed more work; it has some very good bits but I don't think I've done it justice. I can't help it, not only am I busy but this particular part is the slack between one interesting bit and the next.

You realise that, in a way, the entity Fulk wants to kick is me?
 
Good thing he only exists on the page then. ;)

Now what has Trempwick cooked up this time I wonder? I almost think he's setting Eleanor up, but I'm not entirely sure why he would do that. Still, one must always be suspicious of a man like the spymaster.
 
“We seldom get what we want, instead we get what we need.”, how many times had he heard his mother say that? It had been her reason for everything, “We don’t want a bad harvest, but God has decided we need one.”

You do not know how many times my grandmother used to say that!

WARNING if you don't want to know my predictions for what will happen don't read on

That was odd, I think Tem is trying to get Nell to realise it wasn't his chioce to kill her brother, maybe a little rebellion in call. I also get the feeling something big will happen with Fulk.
 
"I also get the feeling something big will happen with Fulk."


Bloody Brilliant!


Keep up the great work Frog! Obviously you have quite a few followers who love the stories! (including me)
 
“John has decided,” said Trempwick as he sat down heavily on the only seat in his study, “that he would make a much better successor than Hugh, and a much better king than our much loved sovereign, king William, alias your kind, gentle, entirely sane father. He has seduced a few high ranking nobles to his cause, and enough miscellaneous others to cause trouble when he makes his move. He does not have enough to win quickly, or even to guarantee victory. I must report this; if I do not then my own head will roll, and England will be engulfed in civil war.”

Her reaction was instant and reflexive, “You are wrong! John is … he hates fighting, he finds administration tedious-”

Trempwick broke in, “And yet loves wealth, display, power and playing the diplomatic game. No, he is not an obviously ambitious man, but if he thought being king would amuse him he would chase it. Someone has been pouring poison in his ear; sadly my spies reported it too late for me to avert his folly.”

“What of Hugh? He is the crown prince.” ”And what of me?” added Eleanor silently. The answers were probably simple. Hugh would be imprisoned, murdered or exiled, and she would be neatly tied up as a reward to John’s most important, single supporter with no more say in her future than Hugh. And so that was that, the uncanny peace that had barely held the remnants of the family in England together had just shattered. Or had it? Perhaps Trempwick lied? She could not see why he would, what he stood to gain and he had never lied about anything important before. Eleanor vowed she would find the truth for herself, as long as there was even a tiny chance this was wrong then she wouldn’t have to watch her male relatives tear themselves to bits, waiting all but helplessly for the victor to decide her fate.

Trempwick spoke with uncharacteristic kindness, “Dear Nell, I am greatly heartened by your faith in my skills, but do you not think that information like that is hard to get for a simple spy? It would take someone close in his confidence, a highly placed person who was working for me-”

So that was it, he thought she was so much his creature she would go off and do his dirty work, dispatching a brother to please a father whose favour Trempwick needed as much as he needed air to breathe. “No! I will not help you betray-”

He pounded a fist into his open palm, “Be silent, damn you! Look at me,” he ordered, “Look me in the eye and say that again if you dare. Do not insult me, Nell, do not even consider insulting me. If nothing else credit me with enough intelligence to see that you would choose John over me, if only because extravagant Johnny never drowned Stephan. You’d do well to remember what John is, and what I am, remember who sat at your bedside when you were sick, and who used to sit on you.”

She was damned if she was going to apologise, even a fake apology.

Trempwick held the silence long enough to grind his point home then continued more compassionately, “I could do nothing about Stephan, but perhaps this brother I can return to you. Go, warn him to flee the country and take refuge abroad. This will make you a traitor as well, so know what you are risking, Eleanor. If you choose to travel this path I shall insist to my dying breath that you were there spying for me. I will insist you were betraying him, not saving him. That does leave you as an incompetent agent, and our monarch is already going to be in an unbelievable temper because of the magnitude of this; you know what that means.”

“I know,” confirmed Eleanor. It would mean another delightful parental meeting involving spilt blood, hers, of course, never his. “He will be furious anyway, and that means just the same.” A king cannot batter his vassals, his wife was dead, his two sons strong enough to defend themselves, and his other daughters safely abroad or deceased. That left Eleanor as the only legitimate, safe target for his wrath. Stripping castles and lands, and imposing hefty fines just didn’t have the same primal appeal as hitting someone, at least according to the wit and wisdom of his royal majesty, king William VI of England. In her more morbid moments Eleanor decided that her life was quite safe as long as her father had no other target to vent his rages on. On very rare occasions it made her almost glad the mother she had barely known was dead, but that was soon replaced by pity for what she must have suffered.

“And John must not know what you are; you cannot tell him that. You must find a way to warn without revealing yourself, or me.”

“I will go and make myself look very receptive to his plot; I can then point out a few flaws and persuade him he has been duped.” She said it with a confidence she did not feel.

“Yes,” Trempwick scratched at his stubble again, “that could work. Yes, indeed, let us plan, my valiant Nell, let us plan.”






Fulk on the edge of Eleanor’s bed, waiting and brooding, turning over possibilities and facts in his mind. What was the spymaster up to now? He’d kept his word and had a tailor make several changes of good clothes and a single suit of royal livery. Now that in itself was a puzzle. The livery was identical to any worn by a man in royal service, a red tunic with fashionably tight sleeves and tapered waist with white embroidery at the neck and hem to go with white hose and a white hood with shoulder cape trimmed in red, but there was no badge anywhere, no indication of which particular royal he served. He was supposed to wear it when Eleanor was in princess mode, but without the badge he’d look incomplete and artificial. The most straightforward answer to the lack of a badge was the most improbable; Eleanor had to have a symbol of some sort. If she didn’t have one then how was she supposed to mark out her servants and soldiers? She was noble; of course she had a personal badge. Perhaps it was Trempwick’s way of belittling him; he was in royal service but still not accepted as her man. He had decided to say nothing to any except Eleanor; he didn’t want to antagonise the spymaster too much.

Now that begged the question, why had he ever started antagonising the man in the first place? Again there were too many answers but no certain one. No, now he was lying to himself – there was only one answer and a simple one at that. He was doing it because he couldn’t stand seeing Trempwick trample all over Eleanor. It was part of his promise to protect her, a matter of honour, then. That lie held firm.

Held.

Failed. Fulk’s head dropped into his hands. His growing hair flopped forward to caress his hands, another gentle reminder of the truth. He had started growing his hair because of her and her comments, her disapproval prodding his own mild but apathetic dislike for his old cut. He was nearly committing suicide because he lov-liked her. He couldn’t bear seeing her trampled because he liked her. That entity had done a really good job on him, no matter how he fought it he lost. And she was the same, that was made it so much the worse. It is easier to keep control over yourself than over another, and now he worried what he would do if she ever broke their silence. How do you turn down a princess, tell her you want to live? Especially when that princess was so … lethally skilled. Accept, decline, whichever way he went he’d end up with sharp implements stuck in places that would make his eyes water; the only difference would be in who placed them there, Eleanor or Trempwick. No, that was a disservice to her; she wouldn’t do anything creative to him, but he would have to leave, and then …






It was a subdued Eleanor who returned to her room a couple of hours later. “He was right,” she told Fulk softly as she closed the door, “you are best off out of this.”

So that was the way of things, was it? Left out, left behind, and eventually thrown away. Not if he could help it, thanks. “If you’re going so am I. I swore ‘to follow and protect you for the rest of my life, through hellfire if need be’, or words to that effect.” Yes, he’d a promise to keep and that had nothing to do with certain fears of being killed, cast out homeless and jobless, or losing her. Certainly not the last, no, certainly not the last. Honour, that’s what it was.

“I cannot ask you to walk through hellfire for me.”

Coming from Eleanor with her precarious, dangerous life that meant a lot. Hellfire; something dangerous even by her standards. Whatever it was it was best avoided; maybe he could talk her out of it? “You promised me you’d not walk into hellfire,” he said, concern showing.

She smiled apologetically, “Then it appears I lied, for that is what I am to do. I will not change my mind.”

“Are you worth dying for?” asked the insidious voice of his conscience. No, he was not. It was the same answer as always, the same wrong answer. If he left her to face this hellfire, whatever it was, alone then he was even further from being worthy than he already was. And if he left her alone he might los-no, honour, pure honour. He would follow her to hell because he was a man of his word. “You might not ask, but you don’t need to,” insisted Fulk, “I’m going with you.”

“Walls have ears, we should move.” She snatched up her thick winter cloak from the chest where it was stored, “The tower top, no one can eavesdrop there.”





“If you come with me you will be involved in treason, and then in aiding a traitor’s escape.”

“I’ve already robbed an abbey, let my old lord’s murderer escape, aided and abetted said murderer, and upset the king’s spymaster. Any of those alone will get me swinging from a noose.” Actually he’d been trying not to think about that. “I’m going with you. My place is at your side.”

Eleanor’s heart skipped a beat; he would follow her even into treason. “If you insist on coming I suppose I can tolerate your existence.”

“And I suppose I can just about put up with you too, since it’s obligatory.”

Reality hit her like a punch; no, it wasn’t about her, most likely he was simply ensuring his job remained safe. No one would ever do anything so dangerous just for her, no one. She didn’t know why Trempwick so often gambled with his life on her behalf, but she was sure it had nothing to do with her, only some unknown benefit she could bring. He couldn’t have chosen his words better, the simple undiplomatic truth to knock her off that cloud she’d deluded herself onto. People only ever put up with her, nothing more.

Enough self-pity! She started to explain the necessary background as concisely as possible, “I have two surviving brothers, Hugh and John. Hugh is the heir; a typical second son boosted up to first place without the necessary foundation to carry the burden. Unlike Stephan he was not brought up to take the crown; he was already eleven when he became crown prince. He is competent at everything but excels at little, always struggling to fill our elder brother’s shoes and never quite managing. John is the third son, raised to have no ambitions aside from a minor dukedom somewhere. He is … petty, feckless, reckless, proud, so proud …”

One of the things she remembered best about John as a child was his stunningly bad performance in the martial arts; as a page he had been last in everything, beaten on the practise field by every other boy, even those years younger than him. The blow to his pride had been crushing, and he had set out to mend his ego in the only way he could think of, by defeating the only person he often saw who was weaker than himself – a certain girl four years younger than him with no martial training at all. Her. She could still vividly remember him and his ‘wrestling’ matches, how he’d lain in wait for her, then pitched her to the ground with no warning and pinned her down, his weight crushing her ribs so she could barely breathe, his face scant inches from her own as he crowed his victory. A page taking on a girl four years younger than him and counting the victory as glorious. It was the only way John ever saw triumph on the field.

Well, since her brother was notorious for being as martially skilled as the average carrot she would be the victor if he ever tried it again, thanks to the tricks she’d learned. She’d picked up a fear of being crushed because of him; maybe giving him a fear of short sisters would be equal exchange?

“And yet for all that his is intensely likeable; it will be good to see him, even under these circumstances. He loves to play the diplomat, the great host, and he is great company unless he decides to make you the target for one of his barbed jokes. Sadly he is rather naïve; he believes he wants to be king, he is making a bid for the crown. I think perhaps someone must have persuaded him to it. I am going to lie to him, let him bring me in on his plot, then warn him something is wrong and to flee before he is captured. If he stays he will be captured and imprisoned for the rest of his life; I cannot see Hugh forgiving the brother who tried to supplant him. We leave tomorrow. Trempwick has promised us seven days before he goes to the king, seven days to get to Bardney castle near Lincoln, and get him away to the nearest port.”

She turned away, resting her hands on the cold stone ramparts of the tower. “This is going to tear what is left of the family apart, and they will all hate me for my part. Hate for different reasons, but hate all the same.”

Fulk ached to put his arms around her, pull her close and comfort her, but that was impossible. He wished he could think of something to say, something he could offer to reassure but all he could find were lies, lies that everything would be all right when they plainly would not. He placed his hand on hers, curling his fingers around hers in a wordless gesture that said simply ‘I am here, you are not alone’. Not much, but all he could offer.

Eleanor looked at their clasped hands, then up at Fulk. Their eyes met and held, a quieter repeat of that earlier spark. Somehow it calmed her, made the knowledge that the family harmony had ended forever less overwhelming. She resolved not to question his gesture or what she saw in his eyes; she would not give it any significance or blight it with reality. It was best to leave it as something that simply was.

The gaze ended, not violently like last time, but peacefully, like something that had run its course and moved on. They both turned to looking out over the landscape, hands still joined.




Fulk remained up on the tower alone long after Eleanor got cold and went back inside; he claimed to find the cold snap in the air refreshing and he suspected she was accepted this pathetic excuse because she too had a yearning for solitude.

He noticed a single long, black hair clinging to his tunic sleeve. He picked it up and almost tenderly coiled it in a loop about his fingertip. It was long enough to wrap around seventeen times, forming a narrow, dark band. He ran his thumb over the hair, giving it the caress he had almost given to its owner. “So much as a single hair…” He smiled wistfully, unwrapped the hair and let it blow away on the breeze.





A semi-experimental piece.

What's Trempy up to, coz1? You'll only have to wait another ?? pages to find out :D

Zeno, I'll repeat what I said to the others, you have a part but is it correct or just a froggy red herring?

igaworker, yup, I got readers, even though I couldn't make so much as a rough guess at how many. :waves to all the mysterious lurker people:
 
They made ready to leave at dawn the next morning, travelling light and wearing old, indistinguishable clothes to match their workaday horses. It was best not to attract attention, and they were going to be on the road almost without break until they arrived in Bardney. Travel during winter was slow, very slow, and so they would have to push both themselves and their mounts to reach John in time. Assuming he hadn’t moved elsewhere, of course. Eleanor prayed he hadn’t, but she had little confidence; so many of her prayers went unanswered, why should this one be any different?

Just as before Trempwick had turned out to see her off. The spymaster was once again restored to his dapper self; a bath, shave and clean clothes had taken care of that. The dark rings about his eyes remained, and he viewed the world through half closed eyes he was that weary. Eleanor stood before him, waiting for him to speak, to raise the final matter that must be taken care of before she could leave. He didn’t; for once the spymaster kept his own council, almost as if he were reluctant to bring the subject up.

“Master?” she prompted, “There is but one thing remaining.”

Trempwick blinked sleepily at her, sombre and yet comical at the same time. “Are you sure about this, dear Nell?”

She was sure this last aspect of her disguise was one she didn’t want. She was sure she was going to curse this aspect for days. She was sure it would cause trouble with Fulk. She was sure it was going to hurt. She was certain, without reservation, that it was necessary. “Yes,” she said, relieved to find her voice steady and clear.

Trempwick sighed, “Nell … so be it.” He backhanded her across the face so hard her head snapped around and she staggered backwards even though she was braced for the blow.

Her hand flew to her face; slowly she straightened up. She would go to John claiming to have escaped and fled in fear of her life. She would turn up dressed in old, plain clothes patched and not quite fitting, travel stained and with a livid bruise where reason suggested there should be none; it was common knowledge the king was currently in Wales and no one else had the right to raise a hand to her. He would ask what had happened to her, she would spill a sob story and so make herself the ideal candidate to bring to his conspiracy.

Trempwick carefully but insistently pulled her hand away so he could inspect the damage. He brushed a cool finger over the crimson mark, inspecting the damage he had caused. His gesture was almost caring. Eleanor longed to slap his hand away, longed to pull her other hand free of his light grip. She had learned two unexpected things this morning. Firstly, that for all his protestations that he preferred subtle methods to violence, and his scorn for those who used brute strength to force a way, the spymaster could hit harder than the king. Secondly, that somehow having him holding her hand, just as Fulk had done, was an entirely different and distasteful experience.

Trempwick must have sensed her discomfort because he dropped his hands back to his sides and said simply, “If you do not come back I shall be quite broken-hearted, dear Nell.”

He sounded sincere enough, and that in itself was quite rare, combined with this particular sentiment, anyway. Eleanor dismissed it with barely a thought, a spymaster worried he might lose one of his more useful tools. She was eager to be on her way, and for once Trempwick allowed her to have her own way. Just minutes later she and Fulk were riding out the gate.





Several miles out from the manor and Eleanor’s face was throbbing slightly out of time with the beat of her horse’s hooves. Delightful, it hurt once in time with her heartbeat, then again as she was jolted by the animal. Fulk was proving to be a magnificent diversion, she thought cuttingly, sat there on his horse silent as a graveyard and apparently doing his best to ignore her. What a sparkling conversationalist he could be, truly stunning, and so good at distracting her from her cares too. Well, she allowed generously, he had been hired as a bodyguard rather than companion, so perhaps he did have some excuse to sit there brooding away.

Two could play at that game; Eleanor dived deep into her own thoughts, away from the ache of her cheek, leaving her horse to find its own way along the road and Fulk to keep watch for bandits. First topic for analysis: Trempwick’s latest. Not his declaration that he’d miss her if she didn’t return, that was simple and already explained. No, the force of that slap. A bruise, that was all that was required, one that was recent and visible, nothing more. So why hit so hard? Was he proving his strength? But why would he do that? To prove there was more to him than his mind, that he was able to fight and had the strength that came from training? That suggested, then, that he had been training with weapons for years, and yet she had never seen him doing so. Maybe that was the message? That he did many things she had no inkling of.

Or maybe it was the release of over a decade’s frustration? But again, why? He could have hit her any time he liked, right from the moment she left the palace with him, and he had always shown nothing but disgust for violence.

Her brows locked together and she absently chewed her lip. There was another possibility: Fulk. A way to get at him. A way to prove how helpless the man at arms was to keep his oath, the oath he had made much of, when Trempwick decided otherwise. It would be days, weeks probably before the mark faded entirely, and for all the time it was there every time Fulk looked at her he’d see how helpless he was. More than that, it proved to her how useless Fulk was. It was underhanded, sneaky, petty, vengeful, in short it was Trempwick to a t.

The next thought hit her like a thunderbolt; Fulk, yes, but perhaps not for that reason. The Spymaster knew that if she got hurt Fulk tended it; he had to know Fulk would insist on doing something with this latest injury. So that meant …. Trempwick was pushing them together? Tending injuries created a bond just as surely as fighting side-by-side, or relying on each other for survival. She wished she had known that months ago when she agreed to let him look at her back; if she had known then what she knew now she would have refused his help, just as she was going to refuse his help now.

For a second she held the idea, in awe. Then she discarded it; Trempwick would never push his precious tool at a man he considered useless and pointless. Not only that but Fulk was so far beneath her rank she could barely see him if she looked down. While it was just ever so slightly possible that Trempwick had her happiness in mind somehow she doubted happiness had anything much to do with a broken nose. Even if it was sort of fetching. Besides, she had declared, repeatedly and whole-heartedly, that she was going to stamp out that spark, so why would he try to fan it into a blaze? Especially when he had done his best to break them apart to ensure this spark had no chance to grow … at least that is what she remembered. She hadn’t been paying too much attention to Trempwick during that conversation; she had been far too preoccupied with her own troubles to pay him much heed. She nearly laughed aloud at her own folly in entertaining the idea, even for a split second.

Her train of thought took a different turn, an unconscious one. Why the difference between Fulk touching her hand and Trempwick? And Aidney too, for that matter. One had made her scour her hands until her flesh was raw, one made her distinctly uncomfortable, the other made her feel so … peaceful. The moment he had touched her hand the muddle of worries, concerns, suspicions, doubts, and fears that constantly fought for supremacy in her mind had receded, their clamour stilling. When she had met his eye they had cleared away like clouds before the sun, leaving nothing behind but a calming peace, something so rare she couldn’t even remember experiencing it before. She had to admit there were certain disadvantages to being cut off from the usual chain of gossip you encountered if you had female companionship of some sort. If she could swallow the humiliation and brave the embarrassment she could have asked, she could have asked thousands of questions. Why the difference? Why did she find the damned nose fetching when she still hadn’t the slightest interest in looks? Why did this accursed spark grow even as she tried to stamp it out? Why did the small potential they had inadvertently found both horrify her and make her giddy with delight? Why-

Something tickled at the edge of her awareness; Fulk had spoken to her. She roused herself and asked, “Pardon?”

“I said, why does my livery have no badge? I’ve been thinking on it all morning.”

“It has no badge because I have no badge,” she replied, her manner brisk, “A badge would imply that someone cared sufficiently about me to give me one, and that I had some hope of ever having a use for one.”

“You do have a use,” he said quietly, “me.”

“One man at arms does not a rich noble make, nor a badge deserve. To have a use I would need several people at the very least, and I shall never have that.” They lapsed back into silence, this time a somewhat colder and less friendly one.
 
Eleanor and Fulk,
Sitting in a tree,
K-I-S....
well, I digress but you get the point. ;)

I still think Trempy is up to something - perhaps setting up Fulk in some way instead. I surely don't think he would throw them together out of some altruistic idea as one of Eleanor's thoughts conveyed. But what that spymaster's plan is, I have no clue. I will wait patiently until revealed however. It's getting exciting.

And as for Fulk and Eleanor - just remember the lesson learned from the American TV show Moonlighting. Once the kiss comes, the tension leaves.
 
After two and a half days of near constant riding they finally arrived at the great stone gates of Bardney. The gate guard took one look at them and warily offered shelter for the night in a corner of the great hall.

“We are here to see lord John,” said Eleanor, her upper class accent in startling contrast to her dirty, forgettable appearance.

“He won’t see you,” insisted the soldier bluntly.

“Oh yes he will – tell him his sister has arrived and is seeking refuge.”

“Sister? Which one?”

“The only one currently in England you stupid oaf - Eleanor!” She added so quietly even Fulk had to strain to hear, “The one everyone always forgets.”

She could hear the guard’s mind working; should he turn them away or not? If he did and she was a princess then he’d be in trouble, but if she were lying he would be in trouble if he let them in. Pass the problem, yes, let someone else take responsibility. He scuttled off to consult the captain of the watch.





With a lot more finagling and a chain of buck passing that eventually reached John, they were admitted to the castle and lead up to the spacious, generously furnished solar where John waited. They took Fulk’s sword before they were allowed through the door, doubtless they would have disarmed Eleanor too if they had known about her knives. By the decoratively carved fireplace a shortish, lanky man sat with one leg hooked over the arm of his chair, his posture relaxed to the point where he appeared nearly boneless. He was idly swinging the hanging leg. He was dressed in exquisite finery, as befitted a prince and second in line to the throne of the English empire, everything perfectly tailored to show his body off to best advantage. He hair was an odd cross between brown and gold and he had a short beard trimmed to hug his jaw line.

“My little sister,” exclaimed John, a broad smile splitting his face the instant Eleanor stepped through the door. He bounded to his feet, rushed over and grabbed her in an enthusiastic hug, “When the guard said a mud splattered woman with a furious bruise on her face and dishevelled hair had turned up claiming to be you I did not doubt it for a second.” He held her back at arms length and inspected her closely, “What in God’s name happened to you?”

Eleanor eased free of his embrace and began fiddling with the ring Fulk had brought her, the wedding ring she always wore on her right hand instead of the left, making it no more than another ordinary ring unless she chose to swap it to the other hand. She took a deep breath, her nervousness only partially faked. “I escaped,” she said simply.

A servant unobtrusively delivered a tray of wine with a single goblet; John must have ordered it before they arrived. He commanded the servant to fetch two more goblets and a larger jug, then poured wine and gave it to Eleanor. She made her hand tremble slightly as she took it, then sipped anxiously before taking a huge gulp that drained half the contents. John steered her towards a fireside chair, then after a moments thought weaved Fulk to another chair.

“Escaped?” repeated John, refilling her goblet to the brim, “I did not quite believe father when he said that you had turned into a pious thing.”

Eleanor snorted, “I suppose he would not be very forthcoming with the truth; I have been a virtual prisoner in a pokey little manor in Woburn. I have no money, no lands, no prospects and I have to suffer our regal parent’s company rather too frequently for my tastes. I am his favourite outlet for his tempers.”

“Who hit you? Not father; he has been gone for several weeks now.”

“The ‘caretaker’ assigned to keep me in place, a minor nothing by the name of Trempwick. I tried to sack the cook; taking anything into my own hands is not appreciated.”

“Trempwick?” John began to toy with the fancy dagger at his belt, “Do you know his first name?”

“Raoul, of all things. Sir Raoul Trempwick, dunghill cock with delusions of being a dragon.”

“Yes, I know the man. I think I shall have a word with him about manners.” The offer was quite sweet really, but if Eleanor ever wanted a brother to beat someone up John would be her last choice. The brother was not supposed to be the one who ended up in a crumbled heap.

She was surprised John knew Trempwick; she had always thought him one of those grey figures that barely anyone knew, heard of occasionally, yes, but never saw. He did spend almost all his time with her in Woburn, and had done so for over a decade. “How do you know him? He is seldom away, leaving would force him to miss precious opportunities to belittle me.”

“I saw him at court once, during your last visit.”

“That was years ago,” said Eleanor, plainly surprised he had remembered.

John laughed self-indulgently, “I do try to keep abreast of matters, and my memory for faces has always been good. Besides, you were that and that makes the occasion all the more memorable. Your presence makes any occasion worth engraving into memory and holding precious until the end of my days.”

She eyed him with amusement, “Still the courtier, I see.”

“You wound me, dear sister! I am entirely sincere,” he protested just as the servant returned with the extra goblets. John clicked his fingers and the servant hurried to his side after laying down his burden. “Prepare the guest chamber for my sister and organise a bath for her and her …” he looked to Fulk, “Just what are you anyway?”

“He is my bodyguard, he will sleep outside my door,” Eleanor supplied.

John nodded, “Prepare a bath for both of them and a pallet for the bodyguard outside my sister’s door. Food too, and clothes. For the man we should have a livery that will fit well enough, for my sister you will have to alter clothes. Tell the seamstresses to work from Judith’s clothes; the green ensemble, I think. Send them up to the guest chamber; they can measure my sister when we have finished talking. Tell them I want the work finished as soon as possible; they can improve now and finalise the work while she sleeps.”

“Sir,” the servant bowed, “The lady Judith might-”

“Tell her I will explain later.” The rings on his fingers flashed as he waved the servant away. He gave Eleanor a sheepish smile, “I would introduce you to Judith but she is not yet much for noble company.” The smile gathered a rakish quality, “well, except for my company. The merchant’s accent only shows when she speaks.”

“So your wife is not in residence then?” she asked, hating how clueless she sounded. Of course she wasn’t, only an addled fool would expected to find wife and mistress under the same roof, but she had to know where this wife was stashed.

John filled his own goblet and tossed the wine down in one go, “No, she’s off in my Welsh lands with our daughter. I could use a son, but at the same time I have never been one for hard work. Wales is nice this time of year; I believe she’s quite happy there.”

Nice? It was a snowbound hell. Her absence made Eleanor’s task more difficult; John’s family would be arrested on his downfall, they needed to flee the country with him. She knew nothing about John’s wife; what had the poor thing done to end up in Wales? “I do not think they even told me her name.”

“Sophie; bland, boring little Sophie. So eager to please she makes me sick, and so very unable to please where it counts. You know I do believe she would leap from a cliff if I asked her to, she is that eager. How dreadfully tedious. I tried encouraging her to be livelier, but she is so firmly settled into boring it would take more energy than I can be bothered to expend to drag her out. I would far rather she stopped hanging off my every word. She is about as challenging as an omelette.”

Unable to think of any suitable response Eleanor kept quiet. Another reminder of why marriage was so unappealing; she did not want to be shunted to one side and humiliated by an unfaithful husband. She already knew much of the long litany of complaints she would inevitably cause; she had been hearing them for most of her life. She had never been able to decide which was the worse; having to suffer the attentions of someone you didn’t want, someone you know felt exactly the same about you, or being dumped by that exact same disinterested party.

John stood up, stretching like a cat. “My manners are dreadful, I do apologise, keeping you here listening to my woes when I should be ushering you off to a hot bath, clean clothes and good food. We will talk more later over dinner; I shall have it served here in the solar so we may talk in private.”





Short part because I'm trying to decide whether to include a scene in the next part or to cut it completely. If it goes in then the lead in dialogue is needed, if not then the lead in will just confuse.

coz1, if Trempy wasn't up to something he'd be dead. As for the duo kissing, well ... that's for them to know, the frog to fret about, and you to find out :D
 
Bit like a shark, eh? If Trempy doesn't keep swimming he would die? Yes, that's quite believable. Not quite sure what to make of John just yet. Initially, he sounded like a bit of a fop, but as the scene continued, not so much. Very curious to find out what happens here. Keep it up.
 
I finally got round to posting to say how much I'm enjoying this.

Keep up the good work!
 
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. :)
 
Wow, looks like I missed a lot while I was gone...

But one thing remains the same, as this post shows: Getting within 50 feet of Eleanor is a huge gamble. It tends to result in injury, whether mental, physical, or (as in this case) olfactory. ;)