The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

The click of ivory on wood hastened Fulk’s reading; it was now his turn and he wanted to get to a decent place to halt. Tactitus’ ‘The Annals’ he had not read before, and the book was one of many such he now had access to. Eleanor had gone on one of her little sprees; ever since their return to Perth – no, since before. She had pestered him with questions about soldiers and soldiering all the way back - she had been attempting to learn everything about anything remotely relevant to being a princess, noble, general, or learned person. She had even asked him to play chess, to improve her patience, planning, and strategy, she said. Admittedly much of this was building on what Trempwick had taught, clarifying things she had not cared to listen to decently in the past and further considering concepts she had not previously taken so far. It has lasted for days with no sign of a loss of interest, sun up to sun down and long after. Now she had time to forge a reputation here in the Scottish court, and an unexpected one it was: princess Eleanor, the scholar. The scholar – his gooseberry, the scholar!

Not entirely though. When he’d commented on her new-found passion for reading she had soon disillusioned him, retorting that as she lacked access to authorities on the relevant subjects she would have to make do with books, which, lacking any other good merits, gave her ideas for new questions to ask when she did find someone. As good as her word, each time she cornered someone who might venture a view worth hearing she engaged them and drained them as dry as she could. Not taking a passive role she questioned, countered and debated. On occasion she played tafl too; unlike chess she would take on others apart from Fulk, and in places less private than her solar, able to claim it as a relatively new discovery as opposed to a game she should have been mastering since early childhood. Her victories and her losses came about equally, with more victories coming of late as she learned.

By merit of this, and her rank, Eleanor had gained access to several private libraries, and where she went, as ever, so did he, and he’d no intention of wasting the opportunity.

“Check,” said Eleanor calmly.

Fulk looked up so quickly he nearly snapped his own neck. A quick examination of the state of play revealed she wasn’t joking. He stuck a finger in the book to mark his place as he closed it, shifted to face the table properly, and settled down to find a way out. Eleanor picked up her own reading.

The book he laid aside when his finger began to feel crushed and half dislocated.

His back began to grumble; he moved to sit with his elbows propped on his knees to get a better view and ease the ache.

He scratched his nose.

Restless a time later, he shifted again, crossing his legs.

He drummed his fingers on the polished oak.

She was watching him over the tops of the pages …

Uppermost leg feeling tingly with reduced blood supply he swapped over so the other was on top.

Fulk rubbed at his chin, slowly sitting back. “Well, well, and well again.”

Eleanor toppled Fulk’s king, flicking the top of his crown with a fingertip. “Checkmate.” She reached for her cup, sipping daintily and hiding her smile.

Already indulgent from pride in her, the restraint made Fulk prompt, “Go on, gloat. I don’t mind.”

She lit up in a way he hadn’t seen in … months, it seemed, not since their days back in Woburn. “I won! My first ever victory.” She ducked her head, almost shy as she said, “And you are a very good player, too.”

He longed to kiss her, to take her by the hand and run away from all this, to go and do something wonderfully stupid like frolic outside, and to keep on kissing her, to keep a hold on the … girl, and the gooseberry, losing the princess, the scholar, the schemer, the pawn. “So now you’re ready to terrorise the entire court, or will be if you can repeat that a few times.” Fulk stood, reached for the pitcher and refilled his cup, which he raised to her. “To your glorious deeds.” He’d have added something more personal if Hawise hadn’t been present.

The ripple which spread across the surface of Eleanor’s drink was the only visible trace of her reaction, yet somehow the girl died. “Yes. To my glorious deeds.” She drank, a mouthful larger than she usually took when drinking this sweet white wine. Belatedly he saw the resemblance between the wording of his toast and the one she’d used to drug him.

Not for the first time he thought he’d done her no kindness in forgiving her so easily; if he’d put a more decisive end to it she wouldn’t be fearing digs and slights. Now, as it had then, it seemed chronically unfair to be harsh with her to cover his own cowardice, his breathless relief at not needing to follow her into something so repugnant. He could not have remained behind, if he’d known she was to go. He would have followed, and helped, and hated himself and seen a side of her he didn’t want to. Seeing always made things … real. The hardest side of her he wanted to see no more than he thought she wanted to see the side of him which exulted in battle as the ultimate test of his skill at arms and rejoiced each time he drew blood, with each kill, as proof of his ability. It was there, and from the outside she’d seen it, as he’d seen her own worst from the outside. From the outside it was safe, manageable.

He should have been stern and exacted some sort of reckoning, even she would likely admit it deserved, though perhaps it would take a bit of a tussle before honest won. In good conscience he simply couldn’t manage it, and if he couldn’t tweak a hair on her head in very good conscience then he wouldn’t do it. Else he’d start squinting at the mirror and wondering if he was growing a crown. And she had been cringing already, without him raising a hand or every having done so.

Eleanor moved from the backless chair at the chess board to one of the window seats, plumping the cushions until she was comfortable. “You may explain to me why you think it a good idea to pay soldiers a few days late, never too late, very seldom on time, and almost never even a half day early.”








I felt like an evening of writing, and managed a whole hour. Wow! What I really needed to be doing was racing my way through at least another 100 pages of my current book. Oh dear; not good. By preference I’d pair this with another scene, but I don’t have the time now, and to be honest I’m unsure as to which POV to use. Both Nell and Fulk are available for it, and both show interesting things …

Phargle: Hehe, I’d say that he died as he lived – raging :grins broadly at her exaggeration of the scene

Ah, I had thought the title a Hamlet reference.

Coz1: He was cruel, and I suppose he did deserve this end; he helped to make it possible. But still … being The Frog I’ve seen him as a young man, I’ve seen him happy, I’ve seen him hurt in body and in spirit, I’ve seen him suffer, be lonely, be happy. I’ve seen him hold his little baby Eleanor, and the love he shone with. It is impossible not to wish he had come to a different end, and there is the sadness for me. He had the potential to, though that is another story. I can forgive him, which means only I wish for him to meet something just and not something unkind. I wish … like Anne I would love to see Nell and her father make their peace. I see faint, very ghostly echoes of what might have been thanks to one of the alternate worlds where events played out slightly differently. Never love, but a grudging respect, still in danger of – and frequently doing so – flaring up into hostility.

One of my POVs is gone, and the sense of loss is incredible. One of the ways I look at this world, these people, is gone. I can only look backwards with William now. Never again will I get the promptings of a new scene, revelations, hints, no more suddenly understanding something as new information is granted.

oints to the sign reading “The views of the characters are not the views of the frog”: It’s Jocelyn, and you know what he’s like. William is doing his all to make certain his wishes are carried out, and “You’ll be well rewarded …” sounds so much more alluring than “You might get something, maybe, possibly … if they don’t bin my warrant.” Jocelyn is, as usual, being optimistic and opportunistic, and blaming it on God. x_x

Dead William: I don’t know what that Latin says (I can get “beat(flog?) Eleanor”, but she is in quite the mood and muttering about hitting people with her crown. :froggy looks about to see if it is safe, and whispers: Actually I agree with you. oor froggy doesn’t even get enough warning to blink as Eleanor’s crown impacts on her skull.:

Crusher: If you read between the lines and pick up on a few lines of dialogue then you will find that the Eyrie and Dorne are about the only places unaffected in Westeros.

Pargle is precisely right. It’s a common saying (or so I thought. Maybe it’s more limited …) with regards to the monarch and the kingdom, and that marriage is the entire purpose of the coronation ring: it’s the wedding ring. The realm was William’s wife. Ergo the husband William is sending Nell is the realm.

Avernite: I’m shocked and quite frankly embarrassed on your behalf. A member of the Trempy fanclub, and not immediately thinking of the use Trempy could make of an announcement that Nell is William’s chosen heir! Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Zephyr: :grins: I guess William does seem to find Nell easier to love when she is a long way away … or when she is small, harmless and unable to talk :rofl:

Breaking silence is good, unless you are a monk with vows of silence, or are on an undercover mission in enemy territory.

Oops, I forgot the recap of why Hugh hasn't been crowned for coz1. So here it is, trimmed down and assembled from two POVs:
London is in Trempy's hands, and so are Westminster Cathedral, the special annoiting oil, and the Crown Jewels (aside from the ring, which is as good as lost as far as Hugh knows at present). So he'll need to make a new crown and set of sceptres etc, find a new pot of super extra holy oil, and choose a new place, this assuming he can get the Archbishop of Canterbury to play along nicely. By which point there's so little connection with the 'proper' ceremony that people can dismiss it, making it mostly pointless. If you can depart so far from the established tradition and still be legal then anyone with the cash to spend, a church, and a tame important churchman can have himself crowned.

Dead William: I still agree. That Fulk is going to have problems with that wife of his at this rate :is coshed again, this time by both Nell and Fulk:

Wasn't it Cato the Elder who wanted Carthage ruined? Been a long time since I read much classical history, and the empire Augustus - Hadrian was my main centre then.

Avernite: They are soldiers. It only makes them tougher

The willow hoop dancing in the day’s strong winds at the end of a rope was a difficult target; there was no shame in even a highly skilled man missing a pass or two. Fulk had stipulated that only one pass out of the permitted five could fail. Only the best, that was what Eleanor had asked of him and he’d have found it her if she’d spoken not a word. Enough new men to make good the loses they had taken, and more to bolster numbers if that could be managed, but not enough to make people cry out that she brought foreigners to terrorise and oppress her people, as she’d put it. This was the final test for the cavalry, ability to work in formation, skill with sword and auxiliary weapons, and horsemanship being the first things he’d looked at. His thoughts on what he’d seen there he’d kept to himself.

The knight’s lance clipped the outer edge of the ring, adding a wild spin to the dancing. With an oath the man flung down his weapon, dragging his horse’s head about to the sidelines. His last run and his second miss. Fulk would not have taken the man even if that had been his first and only miss, even if he’d proven a rare talent with blade and horse; his temperament was unsuitable.

The next applicant’s name was shouted, and he started his first run. It was a near thing: the hoop stuck on the lance point and the rope broke. An attendant ran out to replace the target as soon as it was safe.

So far three had passed: a knight with grey in his hair whose lord had died and had lost his place in the household because the heir wanted younger men; a youngster who had the sole distinction of being a third son trained, dubbed, gifted a set of decent equipment and then thrown out by his family to make his own life, as was the way of the world; and a slightly older man of much the same circumstances, whose armour surely once belonged to his grandsire. Thus far the few of good birth and standing who had applied had failed the test, for which Fulk was grateful, much as he’d like to see Eleanor gain from the prestige and self-support landed and important knights brought with them. Landless knights were below him; ones with good blood and a scrap or two of land were not, and experience told that for every one who content to be his equal or less there was another who was not.

Eleanor watched, seated on a portable chair placed atop of a large square of material so her trailing skirts would not be fouled by dirt. She wore her crown too; he’d seen more of that wretched circle of gold in these last days than he’d seen in the half-year previous. Hawise and one of the three pages Hugh had lend her stood by to meet any needs she might have. A few men stood about her, important people all, giving advice and answering her questions. Or so he assumed; he could only actually hear when the wind blew right. If not for them he could have been at her shoulder, discussing the recruiting with her.

Luck or skill, one or the other failed and the latest applicant missed the hoop, his first error and his third run. He recovered well, and the end of his fifth run saw him joining the other successful candidates. He’d do well enough, not a knight but another like Fulk had once been, trained and equipped to fight like one and lacking only the dubbing.

The next two failed. The third passed. No others did. Training ground cleared Fulk had the infantry split into two groups and set against each other in mock battle.

Long minutes later Fulk’s eyes wandered from the melee to the stands, wanting a break from the teeming confusion and dust. A quick headcount – wimple count? – revealed that he’d gained another six female watchers since yesterday. It hadn’t taken days for a following to build as it always had in the past; word of the attempt on Eleanor had reached Perth before they had. His face spoke for itself. By the time people began gossiping about his other doings in England he had already been the handsome, brave knight who’d rescued the princess, destroyed his foe, and been so in the thick of the fighting it had been sworn there were three of him. His older exploits had only polished the shine. A steady collection of trinkets was building in the hand-sided bag he’d had to set aside for the purpose: rings, brooches, semi-precious stones, and suchlike, given to his squire or the pages to bring to him with a name and sometimes a message. He’d keep the lot – it was a far easier way to carry his wealth than in coin, and when future need struck he wouldn’t care a bit if he sold or pawned the bits and bobs. It was nice while it lasted; such fame was usually dead within a month, unless new deeds bolstered it. It was nice, too, not to have people muttering that he preferred boys or men, or joining his name with countless others in a search for his unobtainable lady.

His reputation and the fuss over the battle had done some good in a wider sense also: more than he’d expected to had turned up to try and win a place in Eleanor’s little army. Double-edged sword too – in addition to the usual few landed knights who wanted the honour of serving a princess there were some who thought to take his place and bask in the reflected glory of having such a knight under their command.

The same wind which had toyed with the willow ring now amused itself by pushing his hair into his eyes, tugging at his tunic and cloak, and cutting right through the layers of thick wool and linen to chill his bones. He wished he’d worn a second under-tunic, even at the risk of four layers of ordinary clothing making him look stouter than was flattering. Drawing the heavy folds of his cloak back into position to warm his windward side, Fulk crossed to where Eleanor sat. He’d make his report and let her have a say, mob of lords or no.

He bowed to her like a good courtly knight. “Your Highness. I thought to take only four of the five who managed the passes at the ring. Does this agree with you? The fifth being Stephan of the Lakes, him with the gold and blue. He’s too vicious with his horse; he’ll ruin whatever beast he’s given, and all the rest after. Too costly.”

“It will do.” Tightly snuggled up inside her blue mantle Eleanor looked frozen. The terse words and clamped jaw came from an effort to prevent her teeth from chattering, he assumed.

With another bow Fulk went and stood a few paces away, attention once again on the melee.

The conversation picked up again. One of the Scots picked up from where he’d left off at Fulk’s appearance. “Yes, a proper commander. Someone of good blood. That is what you need - require, even, by virtue of your rank. I understand this has been … difficult until late? As has been raising your force in the first place? This is no longer the case. I am sure your husband will help you choose someone suitable.”

Perhaps the clenched jaw wasn’t due to the weather.

Eleanor stated, “I have no husband.”

The lie made Fulk’s guts twist. Never before had she denied him; she had always skirted her way around doing so.

Another voice Fulk didn’t know the owner of broke in. “You were betrothed to this Trempwick publicly; it is known.

“I did so in fear of my safety.”

“Yet you name it as a betrothal, and name him as your betrothed, and so you agree to the arrangement.”

This voice had to belong to a clerk, or a lawyer. Or both. Such unholy combinations did exist.

“Now,” the Scot continued, “he has claimed you, as is his right. You are his, however deplorable his manner in making that claim may have been.”

“I am not,” stated Eleanor. “I am not his, and he is nothing of mine. Except a headache.”

“Live apart if you must, but stop this folly. He has presented his proof-”

“Proof?” Eleanor snorted. “Look to some poor dead chicken, or some unimportant girl whose dishonour means nothing to anyone save perhaps a bit of money for her in compensation. I will not be blamed for the misdeeds of others.”

“Your highness, when King Cnut the Great stood against the tide and ordered it to halt he got his feet wet.”

“I am not Cnut.”

“No, you are not.”

The lawyer/clerk seemed content to leave it at that. Sadly they couldn’t mark him down as a Trempwick supporter, not when every second person was saying the same, in England, in Scotland and in wherever else the news had reached.

Fulk allowed the mock battle to run until one side emerged victorious. His chosen men came roughly equally from the two sides, victor and vanquished, nineteen in total, skilled and equipped decently at the very least.

The men formed a single-file line, the knights at the front and the men at arms at the rear, ready to pledge loyalty. Now for the unusual part.

Two attendants brought forward a box which had sat idly behind Eleanor under a canvas cover. They set it on a table a third rushed into place at the edge of the cloth carpet, reverently removed the cover and stepped back. The reliquary was a small box, oblong in shape and with a lid shaped like a house’s roof. Gold leaf and gems gleamed on all much of the exposed surface, and plates of etched gold bore scenes of the Virgin and Child; the relic was a scrap of cloth which had wrapped the baby Christ after his birth. It had been borrowed from the palace’s private chapel.

Eleanor said, “Make your oaths, on your soul, hope of salvation, and on the relic. Or leave.”

Muttering ensued. It was the most binding oath possible, rare even for vassals swearing to their liege. Lesser oaths might be casually tossed aside. This one seldom was.

The first knight stepped forward hesitantly, kneeling at her feet. He laid one hand on the reliquary. “I pledge you my loyalty, to be your true man always, on my soul and by my hope of salvation.”

Standing a little off to the side Fulk watched it all, soldiers and princess. The way she sat all but enthroned in a cold-weather version of her glory, the crown, the kneeling men pledging their fealty, the mere fact she had compelled them to do her will in a way different to tradition …. A goose flew over his grave with convenient timing, or perhaps he looked at the future and recognised it; an involuntary shudder ran through him.

When the last of the new men had sworn all of her existing soldiers were required to repeat the oath, replacing their original one. Only Fulk was exempt; his own oath and the manner in which he’d given it was still a subject of idle conversation.

Eleanor’s army was to be divided, though the men should never know it. First came those who had been there to save her from Trempwick’s attempted abduction, precious few, their loyalty proven in that one night … or their lack of loyalty to Trempwick. Next came all those who had fought for her since, including at the battle four days ago. This was a lesser trust; they had not overtly gone against Trempwick’s needs, and may indeed have been helping them. Then came the untried. The hope was that men would move up from one class to the next, with the trusted faces having the minor officers’ positions.

Eleanor was shivering by the time it was all done. The suggestion to retire inside was accepted with barely seemly haste.









Since most will have forgotten it, a reminder of Fulk’s (second) oath to Eleanor:

Fulk appeared before ten minutes had passed. Unlike the boy he didn’t run, but he didn’t amble as de Clare had done. As he walked briskly down the hall he looked neither left nor right, and demonstrated none of the nervousness that might be expected from a minor baron summoned by the heir to the throne. Well groomed, dressed simply in fawn brown, light blue and white with his plain old sword belted at his waist he visibly claimed no ambition or rivalry with his superiors, but at the same time looked fit for a baron in the king’s personal service. The sizeable audience in the hall watched the latest player in this unanticipated drama mostly with ambivalence. Before the dais Fulk dropped smoothly to one knee and waited with bowed head.

“You are required to resume your service as bodyguard to my sister. Her life is your life, what happens to her happens to you tenfold if you do not prevent it; if she is even scratched and you yet live I will wish to know why, and you will pay dearly for your ineptitude. Your wage will now be four shillings per day; otherwise your existing contract still stands. Take your oath now, upon your soul.”

Fulk drew his sword slowly, so none could take it as a threat, and offered it hilt first to Eleanor. She held the weapon out before her with the flat of the blade resting on her palms. Fulk knelt at her feet and put his right hand on the sword in the middle of the space defined by Eleanor’s hands; he looked into her eyes with a solemnity which made Eleanor’s heart ache and at the same time made her want to laugh. “Your life is my life, your path is my path, my sword to guard you, my shield to shelter you, now and always, come what may, this I do swear upon my soul, so help me God.” It was a very powerful oath, also a very old one, perhaps even pagan in origin and adapted to Christian usage.

A wave of chatter flowed around the hall; Eleanor could catch not a word of it, but the tone was generally a favourable one. Amongst all but the highest nobility a bit of drama and some pretty words well spoken often met a good reception, in many parts of the higher nobility too. This was the embellishment which turned some remarkable events into a good story in the eyes of the general public. A knight swearing poetical allegiance and protection to a princess who had narrowly escaped death thanks to two of her faithful companions was splendidly close to a troubadour’s tale; the dream of life instead of the reality. Tales to this day’s work would spread throughout the kingdom, becoming more and more embellished with each telling. Eleanor could not have hoped for much better. From this day on people would expect to see Fulk following her at all times, and Trempwick would have numerous matching accounts of how she had been ‘forced’ by her brother’s concern for her life to take back her bodyguard.

Fulk stood up and took his sword back. He slid the weapon into its sheath at his hip, then bowed and kissed the ring he had given her months ago, a customary pledge of fealty with their own private meaning. Ceremony complete he joined Hawise in standing behind Eleanor. Eleanor glanced sidelong at her brother; his face was inscrutable.




I was supposed to have 3 days off last week. I was talked out of two of them. Far from the first time this has happened. Nell promises me a copy of her forthcoming book ‘How to say “NO!” and live: an instructive manual for dealing with all types, up to and including raging kings.’ It turns out it is entirely possible for a bookshop to have too many books. So many that I have given up trying to keep pace with all the important and popular ones. I’m still slogging on at a killer pace. As in a 640 page book and a 740 page book plus a few hundred pages of another on my last day off type of killer pace. Plus side is that I am reading more of my own choice of books these days …

I’m done with Wheel of Time 8. Glerk. Book 5 was a big drop down from the actually very good book 4, and it’s only continued to go down. Book 8 felt almost entirely pointless; it could have been a few chapters. The few highlights of the last books include Nynaeve’s reunion with Lan (Hehe!), and the Asha’man’s first battle, specifically the part where they formed line and threw everything they had at the enemy. I’m reading New Spring now, and hope to be done with the last 3 books within the next 10 days. I’ll be skimming them, you can be sure of that. Skimming was the only way I survived book 8.

Rand’s love life is rancid. It is known. Yup. Unbelievable, and a complete cop out on the already stupid and unbelievable romance subplots.


Coz!: Nell says she is especially proud of her modest and restrained reaction to her win. Myself, I suppose there is a fair bit of truth in this. For once.

On the ramparts of the outer gatehouse a man raised his arms directly up as if stretching. The pose was held for the count of three, then he lowered his arms to his sides. The signal.

Trempwick drew his sword. “Forward.” And he was off with his chosen men, moving through the dark towards White Castle. Stealthily.

Why bother with all the fuss of a siege when an alternative could be found? A spymaster’s alternative. Few would call this dishonourable. Prudent, cunning, able to save his men’s lives and accomplish his aims with surety – a general should be these things. Pitched battle and castles attacked by storm may be glorified. The very pinnacle of knightly warfare. But they belonged in songs, and only but rarely in reality. Even blood-hungry fools acknowledged this.

White Castle. One of the so-called Three Castles which controlled a part of the lower Welsh March. A part which hadn’t sided with him. A strong castle. Outer walls and earthworks, inner walls and more earthworks, a keep. Hard to take by siege. Starvation would be the key.

Except he had a person here, a person there …

And so the outer gatehouse was open for him tonight. The inner gatehouse also. Guarded by his handful while the castle slept on oblivious. Now only a case of reinforcing those gatehouses, sending men along the walls to take the towers, and entering the keep in the confusion.

He and his thirty entered the first gatehouse. They climbed the stairs. No resistance. No people at all. On the ramparts above the gates waited his bought sentries. The thirty Trempwick split: ten to go to the left, ten to the right, and ten to stay. They would sweep the walls clean.

The second party was following a count of two hundred behind his. Trempwick went down to meet them. This party was larger, a hundred men at arms.

As he led them towards the second gatehouse the still of the night was broken. The fighting had begun. Expected – it would have begun at some point. But now the garrison would begin to look for the cause. Wake. Spring into action. Trempwick began to jog, breathing evenly behind the faceplate of his helm. Wake and spring into action, minds fugged by slumber. Hardly even dressed, let alone armoured. Confused.

On the towers of the inner wall a few archers started to shoot at the advancing force.

There was a lot of ground between inner and outer gatehouses. Enough that it took time to cross. Time which allowed a few fools to come down and try to close the inner gates. Fools his brought men fought.

They still fought when Trempwick came to the right distance. More people were appearing here and there, clutching weapons and shouting in alarm at what they saw. Too late.

Formalities. Let none say he had not observed them, where others might not. “A Trempwick!” he shouted. “A Trempwick for the Queen!”

His men echoed, “For the Queen!”

Then it was fighting. Slash. Stab. Parry. Block. Dodge. Kill. Blood. Noise. Same few things, repeated over in many variations. Until there was no one left.

Trempwick sent half his force storming on towards the keep. The rest he took up onto the inner gatehouse. Most he sent on, left and right as before. The rest formed his bodyguard.

He surveyed his battle.

More of his men were pouring into the outer parts of the castle. The towers and ramparts of the outer wall were cleared where archers might threaten his advance. The further stretches were still contested. On the inner wall his men had disappeared into the two towers flanking the gatehouse. Down below soldiers raced up the stairs to the door of the keep. It had been closed. The garrison had not managed to burn the wooden stairs leading to it. And so it was vulnerable. A stout wooden beam was being brought up to act as a battering ram.

Trempwick paced back and forth of the gatehouse. Obvious. A target. Arrows and bolts homed in on him, clattering on the stonework and occasionally hitting one of his bodyguards. A pitiful shower, the work of but a handful of men. A general must be obvious. He must not be seen to cower in safety.

Time passed and people died.

When the outer wall was all but entirely his, when the inner wall was mostly his, when the last of his designated forces had entered the castle, then the door to the keep gave way.

The sun rose on a castle that was entirely his. Bodies were being cleared for burial. The prisoners were clustered in a guarded herd. The money and valuables of the place were piled before him. The flags fluttering in the light breeze to be found at the top of the high places of the castle bore his fox married with Nell’s gooseberry and crown.

It was done. And in far less time than others had said it would take them to do for him.






Eleanor joined the polite applause when the minstrel finished his latest song. Alas, he began another after making his bows. Yet another. The tables had been cleared of the last course of food long ago, and still she must sit here and listen to a repertoire which had surely been chosen to please Anne. Love song after love song, with only a few about famous battles and suchlike to break it up and keep the men happy.

What a waste of time. If not for Anne’s grandmother sitting there and blatantly enjoying the singer’s efforts she could have politely left and gone and done something useful. Now it would be rude to leave.

Fixing her expression of engagement in place and leaving one ear cocked for anything she needed to respond to, Eleanor stopped her grumbling and turned to something more important. The future. With eight knights – lowly ones, excepting Fulk – and forty-four men at arms behind her she had a force larger than strictly required … assuming it was a time of peace. Larger than she could afford to pay, too. She had dipped into the money Hugh had provided for this mission to pay the initial bounties and buy the liveries for her new soldiers. Hugh might not like that, but surely even in his stuffiest of moods he would agree that it was preferable to her being carted off by the next one to try his hand at kidnapping her. If he didn’t, well tough.

Whereupon came her next main concern: her household. She needed one, a proper one. Assuming a trim household in the style of the lower nobility, she needed at least one more maid, a clerk, a steward, a chamberlain, a marshal, a cook, a few pages, at least one messenger, and a priest. She needed trusted bailiffs at each of her manors, men loyal to her who could be relied upon run them in her absence without cheating her. The other lower servants and runabouts could be supplied by wherever she was in residence, as was generally the custom.

With that she would be independent, except in finances.

Whereupon came the third. With an army and a household she could remain free of Hugh, with care. Then she could take control of her lands, and become Lady of Towcester, seisined of Greens Norton, Warmington, Ketton, and Barrowden in fact as well as name. Then she would have the money, and if she reduced her army she would be fully independent, so long as she stepped carefully in all aspects, and spent not a penny more than she had to.

It couldn’t be as easy as it sounded. That would be too good. Hugh had know he was letting her from her cage when he gave his grudging permission for her to come to Scotland. If he had any sense he’d have already thought of a way to put her back in his hand, with a grip every bit as tight as before. If not tighter.

The ear she’d left cocked alerted her to the end of the current batch of musical inanity. Eleanor clapped and made all the right noises, yet again.

This time instead of launching into his next song the minstrel stood. “Your Majesties,” he bowed to Anne and her grandmother, “your Highness,” he bowed to Eleanor, “and my most noble lords and ladies, I crave leave to depart from tradition for my next piece, to present one of my own making.”

Tradition; Eleanor nearly rolled her eyes. Where was the point in having a pet minstrel if he didn’t make new pieces to the glory of his patron?

Anne’s grandmother inclined her head. “You have our leave.”

The minstrel seated himself again, settling his harp on his knee. “I sing of battle, and of deeds of heroism. I sing of the battle of Sir Fulk FitzWilliam in defence of his most noble princess.”

If not for Trempwick’s training Eleanor’s jaw would have hit the ground so hard the bone would have cracked.

Anne leaned over and whispered, “Thought you might like it.”

“You commissioned this?” It was intended as a question but came out as an accusation, which perhaps was far more honest.

“Yes. The better known he is the harder it is for anyone to … step on him.”

Eleanor didn’t think the girl meant Hugh, Trempwick, or any of the others in the queue waiting to put boot to knight. She was most likely thinking of her brother.

The minstrel was quite skilled, Eleanor had to admit that much. He could sing, he could play, and his wording was good. His accuracy was dubious, yet the image of Fulk, sun reflecting off his bright armour and blinding his foe, bearing down on her attackers – on a fiery charger, no less – and making the earth quake with his battlecry of, “A FitzWilliam for the Gooseberry!” was … enduring. She was less fond of the part which had her trembling and crying piteously to God for help like a good damsel. Sir Miles won a few lines also, described as falling nobly in a pile of his enemies, failing only because he was lacking armour.

When he finished the usual applause was more enthusiastic than it had been for any other song.

Down on the lower tables Fulk had gone a nice crimson, surrounded by people congratulating him yet again. One girl has the audacity to kiss him on the cheek!

In the back of the massive hall a figure pushed off from slouching against the wall and advanced to the clear space in the centre, clapping sardonically. People scrambled from his path as soon as they saw him, bowing. Behind his back a few surreptitiously made the sign of the cross.

“Oh, very good,” said Malcolm.

Now when had he arrived, Eleanor wondered.

Anne’s grandmother gripped the edge of the table. “What do you do here, boy?”

Malcolm kept his peace until he reached the dais. He stood before the high table. “A pleasure to see you too, granny. My travel was tolerable, rushed and the weather inclement, but tolerable. My people are seeing about food and a bath, and my other comforts. Since you ask.”

“I do not know how you dare to show your face here, if what I have heard is true.”

“Of course it’s true – you heard it, so it must be. But tell me, which particular outrage are we talking about?”

“You threw the Bishop of Dunblane into his own carp pond!”

Malcolm laughed, face lighting up with glee. “Oh yes! What a fine sight it was.” Sobering, the boy proclaimed in a voice which carried about the hall, “If the Nefastus can suffer eat shit during Lent then so too can everyone else. I tossed his roast hog in after him, and his goose, and his bevy of chickens, and his saddle of venison. Bastard can choke down his salted herring and endless fish dishes with the rest of us.”

“You shame our name-”

“More than he did?” he shot back. Malcolm shifted his feet so his shoulder was to his grandmother and his front to Anne and Eleanor. “Good to see you got here safely. I don’t like having to rescue people twice.” A lazy grin spread across the boy’s face as he regarded Eleanor. “A question, your Highness, if I may?”

“Go on.”

“How’d you get that scar under your eye?”

Assuming he meant to shame her Eleanor answered baldly in a level tone, “I said something to displease my lord father. His ring cut me.”

“I’ve been hearing a story about it. Perhaps you’ll tell me if it’s true or not. I heard it was Saint Edward the Confessor’s sapphire that made the cut, leaving you marked by England’s coronation ring and - not only that - by the oldest and best part of it.”

Of course, now the arse in the crown was dead Trempwick could spread rumours about things known only to the three of them. “No,” Eleanor lied. “It was his signet ring. My lord father wore the coronation ring on his left, and he was right-handed, as are most.” Except when it suited him to backhand with his left, as it had on the day he’d handed her over to Trempwick’s care.




Coz1: Poor Joss is now stressing under the weighty responsibility you’ve given him

Dead William: I always try to finish reading anything I start. It has to be really, incredibly, dire before I’ll quit. I’m now skimming very quickly through WoT 10. Just one more book after that …

Avernite: Yes, it’s a bit revolutionary for the time, or even for much later. Even with just fifty-two men, including Fulk. It’s understandable though, and so it fits into the world and works.

It was only chance which saw Eleanor entering her bedchamber after watching the first half of her little army’s early morning training session. She had in fact planned to defrost next to the solar fireplace while battering her way through more of William of Chieti’s wearisome treatise on church law.

So it was only chance that she came across the letter lying on her pillow so early in the day.

Eleanor snatched it up, heart racing. The beats picked up speed when she saw the seal: plain green wax with a simple fox’s face stamped into it.

How many times across the years had she received such a letter? She could count the occasions on the fingers of both hands, and had no need ever to pause and recall. Eight. Eight such letters in fourteen years, with no pattern to them saving that there had been none at all in those first few years. No pattern, if you looked only at timing. The rest was … traditional.

Letter still in hand Eleanor went to the doorway and called out to Fulk and Hawise, “I do not wish to be disturbed, for anything. If anyone asks I have a headache brought on by the cold while watching the training.” She closed the door on their questions, and slid the simple bolt home.

Parchment and writing equipment was easy to find, the whole of her three room suite being as littered with them as with books. It was the work of moments to stuff spare hair ribbons and comb back into the small box which stored them, and then to move box and mirror from her dressing table.

Eleanor paused to take a breath. The racing of her heart slowed. Methodical. She spread the parchment out ready for use, set the quill in the ink pot, and left clear space at the left hand side of the table where the letter would be easy to see while working. Only then did she draw one of her knives, and crouch next to the fire. Eleanor held the steel blade in the tip of the highest flame just long enough for it to heat.

It was possible to slice a wax seal free of a document without damaging anything, so long as the blade used was hot and the hand practiced. Hers was. If asked Eleanor could reattach the seal so no one could tell it had been tampered with. That would not be needful this time. The seal was only sliced from tradition, because that was a part of what these letters were.

When the seal came free Eleanor placed it fox down on the table so the melted wax could solidify without bonding to the woodwork. The knife she also set aside to cool.

She unfolded the letter. She could not read it; it was encoded. They always were.

Eleanor had learned this code years ago, so it did not take too long to transcribe the letter into the translation. Except this too was another code. She began to decipher from that one.





Trempwick’s favoured code was the final one, reached late that day. It resolved into plain language. Eleanor did not translate that one, as she could read the code with only a little more effort and care than the ordinary languages. And read it she did, clear through once, and again, and one more time. Then she set it aside and thought. Then picked it up and read again, committing the words to memory.

Long enough that it took a while to read, short enough that it was manageable, this letter would provide material for hard thought for a long time to come. They always did. It was much of their purpose. They were … all the things Trempwick could not say to her face. All the advice he could give her. All the things he wanted her to think about. Always honest, always, even where it did him no credit – she had hunted long and hard for the smallest trace of a lie since that first letter and never found one. They were the man himself speaking, not the spymaster or any of his other facades, and so they were never spoken of.

I find myself so proud of you, even as I curse my own stupidity and wonder how and when I became so blind.

Eleanor hugged the letter to her chest, abruptly so homesick her vision misted.

So many mistakes.

Someone tapped on her door. It would be Fulk. He had been doing that periodically all day. “Eleanor?”

I looked, as of course I had to. I found nothing to ease my mind. Quite the contrary. A betrothed dishonoured and dropped, a trail of women dallied with and dropped, more than one angry husband. So I tried to guide you away. It didn’t fit my plans, it was wildly unsuitable, it was dangerous, and I had no wish to see you hurt. You have always been more stubborn than a mule. Trempwick had not mentioned anything Fulk had not already told her; she understood his fear even if she did not share it.

“Are you alright?”

“As I keep telling you, I am perfectly fine. I am trying to think.”

“I’ve brought you some food. Since you told me to drown my head when I asked if you’d come out for dinner.”

Eleanor flushed. She had told him just that, and now it seemed rather too much, even if she had grown sick of his pestering and had lost her train of thought on the interruption.

“If you don’t open the door this time I’m forcing the lock.”

“You will break your shoulder first,” she called, just to see what he would make of it.

“I have two, and there’s a bench I can use as a battering ram. If not for consideration for our hosts I’d fetch an axe.”

Standing, Eleanor said, “Dear, dear. You are persistent, aren’t you? I wonder if it is a bad habit I should cure you of, or one I should seek only to moderate so it appears at suitable times.” Now she was moving Eleanor found herself reminded of the fact she had only broken her work a few times, to light some candles when the light began to fail and other such short things. Her neck ached, her back ached, her legs were stiff, her shoulders ached, exactly like the character in the scribe’s lament.

Once the original letter and its seal were safely concealed under the mattress of her bed she drew back the bolt and opened the door, to find him standing there without the promised meal. He put on an exaggerated smile. “Ah! At last I set eyes on the fabled hermit princess.”

“Idiot. Liar too – where is my food?” Eleanor leaned forward and peered to either side of the doorway hopefully, searching for a hint of something edible. Until the accursed man had mentioned food she hadn’t realised she was hungry.

“In a place of safety. I didn’t want to overset the tray while knocking the door down.”

From the depths of the room where Fulk’s body blocked Eleanor’s view Hawise’s voice came, “I placed it next to the fire so it would keep warm, in case it took him a while to coax you out. He’d have left it on the table to grow cold.”

Fulk turned and took the tray from the maid, heaving a very large sigh as he did so. “I feel so put upon. Beset on all sides. Good thing I’ve the patience of a saint and a thick skin-”

Eleanor corrected, “Thick head.”

There wasn’t the slightest hesitation before his cheery reply, “Yes. Comes in handy when you start hitting me, oh gooseberry mine.” He rapped his fingernails on the underside of tray he was holding. “You’ve no idea the fuss we went through to get this, so if you don’t eat the lot I’m cramming it down your throat.”

Fuss indeed; one of the very many downsides to Lent was the limitation of just one meal per day, a restriction neatly dodged about by small handfuls of food here and there eaten at the usual times for the missing meals. What Fulk held was not a handful. They must have made a great deal of her being ‘ill’, as only the ill, the very young or old and the pregnant were granted any exemption, and she could hardly see them claiming her to be any of the others. Not if they wished to live.

He needn’t have worried; miserable as the palace kitchen’s strict observance – no cheese and other forbidden delights would surface within these expensive walls, sadly. There was entirely too many people to notice the lack of suitable devotion, and this King of Scots were very jealous of his reputation and all which touched upon it – was, the contents of the tray smelled divine.

Eleanor’s stomach let her down by growling. “Stop standing there like a human table and bring that in.” She cleared the doorway and returned to sitting at her little table, piling up her sheaf of decoded letters with the one she could read at the top; she’d keep reading while she ate.

Fulk set the tray down in the space she had made, and failed to depart. He shut the door and sat himself down on her bed.

Eleanor whipped the cloth covering the tray off, and took stock of what they had found for her. Overall it was fairly good: pottage, lamprey pie, a handful of assorted dried fruits, a chunk of fine white bread, a bit of marzipan with raisins in it, a mess of stewed vegetables, and a small flagon of wine which smelled as if it has been spiced. She started spooning up the pottage.

He asked, “So, what held your attention so firmly today?”

Eleanor didn’t let him interrupt her carving out a spoonful of the pie and consuming it, reckoning he’d done more than enough interrupting for one day. As she chewed she tapped the spoon on the pie crust, something she kept doing long after she’d swallowed. “What,” she answered in the end, “do you do when you find your cause is a lie?”

That got his attention; she heard the bed creak as he stopped lounging and bolted upright. “What do you mean?”

I betrayed my king – my friend, but years ago. Before you were born. My defence … I could see no other way, save to hurt my friend badly and cause so much trouble. I thought there was no reason. When I found I was wrong it was too late. What a disaster I made with that sentimental decision.

“It seems likely that Hugh is a bastard.”

The child, when finally the pregnancy was announced, could have belonged to either. I should have seen to it that there was a good gap between Enguerrand leaving and William’s return. I again failed my friend by saying nothing.

“He has no right to the throne.”

Neglected, but still he cared for her. He was so proud of what he had: a family, a dutiful wife, a hold on his crown which went from strength to strength. It all seemed so bright. I couldn’t tell him that was half a lie. For her also; I pitied her, admired her, and before she shattered my illusions my soft young heart held affection for her. I had no wish to see her fall, even when she proved less wise, less … great than I had thought.

“My mother was faithless. Like my sister.”

I hoped, so much did I hope. My first disappointment came when the child was a boy. My second, as the boy grew it became obvious he had nothing from William. There was still Stephan, the firstborn and of true blood, so it was not of critical import. Then what happened there happened, and I could not stop it.

“I am on the wrong side.”

I despaired. What could I do with this mess I had helped make? To tell William now was unthinkable. It would do no good. And John, true blood he may have been, but so unsuitable, even at that age. The elder sister with her next best claim, she was gone to her foreign marriage where she would quickly become too alien to rule here. The remaining sisters had their fates arranged similarly, all except one.

“I am not on the just side. I am not upholding tradition and law.”

Then, by pure chance, I met the youngest one of the family, whom I had heard so many interesting things about.

“I am ensuring that the last of our blood to rule is my father, ending an unbroken line which has lasted for hundreds of years.”

And I saw … potential.

“Those I took to be traitors are not.”

I doubted. I admit it. It would be far from easy, or sure. And you were so young, it was hard to be certain of what you were, whether you would survive long enough, or be old enough when the time came. Then why? To amend my error. To give England a ruler of some skill to follow your father. To safeguard my own place in the future also - this too I admit. To undertake a challenge the like of which is incredible. To see if I could. Because, after a time, it seemed right, and it still does.

“Instead of upholding my brother’s rights I am denying Matilda hers.”

But do not think I took you solely because of this. Even with none of it, you would have proved sufficiently interesting. My soul would have cried out against wasting you as William was intent on doing. You are not one of the nothings, to fit into their mundane world and live a pointless life.

“I have stepped into a mess some twenty-four years old, or more, knowing far less than I thought.”

So now you must see why I always said softness was for fools, dangerous, dangerous beyond belief.

Eleanor nibbled at a dried fig. When the world turned upside down you still needed to eat..

Fulk asked, “What makes you think this?”

“A letter, from Trempwick.”

“And you’re fool enough to believe it?” he exploded. “That lying, manipulative bastard wants nothing more than to put you on the throne and rule through you, and you believe it?”

“Given how unflattering it all is, yes. Given that he has never lied to me in such letters, yes. Given that he goes into great detail of how it all happened, yes. Given that he admits that, and much else, yes.”

It was a marriage of practicality, nothing unusual there. They got on well enough, but with no great affection, no matter how William may have liked to remember it in his last days. He neglected her, so badly. Out of a year he spent perhaps three months in her company. Year after year. He left too many things to her alone, giving her no aid or appearing intermittently to try his hand and disrupt what she had done. In his defence I can say he was never consciously cruel to her. That seems to have been reserved mostly for you, because you were his favourite and disappointed him, fool that he was in not seeing. You are so much like him; out of all his children you are the closest match. You were, in very many ways, what he wanted from his heir. Or perhaps he did see, and hated you for being a girl and the youngest, and for being like him enough to stand up to him. So very few dared that in his last years, and then this slip of a girl had the audacity to do it repeatedly. Ah, but I stray. Joanna endured years of this, years made worse by knowing that while she was alone he was not. Not, I must add, that he flaunted his mistresses. She gave no sign of doing anything but continuing to endure, and no hint that her endurance was other than simple contentment. Then a young knight called Enguerrand came to court …

Fulk snorted, plainly still unconvinced. He was content to leave it at that, and advance on to the more important question here, reminding her yet again of why she was so fond of making use of his brain. “So what will you do?”

“Really, what is there for me to do?” Eleanor broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it in the sauce seeping from the lamprey pie. “It is easier to watch another and guard against their mistakes than it is to do the same for oneself, as I think Trempwick found. I could not rule. Poor as he may sometimes be, Hugh is prepared for it, and supported well he will do well enough. My father named him heir. Me? Look at the mess I have managed thus far.” Casting down her spoon Eleanor turned to sit the other way around in her backless chair, facing towards Fulk and with her dinner behind her. “The bloodline on the throne ends, with my father or with me, yet with Hugh it lives on in name and illusion instead of visibly failing. Whichever of the two of us accedes, we do wrong by law; Matilda is heir under law without express command by the arse in the crown that it should be otherwise. Whoever, there is upheaval, excepting that in my case the damage is wider and more obvious – customs once shattered and bent are hard to repair. For the future, he provides the chance of a secure succession. He is the named heir,” she repeated. “He was chosen, named, and so he is the heir, whatever he may be.”

Fulk gazed into space, more than likely thinking on what she had just said. He shook himself. “Eat your dinner,” he scolded.

“And there is another reason – it is quite impossible to be a queen when you allow a baseborn nothing of a man at arms you made into a knight to order you about.” She winked at him, and returned to her food like a good obedient wife.

The contents of the tray vanished in short order under her onslaught.

As she sipped at her wine, Eleanor found herself wondering where that faint sympathy she had had for her mother had gone. It had been there so long, barely noticed, rarely thought of. Until now it was gone.

Dear Lord, what else had she inherited along with the colour of her hair and a penchant for deeply unsuitable knights!?

Fulk moved to her side, and extended a hand to pick up the uppermost translation of Trempwick’s letter, pausing so she had time to bat him away or snatch the letter to safety if she didn’t want him to touch it. He read it, or tried. “It’s all in gibberish.”

Eleanor corrected, “Code. The last of many, and one I can read without translation.”

“What does it say?”

Eleanor pulled the sheet of parchment from his hand. Then she picked up another from the pile, and another. Collection complete she waved the bundle at him. “It is rather too long to read aloud.” Assuming she were so inclined, which she was not. There was much there she did not wish to share, for various reasons.

Fulk took the sheaf from her unresisting hand. He looked at the top sheet, and the next, and the last. “Great chunks of text, gaps, and loads of little lines scattered on their lonesome.”

“Chunks of history or explanation, gaps to break up sections, and loads of little thoughts and things for me to think on. Standard enough presentation, if it is only in something you can read.”

“And all on the same subject. That man can certainly go on when he’s got a reason to, whatever a person might think from meeting him.”

“All on many subjects,” Eleanor corrected, taking her work back. “It is a … lesson, I suppose.”

Fulk leaned over her shoulder and tapped a bit of text at random. “What does this bit say? If you don’t mind.”

Eleanor read the line, and smiled faintly. “A scar is just a scar, no matter the source of the cut. But it can be made to be otherwise.”

Fulk’s eyebrows inched up, and his eyes slid over to look at her cheek. “Marked out for the throne,” he muttered.

Eleanor’s smile didn’t change. That was one meaning. As usual, there were others, and her puzzling them out was Trempwick’s intent. To get the best of his advice you must work, and prove yourself worthy of it.

Fulk’s finger came to rest on a brief line at the very end of the first sheet. “And this?”

“A puppet can have control over the master.” That was all he said, the rest was for her to discover. Presently her main thought was that it was a caution against setting herself up as controller of Hugh.

Looking as though he had a foul taste in his mouth, Fulk moved to the second page and chose a new section. “This?”

“It is a wonder I did not turn grey, so much did you worry me over our years.” There was more, and Fulk would not get it.

“This?”

“I would really rather not say.” The scattered, mortifying comparisons between herself and her beloved regal ancestor could stay known to herself and Trempwick alone.

“And this bit?”

“It’s about how I learned to swim.” She hadn’t wanted to, not after how Stephan died. Trempwick had given her no choice; sink or swim was more than a turn of phrase.

His next choice came right at the top of the second page, a medium-sized paragraph. “This?”

“It is a description of Hugh’s father. I will not say more.” Let this dead Enguerrand rot, forgotten, to make some recompense for the mess he had helped make.

“This one?”

And he accused her of being incurably curious! At this rate he would have her read the whole thing, only out of order. “Softness is ruin. Hardness is ruin.” An isolated thought, one she thought had to do with his lectures on being so hard one became brittle and inflexible, and on the dangers of being too soft in any of the possible ways.

Frowning, Fulk took a bit longer to choose his next section. “There?”

“Expend the lesser to serve the greater, in all things and all ways.”

Fulk’s interpretation of that made him wrinkle his nose. “What about this?” The section he had chosen was long, the part detailing her mother and Enguerrand.

“The details of my mother’s shame will not be shared.”

“Here?”

“I should have drowned your pet at the start, attachment or no. The dangers of being soft. And of dismissing the tiny and trivial.”

Fulk pointed at another line. “And this bit?”

“Pain is a lesson. Have you learned it?”

Fulk snatched his hand away as if the words might contaminate him. “Burn the filthy thing. Burn it, and forget it. Lies, more lies, twisting, and filth.”

Eleanor formed the sheets up into a neat gathering again and set them atop the pile, smoothing the top sheet with the palm of her hand. “No. And that is a hasty judgement, considering you have heard perhaps a thirtieth of the whole.”

He snorted, sounding uncannily like his horse. “Don’t let him twist you to playing his game.”

“I thought you were a knight, not a paranoid mother hen,” grumbled Eleanor.

“Oh, I try to be the best of both.”






And lo, the king did come. And how he did come! Fulk felt disloyal for thinking it, but he could not help it. Eleanor’s father had been a complete disappointment, nothing like a king should be. All Hugh’s attempts to be princely or kingly fell flat, correct in the form and lacking thanks to his stiffness. John had been an indulgent moron, and as princely as a squashed hedgehog. Eleanor - as deeply as he loved her and wished her to be other than what she was born to be - was little better, held back badly by family and funds, and disinterested.

Perth had turned out to give its king a ceremonial welcome. Minstrels played outside the gate, where the King of Scots sat in state to receive the mayor and other city notables. Those men did reverence on behalf of their city, and – Fulk had heard - presented a chalice of solid gold, studded with rubies and worked with the king’s own badge of a swan. Gossip couldn’t settle on how much it had cost, but there was one certainty – it was expensive, a gift befitting a rich trade city and the realm’s capital.

The walls were lined with soldiers, all in brightly polished armour and clean livery. Above every tower, every gate, the king’s banner flew, a red lion rearing up on a gold background. Along the route the king would take, people had crowded out to cheer him by. They were cheering already; the mixed voices drifted back to the palace balcony where Fulk stood, playing bodyguard at Eleanor’s side. More soldiers stood by to keep the common folk under control; from Fulk’s vantage point they formed a lining of yellow and red running along each side of the streets between the gate and the palace.

Money would be dispersed by liveried servants riding behind the king on his progress through the city. Food would be given to the poor. Tonight would be a feast – for this day only the Lenten fast was banished for all, for the arrival of a king was a thing to be celebrated with cheer. Eleanor had been more cynical; she’d only said that Anne’s father was demonstrating his power over the church by waiving the restrictions himself, as he wished, to suit himself. To help the common party along twenty barrels of ale were to be granted to the city from the king’s own stores. Eleanor had been equally sceptical on that, this time claiming that the ale would be poor quality and brought specially for this purpose.

Anne, her grandmother and Malcolm reached the gateways, disappearing from Fulk’s view. He could have been with them on their ride out to meet the King of Scots, if only Eleanor had not refused to go. “Am I now his wife, to go running out to meet him?” she’d said in response to Anne’s query. “I shall be received as is fitting to my dignity, my rank, and my purpose in coming here. I shall not jump for him, or crawl.” So here she was, stood on a balcony with a view, dressed up in some of those fancy new clothes they’d arranged for her, crowned and dignified yet again.

Anne and her two relations emerged on the other side of the gate. They advanced along the carpet laid in a strip leading to the dais, Malcolm in the middle and leading by a few paces, flanked by his sister and grandmother. The sour princeling knelt at his father’s in a smooth motion, Anne and the grandmother dipping into curtseys so deep Fulk wondered they didn’t fall.

The King of Scots made a gesture. He must have said something, because another bout of cheering erupted. The three stood straight again. Malcolm advanced to kiss his father’s ring, then stood to his right. Anne did the same, moving to his left and positioning herself further back than her brother. When the grandmother went to kiss her son’s ring the King of Scots stopped her, rose, and clasped her to him in an embrace which could have belonged to any son reunited with a much-beloved mother. More cheering ensued.

Fulk whistled. “If I’d ever tried that my mother would have whacked me on the head for playing silly games so others think I’m better than I am.”

“Heaven knows what mine would have done.”

He looked sharply at Eleanor, hearing a trace of melancholy in her words. She ignored him.

The king and his family mounted up, the musicians forming into a block at the very front of the column, soldiers marching in a block after them, then some mounted knights, then the king, behind him Malcolm, then Anne and her grandmother, more knights, then the coin throwers, and finally another block of soldiers. The rest of the party the king had arrived with would make their own way to the palace, separate from this parade.

To the beat of the sounds of drums and flutes the King of Scots made his entrance into the city of Perth, from time to time raising a hand to acknowledge his subject’s cheers. As the liveried servants reached the area where the crowd began – a good minute behind the king, thanks to the length of his procession – the sparkle of coins being thrown through the air in handfuls lit the morning.

Eleanor muttered, “What a show off.”








Weee! A frog-sized episode, at long last. Albeit a small frog-sized episode.

Question: Why is a frog like a moulting parrot?
Answer: Both shed at an alarming rate, one losing feathers, the other losing days off.

Eleanor is not only promising me a copy of her book ‘How to say “NO!” and live: an instructive manual for dealing with all types, up to and including raging kings.’, but she is threatening her scribe in an effort to get him to transcribe my copy faster. So many days of planned writing, so many disappointments. :sigh:

I finished Wheel of Time a few days ago. Book 10 was godawful. I can think of no other way to describe it, except some rude ones. Book 11 was much better, but still not great. Shame to hear about Jordan’s health problems; hope he makes the recovery he is sure he will.

Guess what the shop has now, in the great mountains of books which keep on flooding in. Terry. Goodkind. Or, as he is often called, Badkind. And David Eddings’ latest repeat of his one story and set of childish, cardboard characters. :wail of pure frog horror: No! Nononononono! NO! I am not reading them! I don’t care if I am the book expert frog. I have suffered through Dan Brown in the name of duty and I deserve some divine kindness! So I’m trying to read both ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ and ‘The Geisha of Gion’ at the same time. In an evening. Along with a few others, including C.C Humphrey’s ‘Blooding of Jack Absolute’, Michelle Paver’s ‘Wolf Brother’, a book on English coronations, and the most recent of the ‘Flashman’ series. More books arrive on Monday :cries: Oh, and the preparation for the stock take, a scary sounding Evil Thing Of Pain which I have little idea about how it works.

Of my own choice I’m reading Guy Gavriel Kay’s ‘Tigana’. Beautiful, just simply beautiful. I’ve read his ‘Song for Arbonne’, and his Fionavar trilogy, and while I found the latter lacking he is one of my favourite authors on the strength of Arbonne alone. Tigana is doing nothing to harm that ranking, quite the opposite. I’ve been eking his books out for over a year now, because he releases so few and there is no one else like him out there. Except I feel the urge to read the remaining four right now. Might be something to do with nearly being flattened by a stack of hardback, heavy gardening books threatening to fall off the top shelf as I fetched a book for a customer. :grumble: Said customer watched me grappling with several upset piles of very heavy books and nearly falling off my perch with an expression of complete disdain, as if I were trying to kill myself to deny her the book. Miserable cow …



Avernite: The more time I ‘spend’ with him, the more I find myself wondering about some kind of ‘The Chaotic Adventures of Malcolm, Prince of Scotland’ :wacko:

Coz1: Trempwick thanks you kindly for your warm congratulations on his successes, and hopes you will continue to reform your ways.

Cliffracer: Have you got a new hunting ground? Oblivion is out, and I’ve no idea if the cliffracers are in it. Hope not – if it’s good I might pick it up when it is patched into being quite bug-free.