The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

Ignoring the witless chatter of the ladies assigned to keep her company Eleanor stared out of the window of her guest room, watching the happenings down in the practise yard. Fulk was giving a fine account of himself, winning bouts with both sword and polearm before proving himself as skilled with a longbow as any Englishman. Now he was turning effortless cartwheels and handstands in full armour. He hadn’t brought his own mail with him; John had loaned him a hauberk of a more modern design than Fulk’s own, along with a few other basic bits and pieces for this demonstration.

It was all very impressive; there was no doubting his skill or competency. There was no doubt he was showing off for his prospective new employer. There was no doubt John would hire him.





Fulk was enjoying himself; combat was simple, he had always been good at it and he took pleasure from the exercise. It had been ages since he’d had occasion to use a polearm, and this armour was better than anything he’d worn previously. It was just him and his opponent, two weapons and may the best man win. No spymasters, no skulduggery, no gooseberries, and no niggling conscience. He’d kept up his daily practise in the time he’d been with Eleanor but lacking a real opponent and a proper training yard it wasn’t the same.

Now he stood upside down on his hands, the skirt of his borrowed hauberk flopping down with gravity so the ends just grazed his chin, and all he needed to worry about was keeping his balance. He flipped back to his feet, then did a quick cart wheel, the armour jingling and slapping gently against him.

John started clapping enthusiastically, “Enough, you have more than proven yourself.” Fulk had forgotten he was there, this prince with ambition but little wisdom. Reluctantly he stopped his exercises. John beckoned him, “Come, let us adjourn to the armoury. A display such as yours should be rewarded.”

Rewarded? John’s tentative recruitment had begun last night and only strengthened this morning, and now it seemed a small bribe with yet more flattery would precede the offer. It appeared Eleanor’s brother had absolutely no qualms about stealing from her. The question was what did Fulk want to do? He’d spent a sleepless night turning the question over in his mind; what to do if the prince offered him employment? His heart cried for one course, his head another, his conscience still another, and although heart and conscience were travelling in the same direction their reasons could not be more different. There was no reconciling the three, they continued to tug him in different directions and somehow he would have to choose one above the others.

Fulk followed at John’s side, towards the armoury in the foot of one of the inner curtain wall’s towers. The armoury was a large, square room, with plastered and whitewashed stone walls to reflect the maximum amount of light. Though they were at ground level the floor was covered in wooden planks rather than the more usual flagstones, cobbles or beaten earth. A scattering of rushes mixed with some dried lavender vied with the scents of iron, oil, leather and assorted cleaning products, trying to lend a more refined air to the very military room. It was a strange touch; no doubt John was responsible. Despite the room’s size it was packed so full there was barely space to walk. Everywhere there were chests and racks of weapons and armour, far more than the garrison of this castle could ever use. It was enough for a small private army.

On their arrival John commanded two young squires to drop their cleaning and find the best armour in the castle to fit Fulk. As they began rooting through chests and racks, pulling out bits and pieces John said quietly to Fulk, “I could use someone with your skills; I see a future need for a dependable bodyguard. The armour they find for you is yours regardless, but think on it well. I am generous to those who perform a service for me, such as rescuing my sister. I am more generous still to my own people. You have until they finish arming you up to make a decision.”

Equipment chosen the squires began to add it to the armour Fulk was already wearing with practised speed. He was wearing a brand new padded gambeson with a mail shirt that guarded him from throat to just above the knee, the sleeves ended in mail mittens. John said to the squires, “Forget the mail hose.” He smiled at Fulk, “You may have them, but I see little to no point in stripping you of hauberk and gambeson to put them on.” That cut precious minutes off his thinking time, and the squires were already working faster than he’d like.

One boy removed his sword from about his waist, then the other brought forth a coat of plates. Numbly Fulk ducked his head so they could pass the garment over his head, then they set to work buckling it closed at the back. Until today he’d never even seen a coat of plates close up before; he only seen them from afar on rich warriors, and on those occasions they had been all but hidden by the man’s surcoat. It was a simple poncho like garment with curved metal plates riveted on the inside to guard the entire torso from the waist up. The plates were placed and carefully fixed so as to be flexible, and when the garment fastened up it took a good deal of the hauberk’s weight off his shoulders, distributing it more evenly.

On top of the coat of plates they added a red silk surcoat, then began to fasten a new sword about his waist. “No,” he said, not quite meaning to speak until he already had. The new sword was ornate and finely crafted, worth far more than his old blade and it would probably be stronger and hold an edge better. John had said whatever they put on him was his to keep, to turn down that sword would be plain daft and no one had said he couldn’t keep his old one.

The squires were waiting patiently, one holding the sword, the other an arming cap to go below the mail coif lying on a table nearby. John cocked an eyebrow, a gesture that reminded Fulk of his sister. Fulk felt torn, he looked from the new blade to the old one. With difficulty he spoke, “I want to keep my old sword, it was a gift from … a friend.” When he said keep he wasn’t sure which half of him had won; the half which wanted to take the new blade in addition to the old one simply because it was better, or the half which wanted to turn it down to keep the old blade which meant so much.

John laughed congenially, “Is that all? No one said you had to be rid of it, keep it by all means!”

The squire began to buckle the new sword about his waist. Fulk kept staring at his old, plain, trustworthy sword, remembering fair hands struggling with the stiff leather and a girl’s voice saying, “Use it to earn your spurs, then come back to me,” as she’d fastened it in place the day she had gifted it to him. He’d sworn to keep it at his side always, just as he’d sworn to return a knight. He felt panic welling up inside him, he began to call a halt but it was too late, the squire was stepping back and the new sword in place. Now he had broken both promises to her, this one solely for greed.

He barely paid attention as they placed the cap on his head, then the coif and finally a kettle helm, a helmet formed by a metal skullcap with a broad brim just like a hat; perfect for fighting on foot as it left vision and hearing clear. A pair of plate knee guards joined the mail leggings in a pile, along with a standard knight’s shield and a full, bucket like helm suited to mounted combat.

“I am giving you a warhorse as well, along with saddle, tack and so on,” confided John.

Fulk listened in a daze. The squires stood back, their task complete. Fulk wore a fortune, another fortune was piled next to him, and a final fortune was waiting in a stable. With this he was equipped as well as many rich knights; he lacked the lands and title, but if he followed John into exile mayhap one day, when he returned to England …

“Your decision?” inquired John. His tone indicated he expected only one answer.

Fulk flexed his right hand inside the mail mitten, desperately flailing for purchase on his spinning thoughts. A fortune. Everything he ever wanted. A chance he would never have again. A chance to become something. A chance to fulfil his dream. A chance to get that knighthood he had once craved more than anything. He would be mad to decline. He would also be away from Eleanor; if he left now he would eventually get over her and she him. Leaving would be the best thing to do. He would never have to stand around uselessly again, fighting his feelings and instincts on those rare occasions when she crumpled.

No, she would just crumple alone. Playing for time Fulk slipped his left hand out of the slit in the leather palm of the integral mail mitten and began fiddling with the leather thong woven through the mail at his right wrist as if adjusting it. Did it really matter if she would be alone again anyway? He would never know what she was doing, for all he knew she might be perfectly happy without him. Anyway why did it make a difference if he was there or not? It wasn’t as if he could do anything to help, so for all the use he was there might as well be nobody there. He didn’t even belong in her world; base born men at arms did not get involved in royal politics or intrigue.

So why would he belong in John’s world? An exiled prince, scheming to get back to his place and seize the throne. Simple; all he’d have to do is follow orders, and let someone else make the decisions. He would not have to choose what to do, and it was the choosing that was so hard. “Just say yes,” advised his common sense. He tried; his voice wouldn’t work.

His conscience was pleased, immediately butting in with, “See? Man of honour, it’s about damned time you really acted it! Say no, go on – it’s easy.” He couldn’t.

He looked at his old sword, without conscious thought he moved over and picked it up. He examined it as if he had never seen it before in his life. A plain iron disk shaped pommel, a sweat stained red leather bound grip, a straight iron cross guard; it was hardly ornate but it had a simple workman’s beauty to it. He drew an inch of steel; the blade itself was pattern welded and shone with a unique pattern, silvers, greys, a touch of yellow all blended together in a rainbow like oil spilled on water. It had belonged to Maude’s grandfather, and she had given it to him. “Use it to earn your spurs, then come back to me,” she had said. But he never won his spurs and he had been too ashamed to return and tell her … and tell her he had destroyed his life and their future along with it.

Last time he had followed his ambition he had lost everything, and sworn to himself he would become something better than the fool he had been. The best any man could be in this world was a man of honour, the kind who gave their oath and kept it regardless, protected the innocent and fought evil, brave and courageous to the last. Such men were rare in this world, but they did exist and their names spread through Christendom and became legend. Reginald de Nevers would have scorned this prince’s offer without hesitation, so would Arnauld de Eu, and Roger FitzRalph, and Aimery FitzAlan, and Ulfstan of York, and … and all those many others he had spend time memorising the legends of. They made it seem so easy, so easy. He wasn’t a man of honour; he just wished he was. He pretended he was, sometimes the illusion worked better than others, sometimes he was able to crush away the voice of his conscience telling the honest truth. Sometimes, many times, he could not.

But he had to make a start somewhere, why not here? Because … because he would never have this opportunity again. Because he would be stuck next to someone he was beginning to love against all his effort and better judgement, never able to even tell her that, and endlessly worrying about what would happen if she said anything or if the spymaster noticed. Because he might keep his word now, but what about later? He had sworn to follow and protect; he could follow but protect? No, not against those she truly needed help with. So where was the point? In her world he was a rank beginner, powerless and valueless, dependent on her help to get by. But … if you placed her in the real world she was equally reliant on him, and there he could help.

And if he wasn’t there to patch up her injuries who would? And to make her laugh? Or listen to her grumbling? Or to teach her to fight, cook and all those other things she was endlessly curious about? Who would be her friend? Who would see the gooseberry instead of the tool or the problem?

“I am all she has.” The words tore themselves free of their own accord.

John glared at him impatiently, “I will soon set her up with a new household; she will not need you.” His glare was but a pale shadow of his sister’s impressive version.

Perhaps he could manage somehow? If he kept his word now then that was a start, beyond then he could do the best he could, even if that meant tending wounds instead of preventing them. Even if it meant falling further, and being forever near what he could not have. Wasn’t every good knight supposed to have an unobtainable lady to worship? So he wasn’t a knight, but he could dream, right?

And if he left he would miss the insults, genial arguing, contests of wits, surprises, and all those other delightful little quirks they had. He would miss the glare, and the stare, and the pride … he would miss her. Either way he would have only dreams, but if he stayed he would see her when he woke up. He grinned internally at that; what a soppy bastard he was.

He let his old sword slide back into its sheath, and finally found his voice properly, “I gave her my word; I will not break it.”








I cut the bit I had planned into two parts; it was getting very long.

Um, not too sure about this. It's kind of ... wordy, dry, maybe dull if you don't like seeing inside Fulk's skull for once. His mind was harder to get than gooseberry's; I can see through her eyes now almost effortlessly. Fulk took a lot more work, but eventually it clicked and this flowed onto the page. Now I have a small corner of my mind labelled 'gooseberry' and another, less established one, labeled 'rusty'. Now, in a very strange way, I can be them.

At the same time it's nice to finally begin to reveal all those things he has been hinting at in his rare POV moments, such as his 'man of honour' thing. For nearly 80 pages now that little voice has been talking away, once identified in a throw-away line as his conscience, only now is it revealed more fully what and why. Course if you've been collecting the more advanced hints you will know there is more to this, much more.

Soppy bastard and a lot more; as the original, quite different Eleanor said to him, “Armoured on the outside, soft and squishy on the inside. What am I talking about – your heart or a cockroach?” Bah, froggy hate soppy!



Only 50 feet, Judas? Bit of a conservative estimate I'd say. Maybe we should all hold a collection for Fulk and send him an 'in sympathy' card?

Zeno, thanks, I shall try to watch that film to see how their foreshadowing works. I think I should be able to rent it.

coz1, her outburst was planned so far as she lost her temper and managed not to say anything about being an agent. Otherwise it came very much from the heart. Ah, now Fulk's reaction is pretty good, and maybe not what people will expect. If you look it is explained in this part, but it will be stated again later in one of his rare POV scenes ... or more hopefully in the dual POV scene I am trying to build as an experimental piece. Got to be so careful about whose POV I use for each scene. :sighs: If I'm not I ruin things by showing thw wrong thing, revealing too much or to early, setting the wrong puzzles etc etc.

Quick note: having loads of tech trouble with my desktop, it's now gone in for repairs. Borrowed dad's latop in the mean time but can't write on it - craptastic keyboard and no manuscripts. Next update's going to be delayed, no idea when it'll appear.

Thanks for the comments; I'll get back to them when I have a proper keyboard again.So hard to get anything legible out of this thing

Ok, my PC is fixed and back. My secondary hard drive had failed.

igaworker, yes, this part did rather drag. Fortunately it is a one-off, we shall never see this much of Fulk's thoughts again. Thank heaven; it wasn't too much fun to write. The limited glimpses inside his noggin yet to come will be shorter and less farty abouty (technical term, that).

The Arch Mede, well Fulk did go off with an assassin who probably wasn't a princess on the basis that her employers must be rich. When money is involved he does get a bit crackbrained.

Zeno, thanks muchly. It was important to see just how badly he was tempted, and that for once he really does achieve the man of his word status he pretended he had before.

coz1, yes you will find out about Maude later. She has quite the story with Fulk. She is part of the big 'mystery' he is always edging about, part of the reason why I can't use his POV too often.

PB-DK, you can breathe again now. I expect to have another part, even if only a short one, up within the next 24 hours.

Fulk made his way back to the guest room feeling absurdly weary. He pushed the door open, forgetting to knock, then headed single-mindedly towards the window seat. He collapsed into it in a clatter of armour and swept the coif back from his head so it rested on his shoulders leaving his head and neck clear.

It had taken several minutes to convince John he was serious, turning down offer after offer until he felt his heart would break. When he had finally convinced him the prince had cursed and railed at him, proving he too had the family temper. Unlike Eleanor’s explosion, and what he knew of the king’s explosions, it was more pathetic than impressive. Poor John didn’t have the flare to pelt bystanders with oranges or send his audience away badly injured. No, instead he had stamped his feet and torn at his hair and clothes, spittle flying as he raved, not even making sense. The prince had eventually collapsed into a breathless lump and he had allowed the two squires to lead him away.

There had been no one around to help Fulk out of his armour so he had done the only thing he could; bundled the extra items into a strong bag and carted them up here for safe storage. He unlaced the arming cap and pulled it from his head, then ran his fingers through his hair, separating it out from its flattened, sweat soaked state so it would dry quicker. Someone coughed off to his left; Eleanor.

“So you finally deigned to notice me?” she asked acerbically. She watched dispassionately as she scrambled to his feet and mumbled an apology. He got a new employer and he thought he could barge in like he owned the place. Typical. She scrutinized the new armour; combined with the broken nose and the tousled hair it looked very fetching. She realised what she had just thought and felt her face go warm as she blushed. Wonderful, now her mind had gone. At the ripe old age of nineteen she was in danger of turning into a giggling idiot who braided flowers in her hair and skipped instead of walked. The prospect was nothing if not terrifying.

Fulk watched with private amusement as she went slightly pink, and wondered if she knew she was staring at him. What was it about women and him in armour? One of these days he’d have to ask, but not this particular admirer. “I was looking for someone to play squire,” he explained lightly.

He came barging in here and expected her to play squire with armour he’d gotten by defecting to her brother? “John did not provide you with one? How careless. I suggest you go raise the matter with him.”

“Why would be give me a squire?” asked Fulk shortly. She didn’t know about his recruitment offer and if he had his way she would never know; she had enough troubles without finding out what a weasel her brother was.

“He gave you the armour.”

“For rescuing you.”

“I see.”

She had gone tight lipped and pale again. “Is something wrong?” he asked, genuinely concerned. Surely she couldn’t know? Well, she was an agent and she did have eyes, ears and a keen mind … but she would have flayed him alive hours ago if she suspected he was going to join John. She couldn’t know.

She isolated the pain she felt and seared into her memory. He looked so fetching and sounded so concerned while he lied through his teeth and stabbed her in the back; this was what came from attachments, Trempwick had been right. She would not make the same mistake again. Ever. “I am fine,” she ground out.

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

Fulk crossed his arms, each hand enclosed tightly about the bicep of the opposing arm, fighting the impulse to hold her. Once again she was upset, once again he wanted to comfort her, once again he could do nothing, not even offer some trite words. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

She watched as his posture went defensive and stiff, and waited for him to say something. Nothing. This was just like the night before; he had gone distant. He must think her liable to go off into a temper at the slightest provocation, even though he had only seen her lose control once in four months. “Oh, just go away,” she said wearily. He gave a stiff nod, turned on his heel and marched off without a word.




Small and experimental; dual POVs, not that likely to be used again except on a handful of very specific scenes.

Fulk sat in the main hall at one of the trestle tables, still in his new armour because he had been unable to find anyone to help him remove it. He was the only one at this particular end of the long table; the handful of others in the hall had chosen spots closer to the fire. He didn’t really mind the solitude; mourning a lost fortune or three was a private task.

A woman in expensive blue plonked herself down on the bench opposite him, winked and asked, “What’s a chap with a nose like yours doing on his own?” Her hand flew to her mouth and she swore, “Oh bugger!” She arranged herself into a more ladylike pose, and then spoke in a careful voice, consciously trying to sound cultured, “May I enquire as to what you are doing, handsome sir?”

Fulk folded his arms loosely and rested them on the tabletop, “And you are … ?”

“Judith.”

Ah, the ex-merchant mistress. Minor merchant too, by the sounds of it; very minor. “Well, Judith, you can drop the accent.”

She wrinkled her nose gracefully and looked loveably uncertain, “I don’t know; John always says … oh stuff it; John’s not the one who has to sit about trying to impersonate a statue!” Her shoulders dropped, she crossed her legs and leaned forward in a pose matching his, “So, what’re you doing?”

“Talking to you, or so it seems,” he returned flippantly. It really was not hard to see how she had snagged John; the whole castle was probably full of broken hearted, jealous men, men who would now envy him this conversation. Oh joy, let there be happiness, feasting and celebratory dancing; people would be forming a queue to whack him, and a certain princess would probably be busy selling tickets and souvenirs.

She laughed prettily, “Oh, how very droll.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what are you doing?”

“I’m flirting with the chap with the neat nose and fetching armour I saw brooding handsomely. I’ve snared a prince but I like to keep in practise.”

An idea was forming in Fulk’s head; the perfect revenge for that stinking perfume had just presented itself with a cheeky grin, as well as a way to be rid of this walking death-trap without offending her and getting himself smacked about by a horde of chivalrous hopefuls wanting to gain her favour. “Then I’ll endeavour to play along without catching the eye of a prince who’ll only be jealous, him and every other man within fifty miles.”

“Now that sounds as good as you look, dearie.”

Dearie? Evidently she had decided to rescue the word from being used solely with old crones with warts and black cats. Yup, no doubt about it – this Judith was going to make the perfect revenge. “I’m the princess’s bodyguard; you learn a few fancy words following a royal about.”

“Really?” Her eyes sparkled and she smiled coquettishly, “Do tell.”

“Well, the poor thing’s been kept locked up in desolation much of her life.”

“No!” gasped Judith, playing the attentive audience to perfection.

“Yes, she’s no idea about court protocol, or all those little necessities like how to accept a song proclaiming her beauty or how to behave at a banquet in her honour. I don’t think she even knows how to dance!”

“The poor dear,” said Judith, frowning delicately. It might have been an extraordinarily pretty frown but in Fulk’s eyes it was a distant second to a frowning gooseberry. “John’s going to send her off to court, you know. She’ll never manage.”

“I know, I know. And of course they’ll be finding a husband for her too, and she’s,” Fulk leaned forward and whispered, “well, she could make a nun look wanton. I’m going to be beating suitors off with a stick and all because she smiled at the wrong time.”

“The poor, poor darling!” She was really getting into this now, and what a charming picture of concern she did make. “Someone should have a quiet word with her.”

Yes! Got her; take that Eleanor! Fulk allowed the smile to escape but made it over into a picture of relieved gratitude, “If it’s no trouble…”

“Oh no, not at all. In fact I’ll go now; I know John doesn’t want to see her until mid afternoon, so we’ll have plenty of time.”

“Thanks. She’s very shy; so don’t let her get away until you’ve told her everything. Just one favour? Don’t tell her I sent you.”

She gave her solemn promise that she wouldn’t, then departed on her mission of mercy. Fulk would have given anything to be a fly on the wall, watching Eleanor’s reaction to being waylaid by her brother’s mistress and chatted to for several hours on a collection of subjects she would find highly embarrassing. She was going to have such fun with Judith. He resolved to casually drop by and see how things were going in an hour or two.






An hour proved too long for a curious man at arms to wait. He bribed a page to help him remove his armour and load it up into a couple of sacks which they then hefted up to Eleanor’s guestroom. He had stripped down to his shirt and hose, the only normal clothes he was wearing under all the armour. He could have kept his gambeson on but he wanted an excuse to linger and watch the proceedings for a bit and a lack of clothing was the best he could come up with.

The page left his sack outside the door at Fulk’s insistence that he could manage the rest of the way. With a quiet knock Fulk cracked the door open and tentatively suck his head around.

“… wiggle your hips a bit,” instructed Judith, as she demonstrated how to walk in an eye catching manner. The expression of mortified horror on Eleanor’s face was priceless. Neither of them noticed him, the knock must have gone unheard, and so he got to watch for a few seconds until Judith turned around by chance and spotted him. “What are you doing here?” she asked sternly, “Go away!”

“I’m collecting my tunic and dumping my armour,” he explained as he dragged the sacks in. He stood up, rubbing the small of his back as if he’d cricked it. Over Judith’s shoulder Eleanor mouthed, “Help me!” He pretended he hadn’t understood. He smiled disarmingly at Judith, “Surely you can’t expect me to wander about in shirt and hose in the middle of winter?”

Apparently she could; she bundled him out of the room again in short order. “Bog off, sweetie,” advised Judith merrily as she slammed the door.

Outside Fulk remembered the way Eleanor had been blushing so furiously she looked more like a strawberry than gooseberry. He licked his forefinger and drew an invisible line in the air, “Man at arms: two. Princess: one.” He shivered in the chill of the stone corridor, then set out in search of a nice fire to sit by until he could get his clothes back.






Welcome rescue from Judith came several hours later in the form of a summons from John. Eleanor escaped with all possible haste; she might have asked Edith how to flirt months ago back in Nantes, but being descended on by Judith and her hair raising ability to tell you far more than you ever wanted to know about anything and everything was entirely too much. Much of what Judith’s advice had sailed clean over Eleanor’s head, and now she was devoting energy to forgetting the bits she had understood before she ended up with nightmares. Trempwick would have had a treble heart seizure if he had known what his precious pupil was being told.

On her arrival in the solar Eleanor immediately noticed the bowl of oranges was missing. John sat with his back to her in a fireside chair, the ubiquitous goblet of wine in his hand once again. “That man at arms of yours is quite an interesting fellow,” he said as she seated herself slightly further away from the fire’s fierce then he was.

Here it came, the end. “He is all I have,” she said despondently, not sure whether she meant it as an answer or just an admission of what he’d stolen from her.

He twiddled the goblet about in his hands, rotating it clockwise as he spoke, “Funny, that’s exactly what he said.”

How delightful of Fulk to admit it; did it get him a nice boost to his pay offer? She stopped regretting dowsing him in that perfume and began wishing she had thought of something nastier.

“I offered him a place in my household; he refused, can you actually believe that? I gave him a fortune, I offered him another, but he refused.” John ended his fascination for playing with his goblet, drained his wine and frowned petulantly at his empty vessel. “It’s not fair,” he muttered sulkily. He sloshed more wine into his cup, pouring carelessly so his clothes got splashed. His tolerance for alcohol was astounding; he had done little more than drink since she arrived and not once had he been more than mildly tipsy.

“Refused?” said Eleanor sharply. This had to be another of his jokes.

“He spewed some twaddle about giving you his word, and said he could not leave you because you had not released him.”

“He did?” Why couldn’t he just admit he’d stolen her bodyguard and be done with it? Or did he want her to tell Fulk he could leave if he wanted to, making this easier for them? She was not going to help them save face, thank you very much.

“I gave him a destrier and better armour than most knights have, I promised him far more and he refused! He just spouted on about honour.” John sniffed woefully and gulped at his drink. He apparently expected her sympathy.

“You probably did not offer him enough,” she said acidly. If she couldn’t get John to be honest she would wring the truth out of Fulk later. She had never had serious occasion to try those nice interrogation and torture methods Trempwick had taught her but now seemed as good a time as any.

“On the contrary, little sister, I think I offered him the wrong thing … in a way.” John set his goblet down on the nearby table precisely, arranging it with care and devoting his whole attention to that one task as he spoke, “I should have offered him you, I think. But he is not nearly worth such a bribe; armour is easy to come by, and I only have one free sister. Besides you are already promised to Northumberland.”

“What did you say?” Her? Did John seriously think a common bastard had even thought about a royal connection? Or would want one? It might boost him to the highlife but he would never be accepted, and she was dirt poor so he would gain nothing except her company and the scorn on the nobility. People formed queues and fought over both of those privileges on a daily basis.

John ignored the warning tone of her voice and beamed, then answered the wrong question, “I know, wonderful, isn’t it? Northumberland’s my staunchest supporter, and I shall grant you lands and so on. You will finally have what you were born to.”

Northumberland, married and wonderful were not words Eleanor thought belonged in close vicinity of each other, categorically not when her name was also added to the mix. If nothing else Northumberland the place was cold, rainy and always skirmishing with Scotland. Northumberland the man was just as unappealing; with this scheme he had proven himself ambitious, ruthless and dangerous. Not that John cared about her opinion; he had made this deal and she would be expected to keep it.

So, Northumberland was the puppet master; since he was the most powerful duke in England this was hardly surprising. Give him a royal bride and very soon poor John would find his rear slipping off his throne, until Northumberland claimed the crown by virtue of his wife. Her daft brother had not only been lured to treason but he had also set up his controller with a means to replace him as king. John would stand no chance when his manipulator discarded him.

Seven days Trempwick had said, she had used three and a half. Time was running out if she wanted to get John away before Trempwick set his men to watch the ports, just three and a bit safe days left. It would take most of those three days to reach the nearest port and find a ship willing to sail in the middle of December.

She listened with half an ear as John babbled, outlining his plot to become king. It relied heavily on him getting to see his father alone, then poisoning him so people would think he died of natural causes. When he was dead the whole country was supposedly going to rise up behind him to support him against Hugh, who, John related with horror evident on his features, had murdered his eldest brother so he could become king in his place. Yes, John actually believed, and expected others to believe, that an eleven year old boy had plotted and committed murder to gain a throne.

That was the breaking point; Eleanor could stand no more, and he had finally presented a flaw for her to use to encourage him to leave. “No, that is not true. Our father killed Stephan.” John gaped at her. “Have you ever seen him in one of his rages?” He mutely shook his head. “You are fortunate; I envy you. Between the initial spark and the final, most dangerous cold and cruel fury he has this streak where he talks incessantly, threats mostly. I heard him admit it on the day I got this scar,” she tapped the small scar running along her left cheekbone under her eye, “and he admitted it again a few years later. ‘If I can kill my heir for being flawed I can easy dispatch you for the same reason.’ The words were etched into my mind as surely as the scars on my body.”

“But, but, but …” stuttered John, “if Northumberland lied about that …”

“What else did he lie about?” finished Eleanor.

John wet his lips with his tongue, then scrubbed a hand over his face, “I think he’s set me up.” He suddenly sat bolt upright, his face a picture of horror, “Jesú! There’ll be no army!”

“It certainly looks that way.” No, there would be an army, an army to crush Hugh and plonk John on the throne long enough for him to marry Northumberland and Eleanor off, then remove him and hand the realm over.

He jumped up, dropping his partially empty goblet on the floor in a flood of red wine, and hurried to the door. He began shouting along the corridor for his servants to strip the castle of everything portable and valuable, and then get ready to move out with every single male out under arms with all possible speed. Even lowly kitchen boys were to be given weapons from the stores and pressed into his escort to swell the numbers. Finished, he turned back to Eleanor, “I must flee, now, before it is too late.”

“What about your family? You must warn them.”

“I cannot; I do not have time.”

She rolled her eyes, “Send a messenger.”

“I will need every man I have to reach port and get away safely.”

“You are going to abandon them!” she accused, horrified, “You can spare a couple of men and horses, easily.”

John began to pace restlessly, dismissing his family with barely a thought, “They will be alright; they are nobles-”

“And so are you. If being imprisoned is no hardship why are you leaving?”

He stopped and looked at her as if she were talking nonsense. “Then you go and warn them,” he said in a tone usually reserved for dealing with disobliging, dim-witted children.

She jumped to her feet, feeling her temper growing, and said brusquely, “Oh yes, I shall conjure up an escort and supplies, and go off on a little jaunt to Wales two weeks before Christmas when the roads are unspeakably foul - I cannot even get to the Welsh border! A courier could get through; you must send one.” Without Fulk she couldn’t even get home; travelling alone would be suicide. She would have to wait here in an all but empty castle until Trempwick sent someone to bring her home, hoping her rescue got here before the king’s army.

“There is no one to spare; I need every man I have to get safely to port. You cannot come either; we need to travel fast and-”

He crushed a hope that she did not even know she had; that he would take her away with him and keep her safe from the agents Trempwick would send to hunt her down. “And I would only slow you down because I have to ride side-saddle or pillion.”

“You are a noble, family, you will be safe. He will not know you were involved.”

Since when did being caught up in whatever caused the paroxysm matter? If she was safe it was because of Trempwick, and then only to the extent that she would still be alive. “You go on, run away and leave everyone else behind to clean up your mess. As long as you are safe that is all that really matters.”

Her sarcasm went unnoticed, “Yes, exactly. As long as I am safe I can come back and set things to rights.”

“I am fully confident you will be able to reattach severed heads, heal the scars, and wipe away the memories of the pain you are going to cause, John.”

He thumped himself on the chest with one fist, “I am a prince! I am worth far more than some duke, count or nobody!”

“Heir and a spare, John, and you are the spare - dispensable.” She stormed off to find someone whose arm she could twist into taking a message into Wales.

As she left she heard him bellow, “We’ll see how you feel when I return as king!”





Weeee! Finally I can stop examining the insides of their skulls in fine detail! Hurrah for only skimming the surface!

That's the idea, PB-DK. Take several deep breaths.

Her search for a messenger proved fruitless; word of John’s treachery had spread and everyone was concerned with saving their own skins. Even simple servants would be gleefully seized by a vengeful king, and they knew it; they were in the employ of a traitor, which made them traitors too. It was a measure of how successful king William had been in securing his grip on his expanding realm; a good king needed a reputation, and ability, to exact retribution from disloyal subjects swiftly and without mercy. William was nothing if not a good king. Eleanor suspected that many were taking whatever they could grab, then taking flight on their own instead of collecting things for John and following him to the port and he wanted. She didn’t blame them; John would only abandon most of them to their fates at the port.

She returned to her guest room, thinking to wait out the chaos there, only to find the last person she wanted to see. Fulk. He was sat cross legged on her bed, dressed in his gambeson and warmest pair of hose, his old sword across his lap and a pile of bags containing his new armour and spare clothing on the floor at his side. A quick glance around revealed the room had been ransacked; even the chairs and bedclothes were gone. The only portable items that remained were those Fulk had gathered to him. She hoped he had seen fit to save her own paltry, mostly borrowed, wardrobe, especially the nice, warm cloak she had arrived in.

“If you do not hurry you will be left behind,” she told him cuttingly. There wasn’t even a reason for him to be here now.

“So long as I follow you I can’t be left behind, can I?”

“Now what are you gabbling about?”

“I could ask you the same question, oh sands of the ages.”

“You are going with John.”

Fulk winced; so she did know. That explained quite a lot. “No, I’m sticking with his retiring, placid sister.”

Eleanor couldn’t hide her astonishment, “What? Why?”

Fulk considered his reply carefully; the truth delved into areas that were best described as thorny, as well as informing her about Maud, but he did not want to lie. Maud and the events surrounding her were least uncomfortable when confined to the unspoken past, and dragging them up would do no one any good. “Because I like being able to say, ‘That’s my princess; I just tag along in her wake, cleaning up the mess and dodging the low flying severed heads. I also do a nice line in suffering bravely when she turns her attention to me. It’s a quiet life,’ when someone asks me who the short, dark haired human tempest is.” Yes, that was honest enough while remaining light.

Her brows knitted together sceptically, “Really?”

“Yes, now we’d best get moving – we’ll need two saddle horses, and I’m owed a destrier. If we leave it too long the stables will be empty. Help me on with my hauberk and coat of plates; it’ll be easier to carry them on my body, good protection too.” When she didn’t move immediately he said dryly, “I’d say don’t argue but I’ve more faith in you being able to fly; instead I’ll say argue once we’ve left.”

She did as he said, helping him into first the hauberk, then the coat of plates, adding the surcoat and sword belt without him asking. He left the coif down and refused his arming cap, instead instructing her to put his cloak on over the whole thing, covering the armour and hiding its quality. He slipped his shield’s strap over his head, allowing it to rest comfortably on his left side in easy reach if he needed it. Finally he picked up the kettle helmet and laced it securely under his chin.

He looked over himself, tweaking the folds of his cloak by tucking them through the shield’s guige strap until it naturally hid most of the armour but didn’t hamper his arms too badly. “Man at arms and wife, travelling from one job to another because our old lord died and his son’s an ungrateful oaf who turned us out close to Christmas. That should do us for a cover.” He retrieved her knives and cloak from the bag he’d stored them in, “Here.”

Eleanor pinned her cloak in place, “I have nowhere to put the knives; these sleeves are too tight and we do not have time for me to change.”

“Fish your belt out of that bag and then put the knives on it,” suggested Fulk, collecting as many of the remaining bags as he could carry, “It’ll be a fashion disaster but your cloak will hide them well enough.”

After a brief search she found the slender tooled leather girdle she had worn on her way here. She examined it sceptically, assessing whether it would be strong enough to take the weapon’s weight, then swiftly bound it in place, making the first loop about her waist slightly looser than usual but leaving the second, low slung loop the same as normal in the hopes it would aid the deception. She thrust one knife through each side of the waist loop, and then pulled her cloak about her. “And that is that; let’s go.” She picked up the last couple of bags and headed towards the door, Fulk following close at her heels and trying to take the lead so he could lead their assault. As she opened the door she said, “If anyone gives us trouble you focus on getting our horses; I will handle the rest.”





Painfully slowly they fought their way through the milling crowds in the castle, down to the stables. Only a bare handful of horses were left, including a downtrodden packhorse and a few half decent palfreys. All the good horses were long gone, including Fulk’s promised warhorse. Fulk started forcing his way towards the best of the remaining saddle horses, Eleanor following in his wake.

“Get the packhorse too,” she told him, having to shout to be heard about the racket. The man fastening the packhorse’s bridle had different ideas and he tried to rebuff Fulk. Eleanor struck her most regal pose and announced loudly, “I am princess Eleanor of England, daughter of William, fourth of that name since the conquest of William the Bastard, king of England by grace of God, rightful king of France, lord of the Welsh, and beloved of his people.”

She paused for breath; she had learned to recite her lineage while still in the cradle and the endless barrage of glorious relatives usually stunned audiences as they struggled to keep track of everything. She was pleased to note Fulk loading up the packhorse swiftly and without resistance. Father down, time for brothers, “Sister to lord Hugh, duke of Normandy, count of Arques, and Bedford, heir to the aforementioned king William, and to lord John, Duke of York, and count of Anjou.”

Fulk was diplomatically persuading another man at arms he didn’t really want the best palfrey by prising his fingers of the animal’s reins and bending them backwards until they nearly broke. Time for sisters, “And to Matilda, Holy Roman Empress by the grace of God, and to Adele, queen of Spain by the grace of God.” So far, so good. She decided to wrap it up there; once you got into grandparents, cousins, nieces and the like it got very long winded indeed; she would save them for an emergency. “I command you to render aid.” Her audience gaped at her; excellent, Fulk had got the palfrey and the packhorse and was leading them out without too much opposition. “I require a man to go to Wales and deliver a verbal message. Any volunteers to serve the crown?”

Predictably everyone looked away and tried to seem less obvious than everybody else. Fulk stuck his head around the stable door and gave her a wave. Time to go. “It is good to see my brother is served by men of courage equal to his own; cowards. I shall look elsewhere.” She strode regally away, out into the courtyard where Fulk waited.

He was already mounted on the palfrey with the packhorse’s reins in the same hand that held the reins for his own mount. He extended a hand to her, “There’re no side-saddles; you’ll have to ride pillion, either that or learn to ride like a man.”

“I doubt I would ever hear the end of it if I did that,” she said dryly as she took his hand, put one foot on top of his, then scrambled up behind him. Once in place she wrapped her hands in the folds of his cloak to secure her seat somewhat.

Fulk kicked the horse into motion, and they clattered towards the first of the two gatehouses, struggling to get through the press of people. “You’d better hold on tight,” he said as he drew his sword, “really tight.” She wrapped her arms around his waist; just managing to lock her fingers together as he started bellowing, “Make way! Make way for the princess!” When that didn’t have the desired effect he started laying about him with the flat of his sword, still bellowing. The crowd began to part.

They picked up speed, and Fulk ceased clubbing people, needing only to shout and brandish his sword to part the human sea. Even so it still took almost quarter of an hour to force their way out of the castle and away from the press on the road outside. They began to retrace the journey they had made just a day ago, heading back to Woburn. No others took their road as it lead towards the king’s army and danger.

As they rode along Fulk noted with a wry grin that Eleanor was still riding along with her arms around his waist and, presumably based on his experience, much of her upper body and one side of her face leaning against his back. How to get a hug from a princess that no one could ever criticise; get her to ride pillion and then drag her into a near riot so she had to cling on or fall off. It was just a pity that he couldn’t really feel anything because of all the padding and armour.







Ok, so this is kind of rough and I was going to include another scene, the Fulk/Eleanor confrontation (as coz1 calls it), but I picked up this obscure game on Friday, Rome: Total War.

Judas, the duke of Northumberland mischief must come with the title, either that or it is caused by the climate, location and neighbours.

Coz1, the confrontation will be the next part. I think I can drag myself away from fighting the devious, conniving, treacherous Macedonians long enough to write it. Somehow that scene appeals quite a bit, I suppose becasue it will be challenging to pull off.

Zeno, yup I would agree that line is John in a nutshell. Honestly I'm rather looking forward to his return ...