The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

“So happy princess run in grass and pick flowers and stuff.” This story was a whole lot easier to tell in a proper language, damn it. Mahaut’s favourite, it made Jocelyn homesick right to the soles of his boots. “She happy. Have happy time doing happy stuff. Not care she lost her knight and be all alone.”

From the room’s corner came a quiet observation. “So much easier to get some peace without armour clanking in the background.” Jocelyn didn’t doubt that the princess was as wrapt as her young namesake. A master storyteller like him could make any old yarn engaging to anyone.

He waved his hand a bit for emphasis on the next point, mimicking something swooping down from above. “Then come a … thing and it grab her, woop!” Now what was the word? “Thing. Big, danger, monster thing. Burp fire. One of them thing.”

“Dragon?”

Ellen’s mother hugged her daughter tightly, tears springing into her eyes. It was the first word the child had uttered since the siege began. That’s how good his storytelling was - nothing short of miraculous! As further proof of his prowess the princess lowered the dreary thing she was reading.

“Yes. Dragon thing. Dragon grab her and off they go.” He repeated the swoop of the dragon. “Woop!”

Ellen clutched her cloth doll to her chest as though she feared a dragon would fly down and seize it. He was so good!

“Her knight be lost, nothing she can do but scream and wave feet and try not be sick.”

The real princess muttered, “Bit of a useless milksop then.”

How rude! Interrupting! Jocelyn took the path of virtue and pretended the stupid girl didn’t exist. “So she wave her feet and scream and try not being sick. But! Is good luck and God not hate her,” unlike certain other princesses hereabouts, “and her knight ride up in time to see dragon thing do grab. So he make horse be fast and chase dragon all way home. He get there and draw his sword, and charging while saying fierce words!” Jocelyn brandished an imaginary sword above his head and raised a really good warcry.

Ellen dipped her face behind the doll’s head. See? He was so good the child was scared for real.

Again that infuriating muttered interruption. “Meanwhile the princess took advantage of the knight’s posturing to kick the dragon in a sensitive spot, stab it with a sword from its hoard, and save the day.”

Jocelyn said over his shoulder in langue d’oc, “Shut up!”

Eleanor sniffed and returned to her book. “How rude.”

Er. Um. Maybe that hadn’t been so smart? She could have had him executed for being offensive. Ellen was waiting for him to resume his telling. On second thoughts, the damned menace had had it coming to her! That one needed telling to shut up a damned sight more often.

“Knight is very brave. He do battle while princess stand out of way. Dragon is scary. Burp fire, try to bite, have claws and stuff.” Jocelyn acted out a wonderful little battle before those wide brown eyes. “Then knight stab dragon, and it go urk!” He clutched his chest and pretended to die. “When dragon is urk princess run to knight. He hurt. Got cut on arm. She tie her head-thing,” he waved a hand at Aveis’ veil to show what he meant, “around the wound. Is very sad he hurt. Also very sorry for being nuisance.” He directed a significant glance at the nuisance in the audience. “She realise she love him, see.”

“Because one is obliged to have a poor sense of timing. It comes with the crown.”

Jocelyn snapped around. “It’s perfectly good bloody timing, thank you very much! Gratitude, and such. It makes for a nice ending.”

“Ending?” One eyebrow was arched in his direction. “Beginning, I would say.”

“Ending,” Jocelyn insisted. “In love and married. That’s the ending.”

“How can it be the ending when they have their entire lives ahead of them?”

“Because it is. That’s how it works.” He fixed her with his best stern scowl. “Now shut up.” Royalty? Pah! Who cares? He’d show her who was the boss!

Eleanor’s jaw set and she took a deep, slow breath. Before she averted her face he saw her blink rapidly. “It is not the same. You are the wrong knight.”

Sod it, he’d made her cry nearly and that was damned unusual for him, what with his being a master of handling women and their fragile feelings. “Wrong knight?”

“Finish your story. The child is waiting.”

And indeed she was, the little darling. Waiting through the unintelligible exchange with wide eyes and arms wrapped around her dolly, seated on her mother’s lap like it was a throne. Which maybe it was. Jocelyn wouldn’t have minded sitting there himself …

“Knight love her too. That why he put up with all this trouble. To be near her, see? When daddy king hears about all this he say the knight can marry her as reward and because they in love. They happy, daddy king happy, everyone in kingdom happy. The end.”

As proof of his stupendous ability he finished his story moments before the solar’s door burst open to reveal a red-faced Sir Gervaise. “They’ve come!” he panted. “They’ve come – the king has come!” See? How’s that for timing?

Eleanor’s book was on the floor and she was halfway out of the door before the others in the room had moved. Jocelyn fell in the middle of the group, ahead of Aveis and behind Hawise and the castellan. Relief, and about bloody time too!

Was it dignified for a princess to run at full pelt along the battlements, skirts held in one hand so you could see her ankles? Not bloody likely. Jocelyn had to admit she did have a good turn of speed, however improper it was. Er, didn’t that imply she’d been practicing this kind of thing? God’s elbow!

When they caught up with the royal hoyden on the south-eastern tower she was gazing at the distant banners as though they were the gates of heaven. “He came.”

Her wonder indicated that she’d been in doubt, whatever she’d been telling them. Hell, and to think he’d been lulled by her sweet little assurances of rescue. “He’s your brother and your king. He’s honour bound.”

Eleanor didn’t move a muscle. “So sayth the man who but days ago wished to throw me to the wolves because he believed us abandoned.”

Jocelyn felt his face flame at the rebuke. “Bitch,” he muttered. Too late he recalled that she’d got sharp hearing.

“Do not pretend your very public doubts did not exist to make my own private ones seem foolish.” It wasn’t right that this slip of a girl could make him feel exactly as he had when the old king had focused his attention on him, damn it! Probably all down to the fact she’d got his eyes and copied that intense ‘I’m angry’ way of looking at you and all that, nothing at all to do with her. Yes, that was it – borrowed glory.

And as quickly as that she lost all interest in him. “There he is!”

Clever girl. Her brother was approaching from about a mile off. Well spotted. No one else could possible have seen that. Oh – wait, they had, and ages ago.

Hawise said, “Yes, it must be Fulk’s banner. Who else uses something which would appear to be nothing but plain blue at this distance?”

Oh. Him.

“Fulk,” Eleanor breathed. He’d been wrong before. She hadn’t looked like she was gazing on heaven’s gates because that would leave nothing sweeter for her to be gazing on now. If Richildis would look like that about him just the once … Jocelyn put his back to the intolerable sight before he puked his heart out right here all over everything. Revolting! Thank God his wife was sane.

What was there to get so excited about anyway? A lot of dust with some tiny blobs of colour bobbing about in it. Armies on the march didn’t make for good viewing unless you were closer than this. I mean, banners didn’t mean much. The bloody upstart could be dead. Hell, the whole damned army didn’t mean much. Battles were as easily lost as won. Buggering hell - the only thing that army meant was that he’d left it too late to get the hell out of here and head home before things took a turn for the violent. Doubtless this was all part of God’s greater plan. He must be destined to save the day, turn the tide of battle or something. Yeah, he could lead a sally and kill Trempwick with his bare hands! Or Hugh. Whichever wasn’t the right one. Jocelyn crossed himself and silently prayed for the Lord’s strength while assuring him his will would be done.

Aveis pointed at the army. “Look, Ellen. The good king has come to help us. No one can hurt us now.”

The child clung mutely to her mother, doll tangled under one arm. The prospect of rescue had changed nothing for her. It wrung Jocelyn’s heart to see how badly the poor little thing had been affected by the siege. Pray God his own little ones were safe. Richildis would see to that. He could trust her. It’d take more than a squabble for power between boy-king and regents to get past her guard.

Aveis ran a hand over her daughter’s hair. “The princess’ knight is there too, like in the story. He will save her.”

“But who will save him?” If Eleanor had been looking on heaven before Jocelyn now thought she was glimpsing hell beneath her feet - rightly so, for she belonged there! – via a growing hole. Made his stomach lurch all over again. So bloody young! Old enough to be married and have a child or two, young in so many other ways and most of them the ones which really damned well counted. A far bloody cry from what he liked in a woman. If Richildis stood in her place and gazed out on a similar situation with him swapped for whatshisname then she’d take charge and set an example, all calm and mature. She wouldn’t be grappling with her own inner self and bleeding vulnerability all over the place. And not just because Richildis didn’t like him – which she damned well did, actually – but because she was a proper woman.

Eleanor closed her eyes. “I do not know where he wishes to be buried or – or anything. We never spoke of it.”

Carelessness, and now it came back to bite. Death was a fact of life. A person prepared for it or faced it with their braes around their ankles, so to speak. The lack was so bloody typical of this fouled up mess of a so-called marriage between royal and peasant! All the fundamentals were missing. Scant regard paid to the proper order of things.

Aveis freed one hand from holding her daughter to touch the princess’ shoulder. “He’ll do well enough. He’s growing quite the reputation for skill, and most importantly he’s not married to me.”

See, now that Jocelyn could respect. Self-mockery for the good of another. That was a woman.

“He is my soul.” If Jocelyn called the wobbly expression on Eleanor’s face a smile he’d have been overly generous. Still, the effort could be recognised without loss of honour. “And as such he had best come here victorious and undamaged, or I shall have some choice words for him, let me tell you.” For a bit she stood with her right hand pressed about her left, grip tightest on her wedding ring. With visible effort she lowered her hands and turned about to face them all. “Spread the word about the castle. My brother is here and we are saved. The men are to be ready to sally at a moment’s notice. As soon as there is chance to engage Trempwick’s army to the aid of my brother we shall do so. Tell them that their revenge is close at hand, if they have the will to take it.”

Alright, so she was growing up. A bit. Give her five or six years and she might be interesting.








So ends part 3 of what should have been a single post.

I don’t know how many of you remember, back in the early parts of the story Fulk spent a lot of time trying to tell Eleanor stories, at first in a silly effort to cheer her up and later because he enjoys the battle of wits, and she spent only marginally less time picking them to bits and heckling because she’s a gooseberry. They haven’t had much occasion to engage in that sort of silliness for a long time. That’s what she means by “It is not the same. You are the wrong knight.”

The writing project is no longer a secret. Frogbeastegg’s Guide to Medieval II: Kingdoms. Part 1 now available.

The new shop looks great. It had better after the hell that was putting it together. 54 hour week, anyone? Surprisingly dangerous work too. I’ve got so many bruises I look like Nell after one of her conversations with her father!


Avernite, Trempwick says he won’t forget you are a traitor however many nice things you say Judas, he says the same to you. I suggest you keep your doors locked and don’t go down dark alleys …

Chief, you may wish to wait but Nell and co don’t. It’s not good for my sanity to have them all shouting away in the back of my mind. The longer between writing sessions the more insistent they get.

It was drizzling. If one required a lengthier description then Fulk would have said that the second lion on Hugh’s surcoat was missing one of its cut sapphire eyes, and Trempwick’s armour had tiny specks of rust which betrayed the haste with which it had been cleaned. Either description sufficed. Anything more spent words in their hundreds to say what was already contained in the two brief editions.

Here in the heart of the empty ground between the armies the two men responsible for a war met for the first time since the conflict began. The flag of truce was the only one which flew here, the pair of nine man escorts the only army. The snap of the cloth playing in the wind was the only sound as the two parties drew to a halt.

“Rebels, surrender yourselves now to the crown’s justice and mercy will be shown. Continue in defiance and there shall be none.” Hugh had refused to wear his prince’s crown, standing firm in the face of his advisors’ pressure. He had stated, simply, that he was no longer a prince but not yet a king and thus had no crown, and that had been all he would say on the matter. Personally Fulk felt that his brother-by-law had made the right decision; if he needed a lump of metal on his head to proclaim his position then his cause was lost.

Trempwick’s reply was less formal. “We hold you to be the rebels.” It was strange to see the spymaster wearing armour, stranger still to recognise him as a man accustomed to it.

“I am the sole surviving son of William, sixth of that name, by the Grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Brittany, and Count of Anjou, may he rest in peace.” Hugh placed his hand over the royal coat of arms which he now wore without a label of cadency. “I am his heir, by blood and by his decree.”

“You are not my friend’s son.” A very weary looking Trempwick brushed a hand over his face. “You think I would do this otherwise? William was my friend, my closest friend. We worked together for years. All that he built I helped with, and I was proud to do so. I cannot let his legacy be usurped.”

“Your wish is to usurp his legacy by establishing my sister as your puppet. Neither she nor I shall permit this.”

“You are not my friend’s son. You cannot be his heir.”

“Untruth does not become truth with sufficient repetition.”

“The truth this there for any who but looks at you. You bear no resemblance to William, or to any other in this generation of your family, or in the generation prior.”

The Earl of Suffolk said, “Raoul, Hugh was William’s designated heir for years. If there had been any doubt surely this could not have been so?”

Trempwick gave the man a desolate little smile. “What man is eager to admit he had been betrayed by his wife? To admit so publicly? I find the greatest of respect for William that he was able to do so in the end.”

“But not to us,” Wymar of Derby countered in the quietest of voices. “If he said such words we have not heard them.”

Suffolk agreed. “We may only abide by his known wishes.”

Trempwick spread his hands. “I do not blame you. We served William together. I know your integrity. I hoped you knew mine.”

“We knew you, and knew William held faith in you,” admitted Derby. “There is no proof of what you say. For something of such import there must be proof.”

Trempwick hesitated. Then he stepped towards the two men. “Sirs, in that castle is a man known to have been at William’s death bed. He came to England immediately after, and sought out Eleanor.” The spymaster drew a breath. “It is my belief he bore the ring to her, as token of her father’s blessing.”

Hugh burst out, “Impossible!”

Trempwick’s head came up. “It is speculation only, but the ring is known to have gone missing shortly before William died; I cannot see him parting with it save by will. The timing with which Jocelyn d’Ardantes left most strongly suggests he bore a message of great import. He sought out Eleanor.”

“He paid visit to me first,” Hugh countered swiftly. “He swore allegiance to me. I granted him permission to carry word of our father’s death to my sister. This was witnessed.”

“It is true,” said Thomas. The head of Hugh’s household knights set his hand on the cross he wore about his neck. “I swear on this holy symbol I witnessed this with my own eyes, as did others.”

Varin and Suffolk nodded, the earl adding, “As did others who are not present here.”

Hugh retook control of the situation. “My sister is my most loyal supporter. Your slanders distress her immensely.”

One of Trempwick’s lot spoke up. “Then let our queen come forth and tell us this herself. Stop thrusting words into her mouth! We have had not one word from her that has not been spoken under duress of your men.”

Fulk answered this one. “The men inside Alnwick are mine, and as such hers.”

“Ah.” Trempwick’s lip curled. “The upstart inflicts his noise upon us, much like a belch in polite company.”

Another member of Trempwick’s retinue enquired, “What guarantee do we have of that? None.”

Fulk set his hand on the hilt of his sword. “And what guarantee do we have that if I request my wife to leave the shelter of the walls you will not attempt to carry her off? It has been attempted before.”

Trempwick bared his teeth. “And what guarantee would we have that you would leave her free to speak? She has been a prisoner since the day word of William’s accident arrived at court.”

Varin commented, “Clearly mutual trust can never be attained. Thus to discuss anything based upon it is a waste of time.”

Hugh nodded curtly. “Indeed. I cannot and will not give this traitor the least measure of trust. He has betrayed my father, and now myself. He has used my sister most basely for his own ambitions-”

“Liar,” accused Trempwick. “It would be impossible for me to betray you as I never held faith with you. Never. Not once, not so much as the least promise. As for Eleanor …” The spymaster’s eyes were hot as he looked around the gathering. “Again and again I hear that I am only using her. That I do this to profit by her.” His throat worked and now there was no mistaking it – tears were gathering in his eyes. “Very well. I renounce my claim to her.” The words came out clipped. “Let her say in all freedom that she does not want me and I will let her go. Only let her be in her rightful place when she says it.”

Fulk snorted. “More lies.”

The spymaster drew himself up, eyes locked fixedly – blankly – ahead, hardly blinking as that would dislodge the moisture in his eyes and turn it into tears. “I have said it before noble witnesses. I will say it again before anyone you care to name. I will swear it on whatever you wish. I could not break my word then – it would destroy me. My lords, you would, rightfully, tear me to pieces were that so. Let Nell be crowned and then let her tell me her wishes. If she still repudiates me as a husband I shall leave the country, never to return save by her express request.” He took another breath. “So say no longer I do this for my own gain. I care greatly for her, but if I must lose her in order for her to gain her inheritance then so be it.”

“Raoul …” Suffolk crossed the lines and placed a hand on his old colleague’s shoulder. “Can you not lay down your arms and retake the place which was yours at the side of a new king? For peace?”

Trempwick set his hand above the older man’s, gave it a squeeze and then gently lifted it free. Holding the other man’s hand between his own two he answered softly, “I cannot.”

“Even if the lady Eleanor remained your wife?”

At the very same moment Hugh and Fulk voiced their objections. “You will not barter my wife away!”

“No! I will not countenance this. I will not give my sister to this man, and I will not have him standing at my back waiting for occasion to stab me from the shadows.”

Suffolk spun around to face them. “If a solution is not found this will come to battle! Between men who have served side by side for years. Lives will be lost, the damage which may be done – I shudder to think! Is that your wish?” He focused his outrage on Trempwick. “Is it yours?” Fulk he ignored, totally.

Hugh spoke directly to Trempwick. “For many years I honoured the peace of my father’s court, and his friendship with you. You broke that, and no longer can I return to treating you amicably. Innocent lives demand justice.”

A man on Trempwick’s side whom Fulk recognised by his coat of arms as the Earl of Westmoreland, said, “So you will drag us all to battle so you may have revenge? Because a man spoke the truth of you?”

“What man would I be if I stood by to allow my mother and sister to be slandered as they have been by this man?” Hugh demanded. “If I allowed him to name me bastard? What manner of king would I be if I permitted a man to raise his banner and disrupt the peace of my realm to such a ruinous effect as this man has? Innocent lives have been lost, and they look to me for justice.”

Fulk knew Hugh spoke of his murdered children. Trempwick must surely know it too. None other here would. They would think Hugh afire with the peculiar desire to avenge peasants.

Suffolk said, “Hugh, in the name of God, think of what you set in motion! A true battle between Englishmen, between family and friends who stand on opposing sides.”

“I know, William. I know. It is not my wish, so very far from it.” With the faintest of smiles to reassure his earl Hugh turned once more to Trempwick. “This grievance is between us. Your accusations against me are known, as are mine against you. They are irreconcilable. Let us place judgement in the hands of God.”

“You speak of judicial combat?” asked Trempwick.

The prince nodded once. “To the death, and therein the end.”

The two councils erupted into chaos. Fulk stood alone, cast back to the outskirts of Hugh’s group by the movements of people. Pushed out, ignored – and the only one aside from Hugh who had known something like this was coming. It had been a brief conversation, an odd one.

“Would you kill Trempwick if given chance? For what he has done to my sister?”

“She would not forgive me for it.”

“Would you?”

After a pause he had answered, “Yes.”

“You may have your chance, if you want it. You will understand at the time.”

Now he did. The chaos was resolving into the agreement Hugh could not personally fight his duel, that his council would not let him indulge in such a reckless course.

Fulk stepped forward, thrusting himself back into the attention he had seized and lost once already. “If it pleases the prince, I will act as his champion. Eleanor is my wife; I would stand in her interests as well as my lord’s.”

More uproar. If Hugh were represented by a champion then Trempwick must be too, for why should he risk his life when his accuser did not?

Trempwick’s voice – his first remark since the challenge had been issued – cut across the din. “What pointless playacting is this? The results of such a duel would only be held to if one of we two were dead and so unable to carry our causes further. As the heads of our sides we will not be allowed to risk single combat – as has already been proven. I cannot see the point in this, save as a desperate move by a man at the end of his road.”

Hugh’s answer was calm as could be, “I stand ready to prove my right with my body. I have no need of a champion.”

“It will not be allowed,” retorted the spymaster.

“You doubt the righteousness of your own cause?”

“The time for doubts is long since past.” The spymaster gave his enemy a patronising smile. “I live in the real world, not a dream constructed from a story. Duels before battles? Important men settling important matters in like manner to petty grudges in a court of law?” He laughed.

It had been a brave attempt but Fulk saw Hugh’s effort was doomed, and had been since the beginning. If his lords had not quashed the possibility Trempwick may have been forced into the risk; the chance had been slender but there.

Fulk said, “Then you leave no option but battle. You will not surrender, you will not negotiate, and you will not settle the dispute in person. You – and you alone – force this outcome.”

From the sidelines where he stood as not quite part of either party, Varin stated, “I think this a waste of time. It is agreed that anything based upon trust cannot work. It is certain that neither man here will step down, and neither is losing the support of their followers. Therefore there shall be a battle, and it shall be as God wills it.”

Ignoring the German Trempwick spoke to Hugh, a hint of urgency in his tone. “Take your wife and your unborn child and go into exile, never to return. Go and live in peace. You are not William’s son. You cannot be the heir. But you can stop the bloodshed, and that would be a worth act for one William raised in his household. Give up your pretence and I have no further business with you.”

Was it Fulk’s imagination or had Hugh gone a bit pale? “You have renounced your claim to my sister. Stand down, and go into exile. That will be a worthy act, and will end this.”

Varin interjected, “The Empress will be displeased if she is passed over in favour of her most inferior sister. She will come for what is hers by right, and with her shall come the might of her husband, the Emperor. Either there is a son and heir here, sirs, or my lady, the Empress, is the heir.”

Trempwick’s words seemed to be for Hugh and Hugh alone. “You are not my friend’s son. For me to stand aside would be the greatest betrayal of William - and of Eleanor – possible.”

Hugh’s reply came after a pause. “I admit I have doubted. Sometimes. In the darkest places of my heart. I doubt no longer, and have not since I raised my own banner. If I had continued to doubt I would not have raised it. My cause is just.”

“It is not. I wish you would believe me.”

Fulk believed. He found he had lost his doubts – he believed a man he knew to be manipulative, a lying ambitious bastard. He couldn’t quite say why. Eleanor did not wish to be queen, in good part because she did not fully believe herself. If she did she may feel otherwise. If she took the throne Fulk knew without a doubt he would lose her. With his whole heart he was glad she was not present to hear this, and would not until it was too late and no choice remained to her, one way or another. His whole heart … there was no space left to be disgusted with himself.

To the rest of Hugh’s council Trempwick said, “Most of you were at court at the same time as Enguerrand. Think back. Remember how our queen looked on him with favour. Remember how long she had been left to hold her court alone. Remember how he left the very day William returned, and remember where he went: to fight in the crusades in Spain. Remember what he looked like, and see the resemblance in his son, a resemblance Hugh bears to none other in his supposed linage.”

Very deliberately Hugh stated, “Old slander.” He walked away. Fulk followed, and on looking back to see why he felt emptiness at his back he saw the remainder of Hugh’s council strung out into a ragged skein that spoke of individuals hesitating before choosing to go with their lord. But they had followed.








:sniffle: That’s the kind of scene which makes me feel like giving characters a nice mug of hot chocolate and a biscuit to cheer them up. It’s written from the POV of Fulk because it’s the only way to get a balanced look at both Hugh and Trempy, and it’s the only way to see Fulk exhibiting his selfish bastard side again. There’s a far greater emotional link to either of the pair if the scene is in their POV but, alas, the other does not fare well and so the scene fails its ultimate purpose. One may hope that I managed to get across enough of each.




Chief, Trempy on the continent would surely leave space for a sequel. Some sort of travelogue, spymaster style

Judas, Jocelyn’s opinion at present could be classified as “She isn’t admiring me and what’s more she dares to criticise – I hate her!”

Incognitia, ironic indeed, and likely to get interesting in light of Fulk’s thoughts today …

Avernite, somehow I think Nell would arrange for Jocelyn to be delivered back to the tender care of his beloved wife. How could she possibly keep them apart when he won’t shut up about how much he loves Richildis?

Igaworker, three years 2004-2007. Three years. It’s insanity. And to think I believed it would only take a year at the absolute most to complete!


As for the assorted discussion on Englishmen in the Netherlands, I’m woefully ignorant on that subject so this mini hijack was educational o



Three years, surely I qualify for a custom avatar now? I'd have to use a nice gooseberry and crown banner ... if only I had something passable as art skills -_-

No, not an update, but a thank you to everyone who voted for the tetchy gooseberry and associates in the AARland choice awards. Best narrative, wohoo!

As for an update, I have something special slowly taking form ...