“You’ll wear a rut in the floor.”
Eleanor fixed her knight with a vicious look without even breaking her stride.
When her circuit of the room took her on past him, Fulk spoke again, “Well, I suppose if you do we’re that bit closer to escape. Keep on pacing, oh gooseberry mine.”
Eleanor growled, “Shut up.” The red fringes of a complete loss of temper threatened – beckoned enough without his aid. “I will make them weep for this,” she vowed, needing to give vent to some of the fury before it overwhelmed her. She couldn’t see how she could keep that promise.
It had all been so damnably neat! She had walked into the noose like a willing sheep to the slaughter. Aside from Fulk and his squire only a handful of sound men were inside the walls, the limited space she had allocated to her wounded. They had waited until she entered this, her ‘guest room’, before declaring their loyalty and swearing allegiance to her and her cause.
Suddenly flinging herself at the door, pounding and screaming her outrage didn’t seem so inappropriate. The impulse was mastered before she did more than clench her fists; Trempwick would have been proud. Trempwick! The
bastard!
“Beloved-”
“Be silent! You begin to make me regret all my effort in having you returned to me.” Fulk still had sword and dagger, which had been unexpected, but in hindsight there was no reason for her captors to deprive him of his weapons and break the illusion of her being an honoured guest. He’d stripped off his bloodied armour and given it to Luke to clean, unknowing. As if it mattered - he was outnumbered tens to his one.
Several circuits later Hawise dared to venture, “At least they won’t hurt us.”
“Hurt us?” Eleanor laughed, and didn’t like the sound of it. Her walking grew faster. “What a delightfully benign way to put rape, torture and murder. No, I do not suppose you need to concern yourself about such things. My influence will protect you.”
“You don’t either. Your rank protects you. If they hope to profit-”
“They will have to return me to my dear ‘husband’ in immaculate condition.” It was Trempwick she worried about. He would not be pleased with her, and that was a tidy understatement. The fact he needed her didn’t reassure. He’d always needed her, and above all he needed her to dance consistently to his tune. It would be all she could do to protect Fulk. Perhaps more than she could manage. Probably more than she could manage. He would never be allowed to remain close to her, and once away he could be killed without her ever finding out. Luck had helped her once, luck and the sheer unexpectedness of what she had done. Never again. With him alert, mistrustful, his creatures surrounding her to the exclusion of any who might be loyal to her alone, she would be caged, the crown only another shackle holding her in place.
As she paced her next loop of her prison Eleanor looked hard, searching for anything she might have missed. A circular room at the top of the tower house with a chip taken out for the staircase and door leading to it. Windows looking out in all four major directions, slits so narrow and in walls so thick it would be hard to stick her arm out any further than her elbow, presently closed over with wooden shutters. One bed, one trestle table, one backless chair. That was it. Not even tapestries to decorate the whitewashed walls. It was not a room fit for a queen. Her baggage had been placed in a pile near the bed.
Sir Miles rested in the tiny chapel. May his soul find the peace so lacking in this mundane world. Now she wished she had called him master a time or two, it would have given him some joy and he wouldn’t have known it felt like blasphemy. The dress stained with his blood had been sent to the washerwomen.
The gravity of their situation appeared to have unhinged Hawise’s sensibleness, because she encroached yet again on her mistress’ thoughts. “I wonder if Anne and the others are alright?”
“It would be madness to harm them,” Eleanor replied curtly. “They will be freed when we are safely gone, I expect.” Anne and her maids were in a room on the floor below, the guest quarters where Eleanor had the lord’s own room. Anne, her maids, and the wretch responsible for this trap. There was another debt to pay in blood. New direction applied to her thoughts, Eleanor’s mind hared off like an unruly dog, once again after the spy’s identity, a subject she had exhausted already this evening. Without more to work with her verdict was as final as it could be and an impasse reached: she could not act and would not delay to discover more.
Some time later someone rapped on the door. They did wait until she called for them to enter; Eleanor bid them do so in a passionless voice. The game must be played, as tempting as complete surrender felt. It would be like drowning: supposedly a peaceful way to die, but still death. She drew herself up opposite the door, erect, relaxed,
regal. It was something to be grateful for, that she’d had the wits to play queen on finding herself trapped in a room with people bowing and calling her ‘Your Majesty’. Doing otherwise would only have harmed her position.
Two men entered, a pair of page boys trailing at their heels. Her captors, the Lord of Dunning and his landless brother. The gloom on the stairs combined with the narrow doorway to hide the soldiers she knew must be there.
Both men bent knee, the page boys bowed, one balancing his heavily laden tray through the motion with commendable skill, the other having more difficulty with the bowl, towel and ewer.
“Your Majesty,” said the Lord of Dunning. “Forgive our slowness in offering you food.”
Eleanor dismissed this with a wave of a hand. “I arrived late.”
As the page set his tray down on the table the Dunning continued, “I pray you’ll also forgive our plain fare. We hadn’t expected to have opportunity to do you such service.”
“It is forgiven.” Another gesture ordered the men back to their feet. “You may do me a small service.”
The brother bowed. “Anything, your Majesty. Only name it.”
Let me go! “I wish to know when we depart.”
“Your Majesty need not concern herself with such things,” said Dunning smoothly. “We’ll see to all arrangements. You’ll be safely with your husband in no time.”
“So we leave tomorrow morning, then.” In the space she left they gave neither confirmation or denial, not even the small signs which unconsciously betrayed a person’s feelings. “My men had best be given the necessary orders.”
“Already seen to, your Majesty.”
“I see.” Likely, then, that they would leave at the crack of dawn, this façade upheld, her captor’s troops mixed in amongst her own so they could cut the unwary men to pieces effortlessly if she tried to call of them. The border was only a couple of days’ hard riding away, once across, possibly even before then, more of Trempwick’s supporters would add themselves to her escort. No one even knew she might be in trouble.
Dunning stepped to the table. “If I may, with your Majesty’s permission? We have no taster, so my brother and I will do the duty.”
Eleanor assented with a nod.
The men washed their hands, holding them over the bowl as the page poured water from the elaborate ewer. The boy’s pouring and offering of the towel didn’t quite come up to the standard of elegance Eleanor expected. Rustic lordlings …
Dunning picked up a spoon and held it poised over the dish of herring.
Eleanor plucked up another spoon at random. Sometimes the substance was on the eating implements, not in the food. Sleeping potions were the worst she could expect, and they could destroy whatever chance she had of escape. Her dignity wouldn’t emerge in too healthy a state either. “You will use this spoon.”
“Majesty.”
When Dunning put the original spoon back Eleanor commanded, “Your brother will use that one.” In her first year with Trempwick Eleanor had learned all the simple tricks to fool a person into choosing of their own will the object you wanted them to. The third and final spoon she allocated to the page who had carried the tray. That raised eyebrows. Looking down her nose at the brothers Eleanor said, “Already attempts on me with poison have been made.”
The landless brother bowed his greying head. “We’re your Majesty’s loyal subjects.”
“Then eat. And drink. Be sure you all have some of everything, and use all the utensils.”
The contents of the tray proved harmless. Eleanor made the trio stand about for a good length of time, just to be sure.
When she washed her hands the idiot page poured too much, and soaked the cuffs of her dress. Eleanor pretended not to notice, all the while thinking that at court he would have been beaten and that might have been no bad thing.
As there was food for all three of them and only the one seat they had to use the bed as a table, and cluster about the tray. The used implements Hawise cleaned on Eleanor’s discarded veil.
Bread, pottage with dried beans in it, salted herring done in some wine based sauce, goopy cheese made even worse by having some chopped herbs mixed in it. By the time she had finished Eleanor’s mood was blacker than ever.
If Eleanor had been sleeping the din would have awakened her. Raised voices outside the tower, closely followed by a cry that had grown too familiar over these last months: a man in agony. The thud was subdued, so quiet she almost missed it. More shouting, now with a different, alarmed quality.
Fulk was at the window, unbolting the shutters, before she could do more than stand. “Nothing this way,” he declared after surveying what small view the slit offered.
Eleanor rushed to the window nearest her.
It was the third window, the one which overlooked the gatehouse, which revealed a poor sight of the source. It was the middle of the night, the moon only a narrow crescent party hidden behind the clouds which obscured the few stars which were out. There was a party outside, wanting to come in. A banner flew over the group, at the thickest cluster of men; it was too dark to make out the design on it. In the midst of that group a shortish figure held a bow, arrow notched, ready to draw.
“Let me repeat what I said. I want to come in.” The voice was boyish, high if not quite as pure as it would have been before it began to break, sloppy in its pronunciation.
One of her captures called back, “Our lord-”
“Fuck him! Your lord’s nothing to me.” The youth brought his bow up, pulling the arrow back to his chin in the same fluid motion. “Open up, or I’ll amuse myself with you.”
A couple of heartbeats the tableau remained frozen. Then the boy loosed. The arrow skimmed past one of the gatehouse guards.
Men ran about, rushing to open the gates.
The boy handed his bow off to an attendant and remounted.
The hairs at the back of Eleanor’s neck rose. She had a suspicion, and she didn’t like it one bit.
Torches were brought. Grooms and stablehands tumbled out from wherever they had been sleeping, groggy with sleep and despairing of where to keep these latest animals. The bannerbearer rode into the puddle of light, the device he bore becoming visible. Black background with a golden serpent.
Eleanor whispered, “Oh Jesù.”
“Prince Malcolm Nefastus,” Fulk said, his tone dead.
Boiling anger washed away the blankness that banner had brought. Eleanor pounded a fist on the stonework. “No! I have not come so far to end in the hands of a pimply little rat!” A second punch left the side of her hand stinging and throbbing. Fulk caught her wrist before she could do it a third time.
“Calm,” he implored. “Now if ever.”
“Calm?” she spat, fighting with all her might to free herself. “Calm? Are you deranged, expecting that?”
“Eleanor-”
“Or mayhap you think I am. Who in their right mind would be
calm!?” She would not marry him willingly. If – when, very probably when - he tried to rape her she would fight. She still had her knives and he would not expect it. She would kill him. Then his father would destroy her. If she failed then she would not be a quiet victim, and if he turned it into a forced marriage she would go to her grave decrying it. Except that would make her shame public, and she would be ruined, and she could never bear that. Better to be dead. People would laugh. They would say someone finally tamed her. They would say she deserved it, asked for it. They would say she was a slut. They already said that. Her brother would disown her. She’d kill him. At the first sign of any aggression, she would kill him. Maybe she could flee afterwards. There was nowhere to go.
Fulk caught her chin in his spare hand and forced her to look him in the eye. “I’ll guard you. Boy, prince, or God Himself, it makes no difference, save that boys and princelings are easier to beat. Now, calm. You’ll need your wits.”
“Then you will die.” Maybe if she didn’t fight Fulk would live. She wouldn’t, for his sake. No – he’d die to defend her, no matter what she told him to do. Oh Jesù! Maybe she could get to her men somehow, and then to her army outside. Her followers far outnumbered his. The prince was between her and them.
Hawise said, “Maybe he isn’t so bad. You’re not much like people say.” The damned girl was exhibiting all the composure Eleanor was not. But she was the safest person in the room.
“Anne said he was.”
The maid shrugged and smiled, both tiny little gestures. “Hugh would say the same of you.”
Someone was on the stairs, nearing her room. They were running, the footfalls echoing in the enclosed stone shaft.
Fulk let her go, whirling to stand at her shoulder.
Calm came easily, along with pounding heart and readiness for battle. It was always so when the waiting ended.
The door burst open.
As it turned out prince Malcolm Nefastus did indeed have a slight pimple problem.
The boy skidded to a halt, palms resting on his thighs as he laughed and caught his breath. “They were right,” he exulted. “They were. By God’s shrivelled up and wasted balls!” He straightened, expression flowing into a suspicious frown. “You are who I think?”
“Princess Eleanor of England, yes.” The boy was nearly as tall as her; it was easy to look him squarely instead of lowering her eyes as she should.
“Well, well, bloody well.” Malcolm returned to the door, holding the handle as he issued orders to the guards Eleanor could clearly see. “Tidy up. I want the brothers, unharmed. Find my sister, and treat her nicely. Don’t harm my dear guest’s lot, but don’t let them make a nuisance. And I don’t want to be disturbed.” He slammed the door and moved back towards Eleanor, saying, “I killed a man for you, right above the gates. I shot him, in the dark and with a hunting bow, not a war bow. Got him on my first go, too.” Most boys strutted like cockerels when swelled with pride and boasting, but this one had it to a fine art.
“You must be a fine archer.”
Malcolm grinned. “He fell off the wall.” One fist pounded into his open hand. “Splat!”
Which explained the thud. “How did you know I was here?”
“One of my huntsmen saw that ambush while out tracking a stag for me. He recognised a wretch or two as Dunning’s. If he couldn’t recognise you and my sister from your banners then I’d have to get rid of him for being bloody useless. I only employ the best. So off I set. Didn’t know for sure you’d come here, but we tracked you and found you, and here we are.” The prince’s skinny chest puffed up with pride. “I took this place with just twenty-seven men! A hunting party, and a few soldiers. Even my knights are done up for hunting and not battle.”
“That is most impressive.”
Malcolm raked his fingers through his long hair, realising belatedly that his exertions had mussed up the fiery locks. “I’m not a knight yet, but in a couple of years I will be sixteen and a man, and then I’ll be made knight. I’m going to be the best that ever was. A warrior king. My foes will tremble before me. They do already, else I’d still be outside.” His attention turned to Fulk. “I’ve heard about you. You’re supposed to be really good. My man did nothing but sing your praises from what he’d seen. I want to see myself, some day.”
Fulk bowed. “Thank you, your Highness.”
“So.” Malcolm returned his attention to Eleanor, closing the gap between them by another step. He smoothed his tunic, another casualty of his haste. “Here we are. Me, heir to my kingdom, you with a damned good claim to yours. Two greats in a world of nothings and fools. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Eleanor’s smile felt stiff. “And I you.” This was leading to a proposal, she would wager her crown on it.
“I could beat your bastard brother. No more than he deserves, either. Bloody half breeds should know their place, like he does.” The prince jerked his head at Fulk.
“Hugh is not a bastard.”
“Fuck that,” said Malcolm. “You’d make a better king than him, and you’re female, so you can’t be a king. It’s in the blood, and he’s not got the blood.”
“I would not wish to be king, or rather queen.”
Malcolm’s eyes narrowed. “No? You lie, and I don’t take kindly to people lying to me.” He exclaimed, “How could you not? God, after all I’ve heard about you! How could you not want it? Them that’s mocked you would never do so again, and them that’s hurt you would shit themselves in fear. You’d rule all, and be ruled by none. Make your own choices. You’d prove yourself once and for all to everyone. You’d never be a victim again; you could have revenge!” The boy’s green eyes blazed with the passion of his words.
“I do not want that.” Part of her did; Eleanor was not fool enough to deny that.
The princeling clearly didn’t believe her. He rested his left hand on the hilt of his long hunting knife and stood with his feet apart, a manly pose which only showed to better advantage how gangly he was, emerging from one growth spurt and needing to put on bulk and muscle to match his new height. “United, England and Scotland would be one of the greatest powers in Christendom.”
As proposals went it was very cautious, like he half expected to be scorned and abused. “It is not possible for me to marry.”
Malcolm’s face flushed as red as his hair, the ends of his mouth dragged down as he took a furious breath. “Marry?” he spat. “I don’t take another man’s leavings. If I wanted a leftover I’d go to a brothel, doubtless I’d find many less used than you, and truer, and more faithful. Probably less diseased too. If I must marry a whore I’ll take a pretty one over a thing like you! You’re bloody ugly as it is, and if rumour’s true you’re so scarred you’d make a hardened man vomit.”
Fulk’s left hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword, an echo of the prince’s own stance. The contrast between them was sharp, man and boy. On Fulk the pose looked natural, easy, and the slightest bit menacing. Where the boy was scrawny Fulk was lean, the boy skinny Fulk toned, the older man broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist and the boy simply bony.
The prince’s right hand flew to the hilt of his weapon. “You dare? You’re nothing!” He spat on the floor at Eleanor’s feet, and contemptuously told the knight, “You’re less than that – it’s royal, and you’re a bastard nothing, born of some slut peasant and some pointless nothing noble.”
Didn’t the boy take rejection well? Eleanor’s father might be dead, but it seemed the tradition of shouting, threats and unpleasantness on her rejecting a suitor had survived him, passed like a torch from parent to potential groom.
Malcolm took half a step towards Eleanor, sneering, “Oh look, your lover’s angry. Doesn’t like to hear the truth, does he? If you bed with the likes of him then you’ll take anything, even some peasant who stinks of shit. I need true born heirs. I’d have to lock you up to ensure that, even assuming I’d stoop so very, very far as to go where such creatures had been before me. Which I wouldn’t. Most whores are more discerning than you.”
“I have noticed,” Eleanor said, “a certain trend in rejected men. They always impugn my honour and accuse me of base things. Which makes no sense, for if it were true I would not have refused them.” Her voice not quite steady, and not from upset alone. With no outlet for her earlier rage she had buried it, and now it burned brightly once again, fed by new fuel. Her tongue running further away with her was the last thing this volatile situation needed.
The boy was fast; his slap landed before Fulk could do more than begin to move his right hand. Rapidly, even before she had her head back up again, Eleanor ordered Fulk, “No!” He obeyed, if he’d planned to do otherwise than stand there at her side.
“Oh look,” crowed Malcolm. “She orders and the dog obeys.” He poked Fulk in the chest once, hard. When he got no reaction the boy did it again harder still, grinning. “Stupid dog. I’m a prince. Heir to a kingdom. Touch me and you’ll be torn apart while still living. Kill me and you’ll die a traitor’s death. If I so much as say you harmed me then you’ll die. You’ve no family to speak for you, protect you.” With both hands the boy shoved Fulk, making him rock back on his feet. “You’ll get out of my way, keep out of my way, and if you don’t I’ll kill you like the dog you are.”
Abandoning Fulk the princeling turned back to Eleanor, standing with his fists on his hips, feet planted and chest puffed up in yet another attempt to look imposing. “Marry you,” he scoffed. “You’re old! And you’ll make an appalling breeder. I won’t have a wife I have to break either; I want a decently trained one from the start, and you’re known for being bloody wild. Your blood’s tainted anyhow, not so bad as your bastard brother, but still you’re half your mother’s child, and she was an unfaithful slut, as ‘prince’ Hugh proves. Blood runs true. It’s showing in you, and in that sister of yours, the one in Spain. I won’t have my children contaminated. What I want, I take, and I’ll take your bastard brother’s crown, or yours, or whoever else ends up wearing it.” He tapped his breastbone with a finger. “
I’ll take it. Not my weak father. As soon as I get my crown, look to yours.” Leering, the boy looked her up and down, chuckling. “You’re not even worth raping. I’d rather have your maid – your plain, miserable, serious looking piece of shit of a maid. She’s better looking and likely more fun. But I can do far better, and so I shall.”
Malcolm spun on his heel and stalked towards the door, hand still on his hunting knife. In the sudden quiet it became possible to hear a commotion outside, a girl’s voice and some men, muffled by the thick stonework and door. It sounded like Anne.
Flinging the door open Malcolm bellowed, “What the fuck is going on?” In a very different voice he said, “Anne? I heard you were back. Good. Back where you belong.” At his guards he snapped, “You’d better not have been bothering her. She’s my sister; an insult to her is an insult to
me.”
“They would not let me in,” Anne said in a small voice.
The guard protested, “You ordered it, your Highness. No interruptions, you said.”
“True.” Malcolm caught his sister’s hand; she shied away. Malcolm’s jaw clenched, and he tightened his grip, pulling her into the room. “Well, now we’ll have a nice reunion. And I don’t want that disturbed either. Someone go see if the brothers have been caught; I want a decent report on what’s going on.” Addressing Anne’s trio of maids he nodded at the room. “You lot get inside as well. Can’t leave you wandering about pointlessly, can I now. Not when you’re all clustered together for protection.”
Malcolm booted the door shut. The maids joined Eleanor’s little group standing in the middle of the room, Mariot lingering on the fringes of the group closest to Anne.
He said to Anne, “So you’re back, and free from that foul old man. Best news I’ve heard in ages. You should have had better, far better.”
“He was not!”
“Bedded you as fast as he could, didn’t he? Rushed the match along, from proposal to church as fast as he could.” Malcolm spat on the floor. “Perverted old git. Supposed to wait until you were fourteen, I was told, no matter that you’re already a year past beddable age by law.”
“I loved him.”
Malcolm’s back stiffened, he flung his sister’s hand down. “I loved him,” he parroted, his voice cracking to swing low as he tried to force it to the higher ranges. “Doesn’t take much to win your love, does it? Man beds you once and you’re in love. Did you like it? Did you?”
Anne shrank back, away from him and towards the others. “No. It hurt and was all messy and I hated it. But he was a good man-”
“Except it wasn’t once, was it?” shouted Malcolm. “He was always after you. I heard all about how he couldn’t keep his hands off you. And all dear father could do was fuss about how soon you’d start breeding, Grandmother too.
I’ll find you your next husband, and this one will be worthy, a proper good man.”
“William might not be dead.”
“He is, and even if he isn’t I’m not having you going back to him. That’s an end to it; don’t waste my time arguing. You lot are all going back to Perth first thing in the morning, and I’m going back to my hunting, at long bloody last.”
Anne finally reached Eleanor’s side. In a whisper she asked, “You are alright?”
She hadn’t been quiet enough. Malcolm exploded into laughter. “I killed her, can’t you tell? I won’t tell you all the other things I did first, they’d make you sick, dearest sister. Besides, you’ve heard it all before from others, so repeating would bore you. Now, I’d best be off. I’ve a church to burn, and some suckling babes to spit on spears ready to roast for my dinner. They take so long to cook. I’d best throw some innocents on a pyre too; it’s been a whole week since my offering to the Dark Lord.” He swaggered from the room.
Anne said, “I hate him.”
Standing where the boy had driven him, near the open window overlooking the courtyard, Fulk moved to look out when he heard the latest lot of shouting. Malcolm was standing in the pool of torchlight, surrounded by his men. Two others were on their knees before him, hands bound and armed men at their backs. The prince’s voice carried up; the room gradually fell silent as Anne and her women heard it.
“You attacked my father’s guests and my sister,” the boy was saying. “You broke his peace. You dabbled where you should not. You treated with our enemies. You refused to open your gates to me at my first order, and I’ve had no hospitality from you. You dishonoured our house, and our word!” That last he shouted; it rang about the walled complex.
One of the men reached out with his bound hands. The boy kicked them away, making the man cry out.
“I sentence you. I sentence you,” Malcolm repeated, louder. “Death. Nothing else begins to repay.” He held a hand out to the soldier at his right. The man drew his sword and offered it to the prince hilt first.
Malcolm took it in a two-handed grip. He stepped behind the first of the men, raising the blade above his head as the two guards seized the prisoner and forced him to hold still, bent over with his neck thrust out. The blade came down, blood spurted, and the head rolled free; it was all very skilfully done, he’d give the boy that, and credit for doing his own dirty work. The motive likely wasn’t pure, execution giving chance to hurt and kill without condemnation.
The second man took two strokes.
Handing the dripping weapon back to its owner, Malcolm declared, “Put the heads on spikes above the gate. Drive off all their men at arms; I want them scattered. I’ll not have a small army of brigands roaming. This land’s reverted to the crown. The servants are to stay and maintain it, until such time as my father makes some decision as to what’s happening with it. And if they don’t do a good job I’ll kill them too.”
Within minutes the prince’s group had all mounted and ridden away, back out into the night.
The tail end of the night saw Eleanor again in her room with just Fulk and Hawise for company. The tower house was filled with her own people now, its walls patrolled heavily. Anne and her maids had returned to their room, to get what sleep they could before dawn.
After all that had happened Eleanor wanted only to curl up in Fulk’s arms and let the poison of the last day and night slowly bleed away, a comfort denied her. She still had one task left to do.
Hawise dropped to the floor, sitting leaning against the wall. “Never in my life have I been so terrified. Not even when they tried to abduct you at Waltham.”
“You did not look it,” Eleanor told her.
“Everyone always says that.”
Fulk teased, “It probably comes from being too sensible.”
There was some wine left over in the pitcher from dinner. Eleanor poured them all a cup, handing Hawise hers first. It was the work of a turned back, a trained gesture, and a fraction of a second to dose Fulk’s wine with a substance she’d retrieved form her baggage while ostensibly checking to see if any of her jewellery had been stolen.
Handing the cup to Fulk with a smile, Eleanor raised her own and said, “To your gallant deeds today.” Drinking a good few mouthfuls she watched as he did the same.
Fulk stared into the contents of his cup. “It’s a bit sweet.”
“Yes. But we should not expect good wine in a place such as this.”
He drank the wine, all but the dregs.
Hawise lay down to sleep. Fulk drew the curtains on the bed, and they sat together, his arm about her shoulders and hers around his waist, their free hands linked on their laps. They said nothing; he was waiting for her to speak first, and she knew now was not the time. Healing was lacking, comfort was not, and poignancy from knowing what she had done to him.
His head began to droop against hers, his muscles relax until he was leaning on her. “I’m tired.”
She brushed his temple with her lips. “I am not surprised. A day’s travel, a battle, and then all this fuss tonight – it is enough to make anyone weary.”
“But not you.”
There was a pause before her reply. “But not me. I am not accustomed to seeing others die for me. I expect I shall grow used to it, as I did with killing.” The prospect gave her no cheer; how many would she have to lose before her heart hardened, and to what degree?
“Beloved, your caring is what you owe those men. They give their lives; you see them buried decently if possible, remember them and have masses said for them, and ensure their sacrifice is worthwhile. It’s one of the oldest bargains. Break it and you’re not worth serving.”
Gradually Fulk drowsed, and sank into a deeper sleep. She laid him out, folding his hands on his chest and turning his head to one side in case he choked. Eleanor stroked his cheek with the tip of a finger. “Sleep well, my luflych little knight. Some things you are not made to be part of.”
She rose, to begin her work.
This is what is known as a frog working a 46 hour week with just 1 day off, that being today, the last day of the week in question. The part is a bit rough (I sat down and wrote all this in one morning and part of an afternoon), and I’d like to refine it, polish it, hone it, and get the tension which should be there in place. But it simply isn’t possible. I’m tired, and I’m not entirely certain what hours I’m working next week, so if I delay it could be another week. Gah! to other branches stealing parts of our workforce. Oh well, it does mean I’ve made up for the pay I missed while sick.
:squints up at this parts, and the events therein: This bit bothers me because it feels so damned convenient. Shock, horror! Nell is captured! Oh no, she is freed! By the evil brother! Who doesn’t harm her! And now she is back in control again! :rolls eyes: Blergh. Feels like one of those generally inoffensive, run of the mill novels where there is a happy ending and characters are either good or bad, except maybe for the odd good-hearted rogue type.
Dead William: I can read a bit of French, but not of the sort a history requires. Thanks for the summery
Oh, and don’t worry about our beloved gooseberry kicking you. She knows how the world works, and that she will hardly feature in the histories of her time. Not that that means she likes it – she’s always complaining about how her life is going to be warped by a bunch of monks who know nothing, so later generations will know her only as an evil woman who probably coveted her brother’s throne and made trouble by dallying with Trempwick and rebelling against God’s order of things.
Avernite: I loved that one too. Hey – weren’t you part of the Miles fanclub? There were two members, according to my last listing. Maybe you should both hold some kind of feast in his memory. I’m sure he’d like that … drinking, eating, more drinking … yep, sounds like his type of thing.
Coz1: Hugh will be second guessing himself when he is dead. I can see it now: “Am I lying in the correct pose? No, my hands should be clasped in prayer over my heart. But the tomb of so-and-so had the arms down by the sides, so I should probably do that. But then there’s what’s-his-face and king Thingy-ma-jig, who both have their right hands resting on their sword hilts ready to draw. I have to get it right; wouldn’t do for people to say I’m not dead like a proper king.”
I would say Jocelyn didn’t have all that good of a time, if he kept thinking about his wife. :gets sworn at and cursed by Jocelyn, who shouts a whole lot of stuff about having the best time of his life ever, and Richildis has nothing to do with anything!:
Welcome, phargle. :dispenses the customary eyedrops: I have never thought of the story in CK terms before, so it’s funny to see how it turns out. There are a lot of pretty wench events! Far more than I thought, and none of them resisted. Probably a good thing there is no special “A gooseberry catches your eye” event, or that would be firing every time Fulk is around
Sex scenes and all that sort of thing I’m not too happy with. I’ve no interest in them, generally I skim them in books I am reading, and haven’t written many of them. They, and battle scenes, are the two types of scenes which I still need to learn. Alas, the story calls for what it wants, and all I can do is try to meet those needs.
Got to say I really miss the Trempy/Nell scenes, of any sort except those rare ones where he tried to seduce her. I miss the Trempy/Fulk interaction too, from the days before Fulk had declared his love for Nell. I would love to see them all together again, back as they were.
