Killing. Wounding. Maiming. Blood. Noise. The press of bodies. The grunts of men struggling for their very lives. The crush of horses. The smell of offal and sweat and blood and excrement.
Trempwick smashed a helmet with his mace; blood sprayed from the eyeslots and vents, began to seep from under the rim. The man fell from his horse, a ransom lost to death. Trempwick was already sending his destrier on at the next.
The right had stalled, as asked. Then it had begun to struggle. Pressed back. The enemy gaining heart at what they saw as his men tiring. With new heart they surged back to the attack. And began to win.
Battle. A gamble. The ultimate gamble. Good generals avoided it whenever possible. There was no dishonour in avoiding battle, none. Only a few young hotheads with eyes full of gain from ransom, loot, ‘glory’ thought otherwise. They were few enough. Sieges and pillaging and the control of castles and land – this was the good general’s war. But sometimes there was no other choice. And sometimes battle was good. This time it was – he had shaped it to be so.
But so unpredictable! This was the danger.
Unpredicted: his right advancing. Ordered: the stall. Mostly expected: the pressing back. And so he countered, to take advantage.
His cavalry reserve had the enemy left flank from the side, his right flank had them from the front. His presence gave heart. The cavalry gave heart.
And the enemy were dying.
Fulk felt like singing; he confined himself to whistling softly instead, so others wouldn’t think him cracked in the head. They’d think him that if they knew why, too. It was a beautiful day, he was pleased to be on a hunt for the first time since France, and in a very good mood after his fight with Eleanor. It had cleared the air a deal and - better yet - been damnably enjoyable. It was impossible to put into words the sense of comfort that gave him, that they could argue seriously and come to blows and
still end well. So many couldn’t, and fell apart because of it.
Blows; try as he might, Fulk couldn’t restrain a bright grin. Poor Eleanor, if she knew he found her attempts to harm him amusing she’d really try to do him an injury. It was like wrestling with a puppy, if a puppy had a very nice body and could posses that ‘I’m going to kill you!’ look he adored. Whatever she might insist, she didn’t really want to hurt him, else he’d find himself brained with a chamberpot or stabbed; Eleanor knew very well she didn’t have the strength to better any trained man in a fair … mostly fair fight. He might be trying to cure her of the bad habits her family had taught her, but this tendency he’d leave well alone.
Godit asked, “And what on earth’s the matter with you?”
Fulk landed back on earth with a thump, to find his companions on the spread of cloth that served as a picnic blanket were all staring at him. That meant five pairs of eyes: Eleanor, Anne, Hawise, Adele, Godit. “It’s spring,” he replied affably. “I’m happy.”
“Spring,” remarked Eleanor. “It goes to the heads of all male creatures, and makes them quite demented.”
Godit covered her mouth with a hand, giggling and trying to swallow her food at the same time. “Oh, I don’t know if head is quite the right word.”
A chorus of very feminine amusement followed.
Then the natural order re-established itself and rivalry between princess and queen’s maid resumed. Godit said, “Still, if he were not kept so closely stabled …”
“He is not closely stabled at all. He is free to roam at will, so long as it does my name no harm.” Eleanor turned to him, so open and innocent butter would have frozen in her mouth, not just forborne to melt. “Is that not right?”
The memory of her hand threatening to crush his manhood was fresh, if not totally unpleasant. “Yes. Perfectly,” Fulk lied.
Godit bit into a piece of dried fruit. “He probably already loves someone. Someone who can’t see his worth and doesn’t care. He should forget her and find someone better.”
“Really?” Eleanor’s eyebrows rose. She leaned across Hawise and patted Fulk’s hand. “Poor Fulk. You should tell me who, and I shall do what I can to see she takes a bit of notice.”
“Oh, I think I’ll wait a bit. Bide my time. Make myself more obvious. Win honours in the field. Wear brighter clothes. Get a catapult and demolish her house. The usual.”
Hawise said gravely, “You’re very patient.”
Fulk shrugged. “Well, I suppose I could pick up my damsel, carry her off, argue with her and beat her into submission, then ravish her.” He very carefully did not look in Eleanor’s direction at all. Pity there hadn’t been a bit more time this morning. He reached for an eel chewette, tossed it from the claiming right hand to his left and back again, to say with a flourish, “But have you any idea how embarrassing it is when you get started on that ravishing, only for her to say thanks but no thanks, as she prefers the squinty-eyed clerk who does the household accounts?”
This won him a nice round of laughter.
Godit indicated Hawise, herself and Adele with a gesture. “Well, here’s three you can kidnap at any time.”
“Not me,” protested Hawise at once. “He’s too silly. I couldn’t put up with it.”
“Nor me,” said Adele. “I’m betrothed and I like him, even if he does obediently trot off on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land with his father instead of staying here and marrying me. He had best bring me back some very good gifts.”
The bite Eleanor had raised to her lips lowered again. “Pilgrimage?”
And so the conversation turned safely away from him. Fulk ate his fill, and lay down on his back, one arm flung across his forehead to shade his eyes from the sun, listening with one ear to the chatter and watching through slitted eyes a certain lady in blue. She wasn’t wearing her crown today, which he liked.
His heart felt full to bursting. Such a simple thing, her not being afraid earlier, and yet it made the whole day seem much brighter. Always she’d cowered before, no matter how careful he’d been. Typical Eleanor that she’d finally overcome ingrained habit when he’d been more angry then before, all previous grudges and unhealed wounds boiling together with a hangover, a bad night and a very bad scare. And to the great ease of his mind, she was taking his playful smack very well.
The rest of the hunt was scattered about the grass on similar blankets, grouped by friendship rather than rank. The servants, having done their part in setting up the individual dining parties, had withdrawn to eat their own meal. The beast handlers had gone to a separate edge, like to like, with dog handlers in one place, falconers in another, grooms again slightly separate.
When Eleanor finished eating she moved to the perch where her borrowed merlin rested, picking up the falconer’s gauntlet and drawing it on. Taking the jesses in her gloved fingers she encouraged the bird to transfer onto her fist and came to sit by Fulk’s head. “This,” she said companionably, at a normal pitch so others could overhear, “is Armida.” Armida sat there as if she didn’t care two dead mice for introductions to minor barons, no matter how beloved.
Fulk moved his arm back a bit and opened his eyes properly. “Very nice. Suitably snooty for a royal bird.” Nice? The bird was as lovely as its perch!
“I have an impression you know something about hawks.”
“A bit.” Fulk sat up, combing his hair back into order with his fingers. “I had a hawk when I was a boy, like any legitimate son would have, and while I was with Aidney I’d the loan of a bird if he hawked or a set of spears if he hunted.”
“Good.” Eleanor dropped the bait pouch into his lap. “Because she should probably be fed at some point.” With a delicately exaggerated shiver she said, “I have visions of her falling off my fist in a faint.”
Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose, smiling. “Simple enough; take her hood off, then offer a bit of meat. Easy.”
“I value my fingers.”
“Hold the food at the end, then let go as she takes the last bite.” He waited, and so did she. “Well, go on then,” he encouraged.
Pulling a face, Eleanor gingerly unlaced the hood and pulled it off. Armida blinked a few times and tossed her head, fluffed her feathers, and settled back down.
Chin minutely tucked in, eyes intent and on the bird, lips slightly apart Eleanor looked as if she expected it to explode into a shower of feathers.
Fulk unfastened the pouch and offered it to her. She took one of the little bits of dried meat with her bare hand, holding the very tip of the strip between the lowermost parts of her thumb and forefinger. Slowly she brought the bit around so it dangled above the merlin’s head and began to lower it.
Fulk found himself laughing; when the bird took its first bite the strip pulled free of Eleanor’s pathetic hold and hit it on the head, both falcon and princess squawking in surprise. Charitably he explained the obvious, “You have to hold it better.”
Her eyes flashed, bringing back pleasant memories of this morning. Picking the meat back up Eleanor looked set to cram it down the bird’s beak and damn the hazards. “Thank you, I think I may perhaps have noticed that.”
This time it all went smoothly, and by the third bit of meat she was as relaxed about it as the falcon. Running a finger over Armida’s feathers with a tenderness which made Fulk feel quite jealous, she said, “When I was, oh, ten, I begged Trempwick every day for more than a week for a hawk, I wanted one so badly. In the end he sat me down, told me that the creature would eat his messenger birds, and … encouraged me never to so much as consider asking again.” He heard the slight emphasis on ‘encouraged’ and tilted his head in askance. She explained, “I had been pestering him very badly, I suppose, looking back, and I definitely should have known better than to press after the first day’s first refusal.”
Fulk elected not to comment on her excusing Trempwick refusing her something she should have had by simple fact of birth. He choose to share his happy remembrances of his own bird, and tried not to feel that in this, as in so many other areas, his childhood had been far richer than hers. “I called mine Hector; he was only a goshawk, fitting to my place as a squire. Had him for years. My father taught me to fly him, instead of leaving it to the falconer. When I’d the knack of it we went out to hawk together at least once a week.”
A piercing shriek rang about the area, followed by another.
Fulk was on his feet, hand on his sword and searching for threats. “Stay down,” he commanded when Eleanor started to rise. She obeyed decently enough and transferred her hawk back to its perch unhooded, fastening its jesses to the woodwork so it could not escape. Now he felt justified in wearing his sword instead of a borrowed hunting knife.
Other men across the sprawling picnic had done as Fulk had, not as many as he’d expect or think warranted. Something was off here.
The source of the screams came into view, a young woman in bright green supported on either side by squires in the king’s livery. “The Black Knight has kidnapped my sister!” she wailed.
Fulk made a noise of complete disgust and sat back down. “A game.”
Anne said, “He likes to imitate the deeds of King Arthur and his court. Like this hunt for the White Stag. The Christmas before last I got to be kidnapped by a giant, which was fun.”
Fumbling her falcon’s hood back on, Eleanor commented, “Someone should tell him King Arthur was English.”
The call to the rescue had gone out, and the hunt was scrambling to its feet, men and ladies alike. Grooms rushed horses over to their owners, servants came in to tidy up and load the remains of the picnic onto the sumpter horses, and the maiden in green sobbed and shook in a convincing manner. There was no question of any lingering back; the chaos resolved into a hunt formed up as it had been before it stopped to eat.
The Black Knight’s camp was a convenient distance west, ten minutes ride at a walk. It had a nice black tent, a jolly campfire with a pot hanging over it, and a black warhorse hobbled and cropping at the scanty grass. A plain black shield hung from the branch of a tree, ready for challengers to strike it.
The hunt arranged itself in a crescent so everyone could see, the king and his foul son - and their pet screaming girl - at the centre and slightly forward.
Reining his horse about, the King of Scots addressed his court. “Who will challenge the Black Knight to rescue the fair and gentle lady Muriel?”
Fulk sighed, echoing Eleanor.
A clamour of names and volunteering shouts replied, so many and so muddled none could be understood.
Right on cue the Black Knight emerged from his tent, ‘dragging’ a fair young thing in white along behind him. He let her go a few paces out from the tent’s mouth, helmet bobbing as he snarled at her to stay put.
In an undertone Eleanor said, “If I were her I would run. Not tied or hampered in any way, and he would never catch up in full armour.”
Anne and Hawise giggled. Adele was scandalised. “But you are supposed to be rescued!”
The Black Knight was speaking again, voice raised and rumbling in an earnest effort to sound villainous. “One shall challenge me. One! I care not to waste all day on children. Defeat me and you may have her back, and my horse and arms as ransom. If I win then lady Muriel becomes my wife, and I shall take her away to my fortress.”
“Huh,” muttered Eleanor. “Sounds like a cheap wedding to me. Her family should be pleased; a landholder, rich, and not costing them a penny.”
“Then,” the King of Scots said loudly, “we must send the best of our company.”
Fulk rolled his eyes and sank down unobtrusively in his saddle. He had a bad feeling about this.
Prince Malcolm spurred his horse forward to cut before his father’s. “I will go.”
“No!”
“I can win! I know I will-”
“You are not a knight.”
The prince’s face screwed up; his grip on the reins vicious enough that his horse had to rear its head back to reduce the pressure on its mouth. “Then you go, old man, if you think you can do better. Go on – see if you can remember how to draw your bloody sword. Then see if you can’t manage not to bungle it.”
The only movement about the older Malcolm was his tunic, rippling in the light breeze. “The king does not fight.”
“Not
this one, no.”
“Clear the way, Malcolm. Or we shall order you from our presence, to languish far from us until you recall your manners and come to plead for forgiveness.”
The boy leaned in close to his father. “I have my own household, my own lands, my own court, and believe me I wouldn’t be bloody languishing,” he growled. “But I’m not about to leave you to piss up my inheritance.” With that he wrenched his horse out of the way.
Fulk heard Anne comment softly to Eleanor, “He is never sent away. He always pushes just a tiny bit too little.”
One of the lords near the king spoke up, “Perhaps we should let our guest have the honour?”
As heads turned towards Fulk he tried to wish himself invisible.
The King was delighted. “Yes. A knight of whom we have heard very much, who has proven himself an honourable man and a great rescuer of beleaguered ladies.” A polite titter ran about the gathering. “Well? How does this suit?”
Fulk bowed in his saddle, knowing that he had been selected when this stupid game was set up. But why – that worried him. “Sire, you do me far to much honour. I’m not worthy. There are many here better than I.” With sudden inspiration he tried to turn the focus away from himself. “Let your son prove his valour.”
Briefly – oh so very briefly – Malcolm looked surprised. Then his face twisted into a sneer and he laughed his crudely raucous laugh … which might have had an edge of bitterness. “What damsel wants to be rescued by me?”
Fulk found himself being cheered for by most of the court, demanding he act as champion. They were following the King’s clearly expressed will. There was no way out. Slowly he dismounted, handing Tace’s reins to Hawise, trying all the while to see what the trap was. That depended on the King’s aim. He was completely unarmoured; his opponent was covered from head to toe in mail and wearing a full helm, not a single bit of skin showing. But if he were killed or wounded in this game it would discredit his hosts considerably. Then
what? The damsel? They might try to marry him off to tie him to this court. He dearly hoped that was it; it’d be simpler and safer to slip from that snare.
A pair of swords and shields were brought out by the Black Knight’s page, real shields and wooden swords painted to look like metal. As the challenger Fulk was offered first choice; he examined the selection very closely, looking for signs they were otherwise than they should have been. Nothing; as far as he could tell they were all sound. He picked at random and moved to the clear patch of grass set aside for the duel.
Making practice cuts to warm up it occurred to Fulk that this might be nothing more than a chance for the Scots to see how he fought in earnest, outside of the training ground. What they learned they might use against him. Unlikely. All the same he resolved to mislead if he could.
The girl he was supposed to be rescuing came to give him her favour, a veil she wrapped several times about his bicep and tied on his shield arm.
The Black Knight took up a ready stance. “First contact wins. To battle!” he roared, snapping his shield up and speeding towards Fulk.
Shield held loosely out on front, Fulk paced quickly to meet him, sidestepping at the last to get into the large blind area made by the bucket-like helm. His backhand slice was already gathering as he began the dodge; it slapped the Black Knight on the back.
The court were so delayed in recognising that the brief fight
was over that they only began cheering as the Black Knight cast down his sword and cursed vehemently.
Fulk prised the grateful prisoner off himself, returned her veil, and went to bow to the man who’d organised this. “Sire.”
“Excellent!” The king clapped his gloved hands in the same shower of sparkling reflections he managed the previous day in his regalia; the gloves were sewn with gold thread and set here and there with stones in imitation of rings. “Truly excellent. We have never seen the like. A man born of a most excellent father indeed.”
It had been a lousy match – the Black Knight had fought like a fool and been constrained by the game to arm to a disadvantage in foot combat. Anyone with a fraction of understanding could see it. “You are too kind, Sire.”
“We do grant you your prize with good heart, and do add to it this.” He raised a finger, and a page came forward with a bulging purse.
Fulk accepted the money and bowed again. “Thank you for your generosity, Sire.” A bribe? It was a heavy purse and added to the rest it made him considerably richer.
Dismissed Fulk thought it best to show a token interest in his other prizes. He grabbed a squire and made arrangements for the destrier and armour to be collected up and returned to the palace, the horse to be stabled with his and the armour to be given to Luke for inspection.
He rejoined Eleanor’s group, mounted up, and shortly after the hunt moved out, once more searching for the White Stag they would not find.
Eleanor dropped back to ride at his side instead of Anne’s. “Whatever we are hunting, it is not a stag, white or otherwise. I think he just won something.”
“Yes. But what?” Fulk asked, his words as soft as hers had been.
His work on the right flank had not taken long. As soon as it was stabilised he had pulled back. The reserve was a
reserve. And he was the general. His infantry would do their job now; killing while holding a weakened foe.
His centre worried more. The line was thinning, growing weary. It had been bearing the brunt for too long. Half the infantry reserve had been sent in, some half hour(?) ago. They had shored it up, but they were too few to ensure its survival.
If the centre went, all went. The two flanks would be isolated and shredded.
Temptation: Take his cavalry and smash an enemy flank, so extra men could be committed to the centre. Too dangerous. If the reserve should be needed in the centre … If the left flank should press too far forward … If his men should break and pursue the routers …
He did not have the men. The smaller force
must hold together. The line must hold. The formation must hold.
He could dismount and fight on foot with his bodyguard in the centre. Boost morale, add fresh bodies with the best training and equipment …
So he did. His banner flying over his head, his sword red in his hand, Mauger at his left shielding the lord he’d trained.
“Oh, God’s bones!” Jocelyn crawled back into his bunk on the ship, the stench of the pot and the vomit sloshing about in it still filling his nostrils. Filling the whole damned poky cabin, actually – bloody thing slid about scattering its foul perfume like an incense pot waved in a procession. The deck heaved, and so did his stomach. “Squall?” he raved, voice harsh from a raw throat and green belly. “Bloody storm, more like. Holy Jesù!”
From the corner where he huddled, Alain raised his pale face to look at his lord. “At least. At least. God save us all!”
Serious travel, Jocelyn decided and not for the first time in his twenty-eight years, was terrible. You rode hard for miles, day after day, each night pitching up in whatever lodgings you could find, mud splattered and weary. You paid too much for bad food. If you couldn’t find a noble household or abbey to claim hospitality at you made do with a good inn, and if you couldn’t find something decent you ended in a damned flea infested rat-house. Then you finally reached the coast, paid too much to board a tiny little flimsy wooden
thing, and got stuck in a big storm, which the God damned crew cheerfully told you was just a little squall and nothing to worry about. Burn them in hell, bastards! He’d been across the Narrow sea a few times before, and it’d never been like this. Damn it, he’d hardly even gotten queasy back then.
“Oh, Jesù!” groaned Alain, diving for the pot.
The sound of him throwing up made Jocelyn feel like another go himself. He clenched his teeth on the urge and repeated inside this head a little mantra dear Tildis had imparted before he left, with the assurance it would help with seasickness. “I’m not going to be sick. I’m not going to be sick. I’m not going to be sick.”
Next thing he knew was he was shoving his squire out of the way in his haste to get to the pot. Yes, well, not even an hour later the bitch had gone and announced so his everyone could hear that he was a crap lover; of course her damned advice was poison, damn her! By now she would be all warm and cosy back in Saint Maur with the children. Lucky cow.
“Do you think we’ll sink?” asked Alain, when they had both wiped their mouths and settled back into their misery.
“No,” replied Jocelyn shortly. To make sure of it he rattled through a few good prayers and promised to pay for a pilgrim to go the Holy Land in his name if he survived. Not that he thought you could bribe the Almighty, of course. No, perish the thought! Just to be on the safe side he said a few Hail Marys in penance for even accidentally thinking that word. And a few more for the whore last night. Then a few for the woman the night before. And some for all the others on the trip. The noisy one he said more than a few for, just to be really very safe about things; four times in one night had nearly killed him then and it’d be a shame if it killed him now.
The ship rolled, kept on rolling, kept on dipping Jocelyn backwards, backwards, still backwards. He whimpered and drew a cross over his breast; they were going to capsize!
Or not; the ship righted itself a good deal faster than it had leaned over.
Taking the hint Jocelyn dropped to his knees and clasped his hands before him, closing his eyes. In a rapid mutter he managed a rather confused and repetitive mishmash, “Oh Lord, forgive me, a sinner. Mary, Gentle Lady, full of grace, forgive me and help me. Blessed Jesù, look on me kindly. Forgive my weakness. Forgive my mistakes. Forgive me for my language, and help me to mend. Forgive me for my blasphemy, and help me to mend. Forgive me for straying, and help me to mend. Forgive me for my unkind thoughts, and help me to mend. Forgive me that I kill, and help me to mend. Forgive me for not being a better husband, and help me to mend. Forgive me for my drunkenness, especially last Tuesday, and help me to mend. Forgive me my pride, and help me to mend. I shall confess and do penance as soon I hit land. I repent all, with all my heart. I’ll do pilgrimage to the shrine of Saint Edward the Confessor while in England. I commend my soul to you, oh Lord.” Crossing himself he levered himself back into his bunk. On the floor Alain was praying likewise, lips moving and words lost to Jocelyn’s ears.
It was all Richildis’ fault anyway, damn her! If she hadn’t said what she did he wouldn’t have needed to go to such lengths to prove her wrong, thereby imperilling his soul to stop those knowing little sidelong looks he suspected his men kept giving him when they thought he wasn’t watching. And it was her fault he’d nearly crippled himself with that damned noisy bitch and all. Four bloody times, and all that din had given him a headache, as well as a worn out cock and a painful lack of sleep which made the next day on the road hell,
and his men had all been tired and glaring at him for being the cause of the disturbance. Huh, so had the other damned inn patrons, for that matter. Well, if they hadn’t probably kept looking at him like
that in the first place then he wouldn’t have needed to, so it was their own fault. Not that he was trying to prove anything anyway, damn it! The stupid woman’s lies didn’t deserve even that little recognition!
Actually … Jocelyn’s eyes went heavenwards. They came back to earth, slowly. The ship pitched again, as it had been doing all too damned much since they left port.
He was back on his knees so fast they bruised, crossing himself and muttering away again.
Problem with God was that He knew everything, including - especially – the bits you didn’t want Him to. Wasn’t even safe to complain about your own damned wife, bless her soul!
One of the men he’d left to watch carried the message to him. Trempwick shouted the news aloud, battlefield bellow hushed by bone-deep weariness. Heard it carried on in breathless voices.
His bodyguard closed about him, Trempwick continued to fight. Fight an enemy with no heart, also hearing the news.
His reinforcements were here.
The enemy army was ground to weeping red pieces, trapped between his two forces.
The hunt was out all day, returning a little before dusk to a light supper, a meal so small couldn’t be called a meal at all, and so it didn’t break the fast.
Seated again in the queen’s place Eleanor picked at her food and wracked her brains. What had the hairy fusspot next to her gained with his game? What could he possibly have won from it?
Something, that much she felt certain of.
Abruptly, Anne’s father spoke. “We have given much thought, and we find this fair and reasonable. We shall be most pleased to be your brother’s close friend and ally, as we were to your father before him.”
Hope that Anne had been wrong shot through Eleanor, made greater by the pause. The pause was so slight she could not have gotten a word into it if she had tried, which she did not, not trusting and expecting even in hope that she was not about to hear reasonable terms.
“The bond of blood shall be renewed; you shall marry Malcolm. The Archbishop of Glasgow himself shall annul the impediment and bless the union. You will bring with you as dower Alnwick and Carlisle, and all the lands between them, and all the lands south for sixty miles, and fifty thousand marks. Our army shall keep all it captures, be it of no value or great. However, we do allow that you may buy back certain items if they be of great import. In friendship we do ask that you supply another ten thousand marks to pay our troops, for it is well known England is by far the richer of our two realms and, however willing our spirit, our army does march as any other and have the same needs.” A hand – rings restored – rose to stroke that beard.
Eleanor waited to be sure he was done. Then she answered, gravely and with due thought and as much diplomacy as she could muster. She laughed. “A good joke; it rounds out the day’s entertainments well indeed.” So he wanted a tame extraordinary claim to the English throne he and future generations could produce at will, half the north, obscene amounts of money which amounted to several years of revenues for the crown, a bride for his disgusting son, and a chance to go to war to extend his ill-gotten lands still further while being paid so much that he would have money left over when the war was done. “I would suggest that you forgot to ask for the one true cross, restored to one piece from its fragments. However, I do find myself distressed you would make a joke of such a serious matter while showing reluctance to speak of it properly.” Time to try and put an end to his avoidance by being honest. “I shall not remain here forever; if I judge my mission here to be a failure I will go and put my resources to something which may be of good.”
The hand stroking the beard began making longer strokes, from chin to ends of the hairs. The edges of his mouth rose fractionally, Eleanor thought, though the flowing moustache made it hard to be sure. “We shall speak in due time.”
Alone in his empty tent, Trempwick sat on his folding chair and sipped a goblet of ice wine. His squire had cleaned the few gashes, put balm on his many bruises. Then left. His meal was for one. His drink was for one.
Outside the camp was noisy. Celebrating. Men at arms and poor knights gathered around fires, laughing, drinking, eating, reliving their victory blow by blow. The better sort splintered off into friendship groups doing the same, in better style. The inevitable whores would be in fine profit tonight. The same could not be said of the women captured from the other army.
In a while Trempwick threw off his outer layers and climbed into his empty bed. He slept with cold sheets and his hurts for company.
Phew! 17 pages!! 17 pages before spacing! 23 after! That is a frog-sized episode and a half! What a gamut it does run. Hmmm :squints at it all dubiously: It didn’t come out as planned. It was supposed to run about the thread of Trempy’s battle, with the others flashing in as brief but important scenes to contrast. Except Nell and Fulk on are fine form, relaxed, teasing and happy as they haven’t been in a long time (er, barring that wee tiff at the start), and … at least now it feels like that is needed. It feels right that there is some of their ‘fun’ stuff here; it balances things out, here and on an overall scale. I think. :scratches head:
Not perfect though. The humour is the thing which feels perfect here, and the Fulk/Nell bits. Trempy’s bits are mostly just right. The rest … varies.
The frog has been ill. Again. :sigh: Violent food poisoning. I was stupid enough to buy a sandwich instead of making one. Well, four days later and I’m mostly recovered. Could have posted this earlier, but the forum was broken.
If anyone cares to know what Fulk looks like to me, find a
good version of Titian’s ‘portrait of a young man’. I had never seen the picture before in my life, yet the similarity is uncanny. All he needs is the crooked nose, hair which is more chestnut brown, and the correct clothing. Here’s a rubbishly tiny
version (scroll down a bit; he’s the portrait, not the big scene ;p Alas, there is no good-sized image on the web; this is the best I could find) It just doesn’t look right unless it’s very large; the one I saw was A4 sized, in a new book we are stocking. Imagine my shock as I flicked through to see what was in the book, only to come face to face with Fulk. There’s a whole load of detail in the portrait, you see, and it is what gives the bone structure, the tiny laugh and frown lines on his face, the mellowness of those brown eyes, and the fineness of the overall features. On the small image versions he doesn’t look quite right. I brought the book, in the end, because I couldn’t find another good copy.
Avernite: I should hope so!! Why I ought to … :gives up: I just don’t have the energy left to continue that feeble joke. Me likes unpredictable
Coz1: Wait and see, wait and see.
