Oh my, you are a busy writer, are you not? 103 pages of text on 5 pages in this thread!?
You must be quite insane!
But damn it's good
You must be quite insane!
But damn it's good
The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
- Thread starter frogbeastegg
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The next morning dawned grey and miserable with a wicked chill in the air. The sky promised that the freezing rain currently falling would last all day, probably growing worse. William stood in the doorway of the manor, pulling his fur lined cloak tightly about himself and looking glumly at the weather. He turned back to Trempwick and said, “You would think a king would be warm indoors on a day like this, and the peasants would be the only ones forced out. Instead we find the opposite; the king is abroad while the peasants huddle by their fires.”
“You could stay a while longer; freezing to death will do none any good, William.”
The king shook his head immediately, “No, I have business to attend to.” He began to walk but halted almost instantaneously. He stood there for a moment, then spoke without moving in the slightest, “I am considering letting Northumberland off; I shall strip him of everything and throw him in the tower to die of old age.”
In several brisk strides Trempwick was at his king’s side, demanding, “Why?”
“Because I have decided I cannot kill my son,” he replied quietly.
Trempwick made an impatient gesture, “He is gone, he will not be back. You are quite safe-”
William interrupted him, his tone still quiet but filled with steel, “There is always a small chance he will come home.” He sounded as if he hoped John would.
“There is a far greater chance you will be seen as soft! Northumberland must die. John is perfectly safe; you will never set eyes on him again. A rebellion now, while you have so many other fronts to fight on, would tear England apart!” When he could see he was getting through Trempwick reiterated slowly and insistently, “John is never coming home. Never.”
William didn’t move, didn’t give any sign he had even heard. Unexpectedly his head bowed, “You are right; he is lost to me. Now, I must go. I have a trial to organise, and a wedding to arrange.” He strode through the door, bracing himself and squinting as the wind blew freezing rain into his face.
Trempwick hurried after him, head down against the weather, “Wedding? Sire, you did not say-”
The king laughed and paused in the middle of the puddle strewn courtyard, “So, I have surprised you at last, Raoul. Yes, a wedding. I got the Scots king’s reply but yesterday after some weeks of talks. If you did not hear then it appears our measures to ensure secrecy worked admirably; France will not know until it is too late to interfere. I need a solid alliance with Scotland to keep my back safe while I turn my attention to France. This is the only way.”
The rain was beginning to soak through the layers of Trempwick’s clothing, sticking them to his skin and making the cruel wind even harsher. He paid it no heed, his mind occupied with this new revelation. “But who … ?”
Edward, Trempwick’s steward, led the king’s horse out, fully saddled and ready to ride. The king let his spymaster hang in suspense for a while, then told him, “Me.” William began to mount his horse; the animal danced restlessly, unhappy to have left its warm stable. He kept talking, “The king has a daughter, just barely thirteen now, she was inconveniently betrothed to some local duke. That arrangement was easily broken; who would favour a duke above a king? I like it not, but I need a solid alliance and so I need the girl.”
Trempwick put on hand on the horse’s neck, “William, sire, think of the effects this might have-” he said urgently.
“It will allow me to focus my resources and attention on France, and alliance by marriage is far harder to break. If the Scots king plays me false he has squandered his daughter to no advantage, losing her to the care of a man who will have a sudden passion for blotting his petty kingdom from the face of God’s green earth.”
“Your succession, think of what this will do to it,” implored Trempwick, “If you should have another child-”
“You worry about your spymastering; leave me to worry about my succession,” said William curtly as he touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks.
Trempwick stepped back out of the horse’s path. He stood for a while, watching the retreating horseman until he was blocked from sight by some trees. “Thirteen,” he said to himself, deep in thought, “Just barely thirteen …just barely …” He began to walk back to the shelter of the manor building, slowly and without heed for the puddles he was sloshing through.
The rest of the day was dull and uneventful. Trempwick shut himself away in his bedchamber, only emerging twice, both times to visit Eleanor.
Eleanor was asleep during his visits, as she was for much of the day. She did not have much else to do; she was too stiff to even think about getting up, and her single attempt led to the room swimming about her until she thought she would be sick.
Fulk set a new record, reading his King Arthur from start to finish three times in a row, boring himself in the process. He also ‘borrowed’ a chair from the solar without asking; sitting on a chest for extended periods was uncomfortable.
The day after that Eleanor was determined to get up, and after a bit of careful planning she managed to dispatch Fulk to get a tray of food in the middle of the morning. That took a lot of doing because Fulk knew she couldn’t so much as stick a foot out of bed while he was in the room because she was naked, so he had been an almost permanent presence.
With him safely removed she dragged herself out of bed and barred the door so she could get dressed. It took an inordinate amount of time to force her stiff, aching body to cooperate but eventually she managed to get all of her clothes on, though not without cracking open scabs and straining protesting muscles. Most of her dressing was accompanied by a nice commentary by Fulk from outside her door on how he was going to make her regret this later.
She opened the door just as Fulk was saying, “And next time I’ll tie you to the damned bed!”
“You are all talk,” she informed him tartly. She looked at the tray he was still holding between them; it contained a mug of small beer, a chunk of yesterday’s bread, several smallish bits of hard cheese and lump of cold bacon, accompanied by an eating knife. Evidently it was still too early for warm, freshly cooked food. She pinched a bit of cheese and bit it in two with a trace of a grin.
Fulk glared at her, “All talk? We’ll see about that soon enough, oh devious minded one.”
“If you say so.” She stood to one side to let him enter, but not before she grabbed another bit of cheese.
He placed the tray down on her bed, then went to the fireplace and poked the small fire vigorously, adding a few more logs. When he turned back he was just in time to watch the last of the cheese vanish with a contented sigh. Eleanor picked up the knife and moved to cut the bread; she paused thoughtfully and tapped the tip of the knife against the stale crust a few times. She aimed a nice smile at Fulk, “I suppose sending you to get more cheese is out of the question? I cannot go myself; more’s the pity. I doubt I would make it halfway to the kitchen.”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight, so you can stop looking at me like that.”
“I promise I will behave, please?”
“No, of silver tongued lady of deception.”
Eleanor stabbed her knife right through the chunk of bread, “Typical; we actually have some real, actual, proper hard cheese in the manor and the broken nosed lump refuses to get me any. Have you any idea how rare it is to have cheddar in this place?” she demanded, “It is exceptionally rare; Trempwick normally avoids it because it is so much more expensive than the goopy spreadable stuff.”
“So? It’ll be there when you’re better.”
“But people will have eaten some of it by then!” exclaimed Eleanor.
“So? It’s a big piece.”
Her eyes lit up, “Big? How big?” Fulk held up his hands, measuring out a space roughly the size of a cannon ball. Eleanor fairly wailed with frustration, “All that cheese, out of my reach and vulnerable to other people’s intentions!”
Fulk laughed, “You’re really bothered about that cheese, aren’t you?”
“I love cheddar,” she told him, a dreamy expression on her face, “I hate the goopy cheese, but hard cheese …”
“Oh, all right, I’ll go get some more,” he held up a warning finger, “but if I find this is a trick, ruse or excuse of some kind-”
“Yes, yes,” said Eleanor impatiently, “Now, the cheese? Bring back the whole piece, all of it. If I find you missed part of it, so much as a crumb, you will not be a happy knight. And do hurry up.”
About twenty minutes later Trempwick paid her a visit. He took in the depleted chunk of cheese on the tray, the small pile of bite sized pieced of cheese within reach of the princess, the cheese sandwich she was currently eating with gusto, and the trio of slices of bread with thin strips of cheese on them melting in front of the fire. “I see you found my cheese then,” he said dryly.
She swallowed hastily and said without a shred of contrition, “Sorry, master.”
“It has been a costly few days, first one set of brand new clothes ruined, then a midwife to pay, bloodstains to remove, and now my cheese is devoured in a heartbeat. I suppose I have you to thank for this, bodyguard?”
Fulk turned the bits of toasting bread and cheese around so the ends furthest away from the heat got chance to melt, “I didn’t know she was a cheese fiend when I brought the first bit up.”
Trempwick seated himself on the bed, on the other wise of the tray to Eleanor. He popped a bit of cheese in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I had been looking forward to this cheese for a long time; it does not disappoint, except perhaps in quantity. You have managed to eat an astonishing amount of it, darling Nell.”
“Sorry, master. I have not eaten in nearly two days.”
“You have always been the same – it is why I refuse to buy hard cheese.” Trempwick finished off another bit of cheese, “Still, I suppose I shall have to humour you this time, sweet Nell. I need you to rest and recover, and if I have to sacrifice my cheese to get that, then so be it.” He looked to Fulk, “Scat, bodyguard. Go take a break; I can sit with her for a while.”
Fulk delivered the bits of cheese on toast to Eleanor and exited the room. Ordinarily he would have argued but he had been swapping shifts with the spymaster yesterday without anything dire happening. Trempwick sat and watched in a kind of morbid fascination as the slices of toast vanished before the cheese had time to congeal.
Eleanor licked a trace of melted cheese off her thumb and took a deep breath, “I need your help,” she announced with quite a large dollop of apprehension. She had known she would have to ask Trempwick for aid when she decided on a whim to knight Fulk; she had also known the spymaster was not likely to be pleased.
Trempwick’s eyebrows shot up, “Really, dear Nell? Ask away,” he looked ruefully at the chunk of cheese which was now half of its original size, “as long as it does not involve cheese.”
“I made Fulk a knight.” She waited for his reaction, wincing slightly.
“You knighted your pet?” repeated Trempwick slowly, “You knighted your pet? May I enquire as to why?”
She had prepared her excuse and felt confident he would accept it fairly well. “A princess should not be attended solely by a common man at arms, and he has proven useful. A reward will keep his loyalty, and encourage him to work harder in the hopes of gaining more.” That sounded much better than ‘I felt I owed him something and this is all I can ever give him.’
Trempwick sighed and ate some more of his cheese, “Nell, beloved Nell, if you wanted a pet knight you should have told me; I would have brought one home for you. I do hope, most sincerely hope, that this has nothing to do with that inappropriate, one sided spark of yours?”
“Of course not.” Why did Trempwick persist in assuming she was some misty eyed drip with a death wish? And anyway Fulk might care but that made her no better than some annoying little sister. One sided spark indeed.
“I do hope so; no matter what you do with the man he will remain completely unsuitable, and I would hate to watch you break your heart. So, what do you want me to do?”
“I can give him the accolade and tell him he is a knight, but … coming from just me it is worthless; I do not have the clout to make it stick and work.”
“Very well, I shall take care of it, just for you, sweetest Nell, out of the very goodness of my heart.” He picked up a cube of cheese and popped it in his mouth, “Now, dear Nell, would you like a game of chess to pass the time?”
No, actually she would not. Eleanor hated chess; she had never been much good at it. Trempwick always insisted she was too impatient and needed to think more than a couple of moves ahead, but she was not really interested in spending hours at a time on a single game. But, when the spymaster asked if she would like a game of chess what he invariably meant was that he wanted to play and so she would have to. “Yes, master. That is very thoughtful of you.”
“Good, I shall fetch the board.”
Ah, today you get to see a glimpse of the author in Eleanor. Cheese, mmmmm, must have cheese. :sigh: It has been over two weeks since I ran out of cheddar and there is still nearly a week to go until I can get more. I need cheddar!!
Someone on the other forum has been busy working on the Nell lookalike with unicorn picture.
coz1, yes, I think perhaps there is a tiny echo of a frog in Fulk's thought there, but we think the same thing for different reasons. He thinks he should stop before it's too late; I think he should stop full stop. :looks tough and mean ... looks sideways and checks no one is watching: ok, so maybe I do actually like their relationship; I love both characters dearly and they need each other. Um, I also like the arguing, if they aren't together they can't argue.
Welcome back, King. Ah yes, Eleanor is quite superior to the old Red Hand, but the book, oh the book ...
And new blood, in the form of MegaPIMP. Hehe, it's 122 pages now and I guess I am about half way.
“You could stay a while longer; freezing to death will do none any good, William.”
The king shook his head immediately, “No, I have business to attend to.” He began to walk but halted almost instantaneously. He stood there for a moment, then spoke without moving in the slightest, “I am considering letting Northumberland off; I shall strip him of everything and throw him in the tower to die of old age.”
In several brisk strides Trempwick was at his king’s side, demanding, “Why?”
“Because I have decided I cannot kill my son,” he replied quietly.
Trempwick made an impatient gesture, “He is gone, he will not be back. You are quite safe-”
William interrupted him, his tone still quiet but filled with steel, “There is always a small chance he will come home.” He sounded as if he hoped John would.
“There is a far greater chance you will be seen as soft! Northumberland must die. John is perfectly safe; you will never set eyes on him again. A rebellion now, while you have so many other fronts to fight on, would tear England apart!” When he could see he was getting through Trempwick reiterated slowly and insistently, “John is never coming home. Never.”
William didn’t move, didn’t give any sign he had even heard. Unexpectedly his head bowed, “You are right; he is lost to me. Now, I must go. I have a trial to organise, and a wedding to arrange.” He strode through the door, bracing himself and squinting as the wind blew freezing rain into his face.
Trempwick hurried after him, head down against the weather, “Wedding? Sire, you did not say-”
The king laughed and paused in the middle of the puddle strewn courtyard, “So, I have surprised you at last, Raoul. Yes, a wedding. I got the Scots king’s reply but yesterday after some weeks of talks. If you did not hear then it appears our measures to ensure secrecy worked admirably; France will not know until it is too late to interfere. I need a solid alliance with Scotland to keep my back safe while I turn my attention to France. This is the only way.”
The rain was beginning to soak through the layers of Trempwick’s clothing, sticking them to his skin and making the cruel wind even harsher. He paid it no heed, his mind occupied with this new revelation. “But who … ?”
Edward, Trempwick’s steward, led the king’s horse out, fully saddled and ready to ride. The king let his spymaster hang in suspense for a while, then told him, “Me.” William began to mount his horse; the animal danced restlessly, unhappy to have left its warm stable. He kept talking, “The king has a daughter, just barely thirteen now, she was inconveniently betrothed to some local duke. That arrangement was easily broken; who would favour a duke above a king? I like it not, but I need a solid alliance and so I need the girl.”
Trempwick put on hand on the horse’s neck, “William, sire, think of the effects this might have-” he said urgently.
“It will allow me to focus my resources and attention on France, and alliance by marriage is far harder to break. If the Scots king plays me false he has squandered his daughter to no advantage, losing her to the care of a man who will have a sudden passion for blotting his petty kingdom from the face of God’s green earth.”
“Your succession, think of what this will do to it,” implored Trempwick, “If you should have another child-”
“You worry about your spymastering; leave me to worry about my succession,” said William curtly as he touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks.
Trempwick stepped back out of the horse’s path. He stood for a while, watching the retreating horseman until he was blocked from sight by some trees. “Thirteen,” he said to himself, deep in thought, “Just barely thirteen …just barely …” He began to walk back to the shelter of the manor building, slowly and without heed for the puddles he was sloshing through.
The rest of the day was dull and uneventful. Trempwick shut himself away in his bedchamber, only emerging twice, both times to visit Eleanor.
Eleanor was asleep during his visits, as she was for much of the day. She did not have much else to do; she was too stiff to even think about getting up, and her single attempt led to the room swimming about her until she thought she would be sick.
Fulk set a new record, reading his King Arthur from start to finish three times in a row, boring himself in the process. He also ‘borrowed’ a chair from the solar without asking; sitting on a chest for extended periods was uncomfortable.
The day after that Eleanor was determined to get up, and after a bit of careful planning she managed to dispatch Fulk to get a tray of food in the middle of the morning. That took a lot of doing because Fulk knew she couldn’t so much as stick a foot out of bed while he was in the room because she was naked, so he had been an almost permanent presence.
With him safely removed she dragged herself out of bed and barred the door so she could get dressed. It took an inordinate amount of time to force her stiff, aching body to cooperate but eventually she managed to get all of her clothes on, though not without cracking open scabs and straining protesting muscles. Most of her dressing was accompanied by a nice commentary by Fulk from outside her door on how he was going to make her regret this later.
She opened the door just as Fulk was saying, “And next time I’ll tie you to the damned bed!”
“You are all talk,” she informed him tartly. She looked at the tray he was still holding between them; it contained a mug of small beer, a chunk of yesterday’s bread, several smallish bits of hard cheese and lump of cold bacon, accompanied by an eating knife. Evidently it was still too early for warm, freshly cooked food. She pinched a bit of cheese and bit it in two with a trace of a grin.
Fulk glared at her, “All talk? We’ll see about that soon enough, oh devious minded one.”
“If you say so.” She stood to one side to let him enter, but not before she grabbed another bit of cheese.
He placed the tray down on her bed, then went to the fireplace and poked the small fire vigorously, adding a few more logs. When he turned back he was just in time to watch the last of the cheese vanish with a contented sigh. Eleanor picked up the knife and moved to cut the bread; she paused thoughtfully and tapped the tip of the knife against the stale crust a few times. She aimed a nice smile at Fulk, “I suppose sending you to get more cheese is out of the question? I cannot go myself; more’s the pity. I doubt I would make it halfway to the kitchen.”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight, so you can stop looking at me like that.”
“I promise I will behave, please?”
“No, of silver tongued lady of deception.”
Eleanor stabbed her knife right through the chunk of bread, “Typical; we actually have some real, actual, proper hard cheese in the manor and the broken nosed lump refuses to get me any. Have you any idea how rare it is to have cheddar in this place?” she demanded, “It is exceptionally rare; Trempwick normally avoids it because it is so much more expensive than the goopy spreadable stuff.”
“So? It’ll be there when you’re better.”
“But people will have eaten some of it by then!” exclaimed Eleanor.
“So? It’s a big piece.”
Her eyes lit up, “Big? How big?” Fulk held up his hands, measuring out a space roughly the size of a cannon ball. Eleanor fairly wailed with frustration, “All that cheese, out of my reach and vulnerable to other people’s intentions!”
Fulk laughed, “You’re really bothered about that cheese, aren’t you?”
“I love cheddar,” she told him, a dreamy expression on her face, “I hate the goopy cheese, but hard cheese …”
“Oh, all right, I’ll go get some more,” he held up a warning finger, “but if I find this is a trick, ruse or excuse of some kind-”
“Yes, yes,” said Eleanor impatiently, “Now, the cheese? Bring back the whole piece, all of it. If I find you missed part of it, so much as a crumb, you will not be a happy knight. And do hurry up.”
About twenty minutes later Trempwick paid her a visit. He took in the depleted chunk of cheese on the tray, the small pile of bite sized pieced of cheese within reach of the princess, the cheese sandwich she was currently eating with gusto, and the trio of slices of bread with thin strips of cheese on them melting in front of the fire. “I see you found my cheese then,” he said dryly.
She swallowed hastily and said without a shred of contrition, “Sorry, master.”
“It has been a costly few days, first one set of brand new clothes ruined, then a midwife to pay, bloodstains to remove, and now my cheese is devoured in a heartbeat. I suppose I have you to thank for this, bodyguard?”
Fulk turned the bits of toasting bread and cheese around so the ends furthest away from the heat got chance to melt, “I didn’t know she was a cheese fiend when I brought the first bit up.”
Trempwick seated himself on the bed, on the other wise of the tray to Eleanor. He popped a bit of cheese in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “I had been looking forward to this cheese for a long time; it does not disappoint, except perhaps in quantity. You have managed to eat an astonishing amount of it, darling Nell.”
“Sorry, master. I have not eaten in nearly two days.”
“You have always been the same – it is why I refuse to buy hard cheese.” Trempwick finished off another bit of cheese, “Still, I suppose I shall have to humour you this time, sweet Nell. I need you to rest and recover, and if I have to sacrifice my cheese to get that, then so be it.” He looked to Fulk, “Scat, bodyguard. Go take a break; I can sit with her for a while.”
Fulk delivered the bits of cheese on toast to Eleanor and exited the room. Ordinarily he would have argued but he had been swapping shifts with the spymaster yesterday without anything dire happening. Trempwick sat and watched in a kind of morbid fascination as the slices of toast vanished before the cheese had time to congeal.
Eleanor licked a trace of melted cheese off her thumb and took a deep breath, “I need your help,” she announced with quite a large dollop of apprehension. She had known she would have to ask Trempwick for aid when she decided on a whim to knight Fulk; she had also known the spymaster was not likely to be pleased.
Trempwick’s eyebrows shot up, “Really, dear Nell? Ask away,” he looked ruefully at the chunk of cheese which was now half of its original size, “as long as it does not involve cheese.”
“I made Fulk a knight.” She waited for his reaction, wincing slightly.
“You knighted your pet?” repeated Trempwick slowly, “You knighted your pet? May I enquire as to why?”
She had prepared her excuse and felt confident he would accept it fairly well. “A princess should not be attended solely by a common man at arms, and he has proven useful. A reward will keep his loyalty, and encourage him to work harder in the hopes of gaining more.” That sounded much better than ‘I felt I owed him something and this is all I can ever give him.’
Trempwick sighed and ate some more of his cheese, “Nell, beloved Nell, if you wanted a pet knight you should have told me; I would have brought one home for you. I do hope, most sincerely hope, that this has nothing to do with that inappropriate, one sided spark of yours?”
“Of course not.” Why did Trempwick persist in assuming she was some misty eyed drip with a death wish? And anyway Fulk might care but that made her no better than some annoying little sister. One sided spark indeed.
“I do hope so; no matter what you do with the man he will remain completely unsuitable, and I would hate to watch you break your heart. So, what do you want me to do?”
“I can give him the accolade and tell him he is a knight, but … coming from just me it is worthless; I do not have the clout to make it stick and work.”
“Very well, I shall take care of it, just for you, sweetest Nell, out of the very goodness of my heart.” He picked up a cube of cheese and popped it in his mouth, “Now, dear Nell, would you like a game of chess to pass the time?”
No, actually she would not. Eleanor hated chess; she had never been much good at it. Trempwick always insisted she was too impatient and needed to think more than a couple of moves ahead, but she was not really interested in spending hours at a time on a single game. But, when the spymaster asked if she would like a game of chess what he invariably meant was that he wanted to play and so she would have to. “Yes, master. That is very thoughtful of you.”
“Good, I shall fetch the board.”
Ah, today you get to see a glimpse of the author in Eleanor. Cheese, mmmmm, must have cheese. :sigh: It has been over two weeks since I ran out of cheddar and there is still nearly a week to go until I can get more. I need cheddar!!
Someone on the other forum has been busy working on the Nell lookalike with unicorn picture.
coz1, yes, I think perhaps there is a tiny echo of a frog in Fulk's thought there, but we think the same thing for different reasons. He thinks he should stop before it's too late; I think he should stop full stop. :looks tough and mean ... looks sideways and checks no one is watching: ok, so maybe I do actually like their relationship; I love both characters dearly and they need each other. Um, I also like the arguing, if they aren't together they can't argue.
Welcome back, King. Ah yes, Eleanor is quite superior to the old Red Hand, but the book, oh the book ...
And new blood, in the form of MegaPIMP. Hehe, it's 122 pages now and I guess I am about half way.
well if the other half is just half as good as the first half then it's not a half bad book but a full good one... (actually brilliant and all that... )
(actually brilliant and all that... )
Eleanor would make a good spokeswoman for the cheese commercials we have here in the U.S. In fact, the whole scene with the cheese looked like it could have been one of those commercials!
"Behold the power of cheese..."
"Behold the power of cheese..."
Next morning Trempwick was nowhere to be seen. Fulk reported this to Eleanor when he dropped in to stash his pallet out of the corridor as usual. By now he had given up on trying to keep her in bed and out of mischief, deciding that keeping her in her room and out of mischief was a more suitable goal now.
Eleanor was not very surprised. “He sometimes vanishes for a day at a time; there is no pattern but he is often gone for several days a month. He always dresses as if he is travelling for a reasonable distance and takes a good horse; I suspect he goes to London. I would love to know what exactly he does,” she admitted, proving once again that she had boundless inquisitiveness. “He always says it is a spymaster’s holiday and a welcome break from having his nerves shredded by me.”
“Probably visiting a brothel,” said Fulk authoritively. Actually he was not at all that certain, but somehow the idea of the spymaster in a brothel amused him and it did seem likely enough. Since he was the king’s spymaster it would probably be a very high class establishment so he would have very little chance of catching the pox or being eaten alive by fleas. Pity.
“I never thought him the type for that kind of thing,” confessed Eleanor. She grinned suddenly and very mischievously, “Murdering people I can imagine, but women?” Fulk didn’t think the spymaster would be too gratified by the way Eleanor had dismissed his chances of having a love life.
The more he considered it the better his theory sounded; a spymaster would love gathering information and guilty secrets, and a brothel was a very traditional place to uncover such information. Trempwick probably recruited a lot of his low level, disposable agents from such places. A working holiday, paid for from the royal treasury, with none of the risk of entanglements or the need for a double life a longer term arrangement would require. “You’ll have to get close enough to see if you can smell perfume clinging to him when he gets back,” he suggested. Probably not; Trempwick was entirely too smart for that.
“Are you sure about this?” asked Eleanor doubtfully. She really did have a hard time picturing Trempwick having a … hobby.
“Unless he’s one of those natural monk types it’s a safe bet at least some of his trips end up with company.”
Eleanor spotted another thing that had never occurred to her; if Trempwick went off … on a holiday from time to time then Fulk probably would too. Now that was a bothersome thought, one which made her jealous when she had no right to be. She now acknowledged that one lesson she had received ages ago on being a proper noble lady actually did have some value after all. It was far better to ignore these things, unless you had the misfortune to be married to a man who had picked up a mistress or five, or had a manservant who was dragging your household’s name through the mire.
Her tutor had informed her that it was beneath her to concern herself with a common harlot who, he emphasised dramatically, could never pose her a threat. Yes, well who cared about that? The honest truth was the idea made her faintly nauseous; Trempwick had a whole new side she had never even suspected, and that did not bode well. What else had she missed? Underestimating Trempwick was always dangerous, even if this particular slippage had not proved so yet.
Fulk, well that was the odd thing. She had decided long ago that she absolutely no interest in that kind of thing, thank you. So why was she so jealous that someone else would get his attentions?
Enacting that society principle, and dodging away from a disquieting chain of thoughts, she changed the subject briskly. “Well, whatever he is doing he is gone, and while the spymaster’s away the princess will play,” said Eleanor with slightly forced levity. She sat up a bit straighter; her back twinged and she winced, “Or she would if she were able to. If only he would take his accursed servants and their spying eyes with him, and restore me to peak physical condition – we could continue our sword fighting lessons.”
Fulk said consolingly, “Never mind, we can play chess instead.”
“You like chess?” Fulk nodded. Eleanor’s shoulders drooped, “Oh drat.” She bit her lip, thinking. “Are you any good at it?”
“None so bad; every good squire learns to play and I improved my game a lot in France.”
“I see,” said Eleanor slowly. Indeed she did; if he was not very good she might be able to beat him. She had learned everything she knew about the game from Trempwick and he was reputedly one of the best players at court. It would be pleasant to win for once.
Fulk picked up his rook and moved it three squares forward, setting it down with a decisive click. “Check.” He leaned back in his chair with, Eleanor thought, a self-satisfied, smug smirk pasted all over his stupid face.
Eleanor glared at the board on the small table between them; he had done it again! Three games in a row, and all of them lost within twenty moves. “I thought you said you were not very good?” she said tetchily. She crossed her arms, ignoring the ever-present complaint for her battered body, and tried not to sulk. So much for her high hopes of winning her first chess game ever.
“You need to plan ahead more, act instead of react,” Fulk told her as he began to reset the pieces; ivory on one side of the rosewood board, ebony on the other, and all meticulously drawn up in neat ranks with the people facing their enemy.
Eleanor picked up her king and glowered at the intricately carved ivory man sat on his throne, “I think the problem with this game is that the fundamental principle disagrees with me; kings do not require saving and if they do they can damn well save themselves with no aid from me.”
Fulk grinned to himself, and tweaked the alignment of one of his pawns so he was looking straight ahead instead of slightly off to one side. “Perhaps you are just annoyed that there’s no princess piece?” he teased.
Eleanor set the king back down none too gently and announced to the world in general, “I hate chess.”
“Really?”
“Yes, otherwise I would not have said so, you cabbage witted sluggard!”
Fulk surveyed the sulking figure sat on her bed opposite him and tried not to laugh. “Alright, since you hate chess that much, and since I am a graceful victor, I shall let you off and tell you a story instead.”
Eleanor groaned, “Oh no!”
Fulk looked perplexed and asked with mock indignation, “What do you mean ‘oh no’? You love my stories.”
“I do?” she inquired dubiously. She looked across at him from underneath lowered eyelashes, presenting a perfect picture of endearing uncertainty, an act just as much as his ire.
“Yes,” Fulk informed her mock sternly. “Now, which one shall I tell you? How about Lionel the soft hearted dragon?”
“No!” Eleanor asked a question she had been wondering about for months, one which may touch on that elusive long story he had said he would tell her another time and prompt him into telling it, “You never did say how you broke your nose.”
He scratched the back of his neck and averted his eyes, “No, I doubt I did.”
“It almost sounds as if you are embarrassed,” she observed mildly. With keen interest she leaned forward slightly, one hand planted on the bed either side of her for balance, and began to put forth suggestions, “What did you do? Walk into a door? Pick a fight with someone and lose? Do rather badly in a training exercise and get your helmet nasal whacked into your nose? Do tell.”
Fulk looked at her half amused, half wounded, “None of those. What do you think I am? Some kind of clumsy oaf?”
“Yes!” she agreed cheerfully, “So, how did you do it?”
“You’ll laugh, I know you will.” He wasn’t really bothered about that, but anticipation did build suspense.
“I promise I will not laugh; princess’s honour.” Eleanor tried, and somehow failed, to look angelic, “Fair is fair, you have seen me at less than regal moments, such as this week.”
Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose and noisily blew out a puff of air, surrendering with fained poor grace. “Oh, all right, I can see I will get no peace until I humiliate myself. In my eleventh summer I skipped my lessons and went fishing with my friend, Waleran, or Wat as everyone called him for some strange reason. It was a nice day, sunny and all, and it seemed a waste to spend it tilting at the quintain and writing Latin.”
Eleanor found her interest diminishing rapidly, “Oh, you got caught, got in trouble and got a broken nose. Fifth rate jesters have stories more likely to raise a smile than that.”
“No, I didn’t get caught…well not exactly. We passed a pleasant few hours and snagged a couple of trout, and then my master of arms appeared with a face like a smacked bottom. As you might expect we took off-”
“But he managed to catch up with you, therefore the broken nose?” interrupted Eleanor. She pulled a face, “If that is supposed to be funny significant portions of my life have been a finely tuned comedy with plenty of sophisticated jokes.”
Fulk bared his teeth in a smile; he knew it was unlikely she would guess the real ending but it was pleasurable to watch her try. “Wrong, my blazing star. He was hot on our heels and almost able to grab us when Wat dropped his fish; the master of arms must have slipped on it-”
“So you escaped for a little while, but he would have found you eventually. You got your nose broken by a fish covered lug with a wooden sword, probably when you returned home,” decided Eleanor. Right or wrong interrupting his storytelling was half the fun and, by now, habitual. She sniffed, “Still not the least bit funny.”
“My nose was reshaped before I got home, so you’re still wrong. Also the master of arms filched the fish for himself, so he wasn’t quite that upset. I might have got a little bruised around the edges, but nothing too bad.” He thought it said a lot about her life that she believed someone would casually break a boy’s nose for something as minor as this.
“Diplomatic bribery? I should have tried that … but I have difficulty seeing Trempwick being open to offers of fish.” She frowned thoughtfully and began to wind a lock of her long hair around her right index finger, “I wonder what you bribe a spymaster with, or a king for that matter.”
“So there we were, running as fast as we could and faster still. I was still carrying my fish; I suppose I was too focused on flight to think about dropping it to speed my progress. We went tearing past the fields back to the village; a wonderful plan since it brought us back towards more people who were likely to be both searching and upset. I blame Wat for that idiotic stratagem; I was following him. By some bad luck we ran into the reeve blocking the narrow gap between the tavern and a nearby house we were aiming for. He saw my fish, which was no great feat since I was holding it by the tail and it was flapping about as I ran-”
“So the reeve got you for poaching?” guessed Eleanor. “Definitely not funny.”
“No, he tried to block our path but Wat was a skinny little runt and he slipped through the reeve’s legs. I was considerably taller, so I had to knock the reeve out of my path – it was too late to change direction and there were buildings all around.” He had to struggle to keep a straight face as he said, “I hit him with the only thing on hand-”
She was fast enough to twig before he spelt it out. “You smacked your father’s reeve with a fish?” said Eleanor with unabashed delight. She recognised a kindred spirit to a young princess in the young Fulk.
Fulk matched her impish smile with one of his own, “Hardly elegant but it worked. The slap of wet fish on face was somehow very rewarding, as were his disgusted wails about being covered in fish goo. By this time there was a bit of a fuss in the village with people crowding out to see, my mother included. Somehow Wat and I dodged the crowd and ignored the furious mother’s demands to ‘come here at once!’, and we headed to the forest-”
“And then you ran into a tree while checking over your shoulder for pursuit?” she suggested, not believing for an instant that he had. Running into a tree while looking backwards would not snap a nose.
“You really do think I am totally incapable, don’t you?” demanded Fulk. He stuck his nose in the air haughtily; “Actually Wat pushed a branch out of his way and then let it go when he was past; it shot back and hit me in the face, breaking my nose.” Eleanor began to laugh, but quickly stopped with a groan, clutching her ribs. Fulk practically glowed with mock fury, “You promised you wouldn’t laugh!”
“All that mystery and daring do ending up in a broken nose from a springy branch!”
“I bet you never did anything like that, since you’re so royal and dignified and all that,” said Fulk snootily. He knew she must have been just as bad, if not worse, and he was rather curious.
Eleanor smirked, “More than you might think.”
“Poor Wat, he was always dreadfully envious of my nose and it galled him no end that he’d been the one to create it.” He didn’t realise what he had just said until it was too late. The mirth faded from his eyes as Eleanor asked the obvious, predictable question.
“Why would he be envious?”
There was a very long pause; so long Eleanor assumed he was not going to answer. Finally, cursing himself roundly for mentioning Wat’s envy in the first place, Fulk answered brusquely, “Cicely.” He shattered the ensuing silence by asking defensively, and rather challengingly, “Not going to ask who Cicely is?”
“Not when I get the impression you will bite my head off if I do, no.”
There was another long pause, then Fulk said, “The thing about Cicely was her phenomenally bad taste, though I didn’t think so at the time.” He sounded quite angry.
“She chose Wat over you,” said Eleanor knowingly, rather intimidated by Fulk’s bad humour. Until now he had seemed as placid as a duck pond.
“No, she chose me,” he admitted, his voice tight with anger. He saw Eleanor was watching him nervously, almost as if she expected him to kick the table with the chess board over and start shouting. He admitted freely enough that based on most of her experience with people, especially men, that’s what she should expect, but it still rankled that she even considered he might be that boorish.
Fulk sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair and related his story curtly but fairly calmly, “I suppose she liked the handsome, skilled young warrior with a noble’s manners and skills, a father who was a lord, a knighthood burning brightly in his future and a potential arrangement to receive his father’s holdings after his death via being granted them as a new vassalship rather than an inheritance. It might not seem much to you but to us a minor lordship was truly something. Yes, well, I didn’t like her much but she was pretty and most of the other boys my age wanted her. Note I said boy, for all my loud protests otherwise that’s all I was. I took her interest as my due; it appealed to my ego to have what everyone else wanted.”
He winced ruefully, “Yes, I was an insufferable, arrogant git. I wish someone had been able to knock it out of me, or given me that knighthood I craved with the edge of the blade instead of the flat. It would have saved a lot of pain. So, that’s who Cicely was; my entertainment. Wat had fallen for her; I knew but didn’t really care. My mother didn’t approve, but again I cared not – I was using what she’d taught me in good faith to good effect.”
Eleanor had a hazy suspicion this was one of those Judith things. “Er …?”
“It wasn’t in my mother’s best interests to have children, me included, and it definitely wasn’t in my best interests to end up with any either. Poor Cicely, that’s about the best care I showed her. Well, she did have some good fortune in the end – I went off to France with my father when I was a few months shy of seventeen.” Fulk stared unseeingly ahead for a while, then he shook himself and he said firmly, “Now, chess.” He moved his king pawn two squares forward and set it down with a click that announced his story was finished and defied her to continue the conversation.
Her mind teeming with new information Eleanor blindly moved one of her centre pawns without thought. An supercilious git certainly, but not so now. What had happened?
Heh, this episode reminds me of an alternate, joky name I thought of for this story: sex and the single gooseberry. A rather catchy name with a certain I don't know what, but totally misleading.
PB-DK, nice pun :rofl:
Judas, I am sure her royal gooseberryness would branch out into advertising if there was some cheddar in it for her (and big piles of money for me).
Eleanor was not very surprised. “He sometimes vanishes for a day at a time; there is no pattern but he is often gone for several days a month. He always dresses as if he is travelling for a reasonable distance and takes a good horse; I suspect he goes to London. I would love to know what exactly he does,” she admitted, proving once again that she had boundless inquisitiveness. “He always says it is a spymaster’s holiday and a welcome break from having his nerves shredded by me.”
“Probably visiting a brothel,” said Fulk authoritively. Actually he was not at all that certain, but somehow the idea of the spymaster in a brothel amused him and it did seem likely enough. Since he was the king’s spymaster it would probably be a very high class establishment so he would have very little chance of catching the pox or being eaten alive by fleas. Pity.
“I never thought him the type for that kind of thing,” confessed Eleanor. She grinned suddenly and very mischievously, “Murdering people I can imagine, but women?” Fulk didn’t think the spymaster would be too gratified by the way Eleanor had dismissed his chances of having a love life.
The more he considered it the better his theory sounded; a spymaster would love gathering information and guilty secrets, and a brothel was a very traditional place to uncover such information. Trempwick probably recruited a lot of his low level, disposable agents from such places. A working holiday, paid for from the royal treasury, with none of the risk of entanglements or the need for a double life a longer term arrangement would require. “You’ll have to get close enough to see if you can smell perfume clinging to him when he gets back,” he suggested. Probably not; Trempwick was entirely too smart for that.
“Are you sure about this?” asked Eleanor doubtfully. She really did have a hard time picturing Trempwick having a … hobby.
“Unless he’s one of those natural monk types it’s a safe bet at least some of his trips end up with company.”
Eleanor spotted another thing that had never occurred to her; if Trempwick went off … on a holiday from time to time then Fulk probably would too. Now that was a bothersome thought, one which made her jealous when she had no right to be. She now acknowledged that one lesson she had received ages ago on being a proper noble lady actually did have some value after all. It was far better to ignore these things, unless you had the misfortune to be married to a man who had picked up a mistress or five, or had a manservant who was dragging your household’s name through the mire.
Her tutor had informed her that it was beneath her to concern herself with a common harlot who, he emphasised dramatically, could never pose her a threat. Yes, well who cared about that? The honest truth was the idea made her faintly nauseous; Trempwick had a whole new side she had never even suspected, and that did not bode well. What else had she missed? Underestimating Trempwick was always dangerous, even if this particular slippage had not proved so yet.
Fulk, well that was the odd thing. She had decided long ago that she absolutely no interest in that kind of thing, thank you. So why was she so jealous that someone else would get his attentions?
Enacting that society principle, and dodging away from a disquieting chain of thoughts, she changed the subject briskly. “Well, whatever he is doing he is gone, and while the spymaster’s away the princess will play,” said Eleanor with slightly forced levity. She sat up a bit straighter; her back twinged and she winced, “Or she would if she were able to. If only he would take his accursed servants and their spying eyes with him, and restore me to peak physical condition – we could continue our sword fighting lessons.”
Fulk said consolingly, “Never mind, we can play chess instead.”
“You like chess?” Fulk nodded. Eleanor’s shoulders drooped, “Oh drat.” She bit her lip, thinking. “Are you any good at it?”
“None so bad; every good squire learns to play and I improved my game a lot in France.”
“I see,” said Eleanor slowly. Indeed she did; if he was not very good she might be able to beat him. She had learned everything she knew about the game from Trempwick and he was reputedly one of the best players at court. It would be pleasant to win for once.
Fulk picked up his rook and moved it three squares forward, setting it down with a decisive click. “Check.” He leaned back in his chair with, Eleanor thought, a self-satisfied, smug smirk pasted all over his stupid face.
Eleanor glared at the board on the small table between them; he had done it again! Three games in a row, and all of them lost within twenty moves. “I thought you said you were not very good?” she said tetchily. She crossed her arms, ignoring the ever-present complaint for her battered body, and tried not to sulk. So much for her high hopes of winning her first chess game ever.
“You need to plan ahead more, act instead of react,” Fulk told her as he began to reset the pieces; ivory on one side of the rosewood board, ebony on the other, and all meticulously drawn up in neat ranks with the people facing their enemy.
Eleanor picked up her king and glowered at the intricately carved ivory man sat on his throne, “I think the problem with this game is that the fundamental principle disagrees with me; kings do not require saving and if they do they can damn well save themselves with no aid from me.”
Fulk grinned to himself, and tweaked the alignment of one of his pawns so he was looking straight ahead instead of slightly off to one side. “Perhaps you are just annoyed that there’s no princess piece?” he teased.
Eleanor set the king back down none too gently and announced to the world in general, “I hate chess.”
“Really?”
“Yes, otherwise I would not have said so, you cabbage witted sluggard!”
Fulk surveyed the sulking figure sat on her bed opposite him and tried not to laugh. “Alright, since you hate chess that much, and since I am a graceful victor, I shall let you off and tell you a story instead.”
Eleanor groaned, “Oh no!”
Fulk looked perplexed and asked with mock indignation, “What do you mean ‘oh no’? You love my stories.”
“I do?” she inquired dubiously. She looked across at him from underneath lowered eyelashes, presenting a perfect picture of endearing uncertainty, an act just as much as his ire.
“Yes,” Fulk informed her mock sternly. “Now, which one shall I tell you? How about Lionel the soft hearted dragon?”
“No!” Eleanor asked a question she had been wondering about for months, one which may touch on that elusive long story he had said he would tell her another time and prompt him into telling it, “You never did say how you broke your nose.”
He scratched the back of his neck and averted his eyes, “No, I doubt I did.”
“It almost sounds as if you are embarrassed,” she observed mildly. With keen interest she leaned forward slightly, one hand planted on the bed either side of her for balance, and began to put forth suggestions, “What did you do? Walk into a door? Pick a fight with someone and lose? Do rather badly in a training exercise and get your helmet nasal whacked into your nose? Do tell.”
Fulk looked at her half amused, half wounded, “None of those. What do you think I am? Some kind of clumsy oaf?”
“Yes!” she agreed cheerfully, “So, how did you do it?”
“You’ll laugh, I know you will.” He wasn’t really bothered about that, but anticipation did build suspense.
“I promise I will not laugh; princess’s honour.” Eleanor tried, and somehow failed, to look angelic, “Fair is fair, you have seen me at less than regal moments, such as this week.”
Fulk rubbed the bridge of his nose and noisily blew out a puff of air, surrendering with fained poor grace. “Oh, all right, I can see I will get no peace until I humiliate myself. In my eleventh summer I skipped my lessons and went fishing with my friend, Waleran, or Wat as everyone called him for some strange reason. It was a nice day, sunny and all, and it seemed a waste to spend it tilting at the quintain and writing Latin.”
Eleanor found her interest diminishing rapidly, “Oh, you got caught, got in trouble and got a broken nose. Fifth rate jesters have stories more likely to raise a smile than that.”
“No, I didn’t get caught…well not exactly. We passed a pleasant few hours and snagged a couple of trout, and then my master of arms appeared with a face like a smacked bottom. As you might expect we took off-”
“But he managed to catch up with you, therefore the broken nose?” interrupted Eleanor. She pulled a face, “If that is supposed to be funny significant portions of my life have been a finely tuned comedy with plenty of sophisticated jokes.”
Fulk bared his teeth in a smile; he knew it was unlikely she would guess the real ending but it was pleasurable to watch her try. “Wrong, my blazing star. He was hot on our heels and almost able to grab us when Wat dropped his fish; the master of arms must have slipped on it-”
“So you escaped for a little while, but he would have found you eventually. You got your nose broken by a fish covered lug with a wooden sword, probably when you returned home,” decided Eleanor. Right or wrong interrupting his storytelling was half the fun and, by now, habitual. She sniffed, “Still not the least bit funny.”
“My nose was reshaped before I got home, so you’re still wrong. Also the master of arms filched the fish for himself, so he wasn’t quite that upset. I might have got a little bruised around the edges, but nothing too bad.” He thought it said a lot about her life that she believed someone would casually break a boy’s nose for something as minor as this.
“Diplomatic bribery? I should have tried that … but I have difficulty seeing Trempwick being open to offers of fish.” She frowned thoughtfully and began to wind a lock of her long hair around her right index finger, “I wonder what you bribe a spymaster with, or a king for that matter.”
“So there we were, running as fast as we could and faster still. I was still carrying my fish; I suppose I was too focused on flight to think about dropping it to speed my progress. We went tearing past the fields back to the village; a wonderful plan since it brought us back towards more people who were likely to be both searching and upset. I blame Wat for that idiotic stratagem; I was following him. By some bad luck we ran into the reeve blocking the narrow gap between the tavern and a nearby house we were aiming for. He saw my fish, which was no great feat since I was holding it by the tail and it was flapping about as I ran-”
“So the reeve got you for poaching?” guessed Eleanor. “Definitely not funny.”
“No, he tried to block our path but Wat was a skinny little runt and he slipped through the reeve’s legs. I was considerably taller, so I had to knock the reeve out of my path – it was too late to change direction and there were buildings all around.” He had to struggle to keep a straight face as he said, “I hit him with the only thing on hand-”
She was fast enough to twig before he spelt it out. “You smacked your father’s reeve with a fish?” said Eleanor with unabashed delight. She recognised a kindred spirit to a young princess in the young Fulk.
Fulk matched her impish smile with one of his own, “Hardly elegant but it worked. The slap of wet fish on face was somehow very rewarding, as were his disgusted wails about being covered in fish goo. By this time there was a bit of a fuss in the village with people crowding out to see, my mother included. Somehow Wat and I dodged the crowd and ignored the furious mother’s demands to ‘come here at once!’, and we headed to the forest-”
“And then you ran into a tree while checking over your shoulder for pursuit?” she suggested, not believing for an instant that he had. Running into a tree while looking backwards would not snap a nose.
“You really do think I am totally incapable, don’t you?” demanded Fulk. He stuck his nose in the air haughtily; “Actually Wat pushed a branch out of his way and then let it go when he was past; it shot back and hit me in the face, breaking my nose.” Eleanor began to laugh, but quickly stopped with a groan, clutching her ribs. Fulk practically glowed with mock fury, “You promised you wouldn’t laugh!”
“All that mystery and daring do ending up in a broken nose from a springy branch!”
“I bet you never did anything like that, since you’re so royal and dignified and all that,” said Fulk snootily. He knew she must have been just as bad, if not worse, and he was rather curious.
Eleanor smirked, “More than you might think.”
“Poor Wat, he was always dreadfully envious of my nose and it galled him no end that he’d been the one to create it.” He didn’t realise what he had just said until it was too late. The mirth faded from his eyes as Eleanor asked the obvious, predictable question.
“Why would he be envious?”
There was a very long pause; so long Eleanor assumed he was not going to answer. Finally, cursing himself roundly for mentioning Wat’s envy in the first place, Fulk answered brusquely, “Cicely.” He shattered the ensuing silence by asking defensively, and rather challengingly, “Not going to ask who Cicely is?”
“Not when I get the impression you will bite my head off if I do, no.”
There was another long pause, then Fulk said, “The thing about Cicely was her phenomenally bad taste, though I didn’t think so at the time.” He sounded quite angry.
“She chose Wat over you,” said Eleanor knowingly, rather intimidated by Fulk’s bad humour. Until now he had seemed as placid as a duck pond.
“No, she chose me,” he admitted, his voice tight with anger. He saw Eleanor was watching him nervously, almost as if she expected him to kick the table with the chess board over and start shouting. He admitted freely enough that based on most of her experience with people, especially men, that’s what she should expect, but it still rankled that she even considered he might be that boorish.
Fulk sighed, scrubbed a hand through his hair and related his story curtly but fairly calmly, “I suppose she liked the handsome, skilled young warrior with a noble’s manners and skills, a father who was a lord, a knighthood burning brightly in his future and a potential arrangement to receive his father’s holdings after his death via being granted them as a new vassalship rather than an inheritance. It might not seem much to you but to us a minor lordship was truly something. Yes, well, I didn’t like her much but she was pretty and most of the other boys my age wanted her. Note I said boy, for all my loud protests otherwise that’s all I was. I took her interest as my due; it appealed to my ego to have what everyone else wanted.”
He winced ruefully, “Yes, I was an insufferable, arrogant git. I wish someone had been able to knock it out of me, or given me that knighthood I craved with the edge of the blade instead of the flat. It would have saved a lot of pain. So, that’s who Cicely was; my entertainment. Wat had fallen for her; I knew but didn’t really care. My mother didn’t approve, but again I cared not – I was using what she’d taught me in good faith to good effect.”
Eleanor had a hazy suspicion this was one of those Judith things. “Er …?”
“It wasn’t in my mother’s best interests to have children, me included, and it definitely wasn’t in my best interests to end up with any either. Poor Cicely, that’s about the best care I showed her. Well, she did have some good fortune in the end – I went off to France with my father when I was a few months shy of seventeen.” Fulk stared unseeingly ahead for a while, then he shook himself and he said firmly, “Now, chess.” He moved his king pawn two squares forward and set it down with a click that announced his story was finished and defied her to continue the conversation.
Her mind teeming with new information Eleanor blindly moved one of her centre pawns without thought. An supercilious git certainly, but not so now. What had happened?
Heh, this episode reminds me of an alternate, joky name I thought of for this story: sex and the single gooseberry. A rather catchy name with a certain I don't know what, but totally misleading.
PB-DK, nice pun :rofl:
Judas, I am sure her royal gooseberryness would branch out into advertising if there was some cheddar in it for her (and big piles of money for me).
Ah, some nice delving into Fulk's backstory. I always knew there was something fishy about that nose! (okay, I'll stop the puns.)
By the way, what exactly is a gooseberry? Aside from the literal meaning of a type of berry.
By the way, what exactly is a gooseberry? Aside from the literal meaning of a type of berry.
You had cheese, king? Argh! No fair! Hmm :decides it can't have been nice cheese and is therefore irrelevant:
Gooseberry, well it is one of those names which stick. It's cute, in a way, and it fits her very well. It's also only used by the two people who like her; Fulk and me, except I don't really count. Why is Eleanor a gooseberry? I think Fulk explained it well enough when he first came up with it as one of their 'insults'. He liked it enough to use it again, and the name stuck.
“As you command, princess gooseberry.”
“Gooseberry!?”
“Small, green berry, extremely sour and not many people like them. You’re hardly sweet at the best of times; to me you’re anything but sweet.”
“Gooseberry,” repeated Eleanor sceptically. It did have a ring to it, but all the same gooseberry?
“The small part suits you too,” said Fulk helpfully, “though not the green.”
“Gooseberry?” The more you said it the better it sounded, and if nothing else it was unusual.
Hehe, she was doing a reasonable job of supplying the green too in that last part; green with jealousy. That answer your question, Judas?
Gooseberry, well it is one of those names which stick. It's cute, in a way, and it fits her very well. It's also only used by the two people who like her; Fulk and me, except I don't really count. Why is Eleanor a gooseberry? I think Fulk explained it well enough when he first came up with it as one of their 'insults'. He liked it enough to use it again, and the name stuck.
“As you command, princess gooseberry.”
“Gooseberry!?”
“Small, green berry, extremely sour and not many people like them. You’re hardly sweet at the best of times; to me you’re anything but sweet.”
“Gooseberry,” repeated Eleanor sceptically. It did have a ring to it, but all the same gooseberry?
“The small part suits you too,” said Fulk helpfully, “though not the green.”
“Gooseberry?” The more you said it the better it sounded, and if nothing else it was unusual.
Hehe, she was doing a reasonable job of supplying the green too in that last part; green with jealousy. That answer your question, Judas?
Mmmm, cheese. Tell me - is chedder on such supply there that you must wait weeks at a time before you can get more? That's awful.
And yes, it was good to get more of Fulk's backstory. There are now a couple of women in his previous life. One wonders how many more?
That's awful. And yes, it was good to get more of Fulk's backstory. There are now a couple of women in his previous life. One wonders how many more?
frogbeastegg said:
It was CHEDDAR.
Our boy Fulk is apparently quite the medieval pimp daddy. :rofl:
coz1 said:Mmmm, cheese. Tell me - is chedder on such supply there that you must wait weeks at a time before you can get more?
Its a long way from Somerset to Woburn, and the roads are not what they were in the time of the Romans.
This a great story pls keep the good stuff coming i read the whole thing in one day. since im only a new comer to the forum i was hooked.
pls more
pls more
“Check,” said Fulk for the fifteenth time that day. Fifteen games, and Eleanor had lost each and every one of them. Fulk didn’t even wait for her to concede her defeat before he started resetting the pieces. Though he kept his head ducked down as if intent on his task Eleanor could see the way the corners of his mouth lifted fractionally; he was enjoying this. She wasn’t. Time to try a different angle, one which promised not just a chance at victory, but also some fun.
They played through the opening; as usual Fulk had the centre guarded and his ranking pieces developed to a far greater degree than she did. When he finally brought his queen out Eleanor began to search the board attentively. After a few minutes she sat back and asked, “Can you get me a drink, please?”
“Small beer or something stronger to drown your sorrows?”
“I am not sorrowing because I lost fifteen games of chess to you; I do not care in the least,” she insisted serenely. She wasn’t; if she was sorrowful for any reason it was being cooped up inside and forced to do nothing much in the name of healing.
Guessing what she was thinking Fulk gave her an easy opening to a prolonged argument. He had got fed up hours ago of countering her many requests to do something more active. “It’s a good thing we’re not playing for forfeits; I hate to think what I could have wrung out of you by now.”
Much to his surprise Eleanor didn’t reply. She pretended to be completely absorbed in studying the board, hoping to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Mildly puzzled, and ever so slightly suspicious, that she didn’t take his bait Fulk ambled off to fetch a couple of drinks. As soon as he was safely gone Eleanor picked up her left most knight and moved it one square to the right. She then sat and waited for Fulk’s return.
He came back several minutes later, handed her a mug and sat down. “Moved yet?”
“Not yet,” she said, frowning at the board. She waited about half a minute before taking Fulk’s queen with her relocated knight. She waited several tense seconds but Fulk made no comment. The game continued apace.
Less than ten minutes later Fulk said idly, “Check.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightened, “I hate chess!” she declared with strong sentiment.
Fulk laughed and began reset the pieces once more. “You might do better if you didn’t cheat, oh sly one. Learn to play properly, and learn to plan ahead.”
Eleanor growled, “It is the only way to make this tedious game even fractionally appealing.”
“I’m sure you can do some embroidery if you prefer,” suggested Fulk mildly, still working on the pieces.
Eleanor heaved a sorrowful sigh and propped her chin on the palm of one hand. “Abusing hurt, vulnerable princesses is despicable, you do know that?”
“I know it is,” said Fulk with exaggerated gravity, clasping his hands in his lap and looking right at her. “But I can’t see any vulnerable princesses to abuse.”
Eleanor stared at him, trying to decide how he meant that. She thought it unlikely that he was digging at her assassin’s skills, but that was based on the rather tentative assumption he was too decent for such a cheap shot. In the end she fell back on an all purpose insult, “Did anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?”
“Loads of times, but it was you each and every one of them.”
“I am nothing if not consistent.”
“Let’s see if you remain consistent to your losing streak,” he gesticulated at the board, “Your move, oh irritated one.”
Since throwing her king pawn at Fulk would count as an illegal move Eleanor moved it two squares forward instead.
Sorry for the large delay and tiny, rough chapter. I have been flinging most of my effort into my beginner's guide for RTW with the aim of getting as much information gathered into one location as soon as possible. I won't bore you further with guide talk.
coz1, the cheese I like is only sold in our local farmer's market, and sadly that is only held once a month. Today was market day and I have 3 pieces. I asked for eight. I have already eaten two thirds of one chunk.
King, it won't have bee nice cheddar, so it is still irrelevant
The Arch Mede, :rofl:
Thank you, Zeno.
Welcome aboard, Maccavelli. 126 pages in a single day, wow.
They played through the opening; as usual Fulk had the centre guarded and his ranking pieces developed to a far greater degree than she did. When he finally brought his queen out Eleanor began to search the board attentively. After a few minutes she sat back and asked, “Can you get me a drink, please?”
“Small beer or something stronger to drown your sorrows?”
“I am not sorrowing because I lost fifteen games of chess to you; I do not care in the least,” she insisted serenely. She wasn’t; if she was sorrowful for any reason it was being cooped up inside and forced to do nothing much in the name of healing.
Guessing what she was thinking Fulk gave her an easy opening to a prolonged argument. He had got fed up hours ago of countering her many requests to do something more active. “It’s a good thing we’re not playing for forfeits; I hate to think what I could have wrung out of you by now.”
Much to his surprise Eleanor didn’t reply. She pretended to be completely absorbed in studying the board, hoping to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Mildly puzzled, and ever so slightly suspicious, that she didn’t take his bait Fulk ambled off to fetch a couple of drinks. As soon as he was safely gone Eleanor picked up her left most knight and moved it one square to the right. She then sat and waited for Fulk’s return.
He came back several minutes later, handed her a mug and sat down. “Moved yet?”
“Not yet,” she said, frowning at the board. She waited about half a minute before taking Fulk’s queen with her relocated knight. She waited several tense seconds but Fulk made no comment. The game continued apace.
Less than ten minutes later Fulk said idly, “Check.”
Eleanor’s mouth tightened, “I hate chess!” she declared with strong sentiment.
Fulk laughed and began reset the pieces once more. “You might do better if you didn’t cheat, oh sly one. Learn to play properly, and learn to plan ahead.”
Eleanor growled, “It is the only way to make this tedious game even fractionally appealing.”
“I’m sure you can do some embroidery if you prefer,” suggested Fulk mildly, still working on the pieces.
Eleanor heaved a sorrowful sigh and propped her chin on the palm of one hand. “Abusing hurt, vulnerable princesses is despicable, you do know that?”
“I know it is,” said Fulk with exaggerated gravity, clasping his hands in his lap and looking right at her. “But I can’t see any vulnerable princesses to abuse.”
Eleanor stared at him, trying to decide how he meant that. She thought it unlikely that he was digging at her assassin’s skills, but that was based on the rather tentative assumption he was too decent for such a cheap shot. In the end she fell back on an all purpose insult, “Did anyone ever tell you how annoying you are?”
“Loads of times, but it was you each and every one of them.”
“I am nothing if not consistent.”
“Let’s see if you remain consistent to your losing streak,” he gesticulated at the board, “Your move, oh irritated one.”
Since throwing her king pawn at Fulk would count as an illegal move Eleanor moved it two squares forward instead.
Sorry for the large delay and tiny, rough chapter. I have been flinging most of my effort into my beginner's guide for RTW with the aim of getting as much information gathered into one location as soon as possible. I won't bore you further with guide talk.
coz1, the cheese I like is only sold in our local farmer's market, and sadly that is only held once a month. Today was market day and I have 3 pieces. I asked for eight. I have already eaten two thirds of one chunk.
King, it won't have bee nice cheddar, so it is still irrelevant
The Arch Mede, :rofl:
Thank you, Zeno.
Welcome aboard, Maccavelli. 126 pages in a single day, wow.
frogster's cheese adventures reminds me of Lords of the Realm II: "All your people are fed by dairy, my lord."
Short and rough? Still longer and less rough than an update to "The Trees of Autumn", and you update more often.
I know how you feel. It's so rare that I get a good chunk of gouda, but when I do have some... then, I live by gouda!
I know how you feel. It's so rare that I get a good chunk of gouda, but when I do have some... then, I live by gouda!
What can i say when im hooked i read like crazy. Your story is fantastic keep up the good work.
Well, to continue with the recent "cheese meme" - one of my greatest fears in life is that I will someday become lactose intolerant. God help me then.
And poor Eleanor - must she cheat? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Still, I liked the ending. Good choice of moves by Eleanor, and a great way to say it. Well done.
And poor Eleanor - must she cheat? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Still, I liked the ending. Good choice of moves by Eleanor, and a great way to say it. Well done.
“Check,” said Fulk. His voice wobbled slightly as he tried not to laugh at the disinterested but still incensed expression on Eleanor’s face. He picked up the stick he had at his end of the board and cut another notch on one end of it with his dagger; this was the twenty-ninth notch and he was running out of space. Eleanor’s end of the tally stick was still empty. His latest victory recorded Fulk began to reset the pieces once again; the action had become automatic they had played so many games that day.
“You could at least wait until I admit defeat, you know,” said Eleanor dejectedly, “You get me in check then whip the pieces back to their starting positions before I have time to see if I can wriggle free.”
“I know you’ve lost, so I skip the whole time wasting letting you look for an escape and then saying checkmate thing.” Fulk smiled, the shifting firelight and inky late evening shadows made the expression quite sinister. “Anyway I get this feeling if I ever say checkmate you’ll do something unspeakable to me – it’s better to let the game end on a slightly milder note.”
“I hate chess,” said Eleanor through clenched teeth, “really and truly hate chess, completely detest, abhor, despise and loathe chess – if I ever become queen I shall ban the game!”
“So you don’t like chess then?” asked Fulk with polite interest.
“NO!” exploded Eleanor.
Fulk’s eyes widened in playful amazement and he exclaimed, “You should have said so!” That dangerous glint had appeared in Eleanor’s eyes, the one which usually heralded someone getting killed. As appealing as that gleam might be Fulk hastily changed tack, “We can do something else, if you prefer.” If she tried to strangle him he’d have to fight back, and then she would spend the rest of the evening moping at him because she’d been trounced in a second arena. Not to mention it would defeat the whole goal of keeping her from doing something which would end up with yet more blood leaking everywhere.
“Since you have finally agreed to stop boring me-”
“Shown mercy, you mean,” interrupted Fulk.
Eleanor paused for a second then began again, more resolutely, “Since you have finally agreed to stop boring me I think it would be pleasant to go and-”
“No,” said Fulk instantly. He had learned by nine o’clock this morning that anything containing the word ‘go’ involved a long walk or horse ride.
“We could see if-”
“No.” Likewise, he had found by midday that ‘see’ involved leaving the manor building.
“Well, then how about doing-”
“No.” Sentences with ‘doing’ always contained other words such as ‘sword fighting’.
“Then you suggest something, and if the word ‘chess’ is anywhere in sight I shall organise my hairpin collection by sticking them in your torso.”
“I think you’ll find I’m quite the perfect companion for a delicate young noble lady. I can sing, dance, play draughts and that game we won’t mention, also tell stories. I do sparkling conversation on a variety of subjects, including many which are suitable for nice young ladies.”
“It is quite astonishing; you have so many skills and all of them are completely useless. You -” She paused, tilting her head to one side, listening. “Horses; Trempwick’s back. Horses plural; that means someone is with him. How curious.”
Fulk quickly moved through several moves for each side, making it look as if they were in the middle of a game, “We’d best look busy; your move.”
Eleanor moved her black square bishop three squares diagonally right. Fulk brought out his white knight. Eleanor was just about to castle kingside when the door to her room opened and Trempwick came in. He was alone and, aside from his missing cloak, still dressed for the road. Without a word he walked over to the fire and began to warm himself. Neither Eleanor nor Fulk spoke; they paused in their game and waited, in Eleanor’s case apprehensively, to find out what Trempwick intended.
“How delightful; I enter a room and everything becomes hushed with anticipation,” said Trempwick, “It is as if everyone is afraid.” He glanced over his shoulder, “You are not afraid of me, are you dearest Nell?”
That was as easy to answer as his question on whether she hated him: impossible. “Should I be, master?” she parried.
He answered that only with a mysterious grin. Trempwick left the fire and walked over to Fulk. He pulled out a letter, sealed with a blob of red wax and stamped with an official crest. With a mocking smile on his lips he waggled the letter at Fulk, waving it just out of his reach. “Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, landless knight in the service of the crown, is hereby granted the right to use the coat of arms that belonged his father.” He carelessly threw the letter into Fulk’s lap; Fulk picked it up with one hand and examined the seal closely in the flickering light but did not open it. Trempwick’s smirk grew fractionally as he said, “I got you a warhorse too, a very good animal. Consider it a gift to the hero of Fauville.”
The blood drained from Fulk’s face, leaving him a ghostly white. His mouth contorted ever so slightly and he looked as if he were about to be sick.
“No thank you, bodyguard?” asked Trempwick. Polite censure dripped from every syllable. “Your manners are atrocious, and I do believe you look ill,” he turned and sought Eleanor’s opinion, “does he not look ill, Nell?”
“A little,” replied Eleanor cagily. Trempwick’s gesture might have been kind on the surface but from Fulk’s reaction there was something hidden, something malicious about it. She knew Trempwick very capable of spiteful gifts and she was not going to aid him in his game, whatever it might be.
Trempwick shrugged and said in a conciliatory tone, “But it is the idea of being indebted to a man you hate, is it not, bodyguard? No matter then, pearls before swine and all that.” Deliberately Trempwick moved a few steps away and picked up the tally stick from next to the chess board. He ran his thumb over the notches cut into the wood, his neatly manicured nail catching on each scratch and freeing itself with a clicking noise. “You are a good chess player, I presume? We shall have to play sometimes, bodyguard. I do believe I would enjoy it; playing with Nell is always exhilarating, but we do know each other rather too well for any real … edge to be there.”
Trempwick moved to Eleanor’s side and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Get your queen on the field before you castle, dear Nell. Develop your pieces.” He straightened and said genially, “I shall leave you both to your game. Goodnight, and do not stay up too late.”
Eleanor had remembered Fulk’s advice to see if she could smell perfume on the spymaster; she could not. She had been surprised to find a hint of soap instead, faint herbal scented soap of a kind they never used here. Trempwick had obviously been in London; there was no doubt there. He had visited at least one horse market and the palace; why would he need to have a bath for that? Perhaps Fulk was right after all, but surely soap was every bit as incriminating as perfume? Unless Trempwick’s goal was less covering up and more misleading, but again why would he do that?
When Trempwick was safely gone Eleanor asked the still sick looking Fulk, “What was that about?”
“Fauville; the skirmish where my father died.” He answered with the same long pause and clipped, terse speech that she remembered both from his story about Cicely and his earlier telling of the fight on their first night at John’s castle. She didn’t recall anything from his earlier account of the skirmish that would make him a hero, but Trempwick had been definite and she doubted he would say something like that without some firm grounds, even if the comment itself was potentially sarcastic. Trempwick had a reason for saying almost everything.
Fulk picked up the tally stick from the table where Trempwick had left it. Impulsively he pushed himself up from the table and crossed to the fire. He snapped the stick in two and threw both halves on the fire. He rested his right forearm at head height on the stone wall above the fireplace and watched the two bits burn in silence for a moment.
Eventually he stirred himself and said, “It’s late; let’s get your back salved and call it a night.”
LotRII, I remember that game; I feel old now. I discovered it a year or two after its release and it never really worked on my PC, but I do remember that line about dairy, King.
Judas, Maccavelli, you have teamed up to make me blush!
Poor Nell indeed, coz1. The cheese has been the only good thing to happen to her since that hug
“You could at least wait until I admit defeat, you know,” said Eleanor dejectedly, “You get me in check then whip the pieces back to their starting positions before I have time to see if I can wriggle free.”
“I know you’ve lost, so I skip the whole time wasting letting you look for an escape and then saying checkmate thing.” Fulk smiled, the shifting firelight and inky late evening shadows made the expression quite sinister. “Anyway I get this feeling if I ever say checkmate you’ll do something unspeakable to me – it’s better to let the game end on a slightly milder note.”
“I hate chess,” said Eleanor through clenched teeth, “really and truly hate chess, completely detest, abhor, despise and loathe chess – if I ever become queen I shall ban the game!”
“So you don’t like chess then?” asked Fulk with polite interest.
“NO!” exploded Eleanor.
Fulk’s eyes widened in playful amazement and he exclaimed, “You should have said so!” That dangerous glint had appeared in Eleanor’s eyes, the one which usually heralded someone getting killed. As appealing as that gleam might be Fulk hastily changed tack, “We can do something else, if you prefer.” If she tried to strangle him he’d have to fight back, and then she would spend the rest of the evening moping at him because she’d been trounced in a second arena. Not to mention it would defeat the whole goal of keeping her from doing something which would end up with yet more blood leaking everywhere.
“Since you have finally agreed to stop boring me-”
“Shown mercy, you mean,” interrupted Fulk.
Eleanor paused for a second then began again, more resolutely, “Since you have finally agreed to stop boring me I think it would be pleasant to go and-”
“No,” said Fulk instantly. He had learned by nine o’clock this morning that anything containing the word ‘go’ involved a long walk or horse ride.
“We could see if-”
“No.” Likewise, he had found by midday that ‘see’ involved leaving the manor building.
“Well, then how about doing-”
“No.” Sentences with ‘doing’ always contained other words such as ‘sword fighting’.
“Then you suggest something, and if the word ‘chess’ is anywhere in sight I shall organise my hairpin collection by sticking them in your torso.”
“I think you’ll find I’m quite the perfect companion for a delicate young noble lady. I can sing, dance, play draughts and that game we won’t mention, also tell stories. I do sparkling conversation on a variety of subjects, including many which are suitable for nice young ladies.”
“It is quite astonishing; you have so many skills and all of them are completely useless. You -” She paused, tilting her head to one side, listening. “Horses; Trempwick’s back. Horses plural; that means someone is with him. How curious.”
Fulk quickly moved through several moves for each side, making it look as if they were in the middle of a game, “We’d best look busy; your move.”
Eleanor moved her black square bishop three squares diagonally right. Fulk brought out his white knight. Eleanor was just about to castle kingside when the door to her room opened and Trempwick came in. He was alone and, aside from his missing cloak, still dressed for the road. Without a word he walked over to the fire and began to warm himself. Neither Eleanor nor Fulk spoke; they paused in their game and waited, in Eleanor’s case apprehensively, to find out what Trempwick intended.
“How delightful; I enter a room and everything becomes hushed with anticipation,” said Trempwick, “It is as if everyone is afraid.” He glanced over his shoulder, “You are not afraid of me, are you dearest Nell?”
That was as easy to answer as his question on whether she hated him: impossible. “Should I be, master?” she parried.
He answered that only with a mysterious grin. Trempwick left the fire and walked over to Fulk. He pulled out a letter, sealed with a blob of red wax and stamped with an official crest. With a mocking smile on his lips he waggled the letter at Fulk, waving it just out of his reach. “Sir Fulk FitzWilliam, landless knight in the service of the crown, is hereby granted the right to use the coat of arms that belonged his father.” He carelessly threw the letter into Fulk’s lap; Fulk picked it up with one hand and examined the seal closely in the flickering light but did not open it. Trempwick’s smirk grew fractionally as he said, “I got you a warhorse too, a very good animal. Consider it a gift to the hero of Fauville.”
The blood drained from Fulk’s face, leaving him a ghostly white. His mouth contorted ever so slightly and he looked as if he were about to be sick.
“No thank you, bodyguard?” asked Trempwick. Polite censure dripped from every syllable. “Your manners are atrocious, and I do believe you look ill,” he turned and sought Eleanor’s opinion, “does he not look ill, Nell?”
“A little,” replied Eleanor cagily. Trempwick’s gesture might have been kind on the surface but from Fulk’s reaction there was something hidden, something malicious about it. She knew Trempwick very capable of spiteful gifts and she was not going to aid him in his game, whatever it might be.
Trempwick shrugged and said in a conciliatory tone, “But it is the idea of being indebted to a man you hate, is it not, bodyguard? No matter then, pearls before swine and all that.” Deliberately Trempwick moved a few steps away and picked up the tally stick from next to the chess board. He ran his thumb over the notches cut into the wood, his neatly manicured nail catching on each scratch and freeing itself with a clicking noise. “You are a good chess player, I presume? We shall have to play sometimes, bodyguard. I do believe I would enjoy it; playing with Nell is always exhilarating, but we do know each other rather too well for any real … edge to be there.”
Trempwick moved to Eleanor’s side and leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Get your queen on the field before you castle, dear Nell. Develop your pieces.” He straightened and said genially, “I shall leave you both to your game. Goodnight, and do not stay up too late.”
Eleanor had remembered Fulk’s advice to see if she could smell perfume on the spymaster; she could not. She had been surprised to find a hint of soap instead, faint herbal scented soap of a kind they never used here. Trempwick had obviously been in London; there was no doubt there. He had visited at least one horse market and the palace; why would he need to have a bath for that? Perhaps Fulk was right after all, but surely soap was every bit as incriminating as perfume? Unless Trempwick’s goal was less covering up and more misleading, but again why would he do that?
When Trempwick was safely gone Eleanor asked the still sick looking Fulk, “What was that about?”
“Fauville; the skirmish where my father died.” He answered with the same long pause and clipped, terse speech that she remembered both from his story about Cicely and his earlier telling of the fight on their first night at John’s castle. She didn’t recall anything from his earlier account of the skirmish that would make him a hero, but Trempwick had been definite and she doubted he would say something like that without some firm grounds, even if the comment itself was potentially sarcastic. Trempwick had a reason for saying almost everything.
Fulk picked up the tally stick from the table where Trempwick had left it. Impulsively he pushed himself up from the table and crossed to the fire. He snapped the stick in two and threw both halves on the fire. He rested his right forearm at head height on the stone wall above the fireplace and watched the two bits burn in silence for a moment.
Eventually he stirred himself and said, “It’s late; let’s get your back salved and call it a night.”
LotRII, I remember that game; I feel old now. I discovered it a year or two after its release and it never really worked on my PC, but I do remember that line about dairy, King.
Judas, Maccavelli, you have teamed up to make me blush!
Poor Nell indeed, coz1. The cheese has been the only good thing to happen to her since that hug
no reason to blush froggy... you are a fantastic writer... and you have some great and involving personae's in your story...