“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