Don't worry about the mob if you kill everyone off, I'll hold them back for you. I keep waiting for a story to end with everyone's death instead of the happy ending and I'm usually disappointed. 
The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
- Thread starter frogbeastegg
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Crusher Neko said:Don't worry about the mob if you kill everyone off, I'll hold them back for you. I keep waiting for a story to end with everyone's death instead of the happy ending and I'm usually disappointed.
I just have a feeling that this won't be a "traditional" happy ending, if at all.
At most one per sentence. At least one per page almost IIRC. Yes, I was that bored.
Imagine reading the Quixote aloud. My vision of the first month at a kind hell / sadistic purgatory Make Sil-Notes!
Ah, I finally caught up with the story again...and it has changed!
Sending Fulk off like that. I don't like it, missy!
Then again, I don't think we have heard the last of him...
Sending Fulk off like that. I don't like it, missy!
Then again, I don't think we have heard the last of him...
Kaiser Ludwig said:
Well, I certainly like Quixote quite a bit in English, although not knowing much Spanish doesn't help. His other works seem to be interesting enough in English; at least the Exemplary Novels are (especially the student who thought he was made out of glass, now that was even better than Quixote!
)
Eleanor spent the afternoon much as she had spent the previous one; kneeling at Trempwick’s side in his study with her hands clasped at the back of her neck. This time he had been going over the rudiments of accounting, teaching her where the assorted figures for her two manor’s incomes came from and how they were derived. When she finally collapsed from exhaustion, something which took less time because her body was already worn out and stiff from yesterday, Trempwick sat her up against the wall until he decided she was fit to kneel again. This repeated several times over.
The lecturing never ceased. As soon as the incomes had been explained he moved on to expenses. To test what she had learned he had her break down the sources of income and expenditure for his own vast collection of lands.
He kept her working until dinnertime. She was secretly glad of the endless demands on her attention; it kept her from thinking about the great gaping hole Fulk’s leaving had left in both her heart and her life. Small attractions do not warrant mourning on any scale, and that appearance had to be kept up.
After dinner, a very one-sided affair as Trempwick stuck to his earlier dismissal of her as “Evidently not at all hungry, what a pity.” They sat together in the solar for a while playing chess.
“You told Hugh you were happy,” said Trempwick inscrutably.
Eleanor looked up from the board. “Yes?”
“I do wonder why exactly. I want you to be happy, and not just for the sake of my own health.”
Eleanor leaned back slightly and clasped her hands in her lap. She played with her betrothal ring as she talked, making the light catch and dance about inside the sapphire. “Truth be told I do not much like the spymaster, not even in part. The spymaster would never have cared to ask or consider my feelings; he takes what he wants and uses people like toys for his own amusement. The other side of you, the one you have only recently begun to display, I like quite a bit. He is quite good company, kind and comforting. That goes a long way, even if it seems a small thing. It was the spymaster I thought I would be marrying.”
“The spymaster is what his job requires him to be.”
Carefully Eleanor suggested, “Perhaps we should acknowledge a non-aggression pact? Fighting is futile, and it only ensures I see the less pleasant side of you. That does not mean I am a meek pushover though, and I never will be. Do not push me or expect too much and I will do likewise. You keep the spymaster out of things as much as possible and I keep … myself under control.”
“Ah, an admirable sentiment. Agreed. I do have some appreciation for your … spirited side, just not when it gets out of control. Bear that in mind.”
“Yes … Raoul.” The unfamiliar name felt strange on her lips. She waited tensely for his reaction, covering her nerves by making her move on the chess board.
The spymaster smiled. “I wondered how long it would take you to try that. If I have two different sides it only seems fair to give them two different modes of address, no? Just make sure you pick the right one for the right time, beloved Nell.”
After an afternoon of hard riding Fulk and the rest of Hugh’s party made it back to the palace. Dinner was long over and much of the castle was bedding down for the night. From the stables Hugh sent most of his escort off to take the treasury to the counting rooms. The stablehands discreetly removed the horses’ tack and began to brush them down. Another man he sent running off to rouse out his squires and have them fetch food and water to wash with. He held a hushed conversation with the final remaining knight, then bade the man to send someone called Simon over to them.
Finally, wearily, he turned to Fulk. “It is too late to decide on your future tonight. I shall arrange for you to speak to my father tomorrow as soon as is convenient for him; word shall be sent to you. One of the retained knights died recently; you can take his room and squire for the night. Although not officially a retainer yet you may feel free to request food, wash water or any other such comforts. Simon will see to your needs. I will ask that you remain in your room until given leave to do otherwise; the king is a busy man and I will not see his time wasted by you vanishing when he decides to deal with you. You may go to Sunday mass, however, but be careful to return immediately.”
“Thank you, your highness.”
Simon turned up several minutes latter, running and out of breath. He turned out to be a scrawny looking boy somewhere around twelve or thirteen with dark hair and wary hazel eyes. His pale face was hostilely neutral but something about him suggested fear. He was dressed well enough in good quality material but nothing much outstanding; a typical set of squire’s work day clothes. He halted before Hugh and bowed deeply.
Hugh said, “I hear Sir Godfrey has passed on.”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Then you are in need of a new master. You will serve Sir Fulk. He will take over your master’s quarters. Show him the way now and see to his needs.”
Simon bowed to Hugh again and said politely to Fulk, “If you will follow me, my lord.”
Fulk collected his tattered shield and smallest bag of belongings. “Here, lad, help me with the rest of my things.”
Silently Simon lifted the bag containing the rest of Fulk’s armour. He staggered under the awkward weight, set his jaw and slung it on his back and then carefully crouched so he could pick up the second bag with the rest of Fulk’s clothes without overbalancing. With difficulty he straightened and began to walk. “This way, my lord.”
As they crossed the courtyard towards one of the towers built into the inner curtain wall Fulk asked, “What’s your name, lad?”
“Simon Peche, my lord.”
“From?”
“Preston, my lord.”
“Ah. Which son are you then?”
“Third, my lord.” The boy had a very soft, grave voice; Fulk had to strain to hear him.
“You’re lucky to have a place in the palace then.”
“I do not, my lord. I served Sir Godfrey; he had a place at the palace.”
“So unless you find a new master here you’ll be back off home?”
“Yes, my lord.”
They arrived at the door to the tower and Simon pushed it open, struggling with his heavy load. The boy struggled up the stairs to the first floor and staggered over to the entrance to the small room. He stood still, panting for breath for a few seconds, then his face set resolutely and he lifted the latch with his elbow and he tried to open the door, hampered badly by his load.
Fulk shoved the door open himself. “There we go,” he said with a cheerfulness he did not feel. Simon carried his load in. He dropped the bags in one corner with a clatter which made Fulk wince and snap, “Watch out!”
The boy blanched and ducked his head. “Sorry, my lord.”
Competently, and in total silence, he helped Fulk disarm and set his equipment up for storage. It was too late to clean the armour tonight.
“Go see what food you can chase up, bring some for yourself if you want some. Get me a bowl of water to wash in; I’m not in my best state.” Fulk battered at his chest and a cloud of road dust rose from him. He managed to get one side of his mouth to quirk up into a smile. “See? I dare stay I stink of horses too?”
Simon didn’t answer. He bowed curtly and scurried off on his errands. Fulk dismissed the boy’s reticence with a shrug and seated himself on the stool at the small table.
The room was of very good size, taking up the entire second floor and following the D shape of the tower with a compact square space lost from one corner because of the staircase. Remarkably the room was very clean, and the floor rushes were fresh and lavender had been mixed in with the flea’s bane to give a pleasant scent. Somehow Fulk found it felt as if the room had recently been scoured from top to bottom, something which made him uneasy; he didn’t know what the previous occupant had died of. He made a note to find out as soon as he could.
There was a simple wooden framed bed in addition to the table and stool but no other furniture. The bed was large enough for two; that, along with the rooms size, made Fulk suspect the room was really intended for a married retainer and his family. Either someone was going to find him a wife or he was likely to get relocated as soon as was convenient. A tiny fireplace was set in one wall. The room had five windows, all long, narrow slits; three provided a view of the inner bailey while the other two overlooked the outer bailey, although currently the shutters were closed to keep the night air out. Lighting currently came from the fire and a pair of cheap candles stuck on wall prickets near the bed.
A simple armour stand made up of an upright post with a crossbar fasted in place near the top in imitation of a man’s shoulders stood in one corner next to a sizeable chest for storing the rest of his equipment. Another chest provided a place to store his clothes and personal items. There was no trace of anything that might belong to Simon’s former lord. The boy would obviously sleep elsewhere, presumably in one of the two big halls, but a small chest slightly separate from those for Fulk indicated he kept his possessions here.
At this late hour the room was quiet but in daylight hours that would be different as it was trapped between two of the busiest parts of the castle. The thick stone walls would cut out a lot of the din though. There was a room below and another above, presumably also given over to accommodation. Even if occupied the thick floorboards should provide ample insulation from their occupants’ noise. All in all it was quite satisfactory and he’d do whatever he could to hang on to it for the duration of his stay without picking up a wife.
When Simon returned he had brought a hunk of brown bread, some cold meat, a bit of hard cheese and a jug of wine. As soon as the food was placed down on the table he shot off again without so much as a word. Fulk drew his dagger and sliced the bread in two, filling it with the slices of meat. He sliced the cheese along its length to produce three slabs suitable for his sandwich. As he arranged the cheese on top of the meat he found a faint smile on his lips without knowing why. Something inside him trembled then gave way and he found tears pricking his eyes as that sense of loss and pain he’d been expecting to feel ever since Eleanor told him to leave crashed down on him. Now he knew why the smile was there: the cheese. She’d have snatched it out from under his nose with that impish grin of hers or come up with some silly scheme to wheedle it away from him.
He placed his dagger down on the table with a clatter and buried his face in his hands. He dug the tips of his fingers into is his scalp as if that could somehow help. Footsteps echoing on the spiral staircase alerted him to the return of his new squire; he whipped his hands away from his face and grappled to keep his hurt under control. Though he was no longer interested in food he began to eat, chewing mechanically and choking down the food without tasting it.
Simon placed a bowl of water on the clear part of the table and stood waiting for further instructions. Fulk managed to ask in a normal sounding voice, “How did your lord die?”
The boy’s face retained its fixed blankness but the hazel eyes showed contempt. “He got drunk and drowned in his own vomit overnight.”
Fulk waved the boy away to his bed for the night and continued to force down his food, knowing he needed to keep his strength up. The last few bites he couldn’t manage so he left them, along with much of the wine. He stripped down to his braes and washed, paying little heed to how cold the water had gone. He then tended his wounded leg and climbed into his new bed.
Sleep did not find him; his mind was awash with what he had lost, feverishly trying to find some way to deal with the agony. He’d tied his heart to her, and his sense of worth. His sense of honour too; he’d only truly found one after he met her. Now they had parted ways he was adrift, not even sure what he was any more. He had slowly managed to forge himself into something close to that man of honour he had always wanted to be, and he had done that because of, and for, Eleanor. Without her there was no motive to continue, no motive to even hold on to what work he had done. Without her whole parts of him were missing, torn away leaving ragged bleeding edges and overwhelming pain.
There was no motive for doing anything. Fighting and working for reward and advancement; she had told him to built a life based around these things once again but there was nothing he wanted that could be gained that way. Eleanor was the only thing he wanted and it didn’t matter how high he rose he would always be unworthy of her in her family’s eyes. He would be too late too; it would take years of extraordinary luck combined with the odd miracle for him to climb even as high as earl and he only really had days, weeks at the most. He had to save her before Trempwick could do too much damage. That was, as well he knew, impossible.
It all left one question: what in hell’s name was he going to do now?
The only answer he found was not much help. He had to someone present a normal face to the world; if he let even part of this pain show people would ask questions that would spark suspicion if word spread to the wrong ears. If the king or Hugh knew he was devastated by the loss of a love it would take them all of two seconds to figure out who that love was.
The numb shock had been safer, so much safer.
I spy potential for your next gazette article, coz1. 'How to hate popular characters and love unpopular ones and live to tell the tale!'
Tsk, tsk, what a feeble excuse, Judas. What's wrong with digging a pit trap or cornering coz1 when he enters a dead end? Trempy would be so disappointed in your lack of flair.
Hugh and Fulk in some kind of ungodly alliance is an interesting idea and one I'd like to play with, but sadly Hugh is going to cough up blood at the prospect of his sister and Fulk.
Fulk and Anne? I think a certain gooseberry would have plenty to say about that, most of it quite loud and nasty. :goes pale at the prospect of an apocalyptic gooseberry rage:
Maude was the French girl Fulk was involved with ... well, the one who got mentioned before; he was in France for eight years. Good theory though. Stockholm syndrone ... you know I hadn't thought of that.
If any mob begins to appear because of how the plot goes, get into action, Crusher! Live up to your name while I hide like a cowardly frog and keep writing
Not even the wonderful 'The Princess bride' has a traditional happy ending. Yay!
The French plotline requires quite a lot of pages before it really comes into its own. It's already been some 42 pages since Jocelyn's first appearance.
For fun, what would Fulk say in a letter home to his mother?
Dear mum,
Well I guess this is a big surprise! It’s me, your little Fulkin. I’m not dead after all; I just didn’t have time to tell you that until now. You know how it is, battles, fighting, chicks, mingling with royalty – I’ve been on the go non-stop. Yeah, well, I guess that’s not entirely true. See I screwed up my life big time and kinda sorta got dad killed (long story, but I got wounded and he was protecting me when he got hacked up), utterly trashed my future, and there’s a set of men with nasty knives out looking for me so they can cut me bits off. It’s all a big, silly misunderstanding, honest, mummy. I was going to marry the girl, but then it all went pear shaped and all.
Oh, and that brewer guy – he’s lying. Totally. Just because he had this gorgeous wife, and just because she had a thing for my broken nose, and just because I rather liked her, and just because I was rather lonely, and just because he really wasn’t capable where it counts (wink wink), and just because he caught her sat on my lap looking all adoring he decided we were having it off. We weren’t, honest. She had something in her eye and I was helping her get it out.
Um … have you been contacted by a lady called Alliese? I mean, I say lady but what I mean is cute looking extortionist scheming harlot. Just ignore her and anything she might say.
Look, mum – I can hear you being all disapproving even from this distance. Relax, k? I was gone for eight years. I got lonely a few times. In unfortunate circumstances. While being a boneheaded dolt. I’m over that now; believe me, please? I found my one true love; she’s called Eleanor, as in ‘princess Eleanor, youngest daughter of king William of England’. You’d love her; she’s cute and rather grumpy. Got a nice wit too; we argue a lot. No, no not argue like that – I know you always taught me to be chivalrous and all, and I am, so calm it down, ok? We argue cutely, it’s more like banter really. Eleanor’s a real blast; I’m telling you you’d love her.
Yeah, anyway, speaking of Eleanor … by any chance could you have got my dad’s identify wrong? I’m not accusing you of being a whore or anything, far from it. I know it was love and all; you and my dad were married in all but name and stuff, plus you never even looked at anyone but him. It’s just I could really use some royal blood in my veins right about now. I wanna marry my little gooseberry (hehe, I call Eleanor that. Cute isn’t it?) but she’s a princess and I’m some bastard nothing with a knighthood … Yeah, so, got any ideas? At all? I’m desperate here. Very desperate. Totally desperate.
And before you ask, no I haven’t done anything to put my gooseberry an a difficult situation! Jesus, mum, you have a one track mind and a low opinion of me! Oh and shut up about Cicely, I just know you’re going to start nagging about her again and whinging about how you never approved. Can it. I was just taking your advice: don’t waste your money, Fulk, you said. Well Cicely was free, alternate arrangements weren’t. Also she was kinda hot. Yeah, and anyway where do you think I learned all this kind of thing from? That’s right – you and dad. Let the innocent cast the first stone and all that.
Moving on to other news, I’m a knight now. My beloved Eleanor knighted me because she knew I always wanted to be a knight. I have some really cool armour; it’s the kind of thing really rich knights wear, all up to date and everything. I’ve got some cash too, and I’m in royal service. I just got transferred to the king but I’m looking to get back with my little gooseberry ASAP. Look, just don’t ask about my transfer, k? It doesn’t involve scandal, and it doesn’t involve her getting sick of me, or anything else bad. I blame that Trempwick guy she’s being forced to marry. I’ve got to save her, and I haven’t got much time left. Damn it, I just can’t leave her to him! He’s all creepy, and kinda cruel, and nasty, and sarcastic, and he tramples all over her and treats her like dirt, and shows her no respect, and he killed her favourite brother, and I just know this is all going to go horribly wrong! I just can’t bear to see my little gooseberry’s spirit slowly die because of this bastard. She doesn’t want to marry him anyway; perhaps you’ve heard the rumours about how she resisted? I was locked up in a dungeon during that, bastards.
Look, I’m going to wrap it up here and go back to manically scheming to save my beloved from that odious Trempy. If you hear of a man abducting (yeah, that’s what it’s always called but she’d be cooperating with me so it’s more like rescuing, even though her family won’t believe it) princess Eleanor that’s me. If you hear of someone dying while trying to run off with her, that’s me too.
Love,
Fulk.
PS: If I ever have the enormous pleasure of introducing Eleanor to you (preferably as “This is my wife, Eleanor…”) please don’t call me Fulkin! I’m twenty-five now; diminutive names are for kids. She’d laugh herself sick and never let me hear the end of it.
PPS: If at any point in all this you feel the urge to remind me, yet again, that I was an unwanted accident and the cause of much pregnancy related discomfort, DON’T! I’m sick of it, really sick of it, completely and utterly sick of it! It was not my fault; blame dad and yourself and whatever it was you did which caused your usual … arrangements to fail. And anyway you always said you were glad I was born after I was born; you said it was one of those mother-son love at first sight things and it made up for all the general misery of the previous nine months. Yeah, so shut up about it. Thanks.
:sighs happily: I need my comedy.
The lecturing never ceased. As soon as the incomes had been explained he moved on to expenses. To test what she had learned he had her break down the sources of income and expenditure for his own vast collection of lands.
He kept her working until dinnertime. She was secretly glad of the endless demands on her attention; it kept her from thinking about the great gaping hole Fulk’s leaving had left in both her heart and her life. Small attractions do not warrant mourning on any scale, and that appearance had to be kept up.
After dinner, a very one-sided affair as Trempwick stuck to his earlier dismissal of her as “Evidently not at all hungry, what a pity.” They sat together in the solar for a while playing chess.
“You told Hugh you were happy,” said Trempwick inscrutably.
Eleanor looked up from the board. “Yes?”
“I do wonder why exactly. I want you to be happy, and not just for the sake of my own health.”
Eleanor leaned back slightly and clasped her hands in her lap. She played with her betrothal ring as she talked, making the light catch and dance about inside the sapphire. “Truth be told I do not much like the spymaster, not even in part. The spymaster would never have cared to ask or consider my feelings; he takes what he wants and uses people like toys for his own amusement. The other side of you, the one you have only recently begun to display, I like quite a bit. He is quite good company, kind and comforting. That goes a long way, even if it seems a small thing. It was the spymaster I thought I would be marrying.”
“The spymaster is what his job requires him to be.”
Carefully Eleanor suggested, “Perhaps we should acknowledge a non-aggression pact? Fighting is futile, and it only ensures I see the less pleasant side of you. That does not mean I am a meek pushover though, and I never will be. Do not push me or expect too much and I will do likewise. You keep the spymaster out of things as much as possible and I keep … myself under control.”
“Ah, an admirable sentiment. Agreed. I do have some appreciation for your … spirited side, just not when it gets out of control. Bear that in mind.”
“Yes … Raoul.” The unfamiliar name felt strange on her lips. She waited tensely for his reaction, covering her nerves by making her move on the chess board.
The spymaster smiled. “I wondered how long it would take you to try that. If I have two different sides it only seems fair to give them two different modes of address, no? Just make sure you pick the right one for the right time, beloved Nell.”
After an afternoon of hard riding Fulk and the rest of Hugh’s party made it back to the palace. Dinner was long over and much of the castle was bedding down for the night. From the stables Hugh sent most of his escort off to take the treasury to the counting rooms. The stablehands discreetly removed the horses’ tack and began to brush them down. Another man he sent running off to rouse out his squires and have them fetch food and water to wash with. He held a hushed conversation with the final remaining knight, then bade the man to send someone called Simon over to them.
Finally, wearily, he turned to Fulk. “It is too late to decide on your future tonight. I shall arrange for you to speak to my father tomorrow as soon as is convenient for him; word shall be sent to you. One of the retained knights died recently; you can take his room and squire for the night. Although not officially a retainer yet you may feel free to request food, wash water or any other such comforts. Simon will see to your needs. I will ask that you remain in your room until given leave to do otherwise; the king is a busy man and I will not see his time wasted by you vanishing when he decides to deal with you. You may go to Sunday mass, however, but be careful to return immediately.”
“Thank you, your highness.”
Simon turned up several minutes latter, running and out of breath. He turned out to be a scrawny looking boy somewhere around twelve or thirteen with dark hair and wary hazel eyes. His pale face was hostilely neutral but something about him suggested fear. He was dressed well enough in good quality material but nothing much outstanding; a typical set of squire’s work day clothes. He halted before Hugh and bowed deeply.
Hugh said, “I hear Sir Godfrey has passed on.”
“Yes, your highness.”
“Then you are in need of a new master. You will serve Sir Fulk. He will take over your master’s quarters. Show him the way now and see to his needs.”
Simon bowed to Hugh again and said politely to Fulk, “If you will follow me, my lord.”
Fulk collected his tattered shield and smallest bag of belongings. “Here, lad, help me with the rest of my things.”
Silently Simon lifted the bag containing the rest of Fulk’s armour. He staggered under the awkward weight, set his jaw and slung it on his back and then carefully crouched so he could pick up the second bag with the rest of Fulk’s clothes without overbalancing. With difficulty he straightened and began to walk. “This way, my lord.”
As they crossed the courtyard towards one of the towers built into the inner curtain wall Fulk asked, “What’s your name, lad?”
“Simon Peche, my lord.”
“From?”
“Preston, my lord.”
“Ah. Which son are you then?”
“Third, my lord.” The boy had a very soft, grave voice; Fulk had to strain to hear him.
“You’re lucky to have a place in the palace then.”
“I do not, my lord. I served Sir Godfrey; he had a place at the palace.”
“So unless you find a new master here you’ll be back off home?”
“Yes, my lord.”
They arrived at the door to the tower and Simon pushed it open, struggling with his heavy load. The boy struggled up the stairs to the first floor and staggered over to the entrance to the small room. He stood still, panting for breath for a few seconds, then his face set resolutely and he lifted the latch with his elbow and he tried to open the door, hampered badly by his load.
Fulk shoved the door open himself. “There we go,” he said with a cheerfulness he did not feel. Simon carried his load in. He dropped the bags in one corner with a clatter which made Fulk wince and snap, “Watch out!”
The boy blanched and ducked his head. “Sorry, my lord.”
Competently, and in total silence, he helped Fulk disarm and set his equipment up for storage. It was too late to clean the armour tonight.
“Go see what food you can chase up, bring some for yourself if you want some. Get me a bowl of water to wash in; I’m not in my best state.” Fulk battered at his chest and a cloud of road dust rose from him. He managed to get one side of his mouth to quirk up into a smile. “See? I dare stay I stink of horses too?”
Simon didn’t answer. He bowed curtly and scurried off on his errands. Fulk dismissed the boy’s reticence with a shrug and seated himself on the stool at the small table.
The room was of very good size, taking up the entire second floor and following the D shape of the tower with a compact square space lost from one corner because of the staircase. Remarkably the room was very clean, and the floor rushes were fresh and lavender had been mixed in with the flea’s bane to give a pleasant scent. Somehow Fulk found it felt as if the room had recently been scoured from top to bottom, something which made him uneasy; he didn’t know what the previous occupant had died of. He made a note to find out as soon as he could.
There was a simple wooden framed bed in addition to the table and stool but no other furniture. The bed was large enough for two; that, along with the rooms size, made Fulk suspect the room was really intended for a married retainer and his family. Either someone was going to find him a wife or he was likely to get relocated as soon as was convenient. A tiny fireplace was set in one wall. The room had five windows, all long, narrow slits; three provided a view of the inner bailey while the other two overlooked the outer bailey, although currently the shutters were closed to keep the night air out. Lighting currently came from the fire and a pair of cheap candles stuck on wall prickets near the bed.
A simple armour stand made up of an upright post with a crossbar fasted in place near the top in imitation of a man’s shoulders stood in one corner next to a sizeable chest for storing the rest of his equipment. Another chest provided a place to store his clothes and personal items. There was no trace of anything that might belong to Simon’s former lord. The boy would obviously sleep elsewhere, presumably in one of the two big halls, but a small chest slightly separate from those for Fulk indicated he kept his possessions here.
At this late hour the room was quiet but in daylight hours that would be different as it was trapped between two of the busiest parts of the castle. The thick stone walls would cut out a lot of the din though. There was a room below and another above, presumably also given over to accommodation. Even if occupied the thick floorboards should provide ample insulation from their occupants’ noise. All in all it was quite satisfactory and he’d do whatever he could to hang on to it for the duration of his stay without picking up a wife.
When Simon returned he had brought a hunk of brown bread, some cold meat, a bit of hard cheese and a jug of wine. As soon as the food was placed down on the table he shot off again without so much as a word. Fulk drew his dagger and sliced the bread in two, filling it with the slices of meat. He sliced the cheese along its length to produce three slabs suitable for his sandwich. As he arranged the cheese on top of the meat he found a faint smile on his lips without knowing why. Something inside him trembled then gave way and he found tears pricking his eyes as that sense of loss and pain he’d been expecting to feel ever since Eleanor told him to leave crashed down on him. Now he knew why the smile was there: the cheese. She’d have snatched it out from under his nose with that impish grin of hers or come up with some silly scheme to wheedle it away from him.
He placed his dagger down on the table with a clatter and buried his face in his hands. He dug the tips of his fingers into is his scalp as if that could somehow help. Footsteps echoing on the spiral staircase alerted him to the return of his new squire; he whipped his hands away from his face and grappled to keep his hurt under control. Though he was no longer interested in food he began to eat, chewing mechanically and choking down the food without tasting it.
Simon placed a bowl of water on the clear part of the table and stood waiting for further instructions. Fulk managed to ask in a normal sounding voice, “How did your lord die?”
The boy’s face retained its fixed blankness but the hazel eyes showed contempt. “He got drunk and drowned in his own vomit overnight.”
Fulk waved the boy away to his bed for the night and continued to force down his food, knowing he needed to keep his strength up. The last few bites he couldn’t manage so he left them, along with much of the wine. He stripped down to his braes and washed, paying little heed to how cold the water had gone. He then tended his wounded leg and climbed into his new bed.
Sleep did not find him; his mind was awash with what he had lost, feverishly trying to find some way to deal with the agony. He’d tied his heart to her, and his sense of worth. His sense of honour too; he’d only truly found one after he met her. Now they had parted ways he was adrift, not even sure what he was any more. He had slowly managed to forge himself into something close to that man of honour he had always wanted to be, and he had done that because of, and for, Eleanor. Without her there was no motive to continue, no motive to even hold on to what work he had done. Without her whole parts of him were missing, torn away leaving ragged bleeding edges and overwhelming pain.
There was no motive for doing anything. Fighting and working for reward and advancement; she had told him to built a life based around these things once again but there was nothing he wanted that could be gained that way. Eleanor was the only thing he wanted and it didn’t matter how high he rose he would always be unworthy of her in her family’s eyes. He would be too late too; it would take years of extraordinary luck combined with the odd miracle for him to climb even as high as earl and he only really had days, weeks at the most. He had to save her before Trempwick could do too much damage. That was, as well he knew, impossible.
It all left one question: what in hell’s name was he going to do now?
The only answer he found was not much help. He had to someone present a normal face to the world; if he let even part of this pain show people would ask questions that would spark suspicion if word spread to the wrong ears. If the king or Hugh knew he was devastated by the loss of a love it would take them all of two seconds to figure out who that love was.
The numb shock had been safer, so much safer.
I spy potential for your next gazette article, coz1. 'How to hate popular characters and love unpopular ones and live to tell the tale!'
Tsk, tsk, what a feeble excuse, Judas. What's wrong with digging a pit trap or cornering coz1 when he enters a dead end? Trempy would be so disappointed in your lack of flair.
Hugh and Fulk in some kind of ungodly alliance is an interesting idea and one I'd like to play with, but sadly Hugh is going to cough up blood at the prospect of his sister and Fulk.
Fulk and Anne? I think a certain gooseberry would have plenty to say about that, most of it quite loud and nasty. :goes pale at the prospect of an apocalyptic gooseberry rage:
Maude was the French girl Fulk was involved with ... well, the one who got mentioned before; he was in France for eight years. Good theory though. Stockholm syndrone ... you know I hadn't thought of that.
If any mob begins to appear because of how the plot goes, get into action, Crusher! Live up to your name while I hide like a cowardly frog and keep writing
Not even the wonderful 'The Princess bride' has a traditional happy ending. Yay!
The French plotline requires quite a lot of pages before it really comes into its own. It's already been some 42 pages since Jocelyn's first appearance.
For fun, what would Fulk say in a letter home to his mother?
Dear mum,
Well I guess this is a big surprise! It’s me, your little Fulkin. I’m not dead after all; I just didn’t have time to tell you that until now. You know how it is, battles, fighting, chicks, mingling with royalty – I’ve been on the go non-stop. Yeah, well, I guess that’s not entirely true. See I screwed up my life big time and kinda sorta got dad killed (long story, but I got wounded and he was protecting me when he got hacked up), utterly trashed my future, and there’s a set of men with nasty knives out looking for me so they can cut me bits off. It’s all a big, silly misunderstanding, honest, mummy. I was going to marry the girl, but then it all went pear shaped and all.
Oh, and that brewer guy – he’s lying. Totally. Just because he had this gorgeous wife, and just because she had a thing for my broken nose, and just because I rather liked her, and just because I was rather lonely, and just because he really wasn’t capable where it counts (wink wink), and just because he caught her sat on my lap looking all adoring he decided we were having it off. We weren’t, honest. She had something in her eye and I was helping her get it out.
Um … have you been contacted by a lady called Alliese? I mean, I say lady but what I mean is cute looking extortionist scheming harlot. Just ignore her and anything she might say.
Look, mum – I can hear you being all disapproving even from this distance. Relax, k? I was gone for eight years. I got lonely a few times. In unfortunate circumstances. While being a boneheaded dolt. I’m over that now; believe me, please? I found my one true love; she’s called Eleanor, as in ‘princess Eleanor, youngest daughter of king William of England’. You’d love her; she’s cute and rather grumpy. Got a nice wit too; we argue a lot. No, no not argue like that – I know you always taught me to be chivalrous and all, and I am, so calm it down, ok? We argue cutely, it’s more like banter really. Eleanor’s a real blast; I’m telling you you’d love her.
Yeah, anyway, speaking of Eleanor … by any chance could you have got my dad’s identify wrong? I’m not accusing you of being a whore or anything, far from it. I know it was love and all; you and my dad were married in all but name and stuff, plus you never even looked at anyone but him. It’s just I could really use some royal blood in my veins right about now. I wanna marry my little gooseberry (hehe, I call Eleanor that. Cute isn’t it?) but she’s a princess and I’m some bastard nothing with a knighthood … Yeah, so, got any ideas? At all? I’m desperate here. Very desperate. Totally desperate.
And before you ask, no I haven’t done anything to put my gooseberry an a difficult situation! Jesus, mum, you have a one track mind and a low opinion of me! Oh and shut up about Cicely, I just know you’re going to start nagging about her again and whinging about how you never approved. Can it. I was just taking your advice: don’t waste your money, Fulk, you said. Well Cicely was free, alternate arrangements weren’t. Also she was kinda hot. Yeah, and anyway where do you think I learned all this kind of thing from? That’s right – you and dad. Let the innocent cast the first stone and all that.
Moving on to other news, I’m a knight now. My beloved Eleanor knighted me because she knew I always wanted to be a knight. I have some really cool armour; it’s the kind of thing really rich knights wear, all up to date and everything. I’ve got some cash too, and I’m in royal service. I just got transferred to the king but I’m looking to get back with my little gooseberry ASAP. Look, just don’t ask about my transfer, k? It doesn’t involve scandal, and it doesn’t involve her getting sick of me, or anything else bad. I blame that Trempwick guy she’s being forced to marry. I’ve got to save her, and I haven’t got much time left. Damn it, I just can’t leave her to him! He’s all creepy, and kinda cruel, and nasty, and sarcastic, and he tramples all over her and treats her like dirt, and shows her no respect, and he killed her favourite brother, and I just know this is all going to go horribly wrong! I just can’t bear to see my little gooseberry’s spirit slowly die because of this bastard. She doesn’t want to marry him anyway; perhaps you’ve heard the rumours about how she resisted? I was locked up in a dungeon during that, bastards.
Look, I’m going to wrap it up here and go back to manically scheming to save my beloved from that odious Trempy. If you hear of a man abducting (yeah, that’s what it’s always called but she’d be cooperating with me so it’s more like rescuing, even though her family won’t believe it) princess Eleanor that’s me. If you hear of someone dying while trying to run off with her, that’s me too.
Love,
Fulk.
PS: If I ever have the enormous pleasure of introducing Eleanor to you (preferably as “This is my wife, Eleanor…”) please don’t call me Fulkin! I’m twenty-five now; diminutive names are for kids. She’d laugh herself sick and never let me hear the end of it.
PPS: If at any point in all this you feel the urge to remind me, yet again, that I was an unwanted accident and the cause of much pregnancy related discomfort, DON’T! I’m sick of it, really sick of it, completely and utterly sick of it! It was not my fault; blame dad and yourself and whatever it was you did which caused your usual … arrangements to fail. And anyway you always said you were glad I was born after I was born; you said it was one of those mother-son love at first sight things and it made up for all the general misery of the previous nine months. Yeah, so shut up about it. Thanks.
:sighs happily: I need my comedy.
Well, "Fulkin" could have had some of the schemingness (is that a word?) rubbed off and he could try to at least prevent Tremp from winning. Moral victory and all
ooh now I get it. Very underhanded thing you! Have Hugh and William take out Trempi, then William croaks, perhaps by a final order by the spymaster to his faithful minions. THEN tell Hugh about Nell & Fulki so that he dies of apoplexy... and there you go, Fulk is the new king of England. Thanks. It was the first thing which came to mind a lot of pages ago when the "Nell-Trempy" attraction began to develop. Although why this late in her imprisonment and with an escape open... dunno
Please don't let this be a prelude for that "He's the descendant of this old line of Thatcher's who where once Kings" of "A Knight's Tale" for the actual story. :wacko:
Two questions:
Considering how Fulk was being so "active" in that area of his life for so long... are there any little angels of his own lying around somewhere? Or am I infringing some dark "don't ask don't tell" policy of the AAR?
Also... I just feel a "bit" paranoid, but is it possible that the little Queen Anne is actually an Scottish agent plotting to take out William's heirs and then William himself, thus giving herself a good enough claim that could be backed with Scotland's troops? :wacko: Then again I must remind myself that "The Prince" wasn't written way back then so nothing quite so Machiavellan could be considered... *points at title*
Considering how Fulk was being so "active" in that area of his life for so long... are there any little angels of his own lying around somewhere? Or am I infringing some dark "don't ask don't tell" policy of the AAR?
Also... I just feel a "bit" paranoid, but is it possible that the little Queen Anne is actually an Scottish agent plotting to take out William's heirs and then William himself, thus giving herself a good enough claim that could be backed with Scotland's troops? :wacko: Then again I must remind myself that "The Prince" wasn't written way back then so nothing quite so Machiavellan could be considered... *points at title*
Hehe! No, I won't be going down the cheese 'Fulk is a long lost prince' route. He's exactly what he has always been said to be; the bastard son of a minor knight and a peasant. Good conspiracy theories; no comment on how accurate parts of them may or may not be
Nope, Fulk has no children. I've played with all the research and stats and that is quite viable for the middle ages so long as he is cautious and picks the right partners (as in women who agree with him). He might not have to pay child support but Fulk's the kind who would want to be a good father, so any child would tie him to the mother. He's also not at all keen on inflicting the bastard tag on someone else, not after suffering all his life because of his own birth.
Little queen Anne would have no claim to the throne if William died. If she had a son she could be queen regent for him until he came of age.
Nope, Fulk has no children. I've played with all the research and stats and that is quite viable for the middle ages so long as he is cautious and picks the right partners (as in women who agree with him). He might not have to pay child support but Fulk's the kind who would want to be a good father, so any child would tie him to the mother. He's also not at all keen on inflicting the bastard tag on someone else, not after suffering all his life because of his own birth.
Little queen Anne would have no claim to the throne if William died. If she had a son she could be queen regent for him until he came of age.
Well, as it is now, I doubt our Gooseberry could say much about Fulk marrying Anne.
And it is such a nice theory! :rofl:
Simon does sound a bit clumsy, but considering how his master died, i suppose it could be expected
And it is such a nice theory! :rofl:
Simon does sound a bit clumsy, but considering how his master died, i suppose it could be expected
frogbeastegg said:
Unfortunately, my intrigue score is a little low for that... heck, I'm not even up to "flamboyant schemer" level.
As for that "letter"... the parts where Fulk was talking about Eleanor made me rather ill, to be honest. I hope you're happy.
It was mid afternoon before a messenger summoned Fulk to the small throne room on the second floor of the keep. Fulk had dressed in his best and groomed himself immaculately ready for the audience. It never hurt to make a good impression. He took Trempwick’s letter along with him, tucked through the left side of his belt with the seal turned outwards for others to see. He didn’t want the spymaster’s insignia in contact with his clothes any more than he would have wanted rotting meat in contact with them.
He was ushered in to the throne room and left to kneel on the floor before the dais. The king’s clerk accepted the letter and passed it on to the king. As he waited on bent knee Fulk surreptitiously examined his surroundings. With his head bent reverently he had an excellent view of the polished wooden floorboards; they had been left bare of coverings and were damned hard. Quick glances at the walls revealed that running from the right side of the throne around the room to nearly reach the left side of the throne was a pictorial history of the dynasty, beginning with the battle which won them the throne and ending with William’s accepting the Welsh as his vassals and thus as part of England. Someone had done some very fast work there; the Welsh had only been absorbed around two months ago. The throne and dais were about what you’d expect from a throne and dais; a simple platform with a high backed, ornately carved wooden chair stuck on it.
The ceiling, what very little Fulk had noted before being required to make his obeisances, was unusual. It was patterned along the same pointed roof supported by beams running horizontal from one side of the room to the other creating an A shape that many single story buildings had. Suddenly Eleanor’s story of sitting up in the roof beams and listening in to affairs of state made a lot more sense.
The king rolled Trempwick’s letter back up. “Very well; I shall accept the recommendation. If Trempwick calls a person useful then it is always so.” He snapped his fingers at the clerk standing at the side of the throne’s dais. “Draw up a contract based on the usual terms and a wage of eight pence a day. The name is Sir Fulk …?”
“FitzWilliam,” supplied Fulk.
“Am I correct in thinking the horse you arrived on belongs to Trempwick?”
“Yes, sire.”
“A groom shall return it. The horse market is on Tuesdays; find yourself a war horse and a saddle horse. I do not expect you have the money to pay for quality horses?”
“No, sire.” A pang of guilt shot through him; he hadn’t even opened the purse Eleanor had given him yet. All the same it was a moot point; his back wages would not pay for two good horses.
“The treasury will loan you funds at a favourable rate of interest, so send the bills to my clerks.” William frowned and drummed his fingers on the ornately carved arm of his throne. “I expect my knights to pay their own way. I expect them to do me credit at all times.” Of his clerk he demanded, “Sir Godfrey’s estates, any heir?”
“Sire, a brother.”
William grunted and leaned back to rest his shoulders against the padded back of the throne. “Any other suitably sized fiefs?”
“Sire, there are …” the clerk did a rapid mental tally, “three in the hands of heiresses or widows, and one you could reassign with only minor bother. All others are not of suitable income.”
“Which is it to be, Fulk? Married safely into a fortune or taking land that you may have to fight to hold on to?”
“I shall remain single, sire.”
From the king’s disapproving expression it was clear he thought Fulk wanted to marry for further benefit at a later date, boosting his status still further. It was a mistake Fulk was more than happy to leave alive. William raised an enquiring eyebrow at the clerk. The man provided, “Thaxted, Essex; no heirs and reverting to the crown. The former holder’s brother in law contests this; he says the fief should pass to him through his wife, the dead man’s sister because of a verbal agreement to which there are no witnesses except the claimant’s son. The fief is currently valued at sixty pounds per annum.”
“That will do,” said William decisively. He extended his right hand with his signet ring. Fulk got to his feet, advanced a few steps onto the dais before kneeling again. He kissed the ring, paying homage for his new lands. When Fulk had retreated back to his old position the king enquired of his clerk, “Has a reliable steward been set in place yet?”
“Yes, sire. Edward of Salisbury sent word of his arrival eleven days ago.”
“Excellent.” To Fulk, “You may choose your own steward if you wish, but this Edward of Salisbury is one of my royal trained stewards. He will wring the best incomes possible from your land; it is in my own best interests to have him do so, yours as well. He will ensure you can pay what you owe me each year and still have enough left over to maintain the standards I expect from my knights plus a surplus. I shall rent him to you for ten shillings per year; you would lose more than that to a corrupt steward.”
A baron for all of a minute and already being given offers he couldn’t refuse aimed at draining him of money. Perhaps this was not all it was cracked up to be, or then again perhaps it was; it just depended on who you listened to. “Thank you, sire.”
“Someone else will have to explain the rest; speak to another of my knights.” The king waved his hand in dismissal. As Fulk left William said, “You are perhaps surprised we are conducting business on a Sunday?”
Fulk stopped walking and turned back. “I admit I am, sire.”
William’s mouth turned in a bitter smile. “God may have time to rest but I do not. I suspect that is because He is omnipotent and I am merely human.”
Fulk arrived back at his room to find a richly dressed, handsome young woman waiting for him. “The queen wishes to speak with you, if you have finished your business with the king?” She had a Scottish accent to add flavour to her English. In one corner Simon sat on the stool cleaning Fulk’s armour. With faint amusement Fulk noticed that the boy was watching the woman from under his eyelashes, hardly paying attention to his work at all.
“Just finished,” said Fulk.
She led him to the keep’s solar, getting him past several sets of armed guards with no more than a cheery smile and a wave. She signalled to Fulk to wait outside while she bobbed a curtsey. “Sir Fulk, your highness.”
“Send him in,” came Anne’s voice. Fulk was beckoned into the solar and immediately bowed to the queen, noting the presence of another two maids in addition to the one who had fetched him. The maids were all considerably older than their mistress; two were somewhere around sixteen and the other looked to be somewhere about thirty. The older maid was probably intended to provide a steadying, motherly influence on the young queen. All three women were seated and working away at panels for a larger embroidered hanging; the maid who had fetched Fulk seated herself with the group and resumed her own sewing.
As soon as she saw him Anne wailed, “It is true; I did not want to believe, but here you are.” Impatiently she instructed, “Oh, do stop that bowing and tell me why you are here.”
Fulk straightened and said neutrally, “It was decided my talents were wasted in my previous post, your highness.”
Anne’s brows drew together and she worked her needle safely into the fabric then laid her work to one side. “My maids are all trustworthy; you can speak the truth without fear. Did Eleanor send you away or Trempwick?”
“The order came from her, and when I queried it Eleanor stood by it and claimed it as her own. She may have been forced to it though; she had quarrelled with Trempwick, well as much as she ever can quarrel with a man who tramples her underfoot at the least provocation.”
“Why did Eleanor send you away? How could she? I do not understand.”
“She thought things would be better this way, no more living next to what we can’t have.”
“Is it true she is reconciled to her marriage?”
“Yes.”
“And that she is growing fond of that Trempwick?” Fulk’s face answered for him. Anne pounded a fist on her thigh. “No! But that can’t be! She loves you!”
The older maid chipped in, “The poor thing is probably only making the best of a bad job. Nothing as bad as being married to a man you hate and who hates you.” This maid also had a Scottish accent. She continued stitching away at the tree forming the centrepiece of her embroidered scene. “Love has little to do with marriage.”
“I know that. What I do not see is how Eleanor can be all … all … gooey with her betrothed if she loves Fulk.”
The older maid said knowingly, “Men can love several women, why can’t women love several men?”
“Because that is disgusting,” protested Anne matter-of-factly. “True love is supposed to be exclusive and all consuming.”
“Dear, there are all kinds of love. Why can’t your stepdaughter love her betrothed in a comforting kind of way and this handsome knight in a more … passionate way?”
“Because.” Anne split the word up into its base syllables, a one-two blow to any opposition.
The maid who had fetched Fulk offered comfortingly, “Maybe she is faking it? Acting. I have done that from time to time; it can look very convincing.”
Anne considered both maid’s suggestions at once, answering one and revisiting the other with the same question, “But why?”
“For a quieter life,” said the younger maid. “Or to promote jealousy amongst her suitors.”
“Because the heart is annoying like that,” explained the older one. “It delights in creating tangles of lives.”
“Because Trempwick accuses her of being cold if he’s dissatisfied and he presses himself on her regardless,” stated Fulk. “He hurls himself at her and blames her if she is not suitably … enthusiastic. He is not a man you want to get on the wrong side of.”
“Poor thing,” commiserated the second young maid. She had a true English accent, making her a sop to English pride and the token English maid in the Scottish queen’s intimate little group.
Anne was thinking rapidly. “So … she cannot love him at all because she truly loves you, so this must be a ruse or dreadful despair at work. Yes, and you are despairing too because you think you have lost her. But if a benevolent force helps bring you together-”
“No!” said Fulk adamantly. “This is not some bard’s tale – this is real. She’s going to marry Trempwick and she loves me. There’s no way out for either of us; we’re stuck with it no matter how much we wish otherwise. She’s not faking anything – she’s somehow found something to cling to, something to like in Trempwick, and whatever that is she’s hanging on to it for dear life as it’s the only thing that can maybe bring some hope out of this God damned mess! I’d wish her well but I know that scheming bastard’s going to ruin her and all I can do is sit here and worry.” Silence fell as Fulk’s tirade ended. Sinking realisation set in; he had gone a long way too far.
Anne said quietly to the world in general, “You see? A very ardent love, so deep it is a kind of pain.”
The older maid said, “All well and good but the knight has the truth of it; there is nothing to be done except be glad she has found something tolerable in this marriage while mourning how cruel fate can be.”
“I will not give up so easily. I am queen of England, Eleanor’s stepmother; there has to be something I can do.” Anne burned with determination.
“Like what?” asked Fulk. “Remember I am your long lost brother and get your family to agree? Murder Trempwick? Help me run away with Eleanor and shelter us for the rest of our lives from the wrath of your husband and his spymaster?”
Anne’s face set. “You are just being cruel.”
“Lady, you are offering false hope to a desperate man. That is cruellest of all.”
“Not false hope. I can at least get her to visit me often so you can see her.”
Fulk laughed harshly. “Conduct an affair in the middle of the palace, under her father’s roof? Mostly impossible and tantamount to suicide, and it still does not save her from Trempwick. It also brings her closer to her father, and if you’d seen what I have you’d know that’s a very bad idea indeed.”
“I do have some idea! There was blood all over the floor one night,” she flung a hand at a spot on the floor, “and everyone knows about her resistance to the betrothal.”
“Did you see her lying barely conscious in a pool of her own blood, her ribs cracked, covered in bruises from head to toe with her back a bleeding chaos of cuts? Did you actually see what he’d done to her to cause that spilt blood here? Or to cause those famous screams? You ever sat safely in a kitchen while she gets shredded to save your life? Have you tried to ease her pain and patch her injuries back together so they can heal? Have you held her and tried to offer some comfort only to find the best you can do is agree with her when she says she won’t die? Have you ever wanted to protect her but known all you will do is get yourself killed, leaving her completely alone and friendless?” Raggedly he finished, “You have no idea.”
Anne had gone very pale. “William is not a bad man-”
“Oh no, course not,” agreed Fulk brashly.
“It is wrong, all of this is wrong. I will do what I can to fix both parts of this; if I come up with something I will contact you. You do likewise; you may count on my help, Fulk.”
“I will keep that in mind, but I don’t see what we can do. Please, think carefully before you act, please. Her situation’s precarious.”
“Any of my maids can be trusted with a message; you should find it easy enough to speak with them.” Anne looked consideringly at the younger Scottish maid. “Yes … yes, I shall arrange for you to be dining partner to Godit each meal. I can pretend I want to play matchmaker.” Hastily she assured them, “You do not have to play along to that, just be friends.”
Godit smiled into her sewing. “There is no point in saving the princess if her knight’s been stolen by someone else,” she joked lightly.
“Have faith, Fulk,” implored Anne. “If you give up then there will never be any hope.”
“I shall continue to search for ways whether I wish to or not,” admitted Fulk. “And I do wish to; I want her back, or if that is too much, safe. It is impossible but I won’t give up on her.”
Nell could say plenty, although Fulk and Anne wouldn't hear it. Sooner or later they would meet and then :flinches: well, remember the scene where she threw oranges at her brother and then make everything ten times worse.
I knew you would love hearing Fulk write home to tell his dear mother about his gooseberry, Judas
He was ushered in to the throne room and left to kneel on the floor before the dais. The king’s clerk accepted the letter and passed it on to the king. As he waited on bent knee Fulk surreptitiously examined his surroundings. With his head bent reverently he had an excellent view of the polished wooden floorboards; they had been left bare of coverings and were damned hard. Quick glances at the walls revealed that running from the right side of the throne around the room to nearly reach the left side of the throne was a pictorial history of the dynasty, beginning with the battle which won them the throne and ending with William’s accepting the Welsh as his vassals and thus as part of England. Someone had done some very fast work there; the Welsh had only been absorbed around two months ago. The throne and dais were about what you’d expect from a throne and dais; a simple platform with a high backed, ornately carved wooden chair stuck on it.
The ceiling, what very little Fulk had noted before being required to make his obeisances, was unusual. It was patterned along the same pointed roof supported by beams running horizontal from one side of the room to the other creating an A shape that many single story buildings had. Suddenly Eleanor’s story of sitting up in the roof beams and listening in to affairs of state made a lot more sense.
The king rolled Trempwick’s letter back up. “Very well; I shall accept the recommendation. If Trempwick calls a person useful then it is always so.” He snapped his fingers at the clerk standing at the side of the throne’s dais. “Draw up a contract based on the usual terms and a wage of eight pence a day. The name is Sir Fulk …?”
“FitzWilliam,” supplied Fulk.
“Am I correct in thinking the horse you arrived on belongs to Trempwick?”
“Yes, sire.”
“A groom shall return it. The horse market is on Tuesdays; find yourself a war horse and a saddle horse. I do not expect you have the money to pay for quality horses?”
“No, sire.” A pang of guilt shot through him; he hadn’t even opened the purse Eleanor had given him yet. All the same it was a moot point; his back wages would not pay for two good horses.
“The treasury will loan you funds at a favourable rate of interest, so send the bills to my clerks.” William frowned and drummed his fingers on the ornately carved arm of his throne. “I expect my knights to pay their own way. I expect them to do me credit at all times.” Of his clerk he demanded, “Sir Godfrey’s estates, any heir?”
“Sire, a brother.”
William grunted and leaned back to rest his shoulders against the padded back of the throne. “Any other suitably sized fiefs?”
“Sire, there are …” the clerk did a rapid mental tally, “three in the hands of heiresses or widows, and one you could reassign with only minor bother. All others are not of suitable income.”
“Which is it to be, Fulk? Married safely into a fortune or taking land that you may have to fight to hold on to?”
“I shall remain single, sire.”
From the king’s disapproving expression it was clear he thought Fulk wanted to marry for further benefit at a later date, boosting his status still further. It was a mistake Fulk was more than happy to leave alive. William raised an enquiring eyebrow at the clerk. The man provided, “Thaxted, Essex; no heirs and reverting to the crown. The former holder’s brother in law contests this; he says the fief should pass to him through his wife, the dead man’s sister because of a verbal agreement to which there are no witnesses except the claimant’s son. The fief is currently valued at sixty pounds per annum.”
“That will do,” said William decisively. He extended his right hand with his signet ring. Fulk got to his feet, advanced a few steps onto the dais before kneeling again. He kissed the ring, paying homage for his new lands. When Fulk had retreated back to his old position the king enquired of his clerk, “Has a reliable steward been set in place yet?”
“Yes, sire. Edward of Salisbury sent word of his arrival eleven days ago.”
“Excellent.” To Fulk, “You may choose your own steward if you wish, but this Edward of Salisbury is one of my royal trained stewards. He will wring the best incomes possible from your land; it is in my own best interests to have him do so, yours as well. He will ensure you can pay what you owe me each year and still have enough left over to maintain the standards I expect from my knights plus a surplus. I shall rent him to you for ten shillings per year; you would lose more than that to a corrupt steward.”
A baron for all of a minute and already being given offers he couldn’t refuse aimed at draining him of money. Perhaps this was not all it was cracked up to be, or then again perhaps it was; it just depended on who you listened to. “Thank you, sire.”
“Someone else will have to explain the rest; speak to another of my knights.” The king waved his hand in dismissal. As Fulk left William said, “You are perhaps surprised we are conducting business on a Sunday?”
Fulk stopped walking and turned back. “I admit I am, sire.”
William’s mouth turned in a bitter smile. “God may have time to rest but I do not. I suspect that is because He is omnipotent and I am merely human.”
Fulk arrived back at his room to find a richly dressed, handsome young woman waiting for him. “The queen wishes to speak with you, if you have finished your business with the king?” She had a Scottish accent to add flavour to her English. In one corner Simon sat on the stool cleaning Fulk’s armour. With faint amusement Fulk noticed that the boy was watching the woman from under his eyelashes, hardly paying attention to his work at all.
“Just finished,” said Fulk.
She led him to the keep’s solar, getting him past several sets of armed guards with no more than a cheery smile and a wave. She signalled to Fulk to wait outside while she bobbed a curtsey. “Sir Fulk, your highness.”
“Send him in,” came Anne’s voice. Fulk was beckoned into the solar and immediately bowed to the queen, noting the presence of another two maids in addition to the one who had fetched him. The maids were all considerably older than their mistress; two were somewhere around sixteen and the other looked to be somewhere about thirty. The older maid was probably intended to provide a steadying, motherly influence on the young queen. All three women were seated and working away at panels for a larger embroidered hanging; the maid who had fetched Fulk seated herself with the group and resumed her own sewing.
As soon as she saw him Anne wailed, “It is true; I did not want to believe, but here you are.” Impatiently she instructed, “Oh, do stop that bowing and tell me why you are here.”
Fulk straightened and said neutrally, “It was decided my talents were wasted in my previous post, your highness.”
Anne’s brows drew together and she worked her needle safely into the fabric then laid her work to one side. “My maids are all trustworthy; you can speak the truth without fear. Did Eleanor send you away or Trempwick?”
“The order came from her, and when I queried it Eleanor stood by it and claimed it as her own. She may have been forced to it though; she had quarrelled with Trempwick, well as much as she ever can quarrel with a man who tramples her underfoot at the least provocation.”
“Why did Eleanor send you away? How could she? I do not understand.”
“She thought things would be better this way, no more living next to what we can’t have.”
“Is it true she is reconciled to her marriage?”
“Yes.”
“And that she is growing fond of that Trempwick?” Fulk’s face answered for him. Anne pounded a fist on her thigh. “No! But that can’t be! She loves you!”
The older maid chipped in, “The poor thing is probably only making the best of a bad job. Nothing as bad as being married to a man you hate and who hates you.” This maid also had a Scottish accent. She continued stitching away at the tree forming the centrepiece of her embroidered scene. “Love has little to do with marriage.”
“I know that. What I do not see is how Eleanor can be all … all … gooey with her betrothed if she loves Fulk.”
The older maid said knowingly, “Men can love several women, why can’t women love several men?”
“Because that is disgusting,” protested Anne matter-of-factly. “True love is supposed to be exclusive and all consuming.”
“Dear, there are all kinds of love. Why can’t your stepdaughter love her betrothed in a comforting kind of way and this handsome knight in a more … passionate way?”
“Because.” Anne split the word up into its base syllables, a one-two blow to any opposition.
The maid who had fetched Fulk offered comfortingly, “Maybe she is faking it? Acting. I have done that from time to time; it can look very convincing.”
Anne considered both maid’s suggestions at once, answering one and revisiting the other with the same question, “But why?”
“For a quieter life,” said the younger maid. “Or to promote jealousy amongst her suitors.”
“Because the heart is annoying like that,” explained the older one. “It delights in creating tangles of lives.”
“Because Trempwick accuses her of being cold if he’s dissatisfied and he presses himself on her regardless,” stated Fulk. “He hurls himself at her and blames her if she is not suitably … enthusiastic. He is not a man you want to get on the wrong side of.”
“Poor thing,” commiserated the second young maid. She had a true English accent, making her a sop to English pride and the token English maid in the Scottish queen’s intimate little group.
Anne was thinking rapidly. “So … she cannot love him at all because she truly loves you, so this must be a ruse or dreadful despair at work. Yes, and you are despairing too because you think you have lost her. But if a benevolent force helps bring you together-”
“No!” said Fulk adamantly. “This is not some bard’s tale – this is real. She’s going to marry Trempwick and she loves me. There’s no way out for either of us; we’re stuck with it no matter how much we wish otherwise. She’s not faking anything – she’s somehow found something to cling to, something to like in Trempwick, and whatever that is she’s hanging on to it for dear life as it’s the only thing that can maybe bring some hope out of this God damned mess! I’d wish her well but I know that scheming bastard’s going to ruin her and all I can do is sit here and worry.” Silence fell as Fulk’s tirade ended. Sinking realisation set in; he had gone a long way too far.
Anne said quietly to the world in general, “You see? A very ardent love, so deep it is a kind of pain.”
The older maid said, “All well and good but the knight has the truth of it; there is nothing to be done except be glad she has found something tolerable in this marriage while mourning how cruel fate can be.”
“I will not give up so easily. I am queen of England, Eleanor’s stepmother; there has to be something I can do.” Anne burned with determination.
“Like what?” asked Fulk. “Remember I am your long lost brother and get your family to agree? Murder Trempwick? Help me run away with Eleanor and shelter us for the rest of our lives from the wrath of your husband and his spymaster?”
Anne’s face set. “You are just being cruel.”
“Lady, you are offering false hope to a desperate man. That is cruellest of all.”
“Not false hope. I can at least get her to visit me often so you can see her.”
Fulk laughed harshly. “Conduct an affair in the middle of the palace, under her father’s roof? Mostly impossible and tantamount to suicide, and it still does not save her from Trempwick. It also brings her closer to her father, and if you’d seen what I have you’d know that’s a very bad idea indeed.”
“I do have some idea! There was blood all over the floor one night,” she flung a hand at a spot on the floor, “and everyone knows about her resistance to the betrothal.”
“Did you see her lying barely conscious in a pool of her own blood, her ribs cracked, covered in bruises from head to toe with her back a bleeding chaos of cuts? Did you actually see what he’d done to her to cause that spilt blood here? Or to cause those famous screams? You ever sat safely in a kitchen while she gets shredded to save your life? Have you tried to ease her pain and patch her injuries back together so they can heal? Have you held her and tried to offer some comfort only to find the best you can do is agree with her when she says she won’t die? Have you ever wanted to protect her but known all you will do is get yourself killed, leaving her completely alone and friendless?” Raggedly he finished, “You have no idea.”
Anne had gone very pale. “William is not a bad man-”
“Oh no, course not,” agreed Fulk brashly.
“It is wrong, all of this is wrong. I will do what I can to fix both parts of this; if I come up with something I will contact you. You do likewise; you may count on my help, Fulk.”
“I will keep that in mind, but I don’t see what we can do. Please, think carefully before you act, please. Her situation’s precarious.”
“Any of my maids can be trusted with a message; you should find it easy enough to speak with them.” Anne looked consideringly at the younger Scottish maid. “Yes … yes, I shall arrange for you to be dining partner to Godit each meal. I can pretend I want to play matchmaker.” Hastily she assured them, “You do not have to play along to that, just be friends.”
Godit smiled into her sewing. “There is no point in saving the princess if her knight’s been stolen by someone else,” she joked lightly.
“Have faith, Fulk,” implored Anne. “If you give up then there will never be any hope.”
“I shall continue to search for ways whether I wish to or not,” admitted Fulk. “And I do wish to; I want her back, or if that is too much, safe. It is impossible but I won’t give up on her.”
Nell could say plenty, although Fulk and Anne wouldn't hear it. Sooner or later they would meet and then :flinches: well, remember the scene where she threw oranges at her brother and then make everything ten times worse.
I knew you would love hearing Fulk write home to tell his dear mother about his gooseberry, Judas
Well, Anne is being stubborn, but whether it is because she is a child who wants everything to go her way, or because she is a Queen, I wouldn't know
And I hereby create the Queen Anne fanclub, unless someone did it without warning me
And I hereby create the Queen Anne fanclub, unless someone did it without warning me
I fear Anne is getting in a little over hear head at the moment. I'm not really sure what she can do to "fix" any of this, other than bat a few eyelashes at William. That might make the King rethink some decisions, but it does not elevate Fulk enough for him to marry a Princess (though he is one more step closer with his new lands.) Hmmm...perhaps that's it. Eleanor is slighly pushing Fulk closer to an appropriate level to marry - then she frames Trempy for some sort of embezzlement or something, and gets to marry Fulk instead. And everyone's happy except for Trempy, of course (who would proabaly lose his head) and perhaps Hugh since that might create a challenge to his inheritance.
And me! Trempy lose his head, indeed! Okay, coz, now you are tempting me to try out some of my intrigue skills.
"Remember, when you assassinate, you make an ass of... er... I and Nate."
I'll join the Queen Anne fanclub. But, I do think the little girl in her is coming out right now, and that could be dangerous for everyone involved.
Is anybody else worried that the number of people who know about Fulk-Nell's secret just doubled? Those three maids (whether Anne trusts them or not) seem the sort who could betray the truth to the king for a price.
i was gone for just 2 weeks and so much changed in such a short time.
fulk stays my favo character
anyway keep up the good work!
fulk stays my favo character
anyway keep up the good work!
Not to hijack, eggy but...
JM you better watch out - illusive shadow over here!! (Now I really better watch my back.)
JM you better watch out - illusive shadow over here!!
(Now I really better watch my back.)
Some good work. The coven of maids acts as a nice chorus. We've been missing a chorus. (Perhaps the story has mirrored the state of adolescent sexual isolation, despite their age, Fulk and Nell are isolated, unmarried etc.).
I'm actually feeling some sympathy for Raoul as a character. He is actually giving ground as a husband, which is quite different to his previous institutionalised behaviour.
Fulk as a baron, heh. Baron of Thaxted. "Red" Thaxted. ...
Pop-up> Sire! Rebel Scum have captured the province of Thaxted.
Mouse-over> Rebel Scum, Infantry 1000, Cavalry 1, Leader Sir Fulk FitzWilliam.
I'm a bit unsure of the timing. I feel like we're in Act 4 if this were drama. If this were novel, I'd be unsure and measuring the weight of future pages to determine where the plot is. As the action of the Spy plot has waned, and no other crisis has really emerged yet, I don't know where we're going.
I don't know if your readership would love you for it, but a Hamlet ending would be quite enjoyable. "How ironic, killed by her own Hubris." Nell's too adolescent for Hubris though.
Good tragedies: Brazil, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead, Burnt by the Sun, Fargo, Barton Fink
I'm actually feeling some sympathy for Raoul as a character. He is actually giving ground as a husband, which is quite different to his previous institutionalised behaviour.
Fulk as a baron, heh. Baron of Thaxted. "Red" Thaxted. ...
Pop-up> Sire! Rebel Scum have captured the province of Thaxted.
Mouse-over> Rebel Scum, Infantry 1000, Cavalry 1, Leader Sir Fulk FitzWilliam.
I'm a bit unsure of the timing. I feel like we're in Act 4 if this were drama. If this were novel, I'd be unsure and measuring the weight of future pages to determine where the plot is. As the action of the Spy plot has waned, and no other crisis has really emerged yet, I don't know where we're going.
I don't know if your readership would love you for it, but a Hamlet ending would be quite enjoyable. "How ironic, killed by her own Hubris." Nell's too adolescent for Hubris though.
Good tragedies: Brazil, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead, Burnt by the Sun, Fargo, Barton Fink