“He has done
what?” exclaimed Jocelyn in disbelief.
“Lord Yves has declared his independence to the world at large,” repeated Renaud.
Jocelyn kneaded his temples; he felt a headache coming on. “How can a man so stupid still be alive? Really – how? I fail to see it.”
Richildis said, “Please, Renaud, won’t you come inside and accept our hospitality?”
Jocelyn grudgingly admitted his wife had a point; the courtyard of their castle was not the place for business, or for receiving the man who had trained you up to knighthood. “Yes, come inside, we’ll get you something to wash the dust out of your throat.”
Renaud beamed. “Most kind, most kind. It has been a very long ride; I set off early.”
Jocelyn took the hint, not that it was unexpected. Ever since he’d lost his right hand in battle Renaud had taken up a lifestyle more suited to a lazy merchant than a knight, one revolving around food, wine, and other fleeting pleasures. He was usually an expensive guest. “And some food, of course.”
“My boy, you’re truly an excellent host.”
The three walked inside the main hall of the castle, Richildis and Renaud exchanging polite, tedious formalities while Jocelyn delved into the impact Yves’ latest folly would have on the situation. He was rudely awakened from his schemes by Renaud clouting him on the shoulder and boomed admiringly, “Still an impressive sight, my boy.”
Jocelyn pasted a smile on his face and hopped his attention back into the world. Richildis had disappeared off to the other side of the hall to organise the servants, leaving him alone with his old mentor. “What is?”
“Your delectable wife. If you ever get tired of her send her over to me!” He laughed loudly at his own joke.
From the way Richildis’ shoulders stiffed Jocelyn knew she had heard. Hell, the whole damn castle had probably heard. He ushered the other man towards the nearest seating, the bench at one of the lower tables, and encouraged him to sit. “Tell me about Yves.”
“Ah, Yves.” Renaud looked hopefully about for his promised sustenance.
Choking on his swallowed impatience Jocelyn prompted again, “Yes, Yves.”
“Well, the man has announced that he is now the independent count of Tourraine, bowing knee to no one but God.”
“But
what is he doing? Except sending messages and inviting his death? I’ve not been summoned to bring my men to muster yet.”
“Not many have. Not me … no, not me.” He smiled shakily, rubbing the unnatural ending of his right wrist. “No, never again me. But I still listen, even if I can’t fight. He has not summoned more than half his men, and some of those he has called upon have refused his call to arms. Damned fool’s more likely to fall to civil war with his own before the king of England gets here to have his revenge. He is pondering about hiring a few mercenaries, pondering – faffing, talking, posturing, in short doing nothing much there either.”
“Does he truly think he can stand alone? Here, on the border between England and France?”
“I’ve no idea, my boy. He’s not had much use for me since I lost my hand fighting to keep his miserable little arse on his father’s seat. Gratitude.” Richildis delivered a jug of wine and a pair of goblets. With a smile that made Jocelyn’s hackles rise Renaud accepted his cup and waited as she poured for him. “Why thank you, my dear.”
Jocelyn recalled his guest’s wandering attention, and eyes, yet again. “Yves. So any ideas when he will summon me to arms?” Richildis filled the second cup and gave it to her husband before demonstrating her good manners, or perhaps his dislike of their guest, and vanishing.
“When he remembers, and that’ll probably be in the night of the night so he’ll delay until tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll forget. Then when his enemies are at his gates he’ll throw up his hands and curse you for not being there, just as he’ll curse the rest he forgot to send for.” Renaud drained his cup in one go. “The man is a complete tosspot.”
Jocelyn choked out a brief burst of laughter. “Exactly right!”
Fulk’s aim was off; the tip of his lance caught the quintain off-centre and the sandbag whipped around and ploughed into his shield. He reeled and fought to keep his seat. Fortunately for the sake of his already tender pride he managed to do so, but the laughter coming from the few people watching him did nothing to soothe his severely ruffled feathers. As he turned his borrowed horse about for yet another go he saw Simon had returned from the errands he had been sent on. The boy looked devastated, watching with a kind of horror. He must think he had been stuck with a lack-skilled master; somehow Fulk found it hard to contest that based on today’s efforts. Well, so far he had only tilted at the quintain; he’d soon show a considerably more advantageous side when he took to foot combat.
Fulk reined in near the boy and pulled off his bucket like helm. “Did you order my new shield?”
“Yes, my lord. They are painting your arms on a prepared blank shield; it will be ready tomorrow.” As ever the boy was polite, softly spoken and faintly hostile in a defensive way. Fulk felt certain his last master had not been too kind to the boy. He hadn’t managed to find much out about the deceased Sir Godfrey, he’d had very little time to talk to his fellow men, but what kind of man got so drunk he drowned in his own vomit while passed out?
“And the badge maker?”
“Yes, my lord. The badges will be done by Thursday.”
Fulk had chosen a standing wolf as his own badge to go with a green and white livery. He hadn’t actually put much thought into choosing the scheme; it was the one he had decided on as a young boy and he had not had the motivation or reason to change it to something more suited to his current frame of mind and status. His men, when he actually had some, would wear his livery while he wore whatever he wanted with the king’s badge on it somewhere. His new status as baron protected him for being permanently stuck in livery, for which he was very glad. He had been so proud to wear Eleanor’s livery, but William’s? He needed to wear the lion badge and he had a fancy to wear his own badge next to it as was occasionally the fashion, proclaiming himself a lord as well as a king’s man. It also served as a way to separate himself out from a man whom he had absolutely no kind feelings for. At present the only other person needing a wolf badge was Simon; squires seldom wore their lord’s colours. Good news for Fulk’s purse.
“Good lad.” Fulk put his helmet back on again and spurred his horse back towards the quintain. He was so badly out of practise he found it hard to believe he had ever been good at tilting. Since he lost his own in the battle which killed his father he had had very little access to warhorses until recently, and at Woburn there had not been the facilities to practise with a lance. He had managed to get in the very occasional few hours of practise on a borrowed horse with lent equipment while in France but he had not been expected to fight in imitation of a knight and so Aidney had not allowed him to keep his skills in best condition, claiming it a waste of money and time. Only a knight or aspiring knight should fight as a knight, he had proclaimed loftily, and Fulk had been neither.
He lined up for another run and paused to prepare for his latest run. He played his tongue over his dry lips and stared through the narrow eye slits of the great helm, focusing on his target. He brought his shield back in close to his body and levelled his lance. A light touch of his spurs started his horse at a trot, then a canter. The target with its simple red ring of a bulls eye began to close rapidly. Fulk aimed carefully, his breathing seeming loud in the confines of his helmet. Yes, this was all as he remembered; the flowing speed, the smooth gait of the horse, the echoing private world so far away from the real one, the sense of rightness as he knew his aim was spot on.
The lance point gouged a scar into the red paint and the sandbag delivered another buffet to his aching left side. So close! At least this time he didn’t need to battle to keep his seat in the war saddle. The hooting and hilarity of the crowd came rushing to him and Fulk swore under his breath. “I used to be good at this!” he grumbled to himself. He turned back for another go.
He did even worse; he let his anger cloud his judgement and his aim was so badly off he only clipped the edge of the target. He could hear laughter, more laughter away from the audience of idlers. This laughter came from his imagination, a certain dark haired princess laughing herself silly at his clumsiness. Despite himself Fulk smiled.
Another run; another failure, but not nearly so severe this time. He might not be having any success but Fulk knew he was doing better now than in his first runs at the start of the morning. As long as he kept a calm, clear head and kept on trying he would meet success eventually, and from there he would steadily improve back to his old level. Another hour or so and he’d try some foot combat; it had been a while since he had faced competent training partners but he knew his skills there had not waned much at all.
His contract might demand four hours practise on five days each week but Fulk had no intention of dropping to that level until he was back in peak condition, and maybe not even then. The activity kept his mind busy, away from Eleanor and away from the queen and her dangerous meddling. Absently Fulk turned his horse back for another run. Yes, the queen and her determination to use Eleanor and himself as characters in some romantic story. She was a child reducing them to her toys, playing with them as younger girls might make two of their dolls fall in love. Except unlike those dolls it mattered a very great deal if things went wrong, and unlike dolls people had feelings and ideas of their own.
Anne was so eager to help she was dangerous, so naive she was deadly, just getting a real inkling of her powers but not yet able to use them to any reliable effect or even fully aware of how harmful they could be. Most hazardous of all she managed to bring that frantic element of Fulk to the fore, the side of him who would gladly ride off right now to Woburn, kill Trempwick and run away with Eleanor and the devil take the consequences.
The sandbag bashed into his borrowed shield again; another failed run. Fulk’s entire left torso and arm ached fiercely now, muscles working in ways they were no longer accustomed to and taking blow after blow for their pains. Fulk decided it was justice, in a way. No one could handily beat some sense into him so the quintain was doing it. When the queen demands you talk you talk, but never again would he allow himself to become so abjectly desperate that he would speak freely before an unsafe audience. He didn’t need to be happy out here, and he could not stop loving Eleanor, but there was one thing he could do in this painful exile. He could do everything in his power to protect Eleanor. That he was familiar with and it was a goal he could put his heart into. He was still her knight, in his heart, and he could still serve her in some small way.
Fulk made another run at the quintain. The crack of his lance on the wooden target was followed by a notable lack of a sandbag hitting him. The small knot of watchers was quiet, then a few called encouragement while others demanded he do it again to prove his success hadn’t been a fluke. Grimly Fulk turned for another run; he had his stride back now, and his confidence. A few more weeks of this and he’d been reliably good again. He only hoped the same could be said of his equally rusty mounted hand to hand combat skills.
Eleanor stood on her little hill looking down at the distant village. If she had possessed a dramatic streak she might have found some bittersweet pleasure in the way this must look. Instead she found only mild irritation. Here she was, a princess, standing alone with her neat clothes and long, loose hair being played with by the breeze, watching other people live their lives from a safe distance. She hadn’t done this for … years. It was pitiable that she was doing it now.
Trempwick had no time for her today and without Fulk she had no company at all. Exactly as it had been before she had brought Fulk here, exactly as it had been most of her life. She didn’t even have her horse anymore, thanks to Gerbert. She had only her feet, her own room in the manor, the ramparts on top of the tower, and several square miles of countryside minus the bits where there were people. She was not allowed to mingle with anyone not from the manor building itself; Trempwick had been very clear right from her very first day at Woburn he would kill any peasant he found in speaking distance to her. It was to preserve her secret and keep her safe, or so he said.
Fulk’s persistence in keeping her company had driven her half mad at first, as had his tendency to poke his nose in where it was not wanted. So strange how one got used to little irritations, then grew to like them, and love them, and missed them so badly when they finally stopped.
Trempwick had promised her a trip into Saint Albans sometime, shopping. Shopping. Not something Eleanor had ever really done; a few trips to tone her cover personalities so they could cope with market places, bargaining and the like, but nothing else. Trempwick always had other people do much of the buying or, if his or Eleanor’s presence was required, had a trusted trader brought over to Woburn.
Shopping; a nice little treat handed out to a child who looked set to cry. Commiseration; no time for her now but in the future this little trip will make up for his neglect. No time for her today, or tomorrow, or the day after, and probably not the day after, or after that, or after that, and then it would be another month and that too would be the same, and the month after, and so on until the year had fled, and then the years would pass and nothing would change. Nights, some evenings, and whenever else he felt like her company. No more. He would see her when it was convenient for him.
Nights and some evenings would have to be enough; it was all she had. Work with what you have. The set of Eleanor’s face eased at that but she did not manage even a minute smile. She would be mad to expect him to drop his life because he was marrying her; indeed he had promised her this. “Nothing would change,” he had vowed and he was keeping that pledge. It had been what she had wanted all that time ago.
Shopping; she
almost managed a smile. It had damned well better be with Trempwick’s money because she had given every single coin she possessed to Fulk. Every single penny of the compensation Trempwick had wrung out of the man who had been fool enough to accost her on her father’s wedding night, every single penny she had stolen from mission funds and hidden over the years. Her entire fortune; all that was left was her small demesne of land, her two rings, her pair of knives and her necklace – the immovable or easily missable stuff. Her clothes didn’t belong to her, nor did anything else she had. Until she received some of the revenue from her lands she was once again completely reliant on Trempwick’s largesse. She had heard several times how much fun it was to spend your husband’s money and if she was honest the idea of dragging a spymaster around stall after stall, making him carry her purchases and hold out lengths of cloth and so on did have a certain … appeal.
Down in the village smoke from the cooking fires plumed up into the sky. A woman came out of her house to shout at some children. A few people walked about on errands. Life; simple, pure life. People talking, spending time with their loved ones, children playing, folk going about their everyday business.
Unwilling to watch any longer Eleanor slowly wandered back down the small hill. She had come out here for two reasons: to stretch out her very stiff, painful muscles and to think. She would do just that.
“Oh shut up your God damned whining!” bellowed Jocelyn.
“Whining?” Richildis planted her fists on her hips. “You are intent on destroying this family and you call my objection whining!?”
“I keep telling you, if you will pack up your screeching and listen, that I have a plan!”
“A plan based on a reality far better than the one we have, you cretinous oaf!”
“Blah, blah, blah!” Jocelyn flapped one hand about in the imitation of a mouth. “That’s all you ever do – blah, blah, blah. Talk endlessly about a load of crap and expect me to listen to it – shut up!”
“Oh yes, I like that! I put forth an intelligent objection and what do I get? Puppet shows!”
“Puppets shows are all you understand, woman!”
“Maybe if you spoke langue d’oil like the rest of us instead of gibberish you’d do better!”
“I’m your husband – you owe me respect!”
“Respect is earned, not shouted into existence. I thought you might have learned that from your odious mentor; he taught you how to be a mannerless pig sure enough!”
Jocelyn felt his blood boil over; he hurled himself across the room. He easily blocked her attempts to punch him, almost casually captured her wrists and bundled them together in one hand, and entirely effortlessly cuffed her across the ear. “I don’t think that’s shouting, do you?” Her answer was an oath so blistering it even shocked Jocelyn. She began to struggle, kicking at him and wrenching her hands in an effort to free them. He held on to her easily but collected a series of bruises for his pains. “Damn it, woman, stop it before I actually hurt you!”
Her struggles subsided very resentfully and she said scathingly, “Oh, so now you’re concerned with niceties? That’s a first in all these years I’ve been lumbered with you!”
With exaggerated patience he stated, “I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m taking my soldiers. You’re minding the castle. I’m fighting for Yves. I have a plan. You will stop whining. That’s how things are going to be, so shut the hell up!” He let go of her, pushing her away and taking a long stride back to put space between them. Richildis staggered then headed for the door like a ship in full sail, her dishevelled dress billowing out behind her. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I’m not staying here with you tonight; I’d sooner sleep in the hall like our lowest servant than stay here!”
“Oh no you don’t.” Jocelyn intercepted her and pushed her back towards the bed. “
I’m leaving.”
“Oh, nice! Your ego at work again – I can’t be seen to leave you but it’s fine for the whole castle to see you leave me! Same as bloody usual!”
“Oh, shut up!” snapped Jocelyn snidely. He marched out the bedroom and slammed the door behind himself so hard it bounced back open and hit him on the rear. With a vicious oath he kicked it shut and stormed off, heedless of the frightened, embarrassed glances the maids in the solar sent at him.
He got halfway down the stairs towards the hall before he halted. “Christ on the bloody cross and a whole set of apostles shitting on chamber pots – I don’t have God damned time for this!” He turned and ascended the stairs with the same furious energy he had descended them with. Once again he blasted past the maids in the solar, setting them twittering like a bunch of starlings. He barged back into the bedchamber and roared at the maid helping Richildis. “Out!” With a frightened squeak the girl fled.
Jocelyn booted the door shut yet again, furiously noticing all this kicking doors had left his toes feeling broken. He grabbed his wife in a rough embrace and kissed her with a mix of pent up passion and aggression. “Well, I’m leaving tomorrow so we’d better hurry up on the making up,” he explained as calmly as he could manage.
“Lout.” She tried to jam her knee into his groin but he held her so close she couldn’t manage it.
“You’re not getting rid of me, Tildis, at least not until tomorrow.”
“Morning can’t come soon enough. And for some reason,” she glared at him and gingerly put a hand to her bruised ear, “I have a headache.”
Once again he pushed her away and took a good long step back. “Well, if that’s your attitude I’m leaving again. I’ll go say goodbye to someone more … cheerful.”
“One of my maids, you mean. Again.”
Jocelyn’s voice rose again. “Oh let me guess – more recriminations about Eremberga?”
“And why not? I liked her, damn you! I suppose you will be expecting to foist her and your bastard brat off on me while you go play soldiers?”
“Actually, yes. And I don’t play soldiers, woman!” He took a few steps closer to the door. “I’m leaving.”
“Go on then,” she challenged him.
“I will; I’m just giving you chance to change your mind.”
“Why would I? It’d mean putting up with you instead of sleeping soundly.”
“That makes you the only female in the whole castle - no the whole fief – who thinks that way!”
“Then go take your charging bull at a gate act to them!”
Jocelyn poised on the verge of flinging back another loud insult. “Actually,” he said fairly normally, “I’d rather not. You look rather stunning when you’re angry.”
She gaped at him. “Something suspiciously like a compliment? From
you!?”
“Well, you did say chivalrous milksop. I’ll overlook the fact you laughed at my previous attempts so long as you promise not to do that again. It has a rather …”
“Deflating,” she supplied quickly with unrestrained glee.
He scowled, remembering how she had laughed at his predicament as well as his attempt at a change in attitude. “Effect on me,” he finished shortly.
Amazingly she smiled. “You are a strange man sometimes, Jocelyn. You come in here, scream blue murder at me, hit me, tell me you are leaving on some fool’s errand because you have a plan you will barely explain, foist your bastard and her slut of a mother on me, and then try to charm me.”
Jocelyn shrugged. “Well, they say variety is the spice of life.” Suddenly she was laughing and so was he. When he got his breath back he said almost sadly, “This is about the happiest we’ve been in each other’s company for … months.”
“I suppose seeing how I am not going to be rid of you tonight I may as well resign myself to your existence. I shall get to sleep sooner.”
Jocelyn pulled a face and said plaintively, “That is so welcoming.”
“If you don’t like it you can leave.”
“Oh, shut up!” groaned Jocelyn. “Don’t start that again.”
A queen Anne fanclub? She'd be delighted, as long as all members join SPE.
There is very, very little Eleanor can do to make Fulk suitable. He has common blood and lowly roots; it would take an enormous amount of power, wealth, prestige and future potential to balance that out. He very literally needs to go from 0.2 on the power scale to 8.5. Trempy himself is just hanging on at 8.5, and he only recently reached those heady heights because of his new duchy.
Lol @ Judas. This reminds me of that silly comedy I wrote before Christmas.
King, you just made Anne very happy. She enquires about your purchasing as SPE badge …
Someone should have told Anne that, igaworker. Alas, the trusting heart of a naive 13 year old with a romantic story fixation.
Thanks, the_hdk. Fulk needs all the support he can get right now, poor chap.
If this were a book you would be about 2/3 of the way through with a hefty pile of pages yet to come. It's at a very difficult and dangerous stage, one I can't talk about too much. I am really afraid of haemorrhaging readers at this point; the story must look rather directionless, dull and stagnant now. It isn't; have faith and bear with me.
Actually, Kaiser, you can forget about CK. This story has only the most tenuous of connections to the game but ssssh! Don't tell the mods that or they might move the thread! :lives in terror like a fugitive from the law:
Fulk has just been given a single fief (manor, pretty much interchangeable in this story). That is not nearly the same as a county; it puts him at the lowest rung of the land owning nobles. Nell herself only has two manors, absolutely pitiful for a princess. Compare this to Trempy; he has the titles Duke of Northumberland and Earl and Kent, and something like 20 fiefs scattered about England and France, many of them sub-let to his vassals but some in his own demesne. I have never exactly done a breakdown of how much land he has, partly because I don’t know roughly how much he should have outside of ‘loads’. Some fiefs are far richer than others, so numbers aren't everything. A single rich fief is better than many poor ones. Nell and Fulk both have rather average fiefs. Trempy has a mixture between great and lousy.
Yes, trial by battle was still around at this time, but I think regarded in a rather quaint way.
Welcome back, Zeno
Is it too obvious, thames?
