The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor

[Rensslaer]

Froggy,

So Miles is to be the "wit" and Eleanor the "blood" eh? That must rankle!

Your last update flowed very well with magnificent interactions and dialogue. Loved it!

Hinting at anything out of the routine with her illness? Hmm...

Rensslaer

 

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk closed the outer door of Eleanor’s quarter’s behind himself, scrubbing at the ink stains on his right hand gained while putting his name at the end of several copies of documents relating to his now cancelled debt to the royal treasury.

He stopped, struck motionless by the sight of the man he’d left on guard duty inching out of the main room, helm clasped in both hands, his fingers worrying at the metal of the rim.

Fulk didn’t waste breath asking if something were wrong. “What happened?” He was braced to spring into action the moment he knew which way and how, should it prove necessary.

“Sir, she insisted, and beggin’ your pardon and all, but she’s a princess, like. Won’t take no notice, or no for an answer, and off she went, and it’s no place of ours to try and stop her, anyhow. She were well guarded,” he added hastily. The wretched man twiddled his helm about in his hands, trying to wring it like a cap. “She’s got four and her maid with her, leaving me behind to give you word of things, so she ordered. Sir.”

Fulk dropped a hand to his sword. Something sat wrongly here – if she’d just gone somewhere then there’d be none of this fuss. “This bothers you why?”

“She said you were to look for her in the third northern tower of the outer walls, if’n you asked, sir.”

It took a moment for Fulk to realise what that meant; as he did he cursed.

“There be none so unusual about it, sir, if you’ll forgive me for saying such. Many go and watch these things, and it’s justice and all, and you know how it all links to her.”

“I do,” replied Fulk curtly.

“It were only that she seemed so odd and out of sorts about it all, or else there’d be no real upset, like.”

Fulk left the door swinging in his wake.

He had no excuse to run, or even go at a rapid dog-trot, but he walked as briskly as he dared. It was a long enough way, and things were already beginning …

The hilt of his sword felt comforting in his left hand, though why was anyone’s guess. The weapon was as fine as could be, made of the best metals and the best craftsmanship, plain in design but its simple ornamentation giving it a terrible beauty. His own coat of arms had been cut into both sides of the pommel and enamelled. It could sheer the limbs off a man, lop heads, slice from shoulder to navel in one stroke, and do so without losing its edge or taking damage. But it couldn’t harm that which had no solid body.

The inner bailey was quieter than usual, but the outer one was an anomalous mix of busier and quieter. More people, fewer of them working, and the majority of them scattered about trying to get up onto the walls or out of the main gate to see what lay outside the palace itself. Fulk worked his way through, using shoulders and elbows where necessary.

At the foot of the tower in question stood two men in Eleanor’s livery. They tugged their forelocks to him in greeting.
Fulk stopped, itching to be on but knowing appearances were all. “I don’t like all this crowding; it’s ripe for Trempwick to have another attempt at her. In all this confusion …”

“Aye,” agreed one of the two.

“Stay alert. Don’t move without my own order, not even for God himself.”

The other two soldiers were inside, standing guard in the room that accessed the wall ramparts. Fulk repeated his excuses, and was told that Eleanor was in the room above, where no one could get to her without going past one or both sets of guards.

He opened the door to the upper most room carefully, having done his best to make sufficient noise on the last leg of the stairs that they would hear him approach. As soon as he began to catch sight of the occupants through the growing crack he felt obliged to say loudly, “If you kill me you’ll feel guilty. I hope.” Eleanor had both her knives drawn and ready, and Hawise was still fumbling to free hers.

He shoved the door to as the weapons disappeared back from whence they came. Crossing to the window he saw what Eleanor was watching. He caught hold of her, spun her about and buried her face in his shoulder, holding her head there with one hand and pinning her arms down with the other. Just in time – from the hungry sound the crowd made the first of those set to die today had just been set loose to dangle at the end of his rope.

She struggled, trying to free herself. He tightened his grip, knowing he was probably hurting her and not much caring, if it was the only way to prevent her seeing.

“You let her watch this?” he demanded of Hawise.

“Let?”

“Oh, you know what I mean! And your hold on that knife is still terrible. Do you listen to nothing we try and teach you?”

Hawise shrank under the force of his glare, flushed at being found wanting. “I’m sorry. I’ll try and do better.”

“Don’t try: do.” He’d relaxed his hold a bit; Eleanor tried again to prise herself free. Attention devoted to retaining his hold on the princess Fulk snapped, “Oh, go and sit outside.”

The maid gone and Eleanor subdued again there was a brief bit of peace, peace with the sound of people jeering at the man slowly strangling to death, kicking and swinging.

A funny, muffled grumbling noise came from the front of Fulk’s tunic.

Fulk released Eleanor’s head. “Pardon?”

“I said, as much as I like your nose I do not want mine done to match.”

“Sorry.” Wondering how much trouble he’d just gotten himself into, Fulk tried to kiss her, just a chaste brush of lips. She suffered through it without a hint of response, but at least she didn’t try to bite. Feeling cautiously encouraged he asked, “You like my nose?”

“If anything ever happens to it I shall be heartbroken.” She tried to raise a hand; Fulk adjusted the arm he’d flung about her body so she could while he still retained his hold on the rest of her, keeping her facing away from the window. “Really it quite suits you.” She ran a fingertip lightly down from bridge to tip. “I cannot imagine you without it being crooked.” The flash of deep blue annoyance in her eyes gave him all of a fraction of a heartbeat’s warning; she flicked the end of his nose. Tears sprang to his eyes. “I presume you have forgotten my poor back is still decidedly tender?” she asked pointedly. “Which makes you neglectful. Else you do not care, which makes you cruel. Nor do I much care for being half suffocated, manhandled, and all for purposes which remain decidedly mysterious.”

Being wise in the ways of gooseberries Fulk didn’t set her free or loosen his hold enough that she could get away easily, but he did shift the pressure as much away from her back as possible. “Sorry.”

Her breath warmed the thick wool of his tunic as she sighed. “I think I hate you.”

“I hate you too, oh exasperated one.” He kissed her again, between her eyebrows.

A roar from the outside indicated the second man had begun his slow decent into death. The last of the Welsh hostages; the most important two. The only ones to die here. Because they had lived here.

Eleanor started, beginning to try and look. Fulk once again pinned her and smothered her face in his shoulder so she couldn’t. “That,” he said firmly, “is nothing to do with you. Nothing.”

“It is everything to do with me.”

“No!” He placed his hands on her shoulders and held her a little away from him so he could look down at her. “No. Nothing to do with you.”

“That is Llwellyn. His half-brother too.”

“I know, heartling. I know.”

Her head sagged forward so her forehead rested against his breastbone. “Owain is fourteen. Llwellyn not much older than me. He went bravely, you know. Not such a pathetic little man, after all. Mayhap I should not have called him that.”

“It is nothing of yours.”

“There were sixty-four hostages, all told. Hanging is a cruel death. A dishonourable death.”

Sometimes it took hours for a hanged person to die, sometimes even much of a day, depending on a great many things like their build and weight and the angle of the rope. Unless a kind executioner broke their neck, or friends dragged on their legs to speed things to mere minutes. As nobles they should have been safe from such an end, beheaded instead. That was a clean death, far faster, and without the indignity of choking out what remained of your life as your bowels failed and your face went purple, your body twitching and dancing uncontrollably. These two would have no such mercy, save perhaps in deference to their rank if they still lived in a half-hour.

Fulk clasped her to him again, now gentle. “Since the Welsh broke their bargain there’s no other way this could have fallen, save ways which make your brother weaker than he already is.” He rested his chin on the top of her head, his thumb stroking her jaw where it came to join her ear. “It is none of your fault.”

“I was supposed to marry Llwellyn …”

“And I’m right glad you didn’t. I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead,” the slowly dying, he corrected privately, “but there it is, and I can’t regret it.”

“If I had this would not have happened. Any of it.”

“No, you’d probably have died with your first child at fifteen or such, and that I can’t regret either. To speak ill of the dead,” the horribly dying, “again, I don’t think he was like to be one to care much for you.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “He would not have. We were not suited.” She tried to raise her head; he laid his hand over her cheek, preventing it. “I have something of a duty to watch,” she explained. “Trempwick urged them to rebellion, because of me. He can use me like that because I made it possible.”

Duty; so that was what she called it. Not what he’d have chosen, preferring instead ‘self flagellation’ and similar. “Oh gooseberry mine, I know being royal has its foibles, and that a certain sense of ego is one of them, but really you do try too hard sometimes. Trempwick is far more to blame, as is your father. The Welsh themselves decided to rebel. There are many who made this mess; it is none of your doing. As for whatever might have been, it could have been worse. There’s no ruling that means all ‘could have been’s must be better than the is.”

“There is some truth in what you say – I know that, and always have – but there is truth too in what I say. I made this possible. I did not do so alone, but I did do so.” She seemed to accept the fact he wasn’t going to let her watch, for she settled her head more comfortably and looped her free arm about his middle, working her hand into his belt. “Well, we do what we choose to do, and we none of us can see the future. All that can be done is to live with it. I dare say many people have managed to contrive far greater disasters than this. Just look at Helen of Troy.”

Fulk gave her a possessive squeeze. “You’re certainly no Helen.”

“Oh? I thought you mad enough – or blind enough - to believe me beautiful.” She sounded amused in that faintly tolerant yet disapproving way usually reserved for benignly insane relatives.

“I do,” he assured her. “But did no one ever tell you fishing for compliments is beneath your royal dignity? You understood very well what I meant.”

“It is also beneath my royal dignity to stand here like this with anyone possessing a nose like yours,” she said tartly.

“You leave my poor nose alone, oh disreputably royal one.”

She tensed, listening to the noise drifting in through the window. “They are still alive?”

Because she asked it, he looked. “Yes.”

“No one is helping them?”

“No.”

“A common thief dies better. God forgive me.”

Fulk rubbed his cheek against the top of her head. “There is nothing for Him to forgive.”

“Talking of that which you do not know or understand is a bad habit of yours.” But for all that she snuggled in closer against him. “Let me know when it is over.”





The blow did more than snap Eleanor’s head around; it threw half her body to one side and sent her reeling to keep her feet.

Before Fulk could do more than twitch Hawise’s hand closed on his bicep. “She won’t be happy if you die,” she hissed.

Fulk clenched his teeth and locked his leg muscles, willing himself to stay in place and unmoving, if not for his own sake then for hers. He wrenched his face downwards to hide the naked hate he knew must be there, clear and loud for all to see and understand as they willed. His eyes never left the scene.

At the far end of the hall Eleanor slowly straightened, wiping blood from her mouth. Hugh was on her before she had truly recovered, twisting her arm up behind her back. He headed towards the stairs up to the private rooms, her obliged to walk before him unless she cared to have her arm broken.

After they left the unnatural hush lasted a few moments. Then someone said, “Well, for once I find myself reminded of the old king, looking at him.”

A spurt of nervous laughter proved short-lived.

Some woman’s voice commented, “Makes me wonder why Raoul goes to such trouble to get her back.”

“But she had a point,” declared a man’s voice, high and passionate and youthful. “She did! It was a disgrace – Welsh or no, hostages or no, they were noble.”

“Hostages,” came another voice, “to a broken agreement, meeting the end laid out for them by that agreement. No other could have been done.”

Profoundly disinterested, Fulk stopped listening. Both siblings had their merits with their arguments; it could be said both were right. Llwellyn and his brother had deserved better ends, if only to prevent setting a precedent for hanging nobles. To do other than what had been done would have been mercy, and in these circumstances that was a form of weakness that would store up trouble for the future.

It had started quietly enough, the two siblings speaking softly enough that the whole hall couldn’t hear, though any could see both were emotional. It had gotten louder quickly, Hugh losing his vaunted calm and Eleanor – even from the distance of half the hall – recognisably about to lose control of her temper completely. Then Hugh had accused her of having no idea of a noble’s manners, let alone anything else linked to that high station, and Eleanor had thrown back that from what she saw of him he might as well be a swineherd’s bastard. At which point he’d slapped her. The breach in good manners was shocking, far more so because it came from someone normally so fastidious. Fulk tried not to think of what a Hugh so furious that he forgot one of the most basic rules of conduct was capable of; Eleanor was penned up with that and no help available.

She returned a quarter of an hour – a lifetime! – later, chin raised and every ounce of royal hauteur called forth for display. She also wobbled and walked in a swaying line. Wits were scrambled, someone commented covertly.

The very instant it seemed permissible for him to go to her, Fulk did so, Hawise keeping him close company. He put out a hand to steady her; she slapped it away and snapped, “I did not give you leave to handle me at will, bodyguard.”

He snatched his hand back, burned, smarting even though he knew that had been for the benefit of their audience.

Once outside the hall the fresh air did her some benefit; she began to walk a little straighter., shaking her head to clear it.

“Damn my brother,” Eleanor swore. “Damn him and his self-absorbed arrogance.”







:sighs: Poor Nell.

:surveys the ‘Wheel of Time’ series, where it sits on her shelves. 10 paperback books, taking up 44.7cm of space.: I’ve only got 1-10, and New Spring as part of the Legends I anthology, instead of as the standalone book. I’ve heard the stand alone book is too bloated to be good, compared to the short story with the same name. I won’t bother with buying book 11 until it too comes out in paperback. I may borrow it from my library, as they almost certainly will get it soonish. 44.7cm of books! Gah! I started to work out the page count, but I lost my place around 8,000 pages and couldn’t be bothered to start again.

It’s going to take me a month to read this lot if I read nothing else and keep a good pace! :wails: At least I got them cheap.

Rensslaer: I do like books with plenty of detail, and I don't object to ramblnig a bit so long as that ramble shows something interesting in soem way. As perhaps can be discerned from this story. So on that front I am less worried by Jorden. The braid tugging, whinging clone-like characters, utterly moronical evil people, and the clear cut good Vs evil thing itself do worry me. I also object to entire 1000 page books where nothing happenes, though whether that is exaggeration or not I shall have to wait and see.

I doubt I shall read the whole lot through in one block; I'd get sick of it. But I'll post my thoughts as and when it seems reasonable. ~

I believe I was hinting that Nell isn't really a man in disguise, and doing so in a snippet of a partial scene which was humourous and typical of their banter in general

Avernite: Stupid? Trempy? He's most hurt

On Jorden; the suck quite badly is what I'm really wary of. I've heard so much about the sucking badly ... But hey, I try to make up my own mind. I just hope I don't end up agreeing with the few hundred complaints.

coz1: Fulk congratulates you in your smart thinking, and in your gooseberry awareness skills. But he says your Hugh paranoia skills need much more work, as the man is capable of anything except sense, decency, usefulness, and kindness to younger sisters of petite build and stature. :rofl:

And thanks for the Vicky Cross nomination




PMs (for those who are awaiting replies (hope you see this, but I seldom see the point in sending a PM to say "I'll reply in the next PM.") )will hopefully be answered tomorrow or the day after. Tomorrow is a late night shopping thing, so I get the morning off to compensate for the fact I am losing my evening, and the day after is a day off, in which I hope to get a lot of Stuff Done.

 

[Avernite]

One can only wonder if this break with manners hurt Hugh even more.

But we, offcourse, know why Hugh is so upset about being called a bastard

 

[coz1]

If Hugh keeps this up, Eleanor will have no choice but to go against him or die. Hugh seems to have no desire to stop beating on her for the slightest infraction. Even William grew tired of it at times.

 

[igaworker]

Isn't it funny how when William was doing the beating Hugh thought it was appalling, but now that he is "king" he beats her just as often if not more so than dear old daddy did.

 

[igaworker]

Froggy-
You know I love your story. It is the only story that I actively follow here. But (you knew there was going to be a but after that intro). I think you are dragging here a little bit. I think maybe you should have flipped the last two updates around. The reason being is once we found out we are going to Scotland, we should. . . go to Scotland, not have another couple of scenes (unless they are preparing to go to Scotland scenes). I think that if you had put the hanging and "brotherly love" scenes ahead of when we find out the party is going to Scotland it would have flowed better, and not built us up (for a trip) and then disappointed (as we wait for the trip).
This is your story, and you have done an overall wonderful job of telling it this far. And by no means am I a literary genious, but I hope that I have given you something to think about. Good or bad, that is what I felt like after I read the last update. Keep up the good work Froggy and I hope you get through all of your reading!

 

[frogbeastegg]

“Which way?”

Eleanor lifted her face free of Fulk’s cloak long enough to answer, “West, for now, and quickly. We must find cover before dawn, and put as much distance between ourselves and the palace as possible.”

She tightened her hold about his waist as he swung their horse about to the new course and applied his spurs, and pressed her cheek into his back against the wind of their passage. The thick folds of his cloak cushioned the links of his mail and billowed out around her wherever he hadn’t got them firmly weighted in about himself.

Fulk took one hand from the reins and placed it over her own, pressing them into his belt buckle and dragging some of his cloak over to cover them. “Try not to fall off,” he advised, his cheerfulness strained.

Eleanor spat out a mouthful of wool from her first effort to reply, and turned her head safely to one side. “I would have thought you knew that funny old fairy story: if you keep hold of him all night no matter what, you can keep him. So I shall! Just do not turn into a snake or something, or we will both fall off.”








The fairy story being Tam Lim, or one of its very many variations and predecessors.

That is hardly even a scene, let alone an update of froggy proportions, but proper frog-sized updates have not been possible for a while and every little helps. Saving up for a new update is not quite the same as saving for a new bookcase; writing does not arrive in predictable batches. Besides, we’ve hit one of those parts which I have been looking forward to for a while, hearing and seeing snatches of scenes and dialogue for months.

Two updates in a week, PMs answered, my signature updated at last, and I finally realised I can have a custom title, so I did that too. At this rate I might actually get to catch up on my reading here! I feel quite dizzy.

One can indeed wonder, Avernite, or one can hang about and hope to see.

:here froggy is pushed out of the way by Hugh, stepping forward in high dudgeon, but a most befitting version of high dudgeon. He addresses coz1 and igaworker, as the frog rolls her eyes: As my sister's guardian, and indeed as her brother, it is my duty to do my utmost to bring her to right and proper behaviour, and to purge her of her ... eccentricities. She should know her place, and abide by it, for the sake of us all. If she had done so in the beginning matters would not have reached their present state.

Our father had little time, and other matters had precedence over her - as indeed they rightfully should, the business of being king far more important than the business of a mere man, the king having responsibility and duty to all in his realm - and so there were lapses in her discipline. That he allowed his temper to get the better of him - understandable though it is, I admit, and I see that no man can be perfect and so must have flaws. I would not venture to criticise or judge, in my own unworthiness and flawed state - is lamentable, as it drove him to excesses that are not pardonable, though I do not condemn him for it and likely it was her doing, not his. As so often things are. She brings much of her misfortunes down on herself, by her own deeds.

It is true that I am in the unenviable position of needing to beat my sister far more often than our father, but this is because she makes it necessary. In addition to her own behaviour, she is in my presence more, and no longer the responsibility of that woeful Trempwick, so thus it is inevitable that I must bear the brunt of her misdemeanours. I can do no other than correct them. If Trempwick had done so when she were younger, again she would not be in the wild state she is now. It is his fault; our father trusted him, and was failed by him. I shall not allow even the slightest outrage to pass unchecked, for it will only encourage her and undermine all my other work with her. Consistency is the key. I will not let her run amok! I am not excessive, cruel or brutal; I do not beat her bloody, break bones, harm her features, or do damage that may be seen by others.

:Fulk is now clenching his fists and looking murderous. Hugh doesn’t notice. Froggy does; she scuttles sideways rapidly, to keep out of the way and to get herself a good view if Hugh does end up being thumped. Nell steps in and spoils the potential fun by dragging Fulk back:

Compromise is necessary, I admit. And I do so. Have I not apprenticed her to my own spymaster, for the time being? Have I not endowed her with lands and wealth, provided at personal expense clothes according to her status? Is she not one of my councillors in my inner circle? I have offered her appropriate marriages, even to the point of promising to try for any man she likes so long as he is suitable. I have bent myself to do things I should not, to this end, even allowing her to retain that knight for whom she has a disgusting attachment.

I make no claims to enjoying this sad necessity; I dislike it most heartily. But I shall not shirk my duty and responsibility.

But then I would expect little more than condemnation from those who find her perversions amusing, and so allow her to continue to shame herself for their delectation, encouraging her to still greater excesses. If not for such encouragement I feel certain she would be more manageable, and would learn her lessons faster, there being no contrary influencer to my own efforts. This, then, means that which you complain of is in part your own doing.

:froggy mutters, “Pompous ass.”: :rofl:


Thanks for that, igaworker I do appreciate it when people bring up things like this.

Normally I would agree with you, but in this case ... hmm, the frog knows things you can't yet By preference I would have put the last update, this tiny one, and the next one all together in a frog sized chunk. That would take a couple of weeks to assemble, at my current rate. So I split it. You will understand. As I said before, I don't want to talk of gonig to Scotland. I want to go to Scotland. I like haggis. It's hard to get good haggis here. Good haggis is easy to find in Scotland. Yum.



The reply part is twice as long as the actual story part!

 

[coz1]

So I assume the trip to Scotland is scuttled. Hmm.

No, not a usual eggy update - in fact, much more cruel than that - you leave us with way too much of a cliffhanger. Boooo...boooo!

Oh, and Hugh? Get stuffed!!!

 

[igaworker]

Has poor Nell been abandoned? I don't think she will take to well to the neglect.



I know, I know. The Frog has been busy. I just would hate for the story to fall of the first page. Someone might miss it and it is wonderful.

 

[Avernite]

hey, I missed an update :wacko:

I do wonder what it's all about why they are running

 

[frogbeastegg]

Fulk handled a costrel to Eleanor. “Here, drink a bit of that. It’ll warm you.” He went to see to their horse, an unimpressive looking beast carefully selected for that fact, that and its stamina and speed.

He looked as he had when they first met, aside from his longer hair. Eleanor smiled faintly, remembering she had told him he looked like a knight from the battle of Hastings. He still did, in his plain clothes and old short-sleeved mail hauberk, occasionally casting her a speculative glance when he thought she wouldn’t notice. The air was ripe with unspoken questions.

She unstoppered the flask and took a cautious sip of the contents. Coughing, Eleanor waited for the liquid to finish burning its way down her gullet. Mead, and neat at that rather than the slightly diluted version she was used to. It tasted wrong without the bit of apple juice.

“Sip,” advised Fulk, his back to her, “It’s strong stuff, but warming.”

True, the burning had come to rest in her stomach, making her feel a little less chilled in general. Hoarsely she replied, “I did sip.”

He laughed under his breath, she was sure of it. “It takes a bit of getting used to.”

Eleanor jammed the cork back into the neck of the costrel and dumped it on the ground, drawing her cloak tightly about herself. It was a cold night; the sky was clear and the stars out. The rotten log she perched on kept her a foot or so above the ground, but she could still feel the chill seeping from the frosted soil. The winter-nude trees in which they sheltered – from eyes; the bare branches were sadly little aid against the elements – glowed silver with frost and moisture slowly hardening wherever the night’s light fell. The whole landscape did, lending it a faint feeling of unreality.

Safely away from the palace, a good number of miles put between them and pursuit, and at last stopped. Time for a final few details. Eleanor removed the simple gold ring from her right heart finger, twisting and pulling at the band until at last it came clear. She settled it on her left heart finger, finally able to wear her wedding ring.

Looking up she found Fulk had left the horse; he stood watching, the hem of his long cloak swaying. He had not asked a single question yet, or delayed, only done as she said with efficiency. Roused from his bed perhaps an hour after he got into it, told to dress warmly and to put on his old armour and sword, and to make ready to leave. He hadn’t even heard any of the orders she had given elsewhere. He knew only what she had told him as they travelled, and that little enough, due to the difficulty of conversing while moving at speed and in as much stealth as could be managed. He knew they went to Southampton, and there to Perth, to rejoin Anne’s party.

“Go to sleep,” she told him. “We will move again in a few hours, a little after dawn. I will keep watch.”

“I’m willing to hazard that you’re a fair bit more tired than I. You sleep now; I’ll watch.”

The mere thought of sleep made Eleanor’s eyes go heavy; the frantic planning between being ordered to Scotland and the present had not allowed any time wasted in slumber. As tempting as the idea of curling up and letting it all go was, she knew better. “My part in this is all but done for now; all is now yours to do. You need the rest more than I.” He was inclined to be stubborn, she could tell, and while he might not be a master of the attitude he was talented enough to be bothersome. “Dearest, listen,” she said, softly, “there is nothing left for me to do but trust you. You, however, must get us safely to meet Anne in a timely manner, with no one any the wiser as to who we are.”

“Tired princesses are tetchy.”

“So are tired knights, and, myself being a gently born lady, I think it most unfair that I be the one to suffer the irritable companion.”

“Oh, now she wants to be cherished and cosseted!” Fulk grimaced, caught up the mead and consumed a manful swallow of it without showing the least inclination to cough and splutter.

“Yes. Having left a place where I could have a hot bath not even an hour after my request, simply to be here with you, I think it only fair I get some compensation in other regards.”

Fulk’s eyebrows rose. “Compensation?” He dropped the leather flask onto the pile of saddlebags. “You get to tell all and sundry for a few days that you’re my wife, and neither of us will die because of it. That’s more than enough. You’ll be the envy of every woman we meet.”

“Yes, who could resist such a modest man?” said Eleanor dryly. “Now stop trying to be witty and go to sleep like a good broken-nosed knight, before I get fed up.”

“If you’re half asleep you won’t be able to think rightly, and I rely on you to do all my thinking for me.”

“I can doze while we ride, if I sit before you instead of behind. You will not deprive me of the simple pleasure of using you as a royal pillow, thank you very much.”

Fulk snorted in amusement. “Royal pillow. Alright, never say I’m not a graciously obedient knight. I’ll do as you say, unchivalrous as it may be. Sensible, though, I’ll give you that.”

“That is why it is unchivalrous.”

Fulk unbelted his sword and placed it on the ground close to hand, rolled himself in his cloak as tightly as possible, and lay with the saddle for a pillow, still in his armour. His conical helmet, freshly blackened with paint so as to keep it from reflecting light, Eleanor picked up from the piles of bags. She set it down next to his sword, the simple iron bar which guarded the nose carefully aligned so his hand could close on it on first or second blind grab in case of sudden need.

Fulk’s eyes opened again as she dragged over her impromptu throne, to sit by him. “An angel to guard my head,” he joked, quoting a children’s rhyme.

Eleanor smiled angelically down at him. “Shut up and go to sleep, luflych,” she ordered in her best imitation of lower-nobility English. That was the final aspect of her disguise, well practised over the years but unused in some months. If she spoke continuously like that now she would fall back into the knack of it faster, hopefully before she had any need to sound as though she had been born talking that way.

Fulk’s eyes went perplexed at being called ‘luflych’, then sealed shut in a way which said he was not going to enquire as he had enough to worry about without the quirks of gooseberries.

Eleanor stayed by him, lightly stroking his hair back from his face until he was asleep. “Rest well, luflych,” she whispered, testing the word out again to see if it still felt as it had on the first use, where there had been no thought behind the selection. It did, more or less. It felt right. On examination it was about as uninspiring as ‘gooseberry’; simply the base English word for ‘lovely’, generally unused except by the lower orders. But … it suited him somehow. The meaning, the slightly rougher sound compared to the more common word, even the language it was in – a language of scholarship, learning, poetry and nobility fallen from high grace and such gentle usage to something entirely more workaday. The way it was not of any court or polished gathering of false and flowery language, imbued with a blunt honesty. She tested it again, “Luflych …” It did suit.

Eleanor moved a few steps away and knelt stiffly on the ground, cold-numbed joints unwilling to cooperate with their usual grace. Hands clasped in front of her, she began to pay off a little of the debt she owed. One set of prayers each for those pairs of people, one man and one woman each, sent out of the palace tonight at varying times and by varying methods. Trempwick would surely catch some, if not all. Not a one of them knew why they did as they had been told, or of the danger they faced. The more said the greater the chance of information reaching the wrong ears, by one means or another. Let them be safe, remain safe, and end safely, her safety not brought at the cost of their lives, or if blood must be shed, then let it not be in vain.

Another set for the young woman with her hair dyed black and her face half hidden by a massive swollen bruise. May no one look closely at her. May she keep the pretence faithfully and well, so none knew that the princess going in state to Scotland was not a princess at all. She would be seen little enough, having now excuse to hide away until that bruising faded. May she survive whatever inevitable attempts Trempwick made on her, more than survive – escape unscathed. May she not think her bargain so badly made, if that were possible. It was one thing to hear and to accept, another to live through and still accept, though to her very great credit the girl Miles had found had not flinched from the unappealing request put to her. For which Eleanor was glad: the girl would have been incarcerated for a couple of weeks, and another brought into the secret in the hopes she might prove more useful, to meet the same fate if she did not.

May Anne, Miles, and the rest of the official party arrive safely and travel safely. Trempwick could not help but know she was with them, and nothing could guarantee her safety in that party. Nothing but her absence. That absence only protected her so long as Trempwick looked in the wrong direction; by the time he found his mistake it must be too late for him to counter her own move. Else he would hunt for her when he may find her. Her protection was their great danger; her danger their short-term protection. May they be safe.

Llwellyn and Owain: may they forgive her for using their deaths so. May they forgive her also for throwing her weight behind Hugh’s insistence on hanging them, changing the minds of Constance and Miles, who had argued for clemency and beheading.

Anne … Eleanor hesitated. No, if Anne were to forgive her for excluding her entirely from her plans then let it be of her own accord, not divine prompting. Only let her be safe. She was not what Trempwick wished for, but he would not turn his nose up at having Anne as a prize if it should be easily obtainable. The girl would be very … useful.

May the four gate guards who had in the depths of the night let Fulk and herself out of the two rings of Waltham’s walls be in peace. Loyal men, trusted by Hugh and by Miles, and placed in danger’s way because of this trust. May they escape notice and thus questioning from unfriendly sources. If … if they should be caught or pressured … oh God, let them stay silent! Let any falling into Trempwick’s way stay silent! Lest one weak point unravel the whole, and doom all of those involved.

May the crew of the tiny ship in Southampton be as loyal as Miles believed. May they be safe, and their families, and those they cared for. May their needs and wants be met. May there be no space or thought for them to betray. May they be safe from unwitting betrayal, or from attracting Trempwick’s notice, either from his person or from his many agents.

May Hugh keep in good health, and may he do well in his efforts to gain his throne while she were away. May he begin now to do as well as he was needed to, and better even than that. Gingerly Eleanor explored her cut lip with the tip of her tongue, trying to gauge how badly it must look. Probably not so bad, and with the blotch of face paint that had made up her injured cheek removed she should pass well enough as normal. Give the man the simplest of jobs, explain to him several times what he must do, and take the hardest part yourself, and he still managed to make a mess of it. If she had not been reeling away already to make it look worse than it was … And as for his complaining about how that necessary evil had made him look! May he develop some modesty, and not always think first of himself. May he cease to be so stuffy, as that was the source of a deal of his problems and shortcomings. May he stop playing at being king and be king.

May Trempwick … No, no point in praying for him to miss her absence completely, or some other such. Better to ask for something less than a miracle. May Trempwick discover her disappearance too late to be able to counter well. May his efforts to hunt her down remain one step behind as per her plans. Please God, may she have that one day lead before he found that the girl posing as princess was not her and began searching. More than one day’s lead, if possible. May he hunt in the wrong direction, may he fall for at least a few of her false trails and tricks, may he finally locate her when it was once again too late for him to reach her.

May she be forgiven also for wishing Trempwick catch her innocent decoys instead of Fulk and herself.

Eleanor turned, smiling, to look on the slumbering form of the owner of the final name on her list. Keep him safe. Above all, whatever else, she prayed, keep him safe.

Lastly, reluctantly, spurred on by the way Fulk smiled as she touched the back of her hand to his cheek, Eleanor asked for protection for herself, something she had long ago ceased to do. For his sake, that he may not suffer more because of her.








:froggy claws her way out her current pile of books, eyes half closed, massaging her strained wrists: Oooh, Diana Gabaldon’s Fiery Cross did murder to me. 1412 pages of mass market paperback, read over 3 days. So heavy … Humph; not as good as the beginning of the series either; Outlander/Cross Stitch (depending on your country) was good, but each progressive book interests me less. It seems like far less is happening although the books are getting even longer, and while I don’t mind rambling plots, slow story telling, scenic tours and all that (hehe, I write some of that stuff myself, as you may have noticed a bit ) I do like it to be interesting. Not nearly 100 pages of Jaime treading on a snake, being bitten, and then being ill. Or similar. And Brianna can take Roger and little Jemmie and jump off a cliff and die, now, or preferably sooner. Blergh. Bring back the intrigues of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s court and inter-clan squabbles, the excitement of the Jacobean uprising, the focus on the more interesting original characters, the …

Er, ok, enough. It was an alright book, but I hope the next (and presently last, until the next is published) book in the series is heading back to how the first two were. And take the setting back to Scotland! I read the first two a while ago, halted part way through the third book, then didn’t pick it back up again until now, when I started at the beginning again, to refresh my memory and because I liked the first two books. My brand new copy of the sixth book, A Breath of Snow and Ashes, is sat on a shelf looking heavy at me.

Presently on this week’s reading list:
Umberto Eco’s ‘Name of the Rose’ Not one we sell; I just want to read something of my own for a change. Er, make that own as in one not linked at all in any way to work. After all I have been reading some I already owned, or wanted to read, and there are some I had read before, and a few I had started to read but not finished. I started it a few months ago, but got interrupted by a need to read a few books for work. That in turn started off this reading frenzy.

Diana Wynne Jones ‘The Tough Guide to Fantasy Land’ It’s funny. It’s also alarming how many of the entries are true thanks to the billions of bad to average fantasy books out there. Come on people, write wilful princesses without freckles, slightly tiptilted noses and penchants for cross dressing! It’s easier than you think. :looks sideways at Nell: Or better yet, try a tame princess with freckles and a slightly tiptilted nose. Defy the stereotypes! Mix things up! Make your pirates say “Yurgle! Blackberry pie!” instead of “Aaarr! Shiver me timbers!” And so on. :looks about at all the people staring at her: Um, I need to write a bit of comedy, stupid, silly frog comedy. It shows.

C S Lewis’ Narnia series. This being a re-read; I used to read them a lot as a young frog, but it’s been a while, and the Narnia box set is one of our best sellers at present. The really good thing about Narnia is that I can read one book every 2 hours at a relaxed pace, and they are easy, relaxing books. Perfect material for frogs suffering from reading massive Gabaldon tomes one after another for a week or so. Not a one of them is thinner than 800 pages.

The Wheel of Time. It’s still sat there, being Big and Long, with A Lot Of Pages. I picked up book 1, read about 4 pages, and realised I really was not in the mood for something like that. So I put it back. No point in reading it when I am not in the mood; I will only hate it. I’ll try again in a week or two.

A breath of snow and ashes. It’s the last one in the series until the seventh is written; it’s also the new one, and the second half of the one I just finished, as the plot for one book ended up sprawling enough to be cut into two books. I need to read it soon. And excuse me if I mutter quietly that really with some editing it very probably could have been just one book, not two. I mean, I do like detail, and all that, but there is a point where even my eyes begin to glaze over … Although she is a very popular, multimillion selling author. So maybe it is just me. Or not; I do see quite a few other people who say they liked the first two, found the third ok, and disliked the last two (this before ABOSAA came out).

Er, enough again. It’s just I don’t really have anyone to talk about books with, as such.


:froggy watches Hugh sputtering at coz1's neat rejoinder, and laughs her froggy head off: Well said!

igaworker, you are more right than you know about Nell and neglect. She does not take to it well at all. The last 5 days or so have been one increasingly persistant stream of images and lines. In my dreams, as I'm awake, while I think, even, eventually, as I read or try to concentrate on something else. As more time passes they get more frequent, more vivid, and stronger, lasting longer too.

And yet, despite all that, somehow it wouldn't quite work whenever I sat down to write. Probably because I frequently became so cold (it's cold here, really cold, as in 'the heating is on and still my fingers are half numb ...' type cold) I couldn't type properly any more due to shivering and uncooperative fingers.

Then you have saved yourself a few days of suspense, Avernite Unlike poor coz1, who has been dangling on a cliff (is that safe, do you think? I don't think it is; he might slip and fall, or his arms could get tired.)

 

[Avernite]

Ahh, at least I get no nightmares of poor Fulk being hung by Hugh for helping Nell escape

I still might get them of Trempy doing that, but I doubt it. He's the dagger in the dark guy, and then I don't get nightmares

 

[Dead William]

A fine exposé! Not the tedious actual planning but a far more swift and stylish way to sove the matter, flashback. And a lovely scene between Gooseberry and her "Lovely". ( At least he isn't "Precious")

Good luck on the reading! And read everything by Diane Wynne Jones! She's great. As Pratchett said, a national treasure! (Try Dark Lord of Derkholm, it's wonderfull and fits right in next to the Guide)

Thansk for the lovely update! DW

 

[coz1]

As carefully as Nell prepared it, why do I have the feeling that Trempy had someone follow each pair that left the castle as well as the official royal party?

 

[Avernite]

oh, undoubtedly it's not gonna work out as Nell and Miles planned it, that'd be no fun.

Maybe trempy will chase them around so they DO have to run off to Ireland or somesuch, where they can live happily ever after

 

[frogbeastegg]

“Alright.” Jocelyn blew out a puff of air and wiped the palms of his hands on the skirt of his tunic. “Alright. Just act normal. Alright, no problem. Why should it be a problem, anyway, damn it?” A quick check that his clothes were all nicely arranged and didn’t make him look like a twat, one final deep breath and muttered “Alright,” and he opened the door.

The best way to give bad news was to send a letter from … oh, ten miles away aught to do it. Shame life didn’t cooperate.

He greeted the gaggle of women working in the solar with a pleasant smile, working hard at being charming, chivalrous, handsome in a suitably manly way, and just really nice. “Morning, ladies.”

There was a dutiful chorus of polite replies. The ladies in question, all five of them, were working industriously away at a new hanging to grace the wall of the main hall behind the dais, replacing Yves ugly choice of a serpent-monster eating a man whole. Richildis was seated at the head of the group on a backless chair, three of the others gathered about her on stools, sewing away at minor panels and borders while she worked the main scene. The final maid was the youngest, set to work cutting sections of plain linen to supply more panels to surround the central image.

Nice. Be nice. Jocelyn came to look at his wife’s work, a little curious as to what was going to be decorating his new castle. It was also a nice thing to do. Which was nice. He made some suitably appreciate noises. The image was nothing interesting; it would do, but not worth much notice. Some man and some woman sat together in a garden, with a few birds and a hound curled up at their feet. Plants too, or there would be once the stitches were in place over the faint guidelines inked onto the fabric.

Enough of that time wasting stuff; get on with it. And be nice! “Might I request the fine company of my wife this fine morning?” Oh yes, right smooth that sounded – dandified and repetitive! Far better when he’d just blasted in through the door and cheerfully told everyone not called Richildis to clear off.

Someone giggled. Some actually giggled. Jocelyn glared about until he located the culprit; the rabbit-faced girl cutting cloth.

Before he could chuck the female out the window – oh very well, door. It was a bloody long drop and she looked too heavy to heft comfortably – Richildis started to get rid of her associates.

“This,” she said to him as soon as they were alone, “has best be pleasant, such as, for example, your telling me that we just inherited a large sum of money from the death of a relative we didn’t like. Anything else and you can go away. I’ve had enough for one day, thank you.”

“It’s not even noon yet, Tildis. Surely it can’t be that bad.”

“It can. The barrels of salt herring we needed arrived and most of the casks were spoiled, so now they must be returned and a new batch found. Mahaut tried to tie ribbons in the cat’s fur, and got scratched; the howling, from her and the cat! And then-”

Jocelyn stopped listening. It was all dreary tedium, nothing important. Except maybe that cat. Would killing the creature be excessive?

Another noise caught his attention, this one thinner and distant. Smiling and nodding as if he were listening, Jocelyn crossed to the window. Once the shutter was opened the noise grew stronger. Jean, wailing for all he was worth. The baby was cutting a new tooth and wanted the whole world to know it. As he put the panel of oiled parchment back into place Jocelyn congratulated himself on insisting that the nursery be set up in one of the outbuildings instead of somewhere in the keep. It might even have been a good idea to insist on somewhere in the outer bailey. The parchment might keep out the worst of the weather and let in a good dose of light, but by heaven it let in the worst of the noise too, and as much as he loved his children the racket they generated would try a saint’s patience.

The break in her yattering was enough to recall Jocelyn’s attention in time to hear Richildis say dryly, “And then there’s that. Poor love.”

Jocelyn scratched at his beard thoughtfully; it was getting a bit shaggy, and in need of its twice-weekly trim. “Got a good pair of lungs on him.” Mahaut had made less noise, and she was a girl, damn it.

As if that were her sign Richildis snatched up the small pair of scissors she’d been using to cut thread for her sewing. “Sit down and I’ll sort it out.”

Muttering under his breath, Jocelyn lumbered over to the stool. “Tildis …” he began, as she clipped away. He framed his words carefully, trying not to move his jaw so she wouldn’t cut his lips off.

“Yes?”

“You don’t think that perhaps … maybe Jean’s a bit soft, do you?”

The snipping stopped. His vision was filled by the distressingly pointy ends of the scissors, and his wife’s hand wrapped about the handle in a hold which was well suited to driving them through his heart. “No. Why?”

He ran a finger about the neck of his clothes, an ill-advised move which sent a load of cut hair down next to his skin. “It’s just he wails so much, and at the slightest thing.”

“He’s a baby. It’s what they do.”

“Well, yes, true, and then again not really. The others were quieter. And I’m sure Thierry was bigger by this age.”

The little shears began to clip away at his other cheek. “They’re brothers, not twins. Of course they’re different. There’s nothing wrong with Jean; he’ll be suitably fierce or whatever when he’s older, and then you’ll be complaining to me that he’s too much trouble.”

In the face of her certainty Jocelyn gave up. Waste of time trying; what would a woman know about babies anyway? He sat quietly as she finished amusing herself by butchering his beard; might sweeten her mood a bit, and by Saint Anthony and a sausage he needed all the help he could get before he told her his news.

Richildis stood back to admire her handiwork. “There. Done. As good as I can make it, without removing the whole lot.”

“Don’t even think about it,” warned Jocelyn, eying her sternly. Given half the chance she’d do it, the bitch. He examined his reflection in the bronze mirror she held up, stroking his beard here and there to make sure of the effect. Once again he’d come through the experience with a neat bit of hair that hugged close to his jaw, a shade longer than stubble. Good.

His eyes lingered on her rear as she took the mirror back into their bedchamber. News could wait, and actually the longer he left it the better she might take it. Really. And anyway, there were better things to do than talk about things neither of them would really like, and probably argue. Jocelyn clasped his hands in a very quick prayer – not that he needed divine intervention, damn it! And with her anyone needed all the aid they could get, anyway – stood up, and purloined her as she came back through the doorway. It was a mixed success. She didn’t stiffen the instant his arms went about her; she waited until he began to kiss her instead. Familiarity took over; he increased the pressure on her lips until his own mouth felt bruised, holding the back of her head with one hand so she couldn’t twist away, trying to wring some reaction or another out of her as she stood there like a bloody lump of rock.

About two heartbeats later he remembered, and let her go. “Sorry. Habit dies hard.” A few nights ago she’d told him she was afraid; that was understandable, he had to admit … grudgingly. That was why he’d sworn he wouldn’t force her again, so now she shouldn’t be afraid. It didn’t seem to have done much good. He should have remembered that promising her fidelity had changed her – into a maniac who smacked him over the head with a jug at short notice. Talk about making a rod for your own damn back.

She shot away from him, several long paces instead of the usual other side of the room, so maybe that was some consolation. Only some consolation: she was still trembling, in that damned just perceptible way of hers, and her failure to hide it made him want to crush her in his arms … or just crush her. “It does. Perhaps it will never die.”

“Damnation and a bucket of fish! Don’t blame me alone, like it’s only my fault!”

“I didn’t,” she said quietly. “You did.”

Sod their agreement, sod this argument, sod her, and sod trying to put news in some form she’d like! Sod it all! “The king’s insistent on leaving the day after tomorrow, and he’s about well enough to take the journey if it’s slow. We’re going with him; all of us. Even Jean. By his order. He wants to impress on me a bit more firmly who’s lord here and who’s the vassal, so he’s uprooting us all at his whim and dragging us off to no purpose of our own to amuse himself. Not a bad idea, but I’m damn-” There was that agreement too, so quickly he amended, “er, a Saracen if it’s not annoying. We’ll turn back when he reaches the Narrow Sea, all of us but Thierry. The boy’s staying with him, and that’s that, so don’t start shrieking.”

There was one of those great silences that usually occur when a small child stands up in a large adult gathering and says in a delightfully clear, carrying voice something akin to, “What’s a leper? Because my Daddy said the abbot is a filthy old leper. I always thought the abbot was a nice old man; he’s got hair coming out of his ears and it’s funny.”

Richildis went such a shade of white he thought she might actually faint. Then she spoke; he had to strain to hear the words, but even a deaf man could have heard the malevolence. “That butcher is going to take my son, and expects me to drag my other two children out into the midst of winter on a fool’s errand.”

“I’m hardly pleased either.” Jocelyn raised his arms in an extended shrug, then let them fall back to his sides, his palms slapping his thighs. “I tried, damn it I did try. He wouldn’t listen, not when I told him Jean’s teething and miserable and in no real state to travel, or when I said Mahaut was still so young she should be left in the nursery. Or when I pleaded your delicate motherly feelings, or need to stay here and finish mending the harm Yves’ did being as I can’t do much myself in my absence. Or anything.”

Part pleading, part as an order, she told him, “Do something.”

Jocelyn clenched his teeth on his instinctive reply, that he could do nothing he hadn’t already tried and failed with. He stood instead, feeling useless and pointless, stupid, abruptly, acutely conscious of small things like the way his arms hung at his sides as if he didn’t know where to put them.

There … was one thing he could think of to do, and that night when they had talked, the night of the wedding … and one other time she had liked it well enough in a relative manner of speaking … so maybe … and the worst that would happen was his being rebuffed same as usual. He moved over to her, extra-light on his feet and a little slower than usual. He didn’t kneel, given that she was not that much shorter than he, but he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him – carefully! – and patted her very gently on the back. “There, there,” he murmured. Er, but that suited the children better.

Amazingly she didn’t rail at him for acting like she was one of their children. Nor did she try to get away, or make it plain that his proximity was as appealing as a midden.

It took a very long time, so long that the only reason he didn’t give up and dump her was the fact he hardly ever got to touch her without her tensing up, but slowly the apprehension began to leave her.

“It’ll be alright,” he said. “Mahaut will enjoy herself, do her good to travel a bit, see a few things and people. As long as he’s well bundled up warmly and has something to gnaw on, Jean’ll be perfectly happy. If he can throw up on his nurse and mess his clothes as soon as they are changed to clean ones too then he’ll be delighted. And Thierry, Thierry will be so puffed up proud of being one of the king’s pages that he’ll be quite unbearable.”

Richildis sniffed, and again, the only indication he’d had that she might be crying, or almost crying. “I wish I had your confidence.”

Jocelyn wished he had his confidence. “Come on, cheer up. What’s the worst that could happen?”

She looked at him most eloquently.

“Yes, well.” He coughed low down in his throat, which only made his airway feel a bit blocked. A second go set matters back to how they had been before, and he had an answer to give. “That is why I shall be assigning each of the children a dedicated caretaker, whom I’ll tell that if anything in the slightest goes wrong I’ll mince them up and feed them to my falcon. I’ll tell Mahaut and Thierry that too. I’d tell Jean, but he’d just blow bubbles and laugh at me.”

“As you are here, do you want to practice a bit of reading?”

About as much as he wanted to break his foot. “I suppose I can. Just a bit, mind, not some whole bloo- er, big book, and not on anything boring.”

Now, if she weren’t Richildis, and if he didn’t know what she was like, at this moment in time he would kiss her, and, if she weren’t Richildis, she’d probably like it, making them both happy. But she was Richildis.

To his great astonishment she drew herself up to her full height, closed her eyes, and kissed him. He’d had far more impressive kisses in his life, more passionate, more enjoyable, more quite a few things; this one partially missed its aim and hit one side of his mouth while ignoring the other, was so chaste it could be his sister – God rest her soul – and very brief. It was also the only kiss she’d ever willingly given him.

As he gaped at her, looking in his mind’s eyes like some gawky, pimpled boy who’d never been kissed before in his life and hadn’t realised what girls were for until this precise moment, she mumbled, “Yes, well, we did both make our bargains. You should not keep yours alone.” A good deal clearer she said, “And don’t fling yourself at me and expect me to like it! Don’t manhandle me, don’t crush me, and if I’m not interested hurting me won’t help matters. I told you, be more … careful, and maybe I’ll …” She trailed off, evidently less able to word these things than she had been a few nights before.

Being one of those chivalrous idiots nowadays, Jocelyn finished her sentence for her, “Get less scared.”

He waited for her to get a book, watching her as she knelt by the locked chest. Melancholy; there was a feeling he’d never really expected to have anything to do with. Melancholy was for damsels who stood on tower tops pining for their lost loves, and other junk. Or for people who realise too late that they’ve screwed up so much, and will probably never fix it all.

In a low voice he told her back, “You hurt me, so many times and in so many bloody ways. You make me feel so God damned stupid and worthless. It’s not my doing alone.”

Her hands paused in their work on the chest’s solid lock. “I didn’t say it was.”







I hardly ever know if I want to laugh at Jocelyn, or smack him, or perhaps pat him on the shoulder and say, “There, there.” What a very odd man … hehe!

Richildis is easier : pats Tildis on the shoulder and says, “There, there.”:


I felt the need to write too much to do a lot of reading, so this update appears faster than most, and as a result I'm still working my way through Rose and another book.


Trempy wonders if that is a comment on his skill as an assassin, Avernite. Fulk also wonders if that means you don't mind if he dies so long as it is Trempy doing it. Nell wishes to chip in, and say that you had better not be saying you don't mind Fulk dying if Trempy kills him, because think of the mess that would leave her in. Knight-less and alone, with the man who is her father in all but name responsible for her beloved's death.

Dead William: I gathered 3 more Diana Wynne Jones books: Howl's moving castle, the Merlin conspiracy, the lives of Christopher Chant. No idea when I will read them, as they are not on my 'work' list of books. They are short, by a frog's standards, so they will be fast reads, and that ups the chance of reading them soonish ... relatively speaking.

Got to say, I was pleased with the expose too. A good idea, if I do say so myself :smug frog:

Er :drums fingers on desk, trying to find something to say to coz1: Er :still tries to think of something not spoilerific, give-awayish, or entirely unrelated and therefore pointless: Hmm. Ok. :waves to coz1 in a friendly way: Hello. Thanks for dropping in. Goodbye. :rofl:


Now, pray excuse me while I try to change my bedding and read a book at the same time

 

[Dead William]

YAY! It's the wonderfull couple! Well at least they are working on their problems. Now where is the kindly neighbourhood priest to finish it all up? Nice update!

I'd advise to get the rest of the Chrestomancy books too, they're fun. (and if you haven't read it, try American Gods, By Gaiman.) DW

 

[Avernite]

Nah, it's just that assasinations are part of trempy's modus operandi, and it just fits him.

Hugh would make it into such a mess

And I see Joscelyn is slowly getting a bit better at it, good for him

 

[coz1]

Well, you are certainly setting things up for a showdown when William returns. I guess the question is - how will the sides shake out? No matter who helps who, there will be some interesting matches made soon, methinks.

 

[frogbeastegg]

If there was a better way to travel Eleanor hadn’t discovered it yet. Seated side saddle-wise before Fulk, curled up into his body, fastened against his armoured chest by the length of his cloak and arm he had wrapped about her, passing the time bandying words or dozing with his shoulder for her pillow.

Waking from her latest bit of light sleep, Eleanor looked about to see where they were. Still in trees, in a world still frosted about the edges. Nothing unexpected there; they were travelling via back ways, avoiding roads and other people as far as possible. By the sunlight it was somewhere about midday.

“Awake again?” asked Fulk.

“Possibly.” She worked on a few adjustments to his cloak, bundling one fold up to act as a better pillow and protection against tangling her hair in the links of his mail. “Or possibly not. This could be but a dream.”

“Oh? You usually dream about running away with knights to travel through frozen wildernesses?”

“All the time,” she assured him blithely. “That is, when I am not dreaming of ruggedly handsome outlaws.”

Fulk began to declaim in a rather stilted voice, “Alas and woe, for I have been captured by a creature of dubious morals. Oh woe, woe is me. Woe. Who now knows what my unhappy fate will be. What dire plans she has for me, I shudder to think. Woe, and more woe.”

“I thought I might go back to sleep …”

“Like a cat, you are, sometimes.”
Eleanor craned her head back, managing to just catch a glimpse of the underside of his chin. “Oh?”

“Lazy.”

“I am not! I am hoping to put you off your guard, so I can sneak away while your back is turne-” Fulk’s hand clamped across her mouth.

“Ssshh!” he hissed in her ear. His right arm slipped from around her waist to settle on the hilt of his sword.

As soon as she realised what he was doing, Eleanor’s hands went to her knives, ready to draw.

Fulk nudged the horse, encouraging it to keep walking. His head was up, turning from size to side, scenting like a hound.

Not being a battle-hardened veteran it took her a moment before she caught what he had: the faint fragrance of blood on the still air.

The very stillness was some reassurance; whatever had caused the blood to be spilt was gone now … or laired up, waiting. There was no sound of fighting, or of other people, or cries of wounded, man or beast. And beast it could be; something killed by a poacher or predator.

Fulk slipped down, pressed the reins into her hands and whispered, “Any sign of trouble and you go.”

He was off, moving through the trees like a ghost. Which was probably a good thing, as it saved the bother of his disagreeing when she told him that without him she was going nowhere.

The minutes passed; nothing happened.

Eleanor made more fuss over the horse than was necessary to keep it quiet and content.

Movement, there to her left and at mid distance where it was hard to see through the growth of tree trunks, bare branches, naked bushes, and some few bits of winter greenery. Someone approaching, carefully, but still making a noise. Not a half-decent hunter, then … or someone who didn’t see any need to keep his approach stealthy.

She had the knife drawn and poised to fly at the least bit of notice before she recognised Fulk.

“I thought I’d make a bit of a racket to avoid surprising you and being skewered. Instead I’m nearly skewered for making a racket. I’m disappointed – yet not the least bit surprised – to see you didn’t run away, like you’re supposed to.” All was well, but not perfectly well; such was evident from the way he spoke, almost normal in volume but not quite right in inflection.

“What was it?”

Fulk unknotted the chin straps of his helmet and pulled it free of the saddlebag strap where it hung.

Settling her knife back into its sheath Eleanor asked, “Bad news, then?”

Helmet laced on over his bare head, Fulk stuck a foot in the stirrup and settled back into the saddle behind her. With his left hand he took the reins back, but not before making sure his sword hilt was free of entanglement in their clothes. “Bodies,” he said curtly. “Half frozen; been here for at least a day. Nothing to concern us.” He jabbed a spur into the horse’s flank.

“No?”

“No.”

“Tell me.” That he didn’t only strengthened her suspicion that he had found something he believed would upset her. “Tell me; you are my knight, and I order it.”

“Bodies,” he repeated again. “Peasants.”

Considering the direction they had taken and how long they had been travelling, Eleanor thought it likely she didn’t need to be told, after all. “We are near the area London controls. There are some minor lords loyal to Hugh with lands touching on the edge of the area an armoured force from the city can reach at a day’s ride.”

“By the bodies, when the wind picked up a bit, I could small burning, faintly. Old burning, of fires long since gone out.” Eleanor pressed her hand flat onto his thigh, trying to comfort him or gain some comfort herself, she couldn’t tell. His free hand came down to cover hers, pressing it against his leg. “There are times I wish you were dim-witted, as much as I love you for not being so. Then you’d have to be told …”

“That people have done war in my name.”








EDIT: you know what, on a bit of reflection looking at the posted peice, the last line I dislike is so very gone, deleted and pruned it never existed. I prefer to end on "Have done war in my name".

Dead William: A priest. :imagines what a priest would say about those two, and what those two would say in return: It would be fun to write though! Richildis being told she is not submissive and dutiful enough, Jocelyn being told he should put such lustful thoughts from his mind, the priest being strangled by Jocelyn for insulting his wife, Tildis screaming at her husband to stop before he commits murder, and that's just for starters! :rofl:

American Gods and its semi sequel, Anansi (SP?) boys, are on my long to-buy list. Fairly likely to be purchased in the nearish future too. Reading them is another question entirely; it would probably take a few months at least before I got to them, as I have entirely too many books screaming "Read me NOW!!!" at me at present. I am so glad that the last few deliveries of books to the shop have been full of crap I can ignore I can play with my own books for a bit Although Bridget Jones is threatening me via the two book box set :cries:

Avernite, I agree. Hugh couldn't assassinate his way out of a wet paper bag. He's too boring to manage such excitement. :still finds cold porridge more exciting than Hugh:

coz1: Well ... unless everyone ends up all on the same side some interesting matches are inevitable That's the benefit of these characters. Ones I'd love to see include Nell V Hugh, Nell V Trempy, Fulk V Trempy, Jocelyn V the world, Nell and Trempy V Hugh, Nell and Trempy V William, Nell and Fulk V William and Hugh, Fulk V William, Hugh and Trempy, Anne V Mahaut, the King of France V his mother and uncle, Anne V Malcom (her brother, who has hardly even been mentioned). It doesn't take much to see that a good part of those are impossible, and the rest could or could not happen. :sigh: I can only dream ...