It was a mark of his finding great favour that his queen had asked him ride to with herself and her husband. Now how was that – not at all bad for all of a few hours’ acquaintance. Yes, the bird of importance had landed on his shoulder and it absolutely definitely no way at all was going to shit on him!
Jocelyn deigned to nod at a cluster of locals as he approached the city gates; a little bit of grace and favour from up on high would brighten their humdrum lives. If it made him more noticeable then that was entirely an accident, honest! Currying attention was so callow, damn it, as was showing off. Anyway, the queen waved at the townspeople now and then, and if she could do it then there was nothing at all wrong with him nodding once at a single group.
Leaving Perth behind Jocelyn couldn’t help but feel he was headed home, if slowly. It shouldn’t take all that long to settle things in England enough that attention could be paid to the crown’s lands across the Narrow Sea, and when that time came the logical choice for leader of any campaign out there was, quite simply, obvious. A powerful local man, skilled, loyal, one who’d come to his queen’s side right at the start …
Laughter. Turning to its source Jocelyn saw his queen and whatshisface engaging in yet more of that smiley-smiley lovey-dovey happy-happy mushy garbage, eyes locked, faint stupid bloody smiles pasted in their stupid bloody faces, the world all but forgotten as they teased each other! Again! Had it been possible he’d have clamped his spurs to his horse and left to them their nauseating display, damn it all! No consideration, not a jot between the two of them, flaunting their adoration bloody near constantly – it was enough to make any real man sick. It was impossible now to believe that pair of … of … of soppy-brained, love struck ninnies had managed to hide their feelings for any longer then it took a snowball to melt in hell!
He fixed his attention on the ground passing under his right stirrup. He didn’t care. He didn’t envy them. He only wanted them to stop before he spewed his breakfast. It was going to be a bloody long trip, this. Being made Lord Constable – or whatever you wanted to call it - of the French holdings might not be worth the misery.
In every noble marriage each partner had their own independent household, a flexible organisation capable of growing and shrinking to reflect the needs of the time, providing a fine standard of living regardless of which property the noble resided at or was travelling to. Where husband and wife resided together the households operated side by side, where necessity had them part the two units simply split and went their separate ways as efficiently as only autonomous units could.
Presently their combined households formed what looked like an army. Because it was – men in six liveries rode in this party. Eleanor’s own guard rode centre-front, flanking their lady and her companions. Hugh’s men, Miles’ men, Jocelyn’s men, the soldiers pushed on them by the King of Scots, and Fulk’s own little army – a coup he was quite proud of; FitzGilbert’s men were renowned as one of the best Scottish mercenary companies – placed here and there in a convoluted series of arrangements intended to keep from insulting any of the donors. Some five hundred men under arms total, with another six hundred and seventy owed by the King of Scots. The logistical necessities gave Fulk a thumping migraine each time he caught sight of the multicoloured snake with its spear-point hackles. Keeping this thing from shivering apart in his hands promised to give him another.
They would gather the non-military members of their households as they went, pieced together slowly to get the best balance between competence and trustworthiness as possible. By agreement Fulk’s household would take more people from the North and Scotland while Eleanor’s remained predominantly English; a most diplomatic split. For now the servants loaned by Hugh served them both.
Overhead two banners snapped and danced in the wind, their bearers riding a horse-length behind Fulk and Eleanor. One Eleanor’s crowned gooseberry, green and gold against a scarlet background; the other a hastily made thing of white and rich blue, turned out in a frenzy of work to fit his new status. It was a strange feeling, to see at last his boyhood dream realised and his white wolf rampant as banner and livery badge both. He’d had the right to this months ago on becoming a baron; lack of any real privileges of that status had prevented him, his land and funds locked firmly in the royal fist.
They passed some miles in pleasant conversation. Eleanor was the happiest he’d seen her in a long time, it warmed his heart. Fulk suspected the dour French count riding in near silence would have said it should have scared him, since a good part of her joy came from knowing that her life was in her own hands, as much as ever could be true for someone in her position. Jocelyn didn’t seem to approve of anything which did not benefit him directly, and, strangely for a man who had offered a throne to Eleanor, he held some drearily traditional views about women.
Lunchtime came, and a halt was called. Servants ran about, setting up a tent for privileged to eat in. As the last rope was secured Eleanor went inside to oversee the placing of the portable furniture and food.
Leaving her to it, Fulk took a brisk stroll about the camp, inspecting, making himself visible, lightly asserting himself a time or two to establish his authority in function as well as theory.
As he passed by Jocelyn’s men the count finished his conversation with his squire and strode over.
“I’m not under your authority,” declared Jocelyn, matching his pace to Fulk’s.
“I know.”
“Your own wife declared it so.”
“I know.”
The repeated admission seemed to flummox Jocelyn. “You don’t mind?”
Tamping down the returning resentment with practiced ease, Fulk indicated his army with a raised hand. “Why would I?” And why, when he knew the count’s being under Eleanor’s command would keep him from battle and any chance of gain, tucked safely under mistrustful eyes which used him as a protector so other and better men could march with Fulk.
They travelled several more steps, the count’s thumbs tucked in his belt. “Well, I would,” Jocelyn said suddenly.
“I grew used to being dismissed because of my birth long ago.”
“Don’t you hate it?” Jocelyn stopped, whirling to face Fulk. “And don’t you cringe to find yourself overruled by your own bloody wife? A wife’s place is beneath her husband.”
Fulk battled to keep a straight face; the image that provoked! “I’ll remind her of that later.”
Jocelyn waggled a finger in Fulk’s face. “See that you do. Go wrong at the start and the whole thing goes to a right bloody mess! Assert yourself. Make sure she knows her place, damn it. Then you’ll both be a damned sight happier in the long run.”
“Er …”
The count placed a brotherly arm about Fulk’s shoulders and pulled him into walking again. “Now, listen. We’ve had our disagreements-”
Which was news to Fulk! He raised a hand to adjust his new hat – a brimless thing with a big jaunty feather held on by a small jewelled brooch; very stylish - trying to get the other man to let go without seeming rude.
“But I don’t hold grudges. Bloody stupid, doing that. You’re in need of help, plain to see, and being an upstanding chap and all I’ll give you the benefit of my wisdom.”
“I think I have a good idea-”
“Pah!” Jocelyn’s free hand sliced through the air. “Main thing’s to show her who’s in charge and be consistent in it – never let her behave badly and get away with it. Don’t bribe her either; no gifts to get back in her good favours, no apologies, none of that bloody weakness! If she sulks, don’t give in. Ever.”
Good advice; Fulk would be certain to follow it if he ever felt an urgent need to die. “Eleanor’s not-”
“It does work. Why, my Richildis is as obedient as anything. Meek, gentle, pleasant-tempered … She’d never disagree with me or anything of the damned sort, certainly never argue or shout at me, no bloody way! Absolute pleasure to be around, is my Tildis.”
Somehow Fulk had the impression the man was lying … he said it much too brightly.
“Always be firm on your rights, especially in the bedchamber. Headaches are just an excuse. Course,” Jocelyn’s stride gathered a swagger, “I’ve never had the least problem there; my Tildis is almost too keen on me, if such a thing is possible, but I always keep up and acquit myself very damned well. I won’t worry yourself too much yet; it’s perfectly normal to get off to a bad start and bungle things so she’d rather sleep outside in midwinter than share your bed, but you’ll improve with practice. Probably.”
Through gritted teeth Fulk answered, “We are doing perfectly well, thank you very much.”
“I never said otherwise,” the count soothed.
Twisty – that had been Eleanor’s one word description of this man. “Thank you, but I think I have some idea of married life.”
“Probably, but they’ll all be wrong. You’re not a normal man, and she’s not a normal woman, and this isn’t a normal marriage. She’s a princess of a most noble house and in line for a great future,” he winked at Fulk; it was a wonder he didn’t squish one of the crowns dancing in visionary form in his eyes. “You’re … er,
you. You can’t go flinging your weight about, damn it man! You should protect her and help her; that should be your main purpose and aim in life. And she’s been badly mistreated by her father – who’d ever have thought it of such a good king? Disgraceful! Can hardly believe it – so you’ve got to be extra careful with her. She deserves a bloody sight better than some heavy-handed fool ordering her about, hitting her, crushing her down into a submissive wife.” He grunted. “Submissive wives aren’t that wonderful anyway. A real man can take a bit of criticism from his wife, let her help him, treat her as an equal, that sort of thing. That’s what I do with mine.”
Twisty? Outright dizzying! “I know,” interjected Fulk firmly.
They stopped. The friendly arm departed Fulk’s shoulder. “I suppose you’re right. You’re in a right awkward place and you’re the only one who can do anything with it. Got to find the right balance, see. Like me and my Tildis. I only hope you’ll take my advice as intended.”
“Er … thanks.”
Jocelyn beamed. “Happy to help. Anything else, just ask me. I wish every married couple was as happy as my Tildis and I are.” The grin never wavered; it fixed. “Exactly as happy. Only fair. I don’t see why some should get all the luck.”
Fulk decided there and then that this handsome count and his mysterious wife didn’t like each other one bit. That might also explain why he went so peculiar while talking about women. Eleanor had been very clear; she wanted this man kept where they could watch him as much as was practical. “Will you join us for lunch?”
“With pleasure.” They began to walk back to the tent. “Incidentally, where are you going to get your soldiers from? Since most nobility won’t serve you.”
Nightfall once again saw them settled on the King of Scot’s hospitality, at one of his royal manors. Their army camped outside, Fulk and Eleanor settled into the best bedchamber. The king’s parting gift – or insult – had occasion to be useful long before they had anticipated. As the property was not one particularly favoured by Anne’s father he did not maintain a set of furnishings in it. The English servants deployed and did their bit with efficiency which did Hugh credit, unpacking and setting up furniture equally provided by Eleanor’s brother. The only item Eleanor and Fulk could supply themselves was the bed; the King of Scots had gifted them the bed in which they had consummated their marriage, complete with mattress, covers and hangings. Since they needed to keep the sheet they may as well have the rest, he’d said. Pointing out their material poverty, more like. Still, it was a fabulous bed and Fulk wasn’t about to wish it away.
Fulk, being the very soul of chivalry, allowed Eleanor first use of the bathtub. Uncharitably it was much too small for both of them at once.
“Oh.” She stood fiddling with the knot of her girdle, and not to undo it.
Fulk plonked himself down on the bed, easily able to guess what bothered her. “I’ll sit here. I won’t be able to see your back unless you turn it to me.”
“Oh.” Lack of further protest demonstrated the progress he’d made in the last two nights; the fact she dived in before her cast off shift touched the floor showed how far he had left to go. Still, he had a nice view of her upper body … and she was washing very quickly.
He said, “If we keep them with us until we reach the southern-most part of my earldom, I think we will be able to do without Miles’ men. By then we’ll have taken hold of my lands. Trying to keep them with me when I leave to fight will be impossible, and I’d rather not march out with men who want to return to their lord’s son and do their duty by him.” He grimaced. “They’re likely to stab me in the back if I try. Can you persuade them to that much?”
“Certainly I cannot persuade them to do more than work south with us until our paths part. I shall try. It may be best to allow them to go their own way tomorrow.”
“I’d rather have the extra men while gathering up my castles; less likely to encounter trouble then.”
“But we will have the same worry each time we approach those lands until we install loyal castellans.” She held up a dripping hand to forestall his reply. “Oh, enough. I shall do as you wish. I have heard more than enough military talk for the day, thank you very much. Honestly, I did not think two men put together could spend an entire meal discussing recruitment, and occupy themselves with tactics for much of the afternoon.” Scrubbing at her leg, Eleanor grumbled, “I should have known better.”
Fulk spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry, ‘loved. I didn’t realise we were boring you; you’ve been quite curious about such things of late. Jocelyn had some useful points. I wouldn’t worry about his competence.”
“Wonderful.” Eleanor scooped up another handful of soap and started work on her left arm. “A competent general of uncertain loyalty. Precisely what we needed.”
“He swore the oaths well enough.”
“Yes, very true. I would feel better if I did not find the man so …”
“Phoney?” suggested Fulk.
Eleanor made a sound of agreement, and began to rinse her upper body.
“I think he lies a lot. About himself. He cornered me and tried to give me some advice; he contradicted himself when describing his wife, and I got the impression they don’t get along. He says otherwise, rather too often.”
“Sometimes I wonder if he has a brain. Others I fear he is dangerously sharp.” Eleanor wrapped herself in her towel as she stepped from the tub. “Your turn,” she informed Fulk, shooing him off the bed so she could sit on the spot he had warmed.
“You’ll made a damp patch,” he grumbled.
“On the foot of the outermost blanket.” She flapped a hand at him. “Go on! Before the water goes cold.”
Fulk grinned salaciously. “Ah, but then you’d charitably offer to warm me up after I’d washed.”
“No I would not. I do not want you leeching my heat when you are chilled through your own negligence.” She sniffed. “Far better that you suffer, learn your lesson, and not let it happen again.”
“Dearling, that would be doubly cruel. I’d then catch a chill. Sneezing knights aren’t impressive. Besides, you’d enjoy warming me up.”
Eleanor lifted her chin. “I am not going to bed with you for mercenary reasons, thank you very much.
Some things are not about helping you evade the consequences of your own stupidity.”
“Dearling, there’s more than one reason for wanting a princess in my bed,” said Fulk patiently. “It’s well known that a wife’s very good for warming cold feet on. There’s nothing mercenary about my curling up close to you to warm myself.”
“Six foot of chilled knight takes a lot of heat to warm.
I’d be frozen by the time you grew cosy. That is not chivalrous. Now get in that bath!”
Fulk tossed his hat down on the bed with a studied air of disgust. “Earl of Alnwick and her husband, and still she treats me like a common man at arms. Orders, more orders, sarcasm, insults, bah!” Being a dignified, brave knight Fulk undressed at a normal rate with nary the least thought of diving for cover. At every opportunity – and he made sure there were many – he watched Eleanor drying herself. A lower leg here, a peek of breast there, the odd hint of a hip … wonderful. By the time he reached shirt and hose he had slowed down to better watch, his interest in the bath gone.
She watched him in return, shy, yes, but open about it where she hadn’t been before.
When he’d shed his last layers Fulk began to strike silly poses, showing off his muscles. Eleanor began to laugh.
Fulk froze, clenched fists up near his ears. “Yes?” he enquired with stilted dignity.
“I was just thinking ... I wonder if it is possible …?” She caught up his hat, and hung it so it acted as a tolerable imitation of Adam’s fig-leaf, the long feather sticking out in obscene imitation of its improvised hat stand. She fell back onto the bed laughing helplessly.
Fulk shoulders slumped, and his expression became one of tolerant exasperation. “Irreverent creature!”
“Sorry,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. Another look, and she started giggling again.
Fulk shifted the hat to its correct location. Painstakingly he made certain it sat just so. Then with his best fearsome growl he lunged towards the bed. Eleanor rolled across the mattress in the opposite direction, towel falling into disarray; she nearly made it to her feet before he caught her. Holding her tight to his body he twisted over, pulling her back into the middle of the bed with himself propped on one elbow at her side. Damn, she was beautiful with her hair in disarray all over the pillows, and that wicked little smile of hers ...
Eleanor threw his hat across the room, buried her hands in his hair and pulled his face down to hers.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, that pair! Incidentally, frogs hate hats. Completely detest them; any sort on anyone for any purpose.
So passes another week with just one day off, that day mostly spent researching and ordering a new video card. My current one is dying; it never was the same after that power surge melted most of my PC a year and a bit ago. My cause was not helped by my trapping a finger in a big, heavy filing cabinet. Oh, the agony! And I'm a two-fingered typist! It still throbs. The next few weeks should be more promising for writing.
Chief Ragusa: Chivalry is part ideal, part fairytale. I don’t believe in fairies, and ideals must be adhered to by their followers to be valid. Adhered to in ways and for reasons other than self-interest, or it’s just selfishness. :shrugs: It’s a frog thing.
Avernite: That’s the way pre-modern history usually works. Chains of smaller, separate events building up to an overall effect, often seemingly unimportant events, or lesser details in bigger ones, proving to be the most influential in the end … save for accidents, misunderstands and mistakes. It’s very rarely decisive big battles which decide the fate of the cause, fought because complex and successful plans have led there. There’ll be no mysterious farm boys with crown-shaped birthmarks taking up their magical sword and Setting Forth to Achieve Their Destiny in my story
Amric: Hmmm, thanks for that. Gave me some thought
I had never considered that a slight feeling of awkwardness might fit the scene; I’d thought that it should be there in the atmosphere without appearing to my frog-sense, but if certain emotional scenes get to me then perhaps this one does too …? Maybe I was wrong … in which case the main source of frog-bother is in the wording, and something a few tweaks should fix. I shall have to have a play with it in a month or so, and see what happens.
BTW, I’m reading your Byzantine’s Khan. Very good so far, I like young Leonides, as he’s now known. Can't wait to see what he grows up into. I’m trying to finish the whole thing before I post. It’s going to take a while to catch up
Coz1: The advantage to Hugh is that he should be able to provide more than one child … through he’s limited to the rate of one a year, and less than that if he’s any consideration for poor Constance’s health and likelihood of surviving the subsequent pregnancies. The idea of Hugh as a father is scary; the idea of him having multiple children is terrifying! I have these visions of him being all Hughish at them, telling babies it’s not dignified to drool … :wacko: Mind you, the ones of him being run ragged by a bunch of young children are damned funny
And you're right, it is nice to see Nell and Fulk out in the open, so to speak.
