The Machiavellian Adventures of Princess Eleanor
- Thread starter frogbeastegg
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Ah, geeze, now I've got ideas of Trempie/Jocelyn slash running through my head. Jocelyn running out on his harpie wife, and Trempie realizing that his obsession with putting Nell on the throne was simply him repressing the truth that he just wants to be truly loved. A forbidden romance for the ages.
...
>_<
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>_<
That insight into Nell's mind is fascinating.
While it heavily implies a thing or two I've considered, it brings possibilities I initially considered ermm...unlikely...to the fore.
It also makes me very fearful for the life of Hugh. It really, really doesn't look like it's his day.
While it heavily implies a thing or two I've considered, it brings possibilities I initially considered ermm...unlikely...to the fore.
It also makes me very fearful for the life of Hugh. It really, really doesn't look like it's his day.
Chief Ragusa said:
Thanks, now I can't help but imagine the people standing on the castle as like a crowd at a football match, chanting songs and everything.
(Could be worse, though... they could be like a crowd at an American football game...
)I imagine after an hour of fighting one would need a rest like that. Most depictions of battle, especially medieval-type battle, have their participants going at it all day with only minimal fatigue. It just didn't work that way. Here, however, we see just how tiring it was. Adds an important bit of realism to the story.
Chief Ragusa said:
Jocelyn carrying off Nell, IE the or Jocelyn is meant to be Trempy or Jocelyn. Not Nell or Jocelyn.
And in case you were joking: Thou areth a spammer sir! Crossbows at dawn!
Avernite said:
Jocelyn carrying off Nell, IE the or Jocelyn is meant to be Trempy or Jocelyn. Not Nell or Jocelyn.
Jocelyn's been by Nell's side for months. I think that experience has convinced him that he wouldn't want to live with her 24/7 or carry her off.
Why shouldn't Fulk and his men take a breather? They've broken every roadblock Trempwick put in Hugh's way. Battle was just as hard on the horses. Trained destriers put in as much effort as their human riders. When Fulk recommits his men, he can chose his spot. It's a safe bet that Trempwick's outnumbered horsemen can't take breather. If Fulk can kill the leader on that flank, there's a chance the wing will break.
But he'd still be smelly, dirty and yucky still, so in no shape to meet Nell
And I doubt Fulk really has so much freedom. It IS a close battle, so most troops will simply be tied to a place by need instead of wishes. Maybe a piece of the line is wavering, or some Trempwickians are preparing a small attack, something like that.
And I doubt Fulk really has so much freedom. It IS a close battle, so most troops will simply be tied to a place by need instead of wishes. Maybe a piece of the line is wavering, or some Trempwickians are preparing a small attack, something like that.
Nell's planning on doing her own fighting, so will be equally smelly, dirty and yucky.
Sure Fulk's decision is limited to what he and his men can see. He might try to outflank Tremwick's line.
Trempwick is heavily outnumbered on the other flank and is fighting at a disadvange on this flank. Tremwick's going to have to reinforce his other flank from his reserve. He's not trying to win on the flanks, just hold. Hugh will want Trempwick to commit reserves before he does so that his men will be the fresher.
Sure Fulk's decision is limited to what he and his men can see. He might try to outflank Tremwick's line.
Trempwick is heavily outnumbered on the other flank and is fighting at a disadvange on this flank. Tremwick's going to have to reinforce his other flank from his reserve. He's not trying to win on the flanks, just hold. Hugh will want Trempwick to commit reserves before he does so that his men will be the fresher.
Chief Ragusa said:
Nell doin her own fighting?
Come on, she can't go out and pummel people with a broadsword, seeing as she has no armor nor a warhorse. She's unconventional, sure, but not THAT weird. She'd toss one dagger at most, and would thus not get nearly as dirty.
She'd be firing her crossbow from the prone position. She carries more than one dagger and I wouldn't put wielding a broadsword past her.
PS Have a good Christmas, frostbeastegg, and look forward to the January sales.
PS Have a good Christmas, frostbeastegg, and look forward to the January sales.
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Chief Ragusa said:
I'd put it past her allright. She knows there are plenty of people much better at doing that.
One dagger, to kill one person. Maybe two if she wants both Hugh and trempy dead.
Yeah right.
She's not planning on doing anything as "noble" as fighting Trempwick. She just going to kill him. That's a distance shot not up close and personal. She may not be that good with a broadsword, but if she's up against it, she'll have no choice.
She's not planning on doing anything as "noble" as fighting Trempwick. She just going to kill him. That's a distance shot not up close and personal. She may not be that good with a broadsword, but if she's up against it, she'll have no choice.
That particular melee had gone on long enough to be convincing. Trempwick ordered, “Have the cavalry begin their fained rout.”
The signal passed. So did time. The horsemen to reacting too close to the signal would invite suspicion.
Then. The formation started to fray. One by one men dragged their horses about and dug in their spurs. The few became the many. The many became the all. Riding at full speed away from the battle.
And their foes laid chase. Bloodlust. The thrill of victory. Predictable and useful.
One mile away along that course waited the Scottish brat. He’d cut the bastard’s men to pieces. Trempwick’s returning cavalry would come bolstered by near two hundred Scots.
His cavalry was pursuing the broken enemy from the field. Against all of his orders, against his dire threats, against his great need for them to turn on the enemy line. Hugh cried, “I shall have them walk the entire way back to London with their saddles about their necks! Every last one of them!”
He flushed at his loss of decorum. What was the use? The situation could still be salvaged, and his first thoughts should have been in that direction. Battles had setbacks, and all never went according to plan. He knew this. He had prepared for it. That this, the first stumble, came so far into the day was, overall, a promising sign. In all other aspects the plan proceeded at the level he had expected, or better.
“All of the reserves save for my guard and hundred are to attend to the left flank,” he commanded. “The position is to be re-established and held without hesitation to the cost.”
Within minutes Hugh remained alone at his vantage point, alone save for his personal bodyguard and the hundred veterans selected to fight alongside him.
His council was gone, only Thomas remained. Hugh felt the weight of sole responsibility crushing down upon his shoulders. The moment was here – or so he thought. Could he be incorrect? Waiting as little longer would make it clear, yet equally it may allow his chance to slip. He may be seeing through wishful eyes something which was not there.
Or he may be correct.
He believed he was.
If his judgement were flawed he would forfeit the engagement with his error.
Hugh’s heart pounded as though he had been in the thick of the conflict for the past hour, his palms slick with sweat.
He reviewed the situation once again. His left flank had stabilised and now held station relative to the original positions of the battle line. His centre had bowed backwards under the pressure, and it still held. His right flank had advanced sufficiently far forward that if it began to turn to the left it would bundle the enemy up on themselves. Of his cavalry there remained no trace. Of his reserves only himself and those under his direct command remained.
Sweat ran down Hugh’s back under his armour. The moment had arrived, he was certain.
If he were mistaken …
His fingers brushed the lions embroidered over his heart. The gold thread felt rough to his fingertips. The blood of capable generals ran in his veins; how disgusted they would be if they could witness his squirming thoughts. They would reject him.
Trust. Belief. If he could not muster these things in himself how may he expect them of others?
“The right flank is to begin pressing sideways.”
Three short blasts followed by two long ones – the signal! Fulk shouted, “Press left! FitzWilliam’s men, press left!”
Matching deed to word he advanced a diagonal step forward where before he’d have taken a straight one.
Sir Gervaise stepped forward to Eleanor’s elbow. In a gentle, gentle voice he said, “Your Highness, I think it may be prudent to consider our course of action in the event of your brother’s defeat.”
Eleanor whirled around. “Defeat!?”
“His cavalry is mostly gone, his centre is like to give before dusk, the bulk of his reserves are committed.”
“But – but Trempwick’s army is almost half encircled!” That was supposed to be important! Over and over she had seen it mentioned in the texts she had read. If one army encircled the other then the odds swung heavily in their favour. Still something nagged at her about the shape of the battle. “Trempwick has used most of his reserves too.”
“That will not matter if your brother’s army is cut into two. I feel that is a very real danger, your Highness.” Again that gentle request, “In that event, what will you do, your Highness?”
Defeat. It seemed impossible. How could Hugh lose? Everything depended upon his victory – how could he be so useless as to lose!? It made her want to scream. The one thing she desperately need her brother to do, something he had been trained for since he could toddle, the most important moment of his life so far, and he was going to fail?! How perfectly bloody Hugh!
“Do?” she spat. “Do? What is there to do? Wait, then pick up whatever is left and attempt to make something functional of it.”
The castellan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ah … that is not quite as specific as I had hoped, your Highness.”
“You wished me to send for my crown so I could start polishing it?” To full of pent up anger to remain still Eleanor began to stomp up and down along the tower’s rampart. “Perhaps I should begin choosing a dress to receive Trempwick in? Is that what you would have me do? Fuss about preparing myself like a bride for a man who is going to-” She couldn’t say it. He was her tutor, her mentor, he was like a father to her, for Christ’s sake!
Sir Gervaise stood unflinching. “That might be a start.” Her glare must have been positively molten because he shrank back a trifle. “He could kill everyone in this castle. He’s promised to do so. You are the only one with a chance of stopping him, and you’ll only have that chance if you appease him.”
“Damn you,” Eleanor whispered. “That was underhand.”
“I am but reminding you of what you already know.”
“I am aware of that.” Under her cloak her fingers touched her hidden knives. “I do not need to choose dresses. I shall do as I am.” Who was the knife for? Herself? Trempwick? Would she break her sworn word to Fulk and send his soul howling to the torments of hell? In the face of defeat that is what it would mean. Fulk would not survive a victory by Trempwick, and so her oath to return to her master for protection would require fulfilment. With circumstances so changed Fulk should have released her from the resentful promise!
Then it came to her. “Cannae!” Eleanor exclaimed.
Sir Gervaise looked most alarmed. “Can you what, your Highness?”
“Cannae, the battle of Cannae.” The clarification did nothing to reduce the blank looks directed at her by all on her tower. “Hannibal. The destruction of a Roman army.”
The castellan shrugged. “My master taught me from more recent examples, your Highness. I’m no scholar.”
Eleanor scowled. She’d suffered through those dreary old books in the belief her misery had been shared by those with more military knowledge than her. Evidently not. “I have been reading works of history, and of strategy.”
“Yes, your Highness. It is most … unusual for a lady.”
It was all Sir Miles’ fault. He’d managed what Trempwick never had, and made her think it may be useful. “Look.” She pointed at the field. “See the shape the armies have taken?” Hugh’s centre had bowed backwards, his right flank advanced, his left flank still held position. Trempwick’s army had poured forward as it pressed its advantage. The overall resembled a hand cupping a ball. “Hannibal knew much of his infantry could not stand up to the Roman’s. He took advantage of this. When his centre bowed back and his more solid troops kept position he ended up half-encircling the Roman army. He played to his weakness, and made it his strength.” She said nothing of Hannibal’s superior cavalry and how they had driven off their weaker Roman counterparts, enabling a greater degree of encirclement than Hugh could manage.
Jocelyn scratched his cheek. “You say your brother plan this? To have such big risk?”
It would be a very Hugh thing to do. Eleanor knew her brother sought to model himself after those considered to be great, and grasped after examples of how he should act in every situation from the mundane to the extraordinary. Anything other than be his own self. “His education was very thorough, and I know he studied ancient battles along with more modern ones. He would be delusional if he thought he could have a solid battle line with the army he has brought.”
Hawise said, “But his knights have gone, chasing after Trempwick’s. Doesn’t that mean he is in trouble if he’s trying to do what you suggest?”
“Yes.” After a pause Eleanor added, “Possibly.” Another pause. “I have no idea – I am no strategist. I have read a few histories, that is all.”
The castellan was the one to break the weighty silence. “If your brother did indeed plan for this he may have some chance yet. If his centre doesn’t break.”
Fulk cursed and twisted his sword again. It wouldn’t budge. The blade had lodged in his enemy’s spine. It had been a mistake to swing with such force, even if the weapon’s edge were so dulled it now did much of its damage through blunt force. Another tug and finally it came free, the shock of it sending him teetering backwards. Before he recovered his balance a body hit him and threw him to the ground.
He heaved at the body lying across him with all the urgency his exhausted body could muster; those who fell and didn’t rise swiftly tended not to rise again. Waltheof and another he didn’t recognise filled the gap left by his fall, protecting him as he struggled.
The body shifted and he managed to half free himself. Fulk got one foot under himself and froze. His squire’s jaw was a mess of pulped flesh, splintered bone and shattered teeth floating haphazardly in it. His left eye reduced to a splash of jelly in a crumpled socket. Amazingly Luke still breathed, mercifully unconscious and undeniably dying.
Retching, though his stomach was long since emptied, Fulk drew his dagger and did the only thing he could. In the crush he was jostled, a knee catching him in the back with bruising force, and the cut across Luke’s throat was not clean.
Back on his feet Fulk didn’t search the enemy line for the man who’d killed Luke. There was no point. If he wasn’t directly in front of him then they wouldn’t meet, simple as that.
As he returned his sword to ready position after a slash Fulk noticed the tip of the blade had snapped clean off.
Hugh drew his sword. “God aid us!”
His men returned the cry.
“God aid us!” He started forward, the terrified militia peeling back to make way for his hardened veterans. “Stand and fight!” he bellowed. “Victory is at hand! Your lord fights with you as token of this!”
The words were not hollow. Prior to leaving his vantage point both right and left flanks had cut their way across, bagging the enemy up. If the cavalry returned they could cut right into the vulnerable rear, if not then his infantry would grind their way onwards. Trempwick could not pull back, he had nothing left to threaten the envelopment, his only chance lay in shattering Hugh’s militia before his own men panicked. Hence Hugh’s presence, and with him more than a hundred heavily armed men who lived and breathed for combat. His own guard would die to a man so long as he himself stood – it was their sworn duty, their very purpose in life.
“God aid us!” Hugh’s first victim tumbled to the ground. To his left and right he could see others achieving the same success – the impact of fresh men on the exhausted enemy was devastating.
He recognised the tactic. Of course he did. Grind his teeth or laugh? The bastard thought he was Hannibal! Whatever. Annoying. Punch through his line and the bastard was done. Hold out until Malcolm arrived and the bastard was done. If not Malcolm, then his own returning cavalry. The first highly likely. The latter only necessary for a neater finish. And to that end …
Trempwick drew his sword and charged into the fray in support of his left flank.
Wished again a simple assassination had been possible. So much cleaner.
Trempwick was engaged in the battle. Eleanor’s mouth went dry. This was it, time for her final decision. It was not as hard she had earlier believed it would be.
“Count Jocelyn.”
“Your Highness?”
“You will begin your sally now. Trempwick is on his left flank.”
The count bowed, his mail chiming softly. “We capture him,” he said confidently.
“No.” Easier than near-impossible was still a long way from child’s play. Eleanor took a breath. “Kill him.” A sense of loss swept over her, and with it a measure of tranquillity.
The Frenchman blinked. “Er?”
“I undertook a certain duty.” This would not make her popular amongst her remaining menfolk.
“But … you sure?” Jocelyn was not the only one with doubt plain to read in his eyes. They all had it. Every last damned one of them. Indeed, this would not make her popular.
Very carefully the castellan ventured, “Better to capture him, to submit him to your brother’s justice. If indeed your brother wins.”
Hugh would be livid at being denied his vengeance, at losing chance to stamp his victory over his tormentor into lasting memory. “When Trempwick falls his army will crumple. He is what holds them together. Strike off the serpent’s head and what is left is harmless. If my brother’s position is as perilous as you say then we must reach for anything which may give him the edge
Would Fulk forgive her? Whether made in jest or in the full grip of her royal temper, Fulk had met each and every suggestion that she do Trempwick some permanent harm with a flat negatory. Could he love someone capable of cold-bloodedly ordering the death of a man who had raised her, saved her life? Her decision would change things between them irrevocably. Then there was that tricky promise. How could she gamble with her beloved’s soul like this? If he died in that battle … She must believe he would survive, and thus the promise would have no cost.
Eleanor had inherited a kingdom. Unlooked for, unwanted, unaccepted though it may be, it was hers and try as she might she couldn’t turn her back on it.
Eleanor said, “There can be no peace while he lives.”
With her whole heart she cursed her father for thrusting this on her.
[wizard of Oz]Ding dong the witch* is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead! :celebration: [/wizard of Oz]
*for witch substitute Christmas season
The Cannae thing would be better/make more sense if the battle were better written. Oh well. Too late.
Thanks to everyone involved in the Trempy/Jocelyn line of comments. It brought me a few smiles in the dark, dark times of “last few shopping days until xmas!”
Gah! Company! He’s early. I shall take that as a sign of my not-a-knight’s devotion to his frog even as I mutter that I’m not finished, confound it! Have to come back tomorrow -_- Apologies.
The signal passed. So did time. The horsemen to reacting too close to the signal would invite suspicion.
Then. The formation started to fray. One by one men dragged their horses about and dug in their spurs. The few became the many. The many became the all. Riding at full speed away from the battle.
And their foes laid chase. Bloodlust. The thrill of victory. Predictable and useful.
One mile away along that course waited the Scottish brat. He’d cut the bastard’s men to pieces. Trempwick’s returning cavalry would come bolstered by near two hundred Scots.
His cavalry was pursuing the broken enemy from the field. Against all of his orders, against his dire threats, against his great need for them to turn on the enemy line. Hugh cried, “I shall have them walk the entire way back to London with their saddles about their necks! Every last one of them!”
He flushed at his loss of decorum. What was the use? The situation could still be salvaged, and his first thoughts should have been in that direction. Battles had setbacks, and all never went according to plan. He knew this. He had prepared for it. That this, the first stumble, came so far into the day was, overall, a promising sign. In all other aspects the plan proceeded at the level he had expected, or better.
“All of the reserves save for my guard and hundred are to attend to the left flank,” he commanded. “The position is to be re-established and held without hesitation to the cost.”
Within minutes Hugh remained alone at his vantage point, alone save for his personal bodyguard and the hundred veterans selected to fight alongside him.
His council was gone, only Thomas remained. Hugh felt the weight of sole responsibility crushing down upon his shoulders. The moment was here – or so he thought. Could he be incorrect? Waiting as little longer would make it clear, yet equally it may allow his chance to slip. He may be seeing through wishful eyes something which was not there.
Or he may be correct.
He believed he was.
If his judgement were flawed he would forfeit the engagement with his error.
Hugh’s heart pounded as though he had been in the thick of the conflict for the past hour, his palms slick with sweat.
He reviewed the situation once again. His left flank had stabilised and now held station relative to the original positions of the battle line. His centre had bowed backwards under the pressure, and it still held. His right flank had advanced sufficiently far forward that if it began to turn to the left it would bundle the enemy up on themselves. Of his cavalry there remained no trace. Of his reserves only himself and those under his direct command remained.
Sweat ran down Hugh’s back under his armour. The moment had arrived, he was certain.
If he were mistaken …
His fingers brushed the lions embroidered over his heart. The gold thread felt rough to his fingertips. The blood of capable generals ran in his veins; how disgusted they would be if they could witness his squirming thoughts. They would reject him.
Trust. Belief. If he could not muster these things in himself how may he expect them of others?
“The right flank is to begin pressing sideways.”
Three short blasts followed by two long ones – the signal! Fulk shouted, “Press left! FitzWilliam’s men, press left!”
Matching deed to word he advanced a diagonal step forward where before he’d have taken a straight one.
Sir Gervaise stepped forward to Eleanor’s elbow. In a gentle, gentle voice he said, “Your Highness, I think it may be prudent to consider our course of action in the event of your brother’s defeat.”
Eleanor whirled around. “Defeat!?”
“His cavalry is mostly gone, his centre is like to give before dusk, the bulk of his reserves are committed.”
“But – but Trempwick’s army is almost half encircled!” That was supposed to be important! Over and over she had seen it mentioned in the texts she had read. If one army encircled the other then the odds swung heavily in their favour. Still something nagged at her about the shape of the battle. “Trempwick has used most of his reserves too.”
“That will not matter if your brother’s army is cut into two. I feel that is a very real danger, your Highness.” Again that gentle request, “In that event, what will you do, your Highness?”
Defeat. It seemed impossible. How could Hugh lose? Everything depended upon his victory – how could he be so useless as to lose!? It made her want to scream. The one thing she desperately need her brother to do, something he had been trained for since he could toddle, the most important moment of his life so far, and he was going to fail?! How perfectly bloody Hugh!
“Do?” she spat. “Do? What is there to do? Wait, then pick up whatever is left and attempt to make something functional of it.”
The castellan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ah … that is not quite as specific as I had hoped, your Highness.”
“You wished me to send for my crown so I could start polishing it?” To full of pent up anger to remain still Eleanor began to stomp up and down along the tower’s rampart. “Perhaps I should begin choosing a dress to receive Trempwick in? Is that what you would have me do? Fuss about preparing myself like a bride for a man who is going to-” She couldn’t say it. He was her tutor, her mentor, he was like a father to her, for Christ’s sake!
Sir Gervaise stood unflinching. “That might be a start.” Her glare must have been positively molten because he shrank back a trifle. “He could kill everyone in this castle. He’s promised to do so. You are the only one with a chance of stopping him, and you’ll only have that chance if you appease him.”
“Damn you,” Eleanor whispered. “That was underhand.”
“I am but reminding you of what you already know.”
“I am aware of that.” Under her cloak her fingers touched her hidden knives. “I do not need to choose dresses. I shall do as I am.” Who was the knife for? Herself? Trempwick? Would she break her sworn word to Fulk and send his soul howling to the torments of hell? In the face of defeat that is what it would mean. Fulk would not survive a victory by Trempwick, and so her oath to return to her master for protection would require fulfilment. With circumstances so changed Fulk should have released her from the resentful promise!
Then it came to her. “Cannae!” Eleanor exclaimed.
Sir Gervaise looked most alarmed. “Can you what, your Highness?”
“Cannae, the battle of Cannae.” The clarification did nothing to reduce the blank looks directed at her by all on her tower. “Hannibal. The destruction of a Roman army.”
The castellan shrugged. “My master taught me from more recent examples, your Highness. I’m no scholar.”
Eleanor scowled. She’d suffered through those dreary old books in the belief her misery had been shared by those with more military knowledge than her. Evidently not. “I have been reading works of history, and of strategy.”
“Yes, your Highness. It is most … unusual for a lady.”
It was all Sir Miles’ fault. He’d managed what Trempwick never had, and made her think it may be useful. “Look.” She pointed at the field. “See the shape the armies have taken?” Hugh’s centre had bowed backwards, his right flank advanced, his left flank still held position. Trempwick’s army had poured forward as it pressed its advantage. The overall resembled a hand cupping a ball. “Hannibal knew much of his infantry could not stand up to the Roman’s. He took advantage of this. When his centre bowed back and his more solid troops kept position he ended up half-encircling the Roman army. He played to his weakness, and made it his strength.” She said nothing of Hannibal’s superior cavalry and how they had driven off their weaker Roman counterparts, enabling a greater degree of encirclement than Hugh could manage.
Jocelyn scratched his cheek. “You say your brother plan this? To have such big risk?”
It would be a very Hugh thing to do. Eleanor knew her brother sought to model himself after those considered to be great, and grasped after examples of how he should act in every situation from the mundane to the extraordinary. Anything other than be his own self. “His education was very thorough, and I know he studied ancient battles along with more modern ones. He would be delusional if he thought he could have a solid battle line with the army he has brought.”
Hawise said, “But his knights have gone, chasing after Trempwick’s. Doesn’t that mean he is in trouble if he’s trying to do what you suggest?”
“Yes.” After a pause Eleanor added, “Possibly.” Another pause. “I have no idea – I am no strategist. I have read a few histories, that is all.”
The castellan was the one to break the weighty silence. “If your brother did indeed plan for this he may have some chance yet. If his centre doesn’t break.”
Fulk cursed and twisted his sword again. It wouldn’t budge. The blade had lodged in his enemy’s spine. It had been a mistake to swing with such force, even if the weapon’s edge were so dulled it now did much of its damage through blunt force. Another tug and finally it came free, the shock of it sending him teetering backwards. Before he recovered his balance a body hit him and threw him to the ground.
He heaved at the body lying across him with all the urgency his exhausted body could muster; those who fell and didn’t rise swiftly tended not to rise again. Waltheof and another he didn’t recognise filled the gap left by his fall, protecting him as he struggled.
The body shifted and he managed to half free himself. Fulk got one foot under himself and froze. His squire’s jaw was a mess of pulped flesh, splintered bone and shattered teeth floating haphazardly in it. His left eye reduced to a splash of jelly in a crumpled socket. Amazingly Luke still breathed, mercifully unconscious and undeniably dying.
Retching, though his stomach was long since emptied, Fulk drew his dagger and did the only thing he could. In the crush he was jostled, a knee catching him in the back with bruising force, and the cut across Luke’s throat was not clean.
Back on his feet Fulk didn’t search the enemy line for the man who’d killed Luke. There was no point. If he wasn’t directly in front of him then they wouldn’t meet, simple as that.
As he returned his sword to ready position after a slash Fulk noticed the tip of the blade had snapped clean off.
Hugh drew his sword. “God aid us!”
His men returned the cry.
“God aid us!” He started forward, the terrified militia peeling back to make way for his hardened veterans. “Stand and fight!” he bellowed. “Victory is at hand! Your lord fights with you as token of this!”
The words were not hollow. Prior to leaving his vantage point both right and left flanks had cut their way across, bagging the enemy up. If the cavalry returned they could cut right into the vulnerable rear, if not then his infantry would grind their way onwards. Trempwick could not pull back, he had nothing left to threaten the envelopment, his only chance lay in shattering Hugh’s militia before his own men panicked. Hence Hugh’s presence, and with him more than a hundred heavily armed men who lived and breathed for combat. His own guard would die to a man so long as he himself stood – it was their sworn duty, their very purpose in life.
“God aid us!” Hugh’s first victim tumbled to the ground. To his left and right he could see others achieving the same success – the impact of fresh men on the exhausted enemy was devastating.
He recognised the tactic. Of course he did. Grind his teeth or laugh? The bastard thought he was Hannibal! Whatever. Annoying. Punch through his line and the bastard was done. Hold out until Malcolm arrived and the bastard was done. If not Malcolm, then his own returning cavalry. The first highly likely. The latter only necessary for a neater finish. And to that end …
Trempwick drew his sword and charged into the fray in support of his left flank.
Wished again a simple assassination had been possible. So much cleaner.
Trempwick was engaged in the battle. Eleanor’s mouth went dry. This was it, time for her final decision. It was not as hard she had earlier believed it would be.
“Count Jocelyn.”
“Your Highness?”
“You will begin your sally now. Trempwick is on his left flank.”
The count bowed, his mail chiming softly. “We capture him,” he said confidently.
“No.” Easier than near-impossible was still a long way from child’s play. Eleanor took a breath. “Kill him.” A sense of loss swept over her, and with it a measure of tranquillity.
The Frenchman blinked. “Er?”
“I undertook a certain duty.” This would not make her popular amongst her remaining menfolk.
“But … you sure?” Jocelyn was not the only one with doubt plain to read in his eyes. They all had it. Every last damned one of them. Indeed, this would not make her popular.
Very carefully the castellan ventured, “Better to capture him, to submit him to your brother’s justice. If indeed your brother wins.”
Hugh would be livid at being denied his vengeance, at losing chance to stamp his victory over his tormentor into lasting memory. “When Trempwick falls his army will crumple. He is what holds them together. Strike off the serpent’s head and what is left is harmless. If my brother’s position is as perilous as you say then we must reach for anything which may give him the edge
Would Fulk forgive her? Whether made in jest or in the full grip of her royal temper, Fulk had met each and every suggestion that she do Trempwick some permanent harm with a flat negatory. Could he love someone capable of cold-bloodedly ordering the death of a man who had raised her, saved her life? Her decision would change things between them irrevocably. Then there was that tricky promise. How could she gamble with her beloved’s soul like this? If he died in that battle … She must believe he would survive, and thus the promise would have no cost.
Eleanor had inherited a kingdom. Unlooked for, unwanted, unaccepted though it may be, it was hers and try as she might she couldn’t turn her back on it.
Eleanor said, “There can be no peace while he lives.”
With her whole heart she cursed her father for thrusting this on her.
[wizard of Oz]Ding dong the witch* is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead! :celebration: [/wizard of Oz]
*for witch substitute Christmas season
The Cannae thing would be better/make more sense if the battle were better written. Oh well. Too late.
Thanks to everyone involved in the Trempy/Jocelyn line of comments. It brought me a few smiles in the dark, dark times of “last few shopping days until xmas!”
Gah! Company! He’s early. I shall take that as a sign of my not-a-knight’s devotion to his frog even as I mutter that I’m not finished, confound it! Have to come back tomorrow -_- Apologies.
Now comes the moment of truth. If Hugh's center breaks, Trempy wins. If Jocelyn cuts our beloved plotter down before that, Hugh wins. If Malcolm shows up before either of those, who knows? Whatever he decides to do will determine the battle. Or he might be too tired/depleted to have an effect. There are still so many possibilities, but one's going to have to win out soon...
If Nefastus' men attack Trempwick's cavalry, he could arrive on the battlefield with Hugh's cavalry. Both Hugh and Trempwick are now fighting. Avernite may get his wish that both of them kills the other. Jocelyn's about to join the fray. Time for Nell to put her work clothes on and get down and dirty.
You're doing a grand job of bulding the tension, froggbeastegg.
You're doing a grand job of bulding the tension, froggbeastegg.
Hmm...
Would perhaps the sally be balanced by Nefastus' force, pinning the two armies into another stalemate?
Or would Nefastus simply ride into the castle, snatch Nell, and leave the rest to the Englishmen? That would be some conclusion: Trempy's returning cavalry (I have little hope for Hugh's cavalry) prevents him being cut down by Jocelyn, so at the end of the battle all participants are still alive, except that Nell is now a 'guest' of the Scottish crownprince who will be bargaining quite harshly.
Or perhaps the battle moves from Hugh vs. Trempy to Jocy vs. Nefastus as both of the former (and Fulk) are cut down?
Would perhaps the sally be balanced by Nefastus' force, pinning the two armies into another stalemate?
Or would Nefastus simply ride into the castle, snatch Nell, and leave the rest to the Englishmen? That would be some conclusion: Trempy's returning cavalry (I have little hope for Hugh's cavalry) prevents him being cut down by Jocelyn, so at the end of the battle all participants are still alive, except that Nell is now a 'guest' of the Scottish crownprince who will be bargaining quite harshly.
Or perhaps the battle moves from Hugh vs. Trempy to Jocy vs. Nefastus as both of the former (and Fulk) are cut down?
Trempy's cavalry are by now in real rout. When they do eventually come to a halt on blown and winded horses, they're going to be easy pickings for Nefastus
Nefastus riding in to the castle presupposes that someone will forget to close the gate and portcullis. Not at all likely. 'Course the youth will be calculating which course of action will give him the most advantage.
Who next, Avernite, will you suggest to carry off Nell? Some late Vikings on a special package tour offering a spot of pillage and plunder, strange lights in the sky portending alien abduction or an inpromptu visit from the Flying Dutchman.
The line about Nell inheriting a kingdom does not bode well for Hugh's survivability. I hope he beats the odds.
Nefastus riding in to the castle presupposes that someone will forget to close the gate and portcullis. Not at all likely. 'Course the youth will be calculating which course of action will give him the most advantage.
Who next, Avernite, will you suggest to carry off Nell? Some late Vikings on a special package tour offering a spot of pillage and plunder, strange lights in the sky portending alien abduction or an inpromptu visit from the Flying Dutchman.
The line about Nell inheriting a kingdom does not bode well for Hugh's survivability. I hope he beats the odds.
Chief Ragusa said:
Hmm, flying Dutchmen? Sure, lend me a few wings and I'll do it
And let's be honest: the best (if not nearly all) of the castle defenders are gone into the battle. If ever seizing the castle was easy, it is now.
Trempwick's cavalry will have to be very careful...there's a slim difference between a feigned rout and an actual one.
However, it appears that Hugh must win quickly, if he is to win at all, as if Trempwick's forces are in full flight before Nefastus arrives, Nefastus might be unable to swing things his way.
In the meantime Nell has clearly been making some difficult decisions...I'm interested to see what effects her actions are going to have, when they do take effect.
However, it appears that Hugh must win quickly, if he is to win at all, as if Trempwick's forces are in full flight before Nefastus arrives, Nefastus might be unable to swing things his way.
In the meantime Nell has clearly been making some difficult decisions...I'm interested to see what effects her actions are going to have, when they do take effect.
I made a pair of maps. They're rubbish and ugly; I'm not an artist and it's hard to draw with a mouse and Paint. However they may be useful.
This is the position at the start of the battle. It's not to scale at all, and things are only roughly slapped down in the right position.
This is the battle as it presently stands. The bit containing the castle is my rubbish attempt at one of those posh blown up inserts you see on battlefield diagrams. The big black line is to indicate the line of seperation between scales.
Notice how Nell's unit is tagged in gooseberry green?
(posting this one seperate because the image tags are causing trouble with the text box layout, and that makes replying to comments difficult)
This is the position at the start of the battle. It's not to scale at all, and things are only roughly slapped down in the right position.
This is the battle as it presently stands. The bit containing the castle is my rubbish attempt at one of those posh blown up inserts you see on battlefield diagrams. The big black line is to indicate the line of seperation between scales.
Notice how Nell's unit is tagged in gooseberry green?
(posting this one seperate because the image tags are causing trouble with the text box layout, and that makes replying to comments difficult)