Cadfan was not sneering this time. Much care had been lavished on his appearance; his hair was freshly washed and combed, his skin flawlessly clean, his features composed. Fashionable clothes and a body to wear them upon were his only lack.
Hugh waved the casket away after giving the severed head inside a showily prolonged inspection. “Where is his body?”
Two Welshmen had come under flag of truce to deliver the grisly prize, one to represent each of the surviving princes. Each waited for the other to answer, and when the silence drew out to an uncomfortable length each started to speak. A look between them settled the matter, and the older of the two was the one to continue. “Sire, it lies in our princes’ camp. It can be brought here within the day, should you require it.”
Now that the rebel alliance had broken and its remaining leaders were willing to submit Hugh saw no need to press Cadfan’s destruction further. He was not a vengeful man, at least he prayed so. “No. Let him be buried wherever it is traditional for his family.” Not vengeful, and not weak either; Hugh directed his marshal, “Boil the head in tar and mount it on a spike above the main gate of Chester so that all who come and go may see for themselves he price of harming one who swears allegiance to me.”
The younger emissary spoke, “Our lords hope you might find forgiveness for them in your heart now they have purged themselves of the ill-council which led them astray.”
Naturally Hugh would find forgiveness – it was part of the endless cycle of border politics. He was as incapable of conquering Wales as the locals were of fully throwing off English influence. That prevented neither party from trying their hand when opportunity was perceived; it was such a long-standing state of affairs as to be traditional. “If your lords will submit themselves before me tomorrow, give me fifty hostages to guarantee the peace, and attend my coronation to pay homage along with the rest of my lords then there shall be forgiveness.” Hugh raised a hand to still the murmur than ran through the chamber. “It is my decree that all that my lords have taken while fighting in defence of my rights shall remain in their hands. The Welsh must forfeit all claim to those lands and goods.”
The younger man nearly rose from his abject position on the floor. “That is unjust!”
Hugh slapped his palm on the arm of his great chair. “It is just! The word you seek is harsh. Which, given the numerous offences your lords have given me, is none so applicable as it might be. Am I to fund the struggle to regain what is rightfully mine? Or shall the cost fall to those who began the war, maintained it, and wrought the devastation?”
The man made the mistake of countering, “The very lords you now reward gave many of the same offences-” His remaining words were cut off in uproar; the marcher lords were most displeased at this reminder of their sins.
Finally Hugh came to his feet, stilling the shouted abuse with a roar of, “Silence!” He got it. Seated once more he said, “The difference is thus: when presented with my person my marcher lords knelt before me and asked my forgiveness. Your princes scorned me, and heaped further insult on me as they made a show of their defiance. My lords have proven themselves to me in this war, and have avenged the slights your princes visited upon me.”
The elder of the pair stilled his companion with a hand on his shoulder. “We will take your words to our lords. We cannot say what the reply will be.”
The reply would be acceptance. There would, inevitably, be some haggling over which lands were lost and, equally inevitably, some would be returned to sweeten the deal. Hugh had faith that an accommodation satisfactory to all would arise from this. He would have his rights restored and his strength proven; his lords would have forgiveness and a reward to encourage; the Welsh would have an end to a conflict they could no longer gain from.
Time to turn his mind to setting a date for his coronation.
Two works had been requested of him. An official life of William, a mere trifle to fill his days. Perhaps a scattering of people would read it. A means to get some use from a fallen man, to rehabilitate him to a small degree. Trempwick felt no zest for this one.
A private work on the man, for the eyes of his daughter and no others. A means for Nell to find familiarity – and possibly peace – with the man. A means also, he dared hope, to hold a variety of conversation with her former master. Were it not presently impossible, he could have spent long hours telling her of William and answering the inevitable questions. This one did spark something inside Trempwick’s heart, and he had faithfully occupied the last few days with its beginning.
The thought that the second, private work might be a form of conversation had done more than spark that something in his heart; it had sparked something in his mind. A third work, more private yet. This one had awakened in him a kind of burning, a need to put words down in ink and as soon and perfectly as he could manage. While his jailors believed him working on his assigned histories, much of his time would be devoted to this work. The subterfuge necessary to achieve this gave a kind of hope: he would not rot here until he went mad. He would
think.
Trempwick selected a quill from the sheaf on his desk, dipped it in the inkpot and addressed the blank parchment before him. A hesitation. The beginning? Why not this.
Those who wish to win favour frequently gift that which they themselves value. Riches, horses, fine arms and armour. What of a man such as myself? I value that which you have commanded me to labour at, and so hope that my additional, unrequested work may be taken as a gift by you, my most magnificent Lady.
Yes, that felt a worthy beginning for the work which would be the sum of his career.
Trempwick dipped the quill again, and inscribed in the space he had left above his opening paragraph
Sir Raoul Trempwick to Her Highness, the Princess Eleanor, daughter to William, sixth of that name, by the grace of God King of England, Duke of Normandy and Brittany, Count of Anjou, Lord of the Welsh.
Trempwick regarded what he had written. Title was dictated by the nature of the work, a personal address from himself to Nell with the pure intent to instruct her in everything he had not yet passed along, mainly rulership. It was … too
wrong. Too grand. Too lengthy. It was, in short, entirely out of character for their relationship.
Some minutes later another title occurred to him, and he wrote it at the very top, squeezing it in where there was not quite space.
The Princess.
Raoul Trempwick, hail and farewell. That’s his last scene. I wrote that more than 3 years ago; today I finally brought it out from storage and gave it a brush and polish to bring it inline with my current style. See, told you I had planned the ending long in advance
I like that scene a lot. Trempwick, secluded in Repton trying to find a meaning for his life and a way back from his fall. Trempwick, starting work as a historian and writer and finding something in the prospect which appeals to him. Trempwick, trying to bridge the gap between William and Nell when it is both much too late and the perfect time. Trempwick, meditating on his life and that of the friend he came to murder, and on the rule he helped to shape and on what the one he views as the successor to that reign needs to know.
I contemplated adding some more scenes to this part; ending with Trempy’s final scene felt better. It took a while to decide on that.
Trempy’s writing has two loose parallels with real historical works. One has been spotted and named; who can identify the other? The second one is far easier.
Incognitia, as you and a few others have expressed interest I shall start considering books for such a list.
Chargone, there could have been more. I could do a scene or two more with Ranulf. But … it’s not necessary, doesn’t add anything much, and it’s not got anything at all to do with the story at large. I’m not convinced it’s a good idea to spend a page or two on Fulk and Ranulf talking about the unimportant revelations of an unimportant bit part character’s past.
Culise, you were the first to identify the first loose historical parallel in Trempy’s writing. Well done! Can you get the second?
Chief, Trempyad is a lot less of a mouthful than the name by which I know the work. The official name, which hasn’t and never will appear in the story, is ‘The Deeds of William, King of the English, sixth of that name’. Trempy himself calls it ‘William’s Book’ for short. The second, private work on William does not have a title of any sort. The third project is the only one to be named in the story itself. So many bits of knowledge which never get used, huh.
Avernite, I almost feel I should apologise. No more Trempy for you to read now.
