Eleanor's Progress

By Elizabeth Kirkwood

Eleanor's Progress is a fantasy novel set in the future, against a backdrop of World revolution. This New Revolution has been caused by the expiry and the inability to extract any further fossil fuels from the modern world which has led to a complete overthrow of accepted world order and a regression into a mix of Medieval and Victorian times. 
Imagine a world where no technology exists. The knowledge of what has been lost has remained. Government has broken down, power has reverted to a feudal system with kings and high kings governing.  
We first meet Eleanor as a young ingenue girl of 17, who through various trials and tribulations, initially over which she has no control, develops into a strong resilient woman determined to fight perceived injustice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jul 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781788030120

Book preview

Eleanor’s Progress

Elizabeth Kirkwood

Copyright © 2017 Elizabeth Kirkwood

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN 9781788030120

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

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Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To my family: Andrew and Charlotte.

And to Jo, Catherine, Kirstie, Jean, David, Lyndsay and Emily for reading, commenting, making improvements and putting up with my nonsense. Thanks also to Ceri for providing legal support.

Contents

Prologue

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Part Two

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Part Three

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Epilogue

Prologue

The weather was far too warm for this sort of strenuous exercise, but the slimly built woman in her mid-thirties drove herself on, fighting her opponent, jaw jutting forward in concentration. Even though the man and woman were in the shadow of the velvety, dark trees on the escarpment above the river, sweat marks were beginning to make themselves shown on her clothing. She suddenly lunged and caught the man who was on the receiving end of all these sword strokes, unawares. She stopped, lowered her guard and glanced back at me, standing quietly to one side, wiping her brow clear of her short brown hair, now sticking to her forehead. Her eyebrows were raised enquiringly, green eyes focussing on the clock I was wielding and the notes I was awkwardly taking.

I shook my head. Slower that time.

The woman tutted, turned and raised her rapier. Again! She wiped her face against her sleeve, even though she had cleaned it moments before.

The slightly older, brown-haired, speckled with a little grey, svelte man, against whom all this activity was taking place, visibly sighed but nevertheless did as he was commanded, raising his guard and remarking as he did so, It’s too hot for this sort of thing.

The retort was robust and instantly dismissive. We’ve experienced hotter: both of us; now again!

The man put more effort in this time. He was clearly tired of the whole thing and wanted nothing better than to just sit down and read. He tried hard to contain the flurry of sword strokes before him, but she was just too fast; she was far too clever at keeping her target area small, and she was always moving. He stopped suddenly, as once again he faced a sword pointing with unerring accuracy at his throat.

That was faster, I announced. I too was getting weary of this exercise. I had been timing the woman now for some forty minutes or so. The weather was glorious and I wanted to enjoy it, not be standing under the trees recording how quickly it took for her to force her opponent into submission.

The woman was equally hot and bothered. Just once more to make certain? she pleaded, looking from me to the other.

I caught the eye of the man. He shook his head, and then looked at the ground and the leaf mould which both of them had scuffed up.

No! he answered decisively, leaning forward and taking the weapon away from her grasp. No more. Not for today. You are getting there, but it will not come back all at once. It will take a little more practice. He changed the subject, And we all need a drink.

The woman slowly but surely acquiesced, albeit reluctantly, lightly saluted the man, took the paper notes from me and stood to one side waiting patiently. The man took his time, gathering strewn clothing up before straightening himself, pushing his hair back from his hot face, and rolling his sleeves back down. He looked at me. Thanks, Simon, for keeping notes. You’ll join us for a drink?

I nodded. I had time; my book was taking shape nicely, and I was almost at the point of revealing my first draft.

The man clapped me on the back and steadily, with his hand in the small of her back, pushed the woman up the hill in search of refreshment. He easily held the swords just below the hilts in his hand, as we, as a group, passed into open sunlight and the now lengthening shadows.

Part One

Chapter One

To begin with, I suppose I must explain that when I first met her I was at the impressionable age of twelve and did not understand all that went on surrounding her. But later, when I began to write up her history, I began to have a far better inkling of her thoughts and motivations. To tell the story as it was told to me would be best, I think. It happened like this …

The New Revolution, which had happened worldwide forty years ago, still led to chaos within families and had put power in the hands of the few once again. Eleanor was one of those few; she got married in the September at the tender age of seventeen to Colin, who was one of the new Petty Kings of Brittany in France. The New Revolution, as it came to be called, thoroughly upset the old order. Out went the existing monarchies of the world. Back came a feudal system based around an Overlord or King who was supposed to protect the community in times of need, and who had in turn a ready fighting force the Overlord or King could call upon.

The lower orders of High Kings and Queens could be made or increased by those above them in terms of divisions. However, once a certain level was reached the titles were hereditary. Those at the bottom of the pecking order had one division to look after; an area of population decided the size. For two divisions or more, the individual became a High King or Queen. After that, there were High Kings/Queens of five, ten twenty and thirty divisions, all of the kings reporting into one another; that was until the first of the hereditary titles were reached, which in the case of England, was the Ruler, and then above that the Supreme Ruler.

This state of affairs was no doubt dictated by the New Revolution’s attitude to technology. Gone largely were the aircraft and cars; back were the old ways of travel: horse and cart, and steam railways. Resources were so scarce that the whole emphasis had to be on public transport, and that if anything was left over it had to be completely sustainable. It was as if the whole of the world had reverted to the beginning of the 19th century. Where technology such as the telephone did have a foreseeable benefit, it was allowed to be retained - but largely only by people of certain rank. Knowledge of all former technology was still held, it was just that it was no longer commonly available and it couldn’t be manufactured. An important exception applied to such matters as electricity and medicine. There was no one national power generator; if a castle or stately home did retain the means of electricity to heat or light the building, then it had to have its own way of generating that power. Similarly, medicine: all hospitals were run on generators and the advances in technology were retained where mankind directly benefited. There was an almost universal feeling that man had got too clever for his own good - a concept which had led directly to the New Revolution in the first place - with energy fast running out or indeed in some circumstances, that had run out; sustainable forms simply did not provide enough for everyone concerned. So, dwindling fossil fuels were used for forms of transport all could enjoy, and for the privileged few who had generators in their homes, power had to be found through the use of wood gas burning and hydroelectric power. For the direst of emergencies, items containing the internal combustion engine could be ordered if, for instance, an ambulance was required hastily. But it really was only in the direst of emergencies. The paperwork was long and extreme, which prevented most of those in authority wastefully ordering these items unless the facilities were desperately required. And it was paper-based. Not one computer, network or mobile phone was left.

Where was I? Ah, yes, Eleanor. She was married at the tender age of seventeen to Colin. She was a lady in her own right, a privileged step-daughter of one of the Kings of France who had up to now led rather a sheltered life. Colin’s lands in Brittany weren’t up to much; the land was barely good for anything. Added to this was the fact that once again, France and England were having another one of their periodic wars which sporadically flared up, mainly over land.

Colin was called up to fight, as soon as his marriage vows were completed. He barely had time to install Eleanor in her new role as Queen before he was away attending to his standing army of men. He certainly didn’t have time to consummate his marriage before his departure.

He returned once to inform his bored and frightened young wife that the enemy was a mere six miles away and that she should prepare herself and her handful of servants to defend the castle. Eleanor didn’t have a clue how to do this or even where to start. Nothing or no one had ever prepared her for such an event. It was whilst the entire household was in uproar, rushing hither and thither, that Eleanor found out just how close the enemy was. The intervening six miles and the time taken to cover them had simply vanished in all the panic and ensuing bustle of the morning. The only warning Eleanor and her servants received was a sharp knock at the barricaded doors. When one of the servants had reluctantly opened the postern gate, a captain of the guard had forced the door back, strode in and, in the name of Philip the High King of England, arrested Eleanor and her entire household. She was to be taken to England as a hostage.

Eleanor never saw her French household again. From enquiries made later, the captain rounded the servants up and drove them into another part of France before setting them free. England had no wish to be cluttered with unnecessary prisoners of war at this stage. Eleanor, herself, supposedly had value as a source of information regarding her husband’s troop’s movements. Frightened, alone and now handed over to two envoys of King Robert of Dover, unable to speak English fluently, she was forced to the Kent harbour and installed in the heart of the garrison at Dover Castle within PeverellsTower. She was terrified, surrounded as she was by brutal hard-fighting men. One false move she knew could result in her death.

Her living accommodation was basic but clean. She had a vast room which overlooked the western approaches of Dover Harbour, from the window of which she could watch the comings and goings of various boats and crafts. Occasionally, if the weather was right, she could see her home country, which gave her some hope at least. Colin wasn’t really all that far away when she could see on the horizon the brooding line of the French cliffs. Even so, she realised there was no hope of escape. Dover was exceptionally well guarded and able to defend itself against all comers. Eleanor simply didn’t know about the likes of the Spur Caponier, designed to trap the unwary assailant. From what she could see, her lodgings were amongst the buildings of Dover Castle in a detached tower halfway down the hill from the Norman keep. Her room was large, with white walls, and wooden floors were its only form of decoration. A basic truckle bed stood in the middle, hung with drapes. It was into this room that she was shown, and there she remained all the time, the only exception being when taken out under escort to the sergeant major’s house, a little further down the hill, for questioning.

She hated all the questioning about Colin’s troop’s movements, not that she could tell anyone much; she simply had not been party to anything, but she was terrified her captors might realise her limited worth and seek to cut their losses. She was under no illusions as to the depths these war-hardened men could plumb. Another reason she hated the questioning so much was that she felt a common prisoner, for not only an armed guard was mounted, but her hands were tied for good measure. All in all, she felt humiliated and downgraded on her excursions out of the confines of the Tower.

Her lack of language skills didn’t help either. She wished she had worked harder at her English. She tried to be deliberately obscure to the young man struggling to translate during her interrogations, but she had limited room to manoeuvre and she was all too painfully aware of that. Another tactic was to speak so fast that she gabbled, but she was aware that this too was of finite worth.

She was left to her own resources much of the time and had to find a way to cope with the ennui. One of the few items of interest in the long tedious day was her new guard, Richard. She was immediately aware that he was rather a good looking young man with slightly wavy dark hair that had a tendency to be unruly. Looking at him now, she tried her best to make herself understood, faltering in her speech.

Qui êtes-vous? Who are you? Then as Richard showed no sign of understanding, she managed in English, Who you? cursing herself for not working harder at this accursed tongue when she was younger.

Captain Richard Yarcombe. He didn’t seem inclined to offer anything else.

Bon Capitaine? She stood on one bare foot, poking one toe into the other. They had taken her shoes away.

Richard considered. He really ought to be going and reporting to his superior, not chatting to a state prisoner - not that this could exactly be called chatting. But she looked lost, lonely and anxious to please, his heart melting slightly, so he stayed: whatever did she mean, Bon Capitaine? Then it dawned, she was asking if he was good at his job. He smiled and nodded, Bon Capitaine, yes.

Oui.

There was something else coming; Richard could see the struggle. What he didn’t realise was that she was trying to put her next question into words that both of them could understand.

Blessé? Wounded?

Blessé? Now what did that mean? Blessed? Well, yes, he was blessed to be alive. He made a point to ask the Army translator. He decided to go with the fact that he was blessed to be alive.

He once again nodded before moving to the door, assiduously keen to continue his duties. I am convalescing.

Eleanor, puzzled, letting the words sort themselves out in her head, repeated, Vous êtes convalescent?

Richard slightly smiled, absurdly pleased that he had made himself understood having picked up the word convalescent, before crossing the threshold and locking the door from the outside.

A worried expression was on her face. She drifted around looking at the view, trying the door before sinking into the bed even though she was all too familiar with what she would see. She gnawed at a finger making it bleed. She wondered if she had made herself understood.

She tried again the next day to engage him in conversation, just wanting the sound of another’s voice. What doing? was her next offering.

Richard paused, what had he been doing? He had drilled his men before lunch but he was hardly going to able to convey that. He stood up and noted that she scuttled back slightly. He couldn’t say he blamed the woman. It must all seem very strange here.

He marched across the wooden floor, the noise of his boots making a thunderous sound, taking care not to further alarm her. I have been marching.

Eleanor cocked her head on one side. All their conversations were much like this, hardly lively vivacious affairs, often ending with Richard having to check on what had passed between them hours or days afterwards. Vous avez été en marche?

Richard slowly burst into a grin. He really had no idea, but he had caught ‘marche’ and that was good enough. It would have to do.

Richard was now the last person she saw at night and the first she saw in the morning. She was struck by how he was seemingly always the perfect gentleman, not that she reflected on this or was particularly well-versed in the ways of men; she hadn’t had any time to get to know Colin or his entourage. Her marriage to him had all been so terribly rushed. She was aware that there was a fledgling desire in her to be liked by this new man in her life.

Eleanor was determined that she would improve her knowledge of this impossible language. Richard’s slight Lake District accent she found hard to fathom, but she kept at it. She was frustrated by her lack of progress, but she had the wit to see that she could only benefit from a better understanding of the native tongue. Since Richard was the only person she did see on a regular basis, she found herself starting to look forward to his visits, watching and waiting for the day to pass by and the hours and minutes accumulate; anything to pass the tedium of her enforced stay.

He tried hard to explain the hierarchy of kings, testing her at every opportunity. Blighted by his seeming lack of progress, he fetched a chess set, dishing the pieces out and naming them aided by a few phrases the Army had given him.

Voici Robert. Here is Robert. He waved the pawn and put it down, picking up a knight. Voici Louis. Il est un haut-roi. This is Louis. He is the High King. He glanced at her, trying to gauge whether she was following; he wasn’t sure. She looked perplexed, a worried little frown between her brows. Reluctantly, after half an hour, he packed the pieces away, feeling a disinclination to leave.

Richard, in turn, found himself looking forward to his talks with the prisoner of war, a state of affairs that had started to perplex him slightly. He enjoyed listening to her lilting French accent and trying to fathom the correct grammatical endings for words under his inexpert tutelage. His colleagues too noticed his keenness to associate with her and they started to tease him about their special relationship.

She watched him coming through the door now, with a bolt of cloth balanced on his shoulder. A man quite slim, dark hair with the most direct blue eyes she had ever seen and an open honest face. He was of middle height and about twenty-five, she estimated. His shoulders were broad, but not too broad. A sometimes surly look completed the picture. She smiled at him, for there had been little else to distract her that long day. No questioning had taken place, and although she had sat at the window embrasure watching the ships in and out of the harbour, it simply hadn’t been enough to keep her attention, and she had fallen prey once more to the mantra of worrying what was to become of her.

For Richard, that smile was a moment worth capturing. He looked at his state prisoner of war with interest and indicated the cloth roll, putting it on the floor. He used sign language to show it was hers to use as she wished, and was pleased she understood. Standing tall in her bare feet, she only reached his shoulder, as she now came towards him. She was ecstatically expressing her profuse thanks in French. She stopped, and keeping her green eyes very firmly fixed on Richard’s face, tried to switch to English. The sentence she spoke was short and she kept repeating hesitatingly the same phrases over and over again, trying to convey her pleasure. She sighed and then as Richard watched, she started to explore the cloth, which had been going surplus, her slim and nimble fingers touching the material lifting it to the light, examining its weave. Her expression was one of utter delight and she constantly tucked a stray lock of her long unbound chestnut hair away behind one ear, continuing her examination, her face and eyes alive to the possibilities the cloth offered.

Richard tore his gaze away, aware he was staring rather, but in her explorations she had risen, stepping on the hem of her gown and her dress pressed tightly to her side. The tightly stretched cloth revealed just how slim she was, and more so, attractive. It was a long time since Richard had been this close to anyone this beautiful. The girls in the Lake District were not a patch on the very young woman before him.

He spoke very slowly so that she could follow him. Have you ever made anything before? I thought you could keep yourself occupied with this.

Eleanor straightened from her investigations. She met his inquisitive gaze with a steady look of her own, and tried English. No. She seemed poised to add something, wrestled with herself, clicked her tongue, shrugged her shoulders and with an apologetic gesture added, Je peux apprendre bien. I can learn though.

Richard nodded. He didn’t understand what on earth she had just announced, but he could tell she was pleased with his gift. He wondered why he had wanted to please her; she seemed such an odd little creature, so young and cowered, and at times obviously scared out her wits. He supposed he wanted to protect her from some of the situations in which she found herself, to show her that not all members of the garrison were the same; he didn’t bother to analyse his rising tide of heightened emotion every time he made contact.

He continued to watch with increasing fascination as a garment took shape under her inexpert hands during the forthcoming weeks and months. It was a strange misshaped piece of clothing, but it at least gave Eleanor a focus rather than continuing to concentrate on her future. The clothing fashion of that time had slipped back to what it had been in the late 12th Century. Women wore long dresses in whatever fashion, as long as the wearer’s feet was covered; men, long tunics and leather skin boots with a shirt underneath completing their outfit. Eleanor’s own particular style of dressing favoured a full skirt with high collar and chemise underneath, not that she had any influence on what she was able to wear; she had to accept what she was given.

Eleanor passed three months living like this – trapped, afraid, continually anxious in the heart of the English garrison. The chess set did overtime as Richard tried to impart to her as to whom she had to impress, but the time spent in PeverellsTower was long and tedious. The hours dragged. She used it as best as she could to improve her English and by the time the three months ended, her language skills had indeed improved.

She always said that she remembered so well the day that the message was brought that changed her life. It was a stormy afternoon in the middle of spring. A thrush had just released its liquid song sitting on the bushes to the side of the tower. The light from the sun wasn’t that strong, but was just able to turn her white walls a pale yellow. For some minutes, Eleanor had been watching rapt, eyes straining, a messenger speeding along the sea defences on horseback, only to disappear from view and then reappear below on the castle ramparts. The great gates of the castle under the lieutenants lodging, swung shut with a crash and the rider continued at fierce gallop up into the centre of the keep. As he passed close to Peverells Tower, Eleanor could see he had been riding for some time. White foam dripped from the mouth of the horse, mingled with blood. Eleanor watched with indifferent interest, and then resumed her sewing sitting at the window.

For about half an hour, she sat there calmly prodding her needle in and out of the cheap calico, head bent. A door banged shut at the foot of the entrance steps and footsteps hurriedly made their way up to her room. She looked up from her work before the door to her chamber was unlocked as Richard, breathing heavily, entered. She rose to her feet, letting her sewing fall to the ground. This wasn’t the time of day Richard normally attended her, and his expression was carefully devoid of all emotion, a fact that was troubling to her. There was no greeting that he gave her today; they usually exchanged a few words to continue to improve her language skills. He looked wan and pale, his shoulders still heaving from exertion, and he was temporarily incapable of speech.

At last, Richard pulled himself together and indicated that she should sit. He couldn’t put off the horrible moment any longer.

Eleanor immediately did so, aware of the cold stone digging into her shoulders from the embrasure behind.

My lady. Richard’s breathing still wasn’t steady. I bring you bad news … your husband, believed dead … after last skirmish … sorry. He looked at her long and hard, making sure she had grasped what he was trying to convey. Did she understand? His heart gave a funny little leap, he wanted to crush her to him, smother her and make it all go away, but that wouldn’t be right. Not at all.

She understood his hesitant message. The world stopped. The gnawing fear, which had never fully gone away, returned tenfold. The room started to spin. Eleanor repulsed that feeling. She mustn’t faint. Not now. She put out a hand to steady herself and found that Richard had advanced on her and was already holding one of them, pressing and squeezing the back of it hard, as if trying to reassure her. She remembered the messenger and the fierce galloping speeding close to her place of captivity; when all along the message had been for her. The bird settled on one of the small bushes outside and again gave off his fluid song. Eleanor stared at it, not seeing for a few moments, then as she stirred, the bird flew off.

She glanced down to find Richard kneeling at her feet, still holding her hand. The spell had broken. He rose to his feet abruptly, somewhat embarrassed, and left, taking care to lock the door. His footsteps clattered down the steps, then she heard the entrance door bang shut.

She stayed sitting still for a long time, staring blankly at the wall. Richard’s words kept coming back, playing over and over in her mind. Colin était mort. Colin was dead. Presumably lying in a battlefield somewhere. She glanced out of the window at the outline of the French coastline. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t say goodbye. She didn’t pretend that Colin had meant much to her. She had had no time to get to know him, but she was now forcibly reminded of just how precarious her status was. She climbed to her feet, noticing the fallen sewing lying on the floor, as if in a dream. Leaning against the window opening, her hand placed to steady her trembling fingers on the sill, she gazed desperately out to sea, trapped and held as a prisoner in a foreign land. She felt physically sick with the thought of what her future now held.

Nothing much changed in her routine though; she was finally forced to notice. Meals came and went, whether she touched them or not. Eventually driven by hunger, she started eating the meals brought to her, pecking at them in case of tampering. The realisation of her position had hit her hard; a hostage held by her enemies with absolutely no tradable worth - no one was going to save her now, least of all the French Army.

Eleanor’s self-imposed lethargy had made her impervious to the other main item of gossip currently circulating in the castle. Richard would have been only too pleased to try and discuss it with her if he thought it would interest her, but after a couple of abortive attempts to raise the subject and receiving a blank look, he had desisted. The item of gossip was that the petty King Robert’s only son, Samuel, was getting married, consequently as a prisoner of standing, and her presence was required at the ceremony.

Richard knew he was going to have to broach the subject, but was uncertain as to how to achieve it. She had withdrawn completely since he had relayed the news about her husband, no longer wishing to converse with him. He could understand it, but he missed their attempts at conversation. Nevertheless, he had to make the news sink in, that she was expected to be at the service. He tried hard day after day, but to no avail. It was an inspired mention of a dress fitting commissioned especially for the occasion that started a conversation again

You are to have a new dress.

Nouvelle robe? Eleanor started to take note for she was reluctant to believe him; seeing no reason why she should trust anyone to tell the truth, she made him go over and over the details, desperate now to catch him out.

Richard started to repeat what he had said, Nouvelle … then stopped. Yes, new dress. Richard stuck rigidly to his instructions and didn’t vary what he told her. The dressmaker will come to you, and yes you will go, you have no choice.

At the end of the last of these strange halting conversations, Richard, somewhat to his surprise, noted that Eleanor looked far more animated than she had looked for weeks. The prospect of dressmaking had spoken to her young fashion sense.

You will be there, won’t you Richard? The hint of concern that underlain this question wasn’t lost on Richard, nor was the effect the halting way in which it was asked had, the implied protection it asked for, and the effect that the French accent was having on his stomach. Richard swallowed manfully and promised truthfully that his orders were to attend her, come what may.

The dress fitting turned out to be a disappointment; she had been looking forward to discussing with the dressmaker what style she could have, only to find that the bride, June, had already dictated what she was permitted to wear.

Eleanor gazed at the garment on the morning of the wedding with distaste. She hated high-waisted dresses, and there was no doubt that this creation fell fully into that category. The material was heavy too, far too warm for the early summer’s day.

She was escorted to the castle’s chapel a little way up the hill by Richard and another guard. She climbed upwards with them, trying to keep up as they wound their fast-paced way further and further into the depths of the complex.

Very slowly, speaking precisely, Why am I needed? She was getting better, she knew. She could now understand far more than she could speak.

Richard stopped very briefly, waiting for her to come alongside. You are a royal prisoner of state.

Eleanor couldn’t keep it up. Out came the French, Mais je ne suis pas important. But I am not important. Richard clicked his tongue. It was close enough to English for him to follow.

He countered, And you can’t afford to make mistakes.

That was true, she couldn’t. She trotted off after Richard once more, starting to sweat under the heavy material, arriving at the church door. Her hair was coming askew; she had no one to help subdue it. Ribbons of hair hadn’t been captured. She straightened her dress, curtseying dutifully to Robert and Samuel, the Petty King and his son. Furtively, she studied the bridegroom to be, moving into position further along the front row. He looked cocksure of himself but for all the outward bravado there were signs of nervousness, as he licking his lips periodically. Richard stationed himself to her right, between her and the door she realised. The bride arrived and the service commenced.

Eleanor bit back a small smile. Richard droned away in an attempt to sing. Eleanor found she was unwilling to even try, but nevertheless mouthed her way along to the hymns, the tunes unfamiliar, scared to do anything else. Gradually, her attention wandered, her glance falling on a perfect white rose. Crawling around in its depths, she could just discern a thunderbug. She noticed the creature make a miscalculation and fall onto another part of the arrangement, into the gaping mouth of a lily. Her attention continued to wander. She eyed the chapel once more, beneath lowered eyelashes. Why was she here? Why was she needed? She fingered with abhorrence the material of her outfit, crushing the fabric between her fingertips. If June and Samuel had known, they couldn’t have fitted her into a worse dress.

Eleanor’s musings were brought to an abrupt end as the organist crashed into the opening bars of the exit hymn, massing all the tetra-chords at his disposal. The bride and groom emerged, smiling sickeningly. Eleanor looked at the bride’s face and saw in the lines of her mouth and eyes, a malicious spite. The bride stopped level with Eleanor and turned to Samuel like a cat who knows it has its prey in its sight. June gave Samuel a questioning look, half raising her eyebrows. Eleanor suddenly knew the purpose of her presence, as a hand from behind sent her sprawling awkwardly forward onto her knees. She only stopped herself falling further by sticking her hands out in front of her to save herself. A hot tide of humiliation rose up in Eleanor’s face, but she kept her eyes downcast and firmly fixed on the floor despite the rising ire in her. The bride issued a pleased high-pitched squeal and moved on; the rustle of her dress seeming to go on forever.

The congregation whispered to itself. Eleanor stayed crouching on the floor. At last, at long last, after an eternity, the church fell quiet and still.

Let me help you. Richard helped her to her feet. He wore an apologetic grin and started to dust the dress down.

Eleanor turned away angrily. She was close to tears and didn’t want him to see the extra moisture in her eyes, but she remembered crossly with a shrug of annoyance she had forgotten her handkerchief. She sighed gustily, trying to calm down. Turning, she started to say something only to find Richard waiting for her at the door of the chapel with his back carefully turned away. She walked quickly over.

The festivities in the castle’s keep will continue for three days and you are needed for all of them.

Pour … Why? She was bemused. Hadn’t she fulfilled her primary purpose to be humiliated before the bride and groom? She had no wish to be subjected to more.

Richard shrugged. Same as before, your status as a royal state prisoner … He ignored the doe eyes, slowly filling with tears again, and led his charge outside.

The other guard was hanging about the doorway, hair ruffled in the breeze, and muttered, About time, when Richard and Eleanor emerged, blinking rapidly in the sunlight. They went up ages ago. We won’t half cop it if we are late with her. A nod of the head indicated Eleanor.

Eleanor noted ruefully that she was obviously regarded as an unmitigated nuisance. Richard, seizing her arm, began to walk her further up the hill towards the Great Keep. She tried to keep up but her skirts flapped in the wind, making progress slow. She surreptitiously studied the building as the three of them approached. The keep was vast; the undercroft even more so. Into the darkness they went: tables and chairs were arranged along one wall with a cleared space on the other side of the hall. The wedding breakfast was in full swing; serving girls darted hither and thither amongst it all, carrying dishes through the throng with consummate ease and practice.

Richard’s arrival caused quite a stir amongst his colleagues. He drew Eleanor after him, not unkindly, and bowed to Robert at the high table, presenting his prisoner.

Put her there. Robert indicated a spare chair close to where he sat. Eleanor gingerly took a seat, all of a sudden feeling her seventeen years, lost, alone and afraid in this wild celebration. She tried to make herself as small as possible, to hide from the attention.

Clear the floor, Robert cried glancing at his son, then stood up clapping as Samuel led out June to start the dancing. Eleanor watched enthralledas the pair started moving and others, one by one, joined them.

All of a sudden, she felt very hungry indeed. Out of the limelight, she put out her hand for some fruit, well within the grasp of her fingers, only to be stopped by Robert’s hand coming down hard on her wrist. His hawkish eyes regarded her for a while and then the grip was relaxed. Eleanor sat with her eyes downcast again. She had received the message. She folded her hands in her lap, demurely looked down, and tried not to notice the grumbling pains in her stomach as time wore on.

Occasionally, her eyes would lift themselves just sufficiently long enough to glance around the room. Richard was, she noticed, standing, or rather leaning, against the back wall. Whenever she looked over, he appeared to be glaring fixedly in her direction. Water she was permitted and she drank it copiously, trying to drown the hunger pains. Nobody asked her to dance, for which she was grateful; if she could remain invisible, this would all be for the better. She hunched herself inwards, not daring to move.

The pattern of swirling dancers confused her after a while and she lost track of time. There were few windows down here, limited light filtered down anyway and, since it was now dark outside, there was no easy way of telling how long she had been sat in the chair, not daring to move a muscle. On one of her infrequent glances about the room, she once more studied Richard adding to the list of attributes she had noted earlier. A frugal drinker clearly, he seemed to be a loner, preferring his own company rather than joining in with the bawdy activities of the garrison.

Eleanor felt hot and then cold, as tiredness seeped into her bones. She couldn’t concentrate and yearned for fresh air. Her head was stuffy and desperately needed clearing. Gradually and slowly, she rested her head on her hand, trying to cat nap. It failed. She couldn’t relax. She was far too much aware of Robert keeping an eye on her and of the unceasing observation from the other side of the chamber. A thumping started in her left ear, always a sure sign she was on the verge of exhaustion. And then the physical trembling began, coupled with the feeling of nausea. She looked around her miserably, but the party still continued wildly, unabated.

She cast a look around the room again, desperate to find a way out of this, only to find Richard had moved and was approaching in her direction. Eleanor quickly lowered her gaze and concentrated on not being ill.

My Lord, may I ask for your permission to dance with this prisoner? His tone was solicitous, stopping by her chair.

Captain Yarcombe, she’s all yours.

My lady? The tone was questioning, by no means certain of itself. It must have taken considerable courage to ask her to dance in front of the entire garrison. She couldn’t turn him down. She couldn’t do that to him and make him look a fool.

She heard herself reply in the affirmative. But she didn’t feel up to moving really. There was just this desire not to prove Richard a lovesick fool. She allowed him to take her hand, stood up steadily enough and threaded her way to the floor with Richard close behind. Other drunken revellers remained and it was difficult not to bump into them. She found herself in hold, held gingerly, and tried not to cling on or lean too heavily on her partner. Another wave of tired nausea broke over her. The effort of remaining upright was too great. The room began to spin out of control, and for the first time in her life she fainted, pitching forward to hit the floor.

She had a dim recollection of being lifted up and carried out into the fresh air where she revived a little; then of being inside again, being put to bed by a man who spoke continually over his shoulder at another, out of her eye line, before drifting off again as she welcomed the enveloping darkness.

What she later found had happened was that Richard had picked her up from the floor bodily and had bowed to Robert – who had continued to sit presiding over the top table – before leaving with her in his arms. It was he who had called the doctor and he who had carried her upstairs whilst still in a stupor.

***

Eleanor was aware of her surroundings again a few hours later. The bird was singing outside the window once more and sunshine was streaming in across the bed. It was all very quiet; she was almost afraid to move her head in case of disturbing the stillness. For one moment, she almost thought someone was in the room with her but when she eventually did turn her head, there was no one there.

For a time, Eleanor just lay there, content to watch the sun’s rays lengthen across the room and enjoying the birdsong. Then, upon hearing footsteps on the stairs below, she closed her eyes again and feigned sleep.

She heard the lock being unturned and a person walked briskly into the room. A smell of fresh air accompanied them. Cautiously, she opened one eye and surveyed her visitor.

I thought so.

She croaked a response and tried again, managing a whispered, Désolé?

Thought it was about time you were back with us again. The man extended his hand I’m the doctor who attended you last night.

She shook hands dubiously, sceptical that anyone would want to do well by her in this benighted country. The doctor fussed about her for a bit, checking her blood pressure and pulse. He folded his stethoscope away with a clicking noise and leaned over her. Hungry?

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak as the doctor let himself out of her room. He was a long time, but eventually she heard returning footsteps and watched the door in eager anticipation. At that moment she felt warm, cosy and relaxed. She was luxuriating in the softness and heat of the bed when Richard walked in with a tray. Instantly she sobered, aware of how weak she must have appeared when he had seen her last, and gradually reddened, becoming hot and uncomfortable. She hated the thought that Richard would think her delicate. She watched him deposit the tray on the table before approaching her.

How are you feeling?

What a question! but she answered civilly enough, Thirsty.

Oh. It was a softly framed ‘Oh’. Richard made no attempt to bring over the mug of milk she could see on the table adjacent to the window. All of a sudden, she remembered it had been him who had picked her up after falling, and a slight tensioning in the stomach and butterflies coursed through her. She smiled at him and was surprised to get a smile back. He remembered himself and fetched the mug, holding it carefully and setting it down beside her. Considerately, he helped her into a half-raised position on the pillows and wedged them behind her before handing her the mug. Their fingers touched slightly before Eleanor took a sip. She spluttered. The contents had been liberally laced with brandy. Slowly, she finished the drink, feeling further unwarranted warmth flow through her, and began quietly to appraise the man who was being so attentive and thoughtful.

He was presently occupied in peering at the food he had brought with him, which gave her an ideal opportunity to stare without comment. She contemplated the dark hair, blue eyes, and at present, a rather puzzled look which completed the picture. All in all, a handsome man, she decided, confirming her earlier opinion, leaning back against the pillows.

He turned and found her eyes flickering away immediately, which rather seemed to suggest that she had been studying him. Something became stuck in his throat, and, walking to the door with the plate, he disappeared momentarily, only to reappear again with the plate but without its contents.

I’ll get you something else, he grinned at her. They weren’t fit for you to eat.

Eleanor didn’t ask what wasn’t fit for her. It felt good to be taken care of in this foreign, hostile country and she certainly wasn’t going to complain. She just nodded as Richard stepped out again and reappeared reasonably quickly with a huge slice of bread and some jam. It was all, he said apologetically, he could find on the spur of the moment.

Will Samuel and June be living with Robert?

No. They have a castle in Deal. She was profoundly grateful for this news. She had seen the spite in June’s eyes and had no wish to find out just how malicious she could be.

Richard smiled a small downwards smile; he wasn’t deceived in the slightest about this question and what concern lay behind it.

***

It was Richard she turned to more and more, left increasingly to her own devices and allowed to recover at her own speed from Robert’s ill treatment of her. Richard still found time to be with her whenever he could snatch a moment. Eleanor had ample time to spare; it was long, dreary and passed slowly. Richard was always pressed; he had other duties to attend to, but, invariably, found his way to PeverellsTower whenever he could.

Eleanor was horribly aware of her status now. She commanded no worth or special knowledge and it was only a matter of time before her captors would take further action. The thought scared her witless. If it hadn’t been for Richard’s visits, she doubted whether she would have retained her sanity. The days were hard enough, but the nights were worse. The fear could be reasoned with when it was broad daylight, but in the pitch black it was an altogether different story. This was when the terror would visit her and, quite frankly, refuse to go away. She was always grateful when the grey light of dawn broke; the objects in her room became solid once again as the coming day revealed yet another twenty-four hours successfully negotiated.

One day at the height of summer, Richard was reading to her aloud and she to him, still trying to improve her vastly improved English,. She could tell though, that his heart wasn’t in it. Tentatively, she asked what had been on her mind for some time. Do you mind?

Richard looked up and shut the book with a snap. Mind what? He had a resigned air.

About being taken out of active service for me? Then, as Richard hesitated, You were in active service, weren’t you? Don’t you find it boring and degrading?

Richard smiled. I was indeed, until I met one of your countrymen and he imparted a present I won’t forget in a hurry. He saw her expression change. No, I don’t mind. There’s no danger in it and my mother is pleased.

I could make it dangerous. She was flirting now, on seemingly familiar ground.

Richard’s eyes widened in alarm. It wouldn’t be to your advantage.

That was true, Eleanor reflected. She only needed to make one false move and they would have the perfect reason to kill her. She found Richard regarding her thoughtfully and then he abruptly rose from where he had been sitting.

I should report this. I thought you had learned some sense.

Eleanor watched open-mouthed as Richard strode to the door, flung it open and slammed it shut. Tears pricked at her eyelids. She had deserved that. But she had only been teasing. It now looked as if she had lost her only friend. And he was her only friend, she knew; a mere captain. Furthermore, would Richard carry out his threat?

It appeared not, but relations were more than a little strained for a while. They didn’t fully resume until Richard was once again back in her room carrying out an official duty.

The weather had broken and had gone from boiling hot to freezing cold as only weather in this country could. Richard was engaged in trying to light a fire. Eleanor had been trying to sew, but her hands were numb, too cold. As soon as Richard entered the chamber, clearly seething at this mundane task, and doing his best to ignore her, she was distracted but tried not to show it. She watched with mild interest as his fire laying technique yielded no results - just a fine grey wisp of smoke filtering up the chimney - before eventually rising to her feet and standing beside him. She felt unaccountably nervous for no reason she could fathom. She just wanted her friend back.

What’s the matter, haven’t you seen someone light a fire before? Richard spat out, his attention elsewhere.

Not in that manner I haven’t. Mildly returned.

Well, if you know so much about it, why don’t you do it? Richard scrambled to his feet and stood, dusting off his tunic.

Eleanor signed heavily, knelt and applied herself to crumpling the paper into small, lightly scrunched balls and then adding larger and larger pieces of wood before finally covering the whole lot with a large log. She took a deep steadying breath, lit a match and prayed it would work.

The whole construction flared and held. Turning away from the fire, she performed her trademark tuck of stray hair behind her ear and glared at Richard who was watching her with renewed interest. She felt immensely proud of herself. She had shown she could do something, albeit a very small task.

Well? she demanded. She wasn’t displeased he was still standing there, but she wasn’t going to give that impression.

I’m stunned.

Why?

Didn’t think someone of your standing had that knowledge.

Not one of my least talents. She looked back at the fire, it was drawing nicely now.

Eleanor?

Um? She didn’t notice the familiarity at first. All her attention was back on the fire, until his second hesitant question.

May I call you that?

She looked up and smiled. There was no point in standing on ceremony, not when every day could be her last and her wish of a few minutes ago seemed to be coming true.

Of course. She found she had a stray piece of cotton around her finger and wound it round and round her index finger rather tightly. She was aware that Richard was still standing there and frowned slightly. He hadn’t spent nearly so much time with her since her unfortunate attempt at flirting had backfired so disastrously. She looked up fully.

Richard cleared his throat. I wanted to ask you something. He had her attention now, he could see. He had tried to trim his visits back since their row, but somehow the memory of her slight girlish figure with enormous eyes in need of help had assailed him again and again. In the end, he had given in and asked questions of his superior. How would you like to see a lot more of me? I mean…much more?

Aren’t you the first thing I see in the morning and the last at night? She was obfuscated.

Yes, but … Richard’s voice trailed off. He turned back with resolution. Dammit woman, I’m asking you to marry me!

As a marriage proposal it lacked finesse, she reflected. She wondered what was behind the offer. Then stopped. Wouldn’t it affect your career?

Richard was taken aback that she should be so perspicacious. I’m told not, he added with a wry grin.

She looked up, more startled than she was prepared to admit. You’ve asked?

Richard nodded. It took a long time to get to Captain.

La romance de l’occasion, ma laisse froid. she muttered. The romance of the occasion leaves me cold. She wondered why he was asking her. She had felt a semblance of fondness for this man she admitted, but did he really feel something for her other than lust?

What?

Nothing, she added hastily. Why was he doing this? Have you been asked to ask me? she questioned suddenly.

Richard hesitated, which she thought told her everything. She gathered herself ready to reject, but then stopped. She had felt a glimmering of feeling for this man. What if, (undesirable thought), there was no alternative? It would at least get her out of PeverellsTower. She would be free of Robert. She bit her tongue, evaluating the circumstances, weighing up the pros and cons, then slowly nodded. I believe it could work.

Barely had she spoken the words when Richard ran to her, and picking her up, twirled her round and round. I knew it! he yelled joyously. I knew you would say yes.

***

Those words echoed round her mind as she waited for Richard to emerge from his interview with the commanding officer and petty King Robert. How could he have known she would say yes? She hadn’t. It just seemed, and still did come to that, a softer option than remaining a hostage to fortune in a foreign land. True, as a bonus, she had had felt now and again vague stirrings for this man, but there was no way she could describe herself head over heels in love with him. Nor would she want to be in all honesty, with Colin only recently dead. Richard, on the other hand, seemed ecstatic about the whole idea. He had bundled her down the stairs and out of Peverells Tower, leading her at a fast and furious pace to one of the buildings lower down the hill, which she discovered was where the various military offices were housed. Richard had installed her outside one of the rooms, warning her, with quite unnecessary emphasis, not to go wandering off. So here she sat, a lonely girl in an empty corridor whilst her future was decided. What if the answer was no? What then? Eleanor clasped her hands together tightly to stop them shaking. As she did so, she heard a roar penetrate the closed door and her nervousness doubled. A fly was caught behind the window. The noise was annoying her, as the insect tried to fly away into the light. She couldn’t kill it, so she stood up and was just trying to open the top casement when a voice cut across her.

It seems your bride to be, Richard, isn’t keen on this idea.

She gasped and leaned weakly against the sill. She tried to speak, but couldn’t muster her thoughts in time. A jumble of thoughts and languages vied with each other for utmost control, with none succeeding.

Come here! Robert commanded, pointing to a spot just before him on the floor.

Eleanor approached and bobbed a pert curtsey. She slowly unbent her knees, holding herself to her full height again and just about managed to look Robert in the eye. She immediately dropped her gaze and waited for the denouement. She was aware that Richard was standing just behind Robert’s shoulder and noted, with seeming objective interest, that Robert was much smaller than she had thought.

You’ve made a good catch. Too good. With that, the Petty King turned on his heel and marched straight back into his rooms, slamming the door.

Eleanor collapsed weakly against the door lintel. She looked at Richard for a reaction, then as none was forthcoming, Is … is it alright?

Richard nodded. In one month’s time, we will leave here. We’re going to live with the High Queen and King of Devon. Under his breath, Richard added, Because it’s safer.

Richard had been surprised by the reaction of Robert. Why, Robert wanted to know, did he want to marry the French prisoner of war? Richard had stammered something, that he felt sorry for her, but Robert wasn’t interested. After all the leg pulling Richard had endured about his feelings for his young French charge and the constant ribbing for him to do something about it from his regiment, he had found that Robert had been most annoyed - he had tried to talk him out of it. Put succinctly, Richard had been told that marriage to Eleanor would blight his career, which was contrary to all the arguments and assurances he had received from various commanding officers, before he had asked Eleanor to be his wife. Admittedly, he hadn’t asked Robert for his views, but his Colonel in Chief had all been for the idea. Richard frowned and wondered if he had been cruelly manipulated.

***

One month later, Eleanor sat back on her heels and looked at the carnage of the room. She didn’t have many belongings, but she had managed to strew the little she had in wild abandonment across the entire chamber. Richard had been helping her, but disappeared in search of some rope to secure an old and battered trunk which had been loaned to her. Eleanor collapsed on this last item and gnawed at a thumbnail. She felt devoid of all feeling about her pending marriage - its main purpose was to get her out of this room. Her chief concern was what the High King and Queen were like. After all, you didn’t get to that position for nothing. Eleanor was now terrified by the whole prospect of what she might have unwittingly done. She fell to thinking further about the promotions which came after the position. There was a High King in charge, apparently, of five land divisions and then ten. She thought