John and the Queen
Title: John and the Queen
Author: Rochvelleth
Characters/Pairings: John/Eleanor, and some people I made up.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2,988 (it was meant to be shorter than that - oops)
Disclaimer: I don’t own John or Eleanor.
Notes: Written for the Midsummer of Love. Set quite soon after the end of season 3. Quite epic.
John and the Queen
John felt strangely nervous as he waited to be admitted to the Queen in her castle in Aquitaine. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable as a tall, solid Englishmen among all these slight, French courtiers dashing around. Or perhaps it was just that so much had changed since he last saw her. Since she last saw him. Had he changed? He certainly felt more sad, more lonely, more hopeless than he had that Midsummer’s Day.
Eventually, a French servant gave him a curt gesture, telling him to go in. He stood and walked slowly into the large Hall, painfully aware of his big feet making a clomping sound on the expensive marble floor. Straight ahead of him sat Queen Eleanor, surrounded by a few lackeys. She was poring over a pile of papers on a desk in front of her, and her face looked strained. She seemed older, more care-worn, than she had the last time they met.
John came to a stop at what seemed an appropriate distance from the Queen, and just waited for her to notice him. Some minutes later, she looked up, and after a moment her frown turned into a smile. “Big Bear!” She exclaimed, standing up and waving away the lackeys buzzing around her. “What a surprise!”
John, not being one to waste words, delivered his message right away. “I have bad news, Your Majesty. Robin is dead.” He wondered whether that little tremble of emotion he felt as he said it had been conveyed in his voice. It was the first time he had declared the fact so plainly. It seemed as though not only Robin, but also the hope associated with his name, had died.
Eleanor’s smile changed again to a look of dismay. She was midway between her desk and John, but she hovered there, too upset to claim an embrace, too angry to sit down again. “No,” she said. “Not Robin.” But she was too strong, and too weary of the world, to be in denial. “How?” she asked simply.
“He died bravely, defending the people of Nottingham,” John said. “And he took a great many of King Richard’s enemies with him.”
Eleanor nodded, sadly. “But my son...” She left the thought unfinished. Was she hoping that he had survived? Or wishing him dead? Even she could not quite be sure.
“Prince John still reigns in London.”
She nodded again. “Richard is in captivity,” she said. “Have you heard this?” Her eyes were wide, and she looked almost... vulnerable.
“The Sheriff told us. That’s why I came... Your Majesty.” He added the title almost as an afterthought. In truth, he was trying to resist a strange, sudden urge to put his arms around her. “We want to keep Robin’s spirit alive and keep fighting, but we need the King if we’re going to bring about the changes Robin wanted...”
Just then, more lackeys came in, distracting the Queen from their conversation. John could see that she found them a nuisance, but for some reason she humoured them, and she told one of them to find him a room, ignoring his protests that he had to get back to England.
---
That night, John sat in his dimly lit room, wondering how they made the bed so soft. Nobody needed such a soft bed - it was completely unnecessary. But that was how nobles lived, spending too much money on things they didn’t need. Despite her noble birth and her bearing, Eleanor had struck him as more down-to-earth than that, and he felt an inexplicable sort of disappointment.
Just as he was thinking that it was time he tried to get some sleep, because the next day he would have to get the Queen’s answer early so that he could return home to give the others hope, there was a soft knock on the door. He said nothing, but the door opened anyway. Eleanor stood in the doorway, wearing a plain gown, her hair undressed.
“Your Majesty!” John mumbled, standing up, partly in surprise and partly out of respect.
“Sit,” she said, closing the door behind her. A moment later she was sitting next to him on the bed. “I am sorry we could not talk earlier. But my son, John, has spies everywhere. I could not speak plainly.”
“You mean...” John looked at her, trying to understand why she looked so sad. “You mean you’re a prisoner here?”
“I may as well be. I cannot act freely.” Then she seemed to straighten herself and make an effort to appear regal again. “But tell me, John, why did you come to see me?”
“Well it’s like I said... You Majesty...”
“And do stop calling me that. We’re not at court now.”
John hesitated, and then decided it was best to call her nothing if he couldn’t say ‘Your Majesty’. “Robin’s men want to keep fighting, but we don’t know where to start. We need the King, but if he’s imprisoned, then what can we do? We thought you might be able to tell us where King Richard is, and how we can rescue him.”
Eleanor was smiling now, and looked ten years younger as her eyes sparkled with hope. “I knew you would help. I thought it would be Robin who came... poor Robin. But Robin trusted you - with his life, and with his legend. I know you will do him proud.”
“But what do we do? Can you tell us where King Richard is, and how to get to him?”
“I can,” she said thoughtfully. “And I can help a great deal more, if only I could get away from this wretched castle.” She raised an eyebrow and looked directly at John.
It took a moment for John to realise exactly what she meant, but then it dawned on him. “No,” he said firmly. “You’re a Queen, you can’t run away from... from...”
He had faltered, and she was, of course, going to take advantage of it. “From this prison? This prison where I’m bored out of my wits all day, every day. Where I worry about the state of the world, about my children, and what will happen to them. Where I am alone. The people here don’t need me, but I think England does.” Before John could argue, she played her trump card. “And this is not a request, it is an order. From your Queen.”
John frowned. Well that was that then.
She continued, but now she sounded more like a woman and less like a Queen who expected to be obeyed. “I will pull my weight, of course, and my contacts will be invaluable to you, I am sure. And we can empty the castle coffers before we go.”
“Your M-“ John wanted to say something comforting, but she had made it difficult to address her politely with her ban on titles.
“Eleanor,” she said, meeting his eyes.
“Eleanor,” he repeated, despite feeling uncomfortable about it. “I’m only unwilling to take you with me because it will be dangerous. You are a Queen, and it would be wrong to put you in danger.”
“Even if I choose it for myself?” She sighed. “I have been alone here for over a year now. No friends, nobody to smile at me... or comfort me. I want to go where I am wanted, and where I can fight for my son. For... one of my...” She trailed off, and then gasped. John had taken hold of her hand, and was squeezing it gently.
“Alright,” John said. “I’ll take you back to England, if that’s what you want.”
Now that she had her way, Eleanor was quiet. John had lit a spark of hope in her, a feeling she had not had for a long time now. She leaned in to him, and felt him first move back a little in surprise, and then accept her into his arms. Soon he was stroking her hair softly, giving her that comfort that she had been lacking.
In truth, what Eleanor wanted more than anything at that moment was to tip up her face to his, for a kiss, and what followed. Would he be masterful, or gentle? Both perhaps. But she would not find out that night. It was too early. If she asked him to make love to her now, she would never know whether he desired her, or was simply doing his duty to his Queen.
---
Before the sun rose, John found himself standing guard while Eleanor tried to empty a large chest of gold into her travel bag as quietly as possible. He winced at the noisy trickle of gold, and wondered whether they would ever make an outlaw of her. “I’ve got it all!” she exclaimed after a few minutes, gesturing for John to come and take the bag from her.
John hefted the bag onto his shoulder and mumbled that it was too heavy, but Eleanor had already begun to creep along the castle corridor in the direction of the West Tower, where she had assured him they would be able to leave via a servant entrance.
When they got to this entrance, Eleanor stopped for a minute to pick up some items from a pantry they were passing - some bread and cheese to sustain them on their journey. Footsteps sounded nearby, and John hissed at her to hurry up, forgetting any titles and niceties. “Alright!” she whispered, clutching the food to her bosom and following John around the corner where there was an alcove just big enough to hide them, as long as they pressed very closely together. Eleanor would have given John’s buttocks a squeeze for good measure, if she hadn’t had her hands full already.
Once the sound of footsteps passed, Eleanor put the bread and cheese into her travel bag on top of the gold coins, gave John a not-so-apologetic smile, and led him to the West Gate.
“This is too easy,” John said softly, looking around at the apparently empty battlements. No escape ever went so smoothly in Nottingham.
Eleanor shrugged. “They’re French,” she whispered, as if it were an explanation.
Luckily, just outside the West Gate was a small town that had sprung up around the castle, long serving the nobles who had lived there over the centuries. They headed towards the largest building, which was home to an inn, and went inside. John had expected the place to be deserted at this early hour of the morning, but they ran immediately into a large burly man brandishing a cleaning cloth. John braced himself for attack, but the man’s red face broke out into a great toothless smile. “Ellie!” he said, and then he spoke some more in French.
Eleanor was grinning and laughing along, speaking in French, and leaving John wondering what they were saying. Eventually they embraced again, and kissed twice on both cheeks, and then the man led her towards the back door. She gestured for John to follow.
“Marceau is an old friend,” she told him. John wondered what she meant by friend - there was a clear affection between them. “But it has been a very long time since I was able to sneak out here and see him. Now he’s going to help us on our way by lending us some horses.” When they reached the courtyard at the back she made some sort of French exclamation and embraced Marceau again. She took a sneaky look at John while she was doing so, and was rewarded by a look of what she thought might be mild jealousy.
Soon John and Eleanor were on their horses and trotting away from the town, heading north. John was obviously grumpy, though even he was not sure why. Perhaps it was the horse - riding was not something that came naturally to him, and especially not riding this little French horse that he was not sure would carry his weight for the whole journey.
---
The journey to the north coast was tiring, but John was pleasantly surprised to see that Eleanor bore it with little complaint. Day after day they pressed on, resting little. For a while, John was convinced that someone was following them, but whoever it was managed to stay always just out of sight, and after a while John wondered whether they had lost them.
Finally, they reached the port, and Eleanor went straight to the harbour master to pay for passage on one of the fishing boats headed towards England. John watched again as Eleanor embraced a big, burly man, and kissed both his cheeks several times, and laughed and spoke in French. Again she checked to see whether he seemed jealous.
Once she had dealt with the harbour master, Eleanor returned to John’s side to explain what had happened. “We will sail early tomorrow morning,” she said. “Claude is an old friend of mine-“
“Yes, I’m sure he is,” John said, a little off hand.
Eleanor just smiled and began to walk in the direction of a nearby inn. “We can stay here for the night.”
“Oh, and I suppose you know the owner of this place too!”
Eleanor stopped and looked up at him. “Actually, Claude owns it, and he’ll give us a room for free. I told you my contacts would be invaluable.” There was a twinkle of mischief in her eye as she spoke. Then she carried on and led him inside the timber-framed building, gesturing for him to follow her up the stairs. They came to a room, with a soft double bed and little other furniture.
“Where will I sleep?” John asked, putting the heavy travel bag down on the floor.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, and gave him her most inviting smile.
Before he knew what he was doing, John had put his arms around her, and pulled her towards him. “You,” he said, frowning, “You, I like.” The kiss that followed was rough, unplanned, and, unbeknown to John, just how Eleanor liked them. She gave herself fully to the embrace and tried to manoeuvre him in the direction of the bed. John put out his hand to swing the bedroom door shut, to give them privacy...
... but his hand connected with something soft. A piece of cloth. He pulled slightly away from Eleanor and saw that there was someone standing there: a tall man with a scarred face, clad in black. Eleanor gasped when she realised they were not alone, and John pushed her behind him so that he could meet whatever attack was coming.
“You will return to Aquitaine,” the intruder said in heavily French-accented English. “Now. Prince John demands it.”
“I will not!” Eleanor said defiantly, peeping over John’s shoulder.
“You’ll have to go through me,” John added, clenching his fists in readiness.
The man grimaced. “Alright,” he said, drawing his sword with a single smooth action, and flicking the blade towards John. John staggered out of the way of the blade, but it only just missed him, and his momentum made him stumble sideways. The next slash cut through his tunic and bit into his skin.
John grunted and threw himself forward, hoping for the best. As long as he missed the blade, his sheer weight was bound to knock the attacker off balance. Their bodies impacted, and they both fell to the floor. The sword skittered out of the black-clad man’s hand, but it was not far away and he tried to grasp it as they struggled.
After flailing about for a few moments, John brought down his head and head-butted the other man, who finally became still. John got to his knees awkwardly and tried to stand, and Eleanor came to help him.
But just then, the attacker’s hand darted out and grasped his sword hilt, swinging it upwards in one swift motion. It caught John’s side, making him cry out, and suddenly Eleanor was bending over him, and the attacker was falling backwards. John gasped, and sank to all fours. “What...” he whispered, looking up at the black-clad man, who now had a small dagger protruding from his throat. His blood was everywhere, flooding the floorboards, and covering Eleanor’s hand.
“Don’t you die on me,” Eleanor said, forcing John to get to his feet. “Don’t you dare.” She sat him down on the bed.
“You saved me,” John said, shaking his head. Before he knew it she was pushing him backwards so that he had to lie down. Then she pulled up his tunic to see how badly he was wounded, running her hand across the hair on his chest and stomach.
“Stop!” he said, so suddenly that she did so. “That tickles.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow and smiled. “You’ll live, I think, Big Bear.” But nevertheless she insisted on dressing his wounds, and when he was in a state of better repair they went to find Claude and get help to dispose of the body.
It seemed that the black-clad man had come alone, as far as they could tell, but Claude was apparently unwilling to take any chances because after they had spoken to him Eleanor explained to John that there was a boat ready to take them across to England that night. They got their things together and went to the quayside, where they watched the setting sun as they waited for the boat to come in.
“I haven’t had so much excitement... well, since I last saw you,” Eleanor said, huddling close to John as the biting sea breeze chilled her even through her woollen cloak.
John saw her shiver and put his arm around her. “Well you did choose it for yourself,” he said, but not unkindly. He looked down and saw her smiling up at him. For the first time in a long long time he was beginning to feel that maybe, just maybe, he could find happiness again.
Author: Rochvelleth
Characters/Pairings: John/Eleanor, and some people I made up.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 2,988 (it was meant to be shorter than that - oops)
Disclaimer: I don’t own John or Eleanor.
Notes: Written for the Midsummer of Love. Set quite soon after the end of season 3. Quite epic.
John and the Queen
John felt strangely nervous as he waited to be admitted to the Queen in her castle in Aquitaine. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable as a tall, solid Englishmen among all these slight, French courtiers dashing around. Or perhaps it was just that so much had changed since he last saw her. Since she last saw him. Had he changed? He certainly felt more sad, more lonely, more hopeless than he had that Midsummer’s Day.
Eventually, a French servant gave him a curt gesture, telling him to go in. He stood and walked slowly into the large Hall, painfully aware of his big feet making a clomping sound on the expensive marble floor. Straight ahead of him sat Queen Eleanor, surrounded by a few lackeys. She was poring over a pile of papers on a desk in front of her, and her face looked strained. She seemed older, more care-worn, than she had the last time they met.
John came to a stop at what seemed an appropriate distance from the Queen, and just waited for her to notice him. Some minutes later, she looked up, and after a moment her frown turned into a smile. “Big Bear!” She exclaimed, standing up and waving away the lackeys buzzing around her. “What a surprise!”
John, not being one to waste words, delivered his message right away. “I have bad news, Your Majesty. Robin is dead.” He wondered whether that little tremble of emotion he felt as he said it had been conveyed in his voice. It was the first time he had declared the fact so plainly. It seemed as though not only Robin, but also the hope associated with his name, had died.
Eleanor’s smile changed again to a look of dismay. She was midway between her desk and John, but she hovered there, too upset to claim an embrace, too angry to sit down again. “No,” she said. “Not Robin.” But she was too strong, and too weary of the world, to be in denial. “How?” she asked simply.
“He died bravely, defending the people of Nottingham,” John said. “And he took a great many of King Richard’s enemies with him.”
Eleanor nodded, sadly. “But my son...” She left the thought unfinished. Was she hoping that he had survived? Or wishing him dead? Even she could not quite be sure.
“Prince John still reigns in London.”
She nodded again. “Richard is in captivity,” she said. “Have you heard this?” Her eyes were wide, and she looked almost... vulnerable.
“The Sheriff told us. That’s why I came... Your Majesty.” He added the title almost as an afterthought. In truth, he was trying to resist a strange, sudden urge to put his arms around her. “We want to keep Robin’s spirit alive and keep fighting, but we need the King if we’re going to bring about the changes Robin wanted...”
Just then, more lackeys came in, distracting the Queen from their conversation. John could see that she found them a nuisance, but for some reason she humoured them, and she told one of them to find him a room, ignoring his protests that he had to get back to England.
---
That night, John sat in his dimly lit room, wondering how they made the bed so soft. Nobody needed such a soft bed - it was completely unnecessary. But that was how nobles lived, spending too much money on things they didn’t need. Despite her noble birth and her bearing, Eleanor had struck him as more down-to-earth than that, and he felt an inexplicable sort of disappointment.
Just as he was thinking that it was time he tried to get some sleep, because the next day he would have to get the Queen’s answer early so that he could return home to give the others hope, there was a soft knock on the door. He said nothing, but the door opened anyway. Eleanor stood in the doorway, wearing a plain gown, her hair undressed.
“Your Majesty!” John mumbled, standing up, partly in surprise and partly out of respect.
“Sit,” she said, closing the door behind her. A moment later she was sitting next to him on the bed. “I am sorry we could not talk earlier. But my son, John, has spies everywhere. I could not speak plainly.”
“You mean...” John looked at her, trying to understand why she looked so sad. “You mean you’re a prisoner here?”
“I may as well be. I cannot act freely.” Then she seemed to straighten herself and make an effort to appear regal again. “But tell me, John, why did you come to see me?”
“Well it’s like I said... You Majesty...”
“And do stop calling me that. We’re not at court now.”
John hesitated, and then decided it was best to call her nothing if he couldn’t say ‘Your Majesty’. “Robin’s men want to keep fighting, but we don’t know where to start. We need the King, but if he’s imprisoned, then what can we do? We thought you might be able to tell us where King Richard is, and how we can rescue him.”
Eleanor was smiling now, and looked ten years younger as her eyes sparkled with hope. “I knew you would help. I thought it would be Robin who came... poor Robin. But Robin trusted you - with his life, and with his legend. I know you will do him proud.”
“But what do we do? Can you tell us where King Richard is, and how to get to him?”
“I can,” she said thoughtfully. “And I can help a great deal more, if only I could get away from this wretched castle.” She raised an eyebrow and looked directly at John.
It took a moment for John to realise exactly what she meant, but then it dawned on him. “No,” he said firmly. “You’re a Queen, you can’t run away from... from...”
He had faltered, and she was, of course, going to take advantage of it. “From this prison? This prison where I’m bored out of my wits all day, every day. Where I worry about the state of the world, about my children, and what will happen to them. Where I am alone. The people here don’t need me, but I think England does.” Before John could argue, she played her trump card. “And this is not a request, it is an order. From your Queen.”
John frowned. Well that was that then.
She continued, but now she sounded more like a woman and less like a Queen who expected to be obeyed. “I will pull my weight, of course, and my contacts will be invaluable to you, I am sure. And we can empty the castle coffers before we go.”
“Your M-“ John wanted to say something comforting, but she had made it difficult to address her politely with her ban on titles.
“Eleanor,” she said, meeting his eyes.
“Eleanor,” he repeated, despite feeling uncomfortable about it. “I’m only unwilling to take you with me because it will be dangerous. You are a Queen, and it would be wrong to put you in danger.”
“Even if I choose it for myself?” She sighed. “I have been alone here for over a year now. No friends, nobody to smile at me... or comfort me. I want to go where I am wanted, and where I can fight for my son. For... one of my...” She trailed off, and then gasped. John had taken hold of her hand, and was squeezing it gently.
“Alright,” John said. “I’ll take you back to England, if that’s what you want.”
Now that she had her way, Eleanor was quiet. John had lit a spark of hope in her, a feeling she had not had for a long time now. She leaned in to him, and felt him first move back a little in surprise, and then accept her into his arms. Soon he was stroking her hair softly, giving her that comfort that she had been lacking.
In truth, what Eleanor wanted more than anything at that moment was to tip up her face to his, for a kiss, and what followed. Would he be masterful, or gentle? Both perhaps. But she would not find out that night. It was too early. If she asked him to make love to her now, she would never know whether he desired her, or was simply doing his duty to his Queen.
---
Before the sun rose, John found himself standing guard while Eleanor tried to empty a large chest of gold into her travel bag as quietly as possible. He winced at the noisy trickle of gold, and wondered whether they would ever make an outlaw of her. “I’ve got it all!” she exclaimed after a few minutes, gesturing for John to come and take the bag from her.
John hefted the bag onto his shoulder and mumbled that it was too heavy, but Eleanor had already begun to creep along the castle corridor in the direction of the West Tower, where she had assured him they would be able to leave via a servant entrance.
When they got to this entrance, Eleanor stopped for a minute to pick up some items from a pantry they were passing - some bread and cheese to sustain them on their journey. Footsteps sounded nearby, and John hissed at her to hurry up, forgetting any titles and niceties. “Alright!” she whispered, clutching the food to her bosom and following John around the corner where there was an alcove just big enough to hide them, as long as they pressed very closely together. Eleanor would have given John’s buttocks a squeeze for good measure, if she hadn’t had her hands full already.
Once the sound of footsteps passed, Eleanor put the bread and cheese into her travel bag on top of the gold coins, gave John a not-so-apologetic smile, and led him to the West Gate.
“This is too easy,” John said softly, looking around at the apparently empty battlements. No escape ever went so smoothly in Nottingham.
Eleanor shrugged. “They’re French,” she whispered, as if it were an explanation.
Luckily, just outside the West Gate was a small town that had sprung up around the castle, long serving the nobles who had lived there over the centuries. They headed towards the largest building, which was home to an inn, and went inside. John had expected the place to be deserted at this early hour of the morning, but they ran immediately into a large burly man brandishing a cleaning cloth. John braced himself for attack, but the man’s red face broke out into a great toothless smile. “Ellie!” he said, and then he spoke some more in French.
Eleanor was grinning and laughing along, speaking in French, and leaving John wondering what they were saying. Eventually they embraced again, and kissed twice on both cheeks, and then the man led her towards the back door. She gestured for John to follow.
“Marceau is an old friend,” she told him. John wondered what she meant by friend - there was a clear affection between them. “But it has been a very long time since I was able to sneak out here and see him. Now he’s going to help us on our way by lending us some horses.” When they reached the courtyard at the back she made some sort of French exclamation and embraced Marceau again. She took a sneaky look at John while she was doing so, and was rewarded by a look of what she thought might be mild jealousy.
Soon John and Eleanor were on their horses and trotting away from the town, heading north. John was obviously grumpy, though even he was not sure why. Perhaps it was the horse - riding was not something that came naturally to him, and especially not riding this little French horse that he was not sure would carry his weight for the whole journey.
---
The journey to the north coast was tiring, but John was pleasantly surprised to see that Eleanor bore it with little complaint. Day after day they pressed on, resting little. For a while, John was convinced that someone was following them, but whoever it was managed to stay always just out of sight, and after a while John wondered whether they had lost them.
Finally, they reached the port, and Eleanor went straight to the harbour master to pay for passage on one of the fishing boats headed towards England. John watched again as Eleanor embraced a big, burly man, and kissed both his cheeks several times, and laughed and spoke in French. Again she checked to see whether he seemed jealous.
Once she had dealt with the harbour master, Eleanor returned to John’s side to explain what had happened. “We will sail early tomorrow morning,” she said. “Claude is an old friend of mine-“
“Yes, I’m sure he is,” John said, a little off hand.
Eleanor just smiled and began to walk in the direction of a nearby inn. “We can stay here for the night.”
“Oh, and I suppose you know the owner of this place too!”
Eleanor stopped and looked up at him. “Actually, Claude owns it, and he’ll give us a room for free. I told you my contacts would be invaluable.” There was a twinkle of mischief in her eye as she spoke. Then she carried on and led him inside the timber-framed building, gesturing for him to follow her up the stairs. They came to a room, with a soft double bed and little other furniture.
“Where will I sleep?” John asked, putting the heavy travel bag down on the floor.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, and gave him her most inviting smile.
Before he knew what he was doing, John had put his arms around her, and pulled her towards him. “You,” he said, frowning, “You, I like.” The kiss that followed was rough, unplanned, and, unbeknown to John, just how Eleanor liked them. She gave herself fully to the embrace and tried to manoeuvre him in the direction of the bed. John put out his hand to swing the bedroom door shut, to give them privacy...
... but his hand connected with something soft. A piece of cloth. He pulled slightly away from Eleanor and saw that there was someone standing there: a tall man with a scarred face, clad in black. Eleanor gasped when she realised they were not alone, and John pushed her behind him so that he could meet whatever attack was coming.
“You will return to Aquitaine,” the intruder said in heavily French-accented English. “Now. Prince John demands it.”
“I will not!” Eleanor said defiantly, peeping over John’s shoulder.
“You’ll have to go through me,” John added, clenching his fists in readiness.
The man grimaced. “Alright,” he said, drawing his sword with a single smooth action, and flicking the blade towards John. John staggered out of the way of the blade, but it only just missed him, and his momentum made him stumble sideways. The next slash cut through his tunic and bit into his skin.
John grunted and threw himself forward, hoping for the best. As long as he missed the blade, his sheer weight was bound to knock the attacker off balance. Their bodies impacted, and they both fell to the floor. The sword skittered out of the black-clad man’s hand, but it was not far away and he tried to grasp it as they struggled.
After flailing about for a few moments, John brought down his head and head-butted the other man, who finally became still. John got to his knees awkwardly and tried to stand, and Eleanor came to help him.
But just then, the attacker’s hand darted out and grasped his sword hilt, swinging it upwards in one swift motion. It caught John’s side, making him cry out, and suddenly Eleanor was bending over him, and the attacker was falling backwards. John gasped, and sank to all fours. “What...” he whispered, looking up at the black-clad man, who now had a small dagger protruding from his throat. His blood was everywhere, flooding the floorboards, and covering Eleanor’s hand.
“Don’t you die on me,” Eleanor said, forcing John to get to his feet. “Don’t you dare.” She sat him down on the bed.
“You saved me,” John said, shaking his head. Before he knew it she was pushing him backwards so that he had to lie down. Then she pulled up his tunic to see how badly he was wounded, running her hand across the hair on his chest and stomach.
“Stop!” he said, so suddenly that she did so. “That tickles.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow and smiled. “You’ll live, I think, Big Bear.” But nevertheless she insisted on dressing his wounds, and when he was in a state of better repair they went to find Claude and get help to dispose of the body.
It seemed that the black-clad man had come alone, as far as they could tell, but Claude was apparently unwilling to take any chances because after they had spoken to him Eleanor explained to John that there was a boat ready to take them across to England that night. They got their things together and went to the quayside, where they watched the setting sun as they waited for the boat to come in.
“I haven’t had so much excitement... well, since I last saw you,” Eleanor said, huddling close to John as the biting sea breeze chilled her even through her woollen cloak.
John saw her shiver and put his arm around her. “Well you did choose it for yourself,” he said, but not unkindly. He looked down and saw her smiling up at him. For the first time in a long long time he was beginning to feel that maybe, just maybe, he could find happiness again.