My Purpose is a Storm - William Wallace, May 1302

Writings from Wallace by Wallace (TJ Miller).  Read and enjoy.

I watch an osprey dance and leap on the winds, playing with the sky. There is a storm coming, but he is oblivious to the world, all he knows is the sky. I was like him once, in the days of youth and love. I was that osprey and Marion was my sky. She was the wind that kept me in flight and her eyes and fire kept me oblivious of the English storm that rode up the valleys to the south. I close my eyes and breath deep, there is rain in the air, and the sea is about to rage.

The ship creaks and rocks below us as we cross the channel and make for our home. I have been too long in France. I think back to that fateful day when I left Robert on the field of battle. The bile still rises in my throat when I think of turning my back and leaving my brothers to die on that field. I clench my jaw at the thought, but mostly because I know he was right. I did have to leave the field. 

In those days if I died the cause would fall apart. There was no hope for victory that day. When the Welsh arrived we were ended. We need to win this war, or else we could be like them someday. Dogs and curs to the English, fighting like slaves to help the English crush another people beneath their boot. I know that I have my own sins. Arrows from my very bow helped the English put down the Welsh rebellion and I weep at the thought. Fate brought the avenging ghosts of those fallen on the fields of Wales back to steal defeat from the jaws of victory at Falkirk. You would think that when Marion was taken from me all of my debts would have been paid, but then the ghosts came. Their arrows fell like death and rain on our lines and sealed our fate that day.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back to the heavens as the first drops of rain fall cold upon my face. A storm wind blows across the deck of the ship and plays upon my kilt and legs, and dances through my hair as lightning crashes to the North and I feel the temperature drop in anticipation of the deluge. 

The ship heaves and moans as I am soaked to the core by the now pouring rain. Others flee below decks but not I.  I stand and stretch my arms to the gods. I am coming home and I will be an avenging angel and I will see my people free. 

Vaguely in the back of my mind I can hear Gwyn call to me that I am a damn fool and need to get below. I remember the osprey and keep my thoughts in the present as the storm now furies around me. I open my eyes and watch as the world is ripped apart by crashes of thunder and rages of light in the sky. I am become this war.  The storm is an omen of it.

You were right about some things, but you were also wrong, Robert. I am not the leader that Scotland needs. All I am is this war. When it is done, there will be no place left for men like me. It is then that I will finally be able to rejoin my beloved Marion in whatever Elysian field she now finds herself. 

I need you to pick up the axe and join me Robert. I am not half the leader you are. I can take you to our people’s freedom my friend, but then you will need to let me go. I have nothing left beyond this fight, Robert and when it is done, so will I be. The storm has told me I am not going to make it out of this great cause alive. I need you to rise up and be the man I need you to be, the man all of Scotland needs you to be. 

Do not think for one moment Robert that I would not rather be on a farm with my Marion, bouncing my child on my knee, but the English took that option from me and have left me no choice. You have no choice either Robert but you have not realized it yet. You are one of us.  I can see in your soul the rivers and hills of Scotland. Sometimes Robert, sometimes we have to stand up and fight if we ever wish to know a peace. Make the right decision my brother.

Duchess Correspondence February 1560

Apologies that these things take so long.  There will be many MANY updates in the next few days, and most of them aren't even written by me.  Makes it that much more exciting when outside contributors want to share their characters with the world.  To that end, my letter from the Duchess in February.

February 1560

Greeting Lady Morgan of Spencer,

Ink to cheer you, scroll paper to warm you, words to get wishes through a distance.

Darling friend, the snow has begun to melt. I can almost hear birds chirping, flowers growing, and Hugh's beard shortening for a spring trim. Most have already turned their thoughts of fancy to love as Saint Valentine's mass is almost upon us. In recognition of such a holy day, I journeyed to that lovely winery where we celebrated Lord Percy's 40th natal den. Of course, this is the same locale where he narrowly avoided a premature demise. I do not wish to let that overshadow the beauty of the place however. If there were any dangers, they were kept at bay for I was guarded by Mark Strong, a Lord of Adventure. We were also joined by a sweet pair of peasants whose names thoroughly escape me. Siblings. I suspect I shall protect the young girl from Mister Strong as he was protects me from other predators. 

The musicians at the wine festival were very entertaining, though I do miss my darling Pasha. I never understood a word he said but he made the most humorous noises. Yet the music carried me through.  Also it's always nice to stumble upon fans of Crossford. As soon as they glimpsed us, they lauded our presence. I hadn't the heart to let on I had no notion of who they were. 

Naturally, my Lord of Adventure and I invited the gathered crowd to Crossford's midsummer festivities as well as an upcoming event at Valenzano. Yes, my dear reader, I invited them to the exact place they were. That is either very silly or the most logical thing in the world. They cannot claim to get lost! It seems someone is to be murdered mysteriously. Morbid voyeuristic soothsayers.

I hope this last day of excess, greed, sloth, gluttony, and drunkenness finds you well and fat. As Hugh calls it, Tuesday. For tomorrow, we begin the repentant hang over of Lent. 

In prayers for stable governance: church, state, body, mind, & soul,

Lady Elizabeth Percy

Duchess of Northumberland

Duchess Correspondence March 1560

Pleasant tidings, Lady Morgan Elizabeth Somers: Countess of Spencer,

To begin, I shall correct a few misgivings from the last correspondence.  I spoke of a thaw that has proven itself false.  Snow still greets our countryside view.  The commonfolk and peasants are especially vocal in their displeasure.  They make comments of cobalt orbs to mean the late spring has stifled their anticipations…whate’er that means.  Even with the mundane grumbling, it was very enjoyable to meet many new faces as well as greet old acquaintances in a recent passing.  The grass may still shatter underfoot and Easter flowers are nowhere to be seen but human animals are coming out of their winter hovels to make merry and prepare for better days to come.    

My dear friend, I began this missive over a fortnight ago and found it still in my person possession.  Many apologies.  Spring is visiting today with all the sunshine and heat it promises.  Flowers are blooming, birds are singing, and romance is in the air.  How nice it is to enjoy my husband's romantic company.  Embraces, kisses, secrets whispered by actions and told without words.

Lord Percy and I greeted our subjects yesterden.  We participated in an exciting proclamation that will go out to all surrounding duchies, fiefdoms, vales, and highlands to invite everyone to Crossford’s impending festival.  I regret I did not get around to conference with each single person, but I greeted as many as I could with kind words and tea as a proper English hostess.  A few more impish peasants were determined to know of a certain evening at the local inn with gypsies.  I do not know why that innkeeper bothers with walls at all if no one has two secrets to rub together after spending a moment there.  No blame to him of course, scandalous tales fill tables and gossip makes the wine flow.  I pray the townspeople would never believe their goodly duke to be one of infidelity.  He is lecherous, cantankerous, boastful, and oft drunken but never unfaithful.  He may pledge his life to our queen, his duty to our people, and his soul to our God, but you may mark that everything else is mine alone.  

…or at least we were alone.  I received word that I am to share his attention with my sweet step-daughter who has completed her education and is returning to us.  She is en route as we speak.  I feel so unprepared.  Do you not hate getting caught with your hoop down?  Chambers are being prepared for her comfort well enough, but I have yet to enlist a single suitor.  She was fair of face and voice when I last met her.  I look forward to reconvening with the woman she has become.  I owe it to the memory her darling departed mother, God rest her soul, to find her a proper match.  I have no memory of her mother of course, but Hugh speaks well of her as a first wife, God rest her soul.   How are the eligible prospects to the south?  Any help on the quest for a son-in-law will be ever so appreciated.  I would rather not wait until the mid-summer festival but surely there will be plenty of acceptable noble bachelors to be had there, perhaps as a last resort.  I shall be remiss to let that pass without a promise for a contract at the very least.  The very, very least!

To the windows, to the walls, 

Lady Elizabeth Percy

Sleepless Nights - A Robert de Brus story, April 1302

This is an EXTREMELY graphic tale of love and Death.  You have been forewarned.

It is late April of 1302.  Spring has gradually unfolded in both England and Scotland, though that often means storms and only a slight improvement to the cold snap in the air.  William Wallace and his closest followers are still in Paris, trying to gauge French assistance in the matter with England.  King Edward entertains various lords in London who are trying to convince him to terminate Scotland outright and invade without prejudice.

All of this ways heavily on Robert de Brus and his conscience.  It weighs so heavily that he can no longer sleep.

It is late.  The castle is mostly quiet, though I can hear a steady spring rain outside.  It’s a whisper to the world, cautious and delicate.  It reminds me of home.  Scotland does not contain such whispers.  When the spring rains come to my homeland, they roar in the countryside and echo like banshees in the hills.  I have begun to appreciate the simple differences England offers, yet scarce can I think of anything these days without being reminded of my home.

Every day it becomes more apparent that I will never be one of these English fools.  They are pretentious and gaudy, opulent beyond belief.  These lords grovel at King Edward’s feet, praying for some small favor, some small boon that he might grant.  They plot behind him when he turns to his devoted wife, but the moment he looks their direction with his piercing steel eyes, they drop to their knees to kiss the ground he walks on.  It brings bile to my throat to even think about it.  I detest them.

Yet here I am.  Trapped in England, restless at the witching hour, awake far too late to be mindful of the weather and such petty thoughts.  My mind should turn to the more important matters.  Ah, but those are the matters I try most fervently to escape.

Scotland.  My home.  My war torn home.  I feel as though I am their only hope, with William still away and the rest of my own clan clamoring for a piece of the kingdom.  I know, even as I struggle, that this is where I must be.  I must be in London, defending my country with words instead of actions.  I must remain locked in this city for but a moment longer, so my homebound people may continue to plant crops and live in peace.  It is those visions that keep me alive when I am at my most weary.

Every day I think of what the people on my father’s land would be doing.  It is late April now.  They must be planting, running rough highland cattle through the fields with plows and seed.  MacGregor’s daughters must be of marrying age now.  I wonder if he will have a new son in law to take over by the time I get back?  If I get back. This is what keeps me going on all of these lone nights when I am awake too late.  

When my thoughts turn again to wars and demon battles, I make the effort to remember the farmers and their simple lives.  That is what I am here to rescue.  Not the warriors, not the wastrels, but the home folk who live and die on the fields and create a world for us when we arrive home.  These are the people who matter most when I am lost.  And I am lost tonight.

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(Optional Song - “No One Is Alone” from Into the Woods)

I remember that day.  It feels so close.  The twenty second of July of 1298, just a few short years ago.  We were at Falkirk.  We knew the English were sending an army, but we did not know until they crested the hill just how large of an army it was.  They kept coming and coming, floods of them, on horses and on foot.  A full 15,000 men were there and they looked terrifying.  William did not seem phased.  He actually seemed excited.

We once hoped to starve the English out.  They had ventured so far into Scottish territory that they were already short on supplies by the time they were within distance for our spies to make sight of them.  William thought that if we just waited long enough the army would starve to death and we could catch them in retreat.  It worked better than we had dreamed through most of July.  There was even a riot amongst their troops.  

Near the end of the month an English spy slipped through our ranks.  We knew they would be coming soon and made ready as best we could.  We were outnumbered, but William was the brilliant tactician we needed.  We all rallied around him and he gave another one of his masterful speeches.  By the time the English had hit the swamp which made up our encampment we were already in formation.  

The hot breath of death was on me, near me, all around me.  We fought for most of the day and for quite a while it seemed we were winning.  The English could not penetrate the pikes we held at angles to keep us safe, and our archers were taking them down in droves.  We held fast in four packed groups and we were winning.  We were going to defeat the English.

Then the arrows came.  Welshmen with longbows had finally made it past the marshes and, with Edward at the command, showered us with death.  Our archers shot still, but for as much as we loosed they were twice as fast and a hundred times more deadly.  When the rain of arrows fell, we knew we were defeated.  I still do not know how those of us who survived made it out of that bloodbath alive.  

We retreated into Torwood, the forest our companion and fiercest ally that day.  When the light was cracking across the horizon at dawn on the third day, I knew we had lost completely.  There were remnants of units, and remnants of men, scattered about.  I had to get him out of there.  He had to be gone before the King’s horses tracked us down.

“You have to leave, William!  Ye have to go!”  I was pleading with him, though I knew what little good it would do.

“I will not!  Robert, they’re my people!”

“They’re my people too, Will!  All they’ll do is capture you!  They’ll torture ye and kill ye and put your head on a pike somewhere.  I canna let that happen!  Gwyneth, Duncan, talk some sense into him?”  

Duncan spoke first.

“All of my friends are dead on this field, Robert.  Malcolm is dead.  My brothers are dead.  I am with Will.  I am na gonna leave and let those dead lie there and rot!”  He had a point and we all knew it.  If we left, the dead would remain.

“I do not care what happens to me!”  Will was going to start giving another one of his epic speeches.  “I lead these people here!  It is my duty, my honor, to die by their side today!”

“Not today, Will!  They need you!  We need you!  Ye canna stay here.  You’re the cause, Will.”  He fixed his odd blue eyes on me.  They’re not even a real color until you see them next to a sky.  I pressed forward.  It was the hardest thing I ever had to say to him, to convince him to leave.

“Will, we lost a lot of men today - good men at that.  Great men.  And we’ll remember them, all of them.  But we need to be here to remember them.  We need ye alive, Will.  We need William Wallace to be here to inspire those who are left.  Now more than ever.  We lost this one, Will, but we won’t lose the war.  Not with you leading us.  Now go.”

“He’s right, Will.  We’ve got to move you.  It’s not safe here anymore.”  Even when he didn’t listen to me, Will always listened to Gwyneth.  With her behind me, he was finally convinced to move.  

“I didna come to a war to run away.”  

“You inspired them to fight.  Honor them, Will.  Honor what they stand for.  Be what they stood for.  We’ll need you again soon.  Gwyneth, take him by the tree road.  I’ll stay and keep an eye on things.”

We grasped forearms for a moment.  He looked at me with his odd blue eyes, that piercing look that meant what he would say next was as sincere as any prayer ever spoken in church.

“Good luck Robert.”  

I watched him leave.  The mist was still clearing the field, and the English surrounding us, searching.  I watched him leave and never looked back.  It’s been years since we’ve spoken.  I don’t know if he still trusts me or not.  But to this day I have never believed another man’s vision as much as I believed - and still believe - in that of William Wallace.  

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The rain runs down the castle walls.  It reaches beyond the witching hour, to the time which I detest most.  It is the cold, damp time of night when sleep will not come and I face all of the demons and failures I have courted in the last decade.  All of them are ghosts and I feel the responsibility and weight of each one as they creep out from my psyche.

One is Scotland herself, dressed in all her finery.  She parades about like pipers, so beautiful and loud, the most insistent and frustrating.  She insists I can do better, do more to assist my people.  But with the treaty as it stands, I cannot be sure if better is possible.  I have put all of my efforts toward peace, but they are thwarted by those who wish war, and the King who wishes control.  

Then there is my love, my Bella, who was taken from me too soon.  We have one child, my dear sweet Marjory, who waits for me, as she always has, with her mother’s pleading eyes, begging me not to go to war again.  I have been kept apart from her for almost a year now, and it still hurts me that I have not seen her grow.  I send her dresses and pretty blooms pressed into frozen memories in the hopes she’ll think of me fondly.  We correspond as best we can, but I am constantly drawn away.  I miss her chestnut hair and the way it perpetually smells of honeysuckle.  

My Marjory is the ghost in my head who tells me I have failed her as a father.  That her mother would have been better served with another lord by her side.  

The wind howls for a moment.  It feels so close.  It’s not the wall shaking wind that has kept me awake nights in February.  No, it’s like an old friend, a ghost, trying to whisper to me in the dark.  I do not know what it is saying.  I am straining to hear the words but they are garbled, confused.  I suddenly feel desperate.  This burden on my heart and mind is driving me insane. I have to know!  I must know what the wind is saying!

I rush from my chambers, clamor onto the battlements in the rain.  The stones are slick under my feet.  Rain sloshes down in whistling sheets, racing down the walls in small rivers.  It is a steady, chill rain and I will surely become ill if I remain too long in the cold.  My mind tells me these things.  I do not heed them.

“Tell me!  Tell me what I must do!  I have to know!”

I am screaming at the wind whispering between the fall of rain.  The guards look at me curiously.  I am so tired it does not even occur to me that I am using my native tongue.  Native languages are forbidden in Edward’s castle.  Even his own wife cannot speak her country’s French, though I have caught her slipping it in his ear during their chess matches like a lover’s caress.  

“Get out of the rain, you daft idiot!”  A voice in the darkness, with a lilt not unlike Marjory’s, but lighter.  It calls to me in my tongue.  Mine.

“...Elizabeth?”

“You’ll die of cold out here, my lord.  Wait, let me speak to the guards.” She leaves for a moment, flowing like the water draining down the castle walls.  I hear her saying something to the guards in her proper English.  I think she tells them I’m mad with the rain.  She approaches again and takes my hand.

“There, Robert de Brus, let us return to the warmth.”  Her voice in Gaelic is like a kiss to my burning mind.  I cannot help but follow.

We return to my chamber and she starts to order me around as though she is my mother, all in Gaelic.  Not Scottish Gaelic, but close enough for me to understand.  

“Take your clothes off and lay them by the fire.  I’ll see they’re hung to dry.  Put on a dry dressing gown and see yourself to stoking that fire with more wood.”

I dutifully obey.  I’m too tired to question anything.  Occasionally I glance her way to show my confusion and she rephrases a word or two.  “Stockings” and “bashful” do not translate as well as one might think, but the rest I catch onto like sucking in air after drowning for months.  

Once I am finally settled as she commands, she pours me a glass of strong wine that she has warmed by the fire and perfumed with something she carries in a purse by her hip.  It’s some kind of healing herbs, or poison for all I know, but I feel safe with her.  I trust enough to quaff the cup with the kind of enthusiasm a young boy holds for his first draught snuck from his father’s stores.  She drinks a bit as well, and I can tell she is tired but her eyes glow in the fire as if they are more alive than her own frail body can handle.  We look at each other for a moment, her grayish blue eyes capturing my blue like nets on an ocean.  She starts to speak first, and then the torrents of words come.

I cannot remember ever feeling so connected.  The words flow out of us like water, like wine.  We bleed words to each other and we know that no other humans here can understand us.  The rocks and trees believe our words, our truth.  Not another human soul can understand us as we speak our ancient tongue.

I have not spoken to anyone in Gaelic since my wife died.  It just felt wrong, a sort of dishonor.  I do not know why I was so afraid of it before.  Now it feels freeing and childishly wonderful, like a secret kept between best friends.  I have not felt this way in a long, long time.  It is thrilling.

An hour passes, though it feels like moments.  Wonderful snatched moments in time that I can scarce believe have occurred have passed between us and I do not want to let them go - to let her go.  Yet the hour is late and she must be ready to attend the queen on the morrow.  

She is leaving, or standing to leave, and I kiss her hand, then hold it to my chest.  I know she can feel my heart beating beneath the linen.  It is a rapid beat, like a bird in a cage fluttering to be set free.  

“Elizabeth...thank you.  See me again, this way.”

“Robert...I do not know if that is wise.”

“I am a man consumed by thoughts of wisdom and folly.  I am forever weighing the balance of those thoughts against what is best for my people and the greater good of the whole.”  

“Please, Elizabeth -” I am begging her with all the strength I have ever possessed. I hope my eyes are like William’s.  I want her to believe every word as the most honest truth any man can ever possess.  

“Please, let this be my one indulgence in a sea of trials.”

“I...shall...I...”  She is confused, but the feverish light in her eyes is not diminished by her distance from the fire.  “I...shall see you tomorrow, Robert.”  Everything in Gaelic.  She will return.

She lets me kiss her hand once more and I catch her closing those storm sky eyes in a twist of emotion - ecstasy or fear or joy or anger I cannot tell - and then she walks away.  I close my eyes and listen at the door as her quiet feet sweep down the hall.  

I am alone again in my chamber, as I started the evening.  I feel so much lighter now.  Uplifted.  All from her.  The Irish girl with eyes of storms and rust colored hair.

When I finally open my eyes again, I am yet alone, though the world hurts less for me.  For the first time in months I shall sleep soundly.

Duchess Correspondence January 1560

My grand friend, the Lady Elizabeth Percy, Duchess of Northumberland, has graced me with a few missives which I had neglected to relay unto you, good people.  Hereupon is the first of those, sent in January of this year, 1560.

Dear Lady Morgan of Spencer,

This letter shall reach you in good health and humour, I pray. And of course, if not, may it heal and cheer you. There have been excitements to spare since last we met at Crossford's midsummer festival. 

In the fall, the beautiful Valanzano Winery gave a gallant backdrop for the 40th anniversary of the natal den of my lord husband, Hugh. He is always a cantankerous toad about aging so to celebrate, I must do so as lavishly and publicly as possible or not at all. Allowing a mile stone victory over death such as this to pass without revelry simply wouldn't do. 

The evening was glorious with some adventure following dinner. We were joined by that coquettish bard, William Shakespeare, along with his most talented and handsome lead actor, Richard Burbage. Our questionably esteemed guest culminated his visit by attempting to murder my lord husband. Luckily, our former serving girl is as deft at befouling other's plans as she is with my own. We had to scramble to hire a new page before winter set in after our previous page revealed himself as a spy sent by our good Queen herself. Goodly pages are difficult to find this far north, as we require one who is bright, literate, and without personal agenda. A comely face and clever wit are welcome additions but the position shouldn't create undue competition among us.

Another behest was received from our good Queen, this time the plot included us. Lord Hugh was to settle a small land dispute to the north, a minor spat with Scotland. Sometimes I wonder why we bothered allowing them sovereignty. I suppose our female minds aren't adept for such matters. When an issue wants dissolving without recourse, retaliation, or rebuttal, look to Lord Hugh. Yours truly was to attend to keep the mood light. 

The civil visit went swimmingly. Scotland may not have the style of France, the panache of Spain, or the homespun magic of Ireland, but it does have its own rugged impudence which is always lovely to visit. However, on the way back to Northumberland, in order to break up a cold journey, my lord husband decided we were passing near enough his brother-in-law's land to stop by for the sacred holiday. His mother lives there with his sister's family. It's been three weeks thus far. We attended Christ's mass in their strange new church. My hand aches from this nigh frozen quill but if I stop writing, I will have to attend the parlor. Perhaps I'll start a new tapestry. Cross-stitching has me cross-eyed.

We both look forward to summer's frivolity from the depth that only northern England's winter can foster. If my ears serve me, I just overheard haggis is on the menu this evening...again. My dear southern friend, do you know what haggis is? The description itself borders upon the uncouth and the fragrance is haunting. I've tried every delicate phrase to end the parade of feasted organs but they insist it is the chic delicacy of the region. I long for Northumberland. You must visit at first thaw or sooner of course if you wish to see the snow. The eastern tower is completed finally and should give a wonderful view of all our duchy. I do love playing hostess.

Until we meet again dear friend,

Lady Elizabeth Percy

Duchess of Northumberland

The War Within - The Tale of Edward Plantagenet, February 1302

I know my friends, I know.  This has been a very long wait.  I've been working on a lot of great things for the faire, and some that were of my own personal design (it was also my 29th birthday, and yes it was lovely).  But now, now is the moment you have craved.  Enjoy.

This is an EXTREMELY GRAPHIC tale of love and death.  Be forewarned.

It is February of 1302.  The treaty between the Scottish and the English is tentative, but holding well. Robert the Bruce resides with King Edward at his palace in Westminster, though the two are not entirely fond of the arrangement.  Robert has been becoming more bold with questions concerning the Scottish people.  William Wallace is a faint rumor but ever present in the King's mind.  Today has been a harsh day and Edward is finally at the bitter end of it.  This is his story.

Edward Plantagenet - February, 1302

This is a rare storm tonight.  I gaze out onto the sky from the parapets before I journey to my chamber for the evening.  There are no stars.  The rain is fierce.  The thunder shakes my castle walls like they’re being beaten by an army.  I can hear the plaster and mortar rattle with each percussive roll.  It puts me on edge.  This is the sound of thunder in the holy land, not my England.  It feels as if the elements are warring against me tonight.  

This has been a hateful day.  There is never a moment’s peace when one is the ruler of an entire nation.  I often revel in it.  Trials have never frightened me.  Nothing does.  I am prideful of what I’ve accomplished in my time on this worthy throne.  

Today...today has been the worst in time immeasurable.  I am weary of this day and it seems it has become weary of me as well.  It has sent it’s dark night to avenge it.

There were the usual contrivances to deal with.  Lords stalking my every move to gain favor.  Rumors of plague or fever outside of London and in the south.   One of my favorite horses has apparently taken sick as well, which vexes me as I plan this trip to the North.  Ah, the North.  Even the thought of it makes my head ache.

The Scottish problem.  Robert the Bruce still resides under my protection in this castle.  He started as a sniveling groveler like all the rest but he’s become bolder and has begun to make demands on behalf of his people.  The boar should be lucky I’ve let him live.  Were it not for his claim on the throne he would be dead in a dungeon and long forgotten. 

The lords who follow me like packs of hunting dogs find it disgusting to keep such a fox at home.  I care not for their tongues even on a good day, and some many find themselves without one if they dare give voice to their concerns of Robert.  Scotland is a delicate situation.  If played correctly, it will not matter who they sit upon their throne.  I will be the one in control.  

The thunder booms again.  I can feel the cracks in the walls whistle with wind.  Twill be a long night indeed.  

Another peal of thunder and I feel a searing pain start up again behind my eyes.  It aches and itches all at once, like a mouse crawling around in my mind, chewing bit by bit at my senses.  Any time I give thought to Scotland, the mouse comes alive and skitters into action.  The smallest things give us the largest worry.  Scotland can be brought to heel, I know it.  The only thing stopping me is the bastard William Wallace.

Some claim he is of noble birth.  If that be true, he knows nothing of nobility.  He attacks in the night like the heathen Welsh, striking lone soldiers and crippling forces.  It’s been over a year since incident, but even the rumor of him has inspired others to join his charade.  I have run out of space to house these damned traitors.  The prisons are teeming with Scottish rebels.  

Yet it matters not.  If I cannot get to the source of this poison, the devils will keep coming.  Even without a sight of him, rumors run rampant through these pathetic Scottish hamlets.  They say he’s in France, plotting against me, hiding one skirt behind another with jewels upon it.  They say he kisses the hem of the pope’s gowns.  I went on glorious crusade and fought for our rights in the holy lands, but that ignorant oaf worth less than the dirt he stamps his feet upon is meeting with OUR pope to crave assistance?  

I will kill him.  One day I will break him and his spirit and I will bleed him dry in the town square.  He will not get the better of Edward Plantagenet.  He is no where near my equal.

“My King, if you continue to pound upon this wall, you may break it in the sudden storm.” She glides in like a dream and rests milk pale hands on my...my fist.  I had not realized I had been driving punches into the wall.  I am surprised how sore it is.  The blood is less surprising.

“Please, my King, you must not injure yourself in your frustration.  Let me take care of you.”

Margaret pulls me by my injured wrist and I wince but follow.  I feel drained.  The mouse has stopped its scratching, but who knows how long it will be kept at bay? I am so tired.  The storm crashes about outside.  It will not allow me the rest I so desperately need.  

In the dim light of the fire she bathes my hand in a basin and wraps it with silk from one of her dresses.  The cool water feels glorious on my aching hand.  The audience of peering eyes accustomed to following the Queen irritates the moment away.  I speak to my wife as if her ladies were not with her.

“How did you know that I was still awake?”

“My King,” she whispers and averts her eyes from mine, “I could not sleep for the storm and feared the children would be kept awake by it.  The servants informed me this was the only fire still lit, the only form still pacing.  If I have wronged you, permit me to finish this and I shall leave you to your lonesome steps.”

“Look upon me.” It is a command she obeys without question.  Her eyes are a mix of blue, green, and light brown, like wild flowers that scatter themselves in the garden at spring.  Dark brown hair rests like soft curtains behind her fairy ears.  Her face is thin and pale and she looks upon me with eyes of love and...and a wink.  I almost smile.

“Leave us.” The servants do not hesitate.  Only one lady stays behind a moment - the Irish girl, Elizabeth de Burgh.

“Will your ladyship be requiring an escort?”  Fair thing she is, and feisty, with something unspoken on her mind but easy to read on her face.  Even so, this is a bold move from a guest in our home.  I am getting very tired of bold guests.  I turn a dangerous look on her to see if she’ll catch the hint.  She’s sees my face and falters, but continues to stand at the door.

“I will not, Elizabeth.  I shall see you on the morrow.”

“Of course, your ladyship.  I just thought-”

“de Burgh, you have been told by the Queen of England that you are no longer needed in this room.  You do not need to think.  You obey.  Do not tempt her displeasure, lest mine should shortly follow.”

“Yes, your majesty.  I will leave you.”  

The Irish girl backs out of the room silently.  It is now empty but for myself and my young, beautiful queen.  I know why she is here.

(Optional Song - “Anything” by Janet Jackson)

“And you, my Queen.  Have you come to tempt my displeasure as well?”

“I have come to tempt other things, my King." It is a moment I have desperately needed.  We take it, and enjoy our time in it.

When we are sated she laughs in my ear.  I carry her to my bed and we lay next to each other, embracing.  She kisses my forehead, blessedly absent crown, and cradles me like a child.

“Edward, you mustn’t let this get to you so.” 

“Margaret, I - “

“I know what vexes you, my love.  And we shall speak of it no longer tonight.  For now, sleep.  In the morning we may discuss problems and trials.  For now, the King of England needs his rest.”

“Margaret, you are an angel.”

“If that is what my king needs, then that is what I shall be for him.” She pauses for a moment.  I smile up at her. 

“The storm is ending, Edward.  Rest now.  Rest and heal your wounds.  I love you.”

“And I you.”  I fade into exhaustion.

(Optional Song - “The Space In Between” by How to Destroy Angels)

There is a battle raging.  I am in the midst of it, I know not how.  Fires are burning on this field but I do not feel their heat.  The trebuchets launch boulders and pitch into the air behind me.  I can scarcely hear them, nor do I feel the rush of air as the rocks careen toward their targets.  It’s as if everything is happening in slow motion.  

I look at myself for a moment.  I am in my full battle array, a sword in my hand.  I can feel the weight of my crown upon my head as well as the cowl that habitually accompanies it when I am in the midst of war.  My sword is clean.  I have no shield, nor horse, nor attending knights.  What is this place?

Through the smoke and fog I see a figure.  A woman, I think.  A woman in a white dress, or what once may have been a dress of white.  It is impossibly stained with blood and drags behind her like a net.  Her hair is black and rains down her face in waves, obscuring her features.  Her skin is light but has a glow to it, like the sunkissed tan of maids by the sea.  She reminds me of someone.  She turns to me and shakes her hair back like a triumphant stallion.  My heart stops.

I am running, I can feel myself running but its as if there is no time in this place.  I am at her side, on my knees, collapsing and cursing my clumsiness.  I look up at her and she notices me, her ancient brown eyes shifting ever so slightly down to view me in surprise.  There can be no mistaking.

“Eleanor?  Ellie?” I do not wait for an answer.  I am wrapped around her, kissing her pink rose lips, gripping her fiercely.  My mind is at war with itself.  She cannot be alive.  She cannot be here with me, with my heart beating out of my chest, be here this moment.  I watched her die.  

“I am not your wife, Edward Plantagenet.”  She does not push me off, but her words have a bite to them.  Yet this is her voice, this is her mouth that the sounds issue from.  

“I...I do not understand.”  I stagger back.  She grips my arms and holds my hands as one might hold the hands of a child.  Her face is calm and emotionless.  

“I am but a vision.  I have come to you in this guise so that you might find comfort in my form and not look upon me with fear.”

“If you are not Ell...if you are not my Eleanor, then who are you?”

“I am a voice and you must listen, Edward Plantagenet.  You have sought answers.  I have come to provide them.”

“Are you of God?  Are you of the heavenly host and the angels?  Or have I simply gone mad?  Is this madness?”  Her hand reaches out and runs smoothly from my eyes to my lips, quieting all of my questions.  

“I am the answer and that is all you must know.  Walk with me.”

We move soundlessly through the battlefield.  I take more note of the figures attacking and defending.  It becomes apparent that these are my men, my knights and soldiers, and they are waging a war against...against the Scottish, so it would seem.  And we are winning.  Mercilessly.

“You see this before you, do you not?”

“I do, Ell...I do.”  My hand aches to grasp hers, but I leave it limp at my side.

“You may name me whatever you may wish, Edward, it makes no difference.  What does make the difference is what you see.  Tell me what you see.”

“I see my war.  I see my war with the Scottish.  I see my victory.”

“You are correct.  So long as you helm the battle against the Scottish, you will be victorious.  There are none on this Earth to stop you, so long as you are alive.”

“And William Wallace?  What of him?”  I try to look at her but cannot find the strength.  It is so painful to look at her.  

“He is a powerful man in his own right, and one you will not see the like of again.  But he is only a man.  He can be defeated, as any man may.  It is the country, the spirit of the people, which will be harder to destroy.”

“How can I bring about this victory?”

“Mine is not to tell you how.  Mine is to show you that it is possible.  Mine is to quell your doubts and show you the strength you know you possess.  You are the hammer of the Scots.  This is your victory, Edward Plantagenet, and belongs to no other.  Take it.”

She turns to me and I can resist no longer.  Damning the pain I clasp those honeyed hands.  She wears the gold engagement ring I had gifted her when we were children.  A simple band of woven skeins of gold she wore all her life and gifted our son when she became too ill to rise from bed.  The gown stained in red is the dress she always wore at christenings.  She used to sing hymns to our children after the ceremony to sooth them from the cold water.  Why am I remembering all of this now?  How could I have ever forgotten any of it?

I can feel the dream, the vision, starting to slip from my grasp. Without another word she moves to put her back to me to leave.  I hold her fast.  I cannot let her go.  I never could.

“Spirit, vision, angel, whatever you may be, tarry a moment longer.  Do what you must - lie to me as you must - but I cannot let you leave without holding her again.  Give me my Eleanor.  I miss her more than words can say.”

With her back still to me, I hear something close to “By your leave, your majesty,” whisper into the air.  The woman turns back to me and it is...it is my wife.

We embrace as we always did.  She smells of summer blooms and lavender which she kept in the pockets of her gown.  She is young and breathing and exactly as I remember her, impossibly beautiful and vivacious.  We kiss like memory.  It is the same cautious loving kiss we had as she breathed her last breath.  I know it isn’t her, but I do not care.  This stolen moment is nothing short of a miracle and I thank God and all of the seraphim that I have her in my arms for only a few more seconds.

Tears shiver in my eyes but I do not let them leave.  

“I know that you are not truly Eleanor, and this may only be my memory of her.  Of you.  But you must speak those words to me one more time.  Please, Ellie, speak the last words to me.  Then I will let you go.”

She kisses my hands and they begin to shake.

“Nothing will take me from you.  I am yours now on Earth as I am in Heaven, and always shall be, my dark prince.  I will watch over you and our children.  I will always be at your side.  I am yours, now and forever, my dear Eddie.  Remember me at Easter.  We shall see each other again.”

I kiss her once more.  I kiss her like the pain would leave and she would be in my arms again, as she had always been.  I kiss her, this facsimile, and hold my breath lest she vanish before me.  When my lips ache and my heart drains back to cold, I let her go.  

I awaken to those deep brown eyes above me, but they belong to a different face.  I am being shaken by arms the same honeyed hue as my wife’s, but they do not belong to her.  The voice is not her pitch and I am no longer in the midst of battle.  

“Father!  Father, wake up!”

“Edward, what are you doing in here?” My eyes are dazed by light through the doorway.  My son is shaking me awake wearing his mother’s eyes.  I note that he also wears his mother’s ring on a necklace round his neck.  This alone will stop me from raising my hand against him.  No one disturbs the King in his slumber.

“I am sorry, my King.”  He looks to the ground and shuffles back a few steps.  He has not the boldness of his mother, and lacks the conviction of his father.  “You...you were calling out in your sleep and the lords bid me enter.  I am loathe to disturb the King’s sleep... but you seemed troubled.  You called for mother.”

“Enough, Edward, enough.  You need not ramble.  You were right to enter, though it is displeasing.”

“I am sorry, my King.”

“Stop.  Edward, go to my lords and tell them that if they seek entreaty with me, they should come in themselves.”

“Yes, my King.”  He spins to leave, sad and shaken as he always is when speaking to me. 

“No, wait.  Better yet, tell the lords to assemble.  We will go hunting today.  And tonight we shall feast on the game we gather.  I am of a mind to make important decisions today.  Tell Robert the Bruce he shall accompany me.  It is not a request.”

“Of course, my King.  May I be so bold as to...”

“Yes, Edward, you may join us.  You must learn to be more intrepid, my son, lest the world walk over you.” 

“Yes, father.  I shall learn it.”  

He gazes at me with his mother’s eyes again and I cannot tell if he is pleased to be hunting or no.  It matters little.  He will come with me.  It is as I command.  

I swing my legs out of bed and feel younger than I have in ages.  The day is exciting and fresh to me, as if the demon storm cleansed the stupor from the land and my very heart.  Today will be a grand day.  Today will be the start of many things.  Today I will remind the world why I am Edward Plantagenet, King of England.  And they will not forget.

She Is My Sky

The following is a work of creative fiction, with some historic details in it.  I tried to remain accurate, to a degree, but I won't let history get in the way of a good story.  

It should also be noted, as is the case with my writing, that among the vast number of commas there is quite a bit of violence.  You have been forewarned.  Also, if you would like to read the uncut version of this story, send me an email at MelissaNJRF@gmail.com or find me on facebook.  

It is January of 1302. The Scottish lords have chosen Robert The Bruce as their representative to the English King. Edward has formed a treaty with Scotland, bound for nine months to a tentative and unsettled peace. In the midst of this, William Wallace has journeyed with his closest allies to France in the hope of bringing the French king into an alliance. This is not the only business Wallace has on his journey. This is his story.

William Wallace - January, 1302

I stood at the door. Stood there, like a sheep without a shepherd. I was shaking. By God, I was shaking. I had never shaken so much. Never on the battlefield, even when the odds were against us. Never when toe to toe with the best the English could throw my way. I knew we would win. We had to win. But this...there was no way to win this. I stood at that oaken door and trembled like a child.

Gwyneth grasped my hand to steady it. My dead brother’s wife, she was as much a Wallace as I, and twice the warrior of many who followed my dread step. When the world caved, she was my rock.

“Go to her, Will. Go to your wife.”

Providence is a breath of wind in a building of stone walls. Without a motion of my own, the door creaked open on its iron hinges. Cautiously, I dropped Gwynnie’s hand and went inside.

Within was a little room, no more than the size of a pantry. A small bed sat in the corner, wool-covered and with bits of straw peeking out of the bed frame. A figure in black stood at the far end looking out the window cracked into the abbey’s stone walls. The light through the window was the eye of God, casting shadows and light for contemplation and repentance. The light floated only on the figure in black - a willowy woman with long skinny fingers that gripped a rosary like a dagger, the only defense left in this forsaken French countryside.

I thought my kin were wrong. Surely she had died at the hands of the English, surely she had died at my abandonment. I had seen it with my own eyes, had I not? 

I made those bastards pay dearly for what they had done to my love. Each had suffered on his knees, praying for mercy. Each had looked me in the eyes and begged for lives worth less than the dirt they knelt on. My Marion had deserved so much better.

The frail creature turned, catching me in my pensive thoughts. Her eyes. Her ancient green eyes were upon me. I was falling, crashing through the door to throw myself at her feet and beg her forgiveness. She smelled the same - of the ocean and our home and the mosses we had once rolled in. And I wept at her waist and kissed the hem of the black gown she wore. She was my Marion. She was alive.

[Optional Musical accompaniment - Queen, “Who Wants to Live Forever”]

Her name when we first met was Marion Braidfute, Lady of Lanark. She was an island in a sea of pretty faces, a goddess mixed amongst peasants. Her beauty wasn’t comparable to anything on Earth. Marion was the sky to me, and I was an osprey worshiping her pale beauty.

We met by chance. I had taken the English by surprise near her father’s castle, but they had returned with a force larger than I had thought was close at hand. We were forced into retreat, and one of the company suggested we take refuge in the nearby castle. Without time to waste, we rushed the gate and stole into the household, barring the gate. We were fortunate that the lord of Braidfute was one of our supporters.

A short stay turned into a length of days I can scarce remember. We lodged in the castle through winter, and I fast fell to her graces. When the rain would come for days on end, she was the sun. When the chill would catch us unawares as we scouted the land, she was the wool cloak over my shoulders the moment I made entry. When the stars were dim and far too silent, she was the voice of the world urging me forward.

She had chestnut hair which whispered down the length of her back with waves all through it. It was softer than the finest wool and often became tangled. As the winter thawed into spring, we would spend fair days talking about the clouds as she combed her hair for hours upon hours in the castle garden. And when I had the mind, I’d pick her up over my shoulder, so light she was, and take her to the fields. We’d tangle our hair together, her and I, in wild abandon on the moors.

I recall a time we had gone to hunt whilst Marion went to the church to pray for us, sinners as we are. A force of soldiers came through the village and Bishop Lamberton, smart fox he was, hid her in a hutch while the English devils ransacked the village. When we returned from our hunt, we drove the dogs away with steel and didn’t even lose the hart we had taken in the fields.

Knowing of my affection for the lady, Bishop Lamberton told me of what had transpired and where my love was kept, well hidden. With a wink in his eye, he claimed her afeared and that she would not go to her castle that night. I commanded Liam MacLeod and Malcolm Kirkpatrick to return to her castle and keep close watch from a safe league distance.  They would report to me what they could. Duncan MacDuff and Donald MacBaine kept watch in the woods by the hutch, and I kept watch over my Marion.

When I first walked into the earthen dwelling she was by the door, dagger in hand. She held the dirk so tightly her long fingers were white to the bone. She recognized me after a moment’s panic, though she almost took a swing with her knife.  I was so shocked it was all I could do to get the door shut and calm her enough to stoke the fire.  When the hearth was high in flame, I whispered to her that she was my sky. The sky with a streak of silver cloud over her alabaster skin, paler than milk and as smooth as the most expensive silk. My heart could beat only for her from that moment. 

I could not have been more enamored.  Her laugh, my God, her laugh was rich honey, deep and golden hued.  Oh, and her eyes.  Her eyes were a deep shade of green, something almost magical. Fairy eyes was what I had once called them, but now in that fire light they seemed more like stars in the sky of her beauty. Her eyes were so perceptive, able to see my troubles before they even came to light.  She calmed me from the war within, eased my thoughts even as the weight of a sword could not. She was my every dawn and I was her promise in the night.

Marion was the daughter of a lord, as I was the son of one, and once we set our hearts together we were certain we would be married. On a pale night a few weeks later, just as April began to wash the land in flowers on the heather, Marion and I were handfasted at the castle in Lanark. And each night we were together afterward was the greatest blessing God has ever given me.

The English came again, as they always do. Not their lords, no, but their soldiers. Once they knew where we had taken residence a force was summoned to the village. I had so far avoided this confrontation with movement and vigilance, I had forgotten how stagnation would cause them to gather like ants at a carcass.

One night they came to the castle. Just a few of them, sneaking devils, climbing the walls silently. They opened the gate from the inside and crowded in like a torrent, all while I had been discussing movement strategy over a pint with Donald. The instant the gate was broken, I was to arms. Almost at the same time Gwyneth was against the door, against the door that led to the hallway Marion was sleeping in. And Liam had my arms then, had both my arms the brute he was and was dragging me out the kitchen door, down to the catacombs. Duncan and Donald stayed behind to try to fight their way to my love, but I knew they would not make it to her in time.

Malcolm, always the voice of reason, was shouting about how I was needed, I was necessary to the cause. There would be no revolution without me. He could not see, none of them could, how the voice of one man does not make the nation rise up. They could not see how weak that voice would be without his love, without his wife to guide him in speech. Without the sky, I was blind.

They got me to the hutch and forced me in, locking the gate with beams. Liam piled wood against the door. I kicked and clawed and battered that door with every bit of my strength until dawn, but it held fast and I could not leave. I cursed them all, the traitors, and cursed the English too.

As the sun beat red against the cracks in the dwelling’s framing, horses were heard. I broke a chair against that damned door and prepared to use the leg to defend myself - as if they could get to me from under the cabers barring me from leaving. But a few minutes later the door was open and Gwyneth was there, her face pale and bloodied from a cut on her head.

“Tell me what happened, Gwynnie. Tell me where my wife is.”

“They have her, Will.” My hands went toward her, but she was fast and beat them off. Liam was on me an instant later and dragged my arms behind my back again.

“They killed Donald. He’s dead, Will. And she’ll soon follow. There is naught to be done for her now.”

“She is my wife! She is my sky! I cannot go without her!”

She punched me, hard, in the stomach. I doubled over and wretched on the ground.

“I did NOT fight my way through a force of English curs to hear you scream over your wife! If she dies, she dies for you, just as my husband died to save me. Just as Donald gave his life to save you. Honor them, Will, but do not disgrace them with your anguish. We will fight those soldiers, but not now. They are too strong.”

I had recovered just enough to gather my feet under me. God forgive me, I jumped to my feet and punched Liam, knocking him back into Malcolm and Duncan.  In the sudden confusion I ran like a stag, faster than I have ever run before, and got to the edge of the wood just before the castle. I could hear my fellows racing behind me, but I did not care. My only thoughts were for Marion.

 At the edge of the wood Duncan caught up to me. He was lean and fast like a wolf and pounced on me, knocking the wind from my lungs. I gasped for breath as he sent blows into my sides.

“No, Will! No, you canna do this!”

“Hush!” whispered Gwynnie as she approached. She was on the dirt too, and grasped my left arm with her entire weight, forcing it to the ground. I could hear screaming from below us. My wife. My wife was screaming my name in terror.

I struggled. I kicked and cursed. Liam had caught up and rested his bulk on my torso, but not before I could turn to look down at the castle garden. Gwyneth covered my mouth and Malcolm slid in to my right to watch.

They had my wife roped like a sow, tied to a post. Her back was bloodied with lash marks. The English were asking where I was. I wanted to cry out. I wanted to tell them that I was here, that I was above them and would exchange my life for hers, but Gwyneth’s hand was tight no matter how I bit or cursed.

A soldier of no import with a tight mop of blonde hair swung his sword just over her hands and cut her down from the post. She crumpled to the ground and begged for her life.  Without a second thought his sword scraped through her left shoulder and hit the ground just below her. He drew it out with a boot on her face, then walked away without a backward glance. She did not stir. The English had killed my wife.

The rest of that day became a blur. Gwyneth told me I was dragged away and tied bodily to the horses we left on. I screamed nonsense in my sleep and could not eat nor drink, but was forced to down water whenever she had a mind to. As the week wore on I became more coherent. One thought rang clear and caused me to stir again. The English would pay. They would pay dearly and forever for taking my sky from me. All was darkness and dread until they were dead at my feet.

All of this, all of this was 6 months of time in 1297. It had been five years since I had seen my love’s face. And yet here she was now, with those enchanted green eyes gazing down upon me. The smell of the sea was in her wild hair, which was tied back with a leather thong and tamed. Those eyes were dead now. I rose to meet them.

“How can this be? How, my God, how? I saw you die.”

“Didja, Will? Didja watch what they did? Every part of it? Because I lived it. I lived that shame and dishonor, and I knew that there was no rescue. It seems I’ve lived that night a hundred thousand times, and it never gets old nor fades to gray.  God give me strength.”

She faltered at that slit of a window, shaking. I reached for her, trying to steady my own hands. She backed away.

“No, William, do not look upon me with shame in your heart. I have made my peace with it. God will judge the English for what they have done to me.”

“Aye, they will, my love. And I will be His justice.”

“You dare judge men over the Lord?” A flare in those eyes. A spark. She was still there, under that black and frailty. I could rescue her still. There was a chance.

“Those who have touched you no longer walk this earth.  Many others will follow their fate. When it is all over, they all will have paid dearly for what they have done to you and to our people.”

Suddenly I could see our life. Our life without war, without death, without fear. I could see the children she would bear me in that castle. I could see being an old man, with her at my side. I had never wanted anything so badly in my life. She was my wife. She was my sky.

“Marion, forgive me for my failures. I have missed you so these long years. When there is peace I will send for you and we can return to our lives.”

She turned, finally showed her eyes to me in full. The moss green was cold. Her face was tracked with lines, like rivers of tears had dredged trenches in her smooth face. She spoke to me, at me. Her lilt had broken and become steady and stagnant like pete.

“The war has taken its toll on you, on us. You speak about Scotland as a land united, but we are far from it. Even those who follow you now are torn over who should rule. I have heard their arguments as they came to the abbey.”

“That is not of your concern, Mari,”

“It is of my concern. It is my homeland and always shall be. My heart is there still. All that is in my chest are echos."

“Marion, come back with me.” I looked at her with pleading eyes. The green she looked down at me with were cold and unchanging.

“This is my calling now, William. I will do God’s work on earth and no other.”

She was stone. My love had become cold as stone.

“I can change, my love. For you. When this war is over...”

“The war will never be over for you, Will. When the day comes that the English no longer take possession of what we hold dear, and all the rest have put down their arms to go home to their wives and sons, you will still have your sword up. You will always be waiting for them and the day they will return. No, Will, I shall not wait for you.”

She turned away. Turned away with dry eyes and not a backward glance, just as that blonde soldier had done to her. And she went out of the room.

Gwyneth was with me in an instant. If she had not heard the whole thing, she knew by Marion’s exit what had transpired. I was still shaking. I was numb but my body was alive with heat, with anger. My soul was furious. Furious at what the English had done to my wife, to my life. I shook with a fury reserved for those whose vengeance is divine. In the light of that window, in the house of God, I knew my calling.

In the morning my companions and I prepared to ride out. As I checked my horse to mount, the figure in black ran to me. My heart leapt just once, hoping she had changed her mind, that God had spoken to her in that black night and told her the sky was needed. She was needed. But her eyes were still mossy green and disenchanted and her lilt was still as dead as pete.

“I wish there were words that could give you peace, Will. I prayed all night for guidance and only one answer came to me. This is your destiny. Fate has brought you here and God will bless you on your journey.”

“Mari...Marion, come with me. Be with me again.”

“I am no longer your wife, William. I belong to God. All that I have in this world I give to Him.” She shook her head for a moment. The spark came into her eyes for a second, a second of hope and breath and life.

“Take this, Will. Take this and think of me, of this place, of this peace. Find your peace.” Forced into my hand was her rosary...and the emerald band I had given her on the day of our wedding.

“Marion. Marion, you will always be my sky.” I kissed her forehead, then mounted my horse.  My company - Gwyneth Wallace, Liam MacLeod, Malcolm Kirkpatrick, and Duncan MacDuff - rode off into the depths of a January winter on the road to Paris and the French king. And close to my heart is that emerald band, at all times, and the rosary of my sky.