I had been granted this keep only two months ago. Well, my husband had. A gift from King Arthur for some noble act of gallantry and knightly service, no doubt. And yet, today, he leaves again - off on some long and magickal quest. I do not know if, or when, he will return.
He left me only two things - a baby boy in my belly and a request to look after the keep in his absence. If only things were that simple.
The people here held no particular loyalty to me, and the keep itself was a wreck, left derelict by its previous occupants. The crows gathered, and I knew my enemies were already plotting against me. I had no protectors, only a handful of maid-servants and a husband who was little more than a distant figure. But for all intents and purposes, this was my castle, and I would do my best to rebuild it and keep it strong.
My strength lay in my raising. I had grown up around nobility at my mother’s side, learning to read people’s intentions like open books. I was strong-willed, loyal to my fiefdom, and unwilling to bow.
But my enemy is Queen Guinevere - King Arthur’s loyal wife. She despises our rulership over this land and would stop at nothing to see my claim ripped away.
I kiss him goodbye, playing the dutiful wife until he is gone, until he is nothing but dust on the wind. I bite my tongue when he tells me he is leaving to fight evil. He is blind to the evil that exists within the very walls of his own keep, to the battles he now leaves for me to fight alone. The bards will sing of him and never of me.
And just like that, I am alone.
I walk the gardens, my skirt trailing through the mud. I wear my finest gown so my husband will remember me at my best. Eyes linger on me as I pass, silent judgement resting heavy on my shoulders.
Once again, my brother-in-law visits, feigning ignorance of my husband’s absence. Yet here he is, always too flirty for my liking. It never sits right with me - I am the lady of this keep, and I am married.
At the gates, I catch sight of a man staring at me from a nearby window. His gaze is not on my face, but fixed on my stomach. Coldness radiates from him, a silent omen that forces me back within the keep’s walls. After that, I do not stray too far outside.
Dearest Mother,
I hope you are well. Life with Percival is steady, though he does irk me. He leaves me to look over this land, to improve the castle, to manage the people - all while I am in this state! He is the most thoughtful yet thoughtless man alive. I know he only thinks of our future, but without him here, I fear the people will look upon me unfavourably.
I have full faith in Percival, but I do not think he understands the darkness he leaves behind. Is it truly worth abandoning us for the ‘evil’ out there? Is this a sign of the father he will be to our son? The people need a strong role model - someone present.
You raised me as best you could, but I seek your advice. What would you do in my position?
Love, your dearest
Mother responds, telling me to step up and fill his role. This is my chance to shine. She reminds me of the fear she felt when Father passed, and how she rose to meet it.
I survey the keep and its lands, finding them in ruin. The previous occupants ran this place into the ground, and now I see why my questing husband ‘earned’ it so easily. My inner cynic wonders if this was truly a generous gift at all.
With only the few resources available to me, I must do everything I can to rebuild while showing no weakness. I know I am being watched closely. If I flinch, my enemies will strike.
A priest comes to request aid in building a church. But the locals are not Christian - they follow the old ways. I refuse him. If he wants a church, he can look elsewhere. In doing so, I make an enemy of the Christian faith.
An artist arrives at my halls, seeking bed and board. I cannot refuse him guest-right, but I ask for a commission in return. A large portrait of myself at the top of a mountain, seated by a spring - a place of solitude. I hang it in the great hall, and there is something almost magical about it. When people gaze upon the piece, they feel an overwhelming sense of loneliness and isolation. Finally, some empathy.
While exploring the castle, and rummaging through some drawers, I find a secret letter my husband has hidden from me. A letter from the King, thanking him for his purchase of this land and keep. This was never a gift. My husband spent nearly every penny to his name to buy it - and when that wasn’t enough, he pledged his servitude to the King for over a decade. My husband is no longer a free man, but a pawn.
I am sick to my stomach. He has given me everything I wanted, only to strip it away in mere months.
I write without emotion, a letter fit for a business partner.
I detail the decisions I have made in his absence, the efforts I take to protect his land and reputation. I list the repairs needed: draughty walls, leaky roofs, bare halls. I request permission to access the treasury, though I know it is empty.
I spare only a single sentence for our son. I tell him we are both well. I say I cannot wait to spoil the boy with everything he deserves, but I cannot even begin to prepare for his arrival without his father’s support. I ask him if he will return soon, so we can raise our son together.
I receive no reply.
I carry out my duties as best I can, but I know it is not enough. My enemies move against me, and I must strike first.
I discover my steward gathering herbs from the apothecary - a Catholic man - to brew some concoction of sickness. A crude list of ingredients falls from his pocket, scrawled in feminine handwriting. The paper smells faintly of Queen Guinevere’s perfume. I do not hesitate. For his betrayal, I return the favour - adding a pinch of foxglove to his tea.
I realise I need eyes and ears in the castle - someone loyal to me. I reach out to Mother, asking if my old nanny might visit. She agrees, and soon, I have a trusted presence within these walls. My nanny tells me of the staff’s whispers. How they speak ill of me. How they ruin my meals with rot and ash. Even my own servants betray me.
Then, a letter finds its way into my hands. It was never meant for me, but in its misplaced address, I find my salvation. The King’s brother is having an affair - with the Queen herself.
Juicy gossip. But more than that - leverage.
I write with the finest stationery, my words dripping with empathy and grace.
I know she must despise to hear how well I am coping given the situation.
I sing praises of the keep, of the new art hall, of the garden’s exotic blooms. I thank her and the King for their support. I even inquire about the King’s brother.
She does not respond.
Beatings, poisonings, thefts, and battles - these are all par for the course for a lady of my stature. But everyone knows that if you truly wish to harm a woman in the green hills and forests of Albion, you do not strike her body - you strike her reputation. A wound may heal, but a well-placed rumour scars forever.
Whispers begin. The child I carry does not belong to my husband, they say. I hear my maids giggling as they pass my quarters, their hushed voices confirming what I already know - this lie spreads like wildfire. The land now believes my son is a bastard, and that I have been unfaithful while my husband fights some nameless evil in a distant land.
This turns the Christians further against me. Even those few who once stood by my side withdraw their support. What little respect I had among the people crumbles to dust.
My sister offers herself as a scapegoat, willing to claim she is the one bearing a bastard child. But I cannot allow it. She has always protected me, but I will not let her bear this burden. This is my cross to bear.
Desperate, I write to the one woman who may still help me - Mother. Her response is simple, yet audacious. Claim the child as a gift from God, she advises. A divine birth, a miracle. The people cannot condemn what they fear.
So, I try.
But the story twists in their hands. What once was a tale of divinity mutates into blasphemy. I do not bear a holy child, they say - I carry the Antichrist.
And then the riots begin.
I can no longer bear it. My enemies have won.
The people who wanted me gone now move against me openly. The Queen has succeeded in turning them against me. The keep is no longer mine; it is a prison. There is no wealth, no loyalty, no love left for me here.
I cannot stay.
Under the cover of darkness, I slip away on horseback, carrying only what I can. There is no one to stop me - no one who would even care. I ride toward the horizon, toward anywhere but here. Somewhere new, where I can begin again, where I am just a traveller, a mother. Somewhere I will not be judged before I even speak.
A city comes into view, its lights a beacon of hope. I let out a sigh of relief, daring to believe I may yet be free.
And then - pain.
An arrow strikes my chest. Then another.
My body slumps forward onto the horse as it gallops toward the city. My vision blurs, the world slipping away. My last wish is for them to save my son - to give him the life I could not.
Darkness takes me.