Post by Queen Beathag Aberdeen on May 25, 2009 14:18:24 GMT -6
"M'lady have ye heard the news?"
"Tha's a constant echoed question, but Ah have. Ah have m'own personal scribe n' herald. A bevy of women. A retinue o' men. Iffn they dun nay tell me rest assured, Ah know."
"Nay much escapes you, lady."
"Nothin' a' all escapes me."
"Tha's a constant echoed question, but Ah have. Ah have m'own personal scribe n' herald. A bevy of women. A retinue o' men. Iffn they dun nay tell me rest assured, Ah know."
"Nay much escapes you, lady."
"Nothin' a' all escapes me."
The Mo'r Ouksela had a set passage for the conveying of news. Besides this, and many reliable individuals, she had her own mind, eyes, and two hands geared for the task. Neither an idle woman nor an overly zealous participant, she had just the right amount of each to aid her in what she wanted to do. Since the festivities of the Spring, she'd diminished from the public's primary view to focus on things to be of their benefit. While her voice didn't bellow over ramparts, her words did lend to the producing of words that went across the palm of an anxious school child's hand in Teangue or the new guild girl in Struan. No one really saw her feet touch the ground, but knew that others walked on her explorations on newly fitted stones branching out from Turas Lan and clear to the west, and down, down to the South where they looked on the old roads of the Romans repaved with flat, interlocked stones. "Tis nay cobble," some remarked, meaning neither man nor horse hoof caught in some things between, "Tis strong," said another, for it would arch just so over a river.
Scars. Signs of old ravishing disappeared under the green grass and explosion of blossoms as Spring was soon give way to the flourish of Summer. Seasons passed here in a way they did not for the rest of Scotland. Skye was prone to sun after her rain. Cloudlessness after thick masses tangling above. The long time of war had gone now until all that was left was fertile soil from the burned places. In a silent dignity the Island recovered. In that same silent dignity, Beathag was making transformations.
...until further conveyance of the news sought more than her quiet dignity....
"Are ye goin' to answer it?"
"Aye, though Ah'm hardly believin wot ye'd say or wot Ah'm readin. "
To Her Honored and Revered Highness, The Mo'r Oukselo
Hail to thee, and may most honored praise be showered upon you. May your family fare well, and so thy citizens prosper under a glorious reign.
With your esteemed permission, we wish to look upon the city of Turas Lan, the Isle of Skye, and the renewed prosperous center of Scotland for ourselves in order that those with trade, religious, or civil endevors might make ties as befits the law of the Mor' Triath and those kept by his most loyal and just consort. May peace continue on and long may you both reign.
The signatures on the letter bid her bring magnifying glass close to make sure that age wasn't claiming her sight. Why should it? At thirty-six, she was the mother of two young children, one but a few months of age. She had the features of a woman ten or eleven years younger, and the stamina of her forebearers. Her hearing and even eyes were sharp, so maybe it was merely the name that makes one doubt herself.Among the names of no-name embissaries was the personal seal of Isabella of France.
The Former Queen of England, the Lady of France, sought to come to Turas Lan to see for herself where the future lay. But the years only two before, in 1327, she had staged a successful coup with her lover Thomas Mortimer, a Marcher Lord. Her son was to be declared King, save it seemed that Longshanks would not be put aside that easily. Though forced to abdicated in favor of his fourteen year old son, the tables would turn when a handful of his powerful Dukes thrawrted Isabella, forcing her to another station in England while she watched her husband valiantly, stupidly lead forces against the Mo'r Triath. She watched as her son's future was torn apart and her own plans lay to ruin. What is war but a meeting of minds? Whom does victory go to but those whom can act the quickest?
If Isabella sat and did nothing, the future of her children would surely not endure. There were other ways to die besides the obvious. A political death would be the ends of arrangements for the girls and no throne nor land for the lads. There would be none in Europe who would touch the woman so bold as to defy her power seeking husband, a Plantagenet trait that for at least the duration of three generations had seen other lands under boot heel. Now one might say they also suffered from a Plantgenet madness that poisoned the blood. Surely some strange thing in Edward the I. Edward the II was a brutal, ruthless bastard who was prone to occasional fits. Was that what had given way to his so publically displayed liasons with favorite men in his court?
"The She-Wolf of France," she murmured with efficency. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. "Wishes tae come 'ere. How come ye 'cross the letter fer meh?"
"From the hands of Isabella n' Mortimer themselves, Mo'r Oukselo."
"N' how look their faces."
"Calm. Composed, n' dare I say it m'lady, in complete earnest."
You see, it was rumored Beathag had taken so far a place behind her husband that she knew nothing of the present times. In fact, when she'd been but a woman on constant water, she learned far more things of value. She knew of barrels of silver the king had sent for assasins to kill his wife. She knew of the head Isabella called for that was on the shoulder's of the king's lover. Now she was on the same field as these monarchs whom once she laughed at, agreed or disagreed with over cups of ale. She would look into the face of a woman who's plight would not be her own, so help her Gods. The messanger cleared his throat to tell her that there was more.
"Tis also been asked this was said, n' nay written. Awaiting on a ship in the harbor is one whom seeks tae reside here until the former Queen may come tae see her home. Her daughter was rescued from the Tower o' London. Her name is Joan...she is but a small thing, perhaps seven or eight years of age. Since the fall, her future is nay certain now. Since David is not reigning over Scotland, her marriage is not certain."
It wasn't uncommon for a girl-child to be wed in proxy even at birth to ensure she would be passed to a future lord. Still, the thought of the child who had been born in the infamous Tower betrothed to a literal stranger, having to be tossed to the ocean to be safe made her thank the Gods each of her children were held by her or by ancestors.
"Tell Brenton, n' he will gae forward n' fetch the young lady off the boat. Ah will keep her here until her mother comes. She shan't be treated as a prisoner, either. We are gaein tae extend hospitality n' diplomacy tae Isabella n' Mortimer, Isabella's children."
Brenton was close to Beathag's side, the man of notes and paper, who remarked, "The Mo'r Oukselo's diplomacy will be the sort of thing of legend now. It is wise then, for she will no doubt come as a French envoy, but still..socially.." Beathag dared for him to go on about the social consequences of offending purists:
"Some think her a whore, Ah'm certain. N' sae wot? Her husband liked the backways o' a man n' was nay shy about it. The King o' Scotland favored at his deathbed a courtesan who was more loyal, more forgivin' tae him than his own kin, thus one o' m'husbands closest associates n' a personal friend is dubbed a red 'eaded whore. In Aberdeen, Ah'm sure some still think m'son is o' the devil's bed and with o'er women, red heads n' dark haired temptresses we be witches tha' fly o'er hills? Pah. French She-Wolf n' her brewd make good company in a court o' radicals."
"This is true," he chortled.
"Aye, vera, Brenton," she bemused, "Ah've survived assasination, disention, attempts tae o'erthrow me by army, by murder, n' by the sheer fact Ah was barren. Ah think the woman with the pansy o' a husband n' the Marcher Lord lo'er will nay bother me at all. Why, in league with the Red-Haired French Courtesan n' the bold Lady o' Inveryne we may all sit at a table and marvel o' how French women beat us to the idea!"
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
M'Anam Cara,
Your last letter found me very well, and as always the health of myself and your children increase each dawn. By the evening, our happiness is as boundless as the length of our reign. Aodhan has grown a whole inch and more. He now stands just shy of my own waist. Davina is over three months of age now. Never a bonnier girl in any land could there be but our own daughter. She smiles, has learned to laugh! When she laughs, beloved one, it is ye I hear. Her peel is me, and in her dulcet tones I swear I know the voices of our mothers. She is the best of every generation, and of us. Aodhan excells with his sixth birthday allowing him more rigor in his trainings of arms, horsemanship, and the increasing of his studies for the boy is insatiable. Indeed it takes a great many to stimulate his hands and his mind, and when you think him done he always asks for more.
As for m'self, I've adopted a stance of watchfulness and silence. It allows me to do a great many things in peace. Why, I have even walked beyond our own doors to the tune of the every-day! What a pleasent feeling it is. Still, beloved, how I wish that it was you who could see this with me. I pray that in the writings you recieve of home, both in matters of law and of our family you find pride in your wife. Your love and encouragement are always in my heart and just over my shoulder. Fondness aye? Absence, it makes the heart grow fonder.
Today I learned that Lady Isabella of France will to come here with her lover, the Marcher Lord Roger Mortimer, seeking to see the future for themselves, to make entreat of prosperity and peace. I must say hers is a name of infamy, fame, and of late silence in the matters of the last year since her husband found suprising strength to dismantle her coup. Their son, Edward III, now has no throne to inherit. Their second son's lands were taken long before you arrived, and their daughter's lay in dangle as most women of this age do I fear. Ye know, it is not until moments like this that I truly come to see our enlightened thinking.
So with a sigh and some humor, I am to entertain the 'She-Wolf of France.'. Maybe if her coup had been more successful, we would have had negotiations with England instead of an outright war, no? Still, she is a mother with children to worry for before lands and a lover whom at least doesn't favor the rear ends of men. Ah. The former White Hound shall sit with the She-Wolf, and joined by others of France, the Red-Haired Witch of Scotland and the bold Lady of Inveryne? Perhaps Ealora would enjoy to come home and see this enfold since she is a Dark Haired Witch herself? Aye me. Oh husband.
But in somber tones, too, one realizes the iron force in a kind hand to which Isabella knows she will meet. She may find ally in preservation of life and securing future for her children, but there will be nothing done to make a vehicle of power that England once knew, and knowing France is our ally she can do nothing to ensure royalty in England but old royalty recognized. What strange times are these. Once I talked about these people over supper. Now I sit across from them, there equal.
How I wish you could lay with me in our bed, as we talk on this together. One day soon, no, my love?
Beathag