Chapter One - By the Pricking of My Thumbs...
Lady Macbeth II
An Earldom of Buchan 1066 AAR
Part One - October 1102
Chapter One – By the Pricking of my Thumbs...
Something...this way comes
An Earldom of Buchan 1066 AAR
Part One - October 1102
Chapter One – By the Pricking of my Thumbs...
Something...this way comes
Well, this is it. The unthinkable has happened, and my distress knows no bounds. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I can barely even breathe. My thoughts, usually so ordered, are beset by the darkest imaginings, for, as of now, everything I have worked so hard for hangs by the slightest sliver of a thread. My fate is no longer my own, and what happens in the next few days and weeks will surely determine the entire future course of my life.
Hmm. Now that I’ve got your attention, allow me to introduce myself: I am Margaret, Countess of Buchan and Queen of Scotland—or at least, forgive my scoffing, what’s left of Scotland. For you see, over several decades, more than I can remember, we have suffered repeated humiliations at the hands of our enemies, constant invasions, constant defeat, constant meddling from outsiders who seek only to eat away at the kingdom bit by bit—first Cumberland was lost to the Normans, then Dunbar to Earl Morcar, and lastly, only within the last couple of years, Clydesdale was taken that bitch Isobel of Carrick, at the cost of many brave men of Buchan. Soon, unless something drastic is done, there will be nothing of it left.
Scotland diminished
Witnessing this throughout my life has taken its toll, fuelled my ambition to use whatever means necessary to take control of the destiny of Scotland, which, having ascended from mere countess to Queen in a few short years, I was well on my way to fulfilling. All I needed was for my belly to swell, to bring forth a child who would end the curse of the Dunkelds forever and rule Scotland under the name Buchanan, but now, with the news I have just received...no, I cannot bear to even think about what the future might hold, for I have been excommunicated, cast out, condemned for standing by the man I love rather than the God. It truly is an injustice of the highest order. Indeed, I wonder if it is I who is truly cursed, whether something dark and pagan hangs over me like a dagger in the night.
It is true, I will admit to only you, that in my short time on this earth I have been no paragon of virtue—I have done many a thing that would make harlots blush, things that I could never share even with my dear, sweet Macbeth, who I can assure you is no stranger to murky deeds himself—and if the Pope knew about any of those, well, I would have little cause for complaint. But regardless of whatever indiscretions I may or may not have committed, everything I have done has been for my kinsmen, and I regret nothing. I have many enemies, both inside Scotland and out, but the Pope has never been one...until now.
Number one on the enemies list. For now.
A Macbeth in charge of Scotland again. What could possibly go wrong?
Sitting here in my bedchamber in Ellon Castle, I find myself thinking about my life, wondering how things ended up as they are. I suppose it all began with my father, Kenneth Buchanan, who, in 1067, upon reaching maturity, took over duties as the Earl of Buchan from his regent, whose identity I cannot at this time recall.
Dad. Dead
My father was by all accounts a basic man, a talented soldier and not much else. He was not a talented husband, given how things ended up with his wife, and, despite his best wishes, he was definitely not a talented merchant or diplomat, a fact that would come back to haunt him in his final moments, as the assassin’s blade pierced his heart. He died a mere month after my birth, in the year 1080. My mother, a lady of minor noble stock called Margaret Gillespie, was his mistress, and my father’s final action was to recognise me, his newborn bastard daughter, as his sole legitimate heir.
Mum. Also dead
Throughout my life I have heard stories about my father, many of them from my mother, before she abandoned me to swan off to Italy to be with her new husband, and Marshall Donald, my father’s old sparring partner, but most of what I know I learnt straight from the source—yes, one night, when I was but a small girl, I was woken by the wind rustling though the curtains, and upon opening my eyes who should I see standing there but the shade of my father, pale and gaunt, beard tatty and ragged, with the dagger that slew him still plunged into his ribcage. Many people regard me as a liar, not entirely without justification, but I swear what follows is true.
“My dear Maggie,” he intoned, “It is I, your father, returned from beyond the veil!”
“Margaret,” I said.
He squinted. “What?”
“No one calls me Maggie.” I sat up and yawned. “Everyone calls me Margaret, or Lady Buchan, or Your Ladyship, but never Maggie. I insist upon it, and as I’m the countess, they have no choice but to obey.”
“Oh.” He seemed to falter, somewhat caught off his stride. “Isn’t it possible you could make an exception for your poor old deceased father?”
“No. Sorry.”
“I see. Well, anyway, I have come to tell you the shocking truth of my demise, for my murderer was none other than...” He paused dramatically. There may have been a flash of lightning. “Siemomysl of Pomerania!”
It was only now, feeling the cold of the wind and truly focussing on the shade that stood before me, that I realised I was not, in fact, dreaming. A shiver ran down my spine, but I didn’t let it show, steadfastly maintaining my nonchalant demeanour. “Siemo-huh?”
“Siemomysl of Pomerania!” he repeated, this more of a whine. “A filthy, degenerate heathen from far across the sea! It is he who is responsible for my undoing, and I know this for a fact! Listen well, my dear Magg...er, I mean, my dear Margaret, and I shall tell you all that you need to know...”
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