honestly i am having a fookin blast writing this chick so i hope u like her. she's not morwenna i can tell u that now lmao ur gonna be shocked at this chick
word count; 2067
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Five years previously...
"Mama, do you not think it odd that Father rides to battle with my brothers and I do not?" I asked, piquing her interest. She glanced down at me, her blonde hair curling around her face. My Mother was an angel; kind, gentle, understanding. She had intelligence and beauty, becoming one of the greatest ladies of her time. Society had met no woman like my Mother.
"Oh, Rosamund," Mama chuckled at my naivety, a gentle smile pulling at her pink lips. "Girls do not go to battle. We have far more dangerous conquests to face."
I frowned, feeling confused by her answer. "Like what?"
I was thirteen years old at the time. I had no understanding of society and I had proved to be as basic as a hound. I was neither kind, gentle nor understanding as my Mother was. In truth, I was the opposite of all three.
My hair was a glared, fiery red deemed devilish by my Father and untamable those who tried to straighten the strands with their cruel weapons. My face was pale, like that of a sheep's fur, and my eyes a striking green. My cheeks would rise to a scarlet colour from little movement and I was perpetually insolent. It seemed that, indeed, I would never be kind, gentle or understanding.
"For one, childbirth." She said, taking my hand. Mother squeezed it reassuringly and spoke again, "You will be of age soon, Rosamund. You must be a good girl."
I was not naive in this aspect. In but a few weeks, I would turn fourteen and thus become of age for marriage. My Mama was against it but, despite her beauty and wit, she could not change his mind.
"But I do not wish to be a breeding cow, Mama." I frowned. "Tell me what you wish for me, Mama."
"Happiness, my sweet girl. It sounds simple enough but it is hard to come by and you will have to wade through blood to retain it. But you are strong, my sweet Rosamund. You have the fire of Aquitaine in your belly."
Her words, at the time, made little sense to me. My suitor was below my station; he was but an Earl. I had little care for Earls, as I had remarked to my Mother. I was a Princess of Aquitaine and thus I would be wed as such. But, alas, no. I was to marry below my station. It seemed that I was a transactional piece, unlike my brothers.
It was but a year later that my engagement to the lowly Earl fell through. I was a few days from turning fifteen when we heard the good news; it was God sent. I was not destined to be the wife of an Earl, for if He had intended so, I would not have been borne of such noble birth. I was destined to be a Queen.
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