The Curse That Bound Her (A TwentyFour Hour Story Based On Real Events)

The crown had sat heavy on the head of the six year old she had sought to murder. Queen in name alone.

Ailsa, her skin stone, her face frozen, atop the battlements. A grotesque; a mounted trophy for a dead king, a stark warning to those who followed in her footsteps.

How she was admired, by the court of the child queen. Her face, a perfect contortion, her hands tearing open her dress, exposed her bare chest as she spat her hatred.

She was not stone, although she felt it, the cold chill of timeless rock had filled her veins.

“The stone of yer heart,
Shall spread tae yer skin,
As hard as yer nature
Ye will caw fae within
As grotesque as yer actions
Sae ye shall become
Only ben compassion
Shall it iver be undone”

Compassion?! No on in this forsaken court knew an ounce of compassion. They were greedy, selfish, accustomed to royalty ascending in infanthood. They knew only the fate Ailsa had sought to spare them from, how could they know what she had endured trying to save them. Who would regard her with compassion?

Ailsa watched with distaste as the child queen’s regent broke an engagement, subjecting her people to “the rough wooing” - a free for all on border raids, attacking farms, burnings crops, decimating lives. She watched lords switched sides on the drop of a coin. The urge to spit as the child queen passed, gazing up at her, was unbearable. Her stone form radiated hate. This child was not fit to rule this great country. She would have done a service to the people, had she succeeded in her quest. Had the king not given his life six days after the birth, to seal her here.

She watched as the child queen grew, as she left her life, her family, her country to marry a stranger and live abroad. Downcast heads came and went in her absence, paying no heed to one of many statues adorning the castle.

Years whittled by, wearing the hard edges of her stone soft with grit and rain. The child queen returned a widow, forced to leave her son in the hands of a mother-in-law who thought little of her. As it had worn Ailsa, time had etched the face of the widow queen. Her expression no longer glowed youthful curiosity. Instead, a shadow of heartbreak and empathy made the girl a woman. A single spark of hope burnt inside Ailsa. The fire of hate burnt low now, banked only by hurt and pride, could not reach it. The eyes that looked up at her now, held a tender, familiar regard that ignited something tiny inside her.

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For five years, Ailsa had watched the gate, hopeful for the return of the resilient queen. Sometimes it was weeks, sometimes it was months, she always came back. More radiant than the pale scottish sun, the fire-haired queen alighted at the gate, hers eyes darted over the court yard to meet Ailsa’s frozen stare. To smile, and never feel your lips twitch, your face lift as happiness spills over your cheeks, is to not smile at all. Ailsa was trapped, forever in her hateful mask. What was once felt with the veracity it showed, now mocked her.

There was no smile to return today, the eyes of the beaten queen sparkled with the sorrow of a mother. Her form was bent, low in the driving wind, dogged by a looming figure behind her. Heavy rain pelted down, bouncing off the stone flags in a fine haze, the horses shining with streams of gathering water. The dominating figure grabbed her queen by the arm, the tightness of his grip visible from a distance. Defeat poured down the cheeks of the hardened queen. The wear that showed on her bright, wet cheeks but a shadow of the weathering glinting in her eyes.

Ailsa, frozen, was engulfed by her emotions. She had hated the child, the family, the crest, the connections, yet she could not find a trace of that rage inside as she watched the queen stumble on the slick steps, only to have her fall broken by a rough yanking on her arm. There was no slipping his grip as he wretched her on wards.

The woman who left the castle later that day was as stone as Ailsa. The queen wore a hard-set blank mask, her ashen cheeks marked with determination as she strode out the doors. He still had her arm, that man, but he could not drag her. She matched his pace, the mask she wore was one of acceptance, one of a fate she knew she must face.

The vortex of emotions Ailsa brewed bubbled with something different. A sense of kinship. A woman forged from hardness, in a world of men who took what they wanted. A woman of stone.

The cry of a jackdaw rung through the courtyard as it landed on the stone roof of the castle. A fine stream of dust poured down, feet away from the stone of Ailsa defiant face. A faint shifting sound, lost to those passing under her, snagged inside her. She could not look up, frozen in her downward facing form, yet she could feel was what coming. She had seen it enough times; bricks loosened by the storm were falling.

She was helpless to react, a single feeling rushed through her as the queen, head held high, stepped onto the mount of dust.

A wild woman, wrapped in a hand spun cloak, leapt from her perch high above the doorway. She fell hard, hands first as she pushed the woman she had watched for so long clear of the falling debris.

The placid face, grey from crying, turned to see her smile finally returned, before the stone slab erupted in a spray of blood and dust.

I had so much fun with this round, I wrote another entry that may have been a stronger one competitively, but I have ended up going with this one. I love history (I am sure at this point it shows). The events Ailsa observed all happened. The queen left that castle that day, knowing she had said goodbye to the only son she could still call hers, for the very last time. Knowing she could not resist the lecherous, greedy Lord who wanted her for her crown and body. Who had likely murdered her last husband. Generally, it is believed he forced himself on her not long after this. There is a lot of real life in here, Ailsa means supernatural victory, something the queen of this story arguably fought for in real life. Like many woman who stood in their own right, she faced hardship that beggars belief.

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Can you guess the queen in this story?

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This is my entry to @mctiller 's Twenty Four Hour Story Contest - the prompt this time 'A gargoyle, from a top an ancient building, plots its coming escape into the real world.'

I will share my more literal interpretation of the prompt later in the week once this contest has closed. Check out the other entries under the tag #twentyfourhourshortstory

Photo Credit by Pixabay User Shilmar who has an amazing selection of photos, including some stunning nature ones