Ourselves Alone

Mea Culpa

‘Mea Culpa’

Translation: "My fault" /"I am the one to blame"

“There’s a visiting blacksmith, you know the one. The one that comes to check up on the horses every few weeks.”

“Yes, I know.” Murmured Lady Amelia. She was worried, and a furrow cut between the clean planes of her face. “I’ve arranged for Celia’s betrothed, Arthur, to meet her. He will be coming to the castle soon.”

“Hmm. She doesn’t like him.” Francis’ face was serene, but his eyes were sharp.

“No, she doesn’t.” A pause blossomed between them.

Lady Amelia was hesitant, but she confided, “I think she likes a commoner.”

Francis snorted in disgust.

“Impossible. We’re nobility. It’s not about who she likes, it’s about who she needs, and she needs a good noble boy who will give us favour with the king.”

“I know. It just seems so…”

“Not everyone marries for love.” His eyes softened slightly.

“We did. I just wish the same for her.”

“I’m leaving on Crusade soon.”

Amelia groaned slightly, though she bit her lip. “Why must you? You might be killed.”

“Are you implying we should let those heathens have the run of our land? It is my duty to the country, it is my duty to the Lord.”

“Very well.” It was not her place to speak of such things, as a noblewomen, and wife. Because she didn’t really matter. She had lived a life without action, a life of passive acceptance. But it was the way it was.

“You’re going hunting again tomorrow?” She asked.

“Mmm. I think someone has been poaching.” He grimaced, and left.

She sighed. Noblewomen lived such frail lives, and it was probably better for her that way. She was never taught things like fighting. She was taught courtly language, chivalry, sewing, dancing, singing, taught to speak in French and some Latin, but she was never taught to do anything useful.

Sometimes, though, she just wished she could do something.