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Here is the battle of Flodden....in a quick page. I was giggling while writing this.


Scottish Marches, Northumberland
            There was nothing akin in mundane life to the fire and fury of battle.              Under the formidable command of the Earl of the Surrey, Robert led the Earl of Northumberland’s contribution hither and yon. Surrey positioned the English on a hill, facing down the Scots. The Scottish held their pikes aloft, aimed to impale, but the English cannon roared. Cannon vs. pikes. Hmmm.      The men Robert and others led utilized their bills, curved, sharp lances, to hook teir prey and hurt them, dragging them off their horses. Archers sent arrows flying from longbows.              Through the confusion, Robert could see the banners of the Scots: Bothwell, Argyll, Lennox and most importantly, the King, James IV. As the important men of Scotland died, one by one, Robert heard yelling*. He fought hard, knocking a man off his horse with a good strong punch, hooking anothe…
Summer 1513
Scour, Yorkshire
            The stablehand led in a foaming horse, lungs still heaving from whatever hard ride he had been on. Tom came forward to take the horse and wipe him down. He walked the horse back and forth in front of the priory’s stables to cool him down. “He’s been ridden hard,” Tom said. He disapproved of such business, for horses were essential, beautiful creatures and men often abused them.             “Messenger came,” the stablehand said. “From Northumberland.”             “Far journey,” Tom commented. “Wonder what it could be?”             Inside, the messenger spoke to the prior and then rode off toward the village, to inform the men.             The children did not hear the message until well the next day, after the nuns and monks heard the message for themselves in chapter that night.             “A messenger rode from York today,” the prior said in his gravelly voice, projecting across the gathered nuns on one side and monks on the other. “The King of S…
This is when I stopped writing narrative altogether, apparently. 
1512 “Do you know the story of St. Osana?” Brother Clement asked Ignatius.             “She was a princess and she struck down a priest’s mistress dead.”             “Yes,” Clement nodded. “Because the clergy, of course, are to be devoted to God only and denounce the flesh.”             “But not all do, do they?”             “No, not all. But that is their sin and left to square with St. Peter at the gates.”             Iggy cleared his throat. “What else did St. Osana do?”             “She rose from her crypt and flagellated the mistress, who sat on Osana’s tomb,” Clement said. “Osana was a Northumbrian princess before the Conquest. She’s not been canonized, but we have her cloak and this church was dedicated before the Normans came, so it still stands.”             “She’s not a real saint?”
            “Don’t say that,” Clement chuckled. “She might rise.’             Iggy, though normally a fearless boy, shuddered at the thoug…
Spring 1510
            “Wait for me, Tom!” Isabel called, untying her apron.             Tom’s happy laughter teased her as he ran toward the paddock of sheep. Her fingers fumbled and knotted as she twisted her arms behind her to undo the garment before Isabel gave up and ran after Tom and Iggy.             Isabel was now nine years old and flourishing under the care of the nuns of St. Osana. Her reading had much improved and her writing was a work of art, Sister Catherine declared. The children and some of the monks had rode on a wagon early this morning after Terce to a wide expanse of land owned and leased by the priory. Sheeps grazed this land. Today, a temperate, blue-skied spring day, was the day the sheeps woud lose their fleeces.             It was something of a holiday in this part of Yorkshire. The various priories, cathedrals, and abbeys owned a great amount of land and on that great amount of land dwelled a great number of animals, from cows and horses to the more common …

Introducing Isabel!

In the small village of Routh, Yorkshire, five miles away from Scour, the Squire’s home was full.
            The squire of Routh was dead and his eldest daughter’s husband was now the new squire. The squirearchy of Routh was long, a position filled for centuries by a Routh; usually father to son or at least uncle to nephew, for the Rouths tended to have many daughters in their line and thus, often had a surfeit of children before a son arrived. The Old Squire, however, had had the misfortune to have five children, all girls, for his beloved wife died giving birth to their heir, who soon succumbed as well. Thus, the eldest daughter’s husband was now the squire. Settled centuries ago—some said during the time of Henry II, others said it was already settled before the Conquest and then destroyed by the Conqueror’s vengeance upon the native English, causing the north to starve*—Routh was a tiny hamlet of farmers, with a small stone church called All Saints. The church held plaques and tom…
Chapter Three
The Feast of St. Agnes
            The orphan girls had special reason to pray on St. Agnes’ day. The feast day dawned cold and clear and the children, in their warmest woolen clothing and thicket-soled shoes, had tramped across the still-dark paths to the church to hear Prime.             St. Agnes was the patron saint of girls. Iggy noticed the girls and the nuns praying with an earnestness today. Because nuns wouldn't be praying earnestly any other time? Huh?             There were no lessons on feast days and regular mass was full, for the female population of Scour village in particular showed up in droves to pray and ask Agnes to interceded* on their behalf. *Intercede. Yes, I know.             One of those girls, accompanied by her mother and younger siblings, was Agnes Johnson. Sister Benedicta gave Agnes a nod in passing, for Agnes was her niece. The girl had grown up in the village, her father the village silversmith and a one-time alderman of the hamlet.      …