All my plans brought low.
Hubris? Certainly. But seize the day had always worked for me. I couldn’t let my people kneel beneath the sword, crawl through fire, and I swept down from the North with my five thousand, my carls, my best, and we held for a day, then died.
And she came for me.
Pleaded with Il Batard, the Bastard, for my remains and
he for once relented, and let her take me in pieces and bury me on the shore.
Or so she agreed.
But had me carried home instead and buried near the church, beneath an old yew tree.
And when the Bastard died he was old and coarse and faded and fat; his courtiers stripped him of his clothes and his rings and left his corpse mouldering, alone.
But when I died, young, beautiful and strong, I was taken to my resting place by a Swan.