Soulmate Stories

5th Day of February, Feast of Saint Agatha, who refused to wed the consul Quintinian, for he falsely claimed that they were soulbound and so was tortured by rods, rack, and fire and finally had her breasts cut off. Yet, soon the consul joined her in torment, for when he suffered not the throes of pain as her soulmate, his people realized he lied and burned him to a quick death.

My mother is with child again, and my father gleams and struts about like a peacock or at least what I imagine a peacock might look like. I do not understand why she must have another child. It always drives her so ill, and she never keeps them. But mother always says that children are blessings from God and should be cherished, though father just says that he wants a son who won’t disappoint him. In that quiet way of hers, my mother ignores him and continues petting her belly and whispering sweet nothings to it. Though I tell her it cannot be heard, she just laughs and says it is good for the babe. I just hope she will not grow so attached as she always does and weep for this one as she wept for all the others.

I think I shall never get married despite my father pushing suitors and suitors on me. Children are icky things, and I think I would prefer to have a dog.

I have a soulmark. I am told to write, but I do not want to write. I do not want to do anything but curl in a ball and cry. But Edward once told me that writing would help me become more womanly, and women only feel soft things, not strong things, so I will write.

It does not feel real, it cannot be real. Though I have always imagined a handsome man coming to rescue me from my dreary life, a soulmate was beyond the pale. Beyond… I don’t know. It is hard to say. Soulmates are for Arthurian princesses or great ladies from the Anglo-Saxon tales, not for the daughters of knights. Not for me. I don’t want to marry, and I know that I will be forced to if anyone ever finds out, so I shall hide it away and refuse even Morwenna's baths. If no one ever knows, no one can ever do anything about it. A most perfect solution.

13th Day of February, Feast of Modomnoc who first brought bees to Ireland
Morwenna has noticed my reluctance to be around her and my changing alone, and I have to hurry out of any room with her in it now in case she pounces on me and drags me for a bath. I am starting to smell, I can tell, but still I refuse for anyone to know. I shall take a dip in the lake like some kind of wood spirit and be clean forever after and never have to worry about Morwenna or the stupid mark ever again.

I put my toe in the water and decided it was better to smell.

14th Day of February, Feast of Saint Valentine, a Roman priest martyred on the Flaminian Way
Morwenna is becoming more persistent and even hides my inks from me, but I am lucky because she is not very creative and always hides my things in the same place she puts them to punish me. On a shelf she thinks I am too short to climb, but I have gotten many hours of practice with Perkin climbing the big oak trees in the forest nearby where the goats graze, and so I made short work of some petty shelf.

My arm still hurts from hitting it, though.

16th day of February, Feast of Juliana, who argued with the devil
I am to go to Castle Finbury to visit the Duchess of Warrington - the lady Aelis. Or more commonly known as the witch who stole my uncle George, though she is still a dear friend. Yet, her marriage to a child duke instead of my uncle helps a little, but just the tiniest bit.

19th Day of February, Feast of Saint Odran, who was Saint Patrick’s chariot driver
I struggled to sleep in the large, grand structure when we first arrived. My mouth fell so far open I could have had a rat crawl in. The courtyard itself was the size of our entire manor, and there were people everywhere hustling to and fro for unknown tasks. The great hall was hung with rich banners embroidered with gold, and there were gold plates and gold candle holders adorning the tables. My father, if he ever saw it, would probably have died of jealousy. It was the people, though, the sheer number of them that was so shocking. The whole thing looked like one great stone city crawling and creeping across the countryside with as many laundresses stirring large vats of dirty clothes in soapy water as we had villagers on all of my family's estates. At least it felt that way. So, instead of sleeping as the guards' armor clanked and clinked late into the night, Aelis and I crept our way about the massive building. She wore her hair up as she was married despite her husband being no more than seven, and I thought it horribly ugly but terribly convenient.

Once we had slipped past the great stone walls and into a little patch of forest kept to allow the boy duke the ability to hunt without going far from his nursemaid, slipping onto a little crest of mud that had dried and letting nothing but the moon illuminate us, I showed her the mark. Baring my shoulder as if I was bearing some great horrid scar. It felt that way when she gasped dramatically, and so unlike my friend that I was forced to snap my head and stare at her.

“What?” I demanded.

She just shook her head. Her bunched hair made her head look over large and inflamed in the moonlight. “Oh, dear,” she said, “Oh, god's feet.”

We talked no more of it that night or the day after, as well as the day after that. Every time she approached me with a sour putrid look of pity on her face, I would pick up my skirts and run as fast as my legs could carry me. For some reason, it never felt fast enough.

20th Day of February, Feast of Saint Wulfric of Haselbury, a hermit who doused himself frequently with cold water for penance
I talked to Aelis again; her eyes begged me into it. She told me to tell my lady mother and father, but I refused. She didn’t bring it up again.

More importantly, she told me the cousin of the king was coming. The King! I just know that the moment she sees me, she will fall in love and we will become the best of friends and she shall take me to court and away from the wickedness of the mark. I just know it!

21st Day of February, Feast of Saint Peter Damian, monk, cardinal, poet, and maker of wooden spoons
Madame Joana arrived this day while we were at dinner. And the horror of it, for she was no pronounced court lady with gleaming skin and soft fluttering eyelashes but an old prune, wrinkly as a rat's ass. I stared when I saw her, stared and stared and stared some more, horror on my face until Aelis' sharp bony elbow was stabbing into my side. Her glare, not the elbow, forced me to drop into a curtsy even as before my eyes my dreams of going to court, the favorite of the cousin of the king, blew up into smoke. My curtsy, I was told later, had far too much slumping shoulders than what was appropriate, but I could hardly care.

The baron attended to her as a monkey might to a piece of gold, hopping about and around, his long beard swaying with each shift of his foot. She came with a whole entourage as well and had one long thick cane carved with the prettiest of things: little fairies, dragons, and unicorns. Hunched over it as I might imagine a witch hobbling in her fine silks, red as blood with gold trimmings, and a kind smile that only the truly wealthy ever seemed to acquire.

We had great and rich puddings, stuffed swan, and hedgehog in raisins and cream. Well, I stared and stared at the old prune with her red eyes and little fluffy yellow dog that she would pick the very best pieces of meat for out of the serving bowls.

The greedy little beast would lick one or the other and turn his head to both, and the Madam would return the meat to the bowl! Though no one dared chastise her, for she was cousin to the king!

Still, my stomach turned sour, and my breath felt bitter as I watched my dream of a fair lady whisking me away from my dreary life with my beastly husband-hunting father and my vain mother to a court of flowers and handsome men turn to nothing but goat dung. My mark throbbed at the thought.

After dinner, the lady told fortunes, her voice creaky like the old gate door that was meant to stop thieves but really only stopped wandering couples. Each word was such a mumble that one could decide if the lady told of gold or men and so left everyone happy who heard her. Over the course of dinner, I had loosened the strings slightly on the surcoat Aelis let me borrow, not realizing it left the skin on my collarbone exposed where the creeping design of vines interwoven with a golden lion that looked as if it was clawing up my skin could partially be seen. I had asked Aelis how she knew it was a lion, and she said it was a familiar crest. Her face went very pale, but she shook her head and did not tell me whose, even as I bothered her for hours.

Still, I was hungry to woo this old pruny lady, and so when I came up to her, she did not seem to notice the mark at first, and neither did I. Instead, clasping my hands in hers and smiling down at me, she began to speak. “Oh, little bird,” and I started to wonder how she knew I was called Birdy, but she continued even as I flinched. “You are lucky.” It was then that I think she saw the crawling vines because she went very still and very quiet all of a sudden. I wasn’t paying attention, looking up with insistence in my eyes, desperate to know what she would say of my future, but the other guests were noticing and the baron was making his way over, and the many sharp shining knights she had brought with her were starting to look at me very, very closely.

I think something got caught in my throat at the time, maybe a thistle or a little elf because I was having a mighty hard time trying to breathe and my skin felt clammy and cold even to me, but when I tried to wrench my hands away. When I tried to wrench away, the old lady showed surprising strength, and now she was looking at me. Really looking with bright piercing intelligent eyes and then her hand, gnarled, old, and twisted, was reaching. Reaching and reaching. Getting closer. The feeling of her dry flesh on mine just below my collar froze me solid, and I remember locking my eyes with hers, begging and begging, but her eyes were no longer kind. Now, they were Norman. Now they were thirsty. Hungry. Desperate. Now they told me to obey, and so I did.

I would learn later that Aelis shouted, struggled, tried to tear me away from the woman and her cold, dry hands. Two of the knights were forced to restrain her. Still, it was pointless. The lioness had caught the scent and now was on the hunt.

I just breathed in, out, in, out. The world is a tip, a point, a single finger old as could be on my skin. I remember that feeling too. It felt like someone was clipping something from me. Something precious. She pushed the chemise under the surcoat off my shoulder, gentle as could be until my naked mark was bared to all. The English stood silent and still. For it was only grand people who had soulmarks. People bound for greatness or lines bound for greatness. The Normans who had come with the king's cousin reacted differently. They froze in shock, and even in my own frozen state, I could see joy start to break their faces.

The king's cousin kept her gaze on my mark, an arrow to its destination, stroking with her dry bony fingers gently. She said all of five words, looking up into my eyes with apology.

“The king shall be pleased.”

24th Day of February, Feast of Saint Matthias, who preached to cannibals
Madam Joanna’s knights, tall and proud, nothing but muscle and ego, won't let me outside the big stone room the baron had kicked a cousin of his out of to give me. It was beautifully furnished with tapestry lining all the walls and a little hollowed-out window to look out of. A big bed with real feather pillows with nice cotton bags to keep them and a big wooden chest to keep the clothes the lady who used to live here had. She was moved to the old room I was staying in. I like to imagine she complained bitterly, but no one will tell me anything.

Not the knights who stand silent guard and who rotate every time the sun goes down below the earth. Not the maids who are watched by the gleaming sirs with their sharp shiny blades like hawks. They bring me food and water nicer than what we might have had for a feast and never in winter eels in quince jelly and porpoise and peas, but the maids do not make eye contact with me, their eyes sliding off me like water might off cloth covered with goat fat.

The baron visits me once, pompous and trying to impress, and it makes my skin crawl because he never acted like this before. Never even really seemed to notice me, and now I am all he notices. Aelis visits once, but that clever light in her eyes that seems to always say here, listen I have some joke or truth to tell is missing. She acts proper and respectful and calls me lady and dearest one and most endeared and one other title that when she spoke it I told her to get out and not come back. That was two days ago, and I still haven’t seen her.

Madam Joanna came to see me too, but I curled up into a little ball when she did and refused to respond to her soft questions. Still a little bird she called me, not any of the other things. Little bird.

The one nice thing was that I could request inks and paper, and they were delivered in minutes. Not hours or days were I waited for my brother to send for me to collect louse parchment and ink from the abbey, but minutes and then they were there.

It should have made things better. It just made me feel worse.

26th Day of February, Feast of Saint Ethelbert of Kent, first English king to become a Christian
I learned today that riders were sent for me by my father to retrieve me for my brother's wedding to the heiress of Foxbridge but were sent back with a letter from Madam Joanna that I was told would explain the situation. I’m pretty sure it was the stamp used on the letter rather than the contents itself that stopped my father from storming the castle himself.

The knights still won’t let me do anything fun, and needlework was brought up to me too. It was said to keep me busy. I had tried to slip through their guard a few times now and even tackle one of the knights once, but the scary part was none of them cracked me over the head for it. Didn’t even hurt me past a few bruises I got when they restrained me.

I asked Madam Joanna about that when she came to scold me, and she said it would be my husband's duty alone for such things, and I didn’t talk to her after that. Even as she sighed and dithered, she told me that she understood that I came from a certain background but I was a lady of esteem now and that she had no desire for another daughter.

I’m pretty sure my brother got married without me, and it made something bitter twist up in my heart.

27th of Day of February, Shrove Tuesday and the Feast of Saint Alnoth, serf and cowherd
I was told the king had been informed and had begun preparations to set out.

I was also told my father sent more riders enquiring over a bride price.

I threw a pillow at Madam Joanna when she told me that, and she dodged it dutifully.

16th Day of March, Feast of Saint Finnian the Leper, abbot of the Monastery of Swords
It is Lent, but I am still not let out of these infernal rooms. Instead, a priest is brought up to me to say mass as I pray. I hate the stone walls, cold and high, tapestries with their many colors, the knights who stare and stare and stare but never speak, and Madam Joanna who has two teeth but hungry eyes. The fact that the priest is so close to me knows when my mind wanders and makes this displeased clicking sound with his tongue when he sees me start to drift off. I hate all of it, but especially Madam Joanna.

17th Day of March, Feast of Saint Patrick, apostle to Ireland, and Saint Gertrude who protects us from rats
I was told to sew and sew and sew and then to pray and pray and pray all day long, locked up in my tiny little room. My only visitor is Madam Joanna and the Baron, both with hungry eyes and Aelis with pitying ones. I think I prefer the hungry ones.

The king also arrived today late at night with one big grand party and a hundred knights in their clanking armor behind him. The Baron was incensed, and I could hear him order his servants about even in my stone room with its little window. I could not help but look out at him. He was black-haired with handsome features and tall. I could tell that much even from where I was. Clean-shaven with thin lips and what looked like black, black eyes. Aristocratic features but strong ones. In my examination, I noticed that the King had turned his head, and for some reason, I knew without a doubt that the king was staring up at me. I ducked behind the wall quick as a hare, but even through the stone walls, I knew that the king was smiling up at me.

It made my skin crawl.

18th Day of March, Feast of Saint Edward, king of England, killed by his wicked stepmother, who was very beautiful and became a nun
I met the king today. It went something a little like this: I was woken early, far too early as the sun began to rise by one of the maids who, with a frantic face, dragged me out of bed, apology on her lips and a pure white chemise in her hands. Then it was thrown over my head, and a surcoat of the finest red silk was tightened about my waist. My hair was brushed and placed in a loose braid, and a little bit of something red was put on my lips and cheeks, and then without a second word, the maids were pushing me out the door, and my shining silver knights were standing there waiting. I was tired and cranky and still sleepy, and so in my half-asleep haze, I paid no mind to where they dragged me.

I didn’t even really notice that I was finally out of that cramped stone room until a few moments later I picked myself out of their arms and skipped along of my own volition. I was simply overjoyed to be free of the tight little cramped space. As we passed, the maids who wouldn’t have paid me half a mind before bowed low and deep as we passed, and every eye in the hall watched me. Every flick of a finger, every twitch of an eye. They all watched me.

I wasn’t led very far, down one flight of cold stone stairs and through bustling empty hallways. Until we reached the keep into the nicest door in the entire castle, which must have been the lord's room but now held the king. I knew he was in there, the strong-faced black-haired man. I knew and I shivered for it.

I wasn’t given the chance to run, not really. The knights' presence at my back and two more knights in front kept that possibility to the chance of miracles. There were two more in front of the door until the hall was filled with little clicks of metal pieces covering the sound of the servants rushing about.

For a moment, just once, I froze, my legs locking up and holding me in place, but there was pressure on my back and ten, twenty eyes on me, even through the wall of metal and muscular men, and so a moment later my feet were carrying me through. Until I was breaching the battlements.

The room was large, larger than mine, with gold-threaded drapes and vibrant tapestries. Two large mahogany chests and drapes so red they could stain the skin. I had the impulse to run my hand over the fabric and see if it would bleed on me, but I held it back.

The floor was covered with thick warm furs, and there was a great stone fireplace placed before a tall wooden table with tall chairs and cushioned seats. There was even a little door attached in the corner that I would later come to learn would lead to a private privy. Something I didn’t believe even existed until I was shown it later.

There were three men in the room, all in expensive doublets made of fine wool or cotton with dark red thread. Clothes so fine I couldn’t believe they used them as travel wear as they evidently did. The first two were older with little specks of gray in their brown hair and frown lines around their eyes. They all had all their teeth, though I was unsure of one at first until he smiled. It was the third one that caught my eye, for he was the only one sitting, drumming his fingers softly against his chest with his eyes closed. I could still tell that he was the handsome man I had seen in the courtyard the night before. I was sure he was the king. None glanced at me when I entered, murmuring in that quiet Norman of theirs. Such a pretty language, I thought, falling and slipping off their tongues despite them being such dreadful creatures.

It wasn’t until King William raised his hand, a flick of the fingers dismissing the men, that either looked at me. Only for a moment out of the corner of their eye, and then when they saw who I was more fully, seeming to search my figure, trying to pry something from me with their eyes.

He opened his eyes, this tyrant king, and I knew I was right the first time because his eyes were the color of pitch black and without stars to give light.

I curtsied as one should before the king, deep and low, and he let me stand there on my knees for a long while, letting them become sore as he raked his eyes over me, studying every inch of me.

“Come, let me see you.” His voice was rich, deep, and commanding.

I shuffled closer until my skirts brushed the wooden table ledge, my head and back still bent. For a moment or two, as my knees quivered and I quivered, the King studied me, and then with a smile in his voice, he spoke.

“You're an ugly thing.”

I faltered slightly, the reaction minute but noticeable, the insult taking me off guard. “Yes, my lord,” I remember responding, my voice cold.

I heard him shift then, rising up out of his chair, his soft feet falling on the fur rugs. His hands were warm and rough when they wrapped around my biceps, pulling me up until I was standing before him, back straight but head bowed.

He laughed, the sound richer than it should ever be. “Like England, I suppose.”

At first, I didn’t respond, letting the silence slip between us like some kind of barrier, but he let time pass and pass until I finally murmured, “Yes, my lord.”

He smiled. I could feel him smile despite not seeing it, and he took my face in his hands, lifting it up and stroking the skin with his thumbs until I was looking into dark, dark eyes.

“I’ve waited for you for such a long time.” His voice was almost wishful. “Come, let us sup.”

The chair was comfortable across from the king. Comfy with cushions and all. A light meal was spread before us: white bread, butter, and three different kinds of jam. The food was far too expensive for breakfast, but the king did not seem to care. Not about anything but staring at me.

“So,” he started, “tell me about yourself.”

I was staring down at my hands, watching the skin of my palm roll back and forth under my thumbs' careful ministrations. At first, I thought not to give him anything, but this is the man who slaughtered Wessex, so instead, I gave him everything. But that which I cared about.

I told him of Aelis and George. I told him of Perkin and the goats and my father and my mother and dreadful Robert and Edward up at his Abbey. Of wanting to be a knight and driving the suitors away that my father brought me. Blacking my teeth with soot and squeaking like an animal one time. Another, hunching so far over my face almost touched the ground as I scrambled around with waddling steps.

He laughed once, twice, thrice. When I was finished, he swallowed the last piece of bread, the sound loud in the now quiet room, and then smiled one big hungry smile. “Waiting for me, were you?”

I just looked away, staring at my hands and the skin rolling back and forth, back and forth.

“You're an amusing one, I give you that. Let me see it then, the mark.” His eyes were hungry on me.

Something in me, the part that lashes and kicks and schemes every time my father brings home a new suitor, snaps.

“You have your own, don’t you? Or what, did you get tired of staring at your ass?”

He laughs again, he laughs much I notice as if everything is a joke, but there is a dark promise in his eyes.

“No more of that, girl. I do not bear fools. Do you understand?” There is nothing funny about his voice now.

I watch the skin moving back and forth, back and forth, and nod my head.

“I asked you a question.” There is something there, the promise in his eyes creeping into his voice.

“Yes, my lord, of course.” The words are strong, but I hunch my shoulders further when I utter them.

“Stand, girl. Show it to me.” There is no more joking now, and maybe for my father, I would have continued lashing and kicking and fighting, but this is the king, a different beast entirely, and so I stand. Unlace the red ribbon of my surcoat with sweaty hands and a bowed head and slip it off with quick hands, not even taking the time to place it somewhere as I hurry to slide my chemise down my shoulder, baring it for his perusal.

“Closer.”

I shift closer.

“Before me, now.”

I take a few more steps back, the cold morning air biting into my skin until my legs are bumping into the back of his seat.

“Let me look at it.”

I fell to my knees, my arms crossed tight around my middle.

His hand is gentle when he touches it, almost in wonder. He traces it with delicate fingers and soft tips, letting his warmth seep into my skin. First it was the vines, then the little white flowers that hung off them, then it was the lion, which he drew his hand across almost in wonder.

We spent long minutes like that, me on my knees as he stared down at the mark in wonder. Where he touched, gooseflesh appeared.

Once he had finished with his appraisal, he let me slip the shoulder of my chemise back on, but when I tried to get up, he placed one large hand on my shoulder, holding me down so that I could not move. I didn’t resist, falling back against the chair and letting him run his hands through my hair.

“We will need to wash this.” He bunched up some of the strands and pulled painfully.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Other things too. No more muddy skirts and wild hair and goat boys. You won’t tolerate shame or humiliation. You will be proud and noble and so shall present yourself as such. Do you understand?”

It wasn’t a question. I nodded my head and I took the skin in my palm between my fingers once again and went back and forth, back and forth.

“Good, good. I will not tolerate insults done against me, I will not. You would do well to remember that.” We sat there, me leaning against his leg as he ran his fingers through my dirty hair until the sun had fully risen.

“I know this is scary. I’m sorry, but we are one now and face the consequences of that. I… I cannot die, I will not die. But I am sorry.”

I finally looked up at him, watching him closely, and pinched the skin so harshly I lost feeling in it. He is frowning now, one handsome frown.

He sighed, an exhausted one, and looked out the window, watching some birds pass by until they were out of sight as I squeezed and squeezed the skin on my palm.

“I heard your brother has a wedding planned. We will set off for it tonight.”

And that is how I met the King. The Conqueror. The Duke of Normandy. William. My soulbound.