"Nay, fair maiden. Thou canst travel about in such a manner as provocative as such."

I glanced at Sammy as the man reprimanded her for running with me. She was quite unhappy with how women were treated in this wretched era.

She glared at the poor man who dared try to correct her. "What, pray tell, is provocative about running, kind sir?"

He flushed immediately and stammered, "Er-your…bottom. It jiggles in a manner most unfit for a lady."

She clenched her fists and yelled into his face, "WELL THEN STOP STARING AT MY BUTTOCKS, THOU WAYWARD COMMON-KISSING CANKER- BLOSSOM!" And she ran off, with me following her closely.

"I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue!" I called after her jokingly.

She stopped running when she reached our special tree. It was where we would go when we wanted to meet. This being the 1500's, it would be unwise and taboo for an unmarried woman to be in the company of an unmarried man if they were not related.

She grabbed my hand and tugged me into the old and hollowed out tree. No one ever found us in here. We could stay in this magnificent tree for days. Alas, we cannot.

She sat down on the grass and buried her face in her knees. "Casey?"

I sat down next to her and held her hand. "Yes?"

"Sing to me?" she requested in that adorable cockney accent.

I smiled. "Of course, my dear."

I held her close and began to sing her favorite song.

Blow the wind, blow;

Swift and low;

Blow the wind o'er the ocean.

Breakers rolling to the coastline;

Bringing ships to harbor;

Gulls against the morning sunlight;

Flying off to freedom

"Any particular reason why we're here?" I asked when I had finished singing the lullaby.

She shrugged her shoulders, but wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Why, what's the matter,
That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?" I quoted this line for her, knowing how much she adored the play that it came from. "Tell me what's wrong," I prodded. I wanted her to be happy. I would give her the world if she asked for it. This vivacious, magnificent, free spirited woman. I wanted her. I needed her. But I could not have her.

My widowed father was dating her mother.

Everyone called her the town whore.

Years ago, she took a trip to London and went to a play. She had relations with one of the cast, it is said. When she came back from her trip, she discovered she was with child. She was not married and disgraced the whole family. Her mother took great pleasure in raising Sammy though. She called her the daughter she never had.

Now, if it wasn't for my father ruining everything, I would have courted and asked for Sammy 's hand in marriage. I cared deeply for her, loved her even, and I feel so sure that she cares for me on some level.

Maybe not in the way that I love her.

After all, years ago she swore, "I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me."

But she cares enough about me to accept my proposal. At seventeen years old, she should have been married years ago.

She was adamantly opposed to every suitor that her mom brought around. However, she could not get anywhere in life without a husband. Sooner or later, she would have to be married, whether it was someone she loved or someone she hated.

And when she was married, it would break me.

"I'm getting married," she blurted out.

Bloody hell.

I looked at her with an empty gaze. "I wish you both a long and happy-"

"Shut up, Casey."

"I can see he's not in your good books," I said.

"No, and if he were I would burn my library." She sighed. "I would rather kill myself than marry that paunchy, onion-eyed clot pole."

"No."

She glanced at me. "Would you rather I am beaten and raped every day instead?"

I didn't answer her. I would rather be dead than let that happen to her. "Why are you marrying him?"

"I have no choice in the matter," she whispered. "When my mother put her foot down, I responded to her 'Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.' The ruttish, earth-vexing, harpy did not care."

I gulped. "What's the lucky lad's name?"

"Udney Phillips."

"No!"

"Yes," she replied somberly.

"No," I pleaded. "You can't."

Udney Phillips was an dankish wife beater. The lumpish, swag-bellied, maggot-pie was almost forty years old and went for the most full figured women. He had been married eight times in his life and every single one of his wives had substantial breasts, a petite frame, and a much sought after ass.

The women he married had no say in the matter. He paid a generous dowry and their fathers forced the marriage upon them. On the wedding nights, the entire town square could hear the screams of the women as he forced himself upon them.

But it is not as if anyone could have done anything.

Who would punish a man for having relations with his wife?

The bruises and broken bones ultimately killed those poor women.

And who could prove that the gleeky, motley-minded, hugger-mugger actually killed his wives?

Damn it all to hell.

How could such a qualling, rump-fed, death-token obtain such a precious gem such as Sammy?

What have I ever done to deserve such a thing?

Why has God not taken pity on me?

I can't let her marry him.

I can't let her suffer for the rest of her very short life.

I won't let that pribbling, milk-livered, lout touch her.

He will never lay a finger on her.

"I won't let that happen to you. I'll kill him before I let that happen."

She smiled warmly at me. "I appreciate that. I really do. But there is nothing for anyone to do."

"No!" I grabbed her by her shoulders and pulled her close to me. "Who's the old bat who arranged the bloody marriage?" I only had to look into her eyes to know who. "Your mother. You know, traditionally, the father is supposed to arrange these things."

She looked away. "Therein lays the problem."

"But what if we found your father? He could stop the marriage. Or arrange a different one? I'll marry you," I said frantically.

"It's a few years too late," she said wryly. Udney has already given my mother the dowry."

"We can run away," I suggested. "We are grown adults. We can go to London. If anyone asks, you are my wife."

"Are you daft? How are we to survive in London? Or find my father?"

"I can get a job as an actor. And I still have some money left from my apprenticeship to get by. Your father was involved with the theater, yes? We can show a portrait of your mother to the actors there. And if nothing turns up…I'll take care of you. You are not marrying against your will."

There were tears forming in her eyes. "I-I couldn't ask you to do that. You'll be throwing your life away for me. I cannot allow you to do such a thing."

I held her head with my hands and wiped away the falling tears with my thumb. "What kind of life would I have without you to brighten it up, sunshine?"

She burrowed her face into my chest and sobbed heavily. I did not try to comfort her for once; she needed to let this out.

I whispered into her ear soothingly, "Pack the bare necessities and I will pick you up at dawn. Your mother will not object to your dear friend taking you out to celebrate your engagement. We will head off to London to-night."

She nodded ever so slightly. I whispered, just quietly enough for her not to be able to hear, "You are my sunshine, my dear girl."

A/N: First of all, this story will most likely be so historically inaccurate. I am saying that as of now. I will be tossing in a medley of things I remember from middle school that span the early Middle Ages to the late Renaissance. This story was originally supposed to take place only in the Middle Ages, but…I wanted to add Shakespeare. It's a weakness of mine. You may have noticed by the weird insults and random lines that sound professional and whatnot.

Much Ado About Nothing is my favorite play by him right about now, hence the name and random quotes.

The lullaby that Casey sang is the Scottish lullaby. I just chose it at random and copied and pasted, but then I realized how fitting it was for this story.

I apologize in advance for this sucking because I came up with this in sixth grade. Erm, and at times, I will try to make them sound all Renaissance-y. But at one point, I might get annoyed. So if they start talking like

"Yooooo dat ass is fineeee, my homie!"

I apologize.

I blame my surroundings.

So yes. Keep in mind this is 16th century England.

I bid thee farewell now, whilst I go to upload this new story.

-ImmaStartARiot

(I actually do talk like some weirdo from the Renaissance or Middle Ages sometimes. And my cockney English accent is spot-on.)