Disclaimer: I don't own Robin Hood or BBC. I'm hardly old enough to work, let alone run the BBC.
"Up! Up! Get up!" Someone shouts above me. My eyes burst open to find myself lying in a haystack and an enraged large, bearded man pointing a sword in the center of my face. "What d'you thinks you're doing?"
Please don't see my eyes! I thought. I kept my face down to prevent the horror he would see. I swiftly climbed out of the haystack, brushed the hay off myself and pulled my cloak off the haystack. Apparently, I had used it as a blanket the night before. Strange, I packed a blanket. The man's sword followed my every move. I threw the cloak over my left arm, picked up my sack, bow and quiver, wrapped the cloak around myself, slung everything over my shoulders, mounted Luna-who was waiting patiently beside the haystack…and galloped off into the sunrise.
I only remembered the departure the night before. The rest of the night-and however the hell I fell asleep in someone else's barn-passed without a memory.
Thoughts raced through my mind. Where am I? Am I still in England, or could I possibly be in Scotland? Or France? Nonsense, the man didn't even seem Scottish or French. One cannot travel to Scotland by horse and make it there in one night. And it would take days to go to London, get on a boat and make it to France. Where did he get that sword? I began to think of the man-a farmer, possibly married with children, a son fighting in the Holy Land alongside King Richard.
Then I remembered-my brother, James-fighting in the Holy Land alongside thousands of men-men with families who worry and pray for them. Praying for them to come home – their children wondering why Father isn't coming home every night, why their brothers have to fight, why they're being taxed to poverty. But, sometimes I wish he could just get injured so he could come home. I know this is wrong. I know this is a sin. But if he hadn't left, if he hadn't abandoned me, Father might not have died, and I would not have run away.
He could at least answer my letters. He can read, he can write. I've written almost ten thousand letters. He never answered. Ten thousand forgotten letters, can't he see that I miss him? But one letter- the letter sent after Father's death, I remembered, copied ten times, and kept with me to remember my past-lest I forget.
James, May 21, 1191
Father is dead. Mother is dead. Our sister is dead. Please come home.
Your sister, Eleanor
Mother would have died either way. She always wanted two daughters: me, and a younger sister or a little me. She loved me and wanted a younger, smaller me, so when I was off married and gone, she would still have me-for a few years. But she was ill, and died the night after my sister's birth. Mother said when she died "Name her Addie, for when I'm in Heaven, my little Ellie, she will have a name."
Addie didn't survive either. Mother's illness weakened her severely. She was born a small, sickly baby with a little chance at life. A woman heard about Addie and told Father "Give the child to someone who can care for it! That's what you ought to do!" He never would, and never did. Giving away our baby sister would have been the death of him.
When she eventually died, people started to talk. They said the reason so many people died was because of me-because of my different-colored eyes, because I knew more than most women do.-I can read and write, and do some math figures-because I know as much as a child with a tutor does-because I know more than the average miner's daughter knows-because I'm smart. And the fact my whole family was dying off around me.
Some took pity. I remember their words. "Terrible shame, children should outlive their parents. This one did-by a few days." Some laughed. What kind of inconsiderate, selfish, unsympathetic person laughs at a burial? Bless the ones who didn't laugh. They have a heart.
Father began doing foolish things after Mother and Addie's death. Foolish things led to his death. He wanted to thatch the roof the day he died. It has just rained and the rain weakened the roof. I told him that I could do it. I was lighter and less likely to fall. I told him it could wait until tomorrow when it would be drier. But he wouldn't listen and climbed up onto the roof despite my warnings. Then, the straw gave in and he fell through. I can still hear his scream and the horrifying sound when his neck snapped, every time I think of him. All I remember now is that he loved Mother, James, Addie and me, and his death. I still hear it now, and I can never forget it.
Like it? Don't like it? R&R please! (Constructive criticism is appreciated.)