A/N Okay, another of my first forays. Be gentle. I've never written into BTVS fanfiction before so be gentle of my little debut, yeah?! This may or may not continue, i'm not sure yet. Depends on either response (if it's good i'll have to keep writing, yes?) or my motivation. Which is severly lacking.
So i ask you to read this as a one-shot and if you really want a continuation, ask for it ok?
Feedback would warm me from head to toe!
Enjoy!
- Akasha
Sighing heavily Trista Avena Devereux stretched against the old oak tree. She feared that if it were not there to prop up her aching limbs then she would simply topple back onto the grass.
Last night had been a long night.
Marie-Claire, her reluctant tutor, had insisted upon perfecting Trista's French before the return of her husband next month. She had sat there until the smoke from the fire had stung her eyes so badly she merely could not see for tears.
Now in the summer breeze Trista sat contentedly within the walls of Ludlow Castle, the place she had called home for the past fifteen years of her life.
There was more to Trista Avena Devereux than met the eye. A daughter of King Henry IV. One in five, she also had two brothers whom she had never met. It wouldn't do for a princess to be going so far into the country while a war was going on merely to see her siblings.
Therefore, she had been shipped out here with her ladies in waiting and several servants at the tender age of two. Ludlow had become her home, a gracious gift of Sir Roger Mortimer who had moved his wife and children further north to stay with his brother while he went out to fight.
At the age of fifteen, she had been offered to French General D'mitri Cái Devereux. He was a twenty-seven year old man who was in great favour with the French Royal family. Unfortunately, she had barely seen him more than ten times since their wedding two and a half years ago. He was off fighting in wars and such.
Until she bore him children, he had very little interest in the young princess.
She dare not bring up the flaw in his logic that states she cannot possibly bare his children if he is not around to create them in the first place.
Shifting her position against the tree once more Trista allowed herself the luxury of feeling her soft hair fall against her pale shoulders. For her age, she had abnormally blonde hair, many a man had commented upon this. Her blue eyes, which rarely showed more expression than absolute boredom, could so easily turn to grey when angered.
It was nice to not have the wimple(1) on, luckily Marie-Claire was busy preparing the maids for the butlers monthly inspection and therefore had no time to reprimand the princess for her informal and probably inappropriate attire.
Shifting once more, (Marie-Claire would have slapped her for being so restless) Trista felt hard wood press against her thy. However, it was not the wood of a tree as one would expect, but the wood of a sharpened wooden stake secured to her leg by a strap of worn leather beneath her skirts.
Simply because there was more to Trista Avena Devereux than met the eye.
(1)The wimple and peplum head-dress were worn in the early part of this period. The wimple was a square of white cloth which was brought beneath the chin and the two ends of the cloth were then brought upwards to the top of the head, where they were fastened by a brooch or pin. Over this was worn the peplum, which was simply a veil placed on top of the head to fall symmetrically to both sides and behind.