CREATIVE WRITING
"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." - Oscar Wilde
MARY
Henry Percy’s letter finally reaches me. He writes with evident haste and quite briefly. Be ready at midnight. Put a candle by your bedroom window from ten of the clock if you are ready to come tonight. At midnight tonight, blow out the candle and let yourself down from the window. I have horses and a guard and will have you away to France at once. Trust me. I would give my life for you. Henry Percy Mary Seton takes both of my hands into her own. I feel the heat of her nerves radiating off of her snow white skin. Her eyes are glossy with tears, and I can hardly imagine how I will be able to escape the restrictions of this castle safely; however, I know in my heart I will stop at nothing to try. I am Queen of Scots, and I need to reclaim my authority, my dignity, and my throne. My legs wiggle and shake with both excitement and fear. I know I am not in the correct physical shape to run out of this prison to my freedom. This is a most daring task, one that requires great agility and wit. I look at my reflection in the small mirror of my room, surrounded by my French parfums and aux toilettes. My face, though still striking as ever, has paled tremendously from worry over the course of the past several months. My lips quiver with my short and rapid breaths. Mary Seton stands behind me, tying bedsheets together in tight knots. She tugs on each new addition to our handmade rope and, once we deem it long enough and secure, wraps it around the bedrail. In comes my steward, John, rushing to seize the bedsheet rope from my lady-in-waiting. She hands them to him sheepishly and gives me a look of worry. His feverish actions create a sense of uneasiness in my grand escape, but we carry on as I blow out the candle to signify I am ready in my bedsheet rope to be lead to freedom. I climb up to sit on the rim of the open window, the chill of the winter air hugging my visible skin. I glance downwards, recalling my sneaking out of Bolton Castle. I see a beaming Henry Percy along with flashing silver; it would be his promised guard and horses. I turn to give John a smile of commencement and feel the bedsheets tighten around my waist. Mary Seton bites her lip and wishes me a farewell, a quiet tear cascading down her face. In moments, I am out of the window, tiptoeing down the side of Sheffield Castle. As I get closer and closer to the firmness of the ground, I hear a screeching noise from my lady-in-waiting, and a loosening of my tied up sheets. I give Henry Percy a grave look, and he reciprocates with a face that tells me to hurry. I am too slow, however. In seconds, the rope is falling onto my head, and I falling into the ground. I land hard on my back, groaning as Henry Percy’s hands hoist me up and onto my awaiting horse. My vision begins to fog, but I can faintly see the ground becoming a blur and the sound of shouts from my prison bedroom. All at once, darkness encompasses me, and I am running, running far away in the brisk air with Henry Percy and his guard at my side, to my very own freedom; to Scotland’s throne; to my dearest Bothwell; to a grand Spanish armada of many men waiting to fight for me; to my new beginning as Queen Mary of Scots.
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About the author.I love creative writing, especially poetry and short narratives. I hope expand my career as a poet and to always be reading something. Archives
April 2019
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