Ayelet Schrek 12/13/07
I knew it was risky, but I did it anyway. When you are disfigured like me, you have to be careful. Many people find it entertaining to tease me and beat me, but I figured no one would be brazen enough to do so in the palace. So I went for a stroll. It would be nice to get some fresh air and move around after all that time on the boat here from France. So I put on my finest salmon pink doublet and a jeweled bonnet, hoping that the frippery would distract from my hunched figure and distorted face. Of course, it did just the opposite. Apparently, the people in Scotland aren’t into color, for I was the only one wearing anything remotely bright. Naturally, I caught a lot of spare eyes. I figured there might be less people outside, so I allowed my feet to lead me to the gardens. I was strolling along in a particularly purple and red garden when a voice called out to me. Like the fool I’d tried so hard not to be, I turned. Next thing I knew, a Scotsman, probably drunk, was holding a claymore, a two-handed sword, to my throat, his friend guffawing behind him, also holding a claymore, and wearing the typical plaid. They started saying things, their mouths moving, harsh barkings and growls coming out. I tried to tell them I was here with the Duke of Savory, but they didn’t understand French and I don’t understand Scottish.
I tried to pull away from him, but his hand caught the front of my shirt and the collar ripped. I swore and turned away. There was a woman, a girl really, standing there watching me suffer. I was not surprised; people had come to watch my torment many times before. I turned back to my captors. The man pulled out a dirk. His drunken eyes were anxious to do what the blade threatened.
Then a new harsh voice entered. But this voice was softer around the edges, and gave me a feeling of nostalgia. How strange, what one thinks of under the threat of death.
It was the girl, I was surprised to see. Usually no one interfered, and if so, no one important, for the girl clearly was, what with her full skirts and regal posture. She too spoke Scottish, but it was accented with what might have been French. My heart fluttered with hope. This girl could help me. The men were backing off now, lowering their weapons, there eyes narrowed with suspicion. But the more she talked, the wider there eyes grew, until I could see a flicker or two of what seemed like fear. Even though I could not understand what she was saying, I trusted her. She had an air about her; a kind and just feeling radiated from her. When she spoke to me in French, telling me to come with her, I gave up on being suspicious. A friendly face was too much to resist.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I found out the girl was Nicola Ambruzzi, the queen’s fool. She invited me in play my lute, as one of the players was sick. I played, and I believe the queen liked it. I very much like the queen. She has a pleasant smile, and she looks at what is on the inside not the outside. Her fool is the same. It is a shame I’ll have to leave when my Duke departs. I like it here.
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