Prologue

Accept my lot in life.

That was always my biggest challenge, I was never quite satisfied with what I had. I am aware that makes me sound like a spoiled child, as so many in this world have it much worse than I, but I could never help the way I feel. My fanciful imagination would never cease to torment me with wild adventures, epic quests, heroic deeds and fantastical stories.

However, real life is a sorry disappointment to my imagined world. All the responsibilities and bores of life could never compare to the stories in my head.

As a lowborn girl, of no rank or money, no one has ever expected much from me. No one in the history of my family has done anything particularly worthy of note. Our small village has contained the same families for as far back as anyone can remember, and most people have the same backbreaking job for their entire lives. Farm labourers never rise above their station, and the local nobility do not really engage with us much.

However, our lord does not mistreat us in any way, and his wife and daughter seem pleasant enough when they attend large gatherings. So, from a very young age I was taught to accept my station in life, and never aspire to anything higher. But however hard I tried to, I held onto my hopes of some sort of magical intervention, that would save me from the dull life ahead.

My parents are to blame for these hopes, they taught me to read and write, and tell me folk stories of our land as I fell asleep. As I got older, they told me to re tell the stories to my younger siblings when they came along, as my mother grew more and more fatigued the more children she had. By the time little Gwen was born, Mother had eight children and a house to look after. So, it was only natural that I, as the eldest daughter, started to help out around the house, cleaning, cooking and learning how to mend and sow. I exchanged my books for broom and stew pot.

However, the tasks that I did, day in day out, did not require much thinking about, which afforded me more time to daydream about the tales of olde. I would recite them to the little ones while I kneaded bread and scrubbed pots.

The five boys would always prefer the stories of epic battles, Ogre raids, wars and sword fights, and I would often find them in the meadow outside the village re-enacting the famous battle of Hortensia, with little Robbie being lifted up onto Alexander's back, like he was riding a horse and the three-year old screaming 'charge' into Alexander's ear as he ran towards Daniel, who carried Tom on his back. Richard would always be sat on the grass watching carefully for the moment for him to enter the battle as the legendary commander, the King, who shared his name.

They had played this scene so many times that he knew exactly when the moment that his imaginary army would enter the fray, like they actually did so many years ago, and win the battle for the Uphranians. As soon as Tom jumped off Daniel's back to continue to fight desperately on foot, determined to conquer the land, Richard would race down the hill, yelling 'Victory to Uphrania' at the top of his small voice. It always ended the same way, with Tom and Daniel being crushed by the other three lying on top of them, all giggling the way small boys do after running around.

The girls however, preferred to listen to the stories of romance and magic. Clara sat dreamy eyed as I re told the story of the golden haired princess, trapped in a tower, until she runs away and discovers her magical powers, and sets off all alone to find her missing family. Clara sighs loudly as I dramatize the meeting of the princess with the servant boy in the forest who assists her in her quest. At the end of the story, when the princess, now discovering her identity, chooses a simple life with the servant boy over royalty, Clara always smiles gleefully to herself, I dare say she holds out hopes to one day be as loved by someone. Gwen however, was still a baby, and did not have a preference of story genre. She mainly just gurgled at most things.

But, as is the way with the world, when a poor family has eight children, the income of one labourer father cannot sustain the household for very long. Mother used to work a little when there was less of us, but her tiredness had grown so that it was now impossible for her to work. Therefore, it was left to me to leave home and find a position. At the age of fourteen, I packed my bag of three dresses, all with my name stitched into the back by my mother, and moved out of my family home.

I found a position as a scullery maid to the lord of the manor, Sir Henry. I had seen him and his family a few times in my life, and knew that the daughter could not be more than one or two years older than myself. She was a pretty blonde thing, who had always seemed full of life whenever I could catch a glimpse of her. Maybe I could see her more now I was to live with them, in the attic, but still with them none the less. As much as I loathed being parted from my family, I knew it was not permanent, they still lived in the same village as me, and I would have Sunday afternoons off to visit them, and the position I held was not going to be a terrible one.

So that day, I left that poor cottage with my head held high, my mind still full of stories, and my heart full of hopes. How little I knew then of what was to come, and how that magic intervention which I so prayed for would change my life in ways I could not conceive of then.

For as I later learned, magic is very real, and I should have been more careful with what I wished for.

What a fool I was.