noble project

The wind whips around me, unforgiving as a slap across the face. I am reminded of our last meeting, and my cheek stings with the memory. I cast my eyes to the sea, heaving and rolling and crashing in a fit of rage and injustice against the boulders below. How easy it would be, I think, to toss myself from this desperate ledge and join the ranks of those lost in the clutches of that ferocious water. But no, I must hold on. I know that no matter how many times you leave, and how many empty threats you make, you will always come back. And in spite of myself, I know I will always wait for you.
I look out at the looming, grey expanse of clouds above and around me, and I wonder if you, where ever you are, are thinking of me. I am filled with an overwhelming sense of doubt. My worthlessness tells me that the only thoughts you give on my account are those you entertain only moments before you strike me: physically and emotionally. I bend at the knees and scoop a clump of defeated wildflowers in one hand. I bring the violet and golden blossoms to my nose and am not surprised to find they smell only of rain and dread.
“Mother!” I hear from somewhere behind me. I feel a lurch in my stomach and I know it is only the phantom voice of a child that never was. My eyes smart and sting. I open my fingers and let the clutch of flowers drift and separate on their journey down, down to the waiting water. I watch them until all I can see are the ghost shapes of seagulls crying below. I turn and walk back to the life I yearn to leave.
Not much later, when hunger has found me, I stand over a small pot of gruel bubbling and hissing on the fire. I watch the tan liquid burble and move, and my stomach tightens again. I cannot eat this food another night. I cannot fight my way through another hard biscuit and choke down the sustenance that turns to sand in my mouth. In a fit of disappointment and frustration, I take the pot from the fire and carry it to the entry of the small hut. I push open the cloth that serves as a door, but before I can empty the contents of the bowl into the dirt, I hear approaching hoof beats. I look up and see a black mare trotting down the dirt path to my home. I self-consciously brush a wisp of black hair from my eyes and try to make out the rider as he advances.
My heart jumps when I see the familiar breadth of your shoulders, the girth of your arms. But quickly I realize the figure coming my way does not have your curls or your tanned work man’s complexion. He is pale as a full moon rising over the harvest wheat. His hair is as black as a raven, as black as my own. I squint against the ambient brightness of the clouds above, and try to make out his face. It isn’t until he has come within a stone’s throw that I am able to determine I have never seen the man before in my years.
“Sir,” I call in greeting. He says nothing. As he draws nearer the humble hut, he slows his horse, and eventually stops. He dismounts and pats the horse twice on the forequarters. It remains where he left it as he strides towards me with the gait of a confident man, a gait that resembles yours not a bit.
The stranger comes close. If we wanted, we could reach out to one another and embrace. I keep my hands at my side. “I have word,” the man speaks with a heavy accent. It sounds Gaelic. I nod and ask him to join me inside, out of the biting wind. We cross the threshold and my cheeks color at the reminder of just how small my living quarters are. I motion to one of two wooden chairs in what I choose to think of as the parlor. When my guest pauses, I take a seat first. He remains standing.
“My lady,” he begins. His eyes are not sweeping the hut, not evaluating my worth based on my possessions. Instead, he is staring right at me with eyes the color of dark honey. “I bring word regarding your,” his voice hitches almost imperceptibly. When I think of it later, I am sure it will have been imagined. “Betrothed.” When I do not make any motion or plea, he continues. “He has been wounded and is in hospital. When last I saw him, he was under the knife of a very skilled surgeon. They believe he will live.”
For a moment I am not sure how I am to feel. I think of your strong, sturdy form made to lie at the hands of a surgeon and a sense of discomfort grips me. It is an unnatural way for me to think of you. I glance up at the man who is filling the entry way. My heart knocks harder at the gate of my ribs, and I ask him, “How did he come by injury? What has happened that requires a surgeon?”
The man shifts and for the first time breaks contact from his eyes to mine. He glances unknowingly at a pile of straw and fabric in the corner of the room and stares for a bit before realizing that he is peering at my sleeping quarters. His pale cheeks are graced with color and for a fleeting moment all thoughts of you are lost. I am struck by a girlish realization that the man before me is a handsome one. I yearn to spare him the embarrassment of the situation, but I know not how. “Sir,” I say in my softest voice. I aim to remind him of the questions I have uttered moments earlier.
“Yes, of course,” the man stumbles as he tries to collect his thoughts on the matter. “He, Edwin, that is, was working his trade on the edges of Fromouth Forest in Devonshire, and was caught in crossfire. He took an arrow and spear in the side before both sides realized he wasn’t involved in the conflict. The fighting has not ceased, but one kind soldier brought him to safety.”
“Sir, the name of the soldier? I should like to include him in my thoughts and offerings.” I finger the hem of my tattered dress and secretly wish the man would sweep me off my feet, and rescue me the way he has done for you. I can see his humility is battling his honesty, and for a moment I doubt he will grant me his name.
“I am the soldier responsible, my lady. I am called Camden.” He makes a small bow of his head in my direction, and returns to his full stature. I stand and step toward him. In close proximity to him, I am very aware, once again, of his manhood and my womanly nature. The heat courses through me and I bring myself to look into the eyes of this stranger.
Our eyes meet. I am washed in a sense of serenity, elevated to the heights of comfort and well-being. My heart burns hotter than ever before, and I feel secure. The fear I so often feel in such proximity to you is no more. I know with a surety that this man, this particular Sir Camden would never strike a woman. I know not what comes over me as I speak, “He hits me, Sire. Edwin is very free with the blows he issues. I almost would rather he had been mortally wounded in crossfire.”
As soon as the words escape me, I regret them. I duck my head and return to my seat, like a mutt with tail between legs. I shake my head and pull my shawl tightly around my now-shaking shoulders. I know I should not have spoken out against you. It is unbecoming for a woman to speak ill of her man. It is not my place. But I ask this, if not my place, then whose?
“Lady,” Camden begins. His footing is surer now than before. “I will see to it that man never strike you again. It is not out of place for you to tell me this. Do not feel remorse for your honesty. Do not cower for fear of your man.” He has quietly crossed the room and is now kneeling at my side. He looks up into my face with his shining hazel eyes. “My lady,” he whispers as he takes my dirty hand in his own broad one. “Do not fear.” I watch as he places a single kiss on the palm of my hand, and before I am able to collect my breath, he stands and is gone from the house.
I stand as well and try to collect my thoughts. I move to the doorway and pull the fluttering fabric to the side. Sir Camden is already a great distance from the hut, and there is a fire in my belly that tells me I shall see him again.

Night has fallen over the hut by the sea, and I am watching the flames flicker and dance, reminiscing on my life. It seems half-lived in so many ways, but not so different from the lives of many women with whom I am acquainted. I wonder why it is that women never go to battle, why women have no trade other than cooking, cleaning, and childbearing. My mind wanders back to my childhood, and just like a ghost from the past, my sister knocks quietly on the door post.
“Arie,” she whispers into the folds of the tattered curtain. “Arwen, it is me. Pray tell, is Edwin at home?” She knows he has gone to share his trade, and will not return for some time. She is only playing.
I stand and gather my night clothes around my shoulders. The chill hasn’t set in yet, but I will be prepared for it when it does. I walk quickly to the doorway and whip the curtain open to greet my sister. Her face lights up like springtime when she sees me well and unscathed. Her arms wrap tightly around my midsection. For a fleeting moment I am reminded of a night much like this, when my sister came to visit and brought herbs and spices to apply to my swollen stomach. I am reminded of the hollowness that is there now. My sister pulls away and searches my face. When she is satisfied with whatever she finds in my own expression, she pushes past me and into the sitting room.
“Arie, I am so elated Edwin is not here to mar another evening! Oh bless, were you sleeping?” she cries as she spots my rumpled bed and my attire.
I pat my hair self-consciously and shake my head. “No, no. I was only thinking and preparing for sleep.”
“What were you thinking about?” my sister asks, pulling a chair closer to the hearth and filling it with her narrow bottom.
For a moment I debate whether to tell her about your injury, and the guest I entertained so briefly earlier in the day. But as a woman I find it so impossible to suppress such tantalizing gossip! I offer my sister a cup of tea and I set in, telling her of the stranger, and everything of your visit to the surgeon. My sister is such a wonderful audience. She listens with such rapt attention and she cares not a mite for your well-being, but wants to know everything of Sir Camden.
“Laurel,” I breathe, calling her by name. “He is a most spectacular human. Strong and sharp, with a voice like thunder in the distance. I should shiver to think what Edwin would do to me if he knew. But I shall not worry about him any longer! Camden assured me that I would never fall at the hand of that tyrant again.”
My sister’s bright brown eyes are shining. She sips from the nearly-clean cup I have given her. The tea is bitter, as I have not one grain of sugar in the house. She does not complain. “When will you see him again?” she asks with the eagerness of a child.
I shake my head. “I know not. I suppose if he returns it will be with news of Edwin. Or likely he will send another page or squire. I am certain he is far too busy to be troubled with the domestic matters of my courtship with a monster like Edwin.” I almost cower, preparing for a blow for uttering such ill words.
“There was talk of you today in the village,” Laurel says quietly. I am led to imagine all manner of negative things the townspeople have to say about me. So many among them think ill of me for living with you, for carrying your child. They think I am cursed. They think I deserve all the toil that befalls me.
“What have they said now?” I ask wearily, certain it will sting.
“Fear not, Arwin. The people have nothing bad to say of thee. They only share my elation at the absence of that tyrant you live with. There was speculation of you being with child again, and what you should do if you are indeed carrying.”
Before she’s even finished speaking, I shake my head. I cannot be with child. I shudder to think of the possibility. All the reminiscence and phantom voices might be explained if there were another spirit within me, but I know in my heart I am hollow. “No, I am not with child. Just fat off all the gruel and tack I no longer have to share with my man.”
Laurel places an open hand on my knee. “Sister, you will tell me if you are with child. I will not let him strip you of that joy a second time. No one will.”
My eyes begin to sting again as the memory of my lost child comes back with full force. As you know, Laurel was the one I ran to when the blood came. Laurel helped me bury the child you wanted nothing to do with. Just as I cannot go through a loss like that again, I know Laurel would also be hard-pressed to survive it a second time.
“I would tell you, Laurel. I would protect myself far better a second time. Fear not.”
Having exhausted all our words and our emotions, my sister stands to leave. She kisses me on the cheek and tells me how strong I am. I want to believe her, but you have instilled within me such an immense sense of self-doubt, I wonder if I shall ever feel strong again. I watch her leave, her silhouette blending into the night until she has returned to the faint, flickering lights of the town.
As I return to my bed and prepare to sleep, it is no surprise that your image does not fill my mind this night. I think only of Sir Camden sweeping me into his arms and carrying me far, far away from this cliff, and the life I live dangling on the edge.