Vox Meditantis

Sunday, 4th February, 1537

Look upon me. Nay, do not cast thine eyes downward in false modesty, for I know thou hungerest to see perfection. Is it not a marvel? The glass tells me true, and the glass cannot lie, unlike the flattery of court poets or the whisperings of treacherous uncles.

This morning, the priest droned on regarding the casting out of devils, the text being from Saint Luke, I believe. He spoke of humility, of the worm in the dust. I sat in my pew, the very picture of piety, whilst thinking that if God intended me for a worm, He would not have gilded me so fine. Does the kestrel apologise for its talons? Does the rose beg forgiveness for its scent? I think not. I am what I am: the last of a great line, the vessel into which all the ambition and blood of three centuries hath been poured.

It is Sunday, the fourth day of February. The wind howls about the eaves like a soul denied Purgatory, yet here inside, by the fire, my silk remains unruffled. They say the North is still in tumult, that the King’s justice rides hard against the rebels. Let them hang. Chaos is a ladder for the bold, and while others wring their hands and pray for peace, I calculate the spoils.

My father, God rest his timid soul, was a man of hesitation. He would weigh a matter until the opportunity had soured like milk in the sun. “Prudence, daughter,” he would bleat. Prudence! Prudence is the virtue of the fearful. When the writ came regarding the dissolution of the priory lands adjoining our estate, he fussed over the morality of it. I did not. I sent the riders within the hour. The deeds are now in my coffer. The decisiveness of the act was its own morality. To hesitate is to perish; to strike is to live.

Consider this body. It is more than flesh and bone; it is a reliquary. A holy container. Men look upon it and see a wife, a breeder of sons, a means to secure an alliance. They are fools. They see the vessel, but they do not taste the wine within. I am the chalice, yes, but I am also the poison and the cure.

I recall when I was but a girl of ten summers, weeping over a spotted kirtle, thinking a stain the end of the world. How small the world was then! The passage of time is a cruel sculptor; it chips away the softness, the useless sentiment, leaving only the hard, enduring stone beneath. I have watched friends die in childbed, their lifeblood soaking the rushes, and I have seen great men fall from the King’s favour, their heads rolling in the straw. These events do not frighten me; they instruct me. They teach that life is a vapour, yes, but a vapour that can be shaped by will before it dissipates.

When I was young, I thought Fortune a capricious goddess who must be placated with prayers and offerings. Now, I see her for what she is: a whore who spreads her legs for the strongest arm. I have grown older, and in doing so, I have grown harder. I do not weep for the kirtle now. I simply order a new one, sewn with pearls.

The heavy oak chest at the foot of my bed – that is a vessel too. It holds the charters, the rents, the power. But I, I am the true vessel. I carry the name. And unlike the chest, which merely holds what is put inside it, I choose what I contain. I have cast out fear. I have poured out hesitation. I have filled myself with the pure, cold water of resolve.

There are those who whisper that I am too proud. Superbia, the deadliest of sins. Let them whisper. The eagle does not concern itself with the chatter of sparrows. If loving the masterpiece God hath created in me is a sin, then I shall burn with a smile on my lips. For surely, the Creator Himself must admire His handiwork? To deny my own magnificence would be an insult to the Architect.

Tomorrow, the suitors arrive. They come sniffing for land, for title. They will find me demure, I suspect. I shall lower my lashes and speak soft words. And while they preen and boast, thinking they have captured a prize, I shall be deciding which of them is strong enough to bear my burden, and weak enough to be ruled by my hand. The decision is already made; they simply do not know it yet.

Bob Lynn | © 2026 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.