Arabella Burton

Amid the darkening forest and ominous cloud formations, Arabella Burton slowly meandered along the gravel pathway to her isolated abode on the outskirts of Yorkenshire.  The chilling autumn breeze whispered through trees as Arabella felt the first raindrop fall. They staggered themselves in a slow progression at first, but fell faster and faster with each passing second. A loud clap of thunder followed the first bright flash of lightning.  Arabella smiled at the sky as she tightly wrapped a large hooded cloak around her thin frame. She loved Mother Nature’s fierce strength and tempermental attitude.  The tumultuous weather invoked such an invigorating sense of life into everything. 

“Yah, yah!” Arabella’s thoughts were interrupted by a faint call.

“Yah!” it called again. 

Squinting her eyes, Arabella processed the vague outline of a man riding horseback. The figure rapidly approached to reveal a strong, black stallion with a full-suited rider.  It was clear that he was a kingdom official. Must have been some kind of soldier. 

“Ay, out of the way, miss!” her called out to her.

She ducked to the side of the pathway to let him pass. 

*

                Giving her a brief nod of acknowledgement, the man was gone as quickly as he had come.  Arabella turned to watch him gallop away, but just as she did so, noticed a quick, blurred movement within the darkened wood. The girl started ahead again, quickening her pace.  It was common knowledge that the forest became dangerous at night.  Her focus was interrupted by a strangled cry from behind. 

The solider.

Arabella whirled around to see both the rider and his horse collapsed in a heap on the ground. Wide-eyed, she slowly started toward the accident, dagger in hand beneath her cloak.

“Ay!” she cried out.  “Are you alright?”  The wounded man groaned in pain, squirming beneath the weight of his fallen stallion.

“Are you alright?” she repeated, this time louder than before. 

“Help me.  Oh God, help,” she heard him wheeze, barely conscious. 

Further approaching the injured rider, Arabella noted the arrow in his chest.

“Who did this to you?” she gasped, frantically searching the trees for any kind of answer.

The man, however, could not iterate anything now.  It was bleak.  He would surely lose his life. 

Sudden commotion in the forest seized her attention and she froze, watching a throng of woodsmen surround her with weapons of every sort.  As they sprung toward her, the terrified girl let out a bloodcurdling screech.  Shielding herself with her cloak, she waited for the sharp stab of the knife or splitting crack of the axe.  But nothing came.  Instead they besieged the already unconscious man.  Blood spurted everywhere as they tore his remains to pieces. 

“It must be so,” came the repetitive murmur amongst the men. 

In a horrified state of shock, Arabella found herself numbly sprinting as fast as she could down the winding path.  Had they noticed her absence? Who were they? What did they want? Would they slaughter her with their bladed weapons, too? Arabella risked a nanosecond glance behind her, but immediately halted at what she saw.

*

No one.  There was nothing.  No trace of blood, no horse, no dismembered man, no evil woodsmen. Breathless, Arabella remained completely frozen for a moment. She cautiously approached the scene of the crime, her senses heightened and pulse quickening with each second.  But she was alone. Arabella sighed shakily and resumed her journey. This wouldn’t be the first time she experienced something like this.  Arabella had always been told she had an active imagination, but this was something eerily abnormal. “You have a gift,” her mother would say.  But even she did not know of these catastrophic visions.

“How was your walk?” inquired her mother when Arabella returned to their old, dilapidated cottage.

“Quite well,” she lied, smiling brightly while internally hyperventilating.

The only inhabitants of the small, isolated house were Arabella and her mother. Surely she could not inform her poor caretaker of these morbid visions.  It would only disturb her.  Besides, what if these brief episodes held more than just an active imagination? They had no one to protect them, even if it was just from a state of paranoia.  It was times like these where Arabella wished there were a male figure around. She had no siblings and had never known her father. “Do not ever speak of him,” her mother strictly admonished her from a young age.

“I’m glad you had a pleasant time,” her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “So you wouldn’t mind walking the trail again tomorrow?”

“Not at all,” she lied again.  “Why do you ask?”

“I need to buy some essentials at the village market tomorrow.  But, my leg…” she trailed off, sadly looking down at her injured calf.  For as long as Arabella could remember, her mother suffered from a bad leg.  She claimed to have been cutting firewood for the cold winter when the saw cut into her calf. Weak and infrequent medication allowed for severe infection to plant itself within the wound. 

“Do not fret, Mother.  I will go,” said Arabella, sympathy lacing her voice.

*

The sun was high in the sky as the girl made her way to the village square of Yorkenshire. The plants alongside the pathway were still moist from last night’s storm, but yielded beautiful, vibrant colors.  The vast expanse of blue above her was set aglow by the sun and a light breeze made its way through the trees.  It was perfect.  As Arabella approached the village square, she noticed a swarm of villagers bustling about in a frenzy. 

“…stabbed several times…”

“...only two and twenty years of age…”

“…group of woodsmen…”

“….bless his soul…”

Arabella heard bits and pieces, but remained unsure of what the fuss was about.  The flustered group stood in front of a scroll posted on a stone wall. Soldier Found Dead on Wickthorn Trail, read the headline. A rough sketch of the victim was drawn below. Arabella gasped.  It was the same man she had seen last night.

“Where on Wickthorn Trail did they find this man?” she asked, raising her voice above the crowd.

“It was just after the sharp bend about half a mile down,” came a reply. 

“When did it happen?” she pressed.

“At dawn this morning. Someone heard a cry for help at five.  But by the time anyone arrived, it was too late.”

Arabella’s mind raced a mile a minute as she removed herself from the tangled crowd.  She tried to process what she had just discovered, but was distracted by the sound of clopping hooves. A procession of kingdom officials, clergymen, and royalty all slowly made their way through the village square.  The mass of commoners respectfully watched from the side of the road.  Arabella did the same. Several soldiers marched in front of the royal carriage, which held the king and queen, while other regal figures followed by horseback. 

*

Without warning, the last rider began to slump, thrusting himself into the horse’s mane before limply falling to the ground.  The procession carried on as if nothing had gone amiss.  Arabella stood, baffled.

“Does nobody see that man on the ground?” she asked the woman next to her.

“Wha--?” the woman only stared at her in confusion.

“The body! On the ground! Do you not see it?” Arabella cried. 

The fellow commoners only looked at her with bewilderment. 

The fallen man began to convulse on the ground, blood pouring forth from his mouth.  Not one person reacted so Arabella rushed toward him.  Upon further inspection, she realized he’d been stabbed in the heart.

“Oh my God, he’s been stabbed! Stabbed!” she cried, hoping for someone, anyone, to come and help.

“Someone help him!” she implored.  Still, no one moved.  Removing her scarf, Arabella did her best to wrap it tightly around his wound.  Her cold, shaking hands were covered with blood and she could see his eyes becoming lifeless.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered to him, tears beginning to form.  “No one else is seeing this.”  

*

“Watch out, miss!” it was a distant cry.

“Miss! Out of the way!” louder, but still distant.

“Ay! WATCH OUT!”

Arabella felt herself being shoved to the ground. She was greeted by darkness and a sharp pain in her right hip.  When she opened her eyes, she saw several villagers hunched over her. 

“…must be a bit slow in the head…” said one.

“…looked petrified, the poor thing…” said another.

“…could have been hit by that wagon!...”   

The image of the dead man came immediately rushing back to Arabella’s head.  She sat up fast to observe her surroundings.  What she saw was surprising, but not unexpected.  She sat in the same place as before, but there was no regal figure.  No blood.  No death.  Nothing.

“Was there a royal procession?” she inquired of the nearby villagers.

“Yes, they came by not five minutes ago,” said a middle-aged man.  “You should know.  You were right here the entire time.”

“Nobody fell?” she asked.

They exchanged concerned glances before responding.  “The only one who fell was you. Be more careful next time. You could have been hit by that wagon!”  Arabella furrowed her brow before looking down at her hands.  Aside from bits of debris from the dirt roadway, there was nothing.  Not a trace of blood. Realization struck her once more and she quickly made her decision.

“Thank you. I must go,” she gathered her scattered belongings before rushing toward the palace.

Murmurs of confusion could be heard, but Arabella had no time to explain. She had to save his life.

***

Robust stone walls marked the borders of the palace and, as Arabella breathlessly approached the Iron Gate, she was filled with great apprehension.  Two large guards were stationed directly outside.

“Hello,” she greeted them.  “I have come with an urgent message to the royal family.”

“Who sent you, eh?” the first guard interrogated.

“Myself,” she answered truthfully.  Both men scoffed before the first guard shook his head. 

“Go home, miss.  You aren’t passing these walls.”

“I believe I may have a very important message to share!” she tried again, but was faced with the same response as before.  Their condescending tone infuriated her.

“Do you know the solider who died on Wickthorn Trail last night?” came her third attempt.

Both guards immediately looked at her with a renewed interest. The second guard nodded in affirmation.

“I saw him die before it happened.”

“What?”

Before she could continue, Arabella was interrupted by a clergyman requesting access to the palace.

“Are you close with the royal family?” she immediately inquired.

“Do not pay any mind to her,” the first guard said.

“No, please!” Arabella insisted. “Let me explain myself.  I heard a strangled cry in the forest last night. I witnessed the death of the soldier before its actual happening.  I could have saved him!”

The second guard cut her off. “Look, witch, the royal family doesn’t care about the death of one soldier. Leave.”

“That’s not why I’m here!” she persisted.  “I saw another.  Vision, that is. This time it was one of noble blood! He rode in the very back of the royal procession…”

“OUT!” She was rudely interrupted by the first guard.  “Get out before someone hears this and demands your head. Go. GO! And don’t try coming back.”

Arabella met eyes with the clergyman, who gave her nothing but a sympathetic glance before entering into the palace grounds.  Arabella indignantly fled back to her cottage.

*

Heir to Throne Murdered in Village Square, read the headline of another scroll posted the next day.

Arabella felt the anger inside of her grow larger.  She had returned to the village to buy her mother’s list of essentials she had forgotten about the day before.  Upon arriving, she noticed a swarm of villagers crowding around a new scroll. Before even seeing it, Arabella knew what to expect.  She was right.  

*

“Arabella, come quickly!” her mother called from the room. The afternoon had passed uneventfully, but Arabella still felt rage from the day before. A low murmur of a voice indicated that her mother was not alone.

“Yes, what is it?” she asked, before halting to a stop. A clergyman stood on their doorstep, eyeing her with intrigue. But not just any clergyman.  It was the same she had seen yesterday.

“May we talk, Miss Arabella Burton?”

Arabella was bewildered, but responded positively.  “Yes.”

Sitting the gentleman down in their musty living space, Arabella’s mother left to make tea. 

“You must know my motive in speaking with you,” began the man who introduced himself as Sir Clifton. 

“I have a guess,” she replied.

“The visions of the dead.  How do you know?” he inquired curiously, his voice low.

Arabella hesitantly met his gaze. 

“I won’t accuse you of sorcery,” he promised.

“They come in brief episodes,” she said quietly.

“How often?”

“It used to happen only once or twice a year.  But, as of late,” she paused to look at him, “they come almost every day.”

Sir Clifton shook his head sadly. 

“How accurate are your predictions?”

“Almost infallible. Not one has proven faulty.”

“Hmm,” came the reply. Sir Clifton stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I must take you to the king.”

Arabella shook her head in vehement opposition. “Surely he will accuse me of witchcraft.”

“Not if he wants to protect his kingdom,” he muttered under his breath.

Arabella’s mother was left with no choice but to wish her daughter farewell.

“She shall return quite soon,” Sir Clifton promised the fretful woman.

*

Arabella had never ventured beyond the palace walls, but it was beautiful. The gargantuan stone structure, though old, was majestic and enchanting. Upon successfully entering through the gateway, the drawbridge was let down for both Sir Clifton and Arabella to pass. 

“Wait here,” the clergyman ordered.  He had led her through a maze of steep stairwells and arched stone hallways, eventually stopping just outside a large room.  As he entered, Arabella could hear hushed whispering and a definitive reply. “Bring her in.”

Sir Clifton motioned to her with his finger.  Arabella walked into the large and open space.  She stood upon smooth tile floors. To the left and right were large bays of stained glass windows. As she looked ahead, she saw stairs ascending to three thrones, the largest one being in the middle.  In his plush chair sat King Gregor himself.

“It has been my utmost desire to meet you, Arabella,” the king spoke kind words to the nervous girl.

“The pleasure is all mine, your majesty,” Arabella curtsied in front of the lauded king. 

“You must sit down,” his eyes smiled warmly, but his tone was not as inviting. 

Arabella slowly took her seat upon one of the stairs, looking expectantly at the king.

He paused before speaking.  “I have heard of what you can do.  Clifton, my most faithful assistant and treasured clergyman, has told me of your powers.”

Powers? Arabella attempted to politely correct him.  “Perhaps not powers, my king.  After all, they are merely visions. Most would think it to be some kind of witchcraft.”

“In times like these, that may be just what this kingdom needs,” King Gregor spoke gravely. 

“Pardon my asking, but what do you mean, sir?” Arabella was curious.

“So you do not know..,” he trailed off, gaze flickering to a bay of stained glass windows. 

“Wedgemore,” he began distantly, “has declared war upon our kingdom.”

“Wedgemore has declared war upon Yorkenshire? But why?”

The king studied her before speaking. “Let the reasons regarding why remain unspoken for now. What matters is that you listen very closely to my words. Warriors, villagers, farmers, noblemen—everyone—from Wedgemore will soon encroach upon Yorkenshire. They will wage battle upon our kingdom.  But Yorkenshire cannot afford to lose any citizens. We have people willing to fight, but no one has an advantage like you do.  You shall be the protector of our people.”

Arabella was too shocked to speak. 

“Pardon me, my liege, but I must ask you to speak again.”

“You, Arabella Burton, are to be the protector of Yorkenshire,” King Gregor clearly stated once more. “If you experience any sort of vision, you are to inform me immediately.”

Arabella nodded obediently, not knowing what else to do.

“So it has been settled,” spoke the king.  “You shall stay here at the palace then, as an honorary guest.”

“You are too kind, generous king. But my mother—“

“Your mother can wait,” he interjected, fear becoming prevalent in his next words. “This kingdom cannot.”

***

Arabella was led to her temporary bedchambers and left to ponder about what she had just agreed to. What have you done? If you make one false move, the entire kingdom will have your head. Morbid images of her severed head and a jeering crowd made her shudder. Sleep.  That is what she needed.

Arabella closed her eyes to escape her changing reality.   

*

“Landon. Landon, help me, dammit!” a gruff, authoritative voice rasped.  The night was quite dark, but the moonlight shone bright enough to outline several men standing over some kind of corpse in the village square.

The boy, Landon, shook with fear but obeyed the demanding figure.

“What shall I do with it?” he quivered, shakily grabbing hold of a cold, limp hand.

“Dispose of it, twit. And quickly. We don’t have much time,” ordered the man.

“Your majesty, perhaps it would be best—“ a voice began.

“Silence,” came Gregor’s voice again.

Landon began weeping over the dead body. “I cannot,” he cried.  “I cannot dispose of this body.  He was—still is-- family.”

 “You will do as I say, boy!” Gregor lurched toward Landon.

“He was your brother!” the boy shouted hysterically.

“Hush! You’ll draw attention,” hissed Carlton, an advisor to the king.

“A brother who was getting in my way!” Gregor shot back.

“That’s no excuse to kill him!” Landon stood his ground.

“Harold was only concerned with expanding his kingdom,” Gregor spat.

“So are you,” retorted the boy.

“We mustn’t argue now, you’re only wasting time,” came the warning of Darius, another advisor.

“Harold intended to merge Wedgemore and Yorkenshire!” Gregor continued, ignoring Darius.

“You only hated him because he was a better man than you!” Landon pressed emphatically.

“Don’t make me use my dagger again,” threatened Gregor.

“You are a despicable man and I am ashamed to call you my uncle,” Landon glared darkly at Gregor, tears staining his dirty face. 

“I killed him, I can kill you too,” threatened Gregor.

Landon instantly retreated, but gathered his courage.  “See if I care,” his face became indifferent.  “It’s clearly how you solve all your problems.”

In a fit of fury, Gregor lunged at his only nephew and stabbed him repeatedly in the heart.  After the deed was done, he turned to his mortified followers.  “Let’s go,” he ordered. “Before someone hears.”

*

Arabella woke up with a start. The heir to the throne. Murdered. In the village square. Murdered by Gregor? If she hadn’t regretted taking on this job last night, she certainly did now.  Although, given her insight to Gregor’s impulsive nature, perhaps it was best she had agreed.

***

“I trust your night was satisfactory,” King Gregor spoke to her the next morning at breakfast.

“Yes, quite,” Arabella said.  “Though I had a rather interesting dream.”

The king looked at her with interest. “What kind of dream?” he asked.

“It pertained to the late King Harold of Wedgemore,” she spoke, her gaze intent on her plate rather than Gregor. 

“And?”

“I just wondered,” she slowly began, “why the Wedgemore village assumed the kingdom of Yorkenshire was responsible?”

The king scoffed good-naturedly, subtle relief flooding his face.

“My brother and I,” Gregor started. “We never were very close. We may have been related, but we held almost nothing in common.  Our animosity had been long known within the castle walls and we all know that words have a way of spreading.  Naturally, when the death of dear Harold came upon him, most assumed that we were responsible in some way.”  He shook his head sadly.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Arabella paused before continuing. “How exactly did Harold die?”

Gregor looked up gravely.

“He was ambushed by a tribe of gypsies while journeying to Mardenville.”

Liar.

Arabella was about to offer her condolences when a group of members from the kings court sat themselves at the table. 

“I have called you all together to strategize,” announced the king.  “Our kingdom needs protection.”

Arabella looked around at the table. Of the group of men, she recognized two of them. Carlton and Darius sat directly across from her while kitchen maids began serving breakfast.

*

Upon receiving a platter of food, each member of the court began eating.  Without warning, the candle-lit chandelier crashed upon the long table, glass bits shattering everywhere. In her brief glance to the king, she could see he was eating his breakfast as if nothing had happened.  That was all the confirmation she needed.  Fighting against every instinct to scream or run or help, Arabella remained seated, expressionless. After all, this was just a vision.

“AHH!” screeched Carlton, his face contorting in pain as the sharp end of the chandelier pushed itself further into his flesh. 

“Dear God, help!” came Darius’ cry. Shards of glass covered his entire body and blood oozed from every cut. 

Fire set ablaze on the wooden table, consuming the rest of the bodies. 

*

Arabella let out an involuntary cry. 

King Gregor looked up in surprise. “What, what is it?”

Arabella looked at him.  She opened her mouth as if to say something, but looked down instead, feign coughing. 

“Excuse me,” was all she said before retreating to her bedchambers.

Arabella sat, pondering whether or not to tell the king of all the imminent deaths. Would he be the cause of their shortened lives anyways?

“Arabella, come quick!” came rapid knocking on her door. 

“What? What’s going on?” she answered the frantic knocking.

“Outside! Warriors from Wedgemore! You must predict what will happen!” the maidservant ushered her to a high balcony.  From below, Arabella could see a mass of warriors, weapons in hand all rioting just outside the Iron Gates. On the other side were suited soliders, prepared for battle.  Cries could be heard from the outside of the gate.  The guards.  Soon enough, the throng of passionate warriors made their way inside the palace gates and havoc arose. 

“Do you see what’s happening?” Arabella asked the maidservant.

“Yes,” she nodded in fear.

Within minutes, the soldiers of Yorkenshire lay slaughtered by the drawbridge. The people of Wedgemore would stop at nothing.  Did they know what really happened to King Harold? Panic was rising in the palace as King Gregor called together his most treasured advisors.

“Do exactly as I say. Do not allow the Wedgemorian warriors into our palace!”

Carlton and Darius nodded seriously, a layer of doubt flooding their faces. 

“Come, your majesty, we must keep you safe!” and King Gregor was guided to the secret hideaway room designed for instances like these.

Though Carlton and Darius did their best to ensure no one got into the castle, their attempts were made in vain.  The number of soldiers had dwindled significantly and there was almost no one to protect the Yorkenshire palace.  Slaughtered bodies lay everywhere.  Arabella left her spot on the balcony quite some time ago to help with anything she could.  However, she was forced into another hideaway room with the other noblemen as her visions were labeled as valuable.

*

Morning came only to remind everyone of the tragic causalities the day before.  The bodies of Carlton and Darius could be found on the front palace steps.  King Gregor was particularly cautious in venturing outdoors, but as he did so, he saw his two esteemed noblemen.  Carlton lay completely lifeless, several arrows punctured into him.  On his other side lie Darius.

At this time, Arabella took it upon herself to investigate the destruction from the night before.  As she stepped outside the palace, she saw the bodies of Carlton and Darius.  Gregor shook his head before speaking.

“You didn’t envision this?” he asked her. 

Arabella didn’t know what to say. Either way she would be in trouble.

“I did, my lord.”

The king looked at her with an indescribable mixture of shock and anger.

“You saw this happen?” he asked again, his hands gesturing to the bodies.

Arabella said nothing.  She didn’t know what to say.

“You didn’t tell me?! That was our goddamn agreement! Yorkenshire has been destroyed and you let it happen! Guards!”

Arabella froze, trying to process what had just happened.  Immediately two guards emerged from the castle doors.

“Take her to the dungeon,” King Gregor demanded.  “She shall be executed by dawn.”

“Yes, your majesty,” came the reply.

“No wait, I can explain!” came Arabella’s urgent request.

King Gregor looked at her with utter hatred. “You have two minutes.”

*

Right as she was about to speak, she felt the ground rumble beneath her feet. She stole an alarmed glance at the king, who was waiting expectantly.  Suddenly, fear crept into his eyes.  “The kingdom, it’s crumbling!” he cried. The castle shook as stones from above began to fall.  One by one, they struck the ground around them until a large stone fell on top of King Gregor himself.  Arabella looked up only to see more fallen rocks rapidly tumbling downward. She could see a large one plummeting from directly above.  It crushed her to the ground.

*

Arabella found herself on the ground with blood on her cheek. 

“I said you had two minutes,” thundered King Gregor.  “Speak or the guards strike again!”

The exhausted girl weakly held his gaze.  “You are to be killed,” she rasped.

He regarded her with cold disdain. “This is coming from the witch who falsely predicted the fate of our kingdom. Take her away, guards.”

“You don’t understand!” she cried out. “You are not safe here!”

“Nobody is safe here, thanks to you,” he spat. 

Arabella was thrown into a dank and dirty dungeon and told to stay put.  Where else would she go?  She sat in the darkest corner, regretting everything she’d ever said about this so called gift.  Tears began free falling as she realized these were the last hours she would be alive.  Noisy commotion from above distracted Arabella from her tearful reflections.

“Ayy!” came a distant call. “Help, somebody help!”

“…he’s been stoned….”

“The king has been stoned!” came a bloodcurdling shriek, echoing down the steep, spiraling staircase so that Arabella could hear it clearly. 

She hugged her knees and allowed a hopeful thought to plant itself in her head.  Maybe she would not be killed at dawn because the king was no longer here to demand it.  Perhaps they would let her go back.  Back to her mother, back to her home, back to her old life. 

Arabella heard rapid footsteps descending the staircase and turned to see the queen. 

Beyond startled, Arabella just looked at her.

“My dear husband,” began the queen regally, “trusted you to protect us.  To protect Yorkenshire.  He told me of your agreement and of your infallible visions.” Her voice cracked and tears began falling down her cheeks. “Instead of making our kingdom stronger, you have destroyed everything.  Restoring a palace is one thing, but a person? You can’t bring them back.” She chocked on these last words and tearfully stumbled away.

Overwhelmed and exhausted, Arabella closed her eyes and allowed herself to be consumed by darkness.

She awoke to someone prodding at her back.

“Get up. You are to be interrogated.”

She was led to a building just beyond the palace gates, where throngs of villagers were congregated.  They all eyed her suspiciously so she looked at the ground.  Once inside the courtroom, she was spoken to by a man named Lord Wykeham.

“Arabella Burton, you are to be tried for the murder of Kinger Gregor the Great and the demise of Yorkenshire.”

She said nothing.

“At this time, you may explain yourself.”

Her mind was a whirlwind of chaos, but Arabella spoke composedly.

“I have always seen these visions, these morbid bits of the future,” she began. “They haunt me all the time. With each passing day, my distress only worsens. To be responsible for so many lives is overwhelming, my lord. I understand this is a time of trial and that our country depends on what keeps our people safe, but one simply cannot be held accountable for the welfare of an entire kingdom! I speak to you honestly, I was not the cause of death to our noble king.”

                Chaos broke loose in the large courtroom as Arabella took her seat, defeated. Villagers sprung at her aggressively in attempts to remedy their unsatisfied anger.  Clergymen, who had once been friendly, regarded her now with nothing more than cold disdain.  The group of elders, comprised of old prestigious officials, sat before her skeptically, whispering amongst themselves before hushing the angry villagers and continuing their interrogation. 

“Arabella Burton, previous to the death of King Gregor the Great, had you ever wrongly predicted the death of a fellow Yorkenshire?” Lord Wykeham addressed the exhausted girl.

A look of bleak exhaustion flashed across Arabella’s face before she replied. “There was no wrong prediction! He didn’t listen to me!”

“Lies!” someone cried. 

“I speak the truth!” she angrily spat. 

Merciless chatter could be heard from the people who had once loved her. Tension rose within the courtroom once more as the elders discussed her fate. From the expressions they wore, it appeared as if they were discussing something trivial. Simultaneous nods of approval showed the collective agreement. Slowly turning to face her, they asked their final question.

“Any last words you desire to speak?”

Fear and utter despair laced themselves in her next words. “Only that the absolute truth is this; I did not kill King Gregor,” she weakly tried one last time.

The courtroom burst into another frenzy.

“Lies! Lies!” spat an old hag standing in front.

“Execute her!” came another shout.

“SILENCE!” the group of elders demanded.

The whole room became noiseless before Lord Wykeham spoke the anticipated, but dreaded words.

“You, Arabella Burton, have been charged guilty of the murder of King Gregor the Great. Thereby, you shall be executed for treason…” The lord continued with the conclusion, but Arabella couldn’t listen.  She was suddenly struck with unimaginable pain.  Looking down at her stomach, she saw the end of a blade protruding from her front.  She had been stabbed in the back. She frantically searched the room for any kind of reaction, but realized that there was none. That’s when she knew.