Mist swirling in across the moor,
Shrouds the walls of the Great Hall.
A silhouette; childlike at the door,
Stands trembling unable to take anymore.
Swiftly running across cobbled ground,
With Stealth; mindful to make no sound.
Her plight would seem a torrid tale,
Placed in service put up for sale.
Condemned if found to a living hell,
To spend her life in a prison cell.
Escape she must; she cannot fail
Whom to run to whom to tell?
Fleeting feet cross frozen ground,
In the distance baying hounds.
The forest briefly mutes the sounds,
On she runs; fearful of being found.
In the distance, a tavern outside of town,
With a stable to rest in; to lie down.
Almost at once the warmth of dry straw,
Allowing a brief moment to withdraw,
To relive events that took place before.
That fateful night; a hand on her door.
Bleary eyed ignorant of what was in store.
Her weeping mother she’d see no more.
Rancid sack placed upon her head,
Dragged screaming from a comfy bed.
No words are spoken, nothing said,
Why hands are bound and being lead!
Bungled into a beer soaked dray,
Clatter of hooves, she was sped away.
A hand gently placed upon her head,
Eyes open slowly, ‘there’s old Ed’,
Sleeping contently on her bed.
Blissfully, aware to what’s being said,
‘Nay, lass tis now ten years or more,
They’ll be no knocking on our door’.
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