To Die for a Queen

Image by Mohammed Metri

The sun stretched lethargically then ricocheted off the red streaks of her hair and mirrored itself in the green pools of her eyes.

King Duncan McAlpine gazed infinitely at her soft mouth.  Their eyes spoke of an unquenchable fire. Soul to soul. Their passions narrated intent and dangerous games - a courtship of swans.

The residents of the Isle of Rhe were restless, hankering after their bone for the day. A King who was found guilty of the abduction and murder of the French Queen Gabrielle Delon was indeed the type of parade that would bring hundreds to the town square.  Their voices a welter of discordant sounds.

"Murder”? shouted the village baker, his pound of belly glaring beneath the flour coated beige apron. His voice straining above the din, "Blah blah blah. No such thing. The King is a decent fella. This is the work of his one-eyed monster of a step-brother,  it is Lord Blanchard’s doing I tell ya".

The crowd roared with laughter and bullied him down.

"Awww shut it I say".  She was toothless with an evil eye that swung to and fro like a pendulum – her frame as tiny as a 5 year olds yet her cackle split the stained glass windows of St Agnes of Barkley straight down the middle.  "He’s been having his jollies with Isle of Rhe’s enemy”, she retorted.  "The betrothed of the Marquis Du Bellay. Besides, who in his right mind would want to abduct The French Queen.  She's wretched looking I heard". Her evil eye laughed and twitched and her bony figures shivered in disgust; the hairs on her chin stiffened in the icy breeze. There was no taming the shrew.
A bulky bald head flipped her over his shoulder like a bag of candyfloss.  The crowd exploded. The day was looking promising/  Even the sun seemed willing to make an appearance for the day.

Queen Gabrielle anxiously listened to the uproar.  She beheld the king of Rhe as he faced death; raised and ready.  She was stirred by his dignity and air of authority.  His royal demeanour.  He saw her amongst the crowd – even in peasant prints she bore a stately head.

The crowd babbled obliviously.  They were the consequence of feudal systems that divided one from the other – lords and labourers; bourgeoisie and peasant. Old ancient beliefs rumoured that the French Queen held mystical powers. Ironically none had laid eyes on her except the ferrymen and the personal guards who accompanied the King on business.

His eyes and face darkened - he needed her.

"Excuse me Father". Were it not for her smooth hands her breeding would have been perfectly concealed in her colloquel guise.  "Perhaps the King might like a kiss?"  She giggled nervously, egging on the suddenly awed and deathly silent spectators.

"Yeah, c'mon give us a show then and make it good".   He was all of 11 years old, perched on St Agnes’s pointed head.  Vulgar applause resounded in the square.
“Get from that sharpness laddy and shut your trap”. The Bobby was clearly irritated.

The priest appeared stunned as he turned to Gabrielle.  "Where are you from lass?".

"I'm from Stony Brooke  - The McGregor Clan, Old man McGregor be my sire".  The  were hooligans were raucously disinterested in hearing that old McGregor had a daughter when everyone knew 6 boys were born to him. A man and his secrets were between him, the barn walls and his God. well, perhaps the Mrs too had she been alive.  Old man McGregor should thank his lucky stars she died giving birth to that big bairn of a boy - for her puffy hands would surely now be wrapped around his throat.  But they were not going to add troubles to McGregor’s Clan. All was well that ended well.

“Get on with it Father”, the 11 year old going 50 piped up again.  His mother hobbled across on her wooden leg and twisted his ear to doomsday.  "Get off the head of St Agnes you viper - little scoundrel, you're like your good for nothing father.....young blighter! and so the 11 year old was taken to the church yard and given a lathering of his life - he was not going to sit on anyone's head for some time..

Father Macarthur nodded then indicated Gabrielle come up.
She took a tentative step forward and mounted the 26 steps to her destiny.  She lifted the black hood touched the Kings lips with hers and laced her fingers through his.

"Can I have a wee kiss too when you're done missy"?  McGregors fattest and oldest had become too familiar of late.  She had to pay him bag loads to be his sister. A position he took very seriously and would continue to be till her very last breath. His jowls shook with glee.

The Kings beard scratched her porcelain skin as they kissed.  A kiss as light and opaque as the morning mist.
The deafening roar of the villagers did not distract them even for a moment. The Queen lifted her hands to his face and from underneath her tongue she slipped a strip between their lips and tasted every contour of his handsomeness. Their eyes locked. The crowd relished the entertainment and shouted their displeasure when the priest halted the fun.

Gabrielle and Duncan knelt before the priest as if waiting for a blessing, then lay beside the cold scaffold at his feet. Theatre at its best.Tthe crowd loved every moment.  A hush descended.  They soon realised that the woman and King had not moved.  Their lifeless forms clung together in eternal embrace.  Pandemonium erupted.  The 12 officials stared dumb-founded.

King Duncan crossed French lines to save and bring Gabrielle to his world and keep her safe from the tyrannical Marquis Du Bellay who manipulated  her hand in marriage then required her head.  Duncan reasoned that the people would love her and that a concocted tale would hide her identity.  How was he to guess that they would be betrayed by Captain Blanchard – his stepbrother and friend – or so he thought. He never had a chance. The betrayal was well planned but during the impeachment Queen Gabrielle got away and infiltrated Stony Brooke village – to live among the poorest of the poor.  Nobody expected a missing queen to look like a tousled-head peasant girl.  The plan worked.  Looking at their crumpled form at his feet, Father MacArthur let out a sad sigh of relief.  The King had decreed that  at his death Vassals would own the land they had worked and ploughed. So shall it now be.

King Duncan stayed true to his code of chivalry – he loved Gabrielle and the choice for her to die with him was not what he wanted but saying no to Gabrielle was not easy at the best of times.  No blade should ever touch the neck of an honourable man.  Gabrielle would not allow it. Father MacArthur chose to kneel in prayer; the guillotine glistened in the morning mist.
There would be no beheading. The crowd shouted abuse and murder but the priest merely said his hail Marys and retrieved the vial from the Queens open palm. He loved them.

Through the mist Queen Gabrielle ran into King Duncan’s waiting arms. Death was but a veil; a kiss.  They had their own castle in the sky.

Gabrielle clung to her love,  “Perhaps the King might like a kiss”, she teased as she leaned into him. Her King

5 days after his King Duncan's death the Kingdoms of Scotland and France signed a treaty and the power of Lords over land was finally broken;  The vassals were free.

At the end of his years Father McArthur placed an extra plaque on the gravestone of King Duncan McAlpine, “A liberator and noble King lies here –  for the love of a queen”.

Above the peasant grave in McGregors lot he finally and with nothing to lose, put the rumors to bed,  "And here lies, Belle Reine Gabrielle Delon.  Beautiful Queen Gabrielle Delon, Queen of france.

And so too, having fended for his King and living his days without regret, Father McGregor walked home through the mist;

Through daffodils and laughing daisies,

to meet his King and Queen.


(C) Jambiya Kai