Was it not enough to be Queen? Was it not enough to know the love of a great man? While other women scrapped at the smallest plot of land that they may survive the winter, you held grand feasts and laughed as men fell over themselves to entertain you. You were always a simpering little fool.
They call that slap one of the "Three Harmful Blows of the Island of Britain." I can still feel the sting of my palm against your smooth cheek. They say I am the one who began it, but it was you, dear sister. You threw away a king and a kingdom for your childish ideals. You threw the greatest kingdom on God's good Earth into peril for what? Piercing eyes and a handsome face?
A king lies dead at your feet and you flit off to France. Were it not for you, the king would be on his throne. Were it not for you, his blood would not water the ground of Britain. Were it not for you, I would have been happy.
Instead your folly unleashed a flood that swept through our land, scouring her clean of good men and hope. Death followed on your heels as you danced heedlessly into the arms of another. You spoke of love as if that had anything to do with it. As if love justified the destruction of a great man and his kingdom. As if love was enough.
Three things are not easily restrained, the flow of a torrent, the flight of an arrow, and the tongue of a fool.