With a Sword in My Hand

‘What am I going to do with you, my little Lady of Flanders; how are you ever going to make a Countess? The world will tear you to pieces.’
My ears are ringing. I smell the wine on my father’s breath. With his hand he brushes a plait of hair from my face.
‘Why didn’t you die?’ I shout, tears pouring from my face. ‘Why did the arrows miss you? Why didn’t the English hack you to pieces on the battlefield?’
Then I turn and run outside.