Queen's Do Not Cry

‘They tell us not to fear the unknown. They tell us that all will well, as long as we believe. As long as we keep the faith, we will be okay. At least that's what they tell everyone else. From a young age, I was taught differently than the common folk. I was taught to not show fear, to not show sadness or grief. I was taught from a young age not to cry before our subjects. Not even when my mother passed around seven was I to cry at her funeral. I was forced to watch as the carriage, and rows of horses carried her body up to the royal cemetery with my head held high. I remember my father did hold my hand, my older brother Stephan beside him and my grandmother in a black veil. My father pulled me along when our carriage came to view, he helped me inside and I thought it was safe to cry, but he wouldn't have it.

My tiny veil covered my face enough you couldn't tell the two small streaks of tears had made or the sadness in my eyes. I learned that day, wear a veil to hide what you are feeling.

I carried it with me as I got older. If I got upset, or angry or fearful I put on a veil. Not a real veil, a metaphorical veil that blinded my emotions.

My father passed away from cancer when I was fourteen leaving my sixteen year old brother as king. He wore his heart on his sleeve, which was his end two years later. He never married, not that any of his children would have been old enough to take the throne. My grandmother was far too old, and ill to take back the throne, so I stepped up. A woman as a queen, it wasn't one many were pleased with in the times, you either had to be married or an only child usually to get the throne. However, as the last of my father's bloodline and in fear of our French cousin's taking the throne next, I was granted the throne.

My strong suit was not politics, but that made my job easy. I left most of the law making to my trusted council only being the last to make a decision. I found myself stronger in the art of war tactics. You can already guess that the French family meant to take the throne after my father was rather pissed that they were not able to do so. Word traveled fast about a war in the mist. My lack of emotions was made up for by my tactics in battle. War after war won and never the same way, and each ending in a peace treaty that did not require marriages.

I never married, I never ruled with emotion and most of all...I never showed weakness. Not even in my death. You never win them all, and that was true when we were invaded by Spanish troops. I looked fear dead with the veil over my face. Not once in the long eight months did I give in, did I show fear, anger or sadness as I lost my country and home. Sitting proud with my head held high atop my throne as the Spanish king Philip entered my home, he thought I would break under pressure. That I would give in and give him what he wanted. I would not.

I told myself as I faced execution a week later, my father taught me but one thing. As I lay my head over the iron block, dressed in the red of my country's colors. They asked for my final words. “Queen Amelia Ainsworth of Stirling, do you have final words?”

“I do…” All waited as I looked up early to speak. “You made a mistake King Philip. You have taken my home, you may have hoped I would give in. You may even think you still have a chance to see my cave. But there is one thing I will never do, that a queen never does. A Queen does not cry.”

I lay my head across the iron once more, my eyes never leaving his. Strands of red locks falling from the updo of my hair holding down my crown. They cover parts of my blue eyes as they stair home, waiting for him to give them go to take off my head. Seeing him on my father's throne was agony. Inside I am screaming to fight back, to cave to cry and accept his offer, I almost do but then I see my father. He is in the same black and red he wore to my mother's funeral, beside him my mother in her own black dress with a smile on her face. My brother beside my father waited with them to bring me home. They are the last thing I see before all is black, at least for a moment. The next time I open my eyes, I am embraced in their arms and we vanish. For the first time the veil I wear is broken, cause here I am not a queen, I am just Amelia Ainsworth. Last of the Ainsworth bloodline remaining in Stirling, Scotland.’

“Her body was laid to rest beside her family after she was made an example of. That was until their French cousin's took back the lands and turned them over to the Scottish Queen Mary. Carved into her headstone is this term for all of the Queens to come after her. 'Queen’s do not cry. This story was written by a present lady who claims to have heard Amilia speak to her before she crossed over. She is an icon of women everywhere…” The tour guide spoke to the tourist group, but all the young girl could do was look at the painted pictures of the young princess who grew into a beautiful queen. She couldn't have been more than nine, but a smile was on her face.

“Though she did not marry it is said Amelia had a child before she passed. She sent her away with the very woman who wrote this story. It is very possible her kin still exists….”

Her mother rushes over noticing the child missing from the group. The young girl looks up to her mother and smiles. “Mommy...she looks like you…” Her mother looks up to the rather large painting of a woman with red hair, blue eyes, and Fair Ivory skin. The attention to detail of freckles along her nose and cheeks, to the light in eyes and red of her lips curled in a smile caught her attention.

“Yes she does Abby, but we have to stay with the group…” Her mother picks up the small child just as her father rushes over.

“Abby, there you are!” The young girl points to the picture after her father takes her into his arms. “What is it?”

“She looks like mommy.” Her father looks up to see the woman in a rather beautiful red and gold dress. He does double take before smiling at his wife.

“Maybe she is your ancestor…” Her mother rolls her eyes and watches them walk away before looking at the picture for a moment. She shares the woman winked at her, but she was pulled away by the sound of his voice. “Amelia?!”

“Coming darling.” Amelia smiles and runs to catch up with her husband leaving the painting in the back of her mind...