The Diary of Margaret Neville

Dear diary,

My name is Margaret: I am twenty and five years of age. My husband's name is Richard, and we have a small estate in Warwickshire where we live together. I have two sisters: Anne and Isabel, who I wish I was closer to. However, due to circumstances outside of my control, I do not know if we shall ever be closer than we are.


You see: I am a bastard.

My father brought me back after a skirmish on the Scottish border: the daughter of some unknown Scotswoman who had led him to sin like he had. At the time, he had no children with my stepmother: Anne Beauchamp. She does not like me much, and I have given up on having any warm relationship with her. She treats me as if I am a thorn in her side, forever a reminder of the Scottish whore who seduced her husband early in their marriage. And yet, I have never known my mother: I do not know if I look like her, or if I sound like her. Sometimes, I dream about her: how she might love me if I were still in her care.

Anyway...

My father was slain in battle recently; at Barnet. When I heard the news, I was numb and did not know why. After some consideration, I came to the conclusion that I should leave home and seek out the other side of my family. My husband agrees: he is very supportive and wishes to know the answer to this mystery as well. I have not told my sisters or stepmother, and I do not plan to. This diary shall be my record concerning this journey.

Wish me luck,
Meg.

Dear diary,

This week, I travelled with Isabel to London to see our father’s remains be buried properly. I felt quite empty all the while, and Isabel herself did not weep. Although she herself is legitimate, Isabel has always struggled with our family, especially due to her beliefs that women are equal to men. Father always tried to teach her otherwise, yet Isabel is set in her beliefs.

Father’s remains were pocked with knife marks, but his body had been washed. Richard, our cousin was there, presiding over the body. Although I know him to be a kind boy, I had not the stomach to socialise. We all stood there a great while before I retired with Isabel to L’Arbor for dinner.

I have not told Isabel my plans to find my birth mother: I fear it shall alienate me from my sister. I cannot bear the thought of not being able to visit Isabel ever again over what? Self discovery? My sisters are all I have ever had.

I cannot bear the thought of being even more alone.

Sincerely,
Margaret.

Dear diary,

Today, I approached Isabel with the question that has haunted me all this time. We were reading in the hall and I stated that sometimes, I wonder who my mother was. Isabel had no information about my wonderings, however she did know where father had kept his papers, and supported me looking through them for some answers. Isabel loves a good intrigue; things have been so quiet since father’s death, and this seems to have stirred some hope in us both. She knows how mother hates me: I am not her child, forever a memory of some betrayal that happened on a Scottish campaign. It would be great to find my mother, and Isabel has said she would love to meet her, too.

At the end of the week, I will go to Warwick castle and see what I can find. I hope I can at least find a name, or a city in which she lived. I hope that I look like her: I look nothing like my father, and I am very different looking from my sisters.

Sincerely,
Meg