I, Phylippa, have been sold.

I have been bought, bride-price levied,

and dressed for my husband.

I have been poked and prodded from the herd,

and chosen worthy of the laird.

I, Phylippa, have been used.

My mother’s voice, veiled head bowed,

whispering, “Don’t be a burden, accept.”

Accept that you were chosen,

accept your role and be silent.

I, Phylippa, have been broken.

My lip split at a hard-ringed hand,

coarse laughter at my wit,

His angry eyes as blood welled in my mouth.

I would not stay silent.

I would not accept.

I, Phylippa, have been taking what’s mine.

I bit his throat. I tore his eyes.

I took his men and his brides.

I will not accept, I will ride and fight.

Curse me or bless me, do as you might,

But

I, Phylippa, was right.