Summary: Lady Marjory Debaye is a young English noblewoman with immense hatred for the Scots. In the year 1297, she is captured by William Wallace and his band of rebels after they sacked her father's estate on the southern border of Scotland. He held her captive for ransom. Who would have known that the Scottish warrior would capture her heart?

I will try to be as historically accurate as possible. Isabella was only nine when the Scottish rebellion went on and Wallace was executed; some sources say that he did have a wife, but are not sure. The battles and dates are--to the best of my knowledge--accurate.

Chapter One

I am sure that you don't know me. Nor do you know the part I play in this tale.

My name is Marjory Debaye. I once held the title of "Lady." That doesn't matter now.

I was born in the year 1280 in London, England, to the esteemed English lord John William Debaye. My mother, the gentile Lady Jane, passed while giving birth to me. All I know of her is of her gentleness and kindness. Father grieved for her everyday.

He always said I was the ghost of my mother. I had to take his word for it, I suppose. I have raven-black hair, pale blue eyes that are the color of the river Nith, and a figure that is rather plain in my eyes.

I lived with my father in our estate of Bramblebury, on the southern border of Scotland. Bramblebury was a gift from King Edward I, for my father's years of loyal service. You see, my father was one of the king's most gallant generals. But instead of the king granting him with a higher position, he rewarded him with land. Much as he does with everyone who pleases him.

My childhood years were spent at Bramblebury: picking flowers and berries; playing in the wheaten fields. Growing up, it was just me, him, and our bevy of castle servants. Happiness bloomed every day.

Though Scotland, to me, is one of the most beautiful countires I have ever seen, my father despised it completely; he also hated all Scotsmen. I don't know where this hatred came from, but it was all he knew. His hatred for the Scots spilled over onto me. When the Scottish rebellion came into prominence in the year 1297, our shared hatred for them burned ever brighter.

"They have our protection. Always have. Those damned Scots should remember their place!" my father snarled. My sentiments often echoed his.

When King Edward--affectionately called "Longshanks" by those who didn't know better--called for my father's aid in the campaign against Scotland, he wasted no time in departing for London, leaving me in the care of my governess. That was fine with me. Father always left me at home with her whenever he visited London.

What Father didn't know was that the Scottish rebels attacked many wealthy English-owned estates all throughout Scotland: lifting sheep, food, armor, weapons. They sometimes took families, holding them ransom and using the ransom to fund their cause.

I was 18 when the man known as William Wallace and his small band sacked my father's estate...when he took me. This is my story.