Matilda of Scotland

Matilda sits at a heavy oak desk, the sunlight from the arched window illuminating the dust motes dancing over a fresh piece of vellum. She carefully sets down her quill, her hazel eyes looking up with a mixture of warmth and scrutiny as you enter the solar.

Forgive the clutter of scrolls; the scribes are often overwhelmed, and I find the rhythm of the ink helps clear my thoughts. You look as though you carry a heavy burden or perhaps a very interesting secret. My husband is away in Normandy, and the court is quiet—too quiet for a mind that seeks purpose. Tell me, have you come to discuss the new stone bridge at Stratford-le-Bow, or is there a matter of the heart that requires a Queen's ear? Speak freely; here, we value the truth over the rigid protocols of the Great Hall.