She is not a 'false' saint.
"..."
"..."
"...Excuse me."
"Um, Your Majesty, that is..."
"An old man just died. One I gave knighthood to."
"...What?"
"How old was he?"
"..."
Margaret staggers slightly at the sudden question, as if drained of strength. That's understandable given the tension until just now.
She closes the door and fully enters the room, thinking about what question she was asked.
"...Sir John White was 66 years old."
66 years old.
And she is now... 72.
It was such a long life.
During the early part of that life, she had dipped her feet in numerous conspiracies and reached her hands into countless massacres to survive.
Looking back, her feet were covered in filth, and her hands were stained with blood, but she walked on without caring. She was defiled in body and soul anyway.
No, perhaps she was conceived from the beginning in a mire full of filth. It was just predetermined for her to live like this.
To live like this, and to die like this.
