Isobel: The Lord's Daughter

Isabel, the lord's daughter. I can not get the sting out of my gown. I've tried chicken feathers, water, yarn, and ox gal, and still smart. Father will be angry. I find so kind of spoiled. That's not my fault. I was passing through town on my way to the market and somebody threw it a clod of dung. I saw the boys, but I didn't know which I was walking Einstein as a modest maid should. It hit me. I looked up and saw them snickering, handing their smiles and their dirty hands. If I told father, he would see that they all had a good beating. But I could not but think only one did the clod only one should be beaten. But which. I can not get the stain from my gown or the thought from my mind. They hate me. Why? What have I done with my own soft hands? I've given out bread on Llama's day. For my own purse, I give to the poor and in times of war, those self same boys skeer like rats to have themselves in my father's wolves. Yet it is true. I am better high on better shot and better fit than those true. And what if I am? Lord God chose my father to rule the way he chose them to serve. I do but take what they would take as lord God chose to give it to them. I walked forget the way they left. Their smiles were so ugly. I almost feared they were big boys. Almost met. And I was alone, except for my maids of Emma. Never mind the way she says to me, but I do mind. My gown is spoiled and never again. Will I walk through the streets as cast down?