Prologue
The shovel sank deep into the soft dirt,
She dug and she dug,
Herself a shallow grave,
Before she turned to the priest who watched,
‘Bury me here, Father,’ she asked of him,
And gave him a generous coin.
‘My grave will be dug by me alone,
And my death shall be the same.’
The priest nodded,
Preaching to her words,
That he had never thought he would ever have to speak,
‘May treason serve you well,’ he said,
‘And blood serve you better.’