Overheard in a Ruined Tower

Please take a seat, Father. Excuse the cobwebs. This is not my idea of a comfortable residence. It is good of you to visit. Yes, it’s true, we did have a little family trouble. But it was all the fault of that woman.

Picture this, if you will: she came into my house without as much as a by-your-leave, without one word of gratitude for my hospitality, and settled in to make herself at home. Oh, they said, she was unable to speak, but that was very convenient, I thought. It did away with the need for explanations. She had all the fool women weeping over her in the first five minutes, calling her ‘poor dear thing’. Of course, Edmond had fallen head-over-heels in love with her at once. But my son always was a soft-headed romantic, easy prey for a pair of tearful blue eyes.

And where did she come from? I ask you.

He was unable to give me a satisfactory answer.

From some hovel out on the edge of town, I supposed. Edmond said he found her up in a tree. That sounded a little strange to start with, for tree-climbing is not at all a ladylike thing to do. It was clear enough that she did not come from a good family. She was an utter-unknown. The Delaunay sisters, lovely girls whose lands march with ours, were terribly disappointed when they heard of Edmond’s attachment.

He married her, of course. It was inevitable. Although I had hoped he would just keep it an informal arrangement between the two of them. That would have been much less embarrassing. But not him! He must needs go and blazon his infatuation about the countryside, and invite everyone of any consequence to the wedding.

I went to it, of course, and put the best face on that I could. I am never one to dampen other people’s pleasure. I wore my black silk and pearls, and was extremely gracious to her, but I can’t say she seemed to appreciate the honor.

You should have seen her at the wedding feast, simpering up at him with those big doting eyes, hanging on his every word. My son is a well-brought up young man, with a classical education, but I would be the first to admit he is not renowned for dropping pearls of wisdom. My Lord Montjoy described his conversational talents in private as falling just short of ludicrous. Yet this girl sat gazing at him as if he were the silver-tongued orator himself. It was all I could do to choke down a bite.

So we settled down, and I thought we should at last have some peace. At least, Edmond spent more time at home now, and was not off hunting every waking moment.

The girl had some very odd habits, aside from her refusal to speak. Her sewing, for instance. She made a great secret of it, and refused to join me and my women in the morning room or even in the garden, but spent her every spare moment huddled in the corner of her room working away. If I entered her room, she squirreled her work away hastily, as if afraid I might steal it from her.

But it was her behavior at night that was scandalous. It made me suspect her of the blackest kind of art. If not that, I was certain, she was mad. She used to wait until the household was asleep, then sneak out through the postern gate and creep into the fields. After a few weeks, she began to go farther afield, to the graveyard itself. Heaven knows what she did there. Once, when I followed her close enough to catch a glimpse, I saw her tearing and stamping at the nettles like a thing demented, weeping all the while.

The next morning, I reproached her with her behavior, but she only turned her face away in that sullen way she had. The next thing I heard, she had refused to go to chapel that morning on the pretext that she was ill. I went up to offer some of my medicinal herbs, and there was Edmond hovering over her like a fool, crooning over her bleeding fingers, and kissing the torn soles of her feet. It was a pitiful sight.

Of course, I had to tell him of my suspicions. Who knows what she might have gone on to do, or what spells she was devising against his health and honor?

He had no choice in the matter. I explained that quite plainly to him. Lord Montjoy explained it as well, and the chief counselors concurred. Edmond had his duty to consider. Madness or worse in a wife of his was no light matter.

Of course, you know what happened. There was a great to-do and outcry but, in the end, there was only one possible course of action. Being a man of honor, Edmond ordered the execution himself. He even determined to go along to witness it, despite my attempts to dissuade him. That was really not necessary. I personally do not relish such scenes but, as his mind was made up, I felt it my duty to attend and support my son. I was sure in my heart that it was the right thing to do, despite the bishop’s attempts to persuade us to take pity on the girl. He always has been soft-headed when it comes to the rabble - er, the common people. One really cannot countenance that kind of sullen, sulking, lawless behavior. It sets a bad example for the commoners.

As they were driving her in the cart to the market square, she kept furiously working away at her sewing. I thought that it ought not to be allowed, and said as much to the bishop. It was such a bright day, and the people beside the road were making such a wretched noise, with all their sobbing and shouting, that it gave me a headache. It was a dreadful day.

Once in the square, they chained her to the stake. I have to admit that she made a pathetic picture, in her white shift with all that tumbling yellow hair. Of course, I was prepared to support Edmond through the dreadful ordeal. He was white as chalk himself, and sat his horse as if he were carved from stone. I was quite proud of him.

But, before anyone could move, seven swans came plummeting out of the sun, plumage blazing white, and landed around her with feathers flying. It startled me out of my wits. The bishop turned so pale that I thought he would fall out of his saddle. She threw the shirts she had been sewing over them, and they turned into young men - a scruffy enough lot, I thought, after wearing the same clothing for so long. I decided they’d made more prepossessing swans. But then, I often see things differently from other people.

To be sure, there were explanations, quite clear as far as they went. No one could dispute that. Everything was explained to Edmond’s entire satisfaction. In addition, she was now free to speak, and he was enraptured with her little rasping whisper of a voice. There was nothing more to be said. And it was some comfort that she turned out to come from a respectable family.

But then he turned to me. I have never seen Edmond so furious. The language he used! And in front of everyone! You would have thought that I had been trying to injure him, instead of protecting his interests. But the worst of it was that she - of all people! - had the impudence to intercede for me.

What’s that you say? You’ll have to speak up, Father, you sound just like a screech owl, or the wind whistling through the crevices. Yes, they keep me shut up behind these stone walls, with a few meager candles and a pair of slipshod old servants. They can keep me here as long as they like, but I still say there was more to it than meets the eye. I intend to stay here until he comes to his senses and apologizes. No matter how long it takes . . .


- Victoria Randall
Seattle, Washington, U.S.A.
http://www.talesoffantasy.com