Sir John FitzAlan's Ball

The news came rustling through the trees

As I tethered the horse’s head,

It came with a gentle sigh on the breeze,

‘The Lady Mulcrave is dead!

She waits for you to attend her now,’

I shook in a craven fear,

‘Her arms are crossed in eternal rest

As she lies on her oak wood bier.’

 

I stared in horror about me then

For the voice I heard in the glade,

Though nothing moved in the gloom out there

But the shadows the fire made.

‘You lie,’ I cried, as I saddled the horse,

Buckled and fastened the bit,

Then spun around by the river’s course,

‘I’ll not hear a word of it!’

 

We galloped over the rickety bridge

And the hoofbeats rang in the air,

They seemed to echo the one refrain

That desperate word, ‘Despair!’

The moon hung over the distant hill

With the Motte and Bailey Hall,

Where I’d left Milady an hour before

At Sir John FitzAlan’s Ball.

 

She’d said, ‘Be certain to call for me

When it strikes the midnight hour,

I wouldn’t like to be left in there

Bereft, in FitzAlan’s power,

I’ve fended off the proposals that

He’s made, in the times before,

Be sure to wait at the Bailey’s gate

With my father’s coach and four.’

 

I’d left her there with a merry throng

In their masques and gowns and lace,

The gentlemen with their tricorn hats

And coats, cut high at the waist,

I’d ridden off to the distant wood

To sit out the time before

I’d ride alone to her father’s home

And collect the coach and four.

 

But now, I hurried on back in fear

That Milady was taken ill,

I prayed to God on my foam fleck’d ride

As we crested, over the hill.

The Motte and Bailey was dark outside,

Not a lantern at the door,

And not a guest to be seen out there

Where they’d thronged, an hour before.

 

I rode on into the courtyard where

The coaches had wedged in tight,

There wasn’t a single coach or horse

To be seen in the pale moonlight,

I called, ‘Is anyone left in there

I’ve come for Lady Mulcrave!’

There wasn’t a sound in the silence there,

A silence, deep as the grave.

 

I beat on the heavy oaken door

It echoed on through the hall,

I thought that I heard some breathing, breathing

Whispering through the wall,

‘Open the door and let me in,

I know you were here before,’

The hinges creaked and the door gave way,

Into an empty hall.

 

The air was rank and the walls were damp

And a moss grew on the floor,

There hadn’t been anyone living there

For fifty years or more,

And standing near the ancient hearth

Was a shape that brought a tear,

For stood in the gloom of that ancient room

The remains of an oak wood bier.

 

I sit in my cabin, deep in the woods

And avoid the world outside,

Something that happened late that night

Disturbed my time and tide,

The Lady Mulcrave died that day

In that Motte and Bailey Hall,

On the same day I was born, they say

As Sir John FitzAlan’s Ball.

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Sheila Kline]

Ah, such a chilling story of the death of The Lady Mulcrave and the birth on the same day of this chap's - reaching across the realm of the dead unto the realm of the living makes one stop and think of how often this may actually happen!

I adore your stories rich in lore and how you take the names of actual people in history and adapt them by a slight change in name, etc to entertain us as you do. Sir John FitzAlan certainly had the reputation of taking advantage of women (at the nunnery - though it is disputed), and he married Lady Maltravers. (Yep, he's an ancestor of mine too...lol though I am descended from his brother, Richard, my 15th. great grandfather who married Elizabeth DeBohun) Wow, that's a long time ago!!
You are an expert storyteller........ALWAYS!!! I love this!!

[TL Boehm]

another chilling write - I think I have some FitzAlan's in my family tree. Wonderful story here, David

[Tom]

A ballad from those past decant days when the who's who of their day loved to entertain, but one chap was left somewhat stunted and distantly aloof as a result !

[Strider Marcus Jones]

Mesmeric story, rhythm and language. The characters, setting and time come alive as this superb poem unfolds. Another excellent poem from a master poet. 100/100 and into my library.

[Marie]

This made my scapp tingle...very mysterious...

[Akshay Rawal]

A nice piece written with honesty...So well - devised as if all incidents are real...Nice and enthralling...
Thank you for sharing.....Sir