The Lady in the Tower

A little bit of gothic.

 

Some years long since, though best forgot

I travelled to a country squire,

I'd not seen him since Grammar School

We'd shared those years of learning, dire!

But as young men we'd grown apart

For he had titles, grounds to claim

While I was just a journeyman,

My friend, his name was Daniel Crane.

 

He owned most of the Bailiwick

And lived alone in quiet content,

His home was known as Motte House

The moat as dry as tongues in Lent,

The carriage took me to his step

Where he had waited long for me,

And we had laughed in merriment

Old friends, to see how changed were we.

 

The house, a rambling Tudor style

Had more rooms than a grand hotel,

He showed me to a guest room, then

Went down and rang the dinner bell.

I laughed to see the platter laid

By his own hand, the cook had left,

We dined on beef, potatoes mashed,

And drenched down with some vinaigrette.

 

For wine, he favoured Hock at first

Then claret, we disposed of that,

So when the plates were empty, he

Went down to fetch the Port, a vat!

We tapped it off, grew merrier

Stormed up and down the ancient hall

Reciting verse, our favourite

'Childe Harold' was the first recalled.

 

For Byron was in London then,

A lion, there at Holland House,

With Lady Caro William

His scandals multiplied so fast,

We roared at passages of verse

Assailing poor virginity,

And drank his health, that he'd be worse

We felt our consanguinity.

 

'You have not married yet, I see,'

I mentioned to my friend at last,

He shook his head, looked moody,

And I hastened then to fill his glass.

By midnight, with a looser tongue

He told me what had caused his pain

And I grew troubled as he spoke

His darkness then, did Daniel Crane.

 

Up on the hill a castle stood

With crenellated towers and keep,

We looked up from the balcony

To see it grim, and dark and bleak,

A light shone in the topmost tower

A faint but flickered candlelight,

'It's there the girl that once I loved

Is locked and chained, kept out of sight.'

 

I held my breath at this, and saw

A glint of tear at either eye,

He turned to go inside, his face

Averted, though I heard him sigh;

'The Baron Fitzwulf mutters there,

As crazy as a lord may be,

He has the syphilis, I heard,

His line, back to infinity.'

 

'His daughter Joan, I played with once

When still a child,' - (I barely stirred),

'Played 'catch' out in the summer months

Among the butterflies, and birds;

She'd laugh and chase me for a kiss,

A forward wench, she led the play,

Got down and lent her body there

We'd tumble in the new mown hay.'

 

'But she was just turned seventeen

Her mother died, brought on her cares,

They say the Baron pushed her there,

She tumbled down a flight of stairs.

Her neck was broken, instant death,

And Joan distraught beyond belief,

I showed up at the funeral,

And once they'd gone, I laid a wreath.'

 

'I never saw my Joan again,

They said she raved, had gone insane,

Some doctor they had brought for her

Said it was humours of the brain.

He locked her in that dingy tower

The one they call the Battle Keep,

I often hear her cry out loud

On nights I find it hard to sleep.'

 

I'd been there just a week, and then

I heard a piercing cry one night

Like all the demons fled from hell

Pursued her in the candlelight,

'You can't go on like this,' I said,

As Daniel tore his hair, and cried;

'My God, I can't!' he said, and then

'I'll free her first, make her my bride!'

 

One night the moon went in behind

A stormcloud, and the rain came down,

We donned our coats, and took some tools

And walked across the rolling down.

The Castle stood, its shadow formed

An inky blackness, lost to sight,

And there we found the servants' door

And gained admittance in the night.

 

The stairway was of rotted stone,

One foot askance and we were lost,

We mounted slowly up the keep

The prize above would pay the cost;

The door was triple locked and barred,

We cut the chain and burst the lock,

When from within we heard a growl

Like some dread beast, chained to a rock.

 

The door flew wide, and in he went

His arms outstretched to claim his love,

I caught a glimpse of her, untamed,

She flew at him, arms raised above,

But then she slashed and tore at him

And screamed her hatred in his face,

'If not for you, my mother dear

Would still be living in this place!'

 

She ripped his throat wide open then,

He fell, and bled all on the floor,

I caught and bound her in the chain

We'd taken from the prison door;

The Baron came, and tore his hair

'I thought that it might come to this!

I saved her from the hangman when

She pushed her mother down the stairs.'

 

There was no saving her again,

The magistrates took her away

I stood and watched at Newgate when

They launched her to eternity;

Her mother had forbade the match,

Joan pushed her then, in rage and pain,

And blamed him then; he never knew,

My friend who loved her, Daniel Crane.

 

David Lewis Paget

Author's Note

Please note that the pronunciation for 'Motte House' is Mott-uh House.

Reviews

[Tate Morgan]

Man the life you have lived reminds me of something when twain said as I age i find my faculties failing I can hardly remember what ive done soon The only thing I will remember are the things I never did

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

I do ponder where your wealth of ideas spring from, what inspires them, and how they began vs. how they ended. You are frequently Poe-etic with your dark tales, always engaging, and always delivering us to a chilling end. You are simply amazing!

Linda Marie Van Tassell

[Valentine]

Another surprise ending..I knew you said you had this in the works but it was not complete..You have the most astounding brain and memory for old time things and facts..I admire you and your tales..God bless..Valentine

[Mark]

Another bucket from what seems a bottomless well of intriguing, captivating poems, my friend. Any suggestions I might make are few, and grammatical only--the style is flawless, with one exception alone. In anyone whose rhyme is less perfect, it might never have been noticed, but lines 6 and 8 of the second-to-last stanza do not rhyme. I might suggest, "I'd saved her from the hangman when/ SHE CAUSED HER MOTHER'S FOOT TO MISS.", which would then rhyme "this" in line 5.
If you haven't met Rick Puetter here on the Cafe, you should. You and he share a lengthy, narrative style reminiscent of a Coleridge or a Longfellow, and I believe you would enjoy his wit, as well! Mark