Lady Gwendolyne's Revenge

(1,493 words, excluding definitions)

LADY GWENDOLYNE’S REVENGE

Lady Gwendolyne FitzAllan stumbled across the open courtyard at the top of the citadel trembling as much from fear as from cold.  She was almost dragged towards the seated Count Alexander, Lord of the Marches.  A pale young woman, usually described as “delicate”, blond hair flowing around her shoulders and an expression of abject fear across her face, her hands clasped in front of her, knuckles white with tension.

The Count’s rugged features were marked by pain, both from the fatal MALADY eating away at his body, and from his knowledge of betrayal by her brother.  Lines were etched deep into his face with his mouth drawn down in a perpetual grimace.  His sickness was a progressive wasting disease that medicaments, cautery, bleeding, purging and similar nostrums, including prayer, had failed to AMELIORATE.  He saw this as a failure on his part—he who had conquered barbarian tribes, could not control his own body.

Betrayal was another matter.  Lord Edward FitzAllan had been his companion and his supporter.  Then, for reasons the Count had never been able to discover, even with the aid of skilled torturers, FitzAllan had betrayed his intentions to the king, an effeminate fool for whom the Count had only contempt.

“Well, Lady Gwendolyne, as your brother is now beyond my reach, you must pay for his betrayal.  If the principal is not available, a member of his family must become a substitute, and you shall be that substitute.”  His words ground out, harsh and unforgiving.  This was not a man to show mercy, and it was widely known that the Count had a PREDILECTION for revenge.  His father had been butchered in a revolt twenty years ago, and the Count’s desire for revenge had boiled in his soul.

The Count had not always EMBODIED this steely savagery.  Only after the death of his beloved young wife twenty five years earlier, did this become apparent; a result of a hopelessly botched delivery of their longed for son.  The lady had died in indescribable pain; the child was stillborn—and the unfortunate but incompetent midwife was punished in ways so barbaric that people still shuddered at its remembrance. 

The Count continued.  “Lady Gwendolyne, you shall be confined to the nunnery at Abbotsford, there to CONSECRATE your soul to the order.  You shall live out your life in a daily ritual of contemplation and flagellation.”

The lady gasped and fell to her knees, clasping her hands in supplication.  “Please, my lord, please, not Abbotsford.  Their rule is strict to the point of savagery and many who enter the order fail to survive.  The abbess has been in conflict with my family for years and she would take any opportunity to humiliate, punish and harm me.”  Her tears fell like rain, but failed to EVOKE compassion from the Count. 

“Indeed, Lady Gwendolyne, I am aware of the stringency of the abbess’ rule, and I heartily approve.”

“My lord,” she sobbed, “I have done you no wrong.  I have been faithful and devout, and have never spoken against you.  Please, my lord, have mercy.  If necessary, I should go into exile for the rest of my life.  But, oh God, please, not Abbotsford.”  Lady Gwendolyne’s horror of this sinister place was evident as she trembled, wringing her hands, her face contorted in terror; her tears continuing to flow.

For the Count, mercy was a weakness to be eradicated, and his fierce, brutal gaze crushed any hope she may have had.  “Your behaviour is quite irrelevant.  You are in the unfortunate position of being the closest living relative to your treacherous brother to whom I have access.  As such, you must pay the penalty that would otherwise attach to him.  You may count yourself lucky; my first instinct was to kill you, but I was persuaded otherwise by those who feared you would become a martyr for the rebel cause.”  The Count was sufficiently ASTUTE to recognise the truth of this advice, accepting that banishment to the nunnery would have to SUFFICE.

“Lucky, my lord?”  Lady Gwendolyne’s voice and staring eyes displayed her fear of the words she had just heard, although the Count’s ALLUSION to her possible death made no difference to her.  “I cannot count incarceration in that hell-born place as luck.”

“Well, my lady,” the Count displayed an indifference bordering on hostility, “that is my final decision.  Guards, remove this woman.”

Before they could move a complete change came over Lady Gwendolyne.  She broke free from the guards holding her; their grip had been light as she was a lady of the court, small and seemingly quite fragile.  She ran to the battlements, and leapt onto the edge of the wall, a plunge of at least a thousand feet behind her.

Lady Gwendolyne’s wild, staring eyes seemed to almost leave her head.  Foam flecked the corners of her mouth, and drool ran down her chin.  “Alexander the bastard, born out of wedlock, may your pain increase until it is as that of your late wife,” she screamed and the Count’s face darkened with anger.  As if this were not enough, Lady Gwendolyne seized her shift and ripped it to pieces, exposing her body to the elements.  Worse was to come.  Her slim fingers, tipped with long, elegant nails now seemed to turn into talons and she tore deeply into her own flesh.

Blood poured down Lady Gwendolyne’s arms and body.  She pointed one dripping hand at the Count, screaming in a harsh, piercing voice, “I curse you into the deepest hell, Alexander the bastard.  I curse your family into eternal torment.  I curse your ancestors whose dust will be consumed by the flames.  As my soul is gathered to God, so he will hear my curse and visit damnation upon you.” 

A loud gasp went up from those around the Count.  These devout people had a deeply entrenched belief in the efficacy of the dying man’s curse.

The Count scowled and shouted at those near to Lady Gwendolyne, “Take her alive.  She must not die.  Yet.”

Too late.  With a final eldritch scream, Lady Gwendolyne FitzAllan plunged from the tower, her arms outstretched almost as if attempting to fly.  Her scream was echoed in the freezing wind that suddenly howled across the tower.

The Count’s confessor, an elderly priest, rotund and SANGUINE whose appearance belied a sombre and devout nature, spoke urgently to the Count. “Her curse is a fearful warning, my lord.  A curse from one with sure knowledge of their approaching death is powerful and almost always efficacious.  Doubly so from a woman.”

“Utter nonsense, father,” growled the Count. “An old wives tale born of fear and superstition. I will hear no more of that rubbish.”

As the wind slowly abated, a guard suddenly shouted, “My lord, look—to the south!”  There rising from below came an enormous black bird that circled slowly around the tower.

“A dreadful omen, my lord,” cried the priest, now trembling with fear.  “The dying man’s curse, now visitation by the black bird bodes evil for you and for our land.”

“Were you not a man of the cloth,” the Count’s patience was wearing thin, “I should have you punished for causing panic among my people.  As it is, be silent until I give you permission to speak.”

“But, my lord, the bird!” 

“Would you bandy words with me, master priest?” The Count’s deep sarcasm carried a menace far greater than the mere words. “I see I must deal with this in my own way.”

As the bird circled low over the battlements, the Count called to one of his guard, “You, fellow, bring me your bow and your truest arrow.”  Taking the weapons, the Count nocked the arrow and in one smooth, unhurried motion, loosed it at the circling bird. Demonstrating his almost legendary skill as an archer, the Count’s arrow took the bird in mid-air. It plummeted into the chasm with a scream eerily reminiscent of Lady Gwendolyne’s departure.

“Let this be an end to nonsense about omens and curses,” the Count shouted, leaving for his chambers oblivious to, or deliberately ignoring murmurings of concern and dissent.

Count Alexander, Lord of the Marches retired to bed early that night.  When he did not wake as usual next morning, his manservant knocked timidly on his door and entered.  And fell in a dead faint.  In the middle of the bed, in a tangle of bedclothes smeared with blood lay the corpse of the Count.  His eyes were wide and staring, and his face contorted in an expression of terror never before reported throughout the land.  So much so that his face had to be covered with a cloth before anyone would undertake to move his remains.

No one knew, few wanted to know, what horror had been visited on this hard, unyielding yet fearless man.  But the belief in curses and omens grew large and remained across the marches for centuries.


All definitions from The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary:

Malady (n)                    An ailment, a disease.
Ameliorate (vb)          Make better, improve.
Predilection (n)          A mental preference or partiality; a favourable predisposition.
Embody (vb)          Give a material or discernible form to an abstract principle, concept, etc.  (used in the past tense).
Consecrate (vb)          Dedicate solemnly to a sacred or religious purpose;
Evoke (vb)                    Call into being or activate a memory, image, feeling, etc.
Astute (adj)          Of keen penetration, esp. as to one's own interests; shrewd; sagacious; crafty.
Suffice (vb)                    Be enough or adequate for a purpose
Allusion (n)          A covert, passing, or indirect reference (to)
Sanguine (adj)          Of the complexion: florid, ruddy.