The Chatelaine Of Castle William Poem by Christopher Laverty

'If a bird builds a nest
To lay its eggs in it
Then, it never flies away again
But stays in it
On the eggs in its nest
Even while strangled.'

- the chatelaine's vow.


The moment that I saw - that sombre day -
those stern, forbidding walls that lay ahead,
those lifeless towers that frowned in skies of grey,
those bare and narrow steps that to it led,
those brooding mountains that around it spread -
a mood of inexpressible gloominess -
a palpable, unsettling sense of dread
seemed to seize me - my every thought depress -
my very being - to its core - possess.

The grim, majestic silence of the castle
hung over darksome woods of pine and oak.
One felt the bygone days of alter, vassal
and valour - which the village streets evoke.
Halting - my horseman - not a word he'd spoke -
had left me near the entrance to its hill.
The featureless facade - where nothing broke
its grave austerity, had made it feel
a thing of fantasy - thing not quite real.

I sojourned then through Europe - in the wake
of revolution lately seen in France,
whose tumult made the ancient order shake
throughout the continent. I took the chance -
while near - to see this relic of romance -
of ages filled with ballads, tales and lore.
Drawn strangely to its bleakness at first glance,
I felt compelled to climb the steps - explore
this vacant pile - to peer beyond the door.

Forcing its blank and sturdy oak, I found
a hall - then inner courtyard. It felt good
to see this tranquil scene that stretched around.
By steep and narrow steps - as best I could -
I trod the winding walkways' creaking wood.
A library with dusty books was crammed;
in eerie stillness suits of armour stood.
The cellars seemed like dungeons of the damned,
another door mysteriously jammed.

Proceeding, labyrinthine passageways
I followed - ducking through doorways as I went.
And while through arrowslits came setting rays,
my curiosity was not content.
Within a chamber - given ornament
by rugs and tapestries - I found a book
that chronicled the castle's turbulent
and frightful history - this tome I took
with candles to the library to look.

It told of bitter, ancient rivalry -
and ghastly acts of vengeance that befell
this troubled house, that plagued its family -
deeds that the keeper of the gates of hell
would loath to look upon. The author well
those stories there relates - of which to hear
he'd sought the castle's chatelaine to tell -
approaching her when death was growing near -
to tell him what she'd seen - which I read here:

'Employed in buildings large and venerable,
a trusted resident - the chatelaine -
attends the kitchen, stable, keep and hall,
and wears her keys around a silver chain.
This household's longest-serving shall remain
unnamed. The feuding family she served -
their savage acts of cruelty - barely sane -
which this her testimony has preserved -
left her profoundly shaken and unnerved.

Within these walls the winds of enmity
would never cease. Two brothers for it fought -
whose sire himself it gained through treachery -
from one whose wife he stole. Wrathful he brought
a curse on his descendants - each who sought
the castle for themselves by evil deeds -
by horrors never known till then - which wrought
their marks upon the stone - which sowed the seeds
for gardens overgrown with snarling weeds.

These brothers - thirsting for each other's blood,
doomed generations since to lustful lives -
their names forever written in the mud -
to murder, incest, lies; to seething hives
of merciless stepmothers, vengeful wives
and jealous husbands - and to plots to win
this stronghold with concealed yet ready knives -
false reconciliations - with any sin
devised as thunder rolled with fearsome din.

One of the brothers took the house by force -
stealing the other's wife - casting him out
in woods to wonder. Pursuing a course
of retribution - caring not to flout
any morality - he set about
to kidnap, kill and cook his children - wait
until he came invited - ease his doubt
if any were - then serve them on a plate,
hiding in food their pieces - which he ate.

The new custodian's oath of duty sworn,
this chatelaine had started here to work.
One day outside, a servant came to warn
her of a door from which all seemed to shirk -
one underground - forgotten in the murk.
Found in a dingy wing, he only knew
that something seemed inside this room to lurk
so disconcerting them - that round it grew
much muttered rumour - not perhaps untrue.

She said: 'Though there was not the faintest trace
of warmth within his few and guarded words -
his stiff and formal air - his rigid face -
he not unfriendly seemed. Suddenly birds
gathered above our heads - and bleating herds
summoned him. Anxious, I was left alone.
At supper, by a fireplace hung with swords,
one evening - I heard a distant moan -
like someone calling in an anguished tone.

Venturing down below to where it came -
or seemed to - coming to a basement room
I'd noticed not before, I heard the same -
a moan which startled me there in the gloom,
moan that could wake the dead within their tomb.
It shook me to the depths - as so appalling
was its sound - then came a tremendous boom -
made by a footstep; noises like fingers scrawling
came next - and haunting cries of children calling.

Disorientated as I fled that scene -
lost in a subterranean dead end,
a single shaft of moonlight I could glean -
and found steps near - which starting to ascend
I saw my way out - and my servant friend.
Then suddenly there came into my mind
that oath - whose sense I did not comprehend
when made. The call of duty I could find
there now - of which it seemed me to remind.

'If a bird builds a nest
To lay its eggs in it
Then, it never flies away again
But stays in it
On the eggs in its nest
Even while strangled.'

Gathering up myself - back then I went,
finding its rusty key. With all my might
the stiff and stubborn handle soon I bent -
and saw there - in the dimness - saw a sight -
a spectral figure that amazed me quite.
Extremely frail he looked - chained on the bed -
hardly more than a skeleton; bone white
his flesh and hair - as if he seldom fed.
I asked him who he was - slowly he said:

'Though for me to speak I've hardly breath -
I'll speak; my name is Skelton, and this place
was mine once. Punishment more harsh than death -
your family's sire that stole it - to disgrace
me all the more - to gloat upon my face -
locked me in here alone. Mine was the curse -
mine the revenge - with which I could debase
his family - to drive to acts perverse -
unnatural - but grudges are as worse.'

I told what happened since their sire had died,
recounting all his children's acts of lust -
which to hear he bowed his head and sighed.
'This much appals me. Yet my chains of rust -
and rage - cause me my pain. To fade to dust
is now my sole escape and wish. To lift -
perhaps - this curse may bring it, and I must -
I made it, only I can heal the rift
and end this torment; so I'll do it swift.'

Since then I'm still the chatelaine of here,
troubled by little but the daily chores,
and things more commonplace that others fear.
Though sometimes I've a presence felt indoors -
sworn something's moved - imagined creaking floors -
my duty calls. The garden, room and lamb -
the dinner and the cellar me implores;
as after all I was - and always am -
the chatelaine of Castle William.''