The frail of heart does frail a promise give And keeps it while the weather’s fair and well, Forsaking them as storms do settle in To stay for days or hours on end
Sometimes the beauty treacherous may prove Whilst it beguiles or at distance keeps But should you closer come, it burns With absence of the soul or inner peace.
Be not ye trick’d by beauty’s fair display It is of naught when soul keeps reign elsewhere But look for strength of heart for it remains In times when beauty is no longer there.
My caged heart does voiceless music make Its wretched state prevents it from all joy, My heart is mute, albeit for beauty’s sake It tries to sing – and loses voice.
My heart does watch as memories rot In bloodstained earth and dampen’d floors, My heart’s cage is by passions wrought, It holds my heart in hate and woes.
My heart remembers not the waste Of shame and time, it lingers still On mem’ries and forgotten days When all the dreams could be fulfilled
My heart flies back on broken wings, In vain attemps to bring your smile back- My soul is frail – and so it sings Without a voice that my heart lacks.
My caged heart shall always fly to you, Be it as weak as newborn, pale light My caged heart in all its woe and gloom The strength to love and hope shall find.
My heart is chain’d to those whom I have loved, As is my mind to those who have my hatred bourne, My soul is weak, yet never is denied Its right to leave its grave of blackened stone.
When it does leave, in hours of pale moonlight, It often goes to where my true love lies, It cries in vain, as it in life hath cried Upon the marble floor of tears and sighs.
But her dark eyes are closed in silent sleep, Her raven hair of damask’d silk undone, And whitest skin remembrance keeps Of sword’s cold kiss and songs unsung.
She will not hear my lonely soul’s complaint, For iron gates do hold her from the world- Yet by her side my heart and soul remain, In death’s embrace of mortal cold.
There I shall stay, for I have yearned to be With her since last I saw her dance and sing – There I shall stay, for once she did love me – And to these happy times my heart still clings.
Would I to win the crown for your fair glance, I would have battled, fought and warred for days on end. I would have risked it all for swift embrace, For one brief word, for touch of hand.
Would you to love me then, as you did once, Or would you let me perish,pray? Would you to let me die, perchance, Or would you come to save the day?…
I know the weight of love to be too great When heart to heart no friendship bears, But do tell me, were hearts of ours unchained, Would you have love enough to spare?…
Would you come then, would you forever stay? Just tell me…but do not say nay.
Don’t leave me thus, All drunk by beauty rare, Enchanted by the eyes And hope so vain, That grows within the soul To wither fast In cruel light of truth- I pray, be kind to me: Don’t leave me thus.
Don’t leave me thus: I am outdone by far By richer silks, By golden threads so fine, By wreaths bedecked By gems beyond compare, By gifts of kingly stubborn pride. I pray, do mock me not- Don’t leave me thus.
Do leave me thus. My story is all set, To rocks of foreign shore Forever chained, So that my heart By falcon white be bled, Farewell, ye spiteful rose! Adieu, oh coeur sans honte- Do leave me thus.
Mistletoe shimmers Where once was my heart. Silver leaves of cold Freeze my thoughts. Mistletoe poison Runs in my blood, And darkness falls On my broken chest.
Mistletoe brightens The gloomiest days, Bringing joy to the wise, Crowning the kings. Mistletoe bleeds The brightest of hearts, And spring shall come Nevermore.
Mistletoe makes The finest arrows and darts, When it’s malice that Gives thought to the making. Mistletoe kisses The life goodbye Giving it as an offering To the grave.
Mistletoe looks Too harmless to think It is lethal -like cold That can kill in a moment. Mistletoe drops Its bittersweet tears On the dimmed glance Of the innocent Balder.
Mistletoe clings To my fingers and cloak As I watch the light Dying by the oaks. Mistletoe curses The one who loved His brother and liege Most of all.
Mistletoe blood Feeds the coldest of hearts In the realm of Hel Where no sun shines. Mistletoe creeps In my dreams, And the arrow pierces My heart at last.
From the darkness I watch, Yet I am not blind. Cold has forged my sword, Mistletoe blood runs in my arrows. Hödr is my name, I slew Balder.
Black is my armor, Clear is my mind. In the dark I abide, Yet it never blinds me. Night gave its silks For my blindfold.
My bow – silver and ash, My hand never misses, Through the darkness I see Both the Aesir and mortals, Cold is my voice, Yet the fire rages within.
When the end comes, The world shall turn upside down, And the dead shall return On their ghostly ships Following the light of Balder And cold stars of Hödr.
Godslayer they call me, Blinded by envy, Blinfolded by malice, Oblivious to evil- But they forget the light Needs darkness to shine.
Sure is my hand, Strong is my will, Dark are my eyes, Yet they are not blind- For the darkness sees all, And never falters.
Say hello to Sir Thomas. He is surely up for some poetry. Sir Thomas being of course the brilliant Tudor courtier and poet, Sir Thomas Wyatt, who’s taken to visiting while I’m working.
He first came through while I was reading his biography Graven with diamonds. He’s quite a frequent guest, and a pleasant company.
My muse is lame, it sings not to be heard, But to reclaim the lute that broken lieth, My muse is lame, yet full of spite and hurt As heart of mine is chained to yours – alas!
Wherever roameth silent, ardent thought, The heart, it meekly followes suit – Wherever cries the sould, so frail and flawed, The heart, it bleeds all dark and mute.
Forgive the heart that restess flies to you- It knows not how to leave your face behind. Forgive the verse that ringeth sharp and true It has your name engraved in every line.
Oh do not judge so hard the one that yearns For your embrace, your voice upon the wind, He is a fool, for he himself condones For loving you against his will!
They are everywhere. The gallery, the halls, the stairs. They whisper, they call out, they shout.
The ghosts.
Worried, troubled, anxious, nervous- paler than the moonlight. Agitated, excited, bereft, mournful- locked in time.
The ones now gone.
‘You need not have come, you shall be in trouble’ , says the hushed voice. ‘He shall see you, and by Holy spirit, he will not like it!’
‘Aye’ , another one puts in, ‘He will not be pleased, if he knows you been there’
‘Flee’, the third advises, ‘Leave here. Were I you, I would have. He is much displeased with her, he is all wrath and anger. Flee!’
Why should I, I think. Who can harm me? They are all dead.
‘He can’, a man’s voice answers, solemnly as in a confession, ‘In death as in life. He can, m’lady. He did this to us.’
‘He is here’.
A murmur crawls from the darkened corridor, the voices gasp, lights flicker.
‘I shall protect you’, a man says close by.’Do not be afeared’
A pearly, opalescent shadow forms by me. A tall, slender – yet proportionately well built – man stands there. All Tudor style in looks, he is quite handsome with his greyish eyes and chestnut hair. I know him from the portraits, I have read of him.
‘Percy? Henry Percy?’
‘The same, my lady. I must guard you – yet be warned, his anger is dangerous even to you, living ones’.
They all speak of Henry Tudor, of course – who else would be here? Stomping, heavy steps draw closer. Lights flicker quicker only to go out. Tapestries tremble as in cold gusts of wind- yet no wind is there.
Daunting, great shadow rises in the doorway, its shoulders wide enough to take up all space, its face contorted with anger. It is Henry, the eighth of his name, the terrible Tudor – and the second he enters, a pallid ghost throws itself at his feet. A girl, young and still visibly beautiful, all despair and fear.
‘Save me! Please, Harry, do not kill me! Have mercy on me!’
‘Get away, wench!’
‘Have mercy!’
He pushes away, and another shadow is there, right at the window. A portly man in red, his eyes pained.
‘I have served you as well as I could. You took everything from me – even my life. Traitor king. Traitor friend. Traitor blood.’
‘Wolsey’ my guide explains. I nod and ask, if that was what the ghosts did.
‘We torment him as he tormented us. Wait’.
A woman is standing in the doorway. When she speaks, the accent is clear.
‘I have loved you. I gave you children. I was your wife. ‘
‘Catherine’ Henry gasps turning around. ‘Stop tormenting me!’
‘You took my child from me.’
‘She wasn’t obedient!’
‘My child. My Mary. My only daughter. You tormented us both. Damn you.’
Henry shudders as if hoping to shake off her voice still echoing in the hall.
‘Harry‘
‘Anne’ both Henrys whisper ‘Anne’.
Tall and statuesque, dark hair flowing down her back, she enters. Her dress of silver and black glitters as she walks.
‘I have given you my youth. I have given you my body. All you wanted was a child – I have given you one. Losing the others was hard enough. And you.. You mocked me, you slept around. You wanted to leave me as soon as Elizabeth was born. You took my love from me, and I shall never forgive you.’
Henry whimpers yet says nothing.
Anne walks past me, a faint aroma of roses and berries trails after her. Seeing Percy, she sighs, and her eyes are sorrowful.
‘I love you’ She mouthes. He looks at her, his face a mask of grief. A second- and she’s gone.
Others come. Thomas More, Henry Norris, George Boleyn, sweet Jane Seymour, followed by Anne of Cleves and Catherine Parr, – and faces fill the hall. They surround Henry, they crowd him, and for a moment he is no longer a mighty king, but a shivering, pale shadow on the floor.
‘We are locked here together, ‘ Percy says ‘Tormentors and the tormented, side by side. Haunted they say. Cursed say we. No peace for us, my lady. No lightness. No quiet. And I shall tell you this- you must come here with a guard, a guide – but never alone. Do not ask- look.’
He points at the ghostly mirror behind him. I look intently, trying to figure out the reflection. My face changes – and I see Anne. Smiling, laughing, crying- alive – and dead.
‘We are given but a moment of retribution ‘ Percy says ‘The midsummer. All the rest is a haunt. All the rest is torment. Do not let him see you. Not now. Not here. And remember – I still love you. ‘
Mist comes in, and the hall vanishes. The only thing left is the faint scent of green apples- and a B pendant, lying on my pillow.
Into the Unknown 