Candle in the Attic Window Part 18

"My Lady, what is this? What has happened here?"

"Alicia, please do not insult me with falsehoods. Only you have keys to my chamber."

"I ... no ... There are others ... the Marquis ... My Uncle Zoesi ...."

"The Marquis was with me, as you know. Are you accusing your uncle of this ... this abomination?"

"I ... no ... I don't know."

"Come, come, Alicia. Stop this play-acting. Where is the ring that was in my pomade?"

"What ring? I know of no ring."

"Alicia stop. I shall have you searched by two or three of my men. They would make a very thorough experience of it. Would you like that?"

"No, please ... no."

"Then tell me what you did with the ring and we shall put this behind us."

"It is ... I threw it into the fire."

I rushed to the fireplace and, grabbing a poker, began to search through the ashes. Finding it in the far corner, I said a silent prayer to the angels for Alicia's lack of dexterity and turned back to my cowering servant. If ever I had thought her a friend, she was now anathema to me.

"Why would you do such a thing?"

"My Lady, I was trying to protect you. I saw the ring was a man's and too small to be the Master's. In a fit of panic, I threw it onto the flames, lest other eyes should happen upon it."

"Alicia, I don't believe you. Do you think I have not noticed the way your eyes seek out Ugo, undressing him with your hungry thoughts? I cannot stand the sight of you. You are dismissed. You will be beaten before quitting this palace forever."

The Magus What a fortuitous fashion in which to begin one's morning! To comfort my niece, I had feigned great distress at Parisina's behaviour. Alicia did not know that I was only-too-aware of her stupid pa.s.sion for young Ugo. As if the heir to the throne of Ferrara would ever use a servant girl for more than a moment's distraction. I feigned shock and dismay at learning of my mistress's infidelity and with her stepson, no less. I cautioned Alicia to say nothing to anyone, lest the guilty couple learn of our intentions to expose their secret. At last, her rage a.s.suaged, my silly niece walked away, head bowed, but no longer weeping.

My heart leapt into flight, like a b.u.t.terfly exiting its chrysalis. Could this be the tool I needed to extract the miraculous tarocchi from the clutches of its undeserving owner and punish her for her selfishness? Yes! I would make it so.

From that moment on, I began to observe their actions. To my great delight, I was soon able to prove the veracity of my niece's accusations beyond all doubt.

Despite knowing the need for caution, the lovers were unable to control their illicit pa.s.sion. I overheard them fix times and places of a.s.signations a.s.signations that I watched from the shadows. How beautiful they were, these young lovers in pa.s.sionate embrace, their hands and limbs entwined in desire, bodies like white marble in the candlelight. The aesthete in me was saddened to think that this beauty would be defiled but it must be so. I would defile the Virgin herself to recover my beautiful tarocchi.

Perhaps I have misled you allowed you to believe, that my actions were solely motivated by my desire to possess the unique deck I had procured for Parisina? I cannot deny that, from the first moment these cards snuggled into the palm of my hand as if they had been created to sit just there, I became determined to make them my own. But what is a courtier to do? My task was to protect and defend the interests and well-being of my Lord and Master. My duty was clear. I must inform Niccol of his wife's treachery. First, I would need a way to demonstrate their perfidy beyond all possibility of denial. Their pa.s.sion, boiling out of control, soon made this possible.

I learned that on those nights when she was not called upon to be with the Marquis, My Lady had become accustomed to spend the hours of darkness with her beloved in her chamber. What bliss they experienced in those hours together.

What terrible frustration the boy suffered on those other nights when his mistress was required to lie in the arms of his rival her lawful husband his father. During those times, I watched him pacing the ramparts in turmoil. How I longed to take him into my trustworthy arms and calm his frenzy, to save him from the dreadful fate approaching. Alas, now that I was certain of the terrible truth, there was no alternative but to tell the Marquis.

"What is this evil spewing from your mouth? Are you mad?"

"My Lord." I was on my knees before a raging Marquis.

"I would that I was. I would gladly take upon myself the agony of madness if it would preserve thee from this terrible betrayal."

"You are telling me that Parisina my wife Parisina, mother of my children, is enjoined in incestuous union with that ... with my b.a.s.t.a.r.d Ugo!"

"My Lord, I am deeply saddened, but it is so."

"But she is my wife. How could any woman I have honoured with my favours, especially my wife, entertain thoughts of taking another into her bed?"

"I have no idea, My Lord." In my mind, I compared his blotched, heavy-jowled face with Ugo's fine skin and l.u.s.trous black eyes. "But she is young, as is he. I believe the affair began when they were thrown together in exile last summer in Codigoro."

"Don't tell me these things. I will not entertain such foulness in my home."

I shrugged my shoulders. Lecherous, greedy pig he may have been, but he was my master and he was mortally wounded by these accusations.

"I don't want to believe this atrocity. Have you proof?"

Nodding my head sadly, I said, "The proof of my own observations. I have seen them in unholy congress."

"I would also have this proof. Arrange it."

"As you will, My Lord." I backed out of the audience chamber.

To this end, I secreted my master and myself in a carved, wooden garderobe in Parisina's bedchamber. The Marquis had earlier sent word to his wife that he would be away for the evening. I had every confidence that the lovers, believing themselves free for the night, would soon unite before us.

My unhappy confidence was not misplaced. The Marquis, seeing his wife in the arms of his son, burst out of his hiding place. "You wh.o.r.e! Defiler of marriage beds and the good names of good woman. I am sickened by you both."

Surprised at the moment of coitus, Parisina and Ugo struggled to find blankets and sheets to cover their nakedness.

Turning his attention to Ugo, the Marquis grew more incensed, "You viper in my bosom. You are my son. You would be heir to my kingdom. I loved you!"

"My Lord, Father ...," Ugo tried to say.

"Shut your lying mouth. I will hear no more words from those deceitful lips." Niccol turned away from his son. "Guard. Take this b.a.s.t.a.r.d to the dungeon. When I have finished with this wh.o.r.e, I shall observe his beheading."

"Father!" Ugo screamed as he was dragged away.

Niccol was not listening, his attention focused on Parisina cowering in the middle of her bed. He screamed, "You faithless b.i.t.c.h! What did you want that I did not give you? Was it too much to ask that you be faithful to your lawfully wedded husband?"

"Niccol ...."

"No, don't speak. No more lies from you, either. You will watch your paramour separated from his head before also paying the same price for your betrayal."

Turning his back on her imploring eyes, the Marquis buried his face in his hands. "Guards, watch over this chamber. Let her prepare to meet a vengeful G.o.d. Make certain she has no opportunity to speak to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d before he goes to his Maker."

The Chariot Alas, we are undone; Zoesi has ruined us. He will have his cards. I caressed them and held them in my hands for the last time; I cursed him with them.

"My treasure, may you bring him no joy only pain. May his days be empty and alone, his nights filled with demon-terrors, and may he end his life forgotten, a rotting corpse plucked apart by scavengers."

I had been a fool, blinded by first love. How could I have been so stupid to believe that our pa.s.sion would remain undiscovered? If I could so easily read the truth of Alicia, why then should I expect others not to see the joy that lit up my face whenever Ugo approached?

It would be possible to say ... to excuse our behaviour as the fruit of a lonely exile in Codigoro, but I am no hypocrite. From the moment Niccol announced his intention to send the boy with us, I knew what would happen. My pretty cards foretold it.

"I am entrusting my beloved son and heir to your safekeeping," he said. "You are his stepmother; I know you will look after him as one of your own."

Dear G.o.d, Niccol, were you blind or too puffed up with vanity to see that he and I are the same age? And now, it is too late. The Wheel has turned and we must accept our fate. My sorry part will be to watch my lover lose his head for loving me.

The Lightning-Struck Tower Dressed in white, Parisina stood in the loggia overlooking the courtyard, waiting her turn at the block. I, Zoesi, author of this sorry tragedy, waited in the shadows. Tearless, she watched Ugo's execution and moved down the steps to take her place. As she reached the bottom step, Niccol appeared in the same archway.

"Parisina, attend me."

"My Lord." The proud girl bowed her head, waiting.

"Madonna, although you have betrayed me and our marriage vows, you are still my wife." the Marquis paused.

Parisina's eyes never left the ground. She spoke not a word.

Unsure now, the Marquis struggled to continue. "I realize that I have ... not always been exactly fair to you."

"And so ...?"

"I offer you a chance to save your own life. If you will repudiate your vile affair, confess your sin before Almighty G.o.d, and retire for the remainder of your life behind the walls of the Poor Clare's, I will allow you to live."

"My Lord, I cannot live a lie, nor do I wish to live without my beloved. I go to my death with joy, for in that sweet place beyond life's sorrows, I know I shall be reunited with him."

"Then die. Go with your lover to h.e.l.l!" The Marquis turned and stalked away, shaking and trembling.

So it was done. Afterward, the Marquis arranged for the bodies, wrapped in white shrouds, to be conveyed to the cemetery of San Francesco and there buried beside the Campanile.

Standing there in the gloom, I watched Parisina's head separate from her body and land with a soft plop in the waiting basket. Certain that she was well and truly dispatched, I dashed to her chamber my only thought to reclaim the miraculous tarocchi that had so claimed my heart.

To my unbelieving eyes and hands, the deck was dead dead as its mistress! It would not wake for me. I screamed and cried, pleaded and begged. My sorrow was so intense it brought the guards at a run. Finding me beside myself, raving in my dead mistress' chamber, they dragged me before the Marquis, who demanded an explanation. I could only gibber and plead.

"Bring her back, please ... Bring back my beloved, my only love ....."

The Marquis, hearing my cries, became convinced that I, too, had been his wife's lover. He ordered me locked in this stinking cellar, my only companion these now-mute, useless pieces of paper. How ugly they seem to me now.

He further ordered the banishment the permanent banishment of my now-insane niece Alicia, who had played such a sorry role in all of this. After being escorted from the palace, she would be strangled, her corpse taken by boat downriver and released into the Po Delta. The fish and creatures of those sodden waters would make a proper feast of her body and her madness.

She was allowed to visit me just before she left. Her eyes glittered as she babbled and giggled, while relating how Parisina had used the miraculous cards to curse me.

I was not surprised to hear this. I know I shall soon be dragged to my death. I can neither eat nor drink nor sleep, but pa.s.s the wretched hours screaming and moaning for the loss of my beloved tarocchi. I daily beg to be dispatched from this earthly torment. Soon, if G.o.d will have mercy on me, the Marquis will no longer be able to tolerate my existence in this world and I, too, shall find a home in the stinking waters of the Po. Perhaps, in death, I shall be allowed to return to the dreaming cities. I pray, to whatever G.o.d resides there, that it shall be so.

Martha Hubbard lives on an island in the North Baltic Sea. For 1000's of years a place of strange G.o.ds, mysteries, tragedies and wonder, Saaremaa Island provides the perfect bed-rock for a writer of dark fantasy. Previously she has been a teacher, cook, stage manager & drama-turg in New York City's Off-off Broadway community, a parking lot company book-keeper and a community development worker. Recently she put aside some of these activities to concentrate on her writing, but is still the Consulting Chef for the local Organic Farmers Union. Her story "The Good Bishop Pays the Price", appears in Innsmouth's anthology, Historical Lovecraft.

Elizabeth on the Island.

By Joshua Reynolds.

In the sea was an island. And on the island was a house. And in the house was a woman. And in the woman was a secret. But, like all the best secrets, the one upon whom it centred was completely unaware of its existence.

Her name was Elizabeth and she had never seen her face.

Elizabeth had been born out of the sea, like Aphrodite. A cla.s.sical allusion that she clung to in order not to think about the circ.u.mstances of her birth the cold fangs of rock that she had clung to all unknowing, and the hard scrabble for the grim, grey sh.o.r.e through the freezing waters. b.l.o.o.d.y and dripping, she had emerged from the womb of the sea to stagger onto land and into the house that seemed so familiar, despite her inability to recall how or why.

Shuddering and weak, she had reached out to touch the door and it had swung inward, as if in welcome. Inside, there were a table, chairs and shelves of books. All of it waiting for her. All of that and her name, as well, inside a locket that lay forgotten in a pile of clothing covered in stains.

On the back of the locket were the letters 'V' and 'F', and when she had opened it, a woman's face had returned her stare. There was a name opposite. 'Elizabeth'. Her name and perhaps her face, though the angles she traced with her fingers did not seem to fit those of the woman in the picture.

She lived hard, eking out an existence on the barren rock, at night hunting the innumerable rats that scampered out of the island's guts when the lightning ripped wide across the black sky. With the rats, she ate the moss that clung to the rocks and, once, a seabird that drew too close to her.

Elizabeth had strong hands. She wielded rocks and driftwood with all the dexterity of a Norman knight swinging his sword, but, often as not, she relied only on her fingers and stalked through the scrub of the island's high places on ten toes. She did not cook the meat she caught, but felt no ill effects from chewing it raw. Indeed, she could not imagine dousing the taste of the flesh through fire.

She had clothes which she did not wear for fear of ruining them. There were trousers and a shirt, neither of which truly fit her, perhaps having been meant for a child, and an ap.r.o.n which stank of chemicals and other, less pleasant things. The latter she rolled into a ball and buried behind the house.

In truth, the constant rain that drenched the island felt good upon her skin and her nakedness became more about comfort than consideration. Her flesh was invariably flushed with an unrelenting heat when it was hidden from the air. Sometimes, when the lightning curled and coiled, it burned as well.

There were two other houses on the island, besides hers, but they were both ruins now, broken and empty. In the evening, as she gorged on rat, she wandered among them, exploring their secrets.

By day, she read. She read the anatomy texts and alchemical treatises that filled the shelves of the house to bursting, and when those grew dull, she gorged on Byron and Sh.e.l.ley and Voltaire. Of those, she preferred the latter. There were twenty-seven books in the house and she had read them all, in random order, seven times apiece. That some were in Latin and others in Greek, French and Arabic did not matter, for she could not tell one language from the next. It was all the same to her.

When she had finished the last book and waited to begin the next rotation, she would sit on the rocks outside her door and stroke her arms and legs, which ached sometimes in the oddest places. It was as if she were filled with old hurts and ancient wounds that her eye could not see and fingers could not reach. A bone-deep itch that scuttled through her at lonely intervals, dragging with it images to her mind's eye.

Some of those images were comforting. Others made her pull out her own hair and drum her heels against the rock. Once, possessed of a rage that echoed out of a glimpse of a memory of mismatched eyes, she had bounded across the island, screaming and howling and flailing at the lightning with a club of driftwood.

Only when the club had broken, and her fists had been rendered b.l.o.o.d.y and bruised from battering the unheeding stones, did she at last return to sensibility.

Her wounds healed, and quickly, if the medical texts were to be believed. She watched the bruises lighten and fade over the course of hours, the golden skin returning to its normal sheen.

The scars never healed in the same way as the bruises. They remained, but then, they had always been with her. They were thin strands of pale yellow that stood out against the gold of her flesh, rising and falling across her arms and legs and belly and elsewhere: a latticework of marks that she could not recall the origins of, nor, indeed, did she wish to.

Sometimes, when she touched them, she got the strangest sensation that she was waiting for someone. The true owner of the house, perhaps. She touched the locket and traced the initials carved on it. Who was 'VF'? Was that whom she was waiting for?

Elizabeth was stroking the locket when she caught sight of the boat for the first time. It was a blotch of pale colour on the vast darkness of the water. She half-stood as the wind whipped her hair about her face in a frenzy. Unconsciously, her hands clenched and she warred with the sudden impulse to flee.

She had never seen a boat before, but the word and the shape lurked in her memory. And with the word came fear. Hard, cold fear that clambered up into her belly and sat lodged like a lump of badly-chewed rat. Elizabeth did not know why she was afraid, and that only made the fear worse.

Breathing hard, she crouched and watched the boat for minutes, then hours, watching it draw closer and closer. As it grew dark, she lost sight of it at last and the trance was broken. Abruptly, she turned and dove into her home, slamming the door and latching it. Head down, she let a wracking sob escape her and trembled uncontrollably. Her stomach heaved as she pushed away from the door and she looked around wildly.

Suddenly, the house, her home, seemed horrible. Everything sent a razor-caress of disgust across her nerves the anatomy books on her shelves, the odd table that sat in the centre of the room with its runnels and score-marks and the stains on the floor. Her hand flew to the locket hanging from her neck and she squeezed the soft metal.