Branca had no formal schooling. She had no access to a library.
She had no points of reference or comparison. She had never been beyond these
walls. She had no compass.
She had no way of knowing if the castle was authentic. Was
it Roman, Norman, medieval or Gothic? Folly or fantasy? Dreamworks or Disney?
She had never been in a position to take a view of it, to
see it in perspective. She could not know how small it appeared from the sea,
nestled in the landscape, dwarfed by the mountain back drop. She could not
imagine how vulnerable it seemed from a gull's eye, as though it might float
away at high tide on the narrow peninsula on which it stood.
All she could feel from inside was the mass, the permanence,
the immoveable weight and substance of the stones which marked out her unchangeable
world. One of dark, chilly passageways and staircases pierced by shafts of
light from the slits in the walls. The smell of cabbage, warm and damp, wafting
up from the kitchens; of stale tobacco and beer from the great hall where her
diminutive captors took their meals and played their games; the traces of mold
and damp sneaking up from the cellars.
Because she had no experience beyond these walls, she did
not know what it was to be bound. The delights she found and made for herself
were some sort of freedom. Up on the roof the walls fell away for a while and
the lid was lifted on her dreams. She could see and feel and breathe and long for
places she would never be. Though in 20 years she had explored the castle
continuously, she had not yet discovered every room or wing. How could anyone
live in a house where they knew every room? Though its apartments seemed
limitless, still she was trapped.
The spoils of many campaigns filled its chambers and never
ceased to cause her to wonder – the exotic materials, linens and clothes which vented
spicy perfumes when rustled; sparkling jewellery; books of alien languages and scripts;
furniture decorated with intricate carving and marquetry; wall hangings and
paintings; statues and sculptures; galleries of weapons and suits of armour;
medieval contraptions and instruments of torture; curious vehicles, Chinese
junks and Indonesian praus; the mounted heads of vanquished enemies, leathern,
familiar and unfrightening to one who had grown up under their watchful gaze –
what worlds were out there?
Her guardians subjected her to what seemed like kindnesses.
Times when there was an absence of violence, when tones were kindly and touches
gentle. It seemed like love to her, to be needed, to be held, to give pleasure.
Pin pricks of life and colour in a monotone landscape. Sensations more peculiar
and intense than the daily drudgery reminded her she was alive and real.
Since being rescued it had taken a long time for the norms
to be reset and for her feelings and judgment to be recalibrated. This could not
have been achieved without pain, confusion and a maelstrom of emotions. It was
only now that she began to see that what she had felt, the warp and woof of
each day, had been distaste and disgust; that her devotion to the care of her tormentors,
her wilful compliance, had been perverse and demeaning. Now restored to her
rightful position as mistress of her late father’s domain she learned how both
her parents had been murdered at the hands of the little imposters and how she
had been raised by them in ignorance and servitude. But even today she is
dogged by the ghost of the security and comfort she felt under their thrall
while the freedom and responsibility she now enjoys make her feel vulnerable
and giddy.
Liberation, which had not been sought or anticipated, was shocking.
She had been overwhelmed by choice. Doors were opened, shutters removed, light,
given access, flooded everything. The colours and hues of brick, stone and wood
came alive. Bathed in sunlight they seemed to learn and grow.
With hindsight, the Prince had overcome the intruders not by
force, though his armies were vastly superior. They and their hosts had just melted
away as if ashamed to fight. After all the blast and bravura of their reign,
the open and honest confrontation offered by true authority had revealed their
weakness. Their history was told, the facts laid bare. Roots and motives,
hearts and heads were exposed. They evaporated like puddles on a pavement in the
sun. They were gone.
Amidst the confusion Branca had discovered a new devotion. A
love that sought ways to give rather than submitting to demands; that responded
with a joyous heart; that had no drag in it. A domain that was now growing and
blossoming found no hardship in paying tribute. It found pleasure and delight in
the giving of its fruit to the royal treasury.
Consequently it was with great sadness that Branca learned
of the death of the Prince at the hands of his enemies. The more poignant
because it was said he had been given up by some of his own people to the three
powers who had joined forces against him. News had trickled in at first of the
uprising of a number of remote provinces who fancied they might fare better
under the sway of the adjoining kingdoms which were doubtless fomenting the
rebellion. A partial siege of one of the prince’s main strongholds in the
region lasted six months and though the stronghold was not completely cut off,
the aggressors made it sufficiently hazardous for friendly neighbours to
approach with supplies that the prince’s forces began to be seriously weakened.
The breakthrough came when a key advisor to the prince went
over to the other side with plans of the stronghold enabling them to locate and
cut off the underground water supply. And whether it was with or without the
prince’s consent, opinions differ, he was handed over to the three kings in
return for safe passage out of the region for his faithful soldiers and
subjects.
With gleeful cruelty the kings made a spectacle of the prince
forcing his departing people to walk past his abused and bloodied corpse, extended
and exposed on a high gibbet. As the smoke rose from their city, their homes,
their livestock, their livelihoods, their heads hung in despair. Later, three
of the prince’s mighty men returned and retrieved the body and brought it back
to the capital for embalming and burial.
Rowed by weather beaten muscular creatures of bestial
proportions the baroque barge glided almost silently across the bay from the
port towards the citadel. The relentless thud of the oar masters drum
reverberating around the amphitheatre of the port in stark contrast to the
gentle rippling of the water breaking on the bows and the plash of the oars.
The gilt frames and elaborate ornamentation of the barge sparkled in the sun as
early morning mists scurried away at its approach.
Branca sat on a red leather upholstered bench under a richly
embroidered canopy looking across at the friendly city of the great king and
its welcoming sad walls. Again and again she rehearsed in her mind what she might
say, what she might do. But to whom was she going to pay her respects. Who was
there to thank? Could she awaken him with a kiss? Could she impart some new
life to him through her lips? Her words, her breath could not restore life. She could think of nothing to say that was worth saying and
indeed there was no-one to whom she could say anything worthwhile.
The barge came to rest and ground against the heavy rope
fenders on the quay. She glanced up at the golden walls looming above her as
she was helped from the boat and began to ascend the white stone steps towards
the main castle gate between massive sphinx like sentries at once wild but reassuringly
safe.
It was only as she entered the throng about the gates that
she became aware of the absence of any sense of solemnity or mourning. Though
not exactly like market day, there was a buzz and hum and feeling of suppressed
anticipation about the crowds. She passed the ancient doors and pushed her way
across a square of dizzying proportions filled with statues, or were they living
creatures, and fountains and monuments. She entered the great hall but instead
of the candles, the incense, the plinth, the pall, the bier, the coffin she was
confronted with a scene of intense activity. Groups of military men were engaged in deep
discussions, poring over maps and charts spread across vast table tops; runners
and servants gliding swiftly around relaying messages from group to group and
beyond. One of these she managed to stop to confide her purpose, to ask
directions. With extreme surprise, and almost annoyance, he replied.
“He’s not here .... “
No comments:
Post a Comment