For Whom the Bell Tolls

“A pig, worse than!” I hiss under my breath, the sound sharp and cutting.

I know lady Euphrosyne can hear despite the door between us, but there is no response to my outburst.

A buzz akin to swarming flies fills my limbs, an insistent energy that propels me into nervous motion. I pace a tight line from one end of door to the other; five small steps, scant inches before a tight turn begins my path anew. I won’t leave my post -haven’t done so in all my years of service to the lady- but I can’t bear to stand still as the disaster of the afternoon continues to plague me.

“His manner is boorish, rough and unfitting for the intimates he keeps. I’ve never had the displeasure of being in the presence of someone so unseemly, but I’m certain that any manner of uncivilized animal would be better company than one such as him,” I continue, my tongue as hot as my legs. “And those women? Every last one of his pitiful wives are naught but pretty baubles that he can rearrange at will. Treasures -I almost laugh to tears at the misnomer- nay, they are only cheap trinkets in his estimation. He cares not a whit of them, they sit in his mind like lifeless, emotionless dolls -playthings!”

“Friederike.”

My given name from her mouth is shocking. So seldom does anyone refer to me as such, my lady least of all, that it inspires a shock of shivers to pass over my skin. I pause my agitated pacing and turn my face towards the dark wood of the door.

“Don’t forget that I too am one of those cheap trinkets.”

The fragility of her tone hits me like an enormous wave. I’m reminded suddenly of the time we wandered too far out too sea, a lark of two foolish girls unknowing of the dangers before them. When the water turned rough, we couldn’t find the humour in our adventure any longer.

“Not yet…not-” I pause, teeth clamping together to stop the rest of the words from coming. The binding ceremony is in a scant few days, no time at all given the enormity of the impending change. Who am I to plea Not yet? Who am I to throw the weight of empty words -a childish tantrum- towards the object of ill fate?

“I will be soon enough.”

Her response tears through me, a jagged line bisecting my chest, sternum cracking clean in two. I can feel the blood let from me, the hot fall of shame oozing from this emotional wound. Always I speak without thought.

“My lady,” my voice is small, tempered with the same fragility as Euphrosyne’s. “Please, find it in your heart to forgive my impudence.”

The silence behind the door weighs on me, a held breath of anticipation agonizing as I wait for her response. I am a fool. I know I am a fool. I bite my tongue hard, the sting only a portion of the atonement owed.

“There is nothing to forgive, my dear Knight.”

Her words are anything but forgiveness. She speaks as one looking down a long hall, knowing the noose waits at the end.

“My life has become something beyond the measure of faith and devotion. I no longer have will, nor want. It is meaningless to lament that which is unchangeable.”

Again, the desire to protest arises; phrases spin in my head such as let us flee, forsake this duty thrust upon you, deny this sham of a marriage. But I know these pleas are best choked down, swallowed before they have the chance to escape my lips like ugly moths battering powdered wings against the impossible.

“Cruel.” The word manages to break through my restraint, but it is small. Near silent.

“Yes,” she agrees, hearing me all the same.

My teeth sink through the soft flesh of my tongue, copper coats my mouth. The taste lingers far longer than the cut.