The Bride
Note: This story was inspired by the legend of Bluebeard. Specifically, the legend always talks about how Bluebeard's wife finds the bodies of his previous wives, but it never explains how the first wife died...
I had everything a man could want. My parents had died, leaving me a sizeable estate near the coast of Poitou. It was a tragedy to lose my parents when I was only 18 years of age, but the luxurious life they left to me was, in some small way, sufficient recompense. Henry II is only three years on the throne, but he seems to have the best interests of his kingdom at heart, so I’m confident that his reign will be a prosperous one.
With a manor overlooking a farm near the ocean, I had little work to do to maintain my fortune. Merely by looking after my workers, I had the good fortune of an annual income of approximately ten thousand livres. It was likely that my fortune would continue; there will always be a need for woad, after all. The wealthy noblemen of France do love blue clothing, and though I will never rival the great woad fields of Toulouse, I doubt there will ever be a need to look into other sources of income.
But it didn’t take me long to grow lonely. The company of my servants and the workers in the fields were small comfort against the empty rooms in my mansion. And there are many rooms. My father was a very private man, and so he had locks crafted in each door of the manor. He had a massive ring, laden with keys of every shape and kind, which he carried with him wherever he went. I still don’t know what he did in most of the rooms; a few were welcoming to me, but most were forbidden.
In the months following my parents’ death, I had wandered the home that was now entirely mine. No room was unseen by my eyes. But the servants had little reason to enter any room save the parlour, the kitchen, the dining room, and the storage areas such as the buttery and the pantry. So the majority of the rooms were known only to me. I never did fathom the purpose of most of the rooms. By my count, my newly inherited mansion held just over a hundred rooms. But beyond the areas used by my servants, I cannot imagine needing rooms besides the parlour, the dining room, and the bedroom.
Make no mistake. Many of the rooms were beautiful. There was a gallery filled with wonderful paintings, another with enormous windows (how much must that have cost my father?), and yet another that was filled with shelves of books (another extravagant expense). I enjoyed spending time in these rooms, reading or watching the weather or perusing the works of art. I just never understood why anyone would feel it necessary to have those rooms constructed in the first place.
But, as I said, the servants entered these rooms seldom. Occasionally, one of them would go from room to room clearing dust away from the furniture and fixtures. But for normal daily chores, they worked in the kitchen, getting ingredients from the buttery and pantry, bringing me food in the dining room, showing visitors to the parlour, and getting equipment from storage areas. The only one of these rooms that I ever had cause to enter was the dining room. So I saw little of the servants myself. And with that, I grew very lonely.
So I decided that I needed to take a wife. Surely, someone to sit with me and talk to me, to share my bed and my meals, and perhaps to give me fine healthy sons to provide me even more company, would cure me of my solitude.
That was how I decided to begin seeking a spouse. I started travelling to the nearby towns at least once a week. I began talking to various people, in the hopes of getting to know who might be available for courting. Months of this ensued, before I finally decided to begin wooing a lovely young maiden named Jacquette.
She had long, raven hair, eyes the blue of ice on a grey winter day, and small, delicate hands. She was gentle and demure, just the perfect match for a wealthy farm owner. She received my attention gladly, and was attentive when I visited. I would sit with her family in the drawing room, discussing matters of local importance with her father as she sat primly nearby. Her younger siblings had not yet learned to be reposeful as Jacquette had; they would run about the room playing with their toys as their mother tried to mind them as best she could. But at the slightest hint that I needed anything, Jacquette would instantly be up, pouring me another glass of mulled wine, or offering me another honey cake.
She accepted my gifts with reserved delight, and smiled coyly whenever I looked her way. So after a time, I made up my mind to ask her father for her hand. Much to my satisfaction, he agreed, and a date was set. I was married to my darling Jacquette that very December. Though the weather was cold, we filled the church with such greenery as could be had in the winter months. I scarcely noticed the chill, the little kirk was so full of warm bodies and bright candles.
My marriage started off well, with an attentive and obedient wife. However, I soon realised that those qualities that I had thought desirable in a future wife proved somewhat less pleasant in an actual wife. I had gone looking for those things I thought I was supposed to seek out in a partner, only to realise after I’d acquired one that they were not the qualities I actually wanted.
I had wanted a partner. I had wanted a companion. I had wanted someone to keep me company in my large and essentially empty house. I had instead married someone who had been trained to be, in essence, another servant. My wife had believed, from my courtship of her, that I wanted someone to tend to me in more personal manners than my butler, my cooks, my maids, my serving staff. And I had given her cause to think that.
I tried to convince her that that’s not what I wanted. I pleaded. I cajoled. I wheedled. I begged.
But all for naught.
Months of this grew irksome, and my temper grew as well. Pleading gave way to demanding. Cajoling gave way to shouting. Wheedling gave way to screaming. And in the end, begging gave way to lashing out.
The first time I struck my wife, I was horrified. However, I was so enraged at the moment in which it happened that I was not able to stop myself from continuing to scream insults at her. By the time my anger had subsided, and I was able to beg forgiveness, it was too late. The damage had already been done.
She tried to give me what I wanted. I could see that. But she did not know how. She had always been taught to be docile, to be obedient, to fill a role of subservience. She knew no other path.
Despite my rage at myself for what I had done, my anger continued to boil over. The time came in which I found myself striking her again. And then the beatings became more frequent. Neither of us knew what would set me off again. Until the day of our first anniversary.
It was on that day that I fully lost control. I was trying to make conversation with her regarding the current downward trend in the price of woad. She did not respond. How could she? She knew little enough about woad in general, nor the business of producing and selling woad in particular. Even if she had known, what could she say that wouldn’t cause me to lose my temper? And of course, saying nothing would cause me to lose my temper as well.
And that’s exactly what happened. The more I shouted, the quieter she got. I became enraged. I struck her. And then I struck her again. Before I knew what had happened, I had beaten her so severely that she no longer breathed. Her heart was no longer beating. The lights had gone out from her eyes.
I looked down at my bloody fists, horrified by what I had done. The carpet was turning crimson as she slowly exsanguinated. What fresh hell had I visited upon myself?
I stood there in shock for some time. I was numb to what had happened. But eventually, I roused from my stupor. My brain was still not fully functional, but I latched onto one single fact: nobody must know what I had done.
I moved all the furnishings aside and rolled the carpet around her lifeless body. I had to dispose of the corpse. But where?
I knew exactly where, of course. There was a room at the very end of the hall. It was unfurnished. There was nothing in there. It seemed that my parents had just had it constructed, but hadn’t yet moved anything into it before they died. It was an empty stone chamber, with no features apart from the grey floor, walls, and ceiling, and two windows looking out over the north and west fields.
It was the work of a few moments to drag the carpet into this empty room, my wife’s lifeless body hidden within. But what then? I couldn’t just leave her lying on the floor, could I?
I don’t know what possessed me to find a hook and install it into the wall. But a short time later, my wife’s corpse was hanging on the wall like a painting. I covered the windows with canvas, to hide my crime from the world outside, and closed the door behind me as I left the room, locking it securely with the appropriate key from the giant key ring on my belt.
Six months passed before I began to grow lonely again. I’ve noticed that the hairs in my beard have started to turn grey. But when I looked closely at my reflection in a looking glass, the discoloured hairs didn’t seem like any grey I had ever seen. They almost seemed blue. But no matter; greying hair or not, I’m sure I can find another fetching young lass to keep me company in my large and empty manor.
I just need to make sure that she never opens the last door at the end of the hall...
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