The Last Will of Lord Halewyn
by Val Votrin
part 1
The young lord, Halewyn, was awakened early in the morning. It was still dark, but dawn was near. Someone knocked timidly on his door. ‘Young lord! Young lord!’ called out his servant’s voice.
‘What’s the matter, Lenaert?’
‘Get up, young lord! Bad news from the castle!’
Cornelis Halewyn instantly leapt to his feet, his heart racing in anticipation. He tore the door open and saw Lenaert’s silly, frightened face.
‘I hope it is bad enough,’ said Cornelis. ‘Tell me.’
‘Your father,’ uttered Lenaert. ‘I am so sorry!’
‘Dead? Dead?’
‘Yes, young lord. We have just heard from the castle. I am so sorry!’
Cornelis Halewyn turned away from him. Dizzily he walked out to the courtyard and stopped there, looking at the walls, people, all things around him with new eyes. Joy simmered inside him. So long with this place! His exile within this old pile of rocks, the so-called minor castle of the Halewyn family sitting amidst boggy fields near Oudenaarde, was over. It was time for the only heir to return to the main castle. It was the time for the lordship, the new life.
Cornelis laughed aloud, taking no count of the domestics staring at him from every corner. He turned round and said to Lenaert who had just emerged from the house, ‘Saddle the horse! I am departing immediately’.
‘But,’ said Lenaert, ‘you can’t enter the castle, my Lord. His Lordship ordered—’
‘His Lordship is dead, Lenaert, remember? Saddle my horse, now!’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
The saddled horse, a dapple-bay, was led up to him, and Cornelis vaulted into the saddle. The grey of the dawn had already brightened up, the cold autumn air was clear, and he could see the courtyard in minute detail. Silent groups of servants popped up here and there gaping at him sullenly.
Cornelis felt the urge to say something to them. ‘I am going to the main castle,’ he proclaimed. ‘My dear father, your Lord, has died.’
At that he stammered and hesitated for a word. And then came a low voice from one of the groups: ‘Good riddance!’
Wild with anger, Cornelis jumped out of the saddle and ran up in the direction of that voice. There were some peasants standing there: craggy faces, pursed lips, cold eyes.
‘Who said that?’ he blurted. ‘You? You?’
They gazed at him silently, unwinkingly.
Why do they not like me, he thought, looking at those cold faces. ‘My father would find the man who said that and rip him to pieces. And then he would rip each piece to smaller ones. He was quite scrupulous about punishing delinquents. Am I really like him?’
Nobody even cared to answer his question. There was profound silence in the courtyard.
Cornelis looked away from them and walked to his horse. Slowly he got up to the saddle and said to Lenaert, ‘I will be back in a few days.’
‘We will be waiting for you, my Lord,’ said Lenaert.
The road to the main castle lay through dismal fields, swampy lowlands. It was late autumn; the water in the canals was slate grey. Cornelis had not visited these parts for a while and now looked around with a mix of astonishment and disgust.
Crows presided over tall, bare trees and cawed with deep, unnatural voices. His family had ruled over these lands for several centuries. That mossy commemorative stone over there had been erected by his great-grandfather to celebrate a victory over a neighbouring lord whose name was since forgotten. All these lands now belonged to Cornelis. Was he up to all of this? Was he capable of the iron-hand rule his ancestors reigned with over this domain for ages? His eyes wandering over the landscape caught sight of a distant gallows, a vivid reminder of his father’s legacy. I will tear down these things, he thought. Well, at least half of them.
The castle was a heap of dark stones hulked up amidst the dull polders. It was visible from all directions: the ominous pile of a moated castle with four round towers, a massive wall and a formidable gate. The moat around it was built using a natural stream and was deep and dismal just like the castle above it. Cornelis remembered, though, that the moat abounded with fat carps that, as he remembered, were so nicely prepared by the castle cooks.
Cornelis rode through the bridge above the moat and under the gate with Halewyn’s banner of arms: a ferocious raven with a bloodstained beak in a red field. A lone figure was expecting him in the courtyard: a mournful man dressed in black. Cornelis knew him; this was the castellan, Welter de Bussche. The walls around the courtyard were draped with black cloth so that the castellan, ever doleful and wearing black, finally looked very apt.
‘Hullo, Welter,’ said Cornelis, trying to sound as jaunty as he could.
De Bussche did not have a chance to respond to his greeting; another voice chipped in. ‘Young raven has returned to his nest!’ someone croaked from the above. There, under the roof of a gate tower, was a narrow window. A woman’s pale, haggard face was seen in it, her fiery eyes gazing down at Cornelis.
‘He is dead as a herring,’ she said with a chuckle. ‘A long wait for you, huh? Go at once, hurry up, he is waiting for you breathlessly in the chapel!’
A faint smile flickered across the castellan’s face.
‘Shut up, Godilde,’ bawled out Cornelis, furious that his spectacular arrival as the new lord was ruined by her laughter. This savage laughter followed him as he was quickly walking to the chapel.
‘Why is she still here?’ asked Cornelis not turning his head, knowing that Welter de Bussche moved along him like a shadow.
‘She does not want to leave, my Lord,’ replied Welter. ‘Says she will stay where your father put her.’
‘Yes? What for?’
‘Says her tall tower is the best place to watch your house fall.’
‘I do not think this will ever happen. I am the new lord.’
‘She says,’ admonished Welter’s soft voice behind him, ‘this is not long in coming.’
Cornelis wheeled around, but his fury suddenly died down at the look of Welter’s grave face. I will get her hanged one day, he thought.
Welter observed him without saying a word. After a long pause, when he saw that the young lord calmed down, he ventured, ‘I must strongly advise my Lord against going to the chapel just now. Perhaps you should wait a day or so before seeing... the body.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘I am just taking the liberty of giving advice, my Lord. We are still searching... perhaps in a day or so...’
But Cornelis has already stridden across the courtyard and entered the chapel.
It struck him that the chapel looked very different from when he had seen it the last time, years ago. His mother was still alive then and had the family chapel decorated with beautiful statues of Christ, the Virgin Mary, saints and angels. The paintings by renowned artists hung on the walls.
But now all the paintings and statues were gone. The chapel was completely empty except for a large, dark crucifix with a bleeding Christ on it. And beneath it stood an open coffin with a dead body.
His footsteps echoing in the eerie emptiness, Cornelis came up to the wooden platform with a coffin. It was certainly longer than needed for the body, or the body seemed too short. It was dressed in a mantle embroiled in gold, the blueish hands with fingers laden with heavy rings were folded on the chest, the feet were shod in crimson shoes.
Cornelis kept looking at those red, pointed shoes, not even daring to look at the dead face. He has not seen his father for three years. After those long years spent at the minor castle, the dull years spent in a dull place, he had completely forgotten what his father looked like. He only remembered the colour of his father’s face when it would flush in a violent rage. Yes, that peculiar shade of purple his cheeks burned with when Lord Halewyn got overflown with wrath wild and unruly that led him to commit abominable deeds.
Cornelis forced himself to shift his gaze on his father’s face.
There was no face.
His father’s head was covered with a black cloth. A round object could be discerned underneath this cloth, and Cornelis, with his vivid imagination, started guessing at once what was there: a ball? A watermelon?
‘We are still searching for his head, my Lord,’ he heard Welter whisper behind him. ‘It was not around when his body was discovered in the woods.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ echoed Cornelis absent-mindedly.
‘The trusted people are searching all over the forest, my Lord. They know the forest as well as a beggar knows his bag. All experienced gamekeepers, my Lord.’
‘Experienced beggars, are they?’
‘They will find it today or tomorrow, my Lord, just rest assured.’
‘Tell me, Welter,’ said Cornelis, ‘if you are still looking for his head, what precisely have you put in the coffin?’
‘My Lord! You mustn’t ask such questions! It was... it is only temporary...’
‘Mustn’t I? Mustn’t I? Well, I must.’
‘My Lord!’
‘Tell me, Welter.’
After a pause, his eyes bent on the ground, the castellan said, ‘It is a cabbage head, my Lord. Pray not judge us harshly! His Lordship’s head will be found shortly—’
Cornelis started laughing. He just imagined a cabbage head turning purple, raging with fury, shouting, ‘You dirty rascals!’ like his father did during his famous bouts of anger.
‘We will find it, my Lord,’ jabbered the castellan. Now he was definitely scared.
Good, thought Cornelis.
‘Now then,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Whatever your name is.’
‘Welter de Bussche, my Lord.’
‘Yes, yes. Welter... yes, whatever. Take me to my private rooms.’
‘Certainly, my Lord. Please follow me. The dinner will be ready very shortly.’
What would my father do to him? thought Cornelis, looking at the castellan’s bowed-down back. Would have hit him hard, for sure. Or even put to death. But I will act differently. The bugger will live.
His private rooms were in the north wing. The way to them lay through the entire castle. Walking through the arcades of rooms smelling of old dust, dampness and cat pee, Cornelis got suddenly overwhelmed with memories. Here was the door to the Bone Chamber. He had never dared to come inside, despite his father’s orders to come in and see what was in there.
Indeed Cornelis had already known that from the servants who described vividly the floors made of sawn human bones: the bones of Lord Halewyn’s enemies, the neighbouring lords, many of them being his kin that were captured in battle and eventually beheaded in the bailey.
Here was the Red Bathroom lined with red stone. Its colour resembled clotted blood so Cornelis’ father who quite liked taking baths in this chamber called it tenderly “My Bloodbath.”
And here was the door to a secret underground chamber, a small, unremarkable door he would have never noticed if it was not for his father who called him one day and offered a rusty key.
Cornelis remembered in a minute detail a conversation that followed.
‘Here,’ said Lord Halewyn, stretching out his hand with a key. ‘Take it.’
Cornelis was only eight or so at the time. He just looked at the key cautiously.
‘Now, take it,’ said his father impatiently. ‘I want to show you something. Nobody in the whole castle — no, in the whole land — is allowed to see what is behind the door locked with this key. Only you will see it. Do you want to see it? Now, take the key!’
Cornelis cast a fearful glance at the key as he hesitated to take it.
His father bent down to him. ‘Do you want to know what is in it, do you?’ he said. ‘Curious, heh?’
Cornelis shook his head in denial.
Father grabbed him by his neck and Cornelis saw his mad eyes very close, felt his foul breath.
‘You spineless thing, you!’ hissed Lord Halewyn. ‘Weak just like your mother! Do you want to know what is in there, do you? Now, that chamber is full of stained blood, it smells like conquest, and there are six women hanging on the hooks under the ceiling, six beautiful ladies hanging there like pork carcasses, a feast for my eyes! Do you want to have a look? Take the key!’
‘No!’ screamed Cornelis and received a blinding blow on his head.
‘You will never become a lord,’ he heard his father’s voice above him as Cornelis tried to pick himself off the floor.
Yes, he had to be cruel to gain his father’s recognition. But he had never reached those levels of ferocity, that astounding brutality his father was known for. He did try, God knows how hard he had tried! He drowned a kitten once, even two kittens, and right in a bucket of water. When he grew up, he slapped servants and even had one of them beaten with a whip. But there was no question that he was too soft. He always cried after he had hurt someone. He cried several hours after he drowned those two little kittens.
So he just looked at his father with envy. Up and murder somebody for nothing! He could never commit himself to doing that. Yes, he was spineless, he was weak. No question of that. And he deserved being thrown out of the castle, that is to say that he understood his father’s reasoning. Being a Halewyn meant that one had to be tough.
But here was he, the new Lord Halewyn, kind and good-natured, the only heir getting ready to take over the inheritance. With a strong hand, if needed.
Copyright © 2024 by Val Votrin
