The Vow on the Heron

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IN the ancient castle of York, Queen Isabella lay sleepless beside her lover. There was nothing to fear, he assured her. This castle of York, this great fortress which was said to have been built by the Conqueror, with its deep moat, its drawbridge and its palisades, was invulnerable. The watch from the top of Clifford’s Tower would warn them of the approach of any enemy; none could break through the massive stone walls, and those circular turrets. But it was not an invading army Isabella feared; it was the ghost of her murdered husband.

Since they had brought her the news of that night when his agonized screams had been heard, so she was told, even by those outside the walls of Berkeley Castle this terrible unease had settled upon her. Sometimes she would awake and fancy she saw a tall shape in the room. He had been a tall man and she would picture his face in the darkness distorted by an expression of hideous anguish. Sometimes she dreamed that his lips moved and that he uttered curses on those who had condemned him to such a brutal death. In the sighing of the wind she heard his voice.

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