The Charwoman's Shadow
by Lord Dunsany
XVIII: The Love-Potion
The look on the face of the Duke of Shadow Valley was gradually growing stranger. The outlines of his face were wearying; his quick glances roamed no more, but turned to his plate listlessly; and he was breathing faster. The lady of the Tower thought his cheeks grew a little paler under the summer’s tan and yet she was not sure; when a pallor swept over his face even to the lips suddenly. And all at once the Duke was very sick.
“Poison?” wondered Father Joseph. “Not the Lord of the Tower,” he thought, “nor his lady, nor Mirandola.” He looked quickly at the others, from face to face. “No. What then?”
So far Father Joseph was right; but no one had spoken and he needed more material to arrive at the truth. Then the Duke was sick again. All the bowmen stood up, irresolute.
Still no one spoke, unless the murmured anxieties of the Lady of the Tower were speech.
Mirandola was silent as a little sphinx long left by the earliest dynasty in a tomb of rock under sand. Gulvarez was thinking to himself that he had fulfilled his part of the bargain, whatever happened to the Duke when he arrived.
The Duke was sick again all in the silence.
Then suddenly there was speech. Suddenly there was a tempest of words stinging and fierce and hot, as when Africa rains sand through a silvery darkness. It was the Duke speaking. His courtly tongue, for whose grace he was known through Spain, shot forth the words as the long whip hurls the little lash at its end.
The Lord of the Tower seemed to be growing smaller as though shrivelling under the words; Father Joseph’s eyes turned downward and he became absorbed with humility. I will not repeat the words.
Against his hostess the Duke said nothing, but his speech so blasted Gulvarez for bringing him there that she shuddered.
And the bowmen stood there ready, awaiting any command from their master. He accused none of poison: had he done so the hands of the bowmen would have been on that one’s shoulders instantly: but he deemed himself insulted either with meat long dead, or with wine of so deadly a cheapness that when the gipsies brew it out of no honest berries they neither drink it themselves nor allow their children near it. It was this insult that the serene hidalgo felt more than the pains of the retchings. And these were severe. His anger raged as though from some magical source rather than any annoyance caused by mere earthly cares. And he would have still raged on till all but he had gone trembling out from the chamber; but another bout of retchings came upon him, and all pressed round him offering ministrations. None of these would he have, but only demanded of them the place of his bedchamber, desiring to rest awhile before he should ride away from the cursed house. And this the Lord of the Tower offered to show him, bent almost to his knees by contrition at the neglect of his duty as host and at the insult offered in his house to so serene a hidalgo. But the Duke of Shadow Valley would have none of him; and commanded his bowmen instead to find the way to his bedchamber. They therefore searched discreetly; two going on before, the Duke following slowly, supported by the shoulder of another, while the fourth marched menacingly behind, to guard his master against whatever new outrage might be meditated in this suspicious house. Behind the fourth bowman, and as near as they durst, followed the whole household, trying to tell the bowmen the way to the Duke’s bedchamber, but not to a word would one of the four chiefs hearken. Yet, however much they disdained the cries of the maids and the ejaculations of Gonsalvo himself, these must have been clues in their search; and soon they came to a larger room than the others, which was clearly prepared for a guest: into this they led the Duke, who immediately banished them, to be alone on the bed with his sickness and anger.
And in the afternoon the Duke’s sickness ceased, so far as the bowmen could hear who guarded the door, but his anger remained with him, and none could bring him food, not even his own bowmen.
And the evening wore away and the Duke was weak after his vomitings, yet none of his bowmen durst enter to bring him food, for he roared with anger whenever one touched his door, and any mention of food increased his fury. And at nightfall the Lord of the Tower himself brought food, but when he came to the door the Duke swore an oath to eat no food in that house nor even drink water there. So he went disconsolately away.
In the anxiety that hung over all that house the suit of Gulvarez made but little progress. He talked to Mirandola, but there was a strange silence upon her, and she had spoken seldom since the Duke had drunk the wine that was in the chalice she brought him. He spoke awhile with her mother but, whatever words were said, all ears were only alert for any sounds that might tell or hint any changes in the Duke’s health or his anger. And it grew late and none durst go again to the Duke’s chamber with food. So they went to their own bedchambers, passing by the silent bowmen sternly guarding the door; and when midnight came it brought no hush to that house that was not lying heavily there already, for the whole house seemed to brood on the enormity of the insult that it had offered to that serene Magnifico the Duke of Shadow Valley.
But when morning came and still the Duke refused food, and still lay weak on his bed and his anger was strong as ever, and not even the bowmen durst bring to him food or drink, then a new and darker anxiety troubled the house. For if his weakness forbade him to ride away and his anger would not permit him to touch food or drink in that house, might not the Duke die? Then the Lord of the Tower told his lady that he would try once more; and he went with a savoury dish and a flagon of wine. But he returned so soon, so flushed and so ill at ease, that the anxieties of all that saw him were only increased. Of what had passed he said nothing, beyond saying to his lady and often telling over again, whether to others or muttering it low to himself, that he knew that the Duke had never meant what he said. Then Father Joseph, noticing his distress, went without a word to the savoury dish and the flagon and carried them from the room, and soon his suave phrases were heard outside the Duke’s door by such as listened round corners in their anxiety; and none failed to hear the roar of the Duke’s answers. So Father Joseph sighed and returned to the Lord of the Tower, who, wishful to conceal that he had heard what the Duke had shouted, said to his guest: “How fared you?”
“The power of Holy Church is waning,” said Father Joseph. “It is not what it was in the good days.”
“Alas,” said Gonsalvo. And there were looks of commiseration towards Father Joseph.
“It is because of all this sin,” Father Joseph continued, “that there has been in the world of late.” And the commiserating looks changed all of a sudden, for they knew that Father Joseph knew all their sins.
Then the Lady of the Tower took the flagon, thinking that perchance the Duke might drink if no word were said about food.
“He will not touch it. He will not touch it,” said her lord as she left. Nor did he.
When the Lady of the Tower was gone Father Joseph drew Mirandola a little apart.
“It is a strange and awful anger,” he said to her.
“Is it?” she said, a little above a whisper, her eyes much hidden under the dark lashes.
“Yes,” said he.
And no more said Mirandola till in a little while he spoke again.
“What was it?” said Father Joseph.
“A love-potion,” said Mirandola.
Father Joseph thought for a moment, though his face showed no more sign of thought than surprise.
“I fear your brother mixed it ill,” he said.
“I fear so,” said Mirandola.
And, his curiosity satisfied, he had leisure to turn to the things of his blessed calling. “Nor does Holy Church commend these snatchings,” he added, “at the good things of the world by means of the evil Art and the brews of magic.”
“I have sinned,” said Mirandola.
Father Joseph waved a hand. It was a small sin to bring to the notice of one of his years and calling; for there were enough men and women in his little parish for the study of every sin. Nevertheless he was thinking deeply.
Then Mirandola saw her mother return, and put down food and flagon with a sigh. And she knew that that splendid young man was lying there without food, and the thought of the harm she had done him touched her heart to a sudden impulse.
“I will take the food to him myself,” she said.
Instantly Father Joseph laid a firm hand on her arm.
“When he is weaker,” he said.
Mirandola looked at him, held back by his grip, while her impulse died away.
“Yes. Not till evening,” said he, with that assurance that he was wont to use whenever he spoke of the certainties of salvation. And more than his heavy grip that tone held Mirandola.
She passed the long day anxiously, fearing what weakness and the want of food might do to that mirror of chivalry, the young Duke, at whom folk gazed in the glorious courts of Spain, when he came to visit the victorious King; what wonder then he stirred hearts when he rode through the little fields to such a tower as this in the lonely lands, where the forest ended all, and illustrious knights rode rarely and were gone by in a canter. She was ill at ease all day. Only once a sparkle of her own merriness came back to her. Her mother had asked her to walk in the garden with Gulvarez, and Mirandola spoke of the Duke’s hunger, and thought that he might take food from his friend and would doubtless drink with him. So Gulvarez went, with a large plate full of food, and a flagon of wine and two glasses; and the voice of the Duke was heard, ringing out with that magical anger. Back then came Gulvarez, denying all the things that were said the loudest, and that must have been clearly heard, and brooding upon the rest; and there was no walk in the garden.
And all that day went by, and none could bring food to the Duke. But when evening came and all was quiet but the birds; and light came in serenely, level through windows; with the flash of insects, silver across the rays; all in the calm Mirandola took the flagon, and past the bowmen went to the Duke’s door, and opened it and stood there in the doorway. And for a moment his anger muttered, then stumbled, and was all silent, as though it had faded out with the fading of day, or had some magical cause whose power had waned, and he lay there looking at Mirandola and she stood looking at him. So passed a moment.
Then she came to him and poured into a chalice a little wine from the flagon. Once more she offered him wine; but it was all earthly now, the glory and the glow of southern vineyards, and distilled by no prentice hand such as Ramon Alonzo’s. And he accepted the wine, lying weak on his bed. Awhile she spoke with him, until there came to him the thought of food, and when he spoke of it she went to bring it to him. She passed again by the bowmen, who questioned her in low voices. “He will recover,” she said, and sighed as she said it, thinking of all the night and day he had lain there pale and weak. She went to the kitchen and gathered small savoury things such as might be lightly eaten by one that had been so strangely troubled, small earthly condiments of daily uses that had nought to do with magic. And a rumour, of things overheard from the mutterings of the bowmen, spread through the house and told that the Duke would eat again.
Then came Gulvarez to the kitchen offering to carry the plates for Mirandola. And this she let him do. And when they were come to the door of the Duke’s bedchamber he carried the plates in, Mirandola waiting without. But even yet the Duke’s anger was not over, and the sound of it boomed down the corridor, as he swore that none in that house should bring him food, unless Mirandola; and least of all Gulvarez, who had brought him to those accursed doors within which he had suffered so vilely. And Gulvarez came out so swiftly that the food shook and slid on the plates; then Mirandola took them and went in; and Gulvarez remained awhile with the bowmen, explaining such things as men explain when sudden fault has been found with them unjustly or justly.
The Duke ate little for weakness; but Mirandola sat by his bed, and somehow her eyes strengthened him when he looked in the deep calm of them, as though he found a power in their gentleness: and often he stopped, overwrought by the wrong that that house had done him, but flashes from Mirandola’s eyes seemed to beat across his wrath and seemed to parry it, and after a while he would eat a little again. And so a little of his strength came back, and for brief whiles he slept. Then Mirandola crept out and told the bowmen, and one by one they stole in on their soundless feet, and saw that his sleep was natural, and stole out again; and all the house was hushed, and the Duke slept till morning.