Chapter Eight Mr. Fox #2
“A few days before their wedding, Mr. Fox was called away on urgent business, but he promised to return. Temptation got the better of Lady Anne, and she went traipsing through the woods and countryside, until she found a castle that must have been Mr. Fox’s, for it was just as he’d described it, and just where he’d said it would be.
“Engraved upon the gate to his castle were the words ‘Be bold, be bold.’ Lady Anne liked this, for she’d always been a bold girl.
She pushed the gate open but found no one there.
So she went to the doorway, and engraved upon the archway above it were the words ‘Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.’ How odd, thought Lady Anne.
But she pushed the door open and went inside.
After wandering the spacious castle, admiring the many fine tapestries and paintings, Lady Anne came upon the great hall.
Engraved upon the archway above its door were the words ‘Be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest your heart’s blood should run cold.
’ How odd, thought Anne, but being the bold and curious girl that she was, she opened the door to the great hall, and what do you think she saw? ”
“I’m sure I couldn’t imagine what,” Anne mumbled. Her mouth was dry, and she smacked her lips together. “George,” she said, “I’m thirsty.”
“Just wait, this is the best part,” George replied, grinning devilishly. “The bodies and skeletons of many a pretty young lady, all stained with blood!”
“No!” Anne scolded, appalled. “George, wherever did you hear such a barbaric story?”
“I’ll never tell.” George shot her a mischievous look before continuing.
“Lady Anne thought it was time to get out of that wicked place, so she closed the door, went back down the stairs, and was just about to leave the castle when she saw Mr. Fox through a window, dragging a young woman through his garden. Lady Anne hid behind a large vase, just in time, as Mr. Fox dragged the young woman, who seemed to have fainted, through the door and into the very corridor where Lady Anne hid. Just then, Mr. Fox spied on the young woman’s hand a diamond ring.
He tried to pull it off, but it was stuck.
Mr. Fox drew his sword, raised it high above his head, and sliced the young woman’s hand right off.
It flew through the air and landed in Lady Anne’s lap. ”
“George!” Anne exclaimed.
“Let me finish, Anne, it gets even better.” He was obviously enjoying scandalizing her.
“Mr. Fox looked around for the hand, but failing to find it, he dragged the woman up the stairs, and Lady Anne heard the door of the great hall open, then close. Seeing her opportunity to flee, Lady Anne made haste to leave that cruel place, taking the young woman’s hand with her. ”
Anne was very drowsy by now, her fever pulsing in her head, but she tried hard to stay awake for the end of the story.
“The next morning, Mr. Fox showed up at Lady Anne’s house for their wedding breakfast. Lady Anne sulked at the table and would not look at him.
‘Is something wrong, my lady?’ asked Mr. Fox.
‘Why yes,’ replied Lady Anne. ‘I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed I went to your castle, and in it was a room full of women you had dishonored and killed, and then you came into the castle, dragging another woman, whose hand you cut off to steal her diamond ring.’ ‘Foolish woman,’ replied Mr. Fox, ‘ ’twas just a dream.
’ Lady Anne rose to her feet. ‘No!’ she cried.
‘The dream was real, and I have proof!’ Anne held up the young woman’s severed hand and pointed it at Mr. Fox accusingly.
At once, her brother George and her father and her uncle and all her friends drew their swords and cut Mr. Fox to a thousand pieces. ”
Anne was almost asleep. “George, you’re terrible,” she muttered through her fever and drowse, playfully hitting him on the arm.
“Just awful.” He giggled and slipped out of her room, quiet-footed, so as not to wake Mary, asleep in the other bed, who’d certainly be cross with them, would tell them to quit telling fairy stories, quit being such babies, start acting their ages, threaten to tell their parents of their misbehavior.
In a few months Mary would be gone to France to serve at court, and in a year Anne would be in the Low Countries with the archduchess.
Evenings like this, which had once seemed plentiful—with George sneaking into the girls’ room to gossip and play with Anne while Mary, ever the eldest child, kept herself aside and apart, always more grown up, always too old for their play and laughter, her eye on the distant prize of adulthood—would soon come to an end.
That night, in her fever, Anne dreamed of the bodies of the young women, dancing bloody and mutilated into Mr. Fox’s great hall, and one by one collapsing into a large pile, on which perched a white falcon.
And she dreamed of her brother, George, who would surely save her from such a fate, were she ever to be married to a licentious killer.
That was George, she thought now as she walked with Alice onto London Bridge and away from George’s severed head.
Always dear, always mischievous, always comforting.
How she wished he could have protected her at the end, like the brother in the story he’d told her all those years ago.
How she wished that George, her father, even her proud, mean Uncle Norfolk, would have drawn swords and cut Henry into a thousand pieces, or that she might’ve.