“She walks these hills in a long black veil, visiting ol’ men’s graves at the wind’s wail.”
The men at the bar cackled and hollered at the drunkard’s unintentional rhyme. Or perhaps he finally remembered the sailor shanty he’d been trying to recite all evening.
Lawrence didn’t care which was truth.
Under the flickering yellow glow of the tavern chandeliers, he disappeared in the crowd of pirates and ruffians. A mondegreen if his royal life was a poet’s drama. Tucked in the corner, bathed in shadow, he heard every myth that tickled his fancy. Sirens calling sailors to death, whirlpools rerouting ships, Leviathans emerging from Davey Jones’ locker.
But he’d never heard of a black-veiled woman.
“Another round, sir?”
He lifted his eye to the serving girl, recognizing her pinned blond hair and freckled nose. But the bruise on her neck was new, as were her bloodshot eyes. How could men do such things?
Glancing around, no one seemed interested in them. Not even her master, the hulking man too busy filling another round for the just-landed seafarers.
Lawrence nodded to the chair beside him. “Keep me company.”
She didn’t hesitate, scooting her chair close to him. Dress cut low to reveal her pearl skin, she waited for him to have his way like the other men did.
His stomach churned at the subservient look in her eyes. Her master made extra coin from men’s lust, turning this beautiful creature into a fearful mess. He could buy her freedom, but Lawrence would have to explain his exploits to his father.
And that conversation wouldn’t end well.
Keeping his distance, he asked, “What’s that drunk singing about?”
Her lashes fluttered. “Pardon?”
“The lady with the black veil. I’ve never heard the tale.”
Realizing she didn’t hear a mondegreen, the serving girl stiffened. Alert to the bartender, she whispered, “Merely a myth.”
“Do tell.”
Her crystal blue eyes swiveled across the wood panels of the dining room. None tried to stop her, so she relaxed. “It’s the land-locked equivalent of a siren tale. A man meets a woman under the cover of night, only to be found murdered at the door of town hall the next morn’.”
“But why the black veil?”
She shrugged. “She wants love and so takes the form of the most beautiful woman they know. Lefty claims he saw his best friend’s ol’ lady. According to him, the men awake offended by her, and she kills them in a fit of rage. Yet she mourns the loss of love.”
Lawrence eyed the counter and the swinging drunkard she’d called Lefty. He hardly seemed able to evade such a temptress, so perhaps it was a farce like the others.
Thudding boots and the stench of ale preceded the sailor’s clumsy words. “You done with my wench, mate?”
The serving girl’s expression flattened, skin growing pale.
Lawrence’s face heated as he stood. “Actually, no.”
The drunk sneered, grabbing her arm.
He clenched his fist, strategizing his first attack.
The girl touched his hand gently. “It’s all right. I must return to work.” She rose and followed the man nearly twice her age.
Skin prickling, he watched them intently. Studying everything about the man’s unruly gray curls, tangled beard, and scarred cheek. The soldiers would require every detail to bring him to court.
Lawrence didn’t stay, body numb at the thought of the poor girl. He wandered the slums of his cousin’s kingdom, hoping he’d do a better job than his father and grandfather. Cartwheels ka-thunked along the uneven streets, people in rags wandering in blistered feet. The young lord passed a beggar, the stench of death and excrement all the stronger in his alley.
He didn’t stop until he reached the upper levels of the city. Cleaner streets, paved roads, consistent lamplights. His father’s borrowed chateau marked the corner, a beacon of pale blue in the ocean of white stone.
Climbing the ladder at the back of the house, Lawrence entered through his window. He wrote down every detail of the man he’d seen that night in case the memory vanished in his dreams. Curled in his bed, he finally felt some accomplishment. Perhaps he’d make a difference in this horrid town.
Next morning, he dressed as a lord should. His cream shirt billowed around his arms as he rode toward town hall. He expected to find a soldier or two walking the grounds, but certainly not seven. And the crowd at the front steps seemed unnecessary.
Lawrence dismounted and drew near, hoping to gain some answers.
“She’s struck again! The black veil lives,” hollered a familiar voice.
On the town hall steps, underneath the broken lantern, lay the body of a dead man.
The soldiers chastised Lefty while dispersing the crowd, paying Lawrence no mind. They didn’t notice his paling cheeks or the paper that slipped from his fingers. Didn’t question when the young lord mounted his horse and rode toward where he’d come.
He didn’t haunt his table at the tavern that night. Rather he watched the hillside cemetery, waiting for a ghost with a black veil.
In the light of the full moon, the woman’s form couldn’t be mistaken. Black veil whipping around her face and dress, her identity was obscured from casual onlookers. She moved gracefully across the hill, kneeling only a moment to set flowers by an unmarked grave.
Hidden by the church, Lawrence sat close enough to see golden strands glimmer under the veil. Her high collar hid the bruise she’d gained the night before, black material masking her pale skin and light eyes. The man at the tavern had intended to have his way, but the serving girl left him dead on the town hall steps.
Nobody knew, and nobody saw. No one could prove what had happened to the drunk, but Lawrence knew.
How could women do such things?