Some years ago, I saw an innovative interpretation of Charles Dickens’ The Railwayman. This story emerged with that as a tangential inspiration, alongside some real history about forbidden love.
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THOSE WHO LOVED
The familiar thud. The jolting of my body on the brittle, iced grass. It has ever been so, and it hurts so much, every time. And every time, I hope that it will be the last. I lift my head and look around. Will I go to the left or the right to scour these battlements, again? How forbidding they look, sticking up into the indigo sky like broken teeth, lichened stones faintly gleaming in the moonlight.
I drag myself to my feet and let out a groan. I’m getting too old for this adventure. Way too old. After a few moments, I summon my energy, stand tall, smooth down my many layers of clothing, and cross the courtyard. At one corner is the entrance gate. So many people come through it in the day-time. They walk round. Sometimes, I walk with them. Sometimes, a green-liveried guard shows us around, talking about where the stone came from, why the walls were damaged and how it was done. They never talk about the history of this place that I know. Nobody ever asks about it either.
“What good fortune that you are unharmed after such a fall!” A gruff voice barks from behind me. I feel my skin jump and my bones freeze. What’s the penalty for trespass? Who’s been watching? What if he has a weapon, or a slavering dog? I inhale deeply, regain some composure and slowly turn around. All I can see is a dark figure in a hooded cape. His breathing gives off a faint rasp, but there is no mist from it in the cold air.
“What’re you doing here at night-time? Are you a ghost hunter?” The lilt is strange, broken, wheezy. The poor man must have a chill.
I might as well say something to explain myself. “In a way, perhaps. Are you a guard?”
“You could say so. I volunteer. Nights like midwinter – we expect some fools to clamber over the walls and try to commune with the past.”
I nod. He means me, but he must know that’s not where I fell.
The hood stands for a few moments, and then says, “You must be cold. Come and shelter in the barn.”
In the barn, shapes appear to hang in thin air. He has no torch, but weaves among them deftly. There appears to be no fire in the brazier where he stops, but it is giving off a fine warmth. He rests an ale-can on it. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks.
“So, which famous ghost did you expect to find? A queen? A murderer? A monk? Or did you want to find just any old ghost, like a scullery boy? We get all kinds of nonsense. People turn up with magic boxes they say will pick up an unearthly presence.” Man-in-the-hood laughs hoarsely. “Creeps – the lot of ’em! No self-respecting ghost would give them the time of day.”
Perhaps ghosts don’t respond when they are sought. Is that my problem?
“Have any ghosts been seen?” I ask, desperate for clues.
“Folk who work here talk about feeling a “presence” in some rooms – that’s all.”
The weight of my dismay is great. What chance do I have, if others have not seen him?
I feel a movement in the air and I look around, trying to discern the shapes. Some are familiar – a jug – a breastplate – a manuscript – and…a…harp. As I stare at the strings, they start to quiver. The most exquisite tune wafts to my eager ears.
“Can you hear that?” I ask.
“Oh really, ghost hunter?!”
That hoarse laugh again. He thinks that I’m an idiot.
“It is just a draft in an old barn,” he says with absolute certainty.
As if to obey him, the notes stop.
“No matter,” I whisper.
Man-in-the-hood removes the ale-can from the brazier and pours the contents into two cups. He passes me one and I drink. It tastes bitter, but it quenches a long, long thirst.
“Thank you. That tastes very fine.” I lie politely. After a few sips, I just have to blurt out, “I know that Lord FitzCuillan lived here, once.”
Man-in-the-hood takes a long time to reply.
“I can see why you might expect a troubled soul from his time. He had a very deep dungeon…and many instruments of torture.”
I can’t reply.
“Tell you what,” gasps the Man-in-the-hood, “why don’t I give you a special tour? As you’re here. As I have to walk around anyway. I’ll take you to the place where the people who work here feel ‘a presence’.”
I know the answer to this should be no. I’m frightened by this harsh voice with no face. But I’m also overwhelmed with curiosity. I have nothing to lose.
He does not talk about stonework or sieges. He is leading me back to the keep, up the narrow staircases, to where I started from. As soon as we enter the room, I hate the feel of it. The dark panelling seems to close in, there is a smell of anguish. I want to get out of it. I turn to push past him. But – he slams the door shut! It shakes the air. He looms over me.
“Don’t you know me yet?!” The hooded cape drops to the floor, revealing a shrouded body. The shroud has a grisly pattern of bloodstains, at the eyes – the ears – the mouth, the throat, the hands – and I dare not look more. The shroud itself seems to shriek the body’s torture and I shriek back at it. I shriek again, but no one will come and help me.
“What trickery is this, mister volunteer? You’re as bad as the ghosthunters!”
“Can’t you bear to see what I suffered for loving you!”
Who is this? I shake my head. “No. No. It can’t be like this.”
“Did you expect to see me as a bright and beautiful minstrel, playing my harp, as you remember me?”
I sink to my knees, sobbing loudly. Did I expect that? I had certainly hoped. I remember – trembling with passion, gazing into sparkling hazel eyes, holding fingers that teased captivating melodies from mere strings, kissing lips that sang like a nightingale, stroking the face of an angel.
“You cannot imagine what I suffered! Why did you tempt me, milady!”
Is that what he thinks of me? That I am a coquette? My wailing subsides. I rise up and move to the one window in this awful room. I blow, and the casement clatters open.
“Can you feel the draught from the window? This is where I risked the agonies of hell-fire to be with you! Where I crawled out, and threw myself into the ground’s bloody embrace.” I stretch out my hands to the shape that was my lover.
“I have done it again and again, all this time. I have had no rest. I have so longed to find you, to be with you!”
The shroud quivered.
“You long to be with who I was – before your father’s men dragged me away from your skirts.”
I look down at myself, twisted, bloated and bloodied in my torn finery.
“Don’t judge me so. I too – am damaged.”
The shroud starts his rasping laugh. The laugh becomes tuneful, the tuneful laugh a song, and my tears turn to ones of joy as I see our forms fade – merge – and fade again.
After several hours, two grey-haired women in green jackets open the door.
“That flamin’ window is open again! And I thought I’d tied it shut last night. Can maintenance never fix it? It’s freezing in here!”
The women tie up the window. It will stay shut. I – we – have no further need of it.
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Photo: Gravensteen (Castle of the Counts) in Ghent. May 2025
