The Ballad of Lady Mary de la Poer🩸

In Shrewsfield’s hall, the candles gleam…
their light like breath upon the stone.
And Lady Mary, pale and young…
walked the corridors alone.

They said her beauty caught the stars,
that angels envied her repose.
But shadows stirred in velvet hearts,
and whispered through her silken clothes.

The Earl of Shrewsfield bowed to her,
with courtly smile and silver tongue.
His words were sweet — but tasted strange,
like wine too long among the young.

“My lady fair,” he swore that night,
“you’ll bear my name and wear my ring.
The blood of saints runs in my line —
come bind your soul to mine, and sing.”

Her heart was kind, her will was soft,
she dreamed of love and holy vow.
Yet in the dark, his mother watched,
and traced a sigil on her brow.

“She’ll bring the curse upon the house,”
the mother said, “the stars foretell.
The de la Poer do not forgive —
nor grant the dead farewell.”

Still, morning broke with bridal bells,
and Mary smiled beneath the veil.
Her gown was white as winter’s breath,
her hope as fragile — and as frail.

They wed before the chapel flame,
the priest intoned his solemn prayer.
But as he spoke the holy name,
the candles guttered — one by one —
and left the altar bare.

The vow was sealed, the feast began,
and laughter filled the ancient hall.
Yet in her cup, a shadow swam…
and in his smile — she felt it call.

So ends the vow that should not be,
where love was bound and fate was sown.
For every heart that beats too free…
must one day pay its debt in bone.

The night came down like mourning cloth,
its seams were stitched with rain.
The moon was drowned, the stars were mute —
and silence whispered pain.

Within her chamber, Mary prayed,
her candle burned so low.
She dreamed of love that would not fade…
and did not see the shadow grow.

The Earl stood pale beside the door,
his eyes two pits of glass.
His hand still bore the bridal band,
but trembled as he passed.

“My love,” he said, “I hear them speak —
the voices through the floor.
They tell me what I cannot seek…
they call me to the door.”

“You’re ill,” she breathed, “come rest with me.
The storm will pass, you’ll see the dawn.”
But lightning flashed — he did not kneel —
his mother’s prayer went on and on.

“She brings the curse, she breaks the line,
the stars will never set us free.”
Her voice like wind through hollow wine —
her faith a blade across the sea.

The hall grew red with thunder’s light,
the windows screamed and burst.
He raised the sword — the bridal sword —
and spoke the words rehearsed.

She cried his name — once, maybe twice —
then all was flame and roar.
Her heart gave out beneath his hand,
and blood baptized the floor.

The mother wept, but did not pray,
she washed her hands in wine.
“The curse is done,” she whispered low,
“our blood again is mine.”

The priest was called before the dawn,
his eyes were gray with fear.
“Forgive us, Father,” they implored,
“and bless the house still here.”

He crossed himself and whispered back,
“What God ordains, endure.
No sin abides where faith is strong —
and none shall hear of her.”

But in the dark beneath the stair,
where stone meets bone and air meets air,
a whisper trembles, soft and sore —
“I loved thee still… de la Poer.”

Dawn bled pale through chapel glass,
the world was gray and still.
The echoes died in Shrewsfield’s hall,
and all was left — the will.

The priest was called at break of day,
his cassock damp with dew.
He crossed himself and came to see
what faith was meant to do.

The mother knelt, her eyes were red,
her fingers laced with prayer.
The Earl stood silent by her side —
a ghost of grief and air.

“We’ve sinned,” she said, “but not in hate —
the stars decreed the cost.
The line was failing, hope was frail —
the old blood would be lost.”

The priest looked down and saw the floor,
the dark where Mary lay.
He felt the chill of something more
than words could wash away.

“You seek the Lord?” he whispered back,
“Then kneel and speak your sin.”
“We killed her, Father — by God’s will —
to cleanse the line again.”

He raised the cross, his voice was low,
“What’s done, confess no more.
God bless this house and all within —
and close its crimson door.”

He sprinkled wine instead of tears,
he prayed — but not for her.
And when he left, the hall grew cold —
and something moved — a stir.

For underneath the chapel stones,
the restless heart still beat.
It throbbed in time with candle flame,
beneath the priest’s own feet.

Each night he dreamed of Mary’s eyes,
two stars in endless dark.
They watched him from the window’s edge,
and whispered from the ark.

“No sin absolved, no rest remains,”
her voice was soft but sure.
“The dead remember, Father mine —
and House de la Poer.”

The priest still walks by candlelight,
the hall still weeps with rain.
And every vow that ends in blood
will be whispered — once again.