London: November 15th, 1541
"Come closer, Richard, for I fear even a moment's separation will tear our bond."
"You have nothing to fear, my sweet," said Richard, and scooted closer to his frightened wife, who sat with her knees against her chest. On feeling Richard's warm touch, she took refuge in his strong broad shoulders and let out a tiny sob, so quiet Richard could barely hear it.
"Hush, Margaret, it is impossible for my father's soldiers to navigate through these arms of the briar." And even if they tried, they would be ravaged by the merciless thorns. When she and Richard had dived into these vines for safety, they had navigated their way through it, albeit with a few minor cuts and scratches, but making sure all the while that they left the briar undamaged, for it was their only shield against the king's armed guard.
Margaret shivered, not because of the cold snowflakes descending briskly, but at the thought of the king's guard, and even more at the thought of the king himself. He had not approved of his son's choice in companion, and had exhibited it quite acutely a fortnight ago, when Richard had brought Margaret before him, asking for his blessing. 'Never,' the King had bellowed, flinging his goblet of wine to the side, 'Never has the noble blood of the mighty Gregorian line been diluted, nor will it be now. Nay, I will not allow the throne to be tainted with the blood of this peasant scum.'
However, despite his father's disapproval, Richard, the Count of Salisbury and Crown Prince of England, had married Margaret in secret. The two lovers had fled the kingdom, hoping to live in peace. But the king, angered by his son's deliberate disobedience, had ordered for their capture, sending a band of soldiers on their trail. On realizing they were being hunted, the couple were on the run from them since.
The memory of the king's words reopened her invisible scars, which began to bleed anew, setting her eyes a-flowing. She sniffled a little and tugged her shawl tighter around her. Just then, the sound of shuffling snow came from outside their asylum of bramble. "I will be but a moment, my love," said, Richard, planting a kiss on her trembling forehead and disappearing through the thorny branches, sabre in hand. Almost immediately, she heard the yelling of men and the cold sound of swords being unsheathed, which ceased just as quickly as it had commenced.
Margaret sat in silence, not daring to cloud the icy air with her breath. She waited a minute, then two, then fifteen. When she was sure the coast was clear, she peeked though the gaps in the briar and called out tentatively, "Richard?"
No sooner had the words escaped her mouth then it was clamped shut by a gloved hand. She screamed and struggled against her captor, but with no avail. The soldiers had found them. She was slung onto the back of a horse, hand and feet bound, and off they galloped.
On reaching the kingdom, she knew where she was headed. She was steered through the Traitor's Gate of the Tower of London, like many felons before her, and could see the dried bloodstains on the walls. With a sense of perverse humor, she realized how fitting the nickname 'The Bloody Tower' was.
She was thrown into one of the cells in Tower Green, on the west wing, and had nothing to do but wait. Wait for judgement, wait for death. The two of which were beginning to sound synonymous. Three days later, she was taken up the spiral staircase of the wretched tower, to the room at the very last floor.
The one with the guillotine.
~~~~~
London: November 18th, 2013
Charles whistled to himself as he swept the empty sweet wrappers off the floor. Nasty tourists, they seemed to be incapable of picking up after themselves. He leaned against his broom, tired. For an execution room, the Green Tower was quite famous. As he surveyed his unfinished job, he heard a voice say, "You missed a spot."
He whirled around, surprised, for visiting hours were long over. There stood a woman robed in grey, her face seemingly plain, but radiating a certain glow. She pointed to a wrapper in the corner, which he promptly scooped up.
"Thank you for safekeeping the dignity of this room," She said, her voice dreamy, "Not every one respects the importance of this place."
Charles grinned- he'd never been appreciated by someone for his job, especially not someone as pretty as this woman. "My pleasure, miss. Some people just can't handle history. Especially the history of this place."
The woman raised her eyebrow ever so slightly, looking amused. Charles understood this as her asking him about the story behind the execution room. Happy to find a reason to continue taking to her, he said, "About four hundred and seventy years ago, a young maiden was sentenced to death here. She was a traitor of sorts, and must have commuted a great sin, for her soul did not seem to be accepted into heaven, and still roams this earth, seeking vengeance on those that delivered justice. She is rumoured to appear on the anniversary of her death in this very room. And today just so happens to be that day." he paused dramatically, to let the feeling sink in, and said solemnly, "So keep your eyes and ears open. We're not alone in the tower."
The woman smiled, her lips a thin pale line, and said, "She was not the traitor-her heart was. Her soul never found peace, because she had never quite lived to begin with. For all this, her sole crime?" the woman locked eyes with Charles, "Love."
With that turned and began to walk away.
"Excuse me, miss, I didn't catch you name?" said Charles, intrigued by this pale beauty.
After what seemed like an eternity, she drawled. "Margaret de'Bouf. Countess of Salisbury."
As she walked away, Charles noticed a thin line of blood dribbling down her neck, and that her head did not sit right on her shoulders.
*****
A/N: The above story is fabricated and a complete work of fiction, but the ghost of Margaret, Countess of Salisbury is rumoured to haunt the place where her Execution took place, thus earning the grounds of the Tower of London yet another ghostly presence. Every year, on the anniversary of her death, she roams the grounds, wailing eerily, calling for justice to be served to her.
