La malmuerta: a poem


This is the Malmuerta Tower in Cordoba, Spain. It has a grisly legend attached to it, which the following poem describes.



When the Duchess came home

Her husband was there

Face scorched with fury

Green hate in his stare.

“What be this, sir?”

Asked the duchess

Keeping face with a grin

For arriving she´d noted

Their servants within.


Yelling oaths and accusations

The Duke seized her mount,

And yanking hard on the reigns

Threw his wife to the ground.

He stood spitting above her

Watchers silent and awed –

A flash of steel caught the sun –

As the Duke drew his sword.




The staff in the kitchens

Gasped in horror as twice

The Duke thrust his blade

T´ward his struggling wife.


Before any could reach her –

The sun lighting the scene –

There was a gristly crunch

And the Lady´s last scream

Fell to silence.


The bloodied arm clattered down

The lady´s mare backed away

The gabled doorways spilled bodies

The Duke´s countenance changed

From anger to pity

Through sorrow and shame,

From release and relief

To anguish and pain.

¡La Señora!” cried a footman

With rheumy, wet eyes

And the crowd turned as one

To where the Duchess had sighed.

Then did fall on the company

A reverent hush

As the lady´s red fingers

Traced a sign of the cross.



The dying man blinked

With very real fright

As smoke seeped from the wall

And imitated life.

¡Hija mia! Be it you?”

The old soldier cried

Rising on his grey pillows

And widening his eyes.


The spectre held out its arms

But before the embrace

The image of the Duchess

Faded gently away.


“She´s with us now, as you are,”

A voice whispered aloud

While the curtains trailed arcs

As though breathing themselves.


“Who speaks there! Who is it?

Be it Marta my wife?”

“´tis I,” came the answer

And the room became light.




Under the palms by the river

The Duke was trailed by a mob

His face deathly pale

As he petitioned the Lord.

Yes, the devil had won

But now one thing was clear:

All Cordóba would know

What he´d suffered for years.

How he´d lived with a demon

Which´d begged to be pleased

And would take aught but a life

As its tariff to leave.

Now that price duly paid

So the creature had gone

Thus the Duke was aware

Of a dispersing fog

Which took the cancerous crust

From his poor tortured soul

And left it Glittering and Holy,

Pristine and Whole.

So lifting his head –

Liberated and light –

The Duke raised his eyes

And looked up for a sign

From San Rafael or the Virgin

The Holy Spirit or the Son

But saw only sky darkening

And black clouds blind the sun.


In a high passing window

Three faces he saw:

His dear wife, her dead mother

And his father-in-law.



The King had been ill

For three days laid low

In no mood to receive

The grim tidings now told

By a red-cheeked young runner

Who´d arrived just before

The cries of the mob

Had rattled the court.

“Bring him in,” barked His Majesty

And the Duke came prostrate

His tears soaking the carpet,

His lips trembling and grey.

He kept his nose to the stones

As he confessed his guilt:

Begged not for mercy but justice:

Said he longed to be killed.


The King lowered his sword

To the Duke´s trembling, bare neck

But as he pressed on the blade

A flash drew him back.

The Duchess he´d spied

In an unfolding light

Face serenely attractive  –

Smooth sea by moon light –


Still weak from the  tragedy

She spoke unto the King:


“No more killing, gracious Majesty,

Hear the judgement of mine:

Let Life be his punishment

Let his confessor be Time.

Let his shackles be sorrow

Let his body be walls.

Let his Conscience be God´s voice

And his  Repentance be all.

Let the heat of the Right Path

Thaw his violent, cold heart,

Pray give him time to repent

Afore he departs!”


The King replied unto his vision

In words prayer-like and sad

As his court watched in silence

Thinking His Majesty mad.




The Royal Planner viewed this

From his spot by the throne

With the ramparts and passageways

He´d personally drawn

Rolled out on the table

And by paperweights held

(In each orb a Moor´s finger

Perfectly preserved).

The planner had lived without passion

Throughout his dull life

And had done well for himself,

His children and wife.

He would speak of this later

As their servants brought wine

And they´d giggle at the foolishness

Of their monarch divine –

“Now Rise!” roared the King

And the Planner and Court

Jumped to their feet

With fear´s full force.

An orb shattered violently –

A Moor´s finger rolled out –

But the King did not notice

(The Duke´s sobs drowned it out).

For a moment there was silence

As the King leant to speak

To the Duke once so virulent

Now broken and weak.

The Duke´s a cad and bully

The Royal Planner did think

Bitter as mouldy lemons

            Marinated in drink.

He´d worked for the brute

Built his palacio in town:

The Duchess a joy

He a bad-tempered clown:

Never once with a kind word

Never pleased with his lot –

Yet blessed with a fine bride

That´s what old money got!

No justice in this world –

            But, wait, sir! But wait!

            Look where he´s ended up, ha!

            See his pitiful state!

A smile split the Planner´s beard

But froze into a crack

When his eyes, quickly focussing

Saw his King´s staring back.

“The papers!” cried his monarch

Jabbing sharp the royal hand:

The Planner leapt into action

And swept up all his plans

Then hovered to the royal shoulder

His lackey´s face bowed

While the poor pitiful Duke

Wept in gratitude aloud.


The wretch, the King decreed

Would a new tower build!

Where the south wall lay in ruins

The space would be filled

By fresh fortification

With walls strong, wide and deep

By the Duke´s own hands built

So all Cordóba might sleep

Safe through the jewelled nights

And stand firmer by day:

In this the Duke would be busy

For the rest of his days..


They knew not then, the Court,

That the tower would later find fame

Not as the dead Duchess´s tower

Or by some sweet, flowery name

But as the Tower of Bad Death

Known to all by that name.




The new tower grew quickly

Snaking upwards and staunch

The pauper Duke unrecognisable

Stooped and with paunch.

He toiled steady every day

And long into each night

Through sun, rain and fiestas,

In plain public sight.


For the first years a target

But then largely ignored

He accepted the insults

Til the people grew bored.

He worked steady on his tombstone

Bricking up his own grave

And tho´ monotony sent him senile

Still blindly he stayed

Heaving square stones into place

Slapping trowel-loads in holes

Mumbling, white-eyed and toothless

Bearded, trembling and old.

When it came to the innards

The Duke worked on half blind

Til he collapsed on the dank slabs

One midwinter´s night.


No-one noticed til a soldier

The night of January the fifth

Climbed the tower from the outside

To offer the old man a drink

The tipsy ´tenant did spy

In a room carpeted with mud

Rats gnawing flesh poking

From the Duke´s leather boots.



Did any fate move you, reader

As you scanned these short lines?

That of our pretty slain Duchess

Or the Duke´s devil inside?

Felt you pity at all?

Fear, empathy or nought

For a man led by jealousy

To kill the one thing he loved?

Was the King right in his sentence?

Should a life have been spared?

Was the Duchess truly in the Throne Room?

Do the dead live on somewhere?



If the future should ever find you

In sweet Cordóba town

I beg the first passer by

You´ll politely flag down

To ask the kind denizen

Where La Malmuerta may be

Then follow their directions

Til afore you, you see

Our grey-grim totem

Rising up from the streets.


Buried deep in the vaults

Are the old bones of the Duke

With the skeleton of another

A young maiden named Ju.

She was a servant in the courtyard

The day the Duke slew his wife

Carrying his baby which she lost then

With the shock of the sight.

When the old man was forgotten

She´d gone back to his side

And lived out her last days

As his common-law wife.