Chateau De Chateaubriant, France — Francoise De Foix
by Dawg
Within the stony heart of Chateaubriant, the night outlasts the day,
beneath ancestral towers, sorrow’s shadow will not stray.
In halls where treachery unfurled, a heart was left to bleed,
whispers slither in candlelight, recounting love’s twisted creed.
Francoise de Foix, her presence carved into every vaulted stone,
the mistress-turned-martyr, silenced within these walls, her agony alone.
History smolders in secret corners where her final breaths were drawn,
no repentance, no forgiveness–just a requiem at dawn.
Once her laughter swept the banquet, now footsteps echo in shame,
a jeweled prisoner adorned in silk, accused without a name.
The Count’s jealousy–a tempest behind every gilded door–
became the noose that tightened nightly, and mercy was no more.
Moonbeams crawl along corridors, illuminate the silent dread,
chill drafts spiral where her spirit circles, restless with the dead.
Crimson stains faded from the rushes, but pain never fled these rooms,
love corrupted by suspicion–abandoned to the gloom.
Portraits line the gallery, each smile masking a lie,
the ghost of Francoise drifts by the hearth, tears long since run dry.
Her sighs swirl with the autumn wind, invade the ancient keep,
a legacy of anguish, a sorrow buried deep.
Stone archways hum with secrets, retell her lover’s doom,
a tale of power and possession, a coffin sealed too soon.
No comfort for the restless here, no absolution gained,
her agony is timeless, by cruelty sustained.
In the marrow of the chateau, betrayal seeds the night,
and when the wind caresses stone, she’s always in plain sight.
No prayer will grant her freedom, nor will sunrise break the spell–
her story lives within these walls, where memory dares to dwell.