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The Castle of the Moiane, in the province of Siena, was built of stone and stood, dark and square on the top of the hill of the same name.
Today, nothing remains save a pile of stones covered by a thick, centuries old growth of ivy.
In those days, before the year 1000 or to be more precise in the 8th century, the castle, depending on who was living there at the time, was considered either paradise or hell, paradise for the wicked and hell for the righteous.
In a sunny position surrounded by vineyards and woods and protected by gorges and draw bridges, from its towers guards kept watch over dusty roads bordered by dusky cypress trees as they climbed Mount Cetona, descended steeply to the river Lastrone, skirted the town of Sarteano and continued down to the Chiana and Orcia valleys.
On the far side of the Chiana valley, like two dazed eyes, lay the lakes of Chiusi and Trasimeno.
On bright clear mornings the sun penetrated every nook and cranny of the castle and woke its sleepy inhabitants to the sound of Spineto’s church bells calling the monks to Mass. From the castle the abbey resembled an island floating on a sea of green, the tower with its one hundred bells, the cloister overflowing with flowers and silence and the monk’s cells resounding with the sweet sound of prayer.
From the Abbey, the castle looked dark and threatening even though on its roof a bell tower was visible with its bell hanging in the arch like a small green pear, an obvious sign that even inside those dark walls there was a church waiting to celebrate Mass every Sunday and on the most important feast days of the year.
The local peasants, whenever they happened to be in the vicinity of the castle, would keep their eyes wide open, on the lookout for any armed men. If none were to be seen they would continue their journey in great trepidation and at the slightest sound would dash off through the fields and reach home completely out of breath and with their eyes popping out of their heads. Such an arrival required an explanation and they would tell of having seen the countess, dressed in armour with visor lowered, riding her fiery steed and wielding a halberd.
Thus it was that conversation inevitably turned to tales of the fierce lady of the castle.
- That woman is a fury from hell - the women exclaimed - the devil incarnate, can you imagine, she goes riding at night, just like a man, with a following of uncouth knights, all of them excommunicated like herself and each one ready to serve her in every way…!
- Do you know - replied another - that she rules with a rod of iron and should any of the servants make even the slightest attempt to contradict her, she blinds them with a huge pin and has them thrown into the dungeons. Rumour has it that in the depths of the castle there are more Christian bones than stones.
- God help us all!
- Even Father Abbot - said another - the Father Abbot of Spineto, by order of the Pope, has forbidden the monks to go and say Mass, that castle belongs to the devil.
But, if the good Christian folk were afraid of the Moiane and the countess, all the rogues and rascals in the area loved to visit all day and all night and were welcomed with open arms by the countess who made certain that all who entered enjoyed themselves.
The huge castle fireplace with its wide aperture and flaming logs resembled the very door to Gehenna and there was always half a wild boar or a quarter of veal roasting on a spit above the flames. The smell wafted for hundreds of miles inviting scoundrels from distant parts to the banquet. Before long the halls, with their fine, deep purple damask trimmings, resounded with coarse laughter, dogs barking, minstrels playing and the shrill voice of the countess.
Her name was Dorilla and she was the last in line of the Lords of the castle.
With the death of her parents, Dorilla became the Lady of the castle and the owner of all the land and wealth belonging to her ancestors. She showed not a grain of sadness and declared - Alone at last, now I’m in command and everyone must obey me, I shall live like a Queen, and do just as I please. -
And to do as she pleased became what one might call her motto in life.
She was rather ugly, with a masculine face and a large dark scar on her forehead, green eyes and reddish hair, broad shoulders more suited to armour than dresses, a quick, agitated gait and a voice like the scream of a hungry falcon. Thanks to her new found wealth, it wasn’t long before she was surrounded by a band of suitors and lawless rogues.
Every night, up at the castle, diabolic plots were hatched. In the Great Hall Dorilla had erected an ornate throne and she would sit on it, dressed ready for battle, a shining silver helmet on her head, a shield on her arm and all around her, women and maidens, suitors, counts and marquises playing the lute and singing ballads.
Pages stroked sharp clawed falcons held firm on their gloved fists, the hunting dogs whined and yelped as they lay at their masters feet dreaming of deer in flight.
In the hunting season, each and every day, hundreds of dogs and horsemen swarmed over the hills around the castle. In their midst on her fiery steed rode Dorilla, whooping and yelling with the rest of the hunters as they galloped helter-skelter after a wild boar or an injured deer.
All the knights acclaimed her as though she were a Queen returning victorious from battle.
At night, the peasants lay in their beds sleepless and fearful as they listened to the sounds of revelry and feasting.
Sometimes, on a quiet night in autumn, the crimson torchlight shining through the castle windows was so bright that it sent ghostly reflections down through the gullies and valleys, illuminating the fields as if by sunlight.
A peasant, thinking that a fire had broken out, stood shivering in the field and exclaimed - How is it that such a saintly man as Father Abbot, he who dictates the law and they say is a personal friend of the Pope, how is it that he is unable to do anything about this fury from Hell! -
- I’m afraid that one of these days the countess will assemble all her soldiers and march on Spineto killing all the monks.
- It’s not unlikely.
- She was angered by the Abbot’s injunction and is chafing at the bit!
- Who do you think will win?
- I say that the monks cannot afford to loose, it would be far too scandalous.
- And I say that the countess will do everything she can to find a priest to say Mass on Christmas Eve.
- We shall see.
The Father Abbot was shocked and annoyed by the bad behaviour of the countess, and what troubled him most was the strangeness and dissoluteness of the woman who, along with all her other defects, made no bones about telling all and sundry of her immense dislike of the monks.
Something the Abbot found difficult to comprehend since her family had always been good, Christian, God fearing people who made frequent donations to the abbey.
But Dorilla, in her arrogance, believed herself in a position to give orders even to the Father Abbot.
In previous years, the priests had regularly made the climb to the castle to celebrate Mass in the small church but since Dorilla had sold her soul to the devil, the Abbot had felt it his religious duty to order her to change her ways or he would be obliged to refuse permission for the monks to say Mass or visit the castle for any reason whatsoever.
And so it was that the countess, whenever she met a monk along the road, would look him up and down in contempt.
Meanwhile, Christmas Eve grew nearer and as is usual for the time of year snow fell for weeks on end giving the place an air of innocence and purity as though God were cleansing the world before the celebration of the birth of Christ. The snow ceased as suddenly as it had begun and soon the streams started to gurgle and splash as they hurried on their journey to the valley.
On Christmas Eve, the countess sent a messenger to the Abbey asking the Father Abbot to send a monk to celebrate Midnight Mass. The messenger returned while it was still daylight.
- Well? - asked the countess.
- The Abbot is inflexible - replied the messenger stamping his feet to remove the snow.
- Damned monks! - cried Dorilla biting her lip in anger.
The castle was crowded with noblemen and their wives. Darkness began to fall and the shadows grew longer in the Great Halls. Outside all was still, the snow muffled every sound for miles around while the stars shone brighter than ever in the heavens.
To lighten the gloomy atmosphere the servants had lit a huge fire in the middle of the hall. The dry branches of oak crackled cheerfully and the courtesans, their stomachs full and their spirits high, sat at the long tables and played draughts while their shadows danced on the walls. Dorilla appeared to be lost in thought but, all of a sudden, to the astonishment of one and all, she filled a large chalice with some strong wine and exclaimed: - to hell with the Abbot - and swallowed the wine in one gulp.
The guests all laughed heartily but not without malice, while outside the castle silence prevailed. Then, out of the silence came the far off sound of bells ringing, ding dong, ding dong, the sweetest of sounds, a call to worship the birth of Christ.
Hearing it, Dorilla leapt to her feet, threw off her armour and shouted angrily at the aged sexton who just happened to be passing at that moment - Ring the bell for Mass!
The old man replied: - Madam it is already very late and no priest or monk has as yet come to the castle.
- Ring the bell I tell you - insisted the countess in her shrill voice.
The old man had no choice but to do as the countess ordered and on hearing the bell, all the guests started in amazement - the monk has arrived! - they exclaimed and began to mutter among themselves. Their eyes searched everywhere, in the entrance hall, in the vestry, in the church itself but the monk was nowhere to be seen.
Dong, dong, the sound of the bell had no joy in it, it sounded more like the cry of an animal in pain; the atmosphere became gelid and a look of terror spread across the faces of the courtesans.
Slowly, one by one, they returned to their seats and some tried to finish their game of chequers but a great sadness had befallen them. Once again the bell began to ring, dong, dong, dong, a mournful, slow sound.
The countess grew even more angry with the sexton.
- It’s a death toll! A death toll! - she cried - ring the bell faster I say, ring it faster!
- I am madam - replied the old man from inside the bell tower - but the bell is bewitched, hear how it moans!
The sound echoed over the frozen countryside, it resounded in the rooms of the castle like the rattle of a dying man and the courtesans listened in stunned silence to the unpleasant tone, so different from that of the other bells.
All thought of feasting had vanished as they wandered listlessly through the halls, no-one noticed that Dorilla was nowhere to be seen.
Dong, dong, dong, it was midnight! In the warmth of the abbey, in the lonely mountain churches, joyful bells announced the birth of Christ.
The courtesans made their way to the chapel.
- Dorilla, Dorilla! - wherever can her ladyship be!? - they asked as they stood in front of the candlelit altar.
They stood silently waiting and wondering until the small door of the vestry opened and out walked a strange looking priest dressed in a long white surplice covered by a golden chasuble, and carrying a large silver chalice.
- The countess? - everyone stared in disbelief, they looked, rubbed their eyes and looked again.
- Is it her? You can see the taught masculine body beneath the robes and the red hair bound for the occasion into tiny plaits but whoever it is, is dressed to serve Mass!?
The strange priest made the sign of the cross and murmured "introibo…" but as he touched his forehead a large black spot appeared and the same thing happened as he touched his shoulders and chest. Suddenly, flames rose high from the candles and, as the priest made his way to the altar, a frightful thing occurred. A huge snake, with eyes of fire and a long forked tongue, slithered out of the chalice and glaring at those present, gave out a terrifying hiss. A cloud of smoke enveloped the altar and cries and shouts of terror turned to silence as the courtesans gazed in horror at the scene before them.
The huge snake had wrapped its coils around the false priest and as it tightened its grip, it turned into a globe of fire. The priest began to melt, first the thin red plaits, then his face and body until all that was left was a glowing mass. The castle walls shook violently, the windows and doors burst open and banged loudly as the wind howled through the halls. In the church the globe slithered to the floor then gathered force and rose to the ceiling. With a deafening crash, the roof opened, the globe circled overhead then hurtled to the ground and hissed evilly as it rolled and squirmed its way down the hill looking for all the world like a river of blood and burning coals. Down, down it went until it vanished into the depths of the earth, in the place now known as the Devil’s Gully.
Nothing more was either seen or heard of the wicked countess, but along the strip of land where the ball of flame passed as she was dragged to the bottom of the hill, nothing has ever grown, not a single flower, not a tree nor a bush.
The castle was so badly damaged that it soon fell to ruin and local lore has it that Dorilla’s soul still wanders among the rubble in search of peace. One thing is certain, when travellers or shepherds happen to pass over the hill where the castle once stood, especially at nightfall, they avert their eyes, quicken their pace and hurriedly make the sign of the cross.
It is said that from that time on, the monks always pour a little olive oil in the shape of the cross onto hot soup before they eat it.
Bibliography:
"Idilio Dell’Era" - "Antiche leggende toscane" - "Lucio Pugliese Editore" – Florence
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