Lady Margo's Feast

An English Lady staying in a Scottish castle makes a gruesome discovery

Horns blared urgently as the deer fled before the hounds, leaping over wattle walls and hedges, dodging around trees, and running through small streams.

Flushed with excitement, Margo dug her left heel into her gelding's flank, speeding him up as Andrew led him along. How she wished she could keep up with the men, but sidesaddle riding would not permit it, and she was a lady.

Her hostess, Lady Christina, was a few yards ahead, obscured by the trees and the thickening mist.

Impatience gripped Margo so hard, she gave Critroun a hard kick. The palfrey stumbled beneath her. She tumbled into a noisome ditch where flies buzzed busily over a grey-blue sack of bones. Instinct kicked her back onto her feet. The flies rose in a swirling cloud, then settled back down. Curiosity dragged her back to take a closer look, despite the nauseating stench. She walked the long length of the sack with her thin white linen veil bunched up around her nose and mouth, and found that the protruding bones she had noted had formerly been a forearm.

“My lady! Are you hurt?”

“Andrew,” Margo called, “come and see. I think there's been a murder.”

The red-haired footman was soon at her side. With the tip of his staff, he lifted a flap of fabric, which turned out to be a hood. Beneath it lay the maggot-chumbled wreck of a greybeard. His long thin silvery whiskers had a grey streak that ran from chin to breastbone. “It's Auld Wullie Alves,” he said, turning to face Margo. “He's been missing for three weeks. Poor old devil.”

“There will have to be an inquest,” said Margo. She turned aside, desperately clinging to her dignity, but horror got the upper hand. She turned, ran a few feet away, and retched her revulsion into the ditch.

The inquest took place in the village hall. Sir Angus Forbes, the Coroner, presided over a jury composed of the local tradesmen of good standing in the parish. Nine men, three from adjacent parishes, were there to ensure neutrality in the proceedings. Since most of the discussion was held in Gaelic, Margo, who was sitting beside Lady Christina and some other gentlewomen, did not understand a word they were saying. The broad, guttural sounds were stronger than the Cumbrian dialect spoken by her husband and his people. Their English used more ‘ee’ and ‘ow’ sounds.

This place was a world away from Hampshire, where she had grown up. She sat looking around like a little lost girl, trying to make sense of what was going on around her. It was just as well that Lady Christina was happy to explain things.

“Lady Margaret Everard of Carlisle,” said Sir Angus, looking at her over his aquiline nose.

Margo half-rose, unsure of what he wanted. Sir Angus’s grey temples, wiry frame, and fine clothes provoked a sense of awe in her.

“Could you come and stand over there, please?” He indicated the desired location with a wave of his black-gloved hand.

Margo complied, reassured by his kindly tone.

The black-clad clerk bade her swear to tell the truth.

Margo complied.

The men asked her questions.

“What were you doing on the day you found the body?” asked a well-padded baker, whose white coif made his ruddy bearded face seem redder.

“I was with a hunting party,” she replied, speaking in short sentences to accommodate Sir Angus, who translated for her. “I fell off my horse and into the ditch. I saw something that looked like a sack or cloak, and wondered why anyone would throw it away. There were many flies, and it smelled like brimstone and filth.”

She answered each of the questions Sir Angus translated, then resumed her seat.

They called Andrew Selkie, the footman, to stand before Sir Angus, who questioned him in Gaelic. He seemed to struggle a bit with this, so he switched between Cumbrian dialect and the English spoken by folk further south.

The verdict, as Christina told her when it was finally over, was that the old man had likely perished by misfortune. His putrefied remains were too meagre to yield a definite clue as to how he had met his end.

There followed a debate over whether or not he should be granted a Christian burial, given that he was rarely seen at church, and none of the priests had confessed him for ages. Sir Angus argued that since no one could find a bad word to say about him, they might as well.

The mood at the evening meal was sombre. The great hall seemed chilly despite the fire that roared by the dais where Lady Christina sat. Her silver circlet glistened against her dark blue veil, and she had pinned her dark mantle closely round her sagging neck.

The talk at the table was mostly gossip about Auld Wullie, and how he had ended up dead in a ditch.

Haunted by the memories of finding him, Margo excused herself as soon as she could, and went upstairs to the library. This room had one big bookshelf where the books sat, three tables of varying sizes, and seven chairs. Margo could see several books in Latin, and picked out De Bello Gallico.

***

The castle kitchen was mostly clear. A few workers of various kinds congregated around the main fire. “Mistress Pikey,” said a young chambermaid, “What will we do about Auld Wullie?”

“We’ll have to leave him,” she replied, with a frown. “I didn't realise that the ditch would dry out so quickly. He's no good to anyone now.”

***

The dim orange glow of the dying fire cast the only light in Margo's room. She gathered her blankets around her chin and closed her eyes. Sleep refused her. As the light dimmed, a sense of foreboding crept up on her like a cat stalking a mouse. It began as a slight tugging at the edges of her consciousness. The barest hint of a familiar but unpleasant smell grew stronger until she felt forced to get up and seek out the source. Pushing back the blankets, she thrust out a hand to balance as she levered herself into a sitting position. Icy fingers dug into her wrist. Her heart sank. Her mouth went dry, and she froze.

The smell grew into a foul stench that forced its way inside her, permeating every sense until she was drowning in it, held in place by that cold dead hand. Her eyes watered, her ears ached, and she thrashed about, trying to breathe, until she passed out.

“My lady.”

Margo woke up, looking blearily up at the woman leaning over her with a worried expression on her ageing face. She cast about in her mind, trying to place the kindly features. Then the world she knew called her home. “Gudrun,” she croaked, then looked down and around. “Why am I on the floor with my shift pulled up to my waist?”

Then she noticed the puddle of indignity. “Go, fetch a bucket, and clean this up. Do not tell a soul what you saw.”

***

“Mistress Pikey, did you hear about the Englishwoman who found Auld Wullie?” the chubby serving-maid asked, with a conspiratorial air.

“What about her, Alyss?” asked the housekeeper, her meaty arms bulging out of her rolled-up sleeves.

“Her maid found her on the floor this morning in a puddle of pee.”

“Oh, aye?” Mistress Pikey leaned in towards Alyss.

“She had fair tore up the room, pulled the bed clothes off, and was lying half-naked on the floor like… like…”

“Like?” asked Mistress Pikey, raising greying eyebrows.

“Like the Devil himself had been on her!”

The housekeeper straightened up. “Did you see this yourself?”

“No, not quite,” replied Alyss. “Gudrun asked me to help her fetch wood, a basket, and a bucket. I let her run ahead of me, then doubled back to look through the crack in the door, which she had left ajar. I saw the woman on her knees looking under her shift, as if she was expecting to find something there. I don't think she saw me, but when she looked up, she seemed very upset.”

Mistress Pikey pursed her lips. “Tell no one of this,” she ordered.

***

Margo sat working by the fire, barely paying attention to the prattle of the ladies surrounding Lady Christina. Since it was raining, they were making shifts and chemises for the poor.

“You have been sewing the same spot for ages,” said Lady Christina, whose knobbly fingers had deftly sewed the seams of a long chemise already. “What ails you, lass?”

“Bad night,” Margo replied, putting her sewing away.

“Alyss?”

The serving-maid approached and curtsied.

“Make a pine candle and burn it in her room,” Lady Christina commanded. “Margo, come with me.”

Margo followed her hostess up to a tall tower. At the top of the stairs was a locked room. Lady Christina opened the door, brought Margo in with her, then quickly looked around and locked the door.

“Listen to me carefully,” the older lady said quietly. “There are things in both this world and the next that we will never understand. Not everything you learn in books is true, or the whole truth. I know some saining charms that might aid you, and of course you should pray.” She crossed herself solemnly, then took out a key from a pouch that hung from her girdle.

A few feet along the wall from the window was a strong wooden box with a lock on it. She opened the box and removed a thin twig twisted into a circle. Fastened to it on the inside was a wooden cross. “Take this,” she urged, “and hang it up over your bed. I'll have no bogles in this house, whatever some of the others have to say about it.”

Margo reached out slowly and took the object, turning it over in her hands.

“It's rowan,” Lady Christina explained. “To protect you from bad nights.”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Margo, unsure of what to make of this. A thought occurred to her as Lady Christina locked the box. “Do you think it was Auld Wullie who came to me last night?”

Lady Christina stood up and turned to face Margo. “What happened?” she asked, horror widening her eyes.

Margo rolled up her right sleeve. “Look.” Livid parallel lines marred her forearm just above her wrist. Margo turned her hand palm upwards. Thin red semicircles stood out against her white skin.

***

The old priest carefully examined Margo's hand and arm. “Did you ever speak to Auld Wullie before his misfortune?”

“No, Father Dunstan,” she replied. A sense of relief washed over her. She did not have to deal with this alone.

“Are you sure it was him?” he asked, taking her other hand and trying to make it match the marks. It did not.

“No,” said Margo. “I'm guessing because of the stench—it was the same as when I found him. And because I knew it was a dead man who grabbed my arm. I know not how, I just know with a certainty I will never be able to explain.”

“That it was a dead man who seized your arm?”

“Yes.” She nodded firmly. “Father, why is this happening to me?”

The priest let her hands drop. “Well, from what you have told me, my lady, it may well be because it was you who found him. He may have formed some kind of attachment to you that you were unaware of. Or maybe he was in that room before and feels drawn to it.”

Margo shook her head, her white veil fluttering over her dark brown curly hair. “None of those explanations seem reason enough to haunt me.”

“My lady,” he replied gravely, “when a man dies unshriven, his sin-burdened soul can find no peace. If this is the case, we will need to perform an exorcism. If the Lady Christina will allow me, I can travel back with you to Kildrummy Castle this evening.”

“Your presence will be most welcome in my home,” said Lady Christina, with a smile.

***

Mistress Pikey presided over a meeting in the castle kitchen. “Alyss tells me that Auld Wullie is haunting Lady Margo,” she said, looking at each member of the group in turn. “And Morag says she's gone with our lady Christina to fetch a priest from Aberdeen.”

“Mistress,” said a small slip of a chambermaid, “what will we do?”

“We must get Auld Wullie under control,” she replied. “Who will help me get his finger bones?”

***

“In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti, amen.” Father Dunstan completed the ritual by sprinkling holy water over Margo, and around the room. As he packed up his equipment, Alyss knocked gently on the door.

“Excuse me, my lady,” she said with a curtsey to Lady Christina, “dinner is served.”

Later that evening Margo slipped into the library, glancing around before she closed the door behind her. She placed the torch in a convenient sconce and picked up De Bello Gallico. There was something deliciously wicked about reading books intended for men's eyes that drew her to them every time she saw them. Men owned her body—first her father, now Sir James, her absent husband—but she had sworn since the hanging of the stable-boy that they would never own her mind. She turned to the page she had last read, then continued.

XVI.—The nation of all the Gauls is extremely devoted to superstitious rites; and on that account they who are troubled with unusually severe diseases and they who are engaged in battles and dangers, either sacrifice men as victims, or vow that they will sacrifice them, and employ the Druids as the performers of those sacrifices; because they think that unless the life of a man be offered for the life of a man, the mind of the immortal gods cannot be rendered propitious, and they have sacrifices of that kind ordained for national purposes.

She had read about Druids before, and had learned not to ask questions about them. Even the most innocuous enquiry resulted in knitted eyebrows, curled lips, wagging fingers, and stern warnings punctuated by religious declarations and the Sign of the Cross. Some of the old widows she had visited to succour had whispered that, although the True Faith had ended the reign of the Druids as arbiters and channels between men and the elder gods, some women had continued their practices. They would never tell her who they were.

Margo read the passage again. A half-remembered story of St. Patrick's cursing battles with the Irish Druids floated to the surface of her mind. Mary Cartwright, the hanged boy's mother, had screamed at her father with one hand on her head, her right eye closed, that his line would end with ‘that foul nethermouth of yours!’, among other things. She had left the village with her husband and their other children that night.

Margo placed her hand on her belly, which had never swollen with life inside it. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she recalled her mother's death from lung disease. Both of her brothers had fallen, unwedded, in battle with the Scots. Could Mary have been a Druid? Pondering these things, she went to bed.

***

“Did you get it?”

“Yes, Mistress Pikey,” said Alyss, holding up a muddy kerchief tied up into a bundle.

Mistress Pikey snatched it, opened it, and looked inside. She looked up at Alyss, a slow smile spreading across her care-lined face.

***

In the privacy of her chamber as the morning sunlight streamed in, Margo pulled up the sleeve of her white linen shift to look at her arm. The marks left by the fingers and nails that had gripped her so hard had completely faded. She credited the cross above her bed and Father Dunstan's intervention for the peaceful sleep she had enjoyed, and said a short prayer for the health of Lady Christina and the old priest.

A light knock at her door, followed by “My lady?” caught her attention. “Come, Gudrun,” she replied airily.

“The ladies are hunting with nets today,” said the maid. “Let's get your green velvet gown out. It goes so nicely with your eyes.”

At breakfast, Margo found herself seated beside Father Dunstan.

“Did you sleep well, my lady?” he asked, gazing at her with the air of a farrier checking a horse for signs of illness or injury.

Margo smiled as she turned to the old priest. “I did, thank you, Father Dunstan. Like a baby.”

“Then my work here is done,” he replied. “My lady Christina, I must return to Aberdeen before I am missed.”

***

Mistress Pikey and her six acolytes followed the hunters out of the castle gates for a while, then dropped back and turned aside into the forest. Following an ancient trail, they made their way to a small circle of stones where one long one lay flat. Dropping their cloaks, they pulled the hoods of their white robes over their heads, and entered the circle.

Turning to Alyss, Mistress Pikey took a decorated leather pouch from her basket and removed some objects. Muttering a chant, she cast a small bone, a tiny doll with a scrap of green cloth wrapped around it, some stones, and a clump of grey hair tied to a little twig together onto the long stone. She then took a small stone flask and poured some red liquid over the near corner of the weathered stone, after which she poured the rest of it carefully over the middle of the stone. As the fluid drained away, it touched the green cloth, staining it. Mistress Pikey nodded firmly, then looked around at her acolytes. “He wasn't accepted,” she said grimly. “We have no choice.”

“How will we do it?” asked an older woman, peering up from beneath her hood.

Mistress Pikey took a small finger-length bone, a strip of linen, a knife, a fork, a spoon, a charred piece of wood, and two small stones, lifted them up over her head, and let them drop. The bone, the knife, the fork, and the spoon fell onto the stone where the red fluid was. The linen strip blew away and the small stones bounced off, moving the clump of grey hair further away from the red fluid. The charred piece of wood bounced twice and came to rest beside the tiny doll.

Mistress Pikey exchanged a look of grim satisfaction with the older woman, and said, “Samhain is tomorrow night. We'll do it then.”

***

“Are you certain of this, Andrew?” asked Sir Angus, his bushy eyebrows joined above his nose in consternation. “These are very serious charges.”

“I'll swear to it, my lord,” the footman replied. “I saw it with my own two eyes. “I think they will do it at the rock where they did their scrying.”

“But you're not certain?”

“No, my lord.”

Sir Angus looked away, then turned back to the footman. “Go back to Kildrummy Castle and carry on as usual. I will meet you at the crossroads at sundown tomorrow night.”

***

Lady Christina led her party home, flushed with excitement and success. Margo helped to bring in their haul. The women chattered joyfully as the castle staff relieved them of their burdens and brought them into the kitchen.

Andrew Selkie, the footman, approached Lady Christina with a letter in his hand, and bowed.

Noticing the look in his eye, she took it quickly and hurried upstairs to her room.

***

Mistress Pikey bustled about preparing the All Hallows Eve meal. As they were supposed to be fasting that evening, she and her serving maids provided bread and spring water for the evening meal, with soul cakes to give to those who promised prayers for the dead.

That evening, the castle chaplain led them all in prayer in the chapel, then bade them retire to bed early, and to pray for those who had already passed through the veil.

When Margo closed the door to her chamber, she thought something was amiss, but could not quite put her finger on it. When she had finished her prayers and got into bed, moonlight flooded the newly-darkened room through the thin slit of the window. When she looked up, she realised that the cross Lady Christina had given her was gone. She leapt up, snatched a taper from the top of the small cupboard beside her bed, and lit a torch. Searching frantically under the bed, under the pile of clothes on the chair beside her bed, inside the cupboard and the garderobe, she found no sign of it. Where could it be? She threw the covers off the bed and shook them out, expecting to find it on the floor, but to no avail. Who could have taken it? She lifted her pillow. Beneath it lay a small yellowish thing. Her heart dropped like a stone when she realised what it was.

Clad only in her shift, she shivered in the cold night air. A sense of creeping dread pervaded the room. The torch went out.

A familiar smell slipped into the air, growing stronger until it became an unbearable stench. Margo felt a cold clammy pressure on her arm by her wrist, tightening as if gripped by an invisible hand. Terror-struck, she dragged her unwilling gaze to her arm and found a bearded corpse crawling with grave-worms clinging to it as he pulled himself up.

She dropped like a puppet with the strings cut.

Women's voices chanted around her. As Margo awoke, she noticed that they were robed in white. She tried to move, but was bound hand and foot. Horror strained her voice. “What is this? Let me go!”

The chanting continued.

The warmth of a blazing bonfire gently caressed her. Through the flames, she counted three robed and hooded figures. “This is madness!” she cried.

The chanting continued.

Shock gripped Margo, halting each word as she forced it out. A round, ruddy face with a snub nose appeared beneath one of the hoods. “Alyss? Help me! Alyss!”

Alyss ignored her and continued to chant.

“Morag!”

A thrawn, long-nosed woman looked directly at Margo.

“Mary?”

Mary's thin lips spread slowly. Her dark eyes blazed in triumph.

“Mary Cartwright!” Margo shouted.

Mary resumed chanting.

“I am sorry about John! I had nothing to do with the hanging!”

Mary continued to chant.

“It was my father,” Margo continued. “He caught us together and dragged John away. Had I but known he would accuse him of theft and get him hanged, I would never have gone to the stable that day. You must believe me! You must! I am sorry!”

The chanting ceased.

Hope briefly touched Margo's heart.

Mary gazed at her, as if weighing her apology. Then she tugged at a rope tied around her waist, and brought it to Margo. “This is the rope they hanged my son with,” she said coldly.

Margo wept. Unable to dry her eyes, she blinked repeatedly. Through her tears, she saw Mary reverently tie the rope around her waist again. “I pray for the repose of his soul every night,” she called.

The women turned, formed a queue, and came closer to Margo. One of them untied her.

“Come,” said a brawny woman Margo had not seen before. Taking Margo's hand, she brought her to a fallen tree on which food had been laid out. “Eat,” she said.

The women sat on either side of the tree, and after a blessing from the woman beside Margo, they tucked into the roast meats, pots of pottages, and cakes. Feeling that it might be safe to join them, Margo took a piece of meat and ate it. Turning to the woman who had bade her to eat, she asked, “Are you Druids?”

“We are,” said the woman.

Margo ate another piece of meat, then asked, “Why did you tie me up and bring me here?

“It was needful,” said Mary. “Have a soul cake.”

“Auld Wullie came to me tonight,” said Margo.

“Of course he did,” said Mary. “Mistress Pikey sent him. You saw his finger bone. We left it under your pillow.”

Margo's blood ran cold. The morsel dropped from her hand.

“He called himself a Druid,” said Mistress Pikey, the woman who had bidden her to eat. “First he tried to join us. He knew the lore, so we let him.” She took a draught from her wooden cup. “Then he tried to usurp my leadership.”

“You killed him!”

“We needed a sacrifice to ensure our safety, lest Balliol or his supporters tried to take the castle again,” she replied, as if this was the most reasonable thing in the world. “We thought he would suffice.”

“Did he?” Margo asked, curiosity pushing back her fear.

Mistress Pikey drank again. “No.”

“Then your husband left you here to go intriguing with the nobles,” said Mary. “And because I have vowed vengeance against you, we brought you here.” She smiled sweetly, as if all was forgiven.

Margo's appetite drained away. Guilt and shame wrapped themselves around her heart and began to squeeze it like a python with its prey. The image of John, not a full year older than her own thirteen on the day he died, loomed large in her haunted memory. He had walked hesitantly, his small shoulders weighed down by the enormity of the occasion, to his doom at the gallows.

She sat still, allowing misery to swallow her. The world around her faded away and she sat there, lost in her thoughts.

“Finished?” asked Mary.

“Let me say my prayers,” said Margo.

“You have prayed enough,” Mary snapped. “It is time.”

Strong hands gripped Margo's arms and tied her hands together. There was no point in struggling. The recollection of John being hanged had flooded her mind. She would never forget his sandy head thrust through the noose, or his strangled gasp as the cart moved away, leaving him thrashing his short legs into eternity. Shame-stayed, she allowed them to take her away.

They brought her to a stake dug into the ground and tied her to it. With chants and prayers to the elder gods, they stacked piles of wood around it. Mary took the rope from around her waist and tied it around Margo's. Then she went to the bonfire and lit a torch. She turned around and made her way back to the stake where Margo was tied. She raised the torch high, took a step forward, and prepared to thrust it into the kindling at her feet.

Suddenly, a horn blared and riders rushed in on horseback, followed by men on foot.

Mary dropped the torch.

The riders surrounded the Druids and corralled them away from Margo.

Glancing wildly around, Margo saw her husband, Sir James, leap from his horse, sword in hand.

He ran to Margo's back and cut her free, just as the kindling around the stake burst into flame from the fallen torch. “She is safe!” he called, holding his sword aloft. Sir James took off his cloak and put it over Margo's shoulders. He kept a comforting arm around her as the riders dismounted. Notes of cloves and musk complemented his tangy sweet. She leaned into his dark velvet doublet, breathing in his scent because it made him feel more real to her.

Dazed and confused by her rescue, Margo looked from her husband to the riders. Lady Christina was brandishing a sword at Mistress Pikey, who cowered before her. Sir Angus, whose noble features she recognised from the inquest, was silhouetted against the bonfire, which blazed a short distance away.

“Bring them to the flat stone in their fairy circle,” Sir Angus commanded. “If you will permit us, my lady.”

“I will,” said Lady Christina, prompting cries for mercy from her robed and hooded servants. “Since you showed no mercy to Auld Wullie and tried to murder my guest in a pagan ritual, you shall receive none! Andrew, take the pouch from her girdle.”

Andrew tore the girdle off and gave the pouch to his mistress.

“Cut off their heads!” Sir Angus commanded.

One by one, his men beheaded the Druids, then threw their bodies onto their bonfire. They took the burning kindling from Margo's stake and added it to the flames, then threw the Druids’ heads on top.

Sir James embraced his wife and kissed her, then lifted her onto his horse, before getting on behind her. “Margo,” he said, his gravelly voice driving her terror away, “we are leaving now.”

“Wait,” she replied. “Let me down.”

When she felt the cold grass on the soles of her feet, she ran to the fire, took the rope off from around her waist, and threw it on top of the burning bodies, which the scorching flames had already rendered unrecognisable.

The End.

This story was prompted by

Theo

. Comments and criticism are welcome.