The Hanging of Margaret Dickson

by Alison Butler

  ***

  Sir Alexander McGregor recognises her immediately. It’s the beautiful peasant girl, with huge breasts and dark eyes.

  ‘Look at the jugs on that wench,’ remarks one of the gaming men, sucking in his stomach to reduce his portly frame.

  ‘Cecil, do you really think the act of pulling in your stomach would make her interested in the likes of you? You’re fat, bald and have rotting teeth… and then there is the wart on your nose,’ Alexander scoffs.

  ‘Mercy. A girl of her class would find a leper attractive. Remember that whore in Paris while we were on the grand tour? She looks just like her, don’t you think?’

  ‘She’s not a whore,’ declares Alexander. ‘She’s a fishwife.’

  ‘Same thing. Although whores smell better,’ sneers Cecil.

  ‘Really, Cecil? You’re an incurable buffoon. Run along to the cockfight or the bear-baiting will you, good chap.’ Alexander springs to his feet and beckons to the girl, ignoring the men’s guffaws as he takes her small hand.

  ***

  They travel by horse and carriage, and for the most part Alexander holds his vinaigrette sponge to his nose. Maggie realises it’s because of her fishy smell, but he insists it’s because he has a cold. The carriage comes to a halt. Alexander opens the door and points to a grand building outside.

  ‘Here we are. This is Queen Mary’s bath house. And do you know, Maggie, Queen Mary is rumoured to have bathed here in a bath of sweet white wine?’

  Maggie couldn’t care less, but nevertheless nods her head. She takes his hand and steps out of the carriage. To her mind the building resembles a tolbooth but as he guides her up stone steps that lead to a second floor, she’s pleasantly surprised. At the top of the stairs, amidst tapestries and a wood-panelled corridor, they’re greeted by a maidservant. Alexander immediately takes charge, barking out orders in a commanding tone.

  ‘Bring us some food at once and have someone make up a fire.’ He turns to Maggie. ‘Do you need a maid to assist you in removing your clothes?’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘But you must need assistance with your stays?’

  ‘They fasten at the front.’ She smiles and wonders if he wants her to disrobe now in front of the maid.

  As Maggie decides whether to disrobe or not, Alexander pushes open a door to reveal a wondrous sight. Beyond the entrance is a magnificent tiled room; in its centre a magnificent octagonal plunge bath, hot steam rising off its surface.

  Maggie gasps. ‘It’s beautiful! So this is a bathhouse. Can I get in it?’ she asks, removing her plaid.

  ‘Of course.’ He gestures towards a small changing screen.

  Behind the changing screen there is a mysterious door. She bends to peek though the keyhole, but someone has stopped up the hole so that the view is obscured. Maggie’s heart thumps in her chest as she removes her soiled clothes; soon she is completely naked behind the screen. She peeks out at the bath again; a tall man-servant has entered the tiled room. He has shiny brown skin the colour of rich coffee, and upon his head is a bright coloured scarf. Maggie watches in awe as he places a small white block and a drying cloth on the edge of the water.

  ***

  A sweat breaks out on Alexander’s face as all his blood seems to rush to his groin as he waits for the peasant girl to emerge from the screen. Never in his life has he felt so aroused, like a randy groom on his wedding night. His breath catches in his mouth as she materialises before his eyes, a naked voluptuous goddess, like one of the tantalising Lely paintings in his father’s study.

  ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ She plunges into the water, takes the soap and inhales its floral scent.

  He shakes his head, unable to take his eyes from her. ‘Later.’ He smiles and notes that she’s completely at ease with her nakedness.

  ‘After you’ve bathed, enter the room next to the changing room. It’s behind the screen.’

  Maggie laughs and splashes, rubbing the soap into her body in a deliberately sensual manner. Steam rises around her, obscuring her figure into a misty haze. His eyes narrow and work harder to see the shape of her body, and then suddenly she emerges in front of him, floating on her back so that her hair fans around her in a dark halo.

  The tingling returns, at the top of his thighs and spreading to the tip of his desire. The girl is like a precious flower unfolding her petals to a scorching sun, waiting to be plucked. Before long, he can bear it no more. With a sense of urgency he bends on one shaky knee and signals for her to come to him, holding out the soft cloth in open arms.

  ‘Hurry,’ he says stretching out his hand.

  For just a moment she stands naked before him, every inch of her body covered in water droplets, giving her skin a glossy sheen. It pleases him the way she stares at him with those flashing eyes, and for an instant he wonders whether to take her there, right now on the cold wet floor. But he picks her up instead and throws her over his shoulder, carrying her off to his secret nest.

  The room’s sultry; a fire rages and crackles as Alexander edges her backwards onto a four-post bed. How tempting it is to enter her now to satisfy his wants and desires, but he’s a patient man, and with a beauty such as this, he will be sure to take his time. However, it’s more than he can endure as he binds her soft wrists with scarlet silk, such torturous exquisite agony. The very act only serves to heighten his impatience.

  ‘Drink this.’ He lifts her pretty head to place a crystal glass to her lips. ‘Spanish fly.’

  ‘Spanish fly?’

  ‘It enhances the senses.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘No matter. Just drink it,’ he commands and watches her eyes widen. ‘There will be nothing but pleasure and just a little pain.’ He picks up a candle and drips some wax onto the tips of her nipples.

  ‘Stop. I don’t understand.’

  ‘I think you understand very well, Maggie.’ He kisses her then, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth as he opens her legs wide.

  And then Maggie begins to understand.

  ***

  The bed’s like something from another world, as though it was made for a giant or to sleep a dozen or more people. It has four wooden posts carved with chubby-faced cherubs and heavy brocade drapes that sparkle with shiny threads. She removes the scarlet binds and sits up in the bed; Alexander lies beside her, gasping for breath.

  A beautiful ornament sits on a nearby sideboard. Maggie can’t be sure, but she imagines it to be the naked figure of a king or a god with a tall crown perched upon his head. Beneath the figure are four white unicorns rearing into the air, their nostrils flaring like savage beasts.

  ‘What is that?’ Maggie enquires.

  Alexander catches his breath. ‘It’s a present for my parents. It’s a sugar sculpture. The entire object is made from sugar.’

  ‘They’re going to eat that?’

  ‘No, no, it would make them quite ill. There are metal wires holding the whole object together. It’s not edible.’ His eyes crease at the corners in amusement.

  Maggie shifts and reaches for her clothes. How’s she to know that the damned thing is made from sugar? Her cheeks flush a deep red.

  ‘My dear, you cannot leave now.’ He pats the bed.

  Maggie ignores him and picks up her clothes. ‘But I must, sir. It’s late and I must be getting home.’

  ‘What a pity. I wanted to see you pin up your hair – I must see that pretty neck free of grime and filth. You’ve such beautiful hair. How

  I loathe those ridiculous lice-ridden wigs. No matter how many times I send them to the nit-picker they come back crawling with damn mites.’

  ‘Why do you wear them then?’

  ‘Fashion my dear – why else?’

  ‘I prefer you without it,’ she runs her fingers through his closely cropped hair. ‘Makes you look much younger.’

  ‘You are a darling. But you see a wig is like a status object. Big wigs are worn by important and privileged men.’

  ‘Oh!’
says Maggie. Her mouth makes the shape of a circle.

  Alexander groans. ‘Give me strength.’

  Maggie pulls on her clothes. ‘My hair used to be much longer. Passed my waist. I sold it.’

  ‘You sold your hair?’

  ‘Aye. But it will grow back; it’s already past my shoulders.’

  ‘Oh, do you have to put on those dreadful garments?’

  Maggie shrugs. ‘Aye, can’t be walking around naked can I?’

  ‘More is the pity,’ he utters.

  ***

  Before returning home, Maggie rids herself of all feelings of guilt and remorse. And anyway, why should she feel guilty when he’s never around? Aye, it’s all Patrick’s fault, she decides. If he’d been a better husband and provided for them all, she would never have acted in such a way. Or would she? In her heart she knows the answer.

  Black clouds linger over the Esk as she nears Musselburgh. And Maggie can swear that St Michaels spire is mocking her in the distance, begging her to confess her sins. She turns her cheek and trudges on. Behind a hedge, she crouches, legs trembling as she takes a handful of soil and grass to wipe between her legs to mask his smell. But she’s not ready to go home just yet. She takes another handful of dirt and smothers it over her arms and face. Now she can go home.

  ***

  The children sense all is not well. Anna and Patrick huddle together once the quarrelling begins. As always, one of their parents leaves the cottage, slamming the door behind them. This time it’s mother.

  ‘Why did mother shout and say you are not a man?’ Anna screws up her little face and bites her lip, determined not to cry.

  ‘She’s troubled. But it will pass. All will be well come morning.’ Patrick strokes his daughter’s head.

  ‘But she hit you and now she’s gone.’

  ‘I know. I know. But she’ll be back soon and then I must be off again to catch more fish.’ Patrick tickles his daughter’s cheek with his beard, and the sound of her giggles warms his heart. But then his eyes cloud over as his thoughts return to Maggie. He’s wondering where she might be, because if he knew, he’d be tempted to wring her damned neck.

  ***

  It’s a potent thing deceit and treachery. Especially when it involves such savage passion and forbidden pleasures. Addiction can be resisted or gradual, but for the likes of Maggie, the craving is instantaneous. Time after time she entertains him, until the fruits of her labour land at her feet or stomach, so to speak. ‘You reap what you sow.’ Wasn’t that the saying? And so, if Maggie’s to continue this dalliance and pursuit of pleasure, she must play her lover like an angler would a trout, until she became uninterested in him, or him of her?

  A savage wind blows from the north and tears at the landscape. Next comes rain and hail, and still she contrives to venture outside. There’s no choice. She has to. Maggie leaves the children with the widow. The force of the wind and rain stings her face, and by the time she reaches the wise-woman’s cottage at the top of fairy brae, her lips are blue. It’s a most pitiful structure; the dwelling’s virtually crumbling to the ground. Some cured well-wisher has tried to patch up her roof with a piece of turf, but unfortunately it’s become dinner to a multitude of vermin.

  Maggie knocks twice. Footsteps shuffle slowly towards her, until at long last the door creaks open and Maggie’s confronted with an old woman. Maggie rubs at her eyes, can she be seeing right? Around the old hag’s throat is a necklace of dead worms. Without a word she beckons for Maggie to come inside and reaches for a large jug on a nearby shelf. Next, she pours a quantity of liquid into a small cup.

  ‘But I haven’t said what…’

  ‘I can guess,’ replies the wise-woman with a knowing smile. ‘The pains will begin in an hour or maybe less. Be sure to have lots of linen to catch the mess.’

  Maggie hands her a coin, sips the mixture and is on her way.

  ***

  The pains come much quicker than she anticipates, so with the wind howling in her ears, Maggie ties her body with a napkin to catch the blood before returning home. A dull light radiates from the cottage. Patrick waits at the door with his arms crossed, a pipe in his mouth.

  ‘Where have you been, woman? Are you insane?’

  ‘Nae, we’ve no food. I went out for eggs.’

  ‘What do you mean, no food? Never mind, you’re soaked through. Get yourself inside.’

  Maggie warms herself by the fire hoping he won’t ask to see the eggs. A dull pain throbs in her back and groin. With her back turned to him, tears roll down her cheeks, and no matter how much she rubs her stomach, the ache will not go away.

  ‘What ails you, wife?’

  ‘Ague I think.’

  ‘I’m not surprised if you’re going out in weather like that.’

  With the back of her hand she wipes away tears and turns to her husband. He’s holding out a warm blanket to her, a doubtful expression on his face. Maggie averts her eyes, damnation she cannot meet his gaze and so she turns away again, shuddering as he places a blanket over her.

  Near the hearth Maggie slumbers, hugging her knees to her chest. Face streaked with tears, eyes red and swollen, she thinks to die will be a blessing. For only a wicked and selfish woman could act as she does, indifferent to her husband and children.

  ***

  A week later, all is forgotten. With her husband at sea, Maggie’s up to no good again, and one thing’s for sure, she no longer cares when her husband returns home. Maggie cares even less about keeping a tidy cottage; nothing is in its place. Dirty pots and clothes are scattered everywhere, the pigsty is a mess, and she’s let the fire burn out. But no matter – Maggie has only one thing on her mind.

  With haste, she washes the children’s faces, sticks a bannock in Anna’s hand and trudges off to old Widow Arrock’s. Anna runs ahead, Patrick’s still unsteady on his feet, so she carries him in the crook of her arm. A tight smile masks her impatience as she chats to the widow; Maggie’s not listening to a single word that she says. Nevertheless, all the while she nods and pretends that she’s all ears, but in truth in her mind she’s already in Alexander’s bed.

  ‘Won’t be long, children.’ Maggie avoids her son’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t go. Please mother stay,’ little Patrick cries and tugs at his mother’s skirts.

  Maggie turns to leave, a sudden attack of guilt surfaces and disappears as quickly as it appears, but niggles and festers inside of her. The ground crunches beneath her feet as she drops to her knees to clasp her son to her. ‘I’ll bring you and Anna a mutton pie, how’s that?’

  Anna smiles and rubs her belly.

  ***

  A sense of exhilaration courses through her veins as she approaches Queen Mary bath house. Every time she visits him he introduces her to more decadent desires. She wonders what he has in store for her today, more acts of domination or perhaps some play-acting. His favourite is for her to touch herself while he watches from a secret place, whipping him up into frenzy, until he can bear it no more. The list’s endless, and Maggie’s an avid pupil, and more than eager to please.

  ***

  To George’s mind, it’s like any other Sabbath, until his son walks in. The sermon drags on and on, prompting many a woman and child to pee where they stand. Like all kirks of Scotland, St Michaels congregation demands diligence and punctuality, and so when Maggie, Patrick and the children walk in long after the doors have closed, fingers point. Once or twice they receive a dagger-like stare. George winces as Barbara nudges him in the ribs and whispers to him. ‘Look at the state of them, George. I knew he shouldn’t have married that one.’

  ‘Shush,’ he silences her with flashing eyes. ‘I’ll speak to him, mark my word.’

  After the sermon, he takes his son to a quiet corner.

  ‘You’ve lost weight, son.’ He tugs at his son’s shirt. ‘Doesn’t your wife feed you?’

  Patrick laughs. ‘Have you tasted her cooking?’

  George Spence glances at his son’s gaunt face. �
��It’s that bad? Your mother’s worried about you. It wouldn’t do any harm to call around to see her once in a while. Eat a decent meal …’

  ‘I’m fine. Tell mother all is well. I’ll see you next Sabbath.’

  George nods and returns to Barbara, he places a hand around her shoulder and whispers in her ear. ‘Your son is fine; nothing ails him, except his wife’s cooking.’

  But Barbara’s not listening to him. Something else holds her attention. The minister and Maggie stand barely a whisker apart. Her manner towards him is familiar, enticing even.

  ‘What did I tell you, George? She’s a jezebel.’

  ***

  Patrick looks around the cottage with weary eyes and to his consternation he can’t find anything. The place no longer resembles a home. All around him is chaos, dirty pots, clothes, a half-eaten bannock, and for the life of him he cannot find his sea boots.