Spoiling the May Queen

[CW: Gore, Blood, Sexual References]

Placing her hand upon her chest, feeling the rapid flutter like butterflies quickening their wings. She thought her heart was beating much faster than it should be as she waited for him. It had been such a quiet, miserable day. Gray clouds had been gathering for a while, but never seemed to want to break. It wasn’t until she had finally convinced him that this was all for the best that they could live new and better lives. Now the torrential rain covered the leaded glass windows in sheets, and the wind beat violently at the pitch and thatch roof over the farmhouse on the far edge of the village.

He would be here soon. She did her best to calm her breath. She wasn’t ready to see him yet. Men always complained that she took too long to get ready. Not that there was anywhere to go in this one-horse town. She bundled her ebony locks in her hands, trying to get them back in a proper bun. Her dark hair glittered with strips of silver and red in the light of the dying fire, which still flickered weakly in the hearth. Her visage reflected in the nearby pewter pitcher, a reminder that she wasn’t as young as she used to be.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

When she was a girl in her prime, she was the Belle of Narthwich. Offers of marriage came from suitors, rich and poor, far and wide. But in youth’s folly, she believed if they would marry her in that moment, then they would be honored to marry her in the future just the same. Boys and men flattered her, gave her gifts, and wrote her poetry. She learned what many were after on the year when she was given the festival crown on May Day. They had danced and drank and then gone to the hayloft. As years passed, she had shared her joys with a number of young men whom she fancied and who, more importantly, fancied her. The revelry seemed endless, but youth is not eternal.

The marriage offers stopped coming; they had found others. Crowns of flowers were no longer hung on her head, for there were younger girls for whom the town now cheered. The men who once sought her convivial countenance now had wives and were not interested in the romantic coaxing she had once enjoyed before carnal delights. They had enough of that at home; no, they wanted only to be rutting beasts. She began to turn away their rough and crude advances, as she no longer found their importunateness endearing. They were no longer abounding with passion or desire to see her melt at their amorous attempts as when they were young men. Now their urgency was determined only by the number of minutes they had before their wives expected them home for supper. The years had moved so quickly, and she had ended up with nothing but her pride.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

She was so tired. Her fingers had turned raw from working the fabric in her hands to help her keep going. The town began to refer to her as a spinster or a trollop. That was when the woodcutter started coming to town more often. He was a widower, an unfortunate but kind man with two young children. He treated her as she had once been accustomed, bringing her gifts and singing her songs of her beauty. Though she spoke freely, he did not care if the words she uttered were harsh or jaded, as her voice made them beautiful. She hadn’t liked the idea of raising children, but at least she wouldn’t need to ruin her figure for him. It was a fair trade, and before this one could turn away as the rest had, she wrestled him before the priest to speak their vows.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Footsteps on the thick wooden plank floor. The fire had burned down to a single flickering log, and a shiver ran down her spine. She should get up and put wood on the fire so she could see him. Her legs wouldn’t move. Her whole body felt feeble and shaky. The fire popped as the last log collapsed into a few glowing coals. This was for the best, she decided. If she could see the man who had been standing over her bed just moments ago, then he could certainly see her pressed into the shadow of the kitchen counter. The once white chemise, bought only this afternoon, now in tatters, grew redder as it clung to her left thigh. She had wrapped the stump with the makeshift bandage, but the thin cotton strips were doing little to keep the blood from making small splashes into the puddle by her side. The ax had bitten deep into her pale flesh just as she had begun to stir with an unsettling sensation of being watched. She had seen the flash of his twisted smile from the shadow as her husband’s favorite ax fell. Rolling free from a tangle of bloody blankets, she tumbled across the cold and empty side of the bed, leaping up to make her escape. Struggling, she nearly collapsed back to the hard-packed straw mattress, and as she pulled herself up, there was a sadistic laugh from the attacker. Yet the figure did not move to give chase, allowing her the time to flee the bedroom.

She had made it to the kitchen of the three-room farmhouse. The cut on her thigh continued to ache and gush despite her best efforts. There was little she could do from this position; she knew he intended to follow, but it seemed he planned to give her a head start. If he wanted a hunt, she would give it to him, and she would be damned if she let him win. Resolved to fight, she pushed herself out into the cold summer rain, which did nothing to aid her flight. She wanted to be as clever as the fox leading the dogs in circles, but she could not zig or zag with her left leg dragging behind. Screaming would serve no purpose as they were miles from town. Perhaps her husband would hear, wherever he had disappeared to. But he was of no use; in the last several years, he had grown cruel of tongue, but he was still a coward. She was on her own, though that was nothing new, but she had a plan. The barn was both where she would make her stand and her escape.