Lords of Misrule

Part Seven - Grey Mare

What revels are in hand? Is there no play,
to ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
A Midsummer Night's Dream
William Shakespeare (1595)

Crawling toward the pistol was a continuous agony; bright pain radiating throughout his already aching body from the knife embedded in his shoulder; embedded deep enough the tip protruded from the flesh beside his throat. He looked back as another snarling, spitting scream rent the air. She too was crawling, dragging her now useless legs, clawed fingers seeking purchase on the wooden floor. Mouth open, razor teeth flecked with bloody saliva, she advanced upon him; crimson eyes wide, her face showing nothing but hatred. Blood from innumerable bullet wounds stained the floor in a slick trail behind her. But, despite the wounds, she still gained...

A little history

The British countryside is liberally strewn with the stately homes that succumbed either to inheritance tax or urban architects; becoming yet another stop for tourist coaches, or 'a desirable residence in a prime location'. It was Henry VIII's dissolution of England's monasteries that saw many former ecclesiastical properties gifted to the King's favourites who, in their turn, converted them to private estates.

Headignan Abbey once occupied lands on the eastern edge of the farming village of Stowe Magna, lying alongside Reeves Lane, amongst the once wooded hills between Lodelowe and Tref-y-clawdd. As the population began its migration toward bigger villages, memories began to fade and Headingnan passed into the Domesday Book as the hamlet of Hedigan. It was many years later that Henry VIII gave away the Abbey and Hedigan Manor first appeared on maps.

When the industrial revolution recast the village as a cotton-town, Hedigan found itself engulfed by a burgeoning population's need for homes. Long centuries and successive land sales saw the Manor sited in fewer and fewer acres until, at the turn of the twentieth century, it sat behind a close boundary wall at the side of the new High Street. The Abbey was now a House.

When the last owner died on the Somme the property escheated to the British Crown, who sold the now derelict building to the parish council. As more years passed the old House morphed into a local museum, the majority of whose exhibits had been resident in the property for centuries.

There were few among the town's current residents who remembered the tale of Hedigan House's transition from a Benedictine abbey; fewer still remembered the Grey Mare.

Interlude

The crone looked upon the maiden.

'My daughter, your time among them has tainted you. You need to return to us and sooth your pain.'

'No! Not yet. Not while my task is incomplete. It is my duty and my willing service. He is my responsibility. I will ensure he dies when the time comes. When all that is required has been done I will return to An-sìth-chræith to Sleep.' S'gealach'inío bowed to the Tuatha, the lie heavy in her heart.

'Then our dreams guide and protect you. Falbh anns a' aislinóideach.'

Sunshine and Cloud

For a High Street it wasn't very wide, the few pedestrians quick to take umbrage as the two motorcycles roared into the village from the Ludlow Road, negotiated its narrow thoroughfares to park in the grounds of the Museum.

Kicking down the sidestand, Koto Kannon slid her leg over the blue machine and dismounted. Thomas English sat upon his bike for a few moments longer, his gaze on the old building, eyes hidden behind his tinted visor. Koto removed her helmet, ran her long fingers through her straight black hair, then stood and waited as her partner composed himself. She knew that dealing with a haunting was more strenuous for English - his talent made him a target for restless and discomforted spirits be they animal or human.