The Black Marchesa

An extract

Griselda sat upon her throne.  She was fed up: she had not eaten anyone for months. "Boris," she sighed gloomily,  "did I ever tell you that in my youth I wanted to be an artist?  Perhaps I shall give up being a witch and become a painter."  "Mistress!" hissed Boris in alarm.  "Do not speak so loud.  It is not safe to say such things, not in Grunch Castle."
          But the warning was too late: from deep below the tower came the sound of breaking glass; silken footsteps drew closer; the dwarves turned and fled, while Boris floated to the top of a tree and pretended to fall asleep.

          The dungeon door burst open.  In strode Lucrezia Grunchia, the Black Marchesa.  She was an early practitioner of Women's Lib: she had six husbands and ate the lot.  For someone who had been dead for over three hundred years she was very well preserved with long hair, black piercing eyes and a body of such beauty that men longed to embrace her (before she popped them in the cooking pot).

          "Foul cousin!" cried the Black Marchesa, pulling the glass tube out of the top of her head and crunching it underfoot.  "You bring shame upon the family!"  "But I would paint bad art," stammered Griselda.  "Nearly all artists do."  "No good!" screamed the Black Marchesa.  "You will be a witch or I shall send you to Australia like your Uncle Peter."

          "Mercy!  Mercy!" cried Griselda, falling to her knees.  "Not Australia - anything but that!  I shall be a witch."  "Very well.  Show me around the castle.  It is hundreds of years since last I saw it."
With a flourish of her bejewelled hand the Marchesa changed her dress and went outside.  When she realised that there was nothing left of the castle but a single ruined tower she was horrified.  "Only a ruined tower!" she screamed in rage.  "I shall restore the castle to its former glory."  "What a wonderful idea!" burbled Griselda, still in a state of shock at the thought of being sent to Australia.  "Absolutely marvellous.  I was only saying to Boris the other day that what this castle needed was a little restoration, and he said to me ...."

          "Shut up.  Where are your servants?"  "Apart from Boris there are only three dwarves and they are rather useless."  "Get them."  Griselda ordered Boris to fetch the dwarves and soon he returned with Julioso, Aliano and Benjio.  "No, Boris!"  "Help!  Help!"  "Boris!  No!" they cried as Boris gnashed his gnashers just behind their bottoms.

          The Marchesa handed the dwarves a shopping list.  When the dwarves saw how long it was they moaned and groaned.  "We are tired out.  We shall go tomorrow."  The Marchesa looked at them with her piercing black eyes.  "You are rather small but you could do for starters."

          With cries of alarm the dwarves ran to the shop.  It took many trips to get the ingredients, but whenever they started to moan and groan the Marchesa licked her lips, said, "You could do for starters," and they ran off.  When all the ingredients had been bought, the Marchesa mixed them up and raising her ring worked her strongest magic.  In a huge puff of choking smoke the castle was rebuilt, with Great Hall, battlements and high towers.  Well pleased, the Marchesa went to bed and dreamt of eating men, which she loved.

          Next day a man in a grey suit with a self-important air walked through the castle gates.  He shook his head and muttered, "This will never do.  Everything must go."  The Marchesa looked at him from head to toe.  He was a bit thin but she had not eaten a man for over three hundred years: he would do.  "My name is Jones," said the man.  "I am from the council."

          "The Grunches of Grunch Castle are heads of the Council," replied the Marchesa proudly.  The man was puzzled.  "Surely not.  Mr Wilkins is chief executive.  Mr Arkwright is the mayor."  "Of the Council of Evil?"  But Mr Jones knew nothing of the Council of Evil.  "I am from the local council.  You have built this castle without planning permission.  It must be demolished."

          "Must?" purred the Marchesa.  "Darling, do come inside and let's discuss it over a glass of wine.  What is your name?"  "Jones."  "Your first name?"  The Marchesa flashed her piercing eyes.  "Peter."  "Peter," purred the Marchesa,  "you are a darling. Do come inside."  That was the last anyone saw of Mr Jones.

          But the Marchesa was not satisfied: "The man from the council was too thin. Boris come here."  "Yes, my lady," hissed the skull.  "I have been dead for three hundred years.  I am a little out of touch.  Tell me, skull, (for I know that you are brainy) how am I to get a man?  The larder is empty."

          "My lady, I cannot say," hissed Boris, trembling: for once he was glad that he did not have a body.  "Cannot say!" screamed the Marchesa.  "Think fast, skull, before I grind you into dust.  How does a woman get a man in the late twentieth century?  Can I buy one in the market?"  "No, no, my lady," hissed Boris, horrified.  "The trade in men is frowned upon."

          "Frowned upon!" jeered the Marchesa.  "I suppose that next you will tell me that eating men is wrong."  "Most people think it is," hissed Boris.  "Of course it's wrong!" screamed the Marchesa.  "That's why I love it.  Now tell me before I lose my temper: how does a woman get a man in the late twentieth century?"

          Boris thought hard.  "Some place an advertisement in the lonely hearts column of a newspaper."  "A newspaper!" exclaimed the Marquesa, smacking her lips with longing.  "You interest me.  The advertisement: what would it say?"  "Something like this: 'Gorgeous, well-preserved witch, aged 403, seeks juicy chunk of a man aged 20 to 40 for a gourmet feast."

          "Boris, you are a genius!" screamed the Marchesa, kissing Boris on his bony forehead (he nearly fainted).  "That should fill the larder."  Boris hissed softly, "I was only joking," but the Marchesa was not listening.  She took up pen and paper and wrote down Boris's words. "I can hardly wait," she cried, as she hurried off to catch the last post.

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