Marguerite’s Isle of Demons

TragedyLoveSurvival
Written By Robert Hiscock

The story of Marguerite de La Roque has been told for nearly 500 years. Most believe it’s based on real events—there’s even a written account from shortly after it supposedly happened. But like any old tale, the details have blurred over time, leaving behind a mix of fact and legend.

The Isle of Demons once appeared on maps of the North Atlantic, said to be somewhere north of Newfoundland. Many think it might have been Quirpon Island. Sailors feared it, claiming they heard voices on the wind or saw strange shapes moving along the shore.

Marguerite’s story is one of love, betrayal, and survival. As for the demons, whether they were real or not —that’s a matter you can decide on your own.

Marguerite’s Isle of Demons

The ship moved slowly through the Narrows, leaving behind the safety of St. John’s Harbour. Ahead was a cold stretch of North Atlantic ocean.

In the distance an iceberg gleamed blue-white in the June sun.

Marguerite De La Roque gripped the wooden railing, her gaze fixed on the horizon. It was 1542 and this was a strange new world — nothing like the warm spring days she’d left behind in France. Yet, despite the chill, the journey ahead held promise. Her uncle, Jean-François de La Rocque de Roberval, the newly anointed viceroy, spoke of honour and duty, of building a colony in New France. But Marguerite barely listened.

She was in love.

Her thoughts drifted to the forbidden nights and stolen moments aboard this very ship. When the colonists slept, she was lost in love. Mathieu—a young man, handsome, reckless, and dangerously alive—had slipped aboard disguised as a sailor. They had fallen for each other in the streets of France and couldn’t bear to part. When Marguerite was called to join her uncle’s expedition, they devised a plan to stay together. In the ship’s hidden corners, beneath moonlit skies, they clung to each other, their love the only warmth in a journey that offered little comfort. Bastienne, Marguerite’s ever loyal servant, kept their secret safe.

Marguerite believed their love could see her through anything. She had yet to learn how cruel life — and her uncle — could be.

They weren’t long outside of St. John’s when Roberval learned the truth. He was incensed that his niece should be carrying on a secret love affair—and that she’d plotted with her young lover to deceive him. His anger was unyielding. In his estimation, Marguerite’s indiscretion was not just a betrayal—it was an affront to everything he was trying to build. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t bring her with him into his new life.

And so, as if channeling some biblical justice, he decreed that she be banished from his sight—cast out. And he knew just the place.

The Isle of Demons

Not too far ahead was a forsaken rock, somewhere between Newfoundland and Labrador. The maps called it the Isle of Demons and the name was no accident. The island was supposed to be hell on earth—stalked by winged demons, horrible beasts, and tortured souls. It was the perfect place for anyone who dared betray him.

Nvova Francia (1556) by Giacomo Gastaldi. Printed in Maids & Matrons of New France (Pepper, 1908).

As the ship drew near the island, Roberval told Marguerite of his decision—she and Bastienne would be exiled. She fell at his feet. To be banished was a virtual death sentence; to be banished on the Isle of Demons, well, that was a fate beyond imagination.

As news spread through the ship, it was met with incredulity. The passengers had all heard of the fearsome island, and how all who had approached it wished never to do so again.

How could this man, their leader, treat his niece this way?

In truth, it was their family connection that fueled his decision. By casting out his own kin, Roberval sent a ruthless message — if he was willing to condemn his own niece, what chance did a mere stranger have if they defied him? This was more than punishment; it was a display of power.

And then there was the matter of money. When the family fortune was divided, one less heir meant a larger share for him.

Yes, he thought, the Isle of Demons was the perfect place for his niece.

As they neared the Isle, Roberval ordered Marguerite and Bastienne into a small, woodenboat.

From across the deck, Mathieu watched, his heart pounding. He had to stop this cruelty. He burst forward, but Roberval’s men quickly subdued him. His shouts were lost on the wind as the boat was lowered and Marguerite was rowed to shore.

Something in him snapped. He broke free of Roberval’s men and threw himself into the freezing ocean. The cold stole his breath, his limbs threatened to fail, he thought he would surely drown—but fighting against the waves, he pushed forward.

By the time he dragged himself onto the shore, Roberval’s ship was already vanishing beyond the cliffs.

In the late afternoon sun, the three souls took stock. There was nothing—no shelter, no food, only the barren, unyielding land.

Into Darkness

As dusk bled into the darkness of night, they settled into a shallow hollow and managed to spark a small campfire. The wind began to howl like a chorus of tormented souls. Soon the howls began to sound like voices. At first, they were barely audible, mere whispers carried on the wind, but soon they crescendoed into hideous, guttural taunts.

The legends were true — this was an island of demons.

Marguerite didn’t want to believe it, but she could hear them clearly inside her head: “You’ve sinned, and you’ll bear his curse!”

Outside the circle of firelight, shadows seemed to be moving, circling toward her, a malignant presence as real as the bite in the wind and as insidious as the regret she felt.

Marguerite felt the weight of those words sink into her soul. And they spoke not only to her but to Mathieu—he looked haunted. Soon he began to speak. In his whispered apologies, she saw a man slowly consumed by remorse—a man whose demons accused him of damning them both to this bleak exile.

The darkness attacked them, preyed on their fears.

Marguerite knelt on the damp earth, her hands clasped so tightly they ached, her breath escaping in frantic whispers. The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the screeches and guttural snarls of the things circling just beyond the firelight. She squeezed her eyes shut, rocking slightly, forcing the words from trembling lips.

“Lord, hear me in this forsaken place… If these are devils, let them pass me by… If I must perish, let it be swift…” Her voice wavered, she pressed her forehead to the ground, swallowing a sob. “If You are still with me, make them powerless… make them nothing.”

When dawn came, the wind dropped, and the voices quieted.

The castaways wandered the barren landscape. The scant provisions Roberval had left — a set of guns — seemed feeble against the enormity of their fate.

By daylight, they worked in silence, exhaustion pressing heavy on their limbs. They gathered driftwood, their fingers raw from the cold, their movements sluggish with hunger. The bones of their shelter took shape—twisted branches lashed together, boughs woven into the gaps. It was Bastienne’s hands, steady despite the chill, that wove the branches tightly, sealing out the wind as best she could. She worked with quiet determination, muttering prayers under her breath, as if willing the fragile walls to hold. It was crude, barely more than a windbreak, but it was something. Whether it would keep the voices out remained to be seen.

By night, the island once again transformed. The wind’s mournful cry became a cacophony of voices, each one accusing, each one a reminder of their sins and mistakes. The sound of tortured men echoed among the rocks, as if the very earth were blaming them for their ordeal.

Again came the accusation, thundering inside her head: “You’ve sinned and you’ll bear his curse!”

Amidst the terror, Marguerite realized the truth. She understood the message, she should have realized: she was pregnant. It was a secret that both warmed and frightened her. The demons seemed to sense this, their whispers growing even more venomous:

“Your child will wail for warmth but you will fail. All you love will rot.”

What exactly Mathieu heard, Marguerite couldn’t say and he refused to speak of it. It was clear his anguish was deepening.

Death

Night by night, he seemed to worsen. He looked upon her swelling belly and his breath seemed to stop.

By autumn his eyes had darkened with despair. Then one bitter, storm-lashed dawn, he vanished. Marguerite found him on a jagged cliff, a broken, trembling figure looking out at the blood-red sky. He stood on the edge, murmuring, “I did this to you,” before plunging into the sea below.

This time there was no fight against the waves — he was gone.

Days dragged on and the fall turned to the cold of winter. With Bastienne’s steadfast care, Marguerite clung to life and gave birth. But the child, like all hope on that accursed isle, was snatched away by the brutal winter. Not long after, Bastienne, worn down by the relentless terror and despair, slipped quietly into oblivion.

She was alone.

New Terrors

The winter deepened. Ice floes surrounded the island, and the sorrowful cries of seals, carried across the island. They sounded, Marguerite thought, like tortured babies. Like the spirit of her own poor child, wandering lost across the ice.

With the ice came new terrors. Great white bears, the like of which Marguerite had never seen, came after the seals and clamboured over the island.

One frigid night, a massive bear emerged from the swirling snow, its eyes glinting with a cold, predatory light. It had its sights set on her. With trembling hands, Marguerite raised the gun and fired a single, desperate shot. The beast collapsed in a spray of blood that stained the snow, a grim punctuation to the night’s terror.

Overhead, the sky rippled with colours, the night tearing open to reveal a glimpse of something vast and unknowable. For one fleeting moment, it felt like salvation—like the heavens had split just for her. Like God Himself was watching.

Then the lights vanished, and the voices crept back in.

But something had changed. The demons, once so terrifying, no longer held power over her. She had lost her lover to dispair, her child to the cold, and Bastienne to the slow, quiet exhaustion. The horrors that had once broken her had become familiar, their whispers became no more menacing than the wind. As the days dragged on, a realization settled deep within her—the real demon was not the shadowy creatures that haunted the island, but the doubts that had plagued her.

Her fear and guilt, once all-consuming, began to transform into something fiercer. Anger.

And it found a new home — Roberval.

Roberval had robbed her of everything. She found a strength that she never knew she had—a resolve to endure, to outlast, to make sure that, no matter what, she would survive this island, if only to spite Roberval.

For two and a half years, Marguerite endured. Until finally, a ragged band of fishermen, spotted a plume of smoke coming from the island. They drew closer and saw her wandering among the rocks. They hesitated at first, half-convinced she was one of the isle’s dreaded demons themselves. With cautious hands and whispered prayers, they brought her aboard their creaking boat and, in time, she was returned to France.

Marguerite’s story spread far and wide, carried by scholars and storytellers alike. In time, the Isle of Demons faded from maps, its name lost to history. But was it only ever imagined?

There are islands off Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula, battered by relentless winds. Places where jagged cliffs rise from the sea, where the northern lights burn like ghostly fires, and where great white bears prowl the ice-choked shores.

Perhaps one of them is the Isle of Demons—its legend lingering in the landscape, hidden beneath a new name.

For those drawn to mystery, the challenge remains. Trace the old maps, follow the ragged coastline, and listen to the wind. Somewhere Marguerite’s island may still be waiting—its secrets hidden in fog and shadow, its demons watching from the dark.

Notes

Marguerite and Roberval were real people, and her exile is generally considered a historical fact. However, the exact nature of their relationship remains unclear; they are sometimes referred to as uncle/niece or as cousins. Marguerite’s lover is not generally named in most tellings of the story, for the purpose of this retelling I invented a name (Mathieu).

The tale was first recorded nearly 500 years ago. The location of Marguerite’s exile is a subject of debate.

The Isle of Demons, as depicted on early maps, does not exist. However, it is widely believed to have been inspired by a real place. Belle Isle, Quirpon Island and Fischot Island, off Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula, are often suggested as possible locations. Some map renderings—particularly one by Giacomo Gastaldi reproduced above —raise the question whether the northern peninsula itself may have been mistaken for an island and labeled the Isle of Demons.

Others have suggested that Marguerite’s exile took place a bit farther afield, at Harrington Harbour, Quebec.

Robert Hiscock

Robert grew up in a tiny Newfoundland community called Happy Adventure. These days he lives in Gander, NL and his happiest adventures are spent with his two Labrador retrievers exploring the island while listening to a soundtrack of local music.

When the dogs are napping Robert takes photos, writes about Newfoundland, and makes a podcast.

https://productofnewfoundland.ca
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