part 1
In merry old England a long time ago lived a young milk maiden. She had a long oval face and huge deep blue eyes, and strawberry blonde hair that was the color of the setting sun on wheat straw that hung straight around her face. But she was skinny as a child and slender as a reed as she developed. Her hips were narrow and that would make for difficult child birthing. Most of the other maidens were stronger, and looked healthier. They had ample breasts and large, rounded hips as was the custom then. So Milk Maiden Monica got few glances from the eligible men, and no suitors. Each Saturday when she took her wares to market she tried new tricks. She used socks filled with flour to enlargen her chest, a bustle on her bottom and even rose petals on her lips and cheeks. But she fetched few looks. She confided in her father that she feared maidenhood. And in a way her father was glad. She looked so much like her mother who had died giving birth to her that he had replaced his wife with their daughter. And she was the finest daughter a father could want. She had replaced her mother in every way but the bed. She cleaned and cooked, mended his clothes, and helped with the milking. And she made the best custard in the land. Every cup was gone at the end of the market no matter how much she made.
But it brought him sorrow that his daughter could not attract a suitor because he saw the anguish in her frustration. “Fools,” he thought. “They don´t know a good woman when they see one!” In her fifteenth year she began to panic. Almost all the other maidens were married, or betrothed. If she was not married by age, 16, she would be considered a milk maid. And if not by 18 an old maid. “Since nothing else has worked, let us talk to the town bard,” her father suggested. “He is wise. Maybe he will have a solution.”
The town bard was a silent man. His father had been a stoic. With a fierce look he had placed a hand over his son’s face to stop the crying. And when he got older and wanted to talk his father merely had to give him ´that look’ and his son would be quiet. So the bard became wise in observation. Since he seldom spoke he was always watching, observing, learning the ways of the time, and of human nature. In some ways the bard was a legend. He shed not a tear when his barren wife died of the plague. All thought it was his strength. But he was as devastated as any man who loved his wife and lost her. He just didn´t show anyone his tears. Now the bard had a special place at the market. It was known that he loved home cooking, so anyone who had a question for him would ply him with a meal. The bard always came up with a solution.
The bard was a cooper by trade, but he did not have to bring his barrels to market. His were the finest so he sold all he could make to the wineries. That left him free to bard in exchange for home cooking. Monica approached the bard shaking inside, and offering an entire bowl of her famous custard. The bard bade her sit, then leaned forward offering an ear. He held the custard and smiled broadly at the child out of a gray beard, a mop of white hair, and merry blue eyes that made Monica feel very comfortable. She smiled back and felt light in the heart. It was the look she had always craved. It was the look that someone found her easy to look at. She blushed, and smiled sheepishly, and looked down at her feet. “Look at me child.” Her eyes instantly met his. They were even more kindly now. Very reassuring. Only her father made her feel that special. But this man made her feel even more special. She smiled so hard she radiated. “Ah yes, that is it. No man could look past that glow.” He continued to wash her in his gentle gaze.
Then his face got just a bit serious. Not enough to alarm her, just enough for the bad news. “Sweet child, there is only one eligible bachelor left in the area. It is the smithy´s son.” Monica looked quickly for his stall was across from hers. She gulped. He was short and round and dark with huge sooty hands and beady eyes set wide in a round face. She cringed at his gaze. “My child, you could wait for someone new, or we could send word to the towns around that we have a pretty maiden.” Monica blushed when he called her pretty. Again she looked at the smithy ´s son. She drew a deep breath and tried to remember the only time she ever saw him smile. He looked quite pleasant with a smile. Her face showed her resolution. Neither she nor her father would suffer the indignation of having an old maid. She would marry the smithy´s son!
“Here´s our plan. The smithy´s son doesn´t like you any more than you like him, but he has always known that you would still be around for him to settle for as a last resort. We´re going to make him jealous. Each Saturday you will bring me a cup of your wonderful custard. Just a cup, mind you, or I worry of my girth. Then you will sit and we will talk. I will make you glow and he will not be able to resist. He will ask for your hand in about a month.”
Monica glowed indeed as a warmth filled her chest. This man was so special, made her feel so special, so valued. Surely she knew for her father told her often that she was the sweetest maiden in the land, but she never felt that way before. She felt ugly inside. Even her father´s praise failed to erase the shadow of failure. But this man made her feel the way she always imagined a suitor would make her feel, happy. He looked at her kindly and listened to her every word. Her heart beat fast for this kindly man. And she thought his eyes said he might even care for her. They broke the eye lock with a glance at the smithy´s son. He was staring with a most surprised look on his face. The trap was set.
The bard does indeed have feelings for Monica. She looks like his dearly departed wife, or the daughter that she could never bear. He has watched her since she was a child, an invisible parent wanting only the best for her. And it has hurt him to see the difficulties she has had attracting a suitor. “Fools, all of you. She is the sweetest soul in town. If I was only a younger man...” Now, after sitting with her, feeling the warmth and purity of her young spirit, hanging on her every word, trading his bardness for the wonder of her tenderness, feeling her every ache like it is his own, he is smitten. He looks forward to every Saturday, thinks of how it feels to sit in the wash of her gaze, how his hearts trills like a flute when she has finally sold all her custard and can come sit by him. And each time it seems to get better. Each time she is more open and trusting. Each time her glow gets brighter with her new confidence. And each time they sit together the smithy ´s son watches closer. They sit, coconspirators, bait in a trap.
The smithy´s son rearranges his stand so that he is facing Monica now. He watches them closely. He notices Monica more now but doesn´t know why. But he does know that the bard makes him nervous. Each week he plans to stop by to greet her, but each week his courage fails him. Monica looks at the smithy´s son often for that is part of the trap, but all her thoughts are of the bard. Never has she felt so warm, so comfortable, so happy. In his soft gaze she feels that awful feeling of failure fading away. Someone other than her father does like her, does find her desirable, has feelings for her. She tells him stories about the farm, of her wanders through the wildflower fields, of how butterflies sometimes follow her and land on her finger. How the animals of the forest stop and watch her unafraid. She feels like she could coax them all in and be a pied piper with an entourage of birds and animals and butterflies wandering happily over hills and valleys. And with each story the bard grows fonder of his budding charge as he watches the woman emerge, watches her glow brighten, lavishes in her closeness, feels the wondrous energy of emerging love.
But each Saturday night he laments. Why? Why do the years separate us so? Why wasn´t he born later or she sooner? Why must this wonder have such a wall of cruel separation? Why can´t he marry his new love? No man on earth would treat her better, look after her every need, listen to her every story. Oh why Lord must it be this way?
The trap is so well set that the smithy´s son seems to be watching Monica constantly, and this causes problems. He becomes forgetful and clumsy, dropping red hot horse shoes, making three matching shoes to the anger of one customer. Occasionally the wind whips up and blows hot embers in his face. He stumbles back, his clumsy brogans getting tangled, often falling backwards. This is dangerous now. His back is to the busy thoroughfare rather than the pedestrian market place. Several horses have shied and whinnied at his sudden falls. And he has even felt the whip of one angry driver who´s load was shaken by his frightened horse. The bard watches the entire scene with amusement and the care of a father. This young man will have to earn the hand of his Monica, his for the moment anyway.
Finally, twice as long as he predicted, at the end of two months, the smithy´s son has worked up his courage. Being careful to make sure the forge is empty, running his fingers through the tangle of his hair since Monica has finished selling her custard, flushing like a nervous school boy, he starts the few steps toward Monica. But the bard dashes into his face, stopping him in mid stride. The smithy´s eyes widen. He feels fear in his heart. The bard sniffs the smithy´s son and slowly shakes his head. “You smell like a horse barn. Is that anyway to greet Fair Lady? Try again next week. Oh, and brush some of that green off your teeth!” Monica is laughing at the bumbling man, and this brings a sting to the smithy´s son. He feels every bit the fool of the moment. But he calms down, relieved actually, determined to get it right next week.
Again he works up his courage and starts the walk, and again the bard intercepts him. “What, no gift. Not even a wildflower. Is that any way to greet Fair Lady? Try again next week!” The smithy´s son is sure the next week. He is expecting the inspection now. But he has clean clothes on, and his hair is slicked down, and behind his back is a bouquet of wildflowers. “Almost young man, but you have been chewing garlic. Chew fresh spearmint next week. Oh, but I will deliver your flowers"!
Nonplussed and crestfallen the smithy´s son returns to his stand. But now he sees that Monica is smelling his bouquet, holds them in her lap while she talks with the bard. Next week. Yes, next week! On his fourth try the smithy ´s son get it right, passes the bards inspection and presents himself, quaking within and with a shaky voice he manages, “Good afternoon Miss Monica. I brought you some flowers. Will you take them as a token of my appreciation?” Monica rises and curtsies. “Yes, thank you. They are very pretty. Thank you again.” The final thank you says, ´you´re dismissed.´ Almost stumbling as he turns around, the red faced young man returns to his stall. But he feels real joy as Monica smiles at him and sniffs the flowers. “There,” says the bard. “I think he is finally getting the hang of it.” “Yes,” chortles Monica, “I think so too.”
She looks fondly at the awkward man. She is beginning to like him. But she feels a chill. The game has been such fun, but it has been such fun because the bard is always there for her. It is really his gaze she craves, the kindness in his eyes she wants to see, the excitement of the conspiracy. But it his the heat in her heart that is most exciting. Being close to the bard is like no other feeling she has ever known. The prospect that he will be out of the picture before long sends a sharp pain into her heart. This is going to be very difficult, she thinks, as difficult as leaving her father to fend for himself without the benefit of her custard or her caring. She thinks the fun part is over with the closing of the trap. Now there are a new set of problems.
The week is long and difficult for Monica. She struggles to get used to the reality that she has to marry the wrong man. What a stupid rule that you become an elder at age 40, only eligible to marry old maids and widows, when five minutes earlier you are still considered young. But she knows that the elders will not bend the rules for her. She imagines standing before them, telling of her undying love for her precious bard, then watching the unsmiling, bearded faces shaking their heads in unison. She would never embarrass herself like that. She must be strong. But she is not. Now she often weeps and wanders blindly through the fields, her animal friends always quiet and reserved, sensing their darling maiden of nature is troubled. And it gets no better. There is absolutely no solution. She has been sentenced to marry a man she does not love.
She tries fantasizing elopement, running away with her beloved bard, but it always ends with the thought that she could not run away from her father. Nonetheless she wallows in the excitement of what it would be like to be alone with the bard, to feel his hands on her body, to watch his eyes as she undresses for him that wonderful first time. Perhaps it is in vain but the fantasy erases all the other thoughts that are troubling, every one of them. The fantasy is her only relief so she indulges herself often.
