Although less often now, not so many years ago it was not an uncommon sight to see in early spring Maypoles sprouting up on many a village green across England. And then on Mayday itself amongst much feasting and celebration, the Crowning of the May Queen, Morris Dancing etc. A troop of girls all dressed in virgin white would dance around the Maypole garlanding it with many coloured ribbons.
Of course the first of May has long been held, in England and much of Northern Europe, to be the first real day of spring. The time when the fruit trees burst into flower and mother earth abundantly demonstrates that she has awoken from her long winter sleep.
But what of the Maypole and the dance of the virgin girls?
Some believe that the Maypole and its dance are mere shadows, a bowdlerised Victorian revival, of now long forgotten ancient Pagan Rites of Spring. And perhaps that the Maypole should be more properly called the King 'o the May's pole. It is that premise that I now intend to try to expound.
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Cast your mind back, if you will, to a time many, no hundreds, of years ago, to when England was not the unified kingdom that we see to day. But more a loose alliance of many earldoms and dukedoms, held only tenuously to the Kings Rule through the shifting allegiances and power plays of the dukes and earls who held the real power in the land. This was also a time when the Church in Rome had not yet become an all powerful socio-political entity, spreading its influence, often through fear and dark prophecies of damnation, throughout its many dominions, that it would later become. This was also a time when the normal people would regard anywhere more than a day's walk or ox-cart ride away to be strange and foreign lands. In short the peasantry, except for when their lords and masters wanted to raise an army, were pretty much left to carry on with life in the way that they always done, and apart from paying due respect, and tithes, to the lord of the manor, without outside interference.
Let us now focus in on the little town of Halfootstow nestling in the rolling hills of what is now sometimes called Middle England.
Halfootstow was not a town as we would understand the term today, more a small village, a few humble dwellings, barns and store houses huddling around the, ancestral, fortified house of Sir Hugo Barron Halfoot. Yet it was the focus, the administrative hub, if you like, to which many peasant farmers for miles around looked to as the seat of their lord and master.
Sir Hugo himself was no great lord, being only of the fifth or sixth rank of nobility, depending how you counted them, held no place at the Kings Court. His allegiance was held in turn to his own lord and master, the Duke of Midshires. Yet to the simple people around Halfootstow Sir Hugo was their lord, their giver of laws, the man to whom they paid their due respect, their tithes, and their rents.
Life for Sir Hugo was in many ways both rewarding and comfortable, but he had a problem. And his problem concerned his droit de seigneur. No, not the "big dog thing; hairy, that needs exercise."* Suggested by one well known author of fantasy novels. But a real, ages old, right. Literally 'the right of lordship', practiced even until quite recently in, dare we say, less socially advanced countries than ours, by lords of the manor over their peasant charges.
And what is this right? Ius primae noctis in Latin.
It was the right of the lord of the manor to be the first man to bed the young bride on her wedding night. And to prove by publicly displaying the blood stained bed sheets that she was in fact, or at least until very recently had been, the true and pure virgin that had been promised to her husband.
Sir Hugo's problem was this. There just weren't very many virgin brides those days, in fact many young women waddled heavily pregnant up the aisle of the little town church to have their nuptials sealed by Father Ignatius, the aging Franciscan Friar who served as their priest. And Sir Hugo liked virgins.
Sir Hugo's particular like of virgins was his only, that he would publicly admit, vice. He was not a violent man, except when he needed to be. He was a gentleman in every meaning of the word. Many young women would complain that their own husband's lovemaking would seem coarse and uncaring after experiencing Sir Hugo's gentle and often highly satisfying invasion of their bodies.
The trouble was; in those days sex was not a private act. With often several generations of a family living in a one room hovel there was no way it could be. And for girls of relatively short life expectancy burgeoning into womanhood the urge to reproduce was particularly strong.
Of course no man thereabouts could deny his lord and master the use of his virgin daughter's body, if such a young woman was to be found. Especially if he was offered a small token of gratitude like a chicken for the pot or a small concession on his tithes or rent. Sir Hugo was not an evil man, he just preferred his women to be young, tight, and preferably intact. Although this practice helped to assuage his lust for virgins he felt that this was being sneaky and undermined the proper dignity of the exercise of his droit de seigneur.
Mayday was already an important event in that community's calendar. A day for feasting, for music and dancing. A day for drinking large quantities of ale and mead, and often, discovered a few weeks afterwards, a few unexpected pregnancies.
