The lady Margaret sits in her bower, clad in a raven black dress, sewing a black silk ribbon onto her black lace bonnet. She is in deep mourning for her father, who had been the baron for this part of the county. She intends to wear the bonnet to his funeral the next morning.
She is kept company by her two little serving girls. One busies herself tidying the room while the other carefully pulls a silver comb through her lady's hair. Nobody speaks, not one word passes their lips.
The lady finishes her work and inspects the stitches. She is not the most accomplished seamstress, but she is competent enough, it'll do.
She stares out of the window and into the distance, as the girl makes the last few passes with the comb. She looks upon the fields that are now hers, the small gently flowing river and out to the Chaster's wood, where her father used to take her to pick wild roses.
Once the girls finish their work and her hair is combed, she dismisses them. They curtsey and leave the room in silence. The elder is twelve, the younger just nine. Their mother had been a maid to her mother. Both women have long since died and the girls have been in her service practically from the day they learnt to walk. Although they are much younger than their mistress, they feel protective of her and hate to see her so sad. They hope she will find a husband to take care of her soon. Maybe he will be among the twenty four lords expected tomorrow.
Wild Roses, her father's favourite flower. The perfect flower to decorate her bonnet.
Whenever she and her father visited the forest, he would always warn her never to go alone, unaccompanied by an elder. He told her the ælfen dwell there and any young maid on her own would have to pay a terrible toll for trespassing in their woods. He may have been the lord of the manor, but the faierie folk do not obey the laws of men.
His harshest warning came for the night. He made her swear, with her hand on the bible, that she will never, ever go into the wood after dark. Not even with an army. Night time is when the queen of the ælfen is awake and looking for any human soul she can capture. Every seven years, on all hallows eve, the faieries pay their tithe to hell. A tithe of christened men and women. This is where they get their power. The soul of a young virgin girl is worth a hundred married men, but she will take either just the same.
And Gretta
is a virgin
. She has been kept safely away from all men and boys her whole life. No male servants were allowed to serve her and she was never in the company of any visiting gentlemen without her father present. His greatest desire was for her to keep her maidenhead, until he found the right man for her to marry. A task he unfortunately never completed.
There had been one potential, from a good family, just a couple of years older than his beloved daughter. He believed they would make a perfect match. Tragically the boy died before the betrothal could take place. Gretta was just a young girl at the time and hadn't been informed of her father's plans, there was no need for her to know.
She thinks about the roses. All these years she kept her promise to Daddy and never went to the forest without him. Now he has past, she sees no reason to follow his silly and old superstitions. Probably all his talk of faierie folk and the queen of ælfen was just his way of scaring her away from danger in an interesting manner. Surely wild beasts were much more likely to attack than a mythical ælf? She doubted her sensible father really believed in such things.
It's a bright, sunny day in early May. The fertility festival has not long past. The sunlight is warm on our lady's face, but a cool breeze reminds her it is not summer in England just yet. She lifts up her skirts so she can walk briskly and keep them clean as she trudges over mud and grass. When she comes to the stream, she hitches them up further, to a little above her knees, then nimbly makes her way across. She hops from one stepping stone to the other, the way she has done countless times before.
Soon she is in the merry green wood. She easily navigates her way through the dense forest. Every tree, bush and log is familiar to her, like old friends.
She reaches the clearing where the giant rose bush grows. A thousand years old or more, it is said. Daddy would always bury two silver coins in the earth somewhere around. He said it was to pay the faieries for their roses and so long as too many weren't plucked, they would be left in peace.
Gretta has no time for that. Without a care, she pulls a branch down. As soon as the stem breaks she feels the tight grasp of a hand around her slender wrist. Feels, but does not see. The hand is there, she knows it is, it's unmistakable. She tries to pull her arm away, it yanks her back sharply. Yet her eyes see nothing.
She spins around to face her assailant and to her surprise is faced with a young man around her own age. Not just any young man, the most beautiful boy she has ever laid eyes upon. Nobody in her household can compare. She meets his gaze, his eyes are the most enchanting shade of grey. For a moment she is stunned, she says nothing. She doesn't even try to break the grip he has on her.
He is the first to speak.
"How dare you come into this wood and pull these roses down, without asking leave of me, my dear."
"This forest stands on my father's property. Now that he is dead, it belongs to me. I shall tear down branches and come and go as I please, without asking leave of any man."
"Surely your father told you, there is a heavy price a young maid must pay to pass through these woods alone."
And with that he wraps his arm about her waist and carries her into the long grass. He lays her down for what she anticipates will be a savage rape. However, no. He does not force himself upon her, merely holds her. Holds her firmly in his strong arms and doesn't let her go.
The lady fights and kicks and thrashes, trying to get free. She grits her teeth, bucks her hips and pushes back with all the strength she can muster. The young man holds her down and looks at her with his soft grey eyes.
Her resistance begins to wane. When she looks back into his shining eyes, she knows he doesn't mean to hurt her. They are full of lust and desire, but they are not the vicious eyes of an attacker. She loses the will to fight him.
He plants a soft kiss on her forehead. The first male lips, other than her father's, to touch her. An unfamiliar feeling rises up from the pit of her stomach. She cannot tell what it is. It is almost like a sickness, except it is not unpleasant. It is a feeling she doesn't want to go away.
Another kiss. This time on the apple of her cheek. She closes her eyes as the feeling threatens to overwhelm her. His lips touch her again, now on the chin. She is dizzy and quivering with anticipation
He presses his lips to hers. A sensation so divine she could scarcely have imagined it. Her mouth instinctively reacts to his. Somehow, she knows how to kiss him back. It is a reflex, as natural as breathing.
He releases her arms. She holds him to her and runs her fingers through his silk like hair. He lifts her skirts up, high over her thighs and undoes the garments which imprison his proud manhood.
She accepts him into her willingly and eagerly. It hurts, but not more than she can bear and she bears it gladly. She wraps her legs around him and keeps him there. She feels her own body drawing him deeper. Until this moment, she didn't know such a union with a man was possible.
For some time they lie together in sport and play. A young lady and her gentleman, consuming each other's bodies, becoming one soul. Until finally, the blessed, ecstatic release of climax for them both. He gives his seed to her and she takes it from him into herself.
When it is over she wishes to ask the young man his name, but she cannot find him. No sight nor sound of him remains, not even his footprints in the earth, only the lingering memory of his touch.
Night is falling. Whether there be a faierie queen or not, it is dangerous to be alone in the dark. As she straightens her clothes in preparation for her brisk walk back, she finds a small bunch of pink rosebuds. Just enough to flower her bonnet.
She heads for home, clutching the tiny bouquet and wearing a green gown. Thoughts, fears, all kinds of emotions racing through her mind and body. She runs.
****
Four and twenty lords arrive the following day. They pay their last respects to the father and offer their condolences to the daughter.
None would be so crass as to make overt gestures towards her at such a time. However, each hopes, in their brief moments with her, to leave an impression. An impression deep enough to lead to marriage. Her father's Barony is not large, nor particularly wealthy, but it is in a strategic position on the Scottish boarder. In the game of chess that is feudal England, every clod of turf is important and this is one piece they aren't going to let go of easily.
Then there is the lady Margaret herself, of course. She is known for her beauty and elegance, as well as her purity. Everyone knows the lengths her daddy went to in order to preserve her virginity. She alone, without the land, would make a perfect wife. The kind of lady men fight to their deaths for.
Everyone notices how pale and wan she looks, but thinks nothing of it. In the midsts of such grief it is to be expected. In time, the colour will return to her milk white cheeks. As she sits among the mourners, not one would guess the adventure she had in the Chaster's wood, retrieving the pretty pink flowers she wears in her bonnet. But her two little serving girls, they know their mistress well. Although they can't tell what, they know something has changed within her.
****
The following months do not pass well for our lady. She is besieged by suitors everyday, none of whom she has the slightest intention of marrying. However, she won't be able to avoid it for much longer, things are getting serious. It has been said, the king may get involved, if the situation is not resolved soon. She must make an alliance.
But for Gretta there is a much more pressing concern. She has refused to see anyone for the past three months and for the past few weeks hasn't even left her bower. The only servants to attend to her have been the two young sisters.
She is forced to address the issue, when the youngest asks what everyone in the household has been thinking and gossiping about.
"My lady, which lord or gentleman shall give your babe his name?"
Her sister gives her daggers. She knows it is not their place to say anything about it, but the whole house has noticed their mistress's petticoats grow shorter. It is obvious she has loved too long and now she goes with child. Rumour has even spread outside the county and far away, the lady Margaret's purity may have been exaggerated.
Although she is taken aback at first, Gretta had been expecting it. She answers the girl.
"My dear, there is none among them I would treat so well. Alas, this baby will never be born."
The older girl has wisdom way beyond her years and sends her sister away. She realises what Gretta is planning. Probably a fall from the bower window or opening a vein during the night, but she thinks she knows a better way. She has heard of a certain bitter, grey herb, which grows in the forest. If made into a brew, it can untwine baby and mother.
As she combs Gretta's hair with the silver comb, she tells her mistress what she knows. The lady sits, with skin as clear and as green as glass, looking out towards the Chaster's wood.
