In her eyes

It was early spring. Trees were budding. Flowers were blooming. The grasses were regaining the vibrant green hue that was lost in winter. Out of newly hatched eggs baby Robins poked their heads, demanding their dinner. In brooks, streams and ponds ducks feasted on froglets. Everywhere there were signs of life.

There were fields to clear and plow. Fruit trees to prune. Animals to tend to. Because there was so much to do, Lady Maeve couldn't remain at court. So she begged the Queen (her sister) for a few weeks leave of her duties at court so she could manage her farm. The Queen, rather than send out a search party to find an escaped royal, granted her request.

Lady Maeve flew from the castle.

She breathed easier on the farm. She felt of use there. The cows didn't care about titles. Once on the farm, Lady Maeve traded in her floor-length gowns and velvet slippers for a calf-length cotton tunic, apron and leather shoes. Her long, raven hair was usually tucked under a ranking hat with a thousand pins. While at the farm, it dangled down her back, secured in a braid and tied with a strip of leather.

The first few days were a flurry of activity. Up with the cock's crow. Into the kitchen with the workmen's wives to make breakfast for the hands. Then she could be found in the barn, milking cows, gathering eggs and taking stock to pasture. Then supervise a team of ten men as they mended fences, dug new wells, felled trees and set traps. In the evenings she read, or painted until the sun set. She enjoyed working beside the farmer and his family. And yet, she was lonely.

Her husband had died a few years ago. It was an arranged marriage. She had title, property and money. He was of lower rank, ambitious and had proven himself on the field of battle. He wanted sons to carry his name and keep the riches within his bloodline. Most of their half-dozen years of marriage, he was on campaign and she slept alone. When he was at home, they tried to conceive. He was clumsy. No finesse at all. He would get behind her and push, as if she were a cart to get up a steep hill. Too many years in the saddle had damaged his sack. She bore no children. He died from influenza. Oddly, she didn't miss him, or even the idea of him.

She had grown up at her mothers' court, where she was Queens' consort, court confidant and lady-in-waiting. While her husband was alive, she was head of household and hostess to his friends and allies. After he died, acquaintances blew away like leaves in the fall. Now, suddenly widowed at the age of twenty-one, she found herself in her husbands' keep, alone.

At first, she didn't know how to occupy herself. Then she began to read and think and study. Every book she could lay her hands on, every leather-bound, hand scribed or newly printed book she could buy, barter or trade, she had to have. She kept her hands busy by planting. She thought if she couldn't have children, she could at least make something grow. So she started with a few flowers in pots. Then she grew and dried herbs for the cook. Eventually she plotted and planted a garden as large as the stable floor. The first year was a learning year. She tried and failed. She talked to the farmers, the people who knew. What worked, what didn't? What was a tried and true method? What was superstition and old wives' tales? She spent all winter planning. In spring, she tried again. Learning paid off. The garden produced a bumper crop. Most of it was eaten fresh, dried and stored or given away. The villagers appreciated that.

Still, something nagged at her. You can only keep so busy, and you have to sleep sometime. It was worse at night, when she was alone. It kept her awake. The bed was too big. She had no one to talk to; not much different than when her husband was alive. She thought about hiring a deaf-mute to keep her company, but she craved something more than a post to talk to. And it was more than evening solitude that kept her awake.

It was a hollow, buzzing feeling. She felt it sometimes when her husband was alive and he did what was within his knowledge to rub it away. But it was always there. It was like a scar that wouldn't heal. Usually she willed it away. Usually it worked.

One day, as Lady Maeve was traveling to the south fields, both feelings showed up like unwanted guests. On a fine day, the trip an hour, but with two stowaways, the trip dragged on. She stopped the horse, deciding walking would be better for her. Less distracting. The sun ascended. It was getting hotter. A stretch of trees grew alongside the road, and behind them ran a stream. She could hear the water running and tripping and calling her "Maeve, go for a dip. It'll only take a minute." She was hot, she reasoned, and the horse needed a rest, too. So Lady Maeve led the mare to the stream.

It was cooler under the trees. Lady Maeve slipped off her leather boots and tossed them by a dense growth of bushes under the trees. She approached the water, hitching up her skirt over her knees as she walked. As she was about to dip her feet into the water, she heard a grunting noise behind her. Lady Maeve froze in place, afraid it might be a wild boar. She had only a small knife with which to defend herself; good for cutting an apple or a small loaf of bread, but useless against a wild animal. She slowly turned around and saw not a boar, but a pair of mens' bare feet protruding from behind the berry bushes. She took in breath, relieved. Then she realized that she was alone with a man whose identity as friend or foe was unknown.

Lady Maeve decided it was better to leave the man unmolested, rather than confirm if he was dangerous or not. So she tip toed up the embankment, but before she went far, she slipped in the slick mud. She stifled a mouse-like cry. She looked at the feet.

One foot scratched the other. There was another snort and a rhyming mumble. Whoever it was had rolled onto their back, rubbing their toes into the grass. Lady Maeve had climbed to the top of the slope and was heading toward the horse when it occurred to her something was missing. Her boots! She could have gone without them, but it was another half-mile to the south fields. Besides, they were new. She tied the reigns to a low-hanging tree branch and quiet as a shadow, returned to the bushes.

As she knelt down to pick up the boots, she spied through a gap in the bush, the man who was causing her worry. He was lying on his back, and naked as a jay-bird; his left arm covered his face, blocking the sun that broke through the trees. The man was not skinny like a scarecrow, but not so much meat on his bones to mistake him for gentry. The skin that was regularly exposed to the sun tanned to a light maple color and was covered in freckles. His muscles were defined and toned, by hard work, she imagined. She wanted to see his hands, but couldn't. One was facing away from her and the other was under his head and the clothes he was using as a pillow. She wondered if his hands were calloused or smooth, and how they would feel upon her.

The thought was as easy to have as thinking of what to have for dinner. It surprised her, but she didn't walk away. Stayed she did, at the break in the bush, watching the man who was causing her so much worry. The longer she stayed, the more she studied him. The toenails that needed trimming, the patch of chestnut hair between his legs. She had heard from other women that a man had to 'fit.' Like the proper key turns tumblers in the lock. Usually when Lady Maeve heard women talk of their husbands, lovers or both she would smile and nod, but not admit that she had limited experience in that area. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of a high pitched whinny. Lady Maeve drew in a sharp breath and glanced at the horse, who was impatiently stamping her hoof. Lady Maeve exhaled, afraid the man on the other side would awaken and...who knows what he would do? She peeked through the bush; he had rolled onto his side, his face buried in his upper arm. Then it happened. It expanded. It was like watching a turtle poke its head out of its shell. Only this turtle's neck was longer and thicker than the ones in the pond. Lady Maeve couldn't remember what her husband's looked like.

Then something else happened she didn't expect. Lady Maeve moved to the other side of the bush. She didn't stop until she was standing behind the man. She didn't know him from the First Man, but she wanted him. She didn't love him, but then she didn't love her husband either and expected she would miss this man as much. She only wished for him to fill the empty space within her. Lady Maeve would awaken him and say...what? That she was watching him thrust the dust? Then what? Ask if he'd like to rut like a pair of deer? Then the horse whinnied louder this time, shaking her to her other senses. The man stirred and stretched, his back still to her. Faster than a rabbit Lady Maeve ran, until she reached the horse and rode at a full gallop to the south fields.