Week 1 Storytelling: The Pretty Maid With a Club

“Where are you going, my pretty maid?"

"I'm going a-milking, sir," she said.

"May I go with you, my pretty maid?"

"You're kindly welcome, sir," she said.

"What is your father, my pretty maid?"

"My father's a farmer, sir," she said.

The court was all a-twitter, this fine merry day in May. There had been feasting and games aplenty, and soon the main event would begin. Jousting was to be the game, and the prize was knighthood. It was open to all, peasant and noble alike. All you had to do was to knock the Crown Prince off his horse.

Of course, no one was really expecting a peasant to win - this was the Crown Prince. He was the greatest jouster in all the land, even those beyond. And most peasants could barely afford a horse, much less a proper shield and lance! However, it was quite gallant of the King to offer the opportunity, and it made the lower class even more grateful for the benevolent rulers, and so the court allowed this strange faux pas to pass without comment.

As the day wore on, one maid in particular was standing near the jousting arena where the contestants stayed. Her faded green dress was of lesser quality, but laced tightly and looked quite fetching. Despite her obvious peasant status the ladies of the court took notice and began to gossip about her. She wasn't as pale as a lady should be (a saddening side-effect of working outside all day) and her shoulders were much too wide, but her dark hair was pulled tightly in a proper bun and her crystal green eyes were enchanting to see. Perhaps she was here to capture the attention of some wealthy knight and to improve her status by marriage - she was such a pretty maid, the court concluded, such a pretty maid indeed. It would be quite wonderful if a lower knight chose her for a bride, even if her only dowry was her beauty.

The pretty maid was largely forgotten - though always watched from the corner of wandering eyes - as the hours grew long. Their Crown Prince was tireless as he continued to unseat challenger after challenger. It was his last challenge of the morn before the tournament broke for a feast when the maid was seen picking up one end of a large branch. Curious, the court began to turn their attention to her as the maid deftly placed the thick wooden piece upon her broad shoulders and strode forward.

“What is the meaning of this?” the Queen cried. “Surely such a pretty maid would not consider participating in such a sport!”

With a slight bow taken with care not to dislodge the stick, the maid meekly replied, “This tournament is open to all who make the journey, is it not?”

“We keep our word,” the King declared, “but the prize is knighthood and not an advantageous marriage.”

“If the Prince asks who am I to decline?” the maid stated with calm. “Yet I seek no ring but those that make up a suit of mail.”

The King debated with his advisers as the crowd proclaimed shock amongst themselves, and yet could find no reason to bar her. And so he turned to decree, “You may participate as is your wish. Would you accept our gift of lance and shield?”

“I shall hold neither, my King, until I have earned that right.” Defiantly, the maid planted her stick upon the ground as a knight would his sword. “I need naught else but that which I have.”

The court whispered again, and yet no fault could be found. Surely the Crown Prince would simply ride by and not strike a maid. It would be alright; a story to tell during laughing dinners in years to come. And so the stage was set, and the Crown Prince took his post. The maid hitched up her skirts with rope, widening her stance as the crowd gasped for the audacity she had to show such skin. A moment passed, and then the drum did sound. The Crown Prince kicked his horse into a run and lowered his lance. The pretty maid grasped her long branch like a club and hefted it high. The Crown Prince bore down on her. She did not move.

Finally, the Crown Prince shifted his lance so that it would miss the maid as he rode on by. Yet as he drew close, the maid shifted her weight and with a mighty heave swung her branch at man and horse.

With a loud clang and a startled cry, the Crown Prince, prepared for a blow, nevertheless fell from his horse and hit the ground with a mighty sound.

The pretty maid placed the stick upon her broad shoulders once more, looking as if she had done a task no more strenuous than fluffing a pillow as the court and crowd went silent with awe. Finally, the Queen turned to the King and silently implored him to keep his vow to her - no maid would marry after such a display, no matter how pretty her face.

"Say, will you marry me, my pretty maid?"

"Yes, if you please, kind sir," she said.

"What is your fortune, my pretty maid?"

"My face is my fortune, sir," she said.

"Then I can't marry you, my pretty maid!"

"Nobody asked you, sir," she said.

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The rhyme included in the tale is a cute little nursery rhyme that I found quite amusing. I took inspiration for the pretty maid from Camilla, a warrior princess in Virgil's The Aeneid. I also looked at old Arthurian Romance staples for the jousting tournament. It's a bit unrealistic, I know, but hey, that's what artistic license is for.

The Nursery Rhyme Book edited by Andrew Long (2008). Web Source: The Project Gutenberg EBook

Photo: Brienne of Tarth from Game of Thrones season 3 episode 7. Source: The Bear and the Maiden Fair Review.