Alys Clare - Girl In A Red Tunic

On her head she will wear, just like the peasant girls, a garland of flowers.

For the two days before May Day she does not see Ivo. After a fortnight in which they have — unknown to anybody else — been together for a part of every day, the waiting seems endless. But inevitably, time goes by — with infinitesimal slowness — and at last it is May eve. Helewise bids her family a decorous goodnight and retires early to bed. She looks hungrily at the yellow gown spread on her clothes chest, at the garland of flowers that rests in a shallow bowl of cool water to keep it fresh. She imagines herself dressing in the morning. Imagines Ivo when he sees her.

It is almost too much to bear.

The day is sunny and warm and everyone is thrilled to think that the gods are blessing their celebration with such perfect weather. The cooking fires are lit early; benches are lugged out of the house for the ladies and straw bales for the better class of men; everyone else will sit on the good green grass. Ivo’s steward is busy organising games for the older children — races, both on their ponies, if they have them, and on their own two feet — and hunts for favours. His wife is looking after the smaller children and Elena has set aside a quiet, cool place in the shade of the oak trees where overwrought toddlers and babies can sleep when necessary. The May Pole has been decorated with ribbons and a small band of musicians are practising their tunes. There will be other dancing too, in addition to the traditional slow measures around the pole that symbolise the Sun’s course; groups of men bearing sticks are going through their moves, anxious to get everything perfect so that the people clap and the lord and his lady are pleased.

Helewise has put on her gown and her flower garland. She cannot eat and uses the excuse that her dress is tight and she wants to have room for the feast later. Her mother nods without comment; Elena shoots her a look. The family leave the house in the middle of the morning — it has been a tense wait for impatient Helewise, trying to appear only as excited as she usually is instead of filled with this nervous, thrilling sensation for which she has no name — and, with Ralf and Emma in the lead, they make their slow and stately way down to the meadow, greeting people as they go.

It is some time before Helewise spots Ivo. She has already spoken to his father and been introduced to Benedict’s companion, a silent man named Martin who bears a slight resemblance to his master; she wonders if they are related but such is her state of mind this day that the matter slips from her consciousness almost as soon as it has entered it. Benedict gives her a beaming smile and then a wink, as if to say, I know full well what you’re up to! Then he engages Ralf in a conversation about wool export and Helewise, blush fading, scuttles away. She circles the field, slowly, trying to appear leisurely and graceful, and her sister Aeleis bounds around her, drawing her attention to the horses, the ponies, the hounds — ‘Oh, look at the puppy! Isn’t he sweet? Do you think Father would let me have him?’ — although Helewise hardly hears.

Then she sees him, leaning against one of the great oaks, arms crossed over his broad chest. He wears a tunic in dark green with a lighter green border in which there are touches of rich gold embroidery. His brown hair shines with health and there are bright streaks in it, as if he has been riding bare-headed beneath the sun. He smiles at her and in that moment she knows that he loves her just as she loves him. She walks slowly up to him.

‘Hello, sweeting,’ he says softly. ‘I have never seen you look more beautiful.’

She glances down at herself as if she has forgotten what she is wearing, hardly likely since she thought ahead to this moment, dwelling on its infinite possibilities, with every stitch that she sewed. ‘Thank you.’

Their eyes lock again. Then he says, ‘I think that I should be presented to your parents, with your permission. My father has suggested that he be the one to do it.’

‘Yes, oh, yes,’ she agrees. ‘Shall we find him and take him to my father and mother?’

Ivo hesitates. It seems that he does not know how these things are accomplished any more than she does. ‘Perhaps my father should perform this presentation with me alone,’ he suggests. ‘If you and I are both there, may it not appear that we have — I mean, that there is a degree of acquaintance between us that your parents have not known about?’

She understands. ‘Yes. Very well, then. But we shall be together again later?’ She cannot bear the thought that he is to slip off into the crowd and that will be that.

But he is smiling, gently, lovingly. Promisingly. ‘Of course we shall,’ he says. He blows her a kiss and then he is gone. She watches him stride away. He walks well. She hungers for him.

Time passes. To Helewise in her frantic impatience it feels like hours. Then she is summoned to her father’s side and finds him standing with Benedict Warin, the watchful Martin hovering nearby. Ivo is to his father’s right, a pace behind. Ralf says, ‘Helewise, you have already met Ivo, I understand.’ He gives her a keen glance but she makes herself stare back straight into his eyes; she has done things that he does not know about but, she tells herself, nothing terrible. Nothing more than passionate kisses that she has wished with all her heart, soul and body would go on into whatever comes next.

But that is not a thought to share with her father.

Ralf is drawing Ivo forward and, taking Helewise’s hand, places it in Ivo’s. ‘Ivo, son of my dear friend, this is my daughter Helewise.’ There is a pause. Then Ralf says, ‘Perhaps, Ivo, you would care to escort her around the fair?’

And Ivo says, with admirable self-control, ‘Indeed, Sir Ralf. Nothing would please me more.’ Tucking her hand under his arm, he says, looking at Ralf, ‘I will take care of her, sir.’

Ralf mutters a reply; it sounds like, ‘Aye, I know you will.’

Helewise and Ivo stroll off. She can feel the tension in him echoing her own. Now that the correct procedures have been performed and they are together with their fathers’ knowledge and consent, they do not need to be furtive but may stroll among the stalls and the entertainments quite openly. Many people watch them; some give them an indulgent glance. Husbands, wives and lovers recognise the look that the pair have. Older and wiser heads know full well what is going to happen before the day is out.

Ivo and Helewise eat their meal on the grass with their families. They watch the dancers circling the May Pole; they dance on the grass to the squeaky fluting and rhythmic tabor beat of the rustic band. Ivo squeezes her as they dance. He holds her hand every moment that he can.

In the end, hand-holding is not enough.

The long day draws to its close. Dusk is falling fast and torches are lit, their flaring, dancing light making swift-moving shadows as people continue with the celebrations. The cooking fire is stoked up and blasts heat and light out into the deep black of the night-time woods and fields. In the happy, disorganised crowds and the kindly darkness it is easy to slip away. Ivo and Helewise hurry to Helewise’s secret place and, in the springy grass beneath the willow tree, she sits down and he kneels before her, gazing in adoration.

‘Helewise,’ he murmurs. He touches the garland of flowers on her hair. ‘My Flora. My Queen of the May.’

Tenderly they remove each other’s clothes. Staring at his mature male body as she helps him strip off tunic, undershirt and hose, she is aware at the same time of his hands on her, pulling at the laces of her gown, dragging at her under-gown with an impatience that all but tears it from her. Then, in the cool and fragrant stillness of a May night, naked and un ashamed, at long, long last they make love.