“Sir Guy’s Wintry Musings”
A poetry ficlet by Gratiana Lovelace, 2015
Patience. Not one of my virtues,
if I had any virtues.
And the damp chill of new fallen snow
surrounding our cottage provides me with a
much needed distraction from my thoughts.
But not for long.
This waiting reminds me that
I am not in control—if I ever was.
Were my love to see me ruminating thus,
my ears would be full of her words—
and not all of them pleasant.
That is her way,
to love me by challenging me.
God’s teeth! If I did not love her so,
I would not tolerate her insolence.
A wife’s role is to obey, without question.
Obeying not being one of her virtues.
But then, she overlooks my faults as well,
faults of seducing her wickedly time and again,
of being prideful that she is mine,
and of jealously coveting her attentions.
And I am vain of my person,
and ambitious for furthering my position and rank.
She chastises me that when I am old,
and hastening to the day of judgment,
that I will reform and repent my ways.
Not bloody likely.
And normally, she delights when I pamper her,
giving her gifts of love and tenderness.
Yet these past several months,
she dismissively claims I smother her with my caring.
That my insistence for her to rest is insufferable.
But it is only when she sleeps, that I may sleep.
And not even then,
with my growing worries for her health.
She complains that my concern
for her well being stifles her.
As if that could happen.
I am but hers to command
and I gladly see to her happiness.
For in her happiness, I make my own.
Some men may deem me weak
to bow to my lady’s whims.
I would say to them, it is only through courage
that I grant her wishes,
or that I allow her out of bed at all.
And I must be patient with her—especially now.
For she will bring to me more joy
than I could dream of,
or sorrow beyond measure,
if she does not survive her ordeal.
And it will be my fault if she dies,
her taking all the joy I have known
and hope to know with her to her grave.
Such a misery, she tells me, is my melancholy state.
It annoys her.
That is a chink in her armour,
my ability to annoy her,
which I delightfully exploit.
Then the screaming ceases
and the wailing begins inside our cottage.
And I quickly go inside to learn my fate.
At first, I am not allowed admittance,
whilst others tend to my love’s needs.
Then a smiling servant opens the bed chamber door,
and I rush to the bed and its contents,
to see for myself what I hath wrought.
She, my love, my joyously smiling wife
holds within her loving arms
our new precious life, our first born child.
It is a timeless moment of wonder and awe.
Neither of us speaks, so moved are we by our miracle.
And my beloved wife, as yet, has frustratingly
not revealed our child’s name.
Does she not realize how eager I am to know?
Of course she does.
She gazes at me with a small knowing smile.
She is doing it again, making me wait,
as if nine months was not long enough to wait.
And for my wife and for my child,
I must be patient yet a while longer,
to learn if I have a son or a daughter.
Reference: “Sir Guy’s Wintry Musings” story image is of Richard Armitage as Sir Guy of Gisborne in the BBC’s Robin Hood, series 3 (in 2009) , episode 12, promo pix 1 from www.RichardArmitageNet.com