A father's reflection on the nature of young women and aged men.
Refinement Renounced
The girl heralds a new direction for the coming generation. And I fear it so.
These eyes have seen battle and peace. These eyes have witnessed death and birth. And now, these eyes watch from a concealed space as my only child, my darling daughter, speaks to the man to whom she was once promised. Only, there will be no kind words for the lad today. Vexation colors each syllable she utters and he hears it with a stubborn stance only a fool might possess. A fool in love, I suppose.
My wife was enchantment until the end of her days. Such was her elegance that it should have coated her offspring in a heavy wrapping of refinement. But from the first newborn cry, Marian was the essence of swaddled rebellion. Never napping at our convenience, never eating what was prepared, never staying where commanded. As she grew, so did her interest in all the things her gender should avoid; the games of boys, the art of exploration, the affairs of men. Early one, hers was a resolve I could not alter. And hers is a force the world has yet to break.
The follies of court should comprise her entertainment. The pursuit of crafts should occupy her leisure hours. And the visits of suitors should encompass the span of her conversations. But even now, she defies the role I envisioned for her. Arguing a point with an outlaw could not be considered ladylike by any civilized standard. That she is winning provides me no reassurance.
It has lately become clear that the only binding that keeps her from renouncing society for the call of outlaw forest life is me.
She worries. And I admit a portion of my conscience is glad for it. The concern for my health prompts her to stay at my side, the doting daughter caring for an ailing parent. By my word, I could set her free, but surely my age must allow a measure of selfishness. Assuring her safety forgives any self-interest as I pray fervently for some tidy miracle to arrange a satisfactory conclusion to all that frightens me.
Should Robin regain all that was lost to him this very day, I imagine they would marry by morning. I almost pity the boy, for the task of reining her in would fall to him. So far, the odds swing not in his favor. Being her father affords me the advantage of being the one person she finds difficult to circumvent. Still, she tries, which explains the lies she crafts to hide disappearances and bruises. But the outlaw has no such advantage, as evidenced presently by his defeated expression. Whatever the nature of the discussion, Marian has emerged victorious.
Still, the young man smiles as he departs and I wonder if there is hope for them yet. My daughter keeps watch until he is less than a shadow in the falling night. Her own smile gives way to melancholy. I can offer no comfort, as empty words soothe no wounds. My dear wife and I were so very fortunate, never spending more than a fortnight apart in all our years of marriage. To know that every meeting will end in parting must be as torture. I see no solution to it, other than that which I do not choose to contemplate. Truly, the death of one is the death of both. I plead harder still for that miracle.
I consider that she is a sign, a revelation of what women will demand as time ushers our established views to the side. Women who will seek to fight, to carry the hopes of our country, to voice their opinions in the public forum and be heard. It is tradition that keeps them silent and I bear equal blame with the many generations of men before me. We prefer the old ways. A woman who prepares meals is embraced far easier than one who brandishes a sword. A woman who bears children is more readily sought than one who takes lives. But I love this defiant girl who shuns the cause of her foremothers and therefore wish to hold those ways in one hand while encouraging her to move forward with the other.
I fear she will move regardless and in my final days, I want her to remember me as the one who supported her for who she is. Not who I say she should be. Perhaps I herald a new direction as well as I come closer each day to granting her that freedom. Because I can deny her nothing. She wears her mother's face.
My body assures me the days are short before I see my beloved again. And so I pray for that miracle with all the strength left in me. For Marian. For Robin. For England. And for the strong women of the next generation.