by Miranda Hawkins
Long ago in the land of Erie there lived a young kitchen lad named Philip. He was tall and lean, with unkept black hair that fell slightly over his eyes and large, over-sized hands which always seemed to be getting him into trouble. After all, when one works as a dish washer in the castle of a powerful lord, you're not expected to break more than you wash. However, the cook, who was a kind-hearted woman, found other ways to keep him busy so he wouldn't be thrown out on the street.
Also working in the lord's castle was Bridget, a chamber maid. She'd been there ever since her parents were killed by the plague 6 years before. With hair that shone like fire and a soft gentle face, she was arguably the most beautiful girl in all of Erie.
To look at them, one would never have thought the two a likely pair, but nevertheless, after a single chance meeting each had fallen deeply in love with the other. Every day, whenever they could find a free moment, they would spend it together. Fishing by the river, berry picking in the forest, anything that allowed them to be alone together so they could enjoy each other's company and talk privately. What did they talk about, you ask? Everything under the sun (and everything above it, too); including tales of the far east, legends of a man who lived in the moon, and fabulous stories of the Druids who used to inhabit the forest. However, no matter what the subject began as it always ended in the same place. . . plans for their future together. As soon as they could get enough money, the two lovers intended to leave their palace home and build a small cottage in the nearby woods, where they could raise a small family and live out the rest of their days in peace.
As the years passed everything went according to plan and soon the couple found that they had saved up enough money to follow their dreams, but suddenly disaster struck! Leighton, the lord's spoiled eldest son, had begun to notice Bridget as she went about her rounds within the castle and barely a month before she and Philip were to leave the palace, he loomed out of the shadows and shattered their dreams forever.
Bridget was attending to her normal duties, when Leighton made his desires known. As the lord's eldest son, he haughtily assumed that she would give herself to him without protest. Can you imagine, my reader, his anger and shock at being refused? No one had ever dared say ‘no' to him before and he was beyond furious! Leighton slapped Bridget brutally across the face, knocking her to the floor. He descended upon her and she fought back fiercely, determined to escape him. When Leighton raised his arm to hit her again, Bridget escaped from beneath him and rose, fleeing down the hallway. He let her go, but silently swore that she would live to regret the day she had scorned him.
Fearing for their lives the two lovers met that night deep within the woods to plan an escape. Tears streamed down Bridget's face and Philip, sorrow darkening his handsome features, clasped her close and begged her not to cry. Slowly her sobs subdued and as they did he pulled out a soiled kitchen rag and used it to dry her eyes. Clearing away most of her tears he went to place the rag back in his pocket, but Bridget stopped him, pulling the cloth gently from his grasp and tucking it within her bodice next to her heart. Then, from inside her sleeve, Bridget pulled out her mother's lace handkerchief, placing it into Philip's outstretched hand. Solemnly, the two lovers switched swatches, creating a physical bond in coexistence with the emotional one that had united them from the beginning. Then, they lovingly embraced, not knowing when another chance would arrive.
Meanwhile, back at the lord's castle, Leighton overheard two of Bridget's friends talking about Philip. He seethed with anger; not only had a peasant girl rejected him, but she had chosen to share her bed with a lowly kitchen boy instead! Murder in his heart, Leighton dragged one of the other kitchen lads down to the dungeon and threatened to relieve him of his head unless he revealed where the lovers had gone. All the boy knew was that Philip and Bridget sometimes enjoyed walking in the woods together. But that was enough to send the young lord on a rampage. He ordered a hunting party out into the woods with orders for the men to make sure the two lovers were never heard from again.
* * *
Bridget heard the dogs first. Fleeing deeper into the forest, the couple soon came upon a stream and it was Philip's clever thinking to plunge into its fast moving current to escape the soldiers that followed so close behind. They knew that the men who tracked them would not give up the hunt so easily, so, despite the weariness that sapped their strength, they continued relentlessly onward. It was nearly dawn when the couple came upon a small abbey. Hearts pounding, they finally forced themselves to stop and catch their breath within its small, stone walls.
Upon entering, the lovers met a lone monk by the name of Joseph Hawkins, who offered them shelter in exchange for their story. Cautiously, Bridget and Philip related to him their sad tale and, sympathizing with their plight, Joseph offered the two runaways sanctuary. However, they were forced to refuse, knowing that the poor monk would not be spared should he try to hide them. So, longing to stay, but knowing they could not, Philip and Bridget remained in his company only a few minutes longer, before fear forced them to continue their trek.
Unfortunately, those few moments spent in the abbey were all the hunting party needed to catch up with the lovers and as they fled the safety of its walls braying hounds surrounded them. Deftly evading the dogs, Philip, with Bridget in tow, ran as fast as his legs would carry him. Then, suddenly, as the couple raced through a clearing, Bridget cried out in pain, an arrow through her heart, and as she crumpled to the ground, Philip's rag fell from her ruined bosom and floated softly to the ground.
Anger and grief coursed through Philip's veins. With one final loving glance towards Bridget's lifeless form, he pulled a small dagger from beneath his tunic and grimly prepared for a battle he couldn't possibly hope to win. Time passed slowly for him in the futile fight, and although it was only seconds of real time, it seemed like hours before Philip felt the cold steel of a soldier's sword slide into his chest and straight through his heart. As he fell, Bridget's lace handkerchief, which he'd tied about his arm, undid itself and glided gently to rest beside the forgotten kitchen rag, in a puddle of the lovers' mingled blood.
Their duty done, the soldiers prepared to leave, but Father Joseph stepped from among the trees, appealing to their religious convictions. He begged for the soldiers to give Philip and Bridget proper burials within his abbey's courtyard. Despite what they'd just done, all of the soldiers were God-fearing men, and since the young lord hadn't told them how to dispose of the bodies, the group agreed. Two graves were dug side by side and the lovers were quickly laid to rest. Back in the clearing nothing remained except two bloody pieces of cloth, one a lace handkerchief and the other a dirty kitchen rag.
Is that the end of my story, you ask? Well, not quite. You see, the abbey, where my descendant, Joseph Hawkins lived, is still standing today. And within the courtyard, covered by the tallest of weeds and the wildest of flowers are two wind-beaten grave stones, so weathered by the passage of time that they have become all but indiscernible from common rocks, at least to the human eye.
Remarkable, you say? Perhaps. But wait for the end, all is not yet revealed. If you travel in a somewhat westerly direction, you'll come upon a small clearing, the same clearing where Bridget and Philip lost their lives all those centuries ago. There, where the rag and handkerchief came to rest, two Love-lies-bleeding amaranth flowers now bloom, tightly intertwined in an eternal embrace. And that, dear reader, is the truth of the tale.
|
|
