A lonely figure drapped in a black cloak, a sack slung over the shoulder, stopped at the gate. Its latch broken, it banged mournfully. A bell tolling. The ticking of an ancient clock. The tutting of the righteous who looked away when she passed. Well, they might eye her with suspicion, for she was something they were not.

Fingers, withered as winter roots left to freeze in their furrows, lifted the gates clasp as a wind whipped the wearer's cloak into a frenzied dance. The day had threatened snow and the night would deliver. Never mind. The company within was worth confronting the weather. Better yet, it would dissuade peering eyes that feared what might be underway inside.

Through the small window came the welcome sight of a glowing fire. Shadows moved inside and the sound of cheery voices. Inside, the group of dark robed women laughed and hugged the newcomer, remarking on the unseasonably cold night. A warm tankard was shoved in her hands as the others pulled chairs in a semi-circle before the fire. The seat of honour reserved for the late arrival.

“Beatrice, tonight it’s your turn to tell us a tale and I hope its a good one for we’ve all had to fight a gale to get here.”

It was a light-hearted jest but Beatrice knew the real threat was not the weather. Nor was it the women gathered on either side of her. The craftsmen of this village had their guilds and their guild halls where they could meet and talk openly of the things that interested them. The unskilled labourers and the small holders, all male, met in the pub to talk of this and that but mostly to escape their wives. As for the wives, they exchanged gossip on market day and complained of their no good husbands. But the inhabitants of this room, not in need of husbands for support or guild to ply their trade, met to exchange information on their craft and to entertain each other with stories.

Verna, like the ancient Panacea, knew the secrets of every plant. Living in a shack that verged on both meadow and forest, she was both remote and easy to find and find her they did for she knew the secrets of herbs. There were those that removed pain; willowbark, peppermint and feverfew. Camomile to heal wounds and calm the nerves. Echinacea to ward off colds and heal snake bites. Garlic for worms and fever. And then there were the ones she refused to name but if you were a maid carrying a fatherless child, or one too many, she had the remedy for that. It was rumoured too that she could provide women with a way to remove an abusive husband but if that were true, she kept that business well under wraps.

Gertrude often frequented Verna’s shack. She was a midwife and used Verna’s herbs to ease the suffering of childbirth. Men called birthing a child labour but what did they know? To bring forth life was a burden and a blessing. All in the room understood the act of creation. Like life itself, it was never meant to be easy. Pushing out a baby was physically painful and all too often deadly which is why Gertrude didn’the believe in the male God who hung in the village church. For what man could understand the sacrifice of growing a part of yourself only to cut it loose into a hostile and frightening world. Outwardly Gertrude went to the church and she sang their songs and bent her knees but in her heart she worshipped the great mother Gaia.

Florence, with arms like a man, turned base metals into fine combs and brooches. For the wealthy she crafted jewelry of gold and precious stones but for everyday folk, she scoured the beaches for the ocean’ scraps and the forest for its tiny jewels. From these discarded trinkets of nature, shells broken and smoothed by sand and water, seeds dried by the sun, she crafted jewelry fit for royalty but destined for the necks of common women.

They were all women who had skills that paid a living wage so they had no need of men to command them. This intimidated the men of the village who couldn’t understand women who had no need to learn to heel. It worried their wives more for an unattached woman was both an affront to their own lives and a threat to their security. As a young woman, timely to look upon, Beatrice had seen the effect she had on both men and women which was why she kept a large hound by her side. One word and this peaceful beast became the hound from hell. Tonight she’d left her guardians at home by her own hearth. The night being too bitter for man and beast was not too harsh, however, to keep these women from their monthly meet. For these women supported each other. When the villagers pointed and whispered witch behind their backs or the priest referred to them as a coven, they stood as one. They were women who could make their own way in a world that said that should not. And yet, through skill and learning, they defied what many thought the natural order.

Beaherseltook a long draught from her mug and feeling the chill slip from her bones, settled her skirts. A signal for the others to make themselves comfortable and so as the wind howled around the tiny cottage, the women inside moved their chairs a little closer to the fire and waited patiently for Beatrice to take one last sip before setting aside her mug.

“My father was a boaster,” she began. “A man so removed from reality, not by drink or idiocy, but by his own arrogance, that he couldn’t help but assert his own self-importance. This need was so great that no claim was too ridiculous, no lie too outragious, and no ignorant jest, too preposterous for him to tell. There were those who laughed and called him a buffoon but when hard times came, even buffoons could have an audience, if they made the promises everyone wanted to hear. Now, it’s one thing when the men who gather in the pub, nod and aye a man with more bravado than bravery, especially when he buys a round, but it’s quite another thing, when the king invites him to court to make good on his boasts.

You may have heard this story before, for it has been told and retold many times and in those tellings, the woman is portrayed as the hapless maid caught up in the intrigues of powerful men. The main protagonists, the boastful male, the greedy king and the grasping troll, all play their part to prove to this maid that she is subservient in every way. But the real story is in how she outsmarted every one of them and in doing so, frees herself.

"Aye, it’s a tale that befits men alright,” said Margret, pulling out her knitting.

“Let Beatrice get on with her story,” said Adda, her hands busily balling up her own yarn.