Lady
Skimmington Suite
In the Wiltshire enclosure riot of 1641, rioting men were
led by male cross-dressers who called themselves "Lady Skimmington". --
Mary Russo
A skimmington was a horse ride through the streets which ridiculed a henpecked
husband. The name probably derived from skimming ladles used for husband-beating.
1. Commoner's
Wife:
Strange it was to see menfolk parading
behind their own kind, feigned as wife & maid.
How we nudged & gaped at their mincing ways
&
cornstalk wigs slipping askew. Some were beautiful
with slender waists, others wore chalk to hide shadows
blooming on noonday faces. Even tho' we cheered,
our voices stirred discomfort buried deep.
Most called out in thin shrew sound & beat the air
with skimming ladles used to gather cream.
I'm not denying they weren't brave to rail
against the lord's greed, but too few saw
the "ladies" mockery & my unease remains well hid.
Dare I be bold to ask if it were the manored lord
or us half-laughing wives who felt the most betrayed?
2. A "Lady
Skimmington":
I defy any man's eye not to rest upon
our bodices when tightly draw.
That rioting day I saw pods stir firm
beneath coarse breeches, taunted
by impostor maids real enough
for dream fondling. Some firebrands
yearned to pummel fists & shout their rage
while most agreed brandishing ladles
instead of staves would cheek the lord's bully boys.
We preened & bantered before the common crowd
locked out from the land's offering.
Ribald & bawdy they cheered the ladling "ladies",
those barely disguised buffoons
who knew how to make
eyebrows charcoal sleek.
3. A
Commoner Observes:
We trampled dust stirred by the mob's
furious passing & muttered lewd at the lord's expense.
Only the Skimmington's rough-music with frypan
&
cleaver saved skulls being broken by henchman.
Our rage unravelled into mockery, mirroring
haranguing wives who gave courage & cheered souls.
What future can we grasp when a noble
claims all common land for his estate?
We've less ground for herding & corn sowing.
Our best barley's gone for tithe.
False enclosure is our ruin.
This winter husks must feed both beast & man.
4. Fool:
The lord will summon by nightfall,
offer wine & bid me tell what his thick-eyed spies
could never see. Such is the fool's role
to straddle men's fantasies with a hundred ears.
What the front tells the back knows differently.
Carnival belongs to ordinary folk
who jest at familiar acts turned strange.
Mayhem quarries deep-buried imaginings.
How shall I tell the lord about this day?
Donned in mask & skirt with a cow's horn
at my arse, I'll entice his curious perversity
&
parody his power as nought but slurry.
When gall rises & he moves to call the guard
I'll court, renege, pout & sluice a scoop
about his ears, certain that he'll stir
&
glimpse the flimsy borders of his sex.
©
Sue
Moss | 
