In The Time Of The Dutch Masters…

 

…she was sick, sick unto death of being pawed at by every beer swilling burgomaster with a free hand. She swore (not Christian swore not in pious Dutch land and not in hearing distance of her pious family land) that the next burgher who touched her ever so slightly was going to get his, well, get his. She had no idea that  serving old men (old to her fifteen-year old eyes) at table was going to be a test of strength. Sure she had let Hans grab her a few times in back of the hayloft back home but that was pretty Hans full of youthful ardor and, well, good-looking too and so she maybe let him take a few more liberties than the elders would have approved of.  But then too they were practically betrothed and their two families had planned that event well before Hans (and she) got their grabbing habits.

But these old coots were a different matter. Especially the group of four at the far end of the Guildhall set off by themselves like they were so high and mighty (which on earth they were) sneaking their little pinchings when Govert was busy preparing the next course or Matilde was clearing the last set of dishes and setting up the next set for these fatted cows. One was just as bad as the next. The banker on his fifth glass talking about how his wife was poorly and wouldn’t he be just right with some little wench who could appreciate his ardor. Looking, no, leering directly at her. The merchant-general all serious talk with the men until she came into the room and then he would try to twist her breast right in front of the others like she didn’t know (from a distance anyway) that he had his own daughter her age. Then the commander and his insatiable desire to eat oysters in order to enhance his manliness so he said. What a laugh. And that red-headed one always pointing his single finger and always swishing his sword “by mistake” so he said when she came by tapping her on her ass and making suggestive sounds when he was trying to apologize.

Just then Govert called her to bring in another fistful of mugs for the gentlemen (Govert had a nicely snide way of saying that) and as she prepared herself for battle she thought that maybe if she just thought about Hans and that illicit hayloft she just might get through that miserable night …