Yes

"Can we use the master's tools to dismantle the master's house?"

-- Gayle Green, Changing the Story: Feminist Fiction and the Tradition

I am Snow White: Part 3

Read Part One.

Read Part Two.

I was shaking with rage as I paced through the dim and dark halls of the castle; from the drawing room, to the slaughter house, up to the parapet, down again to the storehouse, out to the chapel, the graveyard, the stable, the orchard, and back into my chambers, all the while shouting, I will not take the Duke's bastard. I will not. My hair wild about my face, my feet bare, dressed only in a shift and an ermine cloak--- I looked like a witch. Possessed of a cold fury. My husband lay with his sister! And produced a child.

It was an abomination. It could not be believed. And then in the same instant, I knew it to be true. I knew the Duke was capable of anything. And now from the grave, he rises up and brings me a deranged child. I could barely stop myself from digging up his body and setting it on fire. Oh the rage! I deserved a quiet life. A life of good meals, books to read, fine young men to fuck, red wine to drink. A revelry or two on the holidays in long golden gowns. I deserved all this. I would not take the child. I would not. I would sooner jump from the tower.


I tossed and turned in my feather bed. All through that night, I did not sleep. I will not take Snow White. The crown cannot take away my properties.  The Duke lawfully owned the castle, and as his wife, and now widow, it is mine. All mine. Isn't it?  Who would dare deny me?  Who? The sun came up on the eastern horizon. I watched it from my bed. The bed I now blissfully slept in alone as I wished, or with a partner, as I wished. The yellow light slithered through the window, across the hearth, over my dressing table, creeping, moving closer and closer until it warmed my brow, but I was not glad. In that moment, as a new day arose--- I knew the Solictor would be back. I knew the child was my destiny. The crown could do as it wished. I could not defy the Queen and live to tell the tale.

A fortnight later, as exptected, he returned with “the child,” and five heavily armed soldiers. This time when that fat ugly bastard, wearing a brocade coat over his sagging arse asked me to reconsider “my position,” I said I would. I also said I would require the services of not only a nurse, but a governess, and tutors as well. Send the very best, I ordered. I am a practical woman. “The child” was perhaps 12 or 13. It would not be long, I thought, before she is married. She will stay on her side of the castle, and I would stay on mine. She stepped forward, curtsied, and announced,

"I am Snow White."

I curtsied back, forced a smile and said, "So you have told me.  Many times."

"And--- and you will address me properly."  At this she looked up at me, meeting my gaze for the first time tha day.  She too smiled, but it was a sly and nervous smile.  Skittish.  A bit mad.

"Yes, you are Snow White," I replied, quietly, "and I am Your Ladyship. Esmeralda will see you to your rooms."

The Solicitor nodded, "A very wise decision."

I wished desperately to pour a pot of boiling water over his head and blister it till kingdom come.  But I couldn't.  Instead I said, "I cannot call a child Snow White.  Will the Queen at least give her a name?"

"She will not. She said some things should not have names."

And then I knew what had happened. And understood why the Queen sent her here. After the Solicitor left, the child was bathed and fed.  Esmeralda helped her unpack in her rooms in the west wing of the castle. Later, much later, Harry crept into my room and for a few hours, we had our fill of each other. His was a delightful cock, grateful and obedient. When he came into my room that night, like all other nights, he stood shyly at the entrance to my chambers. Bashful and blushing, twisting his cap in his hands, all six foot of him; dark hair, dark beard, broad wide hands, he said;

"Your Ladyship? How may I assist you?"

I allowed my dressing gown to open, just a fraction, to reveal the still rosy thigh beneath, and replied, "Are things well with you and your family, Harry?"

He squirmed even more, desperate to reach out to me, but knowing he must wait for my word, “Indeed. Yes,” he said.

Now I pulled my gown open to reveal my breasts, “Your wife is with child?”

He whispered, his eyess intent on my nipples, "Our third."

By now he was fully erect.

"Harry?," I said, dropping the robe to the floor, standing there naked before him, dressed only in pair of emerald earrings.

"Yes your Ladyship?"

"Would you like to fuck me?," as I walked to my bed, pulled down the coverlet.

"Indeed I would, your Ladyship."

And then he was on me--- until the sun was a small distant globe of fire, now orange, then red, until my legs were shaking and his brow was covered in sweat. I did not care that he had a wife and children. It was just this I craved. Just his body, his mouth. Even the thought of that ghostly little girl could not dim my happiness. Or so I thought. I must’ve then fallen asleep for a short while--- for the next thing I knew Harry stirred next to me, a rough arm thrown across my shoulders. As if we were soldiers fallen in battle, but swathed in heavy silk and feather pillows. He opened his eyes and murmured;

“I will not be able to use my cock for a fortnight. See how it rests upon my thigh? Swollen with happiness.”

I turned to him, my breasts falling upon his shoulders, on his face, “Esmerelda will bring in a basin of warm water for you to wash.”

"I should like you to wash it," he grinned, "And perhaps bestow one last kiss."

I laughed, "Would his highness enjoy a sprig of lavender with which to perfume his cock?"

We were tussling now beneath the coverlet. His hand on my breasts, my legs wrapped around his, when out of the corner of my eye I saw the red velvet curtains stir, as if a breeze had suddenly blown up, but the casement windows were locked tight. I quickly disentangled myself from Harry’s arms, sat up straight. A terrible thought had entered my brain. I called out;

“Snow White, is that you?”

She flew out, quick as flame, like a mouse darting from its corner, and disappeared from the room.

“Who in God’s name was that?” Harry asked, clearly terrified.

“The Duke’s bastard,” I replied, “Now my step-daughter. Best for you to get dressed my love. I’ve business to attend to.”

I quickly set off in search of Snow White. I found her in her room, hiding beneath the bed. I could see her small white feet, clenched in terror, poking out from beneath the linen bedclothes. I stood in the doorway, and said, “Do you know what happens to little girls who do not mind their own business?”

She did not answer.

“It is not proper to spy on your Ladyship when she is in her private quarters. Do you understand me?”

Still no answer.

I softened my tone, “How long were you there? What did you see?” I stepped into her small room beneath the eaves of the parapet, and sat in the one of the carved wooden chairs. “I warn you. I will remain here all day if necessary. I too am quite stubborn.”

She crept out from beneath the bed. I saw a frail girl, as translucent and fragile as a butterfly, save for her brilliant sapphire eyes. She might’ve been pretty, but she was too pale for prettiness. Her gown was covered in soot, her feet were filthy. She remained sitting, cross-legged. I gazed down at her. I asked her softly,

“Why were you in my room?”

“I am bleeding.”

“Have you been told how to take care of yourself,” I asked carefully.

“Oh, yes,” and here she looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw innocence. She said, proudly, “I learned everything about becoming a woman.  Everything."

“This your first?”

She nodded,“I came into your room to tell you. But that man was there. The stable boy.”

“You must listen to me Snow White." I leaned forward in my chair, “Two things. The first, you are never to enter my chambers again--- unannounced. Is that clear? The second, the stable boy is----”

“---he is your lover, Your Ladyship, she said interrupting me, “And some day I will have a lover too.”

“Yes, you will,” I said soothingly, “This is true. But for now, you are still a child. And what goes on behind closed doors is not for a child to concern herself with---”

“---I will take Harry as a lover. I will steal him away from you.”

“Oh, is that so?,” I asked amused.

"Yes,” she breathed, “I am in love with him.”

These words--- spoken with such clarity, and so unexpected--- made me uneasy. Even fearful. What was I to think of this? What was I to do with this? A 12 year old child with matted hair in a filthy dressing gown, now dotted with blood, crouching on the cold flagstone floor.

“Indeed,” I said to her, “love is a grand emotion, holding out my hand to lift her up, “But now your Ladyship requests that you bathe and prepare for your tutors. Today I believe its geometry and chemistry.”

She stood up smiling. Transformed again. A good little girl.  In need of a wash.  This is what I thought.  But she shattered that illusion when she said, imperiously, “I will steal him away from you. I will. Because I am Snow White."

Read Part Four.

How to transgress social taboos

When a woman sets out to manipulate language to create new myths out of old, to write an essay, or to paint a painting, she transgresses fundamental social taboos in that very act.

--- Annis Pratt, Archetypal Patterns in Women's Fiction

I am Snow White: Part 2

Read Part 1

One month after his mouldering corpse was laid to rest, I was summoned to the main salon.  And there before me stood his bastard child.  A shivering, tiny slip of a girl, perhaps 12 or 13.  And so pale she looked like a ghost.  She gazed up at me, and said, 

"I am Snow White." 

Indeed, I thought, and I am Rose Red.  Newly bloomed, newly wealthy.  But I will not have this girl here. "Esmeralda," I called out to my maidservant, "Bring Mistress White into the kitchen for meat and cheese. "You," I said, glancing over at her, "You need some fat on your bones." 

Still motionless, and almost like a statue in the early morning light, she said, "You will address me by my proper name," and did not once look up at me.  Esmeralda arrived wiping her hands on a linen apron, and gently took the girl away.  But not before she turned back to me, and repeated, quietly, almost silently, "You will address me by my proper name.  You will." 

 Solicitor who accompanied her, cleared his throat.  But before he could speak, I interjected, "What whore was this?"

"Oh, no whore," he responded amiably, "I can assure you." 

I glared at him balefully; another man in a velvet waistcoat, another diamond pin in his cravat, another man wearing wool breeches--- a cock coiled inside.  Another man, who by virtue of his sex, more powerful than I.  But I would not have it!  I would live alone, unencumbered, in this castle, on this land hidden away by a grove of evergreen on a high hill, high enough to watch the sun set and the moon rise.  And I would not fear the ghosts of the Duke's royal family.  I would laugh at them.  I would fuck the stable boy by the light of the moon.  I would fuck him again beneath the oil portraits of his titled ancestors, inside the chapel, and I wouldn't be surprised if, one night, I lost control of all my senses and fucked him on my husband's grave because this was my property now!

"No matter," I said, coolly, directly meeting his gaze, "No matter who the lady is--- I will not have his bastard here."   I crossed my arms, stood tall, my tits straining against the sky blue taffeta of my bodice, my own gems flashing in the morning light; sapphires, emeralds and jade, my black hair perfectly dressed.  A woman, yes.  But formidable.   Still beautiful.  When he did not reply, when he simply smiled, a ghost of a smile, I asserted, "And you shall tell the lady my decision. I will not have this child here." 

"The Lady," he replied, "is the Queen."

Impossible!

"Her Highness," I said, evenly, "is the Duke's sister."    I'd only met her twice.  Also a beautiful woman, but cold, very cold.  She hated her brother with a viciousness that I could only admire.

"And that is their child," he replied, still grinning, his blue eyes sparkling. 

Impossible. 

"She's been away at a convent, he said.  (If he wasn't the Queen's emissary I would crack him over the head.) "When her Highness heard of her brother's death," he continued, "she decided to grant you custody until she is betrothed, or reaches her majority."  His eyes traveled down to my tits, oh the insolence of this man!

"What is her proper name," I demanded.

"She hasn't been given one.  She's always been referred to as the child," he replied.

I strode over to him, until we were nose to nose, not lady-like, not polite or well-mannered, "You tell the Queen is it my intention to live alone.  Tell her I do not accept more years of servitude.  She will know what I am referring to. I do not want 'the child.'  And if her Highness insists," my voice raising, "you tell her, most respectfully----"

"--- the abbess doesn't like that tone of voice."

It was the girl, the child, Snow White hidden in the shadows at the far side of the room, next to a coat of arms.   Her small feet planted firm on the flagstones, her thin arms akimbo; angel or devil.  Either one was possible.

"She says if you speak like that, you will burn in eternal hell-fire.  And then I say, I am burning.  I say this is hell, and the devil is my own true love." 

I turned back to the Solicitor, "What possesses her? Is she mad?"

He replied, "I can arrange for a nurse."

"Nurse?"

"She has fits."

Oh, this was too much.  Clearly the girl was insane.  Clearly the union of brother and sister had damned this child, and I would not have her.  I would not.  "Get out of my home," I ordered, "Now!"  I pulled open the heavy wooden doors, "This is madness and I won't have it.  Take 'the girl' with you."

As she left, she screamed,

"I am Snow White."

Read Part 3

A Radical Proposal

"A developed myth has its own form, its own structure, its own expectations and values, its own cues to nudge the reader.  When so much of the basic work has already been done, the artist may give the myth its final realization, or stand it on its head."

--- Joanna Russ, What Can a Heroine Do? Or Why Women Can't Write, in Images of Women in Fiction.

I am Snow White: Part One

The Duke of Eastchester is dead, and thank God for that. I had gotten sick to death of the stink of his sick room. He farted, he vomited, he shit himself. The smell permeated into every room of the castle. I avoided him entirely that final week. I busied myself fucking the carriage boy in the stable. Harry is a good boy with strong muscles and I shall keep him on. I shall however get rid of the Duke's laywer, an idiotic man who believed that women have little use for finance. Well he shall see, won't he? I will also get rid of "Cook" an old bitch with a warty nose who hated me. She thought me a commoner who had married above my station, and so I had but that was because I had the finest tits in the land, and now a pox on anyone who crosses me!

I pretended to cry when the physician led me into the sick room as the Duke was breathing his last. I tenderly stroked his fevered brow when in reality I desired to crack his head open with his chamber pot. I held his puffy, swollen hand and thought about biting it; each finger, one by one, until they bled. When I knelt down on the prieu dieu pretending to be overcome with grief, inside I was a giddy as a young lamb in a spring meadow. When they washed his dissolute body down with soap and water, I wanted to claw out his vacant eyes. At the graveyard as the parish priest dolefully intoned the 23rd Psalm, I could scarcely keep from laughing and dancing on his grave.

I am not by nature a wicked woman. The Duke however was the devil incarnate. In the beginning, he was the perfect gentleman. My poor mother was speechless before his pomp and circumstance, his gold carriage, his team of stallions, his brocade jackets. I was a young girl, barely fifteen, when he took me as his bride. He savagely deflowered me on our wedding night. For hours I couldn't move. I was in such pain. My white eyelet gown stained in blood. He slipped out to join a pack of whores he kept waiting in the stables. I cried myself to sleep. And the next morning too shamed to ask for help, washed out the blood from beneath my fingernails, washed out the sheets.

I tiptoed down the grand staircase into the dining room. My legs were weak and shaking. The Duke was enjoying toast and tea. He completely ignored me. I spent the next 20 years summoned to his bed whenever he requested. I endured his temper and his violence when he was drunk. Often he beat me, though never about the face. Why did I not leave? I believed I was enslaved. In captivity. And I wanted my mother to have some peace, and she did. The Duke bought her a fine house in the countryside, and though I wasn't allowed to visit her, my spies told me she lived a good life. I was permitted to attend her funeral and wept bitter tears.

But now he is dead, and his kingdom is mine. There is but one fly in the ointment. Four days after his mouldering corpse was laid to rest, I was summoned to the main salon. And there before me stood his bastard child. A shivering, tiny slip of a girl, perhaps 13 or 14. And so pale she looked like a ghost. She looked up at me, and said,

I am Snow White.

Read Part 2.