In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  ‘I’m concerned for my father. His time is close and I fear he has little time left to make amends. Is there a sure and certain hope in any one act?’

  ‘To endow a church or found a prayer house or monastery. These should not fail to ensure admission, child. But Sire Guy has already built us a fine stone peel tower with a bell to chime the hours, and given us a stone font and fine silver too. Why such worry in your voice?’

  ‘I fear it’s not enough.’

  ‘Then a House of Prayer would top it all, like jewels do a crown. A Priory or some holy House of Prayer, secluded from the world and dedicated to the glory of God. Surely voices ever raised in supplication would be to his everlasting salvation? But I am getting carried away.’

  ‘Go on, Father Jerome. I think it sounds a wonderful way to cleanse… to redeem his life.’ Ambrosine could feel her heart beating like a tabor in her chest. To build a Priory, to lead nuns in worship, to make a sacred and holy place in this wilderness wood. She could see it so clearly.

  ‘Has your father ever spoken of this? He’s not a rich man, I understand. It takes land and gifts and endowments to build such a place. Farms to service and provide food, servants to keep, stone to build a chapel… a huge undertaking. And there is so little time. Would he agree?’

  ‘I know my father seeks peace for his soul. Perhaps this is the answer he is looking for.’ Father Jerome nodded, no wiser as to why he was being bludgeoned by all this special concern for Guy de Saultain’s soul, though it took little effort to know there would be much on the conscience of any warrior knight and especially one who had ridden with King William of the Normans. There was much to which he himself had shut his eyes and ears on his own journey. ‘Leave this soul-burdening with me, Ambrosine. If the opportunity arises…’

  ‘It must, Father Jerome. See to it before it’s too late – for all of us.’

  As he turned from her she was already seeing herself as Prioress of her own convent, basking in sanctity, surrounded by noble nuns. Living simply from the land as St Benedict’s rule commanded; a true seat of learning and a source of spiritual refreshment, a wellspring to all around. Suddenly she knew that her Priory must be built there in that dreaded place, the hut by the well in the forest, the very scene of her father’s damnation. Only then could the cleansing begin. Only then would the souls of the de Saultains be safe from retribution.

  The Bequest

  I, Guy de Saultain, of the Manoir de Longhall, having a care over my soul and the souls of my heirs, do petition the Holy See of Liccefeld to release three hides of my land with homage and dues, assarted from the Forest of Canok by the west brook, Bernsleag, and the stream known as Fridswell, for a House of Prayer so that the Church shall forever possess it and none of my adversaries shall detract from it. If it so he that any of mine enemies shall presume to violate these my alms which I give to God for the remission of my soul, let them be alienated from their inheritance of God and damned among the infernal ghosts…

  The deed was written, the sacred task accomplished, but Ambrosine de Saultain felt no joy as she headed the horseback procession up the narrow winding track towards the forest clearing. What an effort of will to make her father accede to her wishes, sign the document with his spidery, feeble script and seal the wax with his signet seal. To give back land to the Church – land which Gilbert and Robert would have wished for the estate. Gilbert had sulked and stormed for weeks afterwards, blaming his sister for treachery and sorcery, calling her every name under Heaven for this deed.

  With her face set in the warm breeze of the summer afternoon, Ambrosine knew she had done her duty, redeemed her father’s soul and cleansed their name. She was not going to justify her action or speak of how she had forced his compliance.

  ‘I’m doing this for all our sakes. You would not want the sins of the father visited on your innocent heirs!’ Pleading had at first been useless as Guy refused even to consider such a gift. Then she stole into his chamber when he was in great pain and told him that this suffering would be as nothing to the torments of hellfire ahead if he did not agree to her plan. Guy stared stubbornly ahead and answered not one word, clenching his fists defiantly. Finally she threatened to reveal his confession to the Church, make public all that she knew of the acts of massacre and blasphemy, perform a public penance at the shrine of St Chad so that all the world would know of his infamy.

  ‘We’ve found the very place, Father. I can make sure your generosity is forever honoured.’

  She could see he was weakening; his body being little more now than two hawk-like eyes burning above a bundle of stick-like limbs. He waved her away and summoned the priest. Finally he signed the prepared parchment, dismissed them both from his sight and turned his face into his pillow, to give up the ghost a few hours later. Ambrosine had wept at her own hard-heartedness but his eternal life was far too precious to be lost by weakness on her part.

  The place was never charted by the old survey, Longhall itself was scarce mentioned in that great Domesday register, but thanks to her all this area was now named and mapped out forever. Frithswell or Frithaswell as the locals called it did not trip easily over the tongue of a French-speaking scribe. Now it was written simply as Fridswell. How that name haunted her waking hours! Planning, dreaming, scheming for ways to make her Priory happen. But time dragged so slowly and no one else was in a rush to build her stone chapel. Today they were going to visit the monks and lay brothers who were clearing the site so that the fields could be reploughed and the ground could yield a harvest again.

  Ambrosine was furious that the others cared only about the produce and not for the real purpose of her mission. The procession wound slowly out of the woodland, some mounted on fine steeds like the Bishop’s representatives and Gilbert. Father Jerome sat on a mule while his parish assistant, a young cleric, walked alongside. Behind them walked the servants with donkeys laden with victuals for the lay brothers’ evening meal and a small repast for the visitors. The sun was blazing down on her half-mourning surcoat and Ambrosine was glad of the white veil which kept its rays from her pale brow. Suddenly the clearing opened up before them and she could hear the welcome sounds of activity at last, the noise of progress.

  It would be the ideal site for a Priory, bordered on two sides by streams and brooks and the other by dense woodland, like an island floating in a sea of meadows and pastures. Farther out would be the home farm and a mill with a water wheel and supply of fish ponds nearby. In the centre of it all, close by the wellspring, would stand the chapel and cloister garth, with a guest house for visitors and a little scholarium for young pupils. It would be perfect, so peaceful a setting, but they needed the promise of many extra dowries and endowments to make her dream come true. She was trusting that all this would be provided in due course by followers who shared the same vision.

  There had been so many delays: disturbances on site, mischief-making, equipment stolen as if some unquiet spirit roamed free to spoil her plot, but today was far too warm and beautiful to think about such nuisances. Today would be a celebration. The first foundations had been dug and after one long year her dream was finally coming true.

  *

  Aella the spider brusher, daughter of Bagnold ‘Bagshott’, dawdled behind with the other servants. Her grey tunic chafed her in this heat. It was not a day to be outside but rather indoors within the cool stone walls of the manor house still room. Who would want to stick themselves out here in a pen full of holy women? She could not fathom why her mistress, kind as she could sometimes be, was so firmly set on building another church. Wasn’t one enough for her? It was making Aella nervous to see how often she herself was included in Ambrosine’s plans. I must have all my familiars around me, Aella. My hound, my maids, all my girls.’ The lady would smile as if she were doing her maid a favour. Hellsteeth! Would she be expected to brush over the convent walls each night? Suddenly Aella felt trapped by the very thought of it. But she would never return to Bagnold’s hut now that the new lord and
master was in residence.

  Mother had dropped a pup at last, breaking the curse of girl childer. In fact she had dropped two but the runt was squashed behind big fat Edric and did not breathe. All Father’s drunken hopes were now pinned on his precious son, who squawled and puked, not understanding that he was destined to be a freeman and reclaim Baggi’s shotts at Fridswell. Aella was sick of the babe already while her younger sisters doted on him, constantly feeding him titbits so that he grew round and plump as a piglet and Mother hoisted him on her hip for fear he should drown in the dung heap or the ditchways. His legs were too swollen for him to stand upright. Sometimes she saw them all at Mass, spilling out of the little church, dirty and scruffy in their usual rags.

  Aella was determined not to return to that pigsty so smiled coyly at her distant kin, lanky Matthias the farrier’s boy, who stared at her longingly like a dog at a bone, clenching his hood in his red hands like a lovesick loon. His leather jerkin was worn and shabby, face scrubbed clean only where it showed, hands covered in grime from the smithy – and the bits no man ever washed soot-smoked like bacon but not smelling half as good.

  His mother’s kin came from the Beornsley side of the family and had entertained dreams of Matt’s becoming a clerk at the Minster. For three days they’d traipsed down the valley to the monks’ school but he was found only to have the shoulders of an ox, the strength of a plough horse and no head for scholarship at all. He was soon sent packing to work with the lay brothers. Beating out the horse shoes and repairing plough shares was all he was fit for. There would be no place for him in a nunnery. But how would she ever see another man if she was enclosed behind a high wall? Aella was praying it would take years for them to build the stupid place and that by then she would be long wed with bairns of her own.

  They all stood on the ridge looking down at the work in progress. The clearing was full of men in black habits looking like busy ants as they carted, dug, marked out the area with posts. Aella could see the outline of the walls and ditches like a giant game of hop scotch drawn in the dust. Some of the foundations were as deep as grave pits; to the side were neat piles of furze and scrub waiting to be used on the fires outside the monks’ cells. Their kale patches were stocked with vegetables separated in a cross shape and bee hives stood in orderly rows. But now the men were gathering around the foundation ditch in a crowd, all peering down and crossing themselves. Something was obviously amiss.

  Father Jerome was sent down the slope to see what the trouble was and he too peered down into the pit, crossed himself and puffed his way back uphill in the heat. He shook his head at his mistress and her brother.

  ‘Well? What’s the delay?’ asked Ambrosine.

  ‘They’ve found some bones. Human ones, I fear. They were digging a trench along the line marked and found fresh bones, not ancient ones. We shall have to exhume and examine them if they are to be buried properly. I fear theirs was no Christian burial, just a hurried measure to conceal some foul deed. This must be the place where the old family at the well fell to the sword in the clearances… ’Tis a bad omen, sire. Not good news, my lady.’ Father Jerome pursed his lips in a solemn look of disapproval.

  ‘What’s going on?’ yelled Aella from the back of the group, unaware of the grim discovery.

  ‘Shush, she’ll hear you! Bad tidings for you kinfolk of Fridswell. The bones of Bagnold’s family in a pit… we think.’ One of the servants pointed excitedly to the cluster of clergy now gathered to see for themselves.

  ‘What kinfolk of mine might they be then?’

  ‘You know damn’ well whose bones these must be. Yer dad’s told us all a hundred times.’

  ‘Godsblood! Wait ’til he hears. He’ll raise the dead with his din if he finds out the Lady Ambrosine’s building on Baggi’s shotts. He thinks the land’s still his. He’s a cracked pot when it comes to this place. I never thought it were that close by. He mustn’t find out or else…’

  ‘And do you think that’s likely? The whole of Longhall will hear of this by the curfew bell. Father Jerome is a worse gossip than the women by the well.’

  Aella scratched her head, at a loss. To think her own grandmother, uncles and aunts were lying all mingled together in that heap of bones.

  ‘It looks as if they’ll dig’m out and bury them decent so they can rest in peace, poor beggars. Not that they’ll know owt about it, will they?’

  Aella had a strange eerie feeling that they were being watched by her dead kin, and shuddered. What would her ladyship make of all this fuss? Aella was going to keep out of her way ’til things were calmer. Shaking her copper curls, she slunk into the shade.

  Ambrosine de Saultain leaned against a broad-trunked oak, watching the proceedings as if from a great distance. Her face was flushed pink, her heart beating rapidly at this grim discovery. The Lord had guided the diggers to the exact site of the hut by the well. Now there was proof. The truth was out at last. Here was another Calvary waiting for Resurrection Day, and here her Priory would bring a much-needed cleansing and a blessing. The sooner those bones were interred and sanctified, the sooner the brothers could carry on with their mission. It was a simple matter and there need be no undue delay.

  Later Aella brought refreshment to her mistress as she sat in the shade. Ambrosine shook her head, impatient at the delay. ‘Isn’t this a wonderful site? See the outline east to west where our chapel will lie… Well have a little garden too to sit in, a walkway for quiet times and contemplation. Oh, I can see it all now! You and I will be the first to welcome our sisters, won’t we?’

  Aella turned away sharply to avoid her gaze. If she thinks I’m going to live out here…

  Father Jerome returned again to say that they were stopping work for the bones to be gathered and counted. The authorities must be informed of their findings and no doubt an investigation would be ordered.

  ‘Why can’t you just bury them quietly when we’ve all gone?’

  ‘The Bishop won’t allow such a thing. These may be holy men’s bones. We must honour the martyrs and find out all we can. Then they can all be laid to rest. Dishonour the dead and the place will never flourish or be blessed aright.’

  ‘But surely all this happened long before our time? No one will know anything in Longhall.’ Her plan depended on no one from the village being aware of her father’s deeds.

  Aella overheard the discussion and said nothing. She knew exactly who had once lived here and what he would say to hear of this. Perhaps she should warn her father. He could tell his tale to the Shire Reeve if needs be, and the place would be condemned as unfit for a House of Prayer, unsuitable for her mistress’s purpose. Then her ladyship would forget her schemes and Aella would be safe in Longhall. With that comforting thought she began to gather up the baskets and cloths, walking back to the village with a fresh spring in her step.

  *

  As Baggi ‘Baggshott’ watched his stolen fish roasting over the stones under a stretch of sky full of stars, he knew for the first time in his life a moment of pure contentment. His guts were swimming in ale, soon his belly would be swimming in roach, and around him was another harvest of heavenly mushrooms to translate him into the King of the Night Forest. On top of all this was the certainty that Fridswell would soon be his again. When Aella spilled the beans about the cache of bones, he knew at last justice was on the side of the poor man and the Normans at Longhall must swallow wormwood and gall to explain how the remains came to be concealed on their land. It was many months since he’d told his sorry tale to the investigators who sat behind a table and solemnly wrote down every word he spoke about that terrible night.

  With help from his dried mushrooms his tongue had loosened and flowed, embellishing the few known facts to heighten the drama of dark deeds, draw pity from his audience and fuel his own sense of injustice into a blaze of indignation. The truth of the matter was that no matter how he strained to recall the events, he remembered nothing much of his ordeal but that did not stop him from giving a first-
hand account of how his grandfather, uncles and aunts, mother, brothers and sisters fell horribly to the Norman sword of Guy de Saultain. When cross-examined he had to admit he did not know who the soldiers were who’d executed this atrocity but argued that the Sire must have known that this part of the forest was wasteland and returned to build his Hall. He must have been there before. Since sire Guy was dead there was no one to say if this was true or not.

  How he had basked in their attention, and the bucketsful of ale given by the curious to find out more and loosen his tongue. The village Reeve spoke on his behalf, demanding compensation, wergeld for the loss of his kin. Bagnold himself demanded the return of Fridswell clearing for his heir, Edric. Now at last fortune would bless his family. Aella kept her mouth shut and held her head up high in the village. She looked into her father’s bloodshot eyes and patted his arm as if for once she thought well of him.

  He did not care that there were few old folk to confirm his story or that the ones still alive dared not speak against the de Saultains for fear of losing their huts and livelihoods. He stood alone, the sole survivor of the massacre, shaking his stump for proof. This was his moment of revenge. For a long while after the hearing there was a feverish search for evidence as to who actually owned the clearing. The tenancy charters, documents in the monastery archives at the Minster, proved it was part of a large tract of land made over to St Chad by King Wulfhere and tenanted by the knights of the Long Hall since Thane Godfrid’s time, then sub-tenanted to certain freemen on limited leases only. There was no evidence either way to prove Bagnold had any right to reclaim land which seemed once to have belonged to Lady Edwenna.

  He was happily ignorant of all these legal wranglings. He wanted only to hear what was to his advantage. As far as he was concerned he was owed compensation and only that parcel of land would satisfy him. No news was good news so the swineherd went about his tasks with a swagger in his gait and a cocky air towards all he met, smartening himself up as befitted the heir to a property. If Eldwyth sulked and bit her tongue it was only because she was miffed at all the attention he was getting. Now he could wander abroad as he pleased, roam the woods, poaching, setting his nets where the brook eddied and flowed, biding his time, confident of good fortune ahead.