In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  ‘I’ll go in the morning by first light, after the first batch of bread is baked. I can bribe the gate guards if I have to and take the field path through the long meadows and the streams up to Frideswelle. No one will see me,’ she said eagerly.

  ‘Then wrap up well against the wind and the vile humours abroad.’

  Thinking of keeping warm reminded her of the secret in the flour sack. It would be a perfect way to cover her condition and keep them both snug and dry. She raced down the wooden stairs to the outer yard and felt for the sack on the shelf, shaking out the garment and seeing fleas jump out. In the corner the cat whimpered sickly and snarled at her, spitting out vile breath. She would be glad to be out of this place. It smelled of must and rottenness, damp yeasty sickly smells which turned her stomach. Mags wondered if it was right to wear such a fine cloak. Would someone rob her of it? The old cloth dealer had never returned for payment, but then no one much came into the city and the market was deserted while the fever raged.

  The surcoat would dazzle Hamon’s parents with the Bagshotts’ standing in the city. Only wealthy traders could clothe their wives in such finery. She would freshen it up with the last of the vinegar rub and some rosewater. That should keep her safe from pestilent odours.

  ‘You look mighty swish in your outer coat. Is this another of your bargains?’ smiled Hamon indulgently, for he knew that when Margery was well dressed she was happy and compliant to all of his needs. Who else in the city had two such baker’s buns to satisfy his hunger?

  He opened the gate quietly, careful not to stir the rest of the household. She was right to get away to the forest, find a safe haven for the sake of their child. He kissed her on the cheek and patted her belly.

  ‘Hurry, Mags, before you’re missed. I’ll explain. They’ll understand. Fare thee well, and don’t return until the fever has gone, no matter what.’

  She hugged the simple loon with genuine affection. As husbands went she could have picked or stolen worse than Hamon the baker.

  She waved until she turned the corner then decided to dodge the guard by taking a rat run down a very dark alley, carefully picking her way over the scattered bodies. It was a terrible sight and she chanted the charm against plague over and over again: ‘Anazapta… ana… zapta.’

  It was going to be a long dreary walk uphill. She would try Kit Miller at Frideswelle first and send a message to Aggie to meet her by the gate. She wanted to see the look on her sister’s face when she saw Margery in her surcoat and the twisted gold loop set with a garnet given to her as a bridal morning after gift by Hamon. Then she would point to her swollen belly. That should really wipe the smile off a dowdy nun’s face!

  Face to Face

  ‘What’s this I hear? You’ve disobeyed my orders and brought that crippled maid into this house – she who brought the fever almost to our door. Father John, I can’t believe you’d be so foolish!’

  Dame Serena paced her chamber, beside herself at his boldness. The priest was a simpleton.

  ‘Madam, please hear me out. In Christian charity I’ve done what I thought best for you all. Be it that Our Lady in her wisdom saw fit to reprieve this girl from the fever and she being the only one that I know of so far, her swellings shrunken and her recovery complete, I saw fit to let her rest in the loft of my lodgings awhile to observe this miracle of grace. Think, madam, we now have amongst us one who will not succumb again. She has no kin alive to shelter her, is alone and unprotected. We have no lay sisters left to serve us for they’ve all fled into the forest away from gatherings of folk. Would it not be wise to let her abide within these walls as helpmate to us all?’

  What use is a cripple?’

  ‘Our Lord in his wisdom blessed such many a time. She told me she took a blessing at the shrine of Chad and I believe it is he who saved her for this purpose. She wears his token around her neck. I believe, such is his power, he prevented her swellings from bursting as a sign that the humble can be blessed in the sight of God. She should be used to give hope and encouragement. Who knows when we may need her here? She can come with me to bury the poor souls. Perhaps she will protect me in my work too.’

  ‘Keep her well cleansed and tidy and out of my sight, then. I don’t wish to be reminded of how perfection is mocked. Why could not my little maid be saved, not some limping wretch? It is not just.’

  ‘The Lord sees us from afar. Perhaps he does not see imperfections, only what is in the heart. Mary is simple and rough, as you say, but pure of heart. We should be kind to her.’

  ‘Very well, on your own head be it, Father John. Now, leave me. All this talk of death wearies me.’ The Prioress waved him away and stood staring out of the window. She was as cold within as the scene beyond the shutters, the icy clutch of winter tightening around her heart. The last blooms of the flower beds and arbours were withered and shrivelled by frost. A white veil of rime silvered the cloister grass, froze the stew ponds. The fish lay hidden deep under water. Would they all die like the summer flies, one by one, within these walls? When the first fall of snow covered the cemetery, would the perfect whiteness conceal more untimely deaths?

  At least there was to be no visitation for the Bishop’s men were falling sick and he had no mind to wander abroad in such times as these, fleeing instead to his winter house deep in the forest. They could eat their stolen venison undisturbed but Serena de Saulte had little appetite for celebration now. Dearest Amy… you are cold and I was too afraid to stay at your side. Can you forgive Maman? There was no solace in her daily offices but she must stick to her tasks if they were all to survive. Perhaps the priest was right to bring the girl inside. They had been sorely punished for their lax ways. Suffering must stiffen their sinews. Only prayer and fasting would keep the enemy from the gate. And perhaps some other precautions, too.

  She peered towards the dovecote. The birds must be slaughtered, and the cats too, but not her dogs. It was rumoured that animals could carry disease.

  In the heart of the cloister and out across the far fields the soil lay tinged with silver, freshly harrowed and waiting for the spring. Who among them would be spared to see those fresh green shoots?

  *

  ‘There’s someone at the gate for Miss Agnes. Beg pardon, Dame Juliane, but she’s not for turning back.’ Mary Barnsley hobbled into the physick garden short of breath.

  ‘No one comes in or out… you know the rules, child,’ snapped Dame Juliane as she pounded crushed leaves in her mortar. ‘Send her away.’

  ‘Oh, please! It may be my mother with tidings… Is it bad news?’ Agnes shook the girl’s shoulders. ‘Tell me!’

  Mary hung her head, not wanting to tell her it was only the sister she hated.

  ‘I know not. She wouldn’t say but kept on asking for you.’

  Agnes shot a worried glance at her superior, asking for compassion.

  ‘Oh, go and see who it is but be quick about it. No loitering at the gate – and cover your face, just in case. Speak through the port hole and, remember, if there is sickness we allow no one inside, not even the Bishop himself.’

  Agnes’s heart was thumping. What if it was bad news from home, about Mother or Hamon? She scurried to the wooden gate, peering eagerly through the hatch and catching sight of a huddled figure in a cloak with a half veil over her mouth; a face she knew only too well. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mags. What do you want after all this time? Is it Mother?’

  ‘No, they were all well enough when I left them this morning. I’m so puffed out! I had hoped to sup some ale with Cousin Kit but all is deserted there. Have they the sickness?’

  ‘They’re all dead but the maid, gone within a week of Michaelmas.’

  ‘Mercy on us! Kit came to visit us then. And Sim and the boys too?’ The visitor’s voice trailed away and she crossed herself. What a narrow escape for the Bagshotts after Kit had been inside the bakery. Thank the Lord she had left Baker’s Lane. ‘Let us in, Aggie. I’m done in with circling round from Longhall. The de Saultes have barred th
e way and no one goes in or out there. I was going to stay with Hamon’s kin but got no further than the crossroads. Unbar the gate and let us in, sis.’

  ‘Can’t do that, Mags. Orders are orders and this is a closed house. You’re a fool to yourself to be wandering abroad. What was Hamon thinking of, letting you roam about? Or does he want you to catch the sickness? Has he tired of your spending yet?’ Agnes gave a twisted smile, not able to resist the barb.

  ‘Who’re you fooling? It were his idea right enough. On account of this…’ Margery lifted her cloak to reveal her swollen belly and patted it proudly. ‘See, another little baker’s bun in the oven. And this time swelling like a loaf.’

  ‘So I see. And how many moons are you then?’ Agnes’s voice was steel-edged.

  ‘Six nearly… it dances inside like a carol. Round and round it quickens. Aren’t I the clever girl?’

  Agnes felt sick with rage. Hamon had been promising her the moon and swearing his love when all the time he was still ploughing and harvesting his wife. For one moment she felt dizzy with the shock.

  ‘Fetch us a drink, for the love of Mary, I’m that parched in the throat and faint,’ whined her sister. ‘Aren’t you glad you’re safe here and not stuck in the city? I’m so afeared of catching this pestilence I go to church every day to pray to St Chad himself… What do you think of my new surcoat, eh? Best woollen cloth. Only the finest for Mags. Don’t you think it suits my colour, this plum shade? So rich and warm, isn’t it? And I made these net coils for my braids round the ears in the high-born style.’ Margery twirled around to give her twin the full effect. ‘Come on, get me a drink. Where’s your charity for your poor sister?’

  ‘You can get water from Frideswelle stream, it’s pure enough, higher up the lane.’ Agnes was in no mood to pander to her rival.

  ‘I’m not going another inch, Aggie. My tongue’s swollen and my head is spinning. For pity’s sake, show some mercy.’

  Aggie felt the thoughts whirl inside her head like spinning tops. Why should I pity her plight when she stole what was mine? Hamon and I were handfast, pledged in secret, but she made sure she got herself handfast to him before witnesses. Why should I help her now?

  Then a terrible idea coursed like a hare through her head, a blazingly obvious idea which left her feeling giddy. A bird in the hand… or ‘Carpe diem, seize the moment as the priest said in his sermon. Now is the time and the hour. Only now matters…

  ‘You go and rest yourself by the stream on yon meadow bank outside the wall. But speak to no one. I’m not supposed to leave here but I know a place to slip out and I’ll come to you anon.’

  Margery’s face slackened with relief. ‘I’m sorry to be a bother, but I knew my sister wouldn’t let me down – not when she’s safe and sound in her little nunnery. And that’s all down to me, isn’t it? Blood’s thicker than water any time.’

  Agnes smiled. ‘It is indeed down to you, Mags.’ She closed the hatch and walked slowly back to the hut in the physick garden struggling with her demons. One look at her troubled face and Dame Juliane bit back a rebuke at her lateness.

  ‘What ails you? Is it bad tidings?’

  ‘Sort of. I had to tell my sister of the death of our cousin Kit and all her kin. She feels unwell, tired from walking. Now she must return to the city before dusk and take the bad news to our mother. She has no fever but is of poor health. What drink can I give her to soothe her sadness and put vigour in her bones?’

  ‘Make her a cordial of elderberry and honey, and infuse it with leaves of camomile and lemon balm. That should soothe and refresh. You know how to do it by yourself. Not even you can spoil such an infusion! But hurry up, there’s so much to do about the garden. You must dig over the beds, and it’s time to mulch and prepare the ground for winter.’

  Dame Juliane waddled off to sweep away some leaves herself, cross that there were now no yard girls to help.

  Agnes found her hands shaking as she reached the crock of honey and pots of dried leaves from the shelves. She found a small pitcher and filled it with cordial, warming the spring water over the fire for the infusion. When all was prepared she took the narrow ginnel from the garden path, edged with the last stiff lavender spikes and low roses, along the edge of the buildings and through to the Prioress’s quarters. Only the sad, neglected Frou Frou followed her meekly, wagging her stubby tail, eager to be out for a romp in the woods.

  ‘I’m just letting the dog out… I’ll keep an eye on her,’ she called and crossed over the stone slabs set across the Frideswelle spring whose banks were overgrown with icy weeds. There was no one around to hear her ploy so she opened the snicket gate into the woodland and darted out, carefully keeping the jug from spilling over. In her tunic pocket she carried a wooden mug.

  She shooed the dog from her as they passed the stew pond, lying hidden under the trees. She stopped to check that no one was following then wound her way through the shaded glen to the outer wall beyond. The path was damp with rotting leaves and blackberry thorns tore at her robe as if to hold her back but she ploughed on. Now was the time. Now was the hour.

  *

  Margery huddled in her cloak by the bank of the swollen stream. She was glad of its warmth and snugness though she fancied it smelled now of foetid breath and stale sweat. She watched the ploughmen in the distance turning over the red-brown soil. How strange that despite the sickness and the barriers on the roads, the death carts and tolling bells, men still went about their age old tasks. The mill wheel was now turned by lay brothers from the Friary in the city. She had feared the worst on first spying strangers at the mill. Poor Kit, the kindest of hearts, and her little boys. Margery shuddered at the thought of such a terrible death.

  As she lay back on her elbows she felt a strange sense of relief. If she worked hard on her sister then it might be possible to make her come up with a safe hideout where Margery could rest up away from the fever. Aggie could fetch her food and as a reward she would be allowed to hold the babe or make him a fine embroidered robe to swank around in. Yes, it was definitely a he… How proud Hamon would be of his son! He must have a strong name, a regal one. Edward, Henry or Richard, perhaps.

  She turned with relief to see her sister coming down the slope, carrying a jug. Good old Aggie! Margery had always been able to rely on her.

  A Mystery

  The Priory was settling down for the night, supper was over after the usual grumblings about the meagre fare. The nuns glided back to their quarters and Dame Juliane searched again for her troublesome novice. She’d get the sharp edge of the broom for hiding away, or had she perhaps followed her sister back to the city? Soon it would be time for Compline and she would have to report to the Prioress that there had been a breach of regulations. Just when she’d thought Agnes was shaping up and taking a proper interest. A loud banging on the shed door broke her concentration.

  ‘Are you in there, Dame Juliane? Come quickly! Something terrible has happened outside… there’s a sister, one of ours, I fear, lying in the field by the stream.’

  The agitated voice belonged to Dame Iseult who had taken a garbled message from the porter and, accompanied by Limpy Mary, was searching for the Prioress who was not in her quarters. The old nun opened the door in alarm.

  ‘Calm yourself, Dame Iseult. What nonsense is this so late at night?’

  ‘’Tis true, madam. The old ploughman on his way back from the fields found her lying by the meadow bank and came to raise the hue and cry in case he be accused of some villainy. If you climb on the mount you can just see where she lies.’

  ‘Is it the sickness? Who is it? What was the silly nun doing outside the wall? Haven’t they all been warned?’ puffed Dame Juliane as she followed them by torchlight.

  ‘The ploughman was afraid to go near in case it was the pestilence, but he says there are no sores on her face. We have sent for Father John but he has gone to bury the dead at Barnsley Common. Two more families are gone there.’

  ‘She’ll have to be bro
ught inside. It’s not right for her to lie unshriven all night. We can send Sister Mary to examine the corpse as she’s safe from any contagion,’ panted the older nun, out of breath from trying to talk and keep up. ‘But can we trust her not to speak of this and spread fear among the ladies?’

  ‘She’ll get boxed ears from me if she does,’ said Iseult shakily. ‘Trust Aunt Serena to be unavailable at a time like this. She goes home to Longhall Manor whenever she feels like it, storming through the barricades like a warrior Queen on her chariot.’

  ‘Enough, Dame, do not dishonour our worthy Prioress before menials. It must be Agnes… I haven’t seen her since this afternoon when she went to take a drink to her sister. I wonder if she’s been up to her old tricks again…’

  ‘But this nun is dead, not run away. I can’t believe it’s Sister Aggie Bagshott.’ Iseult was both fearful and curious to see whose body lay under cover of darkness. ‘Where’s that maid? She’s never here when you want her.’

  *

  Mary was found gathering leaves for the Cellaress’s rotting pile and brought to the outer gate into the meadow. Dame Iseult produced her own key which Dame Juliane thought disgraceful. These de Saultes used this house as if it were a private residence, she thought to herself, then instructed the girl: ‘You go and see who it is… be sharp about it and check if it was the fever. You know what to look for by now.’

  Mary edged her way carefully down the slope, trying not to slip on the frosty turf. The night air was chilly and her breath trailed behind her like smoke. She could not get used to having cloth wraps around her feet with hard leather soles, such luxury to have no chilblains, and a warm skirt around her legs. How could she possibly deserve such riches?

  The body lay spreadeagled and stiff. It was as they’d thought, poor Sister Agnes in her black habit. Her eyes were wide open, startled looking as they stared up at the stars. She had no sores, there was no blood or any sign of a swelling. But such a strange position in which to lie. Mary was sure there was no fever. She clambered slowly and painfully back to the nuns gathered by the gate, shaking her head sadly.