by Leah Fleming
‘Please, Mam, ’tis who you feared, Sister Agnes. But there’s no blackness or swollen lumps on her.’
‘That’ll do, Mary. Leave us – and mark what I say. Not a word about this until the Prioress returns. Silence on this matter or else! I wish Father John were here to guide us but I fear he’s delayed. We shall have to bring the corpse inside in secret. It’ll not look good for us if she is found by others.’
Dame Juliane returned to her garden for the wheelbarrow and trundled it down to the outer gate into the field. Between them she and Iseult slithered down the bank and half dragged the stiffened corpse on to the barrow to push it slowly back to the infirmary where it could be examined.
Dame Juliane was puzzled by the strange appearance of the novice. ‘Her face has swollen up but it definitely is her. She’s quite unmarked but such a strange colour. There are no obvious buboes under her armpits and in the groin… nothing but a swollen belly.’ She lifted up the tunic to reveal the source of the mound. Dame Iseult gasped when she saw the size of it. She had seen her mother blown up in this manner many times and had no doubts as to the cause.
‘That’s not the buboes but some other shame! Our novice was hiding a secret. Some fleshly lapse, I fear. Enceinte these many months by the looks of her.’
‘But why is she dead if not by the fever or miscarried? She looked pale earlier and made that sister of hers a drink, or so she said. Mary came to fetch her to her visitor. What if it was no sister but a lover in disguise and he murdered her?’ whispered Juliane, hand to her mouth, her eyes rolling with shock. ‘Let me see, I told her what ingredients to put in the draught – the usual cordials, just camomile and elderberry. But, look, her eyes are staring as if she suffered pain and the pupils are strangely wide. Her colour, too. Her body is so cold but her face looks hot. I don’t understand.’
‘Ah, hah! See, around her neck she has a pouch… some amulet or witchcraft, the silly vixen.’ Iseult bent forward and tore off the pouch, opening it. Inside were two lozenges.
‘Look at these. You must know what they are?’
Dame Juliane took them to the candle in the hut and examined them closely, sniffing and prising out the herbs one by one. ‘This smells to me of poison. I’ll heat it and see what happens. But perhaps the stupid girl has merely taken some emetic to clear herself of her burden and, being the ignoramus we knew her to be, took too much.’
‘You are most charitable, Dame Juliane. It looks to me as if she tried to end her shame by taking her own life. That’s what I think at least.’ Dame Iseult felt a sneaking admiration for this common girl who was brave enough to commit a mortal sin.
‘You have the most likely explanation there… a disgraced vowess, paid for by the charity of the Guild. She would be expelled and condemned to eternal damnation. Now she shames us all by this foul deed.’
‘But no one knows. We could say she died of fever?’ Iseult felt her cheeks flushing. ‘No, on second thoughts that would throw Aunt Serena into a fit of apoplexy. She’d seal us all off completely for fear of its spreading. No, there must be another way.’
‘But look, there are tiny swellings under her armpits. Perhaps she has caught something after all. She must be buried quickly, don’t you think?’
Dame Iseult nodded.
‘But she’s not going in the churchyard with all my ancestors if she’s committed a mortal sin. There can be no office read over her. We’ll have to do it ourselves and quickly, somewhere outside, else plop her in the mill pond to be found drowned by accident. No, that won’t do. What if she floats up and then there’ll be even more questions asked and Aunt Serena will have to know.’
Iseult was searching for a solution, her heart beating fast at the thought of such deception. She wanted it all kept quiet. One day the Prioress’s lodgings would be hers by right as the next eldest daughter of the de Saultes. She wanted no scandal attached to her claim.
‘Leave her with me, Dame Iseult. I know just where she can be useful for once. Agnes Bagshott was never a worthy wight. Now she can do us some good,’ pronounced Dame Juliane.
‘Whatever you say, reverend sister. Where shall we bury her?’
‘By this wall here, a few feet from the fig tree. It’s been looking a bit lanky, needs a good pruning and some root nourishment. She’ll be useful here, I reckon, for a good few years to come and no one but us will know where she lies.’ Both fell silent at the thought of this deceit.
‘Shall I strip her?’ said the younger nun.
‘No, the wool will rot down well enough. Leave nothing as evidence of her return. The pouch and that ring on her finger must stay where they are. I’ll tell the Prioress in the morning that Agnes Bagshot has run away again. It will be no surprise to her.’
‘But what about the maid?’
‘Limpy Mary knows only of the first half of our discovery, not the second. She’ll hold her tongue. Who else will give a bed to a cripple with lumps on her neck? Leave her to me. I’ll tell her Father John took the body away. She can take Agnes’s place in the garden. Mary works hard for all her misshapen gait.
‘Come now, let’s find the spades and finish the task. All will soon be well.’
*
The figure darted downstream under the creeping shadows of dusk, gathering pace as it sped southwards, surcoat unclasped and flying behind like wings outstretched, etched against the orange skyline and the black ribs of trees from which the last of the summer leaves dripped dolefully. Seeing the three spires of the Minster down in the hollow below, the solitary figure began to skip with excitement.
‘You did it! By God’s blood, you took your chance of freedom. No more rules and regulations, no more black habit and measly morsels to eat. You’re free, Aggie Bagshott.’
For love of Hamon she had accomplished the impossible, secured her freedom from the tyranny of Frideswelle Priory and unyoked herself from her terrible sister forever.
Now together she and her man would make a new life. It would be easy enough to convince everyone that Mags had died at the Priory gate of the fever and was buried hastily with Kit and Sim in the common grave. Come to console them in their loss, her vows not yet taken, Agnes would be free to return to her rightful place at their side.
Mags had been so thirsty. Like a fool she’d gulped down the draught like a grateful ploughman swallowing water from the well, not for a minute imagining it would be laced with poison. It was easy enough to crush seeds and roots from beautiful plants into devilish potions if you knew how. All those months under Dame Juliane had not been wasted and now Agnes was revenged on all of them.
Mags did not suffer much.
Agnes had lain by her side to see if her breath had stopped, stripping away each of her garments carefully, exchanging them for one of her own garb; wimple for netted head-dress, bare feet for shoes, tunic for gown and surcoat. She was thorough. Only the ring would not budge from Mags’s swollen finger, the lozenge pouch like a necklace was the final touch. That would give them something to think about when they found the body of a fallen nun great with child. No wonder the poor soul took her own life.
Agnes felt strangely numb and calm, as if floating in mid-air. She had not flinched once from her plan for fear of immortal death. The God of Mercy was killing poor men and women like Kit and Sim and their babes by the thousand. He would not bother about one more. It was time to claim what was rightfully hers, time to return to the City of Spires.
She slipped the watch and the curfew, creeping through the back alleys and banging on the bakehouse gate, making enough racket to wake the dead. No one answered so she beat upon the shutters with a stick.
‘Go away!’ shouted a voice from within. Was she a fool to return to Baker’s Lane to tell them she was safe? ‘Open at once! ’Tis Aggie come to visit you.’
Through a chink of an opening her mother’s worried face peered out into the darkness. ‘Is that you, Mags?’ Mother must be so distressed she was mistaking her for her sister. ‘Thank St Anthony and all the mar
tyrs you are returned to us! We were so worried. Hamon has not been well since you left. Go see to him yourself. Upstairs, quickly, out of sight!’
‘But it’s me, Aggie… Poor Mags died of the fever yesterday by the Priory gate.’ Aggie’s tale was well rehearsed but seemed unconvincing when she was wearing her sister’s apparel.
‘So you say, but your wits are addled by too much walking. Rest and give your man some water. You must see to him now.’ Mother was pushing her up the rickety stairs, scarce looking to see who she was guiding.
‘I’ve come to take him away with me…’
‘Yes, dear, that’s right. Up the stairs to the top.’
Mother was taking no notice of her so Agnes turned to go back but found the stout door slammed in her face and the iron key turned, barring her escape. ‘Mother! Open the door!’ she heard herself scream.
‘It’s for the best, Margery. You’ve been abroad and may have the plague on you… see to your husband and we’ll see to the bakery. Your father knows what’s best. I’ll bring you broth and bread in a while, have no fear.’
‘Mother! It’s Aggie, not Mags. You should know the difference. Aggie from the Priory come by special leave to help you. I have no sickness on me. See for yourself!’
‘That’s right, you rest up. Hamon needs you by his side.’
Only then did Agnes turn to see his terrible sores, blackened face and swollen tongue. Only then did she see the destruction of all her dreams. She had exchanged one prison for another far worse from which there was no escape. She could hear the curses of her dead sister in her ears. Agnes grasped for the pouch around her neck. It was gone. She had been too clever by half and now she must pay. Oh, God, no! Mea culpa, mea culpa… mea maxima culpa…
*
Mary Barnsley sat on the high chair, her long dark hair bedecked by a wreath of ivy leaves, mistletoe and berries. The Chapter House was garlanded with holly boughs, bright candles glimmered in the darkness and for once the hearth fire burned brightly, flames darting and flickering, the smell of the Yule log warm and welcoming. Was she dreaming? Was it really she who was picked to be the Mistress of Misrule, Prioress for a whole day, to play tricks and games, make merry and lord it over all the nuns? How could such riches be hers? She had ordered the cook to bring pittances of nuts and sweetmeats, played tricks on Dame Juliane, danced a carol as best she could with all of the nuns while the minstrel fiddler played a jingle. The inhabitants of the Priory were spared from the fever, all but Amy and poor Father John whose kindness had saved Mary’s life.
Now here she was, dressed in the finest kersey with a skirt which hid her deformity from sight, leather boots on her feet, braids shining and free from the itch thanks to many dippings in Dame Juliane’s pungent bowl. Her sores were all but disappeared and her face clear. Only the solid lumps on her neck reminded her of the reason for her arrival here and of poor Mistress Kit. Mary must wear these tokens forever as a sign of the mercies of God and St Chad in cruel times. Why she had been so favoured she never could fathom out.
Now she spent her days in the heart of the Priory, weeding and clearing, planting and pruning, to the older nun’s instructions. Sometimes she was sent to the laundry or up into the forest to chop down ferns, burning them to ashes for the making of the special lye. She loved to roam free over the bracken paths and gulp down the fresh cold air. Her chest was growing, her body filling out with good food. One day some lad would look on her face and forget her limp. No one called her Limpy Mary now and sometimes even the Prioress glanced in her direction with smiles instead of scorn. Mary could always tell for she had the knowing without words. It was a useful gift.
Each time she reached the wall of oak trees and the Porteress’s gate which boundered their convent, she could not wait to be inside these walls. Of her own kin she never thought.
The winter would be long and cold and the feast of St Stephen would soon make way for Lent and fasting, but for now there was only feasting and warmth. When the snow flowers opened she would take a bunch to the burial pit to remember all those not so fortunate as herself.
The ways of the Lord were mighty strange but every day of her life henceforth she would thank the saints in their glory for her sweet life within these walls.
In The Rose Garden
Iris
The sun has dipped over the hill now, the moon climbs high. On the brick boundary wall a Little Owl shrieks and flaps into the nearest tree. Iris moves quickly away from the sad spirits of the herb garden, along the shale pathway edged with tubs of white tobacco plants wafting a fragrance like pot pourri into her face. On now to the back of the house where mullioned windows look out on the oval floribunda beds under which froths of yellow Alchemilla mollis are billowing like Grandmother’s petticoats on to the close-shaven grass. Time to inspect the roses for blight and aphids, but first she steps back to admire the buff-coloured ‘Gloire de Dijon’ and the last of the ‘Mai Gold’ climbing the brick wall.
There’s a companionable feeling to the way those two roses twine with creamy honeysuckle up the chimney gable of salmon stone and red brick, climbing up to a russet-tiled roof; a later addition to the older side of the house, a buttress of warm stone against the iron hand of winter.
Iris sits on the wooden bench looking down on the beds. This was always her mother’s favourite spot. She liked her flowers sunshine yellow. The tea rose garden has a feel of her to it; a backs straight, no-nonsense, best china on the lawn and Sunday manners atmosphere. Perhaps it’s the formal layout, prim and straight-edged, teamed with such an optimistic colour. Only the sundial, its focal point, always scared Iris as a child with its warning note: Smoke and shadows are we.
She examines the sundial for more cracks on its grey stone, weathered by centuries of winters, the lichens and moss crusting its northern side. This was always a lady’s bower not a child’s hideaway or man’s refuge. Neat, polite and uncluttered. In memory of Mother it has been kept just so.
Come next springtime will I still be here to see my annual show? Iris wonders. Have I dug like a navvy to shove hundreds of bulbs into this claggy soil on my knees, bidding the blighters to go forth and multiply, all for someone else’s benefit? That’s garden magic. You toil and sweat and finally, months later, up they pop in a pageant of colour. First the snowdrops and sunny aconites, then crocuses, purple, white and yellow, followed by daffodil trumpeters and narcissi, clumps of gaudy polyanthus, frilly auriculas like china plates and sweet-scented wallflowers. And finally a display of scarlet tulips to give the grand finale to the spring parade.
Well, they’ll all have to do for themselves now. I’ve no puff to slave over them like an anxious mother around her brood. The days of outdoor housework are over for me. George in the village does the heavy stuff so why am I worrying about this place?
The sight of ‘Golden Showers’ cascading down the wall stirs sadness deep inside. Would Mother be pleased to see she had kept it shipshape for so many years, even though Iris herself loathes the acid yellow blooms?
Rules are rules and the Gospel applies to roses too. They should give value for money, look good, smell good, and give more than one performance.
I’ve been seduced by too many fly by nights who bloom for one day and drip their petals the next. Boring old ‘Golden Showers’ gets two out of ten for persistence. With hardly any perfume to mitigate its harsh colour, it’s there under sufferance!
She touches the arched trellis with white roses cascading over it like creamy froth. This on the other hand belongs in the garden: Rosa alba pleniflora, a wanton hussy draping herself around the Clematis montana ‘Elizabeth’ with no shame! A visitor once got excited about this stock, said it was a very old variety and could possibly have been here before the chimney itself went up.
Iris wonders if anything could possibly survive all that time in one place. If so, someone had the sense even in those days to recognise a good thing when she saw it. It had to be a woman. Women and roses were made for each other so who exact
ly should she thank for such a gift?
PART FOUR
THE NEW HOUSE
1565
‘Who soweth in rain, he shall reap it with tears
Who soweth in harm, he is ever in fears
Who soweth ill seed or defrauds his land
Hath eye sore abroad, with a coresie at hand’
—The Country Housewife’s Garden, William Lawson 1618
‘The Rose
What a pother have authors made with Roses! What a racket they have kept! I shall add, red Roses are under Jupiter, Damask under Venus, White under the Moon, and Provence under the King of France’
Staying On
The Barn Owl swooped noiselessly across the ruined garden like a white-faced ghost, its night eyes in search of mice and voles. Circling higher over the broken wall into the copse which lay north of the Priory, the bird alighted on a thick branch of one of the mighty century oaks which had stood sentinel at the crossing of the tracks since time began. Here it paused as if surveying the buildings which crumbled like jagged teeth in a rotten mouth. Only the tithe barn stood foursquare in the cobbled yard close by the Porteress’s gatehouse. The ancient church lurched precariously, its roof in desperate need of repair. The rest of the Priory lay robbed of stone and beams, red bricks scattered amongst the piles of rubble; a rough landscape of ladders, barrows, hods and scaffolding.
Here and there in the moonlight the outline of the old garden could be picked out in evergreen hedges of holly and yew, ivy-clad walls, an outer circle of shrubs, shadowy shapes of orchards and meadow hedges. And through it all the winding ribbon of the stream, curling and looping down towards the wider brook and the mill ponds beyond the cloister wall. Here thatched huts and cottages marked the living from their dead in the old churchyard. The scent of humans abroad kept the owl perched on its branch, wary and watchful.
