In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  The Knot Plot

  ‘Just what on earth are you doing there?’ shouted the mistress, waving a broom. ‘I told you to dig me a knot path!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, and that I am doing.’ Baggy pointed to his effort to trace out a curve. Sarah Salte sniffed in disgust. ‘What mean you by this shape? ’Tis twined like a hempen rope.’

  ‘Aye, so it is. Crossed over like the Shire knot, tried and tested, made to endure.’ Baggy was pleased with his twisting pathway.

  ‘You stupid man! I want a proper knot for my box plantings – a diamond shape, not a hangman’s noose! My roses are to be enclosed in a boxed hedge shaped like a rose itself. See, winding round like this…’ The woman swayed around in a fancy circle. ‘See to it that the width of the path around it is befitting the span of a lady’s gown, not a gardener’s wheelbarrow.’ Her wide skirt billowed as she paraded down her imaginary walkway and Baggy smirked behind her back.

  ‘Put back the turf and I’ll mark it out for you, step by step. Here are the petals, looped so… here the next row of petals. It must be edged with box and the edges lined with smooth stones to show up the shape overall. It will all gather into the centre… comme ça. Be quick about it, Bagshott!’

  ‘Yes, Mistress Salte.’ Baggy muttered foul oaths under his breath, clenching his fists. How she got up his nostrils with her haughty manners and prissy little voice! He was sick of all the ‘can you just get on with this or that now’, all at the same time! They were employed to put up the chimney stack and the roof, breaking through into the lodging, not to dig her garden, level her terrace and pave it over. That was a job for others more experienced than themselves. A knot garden indeed! How was he to know what it was? It was a gardener’s job, not one for a bricklayer, carpenter and plasterer. Yet he was pleased with the way they had dovetailed the new house neatly into the old place. The joists were laid in the upper chambers, sturdy floorboards in place, the stack almost completed, the staircase carved with wooden scrolls and embellishments. Bagshotts were indoor workers not outdoor. Each to his task. But the Saltes would squeeze every ounce of work out of them to save costs.

  The weather was merciful and had caused no delays. All had been going well until now. He still wondered if he should shift those bones from their hidden grave and felt uneasy that he had told no one of them yet. Perhaps they were better left in the ground.

  Squire Timon left all the household decisions to his quarrelsome wife, which went against the grain for his craftsmen. What a to do when things were left to a woman! Surely she should know nothing of such matters? And how she drove them with her constant demands. ‘Hurry up! It must be done by the feast of Christemasse… I’m not spending another minute in that guest hall by the Porteress’s gate. If my father, Sir Sidney Sapcote, could see my distress… to live in such a manner like peasants in a hovel… poor little Tom!’

  ‘Poor little Master Thomas’ was in fact a boil on the bum, constantly scampering over the site, pulling faces, climbing ropes and throwing bricks around. If it had been his Jem or Eddy misbehaving so, Baggy would have leathered his backside a long time ago. The spoilt brat seemed impervious of any danger to himself or others. Jem had already rescued him from the roof, the scaffold and the stew pond. And as if he wasn’t enough, there was the old dame, forever tripping over mounds and ditches with Leah following behind to pick her up and Jem blushing like a lovesick loon every time he caught sight of the lass. It was like bedlam at times but they kept on working through all the distractions and Baggy was proud of the way his sons had helped.

  Now they must dig up all of this blessed plot, lifting bushes and briars when the ground was fair nailed down with frost. They must tear up the old Prioress’s walkway and her privy garden and herbarium. It didn’t seem right to him to pull up ancient yew, even though the garden was overgrown and neglected, just to please her ladyship’s fancy whim. He would leave that task to last and perhaps then the snow would have fallen and someone else could dig it up in the spring. Let the winter tame this wilderness and strip the branches. There was enough to do just digging all this over. Ned Bagshott could do with a few more willing hands to wield spade and shovel. Perhaps a ploughman or one of the village louts but there was no extra to pay them and Sire Timon would not spare them from the fields in daylight hours. He was never around to discuss these matters anyway but spent most of his time at Longhall with his brother, Sire Richard.

  Baggy leant on his spade. It was one of them mornings when the sky was icy blue and the rooks, cawing in forest branches, shone like sea coal in the sunlight. His breath steamed and he hoped Meg was making a fine crust pie for his supper. In the distance drifted the slender outline of the old dame as she went about her daily wanderings, first to the porch, then thrice around the church itself, poking into the walls. Next she made for the old fish stews and paced along the banks, down the orchard path to the field and back up into the cemetery, finally following the stream to sit by her spring for a while. Why was she so restless?

  A short while later she stumbled past him, smiling sweetly to herself with vacant eyes. As usual he doffed his cap but was not sure she could even see him. ‘Good morrow, Dame Prioress. Is there ought amiss for you to walk so many miles in search of something? I’ve seen you with the yew branch these past weeks. Can your humble servant help in any way?’

  The old woman paused, startled out of a dream by this address. Who was this strange man? It took a few seconds to snap her wits back to the present. Dame Felice shook her head sadly, shielding her eyes from the bright day. ‘I’ve lost a treasure, young man, one of great value to the Priory. I have perchance mislaid it somewhere. Every day I retrace my steps in circles but so far I mind not where I placed it for safety. Such are the infirmities of old age. Beware old age… it swallows up too much of your time.’

  ‘Tell me what to look for and I will get my sons to help you find this treasure. What does it look like, this object?’

  ‘It was given to my forebears at the founding of the Priory. The Blessed Ambrosine received it of the Lord Bishop – a jewel of great price to set seal on this House of Prayer. Now it befalls me to lose not only the Priory but the treasure also. Woe is me, young man!’

  Treasure? Real treasure! How the word danced in his head. Somewhere was hidden a pearl of great price, with no doubt a reward for its recovery from the grateful Saltes. His mind was racing with possibilities. ‘And you have no notion as to where this treasure lies, Madam Prioress?’

  ‘It is mislaid but not in the church or the lodging. Leah and I have turned over every nook and cranny there. Perhaps it is lost in the garden. I know not for my memory is not what it was.’ Her face was ashen and her eyes empty.

  ‘Then leave it with me, my lady. Don’t be a werrit. We’ll turn over the sod and seek it out.’

  Baggy beamed, his bushy eyebrows bristling. Lost treasure in the garden? Surely word of that would get the village folk off the ale bench in search of their spades, digging and delving under every piece of turf in search of a lost jewel? Just the scheme he needed to finish her ladyship’s knot!

  *

  Baggy’s Prediction came true. How they all dug at the thought of hidden treasure, delving deep into the ground with spades and hoes, axes and picks. The Frideswell lads and lasses dug in shifts at dusk and dawn. Out came all the hedges and the scrub, the bushes and the stones. Up came the old narrow paths around the kitchen patch. Spurred on by the thought of a reward they dug and dug but found nothing. Soon the formerly sloping garden lay turned, level and ready for planting. After such an effort the roses would come up a treat, thought the canny workman with a smile. My Lady Muck descended to dust over her design with powder and the plantings were laid to her satisfaction, edged with spears of box hedging. Baggy was a happy man at last.

  *

  Two nights later he was roused from deep slumbers, dreaming of a cask of gold coins buried under the fig tree. Meg was tugging at his shirt with alarm.

  ‘Wake up! Harken to that
racket outside. ’Tis the devil and his homy hordes come to snatch us from our beds. Who else would come at this hour of the night?’

  There was a cacophony of clankings and bangings as metal struck metal, cymbals chiming and horns blowing, the rough music of pots and buckets and a jabber of angry voices. The disgruntled village folk had gathered outside to shame him in the time-honoured way.

  He rose from his mattress and wrapped his cloak around him for the night air was chilly and his bones stiff. He opened the wooden shutter to make his bow. The music grew louder and Jem dashed in, fearing for his life. Baggy raised his hands in salute with a sheepish grin on his bleary face.

  ‘Aye, lads, ’tis well deserved… disappointing not to find anything, but the old dame did say there was treasure in the ground – I swear it on the Holy Book. May God be my witness, ’twas so; “a jewel of great price”, her very words, from the Lord Bishop of olden times. So there’s nothing found? That’s not to say there’s nothing there yet.

  ‘I’m sorry for your wasted efforts. I made no promises as I recall but I will make you one now, lads. If I find so much as a groat or a farthing, a coin of the realm, it’ll all be shared out, I promise. Would Edward Bagshott cheat his friends and neighbours?’

  There was a jeer of derision. How many times had this man been up at court for a fine, a bit of land here, an extra inch or two there? ‘Tell that to the Shire Reeve at the next sessions!’ There was laughter and the music stopped. It was Jem who came to his rescue, serious dark-eyed Jem who loved a sermon on Sundays.

  ‘Go home, friends, and rest up. We cheated no one for we promised nothing, ’twere yer own greed what made you take up yer spades. Next time me dad sees you at the sign of the Plough, I shall make sure he dips in his purse and buys you all a tankard of ale for your troubles or God’ll strike him down dead where he stands. Back home to yer beds now or the night will run away with us. You’ve had yer say.’

  He closed the shutters, shrugged his shoulders at the expression on his mother’s face. It was the longest speech she had ever heard her taciturn son make. She was fired up with curiosity now.

  ‘What’s all this in aid of? What’ve you been up to now, Baggy? No good, I’ll be bound, for our poor kinfolk to leave their beds of a frosty night to teach you a lesson. I hope you’ve not been shaming me again. How can I stand square at the well afore the gossips? I can’t trust you out of my sight for one minute…’

  ‘Give us a hug, you hussy. Come warm me bones. Now would I ever try to get summat for nowt? Would I?’

  They hugged each other tightly and he laughed away her fears.

  The Century Oak

  There was something not quite pleasing about the view. As she assessed the overall effect of her new garden, Sarah was disappointed. What was it… the outer wall further down the slope or the church peeping through the trees? No, it was that tree to the far left. It was blocking the total vista, spoiling the sweep of the slope down to the stream and the meadow pastures beyond, the view dipping down to the valley then rising up to a line of trees. Those oaks were shading out this part of her design. Come the spring there would be dense shade and then at the fall of leaves a bare outline, displeasing to the eye.

  ‘Look, sire, that line of trees… the one at the end must be felled. ’Tis a good thing I spotted it now when a remedy is at hand.’

  ‘But those are the century oaks, planted in honour of the King’s visit to the city many years ago. They’re still fine trees with centuries of life in them yet.’

  ‘Wood is always useful to us, especially with so much repair work to be done on the barns. Once dried and hardened you will find a hundred places to use it. Oh, Timon, won’t it all be perfect? The rosebeds opening out like petals, the pretty low hedges cut into diamond shapes to please the eye, the new plantings of lavender. All that is missing is some fine statue or fountain at the centre. I shall speak to my father and take his advice on the matter. He’ll know how best to adorn it with a flourish.’ Timon nodded with a sigh.

  ‘You’ve done well, dear heart, I grant you that, and poor Master Bagshott is quite downtrodden by your commands. See how he stoops and rubs his back. We are all quite exhausted with your alterations. How you keep so upright with your stomacher swollen with child. I do not know.’

  ‘That’s why we must be settled before Christemasse comes upon us. There’s still much to straighten and clean. I’ve told Leah to leave her mistress and keep only by my side.’

  ‘But Felice is unwell and keeps to her chamber these past days. We must send for the apothecary if she continues so. Do not disturb her routine with more thumpings and bangings.’

  ‘Then the sooner she is moved to the chamber in the guest hall, the sooner we will all recover. The rooms there are sufficient for all her needs.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s right at this time of winter to move a woman of her years. ’Twill unsettle her so. The roof leaks a little and the hearth will not be so warm as our new chimney stack.’

  ‘Pish and twaddle, Timon! You’re worse than an old wifie yourself to futtle so. She’s strong enough and Joseph will carry her over the mud. I’ll not be thwarted before my confinement. Have I not troubles of my own to attend to? Fair exchange is no robbery, now is it?’

  Sarah was not going to listen to more fussing from her husband when there was so much to admire about her new home. Her rooms would be spacious and filled with the finest oak tables, chests and stools. The old panelling from the Priory was in place on the walls; the fireplace stood proud in the main hall. The staircase had their initials carved for all to see and admire. The roof was almost complete. Once the old nun was removed out of sight then her former lodging would make a fine food hall and buttery with a chamber above for Sarah’s own private use.

  ‘My lady’s garden will be the talk of Longhall. No mere country hussif’s patch. Felice’s old privy garden will make a laundry yard and I’ll supervise Leah’s laundry – see how that minx manages to lay the bucket with linen and get it all so clean.’

  Sarah smiled. Everything was working to her will. Next would come the lying in.

  Every night she prayed hard that she would be saved, for was it not a fact that a pregnant woman had one foot in the grave, however high-born she was? Sarah had kept so busy to keep her own fears to the back of her mind, taking comfort from her new knot garden to cheer away gloomy thoughts. Perhaps a trellis with musk roses would form the central feature, or a yew arch carved from the old hedge? No. It needed something more spectacular, more in keeping with these modern times, a timepiece or a sundial… Of course! Why had she not thought of it before? They were sprouting up in all of the Queen’s palaces, she had heard tell. How clever that the sun could cast a shadow that gave the precise time of day. If it were raised on a pedestal of stone with an outer circle of box hedging, why, it would complete her own palace of dreams.

  The new house would be magnificent, the envy of the district and of the Longhall Saltes who would come to stay and admire their taste… her taste. Thomas and the babe would play with their cousins as equals not mere offspring of the second son. She could pretend that they were as rich but not so common as the Pagets. They would still be screened from the village by the older oaks at the Porteress’s gate. They might as well stay put but the century oak had to come down. Bagshott must see to it immediately. Nothing was going to spoil the view from ‘my lady’s garden’.

  *

  ‘She can’t cut down the century oak! Why, it’s been a-standing there since my grandsires fought with old Sire Richard Salte’s father at Bosworth field… It’s doing no harm where it is,’ muttered Joseph as he kicked open the lodging house door, bringing in the logs for the new fire. He stopped up the heavy wooden door with the door stopper while Baggy and Jem looked on. ‘If she wants to lop off some branches, tell ’er to cut ’em off them by the Porteress’s gate. They’re older and far too tall. No one would miss them. You can’t just cut down a tree ’cos it’s in the wrong place, can you?’
>
  Baggy shrugged his shoulders. He was saying nothing. If this mistress said jump, you jumped. That was the way of things in the new household. What a carry on when a woman wore the breeches! Still with one on the throne of England and in Scotland too, it seemed it was the way of things today. In his opinion it wasn’t natural for the daughters of Eve to have opinions, let alone give orders, unless they were in a nunnery maybe and now all them had been scrapped.

  Perhaps some of they bossy spirits of the place clung on within these walls. He would be glad when they were away from this strange place. Winter was gripping fast now and there were just a few details to finish in the roof. It would soon be time to put the talisman in there, close to the chimney where the evil spirits were most likely to sneak in while the household was fast asleep. Some small token, a few choice objects, would ward off the evil eye from making mischief.

  He looked up at their handiwork with satisfaction and pride, recalling the way Jem had laid the bricks in neat patterns and quoted, ‘“If the Lord build not the house, the workman laboureth in vain”.’ He was good with Bible words, Jem, and could read a few now that Uncle Reuben was taking him under his wing. Reuben preached a lot about both plain and fancy folk being on the road to hellfire. The Saltes looked more and more like fancy folk to Jem and he said young Leah and her husband needed protection.

  Baggy must give them a strong talisman, something to keep them safe. There was nothing better than a dead man’s hand… or bones perhaps? The bones under the fig had not buried themselves, some foul deed had happened there. He must find the shoes if he could for a murdered man would haunt the place if he were buried shod. But perhaps the bones themselves might protect all within. Baggy must go at once and see to the matter.