In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  *

  He waited until dusk to follow the path by the fig tree. Leah was watching him and he pretended to be fixing the stonework until she closed the door behind her. He uncovered the bones but the dampness and recent airing had crumbled most to dust. What was left he lifted into a meal sack and took up the outside ladder into the eaves, to the point where the new and old buildings were joined together.

  The wind was whipping the last of the leaves into flurries. As he rose higher up the ladder he could see the outline of the knot bed, the newly laid paths, then over the boundary wall to the line of oaks and the glistening mill pond. In the springtime all would be green and covered, the wilderness tamed once more according to her ladyship’s commands. He did not see much in these gardens, himself. It was a waste of good growing space for food and fodder, in his opinion. Only fancy folk could afford such fripperies. Jem was right. There were plain folk and fancy folk here.

  Baggy hoisted the sack and pushed it neatly into a crevice, distributing the bones evenly and then filling up the hole in the tiles carefully with a silent prayer. This was being done for the best and no one would ever know of it. The bones could sleep quietly here, undisturbed by wind or rain, guarding his handiwork. He hoped the poor soul understood this change of residence and wished it peace. The few bits of leather shoe he had found he was going to destroy. There must be nothing left to haunt the house’s inhabitants.

  The December gales lashed through the forest, great trees bending to their force, yielding branches in submission to a superior power. Thatch flew from any roof which was not weighted down with stones and rope. No one slept in the valley for thunder and lightning crashed overhead, rending the sky with streaks of silver and gold. Rats fled from the open fields to the shelter of houses and barns. Falling branches closed the cart tracks with debris, blocking village from village, families from friends, and many stones were loosened from the steeples and towers of the old ruins.

  The century oak lay prostrate before it was hacked and butchered into joints. The mistress had given the order to fell it before the storm and it was obeyed. She now lay in the upstairs soller, propped up against feather pillows, her new daughter lying swaddled in the wooden cradle and given the name Elizabeth in honour of their great sovereign.

  The Queen of the new house lay contented for once in all her triumph, oblivious at first of the storm roaring overhead. Everything was perfect: the house, their garden, the removal of the old aunt, all done with scarce a murmur from Timon who snored by her side. If only this racket would die down, it spoiled her peace. At times she feared the new roof was going to lift off and they would be whirled away. The wind moaned down the new chimney breast like a soul in torment but they were warm and dry and safe in their own dwelling, thanks to her endeavours.

  Sarah’s eyelids drooped in blameless sleep as the old oaks groaned, keeling over into each other like skittles, crashing one by one down on to the Porteress’s gate house.

  *

  Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live; and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he flee-eth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay…

  ‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the souls of our reverend sister, Felice, late Prioress of St Mary’s Frideswell, and her servants, Joseph and Leah, here departed…’

  Timon Salte bent his head, more in shame than sorrow. Because he could not withstand the onslaught of his wife’s demands this terrible accident had happened. Those trees were old and rotten and should have been felled long ago, while the healthy century oak was felled purely on a whim.

  What have I done? he berated himself. Overspent on every item in this cursed house and not a coin in the coffers to pay Bagshott his due. And now this fresh shame: the needless slaughter of his aunt. Suddenly he felt the sap of youth drain from his limbs and the sparkle fade from his eyes. He peered into the burial vault with sadness and regret.

  I must learn to stand up to Sarah or we are doomed, he realised. Please God, give me strength to be a man, though beggared now for the sake of a garden and more shamed than any cuckold.

  There would be only scrimping and scraping for them this harsh winter. Furniture and hangings must be sold, rents raised and dues collected from all his tenants, however poor, if they were to survive.

  *

  Lord be praised! It could have been us struck down in our beds, my innocent babes crushed by tree trunks! Sarah Salte gripped her son’s shoulders to steady herself. We have been spared and others sacrificed. That was the will of God in His Wisdom. Her instinct to get out of that cursed lodge before Christemasse, before the birth of the child, had been a miracle of grace and no mistake. It was an honour to be so preserved. For the others ’twas a pity, she conceded, but Felice was old and the servants had no off shoots. None of them would have known a thing about it. How could she be blamed for their deaths?

  Timon brushed past her roughly, not deigning to look into her face. There was never any meeting of minds with him nowadays. She could sense he blamed her for all of it and this was not how it was meant to be. This tragedy had spoiled all her joy in her new home. Sarah was seen as a murderess by his family, a cruel killer of their kin. Now Timon was ripping her new tapestries from the wall and the brocades from her bed, telling her they must be sold. How could he shame her so? Not once would he walk in the winter garden to admire the stone sundial and her knot garden, only talk of ruin and shame. Pish and twaddle, they would survive! Saltes had lived above all others around these parts for centuries past. Things would turn around for the new house. They must, for the sake of Sarah’s heirs.

  Baggy stood silently with the stunned villagers of Frideswell, with the men who had scrambled to rescue the poor trapped victims under the mighty oaks, with Jem who had crawled to his beloved Leah, cradling her lifeless form in his arms while screaming with rage. They had pulled out the bodies and demolished the gate house, leaving only a pile of stones as evidence of this terrible night. Had he brought this storm about by meddling with the spirits? Had he helped turn the world upside down?

  No, surely not, ‘For it is the wrath of God who thunders where he wills,’ said the Parson to his troubled soul. He could scarce look upon that Salte woman without wanting to clap her in irons and duck her in the fish pond. The master was tardy with his payments and did not hold his gaze. A Bagshott had trusted the word of a Salte, a risky business as he had been warned by Reuben, and now it was turning his hair white with worry. It would go hard for them if payment were delayed. He had neglected his own fields and harvest to secure the Saltes’ comfort while all he was given so far was a share in the century oak for his pains. What use was green oak which would take a year to harden? If all else failed they would be reduced to burning it in his cold hearth.

  This blessed house would ruin them all, one by one. He feared he had built a greedy monster from the ruins of the Priory. One that had fed on his ambitions to better the Bagshotts in this new world where opportunities for wealth and fortune lay open to those brave enough to take risks.

  Now he wished he could climb the ladder and snatch back those bones and fling them on a pyre. They brought down a curse on all who touched them, of that he was certain. Had he disturbed a malevolent sprite with spiteful power and influence over this cursed place? For once in his life he had no ready answer for himself, only the satisfying thought that if he had the Saltes were doomed for certain. As he lifted his weary eyes over the cemetery field he thought he saw the grey lady on her rounds again, searching for her lost treasure. Baggy blinked. It was just the light playing tricks. When he looked again towards the churchyard wall she was gone.

  Jeremiah Bagshott stood by his father’s side, towering over him, hands clutching his wide-brimmed black hat. His dark face was set grim and stern. He would shed no more tears for Leah, his love lost twice to him, once on her betrothal to Joseph and then by this cruel misfortune.

  ‘V
anity, vanity… all is vanity saith the Lord.’ Enjoy yourself now, my lady, for you Saltes will pay for your vanity. Not now perhaps but one day, in the fullness of time. In the Lord’s time.

  His heart was ice cold as he looked up at the new house with its fine chimney and tiled roof, fancy windows and gracious doorway built by the Bagshotts with craftsmen’s skills. It looked so spruce and strong but like the century oak could be felled by the hand of the Lord at any time. The vanity of that witch Sarah had accomplished all this, the curse of Eve made manifest in her. The temptress would surely be humbled.

  ‘My lady’s garden has cost us all dear. A curse on her and all who tread therein from henceforth.’

  They must be punished for this wickedness against his love heart, Leah, whose humble beauty far outstripped the witch’s charms.

  Strangely her death had brought with it a sense of release and peace, a new purpose free from the bonds of passion which had kept him by her side. He would shake the dust of Frideswell from his boots and make his way to the City of Spires in the hollow. There he would work his way up to Reuben’s side, make something of himself, harden his heart and his children’s against the vanity of the Saltes. One day this place would be laid low.

  Jem scattered the sod into the grave pit with grim satisfaction. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away… Blessed be the name of the Lord.’

  Down The Path

  Iris

  The path meanders round the house under a pergola heavy with the fragrance of Rosa ‘Zéphirine Drouhin’. Iris Bagshott dead heads as she goes along, carefully inspecting for tell-tale signs. There’s always some plague of Egypt waiting to erupt here when her back’s turned: rust, mould, blight. Ah, hah, the dreaded black spot!

  Who will see to you lot when I’m gone? she muses. Autumn is when you’ll see my true colours, this Fridwell slasher who gives you all the chop for your own good. So behave!

  Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

  Old time is a-flying.

  And this same flower that smiles today,

  Tomorrow will be dying.

  Do they still learn poems by rote in schools? I bet they don’t have to recite them with a cane hovering over their heads. It certainly sharpened my memory for things past. As for the present, I forget from one minute to the next without my note pad.

  Iris is not satisfied with the effect, the rose parlour lacks warmth. It needs more arches and trellis work to soften the stiffness, arches dripping with blood red bourbons, blushing damasks and pale musk roses.

  That’s the trouble with this garden, I’m never satisfied but haven’t the stomach or energy now to tear it all up and start afresh. Perhaps the roses do need a younger, more romantic set of green fingers, to fiddle and twirl, drape and design? I’ve seen too many of life’s nasty tricks to believe in romance as the panacea for all ills but a sweet-scented rose arbour would make a lovely hideaway.

  Iris stands back, looking towards the flat end of the L-shaped house. The spirit of the place talks loudly here and now it’s telling her to watch that variegated ivy clambering over the roof at the end of the house which is sliced off like a cut loaf. It needs a firm haircut, and soon. Out comes the note pad again.

  She remembers when the Local Studies Group came to walk over her bit of the monastic site, tracing the outline of the old buildings, tithe barns and ponds. They pointed to her stonework and the Tudor brick addition which was out of proportion with the rest of the house. They cleared the boggy pond at the bottom of the slope, close to the one remaining stone arched gate into the churchyard, telling her it must be the nuns’ fish stew.

  One weekend a group of them drained it carefully but found no treasure, only some broken crocks and a few brown bottles of Father’s stout. Iris showed them her granny’s tiny ring of twisted gold wire with a stone missing, unearthed whilst mulching the wisteria by the wall in the vain hope that it might break out in blossom. The fingers of ancient ladies were certainly small and she wondered if some poor lass had searched and searched for her precious jewel.

  Then came the visit from members of the Sealed Knot Society who were going to re-enact the skirmish of Barnsley Bridge for the Gala Day. They said a small garrison was billeted on Fridwell during the Civil War. Was it the soldiers who chopped off the house with cannons? she’d asked, but the group didn’t know.

  I can’t move in this garden without treading in the footsteps of the forebears who made me what I am. I live with these blessed ghosts always trooping behind me, whispering in my ear. They don’t bother me much except one: a troubled soul who lives on the old stairs. There’s always a chill when she does her rounds. There I go again, making assumptions, but a chime hour child can’t be witched. I have ‘the knowing without words’, as Granny used to say, and it’s been quite a burden to me at times.

  PART FIVE

  FRIDEWELL GARRISON

  1646

  ‘When Gardens only had their Towrs,

  And all the garrisons were Flowrs,

  When Roses only Arms might bear,

  And Men did rosie Garlands wear…

  But War all this doth overgrow:

  We Ord’nance Plant and Powder sow’

  —‘Upon Appleton House’, Andrew Marvell

  ‘Rosemary

  The chymical oil drawn from the leaves and flowers is a sovereign help… one drop, two or three, as the case requires for the inward griefs’

  Arrivals

  The standard fluttered like a tattered sail in the warm breeze. It had seen much action and the banner motto and ribbons, ‘In God We Trust’, were faded from sunset orange to a weak sunrise apricot.

  The trooper waved it triumphantly as they rode out of the cool shade of the oak forest on to the high ridgeway where the breeze tore at its ragged edges. There was no one to see their coming, not even the welcome of birdsong, for the heat was sending all creatures in search of shade under roof, branch and hollow, out of the sun and bracken dust of the August afternoon.

  The Captain of the troop held up his hand and they circled around, scuffing red dust into eyes and faces. The horses flicked their tails to scatter away a plague of black flies which descended upon the party the second they stopped to recce their position.

  ‘Halt! We’re nearer the city than I first reckoned, not a league from the Malignant garrison. See down there, the spires are still standing – more to our shame. Yonder village is Fridewell and Barnsley Green lies to the west. This bodes well for us for I’ve many kinfolk in these parts. We shall feast from those fields ere long. Take heart.’

  Micah Bagshott, Captain of Horse in Sir Thomas Fairfax’s New Model Army, veteran of Edgehill and Naseby and many a recent bloody skirmish, late of the city below, smiled with satisfaction at their good luck. He was on familiar territory, almost home ground, near enough to receive a cautious welcome and respect fom the lowlier peasants and journeymen who recognised his illustrious name. If anyone were to stop the siege of the Royalist garrison by secret supply convoys, creeping out of the forest at dead of night, then he knew all the rat runs, crossing paths and streams down to the walled fortress below. If they waited here little would get past their patrol or the others of his Company scattered over the thick forest. It was not so wild and dense a forest now as to be unmapped and cleared for miles around the main routes north and south. He wiped the dust from his eyes which settled in the grooves of his sunlined face and smiled a roguish smile, his lips stretched into a thin line, his black eyes flashing with glee.

  He was on Salt land now, he could see the blue smoke curling eastwards from the chimney stack, the tiled roof of the Newhouse and the layout of its fancy gardens like a map drawn out before him. This was the place built on the broken backs of Bagshott men in the time of old Reuben and Jeremiah the preacher; his grandsire who told of humble beginnings and his father, Ned the builder, whose penury at the hands of those cheating Salts, sent him to an early grave. The name, Salt, had lain like a curse on Bagshott lips since that time. Micah had no
reason to wish any of the Salts well for they were for the King not Parliament as was most of the City.

  Micah had been driven out of the city after the first fateful seige and the death of his hero, Lord Brooke, following with the horse and troopers to find quarter where he could. Revenge for parading such humiliation before his neighbours would be sweet one day but best savoured and eaten cold.

  There were recusants hiding in the forest, he could sniff them on the wind, Papists and mercenaries. Some had escaped from custody and were on the run making south for their garrisons. They must be dealt with swiftly and without mercy. He took no prisoners. The Company was split into groups to patrol over the Chase. The Captain was delighted now to be in reach of this village with its supply of fresh water, flour mill, barns, stables and harvest almost gathered in. Fridewell would suit his men well. He would see to the Salts personally. He would enjoy sleeping on their feather beds, sipping from their cellar and feasting on their meat store. But he would mind his manners for he was an educated man who knew how to use a pronged fork. His education had been thorough and now thanks to three years in the army he had acquired a taste for the niceties of genteel living acquired from raiding parties on the tearful gentry who watched their houses burn to ashes and scattered in the wind.

  The army had given him another education, though, a steel-edged rough awakening into the rigours of warfare. The cruel blade slicing into flesh, the spurting of blood as a man hovered ’twixt life and death. The cries of men pleading for a merciful end to suffering; comrades torn limb from limb, or crushed to mangled guts and bones. He was growing inured to the sight of such horrors and ever more confident in his power of leadership, demanding respect and obedience as his due. He was respected for his ruthlessness, the way he instantly dispensed harsh justice for any infringement of discipline. Captain Bagshott did not hesitate to flog or execute in order to enforce his will. He demanded the utmost loyalty from his troop for they were his family now, a tie forged through blood and necessity. All that was foraged he shared fairly among them.