In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  Nazareth prayed for the poor men and their wives trapped in such cramped conditions in this heat. It made her own discomfort easier to bear but still she confronted the Captain about the embarrassment earlier in the day.

  ‘The Sergeant was right, Mistress Salt. Without my permission no one enters or leaves our garrison here. It is a fortress against infiltrators and spies. We’re surrounded by enemies, hiding in trees and mine shafts or secret rooms in mansions. We know all their tricks. Where better to hide than right under our noses, within our own fortress, under your protection? Such an act would be treason, of course, and all involved would be dealt with severely, man or woman. You understand my concern. I would not want you to put your child at risk or any other kin. You will stay put though your cousin may visit us if she so desires.’

  ‘How can she travel abroad when she is great with child and close to her time? And besides, Lucilla needs the companionship of her cousins.’

  ‘Send for the village children to amuse her. Children play the same games whatever their condition. Or had you not noticed?’ When he sneered he was quite ugly, his mouth hardening into a thin mean line. He kept himself on a tight rein. Nazareth would not like to see this man drunk and out of control.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! She is a Salt.’

  ‘Miss Lucilla is still a child though a mighty peculiar one… such a sour stare on her face it would curdle the milk.’ He laughed at his own wit.

  ‘What gives you the right to talk of my child in such a manner?’

  ‘See how the tigress protects her cub, Lieutenant?’ The other soldier turned away, distancing himself from this spat. ‘Women – there’s no pleasing them.’

  ‘I care not one groat if I am pleased by you!’ she snapped.

  ‘Oh, I think you might be surprised by the pleasuring I could give you, Madam.’

  Nazareth walked quickly up the path, stumbling in her haste to get away from this outspokenness. The Lieutenant walked away, embarrassed.

  ‘Tarry, mistress! I see I have o’erstepped the mark once more. Pardon me. ’Tis the heat and a surfeit of city sack – a fine vintage of which I have commandeered a few jars for your pleasure. Please stay. I have brought something else for you from my sojourn. Do not flee from me before I have a chance to make amends. It is a token of reparation for our upheavals here. See…’

  Nazareth halted on the stairs and turned around to see him lifting the flaps of his saddlebag, searching for a package which he held out towards her with first a penitent expression and then a sheepish grin on his face.

  ‘Sire, I need no reminder of your presence here and will tolerate no more coarse remarks. It does your cause no honour to shame me so before your officer.’

  ‘I know, but see… what do you think?’ He produced dozens of delicate creamy white bulbs for her to inspect. ‘Tulip bulbs for you to plant in your wheel. They’ll stand tall and bright among your greenery. And here, this is a sprig of rosemary from my mother’s herbary. She is a fine plantswoman and tends all her cuttings well so they spring up from the old. I’ve not seen it growing in your patch. Take this cutting and place it well and soon there’ll be a bush for you to use as you wish.’

  Nazareth was taken aback at this unexpected thoughtfulness. This uncouth man had taken the trouble to think about her garden; the very garden he had first tried to destroy. How strange! She knew how precious real tulip bulbs were and how the mania for them had spread through the country like fire years ago. These fancy bulbs had ruined many a Holland merchant in their quest for the perfect shape and colour. To own some of them which would yield their own harvest each year was a pleasurable shock. It had been so long since any man had given her a present, let alone such an apt one.

  ‘I can’t accept such a gift from you. It’s a worthy thought but ’tis impossible for me to receive such valuables…’

  ‘Tush, lady! You are too scrupulous. It is the least I can offer for the discomfort our presence affords you. It’s a gift to your garden not to your person. Who can take offence at such a gesture of remorse?’

  ‘I suppose not, but I’m surprised you take a keen interest in a mild occupation such as gardening?’

  ‘Mild, you call it? Why, it’s a battlefield in itself – all that hacking and pruning, harrowing, digging and burying, burning and scattering. A very violent occupation is more like it. Not for the faint-hearted. What envy, pillage, stealth and destruction is there not in the heart of a true gardener? Did not these very tulips once wreak havoc in the Lowlands?

  ‘Come, walk with me to the wheel and let’s see where they might best be put for shelter when autumn comes. This rosemary can grow anywhere so long as it is sunkissed and sheltered from winter’s frost. My mother heard tell that the rosemary bush, being a sacred herb, will grow only to the height of Christ. She says it makes a good lotion for the hair and the soul, but I know not of such matters.’ And Micah laughed, relieved that the bad feeling between them was gone.

  ‘Your mother speaks the truth. It’s a herb with many uses and its oil soothes those who are low in spirits. I shall treasure this cutting.’ They walked in silence down the slope to the outline of the wheel in the bare soil.

  ‘See how you might follow that circle when planting the bulbs. They will be red, I am told… a circle of flame to cheer a cold spring. We shall be long gone by then and this dispute with the King over. These will be a reminder of our enforced visit. If I stay much longer, I fear I shall feel like the Barnsley Green Bagshotts – rooted to the spot.’

  His eyes stared dully and she looked upon him with sudden pity. This man belonged nowhere, blown this way and that by the fortunes of war. The urge to touch his sleeve, gaze into his face to savour his countenance, was overpowering. This was a mighty oak with few roots to sustain it, easily crushed by a storm.

  ‘It will seem quiet when you all depart.’

  ‘How can that be when our very presence is obviously grievous to you?’

  ‘Aye, true enough, but while you bide we are safe enough and the noise and busyness of the troopers is strangely welcome after so many sad years of silence. There’s little enough to feast on here.’

  ‘Do you celebrate harvest home?’

  ‘Sometimes, when there is food and ale to spare, a fiddle for a few dances. Why ask you?’

  ‘Perhaps ’tis time for my men to help gather in the last of the corn and then let us all celebrate the ending of our visit and the siege in the city, for they will not survive the rigours of winter.’

  ‘I thought all you Puritans were against dancing and feasts? They are to be banned, I hear.’

  ‘Do I act like a Puritan or sobersides in black hat and sourdough face? I am a mere soldier of fortune. A feast will put some heart in my men before the winter bites our boots and fingers. A little singing and dancing will do no harm and help lighten our spirits.’

  The moon rose high in the gathering dusk, the Little Owl on its branch hooted its approval. Nazareth shivered with fear or excitement, she could no longer tell. Lucie watched them both from her window perch as they stood together over the stupid circle with scarce a chink of daylight between them; beauty and the beast from the old tale. Together they had destroyed Old Sarah’s garden. She must be the ears and the eyes of Father, protecting the Newhouse until his return, keeping them ever in her sight.

  Harvest Home

  The preparations for the harvest home took many days of plucking and drawing, skinning and boiling of fowls. Hares were snared for the pies and stiff pastes made to cover them in the brick oven. There were apple tarts to finish off the modest meal, cheese, honey cakes and bowls of crisp cabbage salad.

  It was hard for Nazareth to summon up any joy in this annual task. Harvest home was usually the crowning feast of the season’s calendar of hard toil but this year there was little to spare and she must hold back on generosity to the villagers for fear of shortages to come in another harsh winter.

  Everyone who could be spared was out in the fields while the
glorious weather held, stacking corn into stooks, threshing, storing the straw and delivering the corn to the mill. The Captain made his men put their backs into the tasks but they were derided for their efforts. They were town boys at heart and had no feeling for the job.

  After a mere six weeks in residence, how could they be other than alien soldiers garrisoned for convenience upon the village, tolerated but only with suspicion? It was going to be an awkward gathering for a harvest home.

  Martha, on the other hand, intended to let nothing spoil the dancing. There was little enough fun for young folk in the village, and if the war was lost and there would soon be edicts banning Christmas and feasting she wanted to make sure this one was a night to remember. She was determined to dance with every single man, soldier or no, and to wear her best kerchief around her plump neck. Miss Lucilla was being a trial as usual, not wanting to help with the chores or rise to the day’s busyness but lying abed looking pale and fevered. Sometimes she thought the child could turn on the heat and shivers at will but then, she was of a particular nature, not like any other bairn in the district. Martha knew how to humour the girl with promises and set her to plaiting the last sheaves of corn for a corn dolly. That would shut her up for a few hours.

  They were going to set up the board planks across the yard and the older folk would take cover from the night air in the barn. Cloths would be stretched over and garnished with green ivy and bunches of wheat in the usual way. The harvest sheaves would take pride of place and afterwards would stand all year in the fields to protect next year’s crop. Special loaves of wheat, rye and barley would be buried in the four corners. It was something they’d always done here since Adam was a lad. Mother said something about giving back what was taken out, but how could soil eat up bread? Martha thought it was a waste of good loaves but you must never tempt the hobgoblins to mischief so she would do as she was bid.

  It was going to be another sticky night. The moon was full in the dark sky and if she was lucky she might wish on a shooting star. The midges would be biting, the moths fluttering around the torches. She could not wait for the feasting to begin.

  At seven of the clock the fiddler arrived and the villagers drifted in, bagging the stools in the yard when they saw the soldiers lodged in the barn. It was going to be a stiff start, two opposing groups staring suspiciously at one another in the dusk. The food was placed upon the tables and folk munched warm pasties and chunks of bread, sipping mugs of ale and cider, stretching out to make sure they got their share before anyone else. The children darted under the boards, stuffing themselves from handouts like ravenous dogs.

  Nazareth could not bear to look at the gap at the end of the table where Beavis had once carved the roast beef and the haunch of venison. All was so utterly changed, it was useless to torment herself, but when she glanced up she saw Captain Micah sharing out baccy and clay pipes amongst the strangers and her heart jumped for a second at the sight of his handsome profile, his broad shoulders and courteous manner. How could she have borne this garrison without his presence to hold his men’s excesses in check? The pies, the beer and cider were beginning to loosen tongues and the tables were cleared. The children raced up and down but Lucilla stayed indoors, peering from the staircase with Peto jumping up and down at the window.

  ‘She’ll melt that pane of glass away with her breath,’ said Martha as she glanced up with a smile. ‘Shall I bring her down here, mistress?’

  ‘No, leave her be. Go to it and set the fiddler to a tune. It’s time for the dancing to begin.’ The fiddler tuned up his strings and from the shadows women glided forward to find their partners for the jig, promenading around the yard in an ever-changing pattern of lines and circles. Nazareth found her feet tapping and her hips swaying as she watched from the open door.

  In such a half light it was easy to imagine there was no warfare, no widows, no siege, no danger. As the cider and fruit wines rose to her head, loosening her resolve, it was easy to be guided into the circle by the Captain’s firm hand, to turn this way and that, sway and swerve, bend and bow, dip and dive. Her full skirt swished and swirled in his half embrace, soft supple fabric slipping from his touch. She felt his fingers caress hers; the touch of them in her palm sent shivers of tension and promise through her. This was madness but a little harvest dancing would do no harm, cementing peace in the camp.

  Oh, Nazareth! Who do you fool but yourself? Where will this madness end as end it must? She sipped more primrose wine to cool her brow but the heat of the night burned within her and as the harvest songs were sung and the old men got up to recite their ghostly stories to an eager audience, smoking pipes and steaming from the dancing, she drifted away down the path behind the house up to her hidden garden by the well. Away from the noise and the crush she could collect her thoughts. She kicked off her shoes and dangled her feet in the water to cool her fevered spirits.

  You are lonely and lust for the touch of any man who might soothe away this aching… Be strong. How long will this feeling last?

  I don’t want to test it. When he is not present in the company there’s no colour, only black emptiness. Micah has brought back the bluebell and the pink and the crimson of roses by his attentions. How could I have forgotten how deeply I need to feel desired? He is a strong man and I am weak. He will be strong for both of us, my shield and protection.

  ‘Oh, Micah.’ The name drifted from her like a sigh. She heard a rustle of leaves and footsteps but dared not turn round. ‘Micah Bagshott, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, I am here, Nazareth, by your side… What is your will of me?’ Her heart leapt that he had followed her across the hidden garden at a safe distance, like a moth scenting out the night stocks in the darkness.

  ‘Come with me.’ She drew him by the hand further down the bank into the darkness by the water’s edge. He needed no second bidding.

  *

  Later, as he lay sated with lovemaking, looking up towards the canopy of stars and the hedgerows which curtained this bed, he felt panic begin to rise; panic that he was caught in a luxurious bed of roses with thorns like daggers to stick into his flesh.

  You fool! This changes everything. You have succumbed to her witchcraft, now she has you bound to do her bidding.

  A dance, a dalliance perhaps, but not this overwhelming, crushing need of her. They were lost now in a dangerous labyrinth of secret trysts, cover ups and deception. How could he have forgotten himself so far as to fall into her perfumed trap? How many times had he spilled his seed over her body that night?

  Later still he crept to her room and whispered in her ear, ‘A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse.’

  In the dim light he could scarce make out where she ended and he began. Some dark flame hidden in their hearts had guided them both to this place and he was afraid. For so long he had kept himself safe, aloof from life, and now by her side in this bed there was at last something he felt a part of. Was this what was meant by the union of man and woman? There had been many couplings before, flesh with flesh, bargains sealed usually with a coin. This was so different in its power and intensity. He had never realised a woman could expose herself so openly to pleasure and pain.

  Now she slept while thunder rolled over them and lightning flashed in the night sky, Nazareth lay like a baby with arms outstretched and he felt such tenderness towards her, and such fear. She was so strong and he was made weak by her power. He wanted to shake her awake and tell her all these foolish thoughts but the moment passed. He heard the creak of the chamber door. He was unarmed and naked, instantly alert to danger.

  ‘Mother… I don’t like it when God plays bowls in the sky above. I can’t sleep, let me in…’

  A tiny figure in a nightgown and cap fumbled at the draperies and slid on to the bed. She was shaking her mother when she felt another body on the other side of the bed, saw him smiling back at her.

  ‘Why is that man in your bed? Go away! Mother, are you ill?’

  Nazareth awoke to the dawn light, tr
ying to comprehend all the fuss. ‘Shush! Climb in, Lucie, and let me go back to sleep.’

  ‘How can I when there’s a bad man in Father’s bed?’

  Nazareth turned with shock to see Micah’s smiling face. ‘No, Lucie, shush! Father would not mind now.’

  But the child would not be pacified and pulled back all the curtains, tearing at the rings and hitting Micah on the arm. ‘Go away! You are a traitor to the King! Mother, how can you bed with such?’

  ‘Lucilla, be calm! You don’t understand these matters. Go to your room and I shall come and comfort you and explain.’

  ‘I’ll tell Aunt Letty Salt and you’ll be denounced as a formycator from the pulpit! I know what that means. Cousin Richard does it in the barn with the maid and Tobias watches to learn how to put that thing inside her and shake it all about. They told me and I said that I never, ever, ever will let someone do that to me. Bawd! Harlot! That’s what they say about maids who do that. I shall tell on you. You’re wicked!’

  ‘Your mother’s not wicked, child. She’s lonely and I am lonely and so we comfort each other. We mean you no harm. It is privy to ourselves what we do here. None of your business.’

  ‘But it is! You do harm. You stop my father coming back to us. Go away!’

  Lucie beat on the bed with her fists and started to cry. Nazareth sat up, holding the counterpane before her to cover her breasts.

  ‘Lucie, dear, you don’t understand about your father.’

  ‘He stops my father… the soldiers of the enemy stop my father coming home to us.’ Tears rolled down the little girl’s pink cheeks.

  Micah did not know how to put right this mess. The girl was in some mummer’s play, pretending Saint George would rise from the dead to slay the dragon. ‘How can your father come home when he is six foot under the sod at Edgehill field?’