by Kate Forsyth
Despite her age, she moved gracefully, leading me through to a peaceful garden, with bare trees espaliered against the walls and long beds of dank straw sheltering the bases of what looked like twigs sticking out of the soil. There was a small stone hut against one wall, with a quaint thatched roof that almost touched the ground.
‘We’ll find some hoes and spades in there.’ Sœur Seraphina gave me a look of laughing sympathy. ‘Come on, don’t look so sour. It’s a beautiful day. Surely you’d rather be out here in the sunshine than being whipped by Sœur Emmanuelle?’
‘I suppose so.’ I lifted my face to the warmth of the sun, took a deep breath and felt some of the weight of misery fall away.
Sœur Seraphina went into the hut and returned a few moments later, her arms laden with tools. ‘Here are some gloves for you, to save your pretty hands.’ She tossed me two leather gauntlets and a broad-brimmed straw hat swathed with a veil, like a peasant woman might wear. ‘Put it on. The sun can wreak havoc with your complexion.’
Gazing at her in some puzzlement, for it sounded strange to hear a nun speak of pretty hands and complexions, I pulled on the gloves and hat, tossing my white cap onto the windowsill of the hut.
‘Let me check my bees first.’ Sœur Seraphina led the way across to the south-facing wall. Recesses had been built in the wall and stuffed with straw. ‘Help me unswaddle the hives. Take care, you don’t want to disturb the bees.’
She began pulling away handfuls of straw and clumsily I helped her. A beehive made of plaited rushes was revealed beneath the straw, standing on a small round table with a single leg. ‘The straw helps keep the bees warm in winter,’ Sœur Seraphina explained. She pulled aside a stone shingle set on top of the beehive and set her ear to the hole. ‘Lovely. Listen to them hum.’
Curiously, I bent my head down. To my delighted surprise, I could indeed hear a low droning sound.
‘It was a hard winter. I was afraid I’d lose a few hives,’ Sœur Seraphina said as we busied ourselves unswaddling a dozen or so of the round woven skeps. ‘The first blossoms are just beginning to show. The worker bees will soon be out and about collecting their nectar. And then the poor old queen will at last escape the hive and fly, for only the second time in her life.’
‘Queen? Don’t you mean the king?’
She paused in her task. ‘There is no king. Only a queen, who spends her life entombed in the hive as surely as we are kept walled up in here.’
I laughed. ‘That’s not right. Why, it is said that the beehive is the best example of how a kingdom should be run, with all the workers serving the king. And we’re always being preached sermons about how His Majesty the King must rule with both sweetness and the sting, just like the king bee.’
‘It is in fact a queen bee that rules the hive, not a king. A Dutch scientist proved it more than twenty years ago, when he dissected a queen bee and found her ovaries.’
I gasped, never having heard anyone speak quite so frankly, and then began to laugh. Gusts of merriment shook me, so much that I had to lean my hand against the wall to stop myself from falling to the ground.
‘Zut alors. To think how I adorned myself in a dress embroidered with bees to do homage to the King … Would he know, do you think? He only sits and smiles whenever anyone calls him the King Bee.’
‘I don’t know … he’s interested in the sciences, isn’t he? Didn’t he establish the Académie?’
I looked at Sœur Seraphina in surprise. She was knowledgeable for an old nun. ‘Well, yes,’ I replied, ‘though to my knowledge he’s never been. I’ve never even seen the King read a book, let alone go to a salon or a meeting of the Académie. Sacré bleu. What a joke. I must write to the Princesses and tell them. They would love to style themselves the queen bees of the court.’
With that last comment, my laughter died, as I remembered that I was no longer the confidante of the King’s daughters, nor even permitted to write letters. I felt my misery return.
‘I will call you when it comes time for the bees to swarm,’ Sœur Seraphina said. ‘It truly is a magnificent sight. Magnificent and terrifying.’
‘Rather like the court,’ I answered, trying to smile.
‘Indeed. Maybe the beehive is a true symbol of the court after all. If so, perhaps you are better away from it. It can be as much a prison for the soul as a convent, you know.’
This was true. I looked at her in interest. She was an intriguing woman, this nun, with her brilliant, honey-coloured eyes and her worldly wise conversation. Not at all what I had expected of an apothecary in a small poverty-stricken convent in the depths of the country.
‘When it comes time for the queen to lead the swarm, you must help me catch them. I do not want to lose any of my bees,’ the old nun said. ‘Come, let us light a fire and boil a kettle for some tea before we begin to dig and hoe. I don’t know about you, but the food they serve here never seems to truly fill the hole.’
Since I had had nothing but a cup of milk for hours, I gladly helped Sœur Seraphina kindle a fire in the hearth of the little hut, and then looked about me with interest.
Herbs hung from the beams, and the shelves were laden with jars filled with dried leaves and flowers and curious powders of red and sulphur yellow and chestnut brown. There was a scarred wooden table and two stools in the middle of the hut, and, against the back wall, a small bed covered neatly with a crazy patchwork counterpane, the most colourful and chaotic thing I had seen since coming to Gercy-en-Brie. A heavy marble mortar and pestle stood on a bench, its interior stained dark brown.
‘Let me see, what tea shall I make us today? St John’s wort to make us happy; rosehips and elderflowers to make us healthy; motherwort to make us wise; and a spoonful of honey to make us sweet.’ Sœur Seraphina scooped dried leaves and flowers from various jars and added them to a squat clay teapot, then poured in boiling water from the kettle.
‘Nothing to make us wealthy?’ I asked.
‘What need do we have of money?’ she answered, her hazel-golden eyes bright with humour. She poured the pale fragrant brew into two earthenware cups and spooned in some honey.
‘If I had money, I could buy my freedom. I wouldn’t have to be locked up here at the whim of the King. I could go wherever I wanted and fear nothing.’
Sœur Seraphina filled up the kettle again from the barrel of rainwater outside the door and put it back on the fire, before replying gravely, ‘Yes, I can see that it would make a difference to you. Me, I’ve been wealthy, and I can promise you it does not lead to happiness.’
‘Neither does poverty.’
She passed me one of the cups. ‘No, that is true, of course. Come, let’s go out into the sunshine and drink our tea. Would you carry my basket for me?’
Carrying the steaming kettle in her other hand, she led the way out into the garden again. We perched side by side on one of the low walls, and tentatively I sipped my tea. It was quite delicious and warmed me through.
‘Look, the bees are already foraging.’ She pointed to a few golden striped insects busy in the pale-blue rosemary flowers. ‘They’re glad spring is here too.’
I smiled and drank my tea, and ate a small sticky ball made from honey and nuts and fruit that Sœur Seraphina passed me from a jar. With the sun on my back, the bees humming and the hot cup in my hands, I felt comfortable and at peace for the first time in months.
‘Now the danger of frost has passed, we can plant the first seeds.’ Sœur Seraphina rummaged in her basket. ‘Cabbage and leeks, broad beans and peas, parsley and borage and thyme. Let us do the parsley first – it takes the longest to germinate. You know they call parsley “the devil’s seeds”?’ She pulled out a small calico bag with ‘prezzemolo’ scrawled on it.
‘No, why?’ I asked, putting down my empty cup.
‘I’m not sure why. There’s a legend that parsley first grew where the blood of some Greek hero was spilt. And so the Greeks used to put bunches of it on graveyards, and sprinkle it onto corpses.’
‘Why? To hide the stench? I didn’t think parsley had a strong smell.’
‘It probably had more to do with its symbolic meaning: parsley self-seeds, which means it can spring up again from where the mother plant died. Though it takes a while to germinate, like I said. When I was a child, people said that’s because the seeds travelled to hell and back seven times before sprouting.’
As she spoke, Sœur Seraphina was raking aside the half-rotten straw and making shallow grooves in the dark soil beneath. She then sprinkled tiny black seeds into the grooves. ‘It could just be because they are the very devil to strike,’ she said. ‘Would you pass me the kettle?’
I did as she asked, wrapping the handle in my apron so I did not burn my hand. Sœur Seraphina then poured a stream of boiling water from the kettle over the seeds. ‘They like it hot,’ she said with a broad grin. ‘Here, you have a go now.’
Kneeling beside her, I copied her movements. The fresh spring air smelt wonderful, of sunshine on new leaves and the first sweet blossoms. It took me back to my childhood, for my mother could be found in the small walled garden at the chateau in her rare moments of repose. In her simple grey gown, she would walk along the brick pathways, scissors in one hand and a basket over her arm. She would pick flowers for the chateau and healing herbs for her simples room.
‘Here, Bon-bon, smell this,’ she would say, picking a pale purple spike of lavender. ‘It is the best thing for headaches. You soak two handfuls of the flowers in boiling water and a few drops of lavender oil, and then let it cool. Then all you need to do is soak your handkerchief in it and lay it on your brow.’
Many times, I would limp to her, weeping, with a grazed knee or bruised shin after falling from my pony or being knocked down by my dog. She would sit on the carved wooden bench and draw me into her lap, examining the bruise with grave attention. ‘Never mind, my Bon-bon. I have some ointment made from wolf’s bane that will soon fix that. Do you remember which one is wolf’s bane? Yes, that’s right, the yellow flower there, like a little sunflower. It’ll draw all the pain away, just like the sun draws away the clouds. By tomorrow, you won’t be able to tell where you hurt yourself.’
Looking about the convent’s walled garden, I saw that buds were about to burst open on the apple trees and a few tender green shoots were just nudging aside the straw. Pale hellebores swayed on their delicate stems under the trees, and the white-spotted heart-shaped leaves of lungwort were bursting out all around the mossy base of the well.
I took a deep breath and said impulsively to Sœur Seraphina, ‘I’m so glad I’m out here in the garden with you.’
‘I thought some fresh air and exercise would do you good. You were looking rather pale,’ Sœur Seraphina replied.
‘I felt as if the walls were closing in on me.’
‘I was counting on Sœur Emmanuelle viewing gardening as a punishment, not an escape. She comes from a noble family, and she found the rule that we all must work difficult to obey. To her, grubbing about in a garden is peasant’s work, and so she hoped to humiliate you. She does not understand that it is a joy to work in God’s garden, and the best cure for any ill of the body or soul.’
‘It’s certainly better than emptying chamber pots, which is what she normally tells me to do. I’ll have to pretend that I hated it, so she’ll allow me to come out again.’
‘I had another card up my sleeve if I needed it. Only married women or widows are meant to plant parsley seeds. Any virgin who does so risks being impregnated by Lucifer.’ Sœur Seraphina laughed. ‘So, you see, they’d have had to let you come and help me. There’s not another woman in the place who is not still virgo intacta.’
I laughed too. I could not help it. Her amusement was so infectious. And once I started laughing, I could not stop. I could just imagine Sœur Seraphina in chapter, her hands piously folded in her sleeves, solemnly telling Mère Notre that only a known cocotte like me could possibly help her plant parsley seeds. Sœur Seraphina laughed as well. With her hat pushed back on her brow, showing tendrils of pale reddish-grey hair, and her mud-stained apron and gloves, it was possible to forget that she was a nun and I was incarcerated in a convent, and imagine myself just a normal woman, laughing in a garden with a friend.
‘So … does that mean that you too …’ I faltered, not knowing how to frame my question without being offensive.
‘Have had lovers? Oh, yes, my dear, many. I have not always lived in a convent, you know. Like you, I came to the cloisters later in life. I think sometimes it is better that way. So many of the women here have never tasted life. They feel sick with longings they do not understand, and so it is hard for them to find peace. I came to the shelter of the abbey after a long life of joy and sorrow and many, many sins, I fear, and so I am content here with my garden and my bees.’
I looked down at my muddy leather gloves. ‘I don’t think I’ll find peace here.’
‘Not at first, but perhaps with time you will. Time heals what reason cannot.’
‘I don’t think so.’ My voice was harsh.
She was silent for a long moment. ‘I know you find your banishment from court hard, but, believe me, it could be much, much worse. This is not a true prison. You can come out here to the garden and see the sky and listen to the birds singing and the bees humming in the flowers. You can work with your own two hands and see things you have planted grow and bring beauty to the world. You can eat what you have grown, and that is a joy too. Then there is the music and the singing, which is a balm to the soul, and the convent itself is filled with beauty, the soaring pillars and the windows glowing like jewels and the embroidered tapestries. And you will make friends too. You are not alone. Trust me, it is much harder to endure such things if you are alone.’
I shrugged one shoulder, not willing to believe her. She sat back on her heels, looking down at the bag of parsley seeds she held in her hands. ‘I knew a girl once who was kept locked away for years, all by herself. It’s a wonder she didn’t go mad.’
I leant forward, eager for a story as always. ‘But why? Who locked her up?’
‘Her parents had sold her to a sorceress for a handful of bitter greens.’ Sœur Seraphina ran one hand through the tiny black seeds in the bag. ‘Parsley, wintercress and rapunzel. When she was twelve, the sorceress shut the girl up in a high tower built far away in a forest, in a room without a door or stair. The tower had only one narrow window, with its shutters locked tight so she could not see the sky …’
CANTATA
All my childhood I heard about love
but I thought only witches could grow it
in gardens behind walls too high to climb.
‘The Prince’
Gwen Strauss
A SPRIG OF PARSLEY
The Rock of Manerba, Lake Garda, Italy – May 1599
These three things were true:
Her name was Margherita.
Her parents had loved her.
One day, she would escape.
At the worst times, when the walls of the tower seemed to press upon her ribcage, Margherita would repeat these three things over and over again, like sorrowful mysteries muttered over a rosary.
She had been locked away in this one small stone room at the age of twelve. Fifty-one full moons had passed since then, shown by the scars on her wrists. If she did not escape soon, surely she would die.
Venice, Italy – April 1590
Margherita first met the sorceress on the day she turned seven.
Ordinarily, on the way home from market, Margherita would have been skipping along, singing at the top of her voice, or walking precariously along the narrow edge of the canal, arms spread wide. Today, though, she walked slowly, her tongue curled sideways and set in the gap where her front teeth used to be – a sign of intense concentration. Margherita was carrying a small, warm, precious cake in her hands. It smelt fragrantly of cinnamon and sugar. She lifted it to her nose, then quickly licked the edge of the cake. The taste was an explosion of s
weetness and richness in her mouth.
It was hard not to cram the whole cake into her mouth, but Margherita’s mother had trusted her with its purchase and safe return. Last year, Margherita’s birthday had been in the middle of Lent, and she had not been allowed to eat any meat, or milk, or eggs, or anything delicious at all. This year, her birthday fell on the day after Easter Sunday, so her mother, Pascalina, had decided to hold a special feast for her birthday. Margherita resisted temptation, revelling in the warmth between her hands and the fragrance in her nostrils.
The canal beside her was murky green, its undulating skin glinting like scales of silver, reflecting ripples of light all over the stone walls on either side. Far above the flapping lines of washing, the narrow slice of sky was misty blue.
As Margherita turned into the narrow calle that led to her father’s studio and shop, a woman stepped out of a shadowy doorway in front of her. She seemed to shine in the gloom like a candle. Her dress and cape were of cloth of gold, worn over a sheer chemise with a high ruffled collar that framed her face like a saint’s halo. She was tall, taller than Margherita’s father, taller than any woman Margherita had ever seen before.
‘Good morning, Margherita,’ the woman said, smiling down at her. ‘Happy birthday.’
Margherita stared up at her in surprise. She was sure she had never seen this woman before. It was not a face that would be easily forgotten. The woman had skin as smooth and pale as cream, and her hair was almost as red as Margherita’s. She wore it hanging loose like a maiden’s, though so artfully curled and coiled and plaited it must have taken an hour to create. On the back of her head was a small cap of golden satin, sewn with jewels and edged with gilt ribbon. Her eyes were exactly the same colour as her hair. Like a lion’s, Margherita thought. Lions were everywhere in Venice, standing proud on pillars, carved in bas-relief around doors, or painted on the walls of churches. Lions with hungry golden eyes, just like this woman who knew Margherita’s name.