In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  Yes, his day had gone well enough but he was glad to be approaching the manor gates. It struck him that there was much good land laid waste out there, just lying fallow waiting for reclamation. He had spotted some mangy beasts grazing and foraging on the common land but preferred his serfs close by, at work in the manor fields under the Reeve’s watchful eye. They had their own hovels and were easy to curfew and control.

  Yet there was something about that spring where they’d cast off Courage into the air; the way it cascaded over rocks covered in moss, the carpet of wild flowers on the banks but above all the blood red globes of the peony bushes struggling towards the sunshine, bruising his eyes with their brightness. It was there, perhaps… Was that the very place of his dreams where shadow creatures disturbed his peace?

  Guy was stabbed with a jolt of alarm as sharp as any lance tip. Nothing remained of that day so long ago, no tell-tale bones, no survivors, nothing but the fall of Courage as he crashed down on his quarry to mark the spot. Like a falcon, Guy de Saultain shook himself. Surely there was nothing to fear from the place now?

  *

  Ambrosine de Saultain knelt by the bedside praying fervently for the fear to leave her. Her father was dying; his sickness had worsened since the last time he’d gone hawking many weeks ago. Now he was like a skeleton with yellow shiny skin drawn tight over his bones and his eyes had a faraway look. If only she could get him to eat and keep down what the cooks prepared. He lay in the solar above the hall, a private chamber for the family’s use, propped up on feather bolsters. Sometimes she sat and mopped his brow while the monk from the infirmary at the Minster offered infusions and powders to ease his pain. She’d hoped for a cure but the monk had shaken his head sadly and talked of weeks, a month at most.

  Something troubled her father’s soul. He was fearful of sleep and the poppy juice decoctions. Father had always been tough, as tall as the great oaks in the forest, everlasting and eternal. This man was so weak, so mortal, like a trunk riven by lightning, broken and laid bare. In all of her eighteen years Ambrosine had basked in the sunshine of his approval, his obvious pride in the way she’d stepped so easily into her mother’s place even as a little girl of ten. She was his peace weaver, the first born, with hair like spun gold. He’d often pointed proudly to her high brow and straight back, his ‘little princess’ and ‘queen of his heart’.

  Her own birth bridged the gap between two opposing worlds, forged links with the proud Saxon forebears of the Long Hall – Ludmilla and Godfrid the Strong. Ambrosine, born on 4 April, the feast day of Saint Ambrose, spoke two tongues: the rich native language of her mother and wet nurse and the French of her father’s northern Gaul. He still needed her to translate for him even after twenty years as knight of this manor. Lady Edwenna had been proud of her Saxon forebears and their Gods but Guy de Saultain insisted on Latin names for his offspring. Sometimes Mother had travelled afar to worship at the well shrine of St Chad, close to the Minster. She told wondrous stories of his greatness to her daughter; how he hung his cloak on a rainbow, for instance. Father laughed at such nonsense, dismissing all ‘Anglais’ holymen as savages. It was he who insisted she spoke the French tongue and learned her letters to understand how the household functioned, giving her the heavy keys of the chatelaine as soon as her poor mother slipped so cruelly from them.

  The keys had weighed down her girdle and her spirits ever since. Gilbert and Robert were still young and silly colts, immersed in battle arts. They treated her like a mother and she scolded their tutors for spoiling them and Father for being too busy to bother disciplining them. Even now they would ignore their sister’s pleas and ride off with other boys to make mischief among the peasants: teasing old men, flirting with the pretty maids and testing their manhood in the usual ways. She had little power to stop them and Father was in no state to try. They were ignorant of good script, attended worship only when bribed, and drank from Father’s cellar without his permission. It was a pity they were too young to find wives and settle down out of her way.

  Sometimes she felt as if her own life was slipping away in the care of others. Ambrosine yearned for the peace of a cloister, time to read and contemplate the religious life. The holy rule of St Benedict – that was the life for her. Enough of giving orders, managing the household servants, readying the chambers for guests, making sure they were well provisioned for the winter months, which took so much preparation in the kitchen garden, the orchard, the dairy, the buttery and candlery. Then organising all the clothing to be hung on poles, mended, sponged down and freshened. Now she was supervising her father’s last journey in life and wanted to do it as he would wish.

  The girl looked around the chamber with satisfaction. The walls were curtained with fine tapestries, some worked many years ago. Others she and her mother had worked together; she sitting at her mother’s knee handing out threads and needles, fingering the fine strands between her fingers, sorting them into shades of colour like an arc of the rainbow while her mother sewed such beautiful pictures of flowers and unicorns. It was one of the memories she clung to on sad days for she still missed her mother’s gentle touch.

  Ambrosine knew that childbirth was dangerous for all but the most robust and wanted none of it. Her own betrothal had been delayed because the boys were too young and too wild, and now her father was too ill to make any decisions. Once he was dead she would quietly disappear into a secluded convent and live life as she chose at last.

  She fingered the quilted counterpane with admiration. It was one of Father’s treasures, made for his bride in a convent near Arras; the stitching so neat and straight, whorls of feathery patterns so carefully executed. Whoever had made this was an artist of great skill and she longed to have the time to learn such a craft. She had servants to clean and cook, to bake and mend clothes, but no one to whom she could talk as an equal and share all her dreams, no confidant. No one to whom she could confess her fears for she had a little weakness which troubled her very much.

  As she glanced over the dark room, she knew she was really looking for movement: scuttling spiders, fluttering moths, buzzing flies, the drone of wasps, the shiny coats of beetles across the rushes on the floor. How God could create such tiny monsters to terrify her, she would never understand. They had no place in her chamber and she tried desperately to remove any trace of their presence. Sweat would pour from her brow as she made her nightly inspection of the room to see if long-legged spiders were lurking in the crevices, waiting to descend on silken threads. If she were alone she would scream and rush out as if they were chasing her, big as she was.

  She employed one of the young thralls, Aella, the cleanest, prettiest of the serving girls, solely to go before her into the solar and examine each wall, garment and surface for any intruders. Whether she killed them or not Ambrosine did not wish to know. The evidence must be removed. She herself was too sensitive to crush a flea but felt easier now this delicate matter was being taken care of by another girl.

  It troubled her that they must open the doors and window shutters, untie all the knots and bindings around the room, so that her father’s spirit would be free to escape from his body when the time came. More opportunities for the winged invaders to trouble her though it was a selfish thought when Father was so weary of life. Her duty was to make him more comfortable, to wash him gently with lavender and balm oils, to plump his pillow and tend to his sores.

  Guy de Saultain stirred in his half sleep, muttering to himself, ‘Begone!… Dieu!’

  ‘Gently, sire, it’s only me… only a bad dream.’ The girl held his hand. It took him all his strength to pull it away.

  ‘Don’t touch me… I’m doomed… evil under the sun!’

  ‘Shall I fetch Father Jerome? He’ll guide you through this darkness to the light, Father.’

  ‘No, no priest yet. Take the fear from me, Ambrosine. Give me some peace.’

  ‘What troubles you so? I must fetch the Father, he alone will know what to do… Please?’


  ‘No one outside must hear this, it’s for your ears only, child. Perhaps if I tell you, it’ll lose its power over me…’

  ‘Tell me what?’ She leant over to catch his murmuring. His breath was foul, she could barely stand to breathe in. Guy de Saultain sat up, strangely calm and steady now. ‘This happened long ago on our arrival… I was young and proud. You have to understand what kind of man your father was… I want you to meet Guy of the shadows.’

  For the first and only time in his long life he told someone about the hut by the well.

  Afterwards he lay back exhausted by the effort of confession. Ambrosine sat frozen, ice cold, her face bleached by his words; pictures of that terrible scene flitted before her eyes like glimpses of Hell. She felt sick in her belly, gagging at his description of such vileness. Her back ached from sitting so rigidly, at first hardly daring to move for fear of disturbing his flow. Somewhere out there, close enough to Longhall, this man and his soldiers had done a terrible deed, out of spite, vengeance, even enjoyment, with no thought for their immortal souls or those of the victims they tortured and slaughtered. How could her own father be lying here yet party to such horrors? Now the knowledge of what was done to that mother and her baby was hers too and she felt soiled and sullied, sickened by his words.

  ‘I was young, child. I thought I would live forever, that no harm would come if it was shriven from me. Now I know better. It has never left me and I must take it with me. Pray for me or how can I be forgiven?’ he pleaded.

  ‘You must ask Father Jerome. I cannot speak on such matters.’ Ambrosine found herself talking in a dull flat voice as if from a great distance away.

  The images were still all around her, the cries and the screams. How could she rid herself of them? He had showered them over her and now she was drenched in their foulness. She shifted her stool to draw back from him. His confession had disgusted her but now it was inside her own head, it was as if the shame belonged to her also. This was her father, knight of the shire. How could a Godfearing man do such things to innocents? Who else of their servants was witness to these deeds? Was she also guilty of this crime for being of his flesh? If so she must quickly go and make confession. Father Jerome would know what to do.

  The Spider Brusher

  As dusk drew its shadows across the woods, gates and shutters were closed to keep out strangers and the foul night air. Aella, Bagnold’s daughter, stood waiting at the foot of the solar stairs to see if her mistress needed the room swept; the nightly ritual which was a secret between them. The manor was subdued; people talked in whispers and mouthed their orders. Straw was laid over the courtyard cobbles to deafen the horses’ hooves and soothe the final passage of the old knight into the next world.

  For Aella, life at the manor house was her entire world and she willingly lingered late to help where she was ordered: fetching, carrying, sweeping, peeling, dunking, serving and clearing away, weeding in the kitchen patch, feeding hens, ducks, geese. Maid of all things, she often thought, but loved it just the same. There was always some task to delay the dreaded moment when she must leave the compound and return to sleep with her sisters in their cottage, listening to the drunken swaggering of her dad as he bickered with Mother late into the night.

  In the hall there was bustle, noisy banter, gossip and good scraps to fill her belly. Home was a damp hut, colourless and drab; a few sticks and stools, a wooden meal kist, a pot on the fire, smoke, dirt, bugs and vermin. Aella was confused by the two worlds she must pass between. If only she had been born to a knight not a swineherd with one arm. On the ladder of village life they were almost on the bottom rung and she knew that only her fair looks and tidy manner had won her such a place with the de Saultains.

  At the top came the Steward and the village Reeve and his cronies, who looked after the estate for Sire Guy. The ale brewers were popular and the ploughman respected but no one listened to Bagnold. Dad was worse than the crazy idiot son of the miller when he was fired up with juice. Ranting of the way he had lost his lands and freedom to the murdering Normans and his arm to their swords. No one believed a word he said. He was a foundling from the woods after the troubles of many years back though he went on as if it were yesterday, not long before any of them was born. He forbade Aella to work at the hall but had no power to dissuade her other than his belt when she went there all the same. Couldn’t he see she was doing them a favour by spending her days there? It left more space for her stupid sisters to pull each other’s hair out and spit at each other.

  She knew that serfs were not allowed to leave the village, to buy or sell or marry without their knight’s say so. All this talk of clearing the land at Frithswell was a load of cow dung. Baggi’s shotts at Frithswell, wheresoever that was, meant nothing to her though her father had been full of nothing else since last hawking day; the last time their lord had ridden out.

  Bagnold had found the well and his mother’s patch, apparently. It was all there just waiting to be dug over. There was no stopping his fancies when he was ale-soaked and puffed up like a rooster. No wonder she never wanted to go home.

  Now the door was opening and she could see candles flickering as she was summoned up the stairs. Aella tiptoed through the solar, the stench of many potions in her nostrils. The knight lay still on sunbleached white linen. His daughter glided silently by, beckoning her through into the small chamber where she had her bed.

  The four corners were to be inspected. She must kneel on the floor and brush away all that might offend the eye. Those were her instructions. Then inspect each garment hanging from the pole. How she would love to finger the fine clothes, their fur-trimmed edges and silken girdles, but there was no time. Aella took a candle to the wall and watched the flies hop from the hangings. She passed it rapidly through the air to burn the wings off any insects. Next she took a stool to reach into the ceiling corners and brush away any new cobwebs but never touched the spiders where they hid. That would bring bad luck and misfortune on all of them. Live and let live, she thought as she swept them out of sight. Bugs never bothered her, not even when they lived in her hair and on her clothes, you just got used to them. But ladies were different creatures and not used to uninvited guests residing on them.

  Aella drank in every detail of her lady’s chamber; the wall hangings to keep out the cold and damp, the candle holders with real tallow candles, the pet dog asleep on the bearskin rug, the solid bedstead raised off the ground. On the long oak chest stood a silver and gilt cross before which Lady Ambrosine prayed to the Blessed Virgin, her gold-leaved Psalter, fine carved comb and a bowl of dried rose petals and herbs to scent the air. It was like living in paradise. Aella basked in the sight of it but knew she could never live in such splendour. It was enough just to pass through into this room and be of service.

  How lucky she was to have been the chosen one though the other servants teased her and called her names like ‘bug warden’ and ‘spider brusher’. Everyone knew how terrified the mistress was of creepy crawlies while Aella was as tough as the ploughman’s boots when it came to catching, skinning, gutting, ripping off skins, so a few bee stings would mean nothing to her.

  Now her nightly task was finished she turned to retrace her steps but her mistress stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  ‘Aella, you must know this domain well… do you know of a wellspring by the edge of the forest?’

  ‘There are many wells in this forest and all have names. My dad used to live by one they called Frithswell when he was a small boy… or so he says. I’ve been out of this place but once, to the next clearing for a wedding. With your father’s permission, of course.’ She averted her eyes in case Lady Ambrosine might see she was lying for in fact she had accompanied her father on his many poaching trips and knew the watery banks by the stream better than any lad in Longhall.

  ‘Did your father live long in these woods?’

  ‘He came here as a child in your father’s time. All the outsiders were brought into the village after the troubles, o
r so he tells us.’

  ‘What troubles?’ quizzed the mistress, her blue eyes piercing Aella’s composure.

  ‘I think it was in the old thane’s time or thereabouts. There was much destruction… so he says. My lady, he’s a man of many words when he sits at the ale bench, but his arm was cut off before he came to Longhall and seared here by the smithy’s iron. That bit is true.’ Aella was oddly troubled by all these questions. Never before had her mistress addressed her so earnestly.

  ‘You may go now, Aella. Speak to no one of these matters. The past has a long arm, I fear.’

  ‘My father speaks much of the past too. He wears out my ears!’ She bowed and smiled, seeing her mistress’s mood lighten at her jest.

  *

  Ambrosine tossed and turned all night, trying to rid herself of the fear, the shame and puzzlement of her father’s revelation, but it was the parish priest, Father Jerome, the fussy little man with the high voice and girlish manner, who provided the solution with such a simple idea. She had cornered him next morning after Mass, tempting his fast with a platter of honey-baked comfits and asking him how best a troubled soul might redeem themself for the afterlife.

  ‘Almsgiving, good works, visiting the sick, penance and pilgrimage, Masses for the repose of the soul. They are the tried and trusted route. Flagellation and fasting I prescribe only in extreme cases. Why do you ask?’