In the Heart of the Garden

by Leah Fleming

  During all of this time only a trickle of news reached Longhall about the faraway crusade, and by then the details would be months old and unreliable. Once a prayer of thanksgiving was announced that the Siege of Antioch was over and the city relieved or stormed. Ambrosine heard rumours from the packman’s tittle-tattle fed to her servants about knights returned with limbs missing or stricken with terrible wounds, half starved with hunger, in rags or carried home dead on biers to be buried within their castle walls. For them life went on untrammelled by such worries. Little William, Hugo, and the new babe Benedict raced over the estate like puppies just as Gilbert and Robert had done as children, with hardly a recollection of that fateful morning when the knights rode out to their great adventure.

  *

  It was the late spring of the year 1100 when two horses kicked up the dust on the beaten cart track from the Minster Cathedral to Longhall. Heads looked up with interest; men working in the field strips, the women picking stones. No one recognised the dusty horses or their dark-skinned riders. Strangers were always viewed with deep suspicion but the hounds in the manor yard did not bark. It was only as the men rode past the smithy that Aella, the farrier’s wife saw the grubby crosses on their armour as she pulled Hilde and young Thomas away from their horses’ hooves. There was something in the way one of them slouched in the saddle which made her recall old Sire Guy in his latter days, returning from hawking, exhausted and sick.

  Ambrosine was called from her chamber out into the courtyard. She stood stock still at the sorry sight before her. The first man had skin burned dark with a scar running across his cadaverous face and piercing black eyes. The other was recognisably Robert, but not the brother who had ridden out square of face with blue eyes sharp as sapphires. These were sick men, hunched over like bows. Robert almost fell off his horse with exhaustion and collapsed into her arms, saying scarcely a word above a whisper.

  ‘Where’s Gilbert? Is he behind you?’ she asked. Robert stared at her, his eyes watering, and Ambrosine knew that her elder brother would never return. ‘Oh, poor Madline…’

  Two grooms escorted Robert the new Lord of Longhall to his chamber and the noisy children fell silent at the sight of the dirty, smelly strangers. Madline was not to be found so Ambrosine gathered up the children and pushed them out into the park field to play with a ball, telling them to be good for their mother and very quiet.

  The other soldier sat by the empty hearth ravenously supping wine and bread, too intent on his task to notice his surroundings. Ambrosine noticed the way his hands shook as he held the goblet. He looked up suddenly, aware of her at last. ‘Forgive me… I forget my manners before a lady. It’s been a long time. I am Geoffrey Gonville. Robert and I have travelled far together. I’m on my way home too, near to Chester by the old stone road. He was not fit to do the last part of his journey alone.’

  ‘I can’t believe this is my brother. He’s so changed.’ Ambrosine paced the floor, hugging her arms around herself, chilly with sadness.

  ‘We’ve seen too much, travelled too far, not to seem different and Robert was sore at heart for his own hearth. It didn’t go well for us. Oh, at first, yes, there were many places to see and admire. But always the heat, the dust, the terrible sieges. And too much injury and sickness. I’m sorry about your other brother.’ Gonville paused. ‘We’ve all lost good friends and comrades.’ He shot her a look of pure anguish. She could not meet it for her instinct was to gather the stranger to her like a child and hug him close.

  ‘You must rest here until you are fit to journey on. It is the only way we can thank you for your courtesy in bringing Robert back safely to us.’ Even as she spoke she saw his eyelids droop and he slumped over the table and slept where he sat.

  Madline crept in like a shadow, gliding across the rush-strewn floor, her face pale, mouth quivering with emotion.

  ‘Ambrosine… he’s dead! Gilbert’s gone. He got as far as Antioch but the siege was long and fierce. Robert says he did not suffer but he lies. I can see it in his eyes. I’ve told the boys he now commands the soldiers of Christ, worthy of great honour and love and never to be forgotten here. We shall make an effigy to his memory. I shall see to it straight away. Benedict will never know…’ Machine fell into her sister-in-law’s arms sobbing.

  ‘We’ll not forget him,’ whispered Ambrosine, choking back tears. ‘How can we? For every time I see one of his sons I shall see his chin, his flaxen hair, the curve of his nose. While we live so will he in our memory, I promise.’

  She felt an icy calm. Her brother’s return had changed nothing. She must act as head of the household, ministering to them all as she had done ever since her mother died and her own childhood ended. Robert would need nursing and the stranger, Gonville, hospitality as befitted his rank. Madline needed to be kept busy. It was the only way with widows. Now was not a time to mourn and think of what might have been; that would come long years later.

  *

  In the weeks which followed their sudden arrival neither knight was fit to be moved or to venture far out of Longhall. It was as if once the burden of their sad news was laid down it gave them both leave to collapse into sickness and fever. Robert slept for a week, sipping only the tisanes of camomile, vervain or yarrow and juice of the soporific poppy prepared by his sister. Geoffrey Gonville was fitter, stronger in mind and body, and soon began to devour roasted flesh and drink whatever was put in his hand, draining the cup with relish. He would take himself off on horseback, roaming around the countryside as if preparing himself for the last trek northwards.

  Ambrosine drew great strength from his quiet presence, his gentle, thoughtful ways. He was a man of few words, as if he carefully censored anything which might cause her any distress or concern. He would sit at the dining board, deep in thought, while Madline and Ambrosine prattled over every snippet of information concerning the lost Gilbert. Only when Madline left to see to other matters would he come properly awake. In those moments he would flash his dark eyes in Ambrosine’s direction, black as sloes in a bowl of cream, and she was silenced, blushing like a silly maid at the intensity of his gaze. She had never before been discountenanced by a man’s presence; with father, brothers, stewards, priests she could hold her head high. But this man made her feel awkward and gauche. There was something in the way Gonville searched her face which was disconcerting and she could feel a flutter of wings in the pit of her belly. How strange that any man could stir up such a turmoil within her. She found herself falling silent, breaking his gaze, looking away.

  Robert eventually recovered enough to shuffle around the manor and take air in the park field. Madline suggested they go up into the forest to give him some cooler air and Gonville, who seemed in no hurry to depart, said he too would be happy to accompany them all.

  ‘Such a strange man, don’t you think? One minute so courteous and charming, another distant from us all. But he stares at you, sister, or had you not noticed? His eyes follow you across the chamber.’ Madline nudged her sister-in-law mischievously.

  ‘Nonsense! I expect I remind him of his sister or betrothed…’ she spluttered.

  ‘Who’s blushing now? You have noticed then?’

  Ambrosine said nothing more and tried to look disinterested but she was aware that her legs were trembling as they dismounted to rest for a while by the well at Fridswell. ‘I want to see how my new plantings are getting on,’ she said.

  Madline looked at her sadly. ‘I’m sorry, once again life has got in the way of your plans. You’re not meant to be a holy bride of Christ, Ambrosine. I remember how you used to argue with Gilbert until you were both puce with rage. You insisted you would be an anchoress and he said: over his dead body.’ She stopped suddenly, the memories flooding over her. ‘He wanted only what was best for his sister, I’m sure, and now you will be free to choose your own path. He has no power over you any longer.’

  She smiled weakly. ‘His children are my life now… at least I have the comfort of being of service to them.
And Robert needs us both. Have you heard him crying out in the night like a child? It churns my heart to see him so weakened.’

  Ambrosine walked ahead. It was she who rose and comforted her brother in the night, trying to fathom what devil tormented his soul. He was just as his father before him had been and she wondered what deeds lay heavy on his soul. Was her life ever to be devoted to the religious rule? When would she be free to follow her own crusade?

  They spent the afternoon walking in that tranquil place as the children raced through the woodlands, gathering the last of the tired bluebells and wild flowers, splashing in the streams and chasing the deer. Ambrosine took Robert and Gonville to see the holy shrine but her brother was not interested and walked off alone to watch the sun slipping down over the ridge. She told Gonville about the plans for the Priory and showed him the outlines of its foundations. Together they walked back upstream to her little garden, now a profusion of green herbs and flowers which were seeding themselves wantonly along the banks of the stream. Gonville knelt down to sip the spring water.

  ‘This is good water, fresh and clean. When you live in heat and dust the coolness of fresh water becomes very precious. Water is the life giver and many a good man of ours died for lack of it. It’s strange how we thought of the Saladin as savage and uncultured when they have ways to harness water in channels, irrigating even the driest desert and growing the most exotic fruits and flowers. They see all green places as holy and construct beautiful fountains in the middle of stone or tiled courtyards to keep themselves cool. Even the clothes they wear are light and free-flowing. We were always so hot under our metal armour. Soon we abandoned our stiff clothes and bathed where we could.

  ‘Lady Ambrosine, if you could see the beauty of those gardens to a parched soul, such peace in a terrible place. It’s we who are savage and uncouth, I tell you…’ He stopped. ‘I forget myself again. You seem to have that effect on me.’

  ‘Please go on. Tell me about the gardens – what did they grow?’ She wanted to deflect his growing interest in her.

  ‘Rich fragrances assail your nostrils from roses and jessamine and other plants I cannot put a name to. They mark out beds into regular shapes and fill them with many bushes and plants, the like of which I never saw in a Norman castle. There are shady archways and always the sound of running water in your ear to soothe the senses. They grow herbs too to make medicines and potions for every ailment. There was so much we could have learned, but did we heed them? No, all we did was crush and destroy, and now we are lost.’

  ‘But I thought Robert said you raised the cross over Jerusalem again?’

  ‘Yes, and crucified many innocent Christians in the process. For anything we achieved we paid a terrible price. We are damned for deeds not fit for a lady to hear of. The slaughter we inflicted on the enemy was barbaric. Even the doctors we captured were massacred with the rest, their bodies piled outside the city walls to stink in the sun and so bring more sickness among our own men. There was no one to save your brother. He died in the dust and dirt and squalor of wounds which should not have killed him.’

  ‘I feared as much from what Robert did not say.’

  ‘He feels the shame of defeat, as do we all. Nothing tangible is accomplished and the bitter hatred against us in that land will bring about more bloodshed ere long.

  ‘Can you understand any of this? Could you forgive a man for wanting to forget all of it and take up a peaceful life again?’

  He towered over her, eyes beseeching. Ambrosine stepped back from him.

  ‘Only God can forgive us. I will pray for you.’

  ‘Are you vowed as a nun? I thought that was just…’

  ‘A whim? No doubt you know all about my foolish dream from my brother but it’s my intention always to live the religious life.’ Ambrosine was glad that this was out in the open between them, like a shield to protect her from the advances she knew to be coming.

  ‘I would wish to take you with me as my wife. You have all the qualities I have long sought in a woman – so honest and sincere, quiet and strong. I need such a lady in my life. You would grace any castle with your skills and you have laid siege to my heart. I fear it will never feel whole again.’

  He leant forward but she put up her hand to stop his embrace.

  ‘No more, sire, I beg you. There can be no talk of such things between us. I’m old now, long past child bearing. Under this veil my hair is thin and almost silver. I have never met a man to tempt me until now but I made my vows many years ago, at this very spot, and cannot turn my hand from the plough. Please, think of me no longer. You will need sons now to give you hope. Go home and look elsewhere.’

  Gonville bowed and saluted her with his hand. Seeing Robert nearby, he walked away without a word. Ambrosine felt a deep heaviness in her limbs as they rode back, bats flitting and darting overhead and the midsummer moon high above them. It should be a night for merriment and lovemaking, not sacrifice and confusion.

  Why now? she asked. Why when I am anchored to this spot, burdened with the care of others? Once I could have ridden away gladly and left them all to get on with their living, forgotten my hopeless dream, but something keeps me here. I cannot deny it. I must not be weak. It’s too late for me now.

  The very next day Geoffrey Gonville packed up his few belongings for a swift departure from Longhall. Nothing more was spoken between them but pleasantries and farewells but each could feel the other’s sadness. Only in the last moments did the knight catch his hostess alone, holding out a package wrapped in hide.

  ‘I brought these from the East. I was going to take them home but now I know they were meant for you. Plant them in your patch and think of me. I found them scenting the walls and paths of every garden I saw out there. Point them to the sun and they will scent and cleanse your plot. The Arabs call them “quaranful” and the Frenchies “giroflee”. They will scent everything they touch, flavour food and wine too, whatever you choose.’

  She opened the pouch. Snug within were many seed heads. She smiled but could not speak for fear of breaking down. When Madline joined them Geoffrey gave her a phial of the richest fragrance.

  ‘This is Hungary water, made from the most perfumed of all the roses. It’ll cool your brow when those noisy rascals over there get the better of you. Robert can tell you how it is made and perhaps one day there’ll be roses blooming here to fill the bottle again.’

  He hugged his comrade in arms tightly, both men choking with emotion, then jumped on his horse and was gone.

  Ambrosine wanted to chase after his shadow, leap on to his saddle and cling to his waist. But she stood silently shading her eyes, blinking back the tears as he faded from view.

  The Priory

  The day dawned at last, bright and showery first then settling into the most beautiful of mornings with a blue sky and white puffs of cloud promising a settled spell to Fridswell. The excitement in the thatched dormitory house was mounting as each of the vowesses was woken early for prayers and ablutions, dressing with care for there was still much to do before the afternoon ceremony began.

  Already the lay sisters had gathered bunches of fresh flowers to garland the pillars of the church, fresh rushes for the porchway to strew before the Bishop himself and over the refectory floor. In the buttery there was a flurry of chopping and pounding and the kitchen patch was raided for the freshest of greens for the broth. In the little pond close by the fish were waiting to be caught.

  It was to be a simple meal as befitted the rule of St Benedict, nothing ostentatious or self-indulgent. Fruit from their own cherry garth and tranches of freshly baked bread made in the shape of crosses from flour milled in their own granary. Here, Edric Miller, late of Longhall, querned the flour between stones powered by a water wheel, which was the wonder of the area and the bane of all the local tenants who must now take their grain to be milled here.

  Soon the Bishop would process through the streets of the Minster city in the valley, flanked by monks and nuns from th
e new convents flourishing throughout the forest and vales of the Trent. They would carry the great seal and embroidered banner of St Mary’s Priory, Fridswell, with its beautiful picture of the Holy Mother depicted in silks and gold threadwork by the nuns for this special occasion.

  How brightly the morning sunshine touched the timbers and stonework of the buildings with a salmon pink glow. How firmly the little chapel stood from east to west. The cloister garth enclosed a quadrangle of new mown grass divided by two paths into a cruciform shape, a small pond sunk in its centre. This was only a modest construction, housing ten nuns and two postulants, but in its modesty lay its strength and charm. They were still completing the guest house chamber attached to a small infirmary where the old and sick would be given shelter.

  The infirmary had a separate enclosed yard which encompassed the stream and wellspring garden; the original site where Ambrosine de Saultain had received her heavenly vision. The garden was now laid out into borders and walkways edged with stones. Here the elderly took a morning stroll along straight paths, sniffing the aromas of herbs and flowers, loosening their stiff joints in the sunshine and smelling the wondrous fragrance of the pink gillyflowers which edged every border, their silvery spears of leaves spilling over the edges.