by Leah Fleming
It had taken Ambrosine many years to gather together alms, pledges of land and dowries from other noble families in the area. Sire Robert petitioned the Bishop and the Minster many times to honour their ancient pledge to build a House of Prayer and the rest of the family worked tirelessly to make Lady Ambrosine’s dream come true at last. At every setback she had come to the shrine and begged for strength to continue in her quest. Now her dream was to be realised. There were crops ready to be harvested in the fields beyond the cloisters and wooden huts for the servant lay sisters who would work their land. The nuns were prepared to do as much as would fit around their religious observance.
The villagers of Longhall and neighbouring hamlets had no choice but to supply food and services to aid this venture. They were summoned to give alms and tithes for the candles and font, vestments and carved choirstalls.
Edric ‘Bagshott’, late Reeve of Longhall, and his wife Alice were busy dressing their offspring for the occasion. Edric’s seed was as prolific as the grain flowing through his new mill. Two sets of twins no less, both delivered safely.
His sister, the widow Aella, watched all the proceedings with her daughters and grandchildren. She alone could remember that first foray to Fridswell with her father and how he’d cursed the de Saultains for taking his land. Now it belonged to the church and many a Bagshott belly would be filled from the harvest of opportunities here in the years to come. While the Priory flourished so would they and she wished her old mistress joy in her efforts. By God’s blood, she had waited long enough for this day!
At the manor house of Longhall, Madline and her sons and grandchildren were sprucing up their velveteens for the service and trying to stop Sire Robert from wandering off. He was forgetful and frail these days. Now it was the eldest son William and his new bride, Elinore, who kept the estate from sinking further into debt. Every spare silver penny had gone into the furbishing of the Priory and sometimes Madline looked at their shabby home and wondered whether such a sacrifice of services, tithes and land was worth it.
*
Hushed voices hovered over the bed of their patron and benefactor, Lady Ambrosine, soon to be professed the first Prioress. She was not in the best of health and far from steady on her swollen legs but nothing was going to stop her from enjoying every minute of the ceremony. She had rehearsed her responses a hundred times, knew just when to sit and stand, had confessed ten times to her chaplain. Now in her fifty-sixth year it was a struggle to dress herself unaided. Her temper was just as fiery as in her youth and the younger sisters hovered anxiously by. This was her day. The old battle axe had struggled to supervise every stone laid, every sod cut, every vestment sewn.
‘I can do it… leave me be.’ They all knew better than to argue. I must be there at the gate to welcome everyone. Just think, after all these years… Hurry, hurry!’
She could still give orders, the old Norman bossiness was hard to lose. Her ears were sharp and her eye bright enough to see slipshod work. It was only her breathing which was laboured and her heartbeat faltering. The nuns scattered from her wrath like fleas before a besom.
Ambrosine smiled to herself as she shuffled slowly up to the heart of her garden on this brightest of mornings to see how all her babes were growing. She sat on the tuffet admiring her handiwork and looking down on to the thatched roof of the infirmary. The gravel paths linking the buildings to one another had all been laid under her supervision; the gentle trickle of the holy spring was like music in her ears. Her lilies were cut fresh for the chapel but some still poked their heads from behind those gaudy peonies. Here was a glory of shape and colour but healing plants too. At the heart of this plot was God’s mercy to mankind. Now she had turned her musings into a sermon!
It was a pity womankind was not allowed to speak in church and that it took so many men around to declare a female fit to serve her Maker. If Eve had bothered more with her garden and less with the serpent then perhaps things would have been different. Now they must have chaplains and priests and regular inspections and obey men’s rules in order to live their simple religious life. But here at last was a woman’s domain.
Her eyes drifted towards Geoffrey Gonville’s gift. The clove-scented pink gillyflowers were much admired and had lived up to his promise. She thought of the walls of Jerusalem and Christ’s suffering, of her own choice to refuse the love of a good knight. While his blossoms danced in the breeze such remembrances would never die.
But now her dearest wish was to be fulfilled. Out of the seeds of destruction and dishonour came forth this beautiful place of peace; a priory hidden from the world to honour the de Saultains of Longhall, Our Lady of Fridswell, and all the company of Heaven forever. Ambrosine could hardly contain her joy that her wishes had not been in vain. She smiled ruefully. They had only been granted, however, when she had learned some patience; especially the humbling patience of old age for now her very well-being depended on the care and compassion of others in her community. No longer could she manage to dress or work without the others, or go to the latrine unaided, to eat what was offered or sleep like a rock. Only now, brought so low, was she raised high to be honoured as the first Prioress. Ambrosine raised her eyebrows heavenward. There would be more humiliations to come. De Saultains were bred stubborn and the Saxon in her made it even worse. ‘Lord, what a trial I’ve been to you, but thank you for this blessed day and for the promise of grace to this wretched sinner.’
A butterfly with painted wings of red, black and white flitted from flower to flower, catching her eye. How could she once have feared such a beautiful creature? She stood up to examine it closer. She would collect a posy, she decided, just a few choice blooms for the Holy Mother’s statue by the well.
‘Blessed Mother, who will love this place as I do? It has been my labour of love, a long travail to give birth to this Priory. Long may it flourish to honour you…’
In the excitement of the arrival of the procession, with tabors beating, fiddles and pipes, crowds of villagers pressing forward to catch a glimpse of the Bishop in his robes of gold, so many visitors to squash into the tiny church, the absence of its Prioress went unnoticed.
Only later was Ambrosine de Saultain found, slumped on the path in the heart of her garden. She had the broadest of smiles on her radiant face and was clutching a bunch of pink gilly flowers to her breast. Her own celebrations had clearly begun.
The Ghost Garden
Iris
The dog is bored with Miss Bagshott’s slow progress tonight and trots off down the steps to the hole in the hedge to ‘do her duty’.
Not so much bounce in your running now, Lady, more a stately limp; your doggy years match my own but your bladder is more reliable. Why is it that running water always triggers the urge?
The clump of purple bearded irises catches her eye, all leaf and little flower this year. I should look after my namesakes a little more, she thinks, and picks out the note pad from her apron pocket to mark them down for ‘the treatment’. A plant only gives in proportion to what it receives is another of her Bagshott rules!
Why were my generation given such flowery names? she reflects. There was a vase full of Roses, Daisies, Violets and Lilies in the village school with now and then the odd flicker of imagination – a Rhoda, Marigold or Marguerite amongst our workaday blooms. Now the Katies, Sarahs and Beckys are bussed to Barnsley Green for their education.
What this village needs is new blood, new families, not old coffin dodgers like me. Perhaps that’s why I’ve given in my notice. I might sell up to Devey’s Developments after all. I ought to give the children a chance of some greenery and trees to climb. It’s selfish of me to be keeping all this to myself.
Yet Iris feels a shiver of revulsion at the thought of some JCB ripping up her flower beds. But now is not the time to debate the issue if she wants to sleep tonight. She must keep on her familiar route march down the windy path, through the wrought iron gate which leads into the herb garden, the most hidden place, tucked awa
y at the back and fed by the stream; a sun trap by day and silver by moonlight.
How many years did it take me to grow my box clippings into such thick edges and still I don’t like the smell of it – like cat’s pee. Iris dips the watering can into the old water butt and sprinkles the leaves of lavender, rue and thyme to release their scents on to the night air.
This always feels like the oldest part of the garden; a hortus conclusus, a physick garden for the nuns perhaps, once full of monkshood and digitalis, pennyroyal and henbane. Centuries of rippings out and makeovers can’t erase a slight feeling of menace here, for all its cool smoky blue tones, silvery foliage and green leaves.
Summer warmth lingers still in the enclosure, the thick hedges softened by speckled foxgloves and pale lilies, golden balls of marjoram, feathery dill, tansy and the fading dicentra ‘Bleeding Heart’. The delicious smells of bright green spearmint, sweet woodruff and herb robert engulf her. She rubs a sage leaf in her fingers.
‘How can anyone die who has sage in their garden?’ goes the old saying. Well, quite easily when you’re my age but, please God, not tonight, not until I’ve finished the tour, seen to the Open Day arrangements, tidied up and sold my house.’
Iris sniffs the celery tang of the broad lovage leaves and inspects the tall verbascums, Aaron’s Rod, standing like sentries guarding the two standard bays.
What this herb bed needs is a statue, a cheerful Venus in the centre, plump and sturdy, holding up a bird bath shell, guarding the plot from harm, rising from her sea of lavender. The best Iris can manage so far is that chimney pot dripping with ivy ‘Gold Heart’.
Why has this never been a favourite spot of mine for all its subtle planting and mystery? There’s something creepy about the stillness tonight and the absence of bird song doesn’t help. Perhaps it’s that pot of Lilium regale peering out through the foliage like spectres. But aren’t white lilies supposed to keep away ghosts?
The spirit of the past often flows through this garden and now it is returning. The iron gate creaks and groans: in the shadows someone glides by. From the corner of her eye Iris glimpses a chink of light shining into another world, another time.
PART THREE
WITHIN THESE WALLS
1349
From miln and from market
From smithy and from nunnery
Men bring tidings’
—Anon
‘White Lilies
The root, roasted and mixed with a little hog’s grease, makes a gallant poultice to ripen and break plague sores’
Rumours
The white doves soared from the loft at the sound of strangers opening the hatch of the round columbarium, leaving the fat squabs flightless in their pigeon holes. A flurry of flapping wings rose over the convent wall towards the safety of the barn roof. The birds perched and fussed, observing from their vantage point the busy morning routine around the priory of Saint Mary of the Frideswelle. Out in the far fields a line of harvesters were scything down the last of the corn; a slow steady rhythm of swinging blades flashing in the sunshine. At a distance from them a trickle of gleaners gathered in the residue, old women and children mostly, while a gaggle of nuns in bright holiday dress darted hither and thither, enjoying the excitement of this annual holy day.
Within the cloister quadrangle no one stirred for it was late afternoon in early autumn. Only the long-tailed swallows lined up along the chapel roof, leaving their empty nests in the rafters, preening their feathers for the long flight ahead.
Across the thick forest of the hunting Chase the autumn leaves were browning and curling upwards; a sure sign that the season was closing fast. Already a few leaves fluttered like feathers on to the turf. It would take only one frost to loosen the rest. Deep under cover the fallow deer roamed at will, filling their bellies with greenery, hidden from humankind.
The orchards were dripping with fruit, branches arching with the weight, and bees droned around the ripened crop. Here and there ladders were perched precariously against tree trunks and children were busy throwing costards and pearmains into baskets under the supervision of two old nuns, conspicuous in this riot of colour by still wearing the habit of the black ladies. Soon the cool store lofts would be full of pears, quinces, filberts and apples. The medlars would be left to rot to perfection before they graced the board of the Prioress and her guests.
In the cemetery orchard a few pigs snouted for windfalls under the watchful eye of the holy women laid to rest under the sod, united now in offering their bones to nourish the cherries and damsons each season.
The scent of fruit and ripeness hung heavy on the air. The pink stone of the dorter and refectory walls glistened in the sunshine where crimson rosehips and berried honeysuckle climbed up to the upper casements. The birds cooed to each other across the cobbled courtyard where hens clucked and strutted below.
At their presence a yard girl, daughter of some local villein, looked up warily from her bean gathering. By her side was the wooden clapper which she would lift high and rattle to scare away intruders from the kitchen garden.
In the dovecote, novice Agnes Bagshott, late of the City of Spires, felt the warm dung squelch between her bare toes as she stared into the dark hut. Dame Juliane was bending her ear with dire warnings.
‘You’ll clean and scrape off this floor and wheel every last drop of it in the barrow – to me and not to the kitchen garden, do you hear me, child? I don’t want the Cellaress getting her hands on this. Dove dung is the very best, better than chicken droppings. It rots down faster, is richer and finer for my herbs. This must come only to the physick garden. Don’t allow yourself to be diverted. Be obedient for once!
I don’t know how you can get yourself into so much trouble after all your father’s efforts to have you accepted here. We don’t usually take girls of your menial rank… Well, get on with it! I want to see this floor gleaming before the day’s end. Only then will I allow you leave to watch the harvest feast. You can wait on with the servants. That would be your permanent role here if I had any say in the matter.
‘Go on, girl! How many times do you need telling? Or are you deaf as well as stupid?’
Agnes turned her back to hide a grimace. She had a round moon face with small green eyes and twisted her mouth wickedly to mimic her superior before her shoulders slumped in resignation. She turned the wheelbarrow into the doorway, tucked her surplice defiantly into her belt, lifted the fork and bent to her penance. Dame Juliane shuffled away, glowing with satisfaction at having given the lazy novice a piece of her mind.
The dove dung was cleared out twice a year so that the stuff had a chance to rot where it stood. The stench was just about bearable and through the slat holes she could see blue sky. The other novices would be parading their finery through the fields all day and feasting all night but not her. It was unfair of them to punish her so for taking a little leave to visit her kin down the lane, hopping over the wall from the ‘mount’ banked up to one side; her favourite place to hide and watch the world go by outside the cloister wall. So what if you were meant to meditate around the paths and count your sins as preparation for confession before the old greyfriar who trundled up from the city? It was just too tempting to leg it over the wall for a bit of a chit-chat with her cousin Kit while she struggled to help Simeon the Miller bag up the flour in the mill.
Kit had such pain lifting and no amount of Dame Juliane’s cold comfrey compresses, bleedings and poultices, had drawn the devil out of his foothold in her bum. Agnes was only trying to help. Anyway she had done far worse things than visit her family, but that was for her to know and them to find out.
‘I hate you, Dame Juliane, you big fat cow!’ The anger inside her spurred her on and she piled dung into the barrow until it was almost too heavy to lift. She trundled it away, leaving a trail of tell-tale droppings, winding her way through the gates and gravel walkways around the cluster of thatched buildings which made up the small nunnery. Her feet were stung by the sharp pebbles and bu
rnt by the heat of the hot gravel. Then she passed down the snicket to the opening of the small herb shed where Dame Juliane made up potions and lozenges, poultices and concoctions, for the infirmary and the sick of the district, who were always knocking day and night on the outer door.
The physick garden was enclosed by a hedge and a gate which was often locked to keep children away from the poisonous plants; there were boarders crammed into every nook and cranny of the little convent. They would accept any small child, even someone low-born like herself, if the dowry was sufficient to swell their coffers and put a fine fur trim on the nuns’ winter habits.
Agnes Bagshott was here only by courtesy of the community chest of the City guildsmen, chosen from among all the other daughters of the worthymen to be trained as a nun because her father was too mean to splash out another dowry on a daughter. He had sold her life away to ease his own pocket and she hated him for that. How assiduously he had worked to convince them that Agnes alone fitted the requirements of the Prioress, Dame Serena, and the other patrons from the de Saulte manor. He had lied through his teeth as the nuns had soon worked out for themselves.
Agnes had already been chided for idleness about her tasks, disobedience to the rule and disinterest in the services. She had been caught loitering in the city market, chatting to old friends and trying to speak to her father to plead for her release. After that misdemeanour she was taken back and thrashed with a rod then flung on the chancel floor, arms outstretched, to be kicked and trampled on by the congregation on its way to daily offices. She had been on bread and water so many times in the three months since her arrival that she had lost all excess flesh and Cousin Kit said she was like a skinny waif, a beggar’s child, not a big juicy nun living high off the hog.