by Leah Fleming
‘We can’t trample down Aunt Felice’s bower, her herbary and rose arbour. It’s lain untouched since the Blessed Ambrosine was found asleep there… Salte women have always loved their gardens.’
‘It’s little more than a vegetable patch with a few paltry flowers and roses left. It’s badly in need of a good trim and some shaping. I hate to see them spreading linen on sticks over the yew hedges like peasant folk. Leah Barnsley has got above herself and will not tell me what lye she uses, the minx! It’s a disgrace. We can grub up the ground around this lodging at the gate and they can move here. See, I’ve found a solution. Come, let’s make love and forget about your wretched relatives. If she were my aunt…’
‘God help her,’ Timon muttered under his breath.
‘What did you say, sweetlove?’
‘Be content then.’
‘How can I be content when she ruins my scheme, my garden works? The lodging is in the wrong place. It will have to go.’
‘Then wait a few years, ’til she passes away. It can’t be far off. She’s over seventy. Then we can do what we please with her garden, my pretty dove.’
‘Don’t you lovey, dovey me, cold heart! Take your hands off me! You had your chance. I’ll not wait until Doomsday to please her. Oaks will grow quicker than my garden will. I want it now, while we’re young and have children to raise. I want a terrace on the slope, full of rose hedges and fine herbs. A walkway of stones, to make a feature of our yew arches, and a pretty arbour with a mazey hedge. Can’t you see it, Timon?’ Sarah turned to him excitedly, her chin firm and fixed, eyes brilliant and sharp as flint. ‘Timon?’ But he was fast asleep.
The girl turned over in disgust, pulling all the bed clothes with her, wide awake now. There was indeed more to marriage than four bare legs in a bed. Where had she heard that marriage was like licking honey off thorns? Felice Salte was the thorn in her side. She would have to go.
*
‘Baggy’ Bagshott was feeling on top of the job as he jolted his cart down from Longhall, along the winding track towards Frideswell Priory. He had a good feeling about this crisp bright morning. There was no breeze to unsettle the ladders, no rain to soak him through, and the sun was burning through the mist strongly enough to promise plenty of autumn daylight. If only they would decide where the chimney would be stacked or whether the lodging house must be pulled down. For days Squire Timon had hedged and dithered. Time and the seasons were moving on apace. Far be it from him to influence his betters but if they wanted to pull the Yule log into their new house and welcome 1566 into their hearth, he needed to know now.
Nowt as fussy as folk of quality. You had to understand from the start that they must have the last word, and believe that all decisions they made were the right ones and all mistakes entirely the fault of the jobbing builder who did not do as he was told. That was the rule and the Saltes, being almost gentry, would be no exception to it. Not that he personally thought it right to turf an old nun out of her home for the sake of a few years’ wait. But as long as he was paid for his work and gave satisfaction he must not quibble. All things considered, life was looking up for this humble member of the Bagshott clan.
Baggy liked to think of himself as a man of the world. Had he not travelled some twenty miles, from Longhall to Stafford? Did he not know every ale stop on the tracks through the Chase? Had he not seen the new iron forges and charcoal burners at work, the coal mines springing up all over the forest, the logging of the oak forests by timber merchants? Had he not stood on the ancient hilltops to see the vast plains of the Trent valley cleared of woodland into open fields and parklands?
There was not a ruin in the deep forest from which he had not managed to salvage stones, bricks or timber, surveying them by day and collecting his spoils by night, avoiding the forest wardens, muffling the horses’ hooves to cart back his loot to the yard and barn by his cottage. All in a day’s work. Did not his wife have the best of everything: a coverlet of downy feathers, three buckets, willow baskets and a pewter jug, a candlestick and buffet stool, even bed hangings and more pots than there were days in the week. He missed nothing on his travels. It was a pity that the Saltes had installed themselves on this site so promptly or there would not be so much stone left up standing for them to play around with at Frideswell, that was for sure.
Ned Bagshott hoped that a wagonload of success was about to tip in his direction. Already he was gathering all the trappings of respect: a fine beast to pull his sturdy wagon, a soft leather jerkin and apron which covered his barrel belly, brown wool breeches cross-bound with straps and thick hose under his leather boots. On cold days he had a short cloak and leather fingerless mittens to hide his warts, a warm cap and thick wolsey shirt. His wife could fill her wash bucket with just his shirts alone. She kept him filled with meat and broth, ale and thick bread. What more could a man of forty want from life? He had two strong sons and enough wenches to help tend his fields and do the dairy work on their smallholding.
Bagshotts came either red-haired with fair skin or dark and swarthy; a strange mix when two came at the same time, like Jem and Eddy, his sons. Ned himself was stocky and one of the black heads, now tinged with grey. His brown eyes bulged enough to lend a permanently startled look to his expression. His beard was still thick and rough like a hedgehog’s back, his shoulders were broad and strong and thighs sturdy. Altogether he was pleased with the effect. His girth bestowed confidence, for who could trust the expertise of a builder who was as thin as a lathe with no flesh on his bones and no weight to his elbow? He judged by appearances himself when he sat at the Court sessions before the jury men.
He knew the importance of looking a fellow straight in the eye when he paid his fines for tipping his cess pit into Longhall stream after eight of the clock in the morning, for building a wall on the public highway, for extending his own hedge or failing to clear out his bit of the ditch. What a fuss they made about nothing! He still shook hands on deals in the church porch but managed to avoid stepping inside whenever he could. He left that sort of thing to the wife who was no slither pudding but a comely matron with callouses on her hands and elbows as plump as a goose from all her honest endeavours.
The young squire, Timon Salte, was a sound master, fair and square. ’Twas a pity he was saddled with such a loud-mouthed mistress who trumpeted her boasts all over the district that this would be the finest manor house ever made from the stones of Popery. If they would just make up their minds where he was to start! He had stripped everything down, sorted the stone and bricks, measured up, hired his help, agreed a price. He did not want to pull down the lodging for whoever had put it up was on top of their job and he didn’t like to waste a perfectly good bit of building. It went against his craftsman’s sense of fair play.
As he drew closer to Frideswell he looked around with pleasure at the way the village was shaping up around the mill and the green at the bottom, the land sloping gently into the sunshine; a fine prospect for a house. Perhaps it was one of his own forebears who had helped build the Priory and church in the first place. Bagshotts had been rooted into the soil around these parts since Adam was a lad or so his father had told him.
It was all about putting up and putting down, shoving in or shoving out. His distant kin in the city were as stiff and starchy as their ruffs, being strict on religion nowadays and miserable for all their success. His Uncle Reuben Bagshott always wore a black fustian doublet and hose, a tall hat and pointy beard. He drank small beer, his calves were spindly, and his wife wore a sourdough expression above her plain gowns. They seldom mixed with their rough country kin, being too grand or too mean to entertain them or make progresses out of the city, but Uncle Reuben was much respected for all he was a ranter and raver, hating all things Popish.
Give him his rightful due, he had helped the city fathers secure all the land from the Church which allowed lead pipe to be laid from the high springs in the forest to the water taps in the city streets. Miles of pipes were to be laid and he made
sure that young Ned got his chance to dig and delve with the best of them. It was digging these pipes which gave him his chance to learn about building works and the ruined monasteries waiting to be quarried. He watched and learned from the tricks of others: how to measure short and estimate generously to keep one’s own purse well lined; how to lay bricks meanly and stone sparingly; to set casements into the wall, pitch a fine roof, hire skilled men for the special jobs who would take the blame if summat went wrong. Observing the mistakes of others was a good way to learn. Ned would always be grateful to old Reuben for seeing that his distant cousin’s son got a slice of the pie.
He wondered how the Barnsleys were coping with the battle for the lodging house. Joseph and Leah were too humble to bemoan their lot, being only servants paid to look after the old woman. Leah Barnsley was a fine lass, one of the fairest in the district, yet modest with it. She had the fair skin of some of the forest folk, a milkmaid’s complexion unmarked by any pox. How Jo had managed to secure her affections was a mystery for he was a bit of a worryguts and a fusspot. Baggy’s own son, Jem, had been cut up when their banns were read in the church for he had always looked in Leah’s direction, without success. He was shy and had a bit of a stutter at times, held himself back too much, while his twin brother, Eddy, was just the opposite, wild and skittish and full of jokes and mischief though settled now with his Mary. Sometimes Meg worried about Jem, spending his time alone, brooding or walking down to hear the wandering preachers in the market place and eat at Uncle Reuben’s table. Baggy hoped he would not become a sobersides. Still once the job began properly Jem would be too busy on top of a ladder to mull over sermons.
As he turned into the gate he could hear the racket coming from the Porteress’s hall where the master and mistress were having a right set to. Squire Timon resembled an urn in his high boots and full breeches, his hands on his hips looking like handles.
‘It stays!’
‘It does not!’
Mistress Salte peered up at her husband, red in the face and poking him in the chest with a candlestick.
‘Hold your tongue, hussy, or I’ll have you put in a scold’s bridle!’
‘But you promised…’ she whimpered.
‘I said no such thing. Gold doesn’t grow on trees for us to throw away. The lodging stays where it is and Aunt Felice within it undisturbed. We shall make our chimney breast against it, with chambers above and below. The warmth in the bricks will benefit all of us then. Be content for this is my final word on it. Prithee see to thy busyness and I will see to mine.
‘Here comes Master Bagshott. He’s waited long enough on our indecision. Good morrow, time for us to make a start. We need not disrupt the lodging house until we are ready to break through. Prepare the outer walls by the corner. Save as much of the fig as you can for it likes that sunny wall. I want no undue wastage.’
‘Huh!’ Mistress Sarah, dismissed, picked up her kirtle’s skirts and made for indoors.
‘A wise decision, sire. Although may I be so bold as to point out that the lodging house roof is somewhat in need of repair…’
This stopped the lady in her tracks and she turned around quickly with a smirk on her face, a look of pure triumph.
‘Then what you save on the demolishments you can put into the making of a fine roof! If all is tiled in the same hue ’twill make it more of a piece, a grander effect in the new style.’
The master looked at his wife, taken aback at her sharpness. Baggy recognised one of those moments of compromise between a strong man and his awkward wife. It was time for the olive branch to be held aloft. The man smiled.
‘You do well to point out that one roof will make for unity. I trust it will do so in more ways than one, my dear. And you shall have your garden, too; a fine little terrace for the ladies to take the air and show off their gowns, no doubt.’
The woman’s smile burst through her sullen mask like a moulding from plaster. She was such a plain creature for one gentry born. The strongest feature was her firm jaw which jutted out like a wedge. Her pale blue eyes were cold, small and too close together, giving her a slight squint, but they darted quickly enough, missing nothing.
She eyed the quality of Bagshott’s jacket and the edges of his linen which began each morning spotless for Meg was a stickler for crisp clean edges, knowing the secret of good laundering. The woman showed a line of yellow teeth, sure sign of a sweetmeat lover as she gazed from him to the empty space which would soon be occupied by her new house. Ned Bagshott was only the instrument of their will and of no more consequence to her. How could any man have found this scion of the Sapcotes’ appealing enough to marry? Perhaps Squire Timon had taken the old advice. When he fixed his eye with love, he made sure he fixed it prudently on a gentleman’s daughter.
Mistress Salte would hover over Ned’s men like a hawk, stiff and starchy like the ruff around her scrawny neck; the slightest error, deviation, delay, and she would descend upon them, trying to insert extra fol-de-rols as her right at no extra cost. Winning the lodging house battle was going to prove expensive for Timon Salte but that was none of Baggy’s concern, thank God. His hired hands would build the house. The other poor sod must live in it with her!
*
Ned Bagshott spent the day going over the site, assigning each man his task, then took a spade to clear the overgrown pathways around the old lodging house, testing the stones to see if they were firm and the wooden cross beams were free from rot. The pathways were choked with tough weeds and thick roots and needed a good hacking back. Jo and Leah set about the task with vim and vigour, relieved that their mistress lay undisturbed within. He’d warned them that once they began the great chimney breast the noise would be deafening for days.
As Baggy gazed up at the old walls, covered in briar roses and honeysuckle, plants sprouting out of the holes in the plasterwork and ivy rampant almost to the rooftops, he knew that they must prune everything back to ground level and start afresh. The fig nestled in the corner, warm and sheltered in the last of the autumn sunshine, its broad leaves a hand’s width.
He thought of Adam and Eve sheltering from the wrath of God and covering their shame with a leaf. Yes, they could just about get away with it by his reckoning from the size of those glossy specimens but there were few figs to be gathered now, only brown-splattered rotten splodges under the foliage. The master was right to want to save such a fine tree but its stem was woody and hard. It too would need cutting back and a good feed. He would have to loosen some of the tangled growth below the surface and dig out the bushes which had once grown alongside. What a mess! He looked for Jem to assist him but he was on another task out of sight.
Ned smiled to himself. If you want a tricky job a-doing you does it yerself. That was his dad’s good advice so he went in search of his spade, a pick axe and sturdy barrow, and bent to the task. He felt the shadow flit over him and turned to see the old lady holding out a yew branch before her to tickle his arm.
‘Dame Felice.’ He raised his cap and bowed. ‘I bid thee good day. I trust I’m not disturbing you?’ Would she remember how once she ran after him with a stick when she caught him scrumping apples from the Priory orchard? How could this little woman, so grey and silent, be the firebrand he remembered from his youth? One look into those vacant eyes persuaded him that she remembered little of those times.
‘They say a branch of yew carried to the fore will search out all things lost so why it lingers here I do not know. You are not lost.’ She wandered away on her mission, not waiting for his reply. He smiled to himself and pointed her out to Leah Barnsley who nodded and began to follow in her footsteps.
Baggy turned back to his digging and sifting, hacking out the dead wood and loosening the soil. He would carry on until the low sun slid away from the house then call it a day for this task. It was going to be a slow job to fettle this corner cleanly.
He was quite deep down into a trench when he saw what looked like bones wrapped in bits of cloth. He was always com
ing across the remains of cats and dogs, sheep jaws and cow horns in his job. Nothing like that bothered him. If you couldn’t melt them down they were best buried to feed the soil.
He pulled one or two bones aside. Some crumbled to dust at his touch but others were preserved, longer bits, some leather too. And then he saw the skull. Ned Bagshott jumped back.
‘God’s blood!’ He crossed himself and made to blart out the hue and cry then stopped to see if anyone had witnessed his discovery. Not a soul within a cockstride of him. His heart was beating in his chest like a hammer, cheeks flushed, hands shaking. Someone had been buried under here out of sight after some foul deed. These bones must have lain undisturbed for years and trust him to find the secret burial. Now what was he to do? Raise the alarm and fetch the constable of the watch, inform Squire Timon and his mistress, or put the soil back quickly so no one would know? His instinct for the moment was to earth over this grim find, lay stones to mark the spot and let sleeping bones lie a while longer. There was nothing he could do for the poor soul, whoever it was. The last thing anyone wanted was a delay at this stage.
But did it matter that the body had no decent burial? Did its spirit wander abroad like the grey nun in search of her missing treasure? Had the yew branch known it was there too? These were far too many questions for his mind to fathom out at the end of a long day’s digging. He must chew it over until the morrow, sleep on it but not tell a living soul of his grim discovery.
Bagshott the builder stowed his tools neatly onto his wagon and gathered the others from the hired men. He returned uphill along the high track to Longhall, silent and thoughtful, for he was a man with a burden heavier than any stone. Had he disturbed a malicious spirit or opened the place to boggarts and mischief? Being by nature wary of the other world and careful always to observe old customs – laying talismans for good fortune, placing objects into walls and roofs, sticking green men carvings where they could bless a building – he needed to preserve his own good luck or else he might chance on some mishap or bad weather to blight his progress. What on earth should he do now to right such a wrong as this?