The Midsummer Garden

by Kirsty Manning

  ‘Not the kitchen servants.’ He waved his hand at Artemisia. ‘I don’t want those fires going out. I want to be able to have boar, hare or fowl if I please.’ Lord Boschaud blinked his long lashes and wrinkled his nose, and for a moment he was the cheeky child who’d ignored his lessons.

  Abbot Roald’s mouth puckered as if he had sucked the whole citrus crop. It was not unknown for Lord Boschaud to order his master huntsman and marshal to prepare the stable and the full court for an outing on strict days of penitence—despite the protestations of his chaplain.

  When Artemisia looked closer, she noticed rings under the young man’s eyes, and a sallow milky pallor to his complexion. The happy, laughing child had long gone, replaced with a broad man whose shoulders were weighed down with chainmail and weary with battle. The burden of providing for all within these castle keep walls was thinning his skin and his sweat was souring. She’d put aside some of the fine green liquorice and make Lord Boschaud a fine tizanne doulce and a fresh potage of almond milk with a large dose of sugar when the sun was high.

  ‘You understand me, Chaplain?

  Abbot Roald had pinched his lips, nodded at his lord and shot a look laced with the tiniest sliver of resentment at Artemisia. His neck turned purple at the collar to match his robes.

  ‘And one more thing …’

  Abbot Roald turned his attention back to Lord Boschaud.

  ‘I’d like Artemisia to be in charge of the kitchen records. She can order as she sees fit.’

  Abbot Roald blustered, ‘But m’lord, if I may object, it’s hardly appropriate for a cook—a woman—’

  But Lord Boschaud was having none of it from the sweaty, doughy new abbot. He held up his hand. ‘Silence. Otherwise you can scurry back to that stinking rat hole of an abbey and give charge of the château monastery, the chapel and your fine corner wing in the old priory to another willing candidate. I’m sure they’ll be only too happy to issue me with another chaplain from the ranks of priors rotting away there.’ He looked the abbot in the eye and waited.

  Abbot Roald opened his mouth to speak, then shut it.

  ‘I’m sure others at the abbey are equally equipped to be charged as chronicler? Not just of the records—but to keep charge of the domestic servants and tend to the needs of the tenants while I’m away. Shall I send for one of them?’

  Abbot Roald looked down, red-faced.

  ‘I thought not,’ said Lord Boschaud.

  The lord started to stride away—sword in hand—with his swarthy marshal two steps behind. Then he paused and turned just enough for Artemisia to catch his profile as he ordered: ‘And, Chaplain, I’d like you to give the chancery columns to Artemisia after every full moon. I want her to check them—on my behalf.’

  Artemisia’s head snapped up. But she caught the twinkle in the lord’s brown eyes and just for a moment he was the spirited boy slaying dragons and goldfinches among the apple trees. She’d do as he’d asked, of course. Artemisia felt the legacy of Abbot Bellamy wrap around her like a protective blanket. She nodded a brisk thank you to the heavens—just in case.

  Artemisia scratched her back against the dark green leaves of the quince and wondered if she was developing a hunch to rival Hildegard’s. Her back was tender after bending over benches and copper pots, stirring, chopping and pounding. The wedding banquet preparations had gone on for weeks. There had been no end to her swearing at the poor wee kitchen lad Jacobus and the more deserving Abbot Roald—behind his back, of course.

  The cool flagstones of the barn floor where Artemisia slept alongside Hildegard and Emmeline did her no favours, no matter how much straw she tried to stuff under her blanket. Her knees and back were as stiff as the dead every morning these days as she hauled herself out of bed before dawn to stoke the fires. She spread her hands and massaged her thighs for a moment, wishing she had some clove oil mixed with arnica to soothe the aches. She examined her palms. They were flat and broad, the base of the fingers callused. Her hands were as tough as the soles of her pigskin boots.

  She took a minute to listen to the water trickle from the mouth of the ghoulish stone lion fountain perched in the middle of the pond and tried to ignore the shrill songs of the nightingales and louder screeches of the yellow hammer. Only the sweetness of the blue catmint blossom and roses cheered her. As the sun rose high for solstice, the scent of pollen would carry through the heat long into the night.

  She rubbed her back against the quince once more. The ancients had dedicated the quince to the goddess of love. Perhaps it was the promised sweetness of the cooked fruit that sent the ancients giddy with romance. Perhaps Lord Boschaud had proposed to his Lady Rose in this very spot? It seemed as good a spot as any, she thought, as she eyed the rest of the garden. That was if you ignored the monstrous lion.

  The parchments she occasionally smuggled in her apron from the château library revealed Charlemagne had ordered quinces to be planted by the dozen at all the grand châteaux. A folly for the rich. Artemisia thought there was only so much paste and pulp a person could eat. Charlemagne and his people didn’t have to spend hours stirring vast pots of the damn stuff with a wooden spoon until the hot sticky pulp turned to paste and their tunics became drenched in sweat. Quince was sweet enough when she sliced a block of the paste for herself to spread on a fresh white roll warm from the oven, but it was hard work. She’d heard stories in the village of cooks from the east blending quince slices in an unusual slow-cooked lamb stew with fenugreek seeds, garlic, cumin seeds, cinnamon, allspice berries and the leaves and root of fresh coriander. Perhaps she’d try that next season when the monks brought the baskets in. She’d need to ask Andreas not only for the recipe, but also to source spices for her if he didn’t have them in his village dry store. Like all the recipes shared between Artemisia and Andreas, it would have to be kept a secret. Artemisia had heard some recipes from the east could make the heart beat faster and the mouth dry.

  Artemisia bent down to pick handfuls of chives, garlic chives, catmint and broadleaf sage that were clumped around the seat of the arbour. Though the pungent herbs looked as though they had self-seeded, she had underplanted the quince trees the previous autumn in a bid to scare the defiant coddling moth and cherry slugs. She was careful not to crush the pretty mix of blue and purple buds as she arranged the sprigs in her basket to hide the wild strawberries beneath. She was forbidden to walk beyond the garden wall without the abbot’s permission. Artemisia had needed a well-enough reason to leave the kitchen and everyone knew strawberries needed to be picked with the dawn.

  Abbot Bellamy had cared for Lord Boschaud’s subjects when the knight was away for lengthy periods training for battles with the other vassals in the region. The monks who lived in the monastery along the far wall were divided into gardeners, scholars and scribes, and attended their crafts with love and care. This tender delight nurtured within the château walls was quashed with the arrival of Abbot Roald—now the garden was both retreat and prison. With the loss of autonomy of the chancery columns, he’d clawed back control of domestic staff. It wasn’t uncommon for chambermaids, monks and gardeners to be queried and slapped if their movements did not suit the abbot. Obedience was the only path to perfection. No mention of love.

  It wasn’t worth risking his bitter temper on this wedding day. Artemisia was determined to show Lady Rose and Lord Boschaud the love that flourished within these walls. It was the day of St Jean—a day of love and new beginnings for all. Her stomach looped with nerves and excitement. She took a slow deep breath and inhaled the crisp morning air deep into her lungs. Yesterday’s eve, Artemisia had crept around the walls hanging hefty fragrant clumps of St John’s Wort, yarrow, fennel, rue and rosemary to ward off evil spirits as the sun set itself to sleep. She’d asked Lady Rose’s chambermaid to tuck a knotted bunch in a corner of the maiden’s room at the top of the turret.

  She trusted her pretty parcels of herbs would do their job today.

  Artemisia’s robe was damp from the morning dew in
the fields and if Abbott Roald saw it she would be in trouble. Any transgression in outward appearance—no matter how thin her cloth—was a sign of disrespect for the Holy God. More likely, an excuse for a swift whack between the shoulderblades. Artemisia knew the God that Abbot Bellamy introduced her to would forgive a damp hem in exchange for some juicy strawberries—but that version of the Heavenly Lord was as dead to her as her beloved tutor.

  So Artemisia rose with the matins and waited till dawn to sneak past the wall and into the woods to gather the basketful of tiny pink wild strawberries that were hidden under pockets of dark leaves gripping the sunniest spot of the rocky riverbank. She had placed open wicker baskets over the more bountiful spots to protect her territory. She was sick of competing with local rabbits and hares for the pink gems when the colour started to turn. Skin the lot of them, she would—if she could catch them. Now she thought of it, there were plenty hanging in the larder: Lord Boschaud and his visiting hunting party had been ruthless on that front. The wedding had got everyone moving around the castle keep, that much was certain.

  So busy, in fact, that she hadn’t a chance to discuss with Lord Boschaud some overpayments with liquor and mead deliveries. The columns in the most recent parchments did not add up and when she’d queried the abbot, he had slammed both hands hard on his dark oak desk and banned Artemisia from his formal reception rooms and library.

  While walking back through the woodlands, she’d stopped to pick handfuls of wild celery, nettles, goose grass and shepherd’s purse. Some hyssop to make a brew for the abbot’s weekly purge. Last, a welcome cupful of deep blue violets. Precious, fragile, temperamental violets could be used to soothe anxious souls. Violet broth could also take away a hacking cough. She’d brew a few for Hildegard today as she could not dull the old lady’s cough. These unseasonal violets would be a welcome boost to the dried petals, as they would soften the brow and ensure the guests lifted a happy head—rather than an ale-addled head—off their feathered pillows tomorrow. The fresh starlike blue flowers were so dainty that they struggled under the weight of the glistening dewdrops.

  Her precious strawberries—so sharp of flavour—would be diced and thrown over salads made from the spinach, mint, parsley and purslane she’d asked the monks to harvest for her under the dew that morning. The monks also needed to pluck the tiny buds and stalky leaves of the summer savoury to sit in her verjuice before she drizzled it over the salad with the poppyseed oil. The savoury would settle bellies prone to the bloat. Artemisia hoped that by combining summer savoury with the rose petals, she was making much more than dressing. She was blending a sprinkle of love and hope for the young fair Rose.

  She knew Abbott Bellamy would approve—even if his replacement didn’t. Love. Devotion. Lady Rose looked dizzy enough with the pairing her parents had arranged, but Artemisia would see to it the young bride had a touch of the ale, a nip of the Burgundy and a good dose of the salad all the same.

  Artemisia had taken a fancy to the highborn lass from Clinchy and wanted her to feel welcome in the garden, not trapped within the high stone walls. She wanted Lady Rose’s wedding night to be dusted with magic. In the absence of magic, a little liquor and some absinthe should do the trick. Though truth be told it wasn’t the entwined limbs of Lady Rose and Lord Boschaud she was imagining, it was her own with—

  She stopped and sighed, dropping her shoulders. Well, no good would come of that now when she had work to do.

  Artemisia spotted a couple of the bald old monks hunched over on their knees in the garden bed harvesting the tender baby leaves and petals. She’d need to remind them to pick the rose petals to garnish her salad: red and white. She’d had to bang the bell twice outside their segregated cloisters to get them out of bed. Probably all tangled up with one another—or the nuns. There were better ways to start the day than matins, of that much she was certain.

  The real reason Artemisia was sneaking around the woods and garden this banquet morn was because she needed herbs that ran wild to garnish her secret gift to the bride and groom. If caught, she’d cut Abbot Roald a thick wedge of the eel and flounder roe pie she’d baked to keep him satisfied. That’d shut the fat bastard up. The clanging of carts being unloaded accompanied by low deep voices coming from behind the wall near the kitchen reassured her that her preparations were running to plan. Andreas was likely close by, unloading his precious spices.

  She picked up the basket and made her way back along the allée until she reached the large wooden gate leading out of the walled garden and back to the kitchen.

  She almost dropped her basket when she saw Andreas waiting for her on the other side.

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ he said, giving an exaggerated bow. ‘I have just unloaded five pots of your requested épices de chambre, nutmeg, anise—the rosewater is in the banquet hall, all ready for the wash bowls.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Artemisia looked directly into his dark almond-shaped eyes. She longed to brush the wayward curls from his face to get a clearer view. She’d never dare. Not here, anyway. She noticed a flush rising from his collar. His shirt reeked of lavender, rosewater and sweat. One day he would have to tell her what his blend was. She longed to lean against Andreas. She longed to press her face into his chest and drink in his perfume.

  ‘Artemisia, I have brought you something. A gift.’

  ‘Merci, you are very kind,’ she replied. Artemisia took the small cheesecloth bundle with a smile. The parcel was fastened with a knot. As always, Andreas had threaded a twig of wormwood, Artemisia, through the knot. Andreas leaned in and whispered into her ear: ‘Mère d’herbes.’

  Mother of Herbs.

  His lips were close enough to brush against her hair. Artemisia dropped the parcel into the deep pocket of her stained apron. She knew wrapped inside was a handful of sugared almonds and spices—wedding confetti.

  Underneath the confetti, she hoped, lay a much sweeter secret.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the red velvet hem of Abbot Roald’s robes disappear through the garden gate. A chill rippled through her body. Just how long had he been standing there watching them?

  Chapter 6

  Tasmania, April 2014

  Pip picked her way around clumps of dry spiky bracken and silky native grasses back up the slope and into Megs’s shiny new kitchen. The room reminded Pip of the emergency department where Megs worked: all stainless-steel benches and glossy black cabinetry. Thankfully there was no blood on the benchtops, but Pip noted the line-up of stainless-steel appliances. She wouldn’t put it past Megs, or Will for that matter, to have a cheeky defibrillator on loan from emergency among the collection. It just didn’t seem that strange for a couple of overachieving surgeons. Especially now they had Chloé. Pip chuckled—she couldn’t wait to see sticky handprints along those pristine walls.

  ‘Hiya.’ Megs walked in and pulled a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge. ‘Want a glass? It’s good.’ She paused. ‘Or so Will tells me. I can’t have any, of course.’ She grimaced.

  ‘Surely a glass won’t hurt?’

  ‘Pip! It’s hard enough to keep my milk in—I don’t need to contaminate it,’ she snapped. She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. Let me pour you a glass.’

  As she took a wineglass from a shelf she continued: ‘Chloé is asleep finally, thank God. Eva is out for the night—hot date. Luckily I’m off tomorrow and by some miracle so is Will. We haven’t been off on the same day in over a month.’

  ‘Ah, so that’s the secret to this fancy clean house.’ Pip laughed at her sister. ‘You guys are just never home! Or is it Eva?’

  ‘Ha. As if.’ Megs yawned widely. ‘I’m on constant rotations between emergency, general surgery and ICU. Did three doubles last week and so did Will.’

  ‘That’s nuts, Megs. Surely you can go part-time?’ It wasn’t like Megs to admit that she was feeling pressured. She usually thrived where mere mortals, like Pip, fell apart.

  ‘We’re so sh
ort-staffed, if I try to take a day off it just means more work for everyone else. I just have to suck it up.’ Megs hesitated, as if she had something else she wanted to say, but instead let out a big sigh.

  Pip waited, sipping her wine.

  ‘The pair of us have been living in scrubs. Did I tell you how hot Will looks in scrubs?’

  ‘Still? Seriously, Megs. I’m sure there are rules about fraternising on the wards. I watch Grey’s Anatomy—all those hot surgeons getting it on.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Megs rolled her eyes and gave a weak laugh. ‘Inevitable really when you spend a hundred hours a week at the hospital. Great Southern Hospital ain’t Seattle Grace though. The place is falling down. I had to gaffer tape up some drips last week. Ridiculous. The poor nurse couldn’t believe it.’

  As Pip selected ingredients from the cupboard and fridge, she looked across at her slim big sister and admired her black skinny jeans, silver ballet flats and white V-neck tee. Pip wondered if Megs could look any more French chic, with her dark blunt bob and severe fringe. Most days she wondered if they were even related.

  Pip set out to dirty the kitchen. She measured out a cup of flour onto the cold steel benchtop, Megs watching with a mixture of horror and something else … Pride? Curiosity? She cracked two eggs into the hole, mixed in a dollop of olive oil using her hands and kneaded the floury mixture until she’d made a soft, silky dough. She pounded the ball against the stainless-steel bench. Comforted by the sensation of having her hands deep in the soft, malleable dough, Pip began to unwind.

  ‘So my lab work has stalled. I need to run some more sediment tests but my funding is kaput. Imogen can’t renew it. Told me to get my thesis in or it’s all over.’ She sighed. ‘No excuses—you’d love her!’ Pip half laughed. ‘Peas in a pod.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘Jack still wants me to go to Italy. And we have to sort this buyout. But I can’t see how I can swing it—not if I want my PhD.’