In the Garden of Iden (Company)

by Kage Baker

  “Peace, friend. I am but a physician come to gather simples in the garden of good Sir Walter. Though I would be served,” and Joseph leaned down and looked very Spanish indeed, you could almost see the auto-da-fé smoke in his beard, “by those with discreet tongues in their heads.”

  “Oh!” said Master Ffrawney; he went a whiter shade still, an ugly color in all that greenery. By this time we had come up before the house, and there were grooms running to help us. Faces peered from all the leaded windows and over one or two of the clipped hedges, and all those rosy English faces looked terrified. Two men were descending the steps of the manor house. The more elaborately dressed of the two stepped forward to meet us.

  “I have the joy of beholding my great friend Doctor Ruy Anzolabejar,” he said carefully, putting a not quite audible question in the statement.

  “My beloved friend!” cried Joseph. “How many years has it been since we lay at the Seven Ducks?” That was the code response, and Sir Walter relaxed visibly.

  He was not a tall man at all, for an Englishman, but his presence expressed itself in at least three contrasting hues in his brilliant doublet. His hose were vivid yellow, the heels of his shoes were built up, and there was a great deal of gold-colored ornamentation sewn all over his clothes. The rather ordinary face that commanded this fashion looked intelligent enough. He must have been about sixty, quite old for a mortal in that era.

  We all dismounted, and Joseph went forward and embraced him. “Mi viejo amigo! It has been so long since our youth in the days of the late and sanctified Queen Katherine. Ah, what joyful times they were, when England and España were one in amity. What high hopes we have for the present union. It quite brings tears to mine eyes.” He actually dabbed at them with a large lace handkerchief.

  “And to mine also,” stammered Sir Walter. “You look most, uh, youthful.”

  We’d told Joseph he should have grayed his hair more.

  “That, my dear friend, you may lay to a certain Greek physick that you wot well of.” Joseph looked at him meaningfully. “Of which, more anon. But now, let me present to you Doña Marguerita Figueroa, a woman whose chastity is renowned throughout Valladolid.”

  Nefer curtseyed, looking regal.

  “And allow me further to present to you my daughter, Doña Rosa.” Joseph put out his hand to me, and I curtseyed low. “The comfort of my middle age and a scholarly child. Are you not, Daughter? She will assist me in my study of your most justly famous garden. Hija, present to our worthy host the most unworthy trifle we have brought him for his collection.”

  Sir Walter looked scared and greedy at once. This was fun. Demure and theatrical as could be, I brought out the fancy case I had carried so far. With a flourish I opened it and displayed the contents. Sir Walter caught his breath. Ha, I thought.

  It really had turned out especially well, my Indian maize. One whole ear rested on a bed of harvested kernels. The kernels were big as marbles and all colors: white like pearls, yellow like gold, red like garnets, blue like bruises. Sir Walter reached with a trembling hand, greed winning out completely in his face. He was desperate to grab it, I could see. This mortal was a serious collector; he would give anything to have this exotica in his garden, to show it off as it grew tall and bore strange flowers. The man could not have cared less what services were said in his chapel. Perfect for use. The Company was so good at finding these people.

  But it wouldn’t be mannerly to snatch it out of my hands. He got control of himself.

  “How rare! Here is true magnificence! Pray, what call you this thing?”

  “It is called maize, gentle sir, out of the New World,” I said.

  “The New World! I have a vine of potato of the Indies, but it bears no such fruit. Nicholas, you shall tell the guests who pay at the gate that the savages of Ind do feed on very jewels, and so show forth this maize! And belike we shall have Master Sampson paint upon a board a map of the New World, in some several colors, or yet some figures of men all naked to signify that they be savages—” He controlled himself again.

  “Fair Lady Rose, you are most welcome to Iden’s Garden. And you, good lady … Lady …”

  “Marguerita,” supplied Joseph.

  “Even so she is. I bid ye welcome to my poor house, though I may say my garden is a pleasance for kings to command. Nicholas—ah. My friend, this gentleman is my secretary. Master Harpole. Nicholas, hither now.”

  The other man stepped forward. We craned back our necks to look. He was tall even for an Englishman, and in his black scholar’s gown positively towering. He peered down at us sternly.

  He was long and lanky but solid through the body, this young man; he had good legs on him. His face was nice too, with high wide cheekbones and a wide mobile mouth, though the mouth was presently pulled down at the corners in an expression of mulish disapproval. He had a long nose with a slight break to the left; his eyes were pale blue and frankly rather small, or at least looked that way glaring at us in icy Protestant dignity.

  How interesting, I thought to myself.

  “Master Harpole,” repeated Sir Walter, with a rising inflection. Master Harpole bowed stiffly.

  Oh, how well he moved. And what fresh color in his smooth English skin.

  “It is pleasant to meet you, young man,” said Joseph brightly. “Sir Walter, shall we see this garden, which is of renown even to the limits of Muscovy?”

  I was still holding out the maize in its open box. I shut it and my mouth but did not look away from Master Harpole. I thrust the box at Sir Walter, who grabbed it eagerly and mustered his good breeding to reply:

  “Even to Muscovy? Surely not so. Yet, I promise you, you shall marvel at it! Nicholas, pray walk forth and show it them, as you are accustomed.”

  Nicholas Harpole extended his long black-draped arm and said: “Gentles, will you walk hence?” And though he was being as unpleasant as he knew how, his smooth rich tenor hung on the air like a violin.

  So as the grooms hustled our baggage within, I followed Master Harpole into a green confusion of pleaching and pruning and apricocks and yew. The rest of our party came along too, of course, but it should be obvious to you by now that they might have been invisible for all I knew or cared.

  The first place we came to was surrounded by a high wall of brick. The area therein enclosed was planted with sorrel, herbs, and a few vegetables. Over in one corner was a dungheap. “The garden, proper, of Alexander Iden, Esquire. A kinsman of our present Sir Walter,” intoned Master Harpole. “The very garden where the recreant Jack Cade was taken, in the reign of our late King Henry, sixth of that name. It fell out—”

  “But, Nicholas, this is the crown and glory of the walk, the chiefest primature of our attractions! Were it not well considered to hold it forth to the last, being as it were the cake and comfits of our discourse?” cried Sir Walter.

  Calmly, Nicholas drew himself upright and folded his arms. “I cry you mercy, Sir Walter. I have but followed the customary walk as presented to our penny-paid guests. What shall it please you I present for the, as it were, bread and broth of our discourse?”

  Sir Walter looked at him peevishly. “See you, Doctor Ruy, how it was. This Jack Cade, whom you must know was a most vicious and murdering caitiff, of common low birth, he here being pursued by all loyal Englishmen for his bloodthirsty crimes against our sainted King Henry (who, I would have you know, was a true son of the Church and a faithful friend of the Pope)—the said Jack Cade, hunted all through Kent, in desperate wise scaled this very wall.” He ran outside the enclosure, put his leg over the bricks, and slid back in rather awkwardly, as his slops were thickly padded out. “Thus, and went to gather him salad herbs which were here growing, he being in sore need of food. So was the villain engaged when my, uh, kinsman, that famous Alexander Iden, then but an humble esquire of Kent, happed upon him here.”

  “Verdad?” said Joseph pleasantly. “And what then occurred?”

  “Why, they fought, sir. At first the good esquire
offered Jack Cade no violence, and would have shown charity to a poor starving fellow, but that the man boasted of his crimes, crimes too hideous to relate here. Wherefore my kinsman took his pruning bill like this, and the said Cade drew his sword like this—Nicholas, what say you, would it not be better told if we had two mannequins here, in the very posturing of battle, one to figure forth Iden and the other Cade? The better to make it all plain?”

  “I will inquire the cost of Master Sampson,” said Nicholas gravely.

  “Or belike statuary. More expense, but a lasting monument. Well, sir, the fight being over and my kinsman having valiantly slain the accursed Cade, he smote off the head and threw the ignoble body on a dungheap, and bore that same head to blessed Henry where he lay at London. And there, for his great deed of loyalty to his king, Iden was that same day made a knight and given a thousand marks to boot. Such was the king’s gratitude! And though the fortunes of the house of Iden have not run constant since that time, mine own success in the wool trade—no valiant work but honest, I assure you—hath furnished me with the means to make suitable commemoration of the Iden valor.”

  “I am overwhelmed with astonishment,” said Joseph. “And this, then, is the very dungheap where Cade’s body lies buried?”

  “Why, as to that—” Sir Walter grew a little red and looked in appeal to Nicholas, “as to that, family fortunes being what they were—”

  “The history Sir Walter hath related here is very old, some hundred years or more,” explained Nicholas, smooth as music. “In the natural course of time, the original garden vanished, as all things will under Time’s crushing heel. Nor could the descendants of Sir Alexander, less favored by fortune than their sire, hold title to the ancient family seat. But when Sir Walter came into this county, having a mind to restore the family greatness, he was assured by sundry persons of good character that this was that same garden, or the place where it had been. All that you see is restored. This dungheap, therefore, hath been placed here solely for your edification.” He made a slight bow.

  “As well as many another marvel unknown in Sir Alexander’s day,” piped up Sir Walter. “Whereas he grew but salad herbs and such things as befit a poor esquire, I with my fortune have made such a collection of wonders, both animal and vegetable, as ye may well exclaim over! Of course, nothing looks its best just now,” he added parenthetically. “The rain, you know.”

  “What would you have them see next, sir?” inquired Nicholas.

  “Oh, my roses. The nonpareils of the world, my roses.”

  Nicholas led us deeper into the garden, and we saw a whole arbor where there actually did grow just about every variety of rose that existed at that time, with a couple of variegated petal mutations that were probably unique. I made a mental note to get genetic material from them.

  But it was as we were going to see something Sir Walter grew in a hothouse called The Great Engiber Pea Out of Africke that my gaze was distracted from contemplation of Master Harpole’s long back. My head snapped around as I turned to stare, and I nearly collided with Nefer. Ilex tormentosum! I transmitted frantically to Joseph. My God, he’s got a whole hedge of Ilex tormentosum over here!

  Is that good? Joseph queried. I responded with excited profanity.

  What’s going on? Nefer wanted to know.

  “This hedge here, it is a form of holly, is it not?” Joseph inquired casually of Sir Walter.

  “This? Indeed, sir. Not our English holly, but one I have heard tell was brought with Julius Caesar from Rome for some properties it hath, though what they may be I confess I know not. It is not so common as once it was, I think. In faith, I have not seen it but here this many a year now.”

  Oh, what a score. Pharmacologists of the twenty-second century had three miserable endangered specimens of this plant, source of a specific for liver cancer, and here was a whole hedge. If Sir Walter had this kind of botanical loot, what else might he be growing? I looked more closely and began to spot them everywhere: Cynoglossum nigra, Oxalis quinquefolia, Calendula albans, Carophyllata montena, Genista purpurea ascendens … Meanwhile Nicholas was solemnly holding forth on Sir Walter’s prized Portingale orange and Cathay coriander and even a sad-looking palmetto plant. I had months of work, fabulous work to do here!

  But when the sky suddenly opened and sent black buckets of rain down on us, we had to turn and run for the house. Only Nicholas seemed to know his way through the maze, which would have been difficult to traverse quickly even without the rain, the darkness, the flight between our legs of a despairing peacock, and the disappointed wails of Sir Walter.

  “So much of my collection yet unseen!” he lamented. “None of my zoological wonders touched on at all. But ’tis no matter. There’ll be clement weather yet. You must see my unicorn of Hind.”

  I wondered what that was, but not much. My head was spinning. Who’d have thought England was such a delightful country?

  We made it to the house, and the drafty wooden floors boomed under our shoes, but there was a roaring fire laid out in what passed for the great hall. This was indeed a fairly modest little manor, but the Iden arms were blazoned on every surface.

  Everyone crowded to the warmth of the fire, gasping after the run. I sidled up to Nicholas Harpole. The heat of the room had brought high color into his face. I must ask you to believe that I had no idea what had befallen me, there in that garden. My God, that the heart can be so stupid.

  I said to him, in my very best Latin: “What manner of thing is this unicorn, youth?”

  He straightened up from the fire and raised an eyebrow at me. Then he replied, in better Latin: “It is no more than a beast, as other beasts are. And how appropriate it is you speak the tongue of Rome.”

  “Master Harpole,” said Sir Walter sharply. “Go thou and see the baggage has been placed in the chamber as I gave orders for.”

  “I go, sir.” He bowed again. “Lady.” He inclined perfunctorily to me, then strode from the room. I watched him go. I couldn’t fathom it. He smelled good.

  Chapter Ten

  MASTER HARPOLE DID not dine with us, which was disappointing, but since it was our first meal prepared by a non-Company cook without sanitary preparation training, it was just as well: I needed all my attention for the food. The bread was safe to eat, and the chicken with a sauce of oranges and lemons; but there was a venison pasty that was practically crawling, the meat was so far gone, and a custard dish ridden with bacteria of an extremely undesirable kind. I watched disbelieving as Sir Walter tucked it in happily. His system must have been used to such things.

  “My friend, what a bountiful repast!” Joseph pushed his plate away, pushed his chair back from the table, loosened his doublet, and otherwise obscured the fact that he’d eaten nothing more than one chicken leg and a slice of bread. “I am stuffed like a sausage! We have not such fare in Spain.”

  “It is our custom to dine heartily in England,” said Sir Walter smugly. Then he looked uncomfortable. “Though I am sure they do have most excellent feasting in Spain too. And the, um, the vintners of Spain do make a most wondrous Sack, I have heard.”

  “Ah, yes, the sweet wines of Spain. How I wish I had brought some with me.” Joseph looked around to note the absence of servants from the room. He leaned closer to Sir Walter. “And now, old friend, I will be plain with you. Have no fears for your house or your people: I have come into this land, as was told you, only to take simples from your garden and for no other purpose. We will work quietly here and give no offense to any man. Ye may all worship as ye list, or think or speak as ye list; it is all one to me. Only have a care that you be discreet when speaking to other men of who dwelleth here, and we shall all be well pleased alike, you, I, and my masters. Understand my meaning, friend.”

  Sir Walter leaned forward until his beard was in the custard.

  “Oh, sir, mine are loyal folk—loyal to me—and no great talkers but one or two, who love Spain well. For the rest, why, they are young folk and cannot remember Queen Katherine
that was, rest her soul, nor the wrongs done her. They fear Spain, aye; but it is a fear that will pass upon greater acquaintance, God willing.”

  “Your secretary loves us not, I think,” Joseph looked sideways at me.

  “A young man, a young man! In truth, he is something stubborn in his … um … Gospel reading, but he will do as I bid him, I assure you.”

  “That is all my masters desire. Come, we shall all be friends. My daughter shall have leave of days to walk your garden and gather what I require. I by night shall distill such liquors as will purge cold heavy melancholy and dry up all unwholesome humors that make a man old.”

  “The Greek physick,” whispered the old knight.

  “Even as my masters promised.” Joseph held Sir Walter’s gaze with his own.

  A silence fell. Master Ffrawney came in, with many a soulful glance at Joseph, and oversaw the removal of the dishes. I scanned Sir Walter, wondering what Joseph was going to do with him. Hypertension, arteriosclerosis, gout, caries, cholelithiasis. Plenty to keep a physician busy.

  “I shall require some part of each day cloistered with you privily.” Joseph reached for a pear and examined it. Taking out his dagger, he began to peel the fruit in a long spiral. “Perhaps your secretary will assist my daughter in her labors.”

  I turned my head to stare at him.

  “Doubtless they will find many botanical subjects to discuss.” He smiled at me and popped a slice of pear into his mouth.

  Pleading exhaustion from the journey, we retired early and were shown to our two rooms on the second floor, nice paneled rooms with a connecting door. Our baggage had been left in the middle of the floor and appeared undisturbed; no danger if it had been, because everything issued to a field agent is disguised to look like something else. Even Joseph’s book of holo codes for Great Cinema of the Twentieth Century was bound in calfskin with a printer’s date of 1547.