In the Garden of Iden (10 page)

“So. Enough of the safety lecture. Try some of the cheese, it’s the famous Cheshire cheese. Now if you’ll all open your dockets …”

Rustle rustle crackle crackle. There was a silence as we all dutifully accessed and integrated. Then one by one we handed the sheets to Xenophon, who tossed them on the fire. “Nice and tidy. Are there any questions?”

“Why can’t I stay at the HQ in Eastcheape?” Flavius wanted to know.

“It was decommissioned fifty years ago. History decrees other use of the site.”

“Damn.”

“You mean you won’t be going where we are?” I stared at Flavius. It wasn’t that I was going to miss him, particularly, but I’d got used to him.

He shook his head, and Xenophon laughed. “Too much work for him in London. We need systems techs desperately over here right now.”

Eva had been sitting with this special little glow on her face ever since she’d accessed her codes. She was feeling such giddy delight, it was coming through on the ether. We turned one by one to stare at her, and Xenophon leaned forward across the table with a grin.

“I see we have a Shakespeare fan here.”

“Stratford!” she burst out. “Yes! When do I go?”

“You’ve got a little identity work here, and then we’re sending you off to meet your Arden ‘cousins’ next month.”

So she was going away too, and to live among mortals. This was the first time I had any inkling of how alone we really are. I had been thinking of my team as a family, getting used to everyone’s little quirks. But we weren’t a family. Well, I was new then, and hadn’t learned yet that that’s life in the service.

“I’ll be with you the first year, you and Joseph,” Nefer told me. Thank you, Nefer. More livestock discussions.

The briefing went on from there to a discussion of the local currency, to national politics and gossip, to the weather (bad), to the latest field technologies available to us (inadequate, everyone felt), to the merits of British beer over German beer. When the meeting broke up, we stayed by the cozy little coal fire and learned English card games, because the rain resolutely kept raining. As I fell asleep that night, I was thinking that I would have to see if I could spot any cowslips or osiers while I was here. And weirs, I’d read about them in English novels too.

J
ULY
22, 1554. I’d been in the field a year and a day. It was a space of time that figured in old songs and poetry.

We said farewell to Flavius and Eva in the dark of morning before we rode off. I never saw him again, and her I saw only once, a long time after, in a transport lounge in another country. We were going in opposite directions and had no time to talk.

And into darkness we descended, Joseph and Nefer and I, to ride the famous Company underground. It linked all parts of that island in a series of arrow-straight lines, and the operatives on duty in England were terribly proud of it. I thought it was awful, but there was no other way to get from Hampton to Kent on schedule, and it did cut down on our chances of getting lynched.

So we shuttled through shadows on a track in a tiny closet box going twenty-three kilometers an hour. The box thudded to a halt at last in a gloomy alcove, and we groped our way up uneven steps, flight after flight of them, hoisting our baggage well clear of the puddles, until we emerged at the back of a cave.

“This is a cave,” I said accusingly. My voice echoed back, and Joseph and Nefer just looked at me. Somewhere ahead a horse whinnied uneasily, and we followed the sound to daylight.

In fact there were three horses in the mouth of the cave, all saddled and bridled, and a little dark man who sat watching the rain. He jumped up when he saw us emerge from the depths and backed off a pace or two.

“
Akai, chavo
.” Joseph tossed him a bag of coins. The man took it and slipped away out into the rain. “Three transport shuttles at the ready, ladies.” Joseph smirked.

We rode into Kent therefore on good horses, with our baggage bound around us, in our Company cloaks issued specially against the rain that rained every minute. Most of the journey was a blur of leaves and water for me, so I can’t tell you if there were cowslips by the wayside or not.

Still, as the day wore on, we came into an open landscape. Hop fields wide to the horizon, dotted here and there with toy towns, each with its steeple and cluster of trees. Low rolling hills and rivers. At some point we clattered across a little bridge, and Joseph reined in his mount and said, “I guess it’s around here somewhere.”

Actually he knew exactly where it was, he had directionals fixed and homing, but he never could resist the temptation to pretend he was real.

“Some ride, huh, ladies?” he remarked brightly. “All ready to make a good impression? Are we in character? Mendoza, have you got the whatsit all ready for presentation?”

“The Indian maize,” I told him. “It’s right here. In a fancy case and everything.”

“Great. Nef, your veil is crooked.”

“Thanks a lot. Aren’t they going to be a little surprised to see us so soon?”

“No. How are they to know just when the ships put in? Xenophon has been sending letters quote from me unquote to our hosts, so they know we’re coming, but they don’t know when to expect us. Turn right here, I think.”

We set off down a green aisle, with green willows looming across our view of the gray sky. Before we had gone a mile, we picked them up, scanning: three mortal males in a highly excitable frame of mind. A quarter mile farther on, they appeared, just sort of stepped out from between the hedges and stood staring at us. They completely blocked the lane. They were bare-legged, blue with cold, and carried great sharp pitchforks caked with manure. They stared hard at us, and Nefer and I shrank back in our hoods.

Get your thinking caps on, girls
, transmitted Joseph. Then in flawless South London English he said, “Good day to ye, goodmen.”

“Be ye Spaniards?” said one of them. He had very white teeth. So did the other two. I noticed this, because they were baring them threateningly.

“Nay, I thank our Lord Jesus Christ,” said Joseph with an easy smile.

“But there be Spaniards come among us now,” persisted the man. “We heard tell from Sir Thomas. And monks come to burn us all.” His friends were staring at our trappings and baggage.

“For very fear of that, good lads, I and mine are removing to Flanders.
That
for the Pope!” and Joseph spat elegantly, though he had to wrooch around a little to avoid hitting anyone, because we were so crowded there in the lane.

“Aye,” said the man.

They just stood there.

“Well, we must on. Jesu keep you, good lads, and keep England, and God save the Princess Elizabeth!” cried Joseph, urging his horse forward. They let us through.

“You have a ready wit, my father,” I said, digging my nails out of my palms.

“Smooth, that’s what I am,” he replied. “Good navigator, too. Here we are.”

The way opened out in front of us. I don’t know what I had expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t wrought-iron gates four meters tall, fantastically gilded and ornamented, little pennants fluttering, little weathercocks spinning, and above our heads foot-high letters set with bright enamel that spelled out

Iden his Garden

And underneath, only slightly smaller, was the legend:

Here Ye May See Where the Desperate CADE Was Taken
,
With Divers Other Curious Marvels Whereat Ye May Wonder

“Holy Cow,” said Nefer.

Down by the entrance was a small porter’s lodge, almost a booth, you might say, and on its window a placard reading

Penny to See the Great Garden of Wonders

Through the gate we could make out some brick walls, an avenue of hedges clipped into geometric shapes, and what must have been the manor house at the far end of it, looking not all that big really.

But here came a man in blue livery, wearing a crucifix the size of a shovel around his neck, advancing on us with hands outstretched.

“Your worships! Welcome, welcome in the name of the Pope! Oh, Jesu bless your worships!”

Is this guy one of ours
? I inquired of Joseph.

No. Just a sycophant
. “Buenos días, good fellow! This is then the residence of that worthy friend of Spain, Señor Walter Iden?”

“It is even so. The blessed saints be thanked that you met with no heretics on the way!” He seized our horses’ bridles and led us in. “I am Francis Ffrawney and I serve Sir Walter and I pray your worships remember me as a constant friend and a true believer. If you should lack for aught the whiles you stay here—”

“Truly you are a courteous gentleman and doubtless faithful.” Joseph grinned at us over his head. “The Pope shall hear good things of you.”

The man went pasty white. “H-huzzah!” he got out. “And is it true, then, that you have come to spy out foul heretics in Kent, and intelligence the Pope thereof?”

“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.”