In the Garden of Iden (28 page)

It was at that precise moment that Master Ffrawney switched allegiances, if the chemical composition of his sweat was any indication. He wanted to be wooed, all the same.

“Sir, shall I desert him I have served so faithfully and so long? I’ll tell you plain, he payeth me handsomely indeed.” This outright lie was a mistake, for Master Darrell had been reading the household accounts, after all.

“Handsomely, say you?” smirked Master Darrell. “If you think you are well paid now, you shall think me as liberal as Croesus. I mark how Sir Walter hath paid out divers sums this long while for certain curiosities, the verity of which I do doubt. Sure I have seen his unicorn: if the man had no better judgment than to buy a plain goat for twenty pounds eightpence, it is a miracle he hath kept himself out of debt as long as he hath. Thrift shall be the new order of the day, I tell you, and there shall be no more cockatrices nor sea dragons bought from peddlers. And why should not some of these grounds be planted out in bright stuff, less rare but easier to maintain, that maketh a better show? And why should folk pay but a penny at the gate, when they might just as well pay twopence?”

I nodded. As I’d thought: the end of the garden as I’d known it.

“This is excellent sense, sir,” Master Ffrawney agreed. “I oft did think, in days past, that Sir Walter spent his substance unwisely. But in this he was much misled by his man Nicholas, you must know. Well, of him we shall speak no more. He shall be brought to justice some day, and God will deal with him then.”

A wave of puzzlement from Master Darrell. “Shall be? But he
hath
been.”

Now wonder and excitement from Master Ffrawney. “Hath he been taken? I thought all had been kept quiet, lest shame come to the Spanish doctor. And is he hanged indeed?”

“Hanged!” Master Darrell was frowning. “Nay, he is condemned to burn.”

My heart wasn’t beating. I couldn’t hear it beat.

“Burn? Go to!”

“Aye, in Rochester. Jesu, what hath happened here? Didst thou not hear how he was taken preaching in the marketplace at Sevenoaks? They say he ranted heresies like a bedlam man, and not in the way of a plain Lutheran neither, but the old heresies—thou knowest whereof I speak. Hath he done some offense here too?”

Master Ffrawney’s joy was incandescent. It fairly shone through the hedge. I could almost see the little green leaves shrivel and curl with its intensity. He proceeded to tell the whole juicy story, but I didn’t stay to listen. I had been carefully packing up my tools. I set them in my basket, got to my feet, and walked away.

I walked right out of that garden. Out through the fantastical gate with its gilded whirligigs and pennants, out into the lane beyond, where long meadows sloped down to a river and pollarded willows grew. No, that was south. I mustn’t go that way. Rochester was due north. I had to find a road that would take me north.

I kept walking.

When I had gone some eight kilometers, it occurred to me that they might be burning him even now. Sobbing, I began to run.

I
T WAS A
long way, fifty kilometers or more. I had to wade rivers. I saw the osiers and weirs and other uniquely English features of the landscape. I walked through orchards just leafing out in green mist, no blossoms yet. I crossed chalky downs, with stands of beech trees. Sometimes I ran, and sometimes I walked. Sometimes I followed a road, and sometimes I cut across broad expanses where sheep grazed. I saw examples of
Dianthus carolphyllus albans
and
Cerastium holosteoides
and
Polygala caeruleis
.

I saw thieves, possibly murderers. Near dark I passed through the outskirts of a little town and saw some men standing around a well. I remember their hard stares in their bearded faces. Probably they didn’t often see a young lady in Spanish dress out alone at sunset. Not in Cosenton, or wherever it was.

One of them followed me. About a mile onward, I picked up his signal, coming swiftly after: his pulse was racing, he was excited. Rape, probably, or robbery. I tucked my crucifix inside my bodice and looked around for a place to hide. There were trees nearby, very dense and dark, darker now with night falling. I left the road and went in among them. Nothing there but birds, settling in for the night. I climbed into a good old oak, tearing my dress but who cared now, and sat primly on a branch with my hands folded, waiting.

Presently he came along, and I could see him by infrared, his blood glaring out hot through his clothes. He slunk at a quick trot, as a dog on bad business does, with his excitement hanging around him like a bad smell. I sent a blast of loathing at him. He must have been a psychic dog: he faltered and turned about in the road and actually came a few paces near my tree. I sent images into his mind of violent assault, murder, bloodshed. It must have excited him, because he nosed even closer. In desperation I conjured up the supernatural: white clammy specters coming at him out of the trees, arms wide to embrace him. That did the trick. He took to his heels and ran back the way he’d come. I sat trembling in the oak branches for a while, hating the mortal race.

Except Nicholas, of course.

There was a waxing moon for a few hours, and by its light I found my way on through cold England, across green hills. Somewhere off north was the sea, and away to my left was a river that snaked down to it, growing wider with each curve. The Medway, it must have been. Yes, Rochester was on the Medway. The smell of the river and the turning stars guided me after the moon went down.

Sometimes, a long way off, I could see candlelit windows. There were mortals in the warmth behind those windows, up late: sitting up with sick ones or reading solitary or having late-night suppers of toast and mulled wine. I would have liked some toast and mulled wine. Any other time, I would have thought sentimentally about the people in the candlelit rooms, living out all the poignant details of their little mortal lives. Not tonight. I passed on through the dark with the knowledge that if I knocked on one of those doors, was welcomed into one of those warm bright rooms, they would be bright for only a moment: then, as at Christmas, all the lights would go out, and I would be alone in the dark with time and its dead. Better to walk the night.

Morning took a long time coming. The first thing I noticed by its gray light was that I had wrecked my clothes: there were rips and trails of lace everywhere, and mud, and wet dead leaves. Too bad. The second thing I noticed was a castle sticking up on a mound by a big gray curve of river. There were pointy parts of building below it—a cathedral.

I accessed all my store of maps and literature. Yes, that must be Rochester. Smoke curled upward from it. Oh, let it be chimney smoke, harmless chimney smoke. Or a hundred men with pipes? No, not pipes. A few years yet before tobacco became a habit among civilized men. What would it be like to live, as some future generations would, in perpetual clouds of herbal smoke? It must be a sweet kind of smell. Perhaps it would be like incense. A shame about the carcinogens, of course, but with all the medical advances of that era, the mortality rate would probably balance out even with now.

So I babbled to myself, on the road to the city, and the sun climbed higher in the sky. It did not dry me out much. I was encountering mortals on the road now. They did stare at me as we passed each other. Either my clothes were in a worse state than I thought, or they didn’t often see señoritas here.

An old woman was puffing along slowly toward me with a basket under her arm. She was as much a wreck as sixty mortal years could make her, but my goodness what pink skin she had. That’s the English for you.

“Good morrow, good mother.”

“Eh?” She looked up (she was only about four feet tall) and noticed me for the first time. Her blue eyes widened in a stare.

“Art thou come from yonder town, good mother?”

“Eh? Aye.” She couldn’t make up her mind to curtsey to me, not being entirely sure what I was, so she wobbled a bit and flapped her apron to be on the safe side. I reached up to smooth my hair and found a long oak twig sticking straight up like an antenna. Wonderful.

“Thou wilt pardon me for my wild appearance, good woman, as I was set upon by thieves.”

“Truly?” Instant rush of interest, and not sympathy, exactly, but a certain enthusiasm. She came closer.

“I must know, goodwife, whether there hath lately been a man burned at Rochester?” I held my breath and waited.

“Nay, lady, but there is to be.”

Whoosh. “I pray you, tell me when?”

“Why, on the morrow, lady.” Her eyes assessed me. “Spanish, are you?”

Must be the cut of my gown. “Why, so I am,” I answered cautiously.

“Then you’ve lost none of your sport. The man burneth tomorrow betimes.” She shrugged her basket closer to her and walked on. I walked on my way too, light-headed as all hell. Nearly a whole day before? Surely I could come up with some kind of plan.

Rochester was a very old place. It smelled old. Moldy, too. The air of decay probably came from the ruin that about a third of the town was fast becoming. It had been a monastic town, so the Reformation had smashed it pretty well. There seemed to be one main street that dove straight through without taking the traveler anywhere much. To either side of it the town was self-enclosed and secretive, blind as a maze. Only, looming over all, was this big cathedral that looked like it might fall on you at any time. I didn’t like the cathedral. But I wasn’t there to like it, was I?

So many mortals now, along the main street, and all staring at me. I saw a man coming out of a house. He seemed to be important; his surcoat had fur trimming on it.

“Reverend sir.” I curtseyed deep before him as he regarded me in astonishment. “Can you tell me where the man is, that was brought here from Sevenoaks?”

He took forever to answer. Really, had he never seen a Spanish ghost before?

“If you mean the foul heretic, lady, he is held fast at the bishop’s house.”

Ah. I was getting somewhere. I pulled my crucifix out of my bosom. He goggled at one or the other. “I pray you, sir, is he a great tall fellow, without a beard?”

“Aye, fair maid, he is. Wherefore would you know?”

“Oh, sir!” All right, he was looking at my bosom. I made it heave and brought it closer to him. “I have sought the recreant this many a mile, through wild country as you may plainly see, all that I might dispute with him concerning the true faith, to lead him out of error into salvation.” I found my rosary and waved that at him too. He blinked and replied:

“That were a great pity, lady, for the man hath remained constant in his heresy and is to die for it.”

I swooned. Not really; but it put the ball in his court, and my feet were killing me anyway. There was an outcry all around me, and I was lifted up and carried into the house, with much covert squeezing of my behind and even more covert tugging at my gold crucifix. Both remained attached, however. I was revived with a shot of aqua vitae and came to with suitably faint requests for data concerning my location. Many staring English faces assured me I was in the Lord Mayor’s house and need not fear, for they were all honest folk here.

I checked my cross and rosary, then sought the face of the man I’d first spoken to. He must be El Alcalde de Rochester. I played my scene to him and played it well, too: wept for the man Harpole, explained that I had striven to save his soul but he had fled me, adamant in his heresy, though because there had been some tender feeling between us that had nothing to do with theology I thought I might still manage to reconcile him to the Church. Might I not be given this chance?

But the Lord Mayor was shaking his head.

“Child, he is condemned. You may save his immortal part, aye; but the knave hath argued so coldly, and so shrewdly, and hath such a wicked reputation beside, that you will never see him pardoned. Be content; there is no remedy.”

“But I must see him!”

“Well, that may be done,” said a lady, clearly the mayor’s wife. “But who are you, child? Are you not Spanish?”
Hola
.

“I am the daughter of Doctor Ruy Anzolabejar,” I said, as proud as though it were true. “And what honorable love there hath been between myself and this poor man I will not say; but I charge you to think whether you would deny a soul one last persuasion that might be its salvation, and break a maiden’s heart into the bargain.”

The Lord Mayor and his wife exchanged glances. She got up and encouraged her neighbors to leave. When she came back, the Lord Mayor said delicately:

“Lady, your intent is praiseworthy, but I must tell you that though this is a godly place wherein most folk do love our queen, our prince, and his holiness the Pope, as well they ought, yet there are certain vile persons here who have acclaimed the man Harpole as a martyr. This has hardened him to his villainous intent. These ill-wishers may do you some harm if you attempt to dissuade him.”

“Let them,” I said. “I care not, so his precious soul is saved.” So there. The Lord Mayor cleared his throat.

“Why, then—then you may take some buttered eggs with us, and rest you from your wearisome journey, and perhaps after dark I may take you to where he is kept.”

“I must go to him now,” I insisted. “What, shall I lose one instant of the brief time I have left to convert him?”

“Fie for shame, husband!” cried the wife. “Put a cloak about her and take her round about by the old way. There’s none will see her in the vineyard.”

“So shall I do.” He looked at her indignantly. “And was about to so propose, ere thou prated at me.”

In the end we both went covered up in cloaks, through a mass of ruined walls and green garden, all around under that big cathedral. We went into the back garden of a big house, and the Lord Mayor courteously explained my purpose to several persons of importance, including Bishop Griffin himself. As in take after take of a comic film, I played my scene out some three or four times. Finally everyone agreed I should have my shot at the condemned man. So after an agony of wasted time, I found myself in front of a little low door, with a mail-clad soldier turning a key in the lock.

The key was ornate. The lock clanked. These physical details claimed my attention, I found them absolutely fascinating, and of course the reason was that I had no idea why I had come to see Nicholas or what I was going to say to him. But I went in, and there he was.

He was sitting quiet and composed on a narrow cot, the single piece of furniture in the room. His eyes widened as I came in with the Lord Mayor, but he did not react otherwise.

The Lord Mayor lectured Nicholas sternly about his fate, and told him how he didn’t deserve this virtuous lady coming to reason with him, but since she was here, the Lord Mayor would see if youth and virtue might succeed where reverend wisdom had failed to shake Nicholas’s sinful heart. I was assured that if any violence was attempted on my person, I had but to cry out and I should be rescued instantly, and this bad fellow would be the worse for it. Having said his say, the Lord Mayor took his leave of us. The door closed after him. We were alone.

We looked at each other in silence. Nicholas was muddy and torn too, and bruised besides; pale, thin, and unshaven. His face had changed.

“Welcome, Spirit,” he said at last. His voice had changed, too.

“May I sit down?” I requested. Then I realized there was only the bed to sit on. He got up and gestured for me to sit. My legs were trembling, so I sat and pulled off my shoes, which hurt my feet very much. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded, watching me.

“How should a spirit have such muddy toes?” he wondered.

“Didst thou think I flew here?” I looked at him. “Think again. I have walked the whole way from Iden Hall.”

“Ah.” He looked at me steadily.

“See?” I stretched out my feet. “No hooves.”

A smile came and went, chilly, strange.

“To tell truth, I am glad thou hast come,” he said. “This mortal air was getting a sweetness to it that made my heart cold to my duty. It made me wonder whether I had only dreamed—what thou knowest of. I was growing weak in my resolve. Now thou art here to test me, like a good friend, and I see it was no dream and am strong again.”

I couldn’t think what to say at all. My eyes filled with tears.

“Aye.” He nodded. “Weep, Spirit. I will not falter.”

“Oh, this is stupid!”

“I may tell thee, thou hast done me great good. Before mine eyes were opened, I believed as any weak and sensible man doth: that God exists, because we have been taught so, but there are no miracles and our only duty is earthly charity. More, I believed there were no devils nor spirits but only wickedness in men. For who has ever seen a serpent that spake with a voice, to tempt men from God?” What a strange look for me as he said that last. Almost kindly. “But, having known thee, I learned the truth of what thou art, and mine eyes are opened.”

I had certainly shown him there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in his philosophy, hadn’t I? He eased himself down into a sitting position on the floor.

“Regard what thou hast done. In every respect where I doubted, thou hast made me believe.” He leaned forward. “Were it not for thine ever witching me away from my duty, I could think thou wert a spirit of a different kind entirely.”