Authors: Felicity Pulman
When the day that Arthur will assume my crown finally dawns, I take advantage of the flurry and bustle of preparation and unobtrusively make my way out of the castle. A shawl over my head and shoulders disguises me along with the large bag I am carrying as I hurry down to Merlin’s cave by the sea. Although he now lives in the castle, I know well that he still visits his cave; I have seen him going there while I’ve been flying about prying into everyone’s secrets. Merlin had never invited either Arthur or me to visit him there; in fact, I am sure he believes the location of his real home is a secret, for he always took care to meet us somewhere within the forest glade. But I have learned how potent knowledge can be, particularly if its source is secret or magical and I am more determined than ever to learn all that I may of our world and of the Otherworlds beyond. I know that Merlin has the tools to help me achieve my ambition, and I plan to find them.
The cave is disguised and protected by its narrow entrance, a thin crack in the rockface that is almost obscured by twining vines. Inside, the cave is large and dry, and it contains all that Merlin needs to practice his magical arts. There is a fireplace close enough to the entrance to allow smoke to escape, although no fire burns now. An iron rack is placed above it, on which stands a pot half filled with water. Merlin’s bed—rough sacking stuffed with straw—is rolled up to one side. A hand-carved table and a stool stand in the center, giving a limited view of the ocean beyond. The table is littered with scraps of parchment, a bowl of ink and a quill. I glance at what Merlin has been writing. It is some sort of journal, but I have not the time to look through the musings of that treacherous mage. I am more interested in a shelf that stands at the back of the cave where it is protected from wind and rain. It is made of sea-weathered wood and piled high with scrolls and several bound books. I recognize one of the books, and pick it up. It is so ancient it is falling apart, but it is full of the lore and wisdom of time long ago, when the way between the worlds was open, and all things were known. I’d seen Merlin use this book in the past for his spells and I know that much of what he taught me has its origins here. I place it in my bag, fair recompense for all that I have lost. I know that there is so much more to learn and I pray that I will find the answers I seek within it. My greatest ambition is to master moving forward or back in time: what revenge I shall take once I can do this!
The other writings hold little interest for me; I already know much of what they contain. I turn my attention to the oaken chest that squats below the shelf. It is locked, but I say the spell of undoing and raise its lid to survey the contents. As I’m going through Merlin’s collection of magical paraphernalia, a small chunk of rock with purple crystals at its heart catches my eye. Amethyst; the stone of healing, the stone of meditation and psychic ability. I’m not sure of its other powers, but when I pick it up I feel its warmth. Its energy thrums through my fingers and I know that I must have it. Doubtless I shall find a use for it in time.
The third thing I take is a pack of thin wooden tablets. They are cracked and splintered with age, the illustrations etched on them smooth and in some places almost obliterated from long use. I don’t know their purpose but I find them attractive, for each tablet bears a different design. Some are numbered but none are named so, although each tablet seems to carry a special meaning, I am unable to decipher what it might be. But I am sure that I shall find out, given time.
I wrap the objects carefully and stow them away in my bag. I need to hurry now, to put as many miles between me and my prison as possible. I hoist my bag onto my back and climb up from the cave to follow the track to the forest and the road beyond that will lead me east.
As I trudge the weary miles it occurs to me that I am now a fugitive. I have no home, and no friends who might shelter me. I have my father’s gifts in the form of jewels, plus some coins to help fund my journey, but at present I have no food, nor anything to drink—I had not thought to bring provisions. I am quite alone in the world and I have no plans for the future other than flight. I curse myself for not having the foresight to plan my escape more carefully.
As the sun slips down the sky and the day begins to darken into night, I pass a small homestead. A horse is tethered in the field, and I hide nearby. Once the moon rises and there is enough light to see what I am doing, I draw water from the well to slake my thirst, and then mount the horse and gallop away, holding tight to its mane for there is no saddle and no bridle. I leave a silver penny beside the gatepost in payment.
During my flight I ponder where to take refuge, for I need somewhere that Arthur will never find me. After discarding several options, which include going to my sister or to my mother at Amesbury Abbey, I decide that some other abbey will do very well as a hiding place, and so I turn north in the direction of Glastonbury. I have been told that a new Christian abbey has been built there, and I’m hoping that it may be as great as the abbey I visited with Merlin in that Otherworld that so closely touches our own. It was a place of great learning and I long to see it again, but first I must learn the secrets of what I have stolen from Merlin, for without him I’ve been unable to visit the Otherworlds of my choice. Once I have mastered the trick, I mean to visit that great abbey, and also the Isle of Avalon, for I am sure there is far more for me to learn than only the magical arts of an aging mage.
I spend several weary days on horseback. On several occasions I need to hide after I spy Arthur’s soldiers out looking for me. Finally, to aid my disguise, I ask a peasant woman to exchange her rough garb for mine, and leave with her my horse. It is easier to blend into the crowd after that, but still I make haste to reach the abbey, for I shall not feel comfortable until I am safely within its walls.
As I approach the Tor, I see the new abbey at its feet. I pause a moment to survey my new home and, for a few heartbeats, my courage fails me. How can I resign myself to a life locked away with a community of women, a life to be spent in prayer and contemplation?
My mind and my heart shriek out in denial. “This is only for a short time, just until the hunt dies down,” I mutter in an effort to steady myself. I become calmer as I remember that I can also disguise myself, become anything I want and so may leave the abbey at any time I wish. Nevertheless, my heart is heavy with foreboding as I approach the abbey, and the small priory that is attached to it.
Once at the gate, I ask to speak to the prioress. The young novice eyes my rough tunic, now more ragged than ever after my long and dusty journey, and is about to refuse when I hand her a coin to change her mind. She bobs her head and opens the gate, but it takes another coin before I am admitted into the presence of the prioress.
“My name is Anna. I am from a land far away, and I am in need of sanctuary,” I tell her. She surveys me thoughtfully, her gaze moving from my face to my rough peasant’s tunic and on down to my hands, which bear no marks of scarring or the calluses of hard work. I hurriedly thrust them behind my back.
“Some soldiers visited the priory two days ago. They come from the court of King Arthur, and they travel in search of his sister, the Lady Morgana. I believe the king desires her presence back at Tintagel,” she says.
I say nothing; the silence lengthens between us.
“They seem determined to find her,” the prioress adds at last.
“Pity the lady if they do, for the palace has become her prison—or so I hear.”
Another long silence ensues. Finally the prioress nods. “May I suggest, Anna, that if you do have any connection to the royal court, you keep it to yourself, both for your own safety and also because it would be best if the sisters don’t hear of it lest it turn their minds from the sacred to the secular.”
“Thank you.” Tears spring into my eyes: from gratitude; from relief. And also from this simple act of kindness that tells me I shall be safe here. I knuckle them away, but I know she has noticed. “Thank you,” I say again. I am uncertain what I should call her. Mother? Prioress? She gives me no help in the matter, but summons the almoner and instructs her to take me to the guest house.
“Yes, Prioress.” The nun bobs her head in obeisance, and my question is answered.
*
The new abbey is far smaller and less decorative than the abbey I remember visiting with Merlin in the Otherworld. But it does have an impressive library, and I feel sure there will be much I can learn here. In my first few weeks, I explore the library. I also study Merlin’s book, for I am determined to revisit the Otherworlds of my youth, and there I find some of the answers I seek. A plan begins to form in my mind, but first I need permission from the prioress.
“You wish to create a new garden of your own design? But why? There is already a herbarium attached to the priory.”
“I have some knowledge of the healing power of plants, and I also know much of their other uses,” I explain. “There is a far greater variety of plants that may be grown to provide the priory—and also the abbey—with everything we need, from medicaments to food.” I cannot tell the prioress what other purpose I have in mind for the garden. I can only hope that my argument is compelling enough. “I’m prepared to choose the plants and see to their placing myself,” I tell her. “And I’m prepared to pay workmen out of my own funds to till the soil and do any rough work that is needed.”
Perhaps the prioress senses the urgency of my need, or perhaps she is persuaded by my argument of self-sufficiency; whatever the reason, she gives me the agreement I need, with an added boon: the promise that the lay sisters and even the nuns will help me in their spare time.
Designing and constructing the garden becomes a popular pastime at the priory. I think we all welcome the chance to be outside in the open air, creating something beautiful. Working on the garden gives me some measure of peace and a sense of self-worth, while the hard physical labor that accompanies its creation means that I fall into bed each night too tired to brood or do anything other than sleep.
I am proud of my design, which is unlike any I have seen elsewhere. The garden takes the form of an enormous wheel within a square, divided into triangular segments, each housing plants for a particular purpose. Many of the herbs and flowers I plant have more than one use, so the same plants are to be found in more than one segment, all blending into a harmonious whole. In the center of the circle I devise a flowery mead, lush grass spangled with sweet violets, primroses, cornflowers, wild strawberries, poppies and other colorful wildflowers. At its heart is a fountain, its cool splashing water providing refreshment on hot, thirsty days. There are benches of turf close by, so that the sisters may rest their weary bodies and aching feet.
Having discovered how important fruit and vegetables are in the monastic diet during the time of Lent, in the largest triangle I plant an abundance of such things as leeks and a variety of coleworts, fava beans and peas of various types; root vegetables such as onions and turnips; and savory pot herbs including rosemary, thyme and parsley.
In the physic garden segment are all the herbs I already know about, for I plan to help pay for my lodging in the priory by treating the sick and the injured with my medicaments. Time has proved that I have some talent in this, and besides, I enjoy experimenting. I know that I shall find a sense of achievement while creating my lotions and brewing my decoctions.
In another segment, I put in plants of use about the household: alecost and several other herbs for brewing and flavoring ale; dyer’s bugloss, chamomile and others for dying cloth, along with pot marigold, which is also used for coloring food; there are tansy, rosemary and other pungent strewing herbs to sweeten floor rushes and repel insects; soapwort for cleansing; flax for sewing and making cloth, plus many others besides.
In the four corners left outside the circle, and for the benefit of the nuns and the prioress, I create small spaces dedicated to the Virgin Mary, for I have discovered how very important she is in their life and worship. I seek out those bushes, like May, and the flowers that once were sacred to the old gods and have been renamed and dedicated to Christ’s mother, such as the Madonna lily; the blue “Eyes of Mary” that the common people call forget-me-nots; “Mary’s crown” or cornflowers, representing the mantle of the Virgin’s cloak; yellow mullein or “Virgin Mary’s Candle’; “Our Lady’s shoes” that are actually columbines; “Our Lady’s gloves”, or foxgloves of folklore; purple “Madonna’s herb”, and many others. Each private herber has a turf bench for solitary rest and quiet contemplation, and is cut off from the main garden by a sheltering screen of fragrant Gallica roses, a symbol of divine love that scent the air with their sweet perfume.
On three sides of the square surrounding the garden, I establish a range of fruit trees, apples, pears, plums and cherries, that will give the beauty of their blossom in spring, shade in summer, fruit in autumn and sunlight through their bare branches in winter. On the fourth side I plant a variety of prickly bramble bushes and canes that will yield fruit such as blackberries and raspberries but that will also act as a barrier against intruders—and aid me in my quest. Winding pathways link one garden bed to another, and these are framed with a sturdy lattice over which grow clinging vines of honeysuckle and roses or grapes, providing shade and a sweet and juicy treat in summer.
The garden takes a while to establish, but the plants grow quickly and the sisters praise my efforts. They tell me how much they enjoy visiting it, how greatly they appreciate the beautiful flowers as well as all the plants that may be put to practical use. I know they make use of the quiet herbers for rest and as a welcome relief from the relentless presence of others. In fact they’re so pleased with me that they do not remark on my absence when I sometimes go missing. They cannot know that parts of the garden are hidden from their eyes. For, while I am laying out the garden, with the help of Merlin’s book I am also plotting secret ways to take me to a part of it that no one else will be able to find.