Read Online Virgin Earth by Philippa Gregory - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Philippa Gregory
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garden, a fine garden, is like a man making a church,” John said earnestly. “Showing men the glory of God as a stonemason might carve the glory of God into his pillars and gargoyles.”
The vicar smiled. “Is that what you want to do, Tradescant?” he asked, seeing his way at last to the heart of it. “Being a gardener and digging up weeds is not enough for you — it has to be something more?”
For a moment John might have disclaimed the idea, but the strong wedding ale was working on him and his pride in his work was powerful. “Yes,” he admitted. “It is what I want to do. My Lord Cecil’s gardens are to his glory, to be a setting to his fine house, to show the world that he is a great lord. But the gardens are also a glory to God. To show every visitor that God has made abundant life, life in such variety that a man could spend all his days finding it and collecting it and still not see it all.”
“You have your life’s task then!” the vicar said lightly, hoping to end the conversation. But John did not smile in return.
“I have indeed,” he said seriously.
At the end of the dinner Gertrude rose from the table and the ladies followed her lead. The serving girls stayed behind with the poorer neighbors and drank themselves into a satisfying stupor. Elizabeth completed the last of the tasks in her old family home and waited for John in his turn to leave the dinner. At dusk he came away from the hall and the trestle tables and found her sitting at the kitchen table with the other women, waiting for him. He took his bride by the hand and they went down the hill a little way to their new cottage followed by a shouting, singing train of family and villagers.
In the cottage the women went upstairs first, and Elizabeth’s cousins and half sisters helped her out of her new white dress and into a nightdress of fine lawn. They brushed her dark hair and combed it into a fat plait. They pinned her cap on her head, and sprayed her with a little water of roses behind each ear. Then they waited with her in the little low-ceilinged bedroom until the shouts and snatches of song from the stair told them that the bridegroom had been made ready too and was come to his bride.
The door burst open and John was half-flung into the room by the joyous enthusiasm of the wedding party. He turned on them at once and pushed them out over the threshold. The women around Elizabeth’s bed made false little cries of alarm and excitement.
“We’ll warm the bed! We’ll kiss the bride!” the men shouted as John barred their way at the door.
“I’ll warm your backsides!” he threatened and turned to the women. “Ladies?”
They fluttered like hens in a coop around Elizabeth, straightening her cap and kissing her cheek, but she brushed them off and they pattered to the door, ducking under John’s arm as he held the door firmly. More than one woman shot a quick look at the gardener and the strength of his outstretched arm and thought that Elizabeth had done better than she could possibly have hoped for. John closed the door and shot the bolt on them all. The rowdiest hammered on the door in reply. “Let us in! We want to drink your healths! We want to see Elizabeth to bed!”
“Go away! We’ll drink our own healths!” he shouted back. “And I shall bed my own wife!” He turned, laughing, from the door but the smile died from his face.
Elizabeth had risen from her bed and was kneeling at the foot, her head in her hands, praying.
Someone hammered on the door again. “What are you going to plant, Gardener John?” they shouted. “What seeds do you have in your sacks?”
John swore under his breath at their bawdy humor, and wondered that Elizabeth could stay so still and so quiet.
“Go away!” he shouted again. “Your sport is over! Go and get drunk and leave us in peace!”
With relief he heard the clatter of their feet going downstairs.
“We’ll be back in the morning to see the sheets!” he heard a
The vicar smiled. “Is that what you want to do, Tradescant?” he asked, seeing his way at last to the heart of it. “Being a gardener and digging up weeds is not enough for you — it has to be something more?”
For a moment John might have disclaimed the idea, but the strong wedding ale was working on him and his pride in his work was powerful. “Yes,” he admitted. “It is what I want to do. My Lord Cecil’s gardens are to his glory, to be a setting to his fine house, to show the world that he is a great lord. But the gardens are also a glory to God. To show every visitor that God has made abundant life, life in such variety that a man could spend all his days finding it and collecting it and still not see it all.”
“You have your life’s task then!” the vicar said lightly, hoping to end the conversation. But John did not smile in return.
“I have indeed,” he said seriously.
At the end of the dinner Gertrude rose from the table and the ladies followed her lead. The serving girls stayed behind with the poorer neighbors and drank themselves into a satisfying stupor. Elizabeth completed the last of the tasks in her old family home and waited for John in his turn to leave the dinner. At dusk he came away from the hall and the trestle tables and found her sitting at the kitchen table with the other women, waiting for him. He took his bride by the hand and they went down the hill a little way to their new cottage followed by a shouting, singing train of family and villagers.
In the cottage the women went upstairs first, and Elizabeth’s cousins and half sisters helped her out of her new white dress and into a nightdress of fine lawn. They brushed her dark hair and combed it into a fat plait. They pinned her cap on her head, and sprayed her with a little water of roses behind each ear. Then they waited with her in the little low-ceilinged bedroom until the shouts and snatches of song from the stair told them that the bridegroom had been made ready too and was come to his bride.
The door burst open and John was half-flung into the room by the joyous enthusiasm of the wedding party. He turned on them at once and pushed them out over the threshold. The women around Elizabeth’s bed made false little cries of alarm and excitement.
“We’ll warm the bed! We’ll kiss the bride!” the men shouted as John barred their way at the door.
“I’ll warm your backsides!” he threatened and turned to the women. “Ladies?”
They fluttered like hens in a coop around Elizabeth, straightening her cap and kissing her cheek, but she brushed them off and they pattered to the door, ducking under John’s arm as he held the door firmly. More than one woman shot a quick look at the gardener and the strength of his outstretched arm and thought that Elizabeth had done better than she could possibly have hoped for. John closed the door and shot the bolt on them all. The rowdiest hammered on the door in reply. “Let us in! We want to drink your healths! We want to see Elizabeth to bed!”
“Go away! We’ll drink our own healths!” he shouted back. “And I shall bed my own wife!” He turned, laughing, from the door but the smile died from his face.
Elizabeth had risen from her bed and was kneeling at the foot, her head in her hands, praying.
Someone hammered on the door again. “What are you going to plant, Gardener John?” they shouted. “What seeds do you have in your sacks?”
John swore under his breath at their bawdy humor, and wondered that Elizabeth could stay so still and so quiet.
“Go away!” he shouted again. “Your sport is over! Go and get drunk and leave us in peace!”
With relief he heard the clatter of their feet going downstairs.
“We’ll be back in the morning to see the sheets!” he heard a
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