Midwife : Liza Read online

“Anton! Believe me. I've not moon-bled for two months, not since the beginning of May, and in the mornings lately I am nauseous. I am with child, Anton, I recognise the signs well enough from watching my own mother.” He stood silent for a moment, then sat on the bracken, rested his head on his bent knees and thought. At last he looked up at her, still standing and gazing intently at him.

  “If indeed you are with child,” he said slowly, “How should I be sure I am the father? Were you indeed virgin? Or were you deceiving me again? How many men have you lain with, truly, Rosalind?”

  Her eyes shot wide open. “Only you!” She started towards him. “You are the only man I've ever lain with, I swear! On God’s Holy Word I swear it! Did you not clean the blood off me after we ...”

  Anton shrugged, his desire replaced by a growing anger, and rose to his feet. “If this is truly so, what do you expect of me? I can do little enough. I am a monk, or perhaps you had not noticed?”

  “I've thought it all out! If we meet here early tomorrow I will take two horses from the stables, I can steal some clothes from the servants, and food and drink from the kitchens, we can be at the coast and on a ship before nightfall. We'll go to a port, and then Calais, and then to …”

  “And then, what?”

  “We'll find somewhere near Calais, a little house, you can work in an infirmary, a hospital, I shall cook and grow things for us to eat - ” her voice faded and he glowered at her, wondering at his folly. All the teachings warned of the dangers of a woman's lust. He should never have succumbed to her trickery, he thought. Get out of this as quickly as you can, he told himself, she'll either take you over or the conseq-uences will destroy you.

  He turned slightly from her. “Don‘t be such a silly child. How far do you think we’d get, a runaway monk and a young girl set for a brilliant marriage? We’d be caught, I’d be disgraced, probably dismissed from my Order, maybe even excommunicated,” he crossed himself, “and you would be unmarriageable to anyone other than a poor knight - your father would likely send you to a convent for the rest of your life."

  “But we could try! Think of the life we can spend together if we succeed, we’ll live as husband and wife far away from here, no-one would ever find us and we’d be so happy.” She clutched his arm and he had to steel himself not to pull away. “Anton - if you would only say the vows, we can marry ourselves here and now - it's often done, we don't need a church."

  He looked down at her once pretty, but now distraught face and hardened his resolve. “Rosalind, cara. Even if I were not a monk I would never, ever marry you, either in church or clandestine. Nothing against you; I don't wish to marry anyone. The life would not suit me at all. This is my life.” With his free arm he gestured vaguely around the forest, ending in the direction of the Infirmary. “I don’t want a woman encumbering me, nor infants clamouring at my knees demanding to be fed. That’s a life I would detest.”

  He saw the tears gathered in her swollen eyes spill over. Her face had lost its glow and now it was blotched red and a yellowish white. This is how she would come to look all the time if she had her way and we ran off together, he thought. It’s for her good as well as mine to rebutt her.

  “So you would leave me in this condition, you will do nothing?”

  “What can I do? You've got yourself into this, you realised what you were doing when you tricked me. It's not my responsibility, and I’ll take no blame.”

  She looked away for a moment. “I never realised this would happen - ” she said uncertainly, and then he saw her expression harden as her eyes turned back to him. "You are my child's father, Anton, monk or not, and I'll tell everyone - including my mother, the Abbott - and I can prove it too."

  "Prove I'm the father? Why, anyone could have...”

  She folded her arms and spoke softly. “How would I know about the black mole inside your thigh, or the little scar on your back, if you hadn't lain with me? What will be your excuse when I describe them, where they are, what they are like, how big they are?”

  Anton thought quickly. Inventing a plausible explanation would indeed be difficult. Impossible, in fact. He needed time to think. He needed to keep her calm, placate her until he decided what to do. For a panicked moment he thought of strangling her as she stood there, burying her body in the woodland, no-one would ever find it. He dismissed the temptation. He had strained the viability of his immortal soul too much already; hell fires would consume him throughout eternity if he added murder to his sins. There must be other ways to get out of this. Gain some time, he told himself.

  He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. “Forgive me, cara," he murmured. “It was just such a shock to me. But now – now I am starting to think, to get used to it – yes, I think I can get used to the idea of becoming a father, a husband – no need for threats, my love, I just needed some time … ”

  She looked doubtful. “You really mean what you say, Anton? You really do want me? It’s not what I said about your mole, is it? You know I would never really...”

  “Cara, when I think how close I came to losing you, to turning you away today – I am but a foolish monk. But losing you – no, you are my life’s love. Forgive me, Rosalind, I beg you. Of course I will love you and we will escape together. How could I live my life without you? The next time we meet we will plan what we must do.”

  Rosalind's puffy eyes shone with new tears now, and she kissed him on his lips. “I want so much to be with you, my beloved, I want to have your child, you know I’m right and we should be together for always, and I don't care that we would live as poor people ..."

  “Shush, shush, my cara, consider! Before I can marry you, I have to arrange to leave my Order, ask my father to buy my freedom. That will take a few months at the least.” Thoughts crowded through his mind. “Rosalind – could you, do you think – could you rid yourself of the child?” He held her closer to him so she could not see his face. “There is all the time in the world for us to have a child, my love, many children, perhaps when we are settled, when we are man and wife? But that will take time. Until I can free myself to be with you, a child would only complicate everything, it would make running away, feeding ourselves, hiding, all that escaping together would entail - everything would be more difficult if we also have a child inside you to consider.”

  He felt her shrug within his tight embrace. "Whatever you wish, my Anton. I don't care. But how - can you -?"

  "Yes. I’ll prepare something to rid you of this child. It’s not something I know too much about, but I daresay I can concoct something.”

  Rosalind stood away from him. “Love me, Anton? Will you love me now?”

  He sighed inwardly. “Yes, cara," he nuzzled her neck. "Let me love you the way I want to love you the rest of your life.”

  Rosalind sat staring out of her window in the quiet of the evening, lost in her dreams. The courtyard below was deserted in the warm summer dusk. Anton had promised to meet her in the clearing a week from now, and he would give her some sort of potion to expel the child. But she did not care whether the physick worked or not; she might not even take it.

  Having his child would fulfil all her dreams, would bind them together for life. But whatever happened, she would be with him. He was her true love. She had known it from the first, and now he knew it too. She wondered what he was doing at that moment, and hoped he was planning their escape.

  Nicholas was trying to sleep. He had given up attempts at sex; he was afraid to try anymore as he knew he would fail, so of late, Cicely and Mary were usually allowed to sleep in peace. Tonight, however, he was restless, in and out of bed. His wife and maidservant brought him compresses and unguents to put on his left foot. The big toe had turned a dark red colour, and felt hot and painful. It throbbed particularly badly during the night and kept him awake, so that he was tired and even more irritable than usual during the day. His thirst was worse and, having once been a heavy built man, he was now looking quite thin. He was indeed wasting away.

 
; A hundred yards down the village lane Walter Attehill and his family also lay restless that night, all huddled together on the same smelly pallet, kept awake by his coughing, which had grown worse over the past few months. When he did eventually manage to fall asleep Walter woke up again after a few minutes, drenched in sweat from bad dreams, coughing and his chest aching.

  Liza was growing increasingly apprehensive about walking along the village lane, dreading any encounter with Nicholas. It was early morning, and she was on her way to Sam Furnier’s mill, wearing the woollen dress Bess Belling had given her, a bag full of dough slung over her back. Sam baked her bread in his ovens, as he did for all the villagers. He was not allowed to keep all the money he charged for this, of course; Lord Roger would take his share. But Sam had been so delighted with the news of Agatha’s pregnancy that lately he had only charged her a farthing instead of a halfpenny, and she wanted to take advantage of his generosity while it lasted.

  This morning, however, Nicholas happened to be coming out of his house as she approached. He had been a big man, but now he was thin, his face shrunken and baggy where folds of skin, once filled with fat, hung around his bearded jowls. Liza could see the red tunic he wore was loose enough to wrap around him twice and his hose drooped around his skinny legs. He stopped and waited for her to approach. For a moment she faltered, but knew a confrontation with him was inevitable. She took a deep breath and hobbled quickly towards him, grasping her walking stick tight and gathering her courage.

  “Scheming old hag,” he hissed, “Look what you’ve done to me.”

  She stopped, and, leaning on her stick, shook a bony finger at him. “You did old Liza evil, Nicholas de le Haye, killing my Murrikin, burning my cot, now you reap what you sowed!”

  “You talk to me of evil? When you're like to kill me with your wicked spells? Just shows what an evil old crone you really are. May you rot in hell with your devil master.” He spat at her feet, crossed himself and went back into his house. Wilhelm Wilkins and Ursula Browning, also on their way to the bakery, had stopped to listen with great interest.

  Liza looked towards them, shaking with anger. “He's the evil one ...” she started.

  “Liza, come now,” Wilhelm took her arm and tried to lead her away from Nicholas’ doorway, but she shook her arm free and turned to hobble back alone to her cot, all desire to bake her bread gone.

  The two women looked briefly after her before continuing on their way. “That’s one not to be crossed,” Goodwife Browning said quietly, looking at Liza's retreating back. “Despite her skills she's a strange old biddy at times. Goodness knows what goes on in that head of hers. Or her cottage.”

  “Aye,” said Goody Wilkins, “uncommon things have been seen round Widows’ Cot, the stories I could tell you, did I tell what Septimus saw the other evening? And as for that baby born with the devil's hoof print ...” The women sauntered on, engrossed in their gossip.

  Anton sat in the preparation room in the Infirmary looking through his leech book. The leather covered book was full of recipes for all sorts of ills, but contained nothing on how to bring about a miscarriage, although pages were written on how to prevent one. Years ago, he had learnt the book almost by heart. He had not expected to find any of the information he wanted, but had looked anyway.

  He had decided to leave Hollingham, without Rosalind. In truth, he did not know whether or not she was with child, but would do his best to prepare something for her. The soul did not enter the unborn child until much later, and so it would not be a mortal sin to help her abort it. If she were not pregnant the potion was unlikely to do her harm, and even if it did, he would be long gone.

  The previous night, in between praying and chanting at the usual times, he had tossed and turned on his pallet, unsure of what to believe. He suspected Rosalind was trying to deceive him again, lying to him about her pregnancy just as she had lied about her virginity, this time to force him to run away with her in the belief she was pregnant. He had spoken truthfully when he told her he did not want the encumbrances of a wife and family. Becoming an Augustinian Canon had, in many ways, suited him perfectly. He ran his own infirmary, and finding women to satisfy his needs was easy.

  The mistake he had made, he thought, was lying with a woman who wanted more than money from him, and who had the power to get it. He wished he had listened to his inner voice, warning about the danger of lustful women.

  If, however, Rosalind was indeed pregnant and he refused to escape with her, he had no doubt she would accuse him of fathering her child. Given her intimate knowledge of his body, she would be believed, and he would be severely punished. At worst, his Order would dismiss him in disgrace and Lord Roger would probably petition the pope for his excommunication before taking revenge in other more violent ways. He'd likely be found in a ditch somewhere with a knife in his back and nowhere save the fiery pits of hell for his soul's refuge. At the least, he would be sent away from Hollingham to somewhere freezing and inhospitable, at the back of beyond, and forced towards many unpleasant penances.

  He considered the likelihood that Rosalind merely imagined her pregnancy. Or, if she were truly pregnant, whether she would miscarry naturally, in which case the immediate problem would disappear within the following weeks. But she was desperate he should run off with her, to some godforsaken place to live in poverty with a brood of screaming brats. Anton did not think Rosalind would change her mind easily, and if he refused she might well take her revenge by accusing him of seduction, or even rape. Again, when she described his mole and scar accurately, she would be believed and he would be discredited. For certain, he would be tried and convicted.

  On the positive side, pregnancy would render her unable to bring a case of rape against him; as everyone knew, babies were never conceived unless the woman gained her own fulfillment from the tumbling, which she had most certainly done, he thought grimly. He had given her so much pleasure, and this is how she repaid him. He should never have involved himself with her, he should have stayed with the whores. He knew where he was with them. They had no expectations of him beyond a few coins, made no demands for love or flattery.

  Towards the end of the night, Anton made his decision. The time was right to leave the whole situation, leave Hollingham, England, the monkhood. His father would welcome him back home; would probably even pay for his medical studies. For a long time he had thought vaguely about returning to Italy, but had enjoyed his work at the Hollingham Infirmary and consigned this possibility to the indeterminate future. But, perhaps, events were telling him that now was the right time to go; staying was too dangerous now.

  He closed his leech book, took some parchment and a pen, wrote a short note, folded and sealed the parchment and lightly stained the outside with soil from the Infirmary garden, to make it appear the letter had travelled far. He then walked back to the monastery and asked Abbott Julian for permission to absent himself for the next few hours, to gather herbs from the forest.

  Anton walked quickly; he had much to do. He strode through Aldersgate into the City and then to Gropecunte Lane. The narrow thoroughfare was dark, in permanent shadow, and foul refuse filled the overflowing drain. Women lounged in doorways and a few leant out of the jettied windows overhanging the stinking lane.

  As he slowed his pace, one called to him from a doorway. "Sixpence for a quickie, darling.” She looked to be in her late twenties, he thought, her face hard and eyes calculating.

  “I have no need for anything like that, today, Mistress," he said. "What I want is a recipe - and I'll pay well if you direct me to a woman who can give it me."

  "What's the recipe for, sir?" she asked, eyes narrowing further.

  “Alas, Mistress - I am at my wits end - my wife is expecting our eighth child, she is three months gone and we are desperate she should miscarry ...”

  The woman gave a short bark of laughter. “I can tell you well enough, sir. I birthed two children and want no more. No, thank you. I can tell you the remedy for unwante
d pregnancy."

  "But how will you guarantee the remedy will work?"

  "You have my word, sir, the recipe's worked well enough for me, and many others round here, too."

  “And if it fails?” She shrugged.

  "Nothing is fail proof, sir, but the mixture's an old one and you can ask other women if they use it, I vouchsafe they do.”

  Anton paid her and committed to memory the recipe she gave him of feverfew, elecampane and other herbs steeped in wine.

  He asked a final question. "Who do you recommend who owns a sound horse and will carry out a half day's errand for me?"

  The following day a travel stained messenger galloped into the monastery courtyard, and shortly afterwards Abbott Julian summoned his Infirmarer. An urgent letter from Brother Anton's mother had just arrived. Dom Vizzinci was gravely ill, and he must return to Italy immediately. There was no time to lose, no time to bid farewell – he must leave at once if there was any hope of seeing his father still alive.

  Chapter 11

  Liza took the stool out into her herb garden. Such was her mood that she preferred to remain indoors, in the gloom, but she forced herself into the summer sunshine filtering through the trees, and hoped this would make her feel better. She did not know what to do about Nicholas. I'm a wicked old woman, she thought, I should never have cursed him, no matter what, ‘tis life old Liza brings, not death, no, never.

  As she sat in the sunshine, mumbling away to herself, she saw the portly figure of Cicely de le Haye shambling down the woodland path towards the cot. She rose quickly and made to go back into the cot and bolt the door when Cicely quickened her step almost to a run and called out to her.

  “Liza, stop, I won’t harm you, I just want to talk to you, please.” Warily, she came out of the cot again, but remained standing, chin trembling. Cicely sank down onto the stool, out of breath, and fanned herself with a corner of her apron as she spoke.