Midwife : Liza Read online

  “Liza, please - I know he tried to do you harm - but he don't deserve to die for what he did - he’s not a bad man, Liza. Maybe 'tis difficult for you to believe, but he’s been a good husband and loving father. Would you really wish him dead? Please …” She rose to her feet.

  “What do you want from me, Mistress?”

  “Can't you stop the curse? Stop it from working? I can pay.”

  "'Tis impossible, Mistress. A curse cannot be undone - do you not think I would have removed it, if it was possible?"

  “Couldn't you try? Liza - if you've got the skill to make it work surely you've the skill to stop it? At least you could try? You can see how ill he is - he's always been such a strong man, he's worked so hard to buy us out of serfdom, it breaks my heart he's wasting away." Her mouth quivered, and her eyes filled with tears.

  “If I could, and Liza’s not promising nothing, but if I could, would he leave me alone, let me live here in peace and not bother me?”

  “I swear, Liza Cooper,” she crossed herself. “On God’s holy word, I swear it.”

  When Cicely had gone, Liza resumed her seat in the garden, thinking deeply. Bonney lay gnawing at a bone beside her and she reached down absent-mindedly to fondle his ears. “Won't do no harm to try, I suppose, my dear,” she murmured. “Likelihood is, it'll be a waste of time. Once a curse is laid it cannot be lifted, that's what I was always told. 'Tis why putting it on is such serious business, not to be done lightly.”

  Her voice grew louder and she spoke more rapidly. “The intent must be so strong before it will work, so strong the force of it stays and won't easily go away. Not without powerful magic, and I don't know, my dear, I don't know if old Liza has magic that strong.”

  Bonney’s head dived away from her hand as he started to nuzzle for a flea in the fur of his belly. She looked at him affectionately before speaking softly and slowly once more. “Aye, I meant the curse when I put it on him, killing Murrikin. In my heart, old Liza's not even sure she can put the same strength into lifting it as putting it on. In my head I'd like to lift it, my dear, but in my heart – when I think of what he did to us I'm not so sure the will is truly there. But I'll try, old Liza will try, my dear, we'll see what we can do.”

  At dusk, she went out behind her cottage to her dung heap and dug within its stinking interior. The clay doll lay there still, stained and chipped after months in the ordure. She took the figure inside and put it on her table alongside two black candles she had made that afternoon. After washing and dressing in her white gown, she lit the candles and stood in front of them, concentrating deeply before shutting her eyes and intoning

  “In the name of the Gods and all the spirits

  In the name of Cernunnos and all the light and the dark and the gods of the netherworld

  Remove the curse on Nicholas de le Haye

  Let these candles be his candles, this burning be their burning

  May the curse be as it had never been!”

  She stood back and watched as the candles burnt down, then clapped her hands, bowed towards the candles, and said “So be it.” She washed the clay doll as best she could, put it away at the back of a shelf, and went to bed.

  A few days later Rosalind sped to the clearing. Anton would be waiting for her. By now, surely he had planned their escape, all would be ready for them to leave Hollingham within days – maybe even tomorrow, or tonight. He would tell her what to do, what to collect for their journey. There was much to plan; much to talk about. They would be together for always, she loved him so much, surely God willed they should be man and wife. The thought of Geoffrey Cottreaux revolted Rosalind; never could she lie with him now she knew the joy of being with the man she loved. She muttered a prayer to thank the Lord for delivering her from that awful fate.

  Rosalind reached the clearing, but Anton was not there. Only a small stoppered jar, tucked amongst the roots of the oak tree.

  Rosalind, Lady Isabella and Sarah sat in the solar, embroidering. Rosalind worked a bench cover of wool towards the stock of clothes and other goods she would be expected to take with her as the wife of Geoffrey Cottreaux. Isabella and Sarah were discussing the feast of Lammas, due to take place in a few days. Lammas marked the end of the gap between finishing off last year’s food stocks, and the gathering of the new wheat, barley and other crops. First there would be a thanksgiving in St Stephen’s, when the bread, baked with newly milled wheat, would be blessed. The villagers would eat from tables laid out on the green, in front of the church.

  Lady Isabella and her household, diminished this year, usually attended the service, and she liked to put in a brief appearance at the feast; indeed, this year, she had contributed an ox and a pig, both to be roasted on spits set up on the green. The harvest was set to be a good one, unless a sudden storm or blight arose at the last minute. The villagers had been working long days and often into the night, reaping wheat and barley from their and, of course, Lord Roger’s fields.

  Many of the village women helped; they were short of manpower this year. Some of the men would be away for several more months; a few days ago a messenger had ridden into the manor courtyard with news that Lord Roger had been sent by the King on a diplomatic mission to Gascony, in the south west of France. War with France was not far away. Although diplomacy continued, it was half hearted. But the motions had to be gone through, and the formalities designed to sanitise the aggression observed.

  As she bent her head to her stitching, Rosalind heard the sounds of occasional shouts and laughter arising from the fields near the manor house, wafted towards the solar by the light breeze. There was a lull in Isabella's and Sarah’s conversation, and Rosalind glanced up towards her mother, trying to ascertain whether now would be a good moment to arrange a visit to the Infirmary. She must see Anton to arrange another meeting. He had obviously been detained on Abbey business the other day, she thought, or perhaps it had been too dangerous for him to leave to meet her. But they must talk soon, they must put their plans in order. If she could only see him, just for a moment, somehow they would manage to communicate the hour of their next meeting.

  But maybe she should approach this indirectly, she thought, use some cunning so that her mother would not become suspicious of her eagerness to visit the Infirmary. “My Lady,” she said casually, “Will you be visiting Walter Attehill soon? I hear he is none too well - may I come with you? And perhaps to the Infirmary?” her voice trailed off as her mother con-sidered.

  “Why, yes, child, we'll visit Walter tomorrow, and Nicholas too, they are both poorly, I believe. We’ll pray with them and take food to the Attehills. The de le Hayes are wealthy, no need to feed them. By the sound of things, Nicholas needs our Christian prayers more than anything else.” Isabella made the sign of the cross and fingered the crucifix hanging at her waist before resuming her sewing.

  “And the Infirmary?” murmured Rosalind.

  “For sure, next week maybe. Abbott Julian told me Brother Geoffrey has returned safely from pilgrimage. I hope he will keep up the excellent practices Brother Anton put in place. We will miss him.”

  “Miss him? But where has gone, my Lady?” Rosalind tried to keep her voice casual, but her throat tightened and speaking was difficult.

  “Called back to Italy, I believe. Family matters, his father is ill, dying.”

  “When will he return?”

  "Who knows? His Order may send him elsewhere. Now that Brother Geoffrey is on his way back again. Maybe they'll want him to return here, I don't know. I hope he will, I don’t hold out much hope of Brother Geoffrey continuing Brother Anton's - are you well, child? Have you a pain?” Isabella put down her sewing and leant forward in concern as Rosalind doubled over, her forehead touching her knees.

  “Forgive me, mother, I need the privy - ” Rosalind almost ran from the room, up the stairs to her chamber and threw herself onto her bed. She felt sick and could not stop shaking. Thinking clearly was impossible. Later, she assured herself, the thinking can come later.
For now, she must calm herself, go down to the solar and continue sewing, her mother must not suspect anything was wrong. Perhaps he would return soon, he would never leave her like this. Soon, he would return for her. But if he did not?

  After a while, she got up, grabbed the jar Anton had left her, sat on the privy, and drank its contents. Then she straightened her tunic and her hair and walked back down to the solar.

  That night she was awoken from fitful sleep by a griping, low down in her belly. She sat on the privy once more, hoping her womb would cast out the child within it. The moon shone into her room and its beams reached inside the privy as she sat waiting for the gripes to reappear. But they never did, and as the moon set and dawn broke she went back to bed.

  Sarah also lay awake much of the night. For some time now she had been aware of Rosalind’s occasional sickness in the mornings and the girl had not used her rags for almost three months. Sarah knew, because she washed them each time. Surely the Mistress is not with child, Sarah said to herself throughout the night, surely not, she would have had to have lain with a man, virgin births are all very well but they don’t happen in real life, surely she didn’t lay with a man, just like a peasant girl, those times when she went off on her own in the forest, she wouldn’t, would she?

  Chapter 12

  Lammas day was long gone, almost two months ago. A feast had been held then to celebrate the gathering of the first harvest, and there would be another later today to mark the final gathering of crops, and the end of summer. No more fishing or fruit picking would be done until next year. Already the days shortened and winter would soon arrive. Today was the last day of September, the feast of Michaelmas, marking the end of the harvesting season; the best for fifty years, people said. It had been hard work. Villagers stacked cellars and storerooms full with grain, fruit and vegetables to see them through the winter. Several pigs had been slaughtered and the goodwives salted and smoked their meat and stored it away too.

  Some of the older inhabitants of Hollingham could remember the years of famine when many, especially the old and the very young, and their animals, had starved to death. The past few years had yielded good crops but this year had been particularly bountiful, and the villagers celebrated, relieved and rejoicing that the harvest was safe.

  Mauger Brooke, the bailiff, sat all morning in a hut in the courtyard collecting rents from Lord Roger’s tenants; Michaelmas was one of the quarter days, one of the days of reckoning. Sam Furnier had just paid his rent for the bread ovens, and as he left, Cicely de le Haye arrived. She looked as though she had lost a little weight too, although not nearly as much as her husband, he thought as she bustled into the hut, the front of her russet wool gown slightly soiled with dropped food and her head-dress a little askew. She straightened it as she entered.

  “God be with you this fine morning,” she nodded a greeting to the bailiff, “I’m that busy, sir, I’m here in Nicholas’ stead, come to pay his dues -” she groped deep within the linen bag tied at her waist. “Forgive me, sir, it’s here somewhere, I’m that busy I don’t know whether I’m coming or going these days, trying to look after a sick man and his business -” She extracted several coins and laid them in front of him. “There we are, sir, rent for our fields and …” She broke off, surprised, as the bailiff yawned, seemingly from the bottom of his boots. “You need to get more rest, sir!” she said before yawning herself.

  Mauger grinned apologetically. “Aye, Mistress. ‘Tis a busy time of year, and like to get busier, what with the feast tonight, late to bed yet again, no doubt, and then off to Fettiscombe at first light tomorrow to collect rents there. A bailiff’s life – no peace!”

  Although small, Fettiscombe, a small manor belonging to Lord Roger, a few miles north of Hollingham, proved more difficult than Hollingham to administer. The reason for this, in his opinion, was that no Lady Isabella de Godwynne resided in Fettiscombe to oversee Lord Roger’s interests, and its tenant was lazy. Goodness knew what state the accounts would be in. In a few weeks he would have to present accounts for both manors to Lady Isabella, and he knew she would accept no errors.

  Cicely nodded in sympathy. “So, no fair in Reedwich for you tomorrow, sir?”

  “No, Mistress, only hard and frustrating work awaits me the next few days!” He rose to escort Cicely out of the hut, and sighed as he saw Septimus Wilkins, the brewer, approaching. He needed to concentrate here or the old rascal would dun him.

  There would be plenty of food and strong ale at the feast this year, and a frisson of excitement ran through Hollingham. Many would be feeling the worse for wear at the Reedwich Mop Fair the following day, where farm labourers and domestic servants from Reedwich and its surrounding villages, including Hollingham, would try to hire themselves out for the next year. But now, preparations for the feast were underway and the manor house servants worked busily, as it would take place here, in the courtyard.

  Rosalind sat listlessly at one of the long trestles, making corn dollies to decorate the tables. She was skilled at this; ever since she had been a small child she made corn dollies for Michaelmas. But today her fingers shook clumsily and she had no interest in her task. She knew she would have to do something soon about the child growing within her. When Anton’s potion had not worked, she had hoped her pregnancy would somehow just disappear or that she would miscarry, as her mother had done so often, but that had not happened and now her stomach swelled more every week. The small mound was not obvious at the moment; she was tall and carried the pregnancy well, but in a few weeks she would be unable to hide it. Her breasts grew larger too, and strained at her tunic despite her attempts to confine them.

  Anton must arrive back in Hollingham soon, she thought. His father must be recovered or dead by now, and there would no longer exist a reason for him to tarry in Italy. So at this moment he must be on his way back for her, to claim his true love and their child. When first she had learnt of his departure, she believed he had run from Hollingham, to escape from the child growing within her. But, after thinking it through, she was now convinced his summons to Italy was genuine and unavoidable. Answering her casually posed questions, her mother said a messenger arrived at the Abbey with a letter demanding his immediate return. That was many weeks ago and by now he must be on his way, anxious to be with her again. He loved her, of that she was sure, he had said so. Every time she had asked him, he replied he loved her. He must by now be well on his way.

  Whenever she could, she sat at her window, making believe he was just now turning the corner into the lane leading to the manor house. In a moment she would see him walking through the gate, no longer dressed in his habit and free to be with her.

  But time was running out and her condition would soon be apparent. At the beginning of last month, she had managed to delay discovery. From the appraising looks she had caught Sarah giving her, she realised her old nurse suspected something. Her morning sickness had stopped, but so had her moon bleeding. Every month, Sarah washed the rags so she would notice.

  One night, Rosalind crept down to the kitchen outhouse where a pig hung, slaughtered earlier in the day. She let a few ounces of its blood drip into an old pitcher, and hid it in her clothes chest. Over the next few days she used the blood to stain her rags, and gave them to Sarah to wash. The looks had stopped. But what to do now?

  Liza was the obvious answer. She would give her physick to drive out the child. Rosalind would tell her the love potion had worked only too well, and the young knight at Court had taken her unawares. She must take pity upon her; after all, she was by no means the first girl around here to be in this situation; The old woman must have helped dozens of women in similar trouble.

  Tomorrow she would go, she should have gone weeks before, but had kept delaying, hoping her problem would resolve naturally. Liza would be able to do something, though, she thought. Her physick would work, all would be well. She trusted her skill. When Anton came for her she would no longer be pregnant, but that would enable them to travel more q
uickly, and other babies would come along soon enough, no doubt. The years stretched in front of them, time enough for many babies.

  Rosalind tossed the half made dolly aside and rose quickly from her seat. Corn dollies were for children to make. She had other things on her mind. As she stood, she felt for the first time a fluttering within her. At once, the courtyard span before dissolving into a dark mist. She fell and the shoulder of her undergown snagged on the rough wooden table and ripped.

  She became vaguely aware of people fussing about her, and strong arms carrying her up some stairs. By the time Thomas, the stable hand, lowered her onto a bench in the solar the world was coming back into focus. She heard her mother dismiss Thomas and gradually focused her eyes upon her mother’s face, Sarah behind her. Both women frowned in concern.

  Isabella laid a hand on Rosalind’s forehead as her daughter lay on the bench, her head supported on a cushion, dazed and white-faced. “Whatever ails you, child, you have never fainted before in your life - are you hot? Are you in pain? Tell me, have you a pain? Or is it your courses?”

  Rosalind’s clothes hung in slight disarray and as she moved, trying to sit upright, the shoulder of her torn gown slipped further and the rip gaped to reveal one of her swollen breasts. The blue veins were prominent, marbled against her pale breast, the nipple dark and enlarged. Sarah drew in an involuntary breath.

  Lady Isabella glanced at Sarah and followed the direction of the old nurse’s gaze. Her eyes widened, disbelieving, and then travelled downwards to Rosalind’s abdomen. Tentatively, she moved her hand downward to rest on the slight swelling. No-one said a word for a long moment, then Isabella cried out.