Midwife : Liza Page 13

  “No - by all the Saints - Mary, mother of Jesus, no - this cannot - ” Isabella snatched back her hand to clutch her crucifix as she looked disbelievingly at her daughter. Rosalind struggled to sit, pulling her torn clothes to cover her breast, but it was too late. She started to cry.

  “Mother, I think I am - with child - I don’t know how it -” Isabella still stared open mouthed, but then her expression tightened. Rosalind’s head jerked as Isabella slapped the side of her face. She grasped her shoulders and began to shake her, stopping only to administer frequent blows to her face.

  “Whatever have you been up to - you whore!” Isabella spat out the last word before continuing to shake and pummel her daughter. Sarah stood silent; Isabella would not have tolerated any interference. At last Isabella collapsed back on her stool, put her head in her hands and wept. After a few minutes she lifted her head and stood over Rosalind, her eyes narrowed and face contorted in fury.

  “Whatever have you been up to?” she repeated. “Tell me exactly what happened, exactly.” Rosalind's face had started to swell from her mother’s blows and she began to cry again.

  “’Twas Hugh Carpenter, I whiled away some time in the forest looking for mistletoe, and he came along and started talking to me and then leapt upon me and …”

  “Why did you not tell anyone of this?” Isabella sat down heavily on her stool, sick with rage, still staring at her daughter.

  “I could not, I was so fuddled, mortified, I thought you would beat me for talking to him - and then when he drowned - ” She started to sob once more.

  “When - why were you there by yourself?” Rosalind only cried louder and Sarah intervened quickly. Too quickly, in Isabella’s opinion.

  “I walked with you Mistress, but if I remember - mayhap it was when Mistress Miller waylaid me at the edge of the forest and you went on ahead?”

  "Yes, that must have been the time, Sarah, Do you remember how I'd dirtied my gown and I said I'd tripped and fallen?"

  After several minutes, Isabella rose again and went to the window and looked out. In the courtyard below preparations for the feast that evening continued. She grew calmer and her fury slowly gave way to reason. There was something wrong with Rosalind’s story and she was sure Sarah would have more to say when pressed. She watched, detached, as one of the dairymaids laid slabs of butter on the tables below, and thought of her next words.

  At last, she spoke very slowly, and quietly. "Rosalind, don't lie to me. What you are accusing Hugh of is rape. You cannot possibly be with child after rape. In order to conceive, you must consent willingly to lie with the man. So don't think of trying to deceive me with this ridiculous story. I don't believe you and nor will anyone else. Now tell me truthfully what happened."

  But Rosalind merely sat in silence, head in hands, her shoulders shaking. Isabella knew her daughter had lied; she would get the truth out of her eventually. Now was not the time.

  She turned back to Rosalind. “Go to your chamber and stay there. Sarah will bring you food later. Stay in there until tomorrow morning. Then I will decide what is to be done. You are a disgrace to me, your father, yourself. But this evening I have a feast to attend and all must appear normal. Sarah - if one word of this ever leaks out - !” She knew that Sarah would understand the threat perfectly.

  The feast was in full swing in the courtyard. As she lay upon her bed, Rosalind heard the sweet voices of the village girls as they sang and laughed, and the deeper voices of the young men. Then, later, the music of the rebec and pipes and more laughter as the villagers danced, enjoying the warmth of the autumn evening.

  Night fell and the music gathered pace and volume; she lay listening and wondered where Anton was. Soon, she would escape with him from her mother and Hollingham. In the meantime, she was determined, she would not reveal their secret love to anyone.

  Soon he would come to rescue her, and no-one must suspect the real reason for his return, otherwise they might try to stop him. Might try to stop them, stop them from escaping to the happiness of their future life together. Hurry, my love, hurry, she entreated him in her thoughts as she turned on her side and tried to sleep.

  The following day, far away in Italy, Anton knelt in front of his father. He no longer wore his monk’s robes; those had been discarded weeks ago. Now he dressed simply in a linen shirt, covered by a gipon and then a surcoat, its once bright green dulled by the dust and grime of his travels. He had made his way slowly through France and into Italy over the past several weeks. His mother’s coins did not last long and so he had earned money on the way, using his knowledge of healing and herbs when possible, carrying out menial tasks when not.

  Dom Vizzinci, still trying to recover from the surprise of Anton’s unheralded return, leaned forward in an enormous carved oak chair to lay his hand on his son’s head in blessing, and then stood suddenly, holding his arms wide apart. His smile was sweet and tender, and his face lit with joy. “Come, Guiseppe, let us forget what has passed between us. Come, my son!” As they embraced, he murmured a soft prayer of thanks for the safe return of his prodigal son.

  Anton had arrived back in Florence that morning and made his way straight to his father’s mansion, to a shocked and then rapturous welcome from his mother. She took him up immediately to Dom Vizzinci, who, Anton was happy to see, remained in good health (despite the lie to the contrary).

  “Now, Guiseppe, my boy, no more of this Brother Anton nonsense! I will petition His Holiness to release you. No matter how much the cost.”

  Anton smiled and hugged his father once more. “It is good indeed to be home,” he said, “I will gladly return to the world once more as your son …”

  “And take over the business from me. Your cousin has done well but he is not my own …” The old man beamed with excitement.

  Anton interrupted, shaking his head. “Father. No.” He stepped back, and knelt once more before his father. “Please, father, don’t ask that of me.” He grasped Dom Vizzinci’s hands as he begged. “I am a healer, sir. My life is dedicated to healing. Father, if you so will it, consider instead that I might study medicine - become a physician – study at Padua - ?”

  Anton’s mother, who up till now had stood smiling, but silent, behind her husband, stepped forward. “Guiseppe entreats you from his heart, my love,” she said softly. “Let this be a welcome home gift from a most generous and loving father to his only son.”

  Dom Vizzinci hesitated a moment, but knew that he was beaten. And in truth, he had no stomach for further quarrels. “So be it,” he said slowly. “Guiseppe Vizzinci, physician – yes, it has a certain ring to it. So be it.”

  Chapter 13

  Nicholas hobbled painfully towards the church, using a forked branch as a crutch. Neither he nor Cicely had attended the Michaelmas feast yesterday, the first one he had missed for years. His feet had been too painful, especially the left whose big toe turned a slightly darker colour from week to week. It throbbed all the time now, not just at night.

  He banged on the vicar’s door with his crutch. “Oi, Dupierre,” he shouted, “Heave your arse out of there and come help me.”

  The indignant face of Sir Firmin appeared through his window opening. He had been reading and dozing in front of the fire and was resentful of the sudden wakening. “What is it, Master de le Haye, more prayers you’re wanting?” He sighed, “Give me a moment,” and turned away from the window. “No peace for me today,” he murmured as he shut the door of his cottage behind him.

  He thought Nicholas looked terrible. He had lost more weight since he had last seen him, and he smelt peculiar; his breath gave forth a pungent fruity smell the vicar had never encountered before.

  “I’m set to die soon,” Nicholas stated as he limped to the church. From the look of him, Sir Firmin was inclined to agree, but said nothing. “My nights are fraught with pain - my feet - I’m desperate for sleep, I’m worn out although I do naught save swig ale, milk, whatever I can lay my hands on! The thirst - I cannot quench it.
But yet I'm shrinking away - ‘tis that old hag’s curse.”

  They entered the small chapel endowed by the de le Hayes within St Stephen's. After bowing and crossing himself, Sir Firmin sank to his knees in front of the altar, and Nicholas did the same, only with far more difficulty. As Nicholas rested his makeshift crutch on the altar step, Sir Firmin started to pray.

  Father, In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, I plead for the precious protection of Jesus and all His holy saints over his servant, Nicholas de le Haye, and everything that belongs to him. I beseech you, O Lord, break down all walls guarding all witches, warlocks, wizards and the like, and break the power of all curses, hexes, vexes, spells, charms, all witchcraft, sorcery, potions, bewitchments, death, sickness, pain, torment, and everything else being sent his way, by the blood of Jesus, in Jesus' blessed name I pray.

  That should cover it, Sir Firmin thought as they murmured the Amen together and crossed themselves once more.

  Outside the church, Nicholas nodded a goodbye to the vicar. “This day and time next week we'll do the same again, but be ready. I don't pay to have to wait.”

  He turned away, back to his house. Recently, he had given more alms to St Stephen’s, and to the vicar who had prayed and celebrated Masses with him, but still he withered away. Likewise his money, he thought. After the years of grafting, labouring, saving to buy his family out of serfdom, all would slip away if he was not careful. The price of wool and beef held up reasonably well this year, but was set to fall and he suspected Ebenezer Fuller, his overseer, of cheating him. His pain and constant tiredness made it difficult to keep a close eye on what Ebenezer was up to. The man's a scoundrel, he thought, wouldn't hesitate to rob anyone who couldn't check him, would take advantage of anyone letting their guard down for a moment.

  Some months ago he had noticed a pig in Ebenezer's sty, which had stood empty after the slaughter of the last sow. “Thought you said you weren't going to keep another one?”

  Ebenezer leaned back, hands on his hips and looked over Nicholas' head towards a far distant point. “Aye, well, I don't want it getting around I've got this 'un. He came a bit unexpected, like. One day there he was rampaging through the onions, making an unholy mess of it all, eating anything in his way, shitting all over the place. I don't spend my time growing stuff for pigs to waste, cost me a small fortune putting it all back to order. I'll get my money back, soon as I've the time to butcher him. So he's hid there from prying eyes, away from that nosy bastard, Dick Reeve.”

  “Must be the Attehill's pig.”

  Ebenezer shrugged and spat on the ground. “Should take better care of it then, shouldn't they, not let it run amok on god-fearing men's property.”

  “You can't keep it! They haven't got anything, you can't steal from them, of all families - even I wouldn't take from the Attehills.”

  “Teach 'em a lesson, feckless ne'er do wells ...”

  “You take that pig back to them here and now, Fuller, or you can look elsewhere for work. And the reeve will get to hear of it.”

  Ebenezer had given in reluctantly and the Attehill's pig was returned to them. Since then Nicholas had trusted Ebenezer even less than he trusted anyone, but had not the energy to find another overseer. One day, he hoped, he would wake up after a good night's sleep refreshed and pain free. That would be the day he gave the old crook a kick up the arse. At the moment, however, there was no possibility of him kicking anything, no matter how soft. He winced at the idea.

  He intended to go on pilgrimage to one of the Saints shrines, but he felt too exhausted to travel at the moment. If Liza's curse killed him, he'd die in his own bed, he resolved. Cicely and Mary would nurse him. He’d not go near the Infirmary; by all accounts under Brother Geoffrey's management it was descending into its previous malodorous state. He might have gone if Brother Anton were still in charge but he had left in a hurry. No-one seemed to be quite sure where he’d gone, family problems, he thought.

  Yes, if he had to die, he’d die at home, with his sons and wife at his bedside. He was sorry he had threatened Liza. Wicked old crone, one of the devil’s breed. Should never have gone against her. Evil old woman, she was.

  He slammed into his house, and yelled for Mary to bring him a jug of ale.

  Walter Attehill could hardly move from his bed. For him also, attending the feast had been impossible.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can manage,” Margaret stood outside their cot the morning after the feast, talking to Liza who had come to visit. “He coughs, coughs, coughs, day and night, no-one’s getting any sleep. Yesterday he coughed up blood. He wakes up in the night drenched with sweat. Says he’d rather stay awake, his dreams are so evil.”

  Liza gave Margaret a plaister of mustard mixed with flour and water to bind onto his chest, and left him with a gargle of tansy leaves, and tiny slivers of the rare tamarisk bark, boiled in wine, to drink.

  “Old Liza’s skill can do little for him, Mistress,” she told Margaret. “’Tis the white plague, brought on by worms. If you heed old Liza, he’d be better off in the Infirmary. You can’t look after him much longer, Mistress. Look at you, you’re tired out with all the fetching and carrying for him. And not long over your stillbirth neither. While he’s here there’s the danger of passing the worms on to you and the children. Get him out of here! Get Septimus Wilkins to take him to the Infirmary!”

  Margaret thought about the midwife’s advice as she continued with her chores that day.

  Liza’s head ached as she hobbled slowly back along the dusty village lane through the green shade of the forest to her cot. Lately she had not slept well, and tiredness assailed her. As she walked, she grasped Goodwife Attehill’s second best laying chicken firmly by its feet and it hung quiescent from her fist. Margaret had offered to pay Liza with her best layer, but the old woman refused.

  “No, Mistress, you have little ones to feed, and a sick husband. Old Liza don’t need eggs every day, one in two days will do well enough for me.” She had several chickens already, but she did not point that out to Margaret. Liza knew Margaret had nothing else to give, and would only take charity from the manor house. Their neighbour, Septimus, had promised to slaughter the newly returned pig for them soon, as Walter was too weak to do it. Liza thought the meat, especially the blood made into a pudding, was exactly what the Attehills needed to build them up.

  She had attended the Michaelmas feast briefly the previous evening and sat with the Bellings. Judith was there with the baby and her parents-in-law, Bess and Joseph. Little Mathilda thrived, Liza thought, as she watched the plump, gingery haired child at Judith’s breast. She often wore the brown woollen gown Bess had given her for seeing them safely through the birthing; indeed, she was wearing it now in honour of the feast.

  The mood grew merry. Trestle tables sagged under the weight of food, and the villagers ate, drank and gossiped, warmed by the reflected heat of the old stones of the manor courtyard. The Attehill twins toddled up and down the aisles between the tables and played hide and seek under them with other children. Alyce was too busy eating to play, and sat next to her mother at the Belling’s table, consuming food as quickly as she could.

  Dusk fell on the fine autumn evening, and Septimus, a skinny man with a shock of white hair surrounding a bald dome, got up from his table to start the music with his rebok. As he played a lively tune on the fiddle, Osbert Miller joined in with his flute, Ursula Browning beat the tabor and Paul, her husband, attached two nakers, large metal drums, to his waist and thudded out the rhythms of the jig.

  Liza watched as Alyce joined the other children to link hands and hop in time to the music. Soon their parents and then the unmarried and courting villagers joined in, singing as they skipped around in a large circle. Joseph Belling stood in the middle, belting out the words that accompanied the ancient tunes. The evening progressed; the music grew more abandoned and the songs bawdier, and the older villagers and those with children started to think of returning home.

&nbs
p; As she left, Liza stopped briefly to talk to Elizabeth Smith, who, with her husband, was sitting at a small trestle table, eating, laughing and talking animatedly with Julienne, Wilhelm and some of the other villagers. Elizabeth and Antony Smith kept the Red Unicorn, that stood set back a little from the village lane, between Nicholas de le Haye’s house and the Miller’s mill. A few weeks ago Liza had given her a plaister of horse chestnuts, wheat flour and honey to put on her piles, but had heard nothing from her since and wondered if they had improved. She certainly don’t look as if they're bothering her, Liza thought, not the way she was dancing a minute ago.

  “Now then, Mistress, how goes it with you?” Liza enquired kindly, smiling down at Elizabeth, her two teeth, polished earlier in the day, glinting in the dusk. “You look well!” All conversation at the table stopped. Elizabeth glanced up at her and then immediately away, obviously unsure what to do. Liza looked around at the other villagers at the table, but no-one would meet her eyes.

  “Come, wife,” Antony rose and took Elizabeth’s hand to lead her away from the table. “Excuse us, Liza, ‘tis no offence we mean but we are needed elsewhere.” They walked away, leaving the old midwife to the embarrassed silence of the others, before she too left.

  As she sat to eat her dinner of coarse bread and cheese, Liza pondered further upon the meaning of what had happened; Elizabeth and Antony had always appeared so well disposed towards her in the past. Surely Elizabeth could not think she was about to mention the piles – Liza would never refer to such a personal affliction in public. No, that was not the cause of her embarrassment. “’Tis the curse. They was talking about me and Nicholas, could only be that curse, nothing else, should never have done it, never, never, never, no matter what evil he did to me.”