Midwife : Liza Read online

  She paid Matthew two silver pennies and took the parchment, and borrowed his quill to sign her name with many flourishes and squiggles. May as well get my money’s worth, she thought.

  Matthew stood and bowed as she got stiffly to her feet. “Good day, your Ladyship,” he said, not at all perturbed he had failed to recognise her. He knew many customers requiring the services of a scribe preferred anonymity, but whether or not he recognised them, they could be absolutely sure of his discretion.

  Stoveham was a large manor that Lord Roger rented to his younger brother, Sir Ralph. He too would be in Gascony at the moment, accompanying his brother. Isabella knew the manor well, and its inhabitants; Stoveham was a pleasant place and she and Lord Roger often visited there; Sir Ralph and his wife were congenial hosts.

  She had chosen Adam and Peter Brewer because they were freemen and did not owe their Lord military service. At this time when many of the men were away fighting they would still be home, and, as freemen, able to travel where they wished. The brothers were strong and fit, unless any mishap had occurred since she last saw them.

  As their name suggested, they brewed ale, continuing generations of their family business. They were both widowers; one had lost his wife to a wasting disease and the other’s wife had fallen off a bridge and drowned. Neither had bothered to remarry; their children were grown and did not need a mother. The brothers lived and worked together, content in each other’s company. So there would be no wife to question their absence, nor ask any other awkward questions. Neither would there be a wife to carry on the brewing in their absence, but Isabella thought they would be able to leave their business for a few days. She was giving them more than six weeks notice, after all, and their reward would amply compensate for any inconvenience.

  Isabella summoned Thomas, and gave him the sealed parchment, together with a sack, also sealed but obviously containing something made of cloth.

  “You are to leave now for Stoveham,” she told the groom. “Go immediately to the house of the Brewer brothers and give them this letter and the sack. Do not talk with them, except to tell them to go at once to a scribe whose discretion they can trust so they learn what is contained within the letter. And do not under any circumstances open the seal of the sack, or allow them to open it in your presence. Then return immediately - you may stop at an Inn if you must but you must not stop in Stoveham. Is this clear?”

  Thomas understood, and set out on his journey within the hour.

  Rosalind quite liked her new surcoats, one in her favourite green, the other a pale yellow that almost matched the colour of her hair. Both had been cleverly cut by Sarah. The folds of soft wool disguised her swelling abdomen, especially if she stood straight. Her breasts were bound as flat as possible and, although uncomfortable, the tightness was bearable. In fact, she felt and looked very well; her hair shone with health and she had colour in her cheeks.

  The most difficult part of her mother's plan, she found, was having to stay in the manor house. Isabella wanted as few people as possible to have the opportunity to look closely at her. She was permitted to ride occasionally - risky for a woman heavy with child, but a good subterfuge nevertheless, as long as the horse was docile and not inclined towards anything more energetic than walking. And, her mother told her, she would have to undertake a long journey quite soon, so she may as well remain accustomed to riding.

  Richard Reeve arranged for Walter Attehill to be admitted to the Infirmary. Despite their better diet of late provided by the pig, Margaret was exhausted by sleepless nights and long days caring for her sick husband as well as the children. She was clearly worn out when Richard, concerned about Walter, visited her one afternoon in late October.

  Richard had been reeve for several years. The villagers had elected him to this office, not only to check that they started and finished their work in Lord Roger’s fields at the right time, but also to represent and help them in any dealings with the authorities - the bailiff, Lord Roger himself or - in this case - the Infirmarer at the monastery.

  Brother Geoffrey was unwilling at first to accept Walter. From Richard’s description of the symptoms, he thought Walter probably had caught the highly contagious white plague. But Lady Isabella used her influence with Abbott Julian and insisted he be admitted. The Infirmary was only half full, she pointed out, and, furthermore, Walter could be nursed in the cubicle, his bed surrounded by charms and amulets that would keep his bad humours from spreading.

  Septimus drew the bullock and cart to a halt outside the Attehill’s cot. The cart belonged to the manor house. He often rented it to transport his ale to the Red Unicorn and sometimes to the Godwynne Arms in Reedwich. Despite the jests made by the villagers about its quality, his ale was good and in demand. Today, Lady Isabella lent him the cart free of charge to take Walter to the Infirmary.

  Walter lay tangled amidst sacks strewn across the mattress, eyes huge in his wasted face. As Septimus bent to lift him, he grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled the old brewer towards him, frantically trying to speak.

  “’Tis her, ‘tis her, every night she comes for me, as soon as I sleep she comes for me!” His eyes bulged and spittle flew from his mouth as he tried to speak between fits of coughing. Septimus tried to soothe him, but the sick man was frantic.

  Margaret bent to loosen Walter’s grip on him. “All the time he keeps on about someone coming for him at night, turns him into a horse or something,” she said sadly as Septimus straightened up from the sick man. “I’m sure I don’t know what he’s on about most of the time, don‘t think he does neither.”

  “An ‘orse – nightmares - ” Septimus’ shock of white hair bobbed up and down as he nodded and muttered to himself for a few moments, obviously thinking deeply. All at once, he seemed to come to a decision.

  He grasped Margaret‘s arm, and tugged her gently to the doorway, out of Walter's hearing. “Aye, it's just as I thought, ‘e’s hag ridden alright, that’s what’s ‘appening ‘ere, that’s what’s going on alright!” he hissed in her ear, just loud enough for his words to carry to the small group of interested onlookers come to watch Walter being taken away. “’Tis a well known craft of the witch,” he continued more loudly, aware now of his audience, “they pick on a poor man - or woman, they’re not fussy - and in the night they bewitch 'im into an ‘orse. Then they sit astride 'is chest and ride 'im off to their devil’s work.”

  His voice sank dramatically as he played to the fascinated villagers. “And that’s why 'is chest’s so sore, and that’s why 'e's so tired all the time. Well, stands to reason, you’d be tired enough if you’d been ridden round the country all night, wouldn’t youse?”

  Goodwives Miller and Fuller gasped and clutched each other, wide-eyed in delicious fear. Bess, who had happened to be passing, stood at the back of the group. “Stuff and nonsense, Septimus Wilkins” she called out, “You should be ashamed of yourself, talking such rubbish!”

  Septimus turned to face her. “An’ you know who’s the ‘ag at the bottom of all this, Mistress Belling?” Septimus wagged a grimy finger in admonishment. “Liza Cooper. Liza Cooper, that’s who!”

  Goodies Miller and Fuller crossed themselves and waited wide-eyed for more. But Septimus merely went back into the cot, came out carrying a now silent and exhausted Walter in his arms and dumped him in the cart. He clambered up and clicked the bullock into motion.

  “The monks will sort it all out, Mistress Attehill, they’ll use their ‘oly charms to put a stop to all these going’s on, you mark my words,” was his parting comment.

  Chapter 15

  Mauger Brooke sat in the otherwise deserted main hall with Lady Isabella, going through the accounts of the two manors. She could not read what he had written in the books but listened carefully as he went through them, asking a few questions now and then and nodding at his replies.

  “All seems to be in order, sir,” she said at last. She rose stiffly, walked over to the fire smouldering in the middle of the hall, and w
armed her hands. Today she wore a thick woollen tunic of dark blue over a black undergown, around her shoulders hung a shawl made of white rabbit fur. The weather was becoming cold; in the mornings lately a dawn frost had sparkled over Hollingham. Mauger, also warmly dressed, rose too as it would not have been seemly to remain sitting.

  “As you well know, Sir Bailiff,” she said “Mistress Rosalind is to marry Sir Geoffrey Cottreaux in summer next year.” Mauger nodded. “I have decided my daughter will do well to spend Christmas and a few months after with her new family. Old Lord Cottreaux has always had a soft spot for his future daughter-in-law.”

  “Yes, your Ladyship, that sounds an excellent plan. Will you be sending men from Hollingham with her on the journey?” Mauger would need to account for their time.

  “No, I cannot spare them. But Cottreaux men will arrive here to provide escort, the second day of Advent. Mistress Sarah will accompany my daughter, naturally and will spend a few days at Cottreaux Castle to make sure all is well, before returning here. There will be servants enough at the Castle to wait upon Mistress Rosalind. Everything has been organised.” She hesitated prettily and then, modestly casting her eyes downwards, “In strictest confidence, sir, I will have business of my own to attend to in the weeks after Christmas. I have a strong feeling that early spring will be a very joyous time for Lord Roger and me.”

  As Mauger offered his congratulations and took his leave, Isabella calculated how quickly her news would spread round the village once Beatrice Brooke got to hear of it. Everyone will know by this time tomorrow, she reckoned.

  Liza had heard about Septimus' opinions regarding Walter; Bess had just visited. “You’ll hear soon enough what happened, Liza,” she said, “I was there, so I'd better tell you before anyone else gives you a fuddled version.”

  She told Liza what Septimus had said. “It’s a load of nonsense, Liza, Septimus’ brains are as foggy as his ale. But you know how these silly tales are, there’s always plenty of folk addled enough to believe them. Don‘t be upset. Don't worry.”

  As soon as she had gone, Liza slumped by her fire. “So that’s what they think of me,” she thought as tears ran along the wrinkles of her face, dripping onto her gown. Bonney sat with her, his head resting on her knee, licking her hand from time to time.

  "'Don't worry', Mistress Belling said - they must be the most useless words ever,” she told him. “'Don't worry', indeed." Liza wiped her long nose upon her sleeve. “'Course I'm going to worry. An' old Septimus, he's my friend, he knows me as well as any, since we were youngsters playing together, all these years. He helped me after Tom and the children died, him and Wilhelm, 'twas his father set fire to the old cot – an’ their babies I've helped Wilhelm birth, his sons and daughters, and their children too - Septimus wouldn't say such things about me? Would he?”

  She looked at the old dog, who looked impassively back at her. “You think he would? Well, then, my dear, old Liza will have to find out for herself, won't she! We'll see if he thinks old Liza's a witch. I'll talk to him, normal as anyone else, if he does believe all he said about me, he'll have to change his mind when he sees how I am, same as always, don't mean any harm to anyone. I'll go right now, right away before the resolve leaves me.”

  “Septimus Wilkins,” she yelled as she limped towards his house. She had spotted him staggering, knees bent, under the weight of leather buckets slopping water from a yoke slung across his shoulders, as he stumbled across a small field into his brewing shed. “Will you bring some of your good ale to me at my cot, my old bones ache too much to carry it.”

  He spun round, startled by her voice, looked at her, shrugged off the yoke, and turned and ran into his shed, hands clasped over his ears and mumbling prayers.

  Her question had been answered.

  “I didn‘t want that ole witch looking at me, givin' me the evil eye,” he told Wilhelm later. “An’ as fer goin’ to her cot, what, so as she can put spells on me like she done with poor ole Walter,” he crossed himself. “Not likely!”

  He spent the evening repeating the story in the Red Unicorn.

  “Time for another visit to Tom, ask him what he thinks I must do,” Liza muttered to Bonney. “High time I saw Tom, my dear, he'll know what to do about them saying I’m a witch. And about the curse. Now he’s had the time to think about it. He’ll tell me what I should do. I don't want them all yammering about me, accusing me. Mustn’t be called a witch, mustn’t even thought of as one, that’ll never do, never do, got enough troubles, don’t need no more, do we?”

  Bonney banged his tail upon the earthen floor as she stroked his head. “Thing is,” she continued sadly, “if old Liza was truly a witch she’d have been able to call off the curse. Then all would be well. But my Tom will know what I must do, he always does.”

  She prepared for her visit in the same way as usual. Her garden lay quiet in the chilly dusk. The chickens had flown up to roost in the trees and all was peaceful as she stooped to gather the herbs she needed, murmuring to herself every now and then. Inside the cot she mixed her ointment, washed and dressed herself in her white gown, lay on her mattress and waited for sleep to overtake her. Bonney padded over towards the fire and settled down for the night. She tried to clear her mind as the herbs took effect but, as drowsiness overtook her, Liza's thoughts were troubled and confused.

  Everything began as usual. She steered the tree branch that appeared between her skinny thighs high up over the cot, then down towards the church - she could see the squat tower approaching fast, the mill, the tavern, and Nicholas de le Haye’s house just discernible in the moonlight. But, as soon as she reached the church, the branch started to shake violently. Liza clutched the branch and hung on as it flew in circles, bucked up and down and tried to throw her off. Once, she nearly fell onto the roof of Nicholas' house. But after a few sickening moments her flight became smooth again, and soon she swooped down into the clearing in the forest. Her old bones shaken and hurting, she stepped away thankfully from the branch and gasped in horror.

  Where the ancient oak should have been was now a tall golden throne and on it reclined an outsize goat. His horns and teeth glowed red and his cruel eyes glittered as she stood shaking at the edge of the clearing. Then a brilliant white light beamed out upon the scene from somewhere up in the trees and, immediately, everything was starkly visible. The goat grinned, shifted in his seat, and sat back, spreading his furred legs apart so that Liza could see an enormous phallus thrusting between them, engorged and dripping blood. The goat leant forward and licked at the blood with a thin, snakelike tongue, before turning towards Liza, leering as he flicked his long tongue in and out of his mouth.

  Cloaked shapes gyrated slowly around a fire, just as they had when Tom had been there. One broke away from the group and limped towards her. Not Tom. The figure threw off his cloak and she recognized Nicholas. He sniggered and she felt him grasp her shoulders from behind and push her forwards to the grinning goat. She tried to turn, to scurry back into the forest and her panic almost gave her the strength to break away. But Nicholas changed his grip and half carried and half dragged her over the bumpy ground. She thought her arms would break, he had her so tight.

  They were at the throne and Nicholas hissed in her ear, still holding her fast, panting with a mixture of effort and excitement, “Now, you evil old witch, come and meet your master, this is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it, come, kiss his arsehole, suck his cock.”

  Nicholas shoved her violently at the goat, who bent forward again so that his red eyes were only inches from hers. His breath smelt of meat, his claws scratched her chest – claws? she thought, goats have hooves - and the animal started to change shape. It no longer wore the face of a goat, but a dog.

  Only dimly aware, Liza slowly recognised Bonney's long muzzle. The goat had gone. Somehow Bonney had appeared in his place, whining, panting and pawing at her to wake.

  Half conscious, Liza stumbled into her garden, was very sick and then staggered back into the c
ot. The rest of the night she lay sleepless on the earthen floor as close as she could get to the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around Bonney.

  Sarah had two errands to perform for her mistress. Accompanied by Thomas, she made the journey south to London and, after a few hours on horseback, arrived outside a new half timbered house in Fish Street, in the city of London. In response to Sarah's knock a middle aged woman wearing a dark surcoat over a grey undergown came to the door and greeted her with the puzzled look of half recognition.

  “Good morning to you, Mistress Taylor,” Sarah squeaked and Amyce’s face cleared.

  “Ah, Mistress Fletcher! I thought I had met you before. Come in, do!” Amyce led her through a long, dark hallway into a low beamed room with a fire burning in the hearth. The furnishings were simple; just a table, a bench and several stools. The women sat, sipping at the weak red wine Amyce poured, before getting down to business. Amyce was one of Queen Philippa‘s midwives, and her services were much in demand amongst the fashionable women of London.

  “How is Lady Isabella, it is several years since last I saw her…”

  “She is with child again, Mistress, and requests that you attend her confinement. Around the feast day of Saint David, at the beginning of March, if you are available then?”

  Amyce hesitated only briefly. “Aye, that should be possible. My apprentice can deliver the other woman I have due at that time, and the queen is in Antwerp so shall not be needing me. But how does her Ladyship with this pregnancy?”

  “All is well, Mistress – my Lady is in good health and the child inside vigorous. Unlike the others,” Sarah crossed herself. “This time, with God’s help - ” Amyce also made the sign of the cross and the two women sat in silence for a moment, until the Queen’s midwife continued, business-like once more.