Midwife : Liza Read online

  “If all continues to go well and I hear nothing from you to the contrary, I will arrive some days before and, as usual, stay ten days after the birthing. I assume my usual quarters will be made available?” There had been a time when Amyce attended Isabella’s confinements at Hollingham almost on a yearly basis; indeed, she had delivered Rosalind, and knew the manor house well.

  “The room above the hall will be prepared for your arrival, Mistress.”

  On their way back to Hollingham, Sarah and Thomas called at the Tanner’s cot, on the outskirts of Reedwich. Hawise Tanner was due to produce her second child shortly after Christmas. Their first had been stillborn last year with the navel string wound tight round his neck. This time, they prayed for a safe delivery of a healthy child.

  Hawise, Lady Isabella thought, following a recommendation from Mistress Brooke, sounded as though she would make an ideal wet nurse. She was a big boned young woman, rosy cheeked and cheerful. This was important, as her milk would influence the intelligence and character of any baby she suckled. By the time the de Godwynne child was born, Mistress Brooke pointed out, her milk would be in full supply, not the harmful colostrum of the early days but the good, nourishing milk - rich, sweet and bluish-white.

  Sarah tapped the door of the cot and, hearing a command to enter, went in. Hawise, her advanced pregnancy obvious, sat stirring a pan of pottage over her fire, ready for her Bartholomew's supper when he came in from the fields. Sarah explained the purpose of her mission and Hawise agreed with pleasure. To be appointed wet nurse to the Lady Isabella’s new baby would be an honour and her husband's status within Reedwich would be considerably enhanced. She anticipated the next request and bared her breasts.

  “See, Mistress Fletcher, see how much milk I got already!” she boasted, squeezing the dark areola round her nipple to produce beads of clear fluid. “And they’re not too big so the babe won't suffocate at them nor squash its nose, but look what fine suckling he’ll get - ” she pulled her thick nipples so they projected outwards. “Any baby will latch easily as anything onto them.”

  “You would have to come and stay at the manor house until the child is weaned,” Sarah warned, but Hawise saw no problem.

  “As long as I can bring my own little one, God willing,” she said, “Bartholomew won’t mind, he’ll be glad of the money - but he’ll be allowed to visit me, Mistress?”

  “Well, occasionally, maybe, and you will be able to come back here for a few hours between feeding perhaps - but you understand that lying with any man, even your husband will be forbidden, Hawise, while you are suckling the Lady’s child?” Hawise’s face dropped.

  “I’ll talk to Bartholomew when he gets in,” she promised, “But I think he’ll say yes. He’ll just have to do without his home comforts for a while.” She guffawed and Sarah smiled weakly. “Anyhow, there’s not much for me to do in his fields that time of the year and he’ll be eager to earn a few extra shillings by me, no doubt. As well as having peace and quiet here in front of his hearth!”

  Chapter 16

  The second day of Advent fell on a Monday. The weather was freezing, but dry and sunny.

  “It’s a favourable omen. If the roads are good and travelling unimpeded by mud and floods, our plan is off to a good start!” Her rheumatism better in this dry weather, Isabella marched up and down the solar, looking out of the east window towards the lane leading to the London road, down which the Brewer brothers would come.

  It was early as yet and she did not expect them until mid morning. They would have lodged overnight at an inn some distance away, according to her instructions - staying in Hollingham would pose too great a risk of discovery if they got into conversation with a villager and let something slip. As far as she knew, only Thomas had met them and, last week she had sent him away to Fettiscombe to help out at the manor house there for a few weeks.

  Rosalind and Sarah sat in the solar, breakfasting on small beer, bread and cheese. Rosalind sipped at the raspberry infusion Liza had given her; it would tone her womb and make it strong for labour. Both women wore warm, serviceable clothes, and had rested well in preparation for their journey today. At least, Sarah had. Rosalind had taken a while to get to sleep. She wished she knew where Anton was, and what he was doing and, more importantly, what he intended to do. She had lain in her bed under the furs, thinking of him as she did every night. Yesterday afternoon, despite the cold, she had climbed up to the battlements for a while, scanning every direction, wondering which road he would take back to her.

  The baby was growing quickly. Rosalind could feel it kicking as she lay in bed, and she turned over onto her side, supporting her belly between her hands, hoping a change in position would quiet the child. Her dresses would not hide the bulge much longer. Even if Anton came for her now she had little hope of escaping to the continent with him. She was too big to travel far, tomorrow would be bad enough; even at rest, as now, her back ached and she had a fiery pain in her chest from eating too late at night.

  When she did sleep, she slept soundly, as did the babe within her. After breakfast, the heartburn returned. Sarah went down into the kitchens to boil up peppermint leaves and mallow, and the infusion helped, but her back still ached and she did not look forward to the journey.

  Whilst the women breakfasted, Hugo loaded a pack horse with clothing and other items that Mistress Rosalind would require in Cottreaux. As soon as the escorts arrived, he had orders to saddle horses for two women.

  “Fine time to send Thomas away,” the old man muttered under his breath as he worked. “Why couldn’t she have waited till next week? I’m too old for all this heaving and lifting. You need young bones for this job …”

  Later that morning, Adam and Peter clattered into the courtyard, dressed in the Cottreaux colours of silver lions on blue.

  Hugo left what he was doing to meet them. “Good-day," he started, hoping his intended enquiry about their journey would be the precursor to a longer gossip, but the brothers merely smiled briefly as they dismounted.

  "Show us to the great hall, if you please," Peter asked, and they handed Hugo the reins to lead their horses to the stables for a brief rest.

  Lady Isabella had seen their arrival and sent Sarah down to meet them. She took them up to the solar, where Isabella waited to give them their instructions.

  "Remember," she told them, "You must never tell anyone of the work you do today for me." She gave them a heavy purse. “Here is your money, one pound in silver coins. On your return tomorrow, if all goes well, there will be another. And watch for my messenger at about the time of the feast of St David, he will carry my seal as a sign that your services are needed again."

  Adam took the purse and secured it underneath his tunic. “All will be done as you have ordered, your Ladyship."

  In the courtyard Isabella kissed her daughter soundly on both cheeks and then on her mouth, mainly for the benefit of the manor house staff and a few villagers gathered to watch Rosalind and Sarah depart for Cottreaux. They all assumed it would be months before her Ladyship and Mistress Rosalind would meet again - by which time, they hoped for Lady Isabella‘s sake, there would be a healthy new member of the de Godwynne family; God willing, a son. Certainly, her Ladyship’s swollen abdomen, revealed when she accidentally let her cloak slip, suggested the baby within her thrived.

  The roads were frozen as the horses picked their way southwards in the direction of London, Rosalind warmly wrapped in a fur cloak. She tried to sit as upright as she could on her horse - it helped lessen her backache, but sitting at an angle in her side-saddle was awkward.

  The burning in her chest had disappeared, but she thought it would not be long before it started again and reached down to her saddle bag for the jar containing the peppermint and mallow mixture. She took a swig, in the hope of preventing the heartburn starting, and belched quietly. As her horse clopped along, she tried to ignore the backache by thinking of Anton.

  “Mistress, how do you fare?” whispered Sarah for t
he hundredth time.

  “Will you stop asking! I am perfectly well, as I was two minutes ago! Go and ride up front with Peter!”

  Sarah sniffed, and rode the rest of the way in offended silence. Peter led the small group and Adam brought up the rear with the pack horse. They were unlikely to meet any trouble with outlaws this close to London but, nevertheless, the Brewers were well armed. The brothers discouraged conversation from any of the groups travelling in the same direction, and the women concealed their faces within the hoods of their cloaks.

  A few miles from Hollingham Peter and Adam replaced their Cottreaux colours with plain, nondescript tunics and cloaks; the Cottreaux emblems, worn for the benefit of the Hollingham villagers, were no longer needed. By early afternoon they had travelled more than ten miles and were now south-east of London.

  Peter led them into the forecourt of the Black Bull Inn. “Journey’s end - for some of us!” he announced cheerfully, and swung easily out of his saddle. Rosalind dismounted quickly before he could reach her. Her mother had instructed her that on no account was she to allow either of the brothers to help her on and off her horse; such close contact may have revealed her pregnancy. And she was to keep her cloak well wrapped around her.

  Peter shrugged as he realised Rosalind did not need his help, and turned to his brother instead. “Adam, give me something for the bouncer.” The four travellers went into the inn and Peter paid the guard a copper coin for their entry, according to the custom. The guard bounced the coin on a slab of wet wood to check the money was genuine and then gestured them in with a black toothed grin. After talking briefly with the landlord, Adam went back out to unfasten a sack from the packhorse and brought it inside.

  “Here, Mistress Fletcher. I‘ll take it up to your chamber for you, I hope the room is comfortable, the bed is clean, no bugs the landlord has assured me, and there's a fire alight for you.” Sarah would be staying at the inn along with Peter for a few days. Peter, wearing his Cottreaux livery once more, would then escort her back to Hollingham.

  After they all had eaten and rested a little in a private room, Rosalind and Adam started the journey back to the manor house. By then the afternoon was well advanced and soon dusk would fall.

  “I’m sorry I spoke nastily to you this morning, Sarah,” Rosalind hugged her old nurse as she prepared to leave.

  “God speed, Mistress. I’ll be praying the roads stay dry. I’ll see you in a few days, God willing.”

  The journey back was slow, much of it in darkness. The temperature, only just above freezing during the day, dropped further as dusk fell and a cold mist shrouded the countryside. The horses plodded along the deserted roads, stumbling a little when they caught a hoof in a frozen rut. By the time they reached the small track leading from the London road to the back gate of the manor house the sun had been set for almost three hours.

  Rosalind was cold, and ached all over. Not only her back hurt now, every sinew in her body cried out for rest in a comfortable bed. Despite the peppermint and mallow infusion the heartburn had returned, as she knew it would, after her meal of bread, bacon and ale in the inn. Earlier on she had dozed several times for a few moments, but either the kicking of the baby within her, or the stumbling of her horse had woken her, and now she was too cold and uncomfortable to sleep.

  A hundred yards from the manor house, she clenched her teeth against her backache, forced her stiff limbs into action and tried to dismount from her horse before Adam could help. Her right leg seemed frozen in place, however, and would not budge. In the starlit dimness she saw Adam standing at the side of her horse, holding his arms out to her.

  “Come, Mistress,” he said, “Let me help you, just slide gently towards me, I’ll catch you, that’s it, let me take your weight -” As Rosalind slithered off her horse into his arms she felt the bump of her swollen ab-domen scrape against his hard body and she did not know whether she imagined his sharp intake of breath at the contact. In truth, she was too tired and cold to care.

  As the feeling percolated back into her cold limbs, Adam tethered the horses to a tree, and they set off on foot down the dark, seldom used lane that led to the small back gate of the manor house. The sound of approaching horses might have alerted the guard dozing in his hut or one of the other servants sleeping in the various small buildings contained within the courtyard.

  The stillness of the night was broken only by an occasional owl hoot, or by a muffled curse or soft cry as Adam and Rosalind slipped and tripped their way along the forest path to the manor. When they neared the gate, he used his flint to briefly light a candle, knowing Lady Isabella would be in the solar watching for his signal, hoping it would shine through the mist.

  By the time they reached the back gate of the manor courtyard, Lady Isabella had opened it just wide enough for Rosalind to enter. One of the dogs in the stables stirred and barked as she unlocked the gate, but settled back down when he failed to smell strangers. Quietly, Isabella pulled Rosalind inside the back courtyard and shoved a stoppered jar and a parcel into Adam’s hands. The jar contained ale; the parcel food, money and a warm coverlet to add to the one he carried on his horse. If he was unable to reach the inn he had stayed in last night before it barred its doors, he would have to sleep concealed somewhere by the side of the road before returning to Stoveham and his brewery in the morning, cold but considerably richer.

  Isabella locked the gate again behind him and helped her daughter quickly and silently through the dark courtyard into the deserted great hall and up the stairs to the solar. Rosalind collapsed onto the bench, white with exhaustion, too tired even to remove her cloak. Her mother fussed about her, her relief at Rosalind’s safe return obvious. Rosalind was too tired to swallow more than a small jug of milk. All she wanted was sleep.

  Underneath the cloak, she clasped her hands over her abdomen and felt the baby move inside her, before she made her way up the twisting stairs to the top room of the tower. There, in her bedchamber, she would stay hidden for the next few months.

  Chapter 17

  Liza was too frightened to go into the village. She stayed in Widows’ Cot, warm by the fire, only going outside to gather wood or to collect an occasional egg from her chickens, most of whom had stopped laying in these cold, short days. She ate mainly pottage - that was easy to prepare.

  On the instructions of his wife, Joseph Belling kept Liza supplied with ale and milk and a few other supplies. She unearthed her small hand quern from the rubbish of years piled at the back of the cot, ground her own small stocks of wheat into flour, and baked her own bread as best she could on an iron plate over her fire.

  Hand milling wheat and baking at home were illegal; all the villagers milled their wheat in Lord Roger’s mill, and baked in the ovens he owned, paying a tax to him for the privilege, and Liza would be fined if the bailiff or reeve discovered her. She’d rather be fined than go to the mill, she thought, she would avoid the village at all costs.

  No woman had called upon Liza's services as a midwife for several weeks now, although she knew of at least two women due to birth their babies at this time. She tried not to care; she was better off in the warm, she told herself, away from the hostile glances of the villagers. Even worse was when they wouldn't look at her but moved away into a doorway or alley when she approached. What do they think I’ll do, curse them? Harm them? Men and women and children old Liza’s tried her best to help all her life? Why, I’ve helped birth most of them, she thought.

  She dare not try to visit Tom again; the devil lay in wait for her to try. Already the devil invaded her dreams. Sometimes the goat face loomed over her clearly, and then it would change; the muzzle would disappear, the face would become rounder, darker, the goat's beard would become black, so too the red teeth; gradually, the face would turn into Nicholas'.

  Now she understood what ailed Nicholas; the devil had entered his soul, she had learnt that during her terrible journey. The devil and Nicholas were one and the same. Liza gave up trying to lift the cu
rse. What was the point, she thought, Nicholas belonged to the devil now. So let the devil cure him; nothing she could do would help. Her magic had proved too weak and, anyway, she no longer had the will or the energy to try and help him. Whatever happened to him was none of her doing any more, but she feared him, nonetheless.

  Liza dreaded sleeping; she expected that one night the devil in the shape of Nicholas would come to claim her. Often she would wake early in the morning before dawn, disorientated and distressed, feeling close to death. She would be unable to sleep again because of the unpleasant, frightening thoughts rushing through her mind. She felt tired out, and often dozed during the day lying on the floor by the fire. Sometimes she tried to comfort herself with the thought of her new cottage.

  “Not long now till Mistress Rosalind births her baby,” she told Bonney again and again as she cuddled him to her skinny body the nights when she could not sleep. “Then old Liza and Bonney will have their new cot, why, maybe we’ll even get a new puss to keep us company these long winter nights. Another Murrikin. Maybe even a cow. And a pig. And more chickens. Then everything will be all right.” But soon even planning for a new Widows’ Cot was not enough to lift her mood.

  Liza seldom went to church. She enjoyed seeing christened the babies she had helped into the world, but that had more to do with knowing the child lived than with any religious conviction. That had gone along with Tom and her children. She only attended when absence would have meant a fine, and the tolerant Sir Firmin rarely bothered to report her to the church authorities.

  But now, at her wits' end, and terrified the devil in the shape of Nicholas waited for her, in desperation she resolved to consult the vicar.