Midwife : Liza Page 17

  Just before Christmas, Walter Attehill died. Brother Geoffrey and another monk sat with him as he passed away one morning. Since his admission to the Infirmary he had tried to tell anyone who came near his cubicle about the hag that rode him to her coven every night. Eventually, to get some peace, Brother Geoffrey draped a necklace of hag stones, small stones with holes in them, on the foot of Walter’s bed. The next day Walter reported that Liza had tried to get at him during the night but could not get past the stones. But then he worried she would try to get at Margaret, or the children instead. Brother Geoffrey quietly passed the necklace on to Margaret.

  Sir Firmin Dupierre stood near the altar and looked down the nave of his church. At the moment it was quiet and still, and the afternoon light cast dim shadows upon the cold stonework. At midnight the Angel’s Mass would be held to signify that, at the darkest hour of the darkest day, salvation came. Christmas would be quiet in the village this year, he thought, with Lord Roger and so many of the men away.

  Sir Firmin went through the checklist in his head. The candles stood ready for lighting and the Christmas crib, an innovation from Italy, would be used for the first time. There were little clay figurines of Mary and Joseph, with the animals looking over at the empty manger. The baby Jesus would be placed there at midnight. He must remember to do that, he thought, as the heavy oak door started to swing open and Liza entered. Sir Firmin stood too surprised to move as she approached, and then started forward to help her.

  "Liza, you are the last person I thought to see here." He took her arm and guided her to one of the stone benches that lined the side walls of the nave. Liza sat, wrapped in her cloak, head bowed and silent.

  Sir Firmin sat next to her. "Liza," he said gently, "Would your presence here have anything to do with Nicholas?" Liza did not move. "You know he is very sick."

  Liza looked up at him. “I did my best to take the curse off him." Her head bowed again and she rubbed her forehead wearily. "But I can't - and now he's the devil and he's coming for me."

  Sir Firmin sat quietly for a moment before speaking softly. “Tell me from the beginning, Liza.” He listened without comment as she told him about Nicholas' demands that she move from Widows’ Cot, how Bonney had chased him off, how he had taken his revenge by trying to burn the cot, how she had found Murrikin's body, how Nicholas had threatened her, the curse she put on him and her sorrow that she was unable to remove it. At last she fell silent.

  “And where does the devil come into this?” Liza huddled further into her cloak. “Liza, you need to tell me, if I am to help you.”

  “Sometimes -” she started hesitatingly and he waited. “Sometimes old Liza gets a bit lonely like, I go on a visit – to those who've gone on ahead – I'm sorry, Father, I shouldn't be telling a holy man this.” Her eyes were troubled as she looked at him.

  “Tell me,” he commanded.

  She looked down at her lap and started to speak rapidly. “Sometimes when I'm in need of comfort I seek out Tom, he's my husband, and my children, three beautiful sons I had, and a daughter, Posie, she weren't more than a toddler. They were all taken by the red plague. Within days of each other. I still miss them, Father, can't live my life properly without them.”

  “Liza, how do you seek them?”

  She shrugged. “It's not difficult if you know the right herbs to use, 'though you've got to know the balance, got to get it right.”

  “What do the herbs do, what happens?”

  “They break down the barrier between this world and the next...”

  “But, Liza, you must know how wicked this is. It's a mortal sin.” He made the sign of the cross on his chest and then repeated it over Liza. “I will have to report it. It's witchcraft, Liza, I can't deal with this, it's too serious ...”

  Liza continued as though she had not heard him. “The herbs - they let me see him, talk to him, he tells me what to do, but the last time he weren't there, it weren't him but Nicholas, Nicholas stood waiting for me, he must have known I was coming, he was waiting for me, him and -” her voice sank to a whisper, “the devil, he was there too, Father, he opened his mouth to eat me, swallow me - ”

  The kindly old man felt out of his depth and tried to think of something to say, a question to ask, but Liza hurried on. “And nearly every night now I wake 'specting to die any minute and the other night I swear the devil's imp sat on my chest, squeezing old Liza's chest so she couldn't breath! And the worse of it - the imp had Nicholas' face - Father, I'm feared that the devil's taken Nicholas for one of his own. The devil and Nicholas, they're one and the same." She buried her hands in her face as her frail body shook with sobs.

  "Liza, wait here," Sir Firmin said after a few minutes thought. "The Lord Jesus Christ will help you if you truly repent of your sins, but first I must fetch a few things."

  He hurried out of the church and into his cottage where he rummaged around in an old box before finding what he needed. Prayers to protect against the devil were not required here often; several years had passed since he last spoke them, and he wanted to be sure he said the words correctly. Carrying his ancient book of prayers carefully, he went back into the church. Liza creaked down onto her knees on the altar steps and, with the vicar, recited the pater noster.

  "Now Liza," said Sir Firmin, "Repeat after me - " He began to read from his book.

  O Lord Jesus Christ, thou didst suffer thyself to be tempted by Satan - in order that thou mightest likewise overthrow Satan in thy members - as thou hadst done before in thine own person -

  I therefore, poor and wretched sinner - despairing of my own strength, which is none - most heartily pray thee to imbue me with strength from above - that I may be able to resist Satan - and may live to serve You with righteousness and holiness all my days. Amen.

  Liza murmured the prayer after Sir Firmin. He said some more prayers, blessed her and helped her to her feet.

  He picked up a small container of holy water. “Sprinkle a little of this around your fire, door and windows before you sleep," he instructed. "No devil or his imps can get by it, you will be safe from the evils of the night. And take this candle - it has been blessed. Burn it as darkness falls, it too will keep evil at bay."

  "Thank you, Sir Vicar," a subdued Liza muttered. "You have old Liza's gratitude."

  “And come back here to pray with me again. Tomorrow. But I must report this to my Bishop, Liza, I can't deal with a problem like this - your sin - alone.”

  “Do as you will, Father. Just as long as the devil stays away from me and Nicholas doesn't bother me. I don't much care about anything else any more.” She walked slowly out of the church and back through the twilight to her cot.

  Sir Firmin watched as Liza hobbled down the nave and through the door. When she had gone, he knelt in front of the altar. For several minutes he did not pray; he just thought about Nicholas and Liza. She does so much good in the village, he thought, all the babies, all the women and their families her skill has helped – must be hundreds over the years. But one mistake, one wicked deed, that is all it has taken to open the way for the devil - one wicked deed and she has ruined Nicholas. He bowed his head and prayed for Liza, for Nicholas and for all the villagers.

  He knew he should go as soon as possible to the Bishop in London. Report the case, seek advice. But then there would be no turning back for Liza. There would probably be a trial, she would be likely tortured, and made to confess to witchcraft. The penalty was often burning. The Bishop was not renowned for his mercy. He did not want to bring that upon her. Nicholas would also be tried as a result of Liza's allegations.

  Much disruption would come to Hollingham from the actions of a silly old woman, he thought. He could not believe she was evil; misguided perhaps, lonely certainly, but not evil. If he could wait just a week or two and see what happened; if she had truly repented and the prayers took effect perhaps the situation would not arise again. Yes, a week or two, he'd give it until Epiphany, then talk to her again, interrogate her as to any fu
rther dealings with witchcraft or meddling in evil.

  He spent the next few minutes offerings up his thoughts, praying for them to be scrutinised in heaven and a sign given of approval or otherwise of his intended delay in reporting the matter. He rose from his knees, bowed to the altar, walked down the nave, bowed again and shut the door behind him.

  As he walked quickly through the darkening village, Sir Firmin tried to refocus his mind away from Liza. He needed to visit Mistress Attehill. He would have gone hours ago had it not been for Liza. Walter had been buried yesterday, his emaciated body washed by Brother Geoffrey and wrapped in a shroud. Septimus had carted the body back to the village in the morning and the funeral took place almost immediately.

  The ground was frozen and the grave difficult to dig; several of the village men had taken it in turns to help. Margaret stood shivering amongst the large crowd of villagers, gathered to pay their last respects, her children standing beside her. The twins did not understand what had happened to their father, and stood silent, overawed by the occasion, but Alyce cried softly at her mother's side. Sarah Fletcher represented Lady Isabella who was too far advanced in pregnancy to attend.

  Sir Firmin led the villagers in prayer at the graveside. Septimus Wilkins and Osbert Miller lowered Walter into the grave and Margaret began to sob. As his body reached the bottom she began to cough and cry simultaneously, and sank to her knees, unable to catch her breath. Goodwife Miller slapped her on her back, which did not help, and Julienne turned to Goody Wilkins. “Come, Wilhem, this won’t do, she needs our help.”

  The women each took an arm, and supported Margaret along the village lane back to her cot. Alyce trailed behind with the two younger children. The cot was bitterly cold and draughty; the fire had long gone out. The women could find no firewood, nor much food or drink. Whatever Lady Isabella sent had been eaten. They sat Margaret on a stool whilst she tried to recover her breath.

  By the time they had sent Alyce out to gather firewood, lit a fire and scraped together some bread, porridge and milk, Margaret seemed relatively calm once more, only the odd sob or cough escaping from her as she sat cuddling the twins.

  Eventually, Julienne and Wilhelm returned to the church, where the burial service was long over, and spoke to the vicar. “She needs your help,” they said.

  It only took a few minutes to walk from the church to the Attehill cottage. Sir Firmin found Margaret in much better spirits, her cough hardly in evidence as, smiling tremulously, she showed him an enormous basket packed full with provisions.

  “Look what her Ladyship sent me today! Look! A roasted goose! And an umble pie and frumenty - as well as bread, and milk, and ale. And a piggy, for the day after Christmas! We‘ll enjoy breaking that open, for sure - it’ll keep us going for a bit.” As the vicar lifted the clay pot and shook it, rattling the coins within, she continued. “We’ll eat like kings tomorrow, and we’ll not forget to pray for the Lady Isabella’s safe delivery, neither, God bless her. Thanks be to the Holy Father we have merciful lords hereabouts to help us, lords who don't persecute us poor folk.”

  Sir Firmin said a silent prayer of thanks for the message received.

  By the time he walked back towards his house, it was dark and very cold. He could hear Sam’s deep voice singing the beginning of a carol at the far end of the lane, near the church. Other voices joined in as the group of villagers went from house to cot to house along the lane, banging at doors and bringing the inhabitants out to sing with them.

  It had been the custom until a few years ago for carols to be sung in the church, the singers joining hands and circling around as they performed the ancient tunes - not all of Christian origin, Sir Firmin thought. He had been relieved when the bishop banned carols from church as they tended to disrupt the service. Now, his congregation sang them in the village lane, and he thought it might be rather pleasant to join them.

  Isabella presided at the feast in the great hall. This year, Christmas at Hollingham Manor was quiet, partly because of her pregnancy, now quite obvious to all, and partly because Lord Roger was away. A messenger had arrived a few days ago with news that all was well with Lord Roger and he hoped to return soon from Gascony. She knew from previous experience that probably meant in a few months.

  Tranquility was paramount at the moment, she told Beatrice Brooke, if she were to deliver a healthy child, and consequently there would be no music or mummers this year at the Christmas festivities. The child was due to be born two weeks before the beginning of Lent, she had let it be known, and she had arranged for Mistress Taylor, her usual midwife from London, to attend her here at Hollingham.

  In truth, the last thing she wanted was close scrutiny by a midwife - or anyone else for that matter - who would quickly divine the mound underneath her gown had far more to do with a cushion than a child.

  About forty people sat drinking and eating at the trestle tables lined up in the hall, determined to enjoy themselves and make the most of the occasion. The hall buzzed with conversation interspersed with bursts of raucous laughter that grew more frequent as the meal progressed. Swathes of holly, ivy and mistletoe dangled from the rafters and wall sconces. The spicy smell of the freshly cut greenery mingled with smoke from the candles and open fire; smoke that permeated everywhere, further dimming the already weak afternoon light sulking through the oriel window.

  The manor house servants dined together at their own table, except of course the cooks and scullions, several of whom had been brought in specially for the occasion. They were far too busy cooking the food to eat it but would remedy that later. Many villagers also came to the feast. Most of them had already been to the manor house that morning, as Christmas was another quarter day when rents became due. Sam and Agatha Furnier were there, and Mauger and Beatrice Brooke, Sarah, Sir Firmin, Richard Reeve, the Protheroes, the Wilkinses and the Smiths as well as Abbott Julian. The more senior and affluent guests sat at the same table as Isabella.

  The meal started with two kinds of soup, followed by stewed beef and fish, stewed vegetables and tiny mince pies made of strips of meat with spices and fruit. Mauger jumped up when the pies were served and shouted above the chatter. “Everyone - don’t forget - make a wish on your first mince pie!”

  As she bit into hers Isabella shut her eyes. A healthy boy, she thought. That is my desire. My only wish, my only desire, please the Lord Jesus and his sainted mother. A healthy boy. And for the plan to work.

  Roast goose, stuffed pike, venison, and woodcock with saffron and butter followed. A whole deer had been prepared for the feast. Its heart, liver, brains and other less edible parts were cooked into umble pies to send to the poor of the manor. Isabella had handed out food liberally this year and she hoped God would reward her generosity.

  The climax of the meal was the Yule boar, brought in on an enormous platter to cheering and noisy applause; the wine and ale had flowed freely. Finally the puddings, gilded sweet pastries, and frumenty, a cold porridge of wheat boiled with cinnamon, currants, dried apricots, raisins and eggs. No-one would be hungry for some time to come.

  Sarah, flushed with heat from the hall, placed the trenchers of food she had smuggled out of the kitchens in front of a hungry Rosalind. Rosalind often sat here in the warm solar instead of her chamber; no-one except Sarah ever entered unless at the expressed invitation of Isabella. Consequently, her mother had deemed the solar to be safe.

  “Careful, now, Mistress, don’t eat too quickly or your heartburn will come on.”

  “I don’t care,” Rosalind growled as she wiped her greasy hands and mouth on a cloth. “There’s precious little else to do but eat and sleep. I swear I’ll go mad up here!” She burped and started to cry. “The time goes so slowly. I'm bored to death - I swear I’ll throw myself off the roof if I have to endure this much longer.” Sarah put her arms around her, but Rosalind shook her off and lumbered up the stairs to cry in private.

  She was about to lower herself onto her bed when she changed her mind and sat instead
looking out from her window across the courtyard, noisy with departing guests. A fire burned in the grate and her chamber was almost as warm as the solar. She sat in the window enclosure, feeling the baby moving inside her, and gazed out to the fields beyond, their covering of frost sparkling under the light of an almost full moon, wondering if at this moment Anton strode over the same fields towards her.

  Isabella walked into the solar, looking for her daughter.

  "Mistress Rosalind's gone up to her bed, your Ladyship.” Isabella took a long drink of weak ale; the heat and smoke of the hall had made her thirsty. "She's out of sorts, her spirits are low," Sarah added.

  "Low spirits, indeed, sulking I expect because she couldn't go to the feast. I'll go up to her. Go to bed, Sarah, I won't need you for anything else this evening."

  “What do you think you’re doing, child?” Isabella strode over to Rosalind and slammed the shutter closed. “You will be seen, you stupid girl,” she hissed as she pulled her away from the window. “Whatever are you thinking of?”

  “Mother, I only wanted to look at everyone, I only wanted to look at some people! I've spent all this day hidden away up here, no-one to talk to, while you‘ve all been enjoying yourselves - ” Rosalind sat heavily on the edge of her bed as her tears started again. Isabella took a deep breath. This would not do. Distress could harm the baby, causing a hare lip or birthmark.

  “Now then, now then, child,” she patted Rosalind's shoulder awkwardly in an effort to calm her. “You know that if you are seen here, at your window, our plan will be destroyed. You will be discovered and in disgrace. No wedding for you! But a convent instead,” she added, knowing how Rosalind felt about that. She lowered herself next to Rosalind on the bed. Only firelight and the moon illuminated the room. As mother and daughter sat together, the atmosphere grew quiet and intimate. Isabella thought now might be a good time.