Midwife : Liza Read online

  "Not today, Mistress, not with all his Lordship’s men dining there this afternoon, it'll be hot and smoky.” Sarah opened the lid of the wooden coffer and rummaged around inside. "Well, at least he's wealthy. And if it wasn't him it'd be someone else, someone even worse."

  “Impossible!" Rosalind smiled, her normally good humour beginning to resurface. She stood, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of her undergown, as Sarah took from the coffer a tunic of olive green wool chosen to match the colour of her eyes and cut to follow the graceful contours of her body. The bodice fitted tightly and showed the curves of her developing breasts. The gown flared slightly at her hips into a fuller skirt, caught by a wide belt she had embroidered in reds, greens and yellows. She slipped her feet into shoes of soft leather, pointed and dyed dark green to match her tunic, and swirled around in front of Sarah.

  "Yes, very nice, Mistress. Now, be quick. They'll already have started without you."

  Rosalind descended the narrow stairs into the ante-chamber of the great hall. She pushed open a heavy oak door and walked into the noise, aware of the appreciative and occasionally lascivious glances turned her way. Feeling more cheerful, she wondered if it would be amusing to return some of the more forward glances but, at the sight of her father watching her progress, she thought better of it. She threaded her way between long tables where Lord Roger’s men and the household servants ate, towards the dais where her parents had started their meal. Her mother did not look up from the table but continued picking at her food, looking down her long nose at her trencher, straight-backed and dour.

  The great hall was a cavernous room, two storeys high; beneath the floor were storerooms and cellars. At the opposite end to where the keep butted onto the hall, a flight of wooden stairs led to a gallery. Off the gallery were two rooms, used for important guests. Other visitors were expected to sleep in the hall. Sweet smelling rushes gathered from the river banks covered the stone floor; Lady Isabella would not permit fouled rushes to remain for long.

  In the centre of the hall a fire of oak logs blazed upon a square iron plate set into the floor. The smoke wafted up through the beams and escaped through wooden slats that opened by pulling on cords hanging down into the hall. Often, when the wind blew in the wrong direction, the smoke would backtrack into the eyes and lungs of the hall’s occupants. Lord Roger had promised his wife to install a chimney; as yet only the keep had one.

  Bulky tapestries hung on the wall depicting battles or the chase; Lord Roger's passions were fighting and hunting. Heavy iron brackets held tall candles or rushes dipped in fat, lit only during dark winter evenings; the foul smell they emitted when alight discouraged their use.

  At the far end of the hall beneath the gallery a passageway led to the kitchens, housed outside in a separate building to reduce the risk of fire to the manor house. High in one of the walls was a pretty oriel window of coloured glass, its canopy vaulted and richly carved. Whenever the sun shone, patches of red, blue and green light fell upon the dais below, where Lord Roger, his guests and family, sat here to eat, underneath the red unicorn of the de Godwynne coat of arms.

  Lord Roger, his dark hair starting to thin, but still heavily muscled from years of fighting in tournaments and on battlefields, beckoned Rosalind to the bench place next to him. He had arrived back at Hollingham that morning from the King's Court, and intended to stay only a few weeks to preside at his Manor Court and attend to other manorial business. He glanced sharply at Rosalind's bruised forehead and the red marks still visible on her face, but said nothing.

  When he finished eating, Lord Roger spoke for the first time to his daughter. "Well, child, all's in order for your wedding next year. Your old father has arranged everything, what do you say to that?”

  "Thank you, my Lord, I will try to be a good wife to Sir Geoffrey."

  Isabella snorted. “I should think so too, all the time and trouble I've taken to teach you.”

  “Father," Rosalind hesitated. "My lord, when you next go to the King's Court could we not come with you? It's so long since I've been there - I would like to learn more of the ways and manners of the noble women at Court. Here in Hollingham everything's so quiet - the Court's so exciting, all the different people to talk to, I would so love to learn how to be fashionable, how to dance ..."

  Lord Roger laughed at his daughter's enthusiasm. He knew how much she enjoyed being at Court. Isabella hated noise and intrigue. She preferred the tranquility of Hollingham and rarely accompanied him on his journeys. This suited him well as it gave him more time to plan and consult with the King and the other lords about his monarch's many battles, and also allowed him time with his mistress, the mother of his two sons.

  He patted Rosalind's hand, mildly regretful at having to disappoint her. "Not this time, child, I'll only be staying at Windsor a few days.” He gestured around the hall at his men-at-arms, conscripted from his manors of Hollingham, Stoveham and Fettiscombe, as well as from other manors he owned in Devon and Cornwall. "Just time to get us all organised and then we leave for Antwerp. The King and Queen will be there trying to get hold of some hard cash instead of empty promises, so there'll be no dancing nor any other merrymaking for us, or anyone else for that matter. You'll be better off staying here.”

  King Edward of England's recent claim to the French throne had worsened the threat of open warfare between England and France. The King and his nobles were currently travelling backwards and forwards to the continent to secure support for the battles likely to follow. "The next time, perhaps, when I return from this journey," he added gently, seeing how Rosalind's face fell.

  Isabella broke in. “In the meantime, Mistress mine, there's plenty for you to learn here, your duties visiting the sick for a start, before you indulge yourself with dancing and such frivolities."

  “Your mother's right, child, you must go. She's told me of your disobedience. It’s a small thing to ask of a lady that she should visit the sick. Your squeamishness is ill placed.” On his other side Lady Isabella nodded her agreement.

  “I’m sorry, my Lord, I just cannot endure the sights and smells of sickness.” Rosalind pushed her meat-filled trencher of white bread away and rinsed her fingers in a small bowl.

  “Enough, child, you well understand the duties of a lady. Or should do, by now. You will do as your mother commands. Or perhaps you would prefer to enter a convent instead of becoming Lady Cottreaux - a contemplative order perhaps that would keep you well away from people less fortunate than yourself?”

  “Father, you wouldn't lock me up in a ..."

  “I most certainly will, child, and if you believe I won't, go ahead and act the simpering maiden, too dainty to soil your delicate little hands with other's misery, then you'll see what I can do.”

  “I promise I can overcome my squeamishness, I know I can, my lord. I shall accompany my mother tomorrow, I shall try my best. I really do want you to be proud of me ...”

  “Very well. I'll hear no more of this, I've no time to be concerned about your disobedience.” His face hardened as he turned to his wife. “Daughters. Why the Lord saw fit to give us a daughter instead of a son I shall never know. A son to take with me, make use of, to teach how to fight, how to hunt ...”

  Although her father spoke softly, Rosalind had heard. If she could change her sex she would most willingly have done so. Years ago, anxious to please her mother, she asked Sarah what she needed to do to change into a boy. Sarah had laughed and told her in considerable detail and Rosalind constructed a small tube from twigs, tying it in place with a length of newly spun wool.

  She still squirmed at the memory of Sarah’s ribaldry when she displayed her new privy member. Almost incapacitated with laughter, Sarah dragged her to the solar, but her mother did not laugh. Instead, she called her a stupid little girl with addled brains and spanked her hard. Isabella also punished Sarah.

  Rosalind had no idea what Lady Isabella said to her, but since then, although she had asked her, Sarah would never talk about me
n’s appendages or anything of that nature. She regretted this; there was much she wanted to learn and she could not bring herself to ask her mother. The only information Sarah was willing to provide related to Rosalind’s monthly courses, that had started a year ago.

  “Moon bleeding – it purges us women of our impurities,” Sarah said. “The womb collects all our excess humours and foul corruptions and then rids us of them - well, as much as possible. All women are full of impurities, and we'll never be completely rid of them. It's the curse of Eve, the reason why men often tread warily with us, sometimes even fear us, for our corruption.”

  Sarah had showed her how to fold her rags. “But don’t look in any mirrors when the moon bleeding comes upon you, otherwise you’ll turn them red and the stain will never go," she had said. “In years to come, when you‘ve birthed one, maybe two babies, you can push a cotton suppository inside of you, soak it in honey, oils and root of lupin, you must tie the plug by a string to your leg, though, so that it doesn’t rise up and get lost in the womb or travel up to your heart. That’s what the Lady Isabella does. Women from the wild lands of the north stuff handfuls of moss in their drawers - in those heathen places they don't have linen or cotton rags and so they make do. Think yourself a lucky girl to be living here, in civilisation.”

  Sometimes Rosalind wondered what living as a heathen would be like - it sounded a lot more interesting than the boring life she led at Hollingham.

  Chapter 4

  “I don't want to make you unhappy, you know that,” Isabella spoke abruptly, breaking the silence as mother and daughter rode to the Infirmary the following morning. Before Rosalind could reply, Isabella continued. “If I treat you harshly at times it's only for your own good. When you have your own daughters you will realise how important it is to teach them how to behave - and how difficult it can be when they're headstrong and willful."

  "My Lady, I do try my best, but I wish I had someone to talk to, the days stretch out very long with nothing to do except sewing and no company."

  “Company? The only company in Hollingham is the common villagers. You are the daughter of a Baron, child, how fitting would that be?"

  "But I never get the chance to make friends with people you would think suitable for me. Do we always have to be here, mother, could we not spend more time at the King's Court? When I'm Lady Cottreaux and expected to talk graciously with other noble's wives and dress well, and dance, and do all the things Sir Geoffrey wants, how can I if I don't know how?"

  "You'll learn soon enough, like I had to. All I'm trying to do is teach you what to expect, how to be a dutiful wife, fulfill your obligations properly and efficiently. It's time you realised noblewomen have their place, child, their part to play, as does everyone else in life. You are very privileged and never forget that."

  “I don't forget it, my Lady, I cannot, not for one moment!"

  Isabella's eyes narrowed. "You're ungrateful and unworthy of the great marriage your father has set for you. You don't appreciate the time and trouble he's taken for you."

  "But, mother, if I am to be married to such a fat, windy old man with no hair - "

  "You, child, must learn to speak with more respect of your future husband!”

  "But surely I may take a little pleasure now if I'm to be sacrificed to him, have to suffer him?"

  "You know nothing of the meaning of suffer-ing...”

  "But, mother, I am so bored, and when you make me do things I don't want to - like now - I would so love to learn how to dance and sing, and perhaps play a lute or some such!"

  “Dancing indeed - Sir Geoffrey doesn't enjoy frivolities, he won't want you to ..."

  "But I would want to, my Lady – and hunting, I would love to learn to ride well, and hunt, accompany my father and Sir Geoffrey maybe – if I were a boy I would be doing all that - Oh, please, mother, let us go to Court soon?"

  "The King's Court is nothing but an - an evil saturnalia, full of gossips who'd stab you in the back at their first chance. Who lose no opportunity to make laughing stocks of unwary ..."

  "But, my Lady, how would you know that, you never go there, you desire only to be here, doing good works, you never seek out any enjoyment - "

  “Enough child, don't be impertinent. You don't understand what you're talking about. I've done my best to instruct you, but you won't heed me. My patience is exhausted.” Isabella spurred her horse ahead, away from her daughter.

  Rosalind glared at the straight back of her mother as she rode behind. No matter what she said, or how she said it, her parents and especially her mother, were determined her energy and curiosity should be squeezed into her, held there and never allowed to escape. Just like a piece of the endless embroidery was trapped, stretched taut in its frame, all the better for needles to pierce it. No possibility of escape. Hint at breaking out, and the frame tightens.

  She smiled bitterly at the absurdity of the thought and absentmindedly fingered the bruise on her temple that throbbed purple. But it was true that she had to keep all her feelings and desires tight within her. Nothing to do except the interminable sewing and spinning, when there was so much she wanted to learn to do, to learn. No-one even to talk to, except Sarah. Sisters, or even brothers, could have been playmates and confidantes, but she had none. And was not likely to; she knew her mother had not conceived lately as the telltale brown butterfly marks of early pregnancy had not appeared on her face since the last miscarriage.

  As she rode, Rosalind heartily wished her mother was with child again; perhaps her mood would then improve, perhaps she would loosen the bonds, the frame, a little. But as it was, she had better do as her mother bid, lest her foul temper unleashed itself on her yet again.

  She took several deep breaths as her mare picked her way elegantly across the cobbled courtyard towards the Infirmary door. Almost a year ago Rosalind had visited here for the first, and she had hoped the last, time. She had been overwhelmed by the stench from patients, soiled rushes and filthy beds and this, together with the groans and other noises that emanated from all corners of the wards, had made her feel sick. This time, she determined, no sight or smell should take her by surprise. She would be ready for anything.

  Rosalind waited at the door to hand over the reins of her horse, as Lady Isabella slid carefully from her gelding, helped by Hugo, the elderly stable hand who accompanied them on their short journey. Attacks of rheumatism often beset Isabella that made travelling on horseback arduous, although she rarely complained. Today, only a slight tightening of the muscles around her mouth indicated her discomfort as she dismounted and walked towards her daughter.

  An elderly monk opened the door and bowed a greeting to the visitors. Lady Isabella gave Rosalind a nudge of encouragement, and in they went. The monk showed them into an antechamber and took their cloaks, before leaving to summon the Infirmarer. Rosalind was wearing her favourite green tunic. She knew it accentuated the colour of her eyes and suited her fair complexion. Whilst Isabella took a few moments to straighten the plain wimple covering her hair, Rosalind looked through the open door down the length of the ward.

  The room was large, bigger than the manor hall, with high ceilings and stone walls painted in reds, blues and ochre in scenes depicting stories from the bible. Above the door was the bright red de Godwynne unicorn. More than twenty beds, many five feet or more wide, occupied the ward, together with chairs, tables and benches. Heavy curtains, richly carved wooden screens and canopies shielded the beds from draughts. A wooden cubicle that contained a single bed stood at the end of the ward. Rosalind guessed this would be used for wealthy patients demanding greater privacy or perhaps sick Brothers who needed treatment in the Infirmary. Several doors were set into the side walls of the ward. Monks walked busily in and out of them, carrying armfuls of linen, bowls of water or jars of medicines. There were two doors in the far wall. One stood open and beyond it she glimpsed a tiny chapel.

  It all looked clean and airy, very different from the last time she had been he
re - no sickening odours wafted towards her, only the fragrance of herbs, and she saw, high in the stone walls, that someone had pulled the glass windows open to admit light, and fresh air. Nor were there any unpleasant noises. The tiled floors were newly washed and carpeted with fresh rushes.

  “It doesn’t seem as bad as last time,” she whispered to her mother.

  “No, Brother Anton took charge a few months ago. His ideas are different from those of Brother Geoffrey. Why he ever decided to go on pilgrimage, and to Compostella of all places, I shall never know, not at his age. Much too far for an old man to travel. We'll be lucky if we ever see him again. Come now.” Isabella turned to Rosalind, frowning. “And comport yourself as you should, Mistress mine – I'll be watching you closely today, and your father will hear about any transgressions on your part.” She swept along the ward, followed by Rosalind. The monks paused in their work to bow as they passed; Lord Roger's forebears had founded the Abbey and he was its main benefactor.

  They were little more than half way down the ward when a tall man, dressed in the black habit of an Augustinian Canon hurried towards them, summoned from a side room where he had been preparing medicines. The sweet smell of herbs rose from his long gown as he bowed to the women, and made a sign of blessing. Rosalind glanced up at him, and immediately looked at the ground, embarrassed by the blushes she felt rising from her chest to her face.

  “Ah, Brother Anton,” Isabella greeted him. “Is all well?”

  “Indeed, Lady.” Rosalind ventured a peep at him and found his soft brown eyes looking down upon her.

  “Rosalind, this is Brother Anton. I do not believe you have met before.” Anton smiled gently. His teeth were strong and white, slightly crooked in the front, his lips soft and full. Rosalind already knew from her dreams what it felt like to be kissed by them. She looked away once more in confusion, and inclined her head as Anton bowed again. His hair grew thick and wavy, almost black, and untonsured in the custom of the Augustinians.