Tidelands

by Philippa Gregory

  “Spirits’ll come in,” the maid whispered. “Don’t let spirits in!”

  “No, they won’t,” Alinor ruled. “Shall we get you into a clean nightgown?”

  Margaret’s mother came through the door with a bowl of water. “Thank you,” Alinor said, taking it at the threshold and heading her off. “And the mulled ale?”

  “We could all do with a glass,” the woman agreed, and went back to the kitchen as Alinor closed the door.

  “Why don’t you sit down and let me wash your face and hands?” Alinor suggested.

  Margaret protested faintly that washing must be dangerous in her condition, but she watched Alinor add some lavender oil to the warm water. The sharp clean scent filled the room and Alinor gently patted Margaret’s temples and the back of her neck with the warm water and the oil, washed her hands, taking them gently and rubbing them with oil, and then washed her own.

  Margaret sighed and then held her big belly and groaned. “I feel as if my guts are turning over.”

  “So you should,” Alinor said with satisfaction.

  “I don’t want to lie on the birthing bed,” Margaret protested.

  “Not if you don’t want,” Alinor said pleasantly. “You can stand or sit or kneel as you like. But let’s be still and calm.”

  “I have to walk about. I feel so restless!”

  “Walk in a moment,” Alinor suggested. “But sit still now while they bring you some ale to drink.”

  “Is it going to take a long, long time?” Margaret demanded nervously. “Is it going to be torture?”

  “Oh, no,” Alinor said. “Think of a hen laying an egg. It might be quite easy.”

  Margaret—who had been filled with terrors by the older women—looked incredulously at her young midwife and saw her confident smile. “Easy?” she demanded.

  “It might be,” Alinor said smiling. “Perhaps.”

  It was not as easy as a hen laying an egg, but it was not torture, and Margaret did not see the gates of heaven opening up before her, as her mother-in-law had confidently predicted. She gave birth to a boy, as her husband secretly wanted, and Alinor, receiving the miracle of the bloodstained, warm, squirming baby into her steady hands, wrapped him in a clean linen cloth and laid him on his mother’s breast.

  “Is he all right?” Margaret whispered, as the other women in the room—the two mothers and three friends who had arrived to bear them company—drained a glass of birth ale to the mother and baby.

  “He’s perfect,” Alinor said, snipping and tying off the cord. “You did very well.”

  “Shall you baptize him?”

  “No, he’s in no danger, and the new churchmen don’t like it done by a midwife.”

  Quietly and carefully she washed Margaret’s parts and bound them up with moss. “I will come later today and every day for a week with fresh moss,” Alinor promised.

  “And you will stay,” the girl insisted. “And help me with him?”

  “I will.” Alinor smiled. “As long as you want me. But you will see, soon you won’t want anyone in your way. He will like you best.”

  The young wife looked torn between fear and love. “Will he? Won’t he prefer . . .” her eyes slid to her overbearing mother-in-law, “. . . someone who knows what to do? Better than me?”

  “You will find he is all yours,” Alinor confidently predicted. “For him there will be no one better than you. And both of you will learn what you like best together.”

  “Can I see my son? Can I see him?” was the shouted demand from the other side of the bedroom door. Farmer Johnson would not be allowed into the bedroom nor see his wife for another four weeks, but his mother carried his son out to him. They could hear the loud exclamations and blessings, and his words of love for his young wife, and then Mrs. Johnson brought the baby back in again.

  “He won’t have the baby baptized at church,” she said in a shocked undertone to Alinor. “Says it’s papist ritual and a God-fearing father names his own child at home. What d’you think of that, Mrs. Reekie?”

  Alinor shook her head, refusing to be drawn into the new argument. “I don’t know the rights and wrongs of it.”

  “And he says she’s not to be churched.” Margaret’s mother nodded at her dozing daughter. “How can that be right?”

  Alinor maintained her silence: all the new church sects were determined to be rid of all ritual, to cut any traditions that were not named in the Bible. “He’s a godly man,” she said diplomatically. “He must know what’s right.”

  “Says he’s prayed on it,” Margaret’s mother sniffed. “And so my girl gets up and goes about her work without a blessing. What about giving thanks for escaping death and danger?”

  “We can all give thanks that she had a safe birth,” Alinor said. “In church or out of it.”

  “Thanks are due to you too,” the older woman said. “You have all your mother’s gifts. You have a way with a woman at her time that is like magic.”

  It was a dangerous word to use, even in praise. The older women turned and looked at Alinor to see what she might admit.

  “There’s no magic,” Alinor insisted. “It’s not magic. Don’t say such a thing! It’s just trusting to the Lord and having attended so many births.”

  “And yet you don’t have a license from the bishop?”

  “I had my license, of course; but His Grace hasn’t been seen in his palace at Chichester for months, not since the siege. I’ve asked, and asked, but nobody knows how a midwife gets her license now.”

  Both older women shook their heads. “Well, someone has to give you a license,” Mrs. Johnson ruled. “For there isn’t a woman in all of Sealsea Island who would have anyone else attend them.”

  “Though it was a pity about your sister-in-law,” Mrs. Johnson added.

  An old pang of grief shook Alinor. “Yes,” she agreed. “Some things are mysteries. It’s God’s will, not ours. I’m so glad that Margaret came through safe.”

  “And a man midwife is just ungodly. What shameless woman would want a man at a time like this?”

  “I’m glad it went so well,” Alinor said, gathering up her things: the sharp knife for cutting the cord, the clean string for tying it off, the oils in the bottles, the tincture of arnica and the St. John’s Wort for the bruising and the pain. “I’ll come back this afternoon.”

  “Come in the morning?” Margaret’s sleepy voice came from the bed.

  “It’s morning already,” Alinor said, lifting the corner of the tapestry and seeing the pearly light of the summer day. “Your first morning as a mother. Your baby’s first dawn.”

  “You’ll see a lot more dawns,” her mother-in-law predicted grimly. “All the babies in our family wake early.”

  The young wife was drowsy on her pillow in the best bed. “Don’t be late.” She opened her eyes and smiled at Alinor. “I shall look for you this afternoon.”

  “I won’t be late,” Alinor promised. “You can count on me.”

  Farmer Johnson sent her home in the clear dawn light, riding pillion on his horse behind the groom, to her brother’s ferry-house. Alinor was seated high on the plow horse, a tiny crescent moon like a clipped silver coin in the light sky above her, water rising in the rife, when she saw a figure on the other side. He was riding down the road towards the ferry. She recognized him at once: James Summer, the man she loved, come home to her as he promised, within the month.

  Alinor dismounted from the farmer’s horse, said a word of thanks to the stable lad, and stood and watched her brother pull the ferry over the water, hand over hand on the overhead rope. She saw James lead his horse down the bank, and its nervous steps onto the rocking ferry. The two men crossed in silence, and then they went either side of the horse to lead it off the ferry and up the cobbled bank on the island side.

  “He should know it by now, he’s done it a dozen times,” Ned remarked to James, patting the horse. “I’ve seen horses get used to cannon and musket fire within a day. He’s an island horse,
he knows the ferry, he’s just playing with you.”

  “Did you see cavalry in the war?” James asked. He turned and gave Alinor a smile just for her, shielded beneath his hat. “Good day to you, Goodwife Reekie. You’re up very early?”

  “Yes. At Marston Moor,” Ned said, naming Oliver Cromwell’s first great victory. “That was all in the hands of the cavalry. And many of us had never seen fighting but had only practiced standing and facing a charge, marching to the right, falling back and reforming, in the fields. But the horses bore it as if they knew it was the right thing to do.”

  “So I heard,” James said blandly. He paid over his penny for the one-way passage and Ned tucked the coin into his pocket.

  “I think your lord was on the other side,” Ned goaded the stranger. “Sir William? On the losing side. God commanded the victory to the godly and Sir William was in the wrong. He wasn’t lord of everything, that day.”

  James sidestepped the challenge. “I didn’t know him in those days. I was appointed only last month to tutor Walter and prepare him for Cambridge.”

  “From what?” Ned asked suspiciously.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What were you doing before?”

  “Teaching another family,” James lied easily.

  “And you teach my nephew too, don’t you? I’m Rob’s uncle, Mrs. Reekie’s brother.”

  “I do,” James said cheerfully. “And I know of you, of course, Mr. Ferryman. Robert is a very keen clever young man. When Master Walter goes to university I should think Robert could get an apprenticeship, perhaps as a clerk to a physician. He knows more about medicines and herbs and oils than I do. He’s a very unusual young man.” He slid a smile at Alinor, who still sat on the farmer’s horse, looking at the two men.

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Ned said proudly. “And she learned from our mother, and she from hers and so it goes backwards.”

  James smiled at Alinor again, his eyes searching her face, wondering at her silence. Still, she said nothing. He did not know, but she was thanking God for the sight of him, marveling that he had come, as he had said he would, conscious of her own simple joy at his handsome face, of the rich tumble of his dark curly hair, of the beautiful line of his mouth. He had come as he said he would—that was what surprised her most. He had kept his promise, and the warm rising of her desire felt like gratitude that he should be the man that she hoped, that he should be fit for her love, as natural and as unstoppable as the incoming summer tide.

  “She’s been out all night attending a birth,” Ned spoke for her, and then turned to her: “Is all well? God bless them in their travail?”

  “Yes, she has a boy,” Alinor answered, recalled to herself. “Strong and well made. She’s well herself. I’ll go back to see them later.”

  “And will you rest now?” James asked her.

  She smiled at his ignorance. “No, no, of course not. I have all my work to do in the cottage and garden,” she said. “And this afternoon I’ll come here to pick the plums, go to visit the mother and baby, and then go to the mill for gleaning and for the harvest home. Is Sir William coming to see the harvest in?”

  At once he realized this was a chance for them to meet. “I don’t know. I’m on my way there now. But if Sir William attends I will come with him and bring Walter and Robert.”

  “I should like to see Rob,” she replied. “Sir William usually attends the harvest home at the mill. The mill is the biggest farm in his estate.”

  “I hope to come then. Shall we see you there?”

  “At sunset,” Alinor said.

  “Is there dancing?” he asked, as if they were a girl and a boy, and he might bow before her, take her hand and lead her out.

  “After dinner,” she said. “Just a fiddle and the harvest dances.”

  He did not dare to ask if he might dance with her. “I should so like . . .”

  “What?” she asked, instantly alert. She thought of his hand on her waist; she thought of their steps going together.

  “To see you at harvest home,” he said lamely. He nodded to her brother, bowed to her, climbed on the mounting block, and rode his horse down the track to the Priory without looking back.

  “Pleasant enough, though fine as a lord,” Ned said carefully, watching her.

  The face that she turned to him was blandly serene. “I’m so glad he’s teaching Rob,” was all she said. “It’s a great chance for him.”

  “Started work but went away the very next week,” he pointed out.

  “He left them studies to do. Rob told me they read in the library every morning and do the exercises he set them: translating and mathematics and map reading—all sorts.”

  “Is he a godly man?” he pressed her.

  “Oh, I should think so. He preached a fine sermon in Sir William’s chapel and stood before a table. He didn’t use the altar at all, and all the gold and silver and all the fine embroidered cloth must have been taken down and packed away. There were no tapestries or statues or anything fine. He’s one of the new men.”

  “Well enough,” he said, denying the uneasiness he felt at the brightness of her face and the way that the gentleman had looked at her, as if he were surprised to find a woman like her in a place like this. “Well enough, I suppose.”

  She nodded. She was completely calm. Ned could not reach her; he could not understand her.

  “Seems very friendly,” he said, as if it were a failing.

  “I don’t find him so. He’s just his lordship’s tutor. He just takes Master Walter out and about to see the things he should know, and Rob with him.”

  “Handsome man,” he remarked.

  “Do you think so?” she asked, just as Alys had said to her of Farmer Stoney’s son at the mill. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  As soon as James Summer arrived at Mill Farm with Sir William, Master Walter, Rob, and the groom, he knew it was a mistake to come. It was obvious that they were the family from the great house, the landlords: riding out, ready to be amused by peasant celebrations. Sir William was on his charger and Walter rode his father’s hunter, James was on a high-bred black riding horse, and even Rob had the handsome cob once used to pull the ladies’ carriage. The four of them, overhorsed, overdressed, followed by the groom, rode through the white-barred gate into the mill yard as if they were royalty: condescending to observe village customs, patronizing the people’s sports.

  Mr. Miller came out into the yard and bowed low to his landlord, his little son Peter beside him. Mrs. Miller burst out of the kitchen door, flinging off her stained work apron, trying to look as if she were a lady of leisure and had not been basting the roasting ham. Jane raced after her, pulling her best cap over her dark hair. James flinched at the bleached whiteness of the Miller women’s best aprons, the stiffness of the frilled lace, and the falseness of their smiles.

  Workingmen who declared themselves godly, who knew well enough that Sir William had sided with the king, reluctantly doffed their caps and nodded their heads to their landlord, then turned away. They disapproved of him, of the old order, and the old ways. There would be no corn dollies and dancing and bringing the harvest home for them. But those who liked the old ways, and who liked a drink and were looking forward to a feast, set up a cheer for Sir William, hoping that he would pay for the harvest ale. The women smiled and waved at Walter and curtseyed low to Sir William. They could not take their eyes from James Summer, high on his black horse, his profile like one of the carved stone angels in the old churches. Alinor took a sharp breath and looked away from him. She tried to smile at her son, but she found her cheeks were hot and she was painfully aware of the knee-high dust of the field on the hem of her homespun skirt and the damp stains at the armpits of her shirt.

  “Mrs. Miller,” Sir William said pleasantly to the miller’s wife, who dropped like a sack of corn into a deep curtsey, “I’ll take a glass of your home-brewed ale.”

  She bustled back to the house to fetch the best pewter
tankard, while Mr. Miller stood at his landlord’s horse’s head, waiting for Sir William to condescend to dismount.

  “Good harvest?” his lordship inquired, glancing at the granary and the piles of stooks waiting to be threshed, the clean-swept threshing floor.

  “Medium,” the miller said carefully. He would have to pay a tithe from the harvest to his landlord and another to the church. There was no point in boasting.

  “You will stay for dinner, my lord?” Mrs. Miller asked breathlessly, nodding to her daughter to pour the first of the harvest ale, handing her the precious tankard. “Your lordship, and of course Master Walter and . . .” The invitation tailed off as she took in the glamorous looks of the stranger and longed for an introduction.

  “This is Mr. Summer,” his lordship announced generally. “A Cambridge man, my son’s tutor.”

  There was a little ripple of interest. That he was a Cambridge man suggested that he was a godly man. Everyone knew that the heart of reform was Cambridge, while Oxford had been the wartime headquarters of the king. James Summer tipped his hat to acknowledge the attention and made sure that he was not looking towards Alinor. She was looking carefully down at her dusty boots tied up with string.

  “All welcome,” the miller said grandly, overcoming his unease at what dinner for the gentry would cost him in the long run.

  Sir William dismounted heavily and his groom took his horse. The miller’s lad, Richard Stoney, came forward and took the others and led them into the stables. Rob went to his mother and his sister among the gleaning women, kneeling for Alinor’s blessing and then bobbing up to hug her.

  Alinor kissed him, conscious of her sweating face and dirty hands, and then curtseyed to Master Walter, his lordship, and the tutor. James glanced at her, but could not cross the yard to approach her with everyone staring at him.

  “We’re just bringing in the last wagon,” Mrs. Miller said, pleased. “You can see it come in, your lordship. Mr. Summer, you must know that we grow the best wheat in Sussex here.”