The Popish Midwife: A tale of high treason, prejudice and betrayal

by Annelisa Christensen

  Was there no let up for the poor tortured man? If we had authority or courage, we would have stormed that cold dark place and put an immediate end to his suffering, but none dared do it. A few women were no match to the strength of men.

  But neither could we leave. Even though the groans and screams and cries were unbearable. Somehow, by hearing those screams, we suffered with him. None of us considered leaving him to cry into the night alone. We could not turn our back on him, much as it would allay our own discomfort, for we were women of charity. We had taken it upon ourselves to alleviate pain and hardships of those wrongly imprisoned and must stay dedicated to our cause. If we could not prevent pain, we must suffer with those that had it.

  Though he had perjured himself, Prance was one of those unfortunates.

  So we listened, trapped in that place by conscience until nearly seven in the evening. The screams became more sinister once the dark night came upon us; like a wounded or hungry animal they were perpetual and soul destroying. Paralysed by impotence and despair, those of us that dared uncover our ears could not help but cry for the man. Several times I had thought the groaning stopped and removed my hands, only to hear the fullness of the next tortured howl. My last meagre meal forced itself upwards and I turned to the wall for support as I wretched.

  Then, at seven by the church bell, voices alerted us to men approaching along the street. Three men walked past us, without manners enough to either nod or raise a hat to the ladies that stood shivering by the wall, and turned into the Lodge. By his dress, the shorter, more portly one was a Minister. In the flickering orange light of his torch, his grey hair flashed orange, and the shadows of his face altered what might be the semblance of man in daytime to unnatural sinner by night.

  Some of us peered through the gate and watched as they entered the Hole.

  Shortly after, the noise stopped, and I could only thank God for the silence! I hoped the end came because he was no longer tortured and not because he had died, but I could not suppress the thought that if he had died, that would be a final end to his suffering, that they could do no more to hurt him.

  My teeth chattered noisily in the sudden quiet, my bones ached as only old bones know how to, and I became aware that my old injuries were nagging me and that I could not tarry much longer in the cold.

  Metal clashed against metal as the doors in the distance were locked and bolted for the night, the prisoners closed in. Occasionally, a muffled shout or laugh or cry came from within, but mostly we were left to stand in stillness. Then Harris pulled shut the big metal door into the Lodge with a loud clang making our cold bones clench in fright, and we could watch no more. A key turned in the nearby lock and Harris’s footsteps quietened as he walked away on the other side.

  ‘There is nought more to be done here this night,’ said Mary

  ‘I would gladly sit before a well-stoked fire now,’ said Mrs Ayrey. through clacking teeth, ‘perhaps with a dish of broth to warm my hands and insides.’

  ‘I, too, am ready to leave,’ I said, ‘but I am loathe to leave without knowledge of what has occurred this day. Is there any willing to stay longer to discover something more?’

  Mrs Ayrey wrapped her arms around her and said, ‘There is not use to it. We should take to our homes now’.

  ‘It is unlikely this night will reveal more, Mother Cellier,’ said the youngster. ‘I will come back first thing in the morning and see if I can discover more then.’

  As their elder, they again looked to me for guidance, and I suggested we take turns to watch the place when we could.

  The silence was eerie after the screams. It was as if they had torn open the air, filled it with violence and filled my whole body with such torment it reverberated deep inside me. The likes of that noise I never wished to hear again. But in that I held false hope, for it followed me home through the streets and, whenever I became complacent against it, woke me in the night many years ever afterwards.

  Did Prance die? Or did he merely have respite from a fate worse than death? For the answer, I would have to wait, for there was no answer here tonight.

  3

  11th day of January, 1679

  For the next two days, my hands were kept busy with visiting women ripe with child, or trying to conceive, or with a newborn infant. Whilst delivering these women, my mind could do nothing but stay on my task, but whensoever my hands became idle, my thoughts lingered on what we saw and heard at Newgate. The echoes found me wherever I found myself.

  On Friday, I did not hear a thing from the prison, and I was too busy to discover any thing for myself, but on Saturday night, relief came knocking in the form of Mrs Ayrey. The cold, wet dark whisked round her and tried to enter the room with her. As soon as I saw who it was, I took her arm and quickly pulled her in. I closed the door on the night behind her, and bid her tell me the news.

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Ayrey, what did you learn?’

  As she spoke, she shook the dripping water from her cap, and accepted the cloth I gave her to dry her face and hands. ‘You were right, Mother Cellier. It was Miles Prance. He suffered monstrously.’

  ‘Does he live still? ‘

  ‘Yes, ma’am. They’ve tortured the soul out of the poor man, but his body survives.’

  ‘So, what has happened since we were together at Newgate last?’

  Mrs Ayrey wiped wet tendrils of hair from her eyes and smoothed them back to the edges of her sharp but kind face, missing a drop hanging off the edge of her nose. Without interrupting her as she spoke, I beckoned her closer to the warmth of the fire to dry herself.

  ‘I spoke to divers prisoners last evening and this morning, ma’am. They were full to bursting about it all, and informed me that the gaolers took him, heavy with irons on his wrists and ankles, to the Lodge. It is common knowledge they examined him for many hours and tried to turn him to confess falsely once more, but he would have none of it. One prisoner told me the interrogators said he had only to give in to them and he would not worry any more about a living; but if he did not, he would not worry more at all!’

  I frowned, ‘His cry is testament to his ill treatment, may God protect him and give blessing on his soul, but if they have a confession from him and he should perjure himself once more, he would name another to be condemned, and they in turn another. Too many are falsely condemned this way.’

  ‘‘Tis as maybe, Madam Cellier, but I wish the malice on him might draw to a quick end. I have slept none of these past nights for the noise of Friday searing through my skull.’

  Remembering, my lips thinned and I nodded agreement. ‘We must pray they end this madness!’

  ‘Well, the poor man was examined on Friday morning from hours before the cock crowed to past noon. The ears of the prisoners burned with his loud protestations.’

  ‘Did they hear any of what was said when he was in The Lodge?’ Was it a vain hope that he did not implicate any other? Enough had already suffered in this whole bloody mess.

  ‘They did, ma’am. They said he shouted such things as that he did not know any of the matter, that he was innocent and would not perjure himself for them. He said, and I tell you as I was told, “What will you have me say? Will you murder me because I will not belie myself and others?” They crouched low so they could hear through the floor, and what they heard was that he was in great agony. Hard men said they had never heard the like!’

  ‘And has it ended now? Have they finished with him?’ I could hardly keep the tears from my voice.

  ‘No ma’am.’ My young friend also failed to prevent tears. I took her hands and she also held mine tight. ‘Before dawn this morning they started again, and again the prisoners who lay on a spot above the Hole heard him cry out. I myself saw the Turn-keys carry a bed into the Hole. Even knowing the answer, I went up to them and asked for whom it was for. They told me it was for Prance, and…’ She gulped hard and tears clung to he
r lashes. ‘…and…they said he had gone mad, ma’am, and tore his bed to pieces!’

  ‘Oh, how the poor man suffers!’ I could not help but exclaim. ‘And is that an end to it finally?’

  ‘Nearly, but not nearly enough. Tonight Prance was taken to be examined again for an hour of the clock. At the end of that hour they carried him towards the Press-Yard, and that is all I know.’

  ‘I hope that brings the curtain down on this matter. This is nothing but a common witch-hunt, with confessions and accusations sought from tortured men in the stead of women. What difference is there! No man deserves this treatment. We must see if we are able to help him, and how we might alleviate his pains!’

  My vehement exclamation woke baby Maggie in the crib and she whimpered.

  ‘I tried before, ma’am, but they refused me. They said he did not want visitors.’ She paused for a moment before adding, ‘The keeper had fresh blood on his shirt.’

  Knowing the manner with which they had misused the poor man, the idea of blood on the keeper’s clothes sickened me – me, a trained midwife. It turned my stomach and brought bile to my mouth.

  ‘You have done well, Mrs Ayrey. Won’t you treat with me awhile? The pot is hot. Sit and have some tea and tell me more. Does anyone keep watch now?’ Not allowing her to deny my curiosity satisfied, I poured us each a cup.

  ‘Yes, I did not leave before Marie arrived, and thought you would wish for news as soon as I could reach you.’

  Maggie became restless and her whimper turned into a low cry. I walked over to the crib, saw she was sleep-crying, and leaned over to rub the little one’s back until she quietened. ‘I give you thanks,’ I said, hiding my wet eyes by looking at the baby. ‘I have hungered for news. I will not rest easier for knowing, but at least I have the truth now. We must continue our efforts to reach him. What of Francis Corral, the coachman accused of carrying Sir Godfrey’s body?’

  Mrs Ayrey sat in Pierre’s chair before the fire and clasped the cup in both hands, a puddle forming around her boots.

  ‘They say he also wishes for no visitors, not even his wife.’

  I thought on this. ‘And is he likewise treated?’ Leaving Maggie, I took the chair facing the woman I examined as relentlessly as any judge quizzing a witness.

  ‘He is condemned as one would expect an abetter of murder to be treated.’ It was apparent by her dismissal, she also condemned him, though he be not judged.

  ‘He is not even to trial!’ I scolded. ‘The evidence against him is not yet examined. He may yet be proved innocent of the charge.’ I rested my teacup on the arm of the chair to steady it against my angry shakes. ‘It might be that Corral is as guilty or as innocent as any other of carrying the body, as they say he is, but it is not for us to decide, Mrs Ayrey. It is for none but the judge and jury to discover what happened that night, and that they have not yet done!’ Even sitting, I stamped my foot, and managed to spill my tea.

  ‘Mother Cellier, calm yourself!’ She held up her hand to stop my tirade. ‘Let the men do their job and find the guilty ones, and we shall do ours, and that is to administer to the poor prisoners. It is not our place to prove or think one way or the other!’

  ‘Mrs Ayrey, you cannot think that we know nothing of it. That is most incredible. You have seen what I have seen, and heard what I have heard. Surely we are not to disregard everything that comes to us for the want of being the wrong sex!’

  ‘Whatever we think is neither here not there. It is not our place…’

  Mrs Ayrey trailed off and sat rocking forward and backward in the chair.

  ‘I will not credit you with that statement, ma’am,’ I said decisively. And I did not. For she knew as well as I of the false witnesses with pockets heavy with coins to belie the innocent.

  ‘That as may be, Lizzie, but we know not that Corral did not carry the body.’

  I sipped of my cup and the tea was a tonic to me.

  ‘If that is the case, I shall discover the truth of it,’ I said, already planning how this might be done.

  4

  28th day of January, 1679

  I jumped back when an icicle shattered into several pieces on the ground in front of me. Did someone try to murder me? Hands shaking, heart pounding, I looked up and saw many other such icicles hanging from the edge of a snow bulge, suspended from the eaves of this newly finished building, and the space where one had cracked off. It might have near killed me, but it was only Dame Nature having fun with me!

  I did not wish to deviate from my path – I could think only of reaching my destination – but moved further into the road to be sure no other ice-daggers would fall on me. It was not a sign, of that I was certain, merely the weather.

  The cold permeated my cloak, through the many layers of clothes I had donned that morning, and into my ageing bones.

  I barely noticed the flat, blackened areas between the new houses and taverns, built since the terrible fire of sixty-six, untouched reminders of that awful week. Shells of once thriving houses, shops and inns, still mere charred remains, were now playing grounds for street children. New buildings would stand there some day, but too few carpenters and brick-layers had the largest city to restore. It was a matter of note that, where they had built, the fire was a lesson well learnt and new houses were of brick and stone.

  Sometimes, catching a glimpse of blackened wood, I could still smell the smoke pouring from whole lengths of streets. And when I looked into a crackling fire, in my mind’s eye I could see the sparks fly from roof to roof, spreading faster than could be doused, and then I relived the night we fled to safety along with friends and neighbours.

  My good friends helped me keep my then five children together; the streets were so packed with panic and fear they were continually dragged from my side. If times were ever hard, those were the hardest. It was before I had met Pierre, so I had only myself to rely on. Happily the Lord provided me with the means to earn a living and my midwifery saved us all. Now they were grown and married, except for Isabelle, who lived with us still.

  I reached the house I was told belonged to the man called Francis Corral.

  I prayed Corral would inform me of the abuse he had suffered in Newgate to write it in my book of evidence. From talk at the prison I heard he was released, finally, after more than three months of suffering: six long weeks in the condemned Hole, with none allowed to see or aid him, and left to starve to death; then seven further weeks in a common prison cell, but still denied visitors.

  And he an innocent man, so said those in the prison that knew all what there was to know. They also said the man, that witnessed a coachman carry away the murdered body of the magistrate, Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, falsely accused Corral only for that he happened to be a convenient hackney-coachman at the time, a haphazard scape-goat.

  My knock echoed back to me, as it should not have done if the house was occupied.

  I banged the door a second time. The house stayed clammed-shut. All was quiet and still inside.

  I thought about what Corral was accused of. I had prayed for Sir Godfrey’s murderer to be discovered and captured as much as any other.

  Since the judge’s body was found, fear was palpable on the streets, in the coffee houses and in the homes of persons both rich and poor, but to accuse a man for convenience was a terrible crime in itself, worse, perhaps, than the original crime, for every innocent that was implicated.

  Even having a witness swear to your whereabouts was no guarantee to prove innocence these days. I heard some had more than a single witness, yet still their proofs were discarded. The false accusers were determined to rid the country of Catholics with whatsoever means they had to hand, even if they used criminals, and criminal ways, to do so.

  I knocked hard on the door a third time. If there was anyone at home, they did not answer. My journey was wasted.

  Then I spotted the slightest moveme
nt in the corner of the upper window, nearly out of sight. There was someone at home. No doubt they feared I was come to return him to prison. There were no sounds of children. Children rarely stayed so quiet unless they feared for their lives or those of their parents, if there were children there.

  How might I let them know I meant no harm? I had no token to prove myself safe. I had nothing.

  Nothing but my midwife cloak.

  Perhaps if I could show it at the window, that might be enough to give confidence in me… I needed a pole, or something tall, but such perfect things as a jouster’s lance or a flagpole were not readily come by in the streets of London! However, in my mind was something I had seen in the debris of a burnt house I had passed a small while ago.

  I walked back to where lay some lengths of beams, blackened and mostly burnt through. I did not need one to be strong, only long, so I picked up a length I could lift. I could not help but screw up my face at what it would do to my beloved garment but, if I wished to follow through on my plan, do it I must.

  Was it enough of a symbol of life that they would believe it did not bring them death? I had to try. I took off my well-worn, cloak, more than mere symbol to me, more than the mark of my trade.

  Other than my children and my husband, the cloak was the thing I cared for most. Maybe other midwives did not care for theirs as much as I, and there were some that had sullied it with crimes of indifference, but from the first, when I put it on, it marked more than a career and a means of supporting my family after my first husband deserted us. It was my pride and self-respect, and my life.

  Now I hoped they would take it as a mark of trust inside this house.