His tone said he talked of other than the weather. He blinked twice then wiped the drops from his lashes.
‘Where is the storm centred?’ I said.
He looked to me then, and answered.
‘The King’s Bench has its eye.’
‘Seat yourself and eat, friend. Let us all eat.’ The young Jesuit needed no further invitation to sit, and when he sat, he sat heavily.
‘Your dish, Master Palmer?’ I took the offered bowl from the young man, filled it, and returned it to his outstretched hands, noticing his eyes did indeed show the marks of earlier tears. Had he heard Master Townley’s news already? I did the same for Master Cox and Master Fall. One by one I filled each dish around the large table. Margaret, who had cooked tonight, had allowed plenty to go around. My husband nodded as I gave him back his bowl, and Isabelle, my unwed daughter from my first husband, questioned me with her large eyes. I shook my head. It was not yet time to hear the news.
‘Maggie, perhaps you will say grace this evening?’ I hoped the naiveté of young Maggie’s innocent prayer might lighten the mood but a little. Besides, I suspected that none other felt much like talking. As I thought she might, Maggie threw herself into the task with enthusiasm.
‘We thank you God for the blessing of this food we eat. We thank you God, for giving us plenty to share with our friends from over the sea that are not friends of witches nor snakes! Please God, may it taste as it smells!’ she declared.
When the prayer was said, nobody ate. There were no sounds of the picking up of cutlery, or metal on plates, or of chewing. Nothing. I opened my eyes and saw every person, without exception, looked at young Townley with expectation. His eyes stayed closed and he leaned his head on his tightly clasped hands. None was prepared to take a mouthful while he moved his lips in noiseless prayer. There was no doubt his heart was heavy. I dared not ask him to reveal the cause of such weight, for I knew the reason must indeed be as we feared that morning, as we feared each and every time a Catholic was taken to trial.
The proof was weak against the good and kind Father Lewes, the Welsh Jesuit also known as Father of the Poor to members of his parish, but whose real name was Father Baker. How had he been imprisoned this last four months with no evidence against him except the word of a couple of common villains? Truth must win over lies! The purity of witnesses speaking before God, sworn on his word, must surely defeat the word of a viper hissing sham tales in the court garden.
When, at last, the youngster opened his eyes, his lashes were wet with tears that did not fall, by which time we were all similarly afflicted. His eyes stared unseeing towards the jug of ale. Instinctively, I took the handle to pour some for our guests. Broken from his morose reverie, he shook his head and looked around the table and, seeing where he was, came back from that dark place.
‘Come, gentlemen,’ I tried. ‘Let us eat this food, provided by the generous Lord Castlemaine. We will bear the news better with our bellies full. ‘Tis no reflection on the hardships we bear that we eat to keep us strong.’
We soaked morsels of bread in gravy to wet parched throats, but thoughts of the day’s deeds still yet made them hard to swallow. Not a word was spoken.
‘Did your day’s work go well, Lizzie?’ Pierre was uncomfortable with the silence. This was not the way we were wont to pass supper, even on the worst of days. Outside our home, there were many ways of beating us down, but here we had each other and in that way stayed strong. I found this dolour no less hard than my husband did.
‘A day as any other,’ I answered, keeping my eyes on his face and ignoring the down-turned ones around the table. If any words could silence us again, it was those words. A day as any other could only mean more sore news.
‘Now tell us, Master Townley, for our stomachs are full but cannot take this waiting longer. What news from the priest’s trial?’ My husband broke the ban on the topic once we had eaten.
‘He has been brought to Newgate for examination by Oates and his kindred tormentors,’ said Townley.
‘Is he free now? Have they finished with him?’
Pierre knew the answer before asking. We all did – it was the reason the mood was so low – but we all needed a dam of hope to shore up the river of relentless persecutions; even one Catholic to be believed and released would give us new strength. But the wicked current was always stronger, and the dam was close to collapsing.
The case of Father Lewis was strong in his favour. He had good witnesses to prove his character and the truth of his innocence and, if any person might be set free, it would be him. His trial had become symbolic of our cause. What happened to him might be the fate of any one of us.
‘His freedom now lies in release from mortal bounds,’ said Townley, resting his forehead on the balls of his fists, elbows on table. Talking down at the table, his fingers grasped the roots of his hair.
‘He was found guilty of being a priest, and so of treason. He will be executed as a traitor.’ He was equally angry and perplexed, and more than a little bitter. ‘And we all know the death of such a monstrous betrayer! He will hang until nearly dead,’ Townley said strangely flat, ‘but not quite. Zounds no! He will be snatched at the last moment from peace, sliced open and his entrails will be cut from his belly and burned before him, oh, to be sure he realises the wrong he has done. And he will die knowing his body is to be cut into four by the hangman and his quarters shown in the four corners of the town.’
This was the required death for treason, so he told us nothing new, but the bitterness in his voice contradicted the demeanour of hopelessness. His anger was something I had not heard before in one so young. ‘All this trouble for one harmless Good Samaritan.’ Townley stopped speaking and looked up to stare somewhere at the far side of the room and beyond, then finished, ‘God only knows what they would do to a real traitor!’
‘What is this place, that it counts a priest as a traitor for merely being one?’ said Palmer, with utter disgust for the way of things. ‘What madness has taken this country!’
The boys from St Omer had often talked of how uncomfortable they were in England, where they were unaccepted and unacceptable. In Flanders, as Roman Catholics, they were accustomed to thinking of themselves as of numbering amongst the most fortunate of people, feeling safe walking through the street, being respected and envied their calling to God.
‘Will it be here in the city?’ I asked, sickened such a devout holy man as he could die in this way. It was hard to understand how God could allow such terrible dealings to his best followers. Yet, he let his own son die in innocence, and his son’s death reminded every Christian of his own morals. But Jesus returned to life. Those falsely hanged for treason would not.
‘No, he is to be taken back to his home town in Wales. His only reason for being here is so that those lying ghouls might force him to name others.’
‘Has he done so?’ This was Master Cox, one who oft stayed silent, and who had been so until now.
‘Word in the court was that they have tried many ways to coerce him to fabricate lies and corroborate the ones they tell, but he has stayed true. His conscience is clear. No deaths will ensue from his mouth.’
More than one of us released a sigh, relieved his death would not be the cause of others, as was often the way with the weak, unscrupulous or those that lost their way.
But those who broke could not be wholly blamed, when the instruments used against them were as wicked as any in Spain or in the rest of Europe. None that lived in the prisons believed any proclamation by the king or government that our three kingdoms were free of such atrocities. It was common knowledge there that daily torment and afflictions were used to coerce good Catholic men and women to name their enemies, friends and neighbours, no matter how often denied.
Indeed, whensoever I was apt to blame Prance for his earlier outrageous lies against his fellow man, my thoughts were strangled by memories
of his screams. How could I judge such a one when I had not been tested myself! But still I did. I could not, would not, believe I would take the lives of others to save my own, nor, if I knew I was to die, could I take others to the death with me. I prayed I would never be tested.
Two months ago, after I came from Mr Corral’s house and revealed my scheme to Pierre, he forbade me to discover and reveal the wickedness and sin that occurred in the prisons to the king, and warned me against meddling in such things that were nought to do with me. He was fast in his opinion and would not be swayed by my deep feelings on it. And so I did not tell him of the enquiries I made, nor of the records I kept. Though I abhorred to keep any secret from Pierre, the task had been set in my way by the Lord and I should not fall short on it.
Master Palmer then gulped, and wept openly. ‘I talked…I talked to him. He is the best of men, too good for this… this travesty! His trial and his false conviction cannot be overturned, but the truth should be known by every man in this city! He did nothing – nothing, I say! – to harm a single person, but has only done honest deeds to save those who needed help. They say he…he never turned a body away that wanted for food or a bed to sleep on, and he travelled by night to give alms to the poor. I must tell the truth of this. I did tell him he must write the truth to prick at the conscience of the wicked, but he said the wicked are the ones who would not read that truth, nor would they recognise it if they did.’
None spoke whilst young Palmer talked, but questions clawed for answers.
‘No doubt, he is right,’ said Master Cox. ‘Who are the deceitful witnesses that brought him to trial? I have a desire to look them in the eye as they watch him die and, if they are unrepentant, I would gladly do unto them what is so casually done to such an innocent man walking abroad, and beat sense into them!’
‘Master Cox!’ said Pierre, ‘I understand your wish, for I have had it also. Madam Cellier was beaten near to death a year or so since, and, in a madness that followed her treatment, I could so easily let myself take the lives of the whole family –the man, the woman and their children – if Lizzie herself had not reminded me we are all God’s children, and they knew not what they did, any more than those who crucified Jesus. They only follow the ways taught to them by their society.’
As Pierre spoke, I regretted my forgiveness of a year ago. I had thought myself a good woman then, but the continuing deaths might have been stopped if some brave soul had stood against these men and told the truth ere now.
Nobody spoke, so Pierre continued.
‘We must not blame the ignorant for their ignorance. They know not how wrong they are any more than those that carry out terrible deeds in the name of our church in Spain. This cannot excuse deliberate falsehoods, only can it provide the scenery in which they concoct their deceits. It matters not whether a person is born here or there, fear runs as deep throughout all countries, but there it be in Protestants when here it be in Catholics.’ Pierre paused in thought. ‘We are all victims of our birth and where we are born.’
Cox still bunched his fists, and I expected him to bring them down hard on the table. Perhaps it was only that such action would violate the protected space formed by master Townley’s elbows on the table, and Townley’s face looked deep into it, that stopped him.
‘Those false witnesses had a grudge against him!’ Townley burst out. ‘They even admitted the man had sworn to make Father Lewis repent; his wife had sworn to wash her hands in his heart’s blood, and make a pottage of his head,’ he mimicked her voice with derision, ‘all because they could not extract money from him! What sort of malicious monsters are these that they would take his life for a few pennies!’
‘Do they have a name, these monsters?’ asked Pierre.
‘James. They were William and Dorothy James.’ Townley’s face, like that of Cox, was red, and within the sadness strong anger was barely kept in check. ‘As has happened more than once, every witness for the priest was spirited away before they could testify. ‘Tis reprehensible!’
‘Were there none then to support him?’ The idea of no person to stand by him was appalling.
‘The trial was designed to see Father Lewis fail.’ Townley spat the answer. He still supported his heavy head, with fingers curling and uncurling in his hair. ‘Yes, the ones who revealed the grudge of the James pair stood up, but when one who had previously spoken against him was called upon to speak for him, he had already ‘disappeared’ before he was called.’ The youth took his hands from his hair and laid his palms on the table, his eyes now shining and staring at something we could not see. ‘In his favour were two witnesses that bravely unmasked the prosecution witness, a man called Price. They swore he had declared not to recognise the Father when he left the cell where Lewis was kept, yet in the court identified him as a priest and spoke out against him. Their testimony did no good for him, for the jury did not care for it.’
The rest of our questions stayed quiet. Townley looked round the table at each of us; his eyes wide, his face wet and hardened. ‘And the worst of it all? If there were no doubts his trial was fair from what I have said here, this one fact reveals its travesty: The man, Arnold, that was his chief prosecutor, chose the jury himself! What think you of that!’
‘Is this true?’ Having stayed silent, as in shock, Palmer ejaculated as though he could hold it in no longer. ‘What mockery is this!’
‘’Tis as true as I sit here at this table!’ said Townley.
‘Then he has not had a jury of his peers, and that cannot be!’ Cox scraped back his chairs and stood. ‘We cannot let this be! We must stop his execution and demand a fair trial!’
The boys added to each other’s outrage and became more and more vengeful. I had to admit, I too wanted to see this wrong righted, I too wanted vengeance, but when they started towards the door, I had to join Pierre and protest they should wait til the morrow. They should plan how they wished to achieve their end before finishing the day in the same noose.
It galled them, I could see that. It galled me also, and no doubt Pierre, but we would likely be thrown in the prison right along with Father Lewis, were we to arrive there in anger and protest wildly at his immoral trial and prosecution. We must plan our protest.
‘Brothers, heed me! Do not go now. You will not make your mark. Father Lewis will still be in prison, and you will lie there with him!’ I said. ‘We must design a better way to stop these lies and this persecution. Too many rot in gaol for another’s false tale, whether by willing or not, and more will follow. Cannot we change the course of this atrocity our selves? Cannot we find a way to turn the tables?’
I had not known what I would say before it hung in the air, but once said, the truth and rightness of my idea gave me a peace I had not known before in this. What I sought was a reversal of the tide, or was it vengeance? I could not tell, but I knew I could not stand by one more day without doing any little thing. I could see from their faces the others agreed. When they returned to the table, we talked through the night until some time before the cock crowed, long after Pierre had found his pillow. He slept heavy, worn from protesting against our lack of wisdom, though his protest be half-hearted. He was with us on this, even if he did not desire it.
As well as finding proof of the bad things that happened in gaol, we would find proof that the Catholic plot against the king was a sham, and that men had died and more men suffered for the lies of false witnesses. We would find that proof and empty the gaols of innocent men, if it meant placing ourselves at risk.
That night, we agreed that we would take advantage of connections I made through my profession, as well as my capability of visiting Newgate, to further our cause.
I was stirred by a tingling sensation at the thought that I was to be entrusted with such vital tasks and I trembled that I might do something more valuable than merely feeding poor prisoners. Perhaps I might free them! Perhaps I might save their lives.
In the dawn light, I found my place next to Pierre, but I could not close my eyes. Even though they were open, I did not see the ceiling, but so many designs and plans we had made this night. Despite all that went on before them, as my eyes closed I remembered that I was invited to St James Palace this very morning! I would not have long to sleep, but my profession gave me many waking nights and I was used to taking my sleep where I could find it. Margaret would wake me in good time to ready myself for my meeting with the Duchess.
7
12th day of April, 1679
I hitched up my dress and petticoat, retrieved the note from my knickers, and handed it to Lady Powys. Far from being shocked by this uncouth display, she held out her hand solemnly.
‘You say this is a petition from the prison? How came you by it?’ she asked warily, rather than curiously. Her suspicion was warranted. Gentlewomen, such as myself, did not normally frequent such places. Indeed, the place would have remained foreign to me had I not had reason to attend a women I delivered there a year or more previously. Now I was the most regular visitor to His Majesty’s compulsory dwelling, discovering and recording all the wrongs I could of the place.
‘I had it from a man called Willoughby in the debtors prison. He had heard of you through a priest that is in Newgate, that you and our mutual friend, your cousin Roger Palmer, the Earl of Castlemaine, are of generous character, and he bid me give you this, though it put me in danger to do so.’
‘You say his name is Willoughby?’
‘Thomas Willoughby, Your Ladyship.’
‘Is he of Percival Willoughby’s blood?’
‘The physician? I know of him and his newfangled ideas he foists on midwives. I have great respect for him. But the writer of this letter is not of that family, ma’am. I asked him.’
‘What is his purpose in writing?’
‘I think you will find the purpose inside.’ A witless question. She had the letter in her hand, and could so quickly find his purpose, but she continued to look to me for an answer, and since I knew one, I told it to her. ‘I believe he asks for your pity, your mercy and some relief from his position. I believe he tells you he is wrongly accused.’
The Popish Midwife: A tale of high treason, prejudice and betrayal Page 7