I stood in the middle of our bed chamber, and read the lengthy paper in my hand, a faithful copy of Father Lewis’s final words, written by himself in prison after his trial.
‘...in life-moral, I thank God I have suffered lately, and exceedingly, when maliciously, falsely, and most injuriously, I was branded for a public cheat, in pamphlet, in ballad, on stage, and that in the head city of the kingdom, yes, and over the whole nation, to the huge and great detriment of my good name, which I always was as tender of, as the other I am now quitting...’
I looked up and saw my pale self reflected in the looking glass, hunched shoulders, clasping the pages between my two fisted hands. Though moved by his words, my body was still. I had tasted of the same derision this man suffered, each time I left home, each time I walked the streets to do my business, some drunken beard might threaten me, or some protester against my faith might recognise me and block my way.
In this, it was not hefty men that were most cruel, but my equals, working sisters and other midwives who, like me, were called to duty as often by night as by day. When death whispered in my ear, it was Susanna Atterbury who buried her fist in my belly without warning, not her husband, though when I defended myself against her he needed no further provocation.
I read further.
Lewis declared there was no truth in any of the accusations against him, not in substance nor in circumstance; that it was a story so false, he could have easily defied the face that had attempted to justify it; so sordid a business, a story so ridiculous, that he wondered how any sober Christian, at least who knew him, could as much as incline to believe so open an improbability. In truth, those who knew him and knew that his innocence had satisfied the judge a year and a half before and that the whole was mere fiction of some malicious person or persons against him.
In the next lines he implored God to grant pardon not for himself but for those who had spoken against him, since his own forgiveness for them was ‘hearty’. The very words of the executed priest encouraging forgiveness brought up vengeful thoughts in me against the very ones he asked us to forgive. They did not deserve the forgiveness of me nor of any other, so heinous was their crime!
My eyes unfocused from the page. I could not forgive such maliciousness that would take a good man’s life, and that of the many other self-professed innocents. Laurence Hill. Henry Berry. Robert Green. William Ireland. Thomas Pickering. John Grove. John Gavan. Thomas Whitbread. Anthony Turner. William Harcourt. John Fenwick, to name but a few.
Two months had not diminished the sickness of the priests’ executions. Not even the rabble had been inclined to break the silence before, during and after their several speeches protesting the wrong done them. The crowd knew as well as the false accusers the wickedness of persecuting such fine men. If they had been guilty, saying so would not have hurt them then, for they were to be hanged for the crime already, but, like Father Lewis, they did not ask for forgiveness for themselves, but for those who caused their innocent lives to be lost.
They asked forgiveness for those such as Willoughby, who had spoken against them. I had to ask myself, if they could forgive such people, should I not too? If Willoughby truly had been tortured, then surely I, who never was in that position, should not be the judge of him.
I read on.
Lewis insisted he was innocent of any plot as an infant who had left its mother’s womb only yesterday, and that when Oates, Bedlow, Dugdale and Prance had strictly examined him last May in Newgate, London, he had the least knowledge or hint of such plot, and if there had been one, he would have been as zealously nimble in the discovery of it as any of the most loyal subjects His Majesty hath in his three kingdoms.
He asked that if someone were to speak of him once he was gone, one should do right to his dead ashes and not speak badly of him.
I looked up from the paper once more, and saw how grief stricken was the image of myself looking back at me from the glass. Tears were on my face. I knew the look of that woman, colluded and conspired with her as if she were another. I knew she agreed with me that something must be done to turn the un-ending tide from the Catholic shore, where black storms whipped up again and again to send waves of anger and persecution and to swallow worthy men and drag them back into the sea to be lost forever. But if Canute, king of Denmark, could not stop the tide, what chance a lesser mortal?
Only a current stronger than the first could turn the tide.
From all accounts of the St Omer boys, those that had been in some coffee houses and in the court, though he was no longer welcome in our house, Captain Willoughby was carrying out my plan and was playing the part of gardener. Perhaps he sought to court favour with me, but his seed planting was growing whispers in the street that the plot against the king was not after all a Catholic plot, but thrown upon our religion as a scapegoat by the Presbyterians.
He carried out our design and filled coffee houses all over town with small pieces of doubt… not so strong he would appear too zealous and on the side of the idea, but sometimes displaying a little hesitation, a small hint or suggestion he might believe it to be the truth. He might have earned a decent wage upon the stage, so convincing was he, and so perfectly did he act the part.
Though I heard he did this, I could not help but think he did it for himself still, that his motives were not pure. But I must also believe the Lord sent me a gift when he guided me to Willoughby in Newgate, a gift it would be foolishness not to accept and use, and use well. The man’s charm, handsome looks and breezy wit had beguiled me and all of London’s coffee houses, and his attractions were equally effective on both men and women, I observed. So, though I might find his presence an abhorrence, perhaps he was sharp enough and quick enough to influence the crowd and turn the tide.
Were he to reveal details of my plan to any non-Catholic I would be executed for treason for, no matter that I had not myself carried out any act, thoughts were as actions or deeds.
Could I trust him? Regardless of my present feelings toward him, he had not yet failed me in any task I had set him and that he had agreed to. It was not as though he had tried to conceal his warts. I had discovered them almost too easily from tales he told at the dinner table as well as from others in prison.
In Newgate, they told me he had been in a cell for more time than he had been out, and he had frequented more prisons than most anybody anywhere. He freely confessed of his crimes when I asked him, and expressed with the greatest sincerity that he would atone for his sins for the remainder of his life in any way he might. It may be that my trust in him had been persuasive in altering his character so he could now walk out of the gutter, but his past might also once more bring him to do those things he was wont to do. My trust in him could never be absolute.
I read on.
‘…Moreover, know that when last May I was in London under examination concerning the plot, a prime examinant told me, that to save my life and increase my fortunes, I must make some discovery of the plot, or conform; discover a plot, I could not, for I knew of none; conform, I would not, because it was against my conscience; then, by consequence, I must die, and so, now dying, I die for conscience and religion; and dying upon such good scores, as far as human frailty permits, I die with alacrity interior and exterior; from the abundance of the heart, let not only mouths but faces also speak.’
Oh my Lord, I could barely stand!
For all those that had so cruelly died, for all those innocent lives stolen by malicious lies, for all those good men who found the inner truth of their lives revealed to the outside only to be tarnished by the muck of prejudice and fear and anger of our times, a stone stuck in my throat so I could not swallow, and another weighed so heavily on my chest I could not breath. I had an image of him hanging soon after protesting his innocence, as the five priests were hung only moments after they had protested theirs.
In that moment, I saw them all, every one of them that
had died that way, swing before me. I put out my hand to push away the sight, but the sight was not in the room and I could not hide it. My hand touched the looking glass, and the coldness of it on my fingertips made me draw back.
Some of the poor young men who came over from St Omer had gone home to Flanders defeated by how the truth of their many testimonies were made meaningless against the lies of a few servants of the Devil, and devastated by how futile their guileless defence had been to save the lives of their friends. The rest of the boys stayed with us to act as witnesses in other trials, and to discover how these trials fared.
Each day, the prisons filled with more Catholics named by fair-weather friends and neighbours for a few guineas, else a pardon for some past mischief. Too many took absolution to reveal knowledge of the plot against the king, no matter if it was the truth. Such hypocrisy. It was that very reason – that a Catholic could be absolved of the crime of lying for the Catholic cause and so should not be trusted – that they gave for not trusting any who had our faith, and for denying a Catholic man to swear on the Bible!
Almost sightlessly I looked upon the crumpled paper still in my hand and was compelled to finish. These were the man’s last words, and deserved to be witnessed and remembered. His words echoed my thoughts about those that had gained from delivering him up and sentencing him, but for each of them he offered forgiveness, which I could not do.
‘Whomever, present or absent, I have ever offended, I humbly desire them to forgive me. As for my enemies, had I as many hearts as I have fingers, with all those hearts would I forgive them. At least, with the single heart I have, I do freely forgive them all: my neighbours that betrayed me; the persons that took me; the justices that committed me; the witnesses that proved against me; the jury that found me; the judge that condemned me; and all others, who out of malice or zeal, covertly or openly, have contributed to my condemnation. But, singularly and especially, I forgive my capital persecutor, who has so long thirsted for my blood. From my soul I forgive him, and wish his soul so well. In the style of our great master, Christ himself, Father forgive them, they know not what they do...’
But the worst line came at the end of the sheet, written by another: ‘His prayers being ended, he was turned off.’
I openly cried for the man then. There were no more words to read and no more to come. And so came the end of a passionate and caring man, whose only harm was to help those more needy than himself. His life was worth more than any and all of those instruments that took it. This madness had to stop! If no other would attempt to stop it, then I must try mightily to do so myself in whatever way I could.
Aye, I may even ask Willoughby to lend himself further to this task. He had already sworn to repay me, and this would be the payment I ask of him. For his sins against them, he owed recompense to the Catholics still locked behind iron bars, and those yet to be there. If he followed my idea through to fruition, he may yet save other lives, hopefully more than he gave cause to be taken. When he died, he might even find himself closer to God rather than the Devil.
Of course, I would have to speak to him again, but it would be small price to pay if my scheme came off.
15
13th day of October, 1679
‘Stand tall, Captain, and desist your incessant prattle! You must act the part when you come before royalty!’ I snapped, perhaps a little too harshly, as was evident from his woeful expression.
The moment I spoke, I remembered he was no stranger to royalty; that he had once told me how he had travelled far on the continent as a soldier in his younger days, to Spain, Portugal, Flanders and Holland, and that he had also spent a fair time in the company of William, Prince of Orange. That did not mean I found it any easier to be with him, but it was a necessity I must bear to win this war against us. Willoughby was our only weapon and I must make use of it as best I could.
‘It is hardly my fault if I am blessed with a silver tongue and I am of a happy disposition to use it,’ he smartly answered only part of my scold and ignored the rest. ‘We are all lambs, equal in the eyes of the Lord. I am fine as any man and the king will find no fault in me.’ He looked as if he might say more, and I was glad he did not.
Willoughby oft quoted the Bible of late, the insincerity of his hypocrisy catching in my stomach since I had discovered his part in the death of the priest. Seeing my expression he closed his mouth, for which I was entirely grateful. I wished to collect my thoughts before being granted admittance to the Royal Court. He did not allow me the privacy of them for long.
‘Madam. Are you aware of the arrests of Mr Pepys and Sir Deane?’ It seemed he still wished to converse with me.
‘Shhhh!’ I hushed him. ‘Yes, I have known this awhile.’ I took satisfaction he was put out by this and shut his mouth. I returned to thoughts of how we had come to this honour extended to us now.
It had not been such an easy path through the buzzing swarm guarding the king, a more useless collection of drones I had yet to see! But we were in the heart of the hive now, brought into the brood chamber through connections of devotion of one to another, to ultimately be received by a king rather than a Queen.
If the Duke and Duchess of York were not abroad, I might have approached Her Ladyship on the matter, for we had an understanding between us, and she considered herself indebted to me for the taking in of the witnesses.
It had been to my benefactor, Lady Powys, to whom I had first presented the dilemma of how to secure an audience with His Majesty. We knew of no straight way to reach our target. If we simply arrived at the gate of St. James’s Palace we would fast be cast off. Someone he trusts must introduce us to him. Lady Powys had been perfectly equal to the puzzle, and immediately suggested an exquisite solution.
With great fortune, the king had of late recovered from a dreadful illness, which every loyal subject had concerns over. It happened, while the king was laid to bed, I chanced upon the astrologer, John Gadbury, whom I was impelled to ask how serious was the king’s illness, then further asked him if he would discover, from the sign of his birth, whether or not Captain Willoughby might be trusted with the tasks I wished to set him. Pierre had tasked me to do so a long while ago. I know not why I did not do it then, but now it was imperative I should not make a mistake in this.
Whilst Gadbury and I walked through the grounds of Westminster Abbey back toward his rooms, he not only released me from doubt over the employment of Willoughby, but further told me the Duke of York was called home from Brussels to sit by his brother’s bed in the event the king might take a turn for the worse. This was good news indeed for our cause, for Lady Powys had connections to the Duke, which she quickly undertook to make good use of.
Lady Powys was undertaking to arrange a marital alliance between her nephew and the daughter of her close acquaintance, Lord Peterborough. She designed to appeal to him to agree a meeting with me that I could introduce him to the Captain, with the further hope that Lord Peterborough would then in turn introduce us to the Duke of York. The beauty of this meeting was that, not only had Lord Peterborough served beneath the Duke in the war with the Netherlands, but he had also set up, and defeated objections to, the marriage between the Duke and his chosen wife, Mary of Modena. The Duke was accordingly indebted to him and was, as hoped, prepared to make allowances for our using him to reach his brother.
The plan came to pass as we imagined, and was declared an outstanding success by all of us.
Lady Powys first introduced me to Lord Peterborough at his leisure. This she did with such aplomb and passion, verily singing my praises so that the upstanding gentleman, a few years our senior, was quite taken by us. Captain Willoughby behaved the eloquent gentleman and won over the Lord, so that he told his servants to admit ‘his new acquaintance’ whenever he came to visit!
It was as well he had not seen him six months earlier with shaved head and prison lethargy. Truly, I had not expected the Captain to shi
ne as he had, and for it to have passed so easily.
Soon afterwards, Lord Peterborough sent us notice that the Duke of York wished for him to present us at his residence, and so we went happily confident of our position. Indeed, we were not disappointed.
‘Come forth and show yourself,’ said the Duke. His thin face was haggard, as well it might be with the burden of his brother’s sickness, yet his clothes were smart and his appearance sharp. The curved lips of his wide mouth curled lopsidedly as he said, ‘Lord Peterborough tells me the captain is a young man who appears under a decent figure, a serious behaviour and with common understanding. I trust his judgement faithful in this matter. Madam Cellier,’ he turned to me, ‘you have denied me the pleasure of your company for many years since last you tended my wife, God rest her soul.’
I had not expected or thought that the king’s brother would have noticed my services to the first Duchess of York, Anne, daughter of Earl of Clarendon. She was mother of the princesses of York, Lady Mary and Lady Anne living in Richmond Palace, and the youngest two children, Edgar and Catherine, the poor souls that had joined her in death soon after. She had been a Roman Catholic by conviction even before she took her sacraments and made her communion with Rome at her deathbed, and many believed her the cause of the Duke’s own conversion.
‘Your kindness in remembering me, Sir, is considerable,’ I said curtsying as Willoughby took his hat off, bowed and returned it to his head.
The Duke studied Willoughby’s book, wherein he had recorded every meeting he considered of a dubious nature; scribbled lists of whom they concerned and detailed conversations he had recorded those persons as having with each other. I had myself read of the book and was satisfied that the contents were ruinous to the Presbyterians, who plotted against the king with the purpose of blaming the Duke of York.
I observed the king’s brother slowly turn each leaf, bent over the sewn pages so that his long brown periwig fell as a curtain to hide his mouth, but I could still see his large protuberant eyes follow his finger over the parchment, marking his progress, and every now and then he exclaimed such as, ‘Od’s life!’ or ‘Saints preserve us, it is as I thought!’ or ‘Fie on it! This will not go unpunished!’ as if no ladies were present.
The Popish Midwife: A tale of high treason, prejudice and betrayal Page 15