I had not removed the empty bladder.
‘Leave now. I will examine her and, if she is fit for punishment, you may take her.’
They left with no argument.
My heart drummed, but not to a soldier’s beat. I held my hands tight over my tummy to prevent the bag slipping. Would he give me away if he found my deception? I swallowed, but there was nothing but pride to swallow. And that I had none of.
‘Do you suffer in your belly?’ The man went to move my hand. I folded over further so he could not do so. ‘Lie back, Mrs Cellier. I must examine you.’
The Bowden lad brought a lit lantern, handed it to the physician and fast retreated.
‘I cannot, sir.’ I groaned and held myself tight. It had been my misfortune to see too many babies come forth before they were ready, but acting the part of this misfortune might save me if I was able to play the part well.
‘Mrs Cellier.’ The physician placed his medicine bag beside me on the bed; the floor was too filthy. ‘Mrs Cellier, I will be much obliged if you would lie with your head there.’
I did not need to see him gesture to know he meant at the end of the bed, and so was able to employ my whole mind on the subject of how I might escape the plight I had placed myself in. The physician would surely soon discover the pig bladder and I would be undone.
‘I will not be examined by a man. Where is the midwife to examine me?’
‘I am employed by Captain Richardson to discover any design to escape punishment,’ said the bony man, fingering the catch on his bag, but not opening it. ‘More men will fake sickness than suffer it, and in this place that is a difficult thing. Being a midwife, you are not to have a midwife examine you. I must tell you, Mrs Cellier, if you are innocent of such lie, you will not see the pillory today. If you have truly lost your baby, I share your sorrow, but you will have to stand. However, if, in this, you scheme against retribution for proven felony, be sure I will reveal it and it will cost you more. Will you save me the examination? It would be better if you lay yourself open now.’
I groaned in the stead of an answer. I had need of more time. A quick glance told me that the turnkeys were nowhere by the door and the physician was busy searching inside his open bag. I might never be given a more fortuitous moment and knew what I must do in that instant. So, I moaned again, and used my elbows to push aside my skirt and reach to the top of my legs to grab the bag before the physician saw how sly I was.
The tips of my fingers touched the neck of the bladder, but they slipped and slid over the bloody, flapping intestines and I could not take hold of it. It took not once, not twice, but thrice to grip the slick skin. At first it would not come free, perhaps caught in the folds of my skirt where I bent over. Frantic, I twisted my finger round and round the neck to better hold it, and pulled sharply. Before I could catch it, the bladder released from whatever grip it was held in and sprung from my fingers. I did not have time to look where it went, for the physican spoke again, his voice louder so I knew he faced me.
‘Mrs Cellier,’ he said. ‘I will not endure this disobedience. I have a task to do, and you will kindly do as I have asked.’
I could only pray darkness and the physician’s poor eyes would hide the pig bag, wherever it was, until I could dispose of it.
‘I do my best, sir! Pain nails me fast to this spot, and I cannot move.’ It would not do to provoke him further. ‘Aid me, and I will comply,’ I said.
Concealing the lie with further moans, I allowed the skinny man to assist me fully onto the bed, ready for examination.
‘Your skirt, madam.’
I complied and raised the material of my long skirt to my waist, so he could see the blood on my stocking-clad legs. If I yielded fast, perhaps suspicion would keep from the door. I did not expect that he would see anything amiss by the light of only a lantern. It seemed scrutiny of my more private parts was unnecessary for any opinion on my malaise for, with barely a glance, he spoke in an ill-tempered manner.
‘Do you dare use trickery against the crown? What sort of midwife imagines a man of my profession would not recognise a show of menses? It is not that which gives you pain, but the Devil sat in your belly!’
He did not think it a trick, but of a woman’s flow. If I could not convince him, he would have me in the pillory within the half hour.
‘It cannot be! Do you think a midwife does not know when her body carries an infant, when it has carried so many before? I tell you, I am losing it!’
With that, he took a closer look, and I desired my words unsaid.
‘‘Tis strange, Mrs Cellier. ‘Tis a puzzle whence the blood comes, for neither menses nor miscarriage wettens the front of the skirt like this, yet leaves no streak at the tops of the legs…’ The man lay my skirt down whilst still looking at my legs, then eyed me with raised eyebrows whilst he awaited a explanation. I could think of none. I had not thought this far of my design.
‘That is simple to answer to. My skirt has wiped me clean.’
‘That answers to only part of my question, but not the other. Why does blood colour the front of your skirt, and not your back, where it would more likely be?’
I could not think of anything that would suffice, so said the only thing that came to mind.
‘I turned my skirt when I found it wet, for it is not a thing that gives a woman comfort!’
‘You turned it? You turned your skirt when you were in so much pain? When did you do this? Before or after the turnkeys fetched you? They told me the pain started when they came to take you.’
There was no answer to that. None. But I answered even so.
‘I did it when they left to fetch you.’
‘‘Tis a lie!’ said a voice out of sight. ‘I stayed here and saw her at all times. Hear her not, forsooth it is as you say. She has the Devil in her belly!’
The physician’s voice was fuller than his body. ‘Come hither, Turnkey! I would speak with you!’
The two fat keepers and young Bowden must have been close by the whole time. They came the moment they were called.
‘Be she fit for the stretch-neck? Can we have ‘er?’
Rather than give me directly to them, the man had a question of his own.
‘You say she did not turn her skirt when you were here?’
All three of the gaolers frowned. The biggest of them shrugged and shook his head indicating his ‘no’. Seeing this, the other two followed suit.
‘I said it as I saw it. She did not,’ said the portly one.
‘Then you may have her.’
Simple as that, the physician’s words marked my fate. They were as a sword in my gut. I had failed. I might never come back to this room, a thing for which I might have been happy a short while since, but now I prayed I would see it again. For, if I did not, I was dead.
‘What lies yonder on the floor?’
The eyes of every person in the room followed the fat gaoler’s finger to the bloody, mucky skin that lay curled like a scroll against the wall near the bed. The empty bladder. If I had not been undone ere now, this would have unravelled me.
‘Fie! We are duped!’ The big man stopped pointing at the bladder and turned his finger toward me. ‘‘Tis neither menses nor abortion, but a wicked trick of the darkest devilish kind!’
There was no place for me to hide. The fat gaolers advanced on me, whilst the physician and young Bowden moved to the side and created a path for them to the bed.
‘Let the Maypole Nutcrackers have ‘er and be damned by the Heavenly Father an’ the people of the city of London! We ain’t keeping ‘em from ‘er a moment longer!’
Each rotund gaoler grabbed an arm and hauled me hard from my bed, wrenching the broken bones in my chest and making me howl. With my feet barely touching the ground, they dragged my toes across the floor, my skirt front whipping through the dark, smelly sediment that f
illed the gaps between the stone pavings, and flowed over to cover the surfaces. They had my arms bent backwards so I was sure they would come free from the shoulders, and my ribs screamed. Or perhaps it was I that screamed.
‘Mark me, thou instrument of Rome!’ Thou will find me before all others in condemning you.’
I neither answered nor looked at him. The Devil inside me hammered at my ribs. It was all I could do not to faint, though that would have been more tolerable than this torture.
They released my arms the moment we reached the Strand and, with that release, my ribs and my insides again screamed from recent injuries. But no allowance was made either that I was in pain, or that I was a gentlewoman. If I slowed even for a short while to catch breath or wait for the pain to pass, they bid me walk before them and pushed me again.
My failed trick with the bladder had merely delayed my coming to the pillory. I had further delayed coming by making them stop for my dress to be changed. They did not wish to bring me forth covered in blood any more than I wished to look so sullied, for it would only reflect badly upon them.
But the delays had not taken time past the hour that most good folk, and bad, enjoyed castigating criminals on the pillory, for such punishments were always timed to allow this pleasure when most were released from work to eat. It would not be too long before they had to return to work, so I could only hope that I might not endure the whole hour of punishment.
People of all sorts filled the streets, but as yet no crowd surrounded the pillory itself. They would come; slinging stones at criminals in the Neck-Stretcher being a more popular amusement than hangings, for they tended to be nearby and gave every person on the street opportunity to play their part in the discipline. I myself had seen plenty such spectacles in this very spot, being the closest to my house.
As we passed Arundel Street, where I lived, I searched for Pierre amongst the persons milling about the stalls and carrying out their business. I saw no sign of him. Instead, another man I did not know held out his hand to stop me. His plain face did not straight-away bring forth any memory, nor did the long, dark periwig, though such easily removed hair is often changed and cannot be relied upon. I stopped, for how could I not respond to the compassion in his face that gave me to think he meant only kindness.
I noticed he wore a carpenter’s tool belt. Something came to mind, only that I knew him, though not from where.
‘Wear this; it will offer you some little protection.’ His voice was friendly.
In his hand he held toward me a bundle of fabric of familiar red. My spirits rose considerably. It was my midwife cloak, or perhaps one like it. No, it was surely mine, for it was torn from the attack on me outside the courtroom on Saturday. He must have recovered it for me! I begun to thank him for his charity, but my chest again screamed as I was pulled sharply away by the impatient turnkey, and pushed onwards toward the market square.
‘‘Tis meagre repayment for kindness once given,’ I heard the man shout after me. I looked back as the men pulled me away, and I swallowed down a familiar lump in my throat. There came to me a memory of a day more than two years past, when this man had stood and thanked me for the life of the baby boy he held in his bandaged hands, though I had been unable to save his wife – Mr Potter, the carpenter.
I soon lost sight of him in the crowd, gathering at the sight of the turnkeys bringing me.
I was not disallowed the cloak so, with difficulty, I swung it onto my shoulders and wrapped it close around me. A certain peace filled me then. If I died in it, I would die whole.
By the time we reached the Maypole itself, the whole square was thick with people awaiting today’s sport. I had never seen it so busy, but it seemed that half of the crowd was made of king’s soldiers and sheriff’s officers, an unusual sight at such an event. I could not think their purpose might be. Did they think one ageing woman so much trouble?
A short way ahead, a group of the sheriff’s men stood in file by the wayside then, as we came close, they fell into a tight group around me, still edging me forward. Before they surrounded me, I counted twenty or thirty soldiers round the pillory. What was this? Protection? Only the city’s famous or infamous warranted such guard! If the king granted me these men as a boon for services once given him, it was a strange act, when I was here to be punished for libel against him. Perhaps they were simply employed to keep the peace.
In a weird and unearthly dream, I walked through the throng, with the midday sun on my head, my nose stuffed with stale smells of sweat and ale, knowing I was going toward certain shame and further injury, or even death. Though I could not see them because of the wall of soldiers surrounding me, I could hear the growing roar of The Beast. They cussed me and they threatened me, and bayed for my blood as hounds close to the kill of a wily fox. Despite the pain, I tried to walk tall and not show the fear that grew inside me.
As usual, the pillorying was deliberately chosen to be on the busiest Market day, so many here came to buy animals and wares but would become caught in the excitement of a stoning. My heart hit my ribs trying to get out. I could not draw in enough air, though sweet as any air I ever breathed after the prison, for my lungs would not allow it in.
Every now and then, I caught a glimpse of the wooden beast, the Nutcracker they called it, surrounded by a circle of soldiers. Another row of soldiers now lined each the side of the path I was to follow. I froze. However brave I had felt before, though I could not recall that I did, I never expected so many to turn out, nor did I imagine such fear clawing my belly. I could not take another step forward. When I stopped, so did those behind me, but those in front continued on unaware, leaving empty ground before me.
I was not afraid to die, but I was afraid of suffering as I did so. I told myself the punishment was to be bound to a single hour, shorter than a birthing.
One hour. A short time compared to the labour of a woman. A long time compared to a hanging. Someone pushed me in the small of my back, so I would’ve tripped had I not caught myself and stepped forward. The pain was enough to give life to my legs again.
And, there he was! There was Pierre at the roadside. The relief of it, of seeing my beloved in that sea of hatred! I must be thankful none of our children stood with him. With an almost imperceptible backward gesture of his head and eyes, he signed for me to go to him. There was nothing more I desired, but feared to bring the crowd against him.
I shook my head and tried to hide from my husband the turmoil that enfeebled me so much it almost stopped me walking. I tried to convey the strength I had always shown him, that I would survive this, one way or other. He beckoned me again, willing me to go thither. I could do nothing other than go to him, and the men round me allowed me this concession. As I came close to Pierre, I was almost hit by some of the shaking fists in the crowd nearby.
I had to pass my poor neighbours, Mr and Mrs Howard, that lived in our building, Arundel-House, and that lost their son two years since. At the trial of the five Jesuits, they had stood as witness against Oates, claiming he was in St Omer at the time of the Jesuit meeting, rather than in London as he claimed. Did these two come for support or for sport? I saw other householders I had visited from time to time.
Perhaps my guards would have stopped me had they seen what I intended, but they were kept busy pushing back some persons that had broken through the hedge of soldiers. I reached out to Pierre, thinking he would embrace me, something I desired as much as I wished this over. Instead, he surprised me by bringing from behind his back a baker’s shovel, or perhaps it was a tavoletta, the painted board that a condemned Catholic held before his face on the scaffold until he died. Did he think I was dead to him?
‘Take this!’ he said. ‘‘Tis all I can do for you now.’
I could not ignore the authority in his voice and so I took it, and straight away stowed it under my cloak, grateful for such kindness from a husband that might have disowned me had
he been an unkind man. It was unlikely I could keep the board but, if anyone saw Pierre give it to me, nobody took it from me. I was defenceless against them, should they want it. For now, the rough wood clasped in my hand filled me with hope where my cloak had swathed me in strength; gifts from my husband and a man from the past. I was less naked before those that would strip me of everything.
I looked back, but Pierre was gone from my sight.
When we reached the dais the guards stopped, and so I stopped. A shove from behind told me I was not meant to stop, and a growled, ‘Go on, midwife’ was the sign I was now utterly alone, and must go forward singly and alone.
I frowned. So I should not hide my shame, my neck and wrists would be locked into the three holes made for them between the two hinged blocks of wood. Who was to do so if only I were to take the steps? I searched the soldier’s face, then the sheriff’s. Neither contradicted the order, nor made to go with me.
‘Go,’ confirmed the sheriff.
I breathed the searing, dusty air of the day, pulled my cloak close around me, and slowly took the steps up onto the stage. I had expected to be locked into the contraption of shame, so I did not know what I should do.
Nailed to the pillory, above where my head and hands should have been trapped, was a hastily written paper that said, ‘Pilloried one hour for libel against the king’. I took no more notice of it. It was not meant for me as much as for those that came to see me.
The moment I was atop the stand, the soldiers crowded close around it with their faces turned outwards. They were there to guard me! The Lord had answered my prayers for mercy! Perhaps I should not die this day after all.
The Sheriff and the guards that had brought me there, stood to each side of the stage, facing me, to make sure I did not escape. They were not without some wit and had sense enough not to come higher, for they would surely catch some of what was meant for me.
The Popish Midwife: A tale of high treason, prejudice and betrayal Page 35