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

by Annelisa Christensen

  The fog would not go, no matter that I tried to push it away. It closed around me so I was comforted. I slept some more. When I next awoke, Pierre’s forehead rested on our joined hands on the rough blanket. I ached. My arms ached and my back ached. My legs ached. All my old wounds from the beating and the pillory pained me. Every part of me had seen enough of this place. Most of all, my heart ached, and I hungered for a taste of home.

  Though my body was sore, I stayed still. I did not wish to disturb my poor husband, who had kept vigil so long and now rested. How much must he have given the gaolers to allow him to stay, that I did not know, but I was glad for his companionship in my last days. His periwig had come loose and slipped over one ear, leaving the other exposed. I stroked the length of his cheek along the edge, and then gently straightened it. He stirred, but did not wake. We had found each other when we both had the greatest need for a companion, after my husband was gone and after his wife, Margaret, was dead. His love was the staff I leaned on through the years, and even now he propped me up, though he was frail and old.

  Ten months ago I had dictated a petition to the king to release me. I told him how I was thrice near stoned to death, and how I now lay weak and sick. Pierre had added the part about how I prayed for remission of the fine and should be put into the next Old Bailey Pardon, if it pleased His Majesty. A heartier plea could not have written and sent, yet all I had received in reply was neglect and silence. If ever I lost faith at that time, Pierre’s belief in me spilled over and filled the both of us.

  But his faith had yet to set me free.

  I would be loyal to the king until the last time I closed my eyes to sleep, yet he forgot so easily all that I had done for him, and for his family. It seemed I was to die in this filth and my children would be full-grown without a mother to guide them. Perhaps without a father too. Without me, Pierre’s business had quickly failed, for he was a merchant but no businessman, so he had little enough to pay the daily squeeze let alone the thousand pounds to free me from that ungodly place.

  Pierre stirred. I used his movement to slip my hand from beneath his, and turn on my side for comfort, then I laid my hand back on his.

  ‘Pierre? Do you sleep?’ He did not answer. No sooner than I closed my eyes, the ugly prison cell was replaced by darkness, worse than darkness.

  Memories that hurt me in earlier years came back to hurt me twice over: a man dragging us into the rain whilst others pillaged my childhood home; waking and finding my first husband unmoving and cold next to me; plague wretches followed by people running frightened through the streets from the Great Fire; the snarling madness of that Atterbury woman as she beat me again and again; judges laughing at me in court…laughing, laughing…with such exultation as they pelted me with vilest dung and vegetables mixed with rosary beads and crucifixes.

  Somehow I knew memories had turned to dream, but it may as well have been real as they stomped on statues of the Virgin Mary, then filed into a procession with Jesuits and monks and priests, and forced me to follow with them behind a burning effigy of the Pope, stuffed with screaming, writhing cats.

  When we reached the home of the Green Ribbon Club, they grabbed my arms, and forced me towards a huge bonfire of a burning church. It seemed no person but me saw flames and sparks from the church spire fly across the square behind us and catch hold on the roofs there. We were surrounded by fire, but they continued to force me behind the Pope towards the burning church. People screamed for our death and the crackling heat became unbearable.

  The judges threw the plague dead into the church and then, one by one, those in front of me, uncaring of their religion, and then the accusers as well as accused. Judges followed each other into the fire. Then it was my turn.

  I knew I dreamed the horrors, but still the heat of the flames burned my skin and cooked me even as I fought to escape.

  I opened my eyes with a start. There was no escape. I was haunted awake as surely I was haunted in sleep. The scene played over as I stared at the cold grey stone, hung with spider webs and wet dust. Tiny streaks of dirty water trickled from cracks by the window and followed a slow course inwards, along crevices in the stone, and culminated in dirty drops that occasionally fell to the floor. The rain on the city rained through the prison, but did little to cleanse this palace.

  ‘They hate us because they fear, though we have the same appearance,’ I drew a breath and heard it rasp in my throat, ‘we hide an unfathomable religion on the inside, and they cannot see the proof of it. They cannot see the target, so they blindly shoot arrows in every direction with the hope one of them might strike the bull’s-eye! But I am weary of the barbs piercing me, Pierre. My wounds are too many. What manner of test of my faith will I have next? I am weary to my very bones.’

  ‘You must not say such things, Lizzie.’ Pierre spoke into my dress, not raising his head. ‘The Lord challenges us with trials to let us chose the right path. You are tested more than most, for he asks you to walk your path with more certainty, even when everyone around you shouts disbelief. You have more strength than any, the hope of so many. In this place,’ he raised his head, let go of my hand and gestured to my lavish chamber, ‘I have heard men and women tell how you have helped them. You have given them food and warmth when they had none. You have given them rosaries and bibles when they had no hope. You have given freedom though it was taken from you. For that, your name is spoken of most highly.’

  Pierre further straightened his periwig with nary a pause in his words. His eyes were old; his mouth drooped as if it had long forgotten how to smile.

  ‘Without your goodness and your charity, many in here would be dead long since. Even now, your good work continues and the helpers you taught continue to relieve the suffering of so many. It is your light that has guided them. So do not speak ill of your trials, ma chérie. They are the road that has led you to do these good deeds.’

  I squeezed his hand and felt the thin parchment skin move easily over his bones, but warmth came from it and it was a comfort to me.

  ‘Yet my strength comes from you, Pierre, so all those deeds are yours rather than mine.’

  ‘You are too kind, ma chérie.’

  The usual grinding of iron on iron, groans, shouts, and occasional laughter – for a man’s spirit is indomitable - were muffled by wood and stone yet for a moment seemed in the room with us. With time came the clanging of keys and clanking of leg chains, and the moans of a neighbouring prisoner. When I did not loathe that hard oak door for that it did hold me in, it pleased me, for it also kept the prison from me.

  In the dark of the night, with but a single candle to keep Satan’s scuttling vermin away, it also kept eyes from me when I cried for home, or for the life I missed, or when I knelt down to pray. Every man and woman must need some time in their own company for necessary things, such as washing or sitting in the corner. Not every room had a solid door. In that I was fortunate. Those locked behind iron bars were scrutinized by every other prisoner and turnkey, enduring exposure that no decent person should endure.

  ‘Your kind words are a salve on the festering wound that is Richard Whittington’s Newgate. I give you sincere gratitude, Pierre, for I find I am unable to aid myself now, let alone any other. I despair for my life and my freedom. I do not think I will last many more moons.’

  As if I’d stuck him with a hot poker, Pierre sat up suddenly then took to his feet. ‘You do not deserve such treatment, Lizzie, and he must know this. I will demand to see the king myself. I will remind him what you did for him and ask that he show you mercy. Begad! He must give you a pardon!’

  ‘A pardon should not so easily be given to a person that has done wrong, but a person should not have need of a pardon when they have done no wrong.’ I could not see his face and tried to pull myself off the scratchy blanket to see him clearer, but let my head fall back when I found I could not hold it up.

  ‘No Lizzie, they sho
uld not. But the law of the land oft finds a man, or woman, guilty, so then they must be punished, no matter that the law would better be altered.’

  ‘The law that shut me here should be changed, for truth should not be punished.’ Each breath, each word, wore another layer of life from me. I closed my eyes and felt water wet my lashes and run on my skin and into my hair. ‘They did not want to know if the words in my book were true, only if I wrote them. They did not go to the prisons and question those who could tell them the truth, but brought to them those who would tell anything they wished to hear for a handful of coins.’

  ‘We must pray that some day the veil of lies will be lifted to reveal the truth, and when they are, you shall have handsome reward for all you have done.’

  ‘I will be rewarded by God, for I will no longer need mortal things.’

  ‘Do not say so, Lizzie. You are a heroine already to all those whose lives you have aided…’

  ‘…and a villain to all others.’

  ‘But those that know the truth of it are fortified by your deeds, and that is as a chain that others can hold onto as an anchor in these dark days.’

  ‘I have had much time to think, Pierre,’ I turned to a subject I wished to talk of. ‘I have had thoughts of things I have talked of before...’

  ‘No, Lizzie. ‘Tis best you do not concern yourself further with such schemes. Any more interference in the way of things will have you hung at Tyburn.’

  ‘‘Tis not plotting and treason I concern myself with on this instant. More often than I care for, I lay here with mere thoughts for company, and they have told me, should I survive this dire time, which I have told them I will not, I must do all I can to change the way of the midwife, to protect mothers and their newborn infants.’

  I saw by my husband’s surprise and confusion that I must elaborate.

  ‘My thoughts are haunted by so many wicked deeds done by false midwives. I have oft told you how they murder infants with their ignorance and butchering ways. The infants and their mothers die for lack of proper care.’

  ‘Aye, we have talked of this. And I see this cause kindles you, even when your embers lie smothered in ashes. It would be well for you to think more of this after all.

  ‘Twas as if he saw me drowning in the river and threw me a rope. I grasped that twine so tight it hurt me, and with each word I uttered hereafter, I pulled closer back to him.

  ‘Husband, have I not oft spoken of the true lore of the midwife? How it is secure in but a few women? They cannot teach this to any but their own daughters. Only a few surgeons hold intimate knowledge of the lore, and their knowledge is not about delivery but about the physical, the body, so they have too little to teach.’

  Pierre was slow of body, but still had his wits about him, and saw what I tried to say.

  ‘But what if a midwife might teach those who wish to practice?’

  ‘Then they could not. The law says that no woman can learn anything but what she can learn in her own home. She cannot join men in a place of learning to do so.’

  I dropped my head on the side so I could see Pierre as he reclaimed my hand. It was too much to do more. I blinked tears from my eyes, for it seemed he kept me talking for fear if I would stop. ‘‘Tis the subject of my thoughts, Pierre, that it must be wrong when a man can learn skill in a college, but a woman cannot learn more than her parents or husband are willing to teach her at home. Are a woman’s needs unequal to that of a man?’

  ‘As with treason and plots, we return to the law of the land. It matters not if it is right or wrong, the law is as it is and must be followed. A woman cannot go to college, for there is no place for her there.’

  ‘Not even a college run by women, meant for women?’

  ‘Such a preposterous thought would not be given credence.’

  If I did not know hope in Pierre’s voice, I might have been indignant for being so summarily dismissed, but as he breathed life into me, I breathed life into him.

  ‘By whom?’ I asked. ‘Would these very men conceive that ‘tis their own infants and wives that are at risk from ignorant and unskilled services of false midwives? ‘Tis they who should be most eager to change this law!’

  ‘Forsooth, you are right, Lizzie! ‘Tis every man that should look to the midwife for the well-being of his wife and for the safe delivery of his sons and daughters.’

  ‘And how can he be sure of this if he does not know where she has learned her trade.’

  ‘He does as we are all wont to do, he goes by the word of another.’

  ‘Would it not be a fairer thing if a man could trust every midwife?’ Pierre’s face lightened as he begun to see where my thoughts took him.

  ‘Indeed, my love.’ A crafty expression came upon him then. ‘And what better judge of character than a midwife to the ladies of court…Lizzie, you are matchless for the task of teacher. It must be you!’

  ‘I fear ‘tis not my fate to do more than set out the plan, Pierre, but you must see to it that my ideas are explained to the king that he might change the law.’

  He frowned, ‘You must not talk that way. I cannot do your work for you. I have not your skill with words and I fear to fail where you would succeed. You must recover yourself and I will plead with the king for your release, that you may stand before him in this matter.’

  Despair blew through me as an early winter wind. I was weak and worsening, and would not again see the sky. In the silence Pierre turned away. He sniffed. I need not see his face to know he cried for me and I had no will to tell him not to. I closed my eyes and rested. When I awoke, Pierre was gone, leaving behind only his tears. They welled up in me. I could not remember such a time when I could not see any light to guide me. Even the light Pierre often lent me did not guide me this night. Darkness filled the cell as it filled my heart.

  ‘Mrs Cellier! Mrs Cellier! Hear this!’ The rough voice of the turnkey came to me through layers of sleep. I did not feel disposed to answer. I could hardly move my lids but, working at them, gained a crack and saw the sun must be above the rooftops. It came to me I had heard the cocks crow for some while.

  ‘Mother Cellier!’ Metal ground against metal as the key turned and unbolted the lock. A man that once was obedient to my command not to enter without my by your leave came to the bedside. The skinny Bowden boy was a strapping man now. I was only grateful he had continued to treat me with reasonable dignity and consideration. ‘Mrs Cellier, the sun shines on you today. Put your your feet in your boots and your boots to the floor – you are to go from here!’

  ‘Come you to gloat over my lost cause? Go away, man.’

  ‘Forsooth, Madam Cellier, prithee hear my words. You are free!’

  ‘‘Tis a cruel game you play with me.’ I said. For a piece of time, the sun shone on me, lighting an ember of warmth in my cold guts. I doused it for fear of it being falsely lit.

  ‘I play no game, Madam. You are released by command of the king. You are to return home.’ Young Bowden’s hands clasped my shoulders and pulled me to sitting. ‘Do you not hear me? You are free!’

  Then he cast off the blanket from my legs and with strong fingers, as though I were but a puppet, pulled my legs round to hang loose from the bedside. Though I loathed his hands on me, for a touch anywhere caused me pain, there was an aspect of his sincerity that reached through the heavy gloom filling me.

  ‘Do you speak truly?’ I asked. He said he had no reason to tell me so if it was not so.

  ‘A messenger even now fetches Mister Cellier, your husband. He is to bring you home. Your freedom has been spoken for.’

  If he be laying a trap for me, perhaps tricking me to saying something on my release I might not otherwise say, I would say nothing on it. But it might be that Lady Powys or Lord Peterborough, or even my Pierre, had secured an audience with the king and pleaded for my freedom. I suppose I should know what means my freedo
m came by, if it were so.

  ‘Am I free with a pardon? Or am I free because I am wronged?’ I asked.

  ‘I heard nothing of a pardon, nor of bail.’

  If he told me I had a pardon, though I should have refused freedom by rights of not needing one, I would surely have left that place by any means offered to me. The taste of fresh air was distant and I craved it.

  As Bowden, the turnkey, instructed, I pulled on my boots and placed my feet to the ground and he assisted by tying the laces. Finally, though I was weak and barely able to move, he helped me stand. I weighed as little as my bones and no more, so he easily braced my shaking body against him and, together, we walked along the cold, dank corridor toward the gate.

  I had walked this way so often ere I had a place there that every shadow in the wall was familiar to me. Knowing the place held no comfort for me. It was as cold a place as ever it was, tasting of my soul even as I left it. Bowden took me to the outer gate and left me there.

  ‘Wait here, Mrs Cellier. Your husband will fetch you.’ The man’s heavy footsteps marked two steps away, then two steps back again. ‘Here is bounty given with the good grace of the king.’ At which he pulled a bag full of coins from his belt and handed it to me. ‘There be ninety pounds and no less, Madam. Of that, you can be certain, for I have guarded it myself.’

  With that, I was completely alone, leaning against the wall with no strength to stop my legs buckling beneath me. The weight of the bag so heavy, I slid down the wall until I sat in the wet mud.

  But the sweet air I breathed worked some kind of magic on me. And when I held out my hand it became wet. It was raining.

  Icy water ran down my arm and drenched my sleeve. As I watched, I saw the dirt and shame wash out of it. Somehow, climbing the wall with my hands, I pulled the rest of me back to standing. The water trickled over my face and hair, through my filthy cloak and dress and over my disgusting dung covered boots. At that moment, I swear nothing could have made me happier. Dame Nature bathed and cleansed me in a way no lavender bath ever could, so I held my face skyward and allowed her full reign.