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

by Annelisa Christensen

  The messenger, a well-fed man of diminutive stature, beautifully coiffered hair that appeared to be his own and a nose that appeared not to be, for it was too big and too dark, spoke surprisingly well.

  ‘Your Highness, I am come from the city with news of the convict, Mr Dangerfield, that was to have a whipping this day,’ he said.

  I wrinkled my nose. I could not escape the man even here in the palace.

  ‘Well, what news do you bring me?’ said the king.

  ‘He is dead, Your Highness.’

  ‘Dead? Dead, you say.’ The king’s face scrunched up, his mind likely imagining the dead Dangerfield. I do not know if my face was equally ridiculous, but the king’s next remarks indicated that might have been the case. He raised himself almost to standing, wobbled, and then sat down once more. ‘Begad! Am I not verily the most bad-mannered of hosts!’

  My eyes and mouth were wide, and I did not know if I could close them. I could not answer the king, though he did not seem to await anything from me.

  He went on, ‘For now I have thrice wronged you. The first was as we spoke of a while ago, for your extended time in gaol. The second was to forget the punishment of that dastardly Dangerfield was today and you would wish to witness it. It was remiss of me to have done so.’ He paused and practiced a look of astonishment. ‘Why ever did you not say so?’ Then he ended with a flourish, ‘And the last was preventing your seeing the last breath taken from him. In that, I am equally destitute, for he offended against me when he accused me of plotting the killing of my brother just as he did you!’ As an afterthought, he turned back to the messenger.

  ‘Was he whipped to death?’

  ‘No Your Majesty. He was stabbed.’ The messenger appeared to enjoy the telling of this.

  ‘He was, you say! Was it murder?’

  ‘They say it was so, Your Highness. Some say he did not mean to do it.’

  The king asked the question I wished to know. ‘Who was the man that did all life this favour?’

  My imagination awoke from its confusion. Unbidden came to mind Dangerfield in many guises: in Newgate, begging for my help; a broken man in a lonely cell; the silver lines shining on his tanned naked back in the courtyard; himself cutting a dash in the trial of the Jesuits with his pearl earring; his laughing and telling thrilling, bawdy or stirring tales around the dining table at home. Then, last, came an image of him standing against me in court.

  Dead.

  He was dead to me long ago, yet these visions invited sorrow to make a home in my belly. I had to know the facts of the matter.

  ‘What was the manner of his death? Did he die outright?’ I said.

  ‘Aye,’ said the king, ‘tell us everything you know.’

  The messenger answered first the king, and then me, relating his tale with the passion of one relating many.

  ‘‘Twas a gentleman of the law, Your Majesty. A barrister of Gray’s Inn by the name of Robert Frances. ‘Twas his fortune, whether ill or good, that the coach taking Mr Dangerfield back to prison happened to pass him along the way at Hatton-Garden in Holborn. Mr Frances, curious, rapped on the side of the coach and asked Mr Dangerfield, ‘How now, friend. Have you had your heat this morning?’ meaning his whipping,’ explained the messenger, ‘and Mr Dangerfield, not knowing him, was uncivil and asked him ‘What have you to do with me?’ and spat on him. They tell me Mr Frances then spoke some words of derision to Mr Dangerfield and called him ‘so much scum upon the dregs of life in the street’ and said he ‘should die by a thousand cuts’!’

  Then, still facing the king, but his eyes at me, the messenger carried on in his best story-telling voice. ‘Mr Dangerfield spoke such scurrilous words, after which curses he called Mr Frances ‘the son of a whore’. That enraged the barrister so that he shook his bamboo cane at the man, and when Mr Dangerfield went to grab it, Mr Frances shook the stick harder still and ran it right through Mr Dangerfield’s left eye and into his brain!’

  Yes, I wished him dead, at times with all my heart, but this was not as I had imagined it.

  ‘Did his death come fast?’ I asked. That he did not suffer was unkind to any that had suffered by his false accusations. He had turned on me when I had saved him, and now I was deprived of this last sight of him! And, yet, he was still a man.

  ‘Nay, Madam. He is dying still.

  ‘Alas,’ said the king. ‘If they try the barrister in court, I must allow sentence, for he has murdered a man, but, truly, I would rather shake his hand. He has done us all a great service! Have they taken him in?’

  ‘Aye, Your Highness, they have. He was seized as he ran into Saint Thavie’s Inn in Holborn and is yet held in Newgate.’

  ‘And where is Dangerfield now?’ I asked. I had thoughts of seeing his last breath.

  ‘He is returned to gaol and laid to bed.’

  ‘Thank you, good man. You may go.’

  The messenger was thus dismissed. The king was thoughtful. He took up his ale and looked within it for awhile without drinking. Then he spoke most cheerfully.

  ‘Gads! This is verily too much ado and did only arrest for a short while what I wish to say to you. If you did wonder at my summoning you to the palace, I will allay any fear it was for bad and assure you it was only for good. I have now thrice wronged you. Is it not fortunate I am come prepared to offer reparation?’ The king opened his arms in grand gesture. ‘You are, as is every person, aware no male heir of mine has survived birth nor infancy. I have heard it from the most virtuous and reliable sources, one being Catherine, the Queen Dowager and another is my first wife, Anne, God rest her soul, that you are the midwife that brings forth healthy babies when none are forthcoming. The Queen invites you do so for her. I am requested to task you with this but, in the stead of a task, I wish to bestow this as a gift upon you, for it can only better your position in society.’

  ‘Naturally, Your Majesty, it is a gift of the most generous kind!’ Could my heart be more tumultuous? Both news of Dangerfield and an invitation to attend the Queen all mixed in one bag! ‘Please convey to Her Majesty I am honoured and will attend her at her convenience.’

  I left the palace soon after, with a purse of gold in my pocket and a heart of gilded lead beating in my breast.

  29

  3rd day of June 1687

  ‘Mon Dieu! Can this be so, Lizzie?’ asked Pierre ‘A more terrible loss I cannot imagine!’

  Most times, Pierre showed little interest in the findings of my searches and asked few questions, for he was taken up with his own business, but when I recounted how many infants and mothers I had found died at birth, or soon after, as recorded by each and every church in the city, that was his remark. I wrote the sad figures in my journal.

  ‘That is the whole of my design, dear heart, if more be trained in the old ways, more lives might be saved…’ I said. ‘‘Tis not enough we preserve life in childbirth. That Devil’s left hand man, Poverty, takes a particularly terrible toll. I have found that in such a place as Cheapside every new mouth is a burden ill afforded, and many babies are abandoned to charity or death.’

  ‘If mothers deny the infants, who would take them?’

  ‘A midwife college. I make my plan for a college that will take such infants.’

  ‘What use to take such infants of the nature of the very fathers and mothers that abandoned them? What use to save them only to return them later to the poverty whence they came!’

  ‘Nay, Pierre. Remember how our own children were once helpless babes? And now they are grown into strong character. See how they laugh and cry and converse on the worldly nature of things. Each of these abandoned infants, unwanted only for lack of food and shelter, would grow as our children grew, to be God-loving, and educated in the ways of the world, and they would be useful in our society. ‘Tis only for the lack of this attention they turn out to be villains and rogues. With good care, they m
ight be as worthy as any child born in good society’

  ‘And who will pay for this, my dear? I think the king will not care to dig too deep into his pockets for these brats!’ Pierre came and stood behind me and read my figures. Soon the warmth of his gentle fingers caressing my shoulder ran like a river through me. It was the touch of affection rather than invitation to bed, for we were wrapped up together in the discussing of my work.

  ‘Now here is my coup, mon chéri!’ I showed Pierre the papers I had written and re-written until I was satisfied with them. ‘I have made a design so clever it will floor you,’ I smiled. ‘‘Tis the midwives themselves that will pay for everything: the building of the college and the training of them, as well as the rescue and care of foundling babies. And if more money is needed, alms-boxes might be placed in churches and public places for people to give charity if they so choose. But though this can be done, the most of what is necessary will come from annual membership fees, paid by the midwives from their richer coffers, for a well-trained midwife will earn more than an ignorant one.’

  ‘Will it be enough?’

  ‘It will,’ I said. ‘I have worked out a sum that should cover it.’

  ‘I will raise my hat to you if the king will allow womenfolk this freedom, but if anyone can make pretty speeches and persuade His Majesty of the benefits of this scheme, ‘tis you.’

  ‘Bless you for you sincere kindness, my dear. I have near finished the plan. I hope ‘tis as complete as any could be. And if those buzzing around the king cannot find fault in it,’ I said, ‘then it might please the king, for he can give it his royal name, and it can be a monument to his goodness.’

  Pierre returned to the fireplace and smiled indulgently. ‘That is a pretty touch indeed. I am sure that might persuade His Majesty if he is undecided. It cannot harm his reputation to be seen as a benefactor for his people.’ Something in the way he stood reminded me of the man he once was. In particular, a vision of him punching Dangerfield made me smile back.

  Then, unbidden, for he was never welcome there, the memory spun about and I was looking at Dangerfield, or Captain Willoughby, as we knew him then. He was sat on the frozen ground rubbing his jaw after Pierre hit it, and looked a poor example of a man, the poorer still for having been easily floored by an ageing one.

  It was not only he that fell that day, but my estimation of him, if I had any left. Before I could think on it, the image was fast replaced by another gruesome and grisly one: Dangerfield lying on a bed of blood with a ragged black hole where his beautiful long-lashed eye once was, and dried blood on his cheek. I remember it was the day I came from the palace, after hearing of his injury, and on the spur of the moment changed direction toward the gaol.

  ‘Are you come to save me or to see me die?’ he had said.

  ‘I saved you once and you repaid me with betrayal. The value of your life, once lost, was never recovered. I do not want it.’

  I could not take my eyes from the mangled wretch. If he tried to move, the wounds from the whipping made him cringe and curl, though he could not escape the affliction. Lady Powys later told me his skin was torn from his back so there was more blood than skin left. The straw he lay on was testimony to this, for blood spilled from beneath him in a soggy puddle and, even in the dark, shone wet.

  ‘Though you are come to see me die, you are the only one that has come. For that I give you thanks.’ He spat out the words between long moments of agony and retching. Red dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I do not want your thanks, you ungrateful cur,’ I said. ‘I am here to see if the Devil sits in the room with you for, if he is not yet here, he will come to keep you company soon.’

  Dangerfield wailed. Coldly, I watched him writhe, surprised I did not have even so much sympathy I had for the cats burned at The Processions.

  ‘Do not say so! Pray for me, Madam, I beg of you. Pray for my soul.’ Every word cost him dear.

  ‘Do you repent? Have you confessed?’ It was of little interest to me if he did or did not.

  ‘I do!’ Then he screamed, ‘My eye! My eye!’ Then he became still and said nothing for some time. I turned to go when I had seen enough. ‘Fetch the priest.’

  I turned back to him. His lids were closed now.

  ‘You do not believe in our religion. Why would you have a priest come?’

  Without his disquieting single eye watching me, I took the opportunity to look at him. Now his contortions were ended, and he was nearly a corpse, the anger went out of me. He begun to rattle. Was that it? Was he finished? Through some extraordinary draw on reserves, when he should be dead, he came back to life again.

  ‘I will…confess…before I die.’ His words barely reached my ears, still the rattle between them, but I knew what they were.

  I was divided. My faith would have me fetch a priest; it was the right, the charitable, thing to do. I did not want to be charitable to that man. I did not want to aid him to Heaven. If it were the will of the Almighty God to bring me there, I would not wish to meet him, for then it would not be Heaven for me. The rattle came loudly then and filled the room, and I could bear it no longer.

  ‘Gaoler! Gaoler! This man wishes for a priest!’ The gaoler, I knew, was nearby, waiting to let me out. He answered.

  ‘Thee be in the wrong place for a priest, Madam. Ain’t none ‘ere!’

  Death made so much noise coming now, I feared he came for me too.

  ‘Find a priest. He needs one now!’ I tried for authority.

  He laughed. I heard him shout to someone further away, ‘She be seeking a priest.’ He went on laughing, joined by that other person. ‘Weren’t that one swinging from the gallows?’

  It was no use. The rattle was slower now. Irregular. Against every inclination, I returned to Dangerfield’s side. I could not help myself; I took his hand and knelt beside him and prayed for his soul. And then he was gone.

  I shook my head and dipped my pen nib into the ink. Would that inconsiderate man never leave me be!

  ‘I have found that a woman who wishes a man to hear what she says can best do so by first telling him his feathers are as fine as a peacock’s, his craftiness could outwit a fox, and his wisdom surpasses that of an owl. He is then so caught up by preening, his mind stays in the most receptive frame! I then hold myself up as a looking glass that he might better preen his feathers and not be distracted from his receptive mind-set.’

  ‘Yes, my dear. You have thus used me effectively many a time.’ Pierre laughed. I smiled as we shared this moment together, and then I begun my evening’s writing. My presentation must claim perfection if it was to hold up against scrutiny, and it would be examined many times before even the king would be allowed the slightest sight of it.

  30

  8th day of October, 1687

  Five months. Five months since the king bestowed his mercy upon me. Pierre warned me that I must not cleave to the anger, which was my constant companion for the seven horrid years since I was first sentenced and imprisoned. He told me I must act grateful for such kindness, that it had not been necessary to give it, since I did, as a matter of inescapable fact, act against the law of the Three Kingdoms. I must obey the law as did every person and, if I did not, I should be punished as was every other that did not.

  But I could not have faith in a law that said writing a book such as Malice Defeated was worthy of so high punishment as I had borne, no matter the boldness of it. The king’s mercy could not bring the full redemption it should. I would forever carry the mark of a criminal, though I was guilty of no other thing than compassion.

  If they thought truth could so easily be shut away, they were wrong. It could never be. There would always be some that talked and kept it alive. And, if they thought we should not care about truth, that we should not see it, nor do a thing about it, then they deceived themselves. No law could close every person’s eyes and cover
every person’s ears, no matter the degree of coercion.

  Old man Cellier rubbed his hands as he doddered toward the fireplace. His clothes were awry. He scratched his bare head as he sat, no longer caring for a periwig about the home, and took his pipe from the table. I smiled and returned to my writing. After a few lines I was disturbed again when Pierre pushed to his feet and patted his jacket pockets, looking for tobacco.

  ‘‘Tis where you left it, on the sideboard,’ I said.

  I gathered folios of paper together in a neat heap on the desk as Pierre walked to the sideboard and found his pouch of dried leaves tucked into a fine china cup, displayed there as part of our best table service. I did not much like the smoke of many pipes together, but a single one I found I could endure most comfortably, and certainly it was a better habit than the snuff-taking that some gentlemen took to. Did we not see enough of that sneezing over persons during the Black Death of ’65?

  Pierre moved slowly, his bones not so ready to do his bidding as he would like them to. He took up the small pipe tongs from beside the fireplace and picked a glowing wood ember to light his pipe. Once he had sunk back into his chair, I returned to re-reading my proposal. I was inordinately pleased with it. It was entitled:

  A Scheme for the Foundation of a Royal Hospital, and Raising a Revenue of Five Or Six-thousand Pounds a Year by, and for, the Maintenance of a Corporation of Skilful Midwives, and Such Foundlings Or Exposed Children as Shall be Admitted Therein, Etc.

  My wordy title did not bore the king and I was satisfied that he showed himself more receptive to my ideas than his brother, may The Lord protect his soul. His fast approval was especially satisfying, since it was given before the Queen had found she was with child.

  It pleased me that the copious records I had set down in this account of horrid treatment and deaths of infant-bearing women and their babies, through the bad training of midwives, had served their high purpose. But I did not wrap it up so tight. Since I had spun my web of ideas of how the midwife college might take under its wing all the abandoned babies and infants of the city I had added further details to the scheme. The king was impressed that the wherewithal for it all would be raised from the training fees of the midwives themselves. The sum of five or six thousand pounds a year would cover not only the building of the hospital, and the maintaining of it, but also the training of a corporation of skilful midwives with not a penny coming from his own vault.