I took my quill and adjusted the nib to write another piece. Some person, a physician with little or no sense of our craft, had misused my idea for a hospital to attack women as midwives. That was a thing I would not allow! Indeed, I would hone my answer as an arrow and shoot it straight to the arrogant heart of him. I would not let him dissemble an honour that was centuries in the making. Nor would I allow him his barbed pokes at me! I would publish an open answer to him as he had done to me.
With my pen poised over the inkpot, I thought of the years since I had come from prison. I had been as a toad crawling from pond scum that none would look upon without smelling the prison, long after I had washed the last muck off me. Aversion was naked in the eyes of every person I knew, no matter how they tried to dress it. Furthermore, they were wont to choose any but me to do a midwife’s work until I lost the spirit to wear my cloak with pride when it was so plain unwanted.
How different it was then and now.
‘Lizzie, did’st thou find the Queen in good spirits and robust health?’ Pierre smacked his lips about his pipe.
‘I am pleased with her thus far. I am hopeful she will stay with child if she stays faithful to every instruction I have given.’
‘When will it come?’
‘In the summer, after fledglings have left their nests and before the corn is fat in the fields. She must practice patience for many months ere her son comes forth.’
‘Begad! A son, you say! Can you be so sure of it? I pray you have not talked wide of this.
‘I have told any that ask.’
‘Show caution, dear flittermouse. Not all will greet this news with joy. Many are satisfied the king’s line will pass to Mary, his daughter, on his death, for her reign would remove any alliance with the Catholic religion from the throne. If it is truly a son, then many will defend the crown from him!’
‘I have done tests, and I am confident the Queen carries a boy-child in her belly.’
‘Then you must not declare it. You may endanger the Queen’s life by saying so. You may also endanger your new position.’
I smiled. Though I argued for it handsomely, and held high hopes the king had wits enough to see how suitable I was as Secretary to the Company of Midwives, my proposed midwife college, I was unready for him to so readily agree. He did straight away declare how perfect I was for the commission and said he would make it official in due course. I held hope my forthcoming exalted status in St. James’ Palace would wash the last of the prison from me and I would be once more acceptable in society.
31
9th day of December, 1688
Mermaid Inn, Rye
ere the cock crows
Stay clear of London Road
Faith guide the blind
The ruddy-cheeked messenger that delivered this short missive limped away, still huffing and puffing as a horse from unnatural exertions. He asked for no answer by return, nor awaited one. His task here was done, though his whole task was not. He held a fistful of warning notes for all those he was instructed to call upon.
The use of the words ‘Faith guide the blind’ was the signal they had told us to expect at the last Huguenot meeting. ‘If the words come to you in any form, then you must run, and run fast. Take nothing with you.’
‘Faith guide the blind.’
Our vain hopes that we would not ever hear these words in our lives were dashed, for they signalled, truly, that our faith must now be tested by strangers in whom we had never learned trust. The words signalled that King James had either fled or died. Either way, the king had lost the battle for the throne and we must flee ere the sun heralded a new day. If we stayed, we risked everything. We risked our lives.
Pierre collected a single trunk hid in the cupboard. We had packed the trunk with personal items months earlier, back when news of the young prince caused mutterings of unrest, in readiness of this day.
I woke Isabelle, and she helped with the younger children. Maggie, ever wiser and quicker witted than her thirteen years could account for, awoke on the instant, grabbed her small, carved pearl box of cherished trinkets, where once she kept beetles, butterflies and pressed flowers, and made for the door. It took more to wake young Peter from his slumber, and longer still for our urgency to convey itself to him, for his head was full of things children should dream of: brave knights and the defending of our land from invading Dutchmen. There was no time to call the maid to dress him, so I helped him don his coat over his long-johns.
‘Ready yourself by the door. We should leave soon.’
Pierre left us with that instruction and called upon the servant quarters to warn them it was time for us to make good our escape. Those that were to come with us fast readied themselves, but those that chose to stay must also leave. They should not be found in our home for they were tainted by us and would suffer a fate no different than our own.
‘Have you fetched all that you ought?’ Pierre asked. We had oft planned this instant, when staying would be more dangerous than leaving. Before now, the right time did not present itself. Another infant would need my help to be born, another lucrative deal would call Pierre to seal it, but tidings of the king’s fall cut short our dawdling for it marked the time to flee for France.
As Catholics famous in our position, the risk to our lives was intolerable.
‘Aye.’ My nod was sharp. ‘Think you our Lord and Lady Powys have already learned what has come to pass?’
It was a mere stone throw into the past, some few months since, that Powys House was odiously attacked and ransacked; the second time such abominable events had occurred since Lord Powys was released from the Tower. In the first instance, they lost most every one of their possessions and barely escaped with their lives. With good fortune, this last time, His Lordship and Her Ladyship were partaking of country air when the mob stormed their house. Their home was lost, but they were not.
Though the new knick-knacks with which Lord and Lady Powys had since filled the house did not raise any needless sentimentality, this barely diminished how distraught they were on their return to find, once more, their house was barren and destroyed, and razed from proud stately home to burnt ruin, as after the Great Fire. Such act of malice, reminiscent of those done against my own childhood family, near finished Lady Powys, and would indeed have done so had her husband not been once more at her side.
It was then in that horrid time we made a pact that, if such a time came that staying here in this country was no longer tenable, we would together travel to the coast and purchase passage to France. There, good King Louis would protect us, for he had told King James his Royal Court would be welcomed. We were of that court: Lady Powys as Principal Lady of the Bedchamber and I, as principal advisor to the Queen’s midwife, Mrs Wilkes. My success in bringing the Queen to full term had hoisted me high in the king’s estimation and secured my place in the court.
‘I was in the city today. Lord Powys did stop his coach by me.’ Pierre bobbed his head toward the other side of the trunk as he spoke, indicating I should take the other strap. Together we carried the trunk to the door, where our three children still at home awaited us. What of our other children? I could not think of them. I could only hope they were making their own way to the port or had fled to the countryside. ‘He told me, if the worst acts were played out, and the Dutch came close, he would accompany the king and follow the Queen and Lady Powys to Paris and safety.’
So rumours were true, Queen Mary had already left the country, taking Lady Powys with her.
‘Did it seem as if he knew today would bring such sore news? He might have obliged us and given us fairer warning!’
I could not prevent a moment’s derision, though this warning was not unexpected. We had hung on tenters since news reached us a day or so ago, that the king’s married nephew, William of Orange, and first-born daughter, Mary, had landed with an army at the coast and were maki
ng their way to London. Successive messengers came with news the Dutch were closer and then closer still, but it was not dread we saw in the eyes and faces of the people of London. It was hope. No invasion this. It was by invitation. All for fear the infant boy-child would step into his father’s Papist shoes.
I had no thought there would be so much turmoil with the birth of James Francis Edward Stuart, the new Prince of Wales and healthy heir to the throne. It seems a Catholic king that has shown his colours might be forborne as long as the line ends with him, but a Catholic king that was a mere swaddling babe and might live longer than many of his subjects was more than could be endured. Religious tolerance shown by the father was not a prediction of his son’s actions. For who could read the character of one so far from manhood (unless you are the astrologer, Gadbury, I suppose)?
Furthermore, there were accusations that the Queen’s own female child had died at birth and was swapped for a changeling, a healthy boy, using a warming pan. Those who made this claim cannot have seen the size of her warming pan, if they thought a baby could fit into one. But this ludicrous claim was given credence by any who wished to believe it, rather than by those that sought the truth.
There never was any use talking to such persons. I had tried and failed. But, as well, I had tried to show them how their own religion and beliefs were as little tolerant of other beliefs as they accused of the Roman Church. Perhaps it was so, that every country destroyed all that did not comply with its majority.
We five of us stood on the threshold of the living room and looked this house once more in the eye that everyone knew was the hearth, or heart, of the place. It was as it had always looked, but it already missed us around the flame. I had called this home for eighteen years, notwithstanding my times in prison. I remembered my first children and my husband’s children playing around that hearth. They were ghosts that sang songs, read books and talked by candlelight long after sundown. I could see them – us – happy spirits, sad spirits that were ourselves. The only home these youngest three children had ever known, begged of me stay. So many memories clamoured for me to say goodbye, but I did not have time for them all.
This house had seen its fill of staying guests over the years – some pleasing and some that seemed honest until they removed their topcoat and revealed a Devil’s tail – all the spirits of them now came to life before my eyes, as if they had so much life in them still.
The boys from St Omer were some of those ghosts that now haunted the room. There they were sitting around the fireplace after a pleasing meal. Despite the danger of this dark night, one side of my mouth turned up, remembering lively debates and heated conversations that had brought us together and made all else about that terrible time bearable.
Unstoppable, Captain Willoughby, as we then knew him, came unbidden to my mind just as he came unbidden to our home, and joined our society of spirits. Despite that he later changed his name to Judas, at that time he was the biggest wit amongst us. Oftentimes, that jolly fellow, when he was one, had us laughing through the darkness of the night with his flowery language, ornate gestures and mimicking of persons of notoriety.
Toe to heel behind such congenial thoughts came the reminder of how, after many months breaking bread with him as one of the family, Willoughby had from that trusted place stuck the dagger deep into the vulnerable heart of us.
And if he was not of the name Captain Willoughby, nor of Judas, he was Thomas Dangerfield, villain and fiend who, in the likeness of the snake in Eden, came sliding into our warm nest, curled around us and leeched the warmth of life from us.
We thought we had released a harmless cage bird that sung his pretty song and preened his fancy feathers for the reason of his merely knowing he was a pretty bird, but, all the while, he was not a bird at all. He was a wiley fox that bit the hand that freed him. I shook deceptive memories from my head.
‘Come Lizzie,’ said Pierre. Not waiting to see if I did as he bid me, he went to pick up one side of the trunk. He might be frail, but he was ever determined to prove he could do as well as any young man.
‘One moment more, Pierre. ‘Tis too quick and I would take a moment longer.’
‘This occasion is not blessed with endlessness. We must leave now. They might already be coming for us!’
Nevertheless, I could not move until the apparitions were gone from that place. The phantom of Dangerfield raised his face to the roof and laughed that infectious laugh that had all persons around him find amusement where none would otherwise be. Facing that one was another spectre, the one that pleaded with me for his freedom from the odiousness of gaol. A more sorry sight one could not see, unless it was that of him as he was whipped through the city, the like of which I did not see.
Did Dangerfield deserve the nature of his death? I could not bear thinking of the man who had shared our meals and done such good service for us, our fine and quick-witted companion. But for the thief in him, the coiner and turncoat, his death was seemly and fitted him as a glove. I would never forgive him his sins, may the Lord have mercy on me. To my continuing shame, I could not acquit him with whole heart as did the poor Fathers that died on the gallows their false condemners.
Fast after Dangerfield disappeared from my sight came a vision of Titus Oates being whipped ‘til the skin came from his back. His life was spared though he cost good men their lives.
‘Mama! Mama!’ Isabelle took my arm and pulled. Her sob swept my family, the boys, Dangerfield and Oates from my inner sight. ‘We cannot tarry longer, Mama! They come for us!’
I frowned and shook my head. With difficulty, I banished the ghosts and in the instant saw Pierre and the children waiting for me, concern or, perhaps, urgency, holding them remarkably still, watching me. When I looked at Pierre, I saw not Pierre as he was now, but as he was when we took to being together in this house, and also the solace of seeing him standing at the edge of the crowd as I walked to the pillory when he gave me the baton. The strength he did give me then, and through all other times, did the same for me now, and I straightened my back.
‘Forgive me, I dwell too long in the past. Let us go.’ My voice trembled more than I liked. I firmly tied the ribbons of my black bonnet under my chin and pulled the black cloak tight around me. My red midwife cloak and bonnet were packed in my case along with other of my midwife things, things I hoped to use again in France once we were settled.
‘Come, Lizzie. Come children. Make haste. Our boat will not await us!’ said Pierre.
We followed him to the door where our coach now stood. Dowdal wrapped the reins around the holding strap, jumped down without using the step, and helped Pierre load our trunk and the children’s’ meagre baggage on the back in silence. Icy fog formed from their lips as they did so. There was room enough for only our family in this coach, two facing where we would go, two facing from whence we came. Maggie and little Peter squashed together as one. Any servants wishing to stay in our employ would close up the house and meet us at the boat to join the king in St Germaine-en-Laye.
In readiness, the groom held down the horses, fresh and braying, rightly surprised by their night time journey. The mid-winter nights were long, and the ends of many trips came in the dark, but not so many beginnings. None of us spoke as we took our places inside, but soon the creaks of the springs and rattle of the harnesses covered our silence.
No sooner did we turn the corner than the reason for our leaving stopped our coach. A mob of bawling men and some women stood in the middle of the street blocking our way. A person grabbed the bridle with such speed that the nearest horse to him jumped and bucked so I thought the coach would tip over. Through the blinds, I saw a rough man with a long beard and crushed hat coming towards the door and braced myself for confrontation.
‘Where do you run to with your packed cases in the night? Surely, you do not mean to leave the city and deny the new King! Oh? Did you not hear, we have a new King. Long live King Wil
liam!’
‘Long live King William! Long live Queen Mary!’ The crowd took their cue from the ringleader and chanted loud and together.
‘Let us through!’ said Dowdal with, I was pleased to note, more authority than request.
‘Running like rats from a fire! Stay and meet the new King! He itches to meet you!’ said a man different than the one that spoke before. The blinds hid most of the beast-crowd. I could barely see any man or woman, only an arm here or the back of one there now they were gathered close in front of the horses. Where was the man that had been coming to the coach door?
‘Shall we see what these rats look like ere their tails are all left behind!’ A woman, loud and close by. Raucous laughter. The handle moved and the door opened a crack. I grabbed the inside handle and pulled it back with a bang. It was straight away pulled harder, jarring my arms, and the woman shouted to the others, ‘Look! The rat hides in his hole! Come on out, Mister Rat, there are no mousers here!’ This time the door opened with such strength I could barely hold it. Pierre held his own side shut and could do nothing for me. The coach rocked violently from side to side as we tried and failed to hold the doors closed. Isabelle’s hands closed over mine, and Pierre’s, ‘Maggie, Peter, hold tight!’ told me they were helping him. The doors were little more protection than a cloak against a sword.
They rocked the coach harder and harder, so hard I feared it would tip over.
The Popish Midwife: A tale of high treason, prejudice and betrayal Page 40