A Vision of Light

by Judith Merkle Riley

  The castle was an old fortification, dating from King William’s time. We first saw it as a long, low silhouette on rising ground, the square keep visible above heavily fortified walls, below which ran a dry moat filled with sharpened spikes. Behind the walls spread the bailey, a hive of activity. With the poor village of thatched huts huddled beneath the castle, and the wide fields surrounding it, it comprised a complete and self-sufficient little kingdom: it possessed smiths and armorers, carpenters and stablemen, weavers and cooks and butchers. In short, in any time of disaster the castle might sail alone on a sea of troubles like Noah and his ark. It contained all that was necessary to repopulate the earth.

  What a shock it was, for us who had become so accustomed to isolation, to see around us again the hurry and bustle of life. As our little party clattered over the drawbridge and beneath the gatehouse, we gawped about us like rustic idiots. Our companions could not help but notice and took on the smug look of natives showing pilgrims a splendid shrine.

  The bailey courtyard, though walled in stone, was full of every sort of wooden structure, from fine stables to lean-to sheds, which housed implements and the poorest hangers-on. And in a way the castle was like a city. With the comings and goings of the villagers on business, the regular garrison, a motley contingent of mercenary crossbowmen, and the constant stream of visitors and guests, no one quite knew who was there at any given time. Here was a huge war-horse being led from the stable, and there were sweating hunting horses being rubbed down. Dogs ran everywhere; geese in a pen awaited the cook’s knife. Servant boys loafed by the gate to get a chance to stare at any newcomer. Our companions took us to the stable, where a stableman had his people look after the ass, while he himself saw to the unloading of our variegated baggage at his own and his wife’s little apartment by the stable. We were taken immediately away to the great hall, which occupied the main floor of the keep, above the guardrooms and the cellars.

  Lady Blanche lay in one of the retiring-rooms of the great hall that had been fitted out as a lying-in chamber. She was surrounded by a crowd of ladies that included her two oldest daughters. The addition of two wisewomen scarcely made a difference in the number of activities taking place. One older lady was bathing Lady Blanche’s temples with rosewater; two others held her hands while she writhed and moaned. A servant mumbled prayers in a corner, while another made ready an elaborate birthing chair and baby bath. A priest—who I later learned was Father Denys, the family chaplain—was burning incense and sprinkling holy water, while he offered the blessing for women in danger at childbirth. Lady Blanche’s favorite hunting hounds, who had been shut out of the room, whined and clawed at the door with each groan that she made. Over one of the long perches by the head of the bed were flung her cloak and surcoat; on the other her falcons paced uneasily up and down, their bells jingling.

  When we were announced, a tall and graceful girl, Lady Blanche’s eldest daughter, detached herself from this knot of activity and explained to Mother Hilde that the labor was early, and the child’s life was feared for. Way was reluctantly cleared for Mother Hilde, who felt the huge belly discreetly through the skirt of Lady Blanche’s kirtle, put her ear down and listened, and then made private examination that included the gateway of birth and the bedclothes. Then she looked at the white, drawn face of Lady Blanche, and said, “I believe this is a false labor, and will cease only to begin again later. But there is great trouble. The child is laid sideways.”

  “And so said I!” said one of the ladies.

  “As I thought too!” whispered other voices triumphantly. All women like to be experts at birthing.

  “As you high ladies doubtless know already, my lady must rest and be strengthened with dainty food in preparation for the true labor, which is indicated by the gushing forth of water.” Mother Hilde’s strong, calm face had already greatly decreased the tension in the room, although even her most gentle words seemed to have little effect on Lady Blanche.

  “The child is still safe inside, for I felt it move. In the meanwhile I have a medicine that strengthens the body of women in childbed. But most necessary of all are your prayers that Our Lord will see fit to shift the position of the child, for that is the most needful thing.” This was the first I had seen of Hilde’s cleverness at dealing with a bad birth. There are times that tact, explanation, and the appropriate appeal to heaven are all that preserve a midwife’s life, particularly when she deals with great ones. Hilde clasped her hands piously and added, “I have never seen an early labor cease so easily, in all my many long years—I can only attribute it to the effect of sincere and powerful prayer to the seat of mercy itself.” She had the measure of Father Denys. He stepped forward to take the credit, addressing the exhausted and uncaring Lady Blanche in the most amazing voice. It was at the same time both oily and lisping, marked by an affectedly elegant accent that somehow caught in his nose, as if speaking in English, rather than French, caused some sort of unpleasant smell.

  “Most revered lady, I have gone many sleepless nights to offer prayers for the safe delivery of your son.” Mother Hilde shot me a sharp look, and we both realized at the same time that Father Denys was in as much trouble as Lady Blanche was and we were. He had evidently promised a son. That is unwise for anyone who claims the ability to communicate with heaven, for God, as I have told you I learned from Mother Hilde, is something of a practical joker.

  Lady Blanche was by now being helped to sit up with pillows. She was in truth Blanche, that is, white, for the long braid that fell over her shoulder was so blond as to be almost white. Her thin, tense face was as white as linen and her eyes of so pale a blue as to be almost transparent. As she looked about her with a shrewd and careful glance, I surmised that her heart, if she had one, was white too—as white as hoarfrost or new ice. Now, propped upright, but almost buried in the rich fur coverlets that had been thrown over her for decency, she looked directly at me and said, “But you, the second wisewoman. You are not a peasant.” It was both a statement and a question.

  “No, my lady.” I curtseyed.

  “Who and what are you, then?”

  “I am freeborn and a widow.” It was perhaps even true, for how could my husband have escaped the dreadful contagion to which he had abandoned wife, child, and servant, flee as he might?

  “So young to be a widow. What was the cause?”

  “Plague robbed me of my family, my lady, and I alone was cured of the disease by this wisewoman, Mother Hilde.” Her eye wandered to Mother Hilde.

  “Then you are indeed a powerful wisewoman. Good. Deliver me my son safely, and I will reward you richly. And if not”—she shuddered involuntarily—“then God help us all.”

  There was a pounding on the door and a roaring: “Where is my son, lady? Born live or dead again?”

  The women fled to the corner of the room like a flock of frightened chickens. The door burst open, and Baron Raymond of Monchensie, oblivious to all propriety, strode in fresh from hunting. The dogs bounded in before him. Behind him stood a retainer with his favorite falcon, hooded, on his glove. Lord Raymond was of medium height, powerfully built, with strong features that were coarsened from gross eating and much drink. His hair was of medium length, dark brown, but thinning, and he had a well-trimmed little beard and mustache, shot through with gray. His cloak fell open to reveal a fine brown wool hunting tunic. The spurs on his high boots clanked with each step.

  “Well, madame, how goes it?” he inquired loudly and bluntly, eyeing the empty cradle.

  Mother Hilde stepped up to him as boldly as if the presence of a man in a lying-in room were nothing at all, and answered with a low and humble curtsey, “My lord, the time is not yet come for the child to be delivered.”

  “Ha! The foreign wisewoman, eh? What we do try! Charms and doctors, prayers and pilgrimages! But by God’s body, woman, if you do not give me a son this time, the nunnery’s too good for you!” He clenched his fist, and his spurred foot jingled as he stamped it for emphasis.


  “The child lives, I feel it kick,” answered Lady Blanche weakly.

  “See that it stays so.” He turned in disgust and stamped out. Father Denys followed, bowing at his elbow, and after him the dogs and retainers made their exit.

  As they left, Mother Hilde and I exchanged looks again, and hers very clearly said, Out of the kettle and into the fire.

  But Hilde never sat about regretting anything. Her motto was always “Look only forward, and let the backward be,” and I had already learned enough from her to believe that God would rescue us another time. With complete calm Hilde discussed arrangements with the ladies. There was always to be someone in attendance on Lady Blanche, day and night. Her servants and ladies already slept in the room. But now one of them must be always awake through the night. As the time grew closer, we would join the vigil, sleeping there too. In the meanwhile we had a place with the other serving-women, in the room behind the kitchen. Now supper was brought to the lying-in room for Lady Blanche and her highborn attendants; the rest of us went to eat in the hall.

  As evening had fallen, a few guttering candles had been brought to Lady Blanche’s room, but the hall itself was lit from end to end by blazing pitch torches. Their smoke mingled with that of the great fire in the hall’s center, and rose to hang under the roof, escaping only haphazardly through the louvre at the roof’s end. On the dais Lord Raymond sat in a great chair, his favorite falcon perched on its back, and his hounds around his feet. About him at the head table sat other knights and retainers, the priests of the chapel, and those ladies who had not remained in the birthing room. Below, at trestle tables, sat his men-at-arms and other servants, eating and drinking noisily.

  We were seated at the lowest table, with a group of women servants. It was hard to say which end of the hall was the rowdiest. At our end the air was thick with oaths and filthy stories; at the head table things looked more genteel. There the dishes were elegantly served by the squires, and after the carving Lord Raymond offered his favored guests the choicest bits with his own fingers. The baron and his dining companions were discussing the hunt, as they slipped food to the dogs under the table. The lower tables were more frantic. As soon as a choice dish appeared, a dozen knives flashed into it so fast that a person might lose a finger if they were too slow. When the carcass was picked clean, the very bones provided amusement, as they were flung to the dogs, or beneath the stair, where the orphans who lived there fought over them.

  The lower tables seemed to have lower conversation too. Our tablemates were hotly discussing the possible paternity of a child due to be born to a kitchen maid. Some said it was Sir Henry’s, others Lord Raymond’s, and a third faction proposed the head cook. Hilde and I shared a trencher and cup, and it was a good thing that she had fast hands, or we’d have dined on bread without pie. With my knife I shared out a bit of fowl I’d captured; we ignored the little spit-dog that begged at our feet. The rushes on the floor were deep and matted, filled with rotted food scraps and the droppings of animals. A nasty smell rose from them.

  The sound of clashing knives and fingers being sucked clean was interrupted for a moment, as one of the men at arms threw a bone to two competitive dogs, who tore into each other. The woman beside me laughed loudly, showing a gap-toothed mouth, and said, “You’ve come too late for the real fun. Last week, right at the dais, my lord broke Sir John’s arm for putting it down his daughter’s dress. Now, that’s entertainment.” I smiled nervously, and to be agreeable, said, “I’ve never been in such a big house before. Are they all like this?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the woman. “Never a dull moment. Lots to eat and drink—though the best things go to the dais. I ought to know—I’m assistant in the pantry—and plenty of entertainment, when my lord’s in residence. Jousts, dances. And lots of sporting blood. Let me warn you about that, since you look young and dumb. Never go anywhere alone in this castle. Even the ladies don’t. There’s too many men on the prowl for a little fun.” Then she laughed again. “You’d be surprised what goes on. Nothing is really secret here, unless we all decide we want it so. Those ladies, you should hear what they do with their lords’ pages! Ha! You eat best if you work in the kitchen, but you get the most amusement working in the bedchamber! You’ll find that out soon enough, you midwives.” Hilde and I nodded, trying to be agreeable. The woman went on, “You’re going to bring my lord’s son? Good fortune to you. He had the attendants beaten to death when his last son died. Poor little thing, he didn’t live two days. Mighty clever of Mother Alice to get a disease and beg off. She didn’t get old by being stupid, that’s what I say.” Then the awful woman laughed again, as my heart sank all the way into my shoes. We did not sleep well that night.

  But morning came, as it always does. And things never look so bad in the morning—especially when it is as cold, clear, and beautiful as this one was. Mother Hilde went off to check again on Peter, who had made himself useful in the stable, and I lingered behind to look at our new surroundings and rejoice in the way that, even in the midst of trouble, the sun still rises, the cock crows, and the birds sing. Well, perhaps I exaggerate, for all the birds fly away in this season except for crows and sparrows, and neither of these birds is famous for its singing abilities. But these were out in force, hopping about to examine the hot, steamy dung heaps on the icy ground for savory tidbits. Work had already begun: the smith’s banked forge fire had been brought up to a bright glow by his assistant’s bellows, and I could hear him singing and hammering. I could hear the rack, rack sound of the looms beyond open doors and watched the squires, who, having finished serving their lord at waking, now set about military exercises. How can bad things happen on such a morning?

  Hilde came bustling back with an invitation. Old Sarah, the wife of the stableman, was perishing for gossip from the childbed and wanted us to break our fast with her.

  “Now, Margaret,” Hilde admonished, “this is a great opportunity to find out things that may help us. Be careful not to say too much yourself, and for goodness’ sake, don’t start talking into the air the way you do.” How annoying. I hadn’t heard any voices for weeks, and Hilde was still holding it against me. But soon we were enjoying oatcakes and ale by the goodwife’s fireside and hearing about my lord’s four daughters, and their excellent qualities, and the fate of the only son.

  “The midwife was a new one. Mother Alice had a dreadful flux and couldn’t attend. This woman used a charm and sang it three times to make the baby come out. Then it did, but it never cried loudly or breathed well. So when it sickened, Father Denys said it was because she had used infernal arts to draw it forth. It faded fast. So my lord said the wet-nurse had poisonous milk. He vowed she’d never poison another man’s child, and after the funeral she died from the beating he ordered. He’s a hard man, Mother Hilde. I knew the girl’s mother. They were honest folk. She left a rosy boy of her own, when she was taken to feed his son, but her child didn’t last long. Ass’s milk is no good for babies.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” nodded Mother Hilde. “It’s not many babies live that are raised on a papboat.” I was silent. How could Mother Hilde stay so calm? She patted my hand, as if reading my thoughts, and said, “I’ve seen harder men than this Sir Raymond, but the Lord sends deliverance to those with strong faith. Why, let me tell you a tale about the old goodwife who taught me, now, she was the wisest woman I’ve ever known….” And so we exchanged several tales of hard births, which are coin of the realm among women, by way of cementing our friendship with the stableman’s wife.

  Then the talk went to hard husbands, and I looked at my fingernails and didn’t say a thing. We heard how Sir William had broken his wife’s nose, for talking back, and the size and composition of the rod that Sir Raymond used on Lady Blanche, for he had told the world that a gentleman was known for enforcing discipline without spoiling a woman’s skin. I silently vowed that I would never again marry, no matter what, and that if any man ever laid a rod on me again, I’d run a knife between his ribs while he
slept. My eyes must have looked hard, for old Sarah broke off and addressed me.

  “It’s clear you’ve never known a husband’s coldness. If only you did, you’d sympathize more. It all begins when they don’t want you in bed anymore. Once you’re ugly, they run around and beat you—the only thing they think you’re good for is cooking.” Then a tear ran down her face, and I was sorry for being heartlessly involved in my own thoughts. But it was hard to imagine her old Ailrich after anyone else. He was lucky enough to have her, I thought.

  “Hilde understands—but a young girl like you just can’t. I’ve tried everything—it’s such a small thing, you see, but that’s how it all begins.” She held out her hand. It had a cluster of crusty black warts on the knuckles.

  “With warts?” I asked. Hilde pinched me. She thought I was being saucy.

  “Yes. It’s small, but it’s enough. They’re on my body, too, if you understand what I mean, and no cure has worked. He says he’ll taint his member—oh, he’s cold and hard these days.”

  “Have you tried tying a red thread around them and singing—”

  Mother Hilde’s question was interrupted by Goodwife Sarah: “I’ve tried that, and holy water, and the toad’s eye, and all the rest. I’ve impoverished myself for wisewomen and priests. Why, I even made an offering to that hair of St. Dunstan’s that Father Denys keeps. He said it didn’t work because of some secret sin I was holding back in confession. That wasn’t true at all! It was useless, just useless.”

  Mother Hilde looked at me questioningly. I felt embarrassed and looked at the floor, but I nodded agreement.

  “There’s something else you might try,” she suggested.

  “Something else? Probably expensive, nasty, and humiliating. These things always are,” Sarah answered bitterly.