The Popish Midwife

by Annelisa Christensen

  12bottled/preserved juice made from unripe (green), still sour, fruit and used to flavour sauces and dishes.

  Between courses, Lady Powys was so good as to show off her two pretty servant girls, dark as any I saw in Newgate, and as colourfully dressed in their finery as any I had seen in the palace. The father of this exotic pair, she informed us, came to England on a merchant ship from Guinea, and now worked as the Powys’ head groom. When we had finished admiring them, they left to fetch the next dishes.

  Though I warned him against it, I expected Willoughby to betray his previous dwelling by engorging himself in the manner of an animal, as he had so ravaged the bread I had brought to the prison, but he conducted himself with the civility of a gentleman. In fact, he ate delicately and surprised me by declaring himself full long before the rest of us. My husband, seeing how perplexed I was, and with more knowledge of such things than I, spoke.

  ‘It is commonly said that a man’s stomach will shrink when he does not partake of victuals for a long while.’ His harsh tone surprised me, considering where poor Willoughby was recently held, and his look toward Willoughby was equal in severity. The topic of prisons had not been opened, but now it was no longer to be avoided.

  On being asked, I told a little about some prisoners in Newgate, amongst them that most delightful man, Charles Baker, that was accused of being a priest in Wales, I had met on several occasions in the time he had lived there.

  ‘They call him by his birth name, David Lewis, and the turnkeys tell me he is to be further examined with regards to the Popish Plot,’ I said. ‘What right they have to condemn an old man like him for his goodness I do not know for, even in a gaol, he already has a reputation of being the kindest man. With my own eyes, I have seen him give another his last bite of bread, and also give his only blanket to a sick man that could not stand or sit!’ Familiar anger when I thought of his treatment took my appetite.

  For a while we quietly discussed this deed, then Lady Powys delicately probed Captain Willoughby, ‘What terrible sights must a man see in that place?’

  ‘Indeed, My Lady,’ he gave nothing of them away. ‘And it is my honour to be in the company of the good Samaritans who rescued me from such sights, and to whom I offer a most fervent hope of repaying their goodness.’ The sincerity in his eyes warmed every person at the table, but how oft he repeated the words begun to be tiresome, though I was pleased he determined to do so.

  ‘Tell us about this Strode character you have acquainted yourself with. Did he speak to you more of a plot?’ Pierre and I looked at each other at this indiscretion; she had not even checked if any servant was nearby. Mere mention of a plot by her might give authorities cause to charge her with conspiracy, and worse, her loose talk could put us all at risk. Any servant might be pleased to turn her in for a few coins.

  ‘He did not, My Lady, though it was not for want of trying. Neither spirits nor ale nor opium released his clam-mouth hinges.’ For a moment Willoughby leaned both elbows on the table as if weariness might better him. It was apparent he would sleep long and deep once he was allowed the luxury of a warm, clean bed. ‘But, for the price of freedom, he has vowed to come around and to no longer perjure himself. He has also vowed to give up to us proof of the perjury by Oate’s man, Bedlow, a letter to him from Bedlow that he keeps at his house.’

  ‘And this letter will prove the Catholic plot false?’ asked Lady Powys, her eyebrows raised.

  Willoughby leaned further across the table, his face momentarily lit by inner zeal. ‘The proof within it is that Bedlow was paid by Oates to speak false and will disarm him’.

  ‘That is for the exoneration of all who are wrongly accused,’ said Lady Powys. She would, of course, be thinking of her husband and the other four lords, who every person knew had been in the Tower many months in fear of their lives.

  ‘Indeed, My Lady, it would be advantageous to have such proofs of the double-plot, but we will have none unless we have that letter. In it, Bedlow admits to knowing nothing of the plot but what Oates told him, and shows he is therefore a false witness. All that he has said in court – to cause the death of Coleman and Ireland and the ones erroneously hung for murdering Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, and others since – all of this was fabricated by Oates.’

  ‘We must give aid to him then,’ she said. ‘Such proof may save the lives of so many others!’

  My husband interjected here, ‘Nay, My Lady. You must not say what I believe you say!’

  ‘The king has proclaimed that any who discover the Catholic plot against him should be rewarded. I merely propose, any who can provide proof that such is a dastardly plot against the Catholics should be rewarded handsomely. Is that not fair?’ Her jaw firmed as she clenched her teeth stubbornly together. I had underestimated the Lady’s inner strength.

  Pierre studied Lady Powys for some while, also knowing the truth of her words. She would pay well for such proof, but I suspected she would not care where that proof came from, or even if it were honest, so long as it would release her husband. Pierre saw this too, but did not follow with further questions or reproofs. Perhaps he also realised Lady Powys’s desperation.

  ‘Just as long as it comes from a good source, My Lady,’ he said, settling on a reminder to play close to truth.

  ‘I am sure Captain Willoughby would mark his sources well. Is that not so, Captain?’

  Willoughby had followed the conversation closely, and knew well what Lady Powys asked. He did not hesitate even a moment to answer. ‘My Lady, for you I will find witnesses against the sham-plot, though I have to search every corner of the land!’

  ‘Start at the house of Shaftsbury!’ I said, once I had finished my gulp of wine. ‘If he is the ringleader as you say, he will be a fruitful source, of that I am certain.’

  ‘Indeed, Madam.’ As Willoughby turned his whole attention to me, my heart pounded in my chest; and though I was long past the first flush of youth, heat flamed my face just as if I were not. I hoped it would be put down to that I was passing into the other side of child-bearing years, or the wine and warmth. He continued, ‘I will begin there, and then examine the business of every one of his cronies until I discover all of their wicked plans. Mark me, I am a man of my word.’

  He was so ardent I believed he would too.

  A bell rang twice somewhere in the large house. As if by consent, we fell to silence and listened to hear who called at this time. Not much was revealed by the sounds through the door but, shortly after, Margaret, still wearing her cloak, was admitted to the dining room.

  She brought with her a draught from the cool evening outside and also a written reply from Lord Castlemaine. As ever, she revealed little but calm. If ever she knew the content of the notes she carried she kept them close to herself and acted as if she did not.

  Without a word, she simply handed the paper to me with a bob, and kept her eyes lowered, as she should in polite company. It was not sealed, merely folded, and I begged pardon while I read the brief message to say he would meet with me on the morrow before noon, and that I need not reply but arrive at his house at a time that suited me, for he would be at home the whole day.

  ‘I thank you, Margaret. You may take your leave now,’ I dismissed my maid and she left.

  ‘Another message, before I go ma’am.’ Margaret leant her face close to my ear. I barely heard her words. ‘The coachman, Prance, has sent you a gift of a weanling colt for your trouble. He calls it Thor, and it awaits you in the stable at Arundel house.’ Then she was gone. As the door closed on Margaret, I folded the note and unobtrusively tucked it into my dress pocket for safekeeping. How kind of Prance to thank me for my services to himself and his wife with a young horse. But, perhaps I should not accept such gratitude, for it could bond us together in a way that might have tongues wagging, for any person might recognise it as one from his stable.

  ‘That was my cousin’s writing, I wi
ll warrant,’ said Lady Powys.

  ‘Lord Castlemaine,’ I nodded agreement. I told her I would meet him the following day, and she asked me to convey her regards to him.

  This settled, Lady Powys asked after several of the Catholic gentry with child she had interest in and that I had recently visited. When we finished the meal, we adjourned to the drawing room for coffee, a drink more popularly to be found in coffee houses these days, and not often drunk past afternoon, lest one must keep company with the stars. We passed the time pleasantly, and no more was said on plots or sham plots.

  As we were taking our leave, Willoughby revealed he had no place to sleep. Demonstrating she was not herself unmoved by the handsome young man in our midst, and perhaps it was the association of Willoughby and bed, a somewhat discomposed Lady Powys proclaimed, ‘Caution demands that you cannot stay here else you would be most welcome; but conscience will not allow your release from one hell only to be set in the middle of another! We must secure a room for your stay!’

  What could only be considered a mischievous gleam came into Willoughby’s eyes, a gleam that revealed he not only had knowledge of his potency but also of his ability to influence circumstance in his favour. Indeed, I near expected Lady Powys to insist beyond good breeding that he should stay with her, since it was obvious she had more than rooms enough for the purpose, but Pierre’s intervention prevented her from committing an indiscretion she would later regret.

  ‘There is an inn under the sign of the Goat in Drury Lane that might have a room. I will make enquiries if they have a bed for the night.’

  By good chance, they did, and after giving Willoughby ten shillings Lady Powys had generously bestowed upon him as a weekly allowance, Pierre and I continued by coach towards home. And as we went we talked.

  ‘You must be careful, my love. Lady Powys is a desperate woman, and she would have Willoughby wrong truth for her own ends.’

  ‘The truth is,’ I said, ‘we Catholics are falsely blamed for deeds we have not committed, plots we have not hatched. Is it so wrong to seek the truth of it all?’

  ‘Nay, chérie. Not if it is truth that is sought and found. But I do not trust Willoughby to find only the truth,’ he said, echoing my earlier thoughts. ‘You must discover if he is trustworthy.’

  ‘Pray, how should I do that?’

  ‘Find how the stars were aligned when he was born,’ Pierre crooked his arm around my shoulders and drew me towards him as the coach swayed to the sound of turning wheels.

  ‘You mean Gadbury?’

  ‘Perhaps our astrologer can tell you which way his personality lies.’

  ‘Do you think it necessary; can you not learn to trust him from past actions?’

  ‘There is something too charming, too fluid, about the man. He seems to flow into this role from another all too easily. I wonder if he would not fill any mould as long as it were lucrative enough.’

  I felt myself bristle and defend him, ‘I do not see what gives you cause to say so, but I vouched for him when I paid his debts.’

  ‘You are perhaps too trusting, Lizzie, but you must yourself know how spies are everywhere; especially where poverty daily holds hostages for ransom. Are you certain you should vouch for him when you know nothing of him?’

  ‘I will ask Gadbury. Distinction in his art gives me hope he can advise me wisely.’

  ‘And when you do, please remember me to him, Lizzie dearest.’

  He had known Gadbury for more years than we had been married; indeed he had introduced me to the astrologer, but Pierre’s confidence in the man’s skills remained uncertain.

  ‘I will tell him it is for one who you might employ to collect debts,’ I said, not wholly hearing Pierre. ‘Have you another message for him?’

  He laughed and said, ‘Not that he will not already have foreseen in the stars.’ And on that lighter note, I placed my head on his shoulder and enjoyed the remaining journey home in the security of his embrace.

  12

  13th day of June, 1679

  ‘I wonder to whom that rather dashing footman belongs?’

  The courtroom was crowded with people squashed together as in a compress, come to see the Jesuits on trial for their lives. They were accused on two accounts of treason – for being priests and also for conspiring against the king – and for either crime their hopes for acquittal were small. The lives of many had already been taken for much less, and Chief Justice Scroggs was sitting today, and he was not known for either fairness or leniency. The crowd would have their blood no less.

  Such large assemblies of people, sensibly prohibited with threat of severe punished in the year of the plague, had become commonplace once more. Though thirteen years had come and gone, they did not remove the unease of being tight with so many. Like visiting the gaols, I must every time decide if the good of being there outweighed the danger I placed myself in. This day knowledge of how the Jesuits faired in court tipped the scales against the risk.

  I turned to see to whom the man referred and was caught off my balance by how close the gentleman stood to my skirt. I could not step away; there was not any spare ground to move into, it being full of quality shoes treading on bare toes of some likely not long out of the debtors’ prison, or soon to be in it.

  Even for June, it was a hot, thirsty day, and what little air there was had been gasped deeply and without satisfaction into dozens of lungs before, and lay like a heavy cloak suffocating the courtroom. The sweat of so many tightly packed, riled-up onlookers glistened on faces like rain, and made dark patches under the arms of men, women, gentlemen and ladies alike.

  The room quivered with the activity of men and women cooling their flaming faces with anything to hand, whether pamphlet or book or fan imported from southern climes. Seeing the heat on others, I wiped the sweat from my own brow and unfolded the sticks of the very latest of fine paper fans, depicting a coach travelling through a rural scene, that Pierre had recently imported for me from France, and fanned my own burning face. I was never more thankful for a thing that I had so recently thought a luxury but I now considered a boon.

  Still wondering to whom ‘the dashing footman’ belonged, I followed the direction of the gentleman’s eyes towards the spectators and witnesses yet to be called, which included a large group of young men, our guests from St Omer, and saw that Captain Willoughby did indeed cut a dash as he leaned over to serve some gratefully received beer.

  A fair periwig altered his appearance dramatically from the dirt smeared, dark-haired, bony wastrel staring out through the iron bars at me with pleading eyes. Though he had not yet gained much under his skin, and his bones still dominated his skeletal appearance, he had regained an air of finery no gaol could eliminate from his blood. The pearl on his ear caught my eye, and I wondered that he should use his money on such frippery, though I could not deny he was looking rather dapper.

  The captain was here, however, in more than the capacity to serve the fledgling Jesuit scholars, which I had asked him to do. Our Lady Powys was good enough to talk with her husband and the other Lords in The Tower, and when they found how nicely Willoughby was able to take dictation, they elected to make good use of him, and now employed him, for a good wage of three pounds a week, to write a fair account of this and other trials, and to carry messages for them.

  Now he took the empty beer glass from master Townley and, as he stood, looked in my direction, saw me watching him and winked. The refinery he had regained came with an element of cockiness. Rather than respond, I turned my attention back to the gentleman that had noticed him and said, ‘Indeed, he cuts a fine figure, does he not? That footman is my husband’s man, but has kindly offered to serve our guests from Flanders in court today.’ I hoped my flush was not visible amongst so many flushed faces.

  ‘You are acquainted with the Jesuits?’ he asked.

  I was hard-pressed to fathom whether the increased int
erest in his voice was for good or bad. It would be a fine day when suspicion of spies did not colour every conversation.

  ‘I am acquainted with the Duchess of York, and she appealed to me to take in the boy witnesses as a favour to her.’

  ‘So your loyalty is not with the Jesuits. They are guilty, I own?’

  ‘Am I a judge of that?’ I said, drawing on inner composure since in this heat I had none to support me outside. ‘How do you suppose I might decide their guilt before the trial has begun and if the jury is not yet to make a decision? I am sure, as any fair-minded person, I would hear their testimony and that of their witnesses before making any judgement, for we are not so knowledgeable of more than the indictment at this time. Is this not so?’

  I hoped I cloaked the scold enough to avoid reproach. I imagined myself in the scold’s bridle, an iron muzzle that sat round the head with a spike in the mouth that prevented the wearer move their tongue. It was a cruel device that was brought down from Scotland, designed to punish those that spoke out of turn, or those that were thought to. Good fortune had the man distracted as the judges and spectators returned to the business of the court by Judge North banging his gavel on the table.

  I held little conviction this gentleman was more than a spectator of other people’s lives, and was certain he would not have a thing to add to any. I excused myself politely, hardly noticed by my brief conversational partner. I would lief have been with the St Omer’s boys, but the crowd would not allow my reaching them, so I shuffled to a position I could better see. I was close enough to the door so that, if a breeze happened by, it might make my acquaintance.

  A dozen judges and court officials sitting at the Bench, all wearing long, grey periwigs except one that sported his own curly, brown hair long, finished talking amongst themselves but continued to sip occasionally from their cups of beer. I knew most of them from sitting in on other trials this last year.