The men on the counsel had examined me at length before the king, and tried to make me fall over myself. They called forth witnesses, though it was no trial, and judged me though there was no jury.
‘When were you in Flanders?’ said the Lord Chancellor.
‘I never was,’ I said.
‘You were,’ he said.
‘I was never out of England,’ said I.
Then they made a deal about the story of a man named Adams that Dangerfield and I had drunk too much ale with at the Devil’s Tavern, for he had cheated me of five hundred pounds. He would rather I didn’t collect it and was bound to speak against me. I denied his insistence I was abroad when I had never been out of the country in my life. Why they were fixed on this, I could not tell, but they came back to it over again. Being neither here nor there whether or not I had crossed the sea, I said, ‘If I said so I lied.’
It was a mistake to have said so, for then they did not let that slide.
‘If you lied then, how should we know if you tell the truth or not now?’ said one skinny fellow with a nose like an axe and a chin with a cleft the nose might have struck.
‘My Lord, ‘tis one thing to tell a tale in a Tavern, to a man of his understanding, and quite another to tell a lie before a council or court that seeks the truth and where everything said ought to be as an oath. I am not in the habit of lying, nor, like some, do I make a trade of it.’
Then the fellow, Adams, said he would have put more in the deposition, but that I had spoken too bawdy and that it embarrassed him.
This interested the king. He seemed to relish it.
‘What? Can she speak bawdy too?’ he said.
‘She can do anything,’ said the Lord Chancellor.
‘Well, come now, man. Tell us the story!’
Adams looked to his feet and shuffled them around.
‘Come on, man, speak out!’
‘She…she…she said she would always have money as long as she had her hands…and as long as…’ He blushed to tell the king the rest.
‘As long as what?’ said the king.
‘As long as men kissed their wives,’ I went on.
‘Well that is no secret.’ The king’s mouth drooped.
Not to disappoint the king, Adams finished. ‘On my oath, she said their mistresses too!’
‘Well, what else do they keep their mistresses for if not to kiss!’ I said.
‘That was very witty,’ said the king, ‘but only natural to her practice.’
I was happy not to need to explain to him the midwives task of bringing forth a woman’s seed when she suffered from melancholy, or when she was wishing to have a child but her seed was not forthcoming. I was also pleased to leave the king on this high note, for I might need to appeal to him for my life.
I had paper, pen and ink enough from the Gate-House, where Sir Waller first sent me, to write some other short notes, and thought to write them to my little Peter and Maggie lest they worry for me, and also one to Lady Powys. In all, I wrote and sent five letters, wrapped with some bottoms of threads I had been using to embroider a cushion for Pierre’s chair and still had in my pocket. The last was to Lord Castlemaine, to beg his kindness in providing bail for me. If they had no two witnesses to stand against me, then they could not arraign me and must let me free or release me with bail.
The maid was a woman twenty years my junior, that seemed so happy to share my room I was certain she could have no man to share her bed elsewhere. She was happy to deliver my letters for a small sum, then returned to lie beside me. She was so chummy with me, I was reminded of how Willoughby had pretended cosiness to Stroud to discover information, and was careful to say no more to her than I intended any scheming ear to hear. They tried and tried to catch me out, but I would not wrong-step my foot in their snare.
Four days after I was taken from my house, that rogue Willoughby, or rather Dangerfield, as I now knew him to be, came to my window.
At first I pretended he was not there, and looked away when he called to me, but his persistence was mulish, and he called again and again. When I looked on his face, I saw not the ally I once thought him, but the one who now might take my husband’s wife, and my children’s mother. The bile rose in my throat, and I swallowed hard and turned away.
‘Madam, madam. Pray speak to me, and tell me how you do.’
‘I am sick, very sick of you, you bloody barbarous villain.’
‘Pray madam, speak low, and do not discompose yourself,’ he said, lowering his own voice as if a conspiracy.
‘Nothing you do can discompose me. I despise you so much, but I am not angry,’ I lied. Of course I was angry. Why would I not be, betrayed as I was.
‘I am very glad of it. Then I hope you will have the patience to hear me speak. Pray, how are they treating you?’
I was in no mood for sweet talk, but I did not prevent it. I tried to think why he should be so friendly.
‘Much better than I expected,’ I said truthfully.
‘Have you had any to come and see you?’
‘No, nobody.’ Who did he expect to come, one of his new cronies?
Dangerfield, it was an unfamiliar name for a familiar face, lifted the material on his arms and showed me where the skin was worn away. If it had been another, I might have had some compassion left for him, but I fast lost any when he began to wail, ‘I am sorry you have been confined. I could not help it. Look how I have been tormented. I was unable to bear the misery longer. If I did not accuse you and others, I would have died there!’
‘Bloody villain, I am not confined – stone walls and iron bars do not make a prison for innocent conscience. But you are confined. You are one of the Devil’s slaves.’ I frowned. ‘I have been good to you. Which of my good deeds do you seek my life for?’
Dangerfield cried then, ‘You shall not die, nor receive any other hurt!’
I stood tall then and faced him. I would not have him think his betrayal hurt me.
‘You wicked wretch! I do not fear death, but desire it! Rather that than as you have done. You belie the innocent to save your own infamous life!’
‘I tell you I am sorry. I have lived so sinfully, I must not die yet, for if I live longer I may yet repent, and the merciful God may forgive me. The confederates promised me a pardon for joining them. I have unburdened all they wished of me to the king.’
My skin crawled at his self-serving behaviour and I rubbed my arms.
‘Do you think you can wipe away your other sins by committing new perjuries and murders?’ I asked him.
Then he made me listen to the sorry tale of how he had been deserted by every person in his life, and of how he was so alone that none would have saved him from hanging or, worse, of starving alone in prison. He looked woefully at me then, even though it was me that had arranged for him to be fed every day from my own kitchen.
‘Woe is in me that all the world does ride me!’ he said, more sorrow for his own situation than I could find in me. Then he complained that if anyone had cared about him enough to even take him before the Bench, he would have been merely pilloried, and would not have been as villainous as he was now. I knew he was so friendly with the stocks he would have been grateful for that small mercy. So, the ungrateful wretch said, since nobody took any care of him, he had good reason to take care of himself. Then he revealed a new twist to his tale.
‘Those I belong to now are very kind to me, and send me great encouragements. I shall have a pardon within two or three days and be set at liberty. Before I go, I should be very glad if you will consider your own condition, and not ruin your family. Your maid Susan will swear against you, and two other persons have been found that will lay worse things to your door than have I.’
I cried out, ‘You villain! You know ‘tis all lies. I never did a thing wrong.’
‘Though you did not,�
� he said, ‘they will swear you did. Come join the most powerful side whilst there is time. I have been told you can make your own conditions.’
It was then I realised that they laid another snare for my life, and had likely set a rogue behind the door to hear what I said. The case for this was made stronger by what Dangerfield did then.
He showed me gold and said, ‘See here. This is your reward if you will speak up to the king. ‘Tis no use supporting the Duke; he will be destroyed in Scotland. The king himself will soon be gone and there will be a republic, ruled by a government, and the king will be sold out. If you will say the Duke gave you the original papers that were copied and found in your house, and if you say you bid me plant them in Mansell’s Chamber and to kill the Earl of Shaftsbury, then we will be well together.’
‘How so?’ I asked him, not wishing to say anything to darken my case. He gained confidence by my not shooting him down.
‘Why, you shall have a pardon like mine, forgiving every thing against you.’ He paused, looked to the air for ideas, then added, ‘And you will have more money than all the witnesses together have been promised.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said, leading him. ‘And how is that possible?’
‘The Earl of Shaftsbury and the rest of the confederate Lords will raise ten thousand pounds, and they would make an Act of Parliament to pay you for as long as you live. If you do this, some honourable person will pretend to come and examine you but, instead, they will settle everything to your satisfaction!’ Dangerfield showed how well he knew his sponsors, and closed his case as solemn as any man of the law.
I laughed out loud, and said, ‘Cowardly wretch, you are worse than your elder brother Judas! At least, having betrayed one innocent, he repented and returned the thirty pieces of silver to those who hired him to seek false witnesses for themselves, and, further, then had courage enough to hang himself. But you have betrayed and belied many innocents, and yet you are such a coward to wait for the hangman. And hanged you will be. He that digs a pit for another shall fall into it himself. Repent now, you rogue, and tell the king who set you on, for you will certainly be damned if you do not.’
Dangerfield lost his composure and howled like a dog with the toothache. Again he showed me his arms, where the skin was worn off with irons or chords.
‘Look to my arms, madam! I would never harm you or anyone, but I have been wracked and tortured, and knew not what I said!’
‘Cowardly wretch! You shed the blood of so many innocents to save your worthless life and then are so wicked to try to subvert witnesses to belie the best of men. Look to your elbow and see the Devil stand there. I assure you, he will tear you to pieces alive.’
Dangerfield wrung his hands and continued to howl. ‘I am so sorry, so sorry. I shall do as you say. Tomorrow I shall write down the whole intrigue, with the names of the lords and others who have promised to make me comfortable, and I will give it to you, if only you will forgive me the wrong I have done you!’
I assured him, ‘I would forgive you, though you are the Devil Incarnate, if you will repent and leave your villainy. But do not pretend piety; for dissembled piety is double wickedness.’
He stopped crying for a moment, and asked, ‘Do you think other persons I have accused will forgive me?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘if you truly repent, I am in no doubt their charity and prudence will oblige them to forgive you.’
He then blabbed how kind the Earl of Shaftsbury and others were to him, and how they had promised him great things, but he would repent anyway, and tell the truth, so God might have mercy on him. I tired of the scene he was creating with uncertain sincerity, and moved away from the window. I sat on my bed and picked up a book Mrs Richardson had lent me, and pretended to be occupied by it. After a while he went away.
At day break next morning, Dangerfield again stood at his window across the way, and threw little coals at mine to catch my attention. The thought of seeing him tired me, so I ignored him. When he did not go away, I opened the window to tell him to stop. Someone must have visited with him last night; or maybe greed for his life or gratuities had won him over, for he was returned to his usual wickedness.
Straight away, he tried to have me belie the Earl of Peterborough and say he gave me those papers and that I had received a thousand pounds in gold from Sir Allen Apsley to pay Dangerfield to murder the Earl of Shaftsbury, and to raise soldiers against the king.
‘How dare you let the Devil speak to me through your mouth, you worst of rogues! ‘
Again, he told me, ‘No harm will come to you,’ not understanding anything I said to him yesterday.
I could only reiterate what I said before. ‘Innocence fears nothing. If I have done no evil, I cannot fear it.’ It was no use speaking to him further; for he was beyond the help I could give him, so I closed the window on him.
All day, I could see him pining outside the window to talk to me, shedding crocodile tears, and begging me with his hands to come and talk with him. The reward he would receive for turning me to the other side would be lost to him if he did not complete his task, but that was for him to mourn, not for me.
About four in the afternoon, I tired of his noise and pathetic expressions, and opened the window.
‘Blood-thirsty, ungrateful villain, what have you to say to me?’
He wrung his hands and lamented, ‘Madam, please don’t be vexed with me. I am fully resolved to tell the truth, and if you would promise I should be pardoned, I will show you how to turn the malicious plans upon their own heads.’
‘How can I believe your word when the wind blows it all over the place!’
‘Would you believe me if I write it all out for you? I could tie a coal to it and throw it in your window. Here, let me try this apple.’
He flung an apple he had in his hand, but the apple fell short.
‘Oh no! I am lost. I hid something in it!’
He suddenly disappeared from view, and I supposed he ran down in great haste to fetch it back, but those who set him up were more fearful I should convert him, than hopes he should pervert me and did not send him to come any more to the window.
Then there was a great clamour in the gaol and the gaoler pretended to discover our interview, though they must have heard it all. Later that evening, Sir John Nicholas came to search and examine me. I told him the truth about everything but that part which related to the Duke, the Earl of Peterborough, and Sir Allen Apsley, for I did not want to implicate them in any way. I also pretended not to understand the reason Dangerfield showed me the gold – though their knowledge before I told them this showed how they had been spying.
Thanks to Dangerfield’s act, the gaolers came and nailed the window shutters closed both on that side of the chamber where he was, as well as the other, so I was left with so little air it made me faint. When I tried to take out a pane of glass, which gave little relief, they came and put in another. That gave them another reason to search, with every strictness, my chamber again, even unfolding and searching my linen, and cutting my bread into small pieces, though what they searched for they would not tell. I supposed it might be the blade I took the pane out with, or perhaps they thought Dangerfield had passed me something of importance.
They found nothing, for I was brought there with nothing.
The next day, almost suffocating, I asked the brawny Captain Richardson if I might find some air, and was surprised he let me go into a room on the inner side of the building that looked towards the doctor’s garden. I remarked to myself as strange a pair of rough looking men standing in the middle of the room holding hands, but my eyes stayed locked onto the open window, and the clean air. I did not straight away see some others standing at the edge of the room until, suddenly, I was startled by a raucous chorus of two deep voices shouting ‘Barley!’ followed quickly by a mixed pair of voices from elsewhere shouting ‘Break!’
I t
hrew my arms around myself for protection in fright as the room came abruptly alive with many men and women loudly squealing and squeaking like rats and weasels as they tried to run past and dodge the couple in the middle that tried to catch them and make them take their place in ‘Hell’. I had not played Barley-Break for many a year. To see prisoners – perhaps guilty, perhaps not, but all that were fortunate in pocket to not be locked with those poor souls in the dank cells of the inner prison – running free as children through the prison seemed incongruent with my present predicament.
There was such a commotion I was sure I did not know how I reached the window, but when I was there, such a noisome smell came from the yard, I gagged and rather chose to be locked up in my own room. My heart raced as I battled my the way back through the ebullient prisoners another time and was shoved and jostled in one direction and another, so I was further certain I would lief die between the walls of my cell than take exercise through there again!
20
25th day of November, 1679
Lady Powys removed the lavender scented hand-kerchief from her nose only long enough to comment, ‘Well, if you had seen Mrs Behn’s latest play – The Feign’d Curtizans – she fair outdid herself last week! I am sure Betty Currer’s prologue would have delighted you, Lizzie; how she spouted humour about plots in such delicious manner.’
My Lady might have been reminiscing in the finest drawing room of society if she had not muffled the last of her words as she covered her mouth with the kerchief once more, and if her hand did not betray her discomfort by shaking. I remembered how I was the same when I first came to Newgate a year and more ago, a place so much more vile than here in Richardson’s lodgings, so I made an effort to keep my mind on her silly prattle and engage in the pleasantries as if it were mere after dinner conversation.
The Popish Midwife Page 22