The Popish Midwife

by Annelisa Christensen

  I thought on my hands being free now, and looked to see if there were any escape. The crowd had tightened the circle around the edges of the room, removing any chance of making a run for it, even if I were brave enough to try. None would allow me escape and deny them their entertainment! And, where could I go? There was no place I could go they would not find me.

  I was pushed behind a rail in the middle of the room, where those being tried are made to stand, with the judges to the front and the jury to my left.

  The room was spacious enough that I did not feel bound tight by the walls as I had at the Gate House. Spikes of sunlight shimmered with motes of dust through the window and landed on the faces and periwigs of the judges, and on the crowd of onlookers, both seated and standing, giving a false sense of hope. The sunlight uplifted the spirit in a way that belied the smell of sweat and dung I could only imagine came from the misbegotten worms that accused me that, though I had not yet seen them, must be close by.

  As when I stood in that busy court little more than a year ago, for the trial of the Jesuit priests that were condemned that very day, people fanned themselves with any manner of flat thing against the summer heat. I shivered as echoes of the priests’ voices passed through me. Such reasoned voices asked only to be heard fairly, but they were not.

  I looked over to where Dangerfield had waited on the witnesses from St Omer with such poise and composure, when he had looked so debonair. And then he had attended to me and made me flush with his gallantry. Where he stood then was a different place to where he stood this day. Now he stood falsely and traitorously against me and would be the death of me for none had yet survived the lies of the false witnesses. He may yet consider himself my executioner.

  I grabbed hold of the wooden rail supports I stood behind. My fingers poked into sticky cobwebs hanging between the posts, and I imagined the spider hiding somewhere out of sight, just as somewhere nearby a spider watched how I was caught in this courtroom web, waiting for me to tangle myself in its lies until I could not escape. And tangle myself I would, for this spider was an expert at catching flies and not letting them go.

  I noticed other breeze-blown, dust-covered, grey threads dangling, unreachable, from the high ceiling and in any corner of the room a broom would not fit. Is it not strange that my thoughts set themselves on a thing so small and insignificant when those very insects that trapped me there would soon suck my life out of me? But everything was both sharp and clear at the same time, as if it were happening not to me but to another. Mine was one more trial, but after I had gone and died, there would be others that I would never know about.

  I withdrew my hand from the cobweb, and moved it along the rail, until I found a good support.

  The polished woodwork was everywhere smudged by mucky palms, or dirty overcoats, and I quickly withdrew my hands when I touched a place that was rough dried like bark. I did not like to think what filth had left their mark there, though the place I had spent the last months was as bad, if not so much worse. It occurred to me that if I was not so put upon, I might have remarked upon the absurdity of such foolish thoughts.

  This was a veritable palace compared to the prison room I had so recently come from. Two hundred and seventy seven days, all counted, I had suffered in that place and I was more than happy to see any other room, even if for so short a time as it would take to convict and hang me. There was no use in holding onto hope, but even if hope had left me I must still do everything to prove my innocence, no matter if I lived or died. Only I stood between life and assured death, for only I was allowed to defend myself.

  I clasped in my hand several important pieces of paper, and in my head as many rules of law as it could hold. I must put up a fight for my life with every thing I had, and I was as ready as I could ever be, for I had many months to prepare. A lump in my throat refused to move and let me swallow. Without thinking, I put my hand to my neck and found my crucifix.

  I must pray. I imagined my eyes closed, though they stayed open, and I prayed to God for my salvation. Give me strength and wit oh Lord to find a way of proving myself, I prayed. If it was my time to be taken, then I would accept it gladly, for I did not fear death, only leaving life. I did not wish to leave my children and husband to tend themselves, when two were too young and one was too old. I did not remove the cross from its concealed place beneath my dress for fear of drawing attention to it. Instead I rested my hand over where it lay on my chest, fast rising and falling with each agitated breath, and drew strength from it through the fabric.

  Many faiths wore the cross, but on this day the very wearing of it might bring prejudice against me. A man might be charged with treason for standing against the king, by following a different faith and, they say, raising the Pope above him. In truth, this was what was meant by treason in this age, and had been so for many years, since the question of the king’s successor had arisen. Charles had no true heir but his Catholic brother. The people of the kingdom rather chose a government of strangers with the right religion than the rightful king of the wrong religion.

  Forsooth, I must remain vigilant, I reminded myself. My hazard was a real one. I was to be tried for plotting against the king on the word of perhaps a single man, not for my religion, though that is what it was come to, but for treason. I must keep my eye on the target of acquittal, and shoot arrows at Dangerfield’s unworthy testimony.

  Hassled witnesses and persons of the law pressed against unknown persons looking for a good show. Catholic-haters shone like lanthorns14 in the night, hungry anticipation on their faces for a hanging. They had me guilty before any proof was heard. One less foreigner, they would be thinking. I hoped to disappoint them.

  14 A candle lantern, where thin, opaque horn is used instead of glass.

  As was the custom, every person, whether sinner or sinned against, bowed their heads or stood silent as the judges entered the courtroom. Clothes whispered and feet shuffled as the fortunate few that had seats – the jurors – stood whilst the judges took possession of their own reserved area. Only wooden bars separated the seating areas for the judges and the jury; and the standing areas for the witnesses and spectators.

  Once the judges had sat, they either talked quietly amongst themselves or took a good look around the court to see who was in attendance. One peering at the Lords and Ladies through an eyeglass on a stick, and nodding to one or other of them when his inspection was returned.

  Many quenched their thirst with beer or wine, or spilt it as they jostled against each other.

  My fear was not allayed by the sight of one judge. Presiding over the court sat the one known to me from earlier interrogations: the judge that condemned many an innocent man based on false evidence of the Oates cohort; the judge that sent men to the gallows on the testimony of rogues; the judge that killed priests with such proof that would have been thrown out of court if it were held against any Protestant.

  Lord Chief Justice, Sir William Scroggs.

  I would receive neither sympathy nor fairness from him.

  I would be disposed of shortly, after all.

  ‘Swear in the jury,’ he said with vigour, without more than a brief glance at me. I do not believe he saw me at all.

  The twelve men of the jury stood to swear the oath. I recognised two of them from previous juries and, remembering my hours of learning, immediately spoke up, ‘I ask for that one be excepted,’ I pointed at the man I had seen before, ‘and that one too.’

  ‘For what reason, Mrs Cellier?’ said the recorder. ‘There must be a reason.’

  ‘They were at another trial and that might give them prejudice,’ I said. ‘I ask for any that have sat on other trials to also be excepted.’

  A few minutes later, the two men that were the only ones to admit to sitting on previous trials were replaced by two others. I did not know any of the other men, and could not see reason why they might not be as good – or bad –
as any other, and so the jury was set.

  The law was a powerful tool, I surmised, if you knew anything of it. More important, it seemed a person did not have to be a man of the law to use it. But, if I had been pleased that I had used the law to my ends, my triumph was a short-lived minnow.

  When the court’s clerk read out the indictment against me, buried in his own thorny observations, he was neither an admirer of mine nor was he partial to me in any way. I was disallowed to answer the opening speech. He took advantage of this to convict me before even a single witness was called. His predisposition, to suppose those tried for treason must be guilty, could not be more clearly tangled in his brambled words.

  ‘Here stands Elizabeth Cellier, wife of Peter Cellier, late of the parish of Saint Clement Danes in the county of Middlesex. She stands accused of plotting against our most illustrious and excellent prince, King Charles the Second. False faith prevents her eyes from seeing the almighty God and allows her to be seduced by the Devil and to forget her allegiance to her natural Lord and King. Instead she involves herself in dastardly plans to disturb the peace and tranquillity of this kingdom.’

  And he went on

  ‘On the first day of November 1679, the thirty first year of the good king’s reign, at her home in St. Clement Dane, with other, yet unknown, traitors, Elizabeth Cellier devilishly, advisedly, maliciously, cunningly, and traitorously consulted and plotted to depose the king with force and arms and to deprive the said king of his crown, by his death and final destruction. And, furthermore, not satisfied with such terrible imaginings, she has wickedly schemed with all her might to destroy the true religion of this land and to introduce the superstitious worship of the Church of Rome into this kingdom; to traitorously stir up a war against the king of this land; and to subversively overturn the ancient government of this realm.’

  The man rather revealed his own prejudices than mine, and I was sorely tempted to interrupt and defend myself, but it could hardly have helped my case.

  ‘How say you, Elizabeth Cellier, art thou guilty of the charge of treason whereof thou stand indicted, or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty,’ I said.

  ‘How wilt thou be tried?’ he said.

  ‘By God and my country.’ My voice rose to the occasion and reached every person there.

  ‘May God send thee a good deliverance.’

  My husband’s friend that I had known ten years or more, the astrologer John Gadbury, was sworn in as the first witness. He was brought here to testify against me, and knew enough that he alone might send me to the gallows.

  Gadbury was a peculiar man, so often lost in his heavenly world, and rarely anchored entirely in our own. When he did not have his eye to the planets in the heavens he was buried deep in the almanacs he wrote, and was, I believed, as eccentric as he told me the planets were. However, he was a sincere and honest man, and I did hope he would be conscious of the oath he had sworn in the eyes of God, so would be obliged to tell the truth.

  Hope, the sweetest of seducers, gave me confidence in the face of doubt.

  I had stood comfortably well with Gadbury before I was in Newgate, and before he was also imprisoned. ‘It was a recent discovery that Dangerfield had not only turned against me November last, but also Lady Powys, Lord Castlemain and Gadbury. When I was questioned about him, I was bound to tell the truth and though I did not say a thing but what I knew, they twisted my testimony against him.

  The examiners counted only words that came against him, none in his defence.

  Scroggs came to his feet and moved to the front of the court. He was coarse and loud mouthed. His prejudice against prisoners tried for any part of the so-called Popish Plot was infamous. But, unexpected diligence in some trials gave me to anticipate he might not be wholly without intelligence or fair spirit, though I might be mistaken in that.

  In the last days of April, I wrote to him to clarify whether I would be tried under Common Law, or upon a Statute, and if so, what Statute. I further asked for a copy of Dangerfield’s pardon in order to defend myself. The Statute I was to be indicted under, Scroggs wrote back, allowed me as many subpoenas as I wished. He did not know about the said pardon, he continued, but told me to petition the Lord Chancellor for it, which I did, and received it some time afterwards. Given his evident distaste for Catholics, I was surprised he took the time to give me such complete answer.

  ‘Mr Gadbury, what do you know concerning this plot?’ asked Scroggs now, coming straight to the point, his mouth twisting contemptuously. If Gadbury did not say something to condemn me, Scroggs would openly belittle him, but if he said any thing my favour, he would be dismissed derisively, as was Scrogg’s way.

  Gadbury fidgeted guiltily, his eyes darting round the room as if he were hiding something although, to my knowledge, he had no guilty part to play in anything. He straightaway denied any knowledge, as I hoped he would.

  ‘I know nothing of it, neither one way nor another,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know of any contrivance of Mrs Cellier’s to kill the king and change the Government?’

  ‘No, rather the contrary.’ Gadbury was uncommonly quick to talk, not even pausing to think. ‘I will tell Your Lordship what I know, if these gentlemen will not be too nimble for me. I have suffered a great deal of prejudice of late in relation to a plot, as if I knew of one but, as God is my witness, I know of none, unless it were a plot to bring Sir Robert Peyton over to the king’s interest.’

  Oh no, he must not talk about that! How senseless it was to do so. It had nothing to do with my case and would needlessly bring in a man that need not be there!

  ‘That was the only plot I know about,’ Gadbury added, ‘but Mrs Cellier was supporting the king, not against him – she could not have acted both for and against the king at the same time!’

  Scroggs would not be grateful for Gadbury’s championing of me. For that loyalty his testimony would most certainly be discarded.

  ‘Mr Gadbury, you are a man of learning,’ Scroggs scolded, ‘please say only what you know about Mrs Cellier, not your beliefs.’

  Though not a man of wit, Gadbury was a man of intelligence. Dangerfield’s betrayal embraced him as tightly as it had me, but it was me his eyes now accused. I had not purposefully said anything to incriminate him, but his next words placed the business firmly on my shoulders. He told Scroggs, ‘While I lay in the awful Gatehouse at the prison, believing my life was in danger, Mrs Cellier was a witness against me, so I have no reason to speak for her.’

  Silent, his eyes tested the truth of it, if I had betrayed him. Every other person in the court looked to Gadbury so none but he saw me barely shake my head. I was uncertain he saw my denial until he turned back to Scroggs with new boldness in his face. He could have told some false thing but he told fairly.

  ‘If I believed there to be any treasonable plot, I would have discovered something about it.’

  I gave him silent thanks. Still he spoke.

  ‘Mr Smith, an old acquaintance of mine, came to me for some important advice in his affairs regarding the lords in the Tower. He told me he knew of something against Mr Oates, and wanted to know if he should use it to make Mr Oates withdraw his evidence. I told him he should not. Then, when I met Mrs Cellier later, she told me Mr Smith and another man named Phillips had some stories about Mr Oates and Mr Bedlow they wanted to tell. I told her how Smith had come to me to ask if he should speak out, and she said she ‘did not mind paying ten guineas, if he would be honest and tell the truth.’

  Gadbury’s story was a true account of events of the day I had asked him if we could trust Willoughby. I was only sorry he offered it so freely.

  Scroggs jumped in then. ‘So, that was after you did advise Mr Smith not to meddle against Mr Oates?’

  Damn his nimbleness. He would twist the astrologer round until the poor man did not know what he was saying. Indeed, Gadbury’s face was
pure perplexion.

  ‘Yes, My Lord. She said that Mr Dangerfield –we then knew as Captain Willoughby – talked of how the plot against the king they call the Popish Plot, was a deception plotted by Nonconformists to incriminate those of the Romish religion.’

  ‘Did she say that Dangerfield said there was a Nonconformists Plot and that he hoped the Popish Plot would continue? Or did she say she herself hoped the Popish Plot would continue?’ As he did in other trials I had seen, Scroggs seemed to refer to something told to him at another time, not in the court, perhaps when they had quizzed Gadbury after indicting him.

  ‘My Lord, I cannot remember particulars,’ said Gadbury.

  ‘There’s a great deal of difference between Dangerfield saying it and her saying it,’ parried Scroggs.

  ‘I have no reason to spare her; she did me the greatest injury in the world,’ said Gadbury, looking to me then with reproach in his eyes that I hoped was for the court’s sake, ‘but I am unwilling to say a thing contrary to the truth.’

  Scroggs turned his attention to the plot against the Catholics.

  ‘Why were you talking of a Nonconformists Plot? ‘

  ‘It was a common talk in the coffee houses.’

  Justice Raymond interjected, ‘What makes you think it was common talk? Did you hear someone talking about it before she said it?’

  ‘No, not until she spoke of it.’

  Then Scroggs took back the questioning. ‘So you do not know that Mrs Cellier did not invent the plot. Did she tell you of any Popish priests or Jesuits coming over from beyond the seas?’

  ‘She said she heard there were some coming over.’

  ‘Why were they coming over? ‘

  ‘God knows. I do not.’

  ‘Did she speak of a plot to kill the king? ‘

  ‘No,’ said Gadbury. ‘She reviled plots, otherwise I would not have kept her company.’

  Nicely said, my friend!

  ‘Again, I ask you, did she say several priest and Jesuits were coming over, or that she had heard this?’