In that way, Weston summarily dismissed me and what I had to say. He took a white lace hand-kerchief from his pocket and wiped the drops of sweat that trickled from beneath his periwig. I clenched my teeth, surprised, once more, he had not pointed to my admittance that I wrote the book. His words had so prodded and riled the mob-Beast, barely held back behind the wooden bar, that it roared and shook and thirsted for my blood. I thanked the Lord that there were soldiers standing by, for it looked as if that bar might not hold, and I would be devoured by the Beast clamouring for my throat.
Swords drawn, the red-coat soldiers positioned themselves before the barrier, their armour easily deflecting stones and small things thrown by an otherwise unarmed audience. Their faces were not so defended, and I saw a woman reach forward and scratch at a soldier’s cheek. He hit her hard with the back of his hand so she fell against the men behind her.
I could scarce hear the first part of what Mr Attorney General next said to the jury, but only the last, though I did not think any others heard as much.
‘…give … satisfaction … jury should know … does not concern the matter in issue for, in point of law, even if the words of it be true, the publishing of a libel is a crime and deserves punishment.’
It did me no good, then, that I told the truth if the jury had heretofore judged my book a libel and resolved to find me guilty. My only hope was to prove I did not write the book, but the proof weighed heavy in the scales against me and would not tip back lightly.
Weston’s shout over the din turned his already red cheeks the colour of good wine. ‘But, Mr. Attorney, if we are to set a fine, it will be a satisfaction to the court to disprove the things she alleges. Mayhaps you have witnesses ready?’
If he took offence, Mr Attorney General did not seem so. He leaned sideways in his chair, then slow and off-hand waved some empty pages to cool his face. The scorn in his voice showed a certain ill will that could only have found itself in encounters between them heretofor. ‘They are already ordered to be here. Swear Mr. Prance.’ His nose could not have risen further in the air without his standing. One judge beside him slept through the din with his mouth open. Prance was sworn in.
Baron Weston was oblivious to the silent-fought battle. ‘Mr Prance, pray, were you tortured in prison?’
Mr. Prance, whose haggard look was testament of either ill treatment or ill conscience, had changed his coat so many times he did not know what colour he wore. He changed once more. The puzzle was that he was called back to testify over and over, despite his faulty recollection or barefaced lies.
‘No, I never was in my life,’ he said.
Weston asked, ‘How then were you used?’
Prance said, ‘Very well. I had every thing that was fitting. Captain Richardson did take great care of me.’
A triumphant Weston said, ‘The truth is, the very book itself implies a contradiction. It says these women heard in prison one strong man roar as a strong man in torture, and yet, presently after that, it says that the prisoner comes up in irons and is examined. Now, any man that knows what the nature of a rack is knows how one so tortured could not even stir or walk let alone heave irons upon his legs. Surely some impudent lying priest dare venture such calumny!
‘I did not say it was what happened, but that it was reported,’ I said, curious how he should so well know the result of iron when none such were ever allowed. I could not find myself surprised by Prance. I doubted he even knew the truth of any of it any more, he had turned about so many times he must spin.
Mr. Prance slashed my words so they were dropped. ‘Dr. Lloyd was together with me many times for half an hour. If there any such thing, it is certain he would have seen it.’
They needed no more ‘facts’ from Prance, and Francis Corral was called.
I covered my fast beating heart with my hand lest everyone should hear it. Again, my fingers touched the cross beneath the satin on my chest, and I prayed no harm would come to Corral for speaking out for me.
He was called a second time, but still he did not appear.
It did not occur to me he would not come.
Captain Richardson slapped some flying thing on his forearm, catching one end of his lace cuff from its fixing so it hung free unnoticed by him, and came into the middle of the room to face the judges.
‘Last night I ordered Corral to be here to day, but he is not here. His wife stands in his stead.’
Mrs Corral came to the middle of the room with her eyes to the floor as any good demure woman, or one that daren’t do otherwise. When she stopped where she should before the judges, she hung her head so all I could see of her from the side was her white cap and an ear. I did see how tight she held her bent form, a little more weight on her bones than last I saw her, clothed in a plain dress Cromwell would be satisfied with.
Weston spoke with his back to her, facing the jury. ‘Good woman, were you ever with your husband in prison?’
Mrs. Corral’s head came up and fear lived on her face like a parasite, making it twitch and grimace. She clenched her fist tight into her black puritan skirt and did not look at me.
‘I was denied to see him when he was on the Master’s-Side.’
Weston turned so abruptly to face Mrs Corral it made her start and look to the floor once more. ‘But when he came from prison, how did he tell you he was used? Did he tell you he was compelled to drink his own piss?’
Mrs Corral confirmed what I had said. ‘It was Sunday when they called me to bring him victuals so he would not starve. They said he would be dead before I came there if I did not go fast. So, fast as I could, I brought him bread and things, yet I was denied to see him ‘til near a fortnight after. Then, I was amazed at the great iron fetters he had on for, if he could barely stand, how could he walk? They told me they had put on those things to keep him warm. I says to my husband, ‘Lord, what have you done? You must surely have murdered somebody!’
Impatient for her to tell how they treated her then, I asked, ‘Were you ever beaten for bringing your husband victuals?’
Neither by glance nor gesture did she recognise me. ‘No indeed, no. I was never beaten. But they would not suffer me to see him while he was on the Master’s-Side.’
Did she lie before, when she was comfortable with me, or now when she feared unknown retribution? To be sure, stories abounded of the wife or child of a witness stolen away during a trial that he might be forced do the bidding of a captor. So I did not doubt Mr Corral refused to refute what I said and now suffered for it someplace behind a locked door. Perhaps he owed me his life, but what use was that if it was again forfeit until he was returned home safe! Would I have lied had it been my husband threatened so? Perhaps, but I was not so tested.
It was as if the Lord Mayor had heard my thoughts and taunted me. He said, ‘We do not need Mrs Corral. Her husband already denied everything in the book upon oath before me.’
‘Mrs Cellier,’ Weston ignored the Lord-Mayor, ‘You should direct your questions through counsel at the appropriate time.’ Then to Mrs Corral, ‘Was he ever hurt with screws or any such thing?’
A small shake of her head gave me a clue as to how she would answer. No matter how tight I bound my voice, I could not stop protest and indignation releasing it. ‘Had he not holes in his legs?’
Mrs Corral said, ‘Yes, he had a great many; I did see holes in his legs.’
Weston was surprised. ‘Did you?’
‘I did see one,’ she said, ‘and I can bring the aphothecary that brought salve to heal it.’
With false indignation, Captain Richardson stood tall as a mountain, legs parted and with his fists balled on his hips. ‘I keep no irons in the house that weighs twelve pound!’
Weston scrutinised Richardson in a manner he refused to accord Mrs Corral. ‘They say you have irons called sheers that weigh forty pound.’ His eyebrows once more disappeared beneath
his periwig. It seemed as if he had already heard this from another place before he heard it from me.
‘If there be such a thing I would be hanged for it before I go hence,’ said Richardson. If I did not know the untruth of it, I might have been convinced by his conviction. The only way to refute his lies was to have my witnesses testify against him, but would they let me have them now?
‘I hope I shall be allowed to make my defence and call my witnesses,’ I said.
Weston’s eyes narrowed on Richardson as if he still quizzed him, but said, ‘Yes, to be sure.’
He did not say more so, shunning Weston’s instruction, I used the moment to examine Mrs Corral, before she was dismissed.
‘You were present when your husband told me how he was ill-used. Can you state you did not hear him say he was fettered to the floor by a chain not above a yard long, and he was forced to drink his own water?’
‘Madam,’ she said. ‘He was not sensible of what he said.’
Ungrateful wretch! She still did not look me in the eye.
I placed the danger to herself and her husband in one pan of the scales, and my own in the other. They tipped dangerously against me. It was certain I would suffer for the truth, and would suffer more if she did not remember the facts to the court. ‘But did not you hear him tell me so?’
‘I cannot remember.’
Despite further questioning of her, she cast me an apology with her eyes but did not redeem me.
Weston shrugged the matter from his shoulders. ‘We need not hear more of this. Far the great matter against you is the death of Sir Godfrey. In that you are tight with Prance’s evidence, and turn scrutiny from your own party onto somebody else, though I know not on whom. And so you would be bound to make the World believe that he was tortured into his confession, and that he was mad when he did it.’
‘Pray, My Lord,’ I said. ‘Hear me one word. As to your saying I do it to defend a party, I profess I stand singly and alone. I have been so barbarously used by those you call my own party, and the Protestants have been abundantly more kind to me than they, I would not tell the least lie to do them any good turn.’
I did not expect Weston to believe me but, if he did, it caused him great amusement. ‘Then you are a happy woman indeed, that is beloved by both parties. You have not been of good service to both alike, I am sure, but that is no great matter. If the Protestants were so kind as you say, you have requited them ill by such a base libel.’
‘I say nothing against them.’ I held my head high and looked him in the eye.
‘Can you prove you did not write this book?’
‘My Lord,’ I said, for this was a thing I knew from the Huguenot meetings I attended with my friend Marie Desermeau. The outcast Protestants that escaped France readily accepted and supported some French Catholics, or those related to them, as was I. ‘I am not bound to accuse myself. I desire it may be proved.’
Baron Weston’s derision was lost in the thunder of outraged talk that came then, but seeing his lips move and seeing his smile of satisfaction I determined his words. ‘I think it is fully proved.’
If he thought I would cave so easily, and allow him his victory, he was much mistaken. ‘I cannot say anything without my witnesses. I desire I may call them,’ I said.
Weston folded his arms across his chest, so the loosed lace cuff stood out white against his blue doublet. ‘Call whom you will.’
I asked that George Grange should be called.
George Grange was a small man, with a nose suitable for sniffing mischief out of holes wherein it hid or was concealed, that I paid handsomely to find my witnesses. I wouldst that I did not call him, for he harmed me and did me no good. Weston soon had from him that my witnesses had either gone to the country or could not be found. Then he was turned against me.
‘Tell me what questions you will ask him,’ Weston asked me.
‘I desire to know the witnesses he went for? What answers they returned? And where they be?’ I said.
Weston did not try to hide his disinterest and impatience. He tapped his still folded elbow with poker fingers and spoke with a thin mouth. ‘Well, what witnesses were you sent to look for?’
Grange said, ‘I went to look for one Mrs. Sheldon that lives in sir Joseph Sheldon’s house, and they told me she was in Essex. Then I went for Mr. Curtis, but his wife did not see him since yesterday before the cock crowed.’
Weston flung his arms wide with exasperation. He asked, ‘What were they to have proved?’
Grange said, ‘Truly, My Lord, I do not know.’
Then Mr. Dormer asked, ‘By the oath you have taken, do you know if Mrs Cellier sold any of these books?’
Grange might be a hound for mischief, but it seemed he was also mischief itself. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know she did sell some of them.’
They needed nothing more of him.
Mr Lord Mayor laughed, ‘There, Mrs Cellier. Even your own witness proves against you.’ Those of the court that heard him laughed at the irony, but I did not.
Mr Weston befriended me for some small moments then, for he took the court’s derision away from me, though not through kindness, I was sure. ‘Who else would you have?’
I thought to call my friend, Mary, that came to give alms with me, but she did not appear. When I asked for John Clarke to be fetched from the Gaol, Captain Richardson stepped forward, spilling hops from the cup in his hand onto the dusty floor.
‘He is in execution,’ he said.
‘For what?’ asked Weston.
‘For debt,’ said Capt. Richardson.
‘The rules of the prison allow you to bring him hither.’
Capt. Richardson shook his head. Uncertain if they wished it, he looked to Mr Lord Mayor, who waved air at his face with a sheaf of paper. It did not at all diminish the sweat from his hot cheeks. ‘If Your Lordship orders it so, I will bring him.’
Lord Mayor was not so gentle on me as Weston. ‘She should have brought a Habeas Corpus if she would have had him.’
Mr Attorney General, that moments before had his eyes closed in sleep, as did two elderly judges, sat up sharply in his chair as if a servant had banged a door too loud behind him. ‘If he brings him without a Habeas Corpus it will be an escape.’
I rested my hands on the rail and beseeched them, ‘I pray a Habeas Corpus to fetch him. I desire to have him come and defend something in my book.’
‘What would he prove?’ said Weston.
I clasped my hands together before me as if in prayer, imploring them to grant me this wish. ‘That I have not belied the Government.’
‘In what respect?’ said Weston.
‘That he was shackled with long sheers and unreasonable irons.’ I tried to come over with confidence but, when all I had trusted had already turned against me, I was not so sure that veritable scoundrel, John Clarke, would stand by me either.
Weston said, ‘You apply too late. You should have moved the court for one ere now.’
My hope of any witness standing for me waned fast.
‘I had no time to prepare for my defence,’ I said. ‘I did not have sight of the indictment till nine o’clock today, and my counsel had not time to inspect it or speak with me about it.’
Mr Lord Mayor lifted his quizzing glasses, making his eyes bigger than should belong to his face, and peered through them at Weston. ‘If we dally over this, at what time shall we have done?’
Baron Weston answered question with question. ‘Have you a blank Habeas Corpus here?’
The Counsellor of the Peace, I did not know the name of, spoke out. ‘They should have to fetch it from the crown-office.’
My counsel, Mr. Collins, came in on the discourse now. He told me, ‘You cannot do yourself greater wrong than by such talk as this.’ I had no use for his advice, since he had previously informed me, before the tri
al, that all Papists ‘are guilty of everything they are accused of’.
The cryer suddenly shouted above all others, ‘Here is Mrs. Smith now.’ My friend, Mary Smith, came forward into the room, her eyes down. She nodded at me before taking the oath.
So relieved was I to see a friendly face that again I forgot I should speak only through Weston. I addressed Mary directly. ‘What have you heard Corral the coachman say about how he was used in prison?’
‘Tis as...’ Mary started, but Mr Dormer cut Mary’s first words from her gaping mouth and caused her to jump.
‘That question is not to be admitted.’
Mary barely spared me a glance before returning her eyes to the floor and saying nothing. I could not judge her, for her husband kept the most vicious head cage, an instrument the like of the one used to bully prisoners in Newgate, though there they called it by another name: discipline. One time, I did see a woman that did not still her tongue and the spikes dug so deep they drew blood only for that she spoke her mind. It was common knowledge when Mary’s husband had barbarously ill-used her with the scold’s bridle, for her tongue would be too pained to take victuals or speak.
Weston realised he should have said so himself and frowned. ‘What would you have her asked?’
I held my head tall and, in the way he did disrespect me before, I did not look boldly at Weston but at the jury. ‘I would have her tell what she heard the coachman say, for I only said he told me so.’
The moment I said it, I rather I had not, though none remarked on the blunder of my owning my book yet again. But then, they need not if they had already weighed against me.
Weston raised his voice high above it all. ‘That is no evidence…,’ he said. Then louder, ‘That is no evidence, I say, for the coachman might have been here, if you had not sent him away.’ With that, Mary was dismissed.
Shouts of laughter filled that room so busy with noise that my ears buzzed.
‘Nay, I did not. Let his wife testify I did not send him away!’ I said.
The Popish Midwife Page 31