The Popish Midwife

by Annelisa Christensen

  ‘She has a name, use it. But it is a shame about the cloak, I know how fond of it she is. I suppose she will not see it again. Well, be sure to take good care, and I mean very good care, of Mrs Cellier. I am certain she now recognises the madness of writing such a scandalous book, and I am further certain I would not wish any bad thing to happen to her in your care, else it might be misconstrued that her outrageous accusations held truth!’

  ‘She will have good care while she stays with us,’ growled Richardson.

  ‘See that she does, good man. I may pay her a visit on the morrow, or perhaps the day following, to see how she recovers from this…’ his deliberate pause marked his disbelief, ‘…faint.’

  ‘Yes m’lord. You are very welcome.’ Richardson moved as if he bowed.

  In the dawn and dusk of darkness, I silently thanked the man from the depths of my heart. By saying he might visit he may yet save my life if I did not die of my wounds today. And if he did not visit, it would keep them from doing their worst to me knowing someone kept a watchful eye on them. I again tried to place the voice but, again, failed. Whosoever my guardian Angel was, my debt to him might go forever unpaid.

  25

  13th day of September, 1680

  Two days of lying in Newgate, at the mercy of Captain Richardson and his wife, had done little to improve my body or my spirits. My ribs only missed stabbing my heavy heart for want of trying. Having faced death in court but three months since, I could not find any fear left in me for the sentence this Monday morning. The scheme of my fate was already decided.

  And the pain of being bumped in a cart, despite that the surgeon said I was unfit to be moved, was more unbearable than had I walked.

  Pain filled me.

  My wounds tormented me until not a part of me did not scream with them but, despite my distress, I took satisfaction that the court was not so full this day, it being early and most persons having chores and living to do before the sun grew too hot.

  A knight of the realm, that I knew to be Sir George Jeffries, an avid supporter of the king’s cause, presided over the courtroom from the dais at the front. I was impressed by the elegance of his figure. He sported a periwig so long it could barely be considered fashionable yet created fashion of its own; long lace collars, I was sure Customs House must have examined closely; fine, yet suitably sombre, black shirt and pantaloons, draped closely with a knee-length velvet brown cloak. In the case any mistook his place as not pinched with the Royal Court, he wore an elaborate gold chain draped over the shoulders of his cloak to lend him to regal society.

  The act of speech did not mar this young recorder’s countenance, but his Welsh dialect made him mere man, though a formidable one. He was as straight as an arrow to its target, and he faced me most seriously.

  ‘Mrs. Cellier,’ he said. ‘The court doth think fit, for example sake, that a fine of one thousand pounds be put upon you, and that you be committed in execution till that thousand pounds be paid.’

  One thousand pounds? It might as well have been ten thousand, I could neither find it nor pay it!

  Jeffries had not finished.

  ‘And because a pecuniary mulct is not a sufficient recompense to the justice you have offended, the court doth likewise pronounce against you that you be put on the pillory three several days, in three different public places.’

  The pillory, thrice? Atop of a fine I could never pay? This, the sentence for a few pages of truth, yet, for a lie, great riches and security could be found! I did not have the wherewithal to protest and, even if I had, there would have been no use in it. I looked to a space far away in front of me.

  Jeffries swung his arm toward me and fleshed out the details of my sad fortune to the court.

  ‘In the first place, to answer to Mrs Cellier having published and sold this abominable book from her house, it is thought fit that she stand at the May-pole, in the Strand, which is as near her own house as convenient. Let it be for an hour’s space between the hours of twelve and one on market day, when there be many witnesses to her shame. The second time, she should stand the like space of time in Convent-Garden on an equally public day. The third time, she should stand an hour at Charing-Cross.’

  Cruel! So cruel! I might as well be dead. My character, and my standing in society, was shot! Worse, neither would I have opportunity to redeem myself, for I would be locked away in a dark dungeon, while those I valued would be forced to think me contemptible. But none could make me take back my words. I could not even if I would. Those truths, they had been read by many within and without the court and, though I, the author, might be contained in Newgate for securing them to paper, they were now set free to find fertile fields of thought in which to grow, if that was God’s will.

  I tried to hold my head high, but such agony as I had rarely felt stabbed me in all places of my chest and heart, so that I had to fold myself over once more to lessen it.

  But, what of Pierre? My punishment was his punishment. As my husband and master, his name would be blackened for my deeds. His trade might suffer and our children along with it. For, if he could not trade, he could not feed them. He was not in court to hear my sentence. Had he verily forsaken me?

  ‘And, in the next place,’ Jeffries raised his eyebrows at me, ‘she must find sureties for good behaviour in her life. This means, Mrs Cellier, someone must come forward and vouch for you.’

  Would any speak out for one found guilty of libel against the king? Perhaps none would pledge themselves for my good behaviour and I would be abandoned. But then, since I could not pay the fine and be free, I had little need to concern myself over this.

  Jeffries looked down as he turned a leaf of his book. ‘And it is ordered that, in every place where she stands on the pillory, some parcels of her books shall be burnt by the hands of the common hangman where she can see them. Last, a notice stating her crime should be placed upon the pillory over her head so that all will know the punishment for dealing with the Devil.’

  With no further ado, and with no commotion in the courtroom, I was taken by the arm and led back to the cart with more kindness than I was given to expect. Something of the quiet unsettled me. Perhaps it was that, now they knew how I was to suffer at the hand of the country, they no longer felt the need to punish me further. Or perhaps they had sympathy for for my plight, that I could barely walk let alone sit in a cart.

  If I were to be pilloried, perhaps it would kill me and I should have no need to suffer further.

  26

  18th day of September, 1680

  One seven-night ago, with or without his intention, a man had prevented the crowd from finishing me. This day, none could prevent my punishment even if their hearts desired it so. But their hearts would not desire it. It would be their pleasure to set the anger and fear of all that is horrid in this age against me. I had myself seen some so mobbed on the pillory they died before the end of the day. One hour might be enough to end me, but thanks be to the Lord God Almighty it was one hour and no longer!

  I held my hand to my stomach, which quietly complained with hunger for the first time in five days. I had eaten but a bare morsel of bread or two since the trial, the agony of my injuries filling my stomach and leaving no corner for appetite. Nor had my gaolers shown me any good will. They gave me water enough I would not keel over if that gentleman, for gentleman he surely was, came to visit me. Enough and no more. The man did not come, but I was thankful he said it could be so, for else I might already have been dead.

  My mind was sharp, despite my poor condition, on this my day of my punishment. Under my hand, in the stead of my own plump and softening body, I felt the bladder of another, I had procured from Mary at great risk to herself. I pressed and felt the blood inside it move against my palm. My last effort to save myself, when none other had worked. Petitions to the king received no answer. Letters to parliament and influential persons were either without reply o
r were returned by the messenger unread. I was alone. Not even Pierre had come. Would that he had cut me off for my disobedience, for then he would not be taken down with me.

  But, still, he kept my strength from me by his absence.

  I shifted from where I had several hours sat in the corner of the dark room fortifying myself for the imminent ordeal. Each day, marking the sun’s daily rise and fall, a single blessed beam of light crawled the same path down the wall, over the flea infested bed and across the floor toward the boarded window before disappearing at dusk. For the last two days, when it came near my head on the pillow, I placed my face in the cold light, relishing the link to the outside world. It was as if God had sent this message of hope to take me through the dark days, and what was to come.

  Now, I held out my right hand and caught the light in my palm so a spot glowed, then, despite the pain of moving, I raised the hand a few inches towards its source. It was like placing my hand in a falling stream, and catching a piece of the world’s soul, a soul so pure it gave me strength to stand up for truth. If I had to die for it, then so be it. That was for God to decide. Only He knew if it was His time to take me. The epiphany filled me with strength, I took the hand from the mound over my belly and found the crucifix around my neck, closed my eyes and prayed for deliverance.

  It was not until I sniffed a tear from the tip of my nose did I realise I was crying. With the salty tear, I drew in air thick with the stench of urine and faeces. The marriage of tears and human waste made me gag. Even now, the air clung like a burr to my nostrils, lips and throat worse than any street stink. There was nowhere in this foul place I could avoid it, though the rats did not seem to mind. I was mindful not to break the dried dung crusts and release fresh odour. If only I had some lavender perfume to sprinkle on my hand-kerchief and relieve my sensibilities.

  I waited.

  Motes of dust hung in the air, not moving, because fresh air had no place here in this hole.

  I waited.

  The beam of light cut the bed’s shadow as a sword slices a man’s shirt.

  I waited.

  Then came the sound of metal on metal as the key to the outer door grated against lock. Then came the creak of metal hinges. And footsteps. They were coming for me. The little ray of light was not enough to show the way, but still I stood and faced the door. I was ready with my scheme.

  The footsteps stopped outside, and again I waited with neither breath nor movement.

  Keys jangled as the keeper found the right one on the ring. It was only marginally brighter in the corridor outside, barely enough to see the walls, and not enough to see the detail in the keys. He tried several before he found the right one. Then the lock clicked, the door creaked open, and a sun-warmed waft of air wrapped around me and, before I could do any other thing, I breathed it into me and let it fill me with its evocation of freedom.

  The air came as a letter with two sides. On the first was thoughts of freedom, but the other side carried the threat of the stocks I would soon face. I breathed in the freedom slow and deep. The breath was so sweet I forgot my design, I had so carefully planned, and took a moment to be thankful God had not yet called me to his side and I was able to take this breath.

  Over the last days, between pain and more pain, I dwelled on being imminently locked in the stocks outside my own house for a whole hour. That same mob at the trial would enjoy the spectacle of a pillorying equally as well as any hanging or beheading, and would be sure to be there at the Strand today. Unless he had taken to the countryside, my husband and children would be at home in nearby Arundel Street, a matter of a short walk from there.

  The punishment was meant not merely to castigate me and cast disrepute on my character, but, as well, to spur my husband to whip his unbridled wife so that she would keep to the law of the land, no matter that the law be mistaken. My children should not be forced to see me so blackened, for no honest person could find fault in what I had done, and they did not deserve to believe it so. Nor even my Pierre. I prayed he would keep them from this sight and not sully their innocence with my so-called wrongs.

  Just as I had witnessed the hangings of good Catholics these last years, so that they be not alone and have a friend amongst all others, good folk would come to witness and report what came to pass today for the sake of adding weight in the scales against false witnesses. These would not wish to see me suffer, but would do so for the sake of truth. I did doubt I would see any of them, for they would not make themselves known to the Beast of the mob. It was enough they be there somewhere.

  ‘‘ere, Mrs Cellier. ‘Tis time.’ Young Bowden was one of my guards to the Strand. Bowden. He was very nearly welcome. At the least it was he that came to fetch me, for he had lately shown me some kindness, even while the older ones took pleasure from seeing me cast down. Bowden’s look was all doom, and I had no wish to lighten it.

  I straightened my dress with grubby hands and thought of my red cloak, a shield against the hard sword of the world, a mark of my status and a symbol of my profession. I was lost without it. Perhaps being pilloried in the cloak would have stained the profession in some eyes but, in mine, it was a symbol of the truth and that would have protected me a little. But, more than this, today it would have cleverly hidden the deception I must undertake to save myself.

  Without the cover of a cloak, I may yet be undone.

  ‘Come, Mother Cellier,’ said young Bowden in his thick London voice. ‘Move y’self along there. They’re waitin’.’

  After hours praying for strength, I did not feel any more brave. I would leif death came for me now than face the pillory.

  ‘I am ready,’ I lied.

  A voice came from behind the Bowden boy. ‘Don’t think any will ease this day for you, that you are a gentlewoman, Cellier. The hounds are baying for your blood, the blood of all Popish Amazons that dare to sully the name of the king and the Government. They will yet see you hanged, Papist whore!’

  I squinted at the doorway. The dim light hurt eyes accustomed to no more than a single sunray. Two silhouettes stood with the hilts of their swords sticking out from their sides. The gaoler asked for no answer and I gave him none. I need pay no attention to this rough turnkey, an instrument for Richardson’s ghoulish pleasures.

  If I was a tool, I was merely an agent for God’s work and the honest truth that came from my own realisations, nothing more. Each man that worked in the prison, or in the Government, was flotsam on the sea of persuasion, particularly the persuasion of hard men, or hard money. They themselves could not turn against the tide for they would soon find they are pushed harder than they could resist. My strength came from standing with my feet planted deep in the sea bed, below the surface of the water and its current, and employing my wits to recognise truth, even when all others would have me say otherwise.

  I must act quickly. If not now, I may have no other opportunity.

  ‘Take me to the Strand!’ I moved as if to follow the boy out.

  After two steps, I clenched my front with both arms and bent over. ‘Oh, oh! The pain! The pain!’ Then I twisted and pinched the soft pig bladder through the folds of my skirt and felt the loose threads give way. Body-warmed liquid trickled down the insides of my legs toward my ankle. I pressed gently, and the soft skin beneath the fabric emptied. Would it be enough? I lifted the hem of the skirt so that the gaolers could see the colour of blood, and looked to see my stockings were red enough to convince any man, even in the dull light of the cell.

  ‘I am losing it! Oh Oh! I am losing the baby! Help me, help me!’ I reached one hand out and grabbed the jacket of young Bowden’s arm. He tried to free himself, but I held tight.

  ‘Unhand me, woman! Whence comes that blood?’

  ‘I am losing my baby!’ I said. ‘Help me to the bed!’

  Bowden’s dilemma did not prevent him moving a moment longer. He led me to the side of the bed, where I sat h
eavily, still clutching my gut to be sure the empty bag did not fall and be discovered. Bowden’s open jaw in his skeletal face was like week-old death. He cast a helpless look to the men in the doorway. This was a woman’s business, not a young man’s. His voice cracked as mud in the midday sun.

  ‘Fetch the physician. She carries a child!’

  ‘‘Tis a trick!’ said one at the door.

  ‘Trick or not, a physician will fast discover it,’ said the other.

  ‘A midwife should be called to examine her.’

  ‘Nay, a midwife might hide the truth if the reputation of all midwives be in question. We call a physician.’

  They argued between themselves as they left the cell and the two shadows became one. Then, without further ado, one gaoler broke free from the joined darkness, his heavy footsteps keeping company with the jangling of his keys as he ran to fetch the physician. Indeed, it struck me he might have gone to fetch Richardson, a thing I did not at all desire, for that man would have me stripped and would quickly discover my invention.

  And that would lead to examination of every one of my visitors in order to identify my helper. I had rather place that burden upon myself than those that gave me assistance at risk of their life.

  I had to send the other men away so that I might remove the bag.

  ‘Quick. Water. I must have boiled water and a midwife!’

  ‘You have a pillory to go to, woman. You cannot do this now!’ This from the man whose face I still could not see. He turned sideways and his round belly blocked the light more fully than his front view. He then spoke to someone coming along the corridor: the turnkey, perhaps, or the physician or even Richardson himself?

  ‘She chooses this day to bleed!’ The newcomer’s voice was not of a labourer, but perhaps of a merchant or gentleman. ‘If she carries a child, why did she not say so?’