But the sweet air I breathed worked some kind of magic on me. And when I held out my hand it became wet. It was raining.
Icy water ran down my arm and drenched my sleeve. As I watched, I saw the dirt and shame wash out of it. Somehow, climbing the wall with my hands, I pulled the rest of me back to standing. The water trickled over my face and hair, through my filthy cloak and dress and over my disgusting dung covered boots. At that moment, I swear nothing could have made me happier. Dame Nature bathed and cleansed me in a way no lavender bath ever could, so I held my face skyward and allowed her full reign.
While the water drops purged three years of prison from me, the sight of sky restored some semblance of hope. Still with my face upturned, I laughed. It was not a genteel laugh, but a loud uncontrollable laugh. And once begun could not be stopped. A hand took my arm, and with my free hand I wiped the rain from my eyes so I could see. Pierre. Within an instant, his arms were around me, and I was crying. And laughing. As was he.
‘Lizzie, my dearest flittermouse, are you able to walk?’ he asked.
‘Aye. I will walk,’ I said.
‘‘Tis not far. Monsieur Hobry’s cart lies yonder.’ I must have shown my puzzlement, for he added, ‘Our coach was too long to make ready, so widow Desermeau has loaned us her new husband’s cart.’
‘Marie? My friend Marie?’
‘Aye. I will tell you the news of it on the way home. Come, Lizzie, the children await you.’
These were the dearest words I ever did hear.
Pierre helped me up onto the cart, lifting me easily, and we took the short road home, my head resting on Pierre’s shoulder. Home. Side by side with my husband, cool rain trickling over my cheeks and hands, home meant all sorts of things.
Home had stayed inside me the whole time I was locked away, but I no longer knew what it was to me. It had changed from the place I had once daily returned to, the family home that bustled around me whensoever I was not practicing midwifery, into that other place, the distant place filled by my children and husband, that I was a part of only by inclination but not by presence.
Soon I would pinch the two together again, make my home where I both wished to be and where I be, but, for now, I wished only to hold Pierre’s hand and rest my head on him and enjoy how even the shine of the lanterns on the street mud was as beautiful as a meadow of flowers. Street lanterns. Strange how many hung outside buildings along the wayside where there were so few before.
Even the pain the stones in the road gave me as we went over them did not stop strength seeping gently between us from him to me and from me to him. I closed my eyes and I smiled.
28
22nd day of June, 1685 (first year of the reign of King James II)
From aloft, Lady Powys looked down at me from her elegant four-horse Berlin coach. The sun came from behind a cloud and she shielded her blue eyes with a Spanish lace fan. She could not hide her stirring fever for the forthcoming castigation.
‘Do you not yearn to see that spawn of Hell wriggle and writhe upon the pillory? Thou art more harmed by his venomous devilry than any other, and I should have thought…not that I suggest you be not forgiving…but I imagined you might have relished fortune’s fair play?’
‘Nay,’ I said. ‘I do not wish to set eyes upon that legless creature again at any other time in my whole life!’ That was a thing of which I could not have been more certain. I desired to live free from his vicious poison. Any punishment Dangerfield took that day would not change that. ‘And fortune cannot be credited for the judgement against him, when we have worked so hard to put him there!’
The truth of the matter was that we had stood for hours in court, examined and examined twice over, but the tide had changed in our favour whilst I was in Newgate and, this time, the court was with us and turned against him. Oates and all his cabal were shown to have lied and perjured and falsified their testimony, so none was left to support them.
Dangerfield’s lot was more particular, and he was despised upon his own merits of being a scoundrel, thief, coiner and criminal as well as letting that lying Devil speak from his belly.
Retribution would never be enough. His crime was far worse than to write a book – I could never forgive him his testimony against poor Father Lewis that died– yet he would merely stand on the pillory for libel just as I did. The whipping he would have today brought me little satisfaction; it did not balance years locked in a small, loathsome cell away from my children and husband. Besides, he had so oft whipped himself it would be no special hardship for him at all.
‘But, Madam Cellier…Elizabeth…it is right justice is done in our name and all others he has falsely condemned. That worm has out-hissed every other viper in that nest of snakes, biting even his own kind. It is thus fitting that we watch this sentence carried out against him.’
‘Your Ladyship.’ I bobbed my respect. In my mind’s eye I remembered blood and skin fly from the whip Ketch so recent drew back to strike Oates again and again. ‘I am in a quandary. I am convinced the Lord wishes I should forgive, as those that died on the gallows forgave the ones that condemned them but, though I have searched for it, I have found neither the mercy nor the generosity to do so. I anticipated that seeing the flesh publicly whipped from the back of Oates would alleviate my desire for retribution. Seeing it did none of that. I fear to so indulge myself by enjoying Dangerfield’s whipping will only fuel burning vengeance rather than damp it down.’
Forebodingly, the sun moved behind a dark cloud and I shivered. Lady Powys, seeing me stand in darkness, closed her fan and pointed it at me.
‘If Oates had died as he should have died, as those innocent men he condemned did die, it would be some compensation, though the fate he deserves is far worse than that of those innocent men.’ Aloud, but to herself, she added, ‘If a worse death can be had than theirs.’ Then she looked right through me. ‘The Lord knows, his life should be forfeit for what he has done. Our good friend, Lord Stafford, that was in the Tower with my Lord Powys for more than a year, died at his hand. For though he did not himself cleave the man’s neck with the axe, he did put him on Tower Hill as every person knows. Their deception is now discovered and they are to be punished for it. Will you not stand with me next to Lord Powys and have a little satisfaction?’
I looked to the ground and my dust-covered boots. When I spoke, I did not say any new thing, but the words that came were those that had to be said.
‘It was no punishment when Oates stood in shame on the pillory after he took the lives of the best of men, nor did a whipping balance even one life, let alone that of so many. Indeed, his own life should be forfeit for such treachery. As should Dangerfield, his nest-fellow. They should rather be punished for murder than perjury. Is it so wrong to wish death upon him?’
‘Forsooth, Madam, ‘tis as you say. Oates has alas recovered and come back from the dead after his thrashing. But surely ‘tis better that he be held to task at all for what he has done than exalted as he was ere now. Nay, the punishment is no fit for his crime, but at the very least it is punishment. In balance, it is better that Dangerfield, too, is whipped, though it be not enough.’
I shuffled my feet and then looked directly up into the confident eyes of Lady Powys. With her husband back at her side, she was once more strong where, before and without him, she was undone. Together they made formidable opponents, as they had at the king’s Bench in the last days of May when we stood as witnesses together with Lord Peterborough against Thomas Dangerfield. I drew my own boldness from knowing that God had stayed by me these last years when he need not have done. I feared no retribution.
‘Go then and see him whipped. He cares not for such small penance. He oft took a flail to his own skin and is hardened to it. If your destination today was the three-leg tree at Tyburn to see him hang for the lives he took, I would gladly take a place beside you, but at the end of this day he will still live to
slither deviously and sneakily amongst better folk. He will still live as others have not.’ I spat on the ground to show my distaste.
Lady Powys withdrew her head and spoke some words to another occupant of the coach, her husband William, Earl of Powys. Though I oft visited with the lords in the Tower when they were there, and though they were released a year ago, I rarely saw him since that time. He barely showed his face in public. I could well imagine the hardship in recovering life with his wife, son and five daughters, for I had some little experience of that myself, but that of society was a different and more difficult matter. Society was not as forgiving, nor did it so easily forget.
After some deliberation, Lady Powys poked her head through the window once more.
‘I cannot fault your reflections on this matter, and can only respect your decision. Lord Powys and myself will see Dangerfield punished today on your behalf, and I will, if you would be so good as to allow it, relay news of it back to you.’
‘You are too kind, My Lady. You have a stronger stomach than I, for I would be sick that he does not suffer more.’
I stepped back from the coach and bowed my head, dismissing any further conversation.
‘‘Tis fair reason, Madam Cellier. I will come by and see you after noon. Coachman, drive on!’
With that, the horses broke into a trot, and the leather-sprung coach rumbled smoothly over the cobbles toward Ald-Gate, just as another carriage passed in the same direction. Was I the only one not on my way to the whipping? Perhaps I would walk to Newgate, where Dangerfield’s whipping was to end, to see his suffering at its greatest, even if that were little enough, but the very desiring of it defiled my better feelings of charity. It would never return the lost years to those that had died.
Besides, I was not dressed for such a spectacle, but for better things. One should not tarry when summoned to the Palace. It would not do to keep the king waiting.
I did not take our coach, but walked, as I was wont to do, though it sometimes took more courage to do so. Danger did not keep to the shadows, but walked the streets in the form of every other person. And I avoided the river path in order not to be late. The Strand, Pall Mall and Saint James’s Street were considerably emptier than I was used to at noon. A woman with a basket of vegetables bade me good day. A chandler, with candles hanging between gritted teeth while trying to hang others from his shop sign, nodded his greeting. Some folk that knew me bade me walk on by, if they saw me at all.
The day was a pleasant enough. I swiped an occasional fly from my face but, otherwise, the only noteworthy observation to make was that the direction I took was the opposite to that of most others. Any that were free to, headed somewhere between Ald-Gate and Newgate to see the infamous Dangerfield whipped.
It was a short brisk walk to St James’s Street, and took me less than half an hour to get there. One of the two guards that stood before the twin doors on either side of the tall oak palace tower gates pulled the large iron bell chain, the other shouted through a pipe to the side.
‘Mrs Cellier to see His Majesty!’
I did not need to study the immense, rust coloured brick building, for I had done so before. The towers reached six floors above the ground, each door and window framed by that lighter stone oft used in some churches and regal buildings, sculpted to give a more splendid appearance.
I was accompanied from the magnificent main entrance to the throne room that the eighth King Henry had built one hundred and fifty years before. The king, when he was Duke of York, once said how the palace had been built on a leper hospital and that ghosts walked the corridors at night. The only ghosts this day were those of His Majesty’s brother and father, two kings that would live on in the hearts of many.
The corridor was as I remembered it, with ceilings so high and so ornate that reflections of gold and sparkles of chandeliers were as of stars twinkling at twilight, except that it was day. I could nearly see my own reflection in the gold-shine.
‘Mrs Cellier.’ A guard at the door greeted me, for I was expected. ‘Unhood yourself and open your cloak.’ Warm day as it was, as ever, I had worn my cloak so all might know my trade. I held it open, and the guard made sure I carried no weapon to kill the king. I had none, so he bid me leave my midwife bag at the door, a thing I was reluctant to do, for I knew how light-fingered some could be, but I did as I was instructed and found myself instantly naked without the tools of my trade. While I waited to be hailed, I straightened my skirt and my hood. I saw that the guard’s shoes were clean and wax-polished, and withdrew my dusty boots beneath my skirt. They sullied the royal chambers, the shining tiled floor, so that I was in no doubt I did not belong in there but in the streets.
‘His Majesty bids you enter, Mrs Cellier.’
I drew courage from the air and stepped inside the room, a great hall in any other house. King James sat where his brother had sat some six years since. He did not look as if taking his place on the throne this last winter were any discomfort to him. Rather, he sat as he might have sat every day since he were a child, managing the state of the country, on the edge of the ornate seat. I almost thought he would get up and greet me personally, as he had when I had met him as a Duke. He did not yet smile a greeting and I remembered myself to courtesy to the floor.
‘Madam Cellier. Pray, come hither into the chamber so that I might see your countenance. Some time has passed, has it not? I hope you are recovered in wit and are of rude health after your ordeal in Newgate?’
I took myself closer to the throne and curtsied once more, but this time a short bob.
‘Indeed, Your Majesty. You are uncommonly kind to think of me. Permit me, I beg of you, to present you with my most humble gratitude.’
‘Nay, Madam Cellier. It is you that should allow me to extend every manner of sincere remorse, for I am beholden to you for a superior service in exposing those loathsome and despicable betrayers, whose fork-tongues did bring foul play against you and others, for which I cannot atone for. And the king’s justice did hold and inconvenience you overly long when you awaited trial for treason against my brother. For this I must sincerely beg your pardon.’
With that pretty speech, the king did seem quite impressed with himself. He peered at me through slitted eyes and his satisfied smile seemed to await my refusal to accept his obligation in this matter, which I wasted no time in doing.
‘You do me great disservice in thinking I would allow your desire for pardon when yours was neither the villainous lies that sent me there nor did your hand turn the key in the lock. I do not consider fault for any of it to be on your head, Your Majesty.’
‘You are kindness itself, Madam.’
The king bowed his head to acknowledge his acquittal of any debt he had considered himself to owe me. His heavy-oiled, long, brown periwig caught the sunlight and shone as bright as any gold furnishings surrounding him. He looked at the ceiling as if to remember a further matter he wished to address to me. Once remembered, he returned his attention to me.
‘Mrs Cellier.’ He stopped in that unsuitable place and took up a silver tankard of ale from a nearby table. After wiping the froth from his beard, he came to the end of his thoughts slowly, so I must be impatient for them.
‘Mrs Cellier, at the time of your first trial, you may have felt it incumbent upon yourself to battle alone against every lie aimed to bring you down. In this belief you are in part correct, for you were, as any person tried for treason, obliged to defend yourself. But I must press upon you that my brother spoke strongly in your favour, for he did not believe a wit of the testimony against you, though it was not for him to prove one way or another. I must congratulate you in your defence, for…’ Again my patience for the last of his thought was tested as he took another swig of ale. And again he wiped the ale from his mouth. It seemed he might have been drinking a little fast and a little early and that perhaps he was in his cups. ‘Now where was I? Oh yes. It
is reported that your defence of yourself in court was of a superior nature and could not be bested! Jolly well done, I say!’
‘‘Tis most generous…’ I cut my thanks short, for he continued talking, and to speak over the king was an offence most grave.
‘Another matter I take it upon myself to address, is that of your second stay in prison. I believe you, along with your husband and other genteel persons, wrote to King Charles, God rest his soul, to plead Mercy, and for him to commute your sentence. In this he was generous, and you were freed on his word near two years ago. But you were not freed from the sentence itself, and it is this I first wish to address.’ His eyes searched me so thoroughly, I was careful to hide my thoughts in case he should find them wanting. I did not try to speak into the silence, as was my wont and character, for he had not yet ended. ‘I have heard you are against a pardon for your crime of writing your book, but I wonder if one would not be the worst thing you could have. Will you change your mind?’
In my answer I was certain, and hoped I spoke with as much conviction as I always held on this matter. ‘I would neither presume to ask it, nor…and I beg your indulgence in my plain speaking…would I wish it a thing to be offered. I could never accept a pardon for a wrong I do not think I did.’ I paused, then realised my words might be seen as ingratitude, and I did not wish to seem insensible to his kindness, nor bring down his ire for speaking against his judgement. ‘I do hope that I do not offend Your Majesty in my boldness or my words.’ I bowed my head and bobbed a curtsey.
The king shouted out at that. His sudden outburst caused me to bring my head up sharply, for I thought he was angry, but his face was alight and his guffaw turned into a laugh. ‘Oh you are as quick as ever, Madam Cellier. I thought you might have become dull after your stay in Newgate, but I am delighted you still think on your toes!’
Just then, the guard opened the door from outside and announced a messenger.
The Popish Midwife Page 38