Midwyf Liza

by Valerie Levy

  She felt her opportunity slipping away fast. This was her last chance. For a moment she considered getting up and walking away, but the image of her mother's face and the beatings flashed through her mind. I owe her nothing, she thought. Now is my final chance to pursue my own pathway, my own true love.

  “Forgive me, I was forgetting,” she murmured, "at Court we do play these games, ‘tis almost a requirement before - " she wrapped her arms around his neck, and drew his lips down onto hers “ - this. A child am I? Virgin, am I?” This time, it was her tongue that entered his mouth, and her body that pressed against his.

  They broke apart quickly for Rosalind to remove her gown and shift, and Anton his monk’s habit. For a long moment they looked at each other's naked body and then lay together in the soft bracken. At last, as she lost it, Rosalind learned what virginity was.

  “By’re Lady!” Nicholas rolled off Cicely’s motionless body later that night.

  “Don’t you blaspheme, husband, don’t you blaspheme because you can’t perform no more.”

  “Shut your noise, woman, what do you expect of me, lying there like a sack o’ straw. I’d as soon poke a bowl of pease pottage.” She swiped a blow at him but missed, shrugged and began instead to massage the limp flesh between his legs. “Easy woman,” he gasped, “That’s not a lump of wood you’re handling.”

  “Wood! More like warm tallow,” she muttered into her pillow as he reached out through the bed curtains to drink from a jar of small ale positioned on the nightstand. At times his thirst seemed unquenchable. No matter how much he drank he always wanted more. He seemed to be losing weight as well; every few weeks she noticed his belt done up a notch tighter. She resumed her massaging. At last he began to harden and after several more minutes was ready to thrust into her. Grunting and perspiring in the warm June night, he started to pump away, but she felt him wither inside her almost immediately.

  “Curse you, woman, look what you’ve done to me.” He punched her beneath her ribs, leapt out of bed and made for the door. “I’ll not be unmanned by a tawdry lump of suet,” he yelled as he thundered down the stairs towards the kitchen, where the servant girl slept. Almost an hour later he returned and climbed back into bed.

  “Well?” Cicely enquired sarcastically. “Did you manage?”

  “’Course I did - ‘twas as I said, you, lying in your bed like a bale of stinking hay, the smell of you’s enough to stun the prick of any man.” Cicely sniggered. She would question Mary tomorrow but this was not the first time of late he had sought the servant, and she knew he had done no better with her.

  “Wouldn’t be the curse of a certain old hag hereabouts, now then, my big, strong, hairy man. So big and strong he is, killing her kitty cat with his own bare hands.” Nicholas turned away from his wife, farted noisily, and pretended to sleep.

  Rosalind threaded her needle with a fresh length of silk. I can never go back, she thought, I'll never be the same again. And to think I never knew, I never realised! Yesterday. The most important day of my life. Anton loves me, he told me he loves me. And I'm a real woman now. Not a virgin any more. Just the same as her. Look at her, sitting there so upright, so unmindful of everything except her everlasting embroidery, so apart from the real world of men and women. I'm in that world now. But to think they do what we did, with their old bodies - did she squirm and writhe and cry out the same as I did when he put his tongue ...

  Rosalind snorted, overcome by the thought, and her mother looked over at her, eyebrows raised. "Sorry, mother, an attack of wind.” Isabella looked away.

  I'm surprised she doesn't notice any change in me, how could she just sit there and not notice how different I am? Everything about me is different since yesterday, I have a lover, a handsome man who loves me - really loves me, not because of the love potion but loves me really and truly. Me, my whole body - the pain between my legs tells me, I want to feel the pain all the time, I hope it never goes, it's proof he loves me. And I love him. Even though he's a monk. He'll leave all that, run away somewhere with me, away from her, away from Sir Geoffrey. Yes, I'm a woman now, with my own true love. He’ll not betray me, never. He’s my true love.

  Chapter 9

  Liza scurried past Nicholas’ house, too apprehensive to glance up in case he or Cicely stood watching her, but the house remained silent, and soon she slowed her step. She dreaded coming face to face with him; seeing how quickly he was losing weight was almost as bad as being the target of his hatred. She should never have cursed him, she thought. Repaying evil with evil was not right. She should never have done it.

  A few nights ago, worried and unhappy, she had flown to meet Tom in the forest, desperate for advice and reassurance. Cursing Nicholas had been evil, and guilt would now lay heavy on her shoulders. That was what he told her. She knew Tom was right, he always was, but it gave her cold comfort.

  “Liza! Liza! Come here, I must talk to you!” Margaret Attehill stood in the door of her cot, her belly enormous and voice anxious. She held her son in her arms and Alyce stood beside her, balancing the other twin on her hip. “I’m not happy with this one inside of me,” Margaret said, “He don’t move, and when I’m abed and I turn over he drops from one side to another, like a dead weight. That’s what I think he is, Liza. Dead.”

  “Show me.” They went into the cot. “I’ll soon tell you if it’s dead or not. Pour me some hot water into that bowl there, then lie on the mattress and let Liza take a look.” She soaked her hands in the water to warm them before pressing into Margaret’s abdomen, trying to palpate the contours of the baby within. This was difficult as Margaret's uterus rebounded hard as a drum, distended by the large volume of fluid within. For a few minutes all was quiet. The children watched silently, as Liza knelt over the pallett, her chin wobbling in concentration.

  “I believe you’re right, lass. Nothing's moving inside you, no movements at all. I can ballott him from side to side, like this," she tapped the baby hard, knocking it through the fluid to bounce off her other hand that rested at the side of Margaret's abdomen. “He makes no protest. Floating all about your womb. No life in him at all." She clambered stiffly to her feet. "Lots of water, though; gallons. You’re in for a good old soaking when the waters break, that old Liza can promise you!” She cackled half heartedly, trying to disguise her apprehension, and Margaret grinned in response.

  “Well child, what’s to happen? No need to carry this round with you any longer.” Liza stooped to prod Margaret’s belly once again, “Sooner it’s out and got rid of the better. Give me time to collect my physick and a few other bits, then I’ll be back with you and we’ll see what we can do.”

  She turned to go. “One thing. While I’m gone put the children out with someone. And likewise Walter - after he’s been and fetched the birthing chair. Here’ll be no place for men nor youngsters this day. ‘Tis women’s work needing to be done.”

  Liza gave Margaret a potion of savin, iris, rue and hyssop to swallow, all crushed together into wine, followed by a pinch of pepper to make her sneeze violently. Then, as Margaret sat on the birthing chair, she stretched the neck of her womb, passing her fingers high and manipulating the small opening until dilated enough to admit two of her fingers. It felt soft and pliable; Margaret had had several babies before, but most had died in infancy.

  Liza felt the smooth secundines bulging through the opening and thought the waters would break soon. Sure enough, as she withdrew her fingers, fluid gushed down Margaret’s birth canal and drenched the rushes under the birthing chair. The fluid should have been a clear straw colour, but instead was fouled black by the baby’s stool, probably passed days ago when the baby died.

  Liza had rarely seen so much water at a birthing; years ago, she remembered, Mistress Allan’s waters flooded from her almost as much, and shortly afterwards a baby girl had been birthed. The child had not lived more than a few hours; she had choked to death on her mother’s milk, and she wondered if this baby had also choked, but in the womb rather than a
fter birth.

  It was now mid-afternoon, and Margaret's pains came every few minutes. Goodwives Miller, Brooke and Wilkins arrived to help and fussed about her, wiping her face with a damp rag and giving her sips of the weak wine Lady Isabella had sent some days ago. Margaret sat on the birthing chair, clutching its arms, and Liza perched on a stool in front of her. The room was hot, and Margaret wore only her shift, pushed up over her waist.

  “He's coming out,” she gasped and threw her head back as she strained to birth the child. Her face grew purple with the effort of pushing. When the contraction was finished, Liza explored inside once more.

  “Ah, arse first,” she tutted. “No matter, my dear. Push him out, Mistress, and let’s have done. Lean well back in the chair, and push with the next pain.” She sat back on her stool and waited for the breech to appear. The baby’s buttocks emerged and its legs flopped out almost at once. With the next contraction, the baby’s trunk slipped out sideways, and then turned slightly so that the back was uppermost. The baby's body dangled from its mother, legs almost reaching the floor rushes, shoulders and head still inside her. A hairy raw patch on the lower part of the baby's spine oozed clear liquid.

  “It's got the devil's hoofmark!” Julienne Miller cried out in horror as she crossed herself and Margaret shrieked in panic.

  “Don’t let me birth him, Liza, put him back, don’t let him be birthed - ” Her voice fell away as another pain gathered force and the baby’s shoulders appeared.

  Julienne stumbled outside the cot, closely followed by Wilhelm Wilkins. The two women stood for a moment in the village lane, arms around each other, shaking in terror.

  Beatrice Brooke, the bailiff's wife, slammed the door of the cot behind her as she marched towards them. "Pull yourselves together, the pair of you, and get back in there," she ordered. "You can't leave her now. And Liza needs our help. Get your wits about you, and come back in. Now.” Julienne and Wilhelm clung together another moment and then, shamefaced, wiped their eyes and returned inside. “I can't look at it, though, Wilhelm,” Julienne said as they stumbled back into the cottage.

  The baby was unable to emerge any further. Its head was too large to pass through the birth canal. Margaret's womb contracted almost continuously now and she writhed and heaved as it battled to cast out the baby’s head. The women shouted encouragement, Julienne and Wilhelm standing behind the chair, out of sight of the baby, Beatrice at Liza's side. “One more push! Once again! Come, push, you can push it all out, just once more!”

  Liza sat on her stool facing Margaret, her bony chin working in silent consternation, knowing that the situation was hopeless. The child was long dead; its head’s far too big, she thought, filled with fluid from the womb. This woman would never birth unaided. Unless she acted quickly Mistress Attehill would lose her life trying to birth this child.

  The head needed to be collapsed, the fluid released. This could be done, but with difficulty. Liza dimly remembered long ago, when learning the skills of midwifery, her mother had described a similar case. She thought hard, trying to recall what her mother had said must be done. Bending forward on her stool, she screwed her eyes shut in concentration, trying to ignore the noise around her and picturing her mother's face as she had described the procedure. If she could do it, drain the fluid from the baby’s head, then with luck it would pass through the birth canal.

  After a minute she opened her eyes and sat back. “Prepare a bed for her.” Not even Beatrice heard her quiet command.

  “Silence!” Liza shouted, and the women looked at her in surprise. She rose up from the stool and bent to yank the sacks off the straw pallet lying on the floor. “Come, stop your yammerings and help me. Put the mattress on the table, and then stuff those sacks under its foot - slope the foot back towards the top.”

  The women rushed to obey, and Margaret was lifted onto the backward sloping pallet. “Pull her halfway down, so her rump comes to the edge of the mattress - good. Now, take that rope and bind her chest to the mattress so she can’t slip and slide about. Two of you, get hold of her legs and hold them apart.” Liza was in command, her voice clear and direct as she organised her helpers.

  Margaret struggled as the women carried out the midwife's instructions, but she was weak by now, and no match for the brawny arms of Julienne Miller. In a few moments she lay immobile, firmly trussed to the bed. Another pain came, and she squirmed helplessly. Liza stood at the foot of the bed, between her legs, as the baby’s trunk dangled, Beatrice and Wilhelm each holding one of Margaret's legs up and out of the way.

  Liza grasped the baby’s shoulders and, with the next contraction, pulled as hard as she was able, but she was not strong enough. “Here, Mistress Miller, help me,” she ordered, “Quickly now, 'tis no time to be squeamish,” and Julienne reluctantly took hold and pulled with the midwife. Liza felt something start to give way within the baby, whose tissues were soft and fragile after lying lifeless for days macerating in the womb’s fluid.

  “Enough! No need to tear the child into pieces, that won’t help - the head will still remain and we won’t achieve anything except broken bits of bone to tear the womb. Quiet now, and let me think.”

  She moved her stool from the birthing chair to the end of the mattress, and sat staring at the half born baby, lost in her thoughts for a moment. She knew the baby’s head was too big to pass through. She needed to reduce its size. She had managed to remember how her mother had described the procedure. But any surgery such as this was dangerous, not only for the mother trying to birth the baby, but also for the midwife. If the manipulation did not succeed and the woman died, or the hook slipped and seriously injured the mother, perhaps perforating her tissues, the midwife would be held to account.

  This was out of the midwife's normal remit, performed on her own responsibility and at her own peril. If she succeeded all would be well. If she failed and the head was left inside, Margaret would die and she could be blamed.

  Liza considered sending for assistance; some barber surgeons would do the procedure, but many would not take the risk either. She knew of a barber surgeon who lived in Reedwich but there was little time to fetch him, nor the Reedwich midwife who had years ago been Liza's apprentice. She knew that Brother Anton was a skilled infirmarer, but, as a monk he was not permitted to assist at childbirth or carry out surgery; the Pope forbade clerics to perform any procedure involving the spilling of blood. So sending for him was also useless. She was on her own and needed to act quickly, before Mistress Attehill died.

  Margaret felt her womb fighting to expel the child. There was hardly any respite now, but she drifted away from the pain. One moment she was bound to the mattress, the next she hovered near the rafters of the cot, looking down at the women beneath her. She saw a tousled, flushed woman writhing against the ropes that bound her to a mattress, her legs held apart by women she had grown up with.

  She saw an elderly woman whom she recognised with surprise as Liza - she seemed different to her usual stooped and mumbling self - she seemed taller, more authoritative, looking thoughtfully at the peculiar lump of tissue hanging from the woman on the mattress. Margaret realised this was a baby, she could see its back which was covered by a red sore and black hair. She saw Liza reach deep into a grimy bag tied around her waist and draw out a long hook with a pointed end. She knew the hook was to be used inside the exhausted woman. She knew also that whatever affected that woman affected her too, and a surge of love for all the woman gathered beneath overwhelmed her. She had known them all her life, had played with them when they were children, had witnessed their marriages, helped at their confinements. Julienne Miller, Beatrice Brooke and Wilhelm Wilkins; she recognised them all.

  Margaret saw Liza dip her hand into a pot of grease, and then insert her index and middle fingers, palm downwards, along the nape of the baby’s neck into the labouring woman’s body. She saw her take the hook in her left hand and slide it inwards, guiding and sliding it up along her fingers. She saw her shove the pointed me
tal into the base of the baby’s skull. The point soon found entrance between the bones into the soft tissues beneath, and Liza withdrew the hook slightly. Fluid started to dribble from the baby’s head, gushing when Liza enlarged the hole.

  Beatrice looked on in fascinated horror; Julienne’s and Wilhelm’s eyes were tight shut as they muttered prayers. Margaret watched as, after a final wriggle of the hook, Liza freed the instrument and handed it to Beatrice."'Tis enough, now the head should come."

  Margaret no longer floated near the rafters of the cottage, but was inside the labouring woman’s body once more, and heard the other women shouting at her. She was unable to make out the words - their voices sounded far away and unreal. But she knew she had to listen, and tried with all her might to hear what was wanted of her. At last, she understood, and as another wave of pain passed through her, pushed and felt the baby’s head slide quickly from her. It came easily now, bones collapsed and shrunken from the escape of fluid.

  “’Twas the excess of water brought about the trouble,” Liza muttered to no-one in particular, “Made the head too big to come through - not surprising, mind, with all that other water in the womb - far too much, spread to the head, that's what happened. But old Liza made it come away.”

  Once more she was an old woman, stooped and tired. A momentary spell of dizziness overcame her as she stood, and Beatrice caught her before she fell. She helped Liza lower herself back onto the stool.