Midwyf Liza

by Valerie Levy

  Liza nodded in the direction of a bulging leather bag hanging on a nail in the wall. “All's prepared. But warm yourself well before we go.” She hobbled over to the door and peered out briefly before slamming it shut again. “Such a cold, clear night, my dear,” she said as she sat beside Sarah and held her hands out to the fire. “No hurry, no hurry, we'll set out warm and cosy, like. No call for us old 'uns to suffer when we don't need to.”

  The women sat in silence for a few minutes. Sarah grew uncomfortable, and sought for something to say. “It's good to see you in church once again, Liza,” she blurted out at last. Liza sat unmoving and Sarah rushed on, unable to stop. She could hear her voice sounding even higher and squeakier than usual. “It's been a long time since we've seen you there, Liza, do you mind me asking, is it because of the – the – you know - ”

  “The curse I put on Nicholas?” Liza looked directly at the flustered old nurse, who nodded rapidly, unwilling to meet her eyes. “God's forgiven me.” Agitated, she rose from her stool and Sarah crossed herself, ardently wishing she had never brought the subject up. “So I don't see why everyone here can't do the same!”

  Liza was almost shouting now. “Nicholas – he's an evil man, he killed Murrikin, he tried to turn old Liza out of her home – no-one remembers that, all they remember is an old woman's curse!”

  “They'll forget all that soon enough, Liza ...”

  “Will they? Do you truly think so? Are the gossips not still gabbing on about the curse? Tell me!” Sarah was shocked at the vehemence in the old midwife's voice and winced as Liza's strong fingers grasped her upper arm. “Tell me! Tell Liza. What are they saying about me?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all, Mistress Cooper, I've heard nothing against you ...” she lied.

  “Nothing?” Sarah glanced up and saw bright blue eyes boring down into her.

  “Well, maybe, maybe not,” Liza released Sarah's arm and stood for a moment, shoulders bowed and chin working. “Old Liza don't know what or who to believe any more.” Her voice was quieter now, the anger gone.

  After a moment, she hobbled over to her bag, unhooked it from the wall and slung it over her shoulder. “Time to go, if you're ready, Mistress.”

  Sarah was more than ready.

  Rosalind sat near the fire, feeling rather strange again. Earlier on, Sarah had brought her a light meal of pigeon pie and ale to eat in the solar. Shortly afterwards she was overtaken by a most peculiar sensation. Her mind seemed no part of her body, it floated out of the window, into the flames of the fire, up towards the moon, anywhere but in her own body.

  Isabella sat quietly with her as they waited. Eventually, a single sharp tap sounded at the door and Liza and Sarah entered, muffled in warm cloaks against the freezing weather outside.

  “Now then, now then, let old Liza get her things sorted out and we’ll see what we can do,” Liza took off her cloak, rested her stick against a wall, and stood for a moment next to Rosalind at the fire, warming her hands.

  Rosalind watched as Liza walked over to a dark corner of the solar, took an earthenware bowl from her bag and added something to it from a small sack. She saw her lift a water pitcher, fill the bowl, and cover it with a cloth. Then the midwife dragged a small table and another chair over to the fire.

  Rosalind's feelings of disembodiment were growing stronger by the minute. The room was hushed, the flames of the fire shimmered in the grate, and cold light from a full moon shone steadily through the unshuttered window.

  Liza placed the bowl on the table in front of Rosalind, and sat. “Now, Mistress, listen carefully.” Rosalind dropped her eyes from the intensity of the old woman’s gaze, and tried to concentrate on what she heard. “Listen to what old Liza’s telling you. Getting this wrong - won’t do, won’t do. Scrying - 'tis powerful magic we’re doing here tonight and all must be done right.”

  Vaguely aware of her mother standing beside her, Rosalind stared wide eyed as Liza began moving her hands over the covered bowl, whispering incantations and spells. When she had finished, Liza got to her feet, removed the cloth and stirred the bowl vigorously with her finger.

  Rosalind felt strong hands on her shoulders as Liza pushed her forward, over the table. “Lean into the bowl, Mistress. Now, say out loud what you want it to show you, keep looking, deep, don’t take your eyes away, and you will have the answer to your question. Quickly now, say after me, before the water settles.”

  Unable to look away from the bowl, even if she had wanted to, she repeated the words Liza dictated,

  "Water, water, reveal to me what I seek. Great Mother, open my inner eye so that I may truly see."

  The muddy water swirled in the bowl, making her even more dizzy. “Tell me, please, where is Anton, what is he doing.” She could not help slurring her words a little. All remained quiet as, slowly, the water became still and started to clear. Rosalind concentrated hard. Now that her mind had somewhere to go it immersed itself in the bowl.

  Soon, she saw, on its side walls, a figure of man dressed in rich white robes, wearing a high conical hat. “It's the Pope," she whispered, as her fuzzy mind made the connection, and heard a sharp intake of breath from her mother.

  “The Pope! But he’s in France, in Avignon …” Isabella murmured.

  “That must mean Anton’s in France as well – so, he’s on his way to me by way of France – that’s what it’s telling me - he'll be weeks yet getting here. But he’s not in Italy, mother, as you said – he must indeed be on his way to me -"

  Two more shapes began to appear at the bottom of the bowl. One resolved into the profile of a slim man with dark hair, “Anton,” she breathed. “You are there, it is you. My love, you are indeed there, I see you.” But her smile faded as the other coalesced slowly into an image of a plump blackhaired woman, her face almost touching his. Between the two heads a slender finger appeared, wearing a golden ring. As Rosalind looked on in horror the images became clearer and she realised the man and the woman were kissing.

  A cry escaped her as she got to her feet and stumbled from the solar. Anton was not on his way to her. At this minute he was in France with the dark-haired woman, his wife. He had married someone else. He would never come for her.

  Isabella smiled in satisfaction. The danger had passed.

  Liza emptied the water back into the pitcher and stuffed the painted bowl back in her bag. It was a shame about the poor Mistress, so upset she was, but it was better this way. But the old midwife hoped she herself would be well rewarded for this night’s work. Perhaps now her Ladyship would give her a cow as well as a pig.

  Chapter 19

  The day after Epiphany the weather grew slightly warmer, and thick clouds began to gather. By evening, a few snowflakes fell gently. By midnight, snow skewered through the air, driven by a howling wind. By morning, two feet of snow covered Hollingham, more in places where the wind had shored up great drifts.

  The silence was absolute; any sound was muffled by the snow.

  Most of the villagers lay in their beds, or sat huddled around their fires, only emerging, bleary eyed from their smoky dwellings, to relieve themselves or to attend to their animals. Stocks of food, drink and firewood were piled in the corners of their cots; they had seen this coming.

  Throughout January and into February the freezing weather continued. Sometimes the snow would stop and thaw and then more would fall, making the roads impassable and the earth unworkable. Life in the village slowed to the bare minimum; people stayed indoors and waited.

  Sir Firmin delayed his decision of whether to report Liza to the Bishop; Nicholas put back his pilgrimage to Canterbury. Liza and Bonney eked out their food. Hunting in the forest was unproductive; all the animals had gone to ground and the old greyhound stayed with his mistress, close to the fire. In between blizzards, Joseph Belling brought supplies of food that Liza shared with Bonney.

  Liza’s summons to the manor house came one evening in early February.

  Sarah knelt at the altar in St Stephen
’s holding her candles up towards Sir Firmin. It was the Candlemas, when candles to be used in the church that year were blessed. Goodwives Miller, Brooke and Wilkins knelt beside her, having braved the snow to bring a candle each. A blessed candle would be a comfort if any of their family became sick in the coming months. Those Sarah offered up for blessing were to be used during Rosalind’s confinement, and she prayed they would provide holy light to guide the baby into the world.

  She returned to the manor, the precious candles protected under her cloak as she stepped through the snow. She thought soon they would be put to use. For the past week Rosalind had been suffering pains, some of which were strong and lasted well over a minute, but they never settled into a regular pattern. Sarah knew this often happened before the true travail started; it was the womb stirring and strengthening itself for the ordeal to come.

  Rosalind pottered about her bedchamber, unable to settle. She wore her yellow tunic and undergown, now rather stained, but warm and comfortable. Her hair was piled under a cap until Sarah had time to comb and arrange it properly, but Rosalind thought she could not be bothered today. Her back ached constantly this morning and she had to make frequent visits to the privy. Her bladder felt full all the time, but she only managed to pass a few dribbles. The baby is very low in the womb, her mother had told her, he’s squeezing your bladder, making it rise up.

  Cold hopelessness had gripped her since she had seen Anton with the dark haired woman in the scrying bowl. He would never come for her, she realised that now. He had taken her love, her body, and cast it all back, unwanted, without a word. She was alone, she had only her mother, Sarah and Liza. No-one else cared what happened to her.

  And, in truth, she thought, even they didn't really care either. They only wanted her as a womb to produce a child, each for her own reasons. But there was nothing she could do; nowhere to go even if she had the energy; she may as well go along with what her mother wanted. She’d birth this child, get that over, and marry Geoffrey. Start again. Maybe Geoffrey would grow to care for her. She would make him love her. He'd be better than no-one. Anyone would be better than no-one.

  Her window shutter stood slightly open, allowing a little of the weak winter light to filter through the snow triangled on the glass outside. Restless, she opened her coffer and took out her gowns and tunics. She shook them and laid them on her bed, then refolded and put them back again. She closed the lid with a sigh and sat on it for a moment, leaning back and stretching, hands bracing her lower back. It won’t be long now until I can wear them again, she thought, I’m heartily sick of wearing these. One of the first things I’ll do when this is all over is burn them. I hope I'll fit into my pretty gowns. Not only my belly's swollen, it's my face and fingers and ankles as well. I'm slow and clumsy as an ox, as well as the size of one.

  Suddenly, the baby kicked hard. She had been quieter the last week and the kick took her by surprise. Rosalind always thought in terms of the baby being a girl as a reaction to her mother’s assumption of a boy, the only defiance she had the energy for now. She walked over to the step leading up to the window to peer at the fields and woods in the distance, wishing she were outside, walking or riding her horse. She went into her privy again before going down to the solar for dinner.

  Isabella noticed a grimace pass over Rosalind's face. She had not eaten much of her bacon and bread. Isabella left her own food and went to lay a hand on her daughter’s swollen belly. The baby rested quiet underneath her hand, but Isabella felt the womb tighten for several seconds, before going soft again.

  “Is this your time, child, have you started, do you think?”

  “I don’t know, mother …”

  “Hush, then, child and let’s see.” Sarah came over to stand behind Rosalind, watching anxiously as Isabella waited, her hand on her daughter's abdomen. After a few moments, Isabella spoke again.

  “Do you feel that, child?” Rosalind nodded. Isabella looked at Sarah, and an unspoken message passed between the two women. Rosalind got to her feet.

  “I need the privy again.”

  “Go into mine,” offered her mother, and she followed Rosalind up the stairs. After a moment, Isabella heard her daughter cry out. She squeezed into the tiny privy to look at the strip of tow with which Rosalind had wiped herself, and nodded as she saw the streaks of blood on it.

  “At last,” she said. “Go and sit in the solar when you're done here. Sarah and I have work to do. Let us pray all will be well.” She patted Rosalind’s stomach.

  Rosalind looked up from her seat on the privy. “Mother, I’m scared, what will …” But her mother had gone.

  Isabella knelt beside her bed and held her crucifix between her hands.

  “Holy Father, In the name of the blessed Virgin Mary who gave birth to your only begotten son, and the holy patron of women in childbirth, Saint Margaret, bless us your servants today in this house, and bless the work we will do here today. Bless the child Rosalind our daughter carries within her and ensure his safe delivery to those who will love him well. May her travail be quick and easy, and let no demons or ill humours enter her body but let him be born safe. May the child prosper in your name, and walk forever under your most holy protection, in the name of the Virgin Mary and Christ Jesu we beg this of you. Amen.

  Isabella's chamber was warm and smoky from the fire. Clean straw lay on the floor and the blest candles were ready for lighting. Sarah heaped more straw upon the bed to protect the feather mattress, and covered it with a linen sheet before replacing the blankets and damask coverlet. Rosalind passed the afternoon resting on a chair, walking around the room, sitting on the privy or lying on the bed.

  Isabella spent some time in the manor hall and courtyard, letting whosoever happened to be there see that her labour had not started. Everyone knew the baby was not due to be born for another month. Indeed, in a few days time, they expected her Ladyship would confine herself to her private quarters to await the birth.

  As dusk started to fall Rosalind’s contractions came every five or six minutes, and were becoming more painful.

  “Lady, had you not better send for Liza?” Sarah asked as Rosalind gritted her teeth, trying not to cry out. Isabella had instructed her daughter to make no noise, not to scream; for as long as possible no-one outside the room must know a woman laboured there.

  “Not until the last minute! But that won’t be long now.” She would not give cause for anyone to say Amyce Taylor, not due to arrive for another three weeks, could have reached the manor house in time. This birthing would have to seem a little premature and far too rapid for any midwife other than Liza, fetched in an apparent emergency, to be in attendance. And Sarah, of course.

  Rosalind stood leaning on her old nurse’s shoulders when liquid gushed onto the rushes below. The pain gathered strength quickly, and was far stronger than the others. This time she was unable to prevent a scream escaping that reverberated around the tower and throughout the manor house.

  Servants working in the stables, kitchens, dairy and the other parts of the house rushed out into the courtyard, wondering what on earth could be amiss, thinking maybe their Lady had started her travail, concerned the labour was a month early. Thomas was amongst them.

  Minutes later, Sarah hurried across the slushy courtyard towards him. “Fetch Mistress Cooper! Quickly!” she told him, and he stood unmoving until understanding dawned.

  “Oh, you mean Liza?”

  “Yes, go on, hurry now, quick, you must be quick, everything’s happening, we have no time to fetch anyone else, her Ladyship will not be long, hurry!” Sarah returned quickly to the house before Thomas could ask any questions. He noticed Mistress Carpenter, the laundress, depart hastily to spread the news in the village. The other servants remained in the courtyard, gossiping their concern for their Lady.

  He did not stop to saddle a horse; it was quicker to run the half mile along the snow covered tracks in the forest to Widows’ Cot. Liza thrust jars of potions and ointments into her bag, tol
d Bonney to stay safe by the fire, put her cloak on and set off back through the wood to the manor house. Thomas followed with the birthing chair on his back.

  Isabella sat on her bed. Rosalind knelt on the floor by her side, dressed only in her shift, eyes screwed shut and head pillowed in her arms as a contraction started to rack though her body. She watched intently as Rosalind threw her head back, veins blue and swollen in her neck. She made no noise; in her stead Isabella took a deep breath and screamed. Her voice was deeper than her daughter's; so would be her scream.

  In the great hall and courtyard the servants heard her cries and prayed for her safe delivery. As the contraction waned, Isabella heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Sarah pulled Rosalind to her feet and into the privy, ‘Just for a few minutes, Mistress,’ she said, drawing the curtain so that Rosalind would be hidden from anyone who entered the chamber.

  The door flew open and Liza, breathless from the stairs, tumbled into the solar, coughing and wheezing. She dumped her bag and collapsed onto the bench. After she had caught her breath, she looked around. The window shutter was open, admitting the gloom of the early February afternoon and letting out the sounds of a woman in labour. The fire blazed and a stock of firewood stood piled beside the grate. Expensive candles burned in sconces on the walls, but their sweet scent was overlaid by the reek of wood smoke, soot and sweat.

  More footsteps and a scraping sound arose from the stairs, and Thomas arrived at the open doorway, panting with the birthing chair, that had been difficult to manouevre up the twisting stairs. As he deposited his burden Liza saw him glance through the smoky gloom towards her Ladyship, who lay on her bed, covered by a sheet.