Midwife : Liza

by Valerie Levy

  Nicholas strode through Liza’s small garden and knelt at the front of the cot, fiddling with the lanthorn a few yards from Rosalind. Soon, its candle caught and he held the flame to the walls of Widows’ Cot. The old wood, clay and dung wall took fire easily and she saw a wisp of smoke arising.

  “No!” she screamed and dashed out of her hiding place. Nicholas dropped the lanthorn and jumped to his feet, his eyes bulging with fright. She ignored him as she beat at the embryonic flames with her cloak. At first the flames looked as though they would take hold, but soon the flames died back to smoke, and then even that dissipated into the cool forest air.

  She sank to her knees, wondering why she had gone to so much trouble to save the old cot. It was a worthless old building, ready to fall down anyway, but she could not bear that de le Haye should get his way by such means. At the thought of Nicholas, she looked round, but he had gone.

  A few minutes later, Liza returned. She walked through the trees towards Widows’ Cot, Bonney, returned from hunting, by her side and saw Rosalind waiting outside her door. Liza grew curious. When Lord Roger or his family fell sick one of the Court physicians would be summoned; they would not consult her unless in an extreme emergency as happened a few years ago when Lady Isabella bled dangerously during a miscarriage. Her pace quickened. She began to smell the charred wattle and daub and broke into a clumsy trot.

  “Mistress Rosalind! What’s all this, what’s to do, what’s to do?” By the time Rosalind had finished explaining, Liza’s sharp blue eyes glinted with malice. “He’ll rue this day, Mistress, rue it, rue it! How dare he do this to old Liza, we’ll see about this, we’ll see.” Bonney growled agreement, sniffing at the scorched wall before lifting his leg and urinating. “Aye, he’s got the right idea - I’d like to piss on him myself. Maybe I will.”

  After a few moments Liza calmed a little. “If you hadn’t done what you did old Liza’s home would’ve been lost, for sure, Mistress, and all her physic along with it. Liza’s grateful to you, Mistress. But what business can you have with me?”

  Rosalind blushed and took a deep breath. “I - there’s this young man at the King’s Court and - I’m in love with him …”

  “And you want him to love you?” Rosalind bowed her head, red with embarrassment, and Liza grasped her hand. “No need to be shy, child, ‘tis the way of the world.”

  She tugged her into the cot, over to her shelves, sagging under the weight of the jars crowded there. “Come, let’s look at what Liza's got in store - see, here I have potions and lotions for everything. From piles to milk fever, from spitting of the blood to rising up of the womb. Love potions too, where are they - here.”

  She took a jar from the top shelf and poured a little into a phial. “Give this to him when he’s not looking, pour it in his wine, that’s best. It never fails, never. No, no, child, I don’t want your money. Take the potion as a gift from old Liza, along with her thanks.”

  Rosalind had one more favour to ask. “If you tell Richard the reeve what happened today, would you not mention I was here? Say it was you discovered Nicholas and beat out the flames?”

  Rosalind stood, elbows resting on the stone windowsill, and looked across the fields, as yet grey and sombre in the predawn May morning. She had slung a bearskin rug over her shoulders against the cold, but still she shivered as she waited for her day to start. She decided to wear her undergown of pink linen with a surcoat of deep red velvet, the colour always added a glow to her skin and emphasised the sparkle of her eyes. Liza had assured her the potion never failed, but she wanted to be doubly sure of its success. She intended to look so irresistible that Anton could not fail to fall in love with her, monk or not. She heard Sarah coming up the stairs and turned to greet her.

  "Sarah - I'm sorry I lost you yesterday, I thought you were behind me."

  “Indeed, Mistress, and how do you think I'm able to keep up with you when you rush off like that? Into the wood, of all places, you know you should not, your mother would beat you soundly if she ever heard of it."

  “I'm sorry, Sarah, forgive me? I should have waited for you but I was restless, I wanted to walk quickly, I know it's not seemly but sitting around all day ..."

  “I should have told your mother."

  "But you won't, will you, Sarah? Promise you won't? You know what she'll say, you're getting too old to go with me, your rheumatism is too bad - think what she'll do then."

  “Aye, I know it all too well, Mistress. And so do you, and that's why you run around me. One day I'll be turned out of here, out of my little hut, away to the back of beyond to a cold leaking hovel somewhere where I don't know anyone and some young strumpet will be here in my place, all because of you and your waywardness!"

  Rosalind laughed. “Don't worry so much, Sarah. I won't tell if you don't. I promise. Now, help me dress. Please. I want to look my best today, it will help me endure the Infirmary."

  After Sarah had gone, Rosalind stood once more at her window. Lancets of orange and red speared the mist as the sun rose. She had a feeling it would be a wonderful day and hugged herself at the thought of seeing Anton again.

  But as she watched the dawn, he was making his way towards Hollingham forest. Several people were already up and about and they greeted the soberly clad monk as he walked briskly along the London road, an empty hemp sack slung over his shoulder. Anton was off to the forest to collect rare plants and mushrooms for his medicines. Or so he had told the Abbott. After attending Matins, Anton had asked Abbott Julian if he might miss the other services of the morning to restock the Infirmary supplies. The Abbott had agreed readily, unhesitating in his trust of Brother Anton.

  The gentle priest believed the best of everyone; his grip on ruling the Abbey and its Infirmary consequently was slack. As he left the Abbey Anton felt vaguely guilty that he had deceived the old man. “But needs must,” he muttered before he dismissed the thought.

  Anton walked southward along the London road for a few hundred yards and took a small path that led off to the right, through a wide strip of land cleared to remove any hiding place for ambushers or outlaws, and into the trees. The forest was still dark as it was too early for the sun’s rays to penetrate the spring foliage, but Anton found his way easily through the gloomy tracks. He had spent many hours there as he gathered materials for medicines. Often, one of his Infirmary novice monks accompanied him, but today he was alone. He knew exactly where the rare plants and mushrooms grew. But before he searched out his herbs, he had personal business to take care of.

  The narrow path twisted and forked through the forest. He walked southwards until he reached an ancient tree whose roots gnarled and roped almost two feet above ground level. He glanced around to ensure he was still alone; it was unlikely anyone else would be in this thick, remote part of the wood, but outlaws were always a possibility and his caution was instinctive. He bent to retrieve a bundle of clothes from a cavity within the roots, pulled the monk’s habit over his head and removed his linen vest and drawers. His body was taut, narrow hipped and firmly muscled. The dark curls that covered his chest and abdomen glist-ened in the sunlight shafting through the trees as he stood naked for a moment. He untied the bundle and shook out the clothes.

  He dressed swiftly in linen knee-length braies to which he attached his stockings, slipped his feet into leather pointed shoes, donned a grey undertunic, tied a leather money belt round his waist and covered it with a blue sleeveless jerkin. Finally, he rammed a conical straw hat on his head, stuffed his sack and monk’s gown into the tree, and continued on his way to London.

  He stood for a moment, concealed by the trees at the edge of the forest. The stench of excrement and rotting vegetation wafted towards him on the breeze. He walked past Saint Bartholomew’s hospital to the arch of Aldersgate, one of the northern gates of the city. Several beggars crouched at the base of the wall, eyes blinded or limbs mutilated. A few hawkers desultorily advertised their wares. Here and there, women wandered up and down and approached any m
an travelling through the gate who might have a few moments and pence to spare. As he neared the arch, a woman grabbed his arm. Her face was pitted by scars from the pox.

  “Two pence, sir?”

  “No, no,” she was too old for his taste.

  “One penny then?” Anton shook his head and the woman wandered off. A few moments later another approached him. He found it difficult to judge her age, probably not more than fourteen or fifteen, he thought. Boldly, she stood with her plump arms folded and blocked his way.

  “Sixpence, sir? I've got my own room we can go to, nearby here.” Her voice sounded loud and confident.

  “Tuppence, in the wood.” Anton knew from experience how foul were the lodgings of some of these women.

  “Settle for thruppence?” He nodded and she followed him as he led the way back into the forest, beating through thick branches until they reached a small clearing. The vow of celibacy was the one vow of his order he had never been able to keep; had never intended to keep.

  “Money first, sir.” The girl leant nonchalantly against a tree and watched with sharp eyes as he reached into his money belt. After he paid her, Anton stooped to remove his stockings and braies, and placed his hat over his money where he could see it.

  “Nice legs you got, sir,” she said conversationally as she wandered over to him. "Let's have a feel then.” For the following few minutes she massaged skilfully between Anton's legs. “How's that then, sir? My word, sir, that's a big one, true enough, 'tis time I think, but you'll be too big for me, sir." Panting with obviously simulated desire, she lay on the grass and lifted her skirt above her waist. “Sir! Look sir! Want to see what you’re getting? Hurry, sir, I'm all aflame for you!” Anton glanced impassively towards her as she spread her thighs.

  “Don’t say much, do you? Come on, then,” she bent her knees up. Her body and breath stank, and Anton averted his face in distaste as he mounted her.

  “Is that it?” She seemed surprised at his speed. “That was quick! Wish they was all as easy as you." She wiped herself with a handful of grass and winked at him. "Thank you, sir. Come again any time!” and strolled off, back through the trees.

  By now the sun rode high in the sky and Anton guessed it must be near to midday. He did not have much time to spare, but nevertheless stopped at a small rivulet to wash away the smell of the girl. Such encounters rarely gave him pleasure. They satisfied a physical necessity and had done since the age of fifteen, when he discovered the delights of the Florence brothels.

  He had been born Guiseppe Vizzinci in Florence twenty eight years ago, the only son of an Italian father and French mother. The Vizzinci family, one of the wealthy banchi grossi in Italy, had made their fortune from the textile industry and the banking business that grew out of it. Now the Vizzincis had branches of their merchant banks in several cities throughout Europe.

  Guiseppe’s childhood had been happy and privileged. His parents, sisters and numerous aunts and uncles adored him, and he had many cousins and friends to play with. Soon after his fifteenth birthday Anton and two of his male cousins, also fifteen, pooled their combined knowledge about women. Free from their studies that afternoon, the boys swam in the stream that ran through the grounds of the Vizzinci mansion, and as they lay on the grass to dry, they talked. It soon became clear that their knowledge was minimal, and he suggested they should remedy their ignorance.

  Full of bravado, the boys sneaked into the city to find the nearest brothel. There started a period of considerable dissipation and much enjoyment for Guiseppe. His parents turned a blind eye to his visits to the Florence ale houses and brothels; they believed it only natural for a boy to sow his wild oats. And he was still sowing them.

  Clouds started to gather. Brother Anton grew anxious to return his clothes to their hiding place before the rain started; he did not want to put them away wet. And he still needed to collect the herbs. He hurried back through the forest.

  By the time Isabella and Rosalind returned from the Infirmary rain was beginning to fall in a steady drizzle. The grey weather matched Rosalind’s mood. He had not been at the Infirmary. She had accompanied her mother, she had prayed and comforted the sick and destitute throughout the morning, continually on edge knowing Anton might appear at any moment. He never did, and as they prepared to leave, her mother enq-uired regarding his whereabouts.

  “Brother Anton will be desolate to have missed you, your Ladyship,” the elderly monk apologised. “He has gone to the forest to gather materials for his medicines.” Isabella raised her eyebrows.

  “Surely someone could perform that task for him? His skill is needed here.”

  “Indeed, your Ladyship, ‘tis the rare plants he fetches, only he knows exactly what he requires and where the plants grow. One of us goes for the more common herbs. If he had realised that today you would visit, he would of course never have gone to the forest today.”

  Isabella sniffed. “No matter - perhaps he will honour us with his presence next week. You may inform him we will return seven days from now.” The monk bowed as the women walked from the Infirmary towards their horses.

  Rosalind would have preferred to retire to her bedchamber to brood upon the disappointments of the morning, but her mother insisted she spent the afternoon in the solar and sewed with her and Sarah. I never considered he might not be there, Rosalind thought as she stitched. Of all days, why did he choose today to gather plants? Another week to wait, I cannot endure another day, let alone seven of them. Her needle remained motionless, poised above a half finished silken rose.

  “Pay attention, child!” Isabella looked up from her own embroidery and reprimanded her sharply. “Always daydreaming.”

  Maybe, thought Rosalind as she bent her head once more to her work. But it won’t be just dreams for much longer.

  Chapter 7

  Rain dripped steadily from the trees. Some trickled through the sparse thatch and spattered onto the rushes covering the floor, and some evaporated into the fire with a hiss. Liza stood in her doorway, looking out. The forest looked drab and dejected in the rain and after a moment she turned her back on it, bolted her door and window shutter, and sat on her stool near the fire, deep in thought. That morning, she had intercepted Richard Reeve on his way back from the fields. She waited for him to reach her as he wove his way around the ruts in the village lane.

  "Master Reeve," She could wait no longer and limped towards him, leaning heavily on her stick. Her bones ached today and she thought it would probably rain later. “I must talk to you, 'tis that Nicholas de le Haye, he's been bothering me, burning down my cot, saying all kinds of terrible things, threatening me, doing .." As the words tumbled from her she waved her stick and nearly fell.

  "Liza." The reeve grabbed the old woman's arm to steady her, and propelled her gently towards his cottage nearby. “Come inside, Liza, tell me indoors - ” When she was settled in front of Richard's hearth with a pot of small beer, she told him about Nicholas' attempt to burn down her cot.

  "Mistress, this is disturbing news. Very dist-urbing." He was silent for a few moments. "You actually saw him set fire to it?"

  Liza remembered her promise to Rosalind. “Aye, when I came in from visiting Judith Belling he was kneeling near the door, he was there, setting my cot alight. The burn marks are still there, they're there on the walls! You can come and see. Aye, come and see for yourself, Master Reeve." Liza finished her beer quickly and Richard walked back with her to Widows’ Cot.

  His voice was grim. "Mistress Cooper, attempted arson is serious business. Too serious for me to deal with. 'Tis a crime I'll have to report to the bailiff - a matter for Lord Roger's Manor Court."

  "Old Liza wouldn't have to go to the Court, wouldn't have to testify?"

  “Certainly; you're the only witness." Liza's chin worked as she tried to imagine herself in the Manor Court. She could feel her stomach rising at the thought of giving evidence in a room crowded with clerks, and lawyers, and jurors, about a crime she was supposed to have s
een, but had not. It would mean lying to the Court; a small white lie to the reeve was excusable, but not to all those important people.

  “Does it have go so far? Can't you deal with it, Richard, quiet, no fuss? I don't like the thought of having to stand up in front of Lord Roger and all ..." Tears filled her eyes and Richard sighed.

  “I'll give Nicholas a warning. But it may not deter him, Mistress Cooper, if he's truly set on getting you out of your cottage. You should really go to the Court.”

  She nodded quickly and wiped her eyes with a grimy fist. "Yes, a warning. That'll be enough. That'll do it. Warn him, Master Reeve, warn him good and proper to leave old Liza alone."

  Tiny sparks shot out in every direction from the unseasoned wood of the fire. Over it, that afternoon, a pot of stew hung simmering. Occasionally the plop of a bubble rising to its greasy surface broke the silence in Widows’ Cot, releasing pungent aromas of herbs and boiling mutton into the gloomy interior. Liza sat motionless staring into the fire, allowing her thoughts to wander where they would. In the flames she glimpsed faces, figures, trees, animals.

  Nicholas de le Haye had tried to harm her, had threatened her and tried to burn down her home. Despite the reeve's promise to tell him to stay away, she did not believe Nicholas had done with her. She also knew she still possessed enough of the old lore to punish Nicholas for his threats and to deter him from making more. It would not be difficult. All she needed was the will to use the old magic. Magic that would bring pain. Evil magic.

  A larger spark shot onto Murrikin’s nose. He howled and jolted Liza from her thoughts. The cat glared in outrage at the fire and stalked away to find a less hazardous resting place. Liza also rose, and shuffled over to her shelves. The room was murky with smoke and the gloom of the afternoon but she knew the exact position of the powder she wanted and took it from the back of the middle shelf. She poured a little into a bowl and added water from a small jug standing nearby, stirring it with her finger into a grey paste. She tossed more wood on the fire, stirred the pottage with an iron ladle, took the congealing clay from the bowl and settled back on her stool with a sigh, considering the wet ball now lying in her lap.