Midwife : Liza

by Valerie Levy

  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, told 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.

  “Thanks, Thomas, now go,” said Sarah. A guttural sound emanated from the privy that Isabella quickly drowned out with her own cry. Liza noticed a look of puzzlement cross Thomas’ face before Sarah slammed the door shut, and, for good measure, bolted it. No-one else would be going in or out of this room today, until the work was done.

  “Lady, the Mistress is about to give birth.” Liza had recognised the guttural sound Rosalind made that signified birth was imminent, and scurried over to the privy. “Come, fetch her out of there, quickly.” Sarah and Liza helped Rosalind back into the bedchamber. “Chair there, stool facing - be quick!” Sarah rushed to drag the birthing chair near to the fire in the position indicated by Liza’s bony finger and fetched the stool for the midwife.

  “Shush, now, child, all is well, old Liza’s here, all is well,” She tried to calm a wild-eyed Rosalind as she supported her with her body. As the contraction receded, Rosalind lowered herself onto the chair. Liza sat before her on the stool and lifted Rosalind‘s shift above her waist.

  “Liza, what’s happening, I don’t know what’s happening to me - ” Her voice was weak, terrified.

  “Poor child, ‘tis the same for all women, don’t you fret, now, Liza will take good care of you, ‘tis just the baby coming, my dear, sit back now, let old Liza do her work.” Rosalind leaned back as far as she could in the chair and, though the light in the room was dim, Liza glimpsed a crescent of skin and dark hair stretching her perineum as the baby waited to be born. Rosalind’s scream started as a soft nasal sound, became louder and thicker as it travelled to the back of her throat and then reached full force as she threw her head back, face and neck darkening, and pushed. Liza thought her Ladyship had no chance of matching that cry. She sensed Isabella standing behind her, watching as her grandson shot into the world.

  “Hey, now! Fetch my knife from my bag.” Liza ordered, lifting the gasping baby up off the rushes and onto her lap. “I’ll leave the navel string good and long - ‘twill help his yard grow big, he’ll make some lass very happy in years to come!” She guffawed before dissolving into another bout of coughing.

  “Here, take him,” she spluttered, handing him up to Isabella. “It’s time old Liza got her cloak off.”

  Soon afterwards Rosalind pushed again and felt the soft afterbirth slide from her. She leant back on the chair, exhausted and stunned by the suddenness of the birth. One moment the child moved inside her, and the next she - no, he! lay kicking and screaming in her mother’s arms.

  “Please - may I see him? Hold him?” she held out her arms towards Isabella who was walking up and down the room, holding the naked baby tight to her, crooning to soothe his cries.

  “Please, my Lady?” she said again.

  “Here, then, only for a minute, mind, and take care.”

  As soon as she took him, he stopped crying and lay soft and quiet in her arms, regarding her from dark lashed blue eyes. Rosalind was enchanted and would willingly have sat all night, despite the pain in her woman’s parts, holding and looking at him.

  He had black hair and intricate little ears. She stroked a finger round his face, exploring its contours. He yawned and closed his eyes. She moved down to his arms, his fingers that gripped hers, back to his face, his legs, his little toes - Anton, our son! she thought in despair as Sarah came to lift him from her.

  “He’s the image of Lord Roger,” Sarah piped. “Just one squint at him, all will say he's a twig from the same tree! Time for a wash, little lad, then the swad-dling bands.” Isabella came over to help, and the two women fussed over him as Rosalind slumped back on the chair.

  Liza looked as best she could at Rosalind’s perineum in the light of the fire. She took a candle from the wall and held it near to help her see better.

  “Aye, ‘twas such a quick birthing, Mistress, you’ve a nasty tear. Old Liza’ll make you up a plaister of honey and yarrow, and a good sleeping draught now, that’s the thing!” Sarah entered the room; she had been down to the courtyard to tell the excited crowd gathered there that Lord Roger had a healthy heir. “Mistress Fletcher – help the Mistress into her own bed, and bathe her. I can do no more here this night … if the young man will take me back home I’ll send physick and plaisters back with him.” She noted the bereft expression on Rosalind’s face as she looked across the bedchamber at her son, and squeezed her hand. “All will be well, Mistress,” she said softly, “You have a bonny son. He'll be a bonny brother to you.”

  News of the birth of a healthy son to her Ladyship had raced through Hollingham. A large group of villagers stood gathered in the courtyard, eager to participate as best they could in this momentous and joyous occasion.

  As Liza emerged from the manor house a buzz of interest surged briefly, but was quickly replaced by sullen mutterings. The villagers watched in silence as Thomas hoisted her inelegantly onto his horse. An angry hum gathered once more as it clattered through the crowd and out of the courtyard, but the villagers quickly forgot Liza and as soon as she had gone the wave of excitement rippled through the group once more.

  After depositing Liza at Widows’ Cot, Thomas continued through the freezing darkness to Reedwich and brought back a surprised Hawise and her daughter, born six weeks ago. On their way back to the manor house he stopped to collect the physick.

  Liza stood in her doorway stroking Bonney's head as she watched Thomas walk down her garden path back to his horse, the wet nurse and baby huddled on its back.

  “So, my darling, soon old Liza and Bonney will get their new cot, and a pig, and a cow, and perhaps even a new Murrikin!” She caressed the dog’s white muzzle as he licked her hand. “They’re all wary of old Liza just now, my dear. Before, they would’ve cheered me, would’ve called out nice words to me, would’ve thanked me for my care of her Ladyship. But now they’re all wary of old Liza, but they’ll see, my dear, , Liza’s only here to help them, one day soon, they’ll see. Come, my old friend, time for supper, and then bed.” Sadly, she went back into her cot and bolted the door.

  Some hours later that evening Lady Isabella lay tucked up in her bed, possets and comforters to hand. A messenger had been s
ent to ride for the south west of France to tell Lord Roger he had a son.

  The bell in St Stephen’s had just finished ringing out its celebratory message, thanks to Sir Firmin, who would christen Baby Roger the following day. Mauger Brooke would act as proxy godfather for the King, after whom the baby would be named, and also for old Lord Cottreaux. Lord Roger’s sister-in-law, Sir Ralph’s wife, would be godmother. A more elaborate ceremony and celebration would take place later in the year after Lord Roger’s return.

  Mistress Brooke, as the wife of the bailiff and thus the senior goodwife in the village, attended briefly to represent the good wishes of the villagers. Isabella remembered to act suitably tired throughout the visit although she had never felt so excited in her life. A healthy, beautiful boy - everything had gone according to - no, even better than - her plan. Rosalind had birthed as easily as popping a cork from a jar. And now Lord Roger had the son he had craved, large, pink and lusty, lying in his cradle, next to her, sleeping after his first feed from Hawise's full breasts. She swung out of bed and touched his face gently, not wanting to wake him. Sarah had bathed him, wrapped him tightly in a linen cloth so that his limbs would not move from their straight position, finishing by criss-crossing linen swaddling bands around the immobilised bundle.

  Hawise had arrived unprepared, believing she would not be needed for another few weeks, and would have to return in the morning to Reedwich to gather her requirements for her stay at the manor house.

  In the meantime, she slept with her little daughter in the room above the great hall. When she was permanently installed there, baby Edward would spend most of his time with her. Isabella regretted this, reluctant to give him up for any length of time, but there was no alternative. Ladies of her rank rarely breast fed their own babies, but she thought, if she had been able to produce milk, she would have suckled him herself. He was such a perfect boy.

  Rosalind rested in her bed upstairs. Liza‘s poultice soothed her torn privities and her breasts were bound tight to stop the milk coming in. She knew she would have to stay in her bed for at least the first ten days of her lying in; there was little possibility of going down to the solar for some time.

  Despite being pushed and at times half carried by her mother and Sarah, she had found difficulty in walking up the one flight of stairs from her parent’s bedroom below, and had almost fainted near the top. She was wide awake, desperate to hold her baby in her arms; wishing she could hold his father, too. Surely he would cast aside the woman she’d seen in the scrying bowl, surely he would come to her, she was his true love. And now he had such a bonny son - but she knew in her heart it was a forlorn hope. Eventually the sedative took effect and she slept.

  Chapter 20

  Over the next few days the weather grew slightly warmer. High clouds covered the sky and trapped the warmth of the occasional sun. The roads lost their covering of ice and slush. Thomas rode to London to cancel and compensate Amyce and Isabella sent word to old Lord Cottreaux of the birth of his godson.

  Nicholas decided to delay his pilgrimage no longer. “Help me, son, push me up. One, two, three - now." The stirrup dug into Nicholas' foot and he grimaced as he mounted his horse. His big toe had blackened and shrivelled like a dried plum and he had lost all sensation in it. The other toes stung and throbbed instead, however, and any pressure on his foot was painful.

  He raised his hat, decorated with the shells of a pilgrim, in farewell to Cicely and collected his reins. "Right. Let's be gone." He spurred the horse to a brisk walk, glanced around to check John was following, and so began the journey to Canterbury. They would stop overnight in London, meeting up with other pilgrims also bound for the shrine of St Thomas.

  Nicholas preferred to travel in a group. Although pilgrims, identifiable by the shells they wore on their hats, were rarely attacked, it was nevertheless safer to ride in company. Single travellers provided too easy a target for robbers working the highways around London. Most importantly, he thought, the group could negotiate preferential rates at inns and taverns.

  Money was a major issue these days and he found it difficult to afford the journey. He had spent a fortune building his new house; glazed windows, chimneys and a jettied upper storey did not come cheap. He was left with seriously diminished coffers, and a lot more money had gone on setting John up in his new home in Reedwich. This had cost him more than he expected. Far more than if Liza had relinquished Widows’ Cot to him.

  But he had no choice about spending his remaining money on pilgrimage; with the flesh dropping off him and his feet going bad he needed a miracle.

  Hawise carried baby Edward down the stairs from what was now the nursery, across the great hall, where the two dairymaids happened also to be walking through. They stopped to admire young Sir Edward. Sarah, on guard in the solar and peering occasionally through the squint, saw Hawise approaching, and called up the stairs.

  Isabella was sitting on one of the stone window seats, watching as Liza changed Rosalind’s plaister and rebound her breasts, which were full and leaked milk, especially when Edward cried. When she heard Sarah's warning, Isabella descended the twisting stairs as fast as her stiff joints would allow and, by the time Hawise knocked at the bedroom door, she lay in her bed. Liza followed her down and, as Hawise entered, was hovering over her bedside.

  Isabella had made it known that, as all remained straightforward this time, she had decided to allow Liza to continue her care, particularly as it was unlikely that any of the fashionable Court midwives would be free to stay at Hollingham at such short notice; Amyce Taylor had not expected to be needed for another few weeks.

  She took the baby from Hawise, who curtsied. “Sir Edward's a sleepy lad today, your Ladyship. He's fed a little, but slowly, and, I'm not sure, but to me he seems a bit yellow.”

  Isabella felt her heart thump. “You may go, Hawise. Return in two hours for his next feed.” As soon as the nurse had left, she frantically stripped the swaddling from Edward. His skin indeed seemed slightly jaundiced. She moaned and sank back onto her pillows.

  She had lost so many babies like this. Rosalind, birthed ten months after her wedding, had been the only child of hers who had not turned yellow and died. Instead, she had thrived, and Isabella and Roger assumed many more would follow as easily as the first. But the next took on a deep yellow colour within hours of his birth. From the start he was sickly; he tired quickly at the breast and suffered frequent seizures. Isabella replaced his wet nurse; her teeth were slightly crooked and this could have soured her milk and caused the fits, but it made no difference.

  Amyce had stayed on at the manor to do what she could. The Queen’s midwife mixed powdered peony root into a little milk, spoon-fed him this pap, and rubbed castor oil into his nostrils.

  Physicians from the King’s Court purged the withered little body, hung amber necklaces upon him, even burnt the nape of his neck with a hot iron to dry his brain. Sir Firmin and more senior churchmen tried to cast out the demons that produced the convulsions. Nothing anyone did had any effect, and he died during a fit, two months following his birth, two months of turmoil and agony for Isabella. She’d had several pregnancies since, but all resulted in mis-carriage or the stillbirth of a pale, swollen infant. Three babies had been born alive, but became jaundiced and died within days.

  She did not think she would be able to withstand the heartbreak if she were to lose this child too. There would be no hope, nothing for the future, nothing to live for.

  “Let Liza look, your Ladyship - aye, he’s yellow, true enough, and not so lively as yesterday - but we’ll see, we’ll see.” The old midwife thought quickly. This jaundice would disappear over the next few days, she was almost certain. It was a common enough ailment that needed no physick, it was different to the sort of jaundice she heard came upon Lady Isabella's babies at birth; the foul humours overwhelmed their tiny bodies too quickly, the imbalance was too great and nothing could be done. But this - it was but a small tinge of yellow and soon the humours wou
ld balance themselves again. But perhaps, she thought, it would be a good time to drop a few hints about her new cot. Her Ladyship had not mentioned it lately.

  “Old Liza will prepare an unguent, yes, that will work, an unguent of vervain and a few other physicks for rubbing in his skin. But t’will take a while to prepare, your Ladyship.” She added craftily, “My medicines have not enough space in my old cot, 'tis very crowded with all my potions and herbs and there’s not the space to store them - but maybe - ” she looked enquiringly at Isabella.

  “Yes, yes, Liza, your cot, anything. But save our little man, Liza, you must save him. ” Tears ran down Isabella's cheeks as she lay in the enormous bed and held him close.

  “No harm will come to him, lady. Liza will bring him through. Do as old Liza tells you and in a few days the yellow will be sent back where it belongs. The next time he pisses, collect it in the jar here. I'll lay a charm on it, 'twill draw out the jaundice, get everything right again.”

  She rummaged in her bag, brought out a small stoppered earthenware jar and mumbled a few words over it. She glanced at Isabella and Sarah who, she thought, seemed suitably impressed.

  “Put the jar near the fire and as the piss disappears so will the yellow.” She chortled merrily. “Your Ladyship, who will build my new cot? Will they be starting soon?”

  When Liza had gone, the two women waited for Edward to perform, which he did after an hour or so, and they managed to collect most of his urine in the jar and placed it near the fire. Liza returned later that day with the ointment for his skin.