Midwife : Liza

by Valerie Levy

  “By morning, or at the latest the next day, the yellow will start to go, Lady, and he’ll suckle with more vigour, you’ll see, Lady, old Liza'll not let you down, oh no, not old Liza." She beamed gummily at Isabella, her two brown teeth prominent. "Specially now she's to have her new cot.”

  Chapter 21

  Spring seemed far away that Saint David’s day, the beginning of March. The roads were muddy, and travelling slow. Nicholas was cold, wet and spattered when he rode into Hollingham late in the day. He dismounted from his horse, threw the reins to John, who had accompanied him back from London, and limped indoors. Cicely rose up from her chair near the fire to greet him and, after taking his cloak, Mary hastened to make him a pitcher of warm wine.

  “Husband, welcome back home,” Cicely kissed him on each cheek, then on his mouth. “How fared you on the journey, how are your feet?” Nicholas stretched and massaged his buttocks; riding made him sore since he had lost weight.

  “Well enough, wife,” he lowered himself gingerly into the chair she had vacated and leaned forward to rub his hands at the fire. Mary placed the wine beside him, bobbed a curtsey and returned to the kitchen to prepare a meal.

  Cicely sat on a stool opposite him. “And your foot?”

  “Maybe a little better. This morning two of my toes were still black, and the others nearly so, but the pain in them seems to have lessened as the day went on.” He took a long draught of the wine, and shivered. “By God, 'twas cold though. Cold as a witch’s tit. Tell Mary to put a warming pan in the bed, I’ve a mind to go up as soon as I’ve eaten.”

  He fished around in the purse under his tunic. “Here’s a relic of the blessed Thomas. Bone from his toe they said. I thought it fitting.” He stood up and placed it in a niche in the wall near to the fire. “I’ll keep it there. With the grace of God, Saint Thomas'll watch over me. Already my feet are different. I can feel the improvement, they're better, not so painful.”

  After he had retired to the bedchamber, Mary brought her mistress a mug of warm ale. Cicely sat bent forward in her chair, staring into the blazing fire.

  “It's good to have him home again safely,” she said, not looking up, as Mary set the mug down beside her.

  “Aye, Mistress, and the blessed Thomas has helped him, thanks be,” Mary crossed herself. “Maybe he'll be a bit more like his usual self now.”

  Cicely frowned. “ Whether that's a good thing or no, I'm not too sure -”

  “Aye, Mistress, it's been pleasant this past few months having a nice quiet household, like, and us all having a good night's sleep. Apart from when his feet's paining him, of course -”

  “Let's hope it continues. He's too busy praying and all that now to have the energy for much else. Clear all this up and then get you to bed, Mary, I'll be going up soon.”

  Work was well advanced on Liza’s cot, under the direction of Zachary Joiner. Her new home stood in a specially cleared area of the forest just a few yards from the old cot. It was much bigger, made of a timber frame filled in with daub that would be whitewashed inside and out. A wooden screen divided the living space into a large room, and a scullery that could be used as a storeroom.

  Zachary had suggested constructing a sleeping space up in the rafters, but Liza thought climbing stairs every night might be too much for her, so he incorporated her sleeping area into the scullery. The two windows would be glazed and shuttered, and Zachary had built a chimney into the end wall of the main room with hooks that Liza could use to hang her cooking pots over the fire. The fireplace would take up almost all this wall, and during her brewing days, if she wished, two pots could boil at the same time.

  Later, Zachary would add a lean-to for Liza to store her jars and herbs. Liza had already started sorting out her shelves, throwing out old herbs and rancid ointments. As she took an old pot down from a shelf she found standing behind it a stained clay model of a man. She shuddered as she flung the shape through her window to land amongst weeds at the back of the cot.

  “Get you gone from me, Nicholas de le Haye," she muttered, “I tried to lift the curse and took this from the dung heap , went rooting about in the muck for you, but the devil's claimed you for his own. All I can do is pray for you when I go to church. Old Liza can't do no more, 'tis too much to ask of an old woman."

  Since her prayers with Sir Firmin, Liza had returned to the church several times. Often, as she sat hidden in the gloom of the nave, she felt comforted by the close, musty atmosphere of the church and the presence of the villagers around her. Once more, she began to feel part of the village. Lately she slept easier, and sometimes even allowed herself to think these bad times would pass, that everyone would forget her evil deed.

  True enough, Nicholas was not only sick, he was lost to the devil, but that was none of her business and she would take no blame. It had been merely a reducing curse she put upon him, she told herself, and never had she mentioned, let alone summoned, the devil.

  Eventually the villagers would need her skills again, she hoped, and all would be forgotten. By then she would be settled in her new cottage with all the space and comforts she would ever need. When the building was finished, the last job would be to clear a new garden with space for a pig sty, joining it to her present garden so that she could keep her well-established herbs.

  The men were just finishing off the timbers that would support the thatch; the roof would be higher than that of the old cot. Soon, in a week or two, she thought, she would be able to start moving her belongings over. Then the old Widows’ Cot must be knocked down; she did not want neighbours moving in to spoil her peace.

  She hobbled out into the garden to see how the roofers were progressing, and stood leaning on her stick, watching. “Careful you don’t fall off,” she cackled up at Rob Wilkins, Septimus’ youngest grandson who had recently been apprenticed to Zachary. “Don’t want to have to do bone setting at my age!”

  “Silly old witch,” Rob muttered to Zachary's other apprentice, crossing himself as they perched on one of the roof beams. “I’d like to know how she’s got the Lady Isabella to pay for this lot - cost a tidy old sum - must have bewitched her.” The thought was not original; it had been voiced by several villagers. In fact, unknown to her, Liza had been the topic of considerable discussion yesterday evening in the Red Unicorn.

  “For certain, she’s got all she ever wanted, and more besides,” Septimus had said as he lounged on one of the benches in the smoky tavern and sampled the latest brew. “Look at what ‘appens to anyone what crosses ‘er, Master Nicholas fer example. ‘E crossed ‘er an’ now look at ‘im, skinny as a witch’s arse an’ Mary says bits of ‘im are goin’ black.”

  Zachary agreed. “Me - I wouldn’t argue with her. All this going to church all of a sudden, guilty conscience, that's what it is. And look what happened to the Attehills - Walter, and his baby!”

  Osbert Miller happened to overhear and joined in the conversation. “Aye,” he said, “My Julienne was there, at the birth, she said the baby were stamped with the devil's hoofmark, 'twas marked out for the devil himself.”

  He spat into the sawdust on the floor. “And, listen to this, the child was partly a spider! All covered with black hair, just above the devil's mark it were. Spiders, now, they bring pestilence and death – but Liza though, she just carried on, didn’t seem to care at all, didn’t bother with the spider baby, just let it lie there, giving everyone the evil eye!”

  “An’ people reckon, afore the baby were disposed of, like,” Septimus paused for effect, “they reckon she took some of them black spider 'airs to make these new ointments wot can bewitch God-fearing folks like usselves.”

  “Aye, I'll wager that's how she bewitched the Lady Isabella - but what about Walter then - taking him and riding him every night she was, poor man was worn out. We got him to the Infirmary too late, reckon she kept him at home for her to use till she couldn’t hold out against us no more!”

  The village women also gossiped in their cots and the village la
ne, speculating how Liza had managed to acquire a new cot.

  “She’s always been strange, that one,” said Ursula Browning to Wilhelm Wilkins. “Never have trusted her. You can’t tell me that helping Lady Isabella birth her boy was such a great feat - she only caught him, by all accounts, her Ladyship was too quick for her to do anything, or - more like - do any damage. And that little touch of yellow he had, anyone knew it’d pass soon enough. No, she didn’t do anything much at all, any rate, not enough to warrant that beautiful new cot - and it’ll be wasted on her, she won’t appreciate it. Church indeed – she should stay away. She’s an evil old woman, no good will come of it, you mark my words.”

  Baby Edward was now four weeks old. His jaundice had disappeared as Liza had said it would, and he thrived, the focus of attention of Isabella, Sarah and Hawise and, when she was allowed, Rosalind.

  Isabella spent a lot of time in her solar and bedroom, as appropriate for a woman newly confined, but had gone down to the great hall one morning the week before to discuss day to day manor business with Mauger, and this became a routine.

  Later in the week Isabella would be churched and would then resume all her normal duties. Lord Roger and his retinue were due to return within the next few weeks. He had been delayed on King's business in Calais but was impatient to meet his new son, said the messenger who brought advance news of his expected arrival.

  The villagers were also eager to be reunited with their husbands and sons again. The birth of a healthy heir to their Lord augured well, and despite the cold and wet weather, a buoyant atmosphere pervaded the village, not in the least diminished by the very interesting gossip about Liza.

  “Not much longer now, child. Then you can be back here again.”

  Rosalind slumped back on her bed in despair. “Now, my Lady, it must be now, this week - I can’t take this any more. I can’t even go down to the solar any more - Hawise always seems to be there. I’m sure I’m fit to ride now, I’m healed up and not sore at all. Please, mother, I’ll lose my mind if this goes on any longer.”

  Rosalind got off her bed and wandered over to the window. She knew better than to go too close, especially with her mother in the room, but stood a few feet away, looking out. How I detest this view now, she thought. I never want to see this window, or bedchamber, or house, ever again. Geoffrey Cottreaux - when we are married I will never come back here, never. I vow here and now, for all time, after my wedding I will never return to Hollingham.

  Sarah sought out Thomas later that day. He was busy cleaning one of the stables under the watchful eye of Hugo.

  “Here Thomas,” she gave him a small piece of parchment stamped with the de Godwynne seal in wax. The parchment contained no writing; it did not need to, the seal would be enough. “Her Ladyship requires you to ride to Stoveham at first light tomorrow, give this into the hands of Adam or Peter Brewer. As before, say nothing to them, but leave immediately - immediately, mind, for Fettiscombe. You will stay for one week and help as required by Lord Roger’s tenants at the manor house. When you return you will give a full report to Master Brooke.

  Thomas murmured his understanding. He knew from his previous visit that management at the Fettiscombe manor house was lax and he had heard from gossip in the Red Unicorn that its tenancy would probably not be renewed. He was pleased to be sent on this journey; he had met a girl there the last time and wanted to continue the acquaintance. He thought this would be his final opportunity to bundle with her for quite some time because he would be one of Lord Roger’s retinue in his next expedition to the Continent.

  Nicholas had slept soundly, tired out after his pilgrimage and glad to be in his own bed once more, warm and cosy, the bed curtains drawn to keep out draughts. Not even his thirst woke him, nor Cicely’s snores. He stretched in contentment as he woke. Thanks be to the holy Saint Thomas for a good night's rest, he thought. At last the curse is weakening, thanks be to all the saints.

  He reached out for his flagon of small ale from the night table and drank deeply, flung back the bedclothes ignoring Cicely’s sleepy protests, and got out of bed to use the pisspot. He immediately overbalanced and fell onto the floor, tangling with the bed curtains. He struggled back onto the bed and saw the reason for his unsteadiness. His big toe was missing; had dropped off in the night. Only a black stump remained. His foot was completely numb. He had felt nothing, no pain at all. He gave out an enormous roar of fright and anger.

  Cicely sat up. “Whatever….” she started.

  “My foot …!” Nicholas grabbed a shrivelled black object lying on the linen sheet. His face swelled in a mixture of panic and rage as he brandished at Cicely the remains of his toe. His eyes bulged and he turned a dark purple colour as he clambered out of the bed again, this time one hand clutching the bed curtains to steady himself.

  “Look …!” As he threw the toe at his wife, his eyes rolled up in his head. He released the curtains to wrap his arms around his chest and immediately doubled over, grimacing in pain. He fell into the curtains, bringing them down around him as he sank slowly to the floor once more. This time, he did not get up.

  Just after dark, five days after Nicholas’ death, the Brewer brothers returned to the Hollingham manor house, signalling their presence as before to an anxious Isabella with a quickly lighted and extinguished candle. Rosalind crept out of the back gate and Sarah locked it quietly after her.

  Wordlessly, carrying a parcel containing the clothes Rosalind would wear tomorrow, Adam escorted her along the narrow track where Peter and their horses waited for them in a thicket not far from the London road.

  They rode for a few hours, as before dressed warmly and plainly, and stopped for the night at an inn, a different one to the last time. The brothers had stayed there the past two nights as they had needed time to recruit one of the village girls. In the end, the tanner’s daughter had been chosen. The journey's purpose was for an elaborate jape, they explained, but neither the tanner nor his daughter cared, as long as they were well paid.

  Rosalind rejoiced in the feel of the open air around her instead of the stuffy keep. Even the cold delighted her as she rode through the evening. By the time they arrived at the inn her woman’s parts were sore but she didn’t care. Anything was worth escaping the tower, her mother and Sarah, she thought.

  The journey back the following morning was swift and the group colourful. Adam and Peter wore their Cottreaux colours, and the tanner’s daughter an undergown of white linen covered by a surcoat of blue velvet lined with fur, supplied by Isabella, that she would keep as part reward for her services. For the future Lady of Cottreaux to travel unchaperoned on her journey back from the castle would be unthinkable, and the tanner’s daughter certainly looked the part of a waiting woman to a rich lady.

  Rosalind was dressed even more sumptuously in a pink undergown and red and gold surcoat, trimmed with sable and buttoned to the wrist. Leather gloves covered her hands and a hooded cloak of thick white fur kept her warm. She rode a white mare that had been waiting for her at the inn. A pack horse, laden with the clothes that she had taken on the journey months before and hidden away at the brother's brewery, brought up the rear.

  The group rode into the manor house courtyard just before noon, amid much fuss and clatter. Several villagers stood at the gate to watch her arrival and cheered loudly, as much in appreciation of a colourful spectacle as in welcome to their young Mistress. After a quick meal in the solar the Brewer brothers and the tanner’s daughter left again, claiming a pressing need to be back at Cottreaux by the next day.

  Rosalind was officially back home again.

  Liza sat huddled in her usual place at the back of the nave. Spring sunshine shafted through the window and bounced off the crucifix on the altar. The old woman's eyes were transfixed by the fiery cross for a few minutes, until the sun went behind a cloud. As the cross dimmed she looked down again at the tiled floor of the church, only half listening as Sir Firmin led the prayers.

  How have I gone on, alone
, all these years? she wondered. Tom, Posie, the boys, my mother, all gone, so many years ago. If I'd known then how my life'd be, all these years, alone - not even this to company me, though I praised Him well enough before - forever in the old St Stephen’s, I was, praying for everything and everyone under the sun. Now look at me. Crawling back like a rat creeps to the corn stores.

  That's what they promise, what Sir Firmin told me, my sins forgiven, all washed clean, just like the old vicar telling us children stories about the prodigal son. Jesus must have forgiven me, I've repented enough. But them? She looked around at the tight groups of villagers, most of them standing, murmuring gossip, occasionally suppressing a sudden outburst of laughter. Will they forget what I did and come seeking my skills once more?

  Agatha's due soon, she'll send for me, that'll be the turning point then, they'll all want me again and I'll be all warm and cozy in my new cot with Bonney and everything will be back to normal. No, better than normal.

  She bent her head and prayed.

  Rosalind opened her coffer and took out her favourite green undergown and surcoat. What a blessed relief to have taken off that travelling dress the other day, she thought, the gown fitted so tight. But at least my breasts have shrunk back down, and my belly is almost flat. My hips though, that's where all the bulk lies.

  She struggled into the green gown and descended into the solar. Lady Isabella leant over the cradle, singing softly and rocking it gently with her foot.

  She glanced up as Rosalind entered. "Shh," she muttered, “Don't wake him, let him be." Rosalind walked over to the cradle and stroked Edward's face. Anton's face. He stirred, opened his eyes and looked at her vaguely before going back to sleep.

  “I told you, leave him be!”