Midwife : Liza

by Valerie Levy

  “My Lady ...”

  “...or perhaps he wouldn't. For that would risk exposing our deceit to the world. I just don't know. If he never discovers our deceit there will be no dilemma – and the only way he'd find out is if someone told him the girl had gone away for months to Cottreaux and he checked and discovered she hadn't been at the castle.”

  But no-one so far at the manor had cause to mention Rosalind's absence, she thought; with luck no-one would. Rosalind as a topic of conversation was almost non-existent, except where her marriage was concerned. None of the servants, nor the Hollingham villagers, would be going to Cottreaux for the wedding. Although the ceremony would be well attended, the guests would be high ranking Court nobles and their ladies who knew nothing and cared less of Rosalind’s whereabouts over the past few months. Furthermore, Lord Roger would not be staying long at Hollingham; he would be leaving soon for Antwerp to rejoin the King and Queen Philippa, who had recently given birth to a son there, advising him on strategies for his battles on the northern borders and those brewing in France.

  All in all, Isabella decided at last, she would risk saying nothing. She thought she might get away with her deception - and, of course, Lord Roger was so pleased with his son it would be a pity to disillusion him.

  Not for a long time had she been so prized in her husband's eyes and it was a pleasant feeling. She thought she may even accompany him to the King's Court. She could flaunt little Edward in front of her husband's mistress. Now she had a son she could hold her own at Court. No-one would have cause to whisper behind her back, laughing at her for her failure.

  She raised her eyes from her embroidery and fingered her crucifix. Forgive me, she thought, I will say many masses and give more money to Your church to try to make up for my deceit. Why, I'll even endow a new chapel within St. Stephen's, I promise. But perhaps there are some things better left undisclosed. I will take the risk.

  Chapter 23

  Liza grew anxious. Agatha Furnier’s baby was overdue; her labour had been expected this past fortnight and she had heard nothing from Agatha or Sam. She summoned her courage to venture into the village; it took her considerable effort as she remembered the previous reaction of Septimus Wilkins.

  “Agatha won’t turn me away, not old Liza who helped her quicken with this child, no, not Sam neither. And it's time they all came back to me, they all need my skill," she muttered as she limped along the village lane, cloak clutched tightly round her with one hand, walking stick grasped in the other. "They've all seen old Liza at prayer, they should know she's not a witch, witches don't go to church.”

  Liza's cot would be finished in a day or two. The thatch lay on the roof, and Zachary had started on the lean-to. That would not take him long, and then she could start moving her lotions, unguents, electuaries and all the other physicks crowding her shelves. This thought lifted Liza's heart as she made her way to the bakery, oblivious of everything including the rain. She rapped tentatively on the door, and Sam appeared in the doorway.

  “Well?”

  “How is Agatha, Sam? Does she look near to starting her labour?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Liza's face dropped. “If she needs help, Sam, old Liza’s here to give it. No-one knows as much of birthing as old Liza …” her voice cracked as Sam began to close the door.

  He changed his mind and opened it for a final comment. “When we want your help, we’ll ask. Till then, stay away from us. You’ve done enough harm in this village.”

  “Me? I’ve done no harm, Sam, old Liza’s not done harm to anyone, please, Sam …” He slammed the door, abruptly cutting off Liza’s pleas. As she walked slowly back along the lane she glimpsed women’s faces peering out at her behind the windows of Nicholas de le Haye’s house. When she looked up at them, the faces disappeared from view.

  Liza had had enough. She did not deserve this, not after all she had done for them. All the hurts and anxieties of the previous months crowded in upon her and she exploded with rage. She shook her stick at the empty window.

  “You cackling bawds warming your arses in there! Yammering away! Old Liza won’t be treated like this, you hear? Don’t come begging for potions to fill your bellies, nor potions to empty ‘em, neither. I don’t care what happens to the lot of you, worthless gossips – may the pox take the lot of you and don’t come running to me! Old Liza don’t care what evils befall you any more, she’s had enough of the lot of you!”

  A little further down the lane she passed Margaret Attehill’s cot. She paused, breathless from her anger, thinking of the day she had used all her skill - and more, don’t know where it all came from that day, she thought - to save Margaret’s life. And this was all the thanks she got. Not wanted any more. Liza listened to the muffled sounds of voices within.

  “ … said she wouldn’t let that old witch near her, not after what she did to Nicholas de le Haye, she wasn’t going to allow the evil eye put on her, nor the little one, Sam’d waited too long for the child, she said, she weren’t going to risk anything by letting that crazy old hag …”

  “Not after the way she cursed him …”

  “I reckon it’s that evil old dog of hers, Septimus Wilkins swears he saw her riding on its back towards the old moon …”

  “… and after what she did to your little one, your baby!”

  “And poor Walter …”

  Sadness overwhelmed Liza. Her anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. She could not bear to listen any longer. Tears trickled down her bony old face as she hobbled onwards, muttering as she went.

  “They all think I put the evil eye on Margaret’s baby, ‘tis not so, I’d not harm anyone, not old Liza, I thought only to help them, I’d not hurt them, the curse on Nicholas, I did all I could to lift the curse, I didn’t mean him to die. 'Twas the devil took him, not my curse.”

  Without warning, a ball of mud hit her square on the face and spattered into her eyes. She gasped in shock as she toppled backwards and over, into a puddle. For a moment she sat in the cold water, too stunned to move. The boys who had thrown the mud laughed loudly and jeered as Liza struggled painfully to her feet, her stick still in the puddle. She tried to wipe the mud from her eyes with her cloak.

  “Get in here, you good fer nothings!” the door to a house flew open and Zachary shouted at his apprentices. “I’ll beat the life out of the pair of ye. Rob Wilkins, Peter Fuller - get out the back and stay there till I deal with you.”

  He looked contemptuously at Liza. “And get you gone, we don’t want the likes of you round here - you’ve done enough harm messing about with spells and devils and the like.”

  He marched back into his house, leaving Liza standing bruised, wet and shaking in the middle of the lane. She was confused and looked around wildly for someone to tell her what to do, but nobody was in sight. Then she saw Judith Belling hurrying towards her.

  Judith was one of the women gossiping in Margaret’s cot. She had been sitting with her back towards the shuttered window opening and had not seen Liza, but she heard Zachary's angry voice. She opened the shutter. Liza stood wet and dishevelled in the lane, obviously needing help.

  “Evil or not, her skill brought me through my lying-in,” she said later. “I couldn’t leave her like that, I’d most likely've died without her.”

  “Here, Liza,” Judith offered her arm. “Lean on me and I’ll walk you back to your cottage. Zachary Joiner should be ashamed of hisself, leaving you like that.” Liza was still too shocked to speak.

  It was not until Judith had left her indoors, dry in the gown Bess had given her months ago, and sitting on her stool by the fire, that she bowed her head and surrendered to the gasping sobs that had been building up over the past hour. Bonney came and sat next to her, his head in her skinny lap, tail thumping half-heartedly on the floor, trying to comfort her with his presence.

  As darkness filled the room the old woman and the dog sat, unmoving, in front of the dying fire. Liza’s desolation had grown more
intense. She no longer wept, but just stared into the fire. Once, she thought briefly of her new cottage but not even that gave her comfort any more.

  “Helping birth the babies and healing were all I stayed for after Tom and Posie and the boys went,” she said quietly to Bonney. “No-one wants old Liza now. Even the youngsters hate me, for all that I helped birth most of them. Rob Wilkins, Peter Fuller – they threw the mud, they knocked over old Liza who delivered both of them. Why, some of the young ones – and the older ones too - wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for my skill. I’ve given them life, saved them from dying - life and death - old Liza only meant to bring life, never death. They think I'm a witch. Well, maybe I am and maybe I'm not, but I never did any harm. At least, I never meant to. Only that once. And I thought God'd forgiven me for that. Seems He hasn't.”

  She sighed and rose slowly from her stool. “Oh, Tom, it’s you I need, my love,” she whispered as she walked stiffly towards her shelves. “Your old wife will stay with you this time. She’ll not leave you no more, my love, no, never again."

  She prepared her flying ointment as usual but then added other herbs, and some berries as well. Bonney sat, anxiously watching, as she made her preparations and once he whined, his head tilted in enquiry.

  Liza laid her hand gently on his neck. “So, my dear, you want to come with me, do you? Well, why not - there’ll be no-one left to care for you. No, my old friend, Liza'll not leave you behind. Posie and the boys will love you, just as their old mother does.”

  As Liza lay on the mattress waiting for the ointment to work, her distress began to fade and her face looked peaceful in the light cast by the glowing embers of the fire. Bonney curled beside her and laid his head on her chest. She felt her body begin to rise as the physick took effect, and for a moment she hovered over her pallet, wondering which direction she should take to search for Tom. And then she saw him waiting, just beyond the open window. With him stood Posie and the boys.

  “Come to us, my love,” Tom said, holding out his hands. “We’ve waited so long.”

  Liza took once last look at the withered old body lying on the mattress below, whistled a summons to Bonney, and passed quietly through the window, into Tom’s arms.

  Judith and Bess Belling stood next to Sir Firmin as he said a final prayer over Liza’s newly filled grave. Septimus Wilkins and Joseph Belling had also attended the funeral but the other villagers stayed away.

  Sir Firmin turned to Bess. “I believe you found her?”

  Bess sighed. “Aye. She was just lying there, still and so cold. Must’ve died hours ago. And that old dog of hers, too …”

  Judith interrupted. “But funny thing is, Sir Vicar – her eyes was wide open, wide as mine now, and her skinny old arms stretched right out towards the window – and she were smiling, smiling like almost as if she was welcoming someone …”

  “Careful what you say, daughter …”

  “No, she were definitely welcoming someone.” Judith crossed herself. “Beg your pardon, sir, but I reckon it were the devil hisself come for her. ‘Twas the devil she was greeting, I’m as sure of it as can be.”

  After the women had gone, Sir Firmin looked down once more at Liza’s grave. He stood silent for a few moments, obviously deep in thought, and then spoke softly. “You did so much good, Liza, so much good. Like us all, sometimes you strayed from your path. May the Lord forgive me if I erred in not consulting my superiors about your transgressions. And may the Lord also forgive you.”

  He made the sign of the cross over the grave. “But live now through all eternity, happy and at peace with your Tom, Liza. Rest in peace, old midwife, rest in peace.”

  Hollingham 1352

  A tall, thin man rode slowly into the manor house courtyard. He was dressed in the crimson and blue robes and black cylindrical cap of a doctor of medicine. Guiseppe Vizzinci was on his way to Dover, to a ship that would take him back across the Channel. He had made the journey to England to study for a few months at the University of Cambridge.

  Now, he was returning to Italy and, almost on impulse late yesterday, had turned his horse west towards Hollingham, leaving his servant to wait on the London road. Before continuing his journey home he had one last errand to perform, one question to be answered.

  The manor courtyard was empty, and no horses or cattle stood in the stables. The place seemed deserted and neglected; moss was starting to grow upon the great stone flags of the yard and a door to one of the huts flapped open. He rode up to the entrance of the great hall, and called out, but no-one responded.

  He returned the way he had come, hoping to find someone to ask, and as he approached the London road, saw a woman and a ginger-haired girl working in their vegetable plot.

  “Excuse me, Mistress," he said. The woman looked up with a gap-toothed smile. "Will you tell me, where are any of the de Godwynne family?”

  “In same place as many other folk round here, sir." She walked over towards him, gesturing towards the ground. "The great pestilence took most of them - Lady Isabella went first, 'twas all the reward she got for visiting the Infirmary, then Mistress Sarah Fletcher, she were next, and then Lord Roger. The pestilence caught up with him in France. And you'll not find too many villagers about, sir, we was hard hit. My girl here, Mathilda, and one of my boys - we escaped but the rest of my family was taken, God rest their souls."

  “And the Mistress Rosalind?" the man asked softly.

  "The Mistress - she were spared. She's the Countess of Cottreaux now, sir. She don't come to Hollingham though, 'tis years since we last seen her, not since she was married - soon after her brother was born, that was. Lady Isabella used to spend a lot of time at Cottreaux after the Mistress was married, until she was taken, sudden like. Dead and buried she was, all in a few days. Not even time for a ceremony, sir, so many folks was sick and dying round us as we stood, ‘twas hard to keep up with it all. A terrible time we had that year, sir, terrible …"

  "Mistress Rosalind - you say she has a brother? How old is he?"

  “Aye, he's with her at Cottreaux, went to live there with her, must be getting on for three years now, not long after his mother and father was buried - Let me think, he'll be thirteen years now, dark, like Lord Roger.”

  Guiseppe managed an encouraging smile. “His Lordship must have been delighted to have an heir at last.”

  The woman folded her arms and hesitated before leaning towards him confidentially, her voice hushed. “Aye, well sir, he was, The Lady Isabella - it made all the difference to her, and as for Lord Roger ... but all the same there was a few folks willing to cast doubt on the lad’s parentage, sir. A few rumours started up about that, faces seen at windows, secret journeys here and there, but I never listened to them. Not one for gossip, me.”

  She stood straight and twitched her shoulders virtuously before leaning forward once more. “But there was rumours all right, sir. Why, there was talk of one man from a village north of here seeing the Mistress - I should say the Countess - big with ... but I shouldn’t say, sir. The lad’s a nice boy, if you ask me. Nice smile. Will have started his training for one of Earl Geoffrey's knights, I daresay. But the Countess, she's got children of her own now, five, I think, though I don't know how many of them survived the pestilence, sir.”

  Guiseppe took a coin from his pouch, gave it to her with his thanks, and rode on, frowning.

  A little further down the lane he dismounted hurriedly and vomited blood into a ditch. He shook violently as he tried to clamber back onto the horse. Nicolo saw his master’s distress and rode forward quickly to help him. As they passed the Infirmary a few miles down the road, Nicolo suggested he should rest there, but Guiseppe shook his head. “I think not,” he said, smiling grimly.

  This was the second time in the past few days he’d brought up blood. The pain in his stomach troubled him continually. He had not managed to eat a proper meal for weeks, the discomfort was too great, and he knew he was seriously – probably mortally - ill. His jaundiced sk
in and eyes told him so. But he would keep going, he thought, Cottreaux was not far from Dover and he would try to catch a glimpse of the boy. He would seek hospitality in the castle and somehow see him as he trained in the tiltyard. He’d know, just by looking, he told himself. Then he could return to Italy and die content, knowing one way or another if he had a son, or if Rosalind truly had a brother.

  Three days later, just before noon, Guiseppe approached the great gateway of Cottreaux. He had ordered Nicolo to ride some distance behind him; he had grown weary of the man’s constant nagging to stop a few days, recoup his strength. He had eaten nothing, could take only sips of wine, and felt weaker by the hour.

  Suddenly, he doubled over in his saddle as a lance of pain took his breath away, and vomited a thick stream of dark blood over his horse’s neck. He half slid, half fell onto the cobblestones of the gateway, where, despite the efforts of the castle guards and the ministrations of the urgently summoned castle physician and priest, he died shortly afterwards.

  Guiseppe’s body lay on a stone slab in the Cottreaux mortuary. He would be buried the next day and Nicolo would take the news of his death, along with his effects, back to Italy. The room where he lay was cold and dark, and Guiseppe its only occupant.

  Outside, life went on as normal. Few of the castle inhabitants, if any, gave a thought to the body in the mortuary. They were far too busy. Carts carrying provisions arrived and departed, travellers entered, requesting hospitality for the night, servants crossed and recrossed the courtyard and young men practiced at the tilts.

  In quiet corners lovers stole a few moments together, and somewhere deep within the castle a woman started her labour. And the clear voices of the Countess’ youngest children rang out as they played Ring Around the Rosie.