Do We Not Bleed

by Patricia Finney

  "Ah... yes... a friend of mine, a gossip. Um... might have known her."

  Excellent. The ever reliable anonymous friend. "Surely Goody Harbridge herself wasn't a witch?"

  Again the flush. "No," said Mrs Bailey, "No, but she... er... my friend did ask her about charms to fall with child a while ago."

  "Oh? And what did she say?"

  "She said that for all the good they did, you might as well polish the banisters' newel post instead. So that's what I... er... she did with beeswax and linseed and then she did quicken." There was a rueful little smile on her face. "My husband was delighted."

  With some difficulty, Portia kept a straight face. "Ah. Did she attend the birth?"

  Mrs Bailey nodded. "She did but she made me promise not to tell anyone for the College of Physicians were after her to stop midwifery as it took money away from them, even though they know nothing at all about childbed, being men."

  "What nonsense!" said Portia, outraged, "How can a man attend a woman in labour? It would be a scandal. Can you imagine anything more horrible?"

  Mrs Bailey nodded vigorously. "I wouldn't have one though my husband thought a physician would be safer for me. Disgusting!"

  "So you had Goody Harbridge. Was she skillful?"

  "Oh yes, she made me feel ever so warm and comfy with a little of her magic ointment and after the babby was born and my husband didn't like the crying in the night, she found me a very clean and respectable wetnurse to take him. Only then..."

  Mrs Bailey sighed and pressed her lips together and looked down at her rounding belly.

  "Ah yes."

  "But then... my friend thinks her brain took a turn, she was terribly worried about a witch in London, a real one who was doing terrible things, she said."

  Mrs Bailey suddenly stopped, frowned, went to the door and checked behind it, then came back and sat right next to Portia.

  "I don't care, my husband says we should say nothing about knowing her..." she whispered urgently in Portia's ear, "... she was only an old woman, but I think it's terrible and wrong what happened to her and it does matter if an old woman is killed." She smiled tremulously. "After all, if I live through my hour this time and all the other times, I'll be an old woman one day and I don't want to die as she did. It looked so awful..."

  Portia put her hand on the woman's arm, which was trembling. "Of course it did, Mistress," she said softly, "But please don't think about it because you don't want another shock to the baby."

  Mrs Bailey nodded seriously. "You don't think the baby will be marked by it?"

  "No, I don't," said Portia, "With my first, I saw a boy with a terrible mark on his face and I was frightened the baby might have one too, but he didn't." No, that mark came later when the pocks covered his face and broke and he screamed and screamed... Jesus, she had to stop this. Mrs Bailey was talking again.

  "You see, I think she was right about witches. I think that she went to challenge Mrs... She said it was someone I know, you see, but it can't be. I simply don't believe it."

  "Who did she say it was?" Portia asked softly. But Mrs Bailey only started to cry and shake her head.

  "I don't know, she wouldn't say in case the witch found out, what if she puts the Evil Eye on my baby – it'll be my fault," she sobbed. Portia felt for her hankerchief then remembered that she had given it to Peter the Hedgehog. Mrs Bailey had one in the pocket of her petticoat and blew her nose like a trumpet. "I can't tell you, I can't, it's too dangerous... And I don't know. It's only a guess. I might be wrong and that would be terrible too..."

  "Shhh," said Portia, stroking the woman's arm, "It's all right. Don't do anything you don't want to. Perhaps you could tell your husband..."

  "I tried and he was very... a... angry with me, he said she's a respectable good woman and I was a silly jade with silly notions."

  Portia sighed.

  "Can you at least tell me where she lives? Goody Harbridge might have been wrong about it after all."

  "F... Fleet Street, near Whitefriars."

  Portia nodded grimly. She felt the loom of an answer in the crowd of thoughts packing her head. "Mrs Bailey, thank you for speaking to me," she said as she stood to leave and made sure her mask was on straight, "I think perhaps Goody Harbridge was mistaken about who was the witch. Men can be witches too, you know?"

  Mrs Bailey stared. "You think it was a man who killed Goody Harbridge?"

  "Yes, I do. If I'm right he's respectable and well-liked but he has killed at least two other women and a girl as well as Goody Harbridge and possibly more."

  Mrs Bailey's mouth was round and open. "A man witch?" she said, "Good heavens, what a terrible thing... Almost as bad as a man-midwife."

  "Indeed," said Portia, "Mistress, if you feel you could let me know the name of the person Goody Harbridge suspected, please send a message to me at my brother's chambers in the Earl of Essex's new court." She swept her curtsey to the lady of the house and went to the door.

  Her heart was thudding again with anger and fear as she came down Ludgate to Fleet Bridge again. Paul Chapel had once said over a beer, that if you were looking at a dangerous fight with more than one enemy, you should go for the biggest and ugliest one first and the same with arguing a court case. So before she could think about it, she marched down to the Craddocks' house and knocked on the door. After a while the door was opened by the girl with the harelip.

  "May I speak with the mistress?" Portia asked.

  The girl flushed and shook her head, turned and made a strange ugly cry. After a moment the young boy who seemed to be her brother came trotting up.

  "Is the mistress of the house here?"

  "No, missus, Mrs Ashley's gone to market."

  "I meant Mrs Craddock," Portia said patiently.

  The boy and the girl looked at each other in surprise. "Oh. She's resting missus, is Mrs Craddock," said the boy, "She usually is. Doesn't usually have visitors."

  "Tell Mrs Craddock that I desire to speak with her on the subject of her servants Mary and Peter," said Portia, rage making her voice very frosty behind her mask. Both of the children looked frightened and the girl turned and ran up the shining polished stairs.

  Without waiting for any more invitation, Portia pushed past the boy and entered the hall.

  "She's busy, missus," said the boy.

  "Then I'll wait until she is able to meet with me in a neighbourly way," said Portia, still frosty. In fact they were fairly near neighbours and sort of in the same line of work. In fact she was surprised she had never seen the young Mrs Craddock at the conduit in the days before the world full of staring faces became too much for her and she hid away in her chamber while James did her marketing for her and paid a boy to bring up water for her since a man obviously couldn't be asked to do such a thing.

  "Where is Mr Craddock?" she asked as the boy came and stood next to the cup-board with the plate on it, quite tactlessly guarding it from her. She happened to find that quite funny: after all, what on earth would be the point of stealing somebody's silver ware? Everyone would know whose it was unless you could melt it down, which she couldn't.

  "He's in court," said the boy, "he's got a big case on, a wardship, all the way upriver in Westminster. We won't see him back until after dark, I'd say."

  Portia nodded. She sat herself down on the bench and prepared for a wait. All around her was quiet, the noise of the street muffled by the walls and the low sun slanting through the diamond panes and the smell of beeswax polish.

  "She's very tired," said the boy, "She's tired from spending all night polishing the banisters and the stairs too, she thinks she'll fall with child if she does."

  "Oh?"

  "Don't see why? If that was all it took, every servant in London would be in trouble, wouldn't they?" The boy gave an innocent grin.

  Portia thought of trying to explain how she thought the idea had got abroad, but decided against it.

  At last there was the sound of footsteps on the stair, court slippers. The
bony-looking blonde girl coming down the stairs was as ethereal as Maliverny Catlin had said. She was wearing watchet blue satin today, a very dangerous colour for anyone who wasn't pale and blonde, although this child could have done with being less pale. She had big rings under her eyes as well.

  She frowned when she saw Portia. "I cry you mercy, mistress," she said, "My mother is at market and my husband at Westminster in court..."

  Portia smiled, rose and curtseyed as she would to the lady of the house. The girl flinched.

  "I know, your pageboy told me. I believe you are a friend of Mrs Bailey's, aren't you?"

  For some reason a flush went up Mrs Craddock's cheeks. "Er... yes," she said, "I am, but I... I haven't seen her recently. She has a beautiful baby, hasn't she?"

  "Yes," said Portia, "Very strong and lusty. She got some good advice from her midwife, didn't she?"

  The colour was heading towards an unbecoming bright red. Mrs Craddock looked out of the window. "Um," she said, "Yes." Then in a whisper, "It hasn't worked for me yet."

  Of course it hasn't, you silly girl, Portia wanted to say, do you not know the meaning of metaphor? Hm? She didn't say that. Instead she gave it a minute's sympathetic silence and then said brightly, "I really wanted to ask your opinion of the two youngsters who were your servants before last summer, Mary and Peter."

  Now that was interesting. The girl didn't change colour this time, didn't look frightened, didn't look guilty. She blinked rapidly.

  "My mother said they had found better places in a bigger household. I was pleased for them."

  "Oh?" said Portia, "And what did you think of them? I might employ the boy as my page. Are they honest?"

  The girl's milky velvet brow wrinkled. "I thought they were," she said, "I liked them, but I haven't heard anything of them since they left."

  Was it possible she didn't know? Quite possible, Peter had kept his sister's death quiet out of terror.

  "I've only seen the boy."

  "His sister is a very hard worker, but he's a little simple," said Mrs Craddock, "I'm sure they're... honest."

  Again that pure brow clouded.

  "I didn't see them leave but I was sorry for it. Then I think my mother spoke to them at the door a week later but I don't know what she said. She wouldn't let me see them."

  "Oh?"

  "You could ask her about them," said the girl, walking to the plate board and examining a cup. She seemed to find something she disliked for she touched it lightly with her fingers. "Though my mother didn't approve of the girl at all."

  "When will Mrs Ashley be back?"

  "Soon perhaps," said the girl distantly, picking up the cup and walking away with it. "Sometimes she goes to see the bear-baiting with her gossips and doesn't come back until dark."

  Quite a few stout matrons enjoyed bear-baiting and went in loudly-coloured groups to crack hazelnuts and suck orangeados. A few, greatly daring, might visit the playhouses as well, despite their scandalous nature, and watch plays – when the playhouses were open of course, and not shut for the plague.

  "I'll wait," said Portia again, and Mrs Craddock nodded distractedly and went upstairs again, carrying the goblet, pausing every other step to touch one of the bannisters. She disappeared into gathering shadows.

  It didn't take much longer which was just as well for Portia's patience. The door opened and Mrs Ashley came bustling in, carrying a market basket full of cabbage and pot herbs with some pork collops arranged in a napkin on the top.

  Portia stood and curtseyed to her as well.

  "Good day, mistress," she said politely, "I'm sorry to trouble you but I had hoped you would advise me."

  Mrs Ashley's eyes seemed a little cautious. She smiled a stiff social smile. "I must put these in the larder," she said, "Boy, take this into the kitchen."

  The boy trotted in and took the basket from her, trotted out with it held high. Portia told her story again. She thought the woman seemed a little familiar, she must have seen her around Fleet Street but not been introduced.

  But as a lawyer, Portia was used to seeing the look in peoples' eyes as they thought frantically while trying to talk at the same time. She was surprised to see that exact look in Mrs Ashley's eyes.

  "Let me see, Mary and Peter," she said. "Yes, I had to tell them to go a few weeks ago."

  "May I ask why, mistress?" Portia said, "I'm thinking of taking on young Peter as a page boy."

  "I'm afraid I can't recommend him, I think he's nearly half-witted."

  "And his sister?"

  There was a sour expression around Mrs Craddock's mouth. "A very bad character," she said, "I believe she ended as a whore."

  The hair on Portia's neck prickled upright. Young Mrs Craddock didn't know that Mary was dead but it seemed Mrs Ashley did. How, when Peter had kept it secret?

  "Oh?" Portia managed to say, sounding as disapproving as she could.

  "That was why she had to go," said Mrs Ashley, "Her behaviour... Very distressing to my daughter if she had found out. I'm sure you understand."

  Portia allowed her eyebrows to rise in question.

  "Mr Craddock was not dissatisfied with her but my daughter was and so was I," said Mrs Ashley, confirming the hint. "So she went and her half-wit brother with her. I haven't seen her since."

  "I had heard that they were seen at your door about two weeks ago."

  Mrs Ashley looked away and her hands began to make an odd movement, rubbing each other as if washing. They were quite big hands for a woman, with a reddish rash, the sort washerwomen got from putting their hands in lye.

  "Oh yes," she said distantly, "They came begging at the door with some nonsense. I told them to leave."

  Portia managed to shake her head regretfully. "I'm sorry to hear it. So you wouldn't recommend the boy?"

  Mrs Ashley shrugged. "I don't think he is dishonest," she said, "Only stupid. Don't let him bring in his sister, she'll only cause trouble. A very uppity little madam, in fact."

  So perhaps Mrs Ashley didn't mean "end" as in "die" but as "finally became". That made better sense. Suddenly rage started filling Portia up, flowing outwards from the tight knot in her stomach. Stupid? The boy could read and quite possibly better than this woman. Or perhaps not – Catlin had said Mrs Ashley was surprisingly learned for a woman as her father had been a physician. It didn't matter, Portia must leave before the rage burst out.

  Portia stood up. "Thank you mistress," she said, "You've been very helpful. I do hope I will see Mrs Craddock again perhaps. I haven't seen her at the conduit lately."

  Mrs Ashley shrugged. "She really has no need to go out," she said, "Except to go shopping on the Bridge or visiting and at the moment.... She is distressed because my son in law has not given her a child in more than three years of marriage."

  "If there is anything I can..." Portia began hesitantly. She suddenly realised it was getting late, the boy was trotting round lighting candles.

  Just at that moment, the door banged and the loud footsteps announced the master of the house.

  "Why Mrs Morgan," cried Mr Craddock, "How delightful to see you, ma'am, how are you?"

  God damn and blast it, she shouldn't have stayed so long. Now she would have to be doubly careful if she met him as James Enys, now he had seen her face. As casually as she could, she put her black velvet mask back on and tied the ribbons she had sewn on it.

  "I'm very well, Mr Craddock," she managed and curtseyed, heading for the door. He followed her and opened it for her.

  "My regards to your brother, Mrs Morgan," said the man who had destroyed young Mary's life. "I hear great things of him from our brother lawyers."

  All she could do was curtsey again as she passed him and head out into the street as fast as she could.

  As she got wearily to the top of the stairs and fumbled for her key, a male figure emerged diffidently from the shadows. She jumped back with an inelegant squawk. Her hand fell quite naturally to her left hip where her sword should have been, only of course i
t wasn't, it was hanging on the wall in her chamber. Women don't wear swords.

  Trembling, she rearranged her mask again. She knew who it was, it was that blasted Father Bellamy and she was utterly dismayed to see him. What had possessed him to come back? In the nick of time she remembered that she only knew him as James Enys. As her proper self, she had been with a gossip all last night. God, it was hard to keep all the lies straight in your head.

  He had already started apologising in a low soft voice. "Mistress Morgan," said the idiot, "I cry you pardon, please don't be alarmed. Is Mr Enys within?"

  She shook her head and stepped back again into the shadows. Damn damn damn it! Would could she do?

  "Do you have no woman attending you so late in the evening?" he asked with a frown. God blast him, what business was it of his?

  "I... she's busy with her babe and husband and I was delayed coming home. Who... who are you, sir? A friend of James's?"

  He smiled wryly. "In a way, ma'am. In fact I owe him my life." He made a neat bow. "I am... er... I am Felix Bellamy."

  "The priest?" she said, sharper than she intended.

  He nodded once. "Your brother told you what happened?"

  She fiddled with her mask to give her time to think. What would James Enys likely have told his shy, nervous sister?

  "Um... he said that he had given shelter to a priest. I own I rated him for it but James said he did it for the reason that this one was not about any treason but trying to help his sister who had been attacked and ruined by that villain Topcliffe."

  The priest nodded, looking slightly relieved. "Just so, mistress. Your brother was magnificent, a true hero. He hid me very cleverly and outfaced Topcliffe himself with his sword."

  So he wasn't too eager to explain exactly how he had been hidden. Portia started to find a stupid bubble of giggles rising up in the middle of her fright and her annoyance at the silly idiot for coming back, in God's name. Why? Though it was nice to hear that she was a hero.

  She shook her head so as to try and stay seemly.

  "I'm afraid my brother is often too brave for his own good," she said prosaically – and lord knew, that was the truth. She had been astonished herself at what pretending to be James had done to her – had she really almost challenged Topcliffe to a duel?