by Valerie Levy
“Hey, not much room here. The mistress will need all our brawn as well as her own if this babe's ever to be birthed. Take her underneath her armpits,” Liza instructed Bess who stood alert, tiredness gone, behind the chair. Liza braced her feet against the birthing chair, “Now, pull her towards you as I pull the babe thisaway.”
For the next minute there was no sound as Liza and Bess hauled against each other. Judith pushed with all her strength. Her eyes bulged and her mouth fell open in a silent scream. The three women exhaled together as the baby shot into Liza's hands, red face contorted into a yell, fists bunched and limbs jerking. Liza took firm hold of the slippery child, sat back on the stool and laid her in her lap.
“A fine maid, causing all this pother,” she panted as she waited for the umbilical cord to stop pulsating. “A good thick navel string, no need to squeeze the blood back into this babe. I'll leave it just an inch and a bit long, it'll drop off soon enough.” She pinched the cord and, using a thick strand of wool for a ligature, tied and cut it with a dexterous movement of her knife. “Here, take your grand-daughter!" She thrust the baby at Bess who took her from the midwife’s hands and wrapped her quickly in a woollen blanket. Bess would bath her in warm water and wine before remoulding her skull bones, mis-shapen from the long labour, and winding her with swaddling strips.
Judith leaned back on the birthing chair. “Never, never again,” she moaned. “He’ll have to take company with someone else. I’ll tell him I’m ill, got a pain, anything ...”
“Now for the afterbirth,” Liza’s voice croaked with tiredness. She took hold of the end of the umbilical cord hanging from Judith and gave a tentative tug, but the placenta did not appear. “Well, seems old Liza must go exploring once more,” she sighed. “The afterbirth mustn’t rise up else ‘twill finish near the heart and then will never come.” She oiled her hand yet again and pushed high into Judith, following the cord to the placenta, still partially attached to the inside of her uterus. “Aye, bits are stuck fast. Must get them all out, otherwise foul humours will creep up.” Liza began to ease pieces off the uterine wall and after some minutes several fragments of placenta and membrane lay in a bowl at her feet. She pulled on the cord again and the rest of the afterbirth slid into the pot. “There, I believe ‘tis all out,” she muttered.
Judith stared up at the rafters of the cot, lost in the depths of her exhaustion. Liza massaged Judith's abdomen once more and a large blood clot containing more fragments of membrane dropped into the bowl. “All's well, all's well,” she said. It was over; mother and child were alive.
Liza squinted as best she could at Judith’s perineum. “Aye, it's torn but not too bad, 'twill heal in time, oil of St John's wort will help.” She took a wad of folded linen from Bess, dripped the oil onto it and bandaged it between Judith's legs. "She's not bled too much, just under a pint I reckon, give her some good chicken broth now and she'll be strong enough for eggs and milk tomorrow.”
Bess and Liza helped the white faced Judith back to her mattress, now back behind the repositioned hessian curtain. As Bess washed her daughter-in-law, Liza bound the newly flayed hare skin to Judith's abdomen.
“Leave it for an hour,” she told Bess, “’twill help the womb heal and relieve the soreness of travail. Here, take this chervil. Boil it up in water and then add honey of roses.” She scrabbled around once more in her bag. “Honey of roses, here you are, add it to the chervil brew and bathe her womb and privities with the liquid later today if the soreness is bad. Now then, let old Liza have a look at this bonny babe.”
The baby, bathed and lying in her warm cradle, turned her head towards Liza's finger as she stroked her cheek. "Yes, yes," Liza murmured as she un-wrapped her, "You'll feed well at your mother's breast, little one. Aye, she's a sound child," she told Bess. She took from her bag a small packet of powder made from cummin, dragon's blood and myrrh and sprinkled it onto the baby's umbilical cord stump. "Put a cotton bandage around the navel before the swaddling," she said. “What's to be her name?”
Soon afterwards Simon arrived home, shy and self conscious, to inspect his sleeping daughter, by now fed and swaddled in strips of linen to help her bones to grow straight.
“I do believe she looks like me, my dad’s nose she’s got, for sure.” Simon stroked the baby’s face and turned to Judith. “Well, wife, a fine girl you’ve given me, and thanks be you’re safely through the birthing.” He bent to kiss Judith on her cheek. “Rest now, wife, sleep well and dream of the sons we’ll have in years to come - aye, and more maids too.”
Judith muttered a brief sentence and Simon looked at her in astonishment. I must have heard wrong, he thought, my Judith don’t know such words.
As Liza prepared to leave, Bess hugged the old woman. “I thank you, Liza. What we’d all do without you I can’t imagine.” Liza’s bright eyes were dulled by fatigue as she attached her pouch of instruments to her waist and slung her bag over her shoulder.
“Aye, 'twas a good day's work. And night! All’s well, Mistress, I’ll return later when I’ve had a rest.” Slowly, on swollen feet, Liza trudged home.
Chapter 3
A few hundred yards downstream from the bridge the Holl swept southwards, and then east, in a great curve that enclosed the buildings and lands of Hollingham Manor. After this, the river resumed its southerly course towards Reedwich and, eventually, London. The tall keep of the manor house, a crenellated building of stone, could be seen from the river. Lady Isabella de Godwynne and Rosalind spent long hours in the solar, on the third floor of the keep, working their embroid-ery, spinning or watching out of the windows of this pleasant and private room.
Today, however, its atmosphere was tense. Rosalind stood to face her mother, pressing her lips together to stop them trembling. She blinked her eyes rapidly and looked directly at Lady Isabella, a tall, thin woman in her thirties, dressed in grey and pale pink. She and her mother were almost the same height now, Rosalind realised, and that gave her courage.
“I will not go, my Lady, I hate the smell and the sight of sickness.”
“Nonsense. You only accompanied me once, more than a year ago, and happened to be unfortunate in what you saw, that’s all. Now Brother Anton is in charge …”
“I didn't just see. I smelled it all too. It made me feel sick. Mother, you know I'll willingly try anything, I'll do my best, but I can't go there again. Please don't make me.” She gestured impatiently. “Why can't you just leave me be?”
“Why? Because you’re no longer a child, that’s why. Because soon you’ll be a wife of a wealthy noble-man - and such prestige carries responsibilities. The fifth act of mercy is visiting the sick, as you very well know, Mistress, and it's time you started doing it!”
“I wish someone would show me some mercy,” Rosalind muttered under her breath.
“What did you say?” Rosalind shook her head and Isabella sighed. “What have I done to deserve such a child? Obedience is a virtue, Rosalind. You will do as I command.”
“I will not, mother, I won’t go anywhere near that awful place, not even if you drag me …” Her eyes smarted and she could no longer stop tears spilling over. Trying to hide them, she turned her back upon her mother. Immediately she felt her shoulders clutched by strong fingers that dug into her painfully as she was spun around. She struggled, trying to escape, but her mother grasped her tunic tightly with one hand, and delivered stinging slaps to her face with the other. “I care not what you want to do. I will tell you what you will do, what is expected of a lady, what will, in due course, be expected of you.” Rosalind's head snapped back as Isabella released her with a final hard punch. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will train you to your duties, my girl. You will obey me. You will accompany me to the Infirmary tomorrow morning. There will be no further discussion.”
Rosalind stood sobbing as she watched her mother stalk from the room. Then she ran through a small wooden door set into one of the side walls of the solar, up the spiral staircase, up past her pare
nt’s bed-chamber and through another door, into the room where she slept at the top of the tower. Her chamber was large, almost identical to her parent’s below, but furnished much more simply; just a wooden bed frame slung with ropes upon which rested a straw mattress covered with linen sheets, woollen blankets and furs; a bench, a chair, and a wooden coffer. A tiny alcove on the north wall contained a privy that discharged into soil at the base of the tower.
Years ago, the newly married Lady Isabella had persuaded her husband to improve the comfort of the old keep, all that remained of the old castle which once stood on the site, and now the keep provided spacious living quarters for his family. The room Rosalind occupied was intended as a nursery for the children her parents still hoped for, but so far, she remained its only occupant.
Rosalind walked over to the window, threw open its shutter and craned her neck to look southward. The spires of London City glinted in the spring sunlight, a few miles in the distance and she wished she could be there, or Windsor – wherever the King's Court was, anywhere but here. She sat on one of the stone seats, rested her elbows on the window sill and looked across the manor house courtyard, over the river to the fields and forest beyond. Her face stung and throbbed and she rested it on the cold stone windowsill to soothe the pain. As she sat, bent over and unmoving, she tried to suppress her anger and to think, to reason why her mother disliked her so much. Her thoughts refused to order themselves, but instead twisted and turned in confusion. Soon she began to shiver; the spring sunshine held little warmth and no-one had lit the fire. She gave up trying to think, rose from the window seat, removed her tunic and let it fall to the floor. She flung herself onto her bed, huddled deep into the furs and as she became warm again, drifted into a light doze.
Rosalind became aware of someone lying beside her and she reached out for him. She knew him; she recognised her man by his smell, an unusual mixture of wild thyme and sweat, and turned towards him. He kissed her long and hard on her lips. She opened her eyes and for a brief moment saw dark, almost black, eyes looking back at her before he vanished, and she woke alone in the bed. She lay under the furs for another few minutes, excited to have dreamt yet again of her man. He loved her and would rescue her from her mother and Geoffrey Cottreaux. She did not recognise him as anyone she had ever met. Instinctively, she knew he was a gentle man, and possessed neither the rough manners nor the aggression of the men and boys she had encountered at the King’s Court.
Rosalind exulted in these dreams, although they left her disturbed. She suspected that something more waited for her, just out of reach - but what, she had no idea. Sometimes she wondered if other girls experien-ced these strange dreams, and, not for the first time, wished she knew another girl well enough to ask.
As Rosalind lay on her bed, around the corner in the church the Belling's new baby was christened. St. Stephen’s was not far from the Belling's smallholding and the three godparents, Richard and Eleanor Reeve, and Beatrice Brooke, the bailiff's wife, led the small procession to the church. In accordance with custom, as the child was female, there were two godmothers and one godfather.
As senior godmother, Beatrice carried the swaddled baby, clutching her tight to her chest as she negotiated the rutted lane. The Bellings, Liza and a few other villagers followed, most of them dressed in the plain homespun garb of the villagers, holding their rough woollen cloaks tightly around them against the chill of the afternoon.
Judith was not part of the group; she was still recovering from the birth and would not be churched for at least a few weeks. Until then she was too contaminated by the blood and other impurities of childbirth to be allowed entrance to any holy place.
"May the blessings of the Lord be with you.” The grey haired and slightly stooped figure of Sir Firmin Dupierre, the vicar, emerged from the church and made the sign of the cross as the procession reached the door. He opened a small container of salt and stuffed a little into the baby's mouth. "Salt for wisdom - and may no demon ever enter this child's body. Who are the godparents of this child?" Beatrice, Richard and Eleanor stepped forward and he turned towards them. “Are you fit and righteous in the sight of the Lord to undertake this most sacred duty?"
“I am," they responded as one voice.
“Do you believe and trust in God the Father who made Heaven and Earth?"
“I believe and trust in Him."
“Do you believe and trust in His Son Jesus Christ who redeemed mankind?
“I believe and trust in Him."
“Do you believe and trust in His Holy Spirit who gives life to His people?"
“I believe and trust in Him."
"What is the child to be named?"
"Mathilda," Beatrice said and Sir Firmin smiled. There was nothing the kindly old vicar enjoyed more than welcoming another child into his flock. Every Sunday the village children gathered in his church and he taught them about the seven deadly sins and, sometimes, stories from the bible.
“Enter into God's church.” The group approached the font and Beatrice removed Mathilda's swaddling bands. Sir Firmin took the baby who yelled briefly as he immersed her in the cold water. He gave her back to Beatrice, who dried and dressed her in the linen christening gown that Bess had worn for her own christening, and the vicar anointed Mathilda with holy oil.
Liza sat on one of the stone benches lining the walls of the nave, and looked on with great pleasure. She enjoyed christenings. It meant the baby was safely delivered and would stand as much chance as any other to survive infancy. There had been many occasions when, as a midwife, she had christened a baby who obviously would not live.
One particular birthing, years ago, the baby's head had emerged, albeit misshapen and battered, but nothing she could do would dislodge the shoulders that had jammed upon the front bones of the woman's pelvis. The mother was tiny, with a twisted back, and her baby too large. Despite her frantic efforts, Liza saw life slipping away from the baby as, half born, it gasped
for air, turned blue, and, finally, white. The only action left to Liza was to baptize the baby. Shortly afterwards, the mother also died, her baby unborn.
With an effort, Liza shrugged off the dark mood that always threatened to overcome her when she thought about such disasters. Instead, she cheered herself by thinking of the meal the Bellings would provide after the christening; Liza liked Bess and her family, and she looked forward to their party.
A brief knock sounded on Rosalind's door, and without waiting for permission, a tubby little woman entered, panting from the effort of carrying a bucket of warm water up the stairs. She wore a baggy dress of brown wool tied at the waist with a leather belt and her grey hair was covered with a white linen kerchief. Mistress Sarah Fletcher had been Lady Isabella's, and then Rosalind’s, nurse and would have been the nurse of other babies, if there had been any. Now, Lady Isabella kept Sarah on as a personal servant to both of them, as well as in the fading hope of another baby for her to care for.
Rosalind did not stir from her bed. “Go away, Sarah.”
Despite the nurse's advanced age, her voice piped high and girlish. “Come now, Mistress Rosalind.” Sarah sat heavily on the chair for a moment to regain her breath. “It's time to eat. Lady Isabella says you’re to come down at once.”
“I’m not hungry,” Rosalind lied and turned her head on the pillow to glare at Sarah.
“A fit of the sulks, is it? Or are you scared to face her Ladyship after all the trouble you’ve caused her?” Sarah retrieved the crumpled tunic from the floor and shook it out. “What a sight you look, child. Look how crumpled your undergown is – and your face – you've been crying? Come, sit here and let me tidy you up. Let's bathe your face first. Where's your comb?”
Rosalind scowled, but rose from her bed, splashed her face with the water, sat on the chair and allowed Sarah to replait her hair. She winced as Sarah scraped the comb against a bruise on her temple.
“Another beating?"
Rosalind grimaced. “I've had enough of her slaps a
nd punches. One day I'll give as good as I get."
"She's only thinking of you, child, teaching you how to behave when you're Lady Cottreaux. This time next year you'll be setting up for your wedding so there's not a lot of time. You need to learn quickly."
“I've had a lifetime to learn, she never stops lecturing me, or dragging me out to disgusting places.” She turned her head suddenly to look at her old nurse, and yelped as the movement tugged at the lengthening plait.” I wish I had more to occupy me, Sarah, more people to talk to. Just listening to her all day - I do try, but her nagging gets tedious."
“I know, child."
“And all I've got to look forward to is Sir Geoffrey. Always belching. Revolting. He can't help his foul humours, but - And he's shorter than me, and fat. How could they have burdened me with him? Other parents give their daughters at least some say who they marry but they - they completely ignored me. Didn't even ask me."
Sarah wound the plaits into pale yellow coils each side of Rosalind's head and enclosed them in twin head dresses of golden mesh. "There, that's pretty. It's the way things are, Mistress, you understand that. As an only child ..."
"Yet they expect me to be a mother to his children. What do I know about mothering? Why, his eldest daughter's older than me! I'll wear the blue thick dress, Sarah, the hall may be a bit cold."
"Not today, Mistress, not with all his Lordship’s men dining there this afternoon, it'll be hot and smoky.” Sarah opened the lid of the wooden coffer and rummaged around inside. "Well, at least he's wealthy. And if it wasn't him it'd be someone else, someone even worse."
“Impossible!" Rosalind smiled, her normally good humour beginning to resurface. She stood, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of her undergown, as Sarah took from the coffer a tunic of olive green wool chosen to match the colour of her eyes and cut to follow the graceful contours of her body. The bodice fitted tightly and showed the curves of her developing breasts. The gown flared slightly at her hips into a fuller skirt, caught by a wide belt she had embroidered in reds, greens and yellows. She slipped her feet into shoes of soft leather, pointed and dyed dark green to match her tunic, and swirled around in front of Sarah.
