The Lady and the Poet

by Maeve Haran

  Five pairs of eyes watched me in horror as if I had suggested some evil ritual.

  ‘I have done all I can, mistress, but the babe will not shift.’

  Bett screamed again, and her whole body bucked as if she would surely split in two.

  ‘Is there nothing else, for pity’s sake, woman? My sister is dying of the pain.’ I turned to Margaret but my gentle, kind sister stared at Bett as if she were already a ghost.

  ‘Mary, sister, you ever know what must be done in a crisis.’

  Mary reached out her hand, as if to push away the pain that stalked our sister. ‘In the hall and kitchen, yes. But a layingin is different. Childbed holds naught but fear to me.’

  I saw I was alone.

  ‘It is in God’s hands now, mistress,’ the midwife intoned piously, rubbing her nose with her dirty hand. ‘I attended a lady yesterday whom God chose to gather, together with her babe also.’

  I wanted to scream and strike her. ‘Well, He is not taking my beloved Bett.’

  At that Bett sat up, the pain loosening its iron hands for a moment. Her hair hung in rat’s tails and her skin was as pale as chalk, yet her eyes of a sudden were fierce and clear. ‘Goodwife, I care more for my son than myself. Is there no way you can save him, even if I must die in the process?’

  At that she fainted away from the effort of speech.

  The midwife shrugged and called me quietly to her side. ‘There is only one hope.’

  She opened the bag she had brought and my stomach lurched inside me as she showed me three sharp hooks. ‘But, surely, those would kill both mother and baby.’

  ‘The baby, aye. But the mother might yet survive.’

  Her grudging, narrow eyes were fixed upon me knowing that this went against God’s holy teaching and that only I in all this room would consider such a course.

  I wished I could fall to my knees and ask His assistance, and yet I knew the ruling. The baby must be saved at the cost of the mother.

  In desperation I turned to Sir John’s mother. ‘This manor has a farm has it not, my lady?’

  She nodded as if I had lost sight of my senses.

  ‘Then I am going myself to find your cowman.’ I ran from the room and out into the darkness of the night, passing a servant on the stairs and Margaret going to the Great Hall to wait up for Sir John.

  ‘There is no sign yet of his return?’

  ‘None.’

  I had to try three hovels at the manor gates, each so poor they were almost bare of warmth or furniture, before I found where the cowman lived. He was sitting by the fire with a small child on his knee, feeding it with sippets of bread soaked in water. A tall young man with fair hair and a ready smile.

  ‘I am sorry to pull you from your home, but could you help with birthing a baby instead of a calf, a baby that is stuck on his side and the midwife cannot move him?’

  The young man looked shaken. ‘My lady, I know not…’

  I remembered that in the purse tied round my waist was the last of my grandmother’s egg money. ‘I could pay a little.’

  ‘Is it for the lord’s wife, mistress? I heard she was birthing early.’

  I nodded. His wife put her hand on his arm. ‘Jonathan, tis a great matter. Mayhap it would be better…’

  ‘To let it pass. Aye. No doubt you are right, like the cock crowed while Simon Peter thrice denied the Lord. But I cannot.’

  I thanked him for his generosity, seeing what he had at stake if aught went wrong with Bett, his master’s young wife, then pulled him onto the back of my own horse and we galloped up to the house. There was still no sign of its owner as we ran upstairs to the bedchamber.

  By now Bett was white as a shroud. Instead of bucking with pain she moved hardly at all.

  ‘Can you help her, Jonathan?’ I asked him.

  The midwife looked at us as if we had some contagious disease. And perhaps we did. Hope.

  Bett was lying on her back and, talking to her softly, as if she were indeed one of his cows, he persuaded her slowly onto her knees. ‘Aye. Tis what in cattle we call a footling breech.’

  ‘Can you turn it?’

  He began to press gently up into Bett’s stomach while the room fell so silent that the only sound was the crackle of the logs and Bett’s panting gasps. Disapproval hung in the air like acrid smoke.

  In those few moments I prayed harder than in my whole life before.

  Once or twice he glanced at me again, or shrugged, biting his lip until it seemed as bloodless as a corpse’s. And then I heard a cry of relief as the babe’s head slipped out, then one shoulder and the other, and, with one last shuddering effort, the legs. Jonathan held the babe by its ankles and slapped it until a small mewling cry started up. ‘A son, my lady.’

  ‘This is the Devil’s work,’ murmured the midwife. ‘Such a birth is not possible.’

  ‘It is God’s work,’ I heard my own voice ring out, strong and commending though I knew not from whence it came. ‘Brought about by the power of prayer, in which I trust each in this room had a part.’ I slipped to my knees. ‘Thank you, Lord Jesus Christ, for saving this innocent life tonight.’

  And all the others said, ‘Amen,’ save the midwife, who shot me a look of such naked hatred that I turned my back.

  ‘How pleased Sir John will be,’ I murmured, ‘to find you have given him a son and heir.’

  ‘He will, will he not?’ Bett smiled wanly back and closed her eyes. ‘Stay with me, Ann.’

  Though I was dog-lired with the worry and the hunt for the cowman, I tried to keep awake for my sister. Yet it was no good. Before long I too closed my eyes and slept.

  In the midst of my sleep I had a strange dream where a wolf did indeed come down on a fold full of sheep and begin to tear them apart, and continued until I could wake up and stop it.

  When I sat up at last, remembering where I was, I shivered a little. Hours must have passed since I fell asleep and the chamber was cold. I roused myself and put some logs onto the fire, watching the sparks fly up and dance as I blew on the ashes.

  A sudden sound from the bed made me turn and I saw that Bett had a strange look about her, and that while her hands and feet were as cold as ice, yet her forehead burned like a furnace. Not trusting to the midwife I woke the steward and sent again for the doctor while I bathed her fiery forehead with a cloth dipped in cool water.

  The doctor arrived as the dawn broke on one of the clearest and most beautiful mornings I had ever seen. All around us the fields glowed as if they had been dipped in gold, mocking our misery. Mist hung high on the trees, giving the world a dreamlike vision, yet I knew we would soon enough wake up to harsh reality.

  The doctor knelt at Bett’s side, feeling her head and looking into her distant, faraway eyes. ‘It is the childbed fever. It follows straightway from the birth. How is the babe?’

  ‘Sleeping with the wet nurse. He thrives.’

  The doctor sighed, his eyes filled with helpless sadness. ‘She will be glad of that, at least. And Sir John?’

  ‘Returning from a hunt in Lincolnshire.’

  ‘I hope he hastes.’

  My heart felt pierced by thorns. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

  He shook his head. ‘Naught but what you have been doing before. I will call again at midday.’

  When I returned to the bed, Bett’s eyes were open. ‘How fares my son?’

  ‘Well,’ I smiled.

  ‘I am glad. It is better this way, that he lives. And tell me not that I could have had another. I could not have borne the loss. Come here, Ann. Pull the curtains round the bed as we did when we were maids.’

  I drew the heavy drapes until we were enclosed inside the great bed as we had been so many times before.

  ‘Our own little world,’ she whispered into the darkness. Her sigh chipped away at my poor heart. ‘Sir John is a good man. Not clever or gay but a solid gentleman. He will look after our son.’ She took my hand. ‘First our mother, now myself. A pity the menfolk in our
family live forever and the women wither on the vine.’

  I wanted to protest, to say she also would live forever, but I could hear her breath starting to rattle and had heard from my grandmother what this foretold. The hand in mine gripped hard as if it were holding on to me as to life itself, then it lay still as the grave. The sob I heard was my own. My tears fell down so fast they soaked Bett’s pillow. Forgetting all else I kissed her sweet brow and held her lifeless form against my breast.

  Down in the Great Hall I heard a sudden commotion and ran to the top of the stairs.

  Sir John stood at the foot. Around his shoulders, like the sacrifice for some cruel and ancient ritual, a white hart was slung, marked only by a small red patch where the arrow must have entered it. ‘Where is Bett? How doth my lovely wife?’

  Margaret appeared at my side, roused from her bed, a shawl around her shift. I looked at her helplessly then shook my head and glanced away. A sob escaped me.

  ‘You have a son, sir. A healthy son to carry on your line.’ Tears began to blind my eyes and I had to hold fast to the banister to keep from falling.

  ‘Steward!’ he called, smiling and stamping his feet against the cold as he dropped the white hart to the floor. ‘Take away this beast to the pantry. And bring some wine. We need a toast to my wife and son!’

  His sister had appeared now and stood silent on the landing, staring down, and Sir John’s mother behind her. Slowly, as if my every step were dragged through quicksand, I made my way down the stairs, the eyes of all the others upon me for they expected me to tell Sir John the terrible news, yet my throat pained so fiercely that no words came.

  Chapter 8

  I SAT IN the family chapel, waiting for Bett’s burial, feeling as if never would I be warm again, thinking of that cold white body which should be feeling the sharp pull of a babe at its breast, and the joy of mothering. Instead, Bett, who had run and jumped and laughed at my side, would be interred in this dark cold place, forever hidden from the light of the sun.

  ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,’ murmured Margaret, meeting my eyes, trying to offer comfort, but at that moment I could not love and praise God.

  Sir John wanted no great ceremony, no trumpets sounding dolefully nor preachers telling him that man was but here for a short time, and I was glad of it for I felt not acceptance but anger.

  My father, newly arrived from London, knelt also in the chapel, hunched over as if he could hardly comprehend that such a thing could happen twice, both to his wife and to his daughter.

  He stared at his hands as he knelt. Stooped, his stature was almost that of a child and I felt a sudden pang almost of maternal tenderness for him. His temper was often choleric, and he believed his authority over us should be absolute, but underneath all there was love for us in his heart.

  ‘Father, let me lead you out.’

  He climbed stiffly to his feet. ‘I feel my years, Ann, like some ancient city that has been sacked and left with nothing.’

  We walked slowly down the aisle to where Sir John and his mother and sisters still stood at the door.

  ‘Goodbye, John.’ My father held out his hand and Sir John took it, the picture of wordless grief, imbued with a sudden dignity he had possessed not until this moment.

  I too held out my hand, but Sir John turned abruptly away and asked his mother if she needed his arm.

  I stood, as shocked as if he had struck me across the cheek with his own palm.

  Margaret came towards us, clucking like one of my grandmother’s broody hens. ‘We are leaving now and we will stop in Peckham to rest the night. My husband, Sir Thomas, has given orders for beds to be prepared.’

  ‘Come, Ann.’ Mary threaded her arm through mine. ‘Our lady aunt will be missing you at York House. She has come to rely on you, to provide her with diversions. Is it true she dressed you up as a serving maid and made you walk about the streets of London?’

  I nodded, my eyes still fixed upon Sir John, my heart racing with fear. Had his slight been deliberate?

  ‘Mary,’ I interrupted her chatter, ‘why would Sir John not take my hand as he did Father’s?’

  ‘Come, Father.’ Mary ignored my question and fell behind to walk at my father’s side.

  I saw him whisper something to her and made pretence of looking at some glass in the church window.

  ‘Sir John has been listening too much to his mother,’ Mary’s voice was so clear I could hear her even when she tried to lower it. ‘My lady Mills believes it was Ann’s fault. That God was punishing her for trying to counteract His will and took her sister from us.’

  Mary’s words were like flax left too near a flame. They burned into me. If I had not brought in the cowman would my sister truly have survived or was this thought born just of ignorance and prejudice?

  I hardly noticed the ride from Camois back to London. Even the bustle of London’s multitudes did not rouse me from my pain and questioning.

  The Great Hall of York House was thronged with people on our solemn return. After the still sadness of Sussex it was like opening the door of some teeming workshop, full of fevered activity and clanging sound. Black-garbed men ran hither and thither, some holding manuscripts, others papers for cases in the Star Chamber or court of Chancery. The palaces of Whitehall and Westminster, but a few moments upriver from here, were the beating heart of Queen Elizabeth’s government. Even if courtiers might speculate, in hushed low voices, over who would succeed when the ageing queen died, there was no let-up in Court business.

  And now, according to my father, the rebellion in Ireland was brewing up dangerously so that soon some action must be taken about the rebels. I was fortunate indeed not to be waiting on the Queen since, so gossip had it, she was in such bad sorts over Ireland that she regularly boxed her ladies’ ears, made them stand waiting for hours on end and even broke the finger of one of her Ladies of the Bedchamber who did not remove her gloves quick enough for the Queen’s pleasure.

  My aunt was amongst those waiting in the hall and came across to me with her open arms. ‘Ann, my love, my heart breaks for poor Bett, just launched on life’s journey. I have lost two husbands, but no loved one of Bett’s tender years. To die in childbed is the curse of our sex.’

  At these words my grief, contained by an act of willpower deep within me, would be subdued no longer. ‘My lady aunt, I…’

  Bett’s face swam in front of my tear-filled eyes, the same sweet face I had seen every morn on the pillow close to mine, who had been the calm to my storm, the balm to all my hurts, the sharer of all my secrets, happy or sad. And now she was gone forever, her smile never again to light up the dark corners of my life.

  I sobbed so that no more words were possible. Instead I buried my face on the prickly gold thread of my aunt’s gown, heedless of whomever might see me, and my aunt held me fast.

  ‘Ann, Ann, you were the best and kindest to her. She must have thanked God for His bounty that, though she had no mother, she had a sister such as you.’

  ‘And yet I could not help her when she needed help the most.’

  ‘That is pride, Ann. Only God can decide such things and His ways, though hard for us to accept, are not for us to question.’

  I wished that I could accept the will of God as easily as she did. Instead, in my restless mind, I questioned the ways of man, and the ignorance of midwives.

  For I know not how long I clung to my aunt, she patting my hair the while, until, slowly as a tide receding, my grief subsided and I retreated from her.

  She, meanwhile, wiped my face with her kerchief and straightened the hair beneath my coif.

  ‘Now, Ann,’ she smiled at me tenderly and gestured to one who was standing behind me, ‘here is someone who has been waiting to see you, and who hopes you will let him share your grief.’

  I felt a quick start of alarm deep inside me, confused between dream and the solid world around me, and turned to find myself looking into the earnest blue eyes of Richard Manners.

&nb
sp; ‘Mistress Ann, I came as soon as I heard the terrible news about your sister.’ His voice was as sober as the tolling of a bell. ‘At least you can comfort yourself that she is in the loving care of our communal Father.’

  ‘Yes, Ann,’ seconded the clear, gentle voice of the Lord Keeper, ‘though I know in the heart of one’s grief that can seem like cold comfort.’

  A few feet behind the Lord Keeper, trying to remain discreetly in the shadows, I glimpsed his secretary. There was no sign now of the flirtatious courtier; instead I saw a look of tender sympathy on his face.

  I do not know what bad angel prompted me to turn towards him. ‘And you, Master Donne, as a poet you must think about such things. Do you think it is the act of a just and merciful God that my sister is taken from me at so tender an age, with her whole life ahead of her?’

  He paused, knowing that every eye was upon him.

  ‘I can give no easy answer, mistress. My own three sisters and brother were also taken early from this earth and I, too, struggled to see the justice in their loss. The common answer is that pain and death are the price of our own free will as sons and daughters of Adam and Eve who ate of the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden.’

  ‘I know the common answer, Master Donne.’ I heard the harshness in my voice but I had hoped for something more enlightening from one such as him.

  ‘Now, Ann,’ my aunt interrupted. ‘You cannot invite a lesson in philosophy from Master Donne and reject it thus peremptorily.’

  ‘I am sorry, Master Donne. It is the pain that makes me sharp.’

  He bowed; his eyes, though, were two black pools of sorrow. And in that instant I saw a sympathy and understanding of my plight I had not looked for in one of his reputation.

  ‘Come, John,’ my uncle took his arm, ‘we have work to do in Chancery today.’

  I wondered, had we been alone, if he might have said more than the usual empty offerings. And then the shock of my own thoughts engulfed me. When my own sister lay cold in her grave how could I feel warmed and comforted by one whom all had warned me against?

  ‘Fine words from Master Donne,’ Richard Manners’s voice jolted me back to the present. ‘Yet I did hear, when the brother he talks of died in Newgate Prison for sheltering a priest, Master Donne was not slow to profit from his brother’s inheritance.’