The Midwife's Tale (2 page)

At the sound of her pitiful cries, my heart melted and I reached down to help her to her feet. I felt for the poor girl—it was Mercy who had sinned, after all. “If she doesn’t name the father, the city will have to support the child for years to come,” I explained as gently as I could. “The law forbids me to help her so long as she refuses. It is also for the good of the child. If I tell the Justices who the father is, they will order him to support the baby. You all will benefit from that.”

“What should I do?”

“Tell her to name the father,” I said, cupping her face in my hands. “If she promises to do so, I will come back and all will be well, both tonight and in the future.”

Sairy nodded and disappeared into the house. Moments later, she emerged. “Mercy said she will tell you who the father is. Now will you help?” I nodded and followed her back into the room.

I crossed the room and squatted between Mercy’s legs. I paused before touching her. “Mercy, you must name the father of your child, or I will leave again. Your life is in peril—do not make the last words you speak a lie, for you will answer for it on Judgment Day.”

“Peter Clark,” she said between breaths. “The father is Peter Clark.”

“I know no Peter Clark,” I replied. “And it is a common name. Which Peter Clark is the father of your child?”

“He’s apprentice to William Dolben. He is a butcher in the Shambles. He is the father, I swear. We were betrothed when he got me with child, and to be married in the spring. His master would not give him leave to marry until the end of the summer.”

I would have to ask her again, of course, but Peter Clark was a good place to start and I could begin my work. “Thank you, Mercy,” I said. “You did the right thing, both for you and for the child.”

I opened my valise and laid out the oils and medicines I would need. I said a prayer as I slipped a small knife for the navel string into my apron. The small satchel of cutting tools remained at the bottom of the bag, and I hoped they would remain there. I opened a vial of oil and, muttering another prayer under my breath, anointed my hands and the neck of Mercy’s womb. I slipped my hand inside to see how the child lay and to judge how best I could smooth his journey into the world. I could feel the child’s head and knew that he would be born soon. I looked up at Mercy. The skin was drawn tight across her cheeks and her eyes shone with pain, giving her the look of a demon. She should have eaten to sustain her strength, and I wished I’d brought some food for her.

I turned to Sairy. “The baby will be born shortly. Do you have linens prepared?” She looked at me blankly. “For swaddling the child?” I added.

“In the chest,” said Mercy. “I purchased them last week.” I nodded at Sairy, and she sprang into action, pulling a small packet out of the chest and laying it on the table.

“Now take some water and put it on the fire,” I said. Sairy hesitated again. A sweet girl and good sister, but not what I would want in an assistant. “We’ll need to wash the baby. Not too hot, just warm enough to clean him.” Sairy disappeared into the kitchen, and I turned back to Mercy.

“Here, let me help you up—you’ll do better squatting on your haunches than lying down. The child will struggle to be born, and it’s better to give him a downhill road.” She hesitated, unsure if walking around while in travail was a good idea. “It will also mean you don’t have to burn your mattress afterwards.” She grasped my hands and with some effort hauled herself off the bed and to her feet.

We walked in small circles around the room, Mercy’s arm over my shoulders, mine around her waist. From time to time she rested her head on my shoulder, and I saw her wipe tears on my collar. It seemed to me that these were tears not of pain but of regret. She had sinned, of course, and deserved some measure of her fate, but I wondered what possible future Peter Clark had stolen from her when he got her with child. Would she ever live as a respectable housewife? Would she raise her children in a home with more than one bed, two stools, and a table? Or was this a final step into dire poverty? Would she end her life as one of the city’s whores, her child an urchin destined for a similar life?

“You’ll be fine,” I said, squeezing her shoulders. I also added a silent prayer that I spoke the truth. “Your travail is going well, and the baby’s head is at the neck of your matrix. Who knows? It may not even hurt.” At this, even though fear and exhaustion threatened to overtake her, she smiled a little. “It will probably hurt,” I conceded, and we continued to walk.

As the height of Mercy’s labor approached, I called to Sairy. “You’ll have to support her while I deliver the child. Sit on the edge of the bed and put your arms under hers, holding her up.” I renewed my questioning.

“Mercy, tell the truth, who is the father of your child?”

“He is Peter Clark.”

“Swear, Mercy.”

“If the father is any man other than Peter Clark, may this child and I never part!”

But a short time later they did part, and by the grace of God I ushered a lusty baby girl into the world. If healthy lungs guaranteed a long life, this child would outlive her own grandchildren. I cut and bound the navel string.

“Bring the water and a clean cloth,” I told Sairy. She went to the kitchen and returned with a pot, which she set on the table. With no great optimism she began to root in the chest for a cloth. “Never mind,” I said. I unclipped my collar and tested the water’s temperature. Miraculously, it was just right. I dipped my collar-turned-washcloth into the water and began to clean the squalling infant. Once that task was accomplished, I took the linen bands from the package Mercy had bought and swaddled the girl. Mercy now sat on one of the stools, leaning against the bed, looking dazed. I placed the infant in her arms and held my lantern so mother and child could gaze upon each other.

“If the afterbirth does not come on its own, in a moment I’ll have to fetch it out myself,” I told her. She nodded. But luck was on her side, and a few minutes later the afterbirth was delivered of its own accord. After dressing Mercy’s privities, I helped her into bed. Exhausted, she lay back and closed her eyes.

“No sleep yet,” I told her. “You should nurse the child and then you can both sleep.” Her nipples were well suited for nursing, and the child sucked greedily. I turned to Sairy and saw that she had dozed off in the corner. Only the Lord knew how long she had been awake. I glanced at the window and noticed that morning had come. I heard the Minster bell toll once—half-five, I guessed. I went into the kitchen to see what food they had but found only a stale bread crust and pot of weak ale. I returned to the parlor and saw that all three of the house’s inhabitants slept. I shook Sairy awake. She looked up at me, still half-asleep.

“Do you and Mercy have any money?” I asked.

A look of horror spread across her face. “We can’t … we don’t … the Overseer of the Poor said…,” she stammered.

“Not for me, Sairy, for food. Your sister will awake with the appetite of two men.”

“We have nothing at all. She spent the last of our money on the linen for the baby.”

I fetched some more coins from my valise. “Here. If you find meat you can afford, boil it rather than roast it. She should also have broth and eggs, but no mutton. It will give her a fever. I imagine Peter Clark can get you some beef or a chicken. It would be the least he could do.” White wine would have helped her regain her strength, but it was clearly more than they could afford, so I suggested barley water. “And almond milk if you can find it.” She thanked me profusely, helped me gather my belongings, and accompanied me to St. Andrewgate.

“Everything should be fine for now,” I said. “The nearest midwife is Elizabeth Halliday, over in St. Cuthbert’s parish, around the corner from the church.” Sairy nodded. “She is a good midwife and nurse, and can help. Tell her I sent you, and that I will repay the courtesy. If you need me, go to St. Helen Stonegate. Ask any of the shopkeepers there, and they will tell you where I live. I am Lady Bridget Hodgson.”

She nodded again. “Yes, my lady.”

“Good. You did well last night. Your sister is lucky to have you. Now, go find some food for the both of you.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

I watched the girl disappear around the corner, and then I started for my home.

Chapter 2

As I walked home in the early morning light, I looked toward Bootham Bar and said a prayer of thanks that the previous night’s fires had burned themselves out. A smoky haze drifted into the sky as the ashes smoldered, but the worst had passed. I hoped that the King’s men had succeeded in denying the rebels cover should they attempt to storm the walls. Only the Lord knew what slaughter would follow if the rebels took the city by force. When I turned onto Stonegate, a group of soldiers came into view, marching toward the barbican for their turn walking the city’s walls. The sergeant saluted me, and I wished him Godspeed.

As the soldiers passed out of sight, I reflected on York’s journey from a free and prosperous city to these desperate straits. Curiously, England’s road to civil war began in Ireland, when the Papists took up arms against their Protestant masters and slaughtered them by the thousands, giving quarter to neither women nor children. Fantastic rumors soon spread that the Irish had acted with the King’s approval and that he intended to bring them to England to continue their bloody work. Parliament raised an army to defend England against the Irish, and King Charles raised an army to defend himself against Parliament; within weeks war had begun.

The Parliament-men said that the King meant to put down the Protestant religion and return England to the shackles of Popery. Some even warned that the King hoped to bring in an Irish army to slaughter English Protestants in their beds. Others charged that the King meant to do away with all Parliaments and rule as a tyrant. They said he would put himself up as a new Pharaoh, lay waste to ancient English liberties, and claim for himself the right to take any man’s property.

For his part, the King branded the Parliament-men traitors, bent on destroying every kind of order. If the rebels succeeded in bringing down the monarchy, he declared, they would pull down the Church soon after, and then the authority of fathers and masters. They would not stop until they had destroyed all order, even that which God Himself created. Their goal, he said, was anarchy. For my part, I chose order over chaos and favored the King, but most of all I lamented the passing of a time when King, Church, and people lived and breathed as one body.

The war came to York in December 1642, when the Marquess of Newcastle—then but an Earl—entered the city and established a Royalist garrison. A few months later, the Queen brought weapons and money to help defend the city, but (praise be to God) no enemy showed himself. For over a year, we had the luxury of watching our nation’s civil war from a distance, as other towns were taken and retaken and other men’s sons bore the brunt of the fighting. All of this ended in the spring, when the Scots joined with the rebels and marched to the city’s walls and began to tighten the rope around York’s neck. Food had not yet begun to run short, but the siege could last for months, and what would we do then? In the meantime, the Parliament-men shot their artillery into the city, unconcerned with what they hit. God ordained that most fell into the river Foss, but the devil had his say as well. Houses were destroyed, innocents killed, and the church tower of St. Denys was shot through with a cannonball, making a mockery of Parliament’s pretensions to defend true religion.

As I approached the narrow street that would take me home, a few of the trained bands approached. They were local boys and doffed their caps when they recognized me.

“Returning from a birth, Lady Hodgson?” their sergeant enquired.

“Indeed.” I fumbled for his first name—I knew I had delivered two of his children, and while I never forgot a mother, the fathers were a different matter. “How are Barbara and your girls, Sergeant Smith?” Better to stick with the rank.

“The girls are well, praise God. Bridget is nearly two now and running all about the house.” He knew I would remember Bridget’s birth. His wife’s travail lasted for days. Another midwife said the child was dead and had wanted to call in the surgeon with his cutting tools. The husband came to my door in a panic and begged my help. In the end it turned out that there were twins. I could not save the boy child, but the girl lived, and her father consented to name her in my honor. I resolved to have Hannah bake a pie and send it over to them when I got home.

After taking my leave of the sergeant, I completed the last few steps of my journey. Like those around it, my home stood three stories tall, with each one extending a bit farther over the street than the one below it. On narrower streets it was nearly possible to climb out the window of one building and in the window of the neighbor across the street. As my home came into view, I realized how tired I was. I only hoped that the women I had promised to assist in their travail would wait until the evening, or better yet until the next morning, to go into labor. And if the Overseer of the Poor called again? Well, York had half a dozen midwives, and one of them would have to suffice.

When I entered, Hannah rushed into the parlor and began fussing over me. She was perhaps twenty-five years my senior and had been my maidservant for as long as I could remember. She had helped to raise me, then left her family in Hereford to accompany me to York. She had seen me married twice, widowed twice, and I think she still held out fond hope she would see a third wedding and perhaps another child or two. She insisted that she felt as young as ever, but I wondered how much longer she would be able to do the housework by herself. She took my cloak and ushered me into the dining room, clucking all the while.

“So,” she asked, “who was the father of the baby?” Among the benefits of living with a midwife was being the first to hear local gossip.

“Nobody of note,” I said. “He’s just a butcher’s apprentice.”

She could not hide her disappointment. A debauched Alderman would have made for much better gossip in the city’s markets and shops. She went to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a steaming bowl of pottage. She placed it on the table before me and disappeared upstairs to continue her work. I was famished and began to eat, but the clink of my spoon against the bowl echoed through the empty room. I wished that Hannah had stayed with me, or at least busied herself in the kitchen, so I would not be so alone. Such melancholy feelings robbed me of my appetite. I pushed my bowl aside and started upstairs to my chamber.