CHAPTER FIVE

THE FOLLOWING WEEK A SERVINGWOMAN showed Brother Gregory to the lesson room wordlessly, her face a study in worry. Peeping inside the half-open door he thought he discerned the reason for her silent disapproval. At the writing table a pretty sight met his eyes. Margaret bent over her new wax tablet, deeply absorbed. On each side of their mother two equally absorbed little red heads bent over their joint work.

“This one is A; it is drawn like a little house.” Beside the first clumsy A, two wildly wobbly replicas were placed in their turn.

“Here is B; what do you think it looks like?”

“A fat man, I think,” said the elder, cocking her curly head on one side.

“I think it looks beautiful, mama, you made it beautiful,” said little Alison, ever agreeable.

Brother Gregory waited until the B’s were in place and interrupted in a sharp tone, “Well, madame, are you raising up sedition among the female sex? Or perhaps two little nuns?”

“Oh!” Margaret whirled around, shocked, only to meet the amused glitter in his dark, saturnine eyes.

“Why, I am doing neither. Look how clever my babies are!” She exhibited the tablet proudly. “Think how fortunate they will be, to read and write all their lives!”

Brother Gregory broke off the enthusiastic speech he knew would follow. “The better to receive letters from lovers in secret, and plan deceits! If learned women are like talking dogs, unnatural and useless, then ponder on how much more greatly perverse is the spectacle of learned girl-children.”

But Margaret could tell from the tone of his voice that he was not altogether as sour as his speech. She knew that his tender spot was his love of learning and teaching, and what teacher is not pleased to see his work bearing unexpected fruit? So she looked on his mock-scornful face with a quiet smile. Letting the matter drop she summoned the nurse to remove her girls, although not without much disappointed clamor on their part.

Brother Gregory watched their departure with a strangely sad expression. He could not help noticing how the little girls had wept when the letters were taken away. In the schoolroom the only crying the boys did was during the master’s beatings. These little girls actually wanted the lessons.

Perhaps she’s right. Maybe the rod is a bad master, he mused to himself. But he kept his silence, because it was outrageous for a man of learning to entertain such a thought.

 

MONCHENSIE AND ITS VILLAGE had avoided the plague by a very simple expedient. When Sir Raymond had heard that the disease had stricken two families in his demesne, he had simply had them sealed up alive in their infected houses. While the carpenters were finishing nailing the doors and shutters fast, he had ridden by on his tall chestnut palfrey to inspect their work (albeit from a safe distance), and announced that anyone else who had the temerity to get the disease would be treated in exactly the same way. With the plague stopped at his doors the lord of Monchensie continued his daily round of business and hunting exactly as before. He did not like having his routine disturbed, and besides, he believed that nature should shape itself to his will, rather than the other way around. In only one respect had he been unsuccessful in imposing his demands on nature: his wife had got him no living male heir. It was at this point that fate brought us to attend the childbed of Lady Blanche.

The castle was an old fortification, dating from King William’s time. We first saw it as a long, low silhouette on rising ground, the square keep visible above heavily fortified walls, below which ran a dry moat filled with sharpened spikes. Behind the walls spread the bailey, a hive of activity. With the poor village of thatched huts huddled beneath the castle, and the wide fields surrounding it, it comprised a complete and self-sufficient little kingdom: it possessed smiths and armorers, carpenters and stablemen, weavers and cooks and butchers. In short, in any time of disaster the castle might sail alone on a sea of troubles like Noah and his ark. It contained all that was necessary to repopulate the earth.

What a shock it was, for us who had become so accustomed to isolation, to see around us again the hurry and bustle of life. As our little party clattered over the drawbridge and beneath the gatehouse, we gawped about us like rustic idiots. Our companions could not help but notice and took on the smug look of natives showing pilgrims a splendid shrine.

The bailey courtyard, though walled in stone, was full of every sort of wooden structure, from fine stables to lean-to sheds, which housed implements and the poorest hangers-on. And in a way the castle was like a city. With the comings and goings of the villagers on business, the regular garrison, a motley contingent of mercenary crossbowmen, and the constant stream of visitors and guests, no one quite knew who was there at any given time. Here was a huge war-horse being led from the stable, and there were sweating hunting horses being rubbed down. Dogs ran everywhere; geese in a pen awaited the cook’s knife. Servant boys loafed by the gate to get a chance to stare at any newcomer. Our companions took us to the stable, where a stableman had his people look after the ass, while he himself saw to the unloading of our variegated baggage at his own and his wife’s little apartment by the stable. We were taken immediately away to the great hall, which occupied the main floor of the keep, above the guardrooms and the cellars.

Lady Blanche lay in one of the retiring-rooms of the great hall that had been fitted out as a lying-in chamber. She was surrounded by a crowd of ladies that included her two oldest daughters. The addition of two wisewomen scarcely made a difference in the number of activities taking place. One older lady was bathing Lady Blanche’s temples with rosewater; two others held her hands while she writhed and moaned. A servant mumbled prayers in a corner, while another made ready an elaborate birthing chair and baby bath. A priest—who I later learned was Father Denys, the family chaplain—was burning incense and sprinkling holy water, while he offered the blessing for women in danger at childbirth. Lady Blanche’s favorite hunting hounds, who had been shut out of the room, whined and clawed at the door with each groan that she made. Over one of the long perches by the head of the bed were flung her cloak and surcoat; on the other her falcons paced uneasily up and down, their bells jingling.

When we were announced, a tall and graceful girl, Lady Blanche’s eldest daughter, detached herself from this knot of activity and explained to Mother Hilde that the labor was early, and the child’s life was feared for. Way was reluctantly cleared for Mother Hilde, who felt the huge belly discreetly through the skirt of Lady Blanche’s kirtle, put her ear down and listened, and then made private examination that included the gateway of birth and the bedclothes. Then she looked at the white, drawn face of Lady Blanche, and said, “I believe this is a false labor, and will cease only to begin again later. But there is great trouble. The child is laid sideways.”

“And so said I!” said one of the ladies.

“As I thought too!” whispered other voices triumphantly. All women like to be experts at birthing.

“As you high ladies doubtless know already, my lady must rest and be strengthened with dainty food in preparation for the true labor, which is indicated by the gushing forth of water.” Mother Hilde’s strong, calm face had already greatly decreased the tension in the room, although even her most gentle words seemed to have little effect on Lady Blanche.

“The child is still safe inside, for I felt it move. In the meanwhile I have a medicine that strengthens the body of women in childbed. But most necessary of all are your prayers that Our Lord will see fit to shift the position of the child, for that is the most needful thing.” This was the first I had seen of Hilde’s cleverness at dealing with a bad birth. There are times that tact, explanation, and the appropriate appeal to heaven are all that preserve a midwife’s life, particularly when she deals with great ones. Hilde clasped her hands piously and added, “I have never seen an early labor cease so easily, in all my many long years—I can only attribute it to the effect of sincere and powerful prayer to the seat of mercy itself.” She had the measure of Father Denys. He stepped forward to take the credit, addressing the exhausted and uncaring Lady Blanche in the most amazing voice. It was at the same time both oily and lisping, marked by an affectedly elegant accent that somehow caught in his nose, as if speaking in English, rather than French, caused some sort of unpleasant smell.

“Most revered lady, I have gone many sleepless nights to offer prayers for the safe delivery of your son.” Mother Hilde shot me a sharp look, and we both realized at the same time that Father Denys was in as much trouble as Lady Blanche was and we were. He had evidently promised a son. That is unwise for anyone who claims the ability to communicate with heaven, for God, as I have told you I learned from Mother Hilde, is something of a practical joker.

Lady Blanche was by now being helped to sit up with pillows. She was in truth Blanche, that is, white, for the long braid that fell over her shoulder was so blond as to be almost white. Her thin, tense face was as white as linen and her eyes of so pale a blue as to be almost transparent. As she looked about her with a shrewd and careful glance, I surmised that her heart, if she had one, was white too—as white as hoarfrost or new ice. Now, propped upright, but almost buried in the rich fur coverlets that had been thrown over her for decency, she looked directly at me and said, “But you, the second wisewoman. You are not a peasant.” It was both a statement and a question.

“No, my lady.” I curtseyed.

“Who and what are you, then?”

“I am freeborn and a widow.” It was perhaps even true, for how could my husband have escaped the dreadful contagion to which he had abandoned wife, child, and servant, flee as he might?

“So young to be a widow. What was the cause?”

“Plague robbed me of my family, my lady, and I alone was cured of the disease by this wisewoman, Mother Hilde.” Her eye wandered to Mother Hilde.

“Then you are indeed a powerful wisewoman. Good. Deliver me my son safely, and I will reward you richly. And if not”—she shuddered involuntarily—“then God help us all.”

There was a pounding on the door and a roaring: “Where is my son, lady? Born live or dead again?”

The women fled to the corner of the room like a flock of frightened chickens. The door burst open, and Baron Raymond of Monchensie, oblivious to all propriety, strode in fresh from hunting. The dogs bounded in before him. Behind him stood a retainer with his favorite falcon, hooded, on his glove. Lord Raymond was of medium height, powerfully built, with strong features that were coarsened from gross eating and much drink. His hair was of medium length, dark brown, but thinning, and he had a well-trimmed little beard and mustache, shot through with gray. His cloak fell open to reveal a fine brown wool hunting tunic. The spurs on his high boots clanked with each step.

“Well, madame, how goes it?” he inquired loudly and bluntly, eyeing the empty cradle.

Mother Hilde stepped up to him as boldly as if the presence of a man in a lying-in room were nothing at all, and answered with a low and humble curtsey, “My lord, the time is not yet come for the child to be delivered.”

“Ha! The foreign wisewoman, eh? What we do try! Charms and doctors, prayers and pilgrimages! But by God’s body, woman, if you do not give me a son this time, the nunnery’s too good for you!” He clenched his fist, and his spurred foot jingled as he stamped it for emphasis.

“The child lives, I feel it kick,” answered Lady Blanche weakly.

“See that it stays so.” He turned in disgust and stamped out. Father Denys followed, bowing at his elbow, and after him the dogs and retainers made their exit.

As they left, Mother Hilde and I exchanged looks again, and hers very clearly said, Out of the kettle and into the fire.

But Hilde never sat about regretting anything. Her motto was always “Look only forward, and let the backward be,” and I had already learned enough from her to believe that God would rescue us another time. With complete calm Hilde discussed arrangements with the ladies. There was always to be someone in attendance on Lady Blanche, day and night. Her servants and ladies already slept in the room. But now one of them must be always awake through the night. As the time grew closer, we would join the vigil, sleeping there too. In the meanwhile we had a place with the other serving-women, in the room behind the kitchen. Now supper was brought to the lying-in room for Lady Blanche and her highborn attendants; the rest of us went to eat in the hall.

As evening had fallen, a few guttering candles had been brought to Lady Blanche’s room, but the hall itself was lit from end to end by blazing pitch torches. Their smoke mingled with that of the great fire in the hall’s center, and rose to hang under the roof, escaping only haphazardly through the louvre at the roof’s end. On the dais Lord Raymond sat in a great chair, his favorite falcon perched on its back, and his hounds around his feet. About him at the head table sat other knights and retainers, the priests of the chapel, and those ladies who had not remained in the birthing room. Below, at trestle tables, sat his men-at-arms and other servants, eating and drinking noisily.

We were seated at the lowest table, with a group of women servants. It was hard to say which end of the hall was the rowdiest. At our end the air was thick with oaths and filthy stories; at the head table things looked more genteel. There the dishes were elegantly served by the squires, and after the carving Lord Raymond offered his favored guests the choicest bits with his own fingers. The baron and his dining companions were discussing the hunt, as they slipped food to the dogs under the table. The lower tables were more frantic. As soon as a choice dish appeared, a dozen knives flashed into it so fast that a person might lose a finger if they were too slow. When the carcass was picked clean, the very bones provided amusement, as they were flung to the dogs, or beneath the stair, where the orphans who lived there fought over them.

The lower tables seemed to have lower conversation too. Our tablemates were hotly discussing the possible paternity of a child due to be born to a kitchen maid. Some said it was Sir Henry’s, others Lord Raymond’s, and a third faction proposed the head cook. Hilde and I shared a trencher and cup, and it was a good thing that she had fast hands, or we’d have dined on bread without pie. With my knife I shared out a bit of fowl I’d captured; we ignored the little spit-dog that begged at our feet. The rushes on the floor were deep and matted, filled with rotted food scraps and the droppings of animals. A nasty smell rose from them.

The sound of clashing knives and fingers being sucked clean was interrupted for a moment, as one of the men at arms threw a bone to two competitive dogs, who tore into each other. The woman beside me laughed loudly, showing a gap-toothed mouth, and said, “You’ve come too late for the real fun. Last week, right at the dais, my lord broke Sir John’s arm for putting it down his daughter’s dress. Now, that’s entertainment.” I smiled nervously, and to be agreeable, said, “I’ve never been in such a big house before. Are they all like this?”

“Oh, yes,” said the woman. “Never a dull moment. Lots to eat and drink—though the best things go to the dais. I ought to know—I’m assistant in the pantry—and plenty of entertainment, when my lord’s in residence. Jousts, dances. And lots of sporting blood. Let me warn you about that, since you look young and dumb. Never go anywhere alone in this castle. Even the ladies don’t. There’s too many men on the prowl for a little fun.” Then she laughed again. “You’d be surprised what goes on. Nothing is really secret here, unless we all decide we want it so. Those ladies, you should hear what they do with their lords’ pages! Ha! You eat best if you work in the kitchen, but you get the most amusement working in the bedchamber! You’ll find that out soon enough, you midwives.” Hilde and I nodded, trying to be agreeable. The woman went on, “You’re going to bring my lord’s son? Good fortune to you. He had the attendants beaten to death when his last son died. Poor little thing, he didn’t live two days. Mighty clever of Mother Alice to get a disease and beg off. She didn’t get old by being stupid, that’s what I say.” Then the awful woman laughed again, as my heart sank all the way into my shoes. We did not sleep well that night.

But morning came, as it always does. And things never look so bad in the morning—especially when it is as cold, clear, and beautiful as this one was. Mother Hilde went off to check again on Peter, who had made himself useful in the stable, and I lingered behind to look at our new surroundings and rejoice in the way that, even in the midst of trouble, the sun still rises, the cock crows, and the birds sing. Well, perhaps I exaggerate, for all the birds fly away in this season except for crows and sparrows, and neither of these birds is famous for its singing abilities. But these were out in force, hopping about to examine the hot, steamy dung heaps on the icy ground for savory tidbits. Work had already begun: the smith’s banked forge fire had been brought up to a bright glow by his assistant’s bellows, and I could hear him singing and hammering. I could hear the rack, rack sound of the looms beyond open doors and watched the squires, who, having finished serving their lord at waking, now set about military exercises. How can bad things happen on such a morning?

Hilde came bustling back with an invitation. Old Sarah, the wife of the stableman, was perishing for gossip from the childbed and wanted us to break our fast with her.

“Now, Margaret,” Hilde admonished, “this is a great opportunity to find out things that may help us. Be careful not to say too much yourself, and for goodness’ sake, don’t start talking into the air the way you do.” How annoying. I hadn’t heard any voices for weeks, and Hilde was still holding it against me. But soon we were enjoying oatcakes and ale by the goodwife’s fireside and hearing about my lord’s four daughters, and their excellent qualities, and the fate of the only son.

“The midwife was a new one. Mother Alice had a dreadful flux and couldn’t attend. This woman used a charm and sang it three times to make the baby come out. Then it did, but it never cried loudly or breathed well. So when it sickened, Father Denys said it was because she had used infernal arts to draw it forth. It faded fast. So my lord said the wet-nurse had poisonous milk. He vowed she’d never poison another man’s child, and after the funeral she died from the beating he ordered. He’s a hard man, Mother Hilde. I knew the girl’s mother. They were honest folk. She left a rosy boy of her own, when she was taken to feed his son, but her child didn’t last long. Ass’s milk is no good for babies.”

“Yes, that’s true,” nodded Mother Hilde. “It’s not many babies live that are raised on a papboat.” I was silent. How could Mother Hilde stay so calm? She patted my hand, as if reading my thoughts, and said, “I’ve seen harder men than this Sir Raymond, but the Lord sends deliverance to those with strong faith. Why, let me tell you a tale about the old goodwife who taught me, now, she was the wisest woman I’ve ever known….” And so we exchanged several tales of hard births, which are coin of the realm among women, by way of cementing our friendship with the stableman’s wife.

Then the talk went to hard husbands, and I looked at my fingernails and didn’t say a thing. We heard how Sir William had broken his wife’s nose, for talking back, and the size and composition of the rod that Sir Raymond used on Lady Blanche, for he had told the world that a gentleman was known for enforcing discipline without spoiling a woman’s skin. I silently vowed that I would never again marry, no matter what, and that if any man ever laid a rod on me again, I’d run a knife between his ribs while he slept. My eyes must have looked hard, for old Sarah broke off and addressed me.

“It’s clear you’ve never known a husband’s coldness. If only you did, you’d sympathize more. It all begins when they don’t want you in bed anymore. Once you’re ugly, they run around and beat you—the only thing they think you’re good for is cooking.” Then a tear ran down her face, and I was sorry for being heartlessly involved in my own thoughts. But it was hard to imagine her old Ailrich after anyone else. He was lucky enough to have her, I thought.

“Hilde understands—but a young girl like you just can’t. I’ve tried everything—it’s such a small thing, you see, but that’s how it all begins.” She held out her hand. It had a cluster of crusty black warts on the knuckles.

“With warts?” I asked. Hilde pinched me. She thought I was being saucy.

“Yes. It’s small, but it’s enough. They’re on my body, too, if you understand what I mean, and no cure has worked. He says he’ll taint his member—oh, he’s cold and hard these days.”

“Have you tried tying a red thread around them and singing—”

Mother Hilde’s question was interrupted by Goodwife Sarah: “I’ve tried that, and holy water, and the toad’s eye, and all the rest. I’ve impoverished myself for wisewomen and priests. Why, I even made an offering to that hair of St. Dunstan’s that Father Denys keeps. He said it didn’t work because of some secret sin I was holding back in confession. That wasn’t true at all! It was useless, just useless.”

Mother Hilde looked at me questioningly. I felt embarrassed and looked at the floor, but I nodded agreement.

“There’s something else you might try,” she suggested.

“Something else? Probably expensive, nasty, and humiliating. These things always are,” Sarah answered bitterly.

“No, Margaret says she’ll try. She has an odd gift. It might not work. But it’s very easy to try and certainly won’t hurt.” Sarah sighed.

“Why not?” she asked. “What must I do?”

I felt very silly. I answered her, “I put my hands on yours, and we kneel together, and I—um—say a prayer in my mind.”

“And that’s all? Well, if it’s free, it’s worth trying.”

So that is what we did. I put my mind exactly the way I had felt it when I saw the veil of golden light. My hands felt warm, and something vibrated inside of them. I could hear her breathing in the absolute silence that filled the room as the soft, orangish-pink glow settled in the room, bathing every corner in a kind of subtle light that is very hard to describe. I felt a kind of crackling and a soft sensation of rushing around my body. I was unconscious of everything except a pulling, tugging sensation, which soon stopped as the room was restored to its ordinary shadowed and sunlit self. As we rose to our feet, I looked into her eyes, and they were wide, staring at my head and shoulders. Before I could stop her, she gathered up the hem of my dress impulsively and carried it to her mouth, as if she wished to kiss it.

“No, no, this is not fitting!” I protested, and snatched my dress away. Then Mother Hilde took up her hands to see what had happened. As we curiously examined them, it appeared that the warts had taken on a drier, grayish, crusty appearance. Sarah flicked at the largest of them with a forefinger. It peeled off readily, leaving a circle of new pink skin beneath it. A silent smile, as wide as the whole world, it seemed, encircled her face as she flicked at another, and then another. Having cleaned her hands she felt at a pair of warts on her face with the same results.

“The rest,” she said archly, “may wait until later.” We both smiled at that, and so did she.

“Tell me,” she said, “is this magic or some trick? I thought I saw, for a brief moment, light playing around your head and shoulders.”

“I don’t know what it looks like to others, but I see it as light in the room. I don’t know why it happens,” I answered, “but I think it is some form of gift from God. It just came on one day, and I don’t understand it at all. It goes through me and sometimes makes people heal themselves. Sometimes it goes away for a while and then comes back. Once in a while I see something around a person like a cloud, and I can feel in the cloud their destiny. I would feel better if someone could explain to me what it is. But no one can. I must beg you, since it has worked for you, please keep my secret.”

“You’re a sensible girl to be cautious,” she answered. “I knew someone else once with a gift something like this one, only different. That person came to no good end. People are afraid of things like that. You could end on the stake.” I looked shocked. I hadn’t thought of it like that. I’d just thought I would be humiliated if it didn’t work when I decided to show it off. Besides, using it drained me and made me feel weary. Who knows? Sometime someone might drain my life away through the opening in my soul that the gift made. I don’t think I was made to be a saint. I’m too selfish, and I haven’t always been good.

After two weeks, when it began to look as if the child would come nearer to the proper date, we made preparations to shift to the birthing room for our vigil. Mother Hilde was a mistress of the art of impressive physical bustle. People like that in a midwife. While a priest read to Lady Blanche, to ease her mood and beguile the waiting time for her and her ladies, Hilde moved about, preparing linens, swabs, and healing oils, as well as rearranging the bath and other gear around the fire in the way she thought most useful. The physician arrived to deliver the report of his latest consultation with the stars about the auspices of the child’s arrival. When all looked right, we slipped from the busy chamber for a breath of air and time to discuss our plans alone.

Together we walked through the great hall. Since the weather was bad for outdoor cooking, several rows of birds were roasting on spits over the central fire. The greasy smoke rose in clouds to the rafters, where hung, in homely array, hams, venison, and other game, taking advantage of the continual smoke. The tables had been taken away, but the din of men and dogs was greater than ever, for Sir Raymond was preparing to go hunting. In one corner a group of unruly pages was playing ball. We could see signs of maidservants idly gossiping and neglecting their duties. Truly a house is disorderly when there is no mistress capable of rule!

“These rushes are becoming disgusting,” I ventured to Hilde, as we picked our way through the debris on the floor.

“You are the fussy one.” She smiled. “The lord here is a tidy man, they say, for he has them all swept away and renewed during Lent, in preparation for Easter.” I suppose I am fussy, I thought, for my stomach rebelled at the idea of this rotting heap and its verminous denizens remaining there all winter. And yet my lord’s menservants thought nothing of sleeping on benches and blankets amid this rubble every night!

“Better you should worry about the disposition of these great ones than about the disposition of their garbage on the floor,” said my sage friend.

“But surely you have a plan.” How could Mother Hilde not have everything planned?

“Hmmm. Not really. Let’s think.” She started to count on her fingers. “There are these possibilities: First, that the child is well and a boy—that’s good. Second, that it’s well and a girl—we take no blame, but it’s too bad for Father Denys and the astrologer. Third, it’s born dead—with any luck we won’t take the blame. Fourth, that it’s a sickly girl—I don’t think that will be too much trouble. But last, if it’s a sickly boy—in that event we’re in great trouble. There is also the question of Lady Blanche’s recovery, but I don’t expect such great problems there, since she has borne children before. She is getting a bit old, though. Hmm, I think I will take the precaution of becoming friendly with the gatekeeper. Then I may be able to bribe him if we have to leave in a hurry. Of course, flight will signify guilt—we’ll have to move very fast to avoid being caught up with. I think, Margaret, we’ll just stay packed up when the delivery takes place, as a precaution. Oh, well, with any luck the worst won’t occur.” I admired the way Mother Hilde could think. She didn’t just pray, although she did plenty of that too. She thought things through with her mind. She had often told me that midwives don’t live to be old unless they’re smart. I have had plenty of experience since then, and I think she was right.

By this time we had made our way back from checking on Peter, and were crossing the courtyard, when Goodwife Sarah rushed out to pluck Hilde by the sleeve.

“Hilde, Hilde, I’ve come to warn you! There is someone who is looking for you that you should never speak to. Go back now, and don’t cross by the passage at the garrison door.”

“Who is this person, since I hardly know anyone here?” she asked with some curiosity.

“A woman who is no better than dead, yet I, for one, haven’t the heart to betray her presence.”

“Ah, I think I understand, and I will follow your wise advice. Many thanks, my dear friend,” replied Hilde, nodding her head in agreement with Sarah. “But I must hurry away, for my lady’s child is due any time now.” We all embraced and parted, Hilde leading the way across the courtyard. Then, once out of sight, we crossed into a shadowed walkway, descended a darkened stairwell, and returned to the lower level of the keep, right to the garrison door itself!

“What do you mean by this?” I asked with some fear. Not only had she flown in the face of honest advice, but around the corner I could glimpse the guardroom. Dreadful things might happen to us if we were found there. But Hilde answered calmly, “There is a mystery here in which we may do good,” and plunged on fearlessly.

I felt something pluck my sleeve and started in terror.

“Sssst!” a soft voice addressed us in the dark. I turned, and Hilde retraced her steps. There, in the shadows, stood a deeply veiled woman, her eyes alone visible. As I sought to make out her figure in the darkness, I saw that she was ponderously pregnant.

“You! The wisewomen!”

“Who speaks?” I answered.

“I do. I, Belotte,” came the soft, strangely sibilant voice.

“What is it you wish of us?”

“I need something from you. I can pay well.”

“And just what is that?” broke in Hilde, who had returned to where I stood.

“I need a wisewoman who can rid me of this child.”

“I give life and do not take it,” answered Hilde.

“Don’t be so high with me. I know you have your means. With herbs, or charms, perhaps, you can get rid of it. I have money, real gold.”

“What good would this service do you?”

“I tried myself, but nothing has worked. The brat has taken my income away. Do you not understand?”

“I do, I do, indeed,” said Hilde, nodding her head thoughtfully. “But you are so near your time that any attempt to wrench the child from you would cost your own life, as well, I think.”

“And what do I care for that?” the voice hissed harshly. “Have I not wished for death a thousand times each day? I will gladly risk everything and pay you in advance.”

I broke in, with an ignorance that shames me to this day. “If you have lived a sinful life, there is yet time to confess and make amends. God forgives the contrite. You can begin life anew.”

“Little Mistress Do-Good,” said the woman, with hideous bitterness, “keep your idiot cant to yourself.” And with that she unwrapped the heavy veil hiding the lower half of her face. “See this and lecture me about new lives!”

An unspeakable horror met my eyes. Belotte’s upper teeth descended, like those of a skull, from a mass of livid scar tissue beneath the nose, to meet the lip below. She had no upper lip at all! The strange speech defect, the veil, all were explained. Hilde did not act astonished in the least.

“This does not look very old,” she said calmly. “When did it happen?”

“Not all that long ago, less than a year,” answered Belotte. “I came with some bowmen from Sussex, during the king’s visitation. I did good business until some bastard betrayed me. There they all sat at the lord’s court, as if they had never seen me before! And that smug woman and her confessor goggled their eyes with pleasure when her old monster of a husband condemned me. May the Devil make off with them all! And when the job was done, that damned devil had the gall to pray over me that I reform. ‘Go, sinful woman’”—and she imitated the affected accent of Father Denys—“‘and know that you have been spared your life that you may repent.’ That foul hypocrite! Who would have a woman without a face?” Her eyes glittered in the shadows. “But they left me my cashbox intact,” she added bitterly, “though the price was less.” She patted the region below her huge belly. “Now someone’s little monster has grown within, and refuses to be dislodged.”

Mother Hilde was inspecting her figure speculatively during this speech, listening with a calm sadness. At its conclusion she reached out a hand and patted the unfortunate woman’s belly.

“Well,” she said sympathetically, “dislodged it soon shall be, for it has dropped in the womb. It is only a matter of a few days now.”

“A few days?” cried Belotte frantically. “Then if you will do nothing, I will strangle it!”

It seemed to me as if the care lines in Mother Hilde’s face had grown as deep as chasms. She answered very slowly, and her voice seemed deeper with sadness. “It is a hard, hard thing you say to a woman who has lost everything. I know it is not you, but only your bitter fate, that makes you speak so carelessly. I wish that I could show you how to see that a new baby is always new hope. Leave room for God to act, and perhaps some great good will happen.”

“God? God? What has God ever done for me? God is nothing but the biggest of the lords, another vile man who sweet-talks fools when he has in mind to destroy them. What false god would deal out such death and doom by great handfuls, and never cease sending new innocents into this world to drink up all this pain, and then die of it? Don’t lecture me about God, for I’ve seen Him for what He is, and I hate Him!” Belotte clenched her teeth together; her eyes were wild.

“Nevertheless, when your time is on you, you may send for one of us,” answered Mother Hilde soothingly. “For I see you live in a world of men, and it may be hard to find someone to cut the cord for you.”

“Never,” hissed Belotte, as she hastened down a darkened stairway and vanished from our sight.

“What is down there?” I whispered.

“The basement, the storerooms. The dungeons. And Belotte,” answered Hilde. “We must hurry out of here, for it is dangerous for women alone.” What she said seemed prophetic, for behind us we heard the sound of heavy footsteps.

“Halt, you there!” called a deep voice. “Belotte, what are you doing here in the daytime?” We stopped still, and my knees shook, for it was the sergeant in charge of the garrison and two armed men.

“Ha! New recruits, eh?” said the second man with a leer.

“Not so”—I found my voice—“for we are midwives, from whom Belotte wished to procure a remedy to dispose of her child. But we do not have such remedies, and we are leaving.”

“Oho, the country wives!” said the sergeant. “I have heard of you, for I had to send two men out to fetch you. You shouldn’t dirty yourselves here, you know. I myself will escort you back.” And he waved off the other two as he led us to the staircase that would take us outside to the courtyard.

“So tell me confidentially,” he asked us as we ascended, “how is the old girl?”

“Who?” I responded.

“Belotte. We haven’t seen much of her lately. Her ‘cashbox’ must be getting heavy.” He guffawed. When I drew back in disgust, he changed his expression to one of confidentiality.

“Look here,” he said. “You should be grateful to Belotte. It’s because of her that your lot is safe. How can I keep a bunch of armed men quiet without a bit of fucking? We’re not monks, you know. Our business is dealing death; we get bored when there’s no action. Ha! There’s not a keg or a woman safe from tapping for ten miles around where my lot’s stationed!” He put his hand on the hilt of his sword and gave a grim chuckle. “So,” he went on, “in the interest of public order, you might say, we must give the Devil his due. Belotte’s not much, but she’s what we’ve got. I take a proprietary interest.”

Mother Hilde’s lips were pursed with disapproval.

“Don’t look so sour, old woman. See! We’re here already. And you, little midwife, call on me if you ever need help. We may someday be able to do each other a good turn. Just call for Watt atte Grene—some call me Watt Longshanks.” He deposited us at the courtyard door of the great hall and then turned and walked away into the sunlit courtyard, whistling.

That noon as we sat at table at the end of the hall, I felt less frightened of the rowdy crowd that sat below the dais. For I saw among the carousers the flushed faces of Watt and his companions—as drunk as any others, but perhaps, I thought, friends in need.

The afternoon found Hilde in deep discussion with Lady Blanche’s oldest daughter and her chief attendants. Together we all went to Lady Blanche’s room, where she lay, amusing herself by throwing bits of her meal to three huge hounds that fawned around the bed.

“My lady,” said Hilde, and bowed deeply—so deeply! “I believe that your child still lies crosswise in the womb, rather than head down, as is best for an easy birth. If you will allow, with the help of these ladies here, I will try to shift the way that the child lies.”

Lady Blanche gave her assent with a tense and distant nod. Hilde called for cordial, and when Lady Blanche had drunk enough to be tipsy, her daughter held her hand as one of her other ladies held a sweet pomander under her nose, to revive her spirits. Mother Hilde exposed the great belly and felt gently.

“Here is the head, Margaret. Put your hand upon it so that you may know the feeling, for I may have need of your help later.” Then she murmured almost to herself, “Yes, here is the backbone, and the limbs—ah, a leg….” All in the room could only admire the skill of her capable hands as she massaged back and forth, gradually shifting, bit by bit, the position of the child, as if she were moving it under a heavy blanket. Still, it was no easy process. Lady Blanche groaned and clutched her attendants’ hands.

“I know quite a lot about birthing babies myself,” murmured the wife of a knight. “But never have I seen such a thing. This is a wisewoman indeed.”

“Were I not past my time for babies, this woman should be my attendant always,” said another lady.

“A treasure,” whispered the first.

Blanche looked on impassively.

“My Lady Blanche, I must ask that you and your ladies keep watch, and should the child begin to move out of this position, we shall guide it back, so proceeding until your labor shall bring it forth.” Lady Blanche just looked at her. Sometimes she reminded me of a lizard, the way she stared. The other ladies nodded in agreement.

From that hour on Hilde did not leave Lady Blanche’s room, in anticipation of the labor to come, and I myself brought her whatever she needed from outside. Some one or two of the ladies were constantly with Lady Blanche, to ease her mind, for she was tense and cross with waiting. Here, in her chamber, I heard several fine new ballads, which I learned for myself, and I also learned the game of chess, by watching the ladies play. When my turn came to offer amusement, I told them many tales they had not heard before, for the stories and songs of my home were little known in this part of the country. Thus did heavy time pass, as we awaited the great moment.

One evening, as I passed through the great hall with a pot of ale for Mother Hilde, someone laid a heavy hand on me from behind.

“Little midwife,” said a familiar voice, “when you’ve delivered the ale, could you spare a moment below? Someone you know is in need. I’ll wait for you here.”

I hurriedly went in and consulted—but so briefly and cryptically!—with Mother Hilde. Should I leave? And, good Lord, what should I take? What should I do? For I had seen births as a girl, but had attended none before with Hilde, and had only her teachings, and not practice, to guide me.

“Go, because our Lord requires that in charity we turn from no one. But be brief and quiet. Do not cut the cord until it has quit pulsing. Ask Our Blessed Mother to guide you. Do not be an accomplice in anything evil. That is enough. God in heaven bless you,” she whispered. And with the few things I needed carried in a little basket, I left the room.

Watt met me with a torch and another armed man. Together we went quickly down the forbidden stairs, through the guardroom, and entered the long, dark corridor where we had first encountered Belotte. Then we dived again down several crooked passageways and flights of stairs to the depths of the keep. Great rooms of dusty barrels and vats of salt meat lay on either side of us. Somewhere about might be horrible oubliettes, closed cells where prisoners lingered hideously until they died. I imagined skeleton hands reaching through barred doors that in truth enclosed nothing worse than casks of closely guarded wine. I did not know the real truth: Sir Raymond didn’t like to clutter his cellars with imprisonments. He preferred executions.

We entered one of these storerooms, and a horrible sight met my eyes. A torch had been mounted in the wall above a poor straw mattress on which Belotte lay. Another soldier stood by her; her arms had been tied down and a gag stuffed in her ruined mouth to prevent her from screaming and revealing herself.

“She tried to cut her wrists,” murmured her attendant clumsily, as he gestured to her bound arms.

“Good,” said Watt. “I’ll be no party to mortal sin.”

Belotte was deep in labor.

“Stand back, you,” I said. “Do not embarrass her any more.” Belotte glared furiously at me over her gag. The two stood back, and I turned up her dress. The head was already visible. Gushing water and bloody fluid had made a great stain on the straw mat where she lay, and on her clothes as well. With each convulsive labor pain she made a strangled, muffled groan.

“She can’t breathe; she needs air,” I said, and the bowman pulled out her gag.

“Don’t cry out any more,” he cautioned. “For it’s our lives for sheltering you as well as yours for being here.”

“Your life, indeed,” she hissed. “A few paternosters, perhaps, or take a trip and kiss a shrine. My life only, and your inconvenience is what you mean.”

“Don’t talk: breathe deep, and the pain will be less,” I cautioned. Her body jerked convulsively as I guided the head out, then the body, and finally the gently pulsating cord. As I waited for the afterbirth, she hissed, “It’s over. Don’t show the little monster to me. Just take it and dash its head against the wall, and we’re done.”

I delivered the afterbirth. Hardly a birth since have I seen come so smoothly. I waited until the cord had become dead, as I was instructed, and tied it carefully, and then severed it. The child shuddered and began breathing with scarcely a cry, flushing a beautiful pink. A shadow of golden hair glistened across the pulsating soft spot on the top of its head. Its even, tiny features were screwed up in an annoyed frown at having been removed from its comfortable resting place. A tiny pink fist folded and unfolded as its legs curled up convulsively against its belly. The soldiers, who had been deathly silent, grinned and pointed at its sex organ, for it was a boy. As I held the little creature in my arms, preparing to sponge it off, I looked at it—as pink and lovely as a rose—and began to weep. I just couldn’t help it. I had borne a child, and never held her in my arms.

Belotte looked at me with glittering, sarcastic eyes.

“Little Do-Good, the sentimentalist, is now having a nice little cry! What new will you think up?”

“Oh, don’t be so hard! I have a daughter that is with the angels in heaven, and I never held her once. Why shouldn’t I cry?”

“You? I took you for a virgin, little prig. Maybe you’re even sillier than I thought.”

“Just hold him, hold him once for my sake. For he is a lovely, lovely baby!”

“He? A boy, then? Poor little wretch, he’s doomed.” She looked at me closely. “Pretty, you say?”

“As beautiful as the rising sun.” And I held the naked little creature out to her.

And as I watched, I saw a strange thing, like a miracle. The hard face softened, and she reached out her arms. A tear, unattended, made a track across her ruined face. The baby, drawn to her, began to root around, looking for milk. And she, moved by that helpless little motion, reached to open her gown to feed it. The tears now freely ran down her face as she looked hungrily at the tiny thing.

“You think she’ll keep it?” said Watt.

“I think so.”

“Problems, problems. But we’ll think of something,” he said, shaking his head. I stayed only long enough to swaddle the baby and then departed, quickly and quietly, as I had been warned.

I felt I had entered another world when I was shown to the door of Lady Blanche’s room. Hilde came out to meet me. They were all asleep inside.

“Is it done?” she asked.

“Yes, it is over.”

“The child lives?”

“It lives; it is beautiful.” I embraced her and wept. “Oh, Mother Hilde, the fates are so unfair! That awful woman has a son as beautiful as the stars and moon, and I have none at all!”

“Hush, hush, and don’t be a ninny. Your time will come. I have had dreams and portents I will tell you only when the time is right.”

“Oh, who cares for dreams! I wish that beautiful baby were mine, mine!”

So Hilde wooed me from my frenzy of jealousy and urged me to sleep.

 

DO BABIES ALWAYS COME at night to be perverse? For it was at Vigils, three hours before dawn, that Lady Blanche stirred and groaned in her sleep. Soon she was bolt upright, and the room stirred with activity, for Lady Blanche’s water had broken. True labor had begun at last.

Water was heated and many clean linen towels brought. Lady Blanche was seated in the elaborate birthing chair and clutched at its great carved handles with each contraction. The beautiful cradle was uncovered and brought to a place of honor. Exquisite swaddling bands and a marvelous cap, embroidered with tiny pearls, were laid out. The room was perfumed with the heavy, rich scent of beeswax candles, so that the stink of tallow would not offend Lady Blanche at this delicate time. For one awful moment I had a deathly sinking feeling. What if all this preparation were for another girl? Lady Blanche began to scream. She was too old for bearing children: it would not be easy. Mother Hilde spoke soothingly to her: “Breathe deeply with each pain—meet it with a breath to conquer it!” But it did no good, Lady Blanche was frightened and hysterical.

“Woe is me, that I should have such pain!” she cried. “Women are born only to suffer! Oh, unspeakable fate, I will be torn apart and die!” These seemed more suitable words for a woman that has never borne children than for one who was many times a mother already. But now that I am older, I know that fear is the worst enemy of easy birth, and Lady Blanche had good reason to be in mortal fear. When dawn broke, Sir Raymond, who was deep asleep from wine, could finally be roused.

“So?” he grunted. “Don’t bother me until my son is born. That’s news worth waking me for.”

With the dawn the wet-nurse was fetched from the village. She was a young girl with silky blond hair, idiot blue eyes, and a bosom that would put a milk-cow to shame. Her simple eyes were glowing with the glories of the castle and the grandeur of the position that awaited her.

“Hmm,” commented Hilde privately. “Good and not so good.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Good in that she is clean and young and has enough milk for twins. Bad in that she is as stupid as the day is long. For babies drink in the characteristics of the nurse. If she is vicious, they will be vicious. If she is stupid, they will be stupid. Oh, well, stupidity is not considered a flaw in great families.”

“But Mother Hilde”—a thought suddenly crossed my mind. “Where is her baby? Did it die? How came she by all this milk?”

“This one, I know, will be raised by the grandmother, with a papboat filled with goat’s or ass’s milk. It is winter, so this is not such a dangerous enterprise. In summer such infants always die of a flux in the bowels. ‘Summer sickness,’ I call it. It steals many children away.”

“So she leaves her own child to take on the features of an ass or goat? And with the grandmother’s connivance? Surely this is a terrible thing!”

“Not so terrible, most times. It will bring the whole family great preferment. She will always live in luxury, on the finest food and best drink, to keep her milk from being spoiled. You can’t begin to count the rewards that the wet-nurse to the heir of a great house can expect! If she is fortunate, it is the start of a great career. If, however, something happens to the baby, we both know that Sir Raymond is the ungenerous type.”

I crossed myself. “Let nothing happen to the baby, then,” I prayed, “for all our sakes.”

Morning came and passed, and still the agonizing labor went on. Lady Blanche, exhausted from her crying and lamenting, awaited each new pain with the dumb expression of an ox awaiting slaughter.

“Mother Hilde, Mother Hilde.” The knight’s wife was troubled. “The labor has ceased to bring change. The baby’s head shows no farther.”

“Her body is losing its strength,” whispered Hilde in reply. “Can you not feel? Each contraction is weaker and weaker.”

“I suspected it was so. Can you do nothing? For if things continue this way, we shall lose both my lord’s son and his wife, and there will be no end to his wrath.”

“I am aware of that. Who is more at risk than the midwife? I never forget that I am a stranger here.”

“What shall we do?” The lady wrung her hands in fear.

As if in response Father Denys entered the chamber.

“Pax vobiscum,” he said, as he scattered blessings upon those assembled.

“I have been informed that my lord’s most precious son is endangered through the mishandling of fumbling, ignorant midwives!” He took from his assistant a ghastly relic in a box, a censer, a crucifix, and other paraphernalia. Showing the company the glittering silver reliquary containing a shriveled, mummified fetus, he handed it to the assisting priest. Lady Blanche rolled her eyes in horror, and her mouth worked soundlessly. Father Denys took the censer, and having lit the incense, he liberally bestowed the smoke around the room, praying loudly in Latin.

Lady Blanche had found her voice.

“My last rites! Have you come to anoint me for death?” she whispered in terror.

“Fear not, most gracious lady,” answered Father Denys suavely, “I have come to intervene with heaven for the life of your son. And if your sins, and the sins of those in this room”—here he glared fiercely about him—“are not too great, then you and he shall be spared.” And he continued to pray in Latin. The ladies present sank to their knees, took out their rosary beads, and began to pray. He beamed as the murmur of pious voices arose in prayer around him.

Mother Hilde, white-faced, pulled me aside. It was clear that Father Denys was setting the stage for our blame in case of failure. With a desperate voice she whispered, “There is no alternative. I must use the dark powder. Get me the casket, there, in the basket with my things, and then go and fetch me some spiced wine from below. I believe I can restart the labor, but we must hide the bitterness of the powder, or she may refuse it. Don’t let Father Denys see it; if he even suspects that we used it, it could be all over for us.” When Father Denys’s back was turned, I slipped out the open door as silently and as rapidly as if Death himself were on my heels.

I was crossing the hall at a dead run when Watt stepped into my path, barring my way.

“Let me past,” I cried, “for I can’t lose a moment!”

“Little midwife, you must come, for something very bad is happening.” He still barred my way.

“Come with me and tell me quickly, then.”

“Poor Belotte is seized with fever. She is in mortal agony. I called the priest, asking for the extreme unction for a dying sinner, but he refused to come, saying sinners must die in their sins, for he was busy. She says she will have none but you.”

“Watt, I must come when I can, for my lord’s child is endangered, and I’ve been sent for a remedy.” He looked apologetic. “Tell her I will be there, perhaps by evening.” I rushed on and returned with what was required. By that time Father Denys had gone to the chapel to say a special Mass, and the ladies were clucking with worry as they stood about their mistress. Mother Hilde, her face as impassive as a statue’s, stirred up the drink and added a dose of something dark and loathsome looking from the sealed casket, in a way that none but I saw.

“My ladies, I beg you to assist your mistress to take this, for it is a remedy that often works in such cases.” Then she urged Lady Blanche, “Sip this, sip this, for it will make you strong again.” Lady Blanche sipped weakly, and finished but half of the drink, before falling back into the arms of her waiting-women.

“Now we must wait, but not long,” Mother Hilde pronounced. And since the long shadows of evening had descended while we worked, the ladies lit the candles again, transforming the room into a bower of flickering lights filled with the deep, sweet scent of melting beeswax.

Suddenly Lady Blanche uttered a cry.

“It’s coming, at last it’s coming!” exulted the ladies, and indeed it was so. With a few powerful contractions the whole crown of the head was visible. Hilde’s expert hands gently pulled, and the head appeared, though the face could not be seen, for it was downward. With the shoulders, greenish-black muck came out, too, which the ladies hardly noticed in their joy, but I could see that Hilde’s face had turned pale again. Soon the body was delivered, and there was a cry of joy as it became clear the child was a boy.

“Send for my lord! A son is born!” cried the knight’s wife, and even before the afterbirth had come, shouts of joy could be heard echoing through the great hall. With all the rejoicings and embracings in the room, few but me observed that the baby was not breathing. Hilde turned it upside down, cleaning filthy dark matter from the mouth with her finger and draining the lungs. The child was blue. Mother Hilde laid it down and breathed softly into its mouth and nose, keeping a steady rhythm. Gradually the tiny body began to turn pink. Hilde’s eyes showed relief as she ceased breathing for the child.

“My son, where is my son?” Lady Blanche called, heedless of the hubbub.

“A fine boy,” said Hilde, showing her the baby, cradled in her arms so that the sex was plainly visible, but the face veiled in shadow.

And well might Mother Hilde hide the face! What mother would not be frightened of that pitiful face? The head, deformed by the long labor, rose to a sloping, lopsided point. The eyes were swollen shut by a massive bruise that spread across the face. The nose was smashed to one side. A few colorless hairs could be seen against the purple skull. The whole body was a sickly, clay-colored bluish-pink, beneath the whitish creamy stuff in which all babies are born.

“My son, my son! Show me my son!” The voice of Lord Raymond boomed from the hall. With a few steps he whirled into the room and confronted Hilde, the baby in her arms.

“Ha! A boy indeed! And fine large equipment too!” He slapped his leg. “But what is all this about the head? He looks as if he’d been in battle already!”

“It is normal from the long labor, my lord. Within a few days the bruising will clear and the head round itself again.”

The baby made a pitiful mewling sound.

“Ha! My son is thirsty! Wet-nurse!” he bellowed. “Feed my son well, and rich rewards will be yours if he thrives,” he said to her. “But don’t you dare starve him.” He leaned forward and fixed her idiot face with a glittering, malign eye. “If you cheat him with thin, poor milk, I’ll serve you exactly as I did the other.”

The poor booby screwed up her eyes and began to weep.

“Cease weeping, woman, and give my son drink!” She clasped the baby, and the lord exclaimed with satisfaction when she let one immense breast out of her gown. The poor baby began to suck feebly, and the girl smiled with contentment as my lord handed her a great silver coin.

“On account,” he said, and turned on his heel. Then he remembered something and returned.

“Lady wife,” he said, “at last you have done your duty. Good work, good work. I’ll order a Mass of thanksgiving!” Lady Blanche smiled feebly, but triumphantly. Everything had changed for her, in the space of only one day. She was now secure forever, the mother of a son, and could enjoy her old age in luxury.

While Lady Blanche reclined on the great bed, receiving congratulations, Hilde and I bathed the battered baby and placed the beautiful cap on his misshapen head. Somehow, when nothing but the tiny face showed, he did not seem so grotesque. One bundled baby looks so like any other.

“Ah, me, I hope all is well now,” sighed Mother Hilde, as she sat on the low bench in the corner, stretching out her legs. “Mother and child are living, and joy reigns in the household.”

“You seem as if you had been through great danger, Mother Hilde,” I remarked.

“We all were in great danger, though none but I knew it,” she said softly. “The medicine I prepared was that which Belotte would have paid for in gold. It drives babies untimely from the womb. If it is too strong, it brings death or madness. But at the right time, with good fortune, it can bring life as well. Someday, when you are ready, I will show you how it is made. The dark powder is a dangerous secret to know, although it is not too hard to make. It’s odd, it comes from something very simple: just rotted rye, and one or two other things. But beware always when you use it, for it often brings evils in its train, and could lead to your persecution and death.”

Her mention of Belotte filled me with guilt, and I begged my leave, telling her that that unfortunate woman had requested my help.

“Go then, but return as quickly as possible, for I may need your assistance again.” She warily eyed the sleeping figure of Lady Blanche on the other side of the room. In the hall I found a man to guide me to Watt, and with the latter I descended to the depths where Belotte lay. She was alone, her baby lying by her side. I was too late for any errand she had in mind, for she was incapable of speech. I put my hand on her forehead and felt the dreadful heat of the fever that was consuming her.

“Well, there is not much to be done,” Watt observed. “I’ve seen enough of fever to know that this is the end.”

At his words she roused a little and spoke, clearly not perceiving who was there.

“Father, you have come at last. I wish to repent and be blessed, for I am already burning in hell’s fire.”

“It is I, Margaret, who have come.”

“Father, I have done but one good thing in my life. I gave life to a child as beautiful as the rising sun. Save him, save him! He has no part in what I have done.”

“I am Margaret, Belotte, Margaret! And I will pray for you. Go now,” I said to the soldier who had brought me. “This is women’s business. I’ll meet you above in the guardroom when I am through.” I knelt to pray, but as I did, my mind became calm, and the world began to shiver and melt around me. I felt a ghastly black, sucking sensation from all around Belotte. Something in her was sucking my life force away! Somehow I knew if this went on, I would be dragged into death along with her. I searched in my mind for a way to break the terrifying connection and cried aloud, without thinking. The sound turned my mind away, and I filled it with busy thoughts, to keep it away from the pull of the blackness. I placed my hand on her forehead again.

“Belotte, Belotte, do you hear me? Your son will be saved. I will take him. When I have money, I’ll have a Mass said for your soul—”

But her mind had cleared. I wondered if the life stuff she had taken from me strengthened her.

“Oh, it’s you, little Do-Good the midwife. I thought the priest had come. Look! Look at my baby! He has the face of an angel. I think I am dying. Will you find a way to care for him? I think if I had lived, I would have loved him—and Belotte loves no man born! I know you envied me him. Take him now!”

Oh, how ashamed I was of my shabby envy! To envy a poor woman her one blessing! I started to cry, not from grief, but because I was so ashamed of myself.

“Show some spirit, weakling! I need no tears now, for I am dead and damned.”

“Not damned, no, no. Jesus forgives us all—”

But her eyes were not watching me; they were looking beyond me. I heard a noise, and started and turned. It was Hilde!

“How did you get here?” I asked.

“The question, my dear, is not how, but why. The baby has taken a turn for the worse. Only I see it now, but soon all will know. I think it wisest to depart, my dear. I’ve bribed a man to open the town gate for us secretly. By morning we can be well away.”

“Hilde, I don’t understand, I thought the child was well.”

Belotte’s eyes glittered with fierce amusement.

“Margaret, Margaret, must I spend my life explaining the obvious to you? That poor little rag of a baby was never much good—they often aren’t, when they’re born all mucked up with that dark stuff. Now he’s gone and puked up everything the wet-nurse has given him. No food in the top end, no shit out the bottom. I’ve seen it before. The guts aren’t formed. Maybe lacking altogether. Who knows? Lord Raymond is a braggart, but he’s never got a strong son. Why not a gutless son for a heartless man? The child is doomed, I think. And so are the midwives and the wet-nurse, unless we are far from here by morning.”

Belotte laughed a hard-edged, bitter laugh.

“Well, not all bad fortune is mine! Have fun, little Do-Good!”

Her laughter brought Hilde’s eyes to her, and to the radiant little creature beside her, who slept peacefully.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, almost involuntarily. “What a beauty! Margaret was right.” Then she got a distant, speculative look in her eye. “Perhaps all is not lost. Belotte, would you like your son to have a fine home?” She spoke this last in a sharp, meaningful voice with an eye in my direction.

“Why, yes,” Belotte responded with an equally sharp glance, in a voice of sly amusement.

“I know a village woman who will feed him from her own breast, better than her own beloved child,” said Hilde, with another meaningful glance.

“Oh, truly,” I added earnestly, “any woman would be glad to have such a son.”

Belotte laughed silently.

“Let this village woman feed him, then, so long as he have a fine home.”

Hilde lifted up the child, and the mother gave a brief sigh.

“If I am not dead, send me word of how he prospers.”

“That I will gladly do, Belotte,” answered Mother Hilde.

I pulled at Mother Hilde’s sleeve. “Hilde, Hilde, shouldn’t we hurry? And where is Peter? We shouldn’t delay longer.”

“Peter sits by Moll, waiting for us. But we needn’t hurry now, I think. Be a good thing and go bid him unsaddle her. I believe I have thought of a cure for the poor ailing babe.” And gently, sweetly, she wrapped the little creature in the soft edge of her cloak and held it to her ample bosom.

I hurried upstairs to find my escort and did not return to seek Hilde until my errands were done. I returned softly as a mouse, to find all asleep in the room but the sniveling wet-nurse, who barred the way to the antechamber.

“Not in there,” she whispered, “for Mother Hilde is applying a difficult cure to the poor baby! She can’t be disturbed, or it may not work. Oh, Mother Margaret, the baby is so bad, he’s hardly breathing! If he’s not saved, my lord will punish me for my bad milk. Oh, please, please, don’t wake anyone or disturb her, or we are all lost!”

I stopped short before the wet-nurse, and crossed myself.

“I have the greatest faith in Mother Hilde’s cures. She is the wisest woman I have ever known. If any human agency can save that child, it will be she.” The frantic wet-nurse silently clutched my arm. But I had begun to wonder about something. I smelled something odd from inside the room, as if someone had thrown herbs on a fire. The wet-nurse’s eyes got large. It seemed as if some powerful magic were being done inside the room. We waited what seemed an eternity in the dark, but what must have only been a few minutes.

Mother Hilde moved silently to the door of the antechamber, her cloak about her, her basket over one arm, and the sleeping baby nestled in the other. Handing the child to the wet-nurse in the dark, she whispered, “It is done. When the baby wakes, make sure you first use the ointment I gave you on your breasts, to cure your milk, and then feed him well. He will have a great appetite, for his bruises are healed, and he needs only the strength of good food now. But never tell anyone of this cure, for it is done with the aid of the supernatural, and devils will seize both you and the child if they learn you have talked about it. Just tell people that the unaccustomed excellence of the food here made your milk unusually strong.” Mother Hilde’s eyes were shrewd as they looked at the awestruck wet-nurse.

“Now, both of you leave me alone,” Mother Hilde said, “for I have another duty to perform.” With the softest of steps she crossed the bedchamber, taking with her a candle to light in the embers of the fire in the great hall. “And don’t follow me, Margaret, for I must go alone.” She turned and looked at me so fiercely that I wondered suddenly if I had offended her. I held back and watched her as she glided quietly through the sleeping figures in the great hall, the lighted candle in her hand. I knew I had to follow her. Hilde had a way of walking straight into danger, and she might be in need of help. But underneath this pious sentiment, I fear, was deep curiosity and a growing suspicion.

I watched as she turned down a narrow staircase and, feeling something of a traitor, followed her at a discreet distance. Another set of stairs, and another, and I realized we had descended below to the guardroom. Only the distant light of her candle guided me, and I felt carefully for the stairs, for they were dank, slippery, and without a handrail. As we reached the deepest basement, I knew my suspicion was right. As softly as a cat I crept along, feeling the wall. When the light flickered and turned into the dusty storeroom, I looked silently into the room to see Mother Hilde kneeling before the straw mattress of Belotte. Feeling her head and listening for her heartbeat, she saw that although the woman was unconscious, she lived still. Hilde set down her candle carefully at her head, sticking it to the floor with a little puddle of wax.

“It is done,” she whispered into the ear of the still breathing woman. “Go on your long journey in peace.” Was it fantasy? Or did I see her head stir, and an eye flicker, before those last terrible gasps? The mouth moved slightly, the horrible teeth parted—and she was dead!

Mother Hilde said the shortest of prayers and then drew forth from her basket a terrifying object. It was the limp, blue, still form of a swaddled baby! Her face looked thousands of years old, as with a grave and quiet voice she addressed the poor bundle.

“Poor, poor child! You could not last even two days on this wicked earth! God take you into his keeping and set you among his angels.”

She made the sign of the cross upon his forehead and folded him into the dead arms of Belotte. But before she hid the face in the dead woman’s sleeve, I got a clear glimpse of it in the candle’s little circle of light. The head rose above the forehead in a long, lopsided point, the nose was smashed to one side, and a deep, livid bruise covered one eye….

 

BROTHER GREGORY STOPPED HIS pen abruptly.

“This is a grave sin, a grave sin you have committed! Have you no shame, no shame at all?”

Margaret looked him in the eye. Her jaw was set.

“I see no sin in this,” she said firmly. “I see an honorable act, done from loyalty and love.”

Brother Gregory glared at her.

“You have just proved from your own mouth that women are dishonorable, deceitful, and devious liars. You don’t have the right to speak of honor. Your mind is incapable of perceiving it.”

“Hear me out!” said Margaret firmly, “—for I have given this affair more thought than you have, and you are hot, hasty, and righteous. Truly, men speak before they think!”

“Hmmph! I cannot see how the most sentimental imbecile could put a good face on what you did that night!” Brother Gregory’s mouth was turned down in disgust; his dark eyebrows were wrathful.

“You do not notice small things, Brother Gregory, as I have learned to do, and by this you miss much. First, you note that Hilde did the deed so that no one else was involved. Whatever sin there was, whatever risk, she took upon herself. With a few smells and a little ointment she kept even her accomplices ignorant. I think that was loyal, and honorable.”

“That just shows she is deceitful. It was clearly a plan to keep a flock of idiot women from running to their confessors, so that the truth would never emerge.”

“And what truth is that?”

“That a vicious, base-blooded bastard was substituted for an heir of noble blood.”

“That, I never said. I said what I saw, and what I think, but since I never saw the deed done, I could not prove it. And if the thing were true, I do not see the sin in it. After all, had not Sir Raymond threatened to commit many great sins if God willed that he did not have a living son? Would he not have profaned the sacrament of his marriage and done many irreversible, violent acts in his fruitless, sinful rage against God’s will? And was he not saved, then, from terrible sin?”

“You argue like a scholastic! A mind was lost to scholarship when you were born a woman.” Brother Gregory could not withdraw from any argument, for he loved a war with words better than any battle with swords, and even while his wrath was fading, the joy of the quarrel drew him on.

“The Church, woman, determines what is sin, not you, not any other individual,” he barked.

“And so you say, but for a bit of money a man can get his marriage invalidated on a technicality. For the price of an indulgence he may commit murder, incest, and mayhem. I say that sin is always the same, and a matter between God and man, and no cardinal who lives with whores and takes bribes for forgiveness can make it vanish with a wave of his hand.”

“If you truly think that, you arrogant little fool, then you will burn!” roared Brother Gregory ferociously. “You deny Christ’s vicars on earth the power to forgive sins.”

“Christ did not forgive sins for money, nor do I recall Him saying, ‘Blessed are the rich’! By what right do these vicars think themselves great enough to change his words?”

Brother Gregory shifted to what he thought was stronger ground and opened a second front.

“But when you put a baseborn child among those of high blood, you upset God’s plan for the ruling of the world. God created those of high blood to rule over those of low blood. And Christ Himself did not demand the overthrow of rightful rulers. Therefore, in the name of denying possible sin, a great sin against God’s plan for the order of the universe was committed.” Brother Gregory gave a triumphant look.

“Who says such a child is baseborn? What is baseborn? Are we not all equally descended from Adam?”

“And so say the rabble outside your door, madame,” sniffed Brother Gregory, and adopting a yokelish accent, he sang derisively:

“‘When Adam delved and Eve span,

Who then was the gentleman?’”

“That’s no answer at all.” Margaret folded her arms triumphantly.

“Yes it is,” answered Brother Gregory with a superior air. “This silly song is the product of low, discontented minds who, in absolute ignorance of the Scriptures, deny that, since Adam, God has raised up rightful rulers over mankind. Great families rule by right, for high blood is stronger, abler, and superior to low blood.”

“How, then, is high blood known?” replied Margaret craftily.

“The children of lords are handsomer, stronger, more capable of learning and of gentle deeds than the children of churls.”

“Oh, really? Then obviously there was a mistake. The weakling was born to the lord by accident, and the beautiful, strong child was also a mistake. How odd of God to make two mistakes! All we did was put things back the way He obviously wanted them. So there was no sin after all, and you must apologize.”

“Ha, you sly woman! And I suppose you’ll say that this is proven because it was God’s will you weren’t caught!”

“And so I shall,” said Margaret. “But don’t you want to know how the end comes out?”

“I suppose I do,” Brother Gregory grumbled. “But if it weren’t for my Curiosity, I’d say that those other priests who refused to write your book for you were wiser men than I. They at least understood that when a woman decides to do an outlandish thing like writing, it means nothing but trouble. And now with your tale you have led me into collusion with your sin, and you knew that beforehand.” He frowned as he picked up a quill, and sharpened it with his knife.

“Still, let’s get on with it,” he said.

 

YOU WILL REMEMBER THAT I had followed Mother Hilde secretly, and now I realized I was in terrible trouble. I had betrayed her and seen her dreadful secret and now must surely be found out. For I had brought no light and must follow her candle to get out. Yet there was no place around the door to hide as she left the room. Surely she would see me and disown me for my treason!

Before I could think of a plan, I heard heavy footsteps in the corridor and, turning, saw the sergeant of the guard, half dressed, with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other.

“I thought I saw a light pass here,” he growled. “You can’t hope to sneak past soldiers!” He peered closer and saw my form in the darkness.

“Who’s there? The little midwife! Is the big one inside? You are a pair of fools for venturing here unescorted! How fares Belotte?”

As quick and untroubled as if nothing had happened, Hilde’s voice came from within: “May Our Lady bless you for your concern! We need your assistance here, Master Watt, for Belotte has died of childbed fever in the night and taken the poor little one with her.”

“I suppose it’s better that way,” he said gruffly. “But it’s the devil of a time I’ll have explaining how she got here.” He had come closer, and held up the torch to scrutinize my face.

“Why, you’re younger than I thought! Do you know,” he added sadly, “she was not so old either. Only twenty years old. It’s a bitter end for a pretty village girl who followed her sweetheart into the army.”

“She was pretty?”

“Oh, very pretty, when she first started with the garrison. That was three years ago, I’d guess. Of course, she hadn’t a penny to her name. Her face was her fortune, she used to say. I guess she wanted to marry, but then he tired of her and didn’t want her, and so it goes.” He glared at me fiercely in the dark. “You’re a lucky girl—you can sell the skill of your hands, not your kisses and your body! Keep it that way! You are young enough yet to marry and be saved from—this.” And he held the torch high at the door, illuminating the scene within.

Marriage, I thought, ugh. Saved by marriage? That is just selling the body another way. God preserve me from marriage. Yet he means well enough, I suppose, so I won’t be rude to him. I nodded humbly, as I knew he wished.

Hilde had by this time composed herself, although not without a sharp look at me, and stood beside us in the doorway.

“If it please you, sir, could you notify the priest about the burial? It is not seemly for us to be involved with such a one,” said Hilde, and the sergeant nodded his wordless assent.

He was as good as his word, but I do not know how he managed to break the news that Belotte had been hidden there against the lord’s command, without anyone being punished. But having seen something of the way things worked there, I imagine a few filthy jokes and a bit of raucous laughter could set things right with all but the priest. As it turned out, Father Denys refused to read the burial office on account of her sins. And so Belotte and the baby were borne away unceremoniously through the town gate and buried in unconsecrated ground. No mourners attended, and no prayers were said but mine. Only I knew that I owed Belotte many prayers for revealing to me my hidden sins, my vanity, my envy, and my cowardice, for which I vowed to make amends.

 

DAYLIGHT WAS FAILING AS Brother Gregory put up his pens and inkhorn. He looked wearily at Margaret and massaged his right hand with the thumb and fingers of the left.

“You are weary and the hour is late, Brother Gregory. Will you not stay to supper? It is not a great meal with us, on account of my husband’s gout. But he loves a learned man for conversation at his table, and you would be most welcome.”

What remained of Brother Gregory’s annoyance was stilled by the thought of a much welcome supper taken in unaccustomed comfort, and a bit of serious male conversation. Since he had started writing, he had been hearing all over town that Roger Kendall was a man as well traveled as he was wealthy, a wonderful raconteur with an inexhaustible store of curious stories from foreign lands. When Brother Gregory’s friends had badgered him one day to find out whether a particularly tall tale about Kendall had any truth in it, the slumbering serpent of Brother Gregory’s Curiosity had been roused once again.

But despite the proddings of his Curiosity, Brother Gregory had so far only managed to get a brief glimpse of the celebrated merchant when he had gone to ask about the reading lessons. Kendall had been standing by the window in his office off the great hall, inspecting a length of newly received crimson that his two journeymen had unfolded for him. A clerk stood beside him, tablet and stylus in hand. A ray of light from the window caught the folds of deep red, and he could see Kendall incline slightly to catch the rich scent of the dye that rose from the fabric as he took it up between thumb and forefinger to test its “hand.” Kendall had glanced up at the open door when the little apprentice boy had tugged at his sleeve and repeated Brother Gregory’s message. In a pleasant but somewhat curt voice he had answered, “Yes, of course,” and nodded in Brother Gregory’s direction. Now, at last, Brother Gregory would have a real talk with Kendall and find out if his reputation was merited.

“With pleasure I accept your invitation, madame, for I know it is well meant.” Brother Gregory bowed slightly. Occasionally he showed himself capable of being courtly, although in him courtesy often was cloaked in a certain sarcasm. Now he paused and then reflected, “I propose we call a truce to arguments, since I have, at any rate, thought of an irrefutable proof, and it would not be proper to defeat you completely before accepting your hospitality.” Brother Gregory was a very stubborn man, especially when it came to questions of blood and the proper order of the universe, and he had in mind a quite devastating rebuttal. He had just remembered where he had seen those odd, gold-colored eyes before.

“Very well, Brother Gregory,” smiled Margaret. “But now to supper; hard proofs are best planned in the absence of hunger.”

But Brother Gregory was deeply shocked when Margaret called the nurse to make the children ready for supper. His eyes opened wide.

“Surely, Dame Margaret, your daughters are fed separately?”

“On great occasions, yes, but this is a family supper. Are you surprised that they sit at the head table? It is the way of our house.”

And of peasant houses, thought Brother Gregory grumpily to himself. Brats like that give a stomachache to people with more refined digestive systems. Out loud he spoke suavely, “Dame Margaret, you are an eccentric.”

“Not eccentric, Brother Gregory; I have my reasons.” Margaret looked pensive. “My husband is not young, and it is important for his daughters to have all the benefits of his fine mind and wise conversation as much as possible. He speaks to great ones almost daily, and has a wide experience of foreign places. For every word they hear from him, even at their tender ages, Cecily and Alison are much improved.”

Oh, thought Brother Gregory, and you are fond of hearing all that gossip yourself, I imagine. Well, who’d have thought it? A January and April marriage with some genuine sympathy involved. Maybe she doesn’t have affairs after all.

“You look moody, Brother Gregory. Come, come! Put away your cares for the evening and tell us a good story!” Roger Kendall addressed Brother Gregory in his habitually jovial voice. It was rumored that the great trader had once lived for years at the court of the infamous Sultan Melechimandabron himself. And a man who can charm an infidel, let alone trade with him, can charm anything living. But whether or not the rumor was true, many decades ago Kendall had learned that a sour face sells nothing, and so he had added to his habitual good nature a kind of professional cheer that shed its radiance on all people alike, whether great or small, as does the joyful sun himself.

Brother Gregory, for his part, had already been annoyed by several things this evening. First, the supper, although well prepared, was very simple. At the head of the table, where he sat with Kendall, there were only two meat dishes that wouldn’t have filled up a thimble. He noticed they were eating more heartily below the salt. Now, fasting is one thing, but when a person’s mind is set on a good meal, then it’s very disappointing to have something skimpy on the table. Why, he’d had to take second and third helpings, and thus appear greedy, when he had been anxious to display his holiness on his first real meeting with Roger Kendall. It was annoying to have Kendall order the trencher filled again, and push more wine on him as well, all with that jovial voice! It all caused Brother Gregory to remember how much he disliked overly friendly people. He considered them insincere and shallow—a permanent irritation, like fleas, sent by God as a penance. That annoyed him even more.

Also, he noted that even though it was not Lent, Margaret took no meat. How utterly annoying that she succeeded in showing off her austerity in the face of his hunger pangs. He’d begun to hope she wasn’t capable of such heights of hypocrisy. Then, when he’d asked the blessing, he noticed that those wily little redheaded girls had masked their true natures sufficiently to murmur a pious “Amen!” As the supper proceeded, he noted that they appeared to hang on their father’s every word. Their eyes big, they’d ask, “And, Papa, what then?” and Kendall would expand like a bullfrog under their worshiping gaze.

Oh, his irritation was becoming more intense, and partly it was irritation at himself, for having been drawn here by Curiosity. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t brought every bit of it upon himself, as if he couldn’t have guessed ahead of time how it would be. He could feel the blood mounting up in his neck and his courtesy become more waspish.

As Brother Gregory fumed inwardly, Roger Kendall inspected him at leisure. Kendall had not become wealthy by failing to observe details. Most of the impecunious clerics Margaret invited to dinner annoyed him greatly with their offensive, plebeian table manners. There was, for example, that Austin friar who put his hands in the sauce above the knuckle and spat into the rushes entirely too frequently, or worse, that obnoxious Franciscan, who had skewered his meat on his knife and rubbed it about in the saltcellar, and drunk from the wine-cup with greasy lips. This Brother Gregory was an odd one, though. He carved himself a second helping from the joint with the exquisite precision of a squire at service, and all the while he was talking, he removed a few grains of salt from the cellar on a clean knife tip, with an unconsciously graceful gesture. How odd to see a man whose clothes look ready to fall off him with a courtier’s manners.

“Brother Gregory, you’ve got a broad wrist. It didn’t get that way by holding a quill, I’d venture to say,” Roger Kendall prodded.

“Master Kendall, you’re an observant man. I was a soldier before I left the world. But I’d judge your wrist is too muscular to have spent a life in the counting house.”

“A man must make money before he counts it. Why, in my time, I was a fierce man with a short sword. I’ve fought off many a pirate and robber chief! By land or by sea it’s no easy matter to bring goods from abroad in these times. But tell us your story first, then I’ll tell mine.”

Wine was beginning to change Brother Gregory’s outlook. He was starting to feel nostalgic. He obliged with a tale of his service in France, as an esquire in the great force commanded by the Duke of Lancaster. Kendall smiled secretly, as if he had confirmed something he was thinking, and then told a tale of his own, an adventure among the Saracens, complete with a description of the fine points of fencing with a scimitar.

“They’re lighter, you know, and the blade is sharper—why, you can split a hair with it!”

“A hair? You go too far now, Master Kendall.”

“Hah, yes, a hair. Here: I’ll show you with the knife I carry. It’s Saracen as well and holds the same edge.” Kendall solemnly plucked a gray hair from his head, and held it to the blade. After an abortive try he grumbled, “Ah, this old age! My eyes don’t see the hair properly. You try it for me.” And he proffered both hair and knife to Brother Gregory.

The blade glittered darkly in Brother Gregory’s hand, as he took note of the complex gold-and-enamel design on its handle, which was studded with precious stones.

“Hmm. Yes. Aha, it is done. The hair is split!” Brother Gregory held it up for the admiring company.

Brother Gregory’s hand moved over the curving designs on the handle of the knife.

“Tell me, is this writing?”

“Yes, it is Arabic.”

“What does it say?”

“Allah is great.”

Brother Gregory put down the knife as if it were a snake.

“You’ve a heathen saying on your knife? Praising a false God?” Brother Gregory was appalled.

“No, my friend, it’s a statement praising our God, who is the God of heaven and earth. They may understand other things wrongly, but they know of God. I’ve been places in the world where things are far different than that.”

Gregory shuddered.

“No man can live a just life without the Christian faith. You’ve moved in dangerous places, where your soul might be lost forever.”

“Have no fear, friend, my soul’s no better or worse than anyone else’s in this land. I am shriven regularly, and have donated a chantry where masses are sung continually for the souls of merchants who have died abroad without the final consolation of Mother Church.”

Margaret nodded, and said firmly, “My husband is a very godly man, Brother Gregory, very godly!”

“Still,” Kendall went on, “I must take exception to what you say. For by your argument no man among the Ancients, before Our Lord’s earthly incarnation, was capable of living a just life. Would you not say, in the common understanding of the word, that Socrates was a just man? Or Lucretia a virtuous woman? Yet if they knew not Christ, then are their souls not damned?”

An argument! What could Brother Gregory love better on earth? His dark eyes kindled with delight at the prospect of sport. Kendall leaned back in his chair with a grin, for he loved to try his sharp wit, and what he lacked in theology, he made up for in marvelous examples culled from abroad, about which he had given much thought. With the close of supper the argument was transferred to the room by the garden. The candles were almost entirely burnt down when an exhausted Margaret took her leave, sharing with the nurse the burden of carrying two sleeping children to bed. They had not even stirred when they were lifted up from the cushions on the window seat.

As she left the room, she heard Brother Gregory’s voice saying firmly, “As Aquinas says…” and the bantering voice of Kendall, replying, “But the Bragmans, who worship a six-armed idol, live in such perfect virtue that…”

“Not good, not good at all for the gout,” Margaret said to herself.