"Little Witch!" A slap always followed the malediction. "Dost thou stare?"
This was my father. He did not like children whose opinions showed in their eyes. Large dark eyes I had—my mother's eyes—and when I displeased him, he was not slow to punish the unbroken will he saw.
I was born at the village of Aysgarth in the house of a stark yeoman farmer, Master Whitby. He was not pleased when my mother gave him a daughter, and then another and another, as if by the force of her own contrary will.
Master Whitby acknowledged me, however, as he acknowledged my sisters. I was written down in the book at the Church of Our Lady as "Rosalba Whitby, legitimate, born to Master Raymond Whitby and his espoused wife, Roseanne."
When I was old enough to hear the tale, my mother very kindly let me know matters stood otherwise. To learn I had been conceived in liberty and was not the get of that humorless, ham-fisted tyrant fills me, to this day, with satisfaction.
Aysgarth lies on Wenslydale, north and west of the great Keep of Middleham. Here our peasant houses grew from the ground like mushrooms. The poorest were of turf, but the best homes, like the one in which I was born, rose upon a costly timber frame.
Those hard packed earthen floors! In the East Wind time, rain slanted through the central smoke hole and pelted the fire of our hearth. I remember huddling close, thinking how the flames were like serpents, lowering their fiery heads and hissing whenever the drops landed. During the worst weather, the entire family, including Master Whitby's curly-pelted white cattle, sheltered with us.
Our village was linked by a single, rutted path. Beyond the stone fences lay fields, wild water and wind. The river went down rapids and over the falls, on and on until it reached the stormy eastern sea through the Great Wash.
My mother kept a garden behind the house. Well-manured with the leavings of our animals, tended by my hands and those of my older half-brothers, it flourished. Here mother grew turnips, mangels, carrots, parsnips and greens, food for us and for our animals. In a raised patch, she also grew herbs, for she was Aysgarth's midwife.
She knew how to cultivate and how to distill what was useful. She delivered children, here in Aysgarth and on the dales round about. So skillful and well-reputed was she that she lived to the age of nineteen free of the marital yoke.
Our priest, however, did not approve. My maternal grandmother had been hanged as a witch and people hereabout have long memories. Although my mother had mostly been raised by a pious woman, Mother Margery, the blood line of a witch was said to run strong.
After my foster mother died, the priest and the other men of the village decided it was best that my mother, so inclined to independence, be placed under the thumb of a strong man. Farmer Whitby, recently again a widower again, was elected to the task. My mother was his fourth and final wife.
Edward Duke of York took the throne, apparently once and for all, from the House of Lancaster during my sixth year. With the help of our mighty Earl of Warwick, Edward imprisoned the mad old King, Henry VI, and drove out his wife, Queen Marguerite, a damned French princess. Edward then declared the Queen's son by the old king to be a bastard.
Master Whitby had no love for queens, especially French ones. He rallied at once to the idea that Queen Marguerite's son had been gotten in adultery.
"It is said that our poor monkish King cried out she must have made that little shit with the Holy Ghost! I'll tell you, no good has ever come from a single one of these French queens. They bring us only bad government and war. Their courts are filled with their lovers and prancing catamites whose only care is to plunder decent folk. Look at Great King Hal’s French bitch! Popping out pups to a dirty Welsh stable-boy as soon as the Lord Chamberlain's back was turned."
Rosalba—White Rose—was a name given to me by my mother, who favored flower names. I think Master Whitby acquiesced in it because at the time he thought it politic to have a foot in the Yorkist camp. One of my elder half-brothers still glowered about the house under the name of Clifford, in honor of that other great northern family. Supporters of the House of Lancaster, they had once been a great power among us. One of Master Whitby's favorite adages was: "Coats must go on as the wind blows."
* * *
When I was ten, the Duchess of Warwick, wife to the Mighty Earl named "Kingmaker," arrived in Aysgarth. This lady was on her way to the Keep of Middleham, and had fallen ill. This was how she came to rest, with all her train, in our small stone church.
We all went to gawk. Lords and their ladies did not pass our way often.
I say the whole village, but this is not quite correct. My mother would never dare leave the house without my father's permission. Master Whitby's rule in this, as in all things, was enforced with blows. Mother picked her battles.
I can still call the old man to mind, him with his long salt and pepper beard, lank grizzled hair, and his wide, work-thickened hand, a member with which all his dependents had close acquaintance. His gaze alone could scald you, for he was a man of choleric humor. Even his flesh bore testimony, for every exposed inch of him turned scarlet at haying time. Master Whitby was certain that while he and other men labored in the fields or among the cattle, their women were likely to waste either their time or a husband’s hard-won goods. He was a firm believer that women were vain, foolish and lazy.
I shall recall no more of him, for to carp is a poor pastime. There were others in our village who suffered more. For all I know, my mother would have ended like her mother had she had remained without the protection of marriage. Master Whitby took at least as good care of his children as he did his cattle. He allowed my mother to exercise her gifts, for any reward she received only made him that much richer.
Ordinarily, during a visit by high gentry, Mother would have remained in the kitchen. Going to gape at the progress of the mighty was not worth the price she'd later have to pay. Nevertheless, this time she eventually did go, for she was summoned by a power far higher, by Lady Anne Beauchamp, Countess of Warwick.
* * *
The retainers of the Earl had gathered around our church, making a better spectacle than any feast day. Mother and I walked through a forest of armed men, of horses and carts and bright banners.
I wondered at the beauty of the ladies. Their mounts were hinnies with delicate legs and long ears, decked with brasses and draped in scarlet. The Ragged Staff banner of the Countess’ husband stood before our church, snapping in a raw April breeze. The great lady’s journey had been interrupted by woman's trouble. Her ladies, perhaps desiring a scapegoat, had called for the local midwife. I accompanied my mother, scurrying behind her and carrying a small wooden box of hastily assembled vials.
The dark, echoing interior of the church was familiar, but I had never seen or imagined it like this, filled with torches and retainers, their coats of mail and polished armor bright against the stone. We were led in straightaway by a sharp-nosed lady in the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen. I remember it to this day, a dashing scarlet, a kind of cloth for which I then had no name. The material fell in luxurious folds. The white scarves adorning her headdress were fine as fairy wings.
She took us to a narrow room behind the high altar, usually only visited by choir or the priests. I could feel sweat beneath my shirt, although the day was cold. Mother was nervous too, although she held her head high. Before answering the summons, she had taken time to wash her face and put on a clean apron and cap, as if it were a Sunday. Now, I understood why.
* * *
I smelled blood at once. All the colors—all the clean and sheen of her numerous attendants, as fair as angels in the church windows, all—vanished with that smell. It was strong, the smell of birthing. It was not the sharp, clear smell of a pumping wound or of an animal bleeding its last under the butcher’s knife, but heavy and musky—sure sign of a she-creature in trouble.
"Stay close."
I stood beside my mother, clutching the box.
"You are midwife of Aysgarth?"
My knees knocked as I looked up at the great lady, seated on a make-shift bed, a plank covered with blankets and set between stools. My father was a king in his house and we feared him, but we knew that he feared his lord who lived in Kendall Castle, Sir William. In turn, Sir William feared his lord, the great Earl of Warwick, whose knee bent only to the King in London! This proud lady, now suffering like a commoner in our poor church, represented great power.
"Yes, Milady. Mistress Whitby, at your service." Mother curtseyed low and bowed her head. Her emphatic downward motion sent me to my knees on the cold slate beside her, still clutching the box.
"Come to me quick, woman! I miscarry."
I raised my eyes and this time managed to focus upon the most high and noble lady. Her brows were narrow and perfectly arched against her forehead, the whitest I'd ever seen. The eyes beneath those brows were like a gray autumn sky. Her pallor was deep, as if she had been struck in a vital part by a sword. I followed my mother, the box held against my flat, freckled chest.
The ladies who attended, with their fair skin, their soft hands, and round plump cheeks, parted before us. They looked like queasy angels, uncertain for the first time in their divine lives. This was not a trouble which could be managed by smooth address.
Mother went straight to work. I was used to this commanding demeanor when she assumed the midwife's mantle. The Countess lay back and submitted to her handling. Great Lady she might be, but now she must abandon modesty. Like a cow in a difficult calving, she must accept our helping hands.
The small, bloody lump my mother soon delivered from between her white knees was a boy. A noble child, but he looked to me the same as any other miscarry I’d seen. The Countess of Warwick's pain and her tears were also familiar.
I knelt by mother, first handing her vials, some of precious glass and others of equally precious metal, exactly as she called for them. The ladies served, bringing basins of hot water to us and a goblet of hot red wine to their mistress.
Cures were mixed with the wine; the Countess sipped. After passing away the cup, much to my surprise, the great lady took my hand and squeezed it. I did what Mother had taught, and offered her both hands. I gazed in awe at the whiteness that my fingers—so freckled and rough—enclosed. Veins crossed the back of her hand, and I wondered if it were true, the thing men said about the aristocracy having “blue blood,” different from ours.
Our priest said it was true, that he'd seen the heads cut from Lords, and that the first blood was dark as the winter sea. Master Whitby scoffed. If that were so then pigs or bulls must also be noblemen, for didn't their blood—when “struck proper”—flow just as dark?
As I held the Countess' hand between mine, her breathing eased. I could see her muscles relax. Mother helped her patient with a clout of clean cloths, and fed her the wine in which she'd let fall four carefully measured drops of distilled knotweed and nettle.
Knotweed to tie up bleeding.
Nettle for a heated illness….
The noble child was lost, but the Countess did not blame. She grieved that she had failed her lord and that she had lost a child of her body. My mother assured her the miscarriage was clean, that nothing remained behind to poison the blood.
"God willing, there will be others, Milady Countess." Mother ventured the common comfort.
The Countess responded with a weary smile that turned down on one side.
"Yes. God willing."
My mother asked if the lady felt much pain.
"Yes, good woman, though I know it well. This is a trial I have stood before."
I was impressed by the way she bore her misfortune, with pride and grace, even in this most wretched physical moment.
If it cannot be helped, it is best just to get on….
Mother finished by giving a draught containing poppy from one of the vials, then she brought from her pocket a smooth round stone from the river. It was gray, apparently like a thousand others, but my Mother was never without it.
"With your permission, Milady Countess; may I speak a charm to stop pain?"
"Yes." The Countess lay back and closed her eyes.
There was a silent moment while mother began to pass the stone over the lady's body.
"Hair and hide
Flesh and bone,
Feel no more pain
Than this stone."
The charm was told thirteen times. Still holding the Countess' hand, I ventured to gaze at her. Everyone knew that her husband, the great Earl whose power made and broke kings, had sired only two daughters. No sons to fight at their warlike father's side! Wondering if the Earl upbraided her for dereliction, I felt a wave of pity.
Mr. Whitby, my authority upon everything male, declared that blood royal had "grown weak as water" since the time of Edward III. It was, he said, the cause of England’s long years of war.
"Why, a man cannot be left to farm his land in peace for ten weeks before he is marched over by armies. Every village is robbed of young men for arrays, chaste women are befouled, cattle, grain and sheep are stolen. No law anywhere, only this lord and that, stirring up factions among us. How can an honest man increase his worth in such turmoil? This is surely God's judgment, just like the plague of my grandfather's time."
In Whitby's opinion, the Earl of Warwick was an improvement over the Percies, the old Lords of the North. Recently, he’d cut away the red rose that had grown over the door and planted a white one. Upon his Sunday hat he now sported a handsomely embroidered badge of The Ragged Staff.
* * *
When the Countess drowsed, we crept away. The chief among the ladies-in-waiting gave mother a coin as we left.
"You may be called again."
"May the Blessed Mother protect our good Countess." Mother bowed deeply.
The lady’s haughty demeanor softened at my mother's stolid concern. We did not quite dare to bow ourselves away, because she continued to stare at us if she had something else to say.
"Excuse me, Lady," Mother finally said, "but we must go. My husband will be angry if he finds me not in his house when he returns from the fields."
"Although you have attended your Countess?"
"Milady." Mother kept her eyes down, but I stole a glance, and saw the plucked places where the woman's brows had once been arch.
"Have no fear. Your husband may not grudge service to the wife of The Earl of Warwick, he who is master of this land and all in it."
"As you say, Milady."
Mother bowed again, and the proud noblewoman, to my surprise, returned a faint echo of her reverence.
* * *
"I observed your apprentice." The Countess looked better today, and, as her lady-in- waiting had suggested, she had called for mother Early the next day. She did not, however, speak of herself, but seemed inclined to other matters.
"She is my daughter, your ladyship."
"She is young."
"It is never too Early to study the craft, Milady."
The Countess nodded. Her great gray eyes turned thoughtfully upon me.
"You wish her to follow you."
"I do hope and pray that she will, Milady of Warwick, God willing."
"Her touch hath healing. How does she in your garden?"
"Well, Milady. She is my eldest, obedient and clever."
"Come here, child."
I did as I was told. Sunlight fell precipitously through a window, a sudden break in the eternal galloping clouds of spring. I was walking, although I did not know it, into another world.
The Countess stretched out a long-fingered white hand. I had never seen so many glistening jewels. The danced before my eyes like blue and red stars.
"Give the Countess your hand, child!" From behind, the lady-in-waiting delivered a jab between my shoulder blades. My small freckled fingers met the elegant hand of the lady.
"Such beautiful eyes!" Hers met mine, and I knew that her spirit was exactly as hard and as brilliant as those jewels upon her fingers.
"What is your name, child?"
"Rosalba."
"Rosalba—White Rose." The name made her smile and once more I was astonished. Unlike most breeding women of our village, she had all her teeth.
"Do you have brothers and sisters, Rosalba?"
"Two little sisters, Milady."
"Speak up!" From behind, the lady-in-waiting delivered another poke.
"Do you take care of them when your mother is busy?"
"Yes, Milady, when I am not helping my mother in the garden, or in the kitchen."
"Do you like caring for your little sisters?"
"Oh, yes, Milady. When Lily was sick with croup last winter, I nursed her at night so Mother could sleep." The Countess seemed so approving that, despite the harsh presence at my back, I gained sufficient confidence to add, "This spring our Lily is bonny and fat."
"You give your mother good service."
What happened next is hard to describe, but I could feel a wave of distress coming from my mother. Although she didn’t make a sound and I couldn't see her, it was as if she had cried aloud. It was a torture doubled because I did not dare turn back to see.
"I have two daughters. Do you know that?"
I nodded vigorously.
"My youngest daughter is Anne. She is not hale and hearty like you, Rosalba."
She studied me. Then, suddenly, her focus swept beyond, with such fierce determination that I was impelled to turn my head. When I did, I saw that my mother's eyes, those big dark eyes we shared, were full of tears.
"Mistress Whitby, give me this little roan rose."
I saw my mother—my brave mother—swallow hard.
"We are yours to command, your ladyship." Mother folded her hands beneath her bosom. Unlike bullying episodes with my father, she did not lower her eyes.
"I wish her to nurse my youngest."
Mother's eyes were unnaturally bright, but instead of voicing sorrow, she replied steadily.
"An’ it be your will, Milady Countess. You greatly honor us, who are ever at your service."