The Midwife's Tale (Sister Frevisse Medieval Mysteries)

O cursed synne of alle cursedness!

O traytours homycide, O wikkednesse!

Geoffrey Chaucer

The Pardoner's Tale

The light from the yet unrisen sun flowed softly gold and rose between the long blue shadows of the village houses and across the fields and hedgerows full of birdsong.  Ada Bychurch, standing in the doorway of Martyn Fisher's low-eaved house, shivered a little in the morning's coolness and huddled her cloak around her, hoping for more warmth from its worn gray wool.

She wished she could as readily huddle away from the sorrow in the house behind her.  She was village midwife and had done what she could but it had not been enough and now there was nothing left but the hope that after Father Clement's ministrations, Cisily's soul would go safe to whatever blessings she had earned in her short life.  But despite her faith Ada could not help the feeling Cisily's mortal life had been too short.  Far too short for the motherless newborn daughter and the grieving husband she was leaving behind her, however fortunate Cisily was to be so soon free of the world's troubles.

Martyn Fisher's house was at the nunnery end of the village, just before the lane curved and the houses ended and the road ran on a quarter mile or so between fields to the nunnery gates.  Cisily had often said how she loved there were no houses across the way from her, that she could see through a field gate to the countryside from her front doorstep.  And she had been pleased, too, that just leftward not so very far was the village green and all the village busyness.

Priors Byfield was a fair-sized village, with all a village's interests and pleasures.  Ada looked toward the green where the last drift of smoke from last night's Midsummer bonfire was a fading smudge across the sunrise.  The reveling had gone on nearly to dawn as usual, and she doubted anyone would be out to the early plowing and knew for certain that the reeve would be hard put to bring folk to the haying by late morning or maybe even afternoon despite the fact it looked to be a second fine, fair day after a week of damp and drizzle.  It had been taken as a sign of God's favor when yesterday had early cleared for the young folk to be off to the woods and ways to gather Midsummer greenery and the older folk to build up the bonfire for the evening's dancing and sport.

Father Clement had given his usual sharp sermon last Sunday against what he felt was such unchristian ways, but the Midsummer bonfire and other such reveling through the year were like the bone in the village's body: no one could imagine doing without them.  And Ada doubted that even Father Clement would have begrudged Cisily Fisher her midsummer reveling this year, if it could have replaced her slow bleeding to death in childbed.  Hardly a year married and now this, and her husband still so in love with her he had dared, when it was clear there was nothing else the midwife could do, to go to the nunnery and beg for their infirmarian's help.  He must have pleaded most pitiably because the infirmarian had not merely sent some mix of medicines but come herself and was still here, though there was no more hope for Cisily's life, only for a painless death and nothing left for anyone to do except give comfort.

"I pray you, pardon me," someone said softly behind Ada's shoulder.  She looked around, then moved out of the doorway and aside on the broad, flat stone that served as step beyond the low doorsill, out of the way for the nun who had accompanied Dame Claire, the infirmarian, from the priory.

With an acknowledging bow of her head, she stepped out, raised her face to the lightening sky and drew a deep breath.  Her face was almost as pale as the white wimple that encircled it inside the black frame of her veil, and Ada guessed that, like her, she had been unable to endure the stiffling, blood-tainted air inside the house any longer.

Ada thought she remembered her name and hazarded, "Dame Frevisse, aren't you?"

The nun inclined her head again, politely, but said nothing.  And that was only right, Ada supposed.  In cloister or out they were supposed to be as silent as might be; and of course, being a nun, she was far better born than Ada, was at least of gentle and maybe even noble blood.  Tall for a woman, she had a strong-boned face and beautifully kept, long-fingered hands.  Her gown was plain Benedictine black, just as it should be, but amply made from fine-woven wool, its color all even despite black being notoriously hard to dye. Except for the gold ring on her left wedding finger and her belt-hung rosary of richly polished wood, she had no finery such as Ada had heard tell was all too common among some nuns.  Nor did she seem arrogant, only tired and sad, and Ada liked her the better for it.

They stood silently side by side while the daylight broadened around them and birdsong rose from hedgerows as if joy were newly discovered in the world, until in the house, where there had been deep stillness for this while and a while past, people began to move, to talk low among themselves, some of them trying to comfort a man weeping.  The wait was over and the task of dealing with the dead was come.  It was a task that every village woman knew, and all did their best at it, knowing it was something that sooner or later would have to be done for each of them, when her time came.

The baby made a mewling cry and was quieted.   She seemed healthy enough, was already baptized, and Johane living just down the way had already said she would suckle it with her own, she having milk enough for a calf, as she put it, so that was all right.

Ada knew she should go back in now, was bracing herself for it when someone came up behind her in the doorway.  She and Dame Frevisse both shifted further aside to make way, Ada supposing it was Dame Claire, leaving now there was nothing more the nuns could do, but it was Elyn Browster, Cisily's neighbor from two houses farther along, right at the village's very end.  Barren herself, Elyn was nonetheless at almost every child birthing and always took a loss like this to heart; and this one even more to heart than usual, it looked like.  Normally a vigorous, wide-gesturing woman, she was gray-faced with weariness and grief and she would have gone between Ada and the nun without speaking except Ada said, "It's a sorry thing.  Martyn is taking it hard, seems."

"There'll be those who'll comfort him," Elyn said curtly and went on without pause or a look up from where her feet were trudging.  It was the way she showed pain, Ada knew.  She had feelings that cut deep, did Elyn, but wanted to keep them to herself as much as might be.

"Jenkyn to see to?" Ada asked at her back.

"Aye," Elyn said and kept on going, a swag-hipped woman on tired feet, along the verge of the lane still muddy from the past few days of rain.

"She's a good woman, is Elyn Browster," Ada said, not because she thought Dame Frevisse needed to know but simply to have something in her own mind besides thought of Cisily lying dead now.  "Her husband Jenkyn, he's not much and would be less if it weren't for her.  She's had to take the man's part around their holding more often than not because he won't.  It's not what she wanted when she married him, I'd guess, but she's never faltered.  She -- "

Ada broke off as she found Dame Frevisse's gaze fixed on her with a disconcerting directness that made her realize she had been gossiping to someone who not only had no interest in such things, but should not be hearing them at all.

She was saved from deciding what to say next by Dame Claire, the infirmarian, coming out.  She was a small woman and seemed smaller for being beside Dame Frevisse.  She looked as sad and tired as Elyn Browster had and her surprisingly deep voice grated with weariness as she said, "I think maybe you should go in, Mistress Bychurch.  Father Clement is beginning to comfort Martyn Fisher."

Knowing exactly what that meant, Ada dropped a deep curtsy to them both and hurried back into the house.  Father Clement might be a good priest, but he was rigid and had no gift for solace.  What Martyn needed was real comforting, a shoulder to cry on and someone saying how sorry they were, not a lecture on how priceless was the saved soul gone to God.

Just as Frevisse had, Dame Claire lifted  her face to the clear, bright sky and drew a deep breath.  The early light had thickened to a flow of molten gold now, the thick dew on the grass was sheened to silver, and the birds were singing as if their songs were all newªmade.

"The baby looks likely to live," Dame Claire said.

"And the woman who's taking her to nurse seems clean and healthy."  Frevisse offered that comfort as gently as she could, knowing how much death hurt Dame Claire.  St. Frideswide's Priory was small, with only eleven nuns, and set lonely in the Oxfordshire countryside, so that all of them had to have as many skills as they could.  To that end, Frevisse had been set this past half year to assist Dame Claire in her duties as infirmarian and learn from her.  Though not so apt as Dame Claire at herbs and healing, she had done well enough, able to do what she was told and to grasp Dame Claire's admonition, "You have to try to understand what's happening inwardly as well as outwardly to a body, and you have to think about what it means or you can never well tend to anyone's hurts or illness, only pretend to."

What Frevisse understood now was that Dame Claire was grieving for the woman she had not known until a few hours ago and had not been able to save.  Unable to say anything to mend or comfort that -- assuredly nothing so useless as "You did what you could" -- she held silent, both of them gazing out at the morning, until in a while Dame Claire sighed deeply, said, "Come then.  We'd best be going," and stepped away from the door, bound back for the nunnery.

Side by side as much as they could while keeping to what there was of a grassy verge along the muddy road, they passed the last few houses of the village, walking quickly, partly to warm themselves against the morning's chill, partly in hope that though they were surely late for the office of Prime and its dawn prayers, they might be in time for breakfast and Mass.

They were beyond the last house, with only the dawn-bright road and hedges ahead of them, their shoes and the hems of their black gowns already soaked through with dew, when a woman behind them called out, "Sisters!  Pray you, come back, please!" desperate and frightened enough that they swung around together.

Elyn Browster was standing in the muddy road outside the doorway of the village's last house, her hands wrung in her skirt as she went on saying, "Come, please.  Hurry!" even as they came.  "He's hurt.  He's... "  The words she needed were not there.  "He's... "  She pointed at her open doorway. "There.  I can't... he won't...  Oh, please, my ladies!"  Her finger shifted its vague, stunned pointing into the house to the grassy patch beside the stone doorstep.  There were muddy footprints on the stone, but Elyn was asking them to wipe their feet clean.  Frevisse knew how desperately one could cling to the familiar to keep the frightening at bay, so she followed Dame Claire's lead and wiped her soft-soled shoes on the grass before following Dame Claire inside, Elyn behind them.

The shutters had been slid down from the windows, letting in the morning light, but even so the room was dark to her eyes after the brilliant outdoors.  She and Dame Claire both paused, waiting to see better, only gradually able to tell more about where they were.  Like most village houses, the front door was near the middle of one long side.  To their left was the living area, with hearth and a large, heavy wooden table, two benches, a scattering of stools, a bed along the farthest wall, a large chest at its foot.  Rightward then should be where the animals were kept but there was no smell of them, and she realized that instead of stalls there was a board wall making a second room of the house's other end.

"He's here," Elyn said at their backs.  "Just over here.  Come."

But she went no nearer herself, stayed where she was beside them, pointing to the floor left of the door.  No, not at the floor.  Frevisse's eyes had adjusted and now she could see the man lying in the shadows there, stretched stiffly out, flat on his back, arms rigid at his sides.  Except that he was dressed for going out to work, even to the cloth coif closely covering his head, tied neatly under his chin, he could have been a corpse laid out for burial.

But he was alive; even as she and Dame Claire crossed themselves, supposing the worst, he drew a hoarse, snoring breath.

"Oh, merciful God," Dame Claire said and went quickly forward to kneel beside him.

"He's drunk?" Frevisse asked.

"He never drinks that much!" Elyn said.  "And there's naught in the house for him to be that drunk on."

"Did you you lay him out like this?" Dame Claire asked.  Her hands were briskly going over the man, feeling for what might be broken and for a pulse at throat and wrists.

"He was like that when I found him.  Just like that."  Elyn wrung her hands more tightly into her skirt.  "He's a considerate man, is Jenkyn.  Thoughtful.  He... he's..."  Her voice caught on a rising note of desperation.  Without looking around from Jenkyn, Dame Claire said, "Take her outside."