A Vision of Light (49 page)

I thought very, very hard. It all seemed to make a pattern.

“Hilde, I think it’s very bad. Someone is trying to gather evidence against us. Evidence of witchcraft.”

But the days passed and nothing happened, so I ceased to worry. Business was better and better. Besides babies, since I’d treated the rich lady, I’d acquired a reputation among the fashionable. Now I had several wealthy clients who needed healing sessions. But of course, one is never satisfied with good fortune. I grumbled to Hilde, “Oh, Hilde, it’s all very well to get these high fees from old, ugly people, but I’d rather have it for delivering beautiful babies that look just like roses.”

“Never speak ill of good fortune, Margaret, dear,” said the old woman, never looking up from her mending. “You might make it go away.”

Good fortune showed no signs of leaving. Instead it increased even more when a well-dressed little apprentice boy came to request that I treat his master in his great house by the river. That brought me, as a regular client, an old merchant so rich that his payments alone could support the entire household. He was one of those complainers whom the doctors love, for they never get well and never die—just swallow up treatments. This one had gout. The attacks nearly crippled him, but he would not do the most commonsense things to make them cease. Instead he’d call for me to stop the pain and then go back to his bad habits. There he would lie like a frog, propped up on pillows on his big, curtained bed, with his wretched, swollen foot elevated on an embroidered cushion.

“Don’t you see, if you quit stuffing yourself with all this rich food and wine, the attacks would go away?” I would say.

“Quit? I worked hard to get rich, so I could buy all of these nice things. Why, I went to bed hungry many times when I was young, and I’ll never do it again.”

“But at the very least, Master Kendall,” I complained, “you should not be eating and drinking while I lay my hands on your foot.”

“What? Not eat and drink? Just put your pretty little hand right there, my dear”—and he gestured with a mutton chop—“right there, where the pain is worst.”

Delivering babies is much easier than delivering stubborn old men of their vices!

So we went along in this way for some time, Master Kendall being my worst failure as a healer, until Fortune, who had been biding her time, sent me a shattering blow.

It was the most beautiful of mornings, not so long after Pentecost, when I walked home after sitting up all night with a woman in Watling Street. The sky was all pink and fragrant, and I was as happy as a bird as I stepped up to the front door, for my work was well done and there was a fee in the purse at my waist. How surprising to see Father Edmund, at this strange hour, standing there like a black shadow, knocking at the door!

“Father Edmund, what are you doing here?” He turned startled and guilty looking.

“Oh, Margaret, there you are! I can’t rouse up anyone in the house.”

“That’s because no one’s there to rouse, Father Edmund, but here I am.”

“It’s you I must see, Margaret. I’ve come to warn you.” Again he looked furtively out the alley into the street.

“Warn me? Of what?” I asked in alarm.

“Come inside,” he said, inviting me into my own house. As we sat by the banked fire, he said something very odd.

“Margaret, what do you know of your catechism?”

“Why, what others know, that God made heaven and earth—”

“No, no, I mean about the sacraments.”

“Why, through the words of the priest, the host is changed into the True Body of Christ—”

“That’s good enough—but what about the worthiness of the priest?”

“No matter whether the priest is worthy or unworthy, if the words be said right—”

“That’s good too.” And he went on and on, correcting and questioning, with a desperate look in his eyes.

“What on earth is wrong, Father Edmund? I am a good Christian,” I said anxiously.

“Of that I have no doubt, Margaret, but others do. You have aroused the envy of which I spoke, and someone, I do not know who, has denounced you to the bishop. In only one thing are you fortunate. The king has not allowed the Inquisition to function freely in England.”

“Inquisition? What is this?”

“I can’t explain more. I have said too much already. I have risked everything. When next you see me, pretend you don’t know me, for the love of God.” He grabbed my hands and looked at me intently. “I’ll see you saved, if it is God’s will. I know you are a Christian woman, and maybe more than that.” He slipped furtively out the door and hurried away by another route, that he might not be seen.

I was very puzzled and troubled. I’d harmed no one. I was only doing good, and speaking truth. Why should that set Father Edmund all frantic like this? I had not long to worry, for scarcely had I built up the fire and put the kettle upon it, when there was a knock on the door. It’s odd about knocks. Some are joyful. Some are frightened. This one was sinister. I wished that someone else—very strong, maybe a giant with a huge club—were standing behind me to help me when I opened the door. My stomach turned over with fear when I undid the latch. There, in the morning light before the door, stood a summoner and two catchpolls. They did not look friendly.

“Are you the woman who calls herself Margaret of Ashbury, or Margaret the Midwife?” I knew what they must be there for. My knees started to shake. If I could, I would have vomited. My mouth was all dry when I tried to speak.

“I am she.”

“Then you’re wanted. Come along.” They grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me roughly from the door. I was trembling violently as they put manacles on my wrists.

“I—I’m not going to run away. Y-you don’t have to do that,” I stammered.

“You’re a dangerous woman. They might try to take you. We’ve been warned, and you can’t deceive us.” One of the catchpolls tapped the hilt of the short sword he wore.

I could hardly look up for shame as they led me away. The door was left ajar. We had not gone two feet when Sim came bouncing along with Lion and cried, “Hey, they’re taking away our Margaret!”

“Taking Margaret?” A head popped out of the window. We’re early risers on Thieves’ Alley. Several men came running after us.

“Hey, where are you taking Margaret? We need her here.”

“Stand back or you’re dead men,” said the summoner. “She’s the bishop’s now.” The catchpolls drew their weapons menacingly as the summoner grabbed my arm. My neighbors stood back. I couldn’t turn around, but I could sense that behind me more of them had come, a great crowd of men and women, to stand silently and stare.

“God be with you, little midwife!” I heard a woman cry. I could not see for tears as they led me away like a blind thing.

It was a long walk, the longest in my life, perhaps, before we reached our destination: the chapter house of the cathedral. This is a building not usually seen by people like me, unless they are very unlucky. It is where the dean and canons meet for business, and it is convenient for other things as well. Situated in the corner between the nave and the south transept of the cathedral, it is an eight-sided building that stands in the center of a two-storied cloister. Thinking back on it, if I had been a little criminal, an old woman who sang a few silly jingles or bought a love potion, I’d probably just have been fined or jailed for a few days. If I had been a powerful, heretic theologian, who had written works that defied God, I might have been tried with great pomp in the cathedral itself, so that the mighty would tremble at the ceremony of condemnation and the stake. Instead they didn’t know quite what I was. That made sense: since I didn’t know myself, why should they? And such was the temper of the times that they feared some upheaval from the mob if they did not keep the proceedings closed, for I was well known by now in all the poorer sections.

The summoner took me into a dark little anteroom, furnished only with a few hard benches and an iron bracket for pitch-torches in the wall. There he showed me to what I supposed to be the steward of the place, and the steward sent for the jailer, for the cathedral has within its grounds its own prison for violators of church law, just as the City jails are for violators of secular law.

“Is this the woman?” said the steward. “She’s younger than I thought. I supposed she’d be an old crone.” His voice was hard. “Lock her up, jailer.” I didn’t like the ugly leer on his face as he said it.

“Excuse me, sir,” the jailer broke in. “I have none but men in the jail just now. I can’t guarantee her safety there.”

“A woman like this doesn’t need pampering.” He came closer, trying to lean his body against mine. I shrank back.

“Oh, come on now, who misses a piece off a sliced loaf?” He tried to put his hand down my dress, but I pulled away too quickly.

The jailer spoke again, for he was an honest man.

“I am responsible for giving her up in the same condition I got her, sir. She shouldn’t be put in the jail. I’ll take her home. I don’t think she’ll run off.”

“It’s worth your life if you lose her,” he growled.

“I swear I won’t, and I’ll bring her back, just as she is now. The bishop would want it that way.”

“The bishop, the bishop. I suppose you’re right, it might make the hearing fare ill.” He gritted his teeth with annoyance.

“I have a strong room. I’ll lock her up. Nobody will go near her, I swear. It’s better that way, since the jail’s not safe, and there may be trouble if we lose her there.”

The steward looked enraged to be deprived of his prey. As the jailer led me off, I tried to thank him.

“Don’t repay me with ill,” he said gruffly. “Do you remember my wife’s cousin? The fishmonger’s wife? My wife says you saved her life with some sort of funny tool you carry. She said she’d never let me rest if you were attacked in the jail. No woman comes out of there whole, I can assure you.” When we had reached his house, which was not far, for it was part of the jail premises, he took me in to introduce me to his wife, who had put a straw bed in their locked storeroom.

“Now, I don’t want you talking with her,” he said to his wife. “I hope you’re satisfied. And
I
will keep the key.” He took the key from her household ring and put it on his own belt. Then he locked me into the room, which was small and dark, beneath ground level. Only a heavily barred little window near the ceiling let in light, and that not much. There I sat among the barrels and grain sacks, feeling very dejected. Then I realized I was very tired and hungry. I looked about. There was nothing to eat or drink. I stood on my toes and peeked out the window. It opened onto a cobblestoned inner courtyard. I could see a foot. It went away. Nothing looked very hopeful.

I was sitting wishing I could sleep, when I heard a “Hsst!” from the window. “Are you there?” a woman’s voice called softly. I looked up. Two feet were visible this time. A woman’s feet: it was the jailer’s wife.

“What can I do for you?” she whispered.

“I am so hungry and thirsty, and I have not slept all last night.”

“Were you attending a birth?”

“I was.”

“Did it come out well?”

“It did.”

“It usually does with you. We’ve all heard about you.”

“It hasn’t done me much good, has it?”

“
I
heard of you much earlier than the others. On account of my cousin. She said you have a way of taking away pain. Now, I have a very bad back, right here—”

“I can’t see it, I just see feet.”

“Well, it’s right down near the bottom, not up near the top.”

“Is it worse when you lift things?”

“Much worse.”

“Then don’t bend at all when you sit or stand. Don’t lift any more heavy things for a while. Get a servant to lift the laundry basket and the kettle. And if you lift light things, don’t bend your back to do it. It needs time to get well.”

“If you’d touch it, it would be well.”

“I can’t reach it,” I said to the feet.

“Oh, that cursed husband of mine! Just when I get the chance to get my back fixed—”

“Goodwife,” I pleaded, “I’m very thirsty, can’t you just get me a drink?”

“My husband will kill me,” she whispered.

“Just water, anything will do,” I begged.

“All right, I’ll get something. Just hide the cup. If he finds it, I’m a dead woman. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

I promised to hide the cup, and the feet went away. Then a hand poked a mug of ale and a half a loaf of bread through the window. When I was done, I hid the cup and fell asleep.

It was well we had spoken, for she never got another chance, and the room was not unlocked until the morning of the third day. When the jailer brought me up, I realized I must look very shabby and rumpled. I was perishing with thirst, and drank nearly a bucketful of water before he stopped me, for fear I’d burst. When they led me into the great central room of the chapter house where they were to hold the inquiry, I wished heartily that I had had at least the chance to wash my face. It is hard to face well-fed, well-dressed grandees without being properly combed and washed. I felt so weak and hungry and shabby. But I guess they do these things on purpose, to keep one upset when they start the questioning.