Unhallowed Ground (4 page)

Hubert Shillside also observed the revelers. He watched with pride as Will, crowned with a circlet of bluebells, led marchers past his shop. The lad was becoming a man, no longer an assemblage of knees, elbows, and overgrown feet. His form was growing to fill the gaps between those adolescent enlargements.

Walking close behind the Lord and Lady of the May I saw Alice atte Bridge. She was subdued, and I knew why. No castle scullery maid would be chosen Lady of the May, no matter her comeliness. I had seen Will Shillside giving attention to Alice in the past, but this day the maid from the Weald supplanted her.

Hubert Shillside was Bampton town’s haberdasher. He would want his son courting a lass who might bring a substantial dowry to the marriage. He had probably already had conversation with fathers of suitable maids in the town, and perhaps from Witney and Burford as well. The lass walking beside Will would have suited Shillside, but Alice, for all her beauty, would not.

Alice was half-sister to Thomas atte Bridge. Her father, a widower, had remarried late in life and Alice was the only offspring of that union. Near three years past the old man slipped on icy cobbles and broke his hip. I could do nothing for him but ease his pain as he made his way to the next world.

I could, however, help Alice. I found a place for the child at the castle, free of the hatred and jealousy of her brothers. Henry and Thomas seized all of their father’s few possessions after his death. Alice escaped to the castle with what she might carry, no more. Her father’s hut now mouldered, derelict, in the Weald, beside the houses of Emma and Maud, the widows of Henry and Thomas.

I followed the merrymakers to the Broad Street and Cheapside, where they busied themselves raising a maypole at the marketplace. I found Hubert Shillside there, observing the youth of Bampton with a proud smile upon his face.

“Will is well chosen,” I congratulated him. “And the lass also. Her father has a yardland of the bishop, does he not?”

“Aye. She has two brothers.”

With four words the haberdasher had told me neither he, nor Will, I assumed, was interested in the maid. The lass might bring coin and some possessions to her marriage, but the land would stay with the older brother. And should he die, another heir was in place.

“Bampton has several comely maids.”

“Hmmm. ’Tis so. But most will bring little to their husbands. You did well with Kate… a house in Oxford.”

“Aye, but measured against her other virtues the house is of scant value.”

“Hah. So you say now. When you are wed some years such a dowry will loom larger. Beauty does not last, houses and lands will.”

“Perhaps.”

Shillside must know of his son’s attraction to Alice atte Bridge and be displeased. I thought to bait him on the matter. “Will seems more interested these days in pleasing his eye than his purse,” I laughed.

Shillside peered at me and frowned.

“I have seen him in company with a comely maid who will bring nothing to her husband but herself.”

“Ah,” the haberdasher smiled. “You speak of Alice atte Bridge. ’Tis true… Will is smitten with the lass. But she is not so poor as all think.”

This was a surprise to me. When three years past I sent her to the castle I thought she owned nothing. Indeed, Alice believed so as well.

Shillside saw my astonishment and continued. “Alice’s mother, Isabel, was second wife to the elder Henry atte Bridge, as you know. Isabel’s dowry from her first husband was a half-yardland in the Weald. When she died, an’ then Henry, the land came to Alice.”

“Alice did not speak of this.”

“She was but a child… perhaps she knew nothing of it.”

“Isabel had no children of her first husband?”

“None,” Shillside smiled.

“Henry and Thomas atte Bridge claimed their father’s lands when he died.”

“Aye, so they did. But not all of it was theirs to have.”

“How did you learn this?”

“Isabel’s sister is wed to William Walle. His brother Randall is haberdasher in Witney. We do business.”

“Does Alice know?”

“Aye, she does.”

“And the vicars of St Beornwald? Disputes in the Weald are their bailiwick. Do they know of this?”

“Aye. The matter is to be brought before hallmote.”

“Thomas atte Bridge will not attend to defend his taking.”

“Nay,” Shillside smiled again. “Alice will gain her due, I’ve no doubt.”

“And her husband, whoso that may be, will add a half-yardland and pasture rights to his holdings.”

“Just so. Alice will not stand in the church porch so penniless as many would think of a scullery maid.”

“Did Thomas atte Bridge know of Alice’s suit to regain her mother’s dowry lands?”

“Aye, he did. And was ready to dispute the matter, but I think Maud will not refuse Alice her due as Thomas would.”

“’Tis convenient, then, for Alice and whoso she may wed, that Thomas hanged himself at Cow-Leys Corner.”

“Aye, it is so.”

Revelry continued that fine spring day but I felt no wish to join it. My Kate was unwell, and distasteful images flashed through my mind. As I retreated to Galen House I saw in my mind’s eye Hubert Shillside prowling about in Thomas atte Bridge’s toft, intentionally disturbing his hens. I saw atte Bridge stumble from his hut to investigate the uproar, and saw Shillside swing a cudgel to deliver a blow to the back of Thomas’s head. I saw Thomas catch a glimpse of movement in the darkened toft, and turn so that Shillside’s blow caught him in the face, upon his mouth.

I envisioned Shillside and his son binding Thomas by the wrists, leaving a strand of hempen cord upon atte Bridge’s frayed sleeve, then taking him by shoulders and heels to carry him off to Cow-Leys Corner. I imagined the lad losing grip of Thomas’s heels, allowing them to drag briefly in the mud. I saw the youth sneaking in to atte Bridge’s hut some days earlier to make off with the stool, which would prove then to all that Thomas atte Bridge took his own life.

These images caused me much distress, for Hubert Shillside was my friend.

I entered Galen House in somber mood. What I found there did little, at first, to improve my dour outlook. Kate heard me enter and left our bed, where she had withdrawn. She was half-way down the stairs, coming to greet me, when she grew light-headed and fell. It was my good fortune that I heard her descending, so was at the foot of the steps when she stumbled. I caught her before she could do harm to herself, and carried her to a bench.

Kate came quickly to her senses, although I admit I did not. I took a cup of water from the ewer upon our cup board and splashed it into her face. She spluttered and protested and demanded I cease, which I did.

Kate dried her face with her apron, then began to giggle. I thought my wife had come unhinged. I found no humor in the scene. I sat beside her upon the bench to comfort her, and put an arm about her shoulder to support her should she again swoon. I did not wish to apply my surgical skills to repair her broken scalp should she fall back upon the flags.

“You are unwell,” I said. “I will take you to bed, where you may rest.”

“I have just come from there,” she said. “I rose when I heard you enter, and did so too quickly. ’Tis why I became giddy on the stairs.”

“You have not been well for many days.”

“I am very well, or would be did you not dash cold water in my face. My illness is but what is common to women.”

I am a surgeon, not a physician, and in surgical training I had learned nothing of swooning being customary female behavior. I said so.

“I will be quite well in a fortnight, or perhaps a little longer,” she assured me. “This sickness which now afflicts me will pass, as it does with all womankind who are with child.”

K
ate’s announcement caused me to forget for a time what I had learned from Hubert Shillside. When thoughts of his conversation returned I attempted to excuse the knowledge. What had the fellow told me? Only that Alice atte Bridge might inherit a smallholding from her deceased mother.

I might wish ignorance of the matter but this was not given to me. I knew of Will’s interest in Alice. I knew of the haberdasher’s desires for his son. And now I knew of a reason Thomas atte Bridge might die at the hands of another. The thought brought bile to my throat.

Kate saw that my joy at her disclosure had faded, along with my appetite for dinner. She mistook my anxiety.

“I will soon be well, Hugh. I do not fear bearing a child… since Eve women have borne babes.”

She did not say that her mother died in childbirth, and the babe with her, when Kate was but a wee lass, and so I did not speak of it either. But surely such apprehension must occasionally cloud her thoughts. Now that I knew of her condition such dark reflections would, I knew, come unbidden to me.

“Should our child be a boy,” she continued, “shall we name him for his father?”

“Perhaps,” I shrugged. “But when you summon him from the door of Galen House I would then think you called for me. And it would confuse the neighbors. Robert, for your father, would serve, I think.”

“He would be well pleased. If the child is a lass I should like her named for my mother, have you no objection.”

“Elizabeth? A fine name. I should enjoy my little Bessie playing about my ankles.”

“You do not seem joyful.”

“For your news I am much pleased. I have some worry… for you and the babe, but I know well the good in life is oft accompanied by sorrow. Woe is often the coin by which we pay for bliss.”

“Then why have you left some custard in your bowl?” Kate had begun to serve me my dinner while we talked, and noted my lack of appetite, a thing highly unusual for me.

“I have learned a troubling thing.”

“Do you wish to speak of it?”

“Aye. Perhaps you may discover some mitigating consideration. I have just come from speaking to Hubert Shillside. You will remember that I told you of Alice, the scullery maid? Shillside has told me she is not so penniless as I thought – or as she thought, I am sure.”

“A cotter’s daughter with two rapacious brothers?” Kate frowned. “How could such a maid be aught but a mendicant?”

“Her mother died when Alice was but a child. She brought to her marriage to Alice’s father a dower of a half-yardland. The property fell into the hands of Henry and Thomas atte Bridge when their father died.”

“Did they know it was dower land?”

“I am sure of it. But Alice was too young to understand such things, and all others who knew were dead, but for Henry and Thomas.”

“How did Shillside learn of this?”

“The haberdasher in Witney is Shillside’s friend and brother-in-law to Alice’s aunt. He knew the terms of the dower.”

“Why is Hubert Shillside concerned with the business?”

“Because Will is smitten with Alice.”

Kate was silent, considering this. “Now Thomas is dead there is only Maud to protest Alice regaining her mother’s dower.”

“And Emma,” I added. “Shillside is confident the bishop’s hallmote will award the land to Alice.”

Kate looked pensively past me, toward the fire, before she spoke again. “Would a man murder another for a half-yardland?” she said softly, to herself as much as to me. I had no answer, so spoke none.

“Would not the bishop’s hallmote award Alice her due even was Thomas atte Bridge alive to protest?” Kate continued.

“Mayhap. But now that he is gone the issue may be in less doubt. And did he live and lose the suit, he might take vengeance upon those who bested him. Such a man was he.”

“Will you pursue this?”

“I must. I would rather spend a month in Oxford Castle dungeon.”

“Will you confront Shillside with your suspicion?”

“Nay. If he is guilty it will be easier to discover so does he not know of my suspicion. If he is innocent I would not have him aware that I thought him capable of such a felony.”

“You believe he is… capable of such a felony?”

“Nay, but I have been wrong before.”

“Surely there are others in Bampton and the Weald Thomas atte Bridge has wronged more grievously than Alice.”

“No doubt, but men may respond differently to similar insults.”

“And women also,” Kate agreed.

The May Day revelers had gone to their dinners. Most were away from their beds before dawn, and now, with full stomachs, sought rest more than continued merrymaking. So Bampton was silent, and the scream, when it came, was audible although it came from Rosemary Lane, near two hundred paces away. Kate looked to me with a frown, and I returned the expression. Folk will not shriek so unless they are in great pain or anguish. I expected a summons, and work for either a surgeon or a bailiff.

Kate and I yet held each other’s questioning gaze when there came a thumping upon the door of Galen House. But it was Kate’s presence requested, not mine. Eleanor, the cobbler’s wife, was come to fetch Kate. The carpenter’s daughter, Jane, was about to deliver her child. Kate had agreed to act God’s sib at the birth.

I heard another distant screech through the open door. The sound gave wings to Kate’s feet. She ran off down Church View Street to her duty. Another scream echoed up the street as Kate disappeared ’round the corner of Rosemary Lane. Such distress in childbirth was not unknown to me, although, all praise to God, the birth of a babe is work for the midwife, not the surgeon.

I continued to hear Jane’s shrieks, but soon after the evening Angelus Bell rang they faded and I supposed her travail over and the babe safely delivered. I was wrong.

Near midnight I gave up waiting for Kate’s return and sought our bed. I expected to be disturbed in the night when she returned from her duty, but this was not so. When dawn glowed through the skin of our chamber window I was yet alone.

I had broken my fast and was finishing a cup of ale when Kate burst through the door of Galen House. “Midwife wishes you to attend her. You are to bring your instruments,” Kate gasped.

“What has happened?”

“Nothing, and therein lies the trouble. Jane is near death. The babe is wrongly placed and Mistress Pecham cannot turn it.”

Jane had struggled for many hours to deliver her child. She was surely exhausted, and no effort from her would produce the babe. It was likely she was doomed, but I would heed Katherine Pecham’s summons and see was there aught I might do for the lass or the babe.

The midwife had done all she knew. Doors and windows of the carpenter’s house stood open, chests were open and all knots undone, this to open the womb. Galen, the great physician of many centuries past, did not write of these actions, and I distrust their potency. But such is commonly done, and if to no advantage, it can surely do no harm.

Katherine Pecham has been midwife to Bampton for many years. The crone has seen many babes brought to the world and knows well whether success or misfortune is likely. She had sent word to Father Thomas to be ready at St Beornwald’s baptismal font, for if the babe did come forth it was sure to be feeble and must be baptized straight away. The godparents were notified also and awaited a summons. Mistress Pecham had done all needful things; all else was now in the hands of God. Or in my hands. I shuddered briefly at the thought. Kate, at my side, took note and grasped my arm.

Jane sat upon the birthing chair, near senseless from her vain exertions. The morning was cool, but sweat stood upon her brow and upper lip. As I watched a God’s sib wiped her forehead with a cooling cloth. This caused the lass to raise her head and soon another ineffectual spasm racked her body. She cried out, but weakly. When the convulsion was done she lay back against the chair, more spent than before.

“The babe is placed wrong,” Mistress Pecham whispered. “I have tried all I know to turn it, but have no success. I will make another attempt. If I fail the lass will likely perish. You must stand ready to take the babe does Jane die. I have felt the babe move. It lives, and may yet survive even if Jane does not.”

My study of surgery in Paris did not include instruction in childbirth. Such things are best left to women. Students were, however, taught to open the womb with a blade so as to take the babe when the mother was dead or it was sure she soon would be so. A doctor of surgery at the University of Paris told me that he knew of such a surgery where both mother and babe survived. If so, this was the only such occurrence I have heard of. I have doubts.

Mistress Pecham attended to Jane, pressing her swollen belly to see could she not shift the babe. The midwife was soon sweating as heavily as Jane, but to no effect which I could see. I felt much regret that I would likely soon be called upon to release the babe with a scalpel. Kate saw my black mood and gripped my arm as if to steady me for the sorry work to come.

Mistress Pecham peered up at me, ceased her struggle, and shook her head in wordless despair. Kate looked to me with a plea in her eyes. I bid Kate follow and went to help the midwife to her feet. She was weary, and wobbled unsteadily as she stood.

“You must take the child,” she whispered. “The lass is too young and small to allow the babe to pass, misplaced as it is.”

“If I open her womb Jane will surely die. Is there no other hope?”

“Nay,” the woman shook her head. “I have seen such misplaced babes before. If I cannot turn them, and the mother be so weakened as Jane, all is lost. I sent for Father Thomas at dawn. Jane has been shriven.”

I looked to Kate. She and the other God’s sibs stared back at me. I saw reproach in some eyes, as if I and my gender were responsible for the dread which infected the carpenter’s house.

“I am hesitant to do this. I have no experience in such surgery.”

“I know that if you open Jane’s womb she will die,” Mistress Pecham said softly, brushing a wisp of graying hair from her brow with the back of her wrist. “But if you will not, she and the babe will both perish.”

Kate again took my arm. “Mistress Pecham speaks true. You must balance a certainty with the possible.” She pressed my arm with both hands, as if to stiffen my courage.

I made no reply to these pleas for some minutes. Jane’s pale face occupied my attention and thoughts. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow. I knew the midwife spoke true; Jane was likely soon to see the Lord Christ, yet I could not move from my place. It was as if my heels had taken root in the soil beneath the rushes.

“How long has she, think you?” I asked Mistress Pecham.

The woman shrugged, pursed her lips, then replied softly so Jane, was she sensible, might not hear. “She will be gone by the ninth hour, I think.”

It was not yet the third hour of the day. “If, by the ninth hour,” I replied, “she is yet unable to deliver the child, I will take it with the blade. Keep close watch on her. If she perish before then I must take the babe instantly. Are you certain it lives?”

“I felt it move when I last tried to shift it. I cannot say if it lives now.”

A bed lay beside the birthing stool, and a small table stood near it. I laid upon this table the instruments I would need if called upon to open Jane’s womb.

Peter Carpenter, with his wife and other children, awaited birth or death in the other of the two chambers of his house. As I placed my instruments I saw his haggard face at the door. He looked from me to Kate to Mistress Pecham and the God’s sibs, saw despair writ on our faces, and disappeared.

Kate and the midwife sat upon a bench in a corner of the chamber to await the conclusion of the sad business. Once Jane cried out weakly as travail came again upon her. Both her agony and her cries soon ended.

When the lass lay still and silent again Mistress Pecham rose from the bench and approached the birthing stool. She stood silently, watching Jane. The midwife suddenly bent low over the lass. She studied her intently, then crossed herself, rose, and turned to me.

“Quickly, Master Hugh… Jane is gone.”

I leaped to her side and saw it was so; Jane’s shallow breathing had stopped. I picked up the lass from the birthing stool, set her upon the bed, drew the gown from her bloated belly, and with one hurried motion drew a blade from one side of her abdomen to the other. It was the work of but a few heartbeats to enlarge and deepen this opening until I saw beneath my scalpel the womb and the pattern of a tiny foot where it should not have been, pressed against the membrane. With less speed and more care I opened the womb. When I did so I saw the babe’s foot twitch, as if pleased to be freed of its fleshly embrace.

A moment later I drew the babe from the womb and turned to Katherine Pecham. The midwife stood ready with a clean linen cloth to receive the child. It was a lad. I severed the cord and turned back to Jane, although there was nothing to be done for her. As I looked upon her still, bloodied form I heard a weak wail, then gasps from the God’s sibs. The babe drew breath, and lived, at least for now.

I turned back to observe Mistress Pecham at her work. She first opened the babe’s nostrils and purged them of bile, then bathed the infant in warm water. When this was done she anointed the babe with oil of acorns and wrapped it in bands of soft linen.

The cobbler’s wife took the babe from her and with her husband, who had waited without all the while, hastened to the church. There Thomas de Bowlegh would unwrap the babe and immerse him in the font so that, should the infant perish, his soul would find its way to paradise. This is a shocking way to welcome a babe to the world, but perhaps, given the sorrows all men must endure, it is well to introduce the trials of life to the young, so to harden them for adversities sure to come.

Peter Carpenter and his wife sat together in the home’s other chamber, drained of life and emotion. Two younger children, a lad of twelve years or thereabouts, and a lass a few years younger, peered up wide-eyed at me and Kate as we entered the chamber. A few embers glowed upon the hearth. Peter stood and spoke as we entered.