“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.