Title: The Doctor, the Witch and the Rose (10 pages)
Chapter One
Storm at Sea, December 1589
Off the Coast of Denmark
It’s witchcraft, King James is sure of it. When they left Copenhagen, the weather was serene and the red northern sky the night before promised a calm crossing. Now sheer, cliff-high waves loom over the ship, forming a wall of impregnable gun-metal grey.
‘It’s the Devil’s work, sire!’ his admiral bellows. The words whip from his mouth and sweep overboard in a torrent of wave, spit and foam. ‘We have to turn back!’
‘Never!’ He will not be thwarted by the Devil. A battle with the Prince of Darkness is his destiny. Is he not God’s representative on Earth, and is Scotland not God’s country? On several occasions, walking down the long gallery in Holyrood Palace contemplating some point of philosophy or history, he has felt a demon’s hot breath on the back of his neck. William Balfour said the Devil wanted to stop him from writing his treatise on demonology. That shows he’s getting too close to the truth. Now this storm. It is no coincidence.
‘I’ll get my bride back to Scotland this night!’ the king hollers over the deafening roar. He has just married Anne of Denmark and is desperate to get his new queen back to Scotland. It is not a country that tolerates absent monarchs; the fate of his mother testified to that, and he has no intention of joining her head in the basket.
The negotiations were long and tortuous, and his rebellious nobles forcibly expressed their impatience at the Privy Council in the preceding weeks and months. But this lucrative alliance for Scotland will swell her coffers with much-needed gold, enabling James to divvy out royal favours, pitting aristocrat against aristocrat instead of the Crown.
But the sea cares nothing of the dalliances of kings and commoners. It recedes, creating an abyss that might swallow an island. The ship pitches downwards as if aiming for the seabed, her bow deep into the crevasse of the wave. Walls of water as high as the cliffs of Edinburgh Castle rise on either side of the craft.
They have lost four men already. The admiral is not inclined to lose more. ‘Witchcraft!’ he shouts.
Confirmation, if the king needs any. He recently read in The Hammer of Witches how it is common for covens to whip up storms to defeat their enemies. The book told of fishing boats setting sail from a calm harbour only to return with shredded sails, rotting fish and their crew nowhere to be seen. It turned out their neighbours and rivals had conjured up a spell to bend the weather to their will and destroy their opponents. There were many such tales. But the tome is over one hundred years old, and things have moved on. It needs to be updated, for the Devil has become more wily, and the king has tasked himself as the man to do it. This is meant to be.
As the ship pitches skywards, the boom on the main sail breaks free and smacks the helmsman across the ship, knocking him out cold. The wheel spins chaotically as other crew members cling to ropes, rigging and poles, frantically trying in vain to keep control. The ship lurches and tumbles like a possessed roller coaster in the ever-deepening swells and troughs.
King James and the admiral stand apart from the mayhem, perched on the bridge.
‘We have to go back, sire. We can’t fight the Devil tonight. He’s too strong; he’ll send us to the bottom of the sea!’
The king’s stomach tightens; defeated by the Devil on his triumphant voyage home with his Danish bride and a new profitable alliance. ‘Damn it! Very well. Turn around.’ Gripping the rail spanning the deck, he makes an oath. ‘This is not over.’
The ship’s wheel eerily stops spinning and rocks gently from side to side, as if brought under control by an invisible hand. The king and the admiral look at each other. Two sailors grab the wheel and the king notices there is no resistance from the elements. One steps back and the other warily takes the helm.
‘So be it. Plot a course back to Denmark,’ King James shouts to his admiral. ‘The gauntlet is laid down. I take it up gladly for God and for Scotland!’
‘But not tonight, sire.’
‘No, not tonight.’
The admiral lets out a long sigh of relief and the king gives him a withering look. He needs men of steel with strong stomachs for what lies ahead.
Chapter Two
Storm Over Land
The Village of North Berwick
Across the North Sea, almost in a direct line from where the king’s ship flounders, a tiny, whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof sits on the edge of a forest. A footpath from the front door joins a track skirting the woods to the village of North Berwick on the wind-battered east coast of Scotland.
A woman is sleeping in the straw bed in the corner, close to the range. Her long, wavy, silver-grey hair reflects the moonlight seeping through a crack in the shutter. The fire’s embers glow faintly, brightening for a fraction of a second as they are fanned by a draught from beneath the door and through the cracked window frames, fading as the breeze recedes out to sea. Blackness descends.
She turns over and sighs, facing the fire, oblivious to the gathering storm and darkness. Her high cheekbones and smooth brow illuminated in the firelight still retain the beauty of her younger years, even now in her mid-fifties. She is used to the pitch dark. But it doesn’t matter anyway for she is somewhere else, in a dreamworld she’s been visiting more often of late. She did half-heartedly wonder why, but why look a gift horse in the mouth?
Soft, moist grass under her feet, she walks through a luscious garden and catches a glimpse of the reeds and pond beyond. Lily pads float on its mirrored surface. A gentle breeze caresses her face and lifts strands of hair at the nape of her neck. She shivers and instinctively rubs it, feeling the prickle of goosebumps.
A man is sitting by the water’s edge. His fingers are entwined around a stick he is using to draw shapes in the sand. He stands as Agnes approaches. Her heart stops for a fraction of a second – she’s sure it does – then bump-bump … bump-bump … before jumping into her throat. This is the bit she enjoys the most.
She lets out a long breath, then breathes in the heat of the fire. In the other world, she closes her eyes and feels the warmth of the sun on her face.
BANG! BANG! BANG! Loud rapping at the door startles her awake. God save us! She sits bolt upright, her heart beating a demented, chaotic rhythm. Where am I? What is this place? She jumps to her feet, squinting to make out the shapes in the dark. There’s her dresser, two chairs, the table and the fireplace. She glances at the stonework above the range’s mantle.
The frantic knocking continues even louder. Someone is shouting her name. ‘Goodwife Sampson! Goodwife Sampson! Agnes, Agnes, for God’s sake, open up!’
Agnes grabs the shawl slung over a chair, wraps it around her shoulders and stumbles to the window. Her fingers fumble in the recess and find the cold, hard metal of the ancient iron candle holder and the candle’s long waxy shaft. Setting the holder on the table, she puts the wick to the fire and blows. More knocking. Come on. Come on. The wick lights.
‘I’m coming!’ She screws the candle back into its setting.
‘Agnes! Help us!’
She recognises the voice. As she opens the door, candle in hand, the gale almost blows out the flame. ‘Come in, John. What’s…? What is it? What’s the matter?’
Her old friend and neighbour, John Lockhart, is ashen and barely able to talk.
‘Please be seated.’ She leads him to one of the chairs by the fireside. The fireplace, like so many in these cottages, is a roughly hewn squarish hole cut deep into the wall with enough space to cook a whole meal in several pots at once. The only nod to decoration is a darkened horizontal beam built into the stone above the hearth.
John slumps onto the seat and awkwardly places his palms on the kitchen table.
Agnes says gently, ‘Let me put on something warmer.’ She takes the long bodice waistcoat and skirts slung over the other chair closest to the bed.
John turns to the fading cinders and picks up a peat brick from the haphazard pile stacked by the hearth. As Agnes dresses, she watches him close his fingers over it and gaze into the dying fire. What can have happened? Whatever it is, she must be calm, collected and in control. There is no place for panic and drama in the life of a midwife and healer.
He throws the lump into the fire. It bursts into life, lighting up the room. ‘It’s Maggie.’
‘But she’s not due ’til next month.’ Agnes checked on her only three days before.
‘I don’t know what happened. She got up … she seemed to… I dinna ken, it happened that fast. She went down. There’s blood, a lot of blood. Help us – please help us. God help us, Agnes!’
‘Aye, of course, John, of course. Let’s go.’ She stops. ‘Wait! Just a second… Go outside … close the door. I’ll just be a moment, I promise.’
As soon as he closes the door, Agnes rushes to the wall on the left of the fireplace. She glances over her shoulder and her eyes home in on a brick-shaped stone, much like any other. She slips her fingers into the sides and jiggles it free. It crunches and grinds as she slides it all the way out. The hole is cold and damp, but right at the back is the familiar, comforting texture of an old wooden box with its iron braces and keyhole. The key is long lost.
Breathing deeply, she pulls the box all the way out, opens it and rummages inside. She cradles an item wrapped in an old piece of cloth and places it in a hidden pocket in her skirt. Holding her breath, she closes the box without a sound, returns it to its resting place and replaces the stone. She breathes out only when satisfied it is well hidden.
Drawing her shawl tightly around her shoulders, she opens the door and heads out into the night.
Chapter Three
The Dissection
A Medical Theatre in Paris
Assen glances at his friend. Two little worry lines have appeared between Gérard’s brows.
‘Honestly! Do you think this is really necessary?’ Gérard asks.
The pair are standing on one of the wooden tiers of the round theatre in the prestigious Faculty of Medicine in Paris. The crowded hall is buzzing with excitement. Medical students and their fellow newly qualified physicians chatter animatedly, craning to get a better view of the centre stage. Some have even brought boxes to stand on.
Assen is enthusiastic. ‘The new medicine! Think how much we’re going to learn, how much we’ve learned already! Dissection is going to change everything!’
A cadaver lies on a huge table in the centre of the theatre. To the side is a smaller trestle table with saws, blades, clamps and all manner of implements unfamiliar to the eagerly waiting medical novices.
‘It won’t be long now,’ another student whispers behind Assen.
A hush sweeps through the audience like a wave rolling to the shore as two men enter and position themselves at either end of the great table.
‘That’s the surgeon. He’ll be assisting the professor. The second man is his assistant,’ another student says authoritatively.
‘Uh-huh,’ Gérard replies, looking over his shoulder. ‘And is anyone assisting the assistant assisting the surgeon?’
Assen ignores him. ‘We’re lucky to have Professor Lavigne here in Paris.’
‘He robbed graves, you know.’
‘Professor Lavigne?’ Assen exclaims, looking squarely at Gérard.
‘No! Vesalius. The one who started all this.’
Assen tuts. ‘Hmm.’
‘And took them straight off the gallows, just hanging there, nice ’n’ fresh.’
‘Scare stories. Made up by those who don’t want progress or understand how humans really work.’
‘We know how humans work!’ Gérard says. ‘They eat well, sleep well, enjoy the company of friends and family, have nothing on their conscience, then they live long and healthy lives. If they don’t, they don’t.’
‘Things aren’t as simple as that,’ Assen says curtly, although he knows his mother, Bahdeer, would have agreed with Gérard. He still misses her.
‘Give people hope, reassurance and the right remedies, and they will heal themselves,’ she had told him when he first went to medical school. ‘Be cautious, reserve your judgement, Assen. The new medicine doesn’t have all the answers,’ she’d added one day when he came home excited, wanting distilling equipment. ‘The chemicals the court physicians are experimenting with are strong – too strong for the human body. They can throw it out of balance … and they can be deadly in the wrong hands, or in inexperienced hands. Be humble, my boy. Ask God to guide you.’
Assen feels a dead weight the size of a boulder lodge in his chest and a lump rise in his throat, making it hard to swallow or even breathe. Lights flash before his eyes. He feels dizzy; he might pass out. God, no! That would be so humiliating. He grabs the rail in front of him. Calm down. Focus on the lecture.
‘I think you’ll find they are.’ Gérard’s words seem far away.
Assen releases one hand from the bar and places it on his chest. The small oval on its chain is still there. His shoulders slacken.
‘Look,’ he says, releasing his hand and pointing to the dissection table. ‘With this method, we’ll be able to see inside, see what’s causing the problems, discover which organ is diseased, and then we can…’ That’s better; he’s on solid ground now, talking about medicine and the body. The flashing lights start to fade and he can hear the conversations around him.
‘And do what?’ Gérard shouts back over the din. ‘Create a big list of diseased organs and symptoms with no idea of how to cure them?’
It is exactly what his mother would have said. ‘We’ll find a way. One day, medicine will find a cure for every disease.’
Gérard raises his eyebrows but says nothing.
‘In hundreds of years,’ Assen continues, ‘the new medicine will make sure no one ever has to live in illness or pain … if it be God’s will.’
Silence once again rolls through the auditorium like a swell as a gentleman strides from the wings to take centre stage behind the table. Unlike his assistants, who are covered from head to foot in long hide aprons, he is dressed in the height of Parisian fashion. He struts over in a dark-blue velvet doublet with gold trim around the buttonholes, hem and cuffs, and his hose are of a paler shade of blue. The outfit is topped by a deep-plum velvet cape and a hat sitting jauntily awry. Looking like he’s just stepped out from the royal court, he hands his cloak and hat with a flourish to a man Assen hadn’t noticed before.
‘Talking of God.’ Gérard coughs.
Assen laughs.
With a crook of his finger, Professor Lavigne calls over the surgeon and his assistant. They huddle for several moments, adding to the suspense. Some of the students playfully elbow each other and widen their eyes. Then the huddle breaks and the surgeon nods. The theatre goes deathly quiet. The show is about to begin.
The professor turns to the audience; most are straining to see and keen to hang on to every word so they can tell their non-physician friends in the taverns later. However, some, like Gérard, look on circumspectly.
‘Gentlemen. You are here to witness one of the wonders of our time – the human body. We are privileged to have dispensation from His Majesty to conduct this dissection. You are deeply honoured, gentlemen. There are thousands who would stand where you are now.’
‘They are more than welcome,’ Gérard says deadpan.
‘Shhhh.’
Professor Lavigne continues to address the audience. ‘This is Mr Artois, a most skilled surgeon, and his assistant, Mr Tremblay. They will be performing the surgery as per my instructions. I trust you all have a good view.’
Gérard blows out.
The professor makes eye contact with the surgeon. ‘Commence, Mr Artois, if you please.’
The surgeon picks up a large, sharp-looking knife. The blade glints in his hand. Pointing the tip just below the throat of the cadaver, he draws it steadily down the torso to the pubic bone, making a faint ripping sound like cloth being pulled apart. There is an intake of breath. Out of bravado, many stretch their necks for a better view; others, looking queasy, step back to let their classmates take their place.
‘Now, gentlemen, for the first time we can see where the organs are in the body,’ Professor Lavigne says.
He nods to the surgeon to peel back the skin. Some of the previously enthused students look a little less enthusiastic, affording those with a penchant for the macabre an uninterrupted view.
Gérard sighs but steps into a place vacated by a retreating novice student. Assen looks at his friend. Although Gérard is sceptical about the need for – or, more precisely, the usefulness of – dissections, he is not squeamish. He lifts his chin and stares unwaveringly at the table. Assen smiles and does the same. They’ll talk about it later.
‘We will start with the heart. Mr Artois…’
The surgeon walks over to the cadaver carrying what looks like a huge pair of sharpened pliers.
‘Mr Artois will use these instruments to crack open the ribcage to give access to the heart.’
Gérard shakes his head. ‘You think this will get us far?’
‘Shhhh.’
‘It’s theatre … just theatre. Entertainment.’
‘It will be useful one day.’
‘Are you sure?’
Chapter Four
The Birth
North Berwick
Stumbling in the pitch dark down the well-worn path to the village, Agnes wonders why she chose to live out here in the forest. Not convenient, not convenient at all for a village midwife and healer. But it was a sanctuary, and God knows she had needed one back then.
At last she sees the outline of the village, the black shapes of the buildings set against a marginally lighter shade of grey-black sky.
Where’s the bloody moon when you need it? It’s always popping up in fairy tales. Mind you, those stories never end particularly well. Agnes smiles to herself.
John and Maggie Lockhart would have to live on the other side of town. Heading towards the harbour, they take the short cut through the west wynd, a narrow, twisting alleyway of overhanging houses with a sewer trench cut deep down the middle like a gash that won’t heal. They tread gingerly, keeping close to the walls.
As they emerge onto the wider main street, Agnes notices the soft glow of a candle in the Johnstons’ front parlour. But the wind cuts through her like a knife, whisking her breath away and, with it, her curiosity.
‘Jesus!’ She clutches her shawl tighter around her throat, then remembers herself. ‘Sorry.’
Not far now, thank God: nearly at the harbour. Her fingers are like claws, clutching her wrap tight around her throat. She braces herself for the onslaught waiting round the corner but it’s more than she bargained for. A gust nearly sweeps her off her feet, and John has to grasp her forearm and pull her down. Her fingertips glance off the earth.
They crouch low and edge along the wall. Although they can barely hear each other over the crashing sea and roaring gale, they still shout pleasantries, more for comfort than communication.
‘I’ve never seen nothing like this!’ John’s voice is lost to Agnes but she understands the sentiment.
‘Aye, I ken.’
‘I wouldn’t like to be out at sea on such a night!’ His voice momentarily booms as the wind drops precariously.
‘May God protect them.’
‘Amen.’
There is almost a full complement of fishing boats in the harbour. Praise God: it is comforting to know she and John may be the only people out on such a night. Agnes imagines everyone in the village tucked up in bed, warm and cosy. After nursing them for twenty years – or is it more? – Agnes feels protective towards all the lives she’s saved, brought into the world or given solace to in their passing.
Nearly there. A light glows in the last cottage along the shore at the end of a row of low-slung buildings. It is whitewashed, like its neighbours, with two windows on either side of a dark-stained oak door.
They crash through the opening with a gust of wind, rain and sea, and the door bangs against the wall. The room is oppressively warm, a rare discomfort on such a cold night. A fire blazes in the hearth, and Agnes notices the forge glowing in the room beyond. That’s where John spends most of his time, along with Maggie here, keeping the fires burning. A haze of smoke hangs in the air at chest level like the vapor off a peaty bog when the haar rolls in.
The simple surroundings make Agnes feel at home, like she belongs and is the same as her friends and neighbours. But that is wishful thinking. Yet Agnes is good at pretending, imagining, dreaming. She’s had to be.
She shakes off her shawl and hangs it on a peg by the fireplace; it’ll dry there. The hook has become her hanger, always left clear for when she visits, which she’s done regularly these last two months. Maggie’s confinement has not been straightforward.
The room is dusky, though there are several candles lit. The big bed has been moved closer to the fire, but it still takes up a lot of the room. It fleetingly crosses Agnes’s mind that it is far bigger than her own wedding bed.
Maggie lies in the centre, her fawn nightdress crimson with blood around her lower abdomen and between her legs. The sheets encasing her are also sodden, forming a reddish-brown halo around her hips. Sweat glistens on her forehead and drips down her neck where strands of hair stick like seaweed around a rock. She is a paler shade of the off-white bedding that surrounds her.
Stretching out a hand, she implores weakly, ‘Help me, Agnes. Please, help me.’
Agnes rushes over, takes the limp hand and squeezes it tightly. She looks at John. ‘When did it start?’
John shakes his head. ‘I dinnae ken, maybe two, three hours ago, wasn’t it, Maggie?’
But Maggie lets out a piercing scream.
Agnes grabs her shoulders. ‘Look at me. Babies come early all the time. They decide when they come, and everything turns out fine. Right?’
Maggie nods feebly.
‘John.’ Agnes points to his forge next door. ‘Boil as much water as you can. Do you have salt?’
‘Aye.’
‘Get any cloth and linen you can spare and boil it in salt water. Quickly. I need to clear all this—’ she gestures to the sodden sheets ‘—and see what I’m doing.’
Maggie releases another deafening scream, groaning and rolling with the waves of pain. She grabs Agnes’s arm. ‘Am I going to die? Agnes, don’t let me die.’
‘Of course you’re not going to die. I’m here, I’m here.’ She takes Maggie’s hand firmly. Keep a level head. She digs deep into the long pocket of her skirt and takes out a small phial of dark-green liquid. ‘Drink this. It’ll take away the pain.’
Staring at Agnes with wide eyes, Maggie puts the phial to her mouth and takes two gulps.
‘That’s enough.’ Agnes slips the bottle back into her concealed pocket.
***
John returns with a pile of cloths, his face wan. Right now, he would do anything to change all this. He would be happy not to have a family. The Sinclairs over at the grange have no offspring and they seem perfectly happy – well off, too.
If only he could go back eight months, to the month after they wed on that balmy night in May, and not do what he did. They had been to the fair earlier in the day. Everyone was happy; funny how everyone gets along when the sun is shining. Agnes was arm in arm with Gelly, watching the Punchinello show. And Maggie – God she was beautiful, is beautiful. He sees her making a garland, twisting spring flowers – daisies, bluebells, buttercups – around a length of twine; stems and petals strewn over the kitchen table like scattered memories. He’d had too much ale, or perhaps just the right amount, for making a baby.
He stands staring into the fire, cradling a basin of cloths. The container made from a wine casket cut in half looks like a baby’s bath.
‘John,’ Agnes calls, then a little louder, ‘John!’
‘Sorry.’ Shaking off the past like a dog shakes off fleas, he goes over to Agnes. ‘Sorry. I’ll set it down here.’ He places the basin on the chair and draws it closer to the bed within Agnes’s reach.
Agnes begins to clean Maggie, then the bed.
John turns away, feeling obsolete. ‘Can I do anything?’ he asks.
A window shutter bangs open and shut as a gust of wind whips around the room. Glad of a task, he bounds over, closes the shutter and retrieves the baton blown from the ledge. Placing it in the slots, he fastens the window securely as the howling continues outside.
‘Looks a bad one,’ Agnes says matter-of-factly, and John is grateful to her for lending an air of normality to the situation.
He goes along with it. ‘Aye. Like a couple of years ago. Midsummer, mind?’
‘Aye. We were lucky… Not a soul lost.’
‘A miracle.’
Agnes looks at him. She stands and stretches, reaching her palms to the ceiling. She slides her hand into her pocket again, pulls out a small piece of linen and carefully unwraps it to reveal dried herbs and flowerheads. ‘Make up a beaker of tea with this please, while I attend to your wife.’
‘Aye … Right.’
Taking the little bundle, he makes his way to the forge next door. He knows to take his time.
***
Agnes tenderly brushes Maggie’s forehead. ‘How often are the squeezes?’
‘All the time,’ Maggie moans.
‘Right. Let’s see… May I?’
Maggie nods and Agnes pushes up her gown. She gently examines her lower belly and her opening; it is moist and wide. ‘It won’t be long now. You can ride the squeezes out with me.’
‘Is everything all right? Am I going to be all right and the baby?’ Maggie whispers, then lets out a piercing cry.
‘You’re going to be just fine.’ Agnes squeezes her hand then positions herself between Maggie’s legs, her hands braced against the younger woman’s knees.
Another contraction, a strong one by the looks of it. Maggie writhes, panting heavily. An image flashes into Agnes’s mind. She’s running up The Law, a hill behind North Berwick, with the other villagers; they are all dressed in bright colours and with painted faces for Lammas Day. They are pounding up the hillside one after the other towards the ancient cairn. Can she do this? Get there to the top and run down?
‘Maggie! Maggie! Look at me. Keep looking at me.’ Agnes holds Maggie’s face between her hands, forcing her to look into her eyes. ‘Everything’s going as it should… We’re doing this together. Do you know how many babies I’ve brought into the world?’
‘Lots.’ Maggie offers.
Another picture streaks across Agnes’s brain. She did it! That’s right. First to the top on that Lammas Day, and first back down. The men calling behind her, their voices growing fainter.
‘Let’s do this, Maggie.’
Maggie stares into Agnes’s deep, dark, mesmerising eyes. ‘Aye. Let’s do it.’
