Michael JECKS - The Traitor of St Giles

He turned his attention to the dead dog. It lay a short distance away, and there was a goodly-sized stab-wound in its chest, at the front beneath its neck. When he opened the jaws, he saw no cloth or anything to link the dead beast with who had killed it.

‘You poor brute,’ he said sadly. ‘You tried to save your master but you had no chance, did you?’

At the gate to the church, Father Abraham stood with arms akimbo watching people arrive for St Giles’s Fair. Folk travelled from many miles away to come to a place like this, and he could see many rich-looking merchants; not that they were alone. Jugglers, actors and other good-for-nothings were tagging along. Gamblers, barbers, quacksalvers trailed past, all hoping to enjoy a few days’ holiday, perhaps also making profits from some of the more foolish people in the town.

Father Abraham muttered a short prayer, avoiding the eye of Felicity, the whore from Cock Lane, who stood at the other side of the road with her arms folded, eyeing the crowds with a similar professional measurement in her gaze, but with a view to a more immediate reward than that which Father Abraham could offer.

He shook his head. That poor man Father Benedict had died late in the evening the previous day and Father Abraham had sat up with him until after dark. Fortunately the boy who had come to fetch Father Abraham that morning had returned with his mother, and the priest had commanded them to sit up with the body all night.

It was a great shame, though. And a waste. The man had been devoted to his damned chapel, that centre of heresy, sodomy and sinfulness, but he was still a Godly man in his own way. He personally lived the pure life of a priest – and was now dead, while the whore Felicity lived on. Father Abraham sighed. Truly God’s way was sometimes difficult to comprehend.

He turned and almost tripped over Hick, the rat-catcher. ‘What is it?’ he demanded testily.

‘Father, I’m sorry, but it’s Emily. She’s awful sick and the midwife asked if you could come and see her. Give her the last rites.’

He had noticed her looking unwell recently, but she had a brood of eleven children. ‘She’s too old for another. I did tell her,’ he pointed out.

The rat-catcher agreed hastily. Emily wasn’t his wife and he had no wish to irritate the priest. This was a man who could add a few words to tip the balance in favour of a dying person, someone who could either help a soul on its way to Heaven or – God forbid! – aid the angels in tumbling it down to Hell.

Father Abraham went to his church and fetched a small bottle of holy water to take with him, picked up his wallet and set off, reminding himself that he must send a cart to collect Father Benedict’s body at some stage.

Emily was a foolish woman, Father Abraham knew that. She was too much the victim of her passions. That was the trouble with so many women today, they thought they could indulge their most sinful whims with impunity. With all those children, Emily was surely the prisoner of her lusts.

The house was one of the shabbier places out to the north of the town, one of a line straggling along the road near the marsh, and Father Abraham stood back with a disapproving expression on his face as he considered it: small, only perhaps some ten feet square, with no second storey, a hole for a door with a piece of tattered and threadbare cloth to cover it, and a window that had a broken shutter. The thatching was holed, green, and compacted in a thin layer over the roof.

Sighing, he walked to the door. Her husband had deserted her some years before. He had never controlled Emily when he was still with her. Always drunk, feckless by nature, he was rarely at home when he had money to spend in an alehouse.

Inside the hut, the air was filled with the rank odour of twelve bodies living in close proximity. A ladder stood at one corner, leading up to a series of rough planks nailed to beams to provide a little space free of mice or rats, but apart from that everything was set out on the floor or on the table formed by a plain board resting on trestles.

The earthen floor held a fire, whose dull flames shed a small amount of light and showed the family’s belongings. Scraps of cloth and straw made the communal bed; all shared the same blankets to keep each other warm. There was a single large pot by the fire, the only cooking utensil they owned.

It was near this that he saw Emily, lying in the corner gripping the forearms of the midwife. Her face was waxen and yellow in the gloom, and sweat glistened on her brow as she clenched her teeth on the leather strap, whimpering with the pain as it washed over her in waves.

Father Abraham looked enquiringly at the midwife, who wiped her brow with exhaustion and motioned towards a tiny object lying in the corner of the room. A cat was sniffing at it. He crossed the floor, aiming a mistimed kick at the cat, and squatted.

Death came in many forms. This was sad, and he felt the small cheek with a sense of awe that so small a creature could have been created so perfectly, only to be ruined and die in the fight for birth. But it was not for Father Abraham to try to gauge God’s reasons, and a grunt from Emily brought him back to the present. He slowly got to his feet and walked to the midwife’s side.

‘Emily hasn’t yet produced the afterbirth,’ the midwife whispered, stepping away a moment and rubbing at her temples. She had been with Emily since the previous day when the labour had begun, and now she was close to the end of her tether. Occasionally a woman would have a difficult birth; sometimes a baby would die – but this time the midwife knew that her patient was fighting for her life and she had no idea how to help her.

Spitting out the strap, Emily shouted, ‘It’s tearing me apart – I can feel it! Oh God, have pity!’

Father Abraham recoiled. There was little he could do. The midwife was professional; he could see the scrap of paper tied to Emily’s upper thigh where it must do the most good: all good midwives knew they must write down prayers and bind them close to the woman’s groin to ease her pain. There was nothing else to be done for her. She was in God’s hands. He bent his head and prayed before enquiring of the midwife in an undertone whether she had been able to baptise the child before it died.

‘He came out already dead, Father,’ she said sadly. ‘There was no chance.’

‘I shall pray for it.’

‘What about me ?’

Grumbling to himself, Father Abraham shot a look at the midwife. She shook her head again, mouthing the word, ‘No.’ Resignedly he began the seven questions.

‘Do you believe in God and the Holy Scriptures and reject heresy?’

‘Yes, Father,’ the dying woman moaned.

‘Do you recognise that you have offended God?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Are you sorry for your sins?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Do you desire to make amends and, if God grants you time, will you do so?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Do you forgive your enemies?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Will you make all satisfaction?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘And finally, do you believe that Christ died for you and that you may never be saved except through the merit of Christ’s passion, and do you thank God with all your heart as you should?’

‘Yes, Father.’

He could see the muscles at her temples clenching and the perspiration breaking out over her face. Swiftly he gave her Extreme Unction and touched her forehead with oil. She had not been confirmed so he couldn’t anoint her temples, but as his cool fingers touched her brow she closed her eyes in obvious relief, the proof to him, if he needed it, that she was a true Christian as she professed, eager for the life to come. Murmuring the viaticum , he reflected that she could be buried in his churchyard. He wasn’t sure where her child could go; unbaptised, it could be installed anywhere. There was no need to worry about protecting it in hallowed ground.