The Witch’s Daughter by Paula Brackston Read Free Book Online Page A

thee she must have your help.’
    Bess stood up. She saw her parents exchange worried glances. Although Anne had assisted at many births and was well known for her care and skill, Old Mary had taught her most of what she knew. She was undoubtedly the best midwife Batchcombe could offer. If she needed help, things must be bad indeed.
    Anne stepped quickly into the dairy and came back with her bag. She picked up her woolen shawl and handed another to Bess.
    ‘Come with me,’ she said, before all but shoving the boy back out the door and bundling him down the path. ‘Hurry, Bess!’ she called back.
    Bess shook herself from her state of shock and ran after them.
    The Prossers’ home was a fine timber-framed house at the end of the high street. Bill Prosser was a merchant and, unlike John, owned his home. It was neither grand nor ostentatious but rather had about it an understated expense and quality that spoke of a man of money. Indeed, Batchcombe had recently come to boast several such men—merchants who had seen opportunity for wealth and betterment in changing times. So successful had many of them become, Prosser included, that they had acquired not only money but reputation. In the new order, they were not merely mercantile men, little better than market traders simply hawking their wares on a broader pitch; now they were seen as men of commerce and intelligence, men who would be important players in the modern world that was emerging from the dark ages. Mistress Prosser held herself entirely responsible for her own good fortune, having chosen her husband for his fine qualities and coolheadedness, she had been a good wife to him, borne him three sons and three daughters (miraculously all still living) and had been rewarded with financial security and social standing higher than she could have imagined. She had prided herself on furnishing her new home with all the very best and most fashionable items, whilst still, naturally, observing a godly modesty. It was a hard act to carry out successfully, particularly when her husband’s merchandise arrived from distant shores—the most exquisite embroideries, the finest linen, the most beautiful glassware from Venice and silverware from Spain. The results were striking, though a little at the expense of modesty. Bill Prosser was proud of what he had achieved and happy for his wife to dress the house with pointers to his success. He was happier still to see his daughters well married. Both he and Mistress Prosser knew very well that their new sons-in-law would have been beyond the reach of their girls only a few years earlier. But society can have its memory shortened by wealth. Nevertheless, disease and misfortune knew no social bounds. Nor did the immensely dangerous business of childbirth.
    The scene that greeted Bess in young Sarah’s bedchamber was one of panic and pain. The young girl had not yet been a year married and she had returned to her father’s house for her confinement. The men sat with stern, pale faces in the kitchen, while the women attended the terrified girl. Her mother, her older sister, and at least two aunts crowded round the bed. Sarah looked no more than a child herself at that moment, her hair damp and tangled on the pillow, her skin flushed and shiny, her body dwarfed by her swollen stomach. The room was lit only by a small lamp and a candle, and in the summer heat the air was fetid and hot. Bess put her hand to her mouth as the door was closed behind her. Anne moved quickly to the window and threw it open.
    ‘Oh!’ cried Sarah’s mother. ‘My daughter will take a chill from the night air in her weakened state.’
    ‘Your daughter will faint away, robbed of breath, if she is to share the rank air in this room with so many people.’
    The older woman thought to protest further, but Anne silenced her.
    ‘I am here to help, Mistress Prosser. Allow me to do so.’
    Despite the best efforts of Old Mary, the labor had consisted thus far of hours of