The Midwife and the Assassin

 

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For my mother, father, stepmother, stepfather, and ex-stepmother

 

Chapter 1

The late summer sun rose with warmth of a loving mother's gaze, and I prayed yet again for the Lord to send a storm.

It was not that my estates needed the rain, for the harvest was nearly complete. What I wished for was something,
anything
to end the tediousness of life in Pontrilas. Nearly three years had passed since I'd been exiled from my beloved city of York and I now lived an all-too-quiet life on my lands in Hereford. When I first arrived, my neighbors had been eager to visit me, hoping to hear of my adventures in the north. What did I know of the witches who had been hanged? Was it true that I had sent some to the gallows myself? I had no desire to talk of such matters, but more than once I'd considered telling them the truth if only to be rid of them. If they knew the things I'd done, these kind and inoffensive women would have fled my home, never to return.

But I never said such things, of course. Instead I resigned myself to the mincing conversations of country gentlewomen. After a few months, the neighbors stopped coming so often, and I could not rouse myself to visit them. Eventually I settled into a life of reading and writing. I began to compose a book on the art of midwifery, so that other women in that office could learn from me rather than from hard experience. From time to time, my tenants would summon me to their travails, and I welcomed the distraction, but with so few women about, the calls were few and far between.

As much as my new life pained me, it was pure torture for Martha Hawkins, my maidservant and deputy. She was a bold and courageous young woman, far better suited to the life of a city midwife than a country maid. I could only imagine the horror with which she regarded the years of washing and cleaning that lay before her so long as we remained in Pontrilas. Of course, the fact that she faced a future without her beloved—and one-time betrothed—Will Hodgson only compounded her misery. My nephew stayed in York when we fled, and went into service for the Lord Mayor. He sometimes wrote to us, but with England at war with itself, letters took weeks or months to arrive, and only the Lord knew how many miscarried entirely. In his last letter, sent some months earlier, Will told us that he would be going to London. We had heard nothing since.

Even Elizabeth, my adopted daughter, had tired of Pontrilas. When we arrived, she had viewed the countryside with a sense of wonder, and I could not blame her. After years of poverty, the opulence of my estates must have seemed like heaven itself. But as the weeks and months blurred together, Elizabeth too came to miss the excitement of city life. Indeed, the only member of my household who enjoyed the change from York to Pontrilas was Hannah, my maidservant. She tolerated York for the years we lived there, but she was glad to return to Pontrilas in her old age; it was, after all, where she'd been born.

And so as fall came, Martha, Elizabeth, and I brooded around the house, wishing for something, anything to shake us out of our country languor.

*   *   *

To my surprise and relief, our country exile ended on an October afternoon when a letter arrived from London. A boy carried it all the way from the village—no small feat—and I had one of my maidservants reward him appropriately, with bread, cheese, and a tuppence. As I watched him eat, I was reminded of Tree, the son of sorts whom I'd left behind in York. I had just received a letter from his father, so I knew that he was doing well. Of all the things I missed about York, it was the separation from my people—Will, Tree, my gossips, and my clients—that pained me the most.

After the boy left, I opened the letter, assuming it was from Mr. Browne, the intelligencer I'd hired to send me news from the city. Mr. Browne had informed us of the King's capture and imprisonment by Parliament in 1647, and he had seen with his own eyes the riots of 1648, when the King's supporters rose up against Parliament but were quickly defeated. I knew before any of my neighbors that the King had conspired with the Scots to invade England, and of the brutal treatment that our northern neighbors received at Oliver Cromwell's hands. More recently there had been rumblings that the King should be brought to trial for the crime of making war against his own people. I could not imagine such a thing, but the world had been upside down for so long, nothing seemed impossible.

This letter, however, was not from my intelligencer. Rather, it had been sent by a jailor in the Tower of London.

To the Lady Bridget Hodgson:

I write on behalf of your nephew, Will Hodgson, now prisoner in the Tower of London. He seeks your assistance as soon as it is convenient.

Your servant,

Richard Thompson

“Martha,” I cried out.

She must have heard the confusion in my voice, for her hands were still covered with flour when she found me in the parlor.

“What has happened?” she asked.

“Will has been sent to the Tower of London and needs our help.” I handed Martha the letter, and she read it.

“What does this mean?” Martha looked at me in confusion. “Will has been jailed and needs our help, but only if it is convenient?”

“I don't know.” If Will were an ordinary prisoner he would not have been sent to the Tower, but there was no indication of what crime—whether real or imagined—had brought him there. The letter made no sense.

Martha reread the letter and furrowed her brow. “Why didn't he write to us himself?” she asked.

“Perhaps he has been denied pen and paper,” I said.

“Or he is too ill to write,” Martha replied. “Gaol-fever is a terrible thing, and the Tower is a stinking, fetid place, far worse than the Castle in York.”

“But surely if he were ill, his jailor would tell us to hurry,” I said. “And there is no urgency about it. It is a strange thing.”

“The letter is addressed to you, but we will both go, won't we?” Martha asked.

“Of course we will,” I replied. “You know London far better than I do. I'd be lost by myself.”

“London?” Elizabeth had slipped into the room without my notice and now joined Martha and me in looking at Will's letter. I heard the excitement in her voice, and I knew that the coming minutes would not be easy ones.

“Martha and I must go to London to see what this letter means,” I said. “You will stay here with Hannah.”

Anger flared in Elizabeth's eyes. “Stay here?” she demanded. “And do what? I've ridden over Pontrilas's every inch a thousand times. It is dull and drearisome—you
must
take me with you.” Elizabeth paced as she spoke, and the autumn light caught the red of her hair, giving her the glow of the sun itself.

“It is too far and too uncertain,” I said. “We will not be gone for long.”

Elizabeth pounced. “If you will not be gone for long, there is no reason not to take me.” She looked at Martha, hoping she would prove a ready ally.

But even Martha, who usually encouraged Elizabeth's natural boldness, saw the folly in her suggestion. “London is a dangerous place,” she said. “Not a city for two women and a girl.”

“I am not a girl, I am twelve.” Elizabeth drew herself up and looked straight into my eyes. She was long and lean, and soon she would be the most beautiful woman in Hereford. “And Matthew will be with us, for he will have to drive the carriage.”

“Matthew will not be with
us,
” I said. “He will be with me and Martha.
You
will be here with Hannah.”

Elizabeth continued to plead her case until well after supper, offering an endless stream of arguments and promises, each one more desperate than the last. She finally retired to her chamber, but she went so easily that I knew that the battle was not over.

Once I was alone, I thought more about our upcoming journey. I knew that leaving Elizabeth behind was the right choice, but I would miss her terribly. She had come to my home in York following the murder of her mother, and soon became not just my ward but my adopted daughter. When my enemies in the city threatened Elizabeth, they learned through bitter experience that there was nothing I would not do to protect her. And as much as I regretted the decision to leave Elizabeth behind, taking her to London would be foolhardy in the extreme.