The Midwife and the Assassin (14 page)

“The present Parliament hoped that the King's imprisonment might quiet the tumult that has so gripped this nation. Instead, their mercy served only to encourage the said Charles Stuart in his evil schemes, as he has raised both rebellions and invasions.”

My chest constricted as I realized what could be the only conclusion of this speech.

“It has thus been ordered that the said Charles Stuart be tried before a High Court of Justice for the crime of treason.”

I held my breath and waited for the crowd's reaction.

 

Chapter 11

Even as the sergeant finished his pronouncement, the crowd began to shout. It quickly became clear that the Cheap was no less divided than the rest of England. Cries of “Shame, shame!” and “Long live good King Charles!” vied with “God be praised!” and “Amen, amen!”

As Martha and I fled the tumult, I remembered Tom's observation that no matter how many times Parliament's armies defeated the King, he would remain King. And if Charles won but once, all his enemies would be hanged. If these propositions were true—and who could deny them?—how could our wars end with anything other than trials and executions? The only question was which party would do the beheading.

That night, Martha and I resorted to the Nag's Head, eager to hear how the news of the King's trial had been received. I assumed the Levellers would rejoice at the prospect, for it seemed to me that the King's death would bring their hopes for a new England that much closer. By the time we arrived at the tavern, the discussion—or to be more precise, the argument—had already begun. Katherine Chidley sat at a table on the far side of the room, and we crossed to join her. The main dispute was, naturally enough, over the fate of the King. Some argued that the King's mendacity—not to mention his decision to raise an army of barbarous Scots—had left Parliament with no options other than a trial and execution. Others, including Daniel Chidley, took a more difficult position.

“There is no question that the King is an evil man.” Daniel's voice rang out clear and loud despite the general hubbub. He was a tall, handsome man, and when he spoke every ear in the tavern belonged to him. I could see why Katherine had married him, for the two were well matched. “And I would not deny that a true Parliament could try him for any crime it saw fit. But this is
not
a true Parliament. A true Parliament would be selected by all Englishmen. This Parliament—or
rump
of a Parliament, I should say—is made up entirely of Cromwell's creatures.”

Many heads nodded in agreement, though a few seemed less pleased at Daniel's words. I looked more closely at Daniel and wondered if he might be so fervent as to rebel against Cromwell.

Daniel continued, “Oliver Cromwell would reduce us all to mere servants, quaking before the power of the sword. With Cromwell as our sole sovereign, England would become a place where the strong rule over the weak and none of us is truly free. Mark my words: If the King is tried by this unlawful Parliament,
all
of England will be reduced to a state of slavery. And we will be the architects of our own servitude.”

“What then would you propose?” The challenge came from the tapster who stood behind the bar. From the lines on his face I put his age around fifty years, but a lifetime of lifting and tapping barrels of ale had left him well muscled, and every bit as strong as the youths who frequented the Nag's Head. “The King has left us no option other than to try him. If we do not, he will cobble together an army of papists—whether French or Irish, it matters not—and return England to the slaughter of the civil wars.”

I leaned to Katherine and said into her ear, “Who is he?”

“Jeremiah Goodkey,” Katherine replied. “He owns the Nag's Head, and is as fiery a soul as you'll find in all London. I will answer him.”

To my surprise, Katherine climbed onto our table and raised her hands for quiet. “Jeremiah Goodkey, you are my friend, but in this matter you are wrong. If we are to try the King, we must have a true Parliament, a Parliament that has been elected by
all
Englishmen, no matter their wealth.” She paused, waiting until the cheers and hisses faded into quiet. Then she said, “And it must also be elected by all Englishwomen, no matter
their
wealth.”

For a time it seemed as if Katherine's words had begun the revolt that Mr. Marlowe so feared, for in their wake no mouth remained closed. Every soul in the tavern cried out either for or against the idea of allowing women to vote, and a few men appeared ready to cross the line from arguing to fighting. A smile flitted across Katherine's lips as she ducked a chicken leg that someone hurled in her direction, and she made for the street. I followed her with Martha close behind.

“You knew the trouble your words would cause,” I cried when we were outside. “Why would you say such a thing?” She was already laughing, and I joined with her.

“I said it because I believe it, and because it is true,” she said. “The Lord's prophets do not always receive a warm welcome. And they invariably bring trouble with them.”

“Do you truly believe this?” Martha asked. “That women should vote?” I could hear the wonder in her voice at such a prospect.

“Of course I do,” Katherine answered. “Else I would not have said it.”

“But look at the trouble you have caused,” I objected. “How can that be for the good? Who would allow such an idea to come to pass if it causes such divisions?”

“Nobody would,” Katherine replied. “And nobody would be more surprised than me if women
were
allowed to vote. But I spoke the Lord's truth, and now everyone in the tavern is discussing the matter. Sometimes making trouble is all you can do. And sometimes making trouble is enough.” She peered through the tavern window. “Things have calmed a bit. I should go back in.” Katherine bid us farewell and ducked back through the door.

I shook my head. “I think I've heard enough for tonight,” I said. “Let's go home.”

As Martha and I neared Cheapside Street, a handful of the City Watch passed us, headed toward the Nag's Head. I wondered if the arguments at the tavern had over-boiled their pot and turned to violence.

“Will you tell Mr. Marlowe about the unrest Katherine caused?” Martha asked.

“I was wondering the same thing,” I said. “I don't want to cause trouble for her, but what happens if we lie and Mr. Marlowe finds out?” I considered the question as we passed St. Mary-le-Bow and turned south on Bread Street, nearly home. How familiar the Cheap had become! Just a few months before it had seemed a maze without end, and now I could navigate its streets even in the dark. The confusion of the streets gave me my answer.

“Are you sure of what you heard at the Nag's Head?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I know that Katherine spoke, but with so many in the tavern, and so much noise, I could hardly hear a thing. Indeed, with so much shouting, I cannot say for sure who started the tumult.”

“Aye,” Martha said. “With so many voices raised in anger, it could have been anyone.”

That night I wrote a confused letter to Mr. Marlowe, describing the arguments we heard and noting the disagreement between Daniel Chidley and Jeremiah Goodkey. I mentioned that Katherine stood to speak, but said there'd been so much shouting I could not hear her words. When I finished the letter, I joined Martha in our bed. She was still awake.

“What do you make of it all?” she asked.

“Of the trial of the King?” I asked. “Or of giving every Englishman the right to vote, no matter their worth? Or of Katherine's mad plan to let women vote as well?”

“All of it.”

I considered the question for a time before answering. “I do not know. I am not blind to the injustices that plague England, but I cannot countenance turning the world entirely upside down in the hope that anarchy is superior to tyranny.” I thought for a moment more. “But in the end it does not matter what you or I think, for matters of state do not lie in our hands. We are sailors on a storm-tossed ship, not the captains. We must do our duty as best we can, but in the end we are at the mercy of others.”

“And you are content as a common sailor?” Martha asked.

“We have done our part,” I replied. “In York we saved Esther Wallington from an unjust execution and saw murderers hanged for their crimes. And do not forget the fate that awaited Grace Ramsden if we had not been here to help. A ship cannot survive a storm without her sailors. We must do our best and hope that our captains can guide our craft to a safe harbor.”

But the next morning it became clear that our safe harbor would prove elusive. Martha and I had just finished cleaning our rooms when one of Katherine Chidley's maidservants pounded up the stairs and burst through the door.

“Mrs. Hodgson, please help,” she cried out. “Mrs. Chidley needs you. Her husband has been murdered!”

*   *   *

Martha and I hurled ourselves down the stairs and across the street to the Chidleys' shop. The room was filled with cloth waiting to be cut and sewn into coats for the New Model Army, but on this day no work was being done. We found Katherine by herself, gazing at Daniel's lifeless body. Despite the hours we'd spent together, Katherine had never said much about Daniel or their marriage, but the pure anguish on her face made clear that his death had hollowed her to the marrow.

Daniel's body lay propped against the wall, his eyes staring at the front door, as if he were awaiting a visitor—or watching his murderer leave. His coat was unbuttoned, revealing a linen shirt, unmarked except for a small hole and the circle of blood that had seeped into the fabric. A thin crimson line ran downward from the hole. He must have died quickly to have bled so little.

I went to Katherine and put my arm around her shoulders. She said nothing, but she leaned into me, accepting the support I offered. Martha crossed the room and knelt next to Daniel's body. We had examined bodies under such circumstances before, and Martha had proved most acute in her observations. If Daniel's murderer had left behind any sign of his identity, Martha would find it. She lifted his coat and carefully pulled back his shirt so she could see the wound in his chest. She then examined his hands and fingernails, looking for skin or blood. Finally, she lifted his chin, so she could see his neck. She thought for a moment, nodded, and stood.

At that moment the door flew open and the constable burst into the shop. He was followed by a small army of beadles and, finally, the Chidleys' maidservant. When the constable saw Daniel's body the blood ran from his face, and I worried he might faint. He looked around the room in a panic, as if the murderer might be lying in wait. When his eyes settled on Katherine, they narrowed, and he strode across the room.

“You've done it, haven't you, you harridan,” he hissed at Katherine. “You've finally gotten that rebellion you've wanted for so long. Wasn't taking the King enough? You had to overthrow your own husband?”

I was about to intervene, but I did not get the chance, for Martha was having none of his nonsense, either.

“You cannot be serious,” she cried, stepping between Katherine and the constable.

The constable started to speak, but Martha was not yet done.

“Take Mrs. Chidley to her chamber,” she said to the maidservant. “She does not need to hear any of this.”

To her credit, the girl did not even glance in the constable's direction, but came straight to her mistress. Katherine nodded absently and accompanied her servant up the stairs.

Martha turned back to the constable.

“How was Mr. Chidley killed?” she demanded.

“He was stabbed,” the constable replied scornfully. “The worst of fools can see that.”

“Correct on both counts,” Martha replied. “He
was
stabbed, and we now know that the worst of fools
can
see it. But
how
was he stabbed?”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “In the chest? With a knife?”

I could see Martha battling the urge to throttle the constable. “Look at Mr. Chidley, and imagine how it happened.”

“She stabbed him,” the constable replied. I admired Martha for not punching him in the throat.

“Yes, you said that already. But if that is true,
how
did she do it?” She took piece of kindling from beside the hearth and handed it to the constable. “Stab me as Mrs. Chidley stabbed Mr. Chidley.”

“I will do no such thing.” The constable was more offended by Martha's impertinence than the dead body before him.

“Do what she says,” I said. “Or the Justice will hear of it.” It was an empty threat—what sway did I have over a Justice of the Peace?—but it worked well enough.

“But—”

“Mr. Chidley has been murdered, and the girl is trying to help. Do what she says.”

“Very well.” The constable turned to Martha and pretended to stab her in the chest.

Martha cried out and fell back, her arms flailing. After a moment she settled against the wall next to Daniel.

“There,” the constable said. “Just as I told you.”

“Why, then, is the shop in perfect order?” she asked. “Why has no cloth been knocked to the floor? Do you see blood anywhere except on his body?”

The constable looked around the room and shook his head.

“Then by your account, after Mr. Chidley was stabbed, he did not fight back, nor did he call for help. Rather he sat down and waited to die.”

“Mrs. Chidley held him down,” he replied weakly. I did not think he believed his own words.

“A woman as small as Mrs. Chidley held down her own husband while he died? All without getting a spot of blood on her, or alerting her maidservant?”

The constable looked as if he were coming down with a winter fever.