The Midwife and the Assassin (3 page)

“And you, as well,” I said. “Shall I have my man bring in our luggage? I am so looking forward to renewing our friendship.”

“Why don't we wait until Mr. Wallington comes home?” Esther said. “He will not be long.”

I heard a measure of trepidation in her voice, as if she wanted to say more, but for some reason could not. So we sat for a time in the parlor, sipping very good wine—French, she said—and talking of York, London, and all the changes that the Lord had brought our way since we had last seen each other. Few would say that I lied about my last year in York, but none would claim that I told the truth. How would I explain my hand in so many strange deaths? So I limited myself to births and natural deaths, and omitted entirely the true reason for our departure from the city.

As afternoon began to fade into evening the front door burst open and Charles Wallington stomped into the hall.

“Tell him that one way or another I'll have my money,” he shouted over his shoulder. “He can give it willingly, or he can give it by order of the court. I care not which, but he
will
pay.” A young man followed close behind him, trying valiantly to scribble his master's instructions even as he walked. Wallington strode into the parlor, and all three of us stood to greet him.

Charles Wallington was a corpulent man with small, dark eyes that peered angrily out from the rolls of flesh that cascaded down his face. The elegant cut and color of his clothes accentuated his enormous girth, but did little to hide his choleric humor. In an instant I judged that Esther's choice of a second husband had been even worse than her first; at least Stephen Cooper had maintained a veneer of civility overtop of his wretched nature. Wallington did not even manage that.

“You're that York midwife.” In his mouth, the words sounded like an accusation. “Did my wife not tell you?” He stared at Esther with undisguised anger and contempt.

I looked at Esther, but she refused to meet my gaze.

“She only just arrived,” Esther said softly. “We were talking of other things.”

“Did she tell me what?” I asked.

“That I'll not have a woman such as you in my home,” Wallington replied, once again sounding more like a prosecutor than a host. “I rely on my good name for my trade. You may stay for a moment, but when you finish your wine you will be on your way.”

I stared at him for what seemed an eternity, unable to find an appropriate response. As usual, Martha suffered from no such incapacity.

“A woman such as her?” she cried. “Do you mean that she is a gentlewoman by birth, or that she is among the finest midwives in England? You would be fortunate to have her in your home.”

Wallington stared at Martha as if noticing her for the first time. “Do you think I am ignorant of all the things she has done? Of the trouble she caused in York before she had to flee the city?”

“Do you consider saving your wife from an unjust execution
causing trouble
?” Martha stood with her hands on her hips, chin out.

Wallington ignored Martha's question and turned to me. “When I inquired about my wife's character, I heard all about you. Disorder and tumult hover over you like a cloud, and you rain death on those around you. I'll not have you sowing such ill seeds in my home, or anywhere near it. You will drink your drink, you will leave, and you will not return.”

I turned to Esther in the faint hope that she might have spine enough to defend us. Martha and I had no other friends in the city, and nowhere else to go. Her visage made it clear that I needn't have bothered.

“I sent you a letter saying as much,” she murmured. “You must have left Hereford before it arrived. I am sorry.”

Wallington grunted his approval at Esther's craven acquiescence and rumbled out of the room without bidding us farewell.

“You must forgive him,” Esther said once he was out of earshot. “All of London's goldsmiths have suffered since the King's party fled the city and took their money with them. Things became even worse when the godly stripped the churches of unnecessary ornaments. All the goldsmiths are in desperate straits.”

I looked around the room, searching in vain for some sign of suffering.

“May we at least spend the night?” I asked. “It is nearly dark, and we've nowhere to stay.” I misliked the pleading tone of my voice. It reminded me of the way Esther spoke to her husband.

“I am sorry,” Esther said. “Charles would not allow it.” To her credit, she seemed quite unhappy at her inhospitality.

I shook my head in wonder and walked to the entry hall.

“Lady Bridget, please,” Esther called after me. “You must forgive me.”

I paid her no mind. Despite all I had done for her over the years, and despite how desperate I was for her help, she had proven a faithless friend. I would not soothe her conscience by saying I understood or forgave her.

I pulled open the front door and returned to my carriage.

“Load the luggage,” I commanded the driver. “We'll stay elsewhere tonight.”

The driver looked at me in confusion for a moment, but he must have heard the fury in my voice, for he immediately set about the work.

I climbed into the carriage and closed the door behind Martha. Thankfully, Esther did not pursue us into the street.

“My God, what a woman!” I could not contain my anger and disappointment any longer. “I saved her from burning, and this is how she repays me?”

“What will we do now?” Martha asked as the driver finished securing our luggage.

“What choice do we have?” I asked. “We'll find an inn and move forward as best we can.”

*   *   *

We rode east on the Strand toward the city wall and, despite the gathering dark, the crowds surrounding us seemed to grow larger with every step. No less remarkable was the noise of the place. Shopkeepers, fishwives, craftsmen, grocers—all shouted their wares to the passing throngs. The chaos was made all the worse by the scores of men—and even a few women!—who cursed us in the foulest imaginable terms as our carriage forced them to the side of the road. Our driver, who was no stranger to rough language, was struck dumb by the number, variety, and vulgarity of the insults hurled his way. In some ways, the most remarkable thing about London was not its filth or its size, though these were impressive indeed, but the creativity with which Londoners swore. Perhaps they took it as a point of pride, with each swearer intending to outdo his neighbor.

“Here's an inn, my lady,” the driver called out. “Shall I pull in?”

I leaned out the window to see what kind of place the driver had found. In the fading light the inn seemed adequate to our desperate situation, but who knew what secrets or dangers lay within? I felt uneasy, but I did not see any other choice. The next inn we found might be no better, and could be far worse.

“Very well,” I called, adding a prayer that I'd not just made a terrible mistake.

The driver shouted to the horses and hauled on the reins, guiding the carriage into a small courtyard. Without waiting for the driver to dismount, I climbed from the carriage and went inside. To my immense pleasure I found it to be more respectable than I had hoped—the dining area was clean and the guests who had gathered for supper were well dressed.

“Now, if only they have a room for us,” I muttered to myself and went in search of the innkeeper. I found him behind the bar drawing ale for one of his customers.

“Aye, we've got room,” he said. “By the look of you, you'll be wanting one of our best. From Hereford, aren't you?”

“Yes, your best will be fine,” I replied. “And how did you know where I came from?”

“Spend enough time dealing with travelers, and you find yourself with an ear for their accents,” he said. It was only then that I noticed the hint of Cornwall in his voice. “I take it you've never been to London?” he added.

“My maid has, but I haven't,” I replied. I could hear the anxiety in my voice and hated it. I was not used to being so uncertain.

“Well, welcome, then. It's not always a hospitable place, but if you keep your wits about you and don't fall ill, you'll be fine. Your room is upstairs to the left.”

It took Martha and our driver a few trips to unload the carriage, but soon enough we were settled. Martha and I occupied a large second-floor room overlooking the Strand, while our driver slept above the stables with others of his kind. Martha and I ate a small supper of bread and cheese and then tumbled into bed. In the moments before I slept I said a prayer for Elizabeth's safety and begged the Lord that our search for Will would be successful.

 

Chapter 3

Martha and I awoke before dawn to the shouting and clatter of cart-men below our window. London, it seemed, was not a city to let even a moment of daylight go to waste.

“And now we will look for Will?” Martha asked as we began to dress.

“Immediately,” I said. I paused and took her hand. I heard the anxiety in her voice and felt it myself. We had been able to keep it at bay during the journey, but now the day of reckoning had come. “Before the day is out, we will find him and see him safe and sound.”

Martha nodded, but I'd not convinced her. We both knew that the law was capricious and that freeing Will from the Tower might be a Herculean task.

After we ate breakfast—more bread and cheese—we started for the door. Before we'd even left the inn, I had a sudden and disquieting realization. I knew Will was in the Tower, but I had no idea how to get there. Yes, it lay on the Thames to the east of the city, but beyond that, I knew nothing at all. I recalled how baffling York's streets had seemed when I'd first arrived there, and I felt the same way now. The only difference was that London was tenfold the larger.

“Do you know the best way to the Tower?” I asked Martha. “Should we take the carriage?” It seemed like folly to venture out on foot, but neither did I relish the idea of worming through the city in a carriage built for wide country roads.

Martha shook her head. “I don't know,” she said. “It has been many years since I've tried to navigate the city, and I suspect much has changed. If we followed the river, we would get there eventually.”

“Well, you'd be a true fool to take your carriage,” a voice boomed behind us. “And
we can follow the river
is the worst idea I've heard in years.”

We turned to find the innkeeper standing behind us. I put aside my concern that he'd been eavesdropping on our conversation, for we were in no position to refuse his help.

“If not a carriage, then what?” I asked.

“You could try a hackney,” he said. “But the fastest way is by wherry.”

I felt as if the innkeeper had started speaking a foreign language. He laughed at the expression on my face.

“A hackney?” I asked at last. “What is that?”

“You seen them carriages racing back and forth on the Strand? They're not so large as yours, but twice as fast. One of them could get you to the Tower without too many wrong turns, and won't get stuck on a narrow street.”

I nodded. I had seen the little carriages the day before. They moved at an alarming pace and seemed no less dangerous to their passengers than to the men and women they nearly ran over.

“Well, them's hackney coaches. But like I say, you'd be better off with a wherry.”

“Ah,” I said, as if that made matters clear.

“A wherry is a boat that'll take you downriver and bring you back,” he explained. “For a fee of course.”

“And that's the surest way?” I asked doubtfully. Martha had pointed out the little boats skipping up, down, and across the river, but it had never occurred to me I might soon find myself in one of them. I cannot say I welcomed the prospect, for I'd only been in a riverboat once, riding an hour on York's River Ouse, and that journey frightened me so much that I took a carriage home.

“The surest?” the innkeeper asked. “Well, a hackney won't drown you, so
that
is the surest way. But the Tower's a long ride. I'd take the boat.”

I hesitated, unsure about trusting our fate—and Will's—to so little a boat on so large a river.

“One other thing to consider, my lady,” the innkeeper said. “You don't want to try taking a hackney to the Tower and returning in one day; you haven't the time. In the best case, you'll return in the dark smelling of shit from all your travels. More likely, you'll have to find another place to stay tonight and return here in the morning. You really should choose the boat.”

Eventually I agreed, though without much enthusiasm. I knew that if I somehow fell in the Thames, my skirts would drag me down within seconds. Before we left, Martha and I went to the inn's kitchen and bought a capon, bread, and cheese to give to Will—who knew how well he was being kept?—and started for the river.

“Look, over there,” Martha said. Stone steps led from the street down to the water. As soon as we started down, three boats swooped toward us, the driver of each crying for our attention. One was a bit quicker than the others and landed his craft on the mud immediately in front of us. The other boats veered off into deeper water, their captains cursing ours in a manner that was somehow both vile and good-natured. I supposed this was a custom of the city.

The waterman reached into his boat and produced a sturdy plank, which he set on top of the mud that lay between us. He then stepped out of the boat and extended his hand.

“Hold tight and step lightly,” he said. “If you're quick enough, you won't soil your clothes.” He was a tall, rangy man who seemed to be of two ages at once. His arms rippled with the tendons and muscles of a man in the flower of his youth, but his face was so badly weathered by years of sun, wind, and rain that he could have been the oldest man in England.

Martha gave him the basket of food, took his hand, and skipped across the plank to the boat. “Easy as can be,” she called back with a laugh.