The Midwife and the Assassin (7 page)

“When I was a boy, my father brought me all the way to London to see the King's procession before he was crowned,” Colonel Reynolds said. “They say that in the time of Queen Elizabeth, Cheapside was so overrun with goldsmiths it was the richest neighborhood in all of England.”

When I gazed down the street, I could see drugsters, scriveners, girdlers, and booksellers, but never did spy a goldsmith.

“The goldsmiths are gone now,” he said. “Most of them, like your friend's husband, moved to the Strand to be nearer to the court.”

We approached a remarkable church—St. Mary-le-Bow, Colonel Reynolds called it—more magnificent than any in York, save the Minster itself. As we passed, the bells began to peal.

“Curfew approaches,” Colonel Reynolds said. “We should take you home. You don't want to be caught out at night, not before you are known to your neighbors.”

We turned back south—on Bow Lane, said my map—and soon came back to Watling Street. The cart drew to a halt, and Colonel Reynolds pointed west toward the setting sun. “You'll be living that way, across Bread Street. Look for a haberdasher's shop owned by a widow named Mrs. Evelyn. She'll be your landlady, and she is expecting you. Daniel and Katherine Chidley live across the street, above their shop. They're coat-makers for the army.”

“Mrs. Evelyn won't know who we are, will she?” I asked. “Who we really are, I mean.”

Colonel Reynolds shook his head. “We conducted our business with her by letter under a false name. I pretended to be your brother, writing on your behalf. She knows only that you are called Widow Hodgson, and that in Halifax you were a midwife.

“Speaking of letters,” Colonel Reynolds continued. “If you wish to send any to your daughter, you should send them to me first.”

“What, so you can read them yourself?” I bristled at the presumption. “What I say to my daughter is no business of yours.”

Colonel Reynolds refused to respond to my surliness in kind. “A poor widow from Halifax should not be seen sending letters to Hereford. It would raise questions that you cannot answer.”

I saw his point and grumbled an apology before climbing out of the cart. Martha and I retrieved our bags, and Will joined us in the street.

“Will must come with me,” Colonel Reynolds said.

“Why can't he stay with us?” I protested. “He lived with me in York. I can simply tell people the truth—he is my nephew, come to London in search of work.”

Colonel Reynolds's smile revealed both warmth and pity. “Trust me, he's better off if he lodges with me. Come on, Will.” Will hesitated. “Do not worry,” Colonel Reynolds continued. “The Horned Bull is not far, and I marked it on your map. If you send a lad for us, we can be here in minutes.”

I nodded to Will. “Perhaps it is for the best.”

Will and Colonel Reynolds bid Martha and me farewell, and we watched as the cart disappeared down Bow Lane.

“Well,” I said, “we might as well see what manner of lodging Mr. Marlowe has gotten for us.”

Martha nodded and we began to push our way through the crowd.

 

Chapter 6

Mrs. Evelyn opened the door before I'd finished knocking. She was a fat, good-humored woman with an easy laugh and a warmth about her that is found only in the very best gossips.

“Welcome!” she cried. “Welcome to London. You must be Mrs. Hodgson.” She took my hand and pulled me inside. “Please do come in.” Mrs. Evelyn took our luggage from us and started up the stairs, utterly untroubled by the weight. Martha and I hurried after her.

“Your letters said that you are a grace-wife,” she said over her shoulder. “Good, good. Such a one is always welcome in the Cheap. Good women we have.”

I started to reply, but she would not allow it.

“There are others in the neighborhood, of course: Grace Ramsden, for one. But she is so great with child that her travail could start at any moment. And once the baby is born,
someone
will have to take her place at least for a time. Why not you?”

By now we had climbed three sets of stairs, passing Mrs. Evelyn's own quarters along the way. Mrs. Evelyn stopped at a rough wood door and pushed it open.

“No lock, I'm afraid, but we have a good one on the front door, so you needn't worry. And here we are!”

Martha and I stared through the doorway, both struck dumb by the sight. Mrs. Evelyn did not notice.

“Go on in!” she cried. “There's plenty of room for the two of you. And in the back you've got a nice big bed to share.” She herded us into the tenement like a garrulous, barrel-chested sheep dog. The room in which we found ourselves contained a small stone hearth, two stools, and a trestle table. The table seemed to wobble under the pressure of my gaze, and I worried that a sneeze would send it crashing to the ground. The other room—the only other room—held our bed, so this entry-room would serve triple duty as our kitchen, dining room, and parlor.

I peered into the bedroom and pasted a smile on my face. A small bed stood in the corner, one end of the frame supported by blocks of wood rather than proper legs. The thin, straw mattress promised little in the way of comfort, and the limp canvas coverlet offered even less.

“We have a second clothes chest somewhere, and one of you can use that,” Mrs. Evelyn chirped. Only now did I notice a single pitifully small wood box in the corner. “When winter comes you'll be glad to have each other to keep warm, but there's no reason you should share a chest.”

“This is lovely,” Martha said at last. “We cannot thank you enough for your neighborliness.”

Mrs. Evelyn beamed, and I thanked the Lord for her momentary silence. After a few more minutes of talk about the neighbors—none of whom I knew, of course—Mrs. Evelyn excused herself and left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

Martha and I held our breath until her footsteps faded.

“Oh Lord,” I moaned, even as Martha burst out laughing.

“For what it's worth,” Martha said, “this isn't so different from the garret of your house in York, and I lived there for years. The only difference is that instead of sharing a bed with Hannah, I'll share one with you.” Despite our miserable condition, Martha was entirely delighted with this turn of events.

“A straw mattress?” I moaned. “I've never slept on one.”

This pleased Martha even more. “It's the
only
thing I've ever slept on, so how poor can it be?”

I could find no response that would not seem peevish, so I held my tongue.

The sun had set, and I felt a chill seeping through the ill-fitting windows and into my bones. My first thought was to start a fire in the hearth to chase away the cold. I realized then that we had neither wood nor coal.

Without warning, tears of fear and frustration welled up in my eyes. I dropped onto one of our stools, which promptly collapsed into a small pile of kindling. I tumbled backwards, crashing into the table, which tipped onto its side and fell apart at every joint. It was all too much. I looked around the dirty little room that was now my home and began to sob.

I felt Martha's arms around me and she helped me to our remaining stool. She made sure I wasn't bleeding, and then retrieved a bottle of wine from our bags. We'd only brought one, but this seemed like the time to open it. We then discovered that we had no glasses from which to drink. Even I had to smile at this final indignity.

When Martha sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, I joined her. We sat in silence for a time, passing the bottle between us, drinking straight from the neck.

“Oh, God, what have we gotten ourselves into?” I asked. We'd drunk about three-quarters of the wine, and it soothed some of the days' wounds. “No silks, no feather bed, no chairs … no wine glasses.”

Martha laughed. “You'll get used to most of it soon enough. And we can buy wine glasses.”

Once we'd finished the bottle, Martha and I—exhausted, hungry, and a little bit drunk—climbed into our bed and slept.

*   *   *

Martha and I awoke the next morning to a knock on our door and the consequent creak as it swung open.

“Hello? Martha? Aunt Bridget?” Will's voice rang through our rooms.

I sat up and every muscle cried out in protest. The night had been a cold one, and while I'd fallen asleep readily enough, my rest had been interrupted by frequent bouts of shivering whenever the wind made its way beneath our meager covering. I looked about the room. In the dim morning light it seemed no better than it had the night before.

“Mrs. Evelyn,” Will called out, louder now. “I don't think this is right. I'm looking for Mrs. Hodgson. She is a midwife.”

“We're in here, Will,” Martha called as we rolled out of bed.

Will poked his head into our chamber, his eyes wide with wonder. “This can't be right. These are the quarters that Mr. Marlowe found for you?”

“It seems my husband was not much of a clothier,” I replied.

“Apparently not,” Will said. “You should have married better.”

“If you're going to be so impudent to a poor widow, you can get to work,” Martha replied. “I'll start the cleaning, and you see to fixing the table and stool. Get those back together, and perhaps Mrs. Hodgson will bring you some breakfast.”

Will was trapped and he knew it, though I doubt he minded very much. I think all three of us welcomed the prospect of a morning together, even if it was spent cleaning our little tenement. We had been apart for too long. Martha borrowed a bucket from Mrs. Evelyn and went for water, while I started for Cheapside Street. Even at this early hour the streets were thronged with people, horses, carts, and goods. I wound my way through the crowd, buying charcoal for our hearth, cheese, bread, and a few dishes from which to eat our meals. It pained me to buy the roughest plates and bowls I could find, but our new dishes should match my new rank; anything too fine would seem out of place.

I returned to find that Will had reassembled our furniture and now he and Martha were making good progress, scrubbing away the worst of the dirt. Slowly, slowly, with each passing hour, our rooms didn't seem so bad. The three of us worked through the day, cleaning and furnishing the rooms as best we could. By the time afternoon came, I'd decided I would not tolerate another miserable night. I could not buy a feather bed—Mrs. Evelyn would surely notice, and wonder where I'd gotten so much money—but there were a few things that I could do. While Martha sought food for our supper, I returned to Cheapside Street and purchased a down quilt, a coverlet of fine linen for the mattress, and two chairs for our parlor.

When I returned, Will went out for ale, and Martha and I sewed our new quilt into the filthy coverlet that came with the bed. From the parlor it looked miserable, but it would keep us warm. Martha set to roasting the fowl she'd bought, and soon enough we three were gathered around the table, pots of ale in our hands, and a fine meal before us. And on that night, except for Elizabeth's absence, London didn't seem like such a bad place after all.

*   *   *

Martha and I had not been asleep for long when a pounding on our door dragged us to wakefulness.

“Mrs. Hodgson! Mrs. Hodgson!” Even through my fuzzed head I knew it was Mrs. Evelyn. “You must come right away.” She burst into our chamber and started pulling on my arm as if she meant to drag me from my bed. A maidservant stood behind her holding a taper, and in the flickering light I could see that Mrs. Evelyn was on the edge of panic.

“What is it? What is wrong?” I climbed out of bed and began to pull on my dress.

“It is Grace Ramsden,” she said. “I was attending her in her travail and something has gone terribly wrong. Her midwife knew that you had come to the neighborhood, and sent me to find you. She needs your help.”

By now Martha had rolled out of bed, and we exchanged a worried glance. While we'd encountered no problems in Hereford, the last birth we'd attended in York had ended in disaster. As we dressed I prayed that we would be able to help Mrs. Ramsden. We followed Mrs. Evelyn as she led us south to Pissing Alley and then toward Little Saint Thomas. As in York, the rough cobbled streets did their best to trip us with every step, and the shadows loomed about us menacingly.

Just before we reached Little Saint Thomas, we passed the Horned Bull. I looked up at the darkened windows, wondering which one might be Will's. As we walked, Martha and I peppered Mrs. Evelyn with questions about Mrs. Ramsden. She was around thirty-five years old, and married to a blacksmith.

“How many children has she borne?” I asked. Knowing about Mrs. Ramsden's earlier travails would make it easier for me to help her. Mrs. Evelyn's answer brought me up short.

“This is her first,” she said.

“Her first travail?” Martha asked in astonishment.

It was not uncommon for a woman Mrs. Ramsden's age to give birth, but quite strange that this would be her
first
child. A husband and wife who went so long without children were most likely barren, and that did not change with age.

“Aye,” Mrs. Evelyn said. “She was ever so eager for this one, too. It would be a terrible stroke if she lost him so close to her time.”

I murmured my agreement. It would be an awful end to an unlikely pregnancy.

“It is here,” Mrs. Evelyn said, leading us down a side street. When we reached the Ramsdens' door I noticed a pair of wood signs above it. One was an anvil and hammer; the other was a cradle with G
RACE
R
AMSDEN
painted on it. We entered the house and climbed the stairs to Grace's chamber. I said a prayer that God would protect Mrs. Ramsden and her little one and stepped through the door into the strangest travail I'd ever seen in my life.

*   *   *

In an instant I knew that something had gone terribly wrong, but not in an ordinary fashion. The woman I took to be Mrs. Ramsden squatted on a birthing stool next to her bed. Strangely enough she was not supported by her gossips, but sat by herself. More curious still was that she held a fire iron in both hands and waved it before her like a sword. Her gossips had retreated to a far corner of the room where they stared at her uneasily. Mrs. Ramsden moaned and lowered the fire iron as she was struck by a labor pang, but none of the women moved to help her.