by Sam Thomas
“Joseph, how goes the business of governing?”
He gazed at me for a moment before answering, as if he were giving the question serious consideration. “It is a life of constant toil for those who work in the vineyards of the Lord,” he said at last. “I do what I can in His service.”
“I hear you have jailed many of the city’s harlots,” I said.
“Not just them,” he replied. “We’ll whip the whoremasters who frequent them if we can, and I’ve imprisoned drunkards as well. The word of God, rightly preached, will awake the fear of the Lord in some men. But the law must correct those who are too old in their sins to be reached by sermons. If we are to transform York into a city on a hill, the minister and magistrate must work together.” While I had my qualms about the Puritans’ efforts to reform the city, I found Joseph’s sincerity quite touching.
“So you are your brother’s keeper?” I asked, with a small smile.
“Do you mock me, Aunt Bridget?” he asked. He seemed genuinely hurt by my words.
“No, no, not at all,” I replied. “Perhaps I’ve spent too much time with the city’s sinners to think that York can ever be changed.”
“But the Lord demands it,” Joseph insisted, and once again I found myself impressed by his earnestness. “Shall a trumpet be blown in the city and the people not be afraid? In his goodness, the Lord has sent this terrible summer. He is begging for the city’s reformation. If the people could see this, they would leave off their evil ways and turn to Him.”
“And this is your duty? To reform the entire city?”
“God has placed the welfare of the city in our hands.” Joseph nodded. “If we do not do His work, His vengeance will fall on the entire city, not just on its sinners.”
When Joseph put it this way, I could not refute his argument, nor could I deny that the magistrate had a place in suppressing sin. But I had met too many magistrates who were themselves steeped in debauchery to believe that Joseph’s “reformation” would mean anything more than punishing the poor while the wealthy wallowed in their sin. I started to reply, but Edward returned and Joseph turned his attention from me to his father.
“Was it city business?” Joseph asked, obviously eager to be included.
“Of a sort,” Edward replied. “It was Henry Johnson.” Henry Johnson owned the Angel, York’s oldest inn and one I visited on occasion. “Henry’s furious because Hezekiah Ward chose to spend the afternoon preaching in front of his entrance. He says Ward chased off a dozen customers before he was through, telling them they were damned if they didn’t mend their ways. When Henry told Mr. Ward to move along, he called him a groomsman to the Whore of Babylon.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“They are both good men,” he replied evenly. “I cannot demand that Mr. Ward stop preaching, but Henry is no great sinner. I’ll send word that Mr. Ward should not trouble him in the future. It is a big enough city that he can find other places to preach.”
“Who is this Ward?” I asked. “Is he new to the city?”
“He just came from Manchester,” Joseph said, nodding. “He’s as fiery a preacher as I’ve ever known. After I heard one of his sermons, I helped him get a license from the Minster so he could preach throughout the city.”
“And you agreed to this?” I asked Edward.
“If he can bring the city closer to God, then it is all for the best,” Edward replied. Joseph smiled at his father’s approval.
“Did you invite him to the city?” I asked. Edward had hired godly ministers in the past, but usually moderate men.
Edward shook his head. “He seems to have come of his own accord, but I thank God for it. He has brought many a Christian to his senses, and I can only hope he will continue such work here. He is a powerful man indeed.”
At that moment I realized that I might know Hezekiah Ward after all. “Tell me, Edward, what does Mr. Ward look like?”
“Oh, you’ll know him when you see him,” Edward assured me. “He’ll be the one thundering about salvation and damnation. And he’s got just one good eye, the poor man.”
Chapter 3
As Hannah and I crossed the Ouse Bridge on our way home, I heard a familiar voice ahead, crying up damnation and the wrath of God. I could see Hezekiah Ward even from a distance—someone must have put him on a pedestal. Between the crowd there for the sermon, people trying to cross the bridge, and customers moving in and out of the bridge’s shops, Hannah and I became captive members of Ward’s audience.
“Yea, the Lord God has decreed eternal tortures of both soul and body, in those easeless and endless flames of fire and brimstone,” he roared. “This is the very doom that God has denounced against the dual sins of uncleanness and filthiness for whoremongers and their whores.”
As Hannah and I fought our way through the crowd, I saw that Ward was dressed exactly as he had been the day before, and despite his heavy black coat, he seemed unaffected by the afternoon’s searing heat.
“There are some, nay many, in this city who take their pleasure from the beastly sins of whoredom and fornication! Such ones should heed this warning: the Lord gives sour sauce to such stolen meat, and God wields a heavy hand in revenging and punishing this sin of uncleanness.”
The crowd behind us suddenly surged forward, and I found myself separated from Hannah and pushed within a few feet of Ward himself. I turned to search for Hannah, but someone behind me toppled over and knocked me to the ground. As I clambered to my feet, I realized that the men and women around me were so enraptured by Ward’s sermon that they had no idea I’d crashed into them or fallen at their feet.
“What a pitiful massacre followed the deflowering of Dinah by Shechem, the son of Hamor! What a heavy time it was, what a black day in the congregation of Israel when Zimri and Cozbi perished, and twenty-four thousand Israelites were swept away by the hand of God.”
The men and women closest to Ward wept in terror, even as they stared at him with unnerving intensity. As my eyes searched the rest of the crowd, I was startled to see a pair of familiar figures standing near Ward: Rebecca Hooke and her son, James. Rebecca gazed at the crowd with a look of satisfaction on her face, as if the sermon were her doing. James stared intently at the preacher, but every few seconds he glanced at a beautiful dark-haired lass next to him. He seemed equally entranced by each.
Not long ago the Hookes’ presence at a midweek sermon would have seemed unlikely, to say the least. When the King’s men had ruled York, Rebecca had been a Cavalier and supported the Church of England with all its ornaments. But now she donned the drab colors of the godly, and made a great show of her piety by leading the charge to remove the stained glass from her church of St. Michael. What her new friends did not know—and I could not prove—was that Rebecca was a coldhearted murderess. She had confessed as much to me in private, but I’d never been able to find evidence sufficient to convict her in court. My failure to see her hanged still gnawed at my soul.
In the months since this murder, Rebecca’s husband had died as well. Had he not been kicked to death by his horse in full view of his neighbors, I might have suspected her in that killing, too, for he was a useless man and she made no secret of her disdain for him. Rebecca had not even removed her mourning clothes before she began to push James, her dim-witted son, toward positions of power within the city. By a mix of flattery, extortion, and bribery, she had placed James in line for a seat on the common council, and she’d already begun to fill her pockets from the city’s coffers. Such corruption was no secret, but none had the courage to face down such a vicious woman.
James’s presence at Ward’s side was less mysterious, or at least less hypocritical. From his youth, James had been a weak and silly boy, inclined to drink but nothing worse. But James had a hand in the crime his mother had committed, and while Rebecca was most to blame, James felt more than his fair share of guilt. Shaken by his role in the killing, James experienced a religious transformation worthy of the apostle Pau
l himself. He’d begun to seek out godly ministers wherever he could find them, gadding about the city, its suburbs, and far beyond, always in search of a soul-quaking sermon. I could not help hoping that he would find whatever comfort the Lord might see fit to offer.
“How long will God allow York to wallow in this sin before He visits His terrible justice on the entire city?” Ward continued. Not long! cried out the crowd. “If the Lord will strike down the Israelites, His chosen people, by the thousands, why should He not destroy all of York?” Yea, He should! He should! cried the crowd. “Is not this terrible summer a sign of things to come? Does our great God not warn us of the fires of hell?” He does, He does!
Rebecca’s presence on the bridge and her proximity to Ward made me suspect that she had brought him to York. I knew that she had seen the advantage of throwing in her lot with the godly, so it would not be out of character, and I could not help being curious as to what her plan might be. Edward sincerely believed that a preacher like Ward might do some good, but Rebecca had never concerned herself with the good of the city. Every one of her actions was intended either to advance her place in the city or to destroy one of her enemies. If she had made Ward her creature, it must have been to some malefic end.
I was struggling back through the crowd in search of Hannah when I heard Ward shouting “Amen! Amen!” and his hearers took up the cry. To my relief, the crowd quickly thinned and I saw Hannah on the north side of the bridge, trying to find me among the multitude. Ward was between us, now standing at the center of a small circle. He had been joined by two women and two men. One man I took to be Ward’s son—he was dressed similarly, held a Bible identical to Ward’s, and had very nearly the same visage. The other man was an entirely different creature, standing a full head taller than anyone around him, with shoulders as broad as two men’s. He stared wide-eyed over the crowd with what seemed to be the beginnings of a snarl on his lips. Those crossing the bridge gave him a wide berth.
The women with Ward seemed to be his wife and daughter, for the older one took his hands when they met and embraced him warmly. She was nearly as tall as Ward, with a powerful body and a barrel chest that she used to clear the way before her. The younger woman was the one whom James Hooke had found so enticing, and she was a mirror of her mother, tall and strong. James appeared at the girl’s side, gazing at her face with the same rapt attention he’d given her father while he preached. She greeted him with a smile, and James turned such a bright shade of crimson that I feared he would faint. That certainly added a new wrinkle to things—did Rebecca know of her son’s fascination with the girl? Or was that somehow a part of her scheme?
I turned away before James saw me—not that he would with the girl there—and found my way to Hannah. When we reached my house, we found a note from Martha: Prudence Hewley in St. Wilfrid’s parish has begun her travail. Her maidservant said it is early yet. I went to her with your medicines and birthing stool. I will tell the gossips to expect you this evening.
“Good girl,” I said and went up the stairs to change into a dress appropriate for the work that lay ahead.
* * *
Eli Hewley opened the door as soon as I knocked, and I stepped into the small room that served as both a parlor and a second bedchamber. A handful of men had settled in to await the arrival of the child, and all seemed to be in good spirits. Eli worked as a glover and did well for himself, but his family nevertheless occupied the same two rooms they had when I’d delivered Prudence of a baby girl eighteen months before. The child now lay sleeping in Eli’s arms.
“Your deputy says that everything is proceeding apace,” he whispered. “She seems a capable girl.”
“She will make a fine midwife,” I said. “Prudence has been in good hands.” I ducked through a low doorway and into Prudence’s birthing chamber. The size of the room meant that only a handful of gossips could assist in her travail, and they sat on the bed or stood talking quietly. I found Prudence pacing the room, her arm around Martha’s shoulders. She seemed completely at ease with her travail; thus far, Martha had handled everything perfectly.
After greeting the women, I laid Prudence back on her bed so I could better examine her privities. While Martha could prepare Prudence for her travail and manage the gossips, a deputy could never lay hands on the mother; that was the midwife’s domain. Thankfully, the child lay with his head down, and while he was still several hours from being born, all seemed to be in order. I stood, then helped Prudence back to her feet so she could continue to walk the room. “Is the child still kicking?” I asked.
“As if he wants out through my navel.” She laughed. “He’ll be a lively one, that’s for sure.”
And so he was, welcoming the dawn with cries that put the most audacious roost-cock to shame. The birth went so smoothly, Martha and I could find little to discuss as we walked home, so I told her of my suspicions about Rebecca Hooke and Hezekiah Ward.
“Why would she want to bring a hot gospeller such as him to York?” Martha asked. “I was surprised when James turned godly, but surely Rebecca hasn’t as well.”
“Not in her heart,” I replied. “But Ward can attract a crowd, and Edward said that he preached outside the Angel and frightened away some of the guests. If she suggested he preach against one of York’s citizens, he’d find many who would listen. There’s no doubt that she’s got something in mind, and she certainly needs watching.” When Martha and I neared home, the sun had only begun to scorch its way across the morning sky, but as we walked down Petergate we could already feel its searing heat on our faces.
“Jesus,” Martha said. “God’s got it in for us again today. Probably because we missed the sermon on Sunday. I knew I’d regret it.” Martha paused. “Do you think the preachers are right about that? If we go to church this Sunday, will God send rain?” I refused to answer so impudent a question. “I’d make that deal,” Martha continued. “But if He were to accept it, He’d be a bit of a dupe, wouldn’t He?”
Since I’d taken her on as my servant, I’d tried to convince Martha to keep such irreverent thoughts to herself. In the past I might have beaten her for such words, but the loss of my children had robbed me of my belief in a loving God who cared for His earthly children. Michael and Birdy had certainly committed no crimes against Him, and while I sometimes fell into the sin of pride, the slaughter of my children seemed a high price to pay for such small offenses. Some nights I prayed for God’s mercy, and asked Him to lead me back into the comfortable faith of my youth, but thus far He’d not seen fit to grant my petition. Until He did, the most I could do in response to Martha’s blasphemous words was beg her to be discreet, particularly around Edward and Joseph.
We’d turned off of Stonegate when not ten feet before us, a sow stumbled out of an alley and turned toward us. Her mouth hung open and she swung her snout from side to side as if in desperate search of water. She stopped and fell to her side before her entire body began to convulse most terribly and she voided her bowels onto the cobblestones. Martha and I stared in wonder at the terrible sight. “She died of thirst,” Martha said at last. “I saw it happen once when I was a child. It’s not something you forget.” We gave the sow a wide berth and walked the last few steps to my door. That night I dreamed of a blazing sun and dying pigs.
* * *
The next morning I awoke to find Hannah at my door. “What is it?” I asked, trying to pull myself awake.
“Mr. Hodgson is here, my lady,” she said. “He says he must speak to you.”
“Edward?” I asked. He rarely visited, and the news was never good when he did.
“No, my lady. It’s Joseph. He won’t say what it is, but he seems serious.”
“Well, that is his nature, isn’t it?” I said. “Tell him I’ll be down after I dress. And send Martha up to help me.”
I found Joseph sitting in the parlor, a glass of barley water next to him, apparently untouched. When I entered, he stood.
“Aunt Bridget, my father needs you
right away.”
“What is it about?” I asked.
“I cannot say, but he seems upset,” he replied.
“Where are we going?”
“St. John Hungate. He’s meeting us there.”
St. John’s was one of the poorest parishes in the city, and I knew it passably from my work with the city’s paupers.
“Wait here. I’ll summon Martha.”
“He said you should come alone,” Joseph said.
“I’ll bring her,” I said. “If it’s a matter important enough to involve your father, I might need her assistance.” After a moment’s consideration, Joseph nodded. I found Martha in the kitchen and told her that Edward had called for us.
“Will we need the birthing stool?” Martha asked. The city sometimes called on midwives to deliver bastards, and it seemed possible that this might be why Edward had summoned us. I looked at Joseph and he shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know. He refused to say. He only told me to find you as quickly as I could.”
“Bring both the stool and my valise,” I said to Martha. “It is better to have them and not to need them.”
A few minutes later, Martha returned with my baggage and the three of us started east toward St. John’s with Joseph in the lead. “If it’s a birth, who could it be?” Martha asked. “I’ve not heard of any singlewomen so far along.”
“I told you, my father wouldn’t say,” Joseph replied, his aggravation showing.
I could tell that Martha shared my frustration. We were so often privy to the city’s secrets that we could not help worrying when one escaped our notice. Either we had been remiss in our duties, or something more awful than an ordinary bastard birth had taken place. As we walked toward Coneystreet, I tried to imagine what turn of events would require such a degree of secrecy. A dangerous birth or a mother’s death seemed the most likely explanation. Martha gave voice to my thoughts.