by Sam Thomas
“The next time you are in the throes of labor, you must snuff up this powder. It will help the child to come. Between now and then, you should stand.” She nodded, and Dorothy and I helped her to her feet. Within a few minutes, Sarah gasped and tightened her grip on my shoulders.
“Here it comes,” she said. Dorothy and I took Sarah to the bed, and she leaned into Dorothy’s lap while I anointed her passages and my hands with lily oil. I laid the eaglestone on Sarah’s belly and Dorothy put the powder under her nose. Without a moment’s hesitation, the girl inhaled sharply.
“Jesus God!” she howled, throwing her head back into Dorothy’s chest. “What have you done to me?”
“It is some spices to help you,” I said as I reached in to find the child’s head. “When the next pain comes, hold your breath.”
She looked at me, her eyes watering and shot through with blood, and nodded. Sarah’s shouts had at last roused her mother and she crept to the side of the bed. I found the child’s head, but he was not as far along as I’d hoped. At that moment, Martha arrived. She set down my bag, and without a word took her place next to Dorothy. She looked at me, hoping for some reassurance. I knew Sarah was watching as well, so I dared not betray my fears.
As Sarah’s throes waned, Dorothy helped her up and began to walk her around the room while Martha and I huddled over my valise.
“Will you need your tools?” she breathed.
“Probably,” I said. “You should get them ready. I won’t tell the girl until just before I start. It is better that way.”
Martha paled and looked at my bag doubtfully. She’d never had to do this before.
“Martha, the child is not coming of his own accord. He is likely dead already and we must save the mother.” She nodded and opened my bag. I motioned for Dorothy to bring Sarah back to the bed so I could begin my work extracting the child.
I positioned myself between Sarah’s legs and felt inside her to see how she fared, and to find purchase for my tools; the mouth or jaw was best. I felt the child’s eyes, and tried to turn him for purchase on the mouth. I found it with my finger and breathed a sigh of relief. If I secured the hook there, the horrible business would pass quickly. Martha appeared at my side, holding the box that contained my tools. I breathed deeply and tried to find the words to tell Sarah what I was about to do. I looked up at the girl, and could tell that she knew something was wrong.
“What has happened?” she asked. “My baby?” I opened my mouth to answer, and managed to half contain the scream that welled up inside.
“He’s sucking!” I cried. “The child is sucking on my finger!”
Dorothy stared at me, stunned, and I heard Martha gasp.
“Are you sure?” Martha asked.
“Absolutely—he’s weak, but he’s sucking. I can feel it as we speak.”
“Oh, thank God,” Dorothy said, and she crossed herself.
Sarah’s eyes shifted uneasily between me and Martha, and then she looked over her shoulder at Dorothy. “What is it? What is going on?”
I regained command of myself as best I could. “Nothing at all,” I said, only a little too quickly. “Let us get this child born. Dorothy, at the next throe, give Sarah some more of the pepper.”
Perhaps the child responded to the surprise and joy in the room, but once I was able to turn him just a bit more, he was born within minutes. From the bruises on his tiny face you’d have thought he’d been born in the midst of an alehouse brawl, but his lungs were strong enough and he had no trouble feeding.
It was only then, with the child safe in his mother’s arms, that the reality of what I had nearly done overcame me. I felt a roiling in my guts, as if a serpent had just loosed itself in my belly. Without a word, I stumbled through the kitchen toward the door that led into the courtyard behind the building. My foot caught on the threshold, and I fell forward into the garbage that tenement residents had cast there. My stomach had just finished voiding itself when I felt hands helping me to my feet. Dorothy wiped my cheek with a handkerchief while Martha put her arm around my waist and ushered me into the kitchen. When I saw Sarah nursing her child, blood rushed from my head and my knees buckled again. Martha and Dorothy helped me to a chair. I lowered my head between my knees until the roaring in my ears abated.
“Should I call for a physician?” Martha asked when I looked up. “You look unwell.”
I gazed back at her but could not find words to explain what had happened to me. I had become a midwife to save lives. But thanks to my haste or poor judgment, I had nearly slaughtered an infant before he’d even taken his first breath. The irony was that if I had killed the child, I would never have known of my guilt. I would have left that day secure in the belief that the child I’d cut to pieces inside his mother’s womb had already died. My mind scrambled back to the other stillborn children I’d delivered in this way. Could any of them have been alive when I began my gruesome work? I told myself they could not. One had already begun to decay, and the other had been a monster, not long for the world. But what if I was wrong? Or what if tomorrow I made the same mistake but was not so lucky?
“I should like to go,” I said at last, and Martha helped me to my feet. If Sarah Stone had noticed my condition, she was kind enough not to say anything about it. Her mother thanked me profusely, and tried to press a few pennies into my hand, but I could not take them even for politeness’s sake.
By the time I stepped into the street behind Dorothy and Martha, I felt as tired as I ever had in my life. I goggled at the evening sun hanging low in the western sky. It felt as if we’d been inside for days; how could it still be daylight? Even at this hour, the sun’s rage against the city endured, and the buildings seemed brittle in the heat. An orchard—or what was left of it—lay across the street from the Stones’ house, but the fruit had shriveled to nothing and the leaves had started to brown for want of water. Such a price the poor would pay for the loss of these trees.
Dorothy and I bade each other farewell—the words were short, but we gazed at each other with hollow eyes; we both knew that we’d come within seconds of a most horrible error.
For the second time that week, Martha and I had difficulty discussing the child we’d just delivered. “What are you thinking of?” Martha asked.
“Sunday, when we nearly lost Jane Moore,” I said. “And the child today.”
“Why are you thinking of Jane? You’ve delivered women from greater peril than she suffered.”
“Jane walked hand in hand with death before God brought her back. And only He knows what would have happened if we’d not roused her that last time. Today, I nearly killed a child with my own hands. What if I’d decided to cut him at the shoulder instead of bringing his head down to reach him with my hook? What if my finger had found his eye instead of his mouth? What if he’d not sucked at that moment? What if?” I paused, knowing full well that she would not accept what I was about to say. “Martha, we had a full year without trouble, and in just a few days we almost lost a mother, and I nearly murdered a child even before he’d been born.”
“These were not the first difficult cases you’ve had,” Martha replied. “And surely they will not be the last.”
“Edward would say that God Himself intervened to save this child’s life. He’d say that he sucked my finger at that moment by divine providence. He would insist that I search my heart to discover what He meant by these portents.” I’d never been one to seek His providence in unremarkable events, but I could not help wondering if He’d sent these difficult cases for a reason.
“A Puritan sees God’s hand in a loose shit and then he lies awake half the night praying on it,” Martha sneered. I was not surprised when Martha rejected the idea—that was probably why I’d told her. “We had a good year,” she continued, “and we both know that misfortune may strike at any time. It is our job to overcome this misfortune, not to accept it because God is the author. If God is telling us anything, it’s to keep up the good work.”
I could not he
lp smiling. Here the deputy was teaching the midwife.
“I hope you’re right,” I said. But I resolved to pray on it all the same.
* * *
When we arrived home, we found Will stretched out on the parlor couch snoring softly. In the evening light he looked like the same youth who began appearing at my door when I married his uncle many years before. Martha gently shook him awake and I marveled at the soft, sweet smile that crossed his face when he saw her standing next to him. At that moment I recalled the nights he’d stayed at my house after my beloved daughter died. He was but a boy then, but somehow he knew I could not have survived without the comfort that his presence offered.
“Hannah fed me well while I waited,” he said. “I was just having a moment’s rest. How was the birth?”
I glanced down at my hands and pushed away the memories of the disaster we’d so narrowly avoided. “It was fine,” I said. “What did you learn about our pamphleteer?”
“Good Master Stubb? He’s as fanatical as any man in England,” Will replied. “Even my father seemed skittish around him. If he’d seen fit to break out of his chains, he certainly could have, and we’d not have subdued him without spilling much blood.”
“What did he say about the murders?”
“Well, he says he’s innocent, of course,” Will said. “He claims that last night he was at a young men’s prayer meeting until midnight, and then went to bed. He’s lodging with another of Ward’s followers, so if he’s lying, my father will find out soon enough.”
“Unless his friend will lie on his behalf,” Martha said acidly. “If he’s innocent, how did he know about the murders? Who besides the killer would have known what happened there?”
“He refused to say,” Will said. “Swore that it was God’s will that he tell the truth, and he would not betray his brother any more than he’d betray Christ himself.”
“Did your father enquire about the Bible verse?” I asked.
“Aye. He says Mr. Ward preached and prayed on it for two days and it was read aloud at the young men’s meeting. All in attendance would have had God’s vengeance against whores and whoremasters pounded into their heads.”
“And is he now in the Castle?” I asked. I could not imagine Edward would tolerate Stubb’s refusal to explain how he learned of the murder.
“You’d think so,” Will said. “But Joseph spoke up on his behalf.”
“What?” Martha and I cried out together.
“Why would he do that?” I asked.
“Joseph reminded my father that he served with Stubb under Cromwell. He said they met at prayer meetings led by the army chaplains.” That made sense. The chaplains serving the Parliamentary armies were renowned for their fevered godliness. “After he swore to Stubb’s innocence, my father released him. He trusts Joseph, and if Joseph trusts Stubb, that’s enough.”
“So what will we do now?” Martha asked.
“I think we need to question Jennet’s bawd,” I said. “Since Jennet was her whore, she will have good reason to help us.” I hoped. “And if you want to join us, Will, you’d best be here early and without the stink of liquor on you.”
Will considered my demand and then nodded.
“I’d planned to meet friends at the Black Swan, if only to prove my father right about my debauched nature,” Will replied. His bitterness was sweetened by the barest hint of a smile. “I’m sure he will be sorry to forego his morning speech urging me to be more like Joseph. But a day with you searching for a murderer? I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
Chapter 7
Though it was early when Will arrived, I found the iron door handle hot to the touch when I let him in. It would be another brutal day.
To my relief, Will had stayed true to his word and had neither the smell nor the look of liquor upon him. Without further ado, Martha, Will, and I set out in search of Jennet’s bawd.
“Now, how is it that you know where to find a bawd?” Will asked with a glint in his eye. “I understand why she might want to keep a midwife on hand, but you hardly seem like the kind she would seek out.” Even at this early hour the sun had a razor-sharp edge, and we shaded our eyes as we walked east along Coneystreet.
“I don’t know her myself,” I explained. “But I’ve delivered enough of the city’s whores to have learned something of her business. In truth, I know more about bawdry than I’d care to.”
“She lives in Micklegate?” Martha asked. The southern part of the city was home to York’s wealthiest families, and a bawd would have seemed out of place. We had crossed the Ouse and were walking toward Micklegate Bar, the southernmost of the city’s gates.
“She’s just outside the city walls,” I said. “Her kind prefer not to live in the city itself. So long as she’s out of sight and pays whatever fines the city sees fit to levy, she can live in peace.”
“She’s outside Micklegate Bar?” Will asked. A worried note had crept into his voice. “What is her name?”
“Helen Wright,” I said.
“Do you know her?” Martha jumped in.
“Er, no,” Will replied. “I’ve never met her.”
“But you know of her?” Martha enjoyed few things quite so much as vexing Will, and she knew she’d stumbled onto a secret worth knowing.
“Well, yes. Many people in York do.” He clearly hoped to end the conversation there, but Martha was having none of it.
“And when she sees you at the door, what will she think we’ve come for?”
Will’s ears turned pink, as they usually did when Martha teased him, and he decided—wisely—that silence would be the best defense. Martha continued to question him, but he held his tongue. Will was a young man, so it would not surprise me to learn that he’d visited York’s whores before. He was not yet ready to marry; it was better he seek out a whore than corrupt a respectable woman. Such behavior was common among York’s youth, and winked at by their elders.
When we passed through the gate, it seemed as if we’d entered a different country. During the siege, the King’s men had set fire to the suburbs, and scorched earth and burned-out buildings still ringed the city more than a year later. Some of the lower sort had scavenged wood, stone, and brick from the ruins of the fire and put up small hovels. Other houses stood half-built. But most of the neighborhood was no less blasted than it had been the summer before. The slow pace of rebuilding meant that we had no trouble finding Helen’s home, for it stood out from its neighbors both for its size and its quality. It had the same half-timbered frame as houses inside the city, and while it was not so large as mine, it made clear the profits to be had from bawdry.
Martha’s eyes traveled slowly up the face of the building, passing three stories before settling on the tiled roof. “This is a bawd’s house?” she gasped. “She can’t have earned this much just from matching an apprentice with his whore, can she?”
“Ah, she does far more than that,” I said. “Bawdry is just the beginning. When merchants come to the city for months at a time, they want more than a few thrusts in an alley with a tavern drab. They want a woman for the whole stay, one who can read, and doesn’t have the pox. A woman like Helen Wright can find such a one, and they’ll pay handsomely for it.”
“Yes, I suppose…,” she said, still not convinced.
“But even that’s still just the start,” I continued. “Remember, she owns buildings in the city like the one where Jennet lived. Some are for her whores; some rooms she keeps empty, renting them for a day at a time to adulterers who need a place to hide.” Martha nodded, if not in approval then at least in appreciation of her ingenuity. “And if a woman finds herself pregnant with a bastard and wants to avoid a licensed midwife, Helen will find her a place to have the child in secret; for the right price, of course.” Martha whistled softly. “She’ll even arrange a lying-in of sorts if the father will pay for it. Some of York’s leading citizens send their maidservants to Helen with the regularity of the seasons.”
“And the c
ity doesn’t stop her?” she asked. “Surely the godly must object.”
“She’s called to court a few times each year and charged with all manner of lewd behavior. She pays her fines—and perhaps a little extra to a cooperative judge—and returns to her business. The city fills its coffers and officials can claim that they carried on the battle against sin, so all the players profit. Only God’s law is impoverished.” I glanced up at the sun as it continued its remorseless work of burning the city one day at a time, and worried what it might mean for women who neared the time of their travail. “Perhaps this summer’s heat is His reward for such flaunting of His will.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Martha scoffed. “Just look around you. The farmers are suffering far more than the citizens.” She gestured at the sun-burnt fields that stretched off to the south. “Wealthy men like your brother-in-law will have their bread no matter how dear it becomes, so if this is a message from God, He’s speaking in the wrong ears.”
I could not deny Martha’s logic, and such doubts troubled me. If the summer heat had been sent by God, why had He done so? What could His message be? I pushed away these thoughts and turned my attention to the task at hand. I climbed the steps and knocked on Helen Wright’s door.
We didn’t have to wait long before the door opened to reveal a tall and strikingly handsome young man. He was a full head taller than Will, with slate-gray eyes that lent his face a certain coldness. I could not help feeling that he was a dangerous man when crossed. I also noticed the quality of his clothes. Despite the fact that he was her servant, Helen had dressed him in a suit that was nearly a match for Will’s.
“How can I help you, my lady?” he asked, inclining his head slightly to acknowledge my rank.
“I am Lady Bridget Hodgson, and we’ve come to see your mistress,” I said.
“Mrs. Wright is occupied with several very important matters,” he replied. “Perhaps you could come back another day.”
“We are here about the murder of Jennet Porter,” I said. “She died in a building owned by Mrs. Wright.” Referring to a bawd as “Mrs.” nearly choked me, but I knew this was not the time to start a quarrel. The purpose of our visit surprised him, and his eyes narrowed as he considered his response.