by Sam Thomas
Grace tried to rest as well, and her gossips began to talk in hushed tones. To my surprise I heard Rebecca Hooke’s name. I joined the conversation, eager to hear whatever news they might have.
“He was standing below her window,” Susan Baird said. Her husband was one of York’s wealthier merchants and had built a home not far from the Thompsons. “I saw him myself. It was cold as could be, but he stood there, gazing up at the window. Then he hurried off.”
“What is this?” I asked. “Someone is wooing Rebecca Hooke?”
Laughter greeted my question. “Not Rebecca,” said Susan. “Though that would be a man to meet. No, I saw James Hooke. He was gazing at the Lord Mayor’s house. We live just across the street from the Lord Mayor, you know. My husband speaks to him all the time.” Susan’s nearness to the Lord Mayor was not something she’d let anyone forget.
“And James Hooke was staring at the Lord Mayor?” I asked. My head was still fuddled with sleep, and I could not puzzle out what she was saying.
Once again the women laughed long and loud.
“If he was looking for the Lord Mayor,” one woman replied, “it was only to cast an evil eye and hurry that old pantaloon into his grave.”
“Then what was he doing?” I asked.
The women laughed again, and I felt frustration rising within me. Susan saw this and took my arm. “It’s the Lord Mayor’s wife,” she whispered in my ear. “Like every other young man in the city, he’s besotted with Agnes Greenbury. The only difference is that he’s too doltish to hide it.”
I could not help feeling disappointed in the news. The fact that James had, yet again, fallen in love with the wrong woman would hardly help Will and Tree escape the city. I withdrew from the company and called for a glass of barley water. Grace’s final travail would begin soon, and I wanted to be ready. When Grace’s labor pangs became more frequent and regular, I summoned Martha, and soon after the child came bellowing into the world without any hindrance.
That was when the problems began.
Martha received the child—a baby girl—and the gossips started to help Grace from the stool to her bed, but Martha cried out in alarm.
“Put her back down,” she ordered. “Lady Bridget, come here!”
In an instant the room went silent save the cries of the child. The women lowered Grace back onto the birthing stool. Good cheer fled the room, and fear took its place.
“What is it?” I rushed to Martha’s side.
“The navel string is too short,” she replied. I took the child and found that Martha was right. She was so closely tethered to her mother that Grace could hardly move.
“We must cut it now,” I said. “If the cord pulls itself from the after-burthen—” I did not finish the sentence, nor did I need to.
“But what would happen if the string falls back inside?” Martha asked.
I shook my head. I had never seen a case such as this, and I had no ready answers.
Grace peered down at us, her eyes bright with fear, but she did not speak. After a moment, the answer came to me.
“Get a ribbon,” I said to the women behind me. “A fine one if you have it.” Within moments, one of Grace’s gossips had whipped one from her dress and handed it to me. I took my small knife from my apron.
“Grace,” I said. “The navel string is so short that it may fall back inside you when I cut it. I do not want to lose it, so I am tying this ribbon to it. Do you understand?”
Grace nodded, and as quickly as I could, I tied the ribbon and cut the string. One of the gossips took the child for washing and swaddling while Martha and I saw to Grace.
“Bring some hellebore,” I said to Martha. “I want to bring the after-burthen out as soon as we can.”
“I already have it,” she replied, handing me a small bag. Were the situation not so strange and dangerous, I might have commended her for her ready-handedness.
“Grace, I want you to cough. If that doesn’t work, I’ll have you breathe in this powder. It will hurt, but it also will help you bring forth the secundine.”
Grace coughed and coughed, but to no avail. When she took in the hellebore, her body twitched and flew, and I watched as the navel string drew back into her body. I gave thanks to God that I’d tied the ribbon, but I knew that Grace had not yet reached a safe harbor. I anointed my hands with oil of lilies, and as gently as I could I reached inside Grace. I knew that if I didn’t discover the problem, she could die before she’d even nursed her child.
To my dismay, I found the afterbirth still entirely attached to the side of Grace’s matrix. Not daring to remove it myself, I withdrew my hand and gestured for the gossips to lay Grace in her bed and give her the child. Grace looked up at me, the strain and fear of the day etched upon her face. She did not speak, but I knew her question.
“The after-burthen has not yet come,” I said. “It is best if we wait and allow it to be born on its own.” I did not tell her it held so fast to her matrix that we had little choice in the matter. If I tried to draw it forth myself, her matrix would flood, and she would bleed to death in mere minutes.
“For now, you should rest, and feed both the child and yourself,” I said. “If her cries are any sign, you will need all your strength to care for her.”
To my relief Grace laughed, and I smiled when she put the child to her breast. When the gossips had gathered around Grace, I took Martha by the arm and pulled her aside. She alone recognized the concern on my face.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. In all my years, I’ve never seen anything like it. It is possible that she will deliver the afterbirth and all will be well, but it is quite unnatural.”
“What can we do?”
I ran through our choices in my head. I could try to deliver the afterbirth by hand or with a crotchet hook, but I was loath to be too rough with it. We could summon a surgeon, but with the child safely born there was nothing he could do that I could not.
“Get some masterwort from my valise and boil it in wine,” I said. “I’ve heard it sometimes works in difficult cases.”
Martha nodded, but before she had even left for the kitchen, a scream like none I’d ever heard tore through the room.
Chapter 21
Martha and I dashed to Grace’s bed. She lay on her side, knees clutched to her chest. When we turned her to her back, I felt that her skin had become as hot as a blacksmith’s forge.
I turned to one of the gossips. “Get some wine and a clean cloth,” I told her. “And hurry.”
Martha and I comforted Grace as best we could. Fearful of what I might find, I glanced under her blanket. I thanked the Lord that she’d not flooded. When Grace’s gossip returned with the wine and cloth, Martha and I bathed her in it, hoping to cool her fever. Grace lay back, her eyes closed, and mumbled to herself. Then she slept. I watched as her chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. The gossips seemed relieved, but I knew that Grace would remain in desperate danger until she delivered the afterbirth.
“I must talk to her husband,” I said.
“What will you say?” Martha asked.
“I’ll bring him the child and tell him the truth about Grace,” I replied. “If the mother’s life is in peril, you must tell her husband. If you promise that she will survive, and she does not, he will fault you for it.”
“I don’t envy you this task,” Martha said.
“It will be yours soon enough.”
I took the child in my arms and went in search of Matthew Thompson. I found him in the parlor, surrounded by his friends. His face was pale and drawn—he clearly realized that Grace’s labor was not going smoothly. He smiled when he saw the child in my arms, and took her from me.
“The child is well?” he asked.
“She is as healthy as any bairn I’ve delivered,” I replied.
“And Grace?” His voice cracked as he asked the question.
“There is danger,” I replied. “She has not delivered the after-bu
rthen, and if she does not, she will die.”
Matthew nodded. Though death in travail was not common, we all had a friend, a neighbor, or a relative who had died while giving birth. “What can you do?”
“She is sleeping now, but there are medicines I will give her when she awakes. They may help.”
“Should I call for a wet nurse?” he asked. A tear ran down his cheek. “In case she…” His voice trailed off.
“It is probably for the best,” I said. “Even if I deliver the afterbirth, Grace will be weak, and the child will have to suck.” I gave him the names of a few women in Micklegate who might help and returned to Grace.
After she had slept for perhaps two hours, Grace’s eyes fluttered open and she looked about the room as if surprised to find herself there. I took her hand and was relived to find it cool. The fever had broken.
“How am I?” she asked. “I had such a grief, but I feel like it has passed.”
I watched her face as I placed my hand on her belly and pressed. She showed no hint of pain. “You may have delivered the after-burthen on your own,” I said. “Let me see.”
Sorrow welled up in my breast as soon as I lifted Grace’s blanket. She had delivered the afterbirth, but at the cost of her life. The bed was soaked with her blood. I lowered the blanket, thankful that nobody else had seen the harbinger of Grace’s death. There was nothing I or any man alive could have done to stop such a flux of blood. I took her hand again. It remained cool to the touch, but now the coolness bespoke not life, but death.
“Might I have another blanket?” Grace asked. “I am very cold.”
Perhaps it was that question that alerted the gossips to her condition, for with a fire blazing in the hearth, the room was more than warm enough. They laid another blanket on the bed and gathered around her. Susan Baird took her other hand.
I caught Martha’s eye. She nodded and slipped from the room. A few moments later, Matthew joined us and took my place by Grace’s side. Grace smiled up at him and caressed his face. The gesture was too much, and he began to sob. The women—all crying now—stepped away from the bed so Grace and Matthew could talk. They whispered to each other, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying. After a time, Grace slept. And then she died.
Matthew sent for the minister, and we prepared Grace’s body for burial. Thankfully, she would be buried in the church itself, for the frozen ground was so hard that it would have taken days to dig a grave in the churchyard.
The sun had set by the time Martha and I left the Thompsons’ house and began the journey home. To my dismay, the lantern Matthew had loaned us blew out in a gust of wind before we reached the end of the street. The moon passed in and out of sight as clouds whisked across the night sky. Every few steps we were plunged into darkness or bathed in a cold, lunar light. Martha and I leaned on each other, utterly exhausted in our minds and bodies. Perhaps it was our weariness, perhaps it was the wind, but neither of us heard the footsteps approaching from behind.
Martha sensed a presence before I did. She started to turn and raise her arm, but it was too late. She cried out, but the blow silenced her, and she fell to the ground in a heap. I swung the lantern in an agonizingly slow arc at our attacker’s head. To my surprise it reached its target, and the glass shattered into dust, but I knew that it would not shake our attacker.
At that moment the moon broke from the clouds and illuminated the scene before me in terrifying detail. Mark Preston stood over Martha’s body like some hulking beast, a small, ugly cudgel in his hand. When he turned to me I saw a thin line of blood sliding down his temple, but that was all the damage my blow had done.
“Your nephew has had enough of both of you,” Mark hissed. He smiled and took a step toward me. I had a terrible decision before me, and I made it in an instant. If I stayed and fought I would surely die, and then Martha would, too. But if I led Mark away from her, she might recover herself and escape. That was my hope, at least. I hurled what was left of the lantern at Mark’s head, turned, and ran.
After a few steps I looked over my shoulder and saw that Mark had slipped on the slick cobblestones and fallen. He regained his feet all too quickly, but it gave me the time I needed. I looked back again when I reached the south end of the Ouse Bridge, and I cried out in dismay. Mark had very nearly caught me. If I tried to cross the bridge, he would have me long before I reached the far side.
I dashed down the stairs to the staith that ran along the water’s edge. Until the river froze, sailors from around Europe had docked their boats there, but now it was naught but a broad and deserted avenue, with warehouses on the right and the river on the left. I heard Mark clattering down the steps behind me. I ran to the edge of the staith and dropped onto the ice. Though I knew the risk, I ran straight toward the middle of the river. The ice was rough beneath my feet, and more than once I caught a toe and nearly fell. When I heard the ice creaking below me, I slowed my pace and turned to face my pursuer. Mark stood ten feet away, breathing hard, the cudgel still in his hand. I shifted my weight, and the ice creaked ominously.
When he was near enough for my purposes, I dashed away once again and threw myself forward onto my stomach. I’d hoped to slide even further away, but ice was far too rough. Rather than gliding to safety, I crashed forward and bloodied my nose before rolling onto my back.
I looked up to find Mark approaching me. I tried to sit up, but my left hand broke through the ice and plunged into the frigid waters of the Ouse. Pain shot up my arm, and I pulled my hand out. My entire arm was numb. I heard the ice crack below me and lay back as far as I could.
“Come now, Lady Bridget,” he said. “It is over. One knock on the head, and we’ll be done here. At least you will be.” I lashed out at him with my feet. He danced back a step and smiled before beginning his approach anew, circling closer and closer until he could deliver the final clout. I turned in place, trying to keep my feet between us and force him toward the middle of the river. As we turned, the moon illuminated his face, and I knew that if my plan failed, his vicious smile would be the last thing I saw.
I think he recognized my trap an instant too late. A look of surprise flashed across his face as he broke through the ice and dropped into the river. I pushed myself back toward shore before I dared sit up. Preston’s head and arms were still visible as he clawed desperately at the ice, hoping to haul himself out. I did not know what I would do if he succeeded. But on that night the Lord had mercy on me. Preston’s cries grew feebler as the cold choked the life out of him. I looked into his eyes, watching in fascination as the river overcame him, and he slowly slipped out of sight.
I rolled onto my stomach and, dragging my numbed left arm behind me, pulled myself toward the staith. I clambered off the ice and back onto the cobbled street. Without a look back, I hurried up the stairs to where I’d left Martha. I found her sitting in the middle of the street with her head between her knees. I took her by the arm, and she staggered to her feet.
“How are you? Are you hurt?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” she said. I released her arm, and she took a few wobbly steps.
“Who was it?” she asked. “What happened?”
“Mark Preston came for us at last,” I said. “Come, we must get home.” I led her across the bridge, casting a glance at the ice below. I could see the hole through which Mark had fallen, but that was the only sign of our struggle.
“Where is he?” Martha asked.
“Dead,” I replied. Only then did I realize that my hands had been stained by yet another man’s blood. “I led him out onto the ice and when I lay flat, he fell through.”
“You remembered what the Hollander boy told you,” she said.
“Aye, and now he’s saved my life twice,” I replied. “But enough talk, let us hurry home before the cold takes us as well.”
* * *
I pounded on the door for Hannah to let us in. Her eyes widened when Martha and I tumbled into the hall. Rather than asking what had happened, she dashed off f
or towels, water, and blankets. Though it was not in either of our natures, Martha and I let Hannah care for us as we told her all that had happened. Her horror at Grace Thompson’s death and Mark Preston’s subsequent attack was something to behold. I’m sure she wondered how my world—and as a consequence, her world—had become so bloody, but what else could I have done? By the time the sun rose, the feeling had returned to my arm and, except for a bump on her head, Martha seemed a picture of health. We both knew she’d been very lucky. As Hannah busied herself about the house, Martha and I dragged ourselves to our beds.
I awoke that afternoon utterly famished, and I realized that I’d not eaten since before Grace Thompson’s final travail. I found Martha and Hannah in the kitchen finishing dinner preparations, and the three of us sat together to eat. We all gazed at the empty chairs around us, and I said a prayer for the safety of our missing family. After we ate, I retired to my chamber and tried to busy myself with the accounts from my estates. I trusted my stewards, of course, but I liked to keep my eye on the rents as they came in. As much as I tried to prevent it, my mind kept returning to the new danger Martha and I faced. It would take Joseph some hours to realize that we had survived his murder attempt, but when he did, hell itself would be loosed on the city. Will, Tree, and Elizabeth were safe for now, but how would Martha and I weather the coming storm? As I gazed at the papers before me, I realized we had only one choice if we were going to survive: Martha and I had to flee the city even before Will, Tree and Elizabeth did. I began to write the necessary letters.
Hannah called me for supper, but I was too busy writing. She brought me bread and cheese, which I ravened up without tasting it. My letters were nearly done when fatigue once again threatened to overcome me. Martha appeared at my chamber door and, without knocking, entered and sat on the edge of my bed.
“What now?” she asked.
“We must leave York as soon as we can,” I replied.