by Sam Thomas
“The executioner broke him too quickly,” Tom said. They had clearly had this argument before, and Tom had lost.
“That is true,” Marlowe conceded. “But it has been years since anyone has used the rack. Nobody knew what effect it would have.”
“It would have made Christ himself confess,” Tom insisted. “Look at him.”
Indeed, the man before us was as miserable a sight as I’d ever seen. His limbs were long and well muscled, and I had no doubt that before his time on the rack they had been straight as rods. But now they were crooked and swollen, bruised black and purple at every joint. The jailor had laid three sets of irons on him: one bound his hands, another his feet, and a third ran from his neck to his ankle, keeping him from standing entirely upright. He looked listlessly around the room, hardly seeing any of us.
“Who are you?” he asked. It was a reasonable question, but I could not think of an answer.
“Tell them what you did,” Marlowe said. “What you were going to do.”
“I was going to kill General Cromwell,” the poor man muttered. “And that would start a rising on behalf of King Charles.”
He fell to his knees and began to weep. Marlowe looked at us brightly. “You see? Just as I told you.”
“I think I’ve seen enough.” I left the cell with Martha, Will, Tom, and Marlowe close behind.
“You are sure that he is the man the Royalists chose to assassinate Oliver Cromwell?” I asked as we made our way back to Marlowe’s office.
“Aye, and the plot is finished,” Marlowe said. “No assassin, no assassination. No assassination, no rebellion.”
“General Cromwell will be pleased,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” Marlowe said. “You have no idea how grateful he will be.”
Once we were back in his office, Marlowe uncorked the bottle of sack. “You have two choices, Mrs. Hodgson. You can join these two hens in their doubts.” He gestured at Tom and Will. “Or you can join me in another cup of wine.”
When I did not reply, Marlowe laughed.
“Very well. I think you are suffering from simple envy. Colonel Reynolds and your nephew stopped nothing at all; you midwives stopped a murderer, and I give you credit for that; but I stopped a rebellion. The matter is over and done.” He shook his head in wonder at our skepticism. “Go away, all of you, and make each other sad. You’ve done enough to ruin my celebration.”
Marlowe’s words rang in my ears, louder than any gunshot. “The matter is over and done?” I asked. “The rising is foiled?”
“Aye,” Marlowe said. “Finished, ended, and expired. The Royalists had their chance, and I stopped them.”
“So Parliament is secure?”
Marlowe nodded and took a swallow of wine.
“Then you will have no more use for my services,” I said. “Or Martha’s or Will’s.”
Marlowe stared at me for a moment and began to laugh. “You caught me there, Mrs. Hodgson, but no, you are not released. You have proved yourself too valuable, and the world is too dangerous. The Levellers are still a threat, as are the Royalists. Stopping one plot does not stop them all.”
“Am I nothing more than your slave, then?” I asked. “Am I to do your bidding until the day I die?” Despair welled up within me. I had not expected to be set free, but I had hoped he would at least consider the possibility.
“Or until I die,” Marlowe replied with a smile. “And no, you do not have to stay with me. But if you go, you will forfeit your lands. War is expensive, and Parliament is hungry for new wealth.”
“What about her daughter, Elizabeth?” Tom asked. I looked at him in surprise.
“What do you mean?” Marlowe asked.
“Let Mrs. Hodgson bring her daughter to London. She has done more than you expected and deserves a reward.”
My heart began to thunder in my chest at the prospect of bringing Elizabeth to London. Could it happen so quickly? I fought to keep Mr. Marlowe from seeing my eagerness, for if he knew how much joy this would bring me, he surely would demand something more in return.
Marlowe shook his head. “Things are going well as they are. Adding the daughter could cause nothing but trouble.”
Tears threatened to boil forth, and I clenched my jaw to keep from screaming in frustration. I took a step forward, but Tom held up his hand.
“Mr. Marlowe,” Tom said. “Jonathan.”
At this, Marlowe looked up. “Jonathan, is it? This must be important to you.”
“It is. And it is the right thing to do.”
Marlowe shrugged as if the matter were suddenly of no importance. “Very well. I don’t know how you will explain the sudden appearance of a daughter to your neighbors, but if you can think of a lie to tell them, bring her whenever you wish.”
In an instant I was filled with such joy and excitement that I thought I might burst into song. Elizabeth coming to London! I started to thank Mr. Marlowe, but Tom crossed the room and took my arm.
“You have her thanks, Mr. Marlowe,” he said. “We should be going.”
“Very well,” Marlowe said. “I am to meet with General Cromwell in the morning. I must prepare myself.”
The four of us left Marlowe’s office and made our way to the Tower gate.
“What is the hurry?” I whispered.
“It is better not to give him the chance to change his mind,” Tom said. “He said yes. Take yes.”
I started to reply, but Tom shook his head. “When we’re outside the Tower we can talk more.”
As soon as we passed through the gate, I could no longer restrain myself. I threw my arms around Tom’s neck and embraced him with such force that he gasped in surprise. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I cried. Not caring who saw me, I leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
“Aunt Bridget!” Will cried. “What … what?”
Even as I kissed him, Tom began to laugh. “I think your aunt has some news,” Tom said when I stopped to breathe.
Will knew in an instant, of course. “Truly? The two of you?”
“Yes.” I untangled myself from Tom’s embrace. “The two of us.”
“You are betrothed?” Will asked.
“Aye, we are,” I said.
“When will you marry?”
Tom laughed. “That is a good question. We haven’t had the chance to talk about that just yet.” He turned to me. “What do you say? When will we marry?”
“We should wait for Elizabeth to come,” I said. “I should like her to meet you beforehand. I shall write to her and Hannah immediately!” As we walked toward the Cheap, it became clear that we would finish our journey in the dark.
Tom turned onto a small street and led us to an inn. “If we are going to walk back in the dark, we might as well be well fed.”
The inn’s supper offerings were spare and expensive, but the wine and fire quickly warmed us and improved our already high spirits. I wished we could talk more of weddings and my plans to bring Elizabeth to London, but there was other business at hand.
“Neither of you believes that the man Marlowe tortured was the assassin,” Martha said to Tom and Will.
They shook their heads.
“You saw what they did to him,” Tom said. “I do not doubt that he was involved in the plot, but once they started racking him, he’d have said anything to make them stop.”
Will nodded in agreement. “When he was asked where the gunpowder was, the poor wretch had no idea. But when Mr. Marlowe asked if it had been sent to France, he could not agree quickly enough. He was in such agony, he would have agreed that it was in his pocket.”
“Where did Mr. Marlowe find him?” Martha asked.
“One of Walker’s neighbors pointed him out,” Tom said. “He saw the two of them together, often skulking about at night. That was enough for Mr. Marlowe.”
“Does Mr. Marlowe truly believe that he is the assassin, and that the gunpowder is gone from England?” I asked.
Tom shrugged. “You can imagine h
ow much he wants this one to be guilty. Think of the pressure that the murders placed upon him. A spy was killed, then a gunpowder merchant, and the murderer escaped with enough powder to blow the Tower of London halfway to Rome. Parliament and Cromwell would have been mad with fear. They demanded an assassin, and Mr. Marlowe obliged.”
“It is possible that the rising is foiled,” I said. “Walker’s death might have done that.”
“Perhaps.” Tom did not try to hide his doubts. “We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”
After finishing our meal and wrapping ourselves against the cold, our little troop returned to the Cheap. We bid Will and Tom a warm farewell before they went to the Horned Bull, then Martha and I continued on our way home.
“If you are going to live with Tom, Elizabeth, and perhaps even Hannah, you shall need a larger tenement,” Martha said.
“And what of you?” I asked. “Where will you be?”
“Are you asking if Will and I are betrothed?” Martha laughed. “We were betrothed in York, and never unbetrothed, so I suppose we still are.”
“But when will you marry?”
“Perhaps the spring.” Martha laughed. “The four of us could marry together, comrades one and all.”
“I should like that,” I said.
Martha and I arrived at our door, and I had just reached for the handle when Martha seized my arm.
She pointed to the threshold. In the dark of the stairs, I could see a flickering light under the door. We were not fools enough to have left a candle burning when we went out—someone was inside.
“Come in, come in!” a man called. “I have been waiting for hours.”
There was no mistaking the voice of Lorenzo Bacca.
Chapter 22
I looked at Martha in surprise. What could a late-night visit from a man like Bacca mean?
“If he intended to do us harm, he’d hardly announce himself beforehand,” Martha said.
“Aye,” I replied. “And he certainly wouldn’t have left a candle lit.”
I opened our door and stepped inside.
Bacca sat at our table as comfortably as if he lived there himself. He’d brought a lantern, which sat before him, and he was reading a letter of some sort. As soon as we entered, he stood and folded the paper into his pocket. “I am sorry for imposing myself in such a fashion,” Bacca said. “I could hardly wait outside without attracting attention. Your landlady is a watchful woman.”
“What brings you here?” I asked. I allowed an edge to creep into my voice. I did not think he had come to do us harm, but that did not mean I welcomed his presence.
Bacca laughed in a kindly fashion. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you? All the city is buzzing about your adventures.”
“I do not know what you mean,” I said.
“Come now,” Bacca said. “The scribblers may not know your name, but it was not hard to guess. Two midwives save a mother from certain death by killing an assassin? Who could it be except the two of you?”
“You cannot trust such books,” I said. “They cannot agree on anything at all.”
“That is one thing I love about London.” Bacca laughed. “There are few limits on what men can write, and none at all on what they will believe.
“But I am not so credulous,” he continued. “You lied to me about the murdered doxies. And you lied when you said that your business and mine would not collide. The truth is that we are both knee-deep in government intrigues, but working for different parties.”
I did not think an outright denial would fool Bacca. “How can you be so sure?”
“Your life has become a series of unanswerable questions and remarkable curiosities, and I cannot help but wonder at them. First, you came to the Crown in search of a murderer who happened to be a Royalist. Then were called to the labor of Margaret Harrison, daughter to Oliver Cromwell’s powder merchant. You do not live in her neighborhood, so how would she even know your name? And why would she call for you when there are perfectly capable midwives living much closer?” Bacca seemed like a cat toying with a mouse—or rather two mice. “And while you were at the poor girl’s labor, you happened to kill the assassin—also a Royalist—who murdered her father. Curious indeed!”
I remained silent.
“Or,” he continued, “perhaps these are not curiosities at all. Perhaps you were sent to the Crown to spy on Charles Owen. And you were later called upon to deliver Mr. Harrison’s daughter. But that leaves the question: Who sent you to the Crown and called you to Margaret Harrison’s bedside?” Bacca pretended to think. He was enjoying himself immensely. “Ah! It was Cromwell! The two of you are Oliver Cromwell’s creatures, just as I guessed.
“Now tell me.” Bacca leaned forward, his eyes boring into mine. “Have I missed the mark? Or have I solved your mystery?”
When I again remained silent, Bacca laughed. “Very well,” he said. “I will not insist on a confession, though it would be good for your soul.”
I gazed at Bacca for a moment, trying to discern the best path forward. A denial clearly would not fool him, but perhaps I could disarm him with the truth and learn something in the process. “You did not miss much,” I admitted. “Martha and I were sent to Charles Owen and called to Margaret Harrison. We both are in Cromwell’s employ, though not by our choice.”
“And what did you learn by your spying?” Bacca asked.
“That Abraham Walker is a murderer many times over, and that he may have been a part of a plot to kill Cromwell.”
Bacca nodded. “He was a capable and dangerous man. You are fortunate to have survived your encounter with him.”
“Before he died,” I said, “Abraham Walker stole a quantity of gunpowder. Do you know what happened to it?”
Bacca glanced away before he replied. “I’ve not heard of any gunpowder. But I am sure that General Cromwell’s agents are in firm control of such matters. I would not worry.”
“You have more faith in Cromwell’s agents than I do,” I said. “Abraham Walker murdered four people, and Martha and I risked our lives to stop him. We do not want it to be for nothing. I told you the truth; now you must do the same. Do you know where the gunpowder is?”
Bacca looked at me. “I give you my word: I do not know what became of the gunpowder.”
I did not know if Bacca was telling the truth, but it was clear I would not learn anything more from him. “It is very late,” I said. “Why are you here? Answer me and go on your way.”
“You injure me, Lady Hodgson,” Bacca said. “I came here at the behest of Charles Owen’s wife, Jane. She would like to see you tomorrow at the Crown.”
Martha and I exchanged a glance. What could this mean?
“What business do I have with Jane Owen?” I asked.
“Come to the Crown in the morning, and you shall see.” Bacca stood. “I know you are wary, so I will meet you there at ten. That way you will be sure of your safety.”
“Why wouldn’t we be safe?” Martha asked.
Bacca laughed. “London is a dangerous place, particularly for those who meddle in politics. Look what happened to Mr. Chidley and poor Mr. Walker. You never know what danger might befall you.”
“We did well enough with Abraham Walker,” Martha growled.
“You did at that,” replied Bacca. “I did not mean to offend. So I will see you in the morning. Ten of the clock.”
Bacca started for the door, but stopped on the threshold. He turned to me, his face as serious as I’d ever seen it. “Lady Bridget, if you do not come to the Crown, you will regret it for the rest of your days. If you believe nothing else I have said, you must believe this.” Without awaiting a response, Bacca slipped out of the room and descended the stairs so softly we barely heard him go.
“What did he mean by that?” Martha asked. “Was he threatening you?”
I shook my head. “His threats are not so subtle as that. I think he was being genuine.”
“So we will we go?” Martha asked.
I thought of Guy Fawkes, and of the lowly sergeant who, by simply carrying out his duties, had saved both King and Parliament. Could I do any less than he?
“Some scheme is afoot,” I said. “And we must discover what it is.”
* * *
The next morning I rose early and immediately wrote a letter to Hannah and Elizabeth. It would take a few days for the letter to get to Pontrilas, and a few more to arrange for Elizabeth’s journey to London, but if things went well she would join Martha and me within a fortnight. My heart thrilled at the prospect, and I could only imagine Elizabeth’s excitement when she read my words. I said a prayer of thanks that God had seen fit to grant me this mercy. I found a boy who would take the letter to Tom at the Horned Bull, and with that Elizabeth’s journey to London had begun.
After Martha rose, we replenished our larder and stopped in to see Katherine. She was still abed and swathed in bandages, of course, but was doing her best to manage her shop all the same. Servants came in a constant stream bringing new-sewn coats for inspection and taking away either praise or reprimand.
“There you are!” Katherine smiled broadly when she saw us. “Tell me how things are in the world. I do not know how much longer I can stay cooped up like a chicken.”
“You will be up soon enough,” Martha said. “And the world will still be there waiting.”
“But you do have news, do you not?”
Martha and I glanced at each other and then at the maidservant who remained at Katherine’s side. I inclined my head toward the door.
“Leave us,” Katherine said to the girl.
When we were alone I sat next to Katherine. “Mr. Marlowe called us to the Tower. They captured another conspirator. He was to assassinate Cromwell and spark a Royalist rebellion.”
“Who was he?” Katherine asked.
“Nobody we knew,” I said. “An associate of Abraham Walker’s.”