The Midwife and the Assassin

by Sam Thomas

  “He confessed?”

  “After he was broken on the rack,” I replied.

  Katherine recoiled in horror. “They tortured an Englishman? By what right?”

  “By Marlowe’s order,” I said. “Or Cromwell’s.”

  “If that is so, why am I still in bed?” Katherine asked. “I must return to the Nag’s Head and resume my work there.” Her outrage grew with every passing moment. “If a freeborn Englishman can be tortured, who among us has the liberty God has granted us?”

  “Cromwell hasn’t got a chance against you,” Martha said with a smile.

  Katherine laughed. “If God be for us, who can be against us?”

  “But there is good news as well,” I said. “My household soon will be growing.” I told her about Elizabeth and her upcoming journey to London, and of my betrothal to Tom Reynolds.

  Katherine shook her head in wonder. “I’ve been trapped here for a few hours, and in that time you’ve found a husband and a daughter.” She laughed. “But that is excellent on all fronts. Colonel Reynolds is a good man to be sure, and I shall be very happy to meet Elizabeth.”

  It was nearing ten o’clock, so Martha and I bid Katherine farewell and made our way to the Crown. I paused as soon as it came into view, examining the faces of the men and women outside. None looked familiar, and nobody seemed to be waiting for us. After a moment the alehouse door opened, and Bacca stepped into the street. Somehow he knew we’d arrived.

  “Are you sure about this?” Martha asked. “We could have summoned Will.”

  “We will be fine,” I said. “I don’t entirely trust Bacca, but if he meant us harm he would have killed us last night.”

  “True enough,” Martha said.

  Bacca smiled—warmly, I thought—when he saw us. “Mrs. Hodgson, I am glad you came. Follow me.”

  We accompanied him into the Crown. It was quiet at such an early hour.

  “We are here!” Bacca called out as we passed behind the bar and entered the tavern’s kitchen. There we found a young woman setting ale to boil; I recognized her from our previous visit as Charles Owen’s wife. She motioned for us to wait and when she’d finished stirring the brew, she crossed the kitchen to meet us. She was an attractive girl, with large brown eyes and a pleasant visage. As she approached I saw she was with child.

  “You are Mrs. Hodgson,” she said. “And you must be Midwife Hawkins. Signor Bacca has told me much about your work with women in the Cheap. He says you are very skilled.”

  I now was entirely befuddled. Had Bacca brought us to the Crown simply to meet a mother?

  “As you can see,” Jane continued, “I soon will need a midwife. My friends in the Cheap sang your praises, and Signor Bacca said he could arrange a meeting. You are friends from his time in York, are you not?”

  I realized with a shock that Bacca had inadvertently ruined the story Mr. Marlowe had given me. If Bacca and I had met in York, I could hardly be a widow from Halifax. I could only hope this unintentional betrayal would not somehow be my undoing.

  “Aye, we are,” I said. “I lived there for many years. It was a large enough city, but nothing compared to London.”

  Jane nodded. “I came from Devon as a maidservant and met my husband here,” she said. “And here we’ve been ever since. It’s not so bad once you get used to the smell and noise.”

  I laughed. “Aye, but it does take time.”

  “You were a midwife in York?” she asked.

  “For many years,” I said. “I could not tell you how many mothers I’ve delivered.”

  Jane took my hands and examined them closely. “My mother taught me that you can know a midwife by her hands. Long fingers and strong bones, she said. She would be pleased with yours, I think.”

  “How long have you been with child?” I asked.

  “Six months,” she said. “The child quickened in November.”

  “And it is your first?”

  “Aye,” she said with a smile. “So you will have a new mother on your hands.” Jane’s laugh was as light as air, and soon Martha and I were laughing with her. We talked for a while longer—Martha and I suggested food and drink she should take to help strengthen the child—and then we started back to the Cheap.

  As Martha and I walked home, she asked the questions that had been puzzling me. “Is Bacca as innocent as he seems? Is there nothing more to this than a woman with child?”

  “I would never call him innocent,” I said. “But I cannot see how he benefits from bringing us to Jane Owen.”

  “Nor can I,” Martha said. “But we must be on our guard all the same.”

  For reasons I could not explain, that night I was beset by dreams of Abraham Walker. In my dream I was alone in Margaret Harrison’s chamber, and Walker stood outside shouting that he would see me dead. He passed through the locked door as if he were a ghost, cudgel in hand. He ignored Margaret and came for me. I woke as he raised his arm to strike the killing blow. I did not know what such a dream could mean and was grateful when it finally left me in peace.

  * * *

  I passed the following week in a state of anxiety as I awaited word from Pontrilas. I imagined Elizabeth’s excitement at receiving my letter, and each day I waited eagerly for some reply so I could begin to count the hours until her arrival. To pass the time, I began to search for a home large enough for my growing family. At first I would live with Elizabeth and Martha, of course, and Tom would join us after we married. I would need room for Will as well, and if I had so many in my house, I would need a maidservant or two. I told Tom that I would not leave Watling street (it was Midwife’s Row, after all!), and he did not object. I soon found a house large enough for all of us not a hundred yards away; with that settled, all I could do was wait for Elizabeth’s arrival.

  A week after I’d sent my letter to Pontrilas, I returned home to find Martha and—to my surprise—Matthew, the driver who had brought us to London, sitting in the parlor. I bit back a wail of anguish as soon as I saw their hollowed cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.

  “What has happened?” I breathed. “Oh, God, let it not be Elizabeth.” But of course it was.

  Chapter 23

  “Elizabeth is missing,” Martha said.

  “What?” I cried. “How so? Missing from where? Where has she gone? Is she here in London?”

  “She fled Pontrilas four days ago,” Matthew said. “She’d made plans to go to your cousin Mary Baskerville’s in Peterchurch, but she never arrived.”

  I sat at the table. “Where is she? If she’s not at Pontrilas or at Mary’s, where has she gone? Girls don’t just disappear. In London, perhaps, but not Hereford.”

  “She is coming here.” Matthew produced a letter written in Elizabeth’s hand.

  Dearest Hannah,

  You will worry when you receive this note, but do not be frightened. I have had more than my fill of dull country gentlewomen, their boring daughters, and their unread sons. Since Ma and Martha left, I have been saving my pennies and shillings until I had enough to join them in London. I know you will want to send someone after me to bring me back, but I beg you not to. I will not come back except in chains.

  Your ever loving,

  Elizabeth

  I looked at Matthew in disbelief. “She fled Pontrilas for London?”

  He nodded miserably.

  “Did she not receive my letter?” I asked. “I had just sent for her! Why would she leave by herself?”

  “It arrived the day after she left,” Matthew said. “Hannah sent me to your cousin’s house to tell her the news. That’s when we discovered what she’d done.”

  I turned to Martha. “Send a boy for Tom and Will. We must find her.”

  “I already sent one,” she said. “They should be here soon.” Even as she spoke, we heard footsteps on the stairs, and a few moments later Tom appeared in the doorway.

  “What is it?” Tom asked. “The boy said it was an emergency.”

  “Where is Will?” I asked.

>   “With Mr. Marlowe. I sent for him, and he will be here soon. What has happened?”

  “Elizabeth fled Pontrilas for London.”

  “What, by herself?”

  “Aye,” I said. “And nobody knows how far she has come or where she is.”

  “Lord help us,” Tom whispered. He took a breath and set his shoulders. “We will find her. When did she leave Hereford?”

  “Four days ago,” I said. “She likely will come on the same road we did, down from Highgate Hill. We must send word to all the western parishes—constables, beadles, churchwardens—everyone. We should put men at Ludgate and Newgate just to be sure. A young woman with bright red hair should not be hard to find, especially if she is by herself.”

  “Aye, that’s the problem,” Tom said. “If we announce that a twelve-year-old girl with bright red hair has come to London with no one to protect her, every pimp and bawd in the city will be looking for her.”

  Panic flared in my chest. I’d heard too many stories of children come to London only to be sold into brothels to ignore Tom’s warning.

  “Then what shall we do?” Martha asked.

  “I have men,” Tom said. “I’ll put two at each gate, and they’ll stay there from dawn until night. You should write letters in your own hand for them to show Elizabeth. No doubt she will be wary of strange men offering their help.”

  “In the evening we should check all the inns that lie just outside the city gates,” Martha said. “If she arrives after dark she’ll need a place to stay, just as we did.”

  Tom nodded. “I have a few innkeepers in my employ. I will send word to them.”

  I turned to Matthew. “Go to Ludgate and start working your way west. Stop at every tavern, inn, and victualing house you can find. Find her. Go now.”

  Matthew nodded and dashed down the stairs.

  I found some paper and scrawled notes for Tom’s sentries.

  Dearest Elizabeth

  These men are friends and will bring you to me in the Cheap.

  Your loving mother

  I took Tom’s hand as I gave him the papers. “We must find her.”

  “We will,” he said. “I promise.”

  I embraced him as fiercely as I ever had and fought back tears. Then he hurried out, leaving Martha and me alone.

  “What else can we do?” Martha asked. “There must be something.”

  I thought for a moment. “Katherine Chidley. She will help.”

  A few minutes later we were in Katherine’s shop. Somehow she had hauled herself out of bed, and she now commanded her apprentices just as she had before Walker’s attack. Katherine waved with her good arm when she saw us and started across the room. She immediately saw that something was amiss. “What has happened?”

  I told her about Elizabeth’s mad-brained flight from Pontrilas.

  “She’s traveling from Hereford to London by herself?” Katherine asked. “She is your daughter indeed.”

  “We need your help,” I said.

  Katherine nodded and turned to her workers. “Put down your needles and coats and hear me, for today we have more important business than sewing.” The room fell silent. “A girl in Widow Hodgson’s care is missing. She is coming to London from the country, as many of you did. She is alone, and we fear she will be overcome by the city when she arrives. A girl lost in London can meet no good end, so we must find her sooner rather than later.”

  I stepped forward. “She is twelve years old and very tall, with bright red hair. She is likely by herself and will enter the city by Ludgate or Newgate before making her way to the Cheap.”

  “Where should we start?” asked one of the needlewomen.

  I thought for a moment, recalling the things I’d written to Elizabeth about the Cheap in my letters. What landmarks might she use to guide her journey?

  “There will be men at the gates soon enough, but if she slips past them, she will go first to St. Paul’s,” I said. “Two of you go to the churchyard. She loves news and will tarry among the booksellers there. Two others should walk the rest of the grounds.”

  Katherine chose four workers and sent them out. “Where else can we look?” she asked.

  “There are too many places.” I clenched my teeth to hold back the cry building in my chest. “St. Mary-le-Bow Church, the Little Conduit, the Great Conduit … she might even go to London Bridge. Or she could become lost and…”

  Martha heard the hopelessness in my voice and put her arms around me. “We will find her.”

  “The Lord did not bring her to your household only to snatch her away,” Katherine said. “He will return her to you.”

  I nodded even as tears ran down my cheeks. I knew Katherine meant well, but in my heart I did not believe her. After all, God had given me Birdy and Michael and then robbed me of them both. Why would He not do the same with Elizabeth?

  Katherine turned to the two remaining workers, sending one to St. Mary’s and the other to the Little Conduit, as it was nearest St. Paul’s. That left the three of us alone in her shop.

  “Someone should stay in your tenement,” Katherine said. “If she’s half so resourceful as you are, she could be sitting outside your door right now, wondering where everyone is.”

  “And,” Martha added, “we must be able to find you when she is found. You go home; I’ll go to Newgate and search the taverns and inns to the west.”

  The thought of spending the day sitting in our rooms while others searched for Elizabeth galled me, but Katherine and Martha were right. Someone had to be at my home.

  Katherine took my hand. “We will bring her to you.”

  “I know,” I replied, and started home.

  I told Mrs. Evelyn of the redheaded girl who might soon be knocking on her door and climbed the stairs to my tenement. For the next hour—or perhaps it was two—I stared into the street hoping for a glimpse of Elizabeth’s face or a flash of her red hair. I was so intent on the world out my window that I did not hear the footsteps approaching my door.

  “Midwife Hawkins!” a woman called out. “Are you here?”

  I opened the door to reveal a maidservant breathing heavily from her hurried journey. “Midwife Hawkins is not here,” I said. “What is it?” I looked over my shoulder, anxious to return to my post.

  “She is my mistress’s midwife,” the girl said. “Do you know when will she return?”

  “Not until evening,” I said. “And perhaps not until morning.”

  “Morning?” The girl seemed ready to weep. “But the child is ailing now.”

  I caught my breath at this. “I am a midwife,” I said. “Tell me what is happening.”

  The girl began to cry. “She was well enough when she was born, but now she is taken with a fever. We’ve done all we can, but … we need help.”

  The decision before me was so easy that I made it without thinking. I was doing Elizabeth no good waiting at the window, and this child needed my help. “Let me get my medicines. I will come with you.”

  The girl’s mistress, Mrs. Claypole, lived above a haberdasher’s shop on Ironmonger Lane, just north of Cheapside Street. We hurried upstairs and found her in bed holding the child. Her husband sat by her side.

  “I am Mrs. Hodgson,” I said. “Martha could not come, but I will do my best in her stead.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Claypole said. She opened her mouth to continue, but no sound came.

  “Please help,” her husband said.

  “I will.” I took the child in my arms and could feel the fever even before I pressed my wrist against her forehead. My heart ached at what I found, for few infants could survive such a fever if it lasted too long.

  “What is her name?” I asked.

  “Deborah,” Mrs. Claypole replied.

  The child’s eyes were open but glazed from the fever. “I will do my best for you, Deborah.” I gave the child back to her mother. “You must unwrap her.”

  I turned to the maidservant. “Make Mrs. Claypole a barley soup. Use bro
th, but no meat. We must cool her humors.”

  In my valise I found oil of roses and a poplar ointment. The child wailed at the indignity of being unswaddled, and I set to anointing her limbs and chest. She soon ceased her crying and simply lay on the bed, feverish and shaking. I said a prayer that God would not take her. I wrapped the child and gave her to her mother. “When did she last take the breast?”

  “Just before you came,” Mrs. Claypole said. “But she did not eat much.”

  I nodded. A waning appetite was not a good sign, but at least she had eaten something. “When the soup is ready, eat as much as you can and then see if Deborah will suck. If she does, the barley may cool her humors and break the fever.”

  “We should pray as well,” Mr. Claypole said.

  Mrs. Claypole lay the child in her lap, and the three of us joined hands, praying in turn. I begged God for His mercy in these perilous hours, begged Him not to rob any mother of her child. By the time we finished, Deborah had fallen asleep, and soon after the maid came with the soup. Mrs. Claypole drank it down and closed her eyes. In a few moments, she, too, was asleep.

  Mr. Claypole touched my shoulder and nodded to the chamber door. I joined him outside.

  “You must tell me the truth,” he said.

  “There is nothing to tell you that you don’t know,” I replied. “The fever is serious. If it does not break soon, I will not be able to save her.”

  Mr. Claypole took shallow breaths, trying to control the panic within. “When will we know?” he asked. “When will it be too late?”

  “We will know one way or the other by morning.”

  Mr. Claypole nodded, and we returned to his wife’s bedside. The maidservant brought bread and cheese for our supper, and after that Mr. Claypole and I sat in silence. When Deborah whimpered, I picked her up and soothed her back to sleep. I held her for hours after that, praying for her survival and for Elizabeth’s safe return. I told myself that both would be safe, that the girl’s fever would break, and Elizabeth would find her way home. Perhaps Elizabeth had thought better of her adventure and returned to Pontrilas. Perhaps after leaving Pontrilas, she had fallen in with a trustworthy crowd and had come to London with them. Perhaps Martha had found her, and the two of them were now waiting in our parlor, wondering where I could be.