by Sam Thomas
“Tom, what has happened?”
“Will and I are going to Ireland,” he said. He turned to the window, unable to meet my gaze. “Cromwell will take the army there very soon, and we are to help prepare the way.”
I think Tom continued to speak, but all I could hear was the sound of blood rushing in my ears and the thundering of my battered, broken heart. He turned to face me, clearly awaiting some kind of reply, but I had no words.
“Ireland?” Martha’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “For how long?”
“As long as we are told,” Tom replied. “Queen Elizabeth’s war lasted nearly ten years.”
“I thought you would have Mr. Marlowe’s place.” My voice sounded both petulant and sad. “I thought you would be here in London.”
“As did I,” Tom said. “But in war nothing is certain.”
“Will Marlowe’s successor inherit us along with this office?” Martha asked.
Tom shook his head. “I’ve already seen that he won’t. I burned all the papers relating to the murders and gunpowder, and I sent a letter to Sergeant—now Lieutenant—Hirst, commending him on single-handedly stopping Owen’s plot. The only others who know of your role in this business are Will, me, and the Owens. Will and I will hold our tongues, and the Owens will be dead or fled soon enough. You are free.”
The problem, of course, was that I had no interest in my freedom. I wanted to be Tom’s and for him to be mine, on that day and forever. This was too much for me to bear. I found my way to a chair and sat, overwhelmed by the outrages that Dame Fortune had seen fit to inflict upon us.
“When will you leave?” Martha asked.
“On the morrow. Cromwell wishes to put down the rebellion as quickly as possible.”
I could not control the sorrow that welled up in my chest. I opened my mouth to cry and curse, but only a thin moan emerged. Tom sat and took me in his arms, while Will embraced Martha. Tom wept, whispered to me of his love, and swore that he would return. All too soon, Martha and I found ourselves outside the Tower walls, retracing our steps to the Cheap. The brilliant sunshine could not penetrate the sorrow that enveloped us, and we clung to each other like sailors drowning in a foreign sea.
The next day, Tom and Will were gone.
* * *
Martha, Elizabeth, and I responded to Tom and Will’s departure much the same way I had responded to the death of my children. We visited mothers approaching their travail, saw that the children we delivered were doing well, and sought out new women for clients. In short, we did everything we could to keep from thinking about what we had lost. Of course it did not work, for sorrow cannot be so easily chased away. The only cure for grief is the passage of time. In these dark weeks, Elizabeth began to accompany us on our journeys, and I began to teach her the art of midwifing. I had long intended to do this, and had thought that such lessons would bring me great joy. But under the circumstances, they were merely a salve for a terrible wound.
Tom and Will had been gone for less than a month when my maid, Susan, roused me from a deep sleep. “There is a girl here for you.”
“Is someone in travail?” I climbed out of bed and began to dress.
Susan hesitated before responding. “Katherine Chidley has died.”
I stared at Susan, one sleeve on, one sleeve off. “Died? How?”
“I don’t know. The girl might.”
“Wake Martha,” I said.
Downstairs I found one of Katherine’s maidservants weeping in the parlor.
“What has happened?” I asked.
“Last night. After supper she went to her chamber. She said she was going to read and write before she went to bed. I was in the garret when I heard a crash from downstairs. I found her next to her bed.”
Martha joined us, sorrow already etched into her face. “Is it true?”
“It seems so,” I said, and began to weep. I wondered that God would rob me of Tom and Will, and just a few days later strike down the best gossip I had in London.
“What happened to her?” Martha asked the maid.
“When I came to her room, she was having a most terrible fit. Blood ran from her nose like I’d never seen. It was awful. We called for a physician, but by the time he came…” She shook her head.
I dried my eyes as best I could. “I will tell Elizabeth,” I said. “Katherine’s body is at her house?”
The girl wiped her nose on her sleeve and nodded.
“We will be there soon.”
I went to Elizabeth’s chamber and woke her as gently as I could, for there would be no softening the blow that I was about to deliver. She knew something was wrong as soon as she saw my face.
“Katherine Chidley has died,” I said.
Elizabeth stared at me, her mouth slightly open, refusing to believe the news and waiting for me to take it back. When I did not, she closed her eyes, trying in vain to hold back the tears. I wrapped my arms around her, and we wept for the death of our friend.
“Martha and I are going to the body now,” I said. “You can come with us, or wait until morning.”
Elizabeth sat up. “I will dress now.”
* * *
By the time Martha, Elizabeth, and I arrived at Katherine’s house, word of her death had spread throughout the Cheap. Her body had been wrapped in linen and laid out on a table in her shop. A dozen people stood around her, speaking softly. I recognized some from the Nag’s Head, others from Watling Street, and there were a few I’d never met. The crowd continued to grow until it flowed upstairs into Katherine’s parlor and out onto the street. Martha, Elizabeth, and I drifted among the mourners, still unable to believe our friend was gone. Elizabeth clung to Martha and me as if she were afraid of losing one of us as well.
When morning came, people brought bread and cheese, and Jeremiah Goodkey arrived with a barrel of ale, but by then the crowd was so great it was clear that one would not be enough. I began to talk with other mourners and found them as motley a bunch as I’d ever hope to encounter. There were Levellers, of course, still talking politics, continuing their usual arguments, despite the presence of Katherine’s corpse. I thought she would approve. Alongside these were mothers whom Katherine had served, including a woman who told me that Katherine had delivered two generations of her family. Neighbors came, and the parish churchwardens, and finally a squad of soldiers. They said Katherine’s son was in the north minding the Scottish border. A letter had been sent, but he would not hear of his mother’s death for days or even weeks.
The godly came by the dozens, and with them their minister, Mr. Snodgrass. They prayed for a time, and we all joined them. After, Mr. Snodgrass delivered a sermon, reminding us all that death was near and that we must repent of our sins and turn to God. And then the godly joined with us in the drinking and mourning. It was a fine and fitting farewell for one of the most remarkable women I’d ever met.
That night, after Elizabeth had gone to bed, Martha and I sat in the dining room with a bottle of wine between us. We drank in silence for a glass or two.
“She was not like most women,” I said after a time.
Martha laughed. “To say the least. Midwife to the Cheap, spy for Cromwell, provocator for the Levellers.”
“Scourge of the bishops,” I continued, “vindicator of Grace Ramsden, and avenger of her husband. Her tombstone would read like a book.”
“What do you think killed her?” Martha asked. “Was it Abraham Walker’s blow to her head?”
“It could be,” I said. “Probably. But we’ll never know for sure.”
“How is it that such a good woman should die at the hands of such a cruel man? He intended to murder his lover, and with her his own child.”
“You know as well as I that this is the way of the world. All we can do is fight the tide. After all, that is what Katherine did.” I paused for a moment and recalled the sight of thousands of women marching past Jane Owen’s window on their way to Parliament. “If it was that blow, you could say
that Katherine survived her own murder by nearly half a year, and led ten thousand women to Westminster in the interim. That is a deed worth remembering.”
Martha offered a sad smile. “Aye, it is. We could add that to her stone.”
* * *
For several weeks after Will and Tom left for Ireland, we received no news, nor did we expect to. Indeed, fighting first broke out much closer to home when a handful of Levellers in the army mutinied. They demanded back pay as well as the right to choose their own officers. My heart leaped when I learned of a third grievance: They refused to go to Ireland. If the army would not go, would Tom and Will return? To my sorrow, Cromwell and his generals made short work of the rising. They paid the common soldiers their wages and arrested their leaders. While most of the rebels were pardoned, one was shot by a squad of men in St. Paul’s Churchyard. A few weeks later, the army departed.
To our relief, letters from Ireland began to arrive soon after this, usually in pairs, one for Martha and one for me. Tom said little of the army’s bloody work subjugating the rebels, for which I was grateful. Rather, he professed his enduring love, and said he was counting the days until we married. Such letters warmed my heart, but also left me in a melancholy state, for I missed him terribly. Will’s letters were of a similar nature and had similar effects on Martha’s humors. We found ourselves bound even more closely in this curious concoction of happiness and sorrow.
As autumn approached and the weather began to cool, our lives turned yet again. Martha and I had spent the day visiting new mothers, offering both advice and care, when we happened to pass by the Crown. I had no intention of stopping, but a voice called out to us through the open door.
“Mrs. Hodgson, come in, come in!” It was Lorenzo Bacca, of course.
I glanced at Martha, and a smile danced across her lips. She nodded, and we stepped inside to find the tables full and the ale flowing freely. Bacca chased two customers from a small table and sat down with us.
“You will have ale?” he asked. “I prefer wine, of course, but I have a brewer who is a magician.” Without awaiting a response, he signaled to the tapster, who brought cups of ale for Martha and me.
“The business of running a tavern seems to agree with you,” I said.
Bacca laughed. “It does indeed. It is not quite so exciting as the work of a spy, but it is far less dangerous. Just ask your friend Charles Owen.” Owen, of course, had been hanged as a traitor as soon as it became clear that he could not—or would not—disclose his wife’s whereabouts.
“So you have abandoned the spying entirely?”
Bacca raised an eyebrow and smiled darkly. “Such work is hard to abandon entirely,” he replied. “It will follow you wherever you go. But I am not in any one man’s service. I trade in whatever information men seek. It is remarkable what you can learn if you simply keep your ears open.”
Perhaps it was because of the quality—and strength—of the ale, but after a time, I felt bold enough to ask Bacca a question that had been troubling me ever since Jane’s travail.
“It was not mere chance that you suggested Martha and me as midwives to Jane Owen,” I said. “Nor was it our skill in the craft.”
Bacca smiled. “I wondered when you might realize that.”
“Tell me what happened,” I said.
“I suppose I can trust you not to betray me to the Royalists.” Bacca leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. “I knew Owen had stolen the gunpowder, but I thought it was for an ordinary rebellion. I did not think it would amount to much, and it was none of my business, so I did not trouble myself.”
“What changed your mind?” Martha asked.
“I nearly made the same mistake as Cromwell’s spies. There was talk of the gunpowder, but nobody spoke of raising troops to use it. That was when I realized that what mattered most were the things that the Royalists weren’t saying.”
“If they had no soldiers, there could be no rising,” I said.
“And if they weren’t going to use the gunpowder for a rebellion…,” Martha said.
“It could only be for a spectacular attack on the city itself,” said Bacca. “I had no stomach for such a thing, but I could hardly intervene on my own.”
“So you pressed the two of us into service,” Martha said.
“And you performed admirably,” Bacca said with a laugh. “You saved the Parliament, the city, and perhaps the nation. Nobody knows your names, but you are heroes all the same.”
“Pour us another ale,” I said. “We are heroes, after all.”
* * *
From that day, Martha and I came to the Crown more and more, often with Elizabeth in tow. The ale was every bit as fine as Bacca had promised, and he was always glad to see us. Elizabeth became entranced with his strange manner of speech and fantastic tales of life in Italy and beyond, some of which might have been true. It was a strange thing, I admit, but very soon Bacca, Martha, Elizabeth, and I became friends.
And so it was that Martha and I were in the Crown when a maid sought us out.
“Are you Mrs. Hodgson?” she asked. The fear in her eyes set me on edge in an instant.
“I am,” I said, rising to my feet. “What is the matter?”
“It is my sister,” she replied before bursting into tears.
I took her hand and eased her into a chair at our table. “All will be well,” I said. “Tell me where she is, and I will see that she is delivered safe.”
“That is the problem.” The girl looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t know where she is. She is missing, and none will help me find her.”
I glanced at Martha and saw the familiar set of her jaw.
“We will help,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”
Author’s Note
While literacy rates rose dramatically during the early modern period, England of the seventeenth century was as much an oral culture as a written one. News was spread and history remembered as much through song as prose. In chapters ten and fourteen I have adapted two songs for a modern audience. The first, about Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot, is from a 1626 book, A Song or Story for the Lasting Remembrance of Divers Famous Works Which God Hath Done in Our Time. The second, a satire on the Rump Parliament, appears to come from The Anarchic; or, the Blest Reformation Since 1640. This poem has been reprinted several times, including in Rump: Or an Exact Collection of the Choycest Poems and Songs Relating to the Late Times (1662). Katherine Chidley’s petition is based on a longer petition that Leveller women brought to Parliament in 1649.
As strange as it seems, the curious pregnancy of Grace Ramsden is also based on fact. I know some readers will read this note before the book, so I won’t give anything away, but the records of the case (and thousands of others!) are available online. Visit the Old Bailey Proceedings Online (www.oldbaileyonline.org), and search for reference number t16770601-6.
About the Author
SAM THOMAS teaches history at University School near Cleveland, Ohio. He has received research grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Newberry Library, and the British Academy. He has published academic articles on topics ranging from early modern Britain to colonial Africa. Thomas lives in Shaker Heights, Ohio, with his wife and two children. You can sign up for email updates here.
Also by Sam Thomas
The Midwife’s Tale
The Harlot’s Tale
The Witch Hunter’s Tale
The Maidservant and the Murderer (e-book)
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Map of Cheapside, London
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Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Sam Thomas
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE MIDWIFE AND THE ASSASSIN. Copyright © 2016 by Samuel Thomas. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Jacket design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Jacket photographs: woman by Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images; city by Jarek Blaminsky/Arcangel Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-04576-8 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-466-84538-1 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466845381
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First Edition: March 2016
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