The Maidservant and the Murderer

by Sam Thomas

  The woman’s laugh was loud and warm. “I’m no gentlewoman,” she said. “You can call me Mrs. Bairstow.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bairstow,” I said.

  “Good. Now finish your caudle, and I’ll have my maid look to those cuts and bruises. None seem too serious, but they could use cleaning.”

  For the first time in months–perhaps for the first time since I left home–I felt safe. I closed my eyes and slept, waking once for a labor pang, but quickly finding my way back to sleep.

  I awoke from dreams I could not remember to the sound of pounding in the distance. I climbed out of bed and opened the door just a crack. From my room I could see Mrs. Bairstow standing at the front door, her back to me.

  “We’ll not support some other parish’s bastard,” a woman shouted. “You must give her to us so we can drive her out.” I heard a chorus of women in the background agreeing to these demands.

  “Remember your place, Sarah Cooper.” Mrs. Bairstow’s voice lacked all the warmth I’d heard when she spoke to me. It sounded like an unsheathed dagger. “You’ll not meddle between me and one of my mothers, single or not.”

  “I’ll be back with more women,” Sarah Cooper said.

  “You have six with you now, but you think twelve will convince me? I’ll say the same thing to them as I’m saying to you, you wrinkled shrew. Whatever you say or do, I am a midwife and I’ll care for this woman. You should go on your way. Ruin someone else’s day.” Without waiting for a response, Mrs. Bairstow slammed the door and dropped the bar into place.

  I eased my door closed and climbed back into bed. A few moments later, Mrs. Bairstow returned and checked my matrix again.

  “You’re coming along slowly, but well enough,” she said. “Will you tell me who the father is? You will tell me eventually, or I’ll have to turn you out. The street is no place for a woman to give birth.”

  I remained silent and avoided her gaze.

  “Fair enough, but you should remember: There are no secrets from me,” she said. “Not yours or anyone else’s. And you’ll change your mind. Single-women always do. I’ll return in a bit.”

  I lay back and gazed out the window at the small courtyard that lay behind Mrs. Bairstow’s house. Dreams and possibilities flooded my mind. A half-dozen matrons–the “honorable” women of the parish–had demanded my head, and Mrs. Bairstow had sent them away with a few harsh words. She did not fear her neighbors and she did as she pleased. What power that was! I tried to imagine what having such authority meant, and my mind reeled. For all my life I’d been someone’s something: my father’s daughter, Mr. Hooke’s secret prey, Mrs. Hooke’s victim, and very nearly Richard Hooke’s wife. But Mrs. Bairstow was no man’s anything. She told people what to do. She knew her neighbor’s secrets. Was it possible I could gain such power? If I did, none would ever dare challenge me. I did not know how I could attain such lofty heights, but knew that someday I would do so.

  As the afternoon wore on, I turned to the question of who I would name as my child’s father. I could not name Mr. Hooke, for it would bring me nothing but grief. And if I said Richard was the father, Mrs. Hooke would gainsay my claim, and she could prove me a liar. I could name another man in the Hookes’ neighborhood, of course, for some were wealthy enough to afford a child, but I refused that path as well. I wanted more for my son and for myself than the mere pennies that such men would pay. Suddenly the answer to my problems came to me in its terrible simplicity. I ran from it as best I could, but as night fell it became clear that I had but one bloody and brutal path before me. So I took it.

  When midnight came, so too did my child. The birthing pangs were a wonder I cannot begin to describe. But the strength with which my child struggled to be born gave me hope beyond measure. Surely so mighty a lad would not fall into so poor a life as I had endured. Mrs. Bairstow was very loving and treated me kindly until the moment that she judged that my travail had reached its height.

  “Rebecca, you must tell me who the father of your child is,” she demanded. “If you will not tell me, I will put you into the alley and you’ll give birth alone.” She reached up and pinched my breast to accent her point. I gasped at the pain, but refused to speak a word. She pressed me further and again, as the pain grew worse. But I still refused to speak the father’s name.

  When Mrs. Bairstow’s fury had reached its limit, she turned to her maid.

  “Get her up,” she ordered. “We’ll see her out. If she wishes to have this child in the filth of a city street it is her choice.”

  When the two women had me by the arms I relented. “I’ll tell you!” I cried. “Please don’t send me away.”

  Mrs. Bairstow stared into my eyes, clearly unconvinced.

  “I’ll tell you.” And I told her the name of the man I would have as my child’s father.

  “Rebecca, you must father this child rightly,” Mrs. Bairstow insisted. “Travail is a perilous time, and you might die. Do not make your final words a lie. The Lord will be a harsh judge if you so mock Him.”

  “I did not lie. I swear he is the father.”

  Mrs. Bairstow asked me a few more times, and on each occasion I gave her the same answer. Eventually I must have satisfied her, for she settled into the work of delivering my child. When my son finally came shouting and bawling into the world, I held him in my arms and gave him my breast. When I gazed into his beautiful face as he fed, I found myself overcome with a love more terrible and strong than anything I had felt in my life. He had been born in wrath, but what would I not do for this child? In that moment I could not understand why the choice that I had made that afternoon had seemed so difficult. Now that I held him in my arms, the venture–however dangerous–seemed like the only thing to do.

  III

  After giving birth I stayed at Mrs. Bairstow’s for my lying-in. I paid for the privilege, of course, but for all that she was very kind and lamented the fact that I would soon be whipped for my bastardy. I knew that–one way or another–she was wrong, but said nothing. For nearly a month I lay in bed with James at my side, puzzling over my scheme and trying to find any flaws. When I believed that nothing could go wrong, I wrote a letter and sent for a boy to deliver it. And so the final act of my play began.

  The next morning the boy brought me the answer for which I’d prayed, and I took my leave of Mrs. Bairstow.

  “I will repay you for your help,” I told her. “Someday I will.”

  “See that you take care of little James,” she said as she embraced me.

  I nodded, and started walking toward the Minster’s towers. Mrs. Bairstow had given me the name of a woman who might help me care for James and, though I made some wrong turns along the way, I soon found her. She demanded three pennies per week, four if I wanted her to nurse the child. Once we were in terms, I gave James the breast one more time and set out on my way.

  That evening, just before sunset, I slipped out the gate and began the walk to the Hookes’. I heard the cries of the Town Watch and the sounds of the gate crashing closed behind me and I prayed that I would not be in chains the next time I passed through.

  The sun was well down by the time the Hookes’ house came into view. Broken clouds covered the moon, and I moved from shadow to shadow as I crossed the yard. The Hookes had no near neighbors, so I was not afraid of discovery, but saw no sense in taking chances. I crept first to the barn, and then to the window of the room where I had once slept. I tapped gently. When I received no response, I said a prayer and tapped again. After a moment the window opened and a face appeared. She was a young woman, not older than me.

  “Please, can you let me in for a moment?” I begged. “I used to be Mrs. Hooke’s servant. I must speak with you.”

  The girl looked at me uncertainly.

  “I mean you no harm,” I said. “Please.”

  The girl nodded. “I’ll open the kitchen door.”

  “Thank you,” I breathed.

  I circled behind the house toward the kitchen, and waited for
the maid. She opened the kitchen door a few inches and peered out.

  “Come outside, just for a moment,” I said. “Please.”

  When she did, I raised the hammer I’d found in the barn and struck her in the head with all my strength. She dropped like she’d been shot, and lay on the ground shaking and shivering in a most unnatural manner. I aimed carefully and struck her again. After that she was still. When sorrow welled up within me, I recalled all the wrongs I had suffered at the Hookes’ hands, and at the hands of York’s matrons, and my doubts ebbed away.

  I left the poor girl where she lay, and slipped into the house. I eased open Mrs. Hooke’s door, crossing to her bed without a sound. Her eyes flashed open the moment before the hammer struck her forehead. She cried out once, but I did not worry that anyone would hear her, for the maid was dead and I knew Richard was not home. My letter had seen to that. I hit her more times than I had the maidservant, in part out of malice, but also to be sure that she was dead. When I’d had my fill of that bloody work, I dropped the hammer next to her head. I would not need it again.

  Then I began to hurry, for I did not know how long Richard would wait for me, and our secret meeting place was too close to the house for my comfort.

  I opened the chest where Mrs. Hooke hid her ready money and took the leather sack of coins. On my way to the kitchen I closed the maid’s door and Mrs. Hooke’s. The longer my deeds remained secret the better. Once I was outside I began the most difficult stage of my scheme.

  After wrapping the girl’s head in order to keep the blood off me, I hoisted her onto my back and carried her to the road. If anyone had seen me I surely would have been hanged, but God was with me that night. It took me nearly an hour of searching, but eventually I found a ravine deep enough to suit me. I wrapped the cord from Mrs. Hooke’s money bag around the maid’s wrist, and removed the cloth I’d put on her head. I said a prayer of thanks that the darkness hid the damage the hammer had done. I did not regret my choice, but that did not mean I wished to revel in it. Finally, I rolled her body over the edge and prayed that she would not fall into the stream and be carried away. For a moment I considered climbing down to ensure that all had gone as planned, but quickly discarded the idea. If I found myself unable to climb back up, I’d have a difficult time explaining myself when the searchers found me.

  I struck out to the south, knowing that I would eventually reach the York road. As I walked, I allowed my mind to focus on the next part of my play. My performance would have to rival any found on London’s stage, or I surely would be hanged. When I reached the suburbs closest to Bootham Bar, I found a barn and nestled into the hay to await sunrise and the opening of the city gates. Within minutes I was asleep.

  When the cock-crow awoke me, I sprang to my feet. I could no more afford to be found in that barn than at the bottom of the gullet where I’d put the maid’s body. By the time the sun rose, I had hidden myself in a copse of trees from which I could see the road into York. Within an hour I saw carts moving in and out of the city and knew the curtain had risen on my final scene.

  I arrived at the Hookes’ house in perfect time. Even from a distance I could see the yard had become a beehive, as dozens of friends and neighbors busied themselves at some great task. None paid me any mind when I slipped through the gate and mixed in with the crowd.

  I sought out Mary Hopkins, a neighbor’s maid I had known during my months with the Hookes, and asked her what had happened.

  “Murder,” Mary breathed softly. “Sairy has murdered Mrs. Hooke and run off!”

  “What?” I cried. “Mrs. Hooke is dead? Who is Sairy?”

  “She was their new maidservant,” Mary replied. “She came to Mrs. Hooke soon after you left.”

  “And they have taken Sairy?” I asked. “Has she confessed?”

  “They haven’t found her yet, but they’ve raised a hue and cry,” Mary said. “A man went to the city to watch the gate. The others are about to begin their search of the roads and countryside.” She gestured toward a group of men, some on horse, some on foot, who were preparing to depart.

  “How is Richard? Have you seen him?” I asked.

  “Mad with grief, as you’d imagine. He lost both his parents in a few months!”

  “Poor lad,” I said. “Poor lad.”

  I was careful to bide my time, remaining in the yard until Richard came outside and saw me. Grief creased his face as soon as I caught his eye, and he motioned for me to meet him inside. I found him in the kitchen and he drew me into my old room.

  “Thank God you are here,” he cried out as soon as we closed the door. “What happened? Where were you last night? We were to meet!”

  “I am sorry, my love.” I took his hands in mine. “I did not reach the gate until the guards had closed it, so I could not leave the city until this morning. I came as soon as they opened, only to discover … this. Is it true what they are saying? That Sairy–?”

  “Aye,” Richard said. “She killed my mother as she slept, and fled with all our ready cash.” Richard paused as if he’d had a terrible revelation. “Thank the Lord you did not see her on the road! She might have killed you as well, and then where would I be?” He sat on the bed and wept.

  I sat next to him and put my arms around his shoulders. He buried his face in my neck and began to sob in earnest.

  When his tears had stopped, I took his face in my hands.

  “Richard,” I said. “This is far from the best time to tell you this, but I have some happier news.”

  He looked at me for a moment and then down at my belly.

  “The child!” he cried. “You have given birth?”

  “You have a son,” I replied. “I left him with a nurse in the city. He is as strong a bairn as you have ever seen.”

  Richard threw his arms around me, and I counted myself the luckiest woman in England that he’d been born with dull wits and a kind heart. He could not fathom that he was not James’s father, and I had no doubt that he would reject any suggestions to the contrary. Here was a man I could marry without fear.

  Richard and I went into the yard and awaited news of the search for Sairy. As sunset approached, a rider crested a hill and raced toward us. He came from the north, where I’d left Sairy’s body. I said a prayer that they had discovered her.

  “Richard,” the man called out, even as he dismounted. “They have found the maid.”

  “Thank God,” Richard cried. “And she is taken?”

  “She is taken to York,” he replied. “At least her body is.”

  “She is dead?” I asked.

  “Matthew Parker found her in a streambed near one of his crofts. She’d fallen down the gullet in the dark. She hit her head on a stone and drowned.” He reached into the sumpter on the back of his horse and produced the bag of coins I’d stolen the night before. “She still had your money with her.”

  Richard took the bag and stared about the yard in wonder. I held my breath for what seemed an eternity, not daring to believe that my scheme had come together so perfectly. When Richard embraced me, I knew that I had angled him well and now he was mine.

  I stayed that night with Richard–in my old bed, of course–and the next morning we sent for James. The smile on Richard’s face when he saw the boy was brighter than a thousand suns, and warmed me to my marrow. He would be a good father, better than his own at least.

  Soon after–once we’d buried his mother, of course–Richard and I were married, and I convinced him to rent his lands and house and move into York. We lived poorly for a time, but I had no doubt that if I ruled him well, he would thrive in trade. After all I had done to make him my husband, making him rich would be nothing at all.

  Over the years that followed, I slowly built our estate. I began by storing grain when it was plentiful and selling it when it was dear. Richard objected on Christian grounds, but I would not allow his quibbling to distract me from my goal. With the money from this trade, we bought more land and I entered the clothing trade, buying
and selling fine linen and silks. Sweet, stupid Richard had no head for money, but knew enough to listen to me, and that was all I wanted.

  Unfortunately, while we proved fruitful in business, within a year it became clear–to me, at least–that Richard could not father a child. We both hoped to surround ourselves with children, and tried all the remedies we could find, but to no avail. Finally, at Richard’s urging, I went to Fossgate parish and sought out Mrs. Bairstow. Perhaps the midwife who had delivered me of James could offer some help.

  I found her living in the same house were I’d travailed. Without the bruises and in a much finer dress than the last time I’d come, she hardly recognized me.

  “Well, I’m glad you convinced the child’s father to marry you,” she said. “And the two of you seem to be doing very well.”

  “Richard is a good man and we are happy,” I said. “But I do not think that he can father a child.”

  It did not take Mrs. Bairstow long to recognize the meaning of my words.

  “You cannot tell anyone that my husband is not James’s father,” I said. “I did nothing wrong, but he would hate me all the same.”

  “Who is the true father?” Mrs. Bairstow asked. “Tell me what happened.”

  “My husband’s father raped me when I was in service. The boy is my husband’s half brother.”

  Even so subtle a woman as Mrs. Bairstow could not hide her shock at this news, but she quickly recovered herself.

  “I am sorry for that,” she said. “Where is he now?”

  “The father?” I asked. “Dead of a stroke some years ago.”

  Mrs. Bairstow stared at me for a time, considering her decision carefully.

  “Tell your husband that the violence of James’s birth deformed your matrix,” she said. “That is why his seed can find no purchase.”

  I bowed my head in thanks. “You will tell nobody?”

  “I’m as discreet a midwife as you’ll find,” Mrs. Bairstow replied. “You would be surprised at the secrets I am asked to keep.”

  In an instant, my memory returned to the day of my travail, when she had chased away an angry crowd of women with nothing more than a few choice words.