by Sam Thomas
“Then you know what pleasure he took from seeing me grovel.”
I imagined the shame Will must have felt at having to abase himself before one of his father’s servants. I resolved to speak with Edward about how he treated Will. I had done so before to no great effect, but when I saw the anger in Will’s face, I knew I could not abandon the fight.
“Will, where did the pamphlet come from?” Martha asked. She put her hand on Will’s arm in the hope of comforting him and it seemed to help. I said a prayer of thanks that she’d found a way to steer the conversation away from Will’s latest humiliation.
“We don’t know,” Will said. “My father is furious. He sent Joseph to arrest the printer, so we should find out soon enough. But I thought you should see it as soon as possible.”
I nodded and continued reading the pamphlet aloud. “The principal cause for God’s punishment was for the terrifying of all such whores and whoremongers so they might be assured that they could not sin secretly. They shall be discovered and punished as God sees fit. The bodies of these wretches died last night, but God will see that their souls suffer eternally in easeless and endless flames of fire and brimstone.”
I stopped for a moment, scrambling to remember where I’d heard those words before … easeless and endless flames of fire and brimstone. Then I remembered.
“The preacher!” I cried. “Hezekiah Ward. When I saw him on the bridge, he cried out for ‘easeless and endless’ punishments for whores and whoremongers.”
“Then whoever wrote this pamphlet heard the sermon,” Martha said. “He must have been in the crowd with you.”
I continued to read, now more closely and with a greater sense of urgency. My eyes caught a note printed in the margin. Num: 25:8.
“Dear Lord,” I said. “Will, how thoroughly did your father read this?”
“I don’t know. He flew into a rage as soon as it arrived, and sent Joseph out. What is it?”
“This,” I said, pointing to the note.
“Numbers, chapter twenty-five, verse eight?” Will asked. “What does that mean?”
“It’s the same verse that the murderer put in Jennet’s hand after he killed her,” Martha said. “The murderer and the author must be the same man.”
Without another word, the three of us rushed to the door.
* * *
As Martha, Will, and I hurried across Ouse Bridge toward Edward’s home, I described for Will what we’d seen at Jennet’s the previous day.
“And you think the murderer is also behind the pamphlet?” Will asked.
“He must be,” Martha replied. “How else is it that the killer and the pamphleteer cited the same verse?”
We moved to the side of the street to make room for a carriage as it crossed the bridge to the north. When we reached Edward’s home, his servant ushered us into his study immediately. He sat behind his desk, his face pale and drawn. He glanced at Martha and Will when they followed me in, but he did not question their presence.
“Lady Bridget,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “What brings you to this side of the river?” I could tell that he hoped my visit was unrelated to the murders.
“We saw the pamphlet about Jennet Porter’s murder,” I said without preamble. “The author used the same verse that the murderer placed in Jennet’s hand.”
Edward offered a thin smile. “Why am I not surprised you noticed? You’d have made a fine Justice of the Peace.”
“I’m a better midwife and do far more good than any Justice,” I replied. I was in no mood for his compliments.
He looked again at Will and Martha, before returning his attention to me. They’d proven themselves valuable in the past, and by letting them stay he admitted as much. But he would never say so in their presence.
“You knew I would recognize the verse,” Edward said. “Why have you come?”
“There is more to it than just the verse,” I said. “The pamphlet says that whores will suffer easeless and endless flames of fire and brimstone.” I paused. “The day before the murder, I heard a sermon by Hezekiah Ward. He used exactly those words. Edward, the murderer and the pamphleteer are the same man, and he is one of Mr. Ward’s followers. He is one of the godly.”
Edward considered what I had said before he answered. “The murderer is a madman, that is clear enough,” he replied at last. “But he is hardly one of the godly.” He paused again, choosing his words carefully. “However, it is possible that a lunatic has sought refuge among Mr. Ward’s people. If that is so, we must ensure that justice is swift and sure. It would be a terrible thing if good men were tarred by a lunatic’s murderous actions.”
Will laughed scornfully. “The only reason you want justice to be swift and sure is that half the Aldermen have wrapped their arms around Hezekiah Ward and preachers like him. And you are chief among them, aren’t you? The last thing you want is for the murderer to splatter mud on your godly suit.”
“Will, please,” I said. “Now is not the time.”
“Not the time to speak the truth, Aunt Bridget?” Will replied with a sneer. “You know as well as I do that he doesn’t care about the murders. The man was a stranger to the city, and the woman just a whore. If anything, he believes that they received their just deserts.” Will turned and addressed his father. “But you do care about power, don’t you? The city is already chafing under your rule, for the people—the reprobate, you call them—prefer dicing to preaching. If the city learned that a Puritan had killed two people, and had done it in the name of God, all of York would turn against you.”
“Will, stop,” I said. “Please.” I could see the color rising in Edward’s cheeks, and knew that he would not tolerate much more of this lecture before lashing out at Will. But Will was in no condition to listen.
“You can no more force the people into goodness than you can hound me into sobriety,” Will continued.
“The Lord used the whip to correct Israel, His chosen people,” Edward replied through clenched teeth. I could see him struggling to control his wrath, and said a prayer that he would succeed. “It is what He demands of me and all who have authority over His people.”
When I saw that Will was prepared to continue the argument, I tried to intervene, but someone else spoke before I could.
“Our father is right, brother,” Joseph said. I turned in surprise, for I’d not heard him enter the room. “We can turn York into a city on a hill, set an example for all England to follow. Think of it: a city without drunkards and whores defiling their bodies and souls.” He looked at me. “Aunt Bridget, can you imagine a city without masters getting their maidservants with child? Without bastard-bearers abandoning their children in privies or throwing them in the river? That is all we want.” He spoke with such sincerity I wanted desperately to believe that so perfect a city was possible. After a moment I shook my head.
“I do not think the people will be so easily reformed,” I replied. “Free use of stocks and whips would not have kept Jennet Porter from her whoredom. Such women fear hunger more than the lash, and men will always be slave to their passions.” I paused and turned to Edward. “Have you considered the possibility that the murderer will kill again? If he believes he is doing the Lord’s work, he will not stop.”
“That is my fear,” he said, nodding solemnly.
“Then Martha, Will, and I will do our best to stop him,” I replied. Edward started to object, but I would not let him. “The whores will never speak to you or any of the constables. You need us.”
Edward hesitated before nodding. “But talking to whores is all you will do,” he said. “You will not disturb Mr. Ward or his people. And if you learn anything, you must tell me or Joseph.”
I agreed. I had no intention of serving as one of Edward’s beadles, but knew I could never persuade him to agree to anything more than this. It seemed that Martha, Will, and I would be working on our own, just as we had the year before.
“Joseph, have you brought the printer?” Edward asked
.
“Better than that,” Joseph replied. “We have the author.”
Edward’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Already? How?” Edward was clearly impressed by his son’s efficiency.
“The printer led us straight to his door,” Joseph said. “And the man doesn’t deny it.”
“Send him in,” Edward said. “We will question him immediately.” It seemed we were dismissed.
Will, Martha, and I followed Joseph into the entry hall. I gasped aloud at the sight of the prisoner. He was the same giant of a man I’d seen with Hezekiah Ward after the sermon on Ouse Bridge, but he seemed even larger now that I found myself near him. He must have weighed nearly as much as the beadles together. His hands twisted and turned in the manacles, though I wondered if he could simply have broken the chains with one swift pull. My skin crawled as his small, black eyes slid over me before settling on Edward, who stood in the doorway. The prisoner radiated violence and malice in every way imaginable.
“You had your men bring me here?” he demanded of Edward.
“You wrote a pamphlet about a murder, and I will know how you heard of it,” Edward replied.
“Will you imprison me for doing the Lord’s work?” the stranger hissed. “What word in my book is not the truth? Were those two not sinners? Were they not struck down by the hand of God?”
Edward ignored the questions. “Take him to my study and sit him down,” he said to the beadles. “And keep him in his seat.” Edward followed the men into his study and closed the door behind him.
“What do you know about him?” I asked Joseph.
“He’s John Stubb,” Joseph said. “The printer said he brought the pamphlet last night, and demanded he print it immediately. Stubb let him print and sell however many copies he wanted, so long as he got a hundred. Stubb had only a few left when we found him. The rest are spread throughout the city.”
“Who is he?” I asked. “He’s not from York.”
“He came here with Hezekiah Ward. He said he’s been following Mr. Ward for six months now.” Joseph paused. “It’s strange—I knew Stubb a little when I was with Cromwell, but I never thought I’d see him again. He was a godly man then, but certainly not like this.”
“How did he know about the murders?” I asked.
“I demanded that of him, but he refused to say. He said he wrote to glorify God, and would not answer to any man. I should attend my father,” he said, and disappeared into Edward’s study.
I looked at Will and raised an eyebrow. He nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out and send word to you immediately,” he said, before following Joseph.
Chapter 6
“What do you make of Mr. Stubb?” Martha asked as we approached the Ouse Bridge. “Could it be so easy to find the killer?”
“Perhaps this time the simplest explanation is the correct one,” I said. “Stubb knows more about the crime than he should, and he used the same verse we found in Jennet’s hand in the pamphlet. And he surely is big enough to have killed two people by himself.” I paused, examining the idea of Stubb’s guilt in my head. “But why would he announce his guilt so publicly? Surely he must have known someone would notice the verses.”
“Perhaps he thought God would conceal him,” Martha said. I thought I detected a mischievous lilt in her voice. She meant to mock him, but she could also be right.
“Perhaps he did,” I said. “Men who believe they are doing the Lord’s work can convince themselves of many things.”
As we crossed the bridge I heard a voice calling my name. I looked up to find a girl of perhaps sixteen years running toward me. “Are you Lady Hodgson?” she asked breathlessly. I nodded. “Thank the Lord I found you!” she cried as she curtsied. “My mistress sent me. I came first to your home, and your maidservant said you had gone to Mr. Hodgson’s. I couldn’t find his house, so I waited on the bridge.”
“Who is your mistress?” I asked. “What is the hurry?”
“I am with Dorothy Mann,” she said. “She asks for your help with a woman in travail.” At her words, I felt my pulse quicken. Dorothy was a longtime friend and sister midwife in the city. We had worked together on many births, and I knew her to be skilled in the art. If she needed help, either the labor had gone on for days and she was exhausted, or something had gone terribly wrong. Whatever the case, I knew it would prove to be a difficult delivery.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“With one of her neighbors in the Pavement,” the girl said. “She asked you to come straightaway. The mother lives in an alley near the church there. I can take you.” I turned to Martha.
“Go home and get my bag. I’ll send the girl for you as soon as I arrive.” Martha nodded and disappeared into the crowd.
The girl and I crossed Coneystreet and turned down an alley. The relative cool of the shadows made the stench rising from the gutter a bit more bearable. With no rain to cleanse the streets, some parts of the city smelled more like a jakes than a neighborhood. We came to a low door and the girl knocked before opening it. As soon as I stepped into the home, I knew that the mother and child were in grave danger.
The woman—girl, really—lay closer to death than life. Her arms were little more than bones with skin hanging off them and her face bespoke the difficulty of her travail. Were it not for the greatness of her belly, I would have put her age at perhaps twelve years. Dorothy sat on the bed holding her hand. Even though the girl seemed to be asleep, Dorothy whispered words of encouragement in her ear. When she saw me, Dorothy gestured me over to the bed. When I sat, the girl didn’t even open her eyes.
“What has happened?” I asked Dorothy.
“I only arrived an hour ago,” she said. “The girl—Sarah Stone’s her name—hoped to give birth in secret, with just her mother attending her.” She nodded toward an older woman sitting on a stool against the wall, asleep.
“The child is a bastard?”
“Aye. A local boy promised her marriage but was taken into the army. She’s not heard from him in months. She was afraid of the whipping that would come if she were discovered to be with a bastard. Her mother tended her as best she could, but the child wouldn’t come. When she lost hope of delivering the child herself, she summoned me.”
The girl moaned as a labor pang struck her, but she did not wake. Dorothy gazed at the girl to ensure her eyes were closed, looked at me, and shook her head slightly. She held out no hope for the child.
“Can you tell the problem?” I asked.
“It could be the heat,” she said. “It constricted a woman I delivered last week, and I had to use goose grease.”
I nodded. I hadn’t noticed abnormal tightness in my clients, but it would not surprise me.
“Do you have what we will need?” I asked.
“Need?” she said, but I could tell from her expression that she knew what I meant. In cases in which a mother could not deliver her child, it fell to the midwife to do so using crochets, hooks, and knives. I had delivered only two mothers in such a fashion, and none since Martha had come to my house, but memories of these women still came to me as I slept. In my dreams I heard the dying child crying out from within his mother’s womb. I would awake to find the infant’s cries were my own. I never tried to go back to sleep on such nights.
Dorothy shook her head. “I don’t keep my tools in my bag,” she said. “It’s an ill omen. I can send my girl for them.”
“There is no need,” I said. “Martha will be here soon, and she will have mine. Pray God we will not need them. How long has she been asleep?”
“About half an hour. The labor pains have lessened some.”
“We should wake her. There is nothing to be gained by waiting.” It took some doing, but Dorothy managed to bring Sarah to her senses. She looked at me in alarm, her sunken cheeks and bulging eyes giving her a look more gargoyle than human.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “My mother and Mrs. Mann are going to deliver me. Why have you come?” Her voic
e rose as she gradually realized that if Dorothy had brought in another midwife, something must have gone wrong.
“Hush, child,” I said. “Mrs. Mann and I often work together—you will be safe.”
“What about my baby?” she said. “Will he be safe?”
I could not tell her the truth, of course. If she lost hope, she might prove unable to deliver the child at all, and then her life would be in danger as well. “We will see,” I said. “The most important thing is that we deliver him as quickly as we can. You are both weakened.”
The girl bit her lip and nodded. I admired her courage and lamented the sorrow that the rest of the day would hold for her. I felt her breasts and despaired when I found them slack; Nature provides no milk for a stillborn child. Her belly was not so cold as I would have expected if the child had died, but with the summer heat, it could not mean much. When I examined the girl’s privities, I noticed that the humors were not corrupted. I felt a flicker of hope that the child might not be dead, but reprimanded myself for entertaining such fanciful thoughts and pushed them away before they made their way into my eyes. If the child had died earlier that day, many of the signs would be wanting, and I did not want to give the girl false hope.
“Do you have an eaglestone?” I asked Dorothy. Before I made the decision to use tools, I would give Sarah one more opportunity to deliver the child—dead or no—without resorting to instruments. Dorothy brought me her eaglestone. I held it out to Sarah and shook it. She offered a wan smile when the stone rattled.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s an eaglestone—a stone inside a stone, so it mimics the child within you.”
Sarah smiled again at the idea. “What does it do?”
“It is said to help speed labor if the child is weak.” I did not tell her that most midwives doubted it worked, or that her child probably was beyond saving. I also knew it couldn’t do any harm, and if it gave her hope enough to survive her travail, then it had served its purpose. I asked Dorothy for a mix of pepper and hellebore. When everything was ready, I turned to Sarah.
