by Sam Thomas
“Women such as these,” Ward roared, “with their lewd acts and unclean lives, beg the Lord to strike them down, and to punish those who permit them to sell their wares to all comers. And in days of late, we have seen the sad fruit of such acts. Who among us has not heard of the terrible judgment visited upon a whore and whoremonger just days ago? And who among us can argue that this fate was not just?”
If any in the crowd questioned the justice of slaughtering a young woman and disfiguring her privities, he did not say so, for the only cries I heard were Amen! Amen!
I looked at the crowd that had gathered to hear Ward preach. They were a strange mix indeed: respectable shopkeepers and merchants, hoping for both personal salvation and the moral regeneration of the city; ignorant servants and apprentices caught up with godly enthusiasm; citizens who wanted nothing more than deliverance from the terrible heat. Others seemed to be there simply for amusement, for they stood on the edges of the crowd and whispered behind their hands.
Closer to Ward, I saw members of his party. Stubb stood out above the rest, of course, but I’d started to recognize others. There was a tall, cadaverous man with a crooked nose, and a woman who seemed his opposite, short, plump, and pretty; both had been with Deborah Ward when she came to the Castle to preach to Barbara Rearsby. These two stared at Ward with a fever burning in their eyes, repeating Ward’s sermon to themselves just as Stubb had at the Pavement.
“How do the wicked become so bold and presumptuous as to fall upon their sin with the greediness of pigs at the trough?” Ward asked. “I tell you this: Whores, whoremongers, and adulterers are so cunning in their uncleanness that they believe that nobody knows of their sin. It is a mystery of their iniquity that they think they are safe if they can sin in secret. But I ask you, is any sin hidden from the Lord?” No! No! cried the crowd. “No, it is not,” Ward confirmed. “The Lord sees all sin and condemns all sin!”
“Well, at least he’s turned against the adulterers,” Martha said. “Perhaps the killer will follow suit, and leave the whores to themselves.”
“In the book of Deuteronomy,” Ward continued, “God says that there shall be no whores among the daughters of Israel. Yet here in England, in this new Israel, we are overrun with such baggage, such vile streetwalkers. And we well know that God will be revenged on such carrion. I hope, I truly hope and pray, that by the destruction of their flesh, their souls may be saved.”
I looked at Martha, and could tell that she, too, recognized these words—Silence had said the same thing in the Three Crowns.
“Has he preached this sermon before?” she murmured to me. “How else would she know what he would say?” I shook my head but did not respond. I now wanted to hear more from Ward.
“There are some who will have pity on such whores. To these people I say that we should find joy not only in God’s mercy, but also in the terrible and just punishment of his enemies. And you should make no mistake: whores are enemies unto God, for they draw good men into sin! It is no cruelty to rejoice when whores are subjected to God’s justice, however bloody. Nay, in God’s mind, cruelty lies in the foolish pity of men. We should not pity the sinner; rather we should hate him. But that hate must be a special hate.”
Ward paused. The audience hung on his every word as if he were the Apostle himself rather than a half-blind old man with a fevered brain. “Your hatred must be a charitable hatred. It must be a Christian hatred.” The crowd burst out with another chorus of Amens, this one louder and longer than the last. Apparently they approved of bloody justice and Christian hatred.
“Has the city gone lunatic?” Martha cried out, unable to contain her outrage. “This man is a madbrain!”
I elbowed Martha hard in the ribs. “This is not the time or place,” I hissed.
She nodded, rubbing her side where I’d hit her, but my warning came too late.
I watched in horror as those around us who had heard her words began to point her out to others and whisper behind their hands.
“A madbrain, is he?” A stout man stepped forward to speak for the group. They’d become more intent on defending Ward than on hearing his words. “What kind of woman says such things?”
From his fine clothes, I took him for one of the better sort rather than some rogue unconcerned with the law or with manners. Ordinarily I would have stepped in, claimed Martha as my own, and put an end to the business. But the feverish glint in his eye told me that on this day, in the midst of this sermon, the old order meant nothing to him. Only the word of God—as he understood it—mattered.
“I’ll tell you what kind of woman,” he went on. “A whore.”
The blood rose in Martha’s cheeks, and I could tell that if the man said one more word, he would learn that she was no common maidservant but that she could hold her own in a brawl. The man took a step forward, with his fellows close behind.
“Come closer and I’ll have your eyes out,” Martha hissed.
“Will, you’ve got to get us out of here,” I whispered.
Without hesitating, Will stepped forward and drove his fist into our antagonist’s stomach. When the man doubled over, gasping for breath, Will shoved him into the crowd, knocking people about as if it were a game of bowls. Will thrust his cane into my hands, grasped Martha and me by our elbows, and led us down Stonegate the way we’d come. Within a few yards, the crowd thinned and we were able to escape the chaos we had helped create.
“I didn’t need your help,” Martha said in mock anger. “He was a soft one at heart, and once he went down, the rest would run for their lives.”
Will laughed. “I was just trying to save him the embarrassment of being thrashed by a woman. It was the Christian thing to do, really.”
I could not help smiling, but we all knew that Ward’s sermon had lit a fuse. If we did not find Jennet’s killer soon, another woman would die.
* * *
That night I lay in bed unable to sleep. It wasn’t the heat—or at least it wasn’t only the heat, though it was bad enough. It was the knowledge that at that very moment, Jennet’s murderer could be hunting another of the city’s whores. I did not put any stock in Silence Ward’s claim that God had struck down Jennet for her sins, or that the murderer was doing His work. But if it were true, I hoped that He would treat the killer the same way. Indeed the city was full of dangers: a tile could fall from a roof and dash out the killer’s brains; he could fall in the Ouse and drown; he could choke on a meat pie; or tumble down the stairs and break his neck.
But in my heart, I did not believe God would act to stop the murderer. If God truly dispensed justice, where was He now? Perhaps I had spent too much time in Martha’s blasphemous company, or had seen too many children buried before their parents. The God I knew was no longer the kind and benevolent figure I’d known in my youth, and He had no interest in worldly justice. He’d taken my husband and my children, loosed war upon England and a murderer upon York. He was a hard God, this one. I could petition, and I could hope, but I had no illusions that He’d listen.
Finally, I climbed out of bed and crept downstairs to get a glass of barley water. I took it to the parlor and sat, gazing out at the darkened street. I must have dozed, for I awoke to see Martha descending the stairs. She, too, went to the kitchen and returned with a glass.
“Martha,” I said softly.
“Oh, Christ!” she gasped, nearly dropping her water. “You scared the life out of me.” She regained command of herself and joined me in the parlor.
“What has you awake?” I asked.
“I’m worried what the morning will bring,” she said, looking out the window at the city. “If the murderer heard that sermon, if he believes that he can turn York into a city of God, how could he resist killing another woman? I suppose I am just not one for Ward’s charitable hatred.”
We sat in silence for a while longer. In so many other situations, I could shape events or force those below me to do my bidding. But as I’d learned at that afternoon’s sermon, such
was no longer the case even for the city’s better sort. Ward had replaced order with disorder, and I could not help seeing the murders as another sign of the chaos he’d wrought. I felt this new powerlessness in my bones and did not relish the sensation. After a few minutes more, as if by silent agreement, Martha and I rose and returned to our beds. I drifted off to sleep sure that the next morning would bring news of another murdered whore.
* * *
When I awoke, the sun had just peered over the horizon. From my window I searched the sky for some sign of clouds but found none. I descended the stairs, intending to join Martha and Hannah in the kitchen, but as I passed through the entry hall, I noticed that someone had slipped a sheet of paper under my door. I bent to retrieve it with a sense of dread; if it were from a friend, the messenger surely would have knocked. I opened the letter.
Be warned, vile whore! God will suffer no man to do His prophets wrong: yea, He reproved kings for the sake of His prophets, saying, Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no harm! Moreover, he called for a drought upon the land. The Lord will have His revenge on you and yours if you continue in your sinful courses. If you oppose His prophets, He will strike you down, just has He has other whores who have ignored His will!
As I read, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Ink stained the page where the author had pressed too hard, and in a few places the tip of the quill had torn through the paper. Whoever had written the letter had done so in high dudgeon, wielding the quill as he would a knife. The letter reeked of violence, both in the words and in the writing.
“Martha, Hannah!” I called out. I could hear a tremor in my voice. When they arrived, I showed them the paper. “I found this under the door—did you notice it when you came down?”
Martha shook her head. “I swept the entry not long ago, and would have seen it then. It must have just arrived.” She read the note. “Does the letter draw from the Bible?” she asked.
“Psalms,” I said. I knew what she was thinking.
“It’s not so different than what the murderer did,” she said. “He’s using the Bible to threaten murder rather than justify it.”
Despite the morning’s heat, my skin suddenly felt cold and clammy. In the process of searching for a murderer, had I unwittingly caught his eye? I found myself peering out my front window, as if whoever had left the note might still be there.
“It might not be the murderer,” Martha said. “Mr. Ward’s followers are fanatic enough that any one of them might have written it.”
A note of caution—or was it fear?—had crept into her voice. I could not tell if she truly believed that the murderer might not have sent the letter, or if she merely hoped that he hadn’t. She had never been one to frighten easily, and if the note made her nervous, I was all the more concerned. I folded the paper and tucked it into my apron.
“We cannot know,” I replied. “We will simply have to be careful.” My mind returned to the strange couple I’d seen first at the Castle and then again at the previous day’s sermon: the tall, gaunt man and the short, pretty woman. They had witnessed Praise-God’s thrashing by Samuel, and Deborah’s humiliation at my hands. Might one of them have leaped to the Wards’ defense?
A knock at the door made us all jump. Martha peered out the window. “It’s a maidservant,” she said. “One I know from the market.” She opened the door and the servant handed her a note.
“Eleanor Hutchinson began her travail last night,” Martha said as she read. “Her time is not yet arrived, but she would like for us to come.”
“Good,” I said. I think we were both relived that the note heralded a birth rather than another death. Martha and I gathered our tools and departed.
Eleanor Hutchinson lived in St. Michael’s parish, not far from the Minster itself. I’d delivered her of two other children, both girls. One had died in her sixth month; the other passed on to God just before she was to reach her second birthday. As we walked, I prayed that this child would avoid the fate of the first two.
When we arrived, the gossips had already filled the room with their chatter, and Eleanor seemed to be doing well. She was relaxed in her shift as she stood with her friends, drinking spiced wine. The women greeted Martha and me and while Martha assembled my birthing stool, I examined Eleanor and the baby. All seemed in order, so we returned to the merry business of gossiping.
Before long the talk turned to Jennet’s murder, and it soon became clear that the ghastly details related in Stubb’s pamphlet had spread throughout the city. Thankfully, none of the women knew that I had seen the bodies, else I would have been besieged by questions, and Eleanor would have had to deliver the child herself.
“Well, God says that the wages of sin are death,” volunteered one woman. “And if we’ll not heed God’s voice even as the sun burns the city to a cinder, perhaps we’ll do so when He drowns us in blood.”
She spoke with too much satisfaction for my taste, and I could see Martha’s jaw tighten as she worked to hold her tongue. I knew she ached to speak her mind, but as a midwife, she had to keep the peace. Our eyes met, and I nodded my approval at her discretion.
“That’s not right, Sairy!” Even though she was in travail, Eleanor would not let such an idea pass unchallenged. “God is not so cruel as to lay the sins of the city on one whore’s shoulders. I cannot believe it.”
“It is not cruelty,” Sairy replied, rising to her feet. “It would be cruel for God to let us continue unchecked in our sinful ways. It would be cruel for God not to warn us. While His mercy is without end, His patience is not. If the magistrates are so weak that they will not restrain sin, God will do it for them.”
At this, the conversation spread through the room, and the women began to debate questions of God’s will, asking whether the terrible summer heat was His doing, and wondering about the duty of magistrates to punish sinners. If Edward were to hear women discussing such weighty issues I felt quite sure he would die of apoplexy. In his mind, such questions were for men to decide.
Even as the women warmed to the topic, another gossip came in with news that changed the conversation to more immediate and bloody matters.
“I heard that there has been another murder,” she whispered loudly enough for all to hear. “Another whore,” she added, just so there could be no mistake. Martha and I looked at each other warily.
“How do you know?” the other women asked. “Who is it?” God’s justice had been forgotten in favor of man’s cruelty.
“There was a crowd outside a tenement in St. John-del-Pyke. Your brother-in-law, Mr. Hodgson, was there,” she said, looking at me. “He wouldn’t say what the matter was. He had that new man with him—the one with three fingers. He tried to chase away all who came, but Mary Marshall heard there were two bodies inside, just like the last time.”
Martha and I retreated to the relative privacy of the kitchen.
“What should we do?” she asked.
“I should like to go see what has happened,” I said. “If there has been another murder, I want to see the bodies before anyone moves them.”
“What about Mrs. Hutchinson?”
“The neck of her womb is still closed,” I replied. “The child won’t come for hours. I will talk to her.” Martha and I returned to the birthing chamber and took Eleanor aside.
“Eleanor,” I said. “I am afraid I must go out for a time.”
“The murders?” she asked.
I nodded. “I am helping my brother-in-law in his search for the killer, so I must see what has happened.”
“But my travail,” she said. “What if the child comes while you are gone?”
I put my hand on her arm in an effort to reassure her. “The baby will not be here until the afternoon, so we have plenty of time,” I said. “Martha and the other women will stay with you until I return. Martha is an able deputy, and I would happily have her as my own midwife.”
“But you will return?” Her eyes shifted between me and Martha.
“You will be in travail for many hours yet,” I said. “And I’ll be just a few minutes’ walk away in St. John-del-Pyke. If anything happens, Martha will send for me. It’s not far and I’ll be able to return in plenty of time.”
Martha took Eleanor’s hand and looked into her eyes. “Lady Hodgson has taught me well,” she said. “I promise that I will not let any misfortune befall you or your baby.”
I admired the authority with which Martha spoke. Above all else, a midwife had to comfort the mother, and only a year into her apprenticeship, Martha could do that with ease. Martha’s words reassured Eleanor, and she nodded in agreement.
I slipped out of the house and made my way past the Minster, into St. John-del-Pyke. The only saving grace of St. John’s was that the overhanging eaves of the parish’s tenements kept the full fury of the sun from reaching the cramped and winding streets. It was also small enough that the first shopkeeper I asked had heard rumors of the murders, and pointed me to the right building.
It was not hard to see where the murder had taken place—a crowd had gathered at the entrance to a small courtyard. A member of the town watch stood in the passage, barring all who would enter. I worked my way to the front of the crowd.
“Mr. Hodgson has sent for me,” I told the watchman. He nodded and stepped aside. I hoped Edward would not reprimand him too severely; what was the poor man to do, call a gentlewoman a liar?
Edward stood outside the door to a building that even among its poorly wrought neighbors seemed especially close to collapse. As I’d expected, Mark Preston stood at Edward’s side. I was surprised, however, to see Stephen, the young man we’d met at Helen Wright’s, standing with them. Had the murderer killed another of the whores who worked for Helen? I had only a moment to wonder at that question before Edward saw me. His face clouded, but then he recovered himself and crossed the courtyard to meet me. A slight tremor in his hands told me that this scene would be no less terrible than the last. I readied myself as best I could, and stepped forward to see what our killer had done this time.
