The Harlot's Tale (The Midwife's Tale)

by Sam Thomas

  * * *

  The next day my strange little family went to St. Helen’s church for the morning service. Only Hannah did not suffer from too much wine. Will and Martha both drowsed for a time, and I had to bite my cheek to keep from following suit. As the morning’s half of the service ended, Mr. Wilson, our longtime parish minister, ascended the pulpit and called for our attention.

  “This afternoon’s sermon will be delivered by Mr. Hezekiah Ward, a famous preacher newly come to the city.”

  I looked over at Will and Martha. They both sat straight in their seats, staring at Mr. Wilson. He had their attention now.

  “The text for his sermon,” Mr. Wilson continued, “will be from Jeremiah, chapter thirteen. I have seen thy adulteries and the lewdness of thy whoredom, and thy abominations on the hills in the fields: woe unto thee, O Jerusalem, wilt thou not be made clean?”

  “Ah, Christ have mercy,” Martha muttered.

  I could not have agreed more.

  Chapter 15

  “How is it that Ward is preaching here?” I hissed in the churchwarden’s ear as we made our way up the aisle and into the blazing heat of the day. The sun seared my eyes, but I would not be stopped. “Have I not made clear my feelings about such fanatics?” As a woman, I could not serve on the parish vestry, of course, but I’d given more than my fair share to the church and the parish poor, so I expected to be heard and heeded on matters such as this.

  “I am sorry, Lady Hodgson,” the churchwarden stammered. “The vestrymen did not meet to discuss the matter. I only learned of Mr. Wilson’s decision this morning.” The poor man looked as if he were about to cry. He was the newest vestryman and must have worried I’d drive him from office. I turned him loose, and found Will and Martha.

  “Well, that will certainly make it easier to watch the Wards,” Will said.

  “I’ll speak to Mr. Wilson,” I said. “This time we may be able to prevent his preaching, or delay the sermon to another Sunday. Once we’ve caught the murderer, his sermons will be less dangerous.”

  The three of us waited at the church door for the minister to come out. Mr. Wilson had been vicar of St. Helen’s for decades, and while he remained a neutralist in our nation’s wars, it was clear to us all that he’d never taken to the ranting style of men like Ward. Despite his aged frame, he walked with the steady gate of a man who knew his place in the community, and felt confident of his own salvation. I could not imagine why he’d ceded his pulpit to Ward.

  “Mr. Wilson,” I said. “Might I have a word?”

  He smiled as he came to greet me. We had dined together on many occasions, and he knew who the parish’s benefactors were. The sun accentuated the lines on his face, which had been deepened by the strains of England’s war of religion.

  “Lady Hodgson, how are you?” he asked with a bow. Somehow, despite the heat and his dark robes, he appeared to be as comfortable as he would have been on a mild spring morning. “I take it you will attend Mrs. Elliott’s churching this afternoon?” Jane Elliott had given birth the month before, and this week marked the end of her confinement. I’d had the sad duty of laying out her infant son for burial just two weeks after he was born, so there would be a certain melancholy about the ceremony.

  “Of course,” I said. “Mr. Elliott has promised to provide ample entertainment afterward. I would not dare miss it!” Mr. Wilson and I talked of parish news a bit longer and then I addressed my real concern. “When did you decide to allow Mr. Ward into your pulpit?”

  A pained look crossed Mr. Wilson’s face.

  “It was not my doing, Lady Hodgson,” he said. “You know I do not approve of the hot gospellers, and I would never willingly turn one loose among my flock.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Your nephew Joseph and the other godly Aldermen happened,” he replied with a snort. “It is all that the sober-minded clergy in the city can talk about. Joseph is pushing his ministers into all of York’s parishes. If a minister refuses to cooperate, Joseph threatens to eject him from his position. If I refused the ‘offer’ of Mr. Ward’s services, I could be put out of the parish! What would happen to my people then?”

  “You know I’d never allow that,” I said. “I still have some power in the city.”

  “Not so much as you might think, my lady.” The vicar was old enough to speak frankly, and I did not begrudge him this right. “And if allowing Mr. Ward to preach every now and again is the price for keeping my people safe, then I’ll pay it. There is nothing he can say in public that I can’t unsay in private. But the sad case is that there is nothing I can do to keep him from preaching.”

  I could see Mr. Wilson’s point, but I nevertheless fretted and fumed all the way back to my house. I was angry not just at the imposition of Ward upon my parish, though that was infuriating enough, but at the role Joseph had played in the invasion.

  “Why would Joseph do such a thing?” I asked Will as we walked up Stonegate. “What does he gain by angering me?”

  “He’s likely aiming at Mr. Wilson,” Will replied. “He’s sending godly clergy wherever he finds men who prefer ceremony to sermons. If he can’t force them out of the city, he’ll at least drive them out of the pulpit for the day.”

  “I knew there was a reason I favored you,” I said, taking his arm.

  “I know,” he replied with a chuckle. “And I, you.”

  Far sooner than I would have liked, the afternoon bells began to toll, calling the city to the second service of the day. As we walked to the church, I felt dread rising within me both at the thought of what Ward might say and at what the murderer might do in response. We took our places in my pew, and watched the Wards closely as they filed in. Mr. Ward held his Bible before him like a shield, while Deborah followed close behind, her eyes sweeping the church for hidden threats. Praise-God followed along behind her, and then Silence, her head held high, confident in her youth, beauty, and righteousness. The rest of Ward’s gang followed close behind, with Stubb bringing up the rear.

  The service started peaceably enough, as Mr. Wilson said a few prayers, then called Jane Elliott to the front of the church. Once he’d prayed over her, and she’d given thanks to God for her survival, she returned to her seat. After only the barest of introductions—one that made clear how unwilling he was to give up his place—Mr. Wilson took his seat in the chancel and gestured for Ward to ascend to the pulpit. Once there, Ward raised his Bible high over his head and let out a cry so loud and so full of anguish it startled even the most reluctant members of his audience into attentiveness.

  “Why, O Lord, do your people refuse to heed your word?” he called out. “Why do they insist on returning to their sins like dogs to their vomit?”

  From there his sermon seemed like the others he had preached. The words differed, but the message was the same. After a few minutes, I paid only scant attention. Rather, I stared at Stubb, James Hooke, and Ward’s wife and daughter, who sat together near the front of the church. They, in turn, stared up at Ward as if he were one of the apostles. Could one of them be the killer? Stubb looked the part, of course; what about Silence? She seemed the very soul of godly piety, but I’d been fooled by a murderer before, and knew that the most innocent face could hide the vilest heart. I wondered at man’s deceptive nature—how was it that the evil that lay within did not show itself to the world? Ward pulled me back into the present when I heard him cry out Jane Elliott’s name.

  “What call did the Lord have to strike down Jane Elliott’s child?” he asked. “Some will deny that God had a hand in the boy’s death. Or they will claim that the Lord’s will is unknowable. But God’s inscrutability does not relieve us of the duty, yea the holy obligation, to seek out His message. Is it mere happenstance that the Lord burned up the child with a fever, even as He burned the city with the sun?”

  A few voices cried out Amen. Most were from Ward’s party, but I could not help noticing a few of my neighbors joining in.

  “Just as the city suff
ers for its sins and must seek out the cause of God’s wrath, the mother who has lost a child must search her conscience. She must ask which of her sins caused God to strike such a deadly blow.”

  Upon hearing these words, my heart rebelled. Could he be blaming Jane for the death of her son? Children died so often and so young that if Ward were right, England’s mothers must have been the worst of sinners. How else could we explain the grief that the Lord visited upon them?

  I could not tolerate any more. Without a word to Will or Martha, I stepped into the aisle and strode toward the back of the church. My friends and neighbors stared at me as I walked past them. They, of course, knew that my children had suffered the same fate as Jane’s, for many of them had been there when I buried both Michael and Birdy. I refused to believe that my sins had somehow brought about their deaths, nor could I bear the thought that my neighbors might believe it. But what if some did?

  Ward seemed the devil himself to sow such seeds of discord. As I walked down the aisle, I saw the faces of women whom I’d delivered, women who had lost their own children. Some appeared as furious as I was, some looked stricken at the idea that they were to blame for the deaths of their children. What a monster Ward was, to plant such thoughts!

  Thankfully the church door had been left open to allow in some air, and I was able to escape without stopping. I walked home alone, still furious at Ward’s words. I slammed the door behind me, and retreated to my chamber for solitary prayer. It seemed the only way to soothe my soul.

  I allowed my mind to drift back to the night Birdy died and then further back to Michael’s death day. With Martha and Hannah still at the church, I could allow the grief to pour forth from my heart; I sobbed and wailed as I had not done in months. As I cried, I fought to forget Ward’s sermon. I forbade myself from asking the Lord what I had done to offend Him so deeply that He would rob me of my beloved children. What sin could merit such a punishment? I asked God for peace, for Him to soothe my soul.

  * * *

  It must have been an hour before I heard the welcome sounds of Hannah, Martha, and Will chattering downstairs. I gathered myself, washed my face in a basin, and went down to join them.

  “Oh, my lady, you left before things turned.” Hannah laughed. “God, the look on his face!” Martha and Will laughed along with her, and I found myself joining in even before I knew what had taken place.

  “It happened about a quarter of an hour after you left,” Will explained, wiping a tear from his eye. “Ward asked us, Is anyone here free from sin? Yea, who carries not the curse of Adam? Speak now!”

  “And then he waited,” Martha continued. “Finally, Mrs. Ascough—the baker’s wife—stood up and cried out, I know not who is free from sin, but I do know your sermon sounds like an old dog’s fart!”

  At this the four of us fell to laughing, but Martha held up her hand. “Wait, wait, that was not the end of it! When Ward’s wife stood to shout her down, Mrs. Ascough would have none of it. You’re as great a whore as any, aren’t you? You should leave us alone and trouble yourself more with your daughter. She’s a burnt-arsed whore, she is, turning tail to hedge at every opportunity.”

  “And then she walked out, as neat as you please, and more than a few followed her!” Will finished. “Oh, Aunt Bridget, the looks on the Wards’ faces were worth sitting through the whole wretched sermon.”

  I sent Martha for a few pots of ale, and when she returned, the four of us retold the story as we drank. As the pain of the afternoon slipped away, I wondered if the Lord might have answered my prayers for peace by giving me this curious family.

  “Well, we should go to the Elliotts,’” I said to Martha when we’d finished the ale. “Mrs. Elliott will be quite furious with us if we arrive too late.”

  “And if we dally, the good wine will be gone,” Martha added. Will bade us farewell and left for home, while Martha and I walked toward the Elliotts’.

  Some churchings were joyous affairs, celebrating both mother and child. This would be more somber, as we mourned the child even as we gave thanks for Jane’s survival. By the time we arrived, two dozen guests had filled the Elliotts’ parlors and dining room and were making short work of the wine and food that Mr. Elliott had provided. Martha and I fell in with a group of women, and the talk quickly turned to Mrs. Ascough’s eruption against the Wards. Where Martha, Will, and I found jollity, however, some of the women found fault.

  “He’s not doing any harm,” one woman—Mary Good was her name—objected. “He just wants to rid the city of sin, as God intends. Who among us could find fault with that?”

  “Do you really think that these dog days have been sent by God to punish us?” asked a stout, kind-faced woman.

  “God is warning us,” Mary Good replied. “He showed us mercy during the siege last year, and we ignored Him. He is merciful to correct us before visiting His wrath upon us in earnest.”

  “And do you also think that He took Jane’s baby as a punishment for her sins?” the stout woman demanded. Her face did not seem so kind anymore.

  At this a hush fell over our little group. It was one thing to rail against the sins of an entire city—who could deny them?—but to accuse a woman in the death of her own child was a different matter. Mary started to reply, but her adversary had not finished.

  “Do you truly believe that the Lord is so cruel as to avenge Himself on the parents by killing a child? Jane is hardly the worst sinner among us.”

  “Do we know this?” Mary asked. “And even if Jane is not to blame, who among us knows what sins her husband might be hiding? The heart is a wretched thing, and man is destined to wallow in the filth of sin.”

  Upon hearing this, I could contain myself no longer.

  “Mary Good,” I said. “If you are accusing Jane Elliott or her husband of some secret sin, be clear about it. Such hinting and gossiping is cruel sport.”

  “I know of no sin,” she replied. “But the Lord knows all, and he acts to avenge Himself on those who will not walk in His ways. Open your eyes—it is visible in the world around us. When the King turned Papist, God sent Parliament’s armies to chasten him. When whoredom spread, He sent this burning summer. If God can raise up armies or drive away the rain, He can take a child into His bosom if it pleases Him. He owes us nothing, and we owe Him all, including the lives of our children.”

  “And what sin did I commit?” I asked. I could feel anger—the boon companion of that afternoon’s grief—coming together in my breast, awaiting the opportunity to burst forth. “What terrible blot is on my soul that would require God to take both my children?”

  Mary realized that she’d trod onto dangerous ground, and I could see her trying to find a way to retreat. She might well believe that God had taken Birdy and Michael to punish me for my sins, but she knew better than to say such a thing in my presence.

  “The Lord is unknowable,” she said at last. “Perhaps the warning is for all of us.”

  I knew that she spoke out of fear rather than conviction, so forcing her to deny my guilt was a hollow victory. She believed that I—like Jane Elliott—had brought the death of my children upon myself.

  “Mary Good, that is such shit!” said a voice from behind me. Martha elbowed her way into the circle of women. The color had risen in her cheeks, and she stared at Mary with a heat akin to the sun’s. “If God murders children to correct the parents, He’s doing a beggarly job of it. Look at the awful women who’ve kept all their children.” She inclined her head toward a truly poisonous woman who’d borne her husband six children, all hale and healthy. “And who has been a better gossip to her neighbors than Lady Hodgson? Who has done more for the poor of the parish? For its mothers and children? Why should God correct her?”

  Mary started to reply, but Martha would not allow it.

  “Shut your gob; there’s nothing to say. Sometimes children die. Sometimes the sun shines, and sometimes it rains. That’s all there is.” With that, Martha took my arm and pulled me from that crowd
, all the while muttering the vilest oaths.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled.

  “Don’t you mind her,” Martha replied, leading me toward the door. “There’s no need to trouble yourself with such absurd ideas.”

  We stepped into the street and began walking home. The sun had set an hour before, and I was grateful we hadn’t far to go, for the shadows seemed as threatening as ever.

  “It’s just that sometimes I wonder…,” I said.

  “Don’t even think in that way,” Martha said. “God did not take my child because he was born a bastard. Nor did He kill my master because he raped me. Those things just happened. God has no interest in worldly justice.”

  “No,” I said, “That is not what I was going to say.”

  “What then?”

  “I wonder sometimes if God sent you to York when I needed you most.”

  Martha’s laughter echoed through the deserted streets. “Well,” she said. “I’d never thought of myself as a divine blessing, but if that’s how you see it, I won’t deny being one of His angels.” She paused and as she thought, her face became more serious. “But it has been a good year, hasn’t it?”

  “It has.”

  “Except for the murders, of course,” Martha said with a wan smile. “They have certainly complicated things.”

  This feeble attempt at a joke brought us both back to the possibility that today’s sermon would end in death for another of York’s whores.

  “He’ll kill again, won’t he?” Martha asked. She spoke so softly I could barely make out her words.

  “I don’t know why he’d stop now,” I said.

  “Isn’t there anything we can do?” Martha asked. “If we’re right in thinking that Stubb is the killer, there must be something.”

  “Edward and Joseph won’t act,” I said. “And in this matter, they are the law.”

  “We could have Will follow him,” Martha suggested. “Or hire a soldier. The town watch helped us last year.”

  “Will can’t just stand out in the street all night, waiting for Stubb to act,” I replied. “He’d be taken up by the town watch in no time at all. You know that.”