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

by Sam Thomas

  “Samuel,” I said. “We need your help with an important matter.”

  Samuel’s face lit up—he was never one to miss the opportunity to make a few pence, and a gentlewoman in need of a favor offered just such an occasion.

  “Do you know where they are keeping Praise-God Ward?” I asked.

  “You need to see him?” Samuel asked. “It will not be cheap. Each of you will have to pay his keeper at least two shillings.”

  “That’s outrageous!” Will cried.

  “Well, you could wait a few days and the price will go down,” Samuel said. “Of course, he’ll be less talkative then, having been hanged.”

  I balked at the outrageous sum, but we had no choice.

  “It is important,” I said.

  “Well, I won’t tell his keeper that,” Samuel said. “Or the price will go even higher. If he thinks you’re just curious, he won’t try to overcharge you. But I will need the money now.”

  I handed him the coins and he disappeared into the Castle yard. While we waited, Tree set about showing us the various cheats that Samuel had taught him.

  Samuel returned a few minutes later. “You can go over there now, but his keeper says you’ll have a devil of a time talking to him.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “Is he ill?” The low dungeons were famously noxious, but I would not have thought he’d succumb so quickly.

  “Not that,” Samuel said. “He won’t stop talking long enough for anyone to get a word in. He’s been crying and praying since he was sentenced and won’t stop for nobody. The Lord Mayor’s tried, your brother-in-law has tried—even his father got no response. He’ll not stop praying for anyone. He stops when he sleeps, but that’s all. He won’t even eat the food his sister brings him.”

  “Which means there’s more for us,” Tree chirped.

  “What do we do?” Martha asked.

  “Well, your money’s spent, so you might as well see him,” Samuel said.

  There was no denying that, so Samuel led the three of us across the Castle yard to another of the towers built into the wall. Samuel banged on the door, and it opened to reveal that tower’s keeper. He was a tall man with a thin, rat-like face and eyes that bulged when he spoke. He wore the same heavy leather belt as Samuel, complete with a cudgel and a large ring of keys.

  “Welcome, welcome!” the keeper cried as we entered. “More visitors for young Mr. Ward, more coins for old Mr. Hopkins! Since the poor lad arrived, I’ve had a procession like none I’ve seen since the King’s men marched out of the city.”

  “Lady Hodgson,” Samuel said. “As you have guessed, this is Praise-God’s gaoler, Eli Hopkins.”

  “A pleasure, my lady,” he said with an ostentatious bow. Payment of six shillings for simply unlocking a door seemed to put him in a good mood.

  “Samuel told us that your prisoner is not entirely well,” I said.

  “That’s fair to say,” Hopkins replied. “The only peace I get is when he falls asleep, and that’s never for more than a few minutes at a time. He quieted down just before you came.”

  As if this was Praise-God’s cue, a heartrending wail echoed up the tower stairs.

  “Father, though I am a wretch, worse than a wretch, worse than a worm, I beg You to forgive me for what I have done!” Praise-God’s voice trailed off into a miserable cry that bespoke a soul irredeemably lost.

  Samuel and Will looked around nervously, and whatever good cheer my money had brought to Mr. Hopkins evaporated in an instant; even Martha had gone pale.

  “Will you take us to him?” I asked Hopkins.

  He nodded, lit a small lantern, and led us down a spiral staircase to the lowest cell in the tower. The door creaked open to reveal a room lit by a window so small that it needed just a single bar to prevent escape. On the outside, the window would have been at ground level—were the Ouse to rise, Praise-God’s cell would be the first to flood. Despite the heat, water seeped in from the river and ran down the walls, which the feeble sunlight showed to be green with slime. The rushes on the floor had turned black from the damp. I did not know if his family had refused to pay for less pestiferous accommodations or if the city had refused to provide them, but were it not the height of summer, Praise-God would be hard pressed to live until Thursday. He knelt at the side of his bed with his back to us. He glanced over his shoulder when we entered but quickly returned to his prayers, whispering feverishly in a voice audible only to him and his God.

  “I’ll leave you,” Hopkins said, handing the lantern to Will. “He’s still in double irons, so you should be safe.”

  We crept across the room, none of us wishing to be the one to interrupt his prayers. When he showed no signs of acknowledging our presence, I coughed softly.

  “Praise-God,” I said. He continued to pray as if I’d said nothing at all. “Praise-God.”

  He still did not respond.

  “We came about your mother,” Martha said.

  For the first time, I detected a break in his prayers. He looked over his shoulder at Martha, his mouth still moving. Their eyes locked and he stopped praying long enough to lick his lips.

  “Who are you?” he asked, though he’d seen us just the day before.

  “I am Martha Hawkins. This is Will Hodgson, and Lady Bridget Hodgson. We were the ones looking for whoever killed the city’s whores.”

  “I did,” he replied. “I told them that.” He turned away and began to pray again.

  I feared we’d lost him, but he turned back to Martha as if he’d just remembered something.

  “You came about my mother?” he asked. “Has she sent word to me? I should like to see her before I hang.”

  Martha opened her mouth to reply and stopped. One wrong word would surely send him back into his world of prayer and wailing. In an instant, I realized that a simple lie would clear the path ahead—but only if Deborah Ward was guilty. If she was innocent, Praise-God would never utter another word in our presence.

  “Praise-God,” I said. “Your mother is dead.”

  I heard Will cough behind me, and a look of surprise flashed across Martha’s face, but she quickly recovered herself.

  “We came to tell you this, and offer you what comfort we could,” I continued. Even in the paltry light of the cell, I could see the muscles in Praise-God’s face working as he fought to maintain control of himself. His eyes slammed shut before opening just as quickly, his mouth stretched into a ghastly smile, and tears began to run from the corners of his eyes.

  “Dead?” he asked, his voice that of a man on the edge of lunacy. “How? What happened?”

  “A whore named Elizabeth killed her with a knife,” I said. “She says your mother attacked her.”

  Praise-God broke down and began to sob, his entire body shaking with each heaving breath. Without warning, he turned and lunged in my direction. With a shout, Will drew his sword and leaped forward, but he was too late. Praise-God seized my shoulders, and I felt his chains digging into my chest. For a moment I thought he meant me harm, but then he buried his face in my neck and wailed as if the world had come to an end. Will realized I’d been embraced rather than attacked and stepped back.

  As gently as I could, I loosened Praise-God’s grip, and then I wrapped my arms around him and let him cry. While he sobbed, Martha and Will slowly withdrew into the shadows. They did not know what I had planned—even I was not entirely sure—but it seemed clear that they could do little to help. Eventually, Praise-God’s sobs turned to quiet weeping. How long he cried I could not say. He rested his head on my breast while I stroked his hair.

  “I was afraid this would happen without my help,” he said at last. “I should have been there.”

  “You helped your father to the whores?” I murmured. “And then you helped your mother kill the same ones.”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “My father demanded it, and I could not deny him. I knew helping him was a sin, but so too is disobedience.”

  “Your mother demanded your
help, too?”

  “She tried to chase them away, and to get him to stop, but he kept up the pursuit. She warned him that her patience had reached an end, and that he must reform himself. When he ignored her loving remonstrance, she took up the sword. I had to tell her which whores my father used. She said that they drew him onto Satan’s path, and God demanded that they be punished.”

  “Why did you listen?” I asked. “You could have refused her.”

  “Disobedience was the first sin, the sin of Adam and Eve, was it not? I had already sinned by bringing the whores to my father. I thought I could cleanse myself of that sin if I drove them away. And I wondered if my mother was right. Perhaps if I drove the whores away, my father would not be able to sin. I thought I could save his soul.”

  Drove them away? I thought, fury rising in my throat. You slaughtered them! Instead I simply said, “The first woman’s name was Jennet. Tell me what happened.”

  “My mother said we were only going to threaten her. I thought we’d warn her away from my father, she would tell the others, and all would be well. I thought we might not even hurt her.”

  “But something went wrong.”

  “At the time, I thought it was a mistake, but now I don’t know,” he said. “I took my mother to the tenement, and knocked on the door. A man answered and my mother told him to move aside. He refused and my mother tried to push past him. He grabbed her arm and shouted that he’d paid his money and would have his whore.”

  “And she struck him?”

  “I did. He was shouting the most terrible oaths. He said if we didn’t leave, he’d dash our brains out. I picked up the fire iron and hit him. I just wanted him to stop. He started to stand up, so I hit him again. And again. Then the whore—”

  “Jennet,” I said.

  “—came in. My mother pushed her back into her chamber and onto the bed. Then she made me bind her fast.”

  Praise-God had clamped his eyes shut, as if he could keep the memories of all he’d done from flooding into his mind. His body convulsed in one more sob.

  “She brought the rope with her?” I asked.

  Praise-God moaned and tightened his hold on me, his embrace nearly driving my breath from my lungs.

  “It was in her apron,” he said at last. He knew what this meant, but did not want to say it aloud.

  “She planned to kill Jennet from the start,” I said for him. “She never did intend to warn her off.”

  At this he looked up at me. “But she did!” he said. “She told the whore of her wicked ways, read to her from scripture. But she would not listen.”

  I waited, for I knew what had happened next.

  “And then my mother lifted her skirts. I did not know what she was doing. Suddenly she had a knife and there was blood, so much blood.” He sat in silence, his eyes open, staring into nothingness. After a time he breathed deeply, then went on. “My mother had some papers with her. She said they had scripture on them. She thought they might serve as a warning to the other whores in the city. She put them in the whore’s hands so there could be no mistake.”

  As if the memory of Jennet’s murder had been a boil in need of lancing, Praise-God seemed at peace. He looked around his cell as if seeing it for the first time.

  “You have to tell me the rest,” I said.

  “I know.” He nodded. “Is there any food?” I gestured to Martha, who dashed upstairs and returned a moment later with a small loaf of bread and a pot of ale. Praise-God tore into the bread with the ferocity of a wolf savaging a lamb.

  While I knew that the boy was a murderer, I stood awestruck by the parents who had made him such. How could they have done this to their own son? I would give ten thousand worlds to hold my Birdy and my Michael one more time, and these two had transformed their son into a monster. God help us all.

  When he’d finished the bread and ale, Praise-God continued his story. “I met the second one when we went to preach against whoredom across the river.”

  “Betty was her name.”

  Again, he continued as if I’d not spoken.

  “It was worse than the first. I first took her to my father one day, and then my mother. This time she brought a pot of coals so she could burn the whore as God would. She left the scriptures again. I hoped it would be the last one, that the scriptures, or John Stubb’s pamphlets, or my father’s sermons, would bring an end to whoredom in the city. They did not.”

  “It was you who told Stubb what to put in the pamphlets?” I asked. Who else could it have been?

  “Me?” Praise-God asked. “No, that wasn’t me. My mother was terrified when the pamphlets came out. She feared it would bring you to our doorstep. And I suppose it did.” He paused for a moment. “No, it was one of Mr. Hodgson’s men who did that. Mr. Hodgson always took him along to the murders. He saw the bodies and told John all about them.”

  “Mark Preston,” I said. “The man with the missing fingers.”

  “Yes, that was him,” Praise-God said.

  “Praise-God,” I said. “How did you get past the town watch? They stand sentry on the bridge every night.”

  “This was my mother’s idea,” he said with a slight smile. “She told them she was a midwife from Manchester, and she’d been summoned to a birth. They even offered to accompany us if we needed a guide. We never had any problems.”

  “What happened then?” I asked.

  “Next was the whore who had the little girl,” he said. “That one broke my heart—I had no desire to make the girl an orphan, but my mother insisted that God would be avenged. It was when we got to her that things began to go awry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “As soon as my mother came in, the whore started to scream Murder! Murder! Somehow she knew why we’d come. A neighbor-woman yelled out at us, so I hit the whore. I had to quiet her.”

  “That’s why you fled,” I said.

  “My mother didn’t even have time to show the whore the nature of her sins. She just dropped the scriptures and hurried off.”

  “What about Mary Dodsworth and the other man?” I asked. “You forgot them.”

  “Who?” he asked. “What man do you mean? We killed one man and three whores, four people in all.”

  “On the same night your mother burned Betty,” I said. “She killed an adulteress and her lover in the north of the city.”

  “No,” Praise-God said, shaking his head. “She never did. She had no love for adulterers, but she only killed whores.”

  “Praise-God, you must tell me the truth.”

  “I am,” he insisted. “She went to three whores, and killed them. But that is all.”

  “Praise-God,” I said again. “There is no reason for you to lie now. Your mother is dead and your fate is sealed.”

  My words disquieted him and he rose to his feet. His shirt hung open, and the lantern illuminated his bare chest. I could nearly see his ribs beneath his alabaster skin. From the corner of my eye, I saw Will edging forward in case Praise-God attacked me.

  “You killed two men and four women,” I continued. “There is no sense in denying it.”

  “The only man I killed was the first one,” he said. “And I had to kill him for my mother’s sake.” He looked me in the face, his eyes sharp. “I am not a liar. God does not love a liar. Do not ask again.”

  I nodded, and he sat down on his bed. I did not know what this meant, but I knew not to push him.

  “You will have to tell this to the judges,” I said. “They must know the entire truth.”

  “I will tell them about the murders, but not about my father,” he said softly. “It would ruin him, and he is a good man.”

  Praise-God lowered himself to his knees, turned back to his bed, and began to pray again. Will, Martha, and I crept to the door, unwilling to disturb his prayers.

  “Will you come back?” he asked when he heard the door open.

  “I will,” I said. And I will bring Edward, who will see your mother hanged. I could hear Praise-
God’s whispered prayers until the door slammed shut.

  “Praise-God didn’t kill Mary Dodsworth,” Martha said as we crossed the Castle yard.

  “We don’t know that,” Will said. “If he’s willing to kill, he’s willing to lie.”

  “No, she’s right,” I said. “Even if he would lie, he isn’t lying about that. There was blood on Mary’s hands and flesh beneath her fingernails. But there are no scratches on Praise-God’s face or chest. Someone else killed Mary and her lover, and I know who.”

  Chapter 21

  “Aunt Bridget,” Will protested as we hurried across the yard toward Samuel’s tower. “Why would you believe him? Perhaps the scratches healed, or she scratched the mother.”

  “It’s not just that,” I said. “There were no scriptures left with Mary Dodsworth’s body. How could I have been so blind? The Wards always left scriptures. It was nearly as important as the murders themselves. Even when Isabel screamed out and Praise-God and his mother had to flee, they threw the papers on the body.”

  “Nor was she cut,” Martha added. “God, what fools we were. The murders were nothing alike!”

  “If it wasn’t Praise-God and Deborah Ward, who was it?” Will asked. “You’ve spent days hunting whoever was killing the whores. How can you have discovered another murderer in mere minutes?”

  “It can only be her husband,” Martha answered for me. “And if it weren’t for the other murders, we would have seen it right away.”

  “Aye,” I said. “Who does such violence to a woman? Either someone who hates her or loves her. She was rumored to have taken a lover. She must have been killed by her husband.”

  When we arrived in Samuel’s tower, I sat down to write a letter to Edward. We would have to hurry, but if all went well, two more murderers would be in gaol by sundown. I finished the letter and gave it to Tree.

  “Deliver this to Mr. Edward Hodgson,” I said. “If anyone tries to take it from you, whether his son, his manservant, or the devil himself, you must refuse. If this letter miscarries, all our plans will be for naught.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Tree said, nodding solemnly before dashing into the Castle yard. I turned to Samuel, for I would need his help as well.