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

by Sam Thomas

  “He is loath to try her without Praise-God,” Will said. “You and he could appear before the jury, but in the end it would be the word of a dead lunatic against the wife of a godly minister. He has no wish to be humiliated in such a public way.”

  “God’s blood,” I muttered. How had things gone so wrong so quickly? When we crossed the bridge into the Castle, we saw a crowd outside the tower where Praise-God had been kept.

  “Lady Hodgson,” a voice called. The two guards who had helped to arrest Jonathan Dodsworth approached us carrying a timber large enough to frame a house. Despite their size, the two men struggled under their load.

  “Corporal Matthews, how are you?” I asked. “And what in heaven are you doing?”

  Grateful for the chance to rest, the guards stopped and set the beam on its end. The corporal mopped his brow with his sleeve. He was so thoroughly covered in dust, he appeared more Saracen than Christian.

  “You’ve heard the news?” he asked as he caught his breath.

  “That Praise-God Ward is dead?” I asked. For a moment I worried that something else had happened that morning, but he nodded.

  “Aye, and they can’t get his door open. We’re to bring this over to knock it down.” He patted the beam. “It should do the trick.”

  When the men hoisted the beam back on their shoulders, Will, Martha, and I fell in behind them. As the guards approached the tower, Corporal Matthews bellowed a warning and the crowd parted like the Red Sea itself. We took advantage of the path, and followed the guards down to Praise-God’s door. The landing-place at the bottom of the stairs was thronged with Castle officers and city officials, and they stumbled over each other to avoid being caught between the battering ram and the door.

  “Finally!” Joseph cried. “Now don’t just stand there—get this door open!” The two guards, and two others who’d been waiting for them, held the beam to their waists and hugged it tight.

  “One, two, three!” Corporal Matthews cried.

  The squad took four rapid steps toward the cell door. The ram struck with a thundering crash and the door flew open. When the guards backed up and tried to turn around, the beam trapped Joseph and the other officials against the wall, giving us a momentary advantage. Martha, Will, and I were the first into the cell.

  The room seemed unchanged from our last visit, except that Praise-God appeared to be standing by the window, gazing at the sky. We crossed to the window and found that he was neither standing nor staring. He had somehow freed his right hand from his manacles, and secured the chain to the bar in his window. He had then wrapped the other end of the chain—with his hand still in it—around his neck and strangled himself. His sightless, bloodshot eyes bulged, and his tongue protruded horribly between his teeth. In his final moments, he had bitten partly through it, and black blood ran down his chin and over his neck.

  “Ah, God,” I heard myself mutter. “He chose to strangle himself over a proper hanging?”

  “He chose death over betraying his mother,” Martha replied as she gazed at his face.

  By now guards, Aldermen, and constables had pushed their way into the room, and their cries of horror and despair filled the air. Joseph made his way to the front of the crowd, and found himself next to me. He glanced in my direction, but did not acknowledge my presence.

  “Help me get him down,” he called out. One of the other constables came forward, and together they lifted Praise-God’s body and unwrapped the chain from his neck. The other end fell from the bar and landed on the stone floor with loud clank. They carried the body over to the bed and laid it flat.

  “I’ve seen enough,” I said. We pushed our way out of the cell and climbed the stairs. Hopkins, Praise-God’s gaoler, sat by himself, his head in his hands. I motioned for Will and Martha to wait outside while I crossed over and sat on the chair next to him.

  “What happened?” I asked. When he recognized me, he started to stand, but I bade him to remain seated.

  “I swear I don’t know, my lady,” he said. “He screamed in fury for nearly an hour after you left. I’ve never heard such terrible oaths, and that’s no mean feat. He wished every plague upon you and your descendants. It was a marvel to hear.”

  “He stopped after an hour?” I asked.

  “That was when young Mr. Hodgson came to see him.”

  “Joseph Hodgson visited Praise-God after we left?” I asked. I felt horror creeping up within my guts.

  “Aye, he went down and spoke to Mr. Ward for some time. After he left, Praise-God was quiet as could be, and I was grateful for the peace.”

  “But he was dead,” I said.

  Hopkins shrugged miserably. “I can’t say when he died, but the officers are in a fury.”

  “How did he free his hand from his fetters?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” the gaoler moaned again. “I set them myself. Mr. Hodgson said that I must have done a poor job of it, else this would not have happened.” He paused and looked up at me, his eyes plaintive. “But I didn’t, my lady, I swear. I’ve put irons on hundreds of prisoners, and never had one break free. He could never have freed himself. I’ll lose my place for this.”

  He buried his face in his hands again. I placed a hand on his shoulder, though I knew it would do little to console him. After a moment I joined Will and Martha in the Castle yard.

  “What happened?” Will asked as soon as I emerged. “What did he say?”

  “Not here,” I replied. “There are too many ears about. Let us go to Samuel’s.”

  We crossed the Castle yard to Samuel’s tower, only to find a crowd had gathered there as well. To my dismay, I recognized many of them as Hezekiah Ward’s followers. The women and even some of the men were weeping, presumably at the news of Praise-God’s death. John Stubb towered over the group, and I saw the woman who had attacked me and Martha. I considered summoning a bailiff and having her arrested, but she seemed so wasted and forlorn I could not do it.

  “Let us wait,” I said. “Once they have gone, we will have some privacy.” We crossed the yard and stood next to the tower adjacent to Samuel’s. As we waited, a door opened behind us, and Hezekiah Ward stepped out, inadvertently joining our little circle. We locked eyes for a moment, and then he looked at the ground.

  “I was meeting with the Castle warden,” he said. Even from a few feet away, I could scarcely make out his voice. “I have to make arrangements for Praise-God’s burial.” His voice cracked when he said his son’s name, and to my surprise, compassion welled up within me.

  I looked more closely at him, expecting—no, wanting—to see the whoremaster and the hypocrite, but all I saw was a father faced with the horrible task of burying his son. The lines on his face had become so deep that he resembled an ageing mariner rather than a middle-aged preacher, and the whites of his eyes—even the dead one—had turned red from hours of weeping. Even as he stood there, tears began to flow, and his face seemed to crumple in upon itself. Memories of the days I had lost my children poured over me and I put my hand on his arm, offering what little comfort I could to such a flawed and sinful man. Ward took one last hitching sob, then walked alone toward the Castle gate.

  “God,” Martha said after a moment. “I never thought I’d feel pity for a man such as that.” Will and I nodded in agreement.

  We stood in silence for several minutes, watching Samuel’s tower. Eventually the door opened, and Edward appeared, followed by Deborah Ward. I stared in amazement as she stepped forward. She had caused the death of her own son, and should have been in the depths of hell, but she held her head high and her shoulders back, the very picture of stiff-necked pride. How was it that Hezekiah mourned so deeply for his son, but this harridan carried on as if his death were unworthy of her attention?

  I strode across the Castle yard toward her. I did not know what I intended to do when I reached her, but fury had burned away whatever compassion I felt for Hezekiah. As I approached, our eyes met and her face hardened into a terrible iron mask. />
  “You are the one who murdered my son,” she declared, her voice rising in anger. “Have you come here to lord it over me, you reprobate slut? Have you not done enough to my family?”

  I hesitated for the barest moment and considered retreating. Nothing could be gained from confronting her under such circumstances. But I caught sight of a face peering down from the narrow window of one of Samuel’s upper cells—it was Jennet’s friend Barbara Rearsby. The constables must have taken her yet again. In her pale face and sad eyes, I saw all the women who had died at Deborah Ward’s hands: Jennet, Betty, and Isabel. I saw their wrecked and bloody bodies and I heard their final terrified cries as death overtook them. Fury roiled up in me and I found I could not simply turn my back on the woman who had tortured them so.

  “Reprobate?” I cried. “You dare call me reprobate? You dare ask what I did to your family?” I strode toward her, shrugging off Will’s and Martha’s hands as they tried to restrain me. “Your husband is a whoremonger; your son was a pimp and a murderer,” I hissed. “And you? I don’t have the words to describe what you are. Beast, blue devil, foul spirit, fiend of hell—none of these capture your evil ways!”

  Deborah raised her hand to strike me, and I hurled myself forward, ready, even eager, to join in the fight. It is probably for the best that Edward and others stepped in. Edward threw himself between us, absorbing a vicious blow from Deborah in the process. In that moment, Martha got a firm grasp of me and pulled me back, my arms and legs flailing, and Will wrapped his arms around me, lifting me up and away from the skirmish. Deborah and her people scurried off toward the Castle gate, with Edward close behind, urging them on.

  Once they were safely away, Will put me back on the ground and released his grip on my waist. I turned to face him, furious that he’d interfered. Blood flowed freely from his nose, and dripped onto his shirt.

  “Oh, God, Will, did I do that?” I cried. In the midst of the scuffle I must have struck him with an elbow.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and did his best to stanch the bleeding. In that moment, the rage that had flared up inside me burned itself out.

  “No, Aunt Bridget,” he mumbled through the blood. “When you flew at Mrs. Ward, I decided to bloody my own nose.”

  I had to laugh at this, and I embraced him. “Thank you,” I said. “And I’m sorry.” When I stepped back, I saw that we both were covered in his blood, making Martha the only one of us still fit to appear in public.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “The blood will wash out. Now tell us what Praise-God’s gaoler said.” The Castle yard had emptied, so I could now speak freely.

  “Your brother was the last one to see Praise-God,” I said. “The gaoler says that before Joseph’s visit, Praise-God was the very picture of bedlam, crying and cursing without pause. But after Joseph left, he heard nothing.”

  “Joseph came back?” Martha asked.

  “Aunt Bridget,” Will protested. “Surely you don’t think that Joseph did this! First you accused him of murdering the whores and now you accuse him of killing Praise-God?”

  I did not reply because in truth I did not know what I thought.

  “Do you think that I killed him, Aunt Bridget?” Joseph’s voice nearly made me leap from my skin. He stood at the entrance to Samuel’s tower, leaning against the doorpost. He could not have been more at ease. He walked toward me, his obsidian eyes gleaming. “You thought that I killed those whores, and now you accuse me of murdering a man even as he is in fetters? Do you truly believe that I could be so evil?”

  “Then tell me what happened,” I demanded. I felt a tremor in my voice and could only hope that Joseph did not hear it.

  Joseph allowed himself a mirthless smile before answering.

  “It is true that I saw him last night. I told him that his mother had been arrested for murdering the whores and that he would be the most important witness against her. I said that if the jury did not believe him, she would go free, so he should compose himself as best he could. But he was alive and in chains when I left him.”

  Despite the heat of the day, the cruelty of Joseph’s smile chilled me to the marrow. I realized then that I had been wrong about how the war had changed him. He was not an earnest magistrate with fond dreams of building a city on a hill, but a hard and ruthless villain, bent on seizing power for its own sake.

  “Then how did he escape his fetters?” I asked.

  “That is a mystery,” Joseph replied. “But you cannot say justice has not been done. He was to hang anyway, and by the look on his face, this death was far more horrible than the one the hangman would have brought to him.”

  “You know he did not kill the whores by himself,” I said. “How is justice done when Deborah Ward goes free?”

  “God will have His justice in His time,” Joseph said. “But can you envision the scandal if Praise-God had not died when he did? Hezekiah Ward is the most renowned minister of the gospel in these parts. Mrs. Ward’s trial would have been famous throughout the nation. And if we executed her and Praise-God together? The spectacle would be unmatched in memory. It truly beggars the imagination.”

  “You wanted this to happen,” I said. “You connived at Praise-God’s death.”

  “And what would the King’s pamphleteers say?” Joseph continued as if I had not spoken. “Our enemies would write about the case for years. Pamphlets about the murders, poems about the trial, songs about the executions. See! they would cry. See what hypocrites the godly are? We would lose all authority, and as Mr. Ward would say, the people would run back to their sins as a dog returns to his vomit. No, the Wards will leave the city, and take their troubles with them. It truly was best that Praise-God died, and I would not regret it if I’d had a hand in his death.”

  I looked at Will to see how he was taking all this. He stared wide-eyed at his brother, as if seeing him for the first time. He had forgotten about the blood running from his nose to his chin.

  “What is it, brother?” Joseph asked, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I told you I did no wrong.” He turned on his heel, and ambled across the Castle yard, every inch the image of a man enjoying a job well done. Before Joseph reached the gate, Edward met him. The two men embraced and then talked for a time.

  “I don’t imagine he’s confessing to Praise-God’s murder,” Will said.

  I put my arm around his shoulders. I could only imagine what he felt at that moment. What did it mean when your father rejected you in favor of a cold-blooded murderer? After a few minutes, Joseph disappeared through the Castle gate, and Edward crossed the yard toward us. I imagined he would have harsh words for me over the row with Deborah Ward, and the prospect soured me even further. I was in no humor to accept his reproofs.

  “Lady Bridget,” he said as he approached. “Might I speak with you? Alone?”

  “No, Edward,” I said. “You may not. Not unless you’ve come to tell me that you will question the gaoler to find out how Praise-God died.”

  “Question the gaoler?” Edward barked, caught somewhere between laughter and anger. “Are you mad? He’ll be whipped, not questioned.”

  “Does it matter that Joseph visited Praise-God just before he died?” Will asked. If Will had hoped to turn his father more to anger, he could not have found better words. Edward’s face hardened into stone and he turned his gaze on his son.

  “Joseph left him alive and well,” Edward replied. “And if you say otherwise, if you think otherwise, I’ll see you whipped alongside the gaoler. Whether you are my son or not, you’ll suffer. Praise-God is a suicide and that is the end of it.”

  “And Deborah Ward?” I asked, eager to deflect Edward’s wrath away from Will. “Why won’t you try her for murdering the whores? You heard what Praise-God said with your own ears.”

  “I did,” he replied. “And we cannot credit the word of such a man.”

  “You credited it enough to arrest her yesterday,” I said.

  “And today her accuser showed himself to
be capable of self-murder.”

  “You know that she is guilty,” I pleaded. “You must put her before a jury.”

  Edward’s features softened for a moment.

  “Lady Bridget,” he said. “There is nothing I can do. If I thought Deborah Ward was guilty, and that I could prove it, I would put her on trial. But I don’t and I can’t. Can you imagine the chaos that would come with a trial, whatever the verdict? No, the Wards will leave for London on the morrow, and we will be well shut of them.” He scowled at Will before turning toward the gate and walking away without a backward look.

  As Edward receded into the distance and disappeared through the gate, I feared that despair would overcome me. Could it be that earthly justice never would be done? Were Jennet, Betty, and Isabel so low, so inconsequential, that the law would never avenge their murders? My mind raced as I tried to find a solution, but I could not. In this place and on this day, Edward was the law, and he had made it clear that the Wards mattered and the murdered women did not. He had decided that maintaining the power and the prestige of the godly magistrate counted for more than justice. And what of Praise-God? I doubted we would ever know the truth of what had happened in that cell. If Joseph had strangled Praise-God, he had chosen the perfect victim. A man as frenzied as that would certainly have resorted to self-murder, and none would dare say otherwise.

  “Come,” I said at last. “We should go home.”

  “No,” Martha replied. “I won’t.”

  I looked at her in shock.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. While we’d had our disagreements, she’d never refused me so bluntly.

  “I won’t just go home and let her escape!” she cried. “She killed three women, and if she is set loose in London, she’ll kill more there.”

  “There is nothing we can do,” Will said.

  “Yes there is,” she said, and started off on her own. “I will return before supper.”

  * * *

  That afternoon, the sun persisted in its efforts to desiccate the city. I heard that a neighbor’s cow fell dead in the fields outside the city, and the apple blossoms browned and blew away. Martha came home just as she promised and went about her work. Despite my earnest entreaties, she refused to tell me where she had been or what she had done.