by Sam Thomas
From where I stood, the safer path seemed clear enough, but it ended in ruin. If I did nothing at all, Mrs. Hooke soon would discover that I was with child and expel me from the household. Mr. Hooke’s rapes would stop, but I would nevertheless be lost, for a poor, bastard-bearing woman was the most despised creature in all England. After being whipped bloody, the very best I could hope for was to marry a doddering pauper. I then would have the pleasure of watching him die, even as my youth and beauty wasted away into nothing. Such was the fate that awaited a fortunate bastard-bearer. If I were unfortunate–and since coming to the Hookes’ when had I been otherwise?–I’d find myself living on the highways. My child soon would die, and I would be subject to assaults far more vicious than Mr. Hooke’s. In the end I’d face the choice between constant hunger or a short and ugly life as one of England’s whores.
But I chose a bloodier and more valiant path, one which would provide a better future for me and for my unborn child. You might fault me for taking this route, or say that there were other choices. But this is how the world appeared to me as I watched the anatomist walk toward Walmgate Bar.
As if summoned by my thoughts of doing battle with savages, Mr. Hooke appeared at my side and took my arm. “There you are, Rebecca,” he slurred into my ear. His speech and breath made it clear that he’d paid more than a few visits to the ale-sellers. As I felt his arms snaking about me, I forced a laugh and skipped away as lightly as I could.
“Not here,” I chided him. “There are too many people.”
I could see his surprise at my friendly response. To his lustful brain, now sodden with drink, Not here could only mean Somewhere else.
“Nobody here knows us.” He reached behind me and seized my buttocks. “We’ll find a quiet spot in the city. There are so many alleys.”
“Not now,” I said. “If Mrs. Hooke should see us…” I slapped playfully at his hand, and for the first time he was pleased to let me go, for I’d never been so agreeable. And so I played the coquette all the way home, and for days after. I found such acting disagreeable, but my scheme required his trust, and this was the surest way that I could get it. If he’d not been such a fool, or so easily led by his yard, he might have wondered why I had changed my stripes. But he never did. One afternoon Mrs. Hooke sent me into the city, and I slipped into an apothecary’s shop where I bought the next piece of the puzzle. Then all I needed was the chance to act.
My opportunity came when Mrs. Hooke decided to take Richard to Halifax for a few days. She knew of a young woman who might find him agreeable, and she was eager to make a match for him. I felt a flicker of doubt at this news, but pushed it aside. A hasty marriage would present problems with my scheme, but I could not let that distant possibility blow me off course.
The night before Mrs. Hooke and Richard were to leave, I lay in bed and wondered at what I was about to do. Murder. I turned the word over on my tongue and whispered it aloud. But was it really murder? Henry Ash had been hanged for the same crime Mr. Hooke had committed. And for all I knew Ash had only done it once. How many times had Mr. Hooke raped me? No, I decided. This is no murder. He has earned his fate. He is simply going to his death without the trouble of a trial. And what man would argue for his innocency? Setting aside murder, I tried other words: justice, retribution, and righteousness. They sounded better when I whispered them to myself. They sounded right.
Almost before Mrs. Hook and Richard had passed out of sight, Mr. Hooke had his hands on me. Once again I slipped away.
“Why so fast?” The sound of my laugh grated on my ears. “We have days, if not a week.”
“But my master will not wait so long,” Mr. Hooke protested, grabbing at himself.
“Let us have some wine,” I said as I dashed to the kitchen. “You go to your chamber and I’ll come up.”
From the sound of his footsteps, I judged Mr. Hooke had climbed the stairs at a full run. I took my time preparing his wine, making sure that the concoction was entirely mixed. He had just a sip before leaping upon me. I clamped my teeth together, and told myself that I had survived worse, and this would be the very last time I’d suffer in such a fashion. Once Mr. Hooke had finished, he reached for his glass and drank it at a draught.
I watched his face closely, wondering when the signs of what I’d done would appear. He’d just closed his eyes–perhaps he was falling asleep–when the pain gripped him. He rolled onto his side, grasped his belly, and vomited onto the floor.
“Good lord, what is wrong?” I leaped to my feet and circled the bed so I could take his hand. “Are you unwell?”
“Oh God, my guts,” he moaned. “What is happening?”
“Lie back,” I told him. He did and for a moment the pain seemed to ease. For the next hour or so I sat with him, wondering if I’d used enough poison to kill him. By evening he seemed to be recovering, so I gave him another dram, and the next morning he was cold as a stone.
As I gazed at his body, my only regret was that I could not have him anatomized.
* * *
My first task was to convince the neighbors that he’d died of a sudden stroke. To accomplish this, I washed and dressed his body, and then scrubbed the chamber floor for hours. It seemed that the poison I’d used had caused him to bleed into his stomach and then he’d vomited up the blood. The consequent mess had been something to behold. But by the time I dragged him to the barn and lay him in the straw, who could deny my claim?
Well, you can imagine the scene when Mrs. Hooke and Richard returned from Halifax. They had missed the funeral, of course, and for a woman who had been cuckolded, Mrs. Hooke played the grieving widow perfectly.
Richard was heartsick as well, and I could understand. For all the wrong he’d done to me, Mr. Hooke had shown his son nothing but love. I even felt a moment’s guilt when I saw Richard’s tears. I told myself that Mr. Hooke would have died eventually, and that Richard’s grief was no greater because his father had died this week rather than next, or because I had murdered him. Dead was dead.
And more important, with Mr. Hooke safely in the ground, I could begin the next part of my plan.
II
A few days after his return from Halifax, I saw Richard standing at the edge of the hay croft south of the house. He gazed out at the horizon, lost in his thoughts. I came upon him unawares and took his hand in mine. He jumped, but did not take his hand away.
“You miss him, don’t you,” I said.
That was all it took. Moments later, he was sobbing like a child. I put my arms around him and let him weep. When his tears had stopped, I put my lips to his. After a moment, I led him to a spot behind the hedge where none would see us.
Some might cast stones at me for all that followed. And I will admit that my scheme did not proceed as I’d hoped. My own suffering is testament to that. At the outset, my intention had never been to kill anyone besides Mr. Hooke, and to this day I would swear that I never meant to harm Richard. Despite his doltishness, he was a kind boy, utterly without his father’s cruelty. If all had gone to plan, we would have married and I would have had a quiet, uneventful life. That was all I wanted. The mistake I made was in misjudging Mrs. Hooke entirely. I would lay the blame for all that followed at her door.
A few weeks after I lay with Richard for the first time, I took him by the hand and led him back to the croft.
“Richard, I must tell you something. I am with child.”
He took my hand and put it to his lips. “You are?” he asked in wonder.
“Aye,” I said. “What will we do?”
“We will marry,” he said without a moment’s hesitation. “We will tell my mother and we will marry. If we tell her we were betrothed before we lay together none would call our child a bastard. It is but a small lie and for the best.”
“Oh, Richard,” I cried out and took him in my arms. My relief and happiness both were genuine, for this–I thought–had been the one moment at which things might go wrong. If Richard had refused to marry me, all w
ould have been lost.
We held hands as we walked back to the house so we could tell his mother of our betrothal and my pregnancy.
“Let me tell her alone,” Richard said. “Then I will send for you.”
I agreed, of course, and I could see no reason why she would not allow us to marry. The Hookes were not of any particular importance even among their neighbors, and Richard would hardly have been the first lad to marry his parents’ maidservant. I waited in the kitchen while Richard sought his mother. And that is when my scheme began to go awry.
Within moments I knew that we had misjudged her state, for the howling that echoed through the house could in no wise be confused with joy. I heard Mrs. Hooke’s footsteps as she tore through the parlor, and steeled myself for the clash that would follow.
When she entered the kitchen, I gasped aloud, for I’d never seen her–or anyone else for that matter–in such a furious humor. Her eyes bulged and rolled in their sockets, and her face had turned a most unnatural crimson.
“You common drab,” she hissed as she strode toward me. She seized a fire-shovel and raised it over her head like an executioner’s axe. “Do you think I’d let this pass? Do you think I’d let Richard marry his own father’s whore?” Drops of spittle flew from her mouth as she shouted and waved the shovel menacingly.
Not knowing what else I could do, I dropped to my knees before her.
“Please,” I cried. “Have mercy on me. I did nothing wrong.”
I do not know if she was struck by my audacity, but for some reason–and for the first time since I’d come to her house–Mrs. Hooke hesitated before striking me. She lowered the shovel and peered into my eyes, as if she were hoping to discern the nature of my soul.
And perhaps she succeeded, for without another word she swung the shovel at my head. I ducked, but too late, and she caught me above the ear. I fell to the ground and curled into a ball, wrapping my arms around my belly to protect my child. I do not know how many times she struck me–a dozen perhaps?–but in the end the bruises so overlapped they could not be counted. After a time I became aware of someone shouting, and realized that the beating had stopped. I looked up and saw that Richard had wrested the shovel from his mother’s hand and was pushing her away from me. I tried to stand, but the pain shot through me like lightning and I resolved to lay there for a bit longer. I closed my eyes and all became darkness.
When I awoke I found that it was night and someone had put me in my bed. For a time I lay there, not daring to move. My body felt as if it had been set alight, and I knew that if I tried to stand I would fail. I closed my eyes again and, despite the pain, fell back into the abyss.
* * *
“You killed him, didn’t you?”
My eyes snapped open and in an instant I was as awake as I’d ever been. Mrs. Hooke stood over me, staring into my face with a cold fury.
“You seduced my husband into your bed, and when you wearied of his attention, you poisoned him.”
“I never would.”
Mrs. Hooke raised her hand, and I flinched. Pain fired through my body and I cried out despite myself.
“Do not lie,” she hissed. “I know the kind of man my husband was. He could no more resist your temptations than Adam could resist Eve’s. I know that you’ve been meddling with him for months, and I know that the child in your belly is his, not Richard’s.”
Mrs. Hooke laughed at the surprised look on my face.
“Richard may be a fool,” she said. “But I am not. He told me when you lay together, and you have been with child for far longer than that.”
I dared not speak.
“I have found a neighbor girl and she will care for you until you are able to walk,” she continued. “As soon as you can, you will leave my home and you will never return. If you ever speak to Richard again, if I ever see you again, I will finish the beating I started yesterday.” Without waiting for a response she left my room.
I lay in the bed for a full week. Twice a day a girl brought me broth, ale, and bread, but she refused to speak to me. And so it was that I had endless hours to consider what had gone wrong with my plan, and to mediate upon all the wrongs that Mrs. Hooke had visited on me. How long had she known that Mr. Hooke had been using me so barbarously? And why had she allowed it to continue? To my surprise, the fury that I’d felt toward Mr. Hooke–fury which I thought had died with him–flared back to life like the embers in a well-banked fire. But as I lay there in bed, I knew that such thoughts were of no use. I could not take revenge on Mrs. Hooke without risking my own life, and even a simple lad such as Richard would become suspicious if both his parents died in my presence. So the following week I gathered my few belongings and started for York. Where else could I go?
* * *
Because it was not yet obvious that I was with child, I had no trouble finding employment. A washer-woman in St. Wilfred’s parish took me in, and in exchange for food and a bed I helped her in her work. I thanked the Lord that even as my belly grew the weather turned cold, and I could wear a coat to hide my condition without attracting notice. Even my new mistress did not know.
But as the weeks passed, I knew that I would soon have to make a decision about my travail. I did not want to bear the child alone, but if I sought out a midwife, she would see me whipped for bastardy, and I refused to suffer yet again for Mr. Hooke’s crimes. I did my best to find a woman who might aid me in my labor without summoning the churchwardens, but a single woman–especially one whose belly was growing by the day–had to be careful when asking such questions.
In the end I tarried too long, and early one Saturday morning I felt the first pangs of my travail. I tried to quiet myself, but could not help crying out. My mistress burst into my room, and knew in an instant what was happening.
“What, a whore in my home?” she snarled. In two steps she had crossed the room and seized me by my hair. She dragged me into the street and started crying for her neighbors. Within seconds I found myself surrounded by the parish matrons, all poking and pinching at me, calling me whore, putain, trug, and foul slattern.
One matron, a barrel-chested woman who’d married a butcher–stepped forward and seized me by the ear.
“We must see her out of the parish before she brings her bastard into the world,” she cried. “I’ll not support such a strumpet’s child.”
The other women cried out in agreement, and I found myself being pushed, pulled, and dragged toward the parish’s boundary with St. Helen’s. I might have given birth there, but with all the commotion, the women of St. Helen’s realized what was happening and rose up in defense of their parish.
I do not know how many neighborhoods and parishes I passed through on that day, pushed one way, pulled another, pinched purple in between. One group of women drove me into their neighbors’ church and told me to stay there. I tried to do so, but another group dragged me out and threatened to throw me in the river if I did not leave their parish.
As horribly as I was abused on that day, the most terrible moment came when I realized how typical Mr. and Mrs. Hooke were in their cruelty. I had heard the preachers say that man was born in sin, and remained sinful to his marrow. Now I had seen such depravity with my own eyes and felt it in my bones. Now I knew that my suffering at the Hookes’ hands was not at all unusual, nor was it the result of their peculiar evil. Rather it was in perfect tune with the rest of the world. The abuse of innocent girls like me lay at the heart of all of the city’s “honorable” folk. I just had not seen it until that afternoon.
On that day, my belief in goodness and charity turned to ash, burned by the fire that the Hookes had set and that the women of York stoked through their deliberate and wanton viciousness. These women, so loving toward their own, knew nothing of true Christianity, and cared nothing for the poor and miserable. The Lord said that on Judgment Day those who showed no mercy would receive no mercy. I resolved that if I had the chance, I would help Him in taking His vengeance on this unsparing mob.
By the time I became aware of the world around me, I had somehow found my way to the River Foss. The women pushed me across the bridge and then stood in the street daring me to return. I dragged myself out of the street, sat against the side of a building and, for the first time that day, allowed myself to cry.
I was still weeping when someone took my arms and lifted me to my feet. I resigned myself to more taunts, kicks, and punches, but I was led away without any abuse at all. The woman who had helped me stand seemed no different from those who had driven me from parish to parish, but instead of taking me out of the city she took me to her home. Once there she put me in a bed, and ordered her maid to bring me a drink of ale and spices.
“How long have you been in travail?” she asked.
“Since this morning,” I replied.
“And are the pains close together?”
“Not yet,” I said. “An hour or more.”
“From the way the harridans were treating you, I take it you are a single-woman?”
I nodded.
“I’ll care for you now, but you’ll have to tell me who the father is. If you tell me, I’ll see that he maintains both you and your child. If you don’t tell me, you’ll have to birth the child by yourself.” She produced a bottle of oil and put some on her hands. I realized that she must be a midwife.
“Lie back so I can examine you,” she said.
I did as I was told, and used the time to gather my thoughts. Telling the truth about my child’s father would do me no good at all, for Mr. Hooke was in no position to support his son. The midwife looked at me and raised her eyebrow. I turned away and said nothing.
“Your matrix is still closed,” she announced. “You’ll be in travail for some hours still. Is this your first child?”
“Yes, my lady,” I said.
