The Midwife and the Assassin (28 page)

“It is,” I said. “You, Martha, and I were at Margaret Harrison's travail when he came to kill her. He attacked the three of us. We were very lucky to survive.”

Katherine thought for a time, assembling the fragments of her memory. “Margaret knew that Abraham had killed her father,” she said. “Abraham had to kill her in order to protect himself.”

“Aye,” I said. “He had already killed Daniel and Mr. Harrison. He did not balk at committing a third murder.”

“You think the Royalists killed Daniel over a few cartloads of gunpowder?” Tears ran down Katherine's cheeks. “Over that?”

“If Mr. Marlowe discovered the plot, he'd have hanged all involved, including Abraham Walker,” I said. “And of what import is a murder when you hope to start a war that will kill thousands?”

“Poor Daniel,” Katherine sighed.

I paused for a moment before asking my next question, for it would bring into the open all (or nearly all) the secrets we'd kept from each other. “You knew of Daniel's work for Mr. Marlowe, but he did not tell you about the scheme he discovered?”

Katherine shook her head and sighed deeply. “He never said a word. Why would he keep such a secret?”

“To protect you,” I said. “He recognized the danger he was in, and he wanted to keep you safe.”

Katherine smiled sadly. “So the last thing he did was save my life. That's Daniel.”

“Katherine,” I said, “can you forgive me? I lied to you about my work for Marlowe, and I betrayed your confidence. That is not what a good gossip does, and I am sorry.”

“I was furious at first,” she said. “But I have seen for myself how Mr. Marlowe presses men into his service. When a man as powerful and ruthless as he is demands your labor, you do not deny him. How did he compel you?”

“He had Will in the Tower,” I said. “He told me that if I did not spy on you, Will would die there and I would be ruined.”

“Aye,” Katherine said. “That is how he pressed Daniel, by threatening our son.”

“I never feigned my friendship,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “You are not so skilled a liar as to do that.” She smiled as best she could, but I could see that she was becoming weary. “What will you do now?”

“I don't know,” I said. “It is Mr. Marlowe's choice, isn't it? Perhaps he will release me from his service.”

“I doubt that,” Katherine replied. “That would be an extraordinary kindness, and nobody has ever accused him of that particular virtue.”

“No, I suppose not.”

I sat with Katherine a bit longer, holding her hand as she drifted to sleep, and then I went home.

*   *   *

I slept through that day and the next night, awaking to a city ablaze with the news of what had happened at Enoch Harrison's house: three killings, a woman in labor, the trained bands racing through the streets in search of rebels … even London rarely saw such a strange series of events. The first newsbooks were slight indeed, as authors and printers had just one day (and only a few facts) with which to work. As usual, the scribblers refused to let ignorance keep them from writing their books. The result was a very strange mix of stories: Some called Walker a Royalist spy and said he was killed by the trained bands; others said he was in Parliament's employ and had been killed by the Royalists; a few ignored the politics entirely, claiming that Walker was killed by housebreakers, and by his bravery he'd saved Margaret Harrison's life. One or two claimed that a midwife had done the killing, but to my relief did not mention my name or Martha's. I knew that these pamphlets would be followed by longer and more fanciful accounts, for the story had everything that a city reader would want: illicit love, betrayal, murder, and the threat of a rebellion.

Martha and I had just finished our dinner when we heard someone climbing the steps to our rooms, and the thumping of Will's cane announced his presence well before he arrived. Martha opened the door and embraced him.

“How are you?” he asked. “Have you heard the news?”

“We've seen all manner of books,” I replied. “But we know better than to credit most of them.”

Will laughed. “That's probably for the best, but there's newer news than that. Mr. Marlowe sent me for you. He wants to tell you of his success. He is insufferable.”

“
His
success?” Martha asked. I could hear the anger in her voice. “We handed him his murderer wrapped in woolen and ready for burial. He did no more work than the coroner's men! Less, in fact.”

“Ah, he's already forgotten that,” Will replied. “It is something else, but he wants to tell you himself, so get your cloaks.”

I could not hide my peevishness as I wrapped myself against the cold and followed Will down to the street. The sun was already low in the sky, and it seemed likely we'd have to walk home in the dark.

“Surely you have some idea what has happened,” I insisted. “Has he found the gunpowder?”

“Or has someone found it for him?” Martha asked. She sounded no less crabbed than I felt.

“I promise, I don't know,” Will replied. “He sent me and Colonel Reynolds off on a wild-goose chase, and he says that while we were gone he finished the entire business.”

“How can he be sure?” I asked.

Will shrugged. “He is sure enough to send a letter to Cromwell telling him as much. He would not do such a thing unless he were confident.”

We trudged east, heads bowed against the swirling wind that seemed to find its way beneath our cloaks no matter how tightly we secured them. When we reached the Tower, Will pulled down his scarf so the guard could recognize him, and within a minute we were standing outside Marlowe's office. Will knocked on the door, and Marlowe bellowed for us to enter.

We found him leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk. A triumphant smile crossed his face when he saw us. Tom stood behind him, his pleasure at our arrival tempered by his obvious annoyance at Mr. Marlowe. I longed to take him in my arms and talk of our future together, but I did not think that Mr. Marlowe would approve.

“Mrs. Hodgson!” Marlowe cried out as he stood. An empty bottle of sack sat on his desk. “I am so glad you have come. Have a glass of wine. Colonel Reynolds refuses, but you three will join me. It is my will and my command.”

I nodded my assent. I had no desire to antagonize Mr. Marlowe, and in truth I craved a warming glass of wine.

“Boy!” Marlowe shouted. The door opened and a youth of perhaps twelve years peered in. “Bring another bottle and more glasses. We will celebrate my triumph.”

The boy returned moments later, and once he'd filled our glasses Marlowe began to march back and forth before us, as if he were the king of all men.

“While these two,” Marlowe said, gesturing at Tom and Will, “were off God knows where finding nothing at all, and you women were safe at home,
I
was preventing an assassination, a Royalist uprising, and perhaps even another civil war.”

I glanced at Tom, wondering what he made of Marlowe's boasts. He refused to meet my eyes, but I could see the anger rising within him.

“We found one of Abraham Walker's accomplices in London,” Marlowe continued. “And a fisherman in Rye who helped him send letters abroad. Both are taken.”

“Did you find the gunpowder?” Martha asked.

Marlowe ignored her. “Walker's London accomplice was going to set the entire scheme in motion. He was to kill Cromwell as a signal to the rest of his rebellious mob. Once General Cromwell was dead, the Royalists here in England would begin a rising while those in France launched an invasion of their own.”

“What about the gunpowder?” I asked.

“Shipped to France,” Marlowe said with apparent satisfaction.

“We don't know that,” Tom said quietly. “All we have is one man's confession. And after all he suffered, he'd have confessed to crucifying Christ himself.”

“Oh, stop it.” Marlowe sounded like a petulant child. “The plot is foiled, and the gunpowder is safely out of England. That is all that matters.”

I could see that Tom wanted to continue the argument, but he swallowed his words. My guess was that he'd questioned Marlowe on this point many times before, and knew that once more would make no difference.

“Would you like to see him?” Marlowe asked brightly.

“See who?” I asked.

“The assassin who was going to kill General Cromwell,” Marlowe said. “He's here in the Tower, and here he'll remain until we execute him.” He reminded me of the rooster who took credit for the rising of the sun.

For a moment I wondered if Lorenzo Bacca might be the man awaiting execution. Stranger things had happened.

“Come on, I'll show you.” Without waiting for a reply, Marlowe marched out the door. I shrugged at Martha and we followed, with will and Tom close behind. We descended a set of stairs and passed through several guarded doors before we reached our destination.

“Keep in mind that he's not the same man he was when we captured him,” Marlowe said. “He used to be much stronger.” Marlowe produced a key and after a few twists and turns pushed open the door.

The scene inside was both horrible and unsurprising. Two barred windows offered what little light the prisoner was allowed. The floor was covered in filthy rushes, and the walls were slimy, green, and dripping with moisture. The smell of fear, sweat, and excrement was overpowering. In the fading light I could make out a single figure, lying in a pile of straw.

“You!” Marlowe snapped. He strode across the room and prodded the prisoner with his boot. “Stand up.”

When the figure did not move, Marlowe kicked him squarely in the small of his back. “I said get up.”

“He can no longer stand,” Tom said. “Even without the chains.”

“Quite right,” Marlowe said. He looked at Martha and me, smiling. “He was very frightening just a few hours ago. If I were going to send a man to kill General Cromwell, I'd have chosen him as well. It is amazing what the rack will do to even the sturdiest man's frame.” Marlowe dragged the prisoner to his feet and pulled him toward us. “Ordinarily, we would not have moved so quickly. I showed him the rack, and told him what it would do to his body, but he still protested his innocence.”

“The executioner broke him too quickly,” Tom said. They had clearly had this argument before, and Tom had lost.

“That is true,” Marlowe conceded. “But it has been years since anyone has used the rack. Nobody knew what effect it would have.”

“It would have made Christ himself confess,” Tom insisted. “Look at him.”

Indeed, the man before us was as miserable a sight as I'd ever seen. His limbs were long and well muscled, and I had no doubt that before his time on the rack they had been straight as rods. But now they were crooked and swollen, bruised black and purple at every joint. The jailor had laid three sets of irons on him: one bound his hands, another his feet, and a third ran from his neck to his ankle, keeping him from standing entirely upright. He looked listlessly around the room, hardly seeing any of us.

“Who are you?” he asked. It was a reasonable question, but I could not think of an answer.

“Tell them what you did,” Marlowe said. “What you were going to do.”

“I was going to kill General Cromwell,” the poor man muttered. “And that would start a rising on behalf of King Charles.”

He fell to his knees and began to weep. Marlowe looked at us brightly. “You see? Just as I told you.”

“I think I've seen enough.” I left the cell with Martha, Will, Tom, and Marlowe close behind.

“You are sure that he is the man the Royalists chose to assassinate Oliver Cromwell?” I asked as we made our way back to Marlowe's office.

“Aye, and the plot is finished,” Marlowe said. “No assassin, no assassination. No assassination, no rebellion.”

“General Cromwell will be pleased,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” Marlowe said. “You have no idea how grateful he will be.”

Once we were back in his office, Marlowe uncorked the bottle of sack. “You have two choices, Mrs. Hodgson. You can join these two hens in their doubts.” He gestured at Tom and Will. “Or you can join me in another cup of wine.”

When I did not reply, Marlowe laughed.

“Very well. I think you are suffering from simple envy. Colonel Reynolds and your nephew stopped nothing at all; you midwives stopped a murderer, and I give you credit for that; but
I
stopped a rebellion. The matter is over and done.” He shook his head in wonder at our skepticism. “Go away, all of you, and make each other sad. You've done enough to ruin my celebration.”

Marlowe's words rang in my ears, louder than any gunshot. “The matter is over and done?” I asked. “The rising is foiled?”

“Aye,” Marlowe said. “Finished, ended, and expired. The Royalists had their chance, and I stopped them.”

“So Parliament is secure?”

Marlowe nodded and took a swallow of wine.

“Then you will have no more use for my services,” I said. “Or Martha's or Will's.”

Marlowe stared at me for a moment and began to laugh. “You caught me there, Mrs. Hodgson, but no, you are not released. You have proved yourself too valuable, and the world is too dangerous. The Levellers are still a threat, as are the Royalists. Stopping one plot does not stop them all.”

“Am I nothing more than your slave, then?” I asked. “Am I to do your bidding until the day I die?” Despair welled up within me. I had not expected to be set free, but I had hoped he would at least consider the possibility.

“Or until
I
die,” Marlowe replied with a smile. “And no, you do not
have
to stay with me. But if you go, you will forfeit your lands. War is expensive, and Parliament is hungry for new wealth.”