The Midwife's Tale (13 page)

“Why did you tell me about your role in the city?” I asked. “It is not public knowledge.”

“I trust a midwife as much as any woman. You keep your clients’ secrets, and now you will keep mine.” As he said this, his eyes narrowed and he stared at me intensely, and I felt my skin become clammy with fear. While he’d said nothing explicit, he’d made it abundantly clear that if I revealed our conversation, I would suffer dire consequences. “I take it there is nothing else, my lady.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No,” I mumbled.

“Good. I’m glad I could be of help. Please see yourself out.” With that, he returned to his correspondence, and I left the room.

Yeoman’s servant escorted me back to the parlor, and a few moments later Martha appeared. As we walked back to my house, I told her what I had learned.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think Rebecca Hooke would kill the King himself if she thought it would benefit her family.”

“What about Mr. Cooper’s involvement with the rebels?”

“I don’t know what to make of that. Stephen may have been involved with some dangerous men, but Yeoman seemed quite sure he was not a rebel agent.”

“What do we do now?”

“Follow the lead Esther gave us. This afternoon we can go to the Coopers’ house and see what Stephen’s diary and letters tell us.”

*   *   *

I was in the parlor preparing for our trip to Esther’s house when I heard someone rapping on my front door, and a few moments later Hannah ushered Will into my parlor. From the look on his face, I knew he’d come about a serious matter. I assumed Edward had sent him to demand an explanation for my failure to provide the desired verdict on Esther Cooper.

“Aunt Bridget, there’s something I need to speak to you about concerning your new servant, Martha.” Puzzled and more than a little worried, I nodded for him to continue. “Remember when I escorted her to the Shambles on Tuesday? After I left her, I continued on business to the Castle. As I returned, I caught sight of her in an alley talking with a strange man.”

“You came to me because you saw my maidservant talking to a man?” I interrupted. “She may talk to whomever she pleases. She is my servant, not my slave.”

“No, it’s not that,” he said. “This was a hard and dangerous man. He seemed to threaten her. I’ve never seen him before, but I know the type. He was dressed like a soldier, and carried weapons, but he had the air of a criminal about him. I’d certainly hesitate before trifling with him.”

Will’s story confounded me. Surely this had to be the man that Martha said she had seen, the one who reminded her of the soldier she had killed. But she never said that she had been accosted by him or that they had spoken, just that he had looked at her and she had fled in fear.

“What worries me,” Will continued, “is that they seemed to know each other. He grabbed and twisted her arm very hard, but she didn’t call for help. She stood there and continued to talk to him. After a few minutes he let her go, but I don’t think she’s seen the last of him.”

Now I was worried, too, on a number of accounts. Martha had never mentioned having a companion in the city, yet it seemed she had one. If she had lied about the encounter in the Shambles, it called into question everything that she had told me since she’d come to my home. If Will was right and this man was dangerous, Hannah and I could be at risk.

I tried to recall every detail of Martha’s story, this time with a more suspicious eye. I remembered that the letter had been written by a scribe because, according to Martha, my cousin had a palsy. But except for Martha’s word, what evidence did I have that the palsy was real? And once doubt had been cast on the letter, what evidence did I have that
any
of Martha’s story was true? She knew my sister could write, but all godly gentlewomen could do so. She knew of Samuel Quarels’s death and his wife’s decision to remarry, but so did most people in that part of Hereford. I realized that Martha’s story hinged on a letter that she could have forged easily. I now had to reconsider much of what I had seen since she’d come to my house. Her ability to disarm and then kill the soldier who attacked us, the ease with which she had sneaked through my kitchen window, and the way she instinctively moved to the shadows—all of these pointed to a woman with a criminal past. In retrospect, even her most innocent actions took on a sinister meaning. While she hadn’t robbed me, perhaps she was simply biding her time, trying to gain my trust. Perhaps she intended to admit her accomplice to my home, murder me and Hannah, and then take everything they could carry.

I very nearly asked Will to escort Martha from the house immediately, but the image of Esther sitting alone in her prison cell came to my mind. I had suspicions about Martha, but what evidence had I seen that anything untoward was going on? Will’s unheard conversation? Martha’s small lie about meeting someone in the Shambles? Perhaps she feared I would reprimand her for talking to a stranger. The only thing I
really
knew about Martha was that she had not been entirely truthful about the man in the Shambles. Such evidence was far less damning than the vial of ratsbane in Esther Cooper’s cupboard, yet I had taken on Esther’s cause. Surely I owed Martha the benefit of the doubt—after all, she was my servant and relied on me.

“Aunt Bridget, I know what you are thinking, and you must dismiss her immediately,” he urged.

“I’m considering my options, Will. I won’t make a hasty decision.”

He crossed the room and took my arms so he could look me in the face. “Aunt Bridget, since last year you’ve played the mother to every needy soul in the city. If you insist on extending your hand to strays, you will be bit sooner or later.”

What he meant, of course was not “since last year” but “since Birdy died.” He was just too kind to speak so bluntly.

Nevertheless, I resolved to give Martha a hearing. Will left and I sent Hannah for Martha.

“She’s up to her elbows in washing, my lady,” she said. “I’ll send her down when she’s finished.”

“She can leave her elbows there or bring them with her,” I snapped. “I don’t care which, but I will see her. When did my servants start questioning my instructions?” Hannah stammered out an apology as she curtsied and scurried off. I had no doubt that she would communicate my mood to Martha, and so much the better. I wanted her to be uncertain and unsettled when we met. Martha appeared a few minutes later, hands dry but still wrinkled from the washing. She curtsied deeply and adopted a servile demeanor. Hannah had prepared her.

“You wished to see me, my lady?”

“Martha, the one thing I expect from my servants is honesty. It is even more necessary if you are to assist me at women’s travail, for women’s lives and my reputation depend on you. If I cannot trust you, I will turn you out of my house. And if I even suspect that you have stolen from me, I will see you whipped from the Castle gates to the Thursday Market. Do you understand?” I stared into her eyes and waited for her to start to cry, protesting that she’d told no lies and that she would never even consider stealing from me. Instead she nodded, apparently in agreement.

“You want to know about the man who accosted me in the Shambles,” she said. A look of surprise crossed my face. “Will isn’t very good at spying,” she said. “He should concern himself with business. It suits him better.” If you think that, you would be surprised at the sword in his cane, I thought, but let her continue. “As you’ve guessed, my lady, there is much that I haven’t told you, and some of what I have said is untrue. I will start there, so you know the worst about me. Then, if you want to hear the rest of my story, I will tell it. If you wish to dismiss me, I will go right away.” I motioned for her to continue.

“My first lie concerned my service to your cousin. In truth I was never in her household. I served instead in Samuel Holdsworth’s house, not far from your cousin. Lady Elizabeth talked constantly of your success in York. She told all who would listen about your fine marriage and said that you were the best midwife in the city. I wanted to start anew, so I decided to try my luck here. The Lord knows I had no luck in Hereford. I found a scrivener who would write whatever I pleased if I paid him enough. After that I came here and entered your service. So I have lied to you and forged a letter from a dead woman. But I pray you believe me, my lady, since that first lie I have never betrayed your trust.”

I gazed at her, considering her confession. It fit with what Will had told me, though by now I knew that she was an adept liar. As I’m sure she intended, her story piqued my curiosity rather than satisfying it. Why had she left her former master? Why had she wanted to leave Hereford so badly? A maiden traveling alone across England in the midst of a civil war took on a dangerous mission. And where had she gotten the money to pay the scrivener and for her journey to York?

“Tell me your story,” I said. “But tell me the truth.”

Martha nodded and took a deep breath. She smoothed the front of her apron before she began to speak. “The best place to start is with my brother, Tom. My first memories are of him giving an older boy a thrashing he’d never forget. Even now, most of my memories of childhood involve Tom fighting. The violence frightened me, but I worshipped him. By the time he was a young man, he was known and feared in our village and beyond. I lost count of how many times he was taken by the constables. But he never changed. We all thought he would finish his days at the end of a rope, probably sooner rather than later.

“Around the time I turned sixteen, he nearly killed a gentleman’s son and fled to the German wars. Before he left, he said he was going to defend Protestantism against Antichrist, but we knew better. He wanted to save his own neck and fight without fearing the law. I shudder to think what freedom he found there.”

“And Tom is the man Will saw in the market?”

Martha nodded. “He said he’s come here to kill me. And that he might kill you, too, while he’s at it.”

“He knows you are in my house?” I gasped.

“I don’t know how he found me,” Martha replied. “But if he somehow discovered that I am living with you, we are both in danger.” Instinctively I looked out the window onto the street.

“He wouldn’t come yet,” Martha said.

“How can you be so sure?” I asked, not reassured in the least. “Will said he seemed ready to kill you in the market.”

“And he was. But he prefers to commit his crimes under cover of dark,” she said.

“How can you know this?”

“Because before I came here, I was his accomplice.”

I looked at Martha in surprise. “I think you should tell me the rest.”

Chapter 10

“Soon after Tom left,” Martha began, “my father placed me in service with Mr. Holdsworth, a yeoman from a parish near ours. At first, I thought I was lucky. He was prosperous enough and lived in a fine stone house. He seemed kind. But all that was a lie. In truth he was a grasping, malicious man. While he was rich, he refused all charity for the parish poor. Even at times of great need, he never let a groat out of his hands except at interest. The blackguard treated his own wife no better, dressing her in worn and faded clothes, sewn in a dozen places. In all my time in his household, he never tired of telling Mrs. Holdsworth how much my help cost him, and that she was lucky to have me.”

“He sounds like an awful master.”

“He was a tyrant if ever one lived,” Martha said. “But he got his,” she added with a small smile that sent a chill down my spine.

“What do you mean?” I asked, not at all sure I wanted an answer.

Martha glanced at me but ignored the question. “He worked me very hard, of course, and on winter nights I wished for a second blanket. But I never complained—I thought it was my lot. But in my second year things turned much worse. Mrs. Holdsworth became pregnant, and when her time came, Mr. Holdsworth refused to call a midwife. He said that his animals did without one, and he’d be Goddamned if he would pay for a woman to deliver his wife.”

“What?” I cried.

Martha nodded. “He was an awful man. When she was in travail, I attended her at first, but knowing nothing of childbirth, I could only comfort her. After three days, Mr. Holdsworth relented and called a midwife. She could do nothing to help. Two days after that the midwife called a surgeon.”

“Oh, no,” I said softly, knowing what had to happen next.

“I held Mrs. Holdsworth’s hand as the surgeon removed a girl in pieces,” Martha continued, her eyes filling with tears. “It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. I dreamed of it for weeks after. I still do sometimes.”

I put my hand on Martha’s arm, guided her to the sofa, and sat beside her. I’d seen the aftermath of a surgeon’s work in the delivery room and knew from experience the kinds of dreams she’d had.

“Mrs. Holdsworth lived, but the surgeon’s tools wrecked her body. She could hardly leave her bed, and could never have another child.

“After this, Mr. Holdsworth began to trouble me. It began with compliments. ‘You’re looking very pretty this morning, Martha.’ ‘That dress flatters you, Martha.’” Martha spat the words as if they were poison. “He was a beast … as if I owned more than one dress! I ignored him as best I could, but soon he began to steal up to me as I worked and try to stroke my privities. I protested, but he just laughed. I didn’t like it, but what could I do? And it was no worse than many servants suffer from their groping and grabbing masters.” I knew that to be true, for I’d delivered many servants of their master’s bastards. It pained me to think of Martha in such desperate straits, and my mind returned to her cold smile when she recalled his ultimate fate.

“Did you flee?” I asked, though I knew that she could not have done so.

“No. I was too young and too frightened to leave.” Her tears had dried and now she spoke with an anger I’d never seen in her. “One night as I slept, Mr. Holdsworth came into my room and threw himself on top of me. He used me horribly that night, and many nights after. I think that Mrs. Holdsworth knew what her husband was doing, and it hurt her in a way that the surgeon never did. She slowly shrank in her bed, dying of shame for her husband’s actions and her failure to protect me. When she died, I laid the blame at Mr. Holdsworth’s feet.