The Midwife and the Assassin (4 page)

With one hand I lifted my skirts as best I could and stared uncertainly at the plank and mud. I grasped the waterman's hand. It was as hard and rough as a cobblestone. He smiled encouragingly—or perhaps condescendingly—and I tried to imitate Martha's agile leap. It started well enough, for I made it to the boat without landing in the mud, but I must have moved a bit
too
quickly, for I suddenly found myself leaning over the far side, my arms spinning wildly as I tried to regain my balance. For a terrible moment, I peered into the mud, imagining the humiliation of pitching face first into the river's filth. It would be days until I was clean, months before Martha would stop laughing, and years until I forgot the horror.

Just when I lost my balance entirely, someone seized my hips and pulled me back. I gasped in surprise and relief as I fell into one of the boat's narrow seats.

“There you go,” the waterman said, as if saving a gentlewoman from such humiliation were a normal part of his job. “New to the river, are you? You'll figure it out soon enough. Where can I take you? Whitehall? Westminster? Southwark? The Bridge? Anywhere you'd like this side of Greenwich.”

I sought my voice and failed, managing only to gabble my thanks. My heart was still pounding in my chest.

“The Tower,” Martha said.

“For a tuppence,” our driver replied, pulling a long pole from the boat's floor. I nodded in agreement. The waterman pushed us into the flow of the river and took his seat. He then traded his pole for a pair of oars, and with short, swift strokes began to row downriver. As we traveled, another boat pulled alongside and its rower shouted something to ours.

The waterman looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Do you fancy a wager?” he asked. “He'll race us to the Bridge for a penny.”

“I think not,” I replied. Though the boat was more stable than I'd expected, I was not going to risk my life on a one-penny race.

Our captain shrugged and shouted a phrase I could not understand—the cant of the watermen, I supposed—and the two boats parted ways.

As the driver rowed to the middle of the river, we caught our first full view of London since we'd crested Highgate Hill the day before. I saw some farmland to the south, but on the north bank of the Thames, London seemed to stretch on forever. Whitehall and Westminster glowed in the morning sun, and we now could take in the full magnificence of the homes along the river. Our waterman pointed out Surrey House, York House, and Arundel House, among others. We also had a better view of the theaters—now closed by order of Parliament—on the Southwark side of the river, and ahead of us we saw the marvel that was London Bridge.

Although York had similar bridges, and I'd seen London Bridge from a distance, I stared in open-mouthed wonder. It seemed less a bridge than a city street that had lost its way and wandered into the river. Houses six stories tall loomed over us as we approached. I caught a glimpse of a child peering down at us from a window, and marveled at his strange existence, living over water rather than on dry land. As we reached the Bridge, the river began to bounce us about, and I tightened my grip on the edges of the boat.

“Don't you worry,” the waterman called. “It's just a little adventure in your day. I've been through much worse.”

I nodded my thanks, not entirely trusting my voice.

After we passed beneath the Bridge, the waterman veered to the north side of the river, and the Tower of London came into view, squat and dark, intent on intimidating all who came near. As we approached the landing, I gazed at the Traitors' Gate, through which so many famous men and women had passed on their way to their executions. I noticed that the watermen steered clear of the gate, as if they feared it might pull them in.

Our driver stopped the boat next to a set of steps that led into the river itself. I said a prayer of thanks that I would not have to cross on the plank once again. I handed him two pennies.

“Do you want me to wait?” the waterman asked as we climbed out. “You'll be lucky to find another captain as skillful as me. Or one who'll save you from an early morning swim in the muck.” He winked at me with a roguish grin, and once again I marveled at the liberties London's lower sorts took for granted.

My first thought was to send him on his way with a reprimand for his over-familiarity, but I could not deny that he'd handled the boat as well as I could have hoped.

“I don't know how long we'll be,” I said. “It could be minutes, it could be hours.”

“Fair enough,” he replied. “I'll wait a bit in case it's the first, and come back around noon if it's the second.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Martha and I turned away from the river and looked up at the Tower.

“Do you think he's still alive?” she asked.

“Of course he is,” I replied. I prayed that it was true and started up the steps to the gatehouse.

When we reached the gate, I stared up at the Tower walls in awe. I thought of the men and women who had spent their last days and nights inside: princes, cardinals, queens, lords, and—most recently—an archbishop. How had Will found himself in such a place? And how could he escape the fate that had befallen some of England's most powerful men? I took Martha's hand and gave it a squeeze.

“We will have him out of there,” I said.

Even as I raised my fist to pound on the door, a window in it popped open and a guard's face appeared.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” he growled.

I gathered myself and answered as forcefully as I could. “I am here to see Will Hodgson. He is imprisoned in the Tower.”

“Will Hodgson, eh?” he said. “And who might you be?” I thought he recognized Will's name, and it struck me as odd. I did not know how many prisoners were in the Tower, but it seemed unlikely a common guard would know each one.

“I am the Lady Bridget Hodgson,” I replied. “I was summoned by the Tower's warden.” Of course the letter had come from Will's jailor, a far less important man than the warden, but I thought the lie would ease our passage.

A shadow passed over the guard's face. I was sure that he recognized my name. He turned to speak to someone behind him and the window snapped shut. For a while nothing happened and Martha and I glanced at each other, unsure what to do. I decided to knock a second time, but before I could the door opened silently on well-oiled hinges.

To my surprise we were met not by the guard who had spoken to us through the window, but by two guards and an army colonel. The guards—including the one who had been so saucy a moment before—stood at attention, their eyes staring straight ahead. The colonel commanded their respect in a way I could not.

The officer stepped forward. He cut an impressive figure, standing nearly a full head taller than I, with a clean, crisp uniform adding to his authority. He'd cropped his hair close to the scalp in the Roundhead style, but I could see flecks of gray scattered among the brown. His eyes lit up when they met mine, and I could not help thinking that his smile seemed genuine.

“Lady Hodgson,” he said with a bow. “It is good that you have arrived at last. I am Colonel Reynolds. Will you follow me?”

I glanced at Martha. Good that we had arrived
at last
? Martha shrugged, no less confused than I. With no other option available, Martha and I followed Colonel Reynolds into the Tower.

We passed through several halls and into a sunny courtyard. I was struck by how pleasant it seemed, considering the misery that surrounded us. Who knew how many prisoners the Tower held? I gazed at the stones beneath my feet. They had felt the footsteps of scores of men and women as they walked to Tower Hill, where they would be beheaded.

Martha and I had to hurry to keep up with Colonel Reynolds's long strides as he crossed to the White Tower, which lay at the heart of the Tower of London. The two guards on either side of the castle door snapped to attention when we approached. For a moment I wondered if Colonel Reynolds might be taking us straight to Will, but instead he led us to a large office. The room was occupied by a wiry man dressed not in a soldier's uniform, but in the inconspicuous garb of a mildly prosperous grocer. He sat behind a desk, leafing through a sheaf of papers, and smiled when we entered the room. Unlike Colonel Reynolds, his smile never reached his eyes.

“Lady Hodgson, it is good that you and your deputy have come so far.” He rose to his feet as he spoke. “I am Mr. Marlowe.”

By this time I'd had quite enough of the mystery that these men had worked so hard to create, and I was determined to put it to a stop.

“Mr. Marlowe, I am quite sure I do not know who you are, and I assure you that we came to London neither for your benefit nor for your amusement. We came here for my nephew, Will Hodgson, and I will see him immediately.”

A thin smile danced across Marlowe's lips, angering me all the more.

“It is clear that you have had some notice of our arrival,” I continued. “And that you view this as some sort of game. I will tell you now that I am no man's pawn. If you persist in such secrecy and uncivil behavior I will leave this place, search out Sir Robert Harley, and demand my nephew's release from him.” Sir Robert was from Hereford and I knew he sat in the current Parliament. While I'd met him on several occasions, my threat was pure guilery. I had no earthly idea where in London he might be, and I doubted that he would help Will escape from the Tower.

Marlowe's smile vanished as if it had never existed. “You won't do that,” he said. “Not unless you want your nephew to spend the rest of his days in the Tower. Some men have survived here for years, but I doubt he would last so long as that.”

I glanced at Colonel Reynolds to see what he made of this threat, but his face remained a mask.

“The letter was from you, not Will's jailor.” Martha was unable to keep silent a moment longer. “You must have had a good reason to bring us all the way from Hereford. What do you want?”

“Your maid is as overbold as I expected,” he said to me. “But it is out of place in such a woman. If she wishes to see Will, she should remember who she is.”

I thought for a moment and recognized the situation. Mr. Marlowe had Will in his grasp, and he would only loose his grip if Martha and I played by his rules. “It is clear that we are at your mercy,” I said. “Tell us who you are and what you want.”

“Thank you, Lady Hodgson,” Marlowe replied. “I am glad you have seen the true state of things. As I said, I am Mr. Marlowe. I serve at the pleasure of General Cromwell, protecting England from her enemies, both within and without her borders. And you will assist me in these efforts.”

“You and I might disagree as to who England's enemies are,” I replied drily. “There are some—many, even—who would consider your master Cromwell to be chief among them.”

“I will grant you that,” Marlowe said with the ghost of a smile. “But so long as you are in my service—and make no mistake, you
are
in my service—I will decide who England's enemies are. Until I say otherwise, you will help me prevent them from overthrowing Parliament and imposing tyranny on the nation. If you care for your nephew, of course.”

“And you'll keep him in the Tower if I refuse.”

“Not just that,” Marlowe replied. “If you refuse to assist me, you announce yourself as among England's enemies. I would have no choice but to confiscate your estates and sell them to benefit the nation.”

I stared at him in astonishment, entirely unable to find a suitable response. I had heard of Royalists who had lost their lands under such confiscations. Some had noble patrons to defend them, but others had been entirely ruined, forced onto the charity of their friends and relatives. The difference between them and me, of course, was that they had taken up arms against Parliament, while I had never taken a side in the wars.

“Neutralism is now treason?” I managed at last.

Marlowe shrugged. “There is no neutralism. If you are not England's friend, you are her enemy, and you will be treated as such.” He spoke the words with such dispassion, I doubted neither his seriousness nor the amount of trouble in which I had found myself.

“Why have you chosen me for this honor?” I asked. “What can
I
do?”

“You are a midwife,” he replied. “You are privy to your neighbors' secrets. You enter the homes of the rich, the poor, the Roundhead, and the cavalier. What more could I look for in a spy?”

“You want me to be a spy?” I could not believe his words.

“Well, I'm not in danger of going into labor myself, so your more conventional skills would be of no use.” I could not tell if he was jesting. I suspected not.

“Why have you chosen me? Surely there are midwives in London who would be eager to do your bidding. Why bring me all the way from Hereford?”

“In truth, I chose both of you,” Marlowe replied. “Are you unaware of your reputations? I suppose country living will addle the mind. You and your deputy defied the Lord Mayor of York in the midst of a siege, and freed a woman who had been condemned to death. You destroyed the most powerful minister in York. And not half a year after that, you saw an Alderman hanged as a witch. That sort of remorselessness is a rare thing in any woman, and here I have two. I cannot let you slip through my fingers.”

“And we cannot refuse?”

“You can,” Marlowe said. “But at great cost.”

“And you do this in defense of England's liberty?” I asked. I did not think an appeal to his conscience or political principles would work—I doubted he had either one—but I could not simply give in.

“I do it to defend England against tyranny and popery,” he replied. “Oceans of blood have been spilt in our late civil wars, and England's enemies want nothing more than to wallow in blood once again. I will not allow this to happen. I find it passing strange that you balk at this task. Surely preserving the peace is worth a brief time in my service. And it would save your nephew's life, as well. Do not forget that.”