Like many of the city’s ruling families, the Hodgsons were inclined to Puritanism, and while Edward was not as hot as some, he spent large sums of money to bring godly preachers to the city. In 1640, he went so far as to hire a Puritan to be vicar for his parish of St. Gregory’s. I had rarely seen Edward so angry as when the Royalists took control of the city and expelled his minister. Once war broke out, he muted his political voice for fear of angering the King’s friends, but everyone knew that he supported Parliament. While Edward knew I had little sympathy for the rebels, we remained friends by carefully steering around our political differences.
Martha and I walked down Stonegate toward the Ouse, and with each step the stench of the river grew stronger. By the time we reached Coneystreet, Martha looked positively ill and held a handkerchief to her nose.
“What in Christ’s name is that smell?”
“The river brings us goods from abroad, and provides the city with a port forty miles from the sea,” I said. “In return we give it our filth.”
“It is horrid!”
I laughed. “I thought the entire city reeked when I first arrived. It was the worst part of coming here from Hereford. They say London is worse, but even there you become accustomed to the smell. If it’s any relief, this is the foulest part of the city. The currents pass by this spot, and leave the filth behind. Phineas almost bought a house down here, but I refused.”
“And for that I am very grateful, my lady.”
We turned onto Coneystreet and the smell of the river faded a bit. As we neared the Ouse Bridge, I was reminded of my nightmare from the day before. We passed the spot where I saw Mercy Harris throw her child into the river, and I remembered how her child had become my own lost boy. Martha looked at me strangely when I said a prayer under my breath, but I couldn’t find the words to explain.
Crossing the bridge into Micklegate Ward gave one the feeling of entering a different and much more prosperous city. Not coincidentally, over the years most of the city’s governors had migrated there. The streets on the south side of the Ouse were much wider than those on the north, and the houses were not built so closely together. Most impressive, while my backyard consisted of a small courtyard and stables, houses in Edward’s neighborhood featured large, carefully tended gardens. Edward’s house had once belonged to his father, and it was one of the grandest in that part of the city. I could see the surprise on Martha’s face as we approached. My house was likely the largest she’d ever been in, but Edward’s was on a different scale altogether. We ascended the steps to the front door, and a servant opened it before we could knock; Edward ran an efficient household. The servant ushered us into the front parlor, and I declined his offer of a glass of wine while I waited.
I had not sat there long when Edward’s younger son, Will, came in. He smiled when he saw me and, despite walking with the aid of a cane, moved quickly across the room to embrace me. Will’s mother had died when he and his brother, Joseph, were just boys, and while Edward remarried soon after, Will had never taken to his step-mother. Instead, he’d become a frequent fixture in my house, knowing that neither Hannah nor I could resist his earnest entreaties for cakes. From the time he was old enough to roam York’s streets alone, other children had teased him about his clubfoot, and he’d quickly learned that the best way to stop the taunts was to fight. For years he took more clouts than he gave out, and I spent many afternoons dressing his wounds and drying his tears. Eventually, he’d become skilled enough with his fists that his tormentors sought less dangerous targets for their malicious fun. While his foot hardly made him a cripple, it did keep him out of the war, and his shame at this seemed to have grown each time I saw him. To make matters worse, in recent months word reached York that Joseph had been promoted to captain in Cromwell’s cavalry, and Edward took visible pride in his older son’s heroics. To make up for his inability to fight on the battlefield, Will became too quick with his fists when another man challenged his honor. Rumor had it that while his father had concealed a dagger in his sleeve, Will hid a sword in his cane. I looked at his face and saw an unusually colorful complement of bruises.
“Oh, Will, now what?” I exclaimed, exasperated. “It is one thing to fight as a boy, but you are a man of twenty-one, and you have no need to prove yourself in an alehouse brawl.” He cast his eyes downward and took a step back.
“It was nothing, Aunt Bridget,” he said. “Just one insult too many.” I was prepared to remonstrate with him further, but Edward’s servant entered and announced that he would see me now. I put my hands on Will’s cheeks and looked in his eyes.