The Midwife's Tale(34)

Not wanting to keep a man like Yeoman waiting, Martha and I left immediately. We walked up Stonegate toward Yeoman’s house near the church of St. Michael-le-Belfrey. Contrary to its name, St. Michael’s had neither bells nor belfry, but it impressed just the same. It was the largest parish church in the city and lay just across the street from the Minster itself, basking in the cathedral’s glory. When Charles Yeoman came to York, he had chosen a parish appropriate for a man of great wealth, and his home was no less impressive. They said that Yeoman had come to the city to escape the wars, and his choice of homes also spoke to his retirement from political life, for it lay on one of the city’s winding side streets that led nowhere in particular. I couldn’t help wondering if the war might have been avoided if moderate men such as Yeoman had seen fit to fight as courageously for peace as the partisans had fought for war.

Even though I knew of Yeoman’s wealth, the sumptuousness of his home was striking. Elegant paintings in the style of Rubens adorned the walls, and the furniture coverings were of the finest silk. I had only a moment to absorb the luxury of Yeoman’s parlor before a servant whisked me to his study and took Martha to the kitchen. Yeoman sat in a large chair behind his desk, a pair of spectacles perched on his long nose. When we entered, he glanced up momentarily from the papers he was reading and held up one finger for me to wait. When he’d finished the page, he set the papers on his desk and looked up. His white hair was cut close to his scalp in the style of the Parliament-men, but I did not think he cleaved to any party. While old age robbed some men of their authority, such was not the case for Yeoman. Everything about him announced that he was a man accustomed to wielding a great deal of power. While I considered myself equal to most men and superior to some, Yeoman overawed me. Esther had told me that he’d left politics, but I now had my doubts. He may have given up his public offices, but I did not believe for a moment that he had forsaken his power.

“Sit, sit, sit,” he said. I had the sense not that he wished to rush through our meeting, but that he conducted all his affairs efficiently and expected those around him to keep up. He stared at me intently, and I had the distinct feeling that the judgment he formed in the next few seconds would dictate the nature of our relationship.

“So you are Edward Hodgson’s sister, the Lady Bridget. Edward speaks very highly of you. I am happy to talk with you as a courtesy to your brother,” Yeoman continued, “but I am not entirely clear what interests we could have in common. What is it that you want? Not a loan, I hope. If you need money, you should marry.”

I realized then that the one thing Charles Yeoman and Stephen Cooper shared was a disdain for women. I forced a smile and hoped that my face did not betray the revulsion I felt rising in my throat. I knew that he would end our interview if he thought I was wasting his time, so I got right to the point. “I am here at the behest of your niece, Esther. She says that she has been wrongly convicted of Stephen’s murder. I believe her, but too many men have their own reasons to see her burnt for her protests to do any good.”

“And how does that concern me?” he asked. “She has been convicted and the law should take its course.” What little hope I’d had that his affection for his niece would inspire him to help died a quiet death.

“I cannot believe that you want to see your own niece burned for a crime she did not commit. You know the circumstances of her trial. Surely the law must mean something, even during war.”

Yeoman grunted in agreement. “It was … an unusual trial, I’ll grant you that. But what can you do about it?”

“I intend to prove her innocence,” I said with as much strength as I could muster.

He smiled at me as he would a youngster declaring her desire to fly. “Of course you do. And what can I do to help you?”

“Esther felt sure that Stephen had many enemies within the city, but did not know whom they might be. Because you have advised him, she suggested I consult you.”

Yeoman’s expression changed instantly from indulgent to wary, and I knew I had touched a fresh wound. “You will have to be much more specific if I am to help you.”

“She told me that Stephen was involved in an enormously expensive lawsuit. If his opponent feared losing the case, he might have had Stephen killed.”

“Ah, yes, you mean the lawsuit, of course,” he said with ill-disguised relief. “It is safe to say that Richard Hooke is not among those grieving Stephen’s death. If he had lost the suit, he would have been ruined.”