The Midwife's Tale(4)

“Do you and Mercy have any money?” I asked.

A look of horror spread across her face. “We can’t … we don’t … the Overseer of the Poor said…,” she stammered.

“Not for me, Sairy, for food. Your sister will awake with the appetite of two men.”

“We have nothing at all. She spent the last of our money on the linen for the baby.”

I fetched some more coins from my valise. “Here. If you find meat you can afford, boil it rather than roast it. She should also have broth and eggs, but no mutton. It will give her a fever. I imagine Peter Clark can get you some beef or a chicken. It would be the least he could do.” White wine would have helped her regain her strength, but it was clearly more than they could afford, so I suggested barley water. “And almond milk if you can find it.” She thanked me profusely, helped me gather my belongings, and accompanied me to St. Andrewgate.

“Everything should be fine for now,” I said. “The nearest midwife is Elizabeth Halliday, over in St. Cuthbert’s parish, around the corner from the church.” Sairy nodded. “She is a good midwife and nurse, and can help. Tell her I sent you, and that I will repay the courtesy. If you need me, go to St. Helen Stonegate. Ask any of the shopkeepers there, and they will tell you where I live. I am Lady Bridget Hodgson.”

She nodded again. “Yes, my lady.”

“Good. You did well last night. Your sister is lucky to have you. Now, go find some food for the both of you.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

I watched the girl disappear around the corner, and then I started for my home.





Chapter 2


As I walked home in the early morning light, I looked toward Bootham Bar and said a prayer of thanks that the previous night’s fires had burned themselves out. A smoky haze drifted into the sky as the ashes smoldered, but the worst had passed. I hoped that the King’s men had succeeded in denying the rebels cover should they attempt to storm the walls. Only the Lord knew what slaughter would follow if the rebels took the city by force. When I turned onto Stonegate, a group of soldiers came into view, marching toward the barbican for their turn walking the city’s walls. The sergeant saluted me, and I wished him Godspeed.

As the soldiers passed out of sight, I reflected on York’s journey from a free and prosperous city to these desperate straits. Curiously, England’s road to civil war began in Ireland, when the Papists took up arms against their Protestant masters and slaughtered them by the thousands, giving quarter to neither women nor children. Fantastic rumors soon spread that the Irish had acted with the King’s approval and that he intended to bring them to England to continue their bloody work. Parliament raised an army to defend England against the Irish, and King Charles raised an army to defend himself against Parliament; within weeks war had begun.

The Parliament-men said that the King meant to put down the Protestant religion and return England to the shackles of Popery. Some even warned that the King hoped to bring in an Irish army to slaughter English Protestants in their beds. Others charged that the King meant to do away with all Parliaments and rule as a tyrant. They said he would put himself up as a new Pharaoh, lay waste to ancient English liberties, and claim for himself the right to take any man’s property.

For his part, the King branded the Parliament-men traitors, bent on destroying every kind of order. If the rebels succeeded in bringing down the monarchy, he declared, they would pull down the Church soon after, and then the authority of fathers and masters. They would not stop until they had destroyed all order, even that which God Himself created. Their goal, he said, was anarchy. For my part, I chose order over chaos and favored the King, but most of all I lamented the passing of a time when King, Church, and people lived and breathed as one body.

The war came to York in December 1642, when the Marquess of Newcastle—then but an Earl—entered the city and established a Royalist garrison. A few months later, the Queen brought weapons and money to help defend the city, but (praise be to God) no enemy showed himself. For over a year, we had the luxury of watching our nation’s civil war from a distance, as other towns were taken and retaken and other men’s sons bore the brunt of the fighting. All of this ended in the spring, when the Scots joined with the rebels and marched to the city’s walls and began to tighten the rope around York’s neck. Food had not yet begun to run short, but the siege could last for months, and what would we do then? In the meantime, the Parliament-men shot their artillery into the city, unconcerned with what they hit. God ordained that most fell into the river Foss, but the devil had his say as well. Houses were destroyed, innocents killed, and the church tower of St. Denys was shot through with a cannonball, making a mockery of Parliament’s pretensions to defend true religion.