The Maidservant and the Murderer Read Online Free Page A

might aid me in my labor without summoning the churchwardens, but a single woman–especially one whose belly was growing by the day–had to be careful when asking such questions.
    In the end I tarried too long, and early one Saturday morning I felt the first pangs of my travail. I tried to quiet myself, but could not help crying out. My mistress burst into my room, and knew in an instant what was happening.
    â€œWhat, a whore in my home?” she snarled. In two steps she had crossed the room and seized me by my hair. She dragged me into the street and started crying for her neighbors. Within seconds I found myself surrounded by the parish matrons, all poking and pinching at me, calling me whore, putain, trug, and foul slattern.
    One matron, a barrel-chested woman who’d married a butcher–stepped forward and seized me by the ear.
    â€œWe must see her out of the parish before she brings her bastard into the world,” she cried. “I’ll not support such a strumpet’s child.”
    The other women cried out in agreement, and I found myself being pushed, pulled, and dragged toward the parish’s boundary with St. Helen’s. I might have given birth there, but with all the commotion, the women of St. Helen’s realized what was happening and rose up in defense of their parish.
    I do not know how many neighborhoods and parishes I passed through on that day, pushed one way, pulled another, pinched purple in between. One group of women drove me into their neighbors’ church and told me to stay there. I tried to do so, but another group dragged me out and threatened to throw me in the river if I did not leave their parish.
    As horribly as I was abused on that day, the most terrible moment came when I realized how typical Mr. and Mrs. Hooke were in their cruelty. I had heard the preachers say that man was born in sin, and remained sinful to his marrow. Now I had seen such depravity with my own eyes and felt it in my bones. Now I knew that my suffering at the Hookes’ hands was not at all unusual, nor was it the result of their peculiar evil. Rather it was in perfect tune with the rest of the world. The abuse of innocent girls like me lay at the heart of all of the city’s “honorable” folk. I just had not seen it until that afternoon.
    On that day, my belief in goodness and charity turned to ash, burned by the fire that the Hookes had set and that the women of York stoked through their deliberate and wanton viciousness. These women, so loving toward their own, knew nothing of true Christianity, and cared nothing for the poor and miserable. The Lord said that on Judgment Day those who showed no mercy would receive no mercy. I resolved that if I had the chance, I would help Him in taking His vengeance on this unsparing mob.
    By the time I became aware of the world around me, I had somehow found my way to the River Foss. The women pushed me across the bridge and then stood in the street daring me to return. I dragged myself out of the street, sat against the side of a building and, for the first time that day, allowed myself to cry.
    I was still weeping when someone took my arms and lifted me to my feet. I resigned myself to more taunts, kicks, and punches, but I was led away without any abuse at all. The woman who had helped me stand seemed no different from those who had driven me from parish to parish, but instead of taking me out of the city she took me to her home. Once there she put me in a bed, and ordered her maid to bring me a drink of ale and spices.
    â€œHow long have you been in travail?” she asked.
    â€œSince this morning,” I replied.
    â€œAnd are the pains close together?”
    â€œNot yet,” I said. “An hour or more.”
    â€œFrom the way the harridans were treating you, I take it you are a single-woman?”
    I nodded.
    â€œI’ll care for you now, but you’ll have to tell me who the father is. If you tell me,