asked, “My lady, I have a question about the city. Today we have been in Holy Trinity, Micklegate and St. Martin, Micklegate, but have yet to see a gate or even the city wall.”
“At the moment, you are on Micklegate,” I said. She looked around her, and I could not help laughing at her confusion. “It is one of the peculiarities of the city. The streets are called gates: Micklegate, Walmgate, Petergate, and so on.”
“If the streets are called gates, the city gates are … what?”
“The gates are called bars, oddly enough. There are four of them in the city. You came in Monk Bar on the north. That’s the poorest part of the city, and as you’ve seen it can be dangerous at night.” She smiled ruefully. “There are many others, and it’s a bit bewildering, but it will seem familiar soon enough.” We continued down Coneystreet, home to York’s best inns and shops, before reaching Stonegate, which led to my house. Along the way, Martha studied the churches and shops that would help her find her way in the future.
“The Thursday Market is down that street,” she noted when we reached St. Helen’s church. “Hannah told me that a cannonball killed a maid there last week.”
“Yes, while she bought salt for her mistress. It was a terrible thing.” I wondered briefly what profit the rebels had from killing her. She was no political animal, yet the rebels slaughtered her just the same. I pushed such dreadful thoughts from my mind. “Up ahead is Swinegate, which will take you to the Shambles. Most of the city’s butchers have their shops there; it is a stinking place.”
Soon enough we reached my home, and Hannah let us in. I had a small meal and read in the Bible for a time. Before retiring, I called for Hannah.
“Susan Dobson’s churching is tomorrow afternoon, and there will be a supper afterwards. Be sure that one of my best dresses is ready. And tell Martha to make sure that her dress is clean. I’ll take her with me.” She curtsied and disappeared downstairs.
Churchings occasioned much gossip, and I had no doubt that the chief topic of conversation at the feast would be Stephen Cooper’s murder. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what new rumors would have appeared by then. I never suspected, of course, that gossip exchanged in Susan’s parlor soon would lead me to another murder, this one even more pitiful than Cooper’s.
Chapter 5
I awoke Monday morning to the sound of footsteps in the hallway and, still half-asleep, I rolled over to make room for Birdy. Even as I moved, I realized the steps could not be Birdy’s, and I was overcome by melancholy. Until the day she died, Birdy joined me in my bed every morning as soon as she awoke. For many years, I’d begged her just to lie still and perhaps go back to sleep, but I could not recall her ever doing so. As soon as her eyes opened, Birdy’s mind went to work, deciphering the world around her. Such work was neither quiet nor solitary. I prayed for strength, for God to take from me my pain, but on this morning He denied me. Reluctantly, I rose and picked up a second drawing of Birdy, one I kept on the table by my bed. In the early morning light, her features were indistinct, but I did not need to see them, for each one, from the shape of her brow, to the curve of her nose, to the line of her mouth, would stay with me until I breathed my last.
After my tears had stopped, I called Hannah. As she dressed me, I heard someone rapping on the front door. I sighed and tried to think which of my regular clients were far enough along to be going into labor. I went down and was happy to find not a servant calling me to a labor, but my nephew Will. I crossed the parlor to embrace him and was struck simultaneously by the richness of his clothes and the distress evident in his face. Whatever the clothes meant, his visage made clear that his visit was not for pleasure.
“Aunt Bridget, I know you came to my father regarding the death of Stephen
“At the moment, you are on Micklegate,” I said. She looked around her, and I could not help laughing at her confusion. “It is one of the peculiarities of the city. The streets are called gates: Micklegate, Walmgate, Petergate, and so on.”
“If the streets are called gates, the city gates are … what?”
“The gates are called bars, oddly enough. There are four of them in the city. You came in Monk Bar on the north. That’s the poorest part of the city, and as you’ve seen it can be dangerous at night.” She smiled ruefully. “There are many others, and it’s a bit bewildering, but it will seem familiar soon enough.” We continued down Coneystreet, home to York’s best inns and shops, before reaching Stonegate, which led to my house. Along the way, Martha studied the churches and shops that would help her find her way in the future.
“The Thursday Market is down that street,” she noted when we reached St. Helen’s church. “Hannah told me that a cannonball killed a maid there last week.”
“Yes, while she bought salt for her mistress. It was a terrible thing.” I wondered briefly what profit the rebels had from killing her. She was no political animal, yet the rebels slaughtered her just the same. I pushed such dreadful thoughts from my mind. “Up ahead is Swinegate, which will take you to the Shambles. Most of the city’s butchers have their shops there; it is a stinking place.”
Soon enough we reached my home, and Hannah let us in. I had a small meal and read in the Bible for a time. Before retiring, I called for Hannah.
“Susan Dobson’s churching is tomorrow afternoon, and there will be a supper afterwards. Be sure that one of my best dresses is ready. And tell Martha to make sure that her dress is clean. I’ll take her with me.” She curtsied and disappeared downstairs.
Churchings occasioned much gossip, and I had no doubt that the chief topic of conversation at the feast would be Stephen Cooper’s murder. As I drifted off to sleep, I wondered what new rumors would have appeared by then. I never suspected, of course, that gossip exchanged in Susan’s parlor soon would lead me to another murder, this one even more pitiful than Cooper’s.
Chapter 5
I awoke Monday morning to the sound of footsteps in the hallway and, still half-asleep, I rolled over to make room for Birdy. Even as I moved, I realized the steps could not be Birdy’s, and I was overcome by melancholy. Until the day she died, Birdy joined me in my bed every morning as soon as she awoke. For many years, I’d begged her just to lie still and perhaps go back to sleep, but I could not recall her ever doing so. As soon as her eyes opened, Birdy’s mind went to work, deciphering the world around her. Such work was neither quiet nor solitary. I prayed for strength, for God to take from me my pain, but on this morning He denied me. Reluctantly, I rose and picked up a second drawing of Birdy, one I kept on the table by my bed. In the early morning light, her features were indistinct, but I did not need to see them, for each one, from the shape of her brow, to the curve of her nose, to the line of her mouth, would stay with me until I breathed my last.
After my tears had stopped, I called Hannah. As she dressed me, I heard someone rapping on the front door. I sighed and tried to think which of my regular clients were far enough along to be going into labor. I went down and was happy to find not a servant calling me to a labor, but my nephew Will. I crossed the parlor to embrace him and was struck simultaneously by the richness of his clothes and the distress evident in his face. Whatever the clothes meant, his visage made clear that his visit was not for pleasure.
“Aunt Bridget, I know you came to my father regarding the death of Stephen
Similar Books
