The Midwife's Tale by Sam Thomas Page B

left the house, a group of soldiers marched along Petergate on their way from Bootham Bar back to their quarters. They looked exhausted and a few appeared to have suffered minor wounds in the fighting. I wondered how many of their company had died to save the city and how many more would have to do so. And what if the next assault succeeded? Or the one after that? The longer the siege lasted, the more brutal the treatment the city’s residents could expect once it fell. As we walked, I looked at Martha, wondering what would become of her if the rebels sacked the city. As a member of my household, she would be safer than most people, but that was hardly a guarantee that she would survive unscathed. The lot of young women, especially poor ones, in wartime was a hard one. I swore to myself that I would protect Martha from whatever danger the future might bring.
    From my house we went down Stonegate before turning toward the Castle. I don’t think either one of us relished another walk through the Shambles. As we neared the Ouse Bridge, Clifford’s Tower came into view. It sat on a hill overlooking the city and the rest of York Castle. The keep was as old as any building in the city—some said it had been built by William of Normandy. Before the civil war, the Castle had fallen into disrepair, but after the King’s men entered the city it became a hive of activity as they strengthened the walls and dug ditches to fortify the defenses.
    “Is that where they are keeping her?” Martha asked, gazing up at the keep.
    “No,” I said. “That’s Clifford’s Tower. It’s the part of the Castle closest to the city, and the one everyone sees first, but there is much more to the Castle on the other side of the hill. You’ll see the rest presently.”
    We crossed the drawbridge and the smell of the moat assaulted us. The river always had a stink about it, but the moat was truly noxious, for the soldiers used it to dispose of their waste. I made the mistake of looking down and saw the corpse of a large dog, half-submerged in the water. On the far end of the bridge, two posterns loomed above us, guards peering down as if we were the vanguard of another assault. Another group of soldiers stood outside the gate. They wore heavy breastplates and helmets and kept their weapons at the ready. The contingent was on edge after the day’s attack and did not know what to make of me and Martha. The sergeant approached us, clearly hoping that there was some sort of mistake and we would go away.
    “My lady,” he said. “What brings you to the Castle at such a troubled time?” If I had not been a gentlewoman, I’m quite sure he would have chased us off with a few choice words; but he knew his place.
    “I am a midwife of the city, and we are here to see a prisoner,” I announced, handing him the letter with the Lord Mayor’s seal. He looked dumbly at the letter, and I realized that he could not read. “It is from the Lord Mayor,” I explained. “It instructs you to take me to see the prisoner in question.” He continued to stare at the letter as if the writing would suddenly become clear and tell him what to do. I sighed. “Call the officer who is in charge of the guard. I am quite sure that he can help us.” The sergeant seemed almost grateful that I’d given him some direction. If the hopes of the King rested on men such as this, England’s future looked dark indeed. The sergeant retreated to the gate and spoke through a small window. A few minutes later he returned.
    “I’ll take you to the tower where the prisoner is being kept,” he said as if it were his idea. He handed me the Lord Mayor’s letter. “From there you can talk to the jailor.”
    He barked a command, and the gate slowly opened. Martha and I followed the sergeant into the Castle just as a cannon at the far end of the compound roared. Instinctively I ducked, then waited as smoke washed over us. As we passed the emplacement, artillerymen worked to reload the