Midwife of the Burning City

Chapter One: The Bells Before Dawn

The bells began in the dark. At first they sounded like a dream of iron, a confused tolling that rolled over the roofs of St Bride’s parish. Then the wind rose and carried the reek of burning pitch to Margery Whitcombe’s bed. She sat up at once. Smoke finds the ones who have something to do.

She was already dressed when a fist rattled her door. “Mistress Whitcombe!” Daniel Broome shouted from the lane. “Up! Fire is on the move!”

“On my feet,” she called, tying her sleeves. She took her bag from the peg, the one that had the oilcloth roll inside with the shears and linens, and she slung it over her shoulder. The house was small and tidy. Her husband had been four years in the ground. She kept only what she could carry.

Daniel’s face showed gray in the first light. He was honest, a watchman with a neat beard he was too proud of and a battered staff he wanted to use. Smoke chased him like a jealous dog.

“Where?” she asked.

“Down Fleet Street. The baker’s lane—Pudding Lane—they say Thomas Farriner’s ovens set it, yesterday before dawn. But the wind won’t leave it. It’s jumped and is running this way.”

The bells thundered another warning. St Bride’s tower answered others, a chain of fear down the city.

“I am sent for.” Margery adjusted the strap on her bag. “Alderman Talbot’s house. His wife’s pains began in the night.”

Daniel made a face. “He chose this day? God’s fire is halfway to his door.”

“She did not choose it,” Margery said. “Nor will I choose to leave her.”

A spark sailed past on the wind like a star that had lost its place. Margery watched it vanish. She had learned to look for what must be done and what must be set aside. She turned to the small shape hovering behind her. “Bridget, shoes.”

“I’m shod, mistress,” Bridget O’Rourke said. She was not long in the house, a quick girl from the Irish quarter with steady hands. She knew when to ask and when to move. “Shall I fetch clean water?”

“Fetch water and all our linen. Go to the brewer’s—ask for a dray. If they balk, say it is for a woman in hard labor and I will pay in my word and in your work. Take the big shawl and cover the basket, so ash does not ruin the cloths.” Margery tightened the strap again. “Bring the oil lamp and thick candles. Bring the long shawl.”

Bridget nodded and was gone like a bird.

Daniel cleared his throat. “Shall I send men to pull down sheds along the lane? The alderman forbids it. He says not yet.”

“He would tell fire to wait upon his silver.” Margery shut her door, as if that small act could keep ruin out. “Take the firehooks where they will do good. Get the ward kegs open. Better a sound house down than taken blazing.”

He shifted from foot to foot. “I do not know if my authority—”

“You are the watchman of St Bride’s,” she said. “You have eyes and a back. That is your authority. Use it. But first walk with me. The streets will be mad.”

He looked relieved to have his feet told what to do. They went toward Fleet Street. The air darkened as they went, even though the sun was climbing. Shop signs swung and clacked. Water splashed from crooked gutters. Smoke ran at ankle height like a fog.

People were in the lanes with their boxes, their hens, their crockery, all the dear foolish weight of their lives in their arms. A girl dragged a carpet. A man pushed a handcart stacked with bales of paper. The wind frisked their hair and threw sparks in it.

“Alderman Talbot’s house,” Daniel said to anyone who tried to stop them. The words parted the crowd better than his staff would have. A young boy with a pewter dish ran past, laughing in a brittle way. Bells hammered. St Bride’s spire looked frozen, the one steady spike in a world that wriggled like heat.

Margery’s lungs smarted by the time they reached the alderman’s door. Two servants wrestled a chest between them, all red faces and curses. “Set that down,” she said, and they did, because she said it as if the ground itself had spoken. “Where is your mistress?”

“In her chamber.” The man without the chest pointed up the stairs. “Master says the plate must be saved first.”

Margery looked at him without expression. “Here is what you will save. Your mistress. Her child. If you have hands left after that, you may go to his plate. Where is she?”

He swallowed. “First floor. Mistress Whitcombe, he said we are not to pull down—”

“If the fire takes a shed, it will take a wall next,” she cut in. “Walls make roofs and roofs carry fire. If you wish to sleep you must make it hard for the fire to walk.” She went up the steps.

In the chamber, Alderman Humphrey Talbot stood like a figure carved from walnut. He had a fine waistcoat and a proud stomach. Pride had done him good in business and bad in conversation. His wife lay with her hair plastered to her forehead, a cloth between her teeth. The windows were latched but heat collected like a living thing.

“You are late,” he said.

“I am on time,” Margery said. She set down her bag and took the woman’s hand. “Breathe slowly, Mistress Talbot. I am here.”

His jaw moved. “The fire is a street away. We will be gone within the hour. She must hurry.”

Margery kept her eyes on the woman. “Babies do not hurry for aldermen.” She folded back blankets, tested for warmth, and frowned at the close air. “Open the windows a little. Quickly.”

“I said they are to stay closed,” Talbot snapped. “Sparks—”

“She will roast,” Margery said in the same tone she used to order the servants to set down the chest. She cracked one window herself. The air moved, a sweet relief. “Your wife has work to do. You will not argue in her ear. Bridget is fetching the dray. We will go when we can. Until then, we make this room fit for labor.”

Talbot glowered. The bells hammered at his pride. Smoke pressed at his walls. He wanted to command the wind and the fire and the midwife. Two of those would not listen.

A contraction took Mistress Talbot hard. She groaned. Margery spoke to her in a plain steady voice. “That’s right. Let it come. Little breaths at the top. Do not fight it. Save your strength for pushing later.”

The woman’s eyes found hers. Margery had delivered near a hundred children in the parish. She had seen the look when the pains took a woman far away and the midwife’s voice was the rope that kept her from sliding off the edge of the world. It was the same look always. It was why Margery did not stay in bed when the bells rang.

Below, the street roared. The day shifted toward fire.