The Witch Hunter's Tale
Read The Witch Hunter's Tale Online
Authors: Sam Thomas
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #Women Sleuths
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For Laura Jofre, two books late
As always, I must acknowledge the support of a whole host of individuals whose patience and hard work made this book possible. First, of course, is my family, who put up with my absence in a number of guises, whether it is dashing off to book clubs, public presentations, or the office to sneak in a few hours of writing. I’m also grateful to my stepsister Laura Jofre for reading a draft of this book, and the two previous ones as well. Without her, I would be just another historian with an unfinished novel in my desk drawer.
I am also thankful for the work of my agent, Josh Getzler, and his intrepid assistant, Danielle Burby, not to mention my editor at Minotaur Books, Charlie Spicer, and his assistant, April Osborn. It is better to be lucky than good, and I count myself as incredibly lucky to have such great people to work with.
Contents
The crowd cried out for the witch’s blood, and the hangman obliged. Hester Jackson was so old and frail, the hangman pulled her up the ladder as if she weighed no more than a sack of grain. With a wave to the crowd, he put the noose around her neck and turned her off into oblivion. Many cheered as she clawed helplessly at the rope that slowly choked the life out of her, and they continued to applaud as her hands dropped and her body began to convulse. One spectator aped her suffering, turning her death into a jerky dance, the devil’s own jig. Those around him cheered lustily, and I turned away. Despite the cold and wind, townsmen and -women leaned from the second- and third-story windows for a better view of Hester’s death. Even from a distance they joined in the merriment.
I looked to Martha, my maidservant and deputy. She had seen—we both had seen—the aftermath of similar deaths not six months before, and it was not a sight easily forgotten. If a stranger had looked at Martha’s face at that moment he would have found it impassive, and he might have been forgiven for thinking that the hanging held no particular interest for her. But I knew her well enough to recognize the horror in her eyes. Martha had been reluctant to come, but Hester had asked us and it was not the sort of request one refused. Hester’s legs continued to jerk, and for a moment I feared that she might still be alive. If she’d had family in the city, someone might have bribed the hangman to ensure her death was a quick one, but she was old, poor, and alone. Finally Hester was still.
“Let us go,” I murmured to Martha. She nodded, and we turned into the frigid winter wind that cut through our clothes like Satan’s razor.
The summer before—already known by the jangling rhyme of “the summer-tide of forty-five”—had been brutally hot, and the farmers especially had given thanks when the rains finally came. But when the rains continued for weeks on end psalms of praise became petitions for mercy. It soon became clear that much of the harvest would rot in the fields, and by fall farmers found themselves up to their knees in mud so thick it defied description. The cold came soon after, and by November the Lord made it known that, in His wisdom, He intended to balance the viciously hot summer with a brutally cold winter.
As we passed the shops, I noticed how spare the shelves and bins were, and how much the prices had risen in the years since King and Parliament had gone to war. I could well remember the time when York’s markets overflowed with the nation’s bounty, and residents could find anything they desired: fruit from the city’s orchards, grain from the countryside, fish and eels from the sea, cloth from France or Holland, even spices from India. Some said London could offer nothing more. But that was then.
Even though the contending armies had left Yorkshire, all manner of goods, from rare silk to common corn, had become harder to find, and the poor had begun to suffer. Indeed, the faces in the crowd were gaunter than in the past, and their bodies were more skin and bones than flesh. Many had the look of rough country folk, come to the city to sell their meager wares. But I saw familiar faces as well, including women whom I had attended when they were with child, and their husbands. Perhaps they had come to the hanging in order to see someone less fortunate than they were. Even in times of shortage, the vendors found goods to sell, and many had taken full advantage of the execution. Grocers sold food and drink to those who had not brought their own, and chapmen hawked penny-pamphlets detailing Hester’s crimes and shouting up the wonders, marvels, and omens that the Lord had visited upon England in recent months.
“A monster born to a woman in Surrey!” one chapman cried. “Come read about the sea-monster washed up near Whitby!” He stood on the corner of one of the streets that spilled into the market square, and from there he could hawk his wares as people entered and left. He must have arrived well before dawn to obtain such a prized spot, and I had no doubt the crowd would reward him for his trouble. He had pasted the coversheets from all his pamphlets to a board behind him, tailoring his offerings to the audience and occasion: Most of the titles included some combination of the words
Bloody, Strange, Terrible,
and
Horrid
.
I did my best to avoid him, but a boy thrust a sheet in to my hand.
A Strange and Wonderful Monster Born
shouted the title, and I felt my eyes drawn to the vile image on the front. It showed a headless child, with a gruesomely large face set in the middle of his chest and ears on his shoulders. His hands were on his hips, and he stared impudently from the page, as if daring the reader to doubt the reality of the story inside. A group of women surrounded the child: witches and papists, it seemed, for one woman suckled a rat at her breast and appeared to be casting a spell, while others held rosaries and crucifixes. It was not clear which group had called the monstrous child into being, but perhaps it did not matter. The world was out of order—what difference did it make whether witches or papists were to blame?
The chapman must have seen the look of disgust on my face, for he stepped in front of me and snatched the sheet from my hands, even as he doffed his cap. “Not what you are looking for, my lady?” he asked. “Not to worry, for I’ve got other news as well.” For a man who must have lived much like a vagabond, travelling from town to town, he seemed almost respectable. He kept his clothes clean, knew a gentlewoman when he saw one, and had shaved that morning. He pulled a stack of pamphlets from his pack and with a flourish fanned them out before me. Now, rather than tales of witchcraft and monstrous births, I was confronted with the bloody acts of men, as the titles shouted of recent battles between King and Parliament, including one that had taken place at Marston Moor, not far from York. I started to push them aside when one title caught my eye:
God’s Terrible Justice in York
.
Martha saw it as well.
“Oh, God!” she moaned.
The chapman misread her reaction as one of surprise rather than dismay.
“Oh, you never heard of the murders?” he asked. “You must be a stranger to the city, for all the North knows of the killings.” His voice rose in excitement and the words poured out like water through a breached dam. It did not take long before a small crowd had gathered around him, ready to hear a tale they already knew.
“It was a horrid summer indeed!” the chapman cried. “Death himself stalked the city’s whores; there were murders upon murders, hangings upon hangings.” To my surprise he broke into song, telling the story of Betty MacDonald, a girl who had come to York in search of work, but fell into whoredom and met a dreadful end in the room where she plied her trade. It was close enough to the truth that I could not fault him overmuch.
“The shame of it is,” he continued, “how many innocents lost their lives, and how many murderers went free. And the entire story—including the song I just sang—is here.” He held up a pamphlet for all to see. “And it can be yours for just a penny.” It was a masterful performance. A half dozen people stepped forward, eager to buy the pamphlet. Hester Jackson’s hanging had not provided blood enough, it seemed.
Before Martha and I could escape the crowd, the chapman stepped in front of us and held the book before Martha.
“Surely you will buy a copy,” he said with a smile.
“We know about the murders,” Martha said. “We saw the bodies.” Even over the hubbub of the crowd the chapman heard the steel in Martha’s voice, and it brought him up short. He looked at us for a moment and then realized who we were.
“You’re the midwife,” he said to me as he bowed. “You’re Lady Hodgson.”
I nodded.
“And you must be her deputy,” he said to Martha. “You found who killed these women. The two of you are famous, even in London!” I had not known that the news of the murders had spread so far, but it made sense that a man who carried books on his back would be the first to hear. He seemed thrilled to be in our presence, and I could not help wondering what mix of truth and fancy had found its way into his blood-soaked books.
“My lady,” he said, nearly in a whisper. “I have a proposal.”
Despite myself I leaned toward him, straining to hear his words.
“Have you ever tried your hand at writing?” he asked.
I started to respond, but he held up his hand—he’d not yet finished making the sale.
“I have friends in the Stationers Company, and they would pay handsomely for your account of the killings. It is better to tell your truth than let the vain scribblers tell their lies.” He looked expectantly at Martha. “Surely so beautiful a woman as you could use a few shillings for your dowry. All you’d need to do is tell your story. We could go to an inn. I would even pay for the wine. My name is Peter Newcome, by the way.” He offered us what he hoped would be a winning smile. I admired his audacity, but I had no desire to revisit the killings.
“It is a generous offer, Mr. Newcome,” I said. “But we must decline.”
Newcome took the news with good grace, bowing yet again. “In the event you change your mind, my lady, I hope you will search me out.”
“I don’t think we will,” Martha replied for both of us. “We have dwelt long enough on that summer.”
“Very well,” he replied. “But if you won’t tell your story, perhaps you’ll buy another man’s.” He leaned forward again and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “Have you heard of the witchings and hangings in Suffolk?”
Without meaning to, I shook my head.
“Ah, it’s all here,” he said. He held out yet another book, this one called
The Discovery of Witches
. The author was called Matthew Hopkins, and described himself by the unusual title
Witch Finder
.
“What in God’s name is a ‘Witch Finder’?” asked Martha.
I shook my head. While we’d heard of the trials and hangings—who in England hadn’t?—I’d never heard of such an office.