The Witch Hunter's Tale (19 page)

“You heard him say he would kill Mr. Breary?” I asked.

“Not in those words. He simply said that he would stop the Witch Finder from coming no matter what the cost. He never said he’d resort to murder, but my mother knew what he meant and tried to talk him out of it. She said Mr. Breary was a citizen and Alderman, not some poor old hag. He had friends who would defend and avenge him.”

“But she did not convince him?”

“Not nearly. Joseph and his man thundered out, angrier than when they came.
I know how to end our troubles,
was the last thing he said.”

“What did your mother say to that?” Martha asked.

“She said if he went through with his plan, they’d both be ruined. She told him that he was a crack-brain, and that she’d not be brought down by his foolishness. But she said it to his back. If he intended to kill Mr. Breary, there was no stopping him.”

“Do you think Joseph Hodgson killed Mr. Breary?” I asked.

“If he didn’t, his man did,” James replied. “The two of them marched out of our house as if they were going to war.”

I put my hand on James’s arm and squeezed. “Thank you, James,” I said. “You did the right thing.”

He looked at me with a thin smile. “Perhaps,” he said. “God will judge me. But I’m not sure my mother would appreciate it.”

“She’ll not hear about it from me,” I reassured him.

Martha and I stood and slipped out of the alehouse. “What do we do now?” Martha asked. We were walking west on Petergate and had nearly reached St. Michael’s church and the Minster.

“Let us speak to Will,” I replied. “He should know what we have discovered. He also might have an idea about how to approach Joseph.”

As we passed in front of the Minster, I caught sight of Peter Newcome and his boy hawking pamphlets to passersby. For a moment I returned to his suggestion that I counter Joseph’s pamphlet—the one that accused Will of murder—with a pamphlet of my own, one pointing at Joseph. Could a book save Will from execution?

On this day one of Will’s jailors answered the door of Peter’s Prison. “Who are you?” he snarled through the crack in the door.

“We are here to see Will Hodgson,” I replied.

“You’ll have to pay,” he demanded. “Nothing’s free.” With a sigh I reached for my purse. Our transaction complete, the jailor ushered us inside. We found Will sitting on a bench against the wall reading a Bible. Martha furrowed her brow at the sight, and I must confess to my own surprise. Will favored religion more than Martha, but I’d never seen him seek out such reading. For a moment I wondered if he had heard that he would soon be tried for George Breary’s murder and sought solace in God.

Will glanced at his jailor and without a word inclined his head toward the rough wood stairs leading to the prisoners’ cells. I nodded, and we followed him down. The weak light provided by the small lamp Will carried showed stone walls glistening with moisture, and within moments I could feel the cold seeping deep into my flesh.

“My keepers don’t read much,” Will said, holding up the Bible. “If you’d bring me something else to read, I’d welcome it.” I could only hope that Joseph’s pamphlet would not come to Peter’s Prison. If Will learned of his conviction in the press, he would lose all hope.

“Are there other prisoners here?” I asked as we made our way down the hall.

“I’ve got plenty of company,” Will replied. “At least a dozen. But none of them can afford the payment to stay upstairs. So they’re locked down here all the day.” Peter’s Prison included a half dozen cells, and I wondered how many of its inmates would perish before their trials. We reached the end of the hall, and an open door. We followed Will into his cell, and I shook my head in despair. The room was barely large enough for the bed it contained, and—though I’d not have thought it possible—it seemed colder than the hall outside.

“We’ll keep our voices down,” Will said. “The guards won’t hear us, but if one of the other prisoners thinks he can trade some news for an extra blanket he’ll do it.”

Martha and I nodded.

“Have you any news?” he asked.

I glanced at Martha. We’d not discussed how much to tell Will. I was reluctant to mention his impending trial. Who could know how he would react?

“We spoke to James Hooke,” Martha replied. “To find out what he might know about Mr. Breary’s death.”

Will smiled ruefully. “Poor sot, saddled with such a mother. What did he say?”

I described the conversation that James had overheard. “Joseph and Mark Preston intended to kill George,” I concluded. “And there’s no reason to think that they didn’t.”

Will shook his head. “But why would they then burn his papers?” he asked. “What is to be gained from that? And what about the Lord Mayor? He had as much reason to kill Mr. Breary as Joseph did.”

I could see that Will still clung to the faint hope that Joseph might not be so bad a man as Martha and I thought, and my heart ached for him.

“But if James is telling the truth, we know that your brother compassed Mr. Breary’s death,” Martha said.

I could see Will preparing to argue the point, but I interrupted. “The question of who
did
kill George is less important than the fact that you did not,” I pointed out. “And our first priority is to win you your freedom, and get you out of the shadow of these suspicions.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Will said with a thin smile. “But how?”

“We’ll borrow a page from Joseph,” I replied. “He published books to advance his cause, we’ll publish one to advance our own. If we can turn the city in your favor, the Lord Mayor will have a harder time finding a jury to convict you.”

Will nodded in agreement. “Then I guess you’ll have to take up the pen.”

Chapter 15

After we returned home, Martha and I spent the rest of the day in the dining room planning and writing our answer to Joseph’s accusations against Will. We hunched over ink-stained pages, trying different phrases and restarting our work more times than I care to remember.

“We must find a way to lay the murder at Joseph’s doorstep, but still hide our hands,” Martha said.

I agreed, though I did not think Joseph would be fooled for long. But what other choice did we have?

“Joseph was right in connecting George Breary’s death with Edward Hodgson’s,” I said. “But we can put them both on Joseph rather than Will.”

Martha nodded. “It was Joseph who gained power and wealth from their father’s death, not Will,” she replied, scribbling her ideas as she spoke. “Will has gained nothing but suffering.”

“Aye,” I said. “When Edward died, it was Joseph who took over his household and expelled his younger brother … no, his
crippled
younger brother.” I knew Will would not appreciate the reference to his misshapen foot, but our goal was to gain sympathy from the city, not appeal to his pride.

“And when Mr. Breary challenged his plans for a witch-hunt, Joseph acted as he always has—with violence,” Martha concluded with a flourish.

We continued to polish our pamphlet until it shone like the stones in my favored necklace. At every turn we reminded the reader that Joseph had far more to gain from Edward’s and George’s deaths than Will did. As we wove together the various strands of our story, I felt increasingly confident that our plan would bear fruit. It helped, of course, that we truly believed in Joseph’s guilt, and to our eyes, the indictment seemed irrefutable: Joseph had killed countless men in wartime, and he’d brought the fight back to York, killing his enemies in the city as easily as he had on the battlefield.

When we had finished our work, Martha and I hurried to the shop behind the Minster. The same young man that Elizabeth and I had met the week before answered our knock. Over his shoulder I could see a boy pulling a sheet of paper off the press and replacing it with a new one.

“Business is still good, it seems,” I said by way of greeting.

The printer smiled and shook his head in wonder at his good fortune. “In troubled times, people crave news, whether it is true or not. What brings you back to my shop, my lady?”

“More business for you,” I said, handing him the sheets that Martha and I had written. “I should like these printed and given to the city’s chapmen.”

As the printer read our work I could see the growing concern on his face. When he finished, he tried to hand them back. “My lady, I cannot print these,” he said. “You know very well what Mr. Hodgson’s reaction would be. He would see me out of business without a moment’s hesitation.”

“I’ll pay you well for your trouble,” I replied. “Pounds, not pence.” I knew that he could not earn more than two pounds a month, and if I could buy Will’s freedom for that price it would be money well spent.

“You could claim it was printed elsewhere,” Martha suggested. “Put
Printed in Hull
on the cover, and then dispose of all your copies. There will be no way to prove the contrary.”

The printer still seemed uncertain, but I could tell that we had his attention. I handed him a purse of coins in an effort to close the deal.

“No reason it couldn’t have come from Hull,” he said as he hefted the purse. “And with this I could hire another boy. I’ll have it ready in a week.”

I looked at him aghast. “We haven’t got a week,” I said. “A week would be too late.” I caught a glint in his eye—a glint the color of a silver coin—and realized what he was doing. It was not often a printer could claim the upper hand in such a matter, but we both knew that he had it.

“I have far more work than time, my lady,” he replied. “And I should like to keep the customers I have.”

I sighed and handed him a few more coins. “This should compensate for your loss,” I said.

“Yes, it should,” he replied. He looked once again through the sheets we’d given him. “It’s not long, so I should have the book to the chapmen by Friday.” My face must have betrayed my disappointment. “Between setting the type, the cutting, and the sewing, that is the best I can do. The work takes time,” he explained.

I nodded. “Very well. Friday it is.” We bid the printer farewell and hurried back to my house, our shoulders hunched against the cold.

“Joseph will be furious,” Martha said as we stepped inside. “And he will surely suspect that you are behind the book.”

I knew this, of course, and the sound of Elizabeth clattering down the steps to greet us reminded me that my love for her was my greatest vulnerability. Rebecca Hooke had already threatened her, and I knew that the danger was real. Elizabeth threw herself into my arms, and I felt my heart overflow with love and fear.
What could I do to keep her safe from my enemies?

This question kept me awake for hours after I climbed into my bed, but even sleep offered no respite. In my dreams, I ran pell-mell through York’s streets and alleyways. Sometimes I pursued a hooded figure that I somehow knew to be George Breary’s murderer. Several times I nearly caught hold of his hood and revealed his face, but at the last moment he ducked from my grasp, and my voice echoed off the cobblestone streets when I cried out in rage and frustration. In other dreams—or perhaps they were the same ones—I searched for Elizabeth as she tried desperately to escape a predator of her own. But she proved no less elusive than George’s murderer. I sometimes caught glimpses of red hair as she turned down an alley, but I could never come close enough to take her in my arms.

When I awoke I wondered if
I
was the one from whom she fled. At the same time my pamphlet might save Will, it would infuriate Joseph beyond measure. And for all I knew, he would turn his rage on Elizabeth. What better way to exact his revenge?

I lay in bed telling myself that while he was a violent man, Joseph had never harmed a child. I prayed that his honor would keep him from doing so on this occasion. I then resolved to keep Elizabeth indoors until the witch-hunt had ended and George’s killer had been hanged. What else could I do? I felt like a man trying to escape a maze, never knowing if my next step would take me to freedom or down another blind alley. All I could do was continue my search for an escape.

*   *   *

A full two hours before sunrise a boy arrived at my door and threw all our schemes into confusion. “I have a summons to the Castle, my lady,” he announced. He handed me a letter held closed with an impressive seal of red wax.

As I broke the seal, Martha appeared at my side, no less worried than I was. In the past week, we’d accused the Lord Mayor’s wife of murder and then written a pamphlet against the city’s most powerful Alderman. It seemed unlikely that official correspondence would bring good news. It was almost a relief that the letter did nothing more than summon Martha and me to the trial of Mother Lee on charges of witchcraft.

“They’ve found judges for the Special Assizes,” I said as I read the letter. “We’re to testify against Mother Lee today.”

We spent the morning gathering the food and drink needed for a day at the Castle. Victuallers would flock there, but their offerings would be better suited for the lower sort, and they’d charge a fortune. Elizabeth begged to accompany us, of course, but mindful of my dream, I denied her. Before we left, I pulled Hannah aside.

“I want you to keep Elizabeth indoors,” I said. “Anything you need from the market can wait, or you can send a neighborhood boy for it. I don’t want her to attract any attention at all.” Between her blazing red hair and talkative habits, Elizabeth was well known throughout St. Helen’s, but I had no interest in reminding my neighbors of her presence. I knew Joseph would not forget I’d brought her into my home, but the less people thought of her, the safer she would be. Hannah cast a worried look in Elizabeth’s direction and agreed. Martha and I wrapped ourselves, bid farewell to Hannah and Elizabeth, and started for the Castle.

“What are you going to tell them?” Martha asked as we walked up Coney Street. The letter said the trial would be in the afternoon, but I wanted to arrive early and get a sense of the direction other trials had taken.

“Remember that we’ve both been called,” I replied. “So you’ll have to speak as well.”