The Witch Hunter's Tale (27 page)

“The child is well?” he asked.

“She is as healthy as any bairn I’ve delivered,” I replied.

“And Grace?” His voice cracked as he asked the question.

“There is danger,” I replied. “She has not delivered the after-burthen, and if she does not, she will die.”

Matthew nodded. Though death in travail was not common, we all had a friend, a neighbor, or a relative who had died while giving birth. “What can you do?”

“She is sleeping now, but there are medicines I will give her when she awakes. They may help.”

“Should I call for a wet nurse?” he asked. A tear ran down his cheek. “In case she…” His voice trailed off.

“It is probably for the best,” I said. “Even if I deliver the afterbirth, Grace will be weak, and the child will have to suck.” I gave him the names of a few women in Micklegate who might help and returned to Grace.

After she had slept for perhaps two hours, Grace’s eyes fluttered open and she looked about the room as if surprised to find herself there. I took her hand and was relived to find it cool. The fever had broken.

“How am I?” she asked. “I had such a grief, but I feel like it has passed.”

I watched her face as I placed my hand on her belly and pressed. She showed no hint of pain. “You may have delivered the after-burthen on your own,” I said. “Let me see.”

Sorrow welled up in my breast as soon as I lifted Grace’s blanket. She had delivered the afterbirth, but at the cost of her life. The bed was soaked with her blood. I lowered the blanket, thankful that nobody else had seen the harbinger of Grace’s death. There was nothing I or any man alive could have done to stop such a flux of blood. I took her hand again. It remained cool to the touch, but now the coolness bespoke not life, but death.

“Might I have another blanket?” Grace asked. “I am very cold.”

Perhaps it was that question that alerted the gossips to her condition, for with a fire blazing in the hearth, the room was more than warm enough. They laid another blanket on the bed and gathered around her. Susan Baird took her other hand.

I caught Martha’s eye. She nodded and slipped from the room. A few moments later, Matthew joined us and took my place by Grace’s side. Grace smiled up at him and caressed his face. The gesture was too much, and he began to sob. The women—all crying now—stepped away from the bed so Grace and Matthew could talk. They whispered to each other, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying. After a time, Grace slept. And then she died.

Matthew sent for the minister, and we prepared Grace’s body for burial. Thankfully, she would be buried in the church itself, for the frozen ground was so hard that it would have taken days to dig a grave in the churchyard.

The sun had set by the time Martha and I left the Thompsons’ house and began the journey home. To my dismay, the lantern Matthew had loaned us blew out in a gust of wind before we reached the end of the street. The moon passed in and out of sight as clouds whisked across the night sky. Every few steps we were plunged into darkness or bathed in a cold, lunar light. Martha and I leaned on each other, utterly exhausted in our minds and bodies. Perhaps it was our weariness, perhaps it was the wind, but neither of us heard the footsteps approaching from behind.

Martha sensed a presence before I did. She started to turn and raise her arm, but it was too late. She cried out, but the blow silenced her, and she fell to the ground in a heap. I swung the lantern in an agonizingly slow arc at our attacker’s head. To my surprise it reached its target, and the glass shattered into dust, but I knew that it would not shake our attacker.

At that moment the moon broke from the clouds and illuminated the scene before me in terrifying detail. Mark Preston stood over Martha’s body like some hulking beast, a small, ugly cudgel in his hand. When he turned to me I saw a thin line of blood sliding down his temple, but that was all the damage my blow had done.

“Your nephew has had enough of both of you,” Mark hissed. He smiled and took a step toward me. I had a terrible decision before me, and I made it in an instant. If I stayed and fought I would surely die, and then Martha would, too. But if I led Mark away from her, she might recover herself and escape. That was my hope, at least. I hurled what was left of the lantern at Mark’s head, turned, and ran.

After a few steps I looked over my shoulder and saw that Mark had slipped on the slick cobblestones and fallen. He regained his feet all too quickly, but it gave me the time I needed. I looked back again when I reached the south end of the Ouse Bridge, and I cried out in dismay. Mark had very nearly caught me. If I tried to cross the bridge, he would have me long before I reached the far side.

I dashed down the stairs to the staith that ran along the water’s edge. Until the river froze, sailors from around Europe had docked their boats there, but now it was naught but a broad and deserted avenue, with warehouses on the right and the river on the left. I heard Mark clattering down the steps behind me. I ran to the edge of the staith and dropped onto the ice. Though I knew the risk, I ran straight toward the middle of the river. The ice was rough beneath my feet, and more than once I caught a toe and nearly fell. When I heard the ice creaking below me, I slowed my pace and turned to face my pursuer. Mark stood ten feet away, breathing hard, the cudgel still in his hand. I shifted my weight, and the ice creaked ominously.

When he was near enough for my purposes, I dashed away once again and threw myself forward onto my stomach. I’d hoped to slide even further away, but ice was far too rough. Rather than gliding to safety, I crashed forward and bloodied my nose before rolling onto my back.

I looked up to find Mark approaching me. I tried to sit up, but my left hand broke through the ice and plunged into the frigid waters of the Ouse. Pain shot up my arm, and I pulled my hand out. My entire arm was numb. I heard the ice crack below me and lay back as far as I could.

“Come now, Lady Bridget,” he said. “It is over. One knock on the head, and we’ll be done here. At least
you
will be.” I lashed out at him with my feet. He danced back a step and smiled before beginning his approach anew, circling closer and closer until he could deliver the final clout. I turned in place, trying to keep my feet between us and force him toward the middle of the river. As we turned, the moon illuminated his face, and I knew that if my plan failed, his vicious smile would be the last thing I saw.

I think he recognized my trap an instant too late. A look of surprise flashed across his face as he broke through the ice and dropped into the river. I pushed myself back toward shore before I dared sit up. Preston’s head and arms were still visible as he clawed desperately at the ice, hoping to haul himself out. I did not know what I would do if he succeeded. But on that night the Lord had mercy on me. Preston’s cries grew feebler as the cold choked the life out of him. I looked into his eyes, watching in fascination as the river overcame him, and he slowly slipped out of sight.

I rolled onto my stomach and, dragging my numbed left arm behind me, pulled myself toward the staith. I clambered off the ice and back onto the cobbled street. Without a look back, I hurried up the stairs to where I’d left Martha. I found her sitting in the middle of the street with her head between her knees. I took her by the arm, and she staggered to her feet.

“How are you? Are you hurt?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. I released her arm, and she took a few wobbly steps.

“Who was it?” she asked. “What happened?”

“Mark Preston came for us at last,” I said. “Come, we must get home.” I led her across the bridge, casting a glance at the ice below. I could see the hole through which Mark had fallen, but that was the only sign of our struggle.

“Where is he?” Martha asked.

“Dead,” I replied. Only then did I realize that my hands had been stained by yet another man’s blood. “I led him out onto the ice and when I lay flat, he fell through.”

“You remembered what the Hollander boy told you,” she said.

“Aye, and now he’s saved my life twice,” I replied. “But enough talk, let us hurry home before the cold takes us as well.”

*   *   *

I pounded on the door for Hannah to let us in. Her eyes widened when Martha and I tumbled into the hall. Rather than asking what had happened, she dashed off for towels, water, and blankets. Though it was not in either of our natures, Martha and I let Hannah care for us as we told her all that had happened. Her horror at Grace Thompson’s death and Mark Preston’s subsequent attack was something to behold. I’m sure she wondered how my world—and as a consequence,
her
world—had become so bloody, but what else could I have done? By the time the sun rose, the feeling had returned to my arm and, except for a bump on her head, Martha seemed a picture of health. We both knew she’d been very lucky. As Hannah busied herself about the house, Martha and I dragged ourselves to our beds.

I awoke that afternoon utterly famished, and I realized that I’d not eaten since before Grace Thompson’s final travail. I found Martha and Hannah in the kitchen finishing dinner preparations, and the three of us sat together to eat. We all gazed at the empty chairs around us, and I said a prayer for the safety of our missing family. After we ate, I retired to my chamber and tried to busy myself with the accounts from my estates. I trusted my stewards, of course, but I liked to keep my eye on the rents as they came in. As much as I tried to prevent it, my mind kept returning to the new danger Martha and I faced. It would take Joseph some hours to realize that we had survived his murder attempt, but when he did, hell itself would be loosed on the city. Will, Tree, and Elizabeth were safe for now, but how would Martha and I weather the coming storm? As I gazed at the papers before me, I realized we had only one choice if we were going to survive: Martha and I had to flee the city even before Will, Tree and Elizabeth did. I began to write the necessary letters.

Hannah called me for supper, but I was too busy writing. She brought me bread and cheese, which I ravened up without tasting it. My letters were nearly done when fatigue once again threatened to overcome me. Martha appeared at my chamber door and, without knocking, entered and sat on the edge of my bed.

“What now?” she asked.

“We must leave York as soon as we can,” I replied.

Martha nodded. She had come to the same conclusion. “It will not be easy,” she said. “It is your home.”

“What choice do we have? Joseph intends to hang Will and Tree. And when he discovers Mark Preston’s death, he will find a way to have his revenge on you and me. I do not see how we can defeat him.” I held up the letters I’d written. “We will hire a carriage tomorrow morning, and we’ll be gone before sunset. By the time we reach Hereford, my house will be ready for us. Once there, we will be safe.”

“What about Will and the children?”

“We will have to leave them in Helen Wright’s hands,” I replied. “If she can get them out of the city, Will can keep them safe during the journey south.”

“And then? You can hardly keep up your midwifery in such a place.” Pontrilas was barely a village, and Martha knew it.

I shrugged. “There are villages nearby. There will be fewer mothers, that is sure. But we have few choices.”

“There is London,” Martha ventured.

I laughed out loud. “A few years in York and you’ve become a city girl, have you? That is fair. Once we are settled, we will consider our options.”

Martha helped me to bed and disappeared upstairs to her chamber. As I lay there, I considered her suggestion that we settle in London. I’d never been to the city before, and I could not help wondering if my family’s future might lie in that direction.

At sunrise I sent Hannah to post my letters to Hereford and find a carriage to take us south. Martha and I then began gathering everything we would need for the coming journey. I sent letters to friends in the city, calling in the debts they owed me. I knew few would have enough ready money to pay me in full, but if each sent a portion we would have enough. With Will, Tree, and Elizabeth safely hidden, and a carriage coming soon for Martha, Hannah, and me, I felt for the first time in weeks as if all might be well. Indeed, I had become so hopeful that when I heard a knock at the door, I opened it without a moment’s hesitation.

My knees buckled when I found Joseph standing in the doorstead.

I steeled myself for his rage, but what he offered instead was far worse. He smiled.

“Aunt Bridget, might I come in?” Without waiting for a response, he strode past me. I followed him to the parlor, suddenly feeling like a stranger in my own home. Somehow his careless manner frightened me more than his wrath. He reached the parlor and turned to face me.

“What do you want?” I demanded. “I had nothing to do with Will’s escape, and I don’t know where he is.”

“You are lying about his escape,” Joseph replied brightly. “But I have no doubt you are ignorant of his whereabouts.”

I tried to imagine what he meant by this, and in a terrible moment I realized what had happened. I stood in silence as I waited for the grim news.

“Last night, mother hen,” Joseph said, “the Town Watch found your entire brood. They all are mine now.”

Though his message was plain, I stared at Joseph trying to make sense of his words. I wanted them to have some other meaning; I wanted to find a reason for him to lie about this. But the truth was there before me and could not be denied. He had taken them all: Will, Tree, Elizabeth, and Stephen. My entire body felt as numb as my river-dipped arm had the night before. Sorrow, horror, and fury vied for expression, but none could win the day so I stood mute.

“What, nothing to say?” he asked. I had never seen a man so pleased with himself. “You are usually more talkative than this. Very well, I shall continue. They are taken, and they will hang, most of them anyway: Will for murdering George Breary, the ruffian Stephen Daniels for killing Will’s guards. We’ll try the boy as a witch, and I imagine he will hang as well.” A smile flitted across his lips at the thought.

“Oh, and the girl,” he said, as if Elizabeth were an afterthought. “You’ll not have her back, for you’ve no claim to her at all. You can’t just take an orphan off the street and into your home. There are laws. The city will see to her.
I
will see to her.”