The Witch Hunter's Tale (3 page)

Once that seed had been planted in Sarah’s and William’s minds, it did not take long to grow. Desperate to break the curse, they sought remedies wherever they might be found. William rode out of the city and hired a blesser who tried to countercheck the curse that had been laid on Sarah. The blesser did his best, but he had no more success than the physician. He told William that unless he discovered the witch who had cursed his wife, she surely would die. Sarah’s condition grew worse, and death hovered over her. With every passing moment, William grew more frantic and racked his wits for the name of someone—
anyone
—who might have bewitched his wife.

Finally he found an answer: Hester Jackson.

The previous month, just a few days before Peter had fallen ill, William had been in his shop when Hester entered and begged of him a little food. She was a poor old woman, she said, and with bread so dear she had nothing to eat. When William turned her away, Hester had muttered something under her breath. He thought nothing of it at the time, but with all that had happened since, he was convinced that Hester had taken her revenge by bewitching both Peter and Sarah. If we lived in some country hamlet, William might have broken the curse by burning a bit of thatch from her house, but Hester’s home, like so many in fire-frighted York, had a tiled roof. On such small happenings do men’s lives turn.

Desperate to save his wife, William went to the Justices and accused Hester of witchcraft. Some said that if a witch were taken by the law, her curses would be broken. I do not know if this was William’s hope, but if so, he was disappointed. Hester utterly denied that she was a witch and said she could not lift a curse that she had not cast. Because William stood alone against her, the Justices refused to make an arrest. Sick with fear and grief, William hurried home, only to discover that even as he’d stood before the Justices accusing Hester, Sarah had died.

With his wife and child newly dead, William found himself alone with his anger and sorrow. Though he never said as much, I think he blamed himself for the death of his family. If he had not denied Hester Jackson a pennyworth of charity, she would not have bewitched Peter and Sarah. But no man can bear such guilt for long, and soon William began his quest to avenge the destruction of his family. He found allies among his neighbors, who said that Hester had always been a bad neighbor and that they had long suspected her of witchery. One woman claimed that Hester had bewitched her churn so she could no longer make butter. Another said she so corrupted a cow that it would not give milk. People remembered that Hester’s mother had long been accounted a witch, and that her aunt (or was it some other relation?) had been hanged as a witch in Lancashire (or was it Cheshire?) some twenty years before.

After the Justices arrested Hester, the rumors and gossip took on lives of their own, and on some days it seemed that York talked of little else. And while the town might disagree on some of the details or challenge the more extravagant claims, no one denied her guilt.

“I heard that the devil came to her in the shape of a handsome young man,” Hannah confided to Martha and me one evening. “And he left her an imp, a mouse named Mousnier, to work evil for her.”

Martha did not even attempt to suppress her snort of disgust. “What, is the devil now a Frenchman? Or does he just employ French mice as his imps? Once their tongues start wagging, the people of this city are crack-brained fools.”

“Who are we to judge Satan?” Hannah replied, offended by Martha’s scorn. “They say that a company of devils traveled with the Queen from France when she came to marry His Majesty.”

“And the devils brought their own devil-mouse with them?” Martha shook her head in disbelief and stalked out of the room.

While Martha could mock the idea of devils and their mice crossing the Channel on a boat, I knew that once people began to gossip about devils and Hester’s imp, I could look forward to a visit from a Justice of the Peace.

As I expected, two days later a note arrived calling me to the Castle to search Hester’s body for the Witch’s Mark. While the summons did not come as a surprise, I was sorry all the same.

“You’ll do that?” Martha asked.

“I have little choice,” I replied. “If Hester had an imp, she must have a teat from which he sucked. And who better to find it than a midwife?”

“Will I accompany you?” Martha asked. I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. She’d become my apprentice to learn the art of midwifery, not to search old women for signs of witchcraft.

“It is a part of being a midwife,” I replied. “But remember this: Examining a witch is a delicate thing, and we must tread carefully. So many in the city are convinced that Hester is a witch—” I paused, trying to find the right words.

“That if we don’t find the Witch’s Mark they will turn their anger on us?” she asked.

I nodded. “Since she is already known to be a witch, they would wonder why we couldn’t find the Mark. After all, it must be there.”

“They wouldn’t accuse us, would they?” Martha asked.

“No, they never would,” I replied with a laugh. “Midwives are the
last
ones to be called witches. Who is more trusted by their neighbors? No, we are the women who send witches to the gallows, not the women who are sent.”

“I do not like such work,” Martha said.

“Nor do I,” I replied. “But it must be done.”

“And if you find the Mark you’ll send Hester to her death?”

I paused before answering. A few years earlier I would not have hesitated to perform this duty. But in the time since Martha had come to my house, I’d had a hand in more deaths than I cared to count. And while none could be counted as murder, my appetite for blood, even the blood of the guilty, had long been sated.

“If I must,” I said at last. I could hear the doubt in my voice.

I decided to wait until morning before sending a reply to the summons, and that night I petitioned the Lord to take the cup from my lips.

To my surprise, God answered my prayers in the affirmative. The next morning, hours before sunrise, I heard a knocking at my door. Hannah answered, and by the time she came upstairs to get me I’d already started to dress. There was only one reason for someone to come to my house so early.

“Jane Morris is in travail,” Hannah said as she helped me finish dressing. “Martha is gathering the necessary herbs and your valise.”

“Thank you, Hannah,” I said. “Send a note to the Castle telling them I won’t be able to examine Hester Jackson. They should find someone else.” I paused for a moment to thank God for His mercy. Had I known that a more poisonous draught would follow, I would not have been so fervent in my prayer.

Martha and I had only a few minutes to talk as we walked to St. Wilfred’s parish, where Jane lived.

“I delivered Jane twice before you came to the city,” I said. “And she’s reached her time, so the child should be a strong one.”

“Were there any problems with the earlier births?” Martha asked.

“None at all,” I said. “Perhaps you should take the lead today?” A smile lit up Martha’s face, making it even more beautiful than it ordinarily was.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” she said.

As I’d anticipated, Jane’s travail was quick and without any problems. Martha acquitted herself marvelously.

But the next afternoon it became clear that when I refused to examine Hester Jackson I had called a storm upon the city. Though the initial breeze seemed harmless enough, it was followed by winds and torrents powerful enough to overturn all good order and wash away many lives, including my own.

*   *   *

I was in the dining room helping Elizabeth with her writing when I heard the front door open and then the telltale gait of my nephew Will Hodgson. Elizabeth recognized it as well, dropping her quill and racing to greet him.

“Elizabeth, your hands are covered in ink!” I cried out as I righted the inkpot she’d knocked over in her haste. Will shouted out in mock horror as Elizabeth approached, and I found them tussling in the entry hall. Will held fast to her wrists while Elizabeth insisted that she wanted to draw a mustache on his face. Since coming to my house, Elizabeth had become especially fond of Will, and I could not help thinking that it was because they had been orphaned within days of each other. While separated by years, they were bound by death.

After I shooed Elizabeth off to find a basin and towel for her hands, Will retrieved his cane from where he had dropped it and came to embrace me. He had been born with a clubfoot, and he spent all his life trying to overcome this deformity. Other children had teased him relentlessly, of course, and Will had learned to defend himself with his fists. When his own father rejected him because of his misshapen body, Will seemed bound for a life of drink and violence. He had been pulled back into a respectable life by my good offices, but more by his love for Martha. They had not yet declared their affection to me, but I had seen and heard enough to know that they intended to marry once Will had established himself.

For a time, such a match had seemed unlikely, if only because Will’s father, Phineas’s brother Edward, would never have allowed his son—even one with a club foot—to marry a maidservant. But the terrible bloodletting that had visited York the previous summer ultimately freed Will from such constraints. The first step in this strange journey was the return of Will’s older brother Joseph to the city after a time in the wars. Joseph proved to be zealous for the Puritan cause and unceasing in his pursuit of power. His return led to the deaths of half a dozen men and women, including Edward. In the aftermath, Joseph drove Will from their childhood home and seized their father’s wealth. While some men doubted Will’s guilt, none were willing declare his innocence in public; Joseph’s power and ruthlessness were too great, and the consequences of angering him too dire. Will mourned his father, of course, but realized that while he’d lost his wealth, he now had the freedom to marry whomever he chose.

Will’s fortunes within the city took an unexpected turn for the better when, in the wake of Edward’s death, his godfather took an interest in him. George Breary had been Edward Hodgson’s friend and rival since they had been youths, competing first for the affection of York’s women, and then in business and in government. When the wars had started, Edward favored Parliament, while George remained loyal to the King. Despite all this, the two remained friends, bound by their love for Will and York. To my great pleasure, George recognized Will’s plight after Edward’s death and took him into his service. In the past months George had given Will greater responsibility for his business, even sending him to London in search of silk he could trade to the Scots. If Will’s fortunes continued to improve, he could hope to match his brother’s power
and
to marry Martha. That is what I begged of God, at least.

Once Will and I had settled in the parlor, Martha brought three glasses of wine and sat with us. An outsider might have considered us an odd little family—a gentlewoman, her deputy and maidservant, and her club-footed nephew—but the love we felt for each other overcame the strangeness.

“So tell us the gossip of the town,” Martha said. A mischievous lilt crept into her voice, but Will, who could sometimes fall into fits of pomposity, missed it entirely.

“’Tis not gossip,” Will objected. “It is news.”

Martha and I burst out laughing, and Will joined in once he realized that he’d been the butt of Martha’s joke. We talked for a time of the city’s business, and just as we emptied our glasses, Will brought us back to a more serious matter.

“And did you hear the news of Hester Jackson?” he asked at last. “Joseph has taken the lead in the investigation. The Searcher they called in to replace you discovered what she called ‘a most unnatural and fiendish teat.’”

“Poor woman,” I said. Her hanging now seemed inevitable.

“That is not all,” Will said. “The Searcher was Rebecca Hooke.”

My stomach lurched, for I knew without a doubt that for me and mine, the city had just become a much more dangerous place.

Chapter 3

“Rebecca Hooke?” I cried. “How so?” I felt myself pulled between the Scylla of fury and the Charybdis of despair. It had been over a year since I had last spoken to her, but she and the evil she had done still haunted my dreams.

Before my arrival in York, Rebecca had been the most famous midwife in the city, but one who violated her oath with astonishing regularity. She would assist the poor only if it was convenient and if she could see an advantage in it for herself. In the delivery room she was a horror, bullying the gossips and threatening the mothers that they would die if they did not follow her every command. She was no better after the delivery, as she used the secrets she learned to terrify women and men alike into doing her bidding. When Henry Perkins sued Rebecca’s husband over a business matter, Rebecca announced that he was a whoremaster and had put the French Pox on his wife. She should know, she said, for she had seen the sores with her own eyes. And when Elizabeth Stoppard offered Rebecca some slight—to this day, I know not what it was—Rebecca told all who would listen that Elizabeth’s stillborn child had been born as black as trash and smelled of a turd. Of course, she was not the midwife anyone wanted, but the women of York quickly learned that she would have her revenge on anyone who spoke against her or went to another. Soon Rebecca had the choicest clients in the city.

It was not until I convinced a handful of my neighbors that my wealth and name could protect them from Rebecca that they began to abandon her, and soon others followed. Rebecca’s fury knew no bounds, and she swore she’d see me out of the practice. I had no choice but to have her license taken. She never forgave me for that insult. Ultimately, what little sympathy I’d had for her—there was no denying she’d led a hard life—died when I discovered that she was guilty of a crime that would break even the hardest of hearts. Now my only regret was that I’d not been able to see her hanged.

“How is this possible?” Martha demanded. She looked as pale as I felt. “Who in the city would want her to have such power?”