The Witch Hunter's Tale (6 page)

Martha nodded. “There
must
be more to their scheming than that.”

“And until we find out what it is we will have to watch them both as best we can.”

When we got home, I wrote a letter to George Breary describing our visit to the Castle, and advising him to beware.
I do not know what game Mr. Hodgson and Mrs. Hooke are playing,
I concluded,
but I feel sure that it is far from over.

*   *   *

That night I took my time putting Elizabeth to bed. To her great pleasure, I drew out every moment, making sure the water for her face and hands was neither too hot nor too cold, and spending extra time cleaning her teeth. We lay in her bed and read from a horn book, one that Birdy had used when she was learning her letters. I doubted that Elizabeth’s mother had been able to read—what whore could do so?—so it was no great surprise that Elizabeth knew only a few of her letters when she came to me. When I’d proposed she learn to read, she laughed in delight as if I’d suggested teaching her to fly. In the few months that she’d been in my house she’d proven herself a quick study, and constantly begged me, Martha, and especially Will to read to her.

“Ma?” Elizabeth asked suddenly. Only then did I realize that my mind had drifted.

“Yes, little one?”

“I heard they will hang a witch tomorrow.” She looked up at me, her blue eyes filled with apprehension.

“Yes,” I said.

“Did she really bewitch a little boy?”

“Yes, she did.”

“And he died?”

“I’m afraid so. And now he is with God.”

“Why did she bewitch him?” Elizabeth asked. “Was he wicked?”

“No, he did nothing wrong,” I said. “She was angry at the boy’s father and cursed him. But the boy died instead.”

Elizabeth nodded solemnly. “Did you know the witch?”

Though she’d only been with me for a short time, Elizabeth had realized I was well-known within York. Over the years I had delivered hundreds of women before thousands of their gossips, so such a question was not strange in the least.

“I saw her today,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

“I wondered if she was frightening,” she replied. “Is she going to bewitch other children?”

I thought about that day’s visit to the Castle and shook my head. “No, she is not frightening,” I said. “Not anymore. She is old, sad, and frightened.”

“Then she can’t hurt any more children?”

“No,” I replied. “She is past that.”

“And tomorrow she’ll be hanged,” Elizabeth concluded, clearly satisfied with Hester’s fate.

“And tomorrow she’ll be hanged,” I agreed, and dimmed the lamp. Elizabeth snuggled into my side and wrapped her arms around me. We prayed for our household, our city, and the King. I added a silent prayer that God would be a fair and impartial judge when Hester Jackson stood before Him, and then said a prayer of thanks for Elizabeth.

But even as I prayed, I worried for the future. Elizabeth delighted in talk of the sprites that lived in the city’s orchards and sometimes took the shape of mice or moles. If she saw our cat Sugar stalking some creature or another in our garden, she would cry out,
Beware, beware, it could be a sprite. If you get too close, he will turn your whiskers into daisies!
Until Hester’s arrest, I delighted in such talk. But now the idea of a magical animal chilled me to the bone. It was but a short step from Elizabeth’s sprites to Hester’s Satanical imp.

I could not imagine anyone accusing Elizabeth of witchcraft, but what if I was wrong?

Chapter 5

On the morning after Hester Jackson’s execution, the December wind brought nearly a foot of snow. While I had seen snow before, not even York’s oldest residents could remember seeing such a storm, and many worried what it might portend. The city’s Puritans, Joseph chief among them, cried out that God’s fury at England’s sinful ways had not yet run its course. They put their spurs into the constables and beadles, ordering them to redouble their efforts to suppress sin. By the time the storm ended, dozens of whores and drunkards found themselves in the city’s gaols. I was amazed the City Council would tolerate Joseph’s campaign—they had tried the same thing the previous summer and it had ended in a sea of blood. Had they learned nothing?

Elizabeth, of course, had never before seen so much snow, and begged with such fervency for me to take her out that I could not deny her. I worried that the cold would leave her phlegmatic, but she skipped gaily along, not minding it in the least. When we entered the Thursday Market I was relieved to see that the gallows had been taken down. I did not want Elizabeth to be reminded of Hester’s fate.

“Good morning, my lady!” a voice called out. I turned to find Peter Newcome, the chapman I had met at Hester’s hanging, still crying up his pamphlets. Elizabeth dashed over to his board, and stared intently at the lurid pictures that he’d pasted there. “Have you given any more thought to my offer?” he asked. “A little book on last summer’s murders would sell in prodigious numbers, but your story won’t remain fresh forever.”

“Some new horror will overtake it?” I asked sharply.

Newcome shrugged. “I do not tell people what to read, my lady. I simply sell books that people want to buy.”

I looked down at his board and the parade of murders, monsters, prodigies, and witches that it offered. One title caught my eye:
A Wonderful Discovery of Witches in the Town of Bolton, Lancashire
. The picture on the front showed four women being hanged together before a massive crowd. Beneath this were the words
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live
. It seemed that witch-hunts had come to the North at last. Then I noticed the print at the bottom of the page, and my jaw fell open. It read,
Printed by order of the Lord Mayor and Aldermen of the City of York.

“This was printed here in the city?” I asked Newcome.

“Aye,” he said. “I bought them today at a ha’penny each. After yesterday’s hanging, they’ll be gone in hours, and I’ll have a tidy profit.”

“So you know the printer?”

“Of course, I do,” he replied with a smile. “And if you think the three of us can make a deal for
your
story, you’re right.”

“My story will remain my own,” I replied, unable to suppress a smile. “But I’ll buy this book from you, and if you’ll take me to the printer I’ll give you a penny on top of that.”

Newcome nodded and shouted for his boy. A lad about Elizabeth’s age—the same one who had accosted me the day before—crossed the street and looked up at Newcome. On top of his coat he wore an apron stuffed with pamphlets he’d been selling on Newcome’s behalf.

“Take Lady Hodgson to Mr. Williams’s shop,” Newcome told him. “She’ll give you a tuppence, plus another penny for the book.”

I started to object to the price, but before the words escaped my lips the boy dashed toward the Minster. I glared at Newcome, who gave me a wolf’s smile in return, and Elizabeth and I hurried after the boy. He led us to a courtyard on the north side of the cathedral and stopped.

“Which door?” I asked.

The boy gave me a smile distinctly similar to his master’s.

“Ah, your tuppence,” I said.

“And the penny for the book,” he said, smiling wider at the prospect of payment.

I handed him the coins and he pointed down an alley.

“It’s there. There’s a sign above the door.” He nodded at Elizabeth and hurried back the way we’d come.

I took Elizabeth by the hand, and we entered the alley. As the boy had promised, a roughly painted sign hung above the printer’s door. I knocked, and the door opened to reveal a young man wearing an ink-stained apron.

He looked at the two of us for a moment before speaking. “This is a printer’s shop,” he said uncertainly.

“And I am here to see the printer,” I replied. “Is he in?”

He recovered himself and bowed. “I am sorry, my lady. It isn’t often that gentlewomen or children come to the shop. I assumed you had lost your way.”

“Is your master in?” I asked again.

“I am the printer,” he replied. “My master fled with the King’s men, and I’ve been here alone ever since.”

I looked into the shop and saw a huge wood press, boxes of type, and piles of paper waiting to be made into books.

“You are here by yourself?” I asked.

“I have a boy to set the type, but I cannot trust him to check the text. I must do that myself. We print the sheets together. How can I help you, my lady?”

“I am here about a book you printed recently. The one about the witches in Lancashire.”

The lad nodded. “Aye, a rushed job if ever I had one. The boy and I stayed up half the night, but I was well paid, so I cannot complain.”

He stopped, and a worried look appeared on his face.

“Is there a problem with my work?” he asked. “I have a license signed by the Lord Mayor.”

“No, it’s not that,” I said. “I need to know who sent the pamphlet to you.”

“Oh, thank the Lord.” He was visibly relieved. “In these times, I can never know who my books will offend. People will blame the printer when they can’t find the author. But I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

I felt my heart sink. “What do you mean?”

“The man who brought me the pamphlet never said his name. He gave me the script and the money, and went on his way. He didn’t even want copies for himself. He just made me promise to sell them all … as if I’d keep them.” He shook his head in wonder.

“What did he look like?” I asked.

The lad furrowed his brow in thought. “He was a soldier, I suppose. He had that air about him. And he had just three fingers on one hand.”

My heart quickened at this, and I could feel the blood rising in my cheeks. “Three fingers?” I asked. “Which three?”

“He had his first two fingers and his thumb. He’d lost his little finger and his leech-finger. And a bit of his hand had been cut away as well.”

My face must have reflected my distress at the news.

“What is it, my lady?” he asked. “Do you know him?”

“Aye,” I replied. “All too well.”

I offered the printer my thanks, took Elizabeth’s hand, and started home at a trot.

“What is it, Ma?” Elizabeth asked as we rounded the east end of the Minster. “Did you find the man you were looking for?”

“Yes, my love, I did,” I replied. When Stonegate was in sight, I stopped and took Elizabeth by her hands. “I need you to go straight home,” I told her. “Tell Martha and Hannah I’ll be along shortly, but I must see Mr. Breary.”

The girl nodded solemnly and threw her arms around my neck. “You’ll be back tonight?”

“I will,” I said. “I promise.”

I watched Elizabeth as she raced across High Petergate and down Stonegate, wisps of red hair trailing behind her, and felt an ache in my heart. For the first time since Birdy died, I’d begun to feel the hope and fear that is part of being a parent in this fallen world. We could love our little ones with all our hearts, but love could not protect them from a God who took the young so often and without any warning. I took a breath to gather myself and began the walk to George Breary’s house.

When I arrived, George’s servant ushered me into his office right away. He and Will sat at a large table surrounded by sheets of figures and piles of letters. They both stood when I entered, and they greeted me warmly. George sent his servant for spiced wine to warm me from the cold, and I handed him the pamphlet. He and Will read it while I drank my wine. I sighed in contentment as the warmth spread through my body.

After a few minutes, Will looked back at the cover and noticed the imprimatur. “Printed by order of the Lord Mayor and Aldermen?”

“I’m an Alderman, and I knew nothing of it,” George said, answering the first question on my mind. “What does this mean?”

“This is part of Joseph’s scheme,” I said. “I questioned the printer, and he said a man with three fingers brought him the book for printing.”

“Mark Preston,” Will and George said simultaneously.

I nodded. Preston had fought with Joseph in the wars and then had followed him to York after each of them had been wounded. Before Edward died, Preston had spent a few months in his service, but now he was Joseph’s dog, and a vicious one at that. Only the Lord knew how many men Preston had killed at Joseph’s behest, either in the wars or after.

George furrowed his brow in thought. “So Joseph is behind this pamphlet, but to what end?”

“He intends to bring a witch-hunt to York,” I replied. “But he is as careful now as he was when he fought with Cromwell’s cavalry. He knows to test the enemy before attacking, and that is what he has done with the city. Hester Jackson was his stalking horse, for her case would tell him whether the citizens would hang an ill-mannered old woman as a witch. When Hester’s neighbors turned against her, he had his answer.”

“And the pamphlet?” George asked.

“It is the first cannon-shot of the battle itself. He wants to be sure the citizens’ blood is boiling when the hunt begins. Nothing is left to chance. He is being as deliberate as the devil himself.”

“That makes sense,” George said. “Joseph has called for a special meeting of the Council tonight. He’s not said what it concerns, except that it is an urgent and secret matter.”

“He is going to call for a witch-hunt,” I said.

George nodded. “The battle is joined.”

“I should like to be at the meeting,” I said.

George looked at me in surprise. “Why?”

“If Joseph is intent on bringing a witch-hunt to York, it concerns me. The fate of the city’s women is my business—it always has been.”

George started to respond, but I held up my hand to silence him.

“There is more,” I said. “Rebecca Hooke will have a place in Joseph’s plan, and she has compassed my destruction for years. I am in as much danger as anyone.”

George nodded. “The Council will gather tonight at seven. Meet me at the hall at six, and we will find you a hiding place. It might not be comfortable, but you should be able to hear well enough.”

I thanked George for his assistance and started for home. Though I would not have imagined it possible, the wind seemed to blow even harder, and it cut through my cloak as if the garment were made of delicate silk rather than heavy Yorkshire wool. As I passed by some of the city’s poorer tenements, I marveled at the suffering of those living within. Between ill-fitting doors and crumbling plaster, the buildings would provide as little warmth as my cloak. Such thoughts took my mind to Elizabeth’s life before she’d come to live with me, for she had lived in just such a tenement. I wondered what she would remember of her childhood when she was grown, and whether she would recall the decaying house in which she’d lived, or her mother’s illicit profession. Or would she simply put the past behind her and live the life of a gentlewoman’s daughter?