by Sam Thomas
“I hope it is so easy,” Will replied.
“As do I,” I said. “It is late, and we should go. I’ll wait outside for a moment.”
Will and Martha nodded their thanks for this gift of time alone, and I slipped into the Minster yard. It was now full dark, and the moon hung low and bright in the sky, bathing the cathedral in an eerie silver light, as if it were crafted of ice and glass rather than stone.
As I waited, I wondered what Will and Martha could be talking about. The future to be sure, but what kind of future could they expect or even dream of? Will had lost his father, then his godfather, and now he faced hanging for a murder he hadn’t committed. I would try to protect him, but my encounter with Rebecca had made clear just how vulnerable those around me had become.
Not long before, I had assured Martha that midwives were safe from witchcraft accusations, but what if I was wrong? If Rebecca Hooke could make Elizabeth into a witch, we all could be charged, Hannah included. In my first years after coming to York, Phineas and I had made a family, and then I watched in horror and helplessness as death took my husband and children one by one. In the years since, I’d rebuilt my life, and now it was threatened, not by fevers or coughs, but by men. I knew there was nothing I would not do to defend my family, but as I gazed at the cathedral’s majesty I realized that I had never been so powerless.
* * *
The next morning came, clear and calm. When I stepped outside, for a moment I entertained the hope that the cold had broken, but within moments the chill had worked its way beneath my cloak and begun to dig its fingers into my flesh. The only change was that the wind had died down. I thanked the Lord for this small blessing.
I left Martha, Hannah, and Elizabeth at home and retraced the route to Peter’s Prison. I wanted to visit Will, of course, but also to speak with his keepers. The previous night’s bacchanal showed that they could be more agreeable than many of the city’s jailors, and I wanted to impress upon them that Will was not merely their friend, but a friend who had a wealthy, powerful, and (most important) free-spending aunt.
When I entered the Minster yard I was pleased to see that Peter Newcome had set up his movable shop against the cathedral wall, for I knew that if there was any news about the witch-hunts, he would have heard it first. As I crossed toward him, he raised his hand in greeting.
“Lady Hodgson,” he called out. “It is a strange time to be here in York, is it not? First the city is overrun with witches, and now an Alderman is murdered as he walks the streets? I cannot but wonder what bloody crime will follow.”
His tone was light—and why not? Each murder would increase his profits. I thought to reprimand him, but I realized he could not know that George had been my friend or that my nephew had been taken for the murder. No good would come from pointing out his misstep, so I did not correct him.
“And it seems the city has regained its appetite for hanging felons,” Newcome continued.
This brought me up short. “What do you mean?”
Newcome smiled when he realized that, once again, he knew more than I. He drew such pleasure from spreading news, good or bad, that he truly was the perfect chapman. “Nothing is settled, but there are plans to convene another Special Assize. Too many witches, too many murders, too long to wait for the Parliament to send out judges.” He held out a pamphlet. “It’s all here if you read closely enough.”
Bloody Murder in York, the title shouted above a crude woodcut showing a two figures, one lying on the ground, the other standing with a hammer in his hand. Beneath the picture, the title continued: Or, an Ungrateful Son Butchers His Father. My stomach roiled as I took the pamphlet and began to read. While it did not mention Will by name, the author claimed that George’s murderer had been captured, and now awaited trial and execution. When I reached the end of the little book I found a passage that worried me all the more.
In a city so overrun with Satan’s agents, can we delay our efforts to restore order and bring justice? If God’s will is to be done, we must not tarry, but act on His behalf. Our magistrates cannot, must not, wait to do their duty or the Lord shall strike them down as He has promised to strike down all those who are lukewarm in their love of Him.
“And from this you think that the city will start trials soon?” I asked. “How can you know this?”
“I was right about the witch-hunt, wasn’t I?” Newcome replied. “And it is not just this, but what people are saying throughout the city. They say the witches must be tried and murderers must be found out and punished. As they say, Blood cries out for blood. What is more, the man who killed the Alderman has murdered before—his own father, if the gossip is to be believed.”
“He never did,” I whispered, but my words could not turn back the fear I felt within my chest. Joseph had convinced so many people that Will was to blame for their father’s death, my opinions would carry no weight.
Newcome shrugged at my feeble protests. “Whatever the case, the city will not allow him to escape the hangman a second time. Besides, if the Lord Mayor did not intend to make a court, why would he allow the printing of such a pamphlet?”
I turned back to the cover of the book and saw that, like the pamphlet describing Hester Jackson’s fate, it had been approved by the Lord Mayor and Aldermen. This discovery only doubled my fear, and I cursed under my breath.
“My lady!” Newcome cried in mock horror. “I’d expect such language from … well, from myself, but not a gentlewoman.”
I looked up at him, so worried for Will I could not be angry at his impudence. “The man they intend to hang for Alderman Breary’s murder is my nephew. He was with me when Mr. Breary was killed, so I know he is innocent. But there are powerful men who might like to see him hanged for the crime.”
To my surprise, Newcome nodded sympathetically. “My brother was hanged as a highwayman,” he said. “He was guilty, of course, but it was a horrible thing all the same. They cut him down only to discover he was still alive. The bailiffs pulled him from our mother’s arms and dragged him back to the gallows. I’d never heard her scream so. It is a terrible thing for a mother to watch her son hang.” He forced a smile. “It seemed wrong to hang him twice for the same crime; where is the justice in that? But you should have seen the pamphlets that were written about it. They are still to be had if you care to search for them.
“If I hear anything of note,” he continued, “or can do anything to help you or your nephew, I will. My business thrives on hangings, but that does not mean I wish to see more of them.”
I nodded my thanks. “I wish I could think of something you can do. But…” My voice trailed off to nothing.
“To start, I can speak against this pamphlet,” Newcome replied. “People come to me for books, but also for gossip. If I sell the book with a warning that it contains only lies, word will spread soon enough.”
“Thank you,” I replied. I did not think mere words could save Will, but they could not hurt, and Will needed all the friends he could find.
“Also, have you considered writing a pamphlet of your own?” Newcome continued.
“What do you mean?”
“There is no reason to let your enemies have the only word in this matter,” he explained. “If the wars have shown us nothing else, it’s that pens and printing presses are no less important than cannons and harquebuses. Here I can only sell works written against the King, but in the south there are just as many mocking the Parliament-men. They’re much funnier, too. You should write in defense of your nephew. If enough citizens believe your nephew is innocent, he cannot be hanged.”
“And you think that a book could help?” I asked.
Newcome shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt, could it? So long as you are willing to pay the printer, he’ll say whatever you wish. And if you give the booksellers a little on top of that, they will give the books away gratis.”
“Thank you, Mr. Newcome,” I said after a moment. I slipped a few coins into his hand. “I will consider it, and I m
ay come to you for help.”
Newcome bowed. “I will do whatever I can.”
I looked toward Peter’s Prison and decided to delay my visit to Will. There was nothing to be gained by telling him about the coming Assize. No, I needed to consult Martha, and we had to find a way to save him from the calamity that lay before him.
Chapter 14
Martha looked up in surprise when I arrived at home. She had been sweeping the parlor, but she stopped as soon as she saw my face.
“What is it?” she asked. “What has happened?”
“They intend to try Will along with the witches,” I said.
Martha paled and sat on the edge of the couch. “When?”
“I don’t know. They might wait until all the witches are tried. Or they might not.”
“Are you sure?” Martha asked.
“Not entirely,” I replied. “It is just a rumor now. I heard it from Peter Newcome, but he seems to know as much about the city as any man could.”
Martha nodded. “We should have seen it coming. Is it the Lord Mayor’s doing?”
“In some way, it must be,” I said. “If he hired a man to kill Mr. Breary, he’d certainly want to see Will—or anyone for that matter—hanged for it, and the sooner the better.”
“And if Agnes jumbled enough men she could find one to kill Mr. Breary,” Martha said. “And that would put the old goat in a bind.”
I nodded. “If he had to choose between seeing his wife hanged, or finding someone to die in her place, there’s no question which he would select. So he could hang Will in order to hide his own guilt or Agnes’s. And that doesn’t even account for Joseph…”
“Who would leap at any excuse to see Will on the gallows, no matter who killed Mr. Breary,” Martha finished my thought.
“Lord help us, we’ve found ourselves in quite a web,” I said.
“I’d rather we not wait for the Lord’s help,” Martha replied. “We must make our own way out.”
As we considered our options, Sugar wandered out of the kitchen and meowed. His appearance reminded me that our problems went much further than Will, the Lord Mayor, and Joseph.
“And then there’s Rebecca Hooke,” I said.
“What are we going to do?” Martha asked. “There are so many threatening clouds.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
In less troubled times, if the city were visited by the plague or some other disaster, I’d simply hire a carriage and send Elizabeth and Hannah to one of my estates. I would stay in York if I thought I could help, or go along if Elizabeth needed me. Martha could do as she wished. But either way I knew how to keep my family safe.
The problem, of course, was that a witch-hunt was not the same as the plague or a flood, and we did not live in ordinary times. Martha and I could not flee the city so long as Will remained in gaol, for without us to defend him, he would surely be hanged. And with the lawlessness that had overtaken England thanks to our civil wars, robbers and thieves haunted the roads like never before. Sending Elizabeth and Hannah away would be no less dangerous than keeping them in York. We were trapped in the city as surely as we had been during the siege of 1644.
“We must find an advantage over Joseph,” I said. “He is the keystone to both the witch-hunt and Will’s arrest. If we could bend him to our will or drive him from the city, the battle would soon turn in our direction.” I paused for a moment. “The chapman Peter Newcome says we should write a book.”
“A book?” Martha asked. She made no effort to hide her skepticism.
“He says if we turn the people against Joseph, he will have to relent.”
“Or perhaps we should follow Joseph’s example,” Martha ventured.
“Joseph?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
Martha hesitated a moment before continuing. “When he faces a threat, he reacts like the soldier he was, with violence. We should do the same.”
I stared at her for a moment, quite unable to believe what she had proposed. “You should like us to murder Joseph?” I asked at last.
“If he were dead, Rebecca would lose her power, and Will would be freed from prison.”
I searched her face for some sign that she spoke in jest. She met my gaze and did not look away.
“Helen Wright’s man might do it for us,” she added. “Will’s life would be worth the price, wouldn’t it?”
I stared at Martha, struck entirely dumb. My surprise came in part from the audacity of her proposal, but true shock lay elsewhere: My first reaction was not to reject Martha’s idea but to consider the risks and benefits. Could such a plan work? If we succeeded, we would be free from the many dangers that surrounded us. But even success at killing Joseph would mean nothing if we were caught. Will might walk free, but Martha and I would take his place on the gibbet. I also knew that if we failed, Joseph’s response would be to hang Martha and me alongside Will. And what then would become of Elizabeth? To my shame, it was only after weighing the worldly risks that it occured to me that murdering Joseph would be a terrible sin.
“We cannot,” I replied after far too long a pause. I did not know if I rejected the scheme for the danger it presented to our bodies or to our souls. I prayed it was my fear of damnation, but I could not be sure.
Martha nodded but did not reply.
“And you will not go behind my back,” I added. “I will not have you party to murder.”
Martha hesitated before nodding again. She did not like my decision, but she would not disobey me.
“What then do you propose?” she asked. “We cannot write a book and leave it at that.”
“Perhaps we should bring down Rebecca Hooke.”
“After she threatened Elizabeth?” Martha asked in amazement. “Do you want to antagonize her?”
I had to admit that Martha had a good point. Rebecca had plenty of other witches to keep her busy. While I did not want to attract her attention I did not see any other options.
“The battle is already begun,” I said. “Joseph and Rebecca are regiments in the same army. If we defeat the one, we can more easily defeat the other.”
“Then we should start with James,” Martha said. “He has long been Rebecca Hooke’s weakest flank.”
I nodded in agreement. “We will find him and talk to him alone.”
When afternoon came, Martha went in search of James, starting at the alehouse nearest the house he shared with his mother. It was not long before she returned.
“He’s up on Petergate,” she said as we hurried toward the Minster. There was no telling how long he’d stay, and we did not want to lose track of him. “He’d just started drinking, and I sent a penny to the barman for another, so we should find him there still.”
When we arrived at the alehouse I peered through the window and saw James sitting by himself in the corner. He stared at his ale, oblivious to those around him. Martha and I stepped through he door and the smell of the place washed over us, a heady mix of spilled ale, well-cooked meats, and tobacco smoke. The rough-hewn tables were crowded as the city’s residents gathered together for the warmth of drink, conversation, and a roaring fire in the hearth. James was the only one sitting alone. At times like this I could not help feeling sorry for the boy. He was unloved by anyone, even his mother.
When the barman saw us enter he furrowed his brow in confusion. While his was not the most disreputable house in York (that honor went to the Black Swan), I did not imagine that women of quality often darkened his door.
“One more for the lad in the corner,” I said as Martha and I crossed to James. “And ale for each of us.”
James looked up when we joined him. “I’ve seen this play before,” he said as we sat. His voice hardly rose above a whisper, and I had to lean toward him to make out his words. “You’ve come to me about witches and murders, haven’t you?”
“I do not come to you by choice, James, but out of necessity,” I replied. “I am simply trying to see that justice is done.”
; “By now it must be a faint hope, eh, Lady Bridget? From what I’ve seen, when you are involved, the innocent are condemned, and the guilty escape trial only to be hanged from the rafters.” James had been a part of the previous summer’s killings, and he knew as well as anyone the shortcomings of the law.
“The guilty paid for their crimes,” I said. “Eventually.” I could hear the doubt in my own voice.
“Some were guilty, some innocent,” James replied. “You know that.”
I could not meet his eyes, for he spoke the truth.
“So this is why you are here, isn’t it?” he continued. “You seek an advantage over your enemies and hope that I can supply it … again.”
I had never seen this combative side of James before, and did not know quite how to respond. In the past, he’d been a good-natured fool; now he seemed angry and watchful.
“We want to find out who killed George Breary,” Martha said.
“I thought they had taken a man for that crime,” James said with a cruel smile. “It was your nephew, wasn’t it, Lady Bridget? It is funny how fortunes change so quickly.”
“Will did not kill him,” Martha said. James heard the edge in her voice and looked up.
“No, I don’t imagine he did,” James said, his words barely audible over the noise of the other customers. “That would not be like him at all.”
“Do you know something of Mr. Breary’s death?” I asked.
“That is not what you want to know,” James said. “You want me to betray my mother, to play the Judas.” He paused for a moment, considering his words. “I wonder … If I delivered her into your hands, would that make you Pilate or the Pharisees?”
At that moment the barman appeared with our drinks, and James laughed out loud. “Oh, Lady Bridget, you are as predictable as the sunrise. Let us ply James Hooke with drink, and see if he will betray his mother! You take me for a fool, don’t you? And perhaps I was, but not any more.”
“I just want to see the guilty punished,” I replied. “And Will is not guilty. Tell me what you know.”