by Sam Thomas
Half carrying Will, and now crying herself, Martha found her way to a padded bench that sat against the wall. She leaned back and cradled his head in her lap while he sobbed. My heart bled for him, for the two of them, but all I could do was stand to the side, a useless spectator.
After a time, an eternity it seemed, Will pushed himself upright and looked at me.
“You killed him, Aunt Bridget,” he said. His words accused me, but his broken tone begged me to deny the charge.
“Will, I had no choice,” I replied. “I saved your life, and Tree’s life as well. He took Elizabeth!” I could hear my voice rising as I spoke. I crossed the room and knelt at his side, desperate to make him understand my actions.
“He would never have done any of that,” Will insisted. “He would never have let me hang. He was simply seeking an advantage against you. At worst, he would have driven you from the city. We could have left together, all of us.”
“Will, that’s not true,” Martha said. “He sent Mark Preston to kill us both.”
“No.” Will shook his head, unwilling or unable to hear our words. “Joseph would never do such a thing. Preston must have come on his own, without Joseph’s knowledge. He might have murdered Mr. Breary, but my brother would not.”
“Will, your brother was not simply playing at this,” I insisted. “He killed in the war, he hanged the witches, and he would have hanged you and Tree as well.”
“So you joined with Rebecca Hooke to see him hanged. How could you not have consulted me in this? He was my brother. Can you not see that you were in the wrong?”
“All of that is unimportant right now,” a voice announced from behind us. The Lord Mayor had returned. “Joseph Hodgson is dead, and while my powers are wide, I cannot unhang a man.” He smiled to himself, clearly enjoying his little jest. “What concerns me now is not his past but your future.
“Lady Hodgson, I have seen your nephew’s worth,” the Lord Mayor continued. “And I have determined to keep him with me. He is a capable young man, and in our present times such men are invaluable.”
“He does not need you,” I snapped. “With Joseph dead, Will has come into his father’s estate.”
The Lord Mayor shook his head sadly, but the sorrow did not reach his eyes. “It is a terrible thing. The war took its toll, and Joseph did not have half the head for trade that his father did. It took only a few months, but he borrowed far beyond his ability to pay. There is nothing left, not even the house.”
“And I presume the debts are owed to you?” I asked.
“Among many others on the Council,” the Lord Mayor said. “But I am not such a fool as to turn Will onto the street. I have offered him a place in my house, and he has accepted. I am certain that he will serve me well.”
“And what of George Breary’s estate? You burned his will, but surely some provision can be made for Will out of his fortune.”
Greenbury offered a pained smile. “The only surviving will is from last year. According to its terms Will and Mr. Breary’s other godchildren will receive five pounds each. The rest of his estate will go to a cousin.”
“A cousin?” I asked.
“In Durham of all places.” Greenbury turned to Will. “By burning Mr. Breary’s papers, I have done you a grave disservice. I am genuinely sorry for that, but there is nothing I can do.”
Will did not reply.
“Will may stay in York but the two of you are less welcome in the city.” Greenbury turned back to Martha and me. “Indeed, I have come to mislike your presence above all others.”
“We have done nothing,” Martha started to object.
“Nothing?” Greenbury gasped. “You were entirely wrapped up in the business of witches. You killed Mark Preston, and you sent Joseph Hodgson to the gallows. If that is nothing, I cannot stand idly by and wait for you to do something. The city might not survive it.”
I wanted desperately to point out that my hand had been forced in each of these cases, but I knew my words would have no effect. “You cannot drive me from the city,” I said softly.
The expression on the Lord Mayor’s face made it clear that I’d overstepped my bounds.
“Cannot, my lady? Do you presume to tell me what I cannot do?” His words had the sound of newly forged steel, and I knew that there would be no appealing his decision. “Your brother Edward is dead,” Greenbury continued. “George Breary is dead. Your nephew is a pauper in my service. Who will defend you? You have no friends beyond the city’s gossips, nothing to protect you except your name and your wealth. At other times your name alone might have been enough to save you, but we do not live in other times. You remain in York at my pleasure, and my pleasure has run its course.”
“What do you mean for us to do?” I asked.
“You and yours will leave the city before the month is out,” he replied. “Where you go is none of my concern, but go you must.”
“When can we return?” I asked. “You cannot banish us forever. This is our home.”
“Return?” he asked as if the thought had not occurred to him. “Any time after I breathe my last. Then you can come back to York and trouble some other man.”
“Then you’ll forgive me if I do not wish you well.” I heard my voice speaking the words as if on its own volition.
To my relief (and for the first time in my memory), the Lord Mayor laughed aloud. “No, Lady Bridget, given the circumstances, I cannot fault your lack of charity.” He suddenly became serious, and once again his eyes found mine. “But you will leave. There will be no reprieve of this sentence.”
His voice, his expression, everything about him made clear that he had no intention of changing his mind. I bowed my head and accepted his judgment.
“Good,” he said. “Your nephew will see you home. You can say your farewells then.”
As soon as we stepped outside, Martha turned to Will and grasped his hands. “Come with us,” she implored him. “There is no reason you cannot. We all can go to Hereford, and we’ll marry there.”
I felt my heart being rent in two as Will pulled his hands from Martha’s and turned away. “I cannot,” he said.
“Will—,” I started to say.
He turned to me, his eyes wet with tears. “No, Aunt Bridget. No. Do you think that I can simply forget what has happened? What you did?”
“Will, we had no choice,” Martha protested.
“You I can forgive more easily,” he replied. I recognized the bitter tone in Will’s voice, and knew what he was about to say.
“Will, don’t—,” I said. But he was not going to listen to me or any woman.
“You were misled. You did not know what you were doing. It was my aunt.”
Martha’s expression of surprise and pain turned to anger in mere moments.
“I did not know what I was doing, William Hodgson?” she cried. “I did not know? I’ll tell you what I know. I know that your brother was a cruel and ambitious man, who would destroy anyone who stood in his way. And I know that your aunt was the only soul in York courageous enough to resist him. Out of her love for you, she hazarded her life and estate to rescue you from gaol, and then she perjured herself to ensure that you were not hanged for George Breary’s murder. I am proud to have played a part in her plans. But make no mistake: I knew exactly what I was doing, and I would have done it myself if your aunt had not. If you are too blind to see what is before your eyes, I cannot show it to you.”
For a moment I hoped that Will might see the wisdom in Martha’s words, but the pain at his brother’s death was too fresh. Without bothering to respond, he turned away from us and gazed toward the Minster. I resolved to try another approach.
“Will, I am the only family you have,” I said. “And you can take Martha as your wife. Come to Hereford. I will make you steward of one of my estates. It will be a good life.”
“Is killing my brother not enough?” Will asked, his voice tight with grief. He mourned the death of his brother, of course, but I think he
had resigned himself to losing Martha and me as well. “You wish to take me from the city my family has ruled for generations? My father and his father were Lord Mayors of York! You would have me content myself with life as a country shepherd?”
“Will, please,” I persisted. “Come with us.”
He turned to look at both of us, sorrow deeply etched on his face. He seemed to have aged a decade in mere weeks.
“Someday, perhaps,” he said. His words sang with sorrow. “I have lost so much this year. My father, my godfather, and now my brother. Someday I will forgive you for your place in all this, but I cannot do that yet. It is too soon.” He turned to Martha and took her hands. “I love you Martha Hawkins. And someday I will marry you. But not now.”
Without another word or backward glance, Will turned and walked away.
* * *
The weeks that followed consisted of frantic preparations for our flight from the city. I wrote to friends and family who lived between York and my estate in Pontrilas, begging their hospitality during the journey. Each day I visited a few of my city friends and, as delicately as I could, called in my debts. With that money, I purchased a carriage and horses, for I knew that once in Hereford I would need one of my own. All the while, Hannah and Martha packed our goods and arranged to have them sent to Hereford. And all the while, we hoped and prayed that Will would change his mind and rejoin our family.
For her part, Elizabeth wondered why Will no longer lived with us, but soon she was overcome by the prospect of moving. I told her about my own youth in the country, and all she could expect. It seemed a grand adventure to her, and for that I gave thanks.
The end of the month loomed before us, and while I did not know what the Lord Mayor would do if we ignored his order, I did not want to find out. The day before we were to leave, a knock at the door echoed through the halls of my now-empty house. As with every other knock, I said a prayer that it was Will, come home at last. And, as on every other occasion, the Lord denied my petition. This time it was Stephen Daniels and Helen Wright.
“I’d ask you to join me in the parlor, but the only furniture left are the beds and the dining hall chairs,” I said.
Helen looked around my home and shook her head in amazement. “When I heard the news, I could hardly credit it. But you really are leaving.”
“With all that has happened, it seemed best not to test the Lord Mayor’s patience,” I replied.
“I suppose not,” she said. “So you will leave York to enjoy the country life? It hardly seems to suit you.”
“I will be rejoining family and friends from my youth, so it will be like a homecoming,” I said. My words sounded hollow, and I knew that the emptiness of the room was not entirely to blame. Each night I prayed that the Lord Mayor would offer a reprieve—or, in my less charitable moments, that God would call the Lord Mayor to His bosom—but I did not think I would be so fortunate.
“When will you return?” she asked.
“Upon the Lord Mayor’s death,” I replied. “And how long could that be?”
“He is an ancient man with a young and lusty wife,” Helen replied. “Perhaps she will jumble him into his grave.”
“There are worse ways to die,” Stephen commented with a wry smile.
“I wonder if I could ask a favor of you,” Helen said. “It could serve us both.”
I nodded.
“Take Stephen with you,” she said. “He will help keep you safe during your journey.”
I looked at Helen in confusion. If I was right that he meant more to her than an ordinary servant, why was she doing this? Before I could pose the question, Helen answered.
“He cannot stay in York, either. The deaths at Ouse Bridge gaol turned more than a few men against him, and many are bitter at his release from the Castle. The law is a fickle thing, and who is to say that it won’t turn against him? I should very much hate to see him hanged.”
“You will send him away from you?” Martha asked. I had not heard her enter the room.
Tears appeared at the corners of Helen’s eyes. “My business, my home, everything I have is here. And I do not have estates to which we can flee.” She smiled to show that she did not begrudge me my wealth.
“And it is not forever,” she continued. “Just until memories have faded. The men who died were young and without families. Thousands like them have died in the wars, and we pay them no mind. The city will forget soon enough.”
I considered Helen’s offer. I had hired a soldier to drive the carriage south, but I would rather have Stephen. I did not know what he would do once we reached Hereford—he seemed ill suited for a country life—but that was a question for another day.
“We would welcome his company,” I replied, and with that our party was complete.
* * *
When the time came for us to depart, Samuel and Tree came into town to see us off. I had suggested—and Elizabeth had begged—that Tree accompany us, but neither he nor Samuel would consider it.
“I’m well enough here,” Tree had said. “And without me, Samuel would have nobody at all.”
I could not argue with that.
And so, with an aching heart, I climbed into the carriage. Elizabeth, who had insisted on riding outside with Stephen Daniels, shouted to the horses, and we began the long journey from York to Hereford. I did not bother to fight the tears that ran down my cheeks as we left the city behind. I cried for the mothers who would suffer without my aid. I cried for Martha and for Will. And I cried because I loved the city, and I did not know if I would ever return.
Author’s Note
As with all the Midwife Mysteries, there is a good bit of fiction sprinkled in with the history. I modeled the witch hunt seen here on those led by Matthew Hopkins, England’s notorious “Witch-finder General.” Between 1644 and 1646, Hopkins and his fellow witch hunter John Stearne were responsible—at least in part—for the execution of approximately three hundred witches, a total that constitutes over half of all the witches executed in England between 1500 and 1800. The authoritative account of these witch hunts is Malcolm Gaskill’s Witchfinders: A Seventeenth-Century English Tragedy. I also made great use of James Sharpe’s Instruments of Darkness: Witchcraft in Early Modern England. One of the more controversial aspects of this book—the idea that some accused witches might have believed in their own guilt—is drawn from Lyndal Roper’s Oedipus and the Devil: Witchcraft, Religion and Sexuality in Early Modern Europe. Finally, the difficult labor of Grace Thompson is based on a case described by German midwife Justine Siegemund in her book The Court Midwife, which has been translated by Lynn Tatlock.
Also by Sam Thomas
The Midwife’s Tale
The Harlot’s Tale
“The Maidservant and the Murderer” (e-book)
About the Author
SAMUEL THOMAS teaches history at University School near Cleveland, Ohio. He has received research grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Newberry Library, and the British Academy. He has published academic articles on topics ranging from early modern Britain to colonial Africa. Thomas lives in Shaker Heights, Ohio, with his wife and two children.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE WITCH HUNTER’S TALE. Copyright © 2014 by Samuel Thomas. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photographs: woman © John Foley/Arcangel Images; buildings © Elisabeth Ansley/Trevillion Images; envelope © Andrey_Kuzmin/Shutterstock.com
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The Library of Congress has cataloged
the print edition as follows:
Thomas, Samuel S.
The witch hunter’s tale: a midwife mystery / Sam Thomas.—First edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-04575-1 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-4537-4 (e-book)
1. Women detectives—Fiction 2. Midwives—Fiction. 3. Witchcraft—Fiction. 4. York (England)—History—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.H64225W58 2014
813'.6—dc23
2014032393
e-ISBN 9781466845374
First Edition: January 2015