by Sam Thomas
“I did nothing wrong,” she cried.
Martha barked with laughter.
“Nothing wrong?” I cried, joining in the derision. “You could not even remain faithful to your husband for half a year!”
“But I did not kill anyone,” she said.
“How does your husband feel about your shameless living?” Martha asked. “Surely he expected better of you.”
Agnes’s eyes became hard and, as if by impulse, she cradled her forearm.
Agnes cried out in surprise when I stepped toward her and pulled up her sleeve. I knew what I would find before I saw it: Bruises covered her arm from wrist to elbow.
“Take your hands off me,” she hissed as she pulled her sleeve back in place. But the damage had been done.
“Your husband did that?” Martha asked. “Not so surprising, I suppose. He can’t have been happy to learn you’d cuckolded him with one of his Aldermen.”
“Or perhaps he found out that you plotted to kill Mr. Breary,” I said. “If you’re merely a wanton strumpet, he’d be mocked throughout the city. If you’re a murderess, he’d find himself expelled from the council.”
“Which is it, girl? Are you a whore or a killer?” Martha had crept up behind Agnes, and hissed these last words in her ear. “Or are you both?” For a moment I regretted our cruelty, but I knew that we had little choice, and that she deserved little better.
Then the tears began again, this time in earnest, and Agnes Greenbury collapsed against me. As if by their own volition, my arms wrapped around her. The scornful expression on Martha’s face made clear that she was having none of it.
“He is so cruel,” Agnes gasped at last. “You must help me.”
“You have to tell me the truth,” I replied. Martha disguised her snort of disgust as a cough, but I could read her expression well enough.
“You are right,” the girl—and at that moment she did seem to be a girl—moaned into my chest. “You are right about everything. My husband found out about George and did this to me. He said that he’d not be made a fool of by so fresh a whore, and that George would suffer for debauching me. He must have done it.”
“You think your husband killed Mr. Breary?” I asked.
The girl looked up at me, her clear blue eyes now red with crying. “What else could he have meant?” she asked. “I did not kill George, I … I…” Agnes’s voice trailed off.
“You loved him?” Martha asked, not even bothering to hide the contempt in her voice.
Agnes slipped from my arms and sat in one of the lavishly covered chairs. “Of course I didn’t love him.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve, leaving a trail of snot from elbow to wrist. You could put a country girl in a silk dress, but teaching her manners was a different matter entirely. “But he was nice enough. I didn’t kill him.”
Though I knew it was a hopeless task, I gazed at the girl’s face, trying to find a sign of the soul within. She seemed as sincere as any girl could be, but I’d heard too many lies to give her much credit.
“You didn’t, but your husband might have?” I asked.
Agnes looked down at her hands as they fiddled with a ribbon on her dress. “I don’t know. Maybe. He was angry enough. I’ve never seen a man so furious.”
I looked up at Martha, and she inclined her head toward the door. She’d seen enough of the girl.
Martha and I slipped from the drawing room into the parlor where Will waited for us. I did not know how much of our conversation he’d heard, but the expression on his face told me that the sound of the girl’s wails had escaped.
Before we stepped outside the three of us wrapped ourselves as best we could, with Will stealing glances in our direction, anxious to hear what we’d discovered. Once we were away from the Lord Mayor’s house, Martha and I took turns telling Will what Agnes had said to us.
“Do you believe her?” he asked. We’d reached the Ouse Bridge and paused to watch as the children ventured back out on the ice. They avoided the spot where Tree had fallen through, but otherwise showed no fear.
“About what?” Martha shrugged. “That her husband gave her those bruises and swore revenge? Or that she didn’t want Mr. Breary killed? We know she’s a liar and a adulteress, so we can’t believe much of what she says.”
“She didn’t give herself the bruises,” I said. “And I cannot imagine Matthew Greenbury would tolerate such behavior in his wife.”
“Well, he couldn’t have killed Mr. Breary himself,” Martha said. “He is so old he can spit into his own grave.”
“He could have hired a man,” I replied. In these times of war, even respectable gentlemen kept killers close by. That was why Joseph, and Edward before him, tolerated Mark Preston. “But would he kill one of his own Aldermen for committing adultery?”
“Not for adultery, but perhaps for making his new wife a whore, and giving him the cuckold’s horns,” Will said. “There’s many a man who would kill to avenge that wrong.”
“But Mr. Breary’s murder also could have been her doing,” Martha said. “She’s a thoughtless trollop. Who knows what she might have done in a moment of anger? Mr. Breary crosses her, she flatters a soldier, and the next thing we know he’s dying in an alleyway.”
“So either of them could be behind the murder,” I said.
“Or neither of them,” Will said. “Mark Preston had reason enough to kill. And we know he’s capable of doing so.”
I did not add, And your brother as well. I sighed in resignation. We now held four people suspect in George’s murder. Just where had our day’s work gotten us?
When we reached my home, Elizabeth met us at the door, vibrant and full of life. She wanted to know where we’d gone, whom we’d seen, and when she would be allowed out on the ice like Tree. She burst into tears when I denied her.
“But I’m littler than he is,” she wailed. “And I’m not afraid.” She picked up Sugar—who meowed loudly at the indignity—and gazed up at me, her eyes overflowing with tears.
“Come, let us read,” I said, scooping both Elizabeth and Sugar into my arms and carrying them to the parlor. I was determined to spend the time before dinner reading a book that had nothing at all to do with murder, adultery, or witches. For an hour, the Lord left us in peace, and I convinced myself that nothing, not even the winter wind, would disturb us so long as we kept the doors and windows locked tight.
The problem, of course, is that there is no way to keep the world from your door, and even as we finished our dinner a knock announced that our retreat had ended.
Hannah answered the door, and moments later Tree bounded into the dining room. His eyes lit up when he saw that we’d not yet finished the roasted capon, and he helped himself to meat and bread.
“Samuel sent me down,” he said between mouthfuls. “He wanted me to tell you that Mr. Hodgson and Mrs. Hooke have started taking witches.”
“Mother Lee, no doubt,” I replied. A sense of dread settled in the pit of my stomach. Where would this end?
Tree shrugged in response. “Might be. They’ve taken so many it’s hard to tell.”
Will, Martha, and I stared at Tree, our mouths agape.
“What do you mean, They’ve taken so many?” Will asked.
“Witches,” the boy replied. “When I left they’d locked up two dozen, and the Castle Warden was shouting to make room for more. I have no idea how many there will be when I get back.”
Chapter 11
Although my first thought was to hurry out to the Castle, I hesitated when I saw the darkening sky and the light snow that had begun to fall. Who could say how long we would be gone? I did not relish the prospect of a late-night walk home through the city, not after what had happened to George.
I awoke well before sunrise to a clear, cold sky. The moon had set, so the only light came from the shimmering stars, which made the cold all the more dreadful. After a few moments my breath so fogged the window that I could not see. I lowered my head and said a hopeless prayer that God would
relent in His judgment against the nation. When I looked up again, the darkness behind the stars was so complete, for a moment I wondered if there might be nothing more to our existence than this world and the stars above. I recoiled at the thought, begged God for forgiveness, and hurried downstairs. Martha and Hannah were already at work in the kitchen, and I joined them hoping to share in the oven’s warmth and escape my own blasphemous thoughts.
A few minutes later, Elizabeth came clattering down the stairs, hair flowing behind her, and began her morning ritual of chasing Sugar through the house. As was his habit, Will was the last to rise, joining us as the sun began its reluctant journey across the morning sky. After breakfast, Hannah took Elizabeth upstairs to dress, while Martha, Will, and I met in the dining hall.
“I should like to go up to the Castle,” I said. “We must find out just how bad the witch-hunt has become. Then we will better know what it means for the city and how we can defend ourselves.”
Will shook his head in despair. “With Mr. Breary dead, there is nothing we can do.”
I had no reply that would change his mind, so I did not try. “Will, do you think Mr. Breary’s servants will grant you access to his papers?” I asked.
Will nodded. “He has no family in York, so nobody else will claim them. If need be, I can tell them I am in search of his will. I am family enough to do that.”
“Good,” I said. “You search for any evidence that might help us unravel his murder. Letters, a diary, anything at all. Martha and I will walk to the Castle and see if we can learn the lay of the land. If we don’t see each other before, we’ll meet here for dinner.”
Will and Martha nodded in agreement, and after wrapping ourselves against the cold, we parted ways and set out into the city.
Martha and I trudged silently along Coney Street, each alone with our thoughts. I tried to prepare myself for the sights and sounds we would find when we reached the Castle. If Joseph had indeed filled the gaol with witches, the conditions would be dire, though not so bad as they would soon become. When we reached the crossroads with High Ousegate we found a cart trying to turn toward the Castle. The driver had badly misjudged the angle of the crossroads, and the cart would not make the turn. Even from a distance we could hear the driver swearing as he hauled on the reins. The horses were not inclined to comply.
Martha and I stopped, in part to watch the spectacle, but more out of fear of being trampled should the horses suddenly become more compliant. Our prudence was rewarded when the cart darted forward, nearly crushing an unwary passerby under its iron-rimmed wheels. Martha’s gasp echoed my own when she saw the cart’s terrible cargo: the wagon had been transformed into a rolling cage filled with people. I counted a dozen figures, mostly women, but I thought I saw an aged man as well. The prisoners grasped the bars to keep from being tossed about. I winced as one poor woman lost her grip and was hurled face-first into the side of the cage. Blood ran from a cut on her cheek as she struggled back to her feet. A few children ran along side the cart, hurling stones and pieces of ice at the prisoners. One boy missed the mark and struck the driver in the head, provoking another round of curses.
“Joseph is not limiting his search to the city itself,” Martha said. “Those are country folk.”
“Such arrests might not be his doing,” I replied. “Perhaps the country Justices have caught the fever for hunting witches as well.”
We fell silent at this grim thought, and in my mind I saw the witch-hunts spreading across the north. How many hundreds would die if they did? I prayed that God would not allow such a thing to pass. We followed the cart to the Castle. Each of us kept our eyes on the road rather than the sorry figures before us.
As we passed through the Castle gate, it became clear just how far Joseph’s fever had spread. Dozens of prisoners were scattered around the Castle yard waiting to be taken to their cells. Nearly all had been laid in double irons, and their fear and misery filled the air. Martha and I hurried to Samuel’s tower. When we approached the door, his voice echoed into the yard as he swore loudly at some poor soul.
“This is my tower, and you’ll not tell me how to manage it,” he shouted. A moment later, the Castle Warden scurried through the door. If he’d had a tail, it would have been tucked well between his legs. He glanced about to see who might have witnessed his humiliation before hurrying off in search of a more malleable jailor.
When we entered the tower, Samuel continued shouting at the Warden’s back even as he nodded a greeting to us. “Keep more women in my cells? Who do you think will clean up after them? Me, that’s who! I’ve got too many down there already. Adding even a few more will turn this place into York’s largest privy!” He ended his philippic with one of the most spectacularly foul oaths I’d ever heard, sending Martha and me into fits of laughter.
Samuel leaned against the tower wall, red-faced and winded from his cursing.
“You won’t believe the number of witches they’ve brought here,” he wheezed after a moment.
“I think I might,” I responded. “We passed through the gate with another prisoner cart.”
“God’s blood, what do they intend us to do?” Samuel asked. “We can’t hold them all until they are tried. In the time it takes to gather a court, half will be dead!”
Samuel was right of course. Under the best of circumstances, the Castle’s cells were pestilential, and more than a few accused felons died while awaiting trial. When it happened in ones and twos, nobody troubled themselves overmuch, but what would happen when prisoners started dying by the dozens, and the occasional burial became a long funeral procession? I started to give voice to my concerns, but Samuel had not yet finished his diatribe.
“I mean, who is going to pay to feed these people?” he moaned. “The women all are paupers. I’ll wring water from stone before I get even a penny from them.”
“Surely the city will pay,” Martha said.
Samuel snorted at the suggestion. “Those nithing bastards? They’d sooner pay for their own hanging rope than to feed so many prisoners. No, I’ll be selling my shirt before these trials are done.” He paused for a moment, now fully recovered from his shouting. “What is it that brings you up here?” he asked. “You’ve not been coopted into this terrible business, have you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t see Joseph having me on as a Searcher, even if I wanted the duty. We’re simply trying to find out as much about his scheme as we can. The city’s women are my own, and I cannot stand by and see them suffer at his hands.” I did not mention my fear that Rebecca Hooke might somehow use the hunt against me and mine.
“Probably not a bad idea,” Samuel replied. He knew perfectly well the evil that Joseph had done the summer before. “But I don’t know much. The Justices began by scouring the city for witches, but soon enough the countryside joined in the search. I don’t know if Joseph was behind that, or if it happened on its own.”
I crossed the room to Samuel’s desk and glanced at the list of prisoners he’d admitted that day. One caught my eye: Mother Lee, Upper Poppleton.
“You have Mother Lee?” I asked.
Samuel looked at me in surprise. “You know her?” he asked. “She came in with two other witches from north of the city.”
“Martha and I were there when her neighbors decided to accuse her,” I said. “I’ll likely be called as a witness.”
“She’s upstairs if you want to see her,” Samuel volunteered. “You’re a friend, so I’ll not charge you more because she’s a witch. The amount other jailors are charging makes me blush, and that’s no mean feat.”
I looked at Martha, and she shrugged. “I suppose there’s nothing to be lost by talking to her,” I replied. “But I should have thought she’d be in the low dungeon.”
“Don’t remind me,” Samuel said. “The low dungeon is full, so I had to put some of the witches above. And do you think they are paying the customary fee for such a room? Not in this world.” Samuel shook his head at the injustice. “Well, co
me on then.”
I handed Samuel his pennies, and he led us up the stone staircase.
* * *
Samuel opened the heavy door into the upper cell, and though the women had only been imprisoned for a day, a horrid stench met us at the door. Samuel cursed under his breath and pushed past us into the cell. Martha and I followed for a few steps before we stopped, awestruck at the scene before us. A dozen women had been crowded into the small room. One occupied the narrow wooden bed, and the rest sat on the rush-covered floor, or stood staring at us. If these were the conditions above, I could not imagine how those living below were faring.
Samuel had crossed the cell and now examined the figure on the bed. He swore again, more loudly this time. “Well, I’ve found where the smell is coming from.”
I crossed the room and looked down at the woman. By my guess, she’d been dead for some hours, and when she’d died, her bowels had loosed, fouling both her skirts and the thin mattress beneath her. Her waxen flesh had taken on a bluish hue, and her toothless mouth gaped at the ceiling. None of her comrades had taken the trouble to close her eyes. With a brief prayer, I reached down and did her this small service.
“This isn’t the one you wanted to see, is it?” Samuel sighed.
“I don’t know.” I turned to the other women. “Which of you is Mother Lee from Poppleton?”
One of the women—hardly distinguishable from those around her—stepped forward. “I am.”
“Why don’t you talk to her downstairs,” Samuel suggested. “And, Martha, could you find a guard and tell him what’s happened here? Send him to the Warden for some help fetching the body and dragging out the mattress.”
Martha and I agreed and, with Mother Lee close behind, we descended the stairs. Martha stepped outside and sent a guard for help before returning. I took a moment and looked over Mother Lee. Despite the conditions in the cell above, she seemed healthy enough—she’d only been there a day, I reminded myself—but it was abundantly clear that she had lived a life of poverty and want long before her arrest. Her skirts hung loose around her waist as if she’d once been a more substantial woman, but hadn’t bought new clothes as her frame shrank. I could also see that they had been mended many times over the years. There was a cruelty in her expression that I found profoundly unnerving.