The Witch Hunter's Tale Read online

  While few of the Castle’s jailors could match Samuel in the strangeness of their appearance, Hester’s was quite a sight all the same. He could have been anywhere between forty and seventy years of age, and his wizened face had been slashed in two by a scar that ran through what used to be his left eye.

  “Good morning, my lady,” he said with an exaggerated bow. “I have been awaiting your arrival with the same anticipation I await the return of Jesus Christ himself.” I did not know whether all jailors spoke so impudently to their betters, but he already lived in a gaol overseeing the worst prisoners in the Castle. What else could I do to him? “My name is Benjamin Hunter. Welcome to my tower.” A ghost of a smile flitted across Martha’s lips at Hunter’s performance.

  “Thank you,” I replied. “We are here to see Hester Jackson.”

  “Yes, yes,” he replied. “The Warden said you would come today. Not a moment too soon, either, for on the morrow her only visitor will be the hangman, and after that she’ll be of no use at all, except for the anatomists.” He stared at me for a moment, but he made no move to unlock the door that led to the cells. I glanced at Martha, utterly confused as to the jailor’s game.

  “You can imagine the number of people who have come here in hope of seeing a witch,” Hunter said at last. “Hundreds have paid their money.”

  Ah, I thought, he just wants his bribe. I slipped him a few pennies, and he led us down the spiral stairs to the lowest room in the tower. When we reached the last cell, Hunter handed me a lantern and unlocked Hester’s door.

  “Here you are, my lady,” he said. “I introduce to you, Hester Jackson, widow and witch.”

  Chapter 4

  As I stepped into Hester’s cell, my mouth went dry and my heart began to race. It was said that arresting a witch broke her power, but if a woman could kill with words, why would prison walls make a difference? I glanced at Martha, hoping to draw some courage from her, but fear shone in her eyes as well.

  Hester Jackson sat on the edge of the rough wood pallet that served as her bed, staring at the floor before her. When she looked up, it was as if we were staring at the face of death itself. In the guttering light of the jailor’s lantern, Hester’s cheeks were all hollows and bone, as if time and rot refused to wait for her death before they stripped her skull of its skin and flesh. She stared at us with empty sockets, and for a moment I wondered if her eyes had been put out. Strands of hair hung on either side of her face, deepening the shadows of her sunken cheeks. I had not known Hester well, but at that moment I would have sworn that she was a witch and I wanted nothing more than to run from the cell as fast as I could.

  When she tried to stand, the entire illusion fell away. She was halfway to her feet when her breath caught and she began to cough great body-shaking coughs. She fell back on her bed and drew her knees to her chest. By the time she finished coughing, Hester was weeping. When she could finally sit up I saw that chains bound both her hands and feet.

  “You laid her in double irons?” I asked Hunter incredulously. “To what end?”

  “To the end of keeping my place,” the jailor replied. “The Warden tells me to do something, I do it. And after the madness of last summer, I’d be a fool to take chances. I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

  I thought back to the previous summer, when a prisoner had slipped from his irons and hanged himself. How many deaths had that caused? Two? Three? I did not know when to stop counting. Perhaps I had not yet finished.

  “Have you come to take my bucket?” Hester asked the jailor. She pointed at a small wooden bucket in the corner; the smell that rose from it made clear its purpose.

  “I’ll take it in the evening like I always do,” Hunter growled. “Ask again before then and you’ll be wearing it.” To emphasize his point, he tipped it partway with his foot, threatening to spill its contents into the filthy rushes that covered the floor.

  “Take the bucket,” I commanded. “I’ll not have it in here when I speak to her.”

  Hunter looked at me in surprise. His mouth flopped open for a moment before he snapped it shut. “Yes, my lady,” he replied at last.

  “Now, leave us be,” I said. “I will let you know when we are finished.”

  Hunter nodded, picked up the bucket, and shuffled back up the stairs.

  “Hester, I am Lady Bridget Hodgson,” I said. “Do you know me?”

  “My mind’s not so far gone yet,” the old woman replied. “I know you. But who is she?” she thrust her jaw in Martha’s direction.

  “She is my deputy.”

  Hester nodded and turned back to me.

  “What do you want then?” she challenged. I supposed the prospect of hanging had freed her of the need for common courtesy.

  “I need to speak with you about your case.”

  “Why? I’m convicted and sentenced. Tomorrow I’ll hang, won’t I?”

  I nodded. “Yes, you will. There is nothing I can do about that, even if I wished.” I peered into Hester’s eyes, trying to find a sign of a woman who would kill a child over a crust of bread. In the end I gave up: She seemed no different than a hundred other ancient widows and spinsters who lived in the city.

  “Well, all right then,” she said. “What is it?”

  “I need to know about your interrogation by Mr. Hodgson and Mrs. Hooke.”

  Hester looked confused. “What for? There was little to it. They asked me what I’d done, and I told them.”

  “You told them that you bewitched the Asquiths?” Martha blurted out. “How could you have?”

  Hester offered a toothless smile.

  “You want to learn how to witch your neighbors?” she asked with a bitter laugh. “You see where it will get you.” Hester’s manacles rattled when she held up her hands.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Martha replied.

  “I know what you meant,” Hester said. “You are wondering how an old woman became a witch, and why I would kill a young mother and her innocent babe.”

  Martha nodded.

  “God’s truth, I don’t know how it happened.” Hester shook her head at the mystery. “I went to Mr. Asquith’s door, begged some bread of him. When he denied me, I told him that he would suffer for refusing me simple Christian charity. The next day his boy fell ill, after that his wife,” she concluded.

  “So you did curse them?” I asked.

  Hester shook her head. “If I did, I didn’t mean to. I never said a word to curse the boy or his mother, not on purpose. They were innocent. They had none of Mr. Asquith’s sin on them. I wanted him to suffer. But not them, not like this. If Satan heard my words and killed them at my urging, I … I … I never meant to do it. I am sorry.”

  A single tear shimmered in the lantern light. I fought against the sorrow that welled up in my belly. I did not know what to make of Hester’s confession. Had she truly bewitched the Asquiths? Or did her guilt grow out of some overheated imaginings? Could Satan have twisted her words as she claimed? Could he have acted without her knowledge or permission? We could never know the truth, of course; indeed, even she did not seem to know it. But on this day the truth did not much matter, and now was not the time to think melancholy thoughts about a child and mother bewitched to death or the woman who would be hanged for the crime. No matter what I did, Hester Jackson would die the next day, but Rebecca and Joseph would remain a threat to me and my family long after she was in the ground.

  “And the imp?” I asked. “You told them about your familiar?” I’d never interrogated a confessed witch before, and I wanted to learn as much as I could. God only knew how many more witches Rebecca could find if she set her mind to it.

  “What, the French mouse they keep talking about?” Hester asked. “What do they call him, Mousnier?”

  I nodded.

  “The mouse came from their fevered brains,” she said. “Satan might have killed the Asquiths, but I never saw an imp whether mouse, cat, or mole.”

  “And you told all this to Mr. Hodgson?
” I asked.

  Hester nodded. “But after I told him about the curse I laid, it did not matter what I said.” She paused and stared into my eyes. I could still see a flicker of life in her. Not much, but it was there. “Lady Hodgson, I will tell you now that I did not mean for them two to die, but I said the killing words. And I’m sorry for it.”

  I nodded. I could not help feeling that she wanted some sort of absolution for her crime, but that was something I could not give.

  “Did Mr. Hodgson ask you anything else?” I pressed. “Did he ask about any other witches?”

  Hester shook her head. “Nay, he never did. Once I told him what I’d done, he called in the Searcher.”

  “Mrs. Hooke?” I asked.

  “Aye. She was a rough one, poking around my privities like that. I’m glad she’ll not be doing the hanging tomorrow.”

  “But if you didn’t have an imp, how could she have found a teat?” Martha asked.

  Hester shrugged. “I don’t know. I cannot say I care either. Perhaps I have an imp who suckles at night without me knowing. Who can say how Satan does his work?”

  “Did she ask you about other witches?” I asked.

  “Aye, and she was not pleased when I told her that I did not know of any. She threatened to have me swum if I did not tell the truth. But I knew she couldn’t do that, not by herself. I kept my peace.”

  Martha and I bid farewell to Hester and I pounded on the door to summon the jailor.

  “Lady Hodgson?” Hester said as we waited. For the first time she sounded uncertain. “Will you be there tomorrow?” I turned to face her. Her eyes shone in the lamplight, and I realized that she’d invited me to her execution.

  For a moment I wondered why she would ask such a favor. What comfort could I offer to such a wretched creature?

  And then I knew.

  For as long as she could remember, Hester Jackson had lived on the edge of the parish. She had no husband, no children, no family. Nobody in the city loved or cared for her. In the best of times her neighbors viewed her as a parasite, taking bread from the mouths of their children, and with all of England at war, we hardly lived in the best of times. When William Asquith accused Hester of witchcraft and murder, whatever friends she’d had would have abandoned her. Indeed, they’d probably been crueler than most, if only to distance themselves from an accused witch. Hester Jackson had nobody.

  I nodded, and she thanked me.

  As soon as Benjamin Hunter returned to let us out of the cell, it was clear that the black mood into which I’d cast him had subsided. When Martha and I reached the top of the stairs we saw the reason. A dozen or more people stood outside the tower door, eagerly waiting the chance to see a witch before she was hanged, and each would have to pay Hunter for the privilege. As we left, I prayed that Hester would not suffer at Hunter’s hands, and that her visitors would not mistreat her, although with less than a day to live, what further indignity could they offer?

  Martha and I found the road into the city far busier than it had been on our way out, and we had to fight against the crowds to cross the Castle drawbridge. The mass of people eased once we reentered the city, and we could talk without having to shout over the hubbub. By now the shopkeepers had set up their stalls along the street, and boys, wrapped in layer upon layer of cloth, cried their wares as the north wind whipped the brightly colored awnings.

  “That was not what I expected,” Martha said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t expect her to say that she had killed the Asquiths. I didn’t think she would admit to being a witch.”

  “Once the guilty have been condemned, they often want to tell the truth,” I replied. “We saw it ourselves not so long ago.”

  “Yes,” she replied. But I could tell that something else bothered her.

  Martha tried again. “I didn’t think she would say she had bewitched them. How could she have?”

  Then I understood.

  “You don’t believe witchcraft is real!” I cried. I knew there were some who denied the reality of witchcraft, and I had heard of Reginald Scot’s infamous book, but had not thought to count Martha among the skeptics.

  Martha shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. But I can’t help noticing that most women accounted as witches are like Hester: Poor and old, with no family to save them.”

  “Such women are all the more easily tempted by Satan,” I replied.

  Martha laughed coarsely. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard the sermons. Witches are no different than other women. We are weak willed and so inclined to lust that Satan can lead us astray with little trouble. No wonder men must keep us leashed.”

  “It’s not just that,” I replied. “He offers women like Hester everything they lack, everything they could dream of: money, protection from the world, and the power to take revenge on their enemies. For some women, especially those inclined to malice, it could be a difficult offer to resist. Hester says she did not mean to hurt the Asquiths, but even so she fell into witchcraft. You heard her admit it.”

  “I suppose,” Martha said. “I told myself I’d believe in witchcraft when the Justices started hanging men for the crime.”

  “Do you believe in it now?” I asked.

  Martha’s doubts about God and the supernatural were not new, of course. From her first weeks in my service, Martha and I argued over the place of God in the world. She had long abandoned any belief in His goodness or the usefulness of prayer. In her mind, if God existed at all, He was an absent parent who had left His children to engage in whatever petty cruelties they could imagine. For a time I endeavored to convince her otherwise, but in truth she had turned me more to her opinion than I had turned her to mine. Or perhaps she was just finishing the work that Michael’s and Birdy’s deaths had begun. I would be lying if I said that I did not question God’s goodness when I cast a handful of dirt on the corpse of my last surviving child.

  “What did you make of Hester?” Martha asked.

  “She is a confessed witch, and she will hang,” I replied. “But I cannot believe that Joseph and Rebecca came together to hang one woman.”

  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?”

  Tho
ugh 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?