The Witch Hunter's Tale Page 5

  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?

  In truth, I did not know which would be best. I did not want Elizabeth to forget her past entirely, but it was so terrible, what parts would I have her keep? She should remember her mother’s love, of course. And I wanted her to see the struggles of the poor, for how else could she love them as God intended? If my work as a midwife did nothing else, it showed me how the lower sort lived, and I felt I was a better Christian for it.

  By the time I reached my house, my bones ached from the cold, and I hurried to the warmth of the kitchen, where I found Hannah and Martha teaching Elizabeth how to make bread. I immediately joined in, and soon the four of us were covered with enough flour to make yet another loaf. When Hannah opened the oven door, the firelight shone through Elizabeth’s golden-red hair, and for a moment it seemed as if she were the sun itself.

  As we did our best to knock the flour from our clothes, Martha looked at me with a raised eyebrow, asking where I’d been. I inclined my head toward the dining room, and we withdrew from the kitchen.

  “Elizabeth told you about the printer and the three-fingered man?” I asked.

  Martha nodded. “Aye. What’s that mongrel Preston got to do with a pamphlet?”

  I explained what I’d learned from the printer.

  “And you think Joseph is priming the pump for more witch hangings,” she said.

  “Aye,” I replied. I crossed to the window and looked past my reflection. We were just a few days from the brumal solstice, and even at this early hour the street was cloaked in shadows. “I think the pump is already well primed. The question is when Joseph and Rebecca will start to work the handle.”

  Martha rarely showed signs of fear, but I could see that the prospect of a witch-hunt coming to York unnerved her.

  “Why in God’s name is he doing this?” she asked. “What profit is there in starting down this road?”

  We both knew the answer to these questions; indeed she had answered one even as she asked it. Joseph’s brutality was matched only by his righteousness. While some men sought power for its own sake, or for the wealth it would bring, Joseph wanted it in order to do the Lord’s work. The previous summer (how long ago it seemed!) Joseph had become constable and used his office to suppress all manner of sin. His goal, the goal of all the city’s Puritans, was to turn York into a “city upon a hill.” In his mind, the minister and the magistrate should work together to drive the city’s residents away from their sinful habits.

  “It’s no different than when he harried the city’s doxies,” I said. “He believes that he is doing God’s bidding by ridding York of Satan’s handmaidens. That he is also gathering power to himself is almost an accident.”

  “It is a dangerous scheme, this business of witch-hunting,” Martha said. “Once the hangings start, who is to say he will be able to control its course?”

  “He is at war with the devil, and there can be no victory without risk,” I said. “But that is also why he needs Rebecca Hooke. So long as she is his Searcher and does his bidding, he will decide who will hang and who will not.”

  Martha swore. “So they will find witches only among their enemies. And you are chief among them.”

  “Precisely,” I replied. “That is why we must be on our guard. Joseph and Rebecca have cast an incendiary into the city, and there is no telling which way the wind will take the fires once they start.”

  * * *

  After supper, Martha and I set out into the darkness, walking south toward the Ouse Bridge and the hall where the Council would meet. The full moon shone down on us, painting York’s streets a shimmering silver. Were it not so breathtakingly cold we might have paused to admire the scene; instead we pulled our cloaks tight, lowered our heads, and pushed forward. Within moments I was shivering, and I could hear Martha’s teeth chattering together.

  As we neared the bridge we caught a glimpse of the river, and we both stopped, shocked at the sight that greeted us.

  “The river has frozen over,” Martha said at last. Neither of us had ever seen—or even imagined!—such a thing. York relied on the Ouse to bring food in and send goods out; if trade came to a halt we all would suffer.

  “Perhaps it will thaw in the morning,” I said. But neither of us believed it. God had not yet shown Himself to be a merciful Father, and I had no reason to think He would start now.

  When we reached the hall we found two men standing outside. Will (or the man I took to be Will, for I could hardly see him under his coats and heavy wool muffler) held a lantern and waved when he saw us. The other man—George Breary, I assumed—unlocked the door and ushered us inside.

  The meeting would not start for an hour, and we had the room to ourselves. By the light of day it was nearly as impressive as the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall, with vaulted ceilings and richly covered oak furniture. But at night and without its torches lit, the shadows above seemed ominous rather than awe inspiring.

  George hurried over to the large fireplace, added wood, and fanned the embers into flame. Only then did he begin to unwrap himself. “I sent the keeper home,” he said. “The fewer people who know you are here, the less chance that Joseph will find out.” I nodded my thanks. Will took a torch from the wall and lit it from the fire. While Martha and I huddled next to the
hearth, he walked around the room lighting the remaining torches. Soon the lower portion of the hall had a pleasant glow about it.

  “Come with me,” George said when Will had finished. “I know a place for you to stay during the meeting.” He led us up a set of stairs to a balcony overlooking the room. A few chairs and other odd bits of furniture had been stored up there, but the space was mostly empty. I peered over the edge and saw the large table where the Council would sit.

  “Will, can you see us?” I called down.

  Will looked up from his seat at the table. “Take one step back,” he replied. We did, and he nodded. “Nobody will see you if you stay still,” he said.

  I started to respond, but I swallowed my words when we heard the hall door creak open. I nodded to George, and he disappeared down the stairs to meet whoever had arrived. By ones and twos, the members of the Council and their followers arrived at the hall, and soon the sounds of their conversation bubbled up to us. I envied them their nearness to the hearth, for I could feel the cold seeping into my bones.

  I peered into the growing crowd, occasionally catching a glimpse of friends and more distant family. When I married a Hodgson, I had married most of York. After what seemed an eternity, the Sergeant of the Mace called the Council into session, and we heard the sound of chairs scraping on the floor as the Councilmen took their seats. A minister offered a short prayer, and then the Lord Mayor stood to speak.

  Matthew Greenbury had been elected Lord Mayor some months before, and it was the fourth time that he had held the office. As it happened it was also his fourth decade on the Council, and every year was etched on his ancient face. Despite his advanced age, Greenbury remained sound in body and retained every bit of the authority he must have had in his youth. Even before the war between King and Parliament had begun, Greenbury had refused to choose one side over the other, wearing the title “neutralist” as a badge. While it endeared him to no one, once the fighting broke out it made him the most logical choice to lead the city.