“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.”