The Witch Hunter's Tale(19)
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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.
“As most of you know, we are here at the request of Mr. Joseph Hodgson,” Greenbury announced. “So without further delay I will turn the meeting over to him.”
When Joseph began to speak, I leaned forward hoping to catch a view of him. I caught my breath when I saw Mark Preston’s familiar and entirely unwelcome face. He stood against the far wall, facing us, and when I glanced down at his ruined hand a shiver ran through me. While Joseph and Rebecca were the architects of the scheme to rid York of its witches, it would be a mistake to forget about so dangerous a man as Preston, and I vowed not to do so.
Joseph sat with his back to us, but in my mind I could see the hard lines of his face and his cold, clear eyes. When he’d left to fight in the wars, he’d been a kind young man, a bit aloof perhaps, but not a bad sort at all. He’d returned from Cromwell’s side soaked in blood and well schooled in the ruthlessness necessary to succeed in politics. When Edward died, Joseph stepped into his place without a moment’s hesitation, and he made it his business to purge the city of sin—and of his enemies.