The Witch Hunter's Tale(5)

The Asquiths’ parish of St. Crux lay in the heart of York, not far from Fossgate Bridge. After a decade in the city, I knew the twists and turns of York’s cobbled streets as well as I knew the lines on my face, but when I’d first come to the city it had seemed to be a maze designed by a madman. London is said to be worse, but I can hardly imagine such a thing.

We passed through the Asquiths’ shop and climbed the stairs to the rooms above. William Asquith, Sarah’s husband, was one of the suppliers for Parliament’s armies, and had done very well out of it ever since the war began. When the summer’s drought made food even dearer, William profited yet again, and they had filled their home with rich furniture and covered the walls with sumptuous hangings. But I knew by my own hard experience that while wealth gives the illusion of safety, death is not so easily deterred. What had my estates done to protect Michael and Birdy?

Sarah led me straight to the chamber at the back of the house where her son lay. I caught my breath as soon as I saw the child, and Sarah cried out. The maidservant who sat on the side of the bed holding the child’s hand looked up at us and burst in to tears. He seemed so pale, so still, that I knew we had come too late. I crossed to the bed and felt the boy’s cheeks and chest, but I found neither warmth nor breath. I turned to Sarah, and she buried her face in my neck. I felt a wail rising up through her body before it burst into the room with a force powerful enough to shake the rafters themselves.

After a few moments, Sarah pulled herself away and lay on the bed next to her son. She cradled his head, kissed his hair, and told him that she loved him. Sorrow welled up inside me and I clenched my jaw to keep my own tears from bursting forth, but it was in vain. Like a flood intent on washing away all that lay before it, my tears poured out as I mourned the death of Sarah’s son, the deaths of my own children, and the deaths of so many other young ones that God saw fit to reap like stalks of grain. I do not know how long I stayed with Sarah. She sent her maidservant to find William, who had gone in search of another physician. While we waited, Sarah and I held the boy and each other. Sarah cried. I prayed for her and wondered that God would take her only son.

We buried the child the next day, and I left William and Sarah to comfort each other. That night I prayed that Sarah soon would come to me, thrilled and frightened to find that she was with child once more. I would not encourage her with false promises that this time the child would live—my own example would give the lie to such words—but I would do my best to calm her fears. I would remind her which foods she should take and which she should avoid. I would visit her as her travail neared, and tell her that the second time would not be as difficult as the first. I’d say that she would be a wonderful mother and that together we would do our best for her child.

But I never got the chance to say any of this. Two weeks later Sarah was dead.

* * *

Looking back at the events that followed, I could not help wondering what evil might have been avoided if Sarah’s husband had called me to her bedside sooner. Hester Jackson might never have been hanged, and the horrible aftermath would have been avoided. But what use is there in such vain thoughts? Perhaps it was God’s will.

According to Sarah’s gossips, a few days after the Asquiths buried their son, Sarah and William were sitting at supper when Sarah was taken by a gripping pain in her side. She took to bed and for a time she seemed to improve. But the pain returned, and this time it was accompanied by vomiting and a fever similar to the one that had carried off her son. She demanded water, but no matter how much she drank she could not be satisfied. When her belly became stretched, William summoned a physician, but he could no more help Sarah than he had little Peter. He said that Sarah’s illness was unlike any he’d ever seen, and that he doubted it was natural. It was this physician who, perhaps because he could find no cure, suggested that Sarah might have been bewitched.

Once that seed had been planted in Sarah’s and William’s minds, it did not take long to grow. Desperate to break the curse, they sought remedies wherever they might be found. William rode out of the city and hired a blesser who tried to countercheck the curse that had been laid on Sarah. The blesser did his best, but he had no more success than the physician. He told William that unless he discovered the witch who had cursed his wife, she surely would die. Sarah’s condition grew worse, and death hovered over her. With every passing moment, William grew more frantic and racked his wits for the name of someone—anyone—who might have bewitched his wife.

Finally he found an answer: Hester Jackson.