“A book?” Martha asked. She made no effort to hide her skepticism.
“He says if we turn the people against Joseph, he will have to relent.”
“Or perhaps we should follow Joseph’s example,” Martha ventured.
“Joseph?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
Martha hesitated a moment before continuing. “When he faces a threat, he reacts like the soldier he was, with violence. We should do the same.”
I stared at her for a moment, quite unable to believe what she had proposed. “You should like us to murder Joseph?” I asked at last.
“If he were dead, Rebecca would lose her power, and Will would be freed from prison.”
I searched her face for some sign that she spoke in jest. She met my gaze and did not look away.
“Helen Wright’s man might do it for us,” she added. “Will’s life would be worth the price, wouldn’t it?”
I stared at Martha, struck entirely dumb. My surprise came in part from the audacity of her proposal, but true shock lay elsewhere: My first reaction was not to reject Martha’s idea but to consider the risks and benefits. Could such a plan work? If we succeeded, we would be free from the many dangers that surrounded us. But even success at killing Joseph would mean nothing if we were caught. Will might walk free, but Martha and I would take his place on the gibbet. I also knew that if we failed, Joseph’s response would be to hang Martha and me alongside Will. And what then would become of Elizabeth? To my shame, it was only after weighing the worldly risks that it occured to me that murdering Joseph would be a terrible sin.
“We cannot,” I replied after far too long a pause. I did not know if I rejected the scheme for the danger it presented to our bodies or to our souls. I prayed it was my fear of damnation, but I could not be sure.
Martha nodded but did not reply.
“And you will not go behind my back,” I added. “I will not have you party to murder.”
Martha hesitated before nodding again. She did not like my decision, but she would not disobey me.
“What then do you propose?” she asked. “We cannot write a book and leave it at that.”
“Perhaps we should bring down Rebecca Hooke.”
“After she threatened Elizabeth?” Martha asked in amazement. “Do you want to antagonize her?”
I had to admit that Martha had a good point. Rebecca had plenty of other witches to keep her busy. While I did not want to attract her attention I did not see any other options.
“The battle is already begun,” I said. “Joseph and Rebecca are regiments in the same army. If we defeat the one, we can more easily defeat the other.”
“Then we should start with James,” Martha said. “He has long been Rebecca Hooke’s weakest flank.”
I nodded in agreement. “We will find him and talk to him alone.”
When afternoon came, Martha went in search of James, starting at the alehouse nearest the house he shared with his mother. It was not long before she returned.
“He’s up on Petergate,” she said as we hurried toward the Minster. There was no telling how long he’d stay, and we did not want to lose track of him. “He’d just started drinking, and I sent a penny to the barman for another, so we should find him there still.”
When we arrived at the alehouse I peered through the window and saw James sitting by himself in the corner. He stared at his ale, oblivious to those around him. Martha and I stepped through he door and the smell of the place washed over us, a heady mix of spilled ale, well-cooked meats, and tobacco smoke. The rough-hewn tables were crowded as the city’s residents gathered together for the warmth of drink, conversation, and a roaring fire in the hearth. James was the only one sitting alone. At times like this I could not help feeling sorry for the boy. He was unloved by anyone, even his mother.
When the barman saw us enter he furrowed his brow in confusion. While his was not the most disreputable house in York (that honor went to the Black Swan), I did not imagine that women of quality often darkened his door.
“One more for the lad in the corner,” I said as Martha and I crossed to James. “And ale for each of us.”
James looked up when we joined him. “I’ve seen this play before,” he said as we sat. His voice hardly rose above a whisper, and I had to lean toward him to make out his words. “You’ve come to me about witches and murders, haven’t you?”
“I do not come to you by choice, James, but out of necessity,” I replied. “I am simply trying to see that justice is done.”
“By now it must be a faint hope, eh, Lady Bridget? From what I’ve seen, when you are involved, the innocent are condemned, and the guilty escape trial only to be hanged from the rafters.” James had been a part of the previous summer’s killings, and he knew as well as anyone the shortcomings of the law.